Arif opened the small wooden box. Inside, resting on a bed of excelsior wool and its own long hair was a tiny mummy. Something like the remains of a man that was withering away, in danger of shrinking down to nothing. Was it human, though? It was the rough shape of a man or something close, certainly. A monkey? Thin arms terminating in long claws crossed its chest. Tusks protruded from the top and bottom of the mouth. As we examined the tiny creature, it seemed to shift in its bed. We jumped back from the shock. Not a mummy but a living thing! “Welcome to the Church of Kailour. He is pleased to accept your worship,” said Arif.
Alternative names: psychic mummies
We turned out flashlights to the laughter and saw her. Floating between the trees. Beautiful. Glowing. A white gown clung around her round belly, so full it looked like she was bound to give birth at any time. Wind whipped her long hair. And claws reaching from her fingertips to her ankles. We were too terrified, too mesmerized, to move. “Oh God,” Daniel said in a harsh whisper. “She knows what I’ve done.” Before we could ask him what he meant, in a blink she was on us. A veiny brown proboscis lashed from her mouth, striking Daniel in the face. He clutched his eye, rivets of blood leaking through fingers. He fell backward and as he did, those claws ripped him open. Insides piled on the ground. She, it, fell to her knees, drinking up the offal through the proboscis. “Ke-ke-ke-ke,” she laughed.
Alternative names: Pontianak, Sundel Bolong, Langsuir
Angela reached toward the crying infant, softly cooing to calm it. As she tried to reach a hand under it to pick it up, the baby turned. Where a face should have been was a hole, filled with row after row of sharp teeth. It leapt on her, teeth sinking into her exposed neck in a spray of blood. Angela fell backward, her hands batting at the creature in a panic. A gurgled screamed drowned in the blood erupting from her mouth
Alternative names: Tianac, Leech Children
It came out of the trees alongside the road, floating just a foot over the asphalt ahead of us. The headlights of our car illuminated a human figured, cocooned in dirty-white linens. It wiggled and struggled against its prison of bindings. A decaying face, eyes bulging and grin wide from rot, peered from the shroud. Suddenly, the driver unleashed a gout of blood-tinged vomit and passed against as the steering wheel.
Alternative names: Hantu Bungkus, Kain Kafan, Shroud Ghost
Lurch by lurch, it squeezed itself through the narrow hallway. A trail of slime on the corrosion-eaten walls and floor marked its passage. It was something of a man with the fact of an insect. Mandibles worked back and forth, and over themselves, as if it were tasting the air. It seemed to have a slug-like lower half. Only when it dragged itself closer could we that a curtain of flesh, pulled down by the heavy locks hooked into the skin, concealed its legs. Keys worked into the fingers on one of its hands clinked and clanked against one another incessantly.
Alternative names: Low Xopolhiti, Lord of the Regents, Ruler of the Abattoir
The nethermost caverns…are not for the fathoming of eyes that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific. Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied…out of corruption horrid life springs…
– HP Lovecraft, “The Festival”
Alternative Names: Bearer of the Black Milk, the Foul Fecundity
It emerged from the glowing, seeping wound in wall. A living, human visage of pain. Scars and sores riddled its flesh, too numerous to count. Pieces of jagged, rusted metal protruded from the skin, some bleeding around the base. It had no eyes, bone grown over where the sockets once were. Yet it somehow saw it. It turned its head toward us. It chattered its teeth, exposed from the hooks peeling its lips back, in delight.
Alternative names: Afflicted, Sufferers
Bodies upon bodies, writhing on each other. All thin, starved. Each had open wounds. None cared. It was a display of utter, animal wantonness. From the middle of that pile of humanity rose a naked figure. Anything that could indicate its sex was gone, replaced with thick scar tissue. Seeping sores and jagged wounds competed for space across its body. Grafted into its skull was a halo-like crown, tarnished, corroded. It spread its hands and spoke with the voice of a sow. “Welcome to Heaven,” it squealed.
Alternative names: Hesychasts, High Ascetics
We could blame it. That only way to ever sleep again, to go on, to do anything. Otherwise, what? Knot bedsheets and hope the ceiling fan holds? No. It was that thing, bug, grub, worm whatever it was. That did it. That’s what made us do those…things.
Truth is, it just sat there. Fat off everything we did. It ate what we fed it. It didn’t make us do anything. It just freed us of our inhibitions. Everything we did…we because we already had it in us.
Alternative names: Carrion Grubs
Tee-hee. Tee-hee. Tee-hee. Tee-hee. Tee-hee. Tee-hee. Tee-hee. Tee-hee. Tee-hee. Tee-hee. Tee-hee.
Alternative names: The Dollmaker, Tashkent Ripper, Butcher of Accra, Highway 42 Killer, Alan Perry Nichols (possible)