This asshole has Xeno Tier 3 written all over him. Intel believes he may have been a commandant at Auschwitz, but that hasn’t been confirmed. We do know he’s a powerful sorcerer with undead servants and spends time on the other side of sleep.
We’ll have to make sanitizing him a surgical op as he rarely leaves his offices. International businessman and philanthropist my ass.—Cpl. Franklin Miller, Team Leader, Project Star Team 3.
Müeller’s dangerous with a capital D. Project Star has shared with us they have a team going in tonight. I wish them luck, and I hope we don’t have to fight their animated corpses later.—Marcus Johnson, Wizard of the Manchester Foundation.
The guy’s a total freak. Usually some flunky answers the door and accepts the packages, but every now and then it’s him. He’s like the main bad guy in a Weird War Two B-movie.—Jimmy McPherson, Driver for United Package Courier.
I swear it was Jerry. After he got lost, we searched for him for over a day. He, it, came walking out of the woods. He was made of grass, like a naked scarecrow, and he shambled toward Mike.
Henry ran off screaming, who can blame him, and I seriously thought I was going to shit myself. The sun was coming up, and I could see Mike glistening with sweat. His eyes were huge. He was crying, and talking to Jerry–asking him what happened, what was wrong with him–that kind of stuff.
The Jerry thing stopped a few feet in front of him and blades of grass shot out from all over its body, really long ones, and they stabbed right into Mike’s body, sliding right in. There wasn’t any blood and he didn’t seem like it even hurt.
I screamed at him to run away, but I don’t think he could, it was like he was hypnotized. I ran up behind him and grabbed his shoulders, but several of those blades of grass slid right through the skin on my hands and face. No pain, no blood, and I instantly felt weirdly sleepy.
It really pissed me off, and I jerked away, long grass sticking out from me like I was turning into a plant porcupine. While I fell on my ass, grass was already growing out of Mike’s back–the shit had skewered him–and the Jerry thing shot out a bunch more that cut right into Mike and started wrapping around him like a green cocoon. That’s when I ran like a bitch.—Lyle Morris, giving a statement in Interview Room 1 at the Peyton County Sheriff’s Office.
I keep feeling better Doc, slowly. It hurts like hell when I stretch, and I swear I can feel the grass tearing when I do, dozens of little popping sounds–but could be I’m imagining that. Maybe it’s still growing a little, I don’t know.
What scares me is the dreams, I’m still having them just as bad. I’m in a dark forest, jungle, and it’s hot and humid. I hear a voice, more like feel it, inside me but I don’t understand what She’s saying.
Then I fall to my knees, and I’m scared shitless, but I’m praying to Her.—Patrick Everson, Patient in a medical facility of undisclosed location.
It was horrible, fucking horrible. The “sorcerer,” shit. My cousin Christopher, we grew up like brothers, had to be trepanated for a nick of his brain. Doctor Wilson split him open like he was performing an autopsy, to take a tiny piece of his heart, and he did a spinal tap for some fluid. They mixed all this up with Christopher’s blood.
When he woke up, he said a bunch of crazy shit in some language and dropped some of this on that creepy ass map. It fell into the margin and made a weird symbol. Somehow, this gave them an idea where Tiffany had been taken.
Now we’re down in this room beneath a basement at some big wood door with metal bands. They put some kind of drops in my eyes that made everything look clearer, more real. Apparently there’s some other world on the other side of that door. All I know for sure is I’ve got my 12 gauge pump, a shitload of ammo, and we’re going to bring her home.–From a sheaf of handwritten notes found in the Special Archives Room at the Miskatonic University Orne Library.
It was weird, hell it was terrifying. Three eyes, I shit you not, and they glowed red! How the hell does that happen?
He told me to do stuff and I did it. I threw coffee on people, sang loudly, just random crap–and he kept apologizing. It was like he was grabbing me tightly, but in my mind. Lost my damn job.—Paul Erickson, former employee at Mug o’ Joe.
We had the best of intentions. Our team included endocrinologists, neurologists, geneticists, and medical doctors. We were trying to engineer a panacea–something that would slow age, prevent dementia, make the body more durable, resistant to injury, and much faster to heal. We never imagined these abominations.–Dr. Richard Treemont, M.D.
Hunit dalas. Hunit. Kedit. Klss kedit. Hngy. Kllyou. Eat.–Test Subject A5, Patient Zero, and former college student. Actual name withheld for national security purposes.
First, I am not attacking people who enjoy Dungeons and Dragons. It is simply an excellent example to illustrate my point.
There are a zillion pencil and paper RPG systems–of various genres and degrees of high and low genre. Personally, I love and prefer low regardless of genre.
That, my love of the Cthulhu Mythos, and my being introduced to it the year it was first published, is why I love Call of Cthulhu.
He was so damn insistent I almost did it just out of frustration, to get him to shut up. I didn’t know why it had to be done in some dank, musty old cellar, though I do now. He said the location and the work of the alchemist, some ancestor of his, had to be kept secret. Clearly he was correct.
The bugs in my brain
Alien thoughts compel me
Bugs, so many bugs