Red Ink Part 3.

Everyone's talking about those fucking messages.

It's sickening.

The news could be better used for so many other stories.

Sure, it's expected when a new message turns up, but not a whole damn week of "Um-ing and Ah-ing" about what the hell they mean.

But that's the media for you. Always there to hype the people into a fearing frenzy, at the mercy of the fucking corporations.

I can't blame them. If I were a lesser being, I'd be cowering under the table too.

But I'm not.

I'm the god of N.Y.C.

A lone being, forced onto the earth to forage and survive amongst the mortals that fear his image.

Nobody makes my city into their personal fucking canvas.

What to do, what to do...

Triangulate the pattern of messages?

Too much work...

I suppose I'll just have to go along with the crowd... See what I can pick up on...

...

Another bulletin? Another message?!

Central Brooklyn... I can be there in 5.

Look out. Here I come.

Red Ink Part 2.

It's been like this for weeks.

Messages appearing all over the city. Written in red. Ink, paint, even ketchup... And worse.

It's my job to find the freak who's writing this crap.

Problem is... I have no idea where to start. No leads, no suspects, no chance in hell.

It used to be simple. A crime happens, we have witnesses, we have fingerprints, we have evidence, we have suspects. Criminals got smart, but we got smarter - Hence the whole "CSI" scene. Forensic investigators have one of the hardest and yet oh-so-satisfying jobs in the world.

This is just weird. Crime happens, no fingerprints, no evidence, no suspects. Any witnesses were... used as a fucking paintpot. Not even any genetic evidence.

But people are dying.

Whenever there's a new message, even if its the same speil again - someone takes it personally. One guy went nuts over in Queens, offed himself with pills. But it was the amount that staggered me. He even swalowed a load of sepositories. That's just messed up. Looked like he force fed himself the entire contents of his medicine cabanet.

All because someone wrote "glutton" on the side of his house. It wasn't even just his house, the message was spread across 7 houses!

People are going crazy. There's no pattern to it!

...Except...

Well, it was ironic that the "glutton" guy ate himself to death. Then there was the Guy over in Chelsea who hung himself. "lust" was written in the center of the district. The guy was HIV positive.

People over-reacting to uncharacteristic nonsense.

I'd have written "greed" in Chelsea. That one turned up on Staten Island.

...I need to get some sleep. I've been working on this case non-stop.

Marcy's been worried about me. Heh, I hate to make her worry. Especially since she's living for two. Plus, she's been as spooked as everyone by these ...events? I don't even know what to call them.

...

What? Another one?!

"Pride" in Brooklyn? ...For God's sake Marcy, don't step out of the door.

Red Ink.

Write it on the walls!

Write in on the streets!

Write it on the people!

The sins of man will be repaid in full!

The slothful shall run in fear!

The lusty will forced to the floor!

The gluttonous shall be sated with blood!

The vengeful will be struck down!

The proud shall be shamed!

The envious will wish for a lesser torment!

And the greedy will get what they deserve!

The Devil rides out!

He rides in the darkness, on an unholy steed!

The foam of madness runs from the dark mount, and it brings madness!

Rejoice!

We shall be saved!

Prophetic visions never show what happens at the end.

Got to find a pen. Paper.

Got to write it down.

Another one. So soon.

Didn't get one since March.

Now I get two in a week? That's no coincidence.

Something bad's going down.

Think...

Think...

Man in a white suit? No... just the jacket. He has jeans on.

White jacket, blue jeans, red tie... Was that all?

So he's an American.

Dark lands... he's barefoot in a dark land...

Reaching out... beckoning...

Beckoning to me?

He's smiling.

Not good.

Barefoot on unholy ground and he's fucking grinning from ear to ear.

This isn't good at all.

I remember walking towards him...

And...

A blinding light... Dragon's fire... An unstable woman...

The smell of... Burnt pork?

...Burnt Flesh.

Oh god. The dragon is burning the dark land.

I'm burning...

The pain!

Aagh...

That's all I remember...

It was just me in the dark land last time.

Me... and the shadow. The beast that roared like thunder.

The skeletal titan.

A memory?

A memory of what comes after?

My god! I've been seeing it backwards!

Every vision..It's had little things in it for my future... But it's all been a part of a grand design!

...This could be the end of the world...

...And I can't do a thing...

A New Direction.

Left and right don't exist.

They are a myth.

Left to one, is right to another - so if they cannot be defined to one true direction, they cannot exist.

What only exists is up and down.

Meaning that you can only move up or down in the world, whether that be forward or backward.

Man exists to move forward. To move back is a disaster in the eyes of civilisation.

But can you go down and forwards?

No.

Civilisation says that forward IS moving up - progress.

So you have to move forward to move up in the world.

But who cares...

When we die, we're all going down anyway...

The Blacksmith God.

I can't see this going well.

The Doc said the fitting would be enough.

So what's up?

Only word I picked up on was "Macro".

Big. What's big? I'm an average man.

Never been in this room before. Looks ancient.

...

Macrocrypteia? What the hell does... Oh, just a new unit? Fine... Had me worried there for a second.

Ok, so a Crypteia is some old word for military police? So the big part must mean theres a lot of us. Fair enough.

I'm the commander?! I'm not... I... I'm flattered, really, but I'm nothing special.

My blood type? Well, it's AB-, and sure, that's unusual, but...

Ack! What the hell did you just... Uorgh... I... *HORK*

Nanite infusion? What are you going to do to me?

Better? Like the 6 million dollar man? Or like "Master race" better?!

Programming? Conditioning?! You're gonna brainwa... Oh.

To prevent brain washing? And it's gonna make me stronger?

Well...

You could have told me.

...

Bess? B.E.S. Bionic Exo-Skeleton? These'll let me control a machine?

Armour? I thought we didn't have the tech to do that?

...I've been jabbed with tiny robots that can make me a superhero, and I'm asking about armour?

This is so much to take in...

I just need to...

Urrgh...

*Thud*

Strap Captain Vincent into the Hephestus B.E.S.

Basic training begins when he wakes up. Begin uploading the contol codes and reflexive programs now.

I feel as if I'm witness to the birth of a new age. An age of military might.

From this spot I shall build my new Olympus.

Party in Hell House.

Good evening.

The reason I have gathered you all here tonight is due to an unsettling mishap.

Mr. DeWinter, an associate of all in this room, has passed away.

Why is this an unsettling mishap?

Because of the circumstances in which he died.

As you all know, Donovan, I'm sure he won't mind if I call him by his first name, was a bit... Eccentric. He had a flair from the dramatic in both style and substance.

This flair was the reason for his downfall.

What I hold in my hands is his last will and testement, along with a letter dating back to a week ago. On his instructions, the will may only be read to one of you. The one will be determined by a "Trail by fire". Yes, Trail, not the usual "Trial" - Though I assure you it will be both.

The letter however is addressed to all of you, and I thought it appropriate to summon you all to hear it's contents.

Ahem.

To Adam Witney Esq.
Darrius Kovine Esq.
Lady Florence Gray.
Rvd. Paul Rutter.
Jerry Fine Esq.
And my dear Marion Alldrich.

As I write this letter, I feel the reaper at the gates of my house.

For some time now, as you will all be aware, I have exiled myself into a state of hermitage, keeping myself away from the common man. For reason I shall now reveal, this was done for good reason, and to prevent dire consequences.

Back in 1962, I was a part of a society. A dark and secretive society. I can now safely reveal the name of said group - The Novella Front. I realise to the ill educated that may seem like some snooty book club, and in a way, it was. We were all authors in some way - I was a writer of great fiction, just breaking my teeth unto the art at the time, before discovering my latent acting talent. Amongst us were some of the truly great and unknown - Byron Hayes, the poet, now departed. Cynthia Stromm, the Pulp, now departed. And we were fortunate enough to have had one Job Hughes, the travel writer, as a part of our kindred before his unfortunate illness and subsequent venture to find Lemuria.

All of those in the company have now passed from this earth, save for myself. This is not a coincidence.

What we did was unforgivable.

The front was just that - the front itself was a high-society book club, which garnered its own rumours of drugs, orgies and a "happening sound". But our true intentions were to mine the darkest areas of our own souls to... grow inspiration. All artists go through dry spells, and it's torturous. It's worse than death, but not by much.

We pooled our resources to gain the very mansion in which you stand. And with them help of some aspiring archetects, who would also join our brigade, we made the deadliest house in England (Of Scotland and the other principalities of the Crown, I cannot be sure.).

We had everything - Saw blades, Axes, Animate suits of Armour - All the cliches. And with every drop of spilt blood, we made more conversions upon the original design.

We used to get the unemployed, the homeless, immigrants, whoever we could and whoever wanted a quick bit of cash - telling them that whatever they wanted lay at the top of the house.

None made it through.

We were squeamish at first, but soon enjoyed seeing how far they got. Some of us even "Got off" on the thrill of seeing a disemboweling, though I assure you I never did so.

But, like most drugs of the time, the thrill soon wore off. We became bored of the deathtraps. It was human nature to be consistantly unsatisfied back then. Plus, we didn't have any room to improve upon the designs short of gutting the house itself.

So we went in ourselves.

We were slow, slothful types. There were accidents. The spiked wall on the second floor is how Bonny Mallow, the child starlet from Mississippi got that awful scar upon her face, which also ended her career.
The swinging blade in the eastern hallway is what ended her life, however.

But we grew agile and lithe. We could have given Houdini a run for his money in terms of lucky escapes, if he hadn't already done it himself and shamed us all.

But, with agillity comes knowledge of every pitfall.

We couldn't decide what to do next. Some decided to try it with blindfolds. Poor buggers.

The logical amongst us decided to dip into the occult for a solution.

Minster Fosswood, a black faith healer, famous at the time for his exorcisms, lead our research into the devilish machinations of the eternal flame.

We soon decided to call upon the gates of Pandemonium itself, the city at the center of Hell. Within it lay such beautiful devices we couldn't begin to imagine.

The rites and rituals began and ended. We sacrificed and slew those who the gatekeepers demanded. And they, in turn, gave us a portion of the city for ourselves, which we named Philisopholes - a witty pun from the tongue of Gunther Handech, the musician.

Everything comes with a price, we soon learnt. Damn our arrogance for not realising before.

We all were visited by darkness, be it misfortune, daemons or just plain death. I was plagued with oozing sores for a while, then stalked my gargoyles. The ones that litter the gounds as a matter of fact - Thank you Minister Fosswood. Our own personal hell was neither ironic or entertaining.

We all found ourselves drawn back into the house for long periods of time. We could never remember what we did there, but our numbers began to dwindle. It didn't take a genius to put it all together.

My own exile, is just what I owe to the bargain. God knows I wasn't doing any better out there than I was in here.

I'm the last. The final monster in the chain of misery. I find myself unable to take my own life.

I'm sorry. I love you all.

But I need your blood. The crimson miasma. The viscera flowing over my withered skin.

I'm afraid you won't be able to leave now.

It's already too late.

The one who remains will recieve everything owed to them. The house and all of the weight it places upon your shoulders.

Donovan DeWinter.

...

Has anyone tried the door?

Army in the Sand.

JOURNAL OF SIR GREGORY JAMES.

Day 12:
Have arrived at the checkpoint. We must now aquire the services of a guide to venture into the Hani Desert. Michaels has Dysentry. Things going well.

Day 13:
All attempts at securing a guide have failed. Even the generous funds Her Majesty are not enough to change their minds. They seem to fear the desert, most likely due to bandits and the unpredictable nature of the weather in this region.

Day 15:
We have been travelling with a merchant caravan for the past 18 hours. All in high spirts, even Michaels. Upon asking the Leader of the convoy, Alahad Iq-Faroq, about the rumors surrounding the desert, he was happy enough to explain the situation and to a greater extent, alleviate our fears. The desert, hundreds of years ago, was home to a troupe of bandits who terrorised the surrounding settlements. The ruler of the region at that time sent countless assassins and mercinaries into the area to dispose of the crew. None returned, but after a while the attacks stopped entirely. One can assume the badits moved on, but the people of today still fear those who are long dead.

Day 16:
Reynolds says we are being followed. Faroq's men say it could just be the heat, moving the air like will 'o' th' wisps on the horizon. I am inclined to believe him, Reynolds is paranoid by nature.

Day 20:
We have not seen any definitive landmarks thus far. We need to see the crooked peak for the map to be considered legitimate. Michaels getting better, Reynolds getting worse. His delusions of "jackals in the wind" are becoming tiresome.

Day 22:
Losing hope. Beginning to think this is all just a fool's errand. Despite the "lavish" commodities of the caravan, we are becoming tired.

Day 25:
The crooked peak! We saw it! Hallelujah! All in fine spirits with this revelation. Faroq has personally volunteered himself and an offshoot of his men to travel with us to the peak - though I suspect his claims o wanting to be a part of history are tarnished with a golden sheen. Still, there should be enough treasure for the crown AND Faroq.

Day 26:
We have reached the peak... but have suffered considerable loss. In the night, we awoke to the sounds of gnashing teeth and animalistic cries. of the 8 camels that came with us, only 1 has survived. Faroq has sent one of his men to catch up with the main caravan, in hopes of a rescue once we have investigated the peak. It's as we suspected, the peak is the entrance to the antechamber, and thus the tomb of Anak-Solomun, the Exiled King under the Sun. I sends chills down my spine to think that we have made a legend into history.

Day 27:
Still no success in opening the doors. Faroq is getting impatient - his true nature revealed. Reynolds too is becoming agitated, his rambling are begining to scare the men. Will require diciplinary action if it continues, let alone the possible court martial for attempting to run into the desert, if the wind doesn't strip his bones should he succeed.

Ammendment Day 27:
Faroq has opened the door! By God! It was so simple, whereas we had been speaking in Arabic and Swain, we needed to be speaking in the dialect of the King himself!

The rock split along the base, twisting like the serpant until a larde hole was revealed under the peak itself! Such machinations I could not even concieve in my wildest dreams must lie ahead of us.

Day 28:
We have entered the tomb, though it cannot be called such in my opinion. The room around me is large without seeming empty. Heiroglyphs adorn the walls, but in a pictography that none of us can define. Swanly tried to take a rubbing of the walls but, unusually, found no success. This is not a statement in regards to his abillity, but to the fact that nothing was copied onto the paper! The pictography, which we have christened "Anak" in honour of it's creator, is engraved into the stone, that's to be certain, but any method we have to copy it has failed. It is unfortunate that all we will be able to bring back is a crude pencil drawing of the oddly beautiful language.

Day 29:
We have finally broken through the door inside of the entry chamber. A stale air greeted us. I cannot help but be reminded of the Carter expedition into the Valley of the Kings, and the tales of a so called "curse". Poppycock. Their afflictions were brought upon by desert diseases, I say, not that it is my place to argue with the doctors.

The next room splits off into 3 paths. Have not decided where to go yet. Reynolds is lucid, often daydreaming. He seems to have noticed a common symbol repeating in the Anak, though we still have no way of decifering wether it is a name, or place, or even the word "And". Lord knows they didn't have the grammatical skills of the normal englishman.

Ammendment Day 29:

The best possible course of action is to go straight ahead, looking to the plans of common pyramid. We shall no be splitting up, thinking that would be a burden more than a blessing.

1:
The days have blurred together, so I shall be labelling my entries numerically until I can piece together a calandar of events.

We have walked for what seems like an eternity. Faroq and Reynolds have become objects of my sheer rage. Everytime either of them speaks, I feel like I need to remove the head from their body. Reynolds however is proving useful, he has managed to identify several repeating symbols in sequence. This must be some form of dating system, or even a full name. We must be close to something... I can feel it in my bones.

2:
At last! after wandering aimlessly, we have found another chamber. This one is huge, and filled with sand. the sand is thankfully dense enough to stand on without sinking in too far. 2 other passages lead off from either side, and we have assumed that all of the paths have lead to this room.

We plan to send men into the adjoining passage ways in case we find any other exits.

Reynolds is begining to scare me. His aptitude for the Anak symbols is... uncanny. He says the symbols are not documenting any particular event, but are just repeated phrases. This is disappointing. I had hoped these Anak symbols would tell the story of the King, but any progress is progress. Swanly, our resident translator and cryptologist has proven himself useless in the face of the unknown.

He'll be digging with the rest of them.

3:
We have discovered... bodies in the sand. Akin to the terracotta warriors of China, they are entombed within a hard shell of... crystal. At least we think it's crystal - it resembles such, and chips refrect light in the same manner. Each body is moderately preserved within, though signs of emaciation are evident upon the flesh. The garments upon them are egyptian, or something similar for the period.

There seems to be a huge number of bodies in the pit, and it seems to be bottomless. Digging seems to be useless. The crystalised bodies we have unearthed will accompany us back to the British Museum.

Reynolds is as mad as ever. One of Faroq's men has died of fatigue.

4:
Break through! upon study, we have found a push button in the sand chamber! on the furthest wall from our entry point (My personal compass seems to have failed, as I assume it has happened to the rest). Upon inspection and usage, it has drained the sand from the chamber. The pit is huge. though upon pushing, we have made a set of steps down into the abyss.

There are no entry points on the stairs. We have walked what what must be an hour or so.

Still no entry points.

We have reached the bottom. A large hole is in front of us, blocked by crystals shifted by the machines. A single door is the other means of exit from the chamber. We shall be exploring that tomorrow, if it ever comes.

5:
Reynolds is missing.

His madness has carried him away.

Myself, Faroq, Swanly, and Michaels are still under my charge. though Faroq himself would dispute it. We have heard nothing from the men we sent into the tunnels at the top of the chamber.

We have begun our decent through the door, knowing the hole would be too much effort and obvious suicide.

We plunge deeper still. Going ever down into the darkness...

6:
We do not know where we are...

We don't know how were are still alive.

We are all scared, and tired.

The room we have walked into is devilish.

Pots adorn the floor. Canopic Jars by design but too large for a single organ. A full body seems to fit though...

Inside one jar was a mass of flesh... with Reynold's uniform scattered around the base. Poor man. How such a decomposition could have happened so soon I do not know.

Faroq tried to kill me. I cut his fingers off.

I'm so tired... Maybe a nap will refresh me.

1:
I must continue the record that the captain started. My name is Ian Swanly, a private in this man's army. Through some miracle I have stayed sane. The injured Faroq and Michaels accompany me. Sir Gregory lost his mind some time ago... joining our comrade Reynolds in entropy.

We have travelled back to the sand chamber. The crystals that once blocked our passage have disappeared. An ill omen. We have managed to secure some rope from the body of Kasim, one of Faroq's men who went along one of the side passages. Porr fellow must have come back and missed the first step.

We have reached the true bottom of the sand chamber. The crystals are not here, though remnants lie where they should be. I fear we will die here.

2:
We have wandered along the passage at the bottom of the chamber and found the treasure of Anak-Solomun! A vast trove sits in front of us, enough for all the tea in China! We are headed back to the real world to get assistance in liberating the gold.

3:
Oh god... We didn't know.

The men in the stone were still alive!

We went to take some gold to finance our trip there and back to this fucking hellhole. They abushed us! They knew where to hide!

Michaels was torn to bits... I don't know how but he was ripped seven ways from sunday...

Faroq... poor soul. He'd obviously seen the door controls. Planned to seal us i should we try to betray him. His last viperous movement was to seal himself inside... He saved me.

I'm the only one left.

* * * * *

October 16th 1916

It has been a lifetime seemingly since my adventure to the hell pit. I am an old man now, as this journal will attest. I have seen children, grandchildren and the death of great men and gods.

My accounts were dismissed by the society as "Ramblings of heatstroke". They weren't there.

They became "Pulp Fiction" - a new form of literature. The root of my fortune.

It is said that on one's deathbed, all of the pieces in Life's puzzle come together. I finally worked it out, what that structure in the sand was...

But that secret dies with me. None must know of the designs. Or the Anak cryption.

Though I confess I have 2 theories - one arcane, and one extraterrestrial.

Neither will be condoned by society, so this tale of Pandemonium from beyond the stars goes with me into my own tomb.

God know, I deserve a rest.

I hear them.

The Jackals on the wind.

The watchdogs of the King.

My ever present and would be reapers.

I feel they will get their prize tonight...

To the holder of this letter.

My commendations,

If you are reading this letter, you have found my withered corpse. To have even gotten this far is a feat within itself. I thought I had hidden myself all too well.

Did you like the stained glass? I drained a certain percentage of my accounts to have one made in the form of the lamassu and phoenix. You obviously found the hidden creature.

The physical pitfalls were Crown's idea. A test of courage and violent intent. Poor man, he was half mad by the time of my writing this letter. As I look at him now he jibbers about the darkness.

Yes, the darkness. Those beings in the library, sealed in the walls. I do hope you didn't let them out. Though I know if you're reading this then it's already too late.

The secret of Tyne manor is this. The music room is the door. Play the requiem left in the garden, upon the belt of the statue of Orion.

The question now remains, why leave such an elaborate scheme to hide the weapon of the light? It would be perfect to use against the living shadows. The reason is 2 fold;

1 - The weapon is too dangerous for mortals to wield. No Man or woman born of this earth can wield it without dire consequences.

2 - If the agents of the darkness are able to get their claws on it, we are doomed.

The cries from the manor are growing... Even in the sanctum I hear them. The spirits of Tyne-born all through the past are in pain. It's all my fault, I couldn't lave well enough alone...

My father, John-Herrod Tyne was the one to bring the tablets of heaven into our home. He placed us on the edge of despair. I pushed us into the dark waters below.

I translated them. It was my life's work - My magnum opus. I truly doomed us all.

My advice to you is this. Play the requiem. I cannot say more for fear of the enemy finding me first. I pray that is not the case.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Lady Edna Tyne.

15 years on...

It may have seemed like a good idea long ago, but typical teenage independance broke us up.

White hair was the icepick. We astounded all of our parents. Though "Astounded" may not be the correct word of it...

We soon began to speak in sync, devloping the hive mind. We cast aside our emotions in exchange for power. Dark power...

The Midwich Cuckoos they called us, as they ran in fear...

There were 10 of us... what do you do once you've scared everyone away?

We didn't know either. We lived life as usual, going about our daily chores. But with no-one around to make things dirty, or to tell us we did a good job - was there a point to it all?

We soon lost interest in the normal life, and decided to take roles in the town, to make a commune like the hippies do. It was fine initially, until Mikey decided to call himself the mayor. It wasn't a bad decision, we needed a leader, and for those 4 years he brought progress - we traded with a nearby town. established a democracy. But when the elections came, the seeds of distrust began to grow.

Mike ran for office again - "Exceed all former expectations, look to the future.".
But Jane ran too - "Reclaim what is ours by birthright.".

We didn't know what to think. Mikey was looking for progress, but Jane wanted us to go back to how it was, saying we should "Branch out...".

We had a tie, believe it or not. That was the day democracy died for us.

Those who followed Mikey, like myself, moved to the eastern side of town, to continue the trading with Shorevale. But without the river, we lost the fish to Jane. The corn and farm produce became our livelyhood.

For a while, at least, we got along. Jane's group studied and trained their power back to their peak, and even beyond, while we worked at the ground. But things began to happen to us, just small at first - people would be sick with migraines, or even diahorrea. The silos would be spiked - split at the high points, letting it drain and egro attracting insects and vermin, and those animals would then eat at the fruit and vegetables. It was harder to keep the farm clean than it was to grow the stock.

Things grew out of hand. David found Stella, a girl whom Jane had affection for, attempting to pour our pesticides into our water tanks. We didn't have the heart to punish her, but we knew who was to blame for our misfortunes.

Later still, Mike became sick - really sick. He'd been having the migraines like most of us, but he was feeling bad all over. He began to waste away, finding it hard to breathe most of the time. It cost us a lot to keep him going - we trading god knows how much for oxygen tanks at the beginning, in a panic. We eventually had to ask Jane for help, as she was somewhat adept at the art of healing. Myself, David and Frederick went to the west for help.

Their half was... much the same as ours. Though dust lay deep upon the bakery, police station, and the town hall, where we expectd her to be. Jane, we later discovered, made her home in the church.

The church was a regal old building, kept in good condition in the olden days by Rvd. George and his associates before we'd had our way. Jane had, however, gutted it's innards, evident by the large number of pughs laid out like the dead in the yard. Jane was all too happy to help. David got a strange vibe from her, just a sense of sheer madness - that was enough to keep us on our toes. We trusted David, as he was at the centre of the incidents all those years ago. He was finely tuned into everything.

Jane said that Mikey's problems were due to stress. She gave us a load of pills, some we couldn't even remember being in the village. Freddy even thought Jane may have some kind of trades established, but there were no towns that would have trusted Midwich over to their side.

The pills worked, much to our relief. Mikey was up and about again, putting plans into action about how we could bring the farm back from the brink. Those of us who'd been to the other side of the village were still on edge.

We still didn't get it. Why did Jane send Stella to try and, for all purposes, to kill us, and then decide to heal our leader? Things didn't add up.

In a flash, the full picture came into view.

What I had omitted from this retrospect, was when Stella came to our side, she wasn't alone. Not on that night, but the attempts on our lives were numerous. Stella was jut the beginning.

On that night with Stella, there was a struggle. Another thing I forgot to mention. Stella swung for David with a knife. Freddy and Mark had to intervene, holding her down. Ursula and myself looked on. Stella was swinging wildly and grabbing at us. She wriggled out of the boy's grip, and shot for the door. Ursula tackled her back down to the wood. Ursula was always a tomboy at heart. But even she wasn't strong enough to keep her down. Stella ripped out a chunk of her hair and fled.

We all began to experience... strange dreams. They weren't nightmares, but they were damn close. We all had the same dream - stood on a dark moor, facing a dim moon. We stand immobile, blankly staring into the light. Shadows rush across us. We scream. We awake to a cold sweat, and in some cases, damp sheets.

Ursula became sick. Not like before though. This was worse. She was pulling potatoes and her leg... it broke. There was no reason for it to do so. It split badly. We thought of asking the other side for help, but David outright demanded we not do so. A friendly doctor from Shorevale came to treat her. She was to be in plaster for months, maybe even a year. She'd never walk the same again.

Mark became ill again. Just like before. The pills didn't even work anymore. I tried one long after this. Sugar pills. God-damned placebos.

Frederick toiled hard for us all, just so we could trade. One day, he collapsed from heatstroke. He was badly burnt across the back. The strange thing was, the burns grew worse every day, moving like a snake across his body. We then knew something was badly wrong.

David went out one night, one night when everyone was at their worst. He said he was going to confront Jane.

He was on the porch of the farmhouse the next day. Fast asleep. When we woke him up, he was lucid. He'd been drugged, or somethingworse. He could remember leaving, and flickering candles, then us waking him up.

We knew now that something NEEDED to be done.

David regained his senses soon enough. Mark demanded to go as well, saying he was strong enough.

We headed over to the church. They were nowhere to be found.

What we did find was... Was the reason for our troubles.

Dolls.

Children's dolls.

Children's dolls, tied around the neck with hair, clothing and other things. Thing we at the farm had assumed lost.

One was in a jar, filled with a clear, viscous liquid. It's head was stuffed Mark's hair and parts of an old shirt. We emptied the jar of its contents. Mark suddenly began to breathe clearly again.

Another had a leg torn off, the open wound stuffed with hair. Wasn't anything we could do about it then.

Another was suspended in bootstrings over an open flame. Several candles under, melted to wicks. We blew a calm wind across Freddie's back.

Two dolls sat idle. One male, and one female. Various devices sat beside them, ready for use. I shivered in fearful anticipation.

And there we were. On the dark moor. It was a trap. We were apart from each other, inside of our nightmares.

They had been working hard at making themselves more powerful. Like dark little spiders they had spun their webs. We were trapped in the gaze of the moon again. It stared a hole through our bodies, prone and nude on the edge of madness. The eye of Jane was strong.

But they weren't the only ones who'd worked hard.

Through our blood, sweat and tears we had become strong.

And we hadn't forgotten our dark gifts.

David had instructed us to work again To work on our gifts. Ever since we had visited Jane the first time, he had been afraid of her power. So he, along with the rest of us, agreed to work as one again.

We were just as strong as they were.

Jane's eye was blinded as soon as we were aware of our predicament.

Our bodies shined like silver in the darkness. We embraced the darkness once again.

We took her being, her form, her eye. We made her a part of ourselves.

When we awoke, she lay motionless on the floor, a serence look on her face. She was finally at peace. We lay her upon the cross, now ruined at her command.

The rest of her brood - Stella, Johnny, Harriet and Paul - Were nothing more to her than tools in the end. We found them sat around the font, as if a part of some dark ritual. We buried them by the river.

We were changed. No-one was the same after the dark business. We worked at bringing people into Midwich again. Settlers eventually came and the village was alive again for the first time in a long time.

With Mike leading us, we now lead some semblance of a normal life again. David became the chief of police, not that there's ever any crime in such a small place. Ursula became a teacher, and I married David. The old farm became our combined home once again.

Children who pass our home often ask why our hair is so shiney, and we tell them our tale.

But when they ask why there is a black streak going through it... We never answer. We still fear the eye, as much as it is now a part of us. We fear the abandoned church. We fear the now barren river.

Fear was our power, now it is our cross to bear.

Greg and Donna, Newlyweds - Feng-suei

Donna... I've just realised an inherent flaw in this whole feng-suei thing...

What?

Well, you say you need a divining crystal to know where to put everything?

Yeah...

...What you have there is a christmas decoration.

Yeah... Well, it's the first thing I had to hand.

It's June!

...I like to keep a few things around the house, off season, y'know?

Off season?! The birth of Christ has never occured in June to my knowledge!

Jesus, Greg...

Exactly!

If I'd known you were so religious I wouldn't have brought the goat!

...What goat?

The one to balance the house's chi.

Chi... *Scratches head* I thought only living beings could have chi?

No, our chi rubs off on our house. What we do adds positive or negative chi to the atmosphere.

Can't you just open a window?

No, it has to be actions, you can't just air it out.

Actions, eh... So, the question remains, why the goat?

To slaughter.

...Satanists do that, Don.

Really?

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeah.

Oh. Well, that what it says on the website.

I think we need to get parental controls on that thing...

Diary of Jerry Stasiak.

You ever have one of those days?

Everything that could have gone wrong, has proceeded to do so.

First off, as soon as I tried to turn on the light - The bulb burst. I mean literally. Ka-boom. Took ages picking up the shards of glass - made me late as all hell.

Got chewed out by that asshole Wormwood for turning up late. Lucky he's not the type to dock my pay.

He's just the type to make me work after hours. For free.

So I'm on the late shift. Great. Can't understand why a hardware store needs to be open 24 hours a day. The type who do need a power drill or a sledgehammer at 2am are usually the type of people I go out of my way to avoid.

Did get some customers though. and by some, I mean two.

First was a young woman, at about 10 o'clock. Pretty thing too. Just needed some batteries. I'm the type of guy to "Seize the moment", if you see what I mean. So i asked her what she needed to power so late in the evening. She gave me this blank stare, like I'd said something offensive (Would have loved to though, always seems to work for the assholes on T.V.).

"Fuck off, Creep."

Creep?! When was the last time you heard anyone use "Creep"? Grade schoolers use "Creep"!

I'd have said "Fuck off, Dickweed".

Bitch.

So a lot later on, about 1 or 2, I can't remember - He walks in.

Big guy. Fucking huge, built like a tank. Not to a stupid degree, like a superhero, but big enough for it to be noticable. He comes in and looks over all of the aisles.

"Great", I think, "He's a junkie". Wormwood always says they come in late, looking at all the shiney things. Some even try and hold up the place. That's why we had to get "Ol' Armbreaker". Which I was reaching for at that moment in time.

Guy come up to the counter about 10 minutes later. I'm ready, fucker.

He puts a crowbar on the top, along with a length of rope and a jack.

"Relax" He says.

Thinking back, my subtle "Hand behind the back" wasn't a great move.

"Just got into town, need some stuff."

"Car trouble?" I ask.

"You could say that."

He drops some cash on the counter. In a dimebag. All notes.

"Take enough to cover the sale. And a little for yourself."

Huh... Even for the people you see out at this time of night. This is just odd.

I did as he said. But had the sense to run it under a blacklight.

Watermarks. It's real.

"Sorry." I say, laughing, "You can never be sure."

He laughs too. A real bassy grumble. If he weren't smiling I'd be pissing myself in fear.

"No worries. I'd do the same in your position."

"So you're new in Spottsfield?"

"Yeah."

"Where are you staying?"

"The old Firegrand Estate."

Ah. It all makes sense now. This guy isn't a junkie, he's a lunatic. The Firegrand place is haunted, everyone in town knows it. Rodney Firegrand was a psycho, as was his wife, Lucinda. Courts proved it after... The incident. He was a "Predator", liked to get people on the grounds and hunt them down. Black guys. This was before Dr. King or any kind of civil rights movement. Lucinda was a different type of monster, a real praying mantis, if you get what I mean.

Eventually, the people had enough of them. In records, they just disappeared. I can guess what happened though.

"What's up there?" I asked. I mean, anyone who wants to go there has to have a reason.

"No idea." He says back.

Well, that conversation ended quickly. Jeez.

Anyway, he picks up his stuff, putting it into a bag.

"Be seeing ya." He said, walking for the door.

"Look, just a piece of advice. People don't go up there for a reason."

"I know. I know all about the history. I just want to see it for myself."

This guy was a fruit loop.

But, in the universe there's always gonna be someone more of a fruit loop than you are.

Maybe that's why I asked to go with him. Makes me the bigger nut, I suppose.

So, I'm writing this just before I go up to the gate. 9pm on the dot he told me.

I dunno why I wanted to go up there. I tried going up there on a dare once, as a kid. Scared the bejesus out of me.

Whatever Lou has, it's contagious.

Invitation sounds a lot like Initiation.

I must admit, the idea of starting a blog has gone through my mind many times. So why start one now?

Convenience I guess. I have the free time, and all I need to do is move my arms and lower attached apendages.

You see, Dear Reader, I'm a person ruled by Sloth. It's my most defining sin. But you'll learn a lot more about me in time.

So, why the pretentious name? Simple answer - I'm a person who values their intellect. I look out at the people in the street, on the T.V., and in history and pity them. Yes, pity - It's not a pretty term or colour in which to paint myself, but it's true. I see the people feeding off of the milk of ignorance - Worshipping false idols, placed upon the pedistal by shadowy puppetmasters. They laugh when there is no cause to do so, and at things that aren't funny, and they look oddly at me when I succumb to my schadenfreude and actually show some emotion to something I see as ironic or apt for the situation.

I don't want to fire all my bullets yet, gentle reader...

The name is simply me - stood upon the cliffs of destiny. Take that how you like...

I hope we can get to know each other over this time, it is said that through discourse we may learn, and grow.

See you soon.