UNKNOWN TERRITORY

By: Alexander Rivera

Inspired by H.P. Lovecraft.

7:56 p.m. – Boston, Massachusetts

It was raining again outside Sigmund’s small, dank yet hospitable motel room in the heart of Boston. He always wondered how billions of miniscule water drops could effect on whether one could conjure up enough energy to complete the daily tasks ahead of him or remain in bed for the remainder of the day—thus feel as if his day was wasted.

Today was one of those days where capturing one of the most notorious occult-master who’s rituals were renown to get out of hand, was just another meager attempt to see if his ying was more apparent than his yang. Receiving ten thousand dollars would indeed suffice. The rain hit the one and only window in his room harshly, almost as if it was hail. Sigmund woke up to a room as if a whirlwind brushed through it. His jaded eyes were transfixed at the wooden crucifix on the wall, wondering if he had anymore cigarettes left. There was only one left, and it was broken in half as he muttered to himself, “Bullocks.”

Sigmund had gone in the bounty hunter trade for little over five years and already he felt as if he was getting to old for the business, despite being at the tender age of thirty. He often though a lot what his life would have been like if he had never left his father’s paper-printing business—probably bored. The best thing in Sigmund’s opinion involved in such a profession as his was the feeling of accomplishment. Then there were the downsides—such as never having enough money or involved in nasty shoot-outs with drug crazed gang-bangers. He, according to his own conjectures, was one of the only British bounty hunters employed to his knowledge. Perhaps the fact that there was scant competition in his line of work was reason enough to stay. Staying in Boston, near the rank decrepit, squalid nature of Arkham was an entirely different matter.

The rain patter had drummed him asleep, and now six hours later it drove him awake. The storms had eased, but water still poured from the roof as though it were Niagara Falls. Sitting straight up he blinked a few times, not really knowing where he was. His eyes were swollen and red from too much use and not enough rest, but it was time to start the next day or whatever was left of it. Throwing the covers back in nothing but boxer shorts, the heavily tattooed Sigmund picked his way across the room to the small bathroom. Flicking the switch, the tell-tale buzz of a fluorescent bulb hummed to life as it flooded the room with artificial light. Closing his eyes for a moment, he gave them time to adjust; peering into the cracked mirror above the sink he almost didn’t recognize himself. Damn, I’ve looked bad before but not like this. Turning the partially rusted knobs, water began to run, filling the room with its babbling sound. Filling his cupped palms he splashed the water to his face, the surprise of its chill shaking his nerves to an awakened state. Moments later, he went into the shower, thoughts of his reoccurring dreams drifting throughout his consciousness. And then, he heard a loud knock on the door.

“Damn.” Sigmund cursed under his breath. Quickly he got out of the shower, placed a towel on, grabbed a pistol nearby and answered, “Yeah, who is it?”

“Do you want me to stand in the rain all day long?”

Sigmund quickly replied, “Yeah. That’s exactly what I want; besides I was busily enjoying a long deserved shower.”

“Are you going to let me in or what? I’m tired, hungry and wet. I’m holding a bag of burritos and Mexican beer. Don’t fuck with me.” The low mundane voice spouted in impatience.

“Maybe, but how do you know you’re really some homicidal sociopath pretending to be a bounty hunter? Besides you look like Ichabod Crane on horseback.”

“Horseback? Last time I checked it was the headless horseman. I think all that tequila you drank last night has really gotten to you, friend.” Vance sighed, in slight confusion.

“Fuck it” Sigmund was sure to conceal the pistol in his hands when he unlocked the door. As he went into the restroom, the rather lanky figure took off his drenched cloak and placed it along side with the plastic bag on the nearby table and broke the momentary silence, “You sure this is where Conroy Mahaamen is hiding out?”

“Yeah, but not for long. I don’t think he’s even here. There’s a little town called Arkham not too far from here. It’s abandoned and usually drug fiends or fugitives tend to hide around there.” Sigmund’s voice echoed from the small restroom. Vance sat himself down while running his hand through his long, greasy raven black hair and sighed. Vance very briefly and drew out a package of M&M’s, opened it up with a soft crinkle of the brown bag. He popped a few in his mouth, where they promptly began to melt, making due on the promise on the package. Vance went on: “Well if the guy’s here or his crazy little cult of the ‘outer eye’, then it’s no problem catching the mother fucker. When you’re done catching him you might consider getting the bounty on this fellah. Although we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves,” Vance drew out a black folder of documents from the over sized pocket from his rain cloak and proceeded to finish his statement, “We’ll split it fifty, fifty. You in?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sigmund peered into the arresting fugitive’s expressionless photograph as a sigh escaped from his lips, slumping his shoulders, “Typical.” Both realized the amount invested in the capture of the fugitive.

Vance reached for the plastic bag, drew out a bean burrito and sunk his teeth into the Tex-Mexican cuisine. Sigmund slowly paced walked towards Vance and drew out a bottle of Corona beer and beamed, “Here’s to your early retirement.”

After the two had made a toast and drank, Vance scanned over the picture of the next potential bounty and pondered aloud, “Where are you going?”

Sigmund had finished tying his boots and replied with a smug expression, “Well it’s beginning to stop raining. I think this time we should get ahead of ourselves. You sure eat a lot,”

“I haven’t ate all yesterday...I deserve something.” Without responding, quickly Sigmund put on his denim jacket while Vance lead him towards his well armored, dull tinted vehicle, as the rain showers began to subside. Sigmund moved the side of his lips indicating sarcasm, “Nice car.”

“Heh. Fuck you. It’s not like your car is any better.” Vance mumbled while quite aware of his rundown automobile. As Vance drew out his keys, Sigmund lit up a cigarette whilst leaning against the car.

“Here’s your birthday present. Don’t complain that I didn’t give you anything. You won’t believe what I had to do to get this through security,” Vance smiled as he passed the metallic case to Sigmund’s grasp, as his mirror unconsciously gave Vance a scathing look. He opened the case briefly, revealing Para-military artillery. Vance added, “They’re state of the art too. Not even government sponsored mercenaries get this type of weaponry…although you’ll need chemicals for darts, both pistols need some new ammo and the shotgun needs some new darts, too.”

“Really?” Sigmund raised an eyebrow in muted suspicion.

“Listen, call me on my cell. I’ve got some things to take care of…but I’ll meet you there.” With a simple, “Fine,” Sigmund walked into his motel room carrying the case while Vance drove off in a rush, sending clouds of dust into the air.

9:30 p.m. – Boston, Massachusetts

Fear took hold of Sigmund as he drove along the interstate as the humming of a well-worn mustang had left Sigmund Sombra thankfully awake despite his occasional slip into an entranced state of consciousness. He had left the am station playing nonstop meringue. Something about that photo of his next bounty unnerved him, deep into his core. His eyes were dead, unfeeling – ice cold.

He heard the rumors of the hit-man as this was no run of the hill court-date dodging capture—the things that were committed in his deity’s name...the things he believed in respite of all sanity. It all sounded so fiction-like, macabre, unworldly and just plain fucked up, he shook his head and continued to drive on the highway until the sun had descended into the horizon, along the way forming majestic colors of lavender and peach swirling around the darkening sky.

Glimpses of a fleeting luminescence began to infiltrate his vision, as it began to change shapes and sizes. Now Sigmund was seeing things in his sleep deprived state. It then disappeared into the next stop. That was when he decided to pull off the road and follow the light, into a nearby lounge. Sigmund found himself an empty parking space, drove in, turned the ignition off and sighed deeply as he closed his eyes. Just for a brief moment, he felt as if all his problems and worries melted right away.

Inside the club, deep, shimmering, tribal house music spilled from the inside, flowing over the street, adding to the rhythmic energy that was in the air, enticing those that were still standing in line. Inside the club, throngs of people mingled, danced, and dazzled, each hoping for a better out come to the evening than what was likely. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, talk, and the beat of the near flawless cross fading of the disc jockey, bodies pressed closer together than what would have been acceptable in any other situation.

Now however, strobe lighting bounced precariously off illuminated and graffiti tagged walls and bodies gyrated to the heavy beat of music a mere millimeter to the left of insanity. The mutton clad, middle-aged and the terrifically trendy of the young on the chrome dance floor, by the blood-red marble bar as lovers kissed in a fusion of baseline lust.

The humid air had long ago invaded the building, but it was not bothersome to most, instead adding to the sexual desire that many of them felt. Women were looked at as sexual temptresses, and the men as would-be predators that were actually quite clueless. Those looking for a one-night stand were likely to find it here, while those looking for more, were destined to fail yet again.

Sigmund enjoyed the atmosphere of Pendulum, just as long as he had the prospect of getting laid, but was far too accustomed to gallivanting on the gritty mean streets of slums to abandoned warehouses for squatters, but loved the idea that he would spend the rest of the night here. Yet he was surprised to find that it was everything that he had heard—the party atmosphere, the beautiful people, the best music, and prices that were not to be believed. Sigmund came here expecting to find just another flashy bar, but had instead found a hot spot hidden in a decadent area of town.

None of these people seemed like mad occult magicians of any esoteric order yet something grabbed a hold of his attention. A scantly clad red-head caught his eye, matching his lust. He sat himself upon a barstool, debating with himself whether to say a word to her.

From that moment on, a vision slowly crept inside, poised to slay his sanity that held his mind together for it to fall and crack open into fragments. A legion draped in ebony, grim and poised for slaughter as well held their collective intent tight in the miserable night. The screams were sweet to them as he bore witness to it all, crouched behind sodomized bodies, laying cold in foul mounds—graced by icy wind.

A cruel gaze of dozens pierced his prayer, snapping to attention at his presence while wet spears crept down to his direction, his spastic mind caught in suspension. A nearby whisper sent Sigmund darting up from his darkly daydream as he glanced at the fairly attractive woman in all black. Glancing over to her direction, he took a quick glance at her. Her features were set in stone, hard and unmoving; she had the face of daddy’s little girl; how far from the truth it was. She was tall; very likely equal to his six foot frame, with a slim, athletic body that hinted at hours spent in the gym. Her eyes were dazzling splashes of blue that had seemed to shimmer, even from the other side of the club, and they appeared to dance with a light all of their own.

He attempted to talk over the bombastic baseline of the dance music. His mind, like his heart, was racing with desire, and he fought to give off a calm appearance, terrified of becoming tongue-tied. It had been a long time since any woman had made him feel this way, like a burgeoning virgin, and he wanted very much to laugh at himself. The intricate tattoos flowing all over her body underneath her dress had a slightly greenish tint. He inquired with a, “Yeah?”

“Hello,” she said, her voice sounding like some soul shattering ballad, reaching to the very essence that he was. “I’m Sheanna.”

“Sigmund.”

“Ever been here before, Sigmund?” She asked seductively.

“Nope. I’m here visiting on business...” He offered, flippantly. “Thought I’d check it out, see if it was every thing that I heard it was.”

“Have you liked what you’ve found?” asked Sheanna, her eyes sparkling a solid blue despite the multi-colored lights playing about the room.

“I like at least one thing I’ve seen here,” replied Sigmund, instantly berating himself for the cheap come-on line. Naturally, without warning, his cell phone rang interrupting their candid, flirtatious conversation. He answered and a static-like voice followed from the small speaker: “You’ll never guess what I’ve found...”

From then on, he would curse the name of Vance; so long he lived being diverted from ever reaching climax with this attractive broad.

11:02 p.m. – Arkham, Massachusetts

It was already full moon, waxing above so dimly and Sigmund grinded his teeth at the thought of missing out on some potential one-night tryst with the scarlet haired lass. The darkness of this decrepit town was stronger than usual in the night. Usually the moon would shed its pale light upon the surface of the earth at this time of night, yet it did little to help alleviate the shadows in this dead, infernal place. The town resembled something like a leper. The fringes decayed and dwindled, sometimes sloughing as one from the whole. Diseased and alone, the town became infested. Other towns retain their former beauty, but are marred or forgotten. Nothing could disguise the green pustules that ravaged the face of this region.

His car stopped in front of a recognizable car that belonged to Vance, parked a few hundred yards from what it looked like, a rather gloomy, abandoned house surrounded by barren trees. He shut the ignition off and stepped outside, finding only a weathered and abandoned automobile with a cracked window-shield and stains of blood, dripping throughout. A stream of thoughts entered his mind detailing the possibilities that could have occurred between the time Vance called and the time Sigmund finally arrived on the scene. In that instance, he went for his magnum silencer straight from his denim jacket and sighed with anxiety, no longer cursing Vance and fearing the worst. Sigmund faced the seemingly empty Victorian house and felt foreboding presences watch him from inside. He walked along his way down the cobblestone pathway snaked through the front lawn, not quite sure what he would expect.

After much driving, he reached the gray, cold stone walls of the abandoned town of Arkham. A feeling of pure dread crept into Sigmund like some tentacled horror. He felt the sensation of twisted monsters slithering within his stomach, with his heart skipping a beat. With each step he took ever since he embarked on this bounty, he felt like he was descending to some foul, unfathomable abyss. He felt as if he were going toward something that he should have been fleeing far from.

He made his way deeper into the courtyard and cemetery, where, lined up in neat rows, all polished, obsidian granites and shining cut stone, recently placed headstones and withered flowers suggested they were in the newest part of the lot. Finally, he reached the doorway from the wooden planks that made up the white porch, and stopped at a partly opened window.

Sigmund, acting as if he were a stealth assassin slipped into the window with the ease and grace of a cat, he moved to stand beside a wonderful statue carved into the likeness of a large cobra coiled around a beautiful red gem. He took out one of his many daggers, and stole down the hall in the shadows, again moving behind the cover of a statue in the shape of a beautiful maiden. Someone must be a collector Sigmund thought looking around at the many beautiful statues. This particular statue of what appeared to be a bizarre representation of an angel hanging upside down, while strangled by a caduceus serpent slithering and twisting around as if it were attached to Hermes’ winged staff – placed upon a wall and knew intuitively to pull the lever to reveal some typical secret passageway – positioned outside a door that led to one of the small waiting rooms and a flight of stairs. Silence was strung from every corner, punctured only by the slow footsteps that rang loudly around the walls. Running from corner to corner, floor to ceiling, the call of palpable spite was loud and clear.

Here he listened, waiting thirty or more seconds for the next cloaked guard patrol in absolute silence. Thirty seconds later a lonesome cloaked figure came out and moved west down the hall. Sigmund moved out of the shadows and came up behind the man and grabbed him, whispering with force, “Where the fuck is he, you dead fuck.” No answer came and only the garbled gibberish he muttered sounding almost like some ancient dialect forbidden to be spoken.

Motivated by fear and rage, Sigmund’s blade arced through the air, laying open the throat of one adversary and spilling the intestines of another. A cry tore its way from his throat, a bellow of indecipherable rage and anguish.

“Shit...” he cursed, even as he still marveled at how easily the dagger slipped in between the discs in a human spinal cord, inflicting immediate paralysis, loss of speech and finally the great blackness of death. Beneath the red haze that clouded his mind, Sigmund wondered briefly which one that had been, how many he had killed, even as he added three more to the tally; but he could not remember, having long ago lost count in the bloodlust that had gripped him. After slowly pacing the corridor for an hour taking in every bit of his surroundings, observing the hardly alert figures, and searching for dangerous machine trappings that could become a problem if not removed.

When he was satisfied that there were none of the troublesome sentries around other than a stray cloaked figure, he placed a few more bullets in his silenced magnum. Sigmund took aim and shot a bullet to the left of the room, diving to the right he flicked out two daggers; both hit the mark and traveled into the heart of the guard. Rolling back to his feet Sigmund crossed the room and dispatched one guard with an easy feint and thrust. The guard fell at his feet within seconds clutching at his torn throat. After the bloody feud he traversed down the stairs, penetrating the darkness and eventually found himself a catacomb filled with relics belonging to the most deranged adept of black magick. Amongst the devotional sigils and images, he walked past each of inverse pentagrams, ankhs, swastika eyes, high relief’s of Babylonian deities, Thelemic Baphomets and quotations of religious writing inscribed in Latin upon the walls, yet only written in dripping crimson.

Yet, what specifically caught his attention of fields of decapitated heads that populated the secret chamber, floating in suspended animation within powered tubes that seemed to belong to some vicarious mad scientist of the most demented pedigree. Rows of holocaust-miming carnivals lined without break on either side; this unholy sodomizing place, glorified wastelands, strung together with sin and given life by the ringleaders of filth—something out of a Texas Chainsaw Massacre film.

At the end of the room was a sacrificial altar, fresh with spilt blood. It was ugly. It seemed as if he had been torn from the inside, with his bowels hanging out of his shredded flesh and with an expression of unspeakable fear in his glassy eyes. And his heart and head were missing. Some came with their heads in their hands, certain appendages missing from their bodies, or some other appalling mutilation that left them horrific to look at. Fair hair was stained red with a sticky mess of blood indicating the torn eyes from the stranger’s skull. He saw every cut of every freckle on his disgustingly perfect complexion and admired the handiwork of the practitioners and high priest handlers. Relieved this wasn’t the decapitated head of his fellow hunter, he wondered if Vance was among these victims of dejected brutality and trauma.

There was another passageway, a door leading to whatever nightmare that awaited him next. It all seemed so surrealistic and dream-like to him that he sincerely started to doubt his very senses. He turned the knob, nervously fidgeting and proceeded to open only to find himself right back outside. Even though there were sentries, about, almost as if they were docile zombies pacing aimlessly, this place seemed abandoned and unattended. There was a dead-cold silence that clung to the air, still and stagnant like the bile that sought to rise from his belly and into this throat. This terrain was foreign, alien to his usual assignments in this unknown territory of this degraded wasteland that was Arkham.

Right as he shut the door behind him, blasphemous whispers tainted the thick air, culling his namesake to bare witness to some spectacle of abhorrent horror that would take place before his swelling eyes. The anxiety in the air clung to his skin like a thick sweat. Sharp edged winds snap and twisted through the darkest regions of the forest, domain to the Outer Eye cared for by the beast. Whipping in loops, from and to the grimy bowels of hell, the wind cycled over and over again, gusting over Sigmund’s bleached blonde locks. There was a faint light in the distance as clouds of smoke wafted upwards towards the midnight sky which seemed like nothing but a sea of infinite darkness in which the hungry spirit of their unearthly, mighty-yet-fallen god had seemingly resided in besides the great, deep and vast unknown depths below the crashing seas that contained the sunken remnants of a lost, alien metropolis of mired hell—a primeval sea below the seas that covered the world.

Light barely penetrated the dense canopy of rotten, decaying trees that sprawled overhead. The fragrant aroma of gardenias wafted through the heavy air and every sound saturated the area. The little black stumps of trees were adorned, cloaked in the blood vine trumpet flowers. A distant chanting resonated off the towering trees an eerie rhythm that caused Sigmund’s hair to stand on end. A lump formed in his throat and his stomach tightened as the words became audible.

“Out of the deepest part of the sea, to the highest part of the sky we will lie, we will die...We will live, we will die…”

Sigmund carefully crept closer, and as he did the mumblings crescendoed into the shouting madness of an ancient ritual. Crouching, Sigmund remained catatonic, poised and silent as only his eyes moved in furious spasms to capture the scene in front of him.

A priest stood in the center of a grove, wrapped in an old blanket around his shoulder. Saluting his followers, singing heroically, the priest was an animated corpse bubbling with energy unknown to mortals. The man was in scarlet—he was speaking in Latin, saying, “Please accept the sacrifice on this day.” And then he said, “This sacrifice will seal the ceremony.”

Afterwards, the man in scarlet, he had a huge golden ring on his hand and came over to the center of the grove. Each of the people that were swearing that day had to go forward and kneel before him and kiss his ring, and swear their allegiance to the New Order, to the New World Order for all...for the Great Indwelling Old Ones and their terrible, beauteous reign until their deaths.

“It is because of you people making trouble,” bellowed the priest the piercing glance frothing vehemently, “terrible, terrible trouble.”

His restless eyes rested on a young girl who quivered as she struggled against the bonds confining her to a tree. She whimpered frantically and Sigmund could feel the utter desperation emanating from her soul, beaconing him to free her, as he waited for the right moment to interrupt into the most hideous rite.

“Thou hast broken the will of the infinite dark, the black gulfs of chaos in which our forefathers have existed within and have joined the church of the slave gods!” spat the priest mockingly. “For your insolence and complete disregard for Mahaamen’s rule, a sacrifice is needed for the atonement of your sins.” He exhaled, and in the reverberation of his raspy voice a thousand years seemed to pass.

“This virgin with her chasteness and innocence will purge and cleanse us of our discretions with her death. Praise be to our god for his wisdom. When the stars are aligned, he will rise and raze this earth, his kingdom and the devout will live forever.”

The priest raised a gnarled hand and muttered a benediction. His eyes rolled back into his sockets giving his gaunt face a demonic tinge. The girl’s fear surged through the air and as her panic climaxed the priest reached for his scythe. What little light that had filtered through the branches was now gone, and the pleading cries of the virgin girl were only ended by the metallic ring of the weapon. The blood vine trumpet flowers were splattered in the viscous liquid, and the crowd cheered with joy. The swift blade took to her flesh, heralded by wrath channeled through a peon.

Sigmund shuttered and repressed the rising urge to vomit. The deep brown pools of sorrow, which had been her eyes, that had once beseeched anyone else like Sigmund for help, now gazed into the abyss of death.

The priest smiled and lifted his arms, exhaling, “We make her grow strong again.” He evaluated the congregation, eyes fixated on the growling sky. He edged back a little as he spotted the ruined and hideous undead legions standing at attention along the desecrated walls of the open space. The hooded figure revealed a wicked looking blade from within the folds of his robes, and glided towards the nearest slab. Putting one hand on another prisoner’s forehead, the figure drew the blade across the throat sharply, sending a spray of red into the air, crying, “Cthulhu fhtagn!”

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

Sigmund pointed his silencer at the high priest, aiming for his head. This was the twisted bastard who took Vance into the depths of their collective keep in flowing rows, reeking with sin – the reapers scaling the behemoth below with moans of the damned horde. This town, supposedly abandoned was now the home of crazed lunatics, summoning some seething eldritch power that he wished did not exist amongst the sickly mist that descended upon the grove of sacrifice and violating veneration in those hours of darkness.

He felt swallowed in the moment, consumed by this moment becoming an etched memory so dim, of fear and sin and torture so grim. It seemed as though his inner vision was coming to life, manifesting in front of his eyes as he pulled the trigger and shot at the crimson robed priest in the neck. A frenetic onslaught of panic enveloped the crimson-bathed stage of mortification as a shadow slowly crept up behind Sigmund and whispered softly with a feminine husk, “You have been culled to our glorification and sanctification of the Great Working.”

Just as Sigmund was about to make his move after the feminine, lithe form, she struck him down on his head with something hard enough for him to lose his consciousness and crossed the bridge to a darkly crypt of unconsciousness.

12:23 a.m. – Arkham, Massachusetts

The first thing Sigmund noticed when he slowly rose from his languid sleep was the fowl, acrid odor that drowned out his senses, pungent with the stench tinged of incense, blood and flame. The ungodly energy still clung to the air thick leaving Sigmund sick to his stomach, suddenly realizing he was cold, laid upon a marble slab that formed an altar. His headache, once a minor buzz, had escalated to an incessant pounding, nearly making his ears ring. Fucking freaks, he thought sourly, brows lowering dangerously as his jaded eyes met with those of the same woman he had met earlier in the bar.

He was tied down, strapped all around with leather constrains, realizing he was at the center of the grove site with now only two peculiar figures watching his every futile movement to escape. His head spun, he heard her voice but not her words; he wasn't even sure if she was real or not. Everything seemed hazy, he’d lost blood, he could feel it all over his body; his tattoos now laced with lacerations, his body was working but not his mind. Perhaps it was grief, fatigue, blood loss, who really knew, all he knew was that he was still alive; but there was a pit, deep in his stomach there was a hollow, gnawing away at him. He could feel it rising up, washing over him and taking control of his mind; that was his waking moment; nothing would ever take him over.

He felt the weight of their stares, finally catching an audible glimpse of what the woman was saying to him this whole time he was drifting in and out of consciousness, “You should have never came here, bounty hunter. We anticipated your arrival.”

“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing...” Sigmund muttered with a croak for a voice. Sheanna, presumably the high priestess of the lodge instantly plunged her arm onto his throat and cooed, “You’re fortunate enough to be still alive. Your friend was quite an honorable and formidable foe. He fought valiantly.” The nude scarlet woman stepped aside to reveal a cross, dark and fragile, behind her with Vance, hopelessly still—nailed and tied by rope to it like a crucified savior; the sacrificial lamb made in reverence for a fallen god. Fear and rage washed over Sigmund just as another voice honed in, reverberating off the walls of the near light-less chamber, only to be littered with faint candles of incense. The voice was majestic yet fearsome; cold and intrepid—fast enough to interrupt his thoughts of vengeance, if only for a few brief moments.

“We have anticipated your arrival, hunter. I too am I hunter and successor of the aeons. Thank you for making yourself known to our family.” The figure withdrew from the shadows behind and stepped into the faint, fiery glow emitted from the various candles surrounding the area. He wore a mask resembling a skull, barely large enough to cover the angular nature of his countenance as a beard protruded from his chin in the manner of an Egyptian pharaoh. His eyes swirled with glee at the thought of anointing a new subject with the stupefying crawling chaotic magick of his darkly oversoul. The hairs of Sigmund’s neck stood erect, with seething goose bumps littering his skin as he felt the inhuman breadth reeking and emanating from the eyes of both ritual practitioners.

“You won’t fucking take me!” He yelled eyes hardened astride with rage. He kicked his legs up, forcing and struggle with all his might to escape from the altar.

“The more you fight it, the less chance you will escape.” Conroy sighed as he stripped off his mask. Wrapped in fabrics red as the sunset flame, he was tall, lean and swarthy, devoid of any spark of light in his eyes—only shadow remained within as the very consciousness of the voiceless, tenebrous gods of chaos, incarnate. His embrace met with the barely clothed Sheanna and muttered to all those present to hear; even the maligned spirits that became attracted to their sordid rituals: “It is she, the great scarlet maiden rides astride the Beast; in her left hand she holds the reins, representing the passion which unites them. In her right she holds aloft the cup, the Holy Grail aflame with love and death. In this cup are mingled elements of the sacrament of the Aeon.”

Their lips locked in a passionate embrace, exchange saliva into each others mouths, like the consorts of god and goddess, locked in unholy matrimony. They momentarily withdrew from one another as the black magician looked upon Sigmund’s clearly disturbed visage and expression and squeezed his face, “Your friend. He still breathes this same foul air, but only by a mere thread of life. I want you to do something for me and both of you will be set free while both of us will be in your custody, awaiting our judgment. It is you that will take the Oath of the Abyss. This is part of the great working of the Outer Eye.” Sigmund couldn’t believe what he was hearing; as if he had stepped inside the twilight zone, facing the belly of the hellish beast itself, interacting with the black souls of the damned.

“What if I don’t? What the fuck do you want from me?”

“You don’t understand. If you do not, you will be a fitting sacrifice, just like the rest. You will be forced to consume your compatriot’s flesh. We will start by cutting your throat open—slowly, much like you did to the priest of the ritual earlier.” He went on, his voice bombastic, enough for the dead to rise from their graves: “The great event of the Aeon will bring with it the possibility of redemption to those ready to become vessel of the sprawling chaos—to bring about a new creation as the weeds are cleared for new growth by flaming fire. Even as redemption draws neigh to some, as we ourselves are in fact the instruments of its gestation, the usher of destruction is beyond good and evil, perfectly gentle, perfectly ruthless, containing infinite possibility. Nyarlathotep, the haunter, great avatar of condemnation for the sleeping, Daemon Sultan, Azathoth seeks to be reawakened and make his presence known and invoked. Out from me, I shall impart something of it, so the doctrine shall spread.”

“You’re fucking crazy. All of you.” He muttered.

“Then you have chosen death, I see.” Conroy grimly answered.

“No. Do whatever you want. Just let him go...” Sigmund sighed, with dread ringing in his voice. Upon Conroy’s face, formed an expression of over-joy and manically laughed momentarily as all feelings of an end to this madness dissipated as wails of nightmares untold resounded through Sigmund’s skull—on the threshold of undertaking a most foul and repugnant rite any other sane person would shy away from. The distracting dancers of the blind one, Azathoth’s court would be cleared and the sweeping, consuming mouth of the Apocalypse would swipe this world clean of the mundane and unworthy.

12:49 a.m. – Arkham, Massachusetts

There was nothing but dismal darkness as he entered the midnight waves of the abyss where many practitioners and warlocks would span over it at the danger of being stripped of their personality and sanity. Down in these unfathomable trenches of insanity and despair crawled all manner of things, swarming, crawling, and seeking for prey. The dark despair filled him and pushed out any little joy that remained in his battered soul. Beyond the confines of his flesh, stricken by a hypnotic trance, the darkly sea stoically raced and relented, gnawing at his mind. He heard tiny screams. And these screams were unlike the usual screams of persons—they were the sounds of the minds of men snapping. The chaos, the utter mindlessness of this space was unlike anything Sigmund had encountered in any waking or dreaming moment of his lifespan.

There was a faint fire in the distance which moved in unison with the Primal Chaos that filled the void throughout, almost dancing to and fro in a strange manner that could have been used to even distract or hypnotize someone or something in a lulled state of unconsciousness. The flames suddenly became worm-like and tentacled, sprawling and spiraling into his being, merging with his soul.

Sigmund opened his eyes from the trance-induced state and felt revulsion unlike he had ever experienced; amazed at the fact he was still whole yet at the same time, damaged and terrified beyond belief. He lifted his head to the consort of the beast, the Whore of Babalon as eyes bled to crimson as the demon gnashed within her, spilling out from her chest as a whole tangled host of tentacles that could have been mistaken to a deranged worshiper the face of Dead But Dreaming High Priest himself, reaching out for his mouth to tare and worm itself inside to make home and fulfill the twisted wishes of Conroy Mahaamen—seemingly the voice of Azathoth incarnate. She cackled maniacally as smaller forms of tentacles of the parasite emerged from beneath her eye lids and throat. The twisted spectacle left Sigmund in a standstill between sanity and stretching unreality at the twisted sights of the terrors which would have sent the bravest of souls screaming eternally to the dark chasms of their subconscious.

There was a deep guttural chanting invoking the name of the monstrous Azathoth spewing from the twisted mouth of the high priest as he went on to chant: “I hear the Crawling Chaos that calls beyond the stars. And they created Nyarlathotep for their messenger, and they clothed him with chaos that his form might be ever hidden amidst the stars. Who shall know the mystery of Nyarlathotep? For he is the mask and will of those that were when time was not! He is the priest of the Ether, the Dweller in air and hath many faces that none shall recall.”

Sigmund became panicky as he struggled to throw this wench off from him, in which she set herself, attempting to spread and sow the seed of darkness into his breath. Regret held tightly over his heart—wrenching, twisting, and constricting it in its embrace of ever coming to this place and taking on the case of the infernal magician. With every ounce and fiber of his will, he ripped through the rope which tied him down from underneath the altar and pushed the malevolent, miserable bunt away from him and onto the floor and immediately set himself running away from the scene until Conroy stepped in his way, knocking him down again to the floor with a nearly dead Vance.

He held Vance, who was in stark, sickened dismay at his fate by the back of his neck and a ritual dagger to his temple, taunting: “You cannot escape the madness which has already claimed your mind. Let the anger course through your veins. It is you that shall be the altar of our will. Your friend is already dead!” With that, rage consumed him whole; with his stress levels set dangerously high, adrenaline overflowing. As if somehow animated by the devil himself, the long-raven haired Vance lunged after him like a rabid dog and bit at his neck like a blood-thirsty cannibalistic vampire. Nostrils flared as a sneer curled lips once more while blood trickled down yet not enough for him to die from sheer blood-letting. A quick jab to his abdomen sent the now possessed Vance straight to the floor. It was all an amusing jest to the congregation of the damned as they watched the two hapless souls struggle over the scraps left at the site of pandemonium; the unholy sacrament.

A black tentacle wormed its way to Sigmund as the cult of the Outer Eye witnessed in glee at the burgeoning spectacle of the rising and awakening eldritch energy glow from Sigmund’s eyes. They all began to close in on him, like hunters out to eviscerate their prey. Aghast at this sight, Sigmund suddenly found himself with the upper-hand of power by his jutting, seething grasp upon his face, extracting the very life force from their corporeal husks without another thought—especially one of remorse. Only mere mortals would indulge in such feeble emotions. Vance fell limp, dropping to the floor like a rag doll. From what it seemed, a wave of ebbing fiery resurgence coursed through his body. He opened his eyes and saw before him the spirit of pestilence that was left from the corpse that was Vance.

A wedding of blood and secretion, dripped with tears of torture and unholy depletion left Sigmund dazed yet elated by the act he had just committed. Out from the incarnate representation of the goddess Babalon, Sheanna began to fidget into spasms, leaving the parasite to evacuate its host, thus leaving it empty. These halls of decay became splattered with the blood of the old fleshy suit of Conroy and into the hell-spawn creature that was Nyarlathotep as its seeping anti-light which resembled something like oil floating through water grew and drew from the already placed synergies of previous rites of sacrifice and crawling parasites.

In those final moments of existence, Sigmund’s senses were transfigured, mortified by the sight he beheld as if he had merged with the abyss itself—it enveloped over him like the flapping raven black wings of a fallen angel or the grotesque arms of a kraken, as the spirit-sodomizing shadow sought diligently to enter his form. In this church of pitch-darkness, its form spread within him, seeking out his soul, revealed to it every deed, thought and action executed in his previous life as a bounty hunter and further beyond that. His spirit severed and mangled, lost and confused, the burning outer eye shined bright ahead, while the cinders of faith in his own humanity dwindled into nothing; non-existent—by chaotic gods of Azathoth’s nether-regional court, he was excused.