The Three
30 May 2019Today’s prompt: “Write down the names of a person who haunts you from the grave, a person who fascinates you, and a person you don’t understand. Put them together in a scene.”
As you tease your hair into place, Mara’s face appears behind you in the mirror. Her chin tucks toward your neck, and her mouth approaches your ear. The light fixtures in the room buzz, and her reflection bubbles around the edges.
“Kill yourself,” the whisper enters your ear, as it would if she were actually standing behind you.
“Not today, Mara,” you say as you finish your hair, turn and stride out the door. “Not today.”
You drive to the compound, quivering with mingled eagerness and terror, your insides feeling like some 60’s-era jello salad that a toddler keeps poking to watch it wobble. Laurel has said she wants you to work with her on a special assignment today.
It’s just like Mara to show up on a day like today, a day you’ve dreamed of since you joined the Order of Dagon, and try to rain all over your culty little parade. But Mara is of no consequence. She was your first kill. No one special. Simply a means of initiating yourself into the order. But try telling her that. She keeps showing up, all “kill yourself” this and “I will haunt you forever” that. She is no fun at parties. But you’re not going to let her ruin your first chance to work with Laurel. You’ve worked too hard for that.
In spite of the patriarchal nature of most cults dedicated to bringing the great old ones to earth, Laurel rose to the head of the Esoteric Order of Dagon through a combination of political machinations, dynamic and competent leadership, and sheer force of will. Her whole aura screams “woman in power.” She wears an exquisitely tailored suit, but she seems like she’d be quite at home in the bikini chain mail of a Frank Frazetta warrior goddess, lounging on a throne, holding a skull in one hand and a chalice of wine in the other as a tiger lays at her feet.
She’s taken the order a long way from its roots as a weird little Massachusetts organization whose followers interbred with amphibian creatures to spawn “Deep Ones” in exchange for gold and a good catch of fish. Watching her ascend to power inspired you. You want to do everything you can to help her raise Cthulhu from the watery depths where he sleeps and hand him the earth in exchange for political power.
You saw the order needed a linguist to work through ancient scrolls and tomes. Somewhere in there, there’s a way to wake Cthulhu, and there were bound to be protection spells that will keep him from eating his loyal followers. You had no background in the languages they were written from, but you studied, and you’ve made yourself into an expert. You already translated a set of instructions for protective amulets, and now you, Laurel and all the members of the order wear them around your necks at all times.
You brighten as you walk into the conference room and see Laurel unfurling a scroll across the table. But then you see her frustrated expression, and the missing corner.
“Tell me it’s salvageable,” she says.
You scan the document. Holy shit. This is exactly what you’ve been looking for. It’s all about the ascension of the deep ones, the waking of the dread lord, an incantation setting the whole thing in motion. It’ll take some time to translate it. But … that missing corner looks like it might be a key part of the spell.
“I don’t know,” you say. “I think I might need to know what was here,” you gesture to the torn corner. “What happened to it?”
“He happened to it,” says the guard in the corner eyeing a manacled prisoner. You had barely registered them as you came in the room – you were so focused on the scroll.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Ramon Garcia,” Laurel says. “He’s with the Brothers of the Yellow Sign. He ripped the corner off the scroll as we captured him, and he ate it.”
“He ate it?” you ask.
Ramon grins. “Mara says hi.”
You ignore him. The Brothers of the Yellow Sign all have crazy on tap. You’ll never understand why anyone would give their adoration to Hastur, let alone their sanity. Cthulhu is worthy of your worship, but the King in Yellow? A crazy man in a tattered cloak? Maybe that crazy gives him a window into the spirit realm. Maybe that’s how he sees Mara.
“I don’t know if I can do anything without seeing the whole incantation,” you say.
Laurel furrows her brow, and then a smile curls across her face. “Didn’t you find a spell for reading minds a few weeks ago?”
“Yes?” you reply.
“Could you use it to look into his mind and see what was on the missing corner?” she asks.
“Maybe,” you say, glancing at the smiling acolyte of Hastur. “It’s worth a shot.”
You go to your library in the compound and return with the spellbook you recently translated. You turn to the page you need and pause for a moment.
“I know I’m asking you to take a big risk here,” Laurel says. “Who knows what’s in his mind.”
“It’s for the greater good,” you say, and you read the spell aloud.
Your eyes lock with Ramon’s. Your vision clouds, and then you see motions like paper rustling. Characters swim in front of your eyes. You recognize one sigil. Then another. And another. And very soon, the whole spell is forming in front of you. You laugh with delight.
And then the pages start to bubble around the edges. You hear the sound of buzzing light fixtures. And Mara’s face, fierce and terrible and unable to be denied, appears.
“Kill yourself,” she says.
You turn to the guard. You draw the gun from his holster. You hold it to your temple.