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01 Jun 2019Today’s prompt: “The kill fee.”
“$20,000. Half up front,” the assassin says.
“Deal,” her client says, pushing a briefcase of cash and an envelope with your photo in it across the table.
Today’s prompt: “The kill fee.”
“$20,000. Half up front,” the assassin says.
“Deal,” her client says, pushing a briefcase of cash and an envelope with your photo in it across the table.
Today’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.
Today’s prompt: “The corpse you saw in the undertaker’s window”
The undertakers did their best, but the body has a distinctly gnawed-on appearance.
You always thought these eldritch gods swallowed people whole, or at least would have finished their meals. Perhaps Aiueb Gnshal is a picky eater.
A week later, and a new casket appears. New corpse, similar bite marks. You pass by the window, thinking that this is a very strange way of advertising one’s services. People don’t tend to go window shopping for funeral gear.
A few days later, you open your front door to a massive set of teeth.
Today’s prompt: “The people who will live in your house after you move out”
Actually, your house sits on the market for a long time. It’s not that it’s not a nice place; you made some solid renovations to it – better landscaping, a much more modern-looking kitchen. But most states do require real estate agents to disclose if a house has been the site of a violent death, since that can put a damper on home values. That effect on real estate prices goes double for ritual cult killings.
The people who eventually move into your house are no-nonsense, skeptical types, not particularly given to superstition, but with a bit of a morbid streak. They know a good bargain when they see one, and they studied the M.O. of the Brotherhood of the Beast just enough prior to buying your house to satisfy themselves that they would be no more likely to be hacked into little bits than anyone else in your town. And they never decorate for Halloween. They don’t have to.
Today’s prompt: “What you used to do that you don’t do anymore”
Go on road trips. Admire the creamsicle hues of a sunset. Drink a beer while trimming the trees in the front yard. Feel the wind against the side of your face. Scratch behind the ears of dogs as their owners walk them past you. Obsess about Game of Thrones. Make plans with friends for game nights or brunch. Look forward to the reintroduction of Count Chocula around Halloween. Ignore the warning signs when all of your neighbors started wearing black robes and carrying sharp implements. Breathe.
Today’s prompt: Make a scene with a character exhibiting really bad behavior.
Good lord, almost all these scenes involve a character murdering someone, and now I’m expected to up the ante? [Sigh.] Okay.
You get stabbed by a guy who is simultaneously inappropriately touching a female passerby, shouting slurs about Latinx individuals and transpeople, and littering.
Today’s prompt: “You are lost in a foreign country. You can’t find anyone who speaks English. How do you react, and how do you find your way?”
“Uh, que camino es la estación de tren?” you try, tapping letters into Google Translate and hoping for the best.
“Ahf’ ymg’ tharanak geb?”1 the man responds, looking at you warily.
You try again. “Où est la gare?”
“N’ghftog Chtenff ah nafl gotha ooboshu’drnn ph’nglui R’lyeh,”2 he says.
None of what he says sound like any language you’ve ever heard, but you soldier on. “Welcher Weg ist der Bahnhof?”
“Y’ epbug ai hafh’drn ot n’ghft yog ymg’,”3 he determines, and walks away.
“Hey, wait!” you say, striding after him.
“Llll ah’azanafl h’,”4 he calls out to others in the square. You find yourself surrounded by men and women who had heretofore been minding their marketplace stalls or tending their drab little gardens. You try to follow the man you were talking to, but find your way barred by hoes and rakes.
You attempt to explain that you were just trying to find your way to the train station and try to exchange pleasantries in English, Portuguese and Mandarin, to no avail. Eventually, the man returns with a black-robed woman, and the crowd parts.
The woman places her hand on the man’s shoulder. “Vulgtmnah vulgtmor,” she says. “Throdog Cthulhu h’ ahmggoka.”5
1What brings you here?
2The Black Brotherhood does not want visitors in R’lyeh.
3I will go tell the priest of darkness about you.
4Gather around [him or her].
5A good sacrifice. Great Cthulhu accepts it.