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Diary Entry 7
27 July, 1918
It is mid-summer now, but I feel the chill. A fearful chill born out of the endless gulfs between the stars. Soon it will be August and my tale will end. They come for me. The Cult of Cthulhu. They stalk the darkened streets and reeking waterfronts, like ghouls in the night, loathsome wretches of cursed birth. From Arkham to Dunwich to Kingsport to horrid Innsmouth, the trail has grown as cold as the corpses that litter the charnel strand in that grotesque mockery of human habitation which hunches like a canker in the gullet of that long black river. The leaves wither and die and fall from the trees, trees whose branches sway even when there is no wind. Fall, how fitting the name of the approaching season. Winter not long behind, but I fear the cold clutch of that icy embrace will enshroud me sooner than the world will turn. The white wave, so fair and yielding, I wish I had not seen. God has been gracious, but will he be merciful?
May God have mercy…
https://andoestherr.wixsite.com/thearkhammystery
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Diary Entry 6
26 July, 1918
The sea is never silent, we sail endlessly under strange stars, the cosmos boundlessly complex with strange eons, our feeble senses cannot comprehend that there is no distinction betwixt the real and unreal, memories and possibilities are ever more hideous than realities. Learned men foolishly thought that science which oppresses us with its shocking revelations would be our ultimate exterminator. They believed supernaturalism was the realm of the inferior thinker, yet they were wrong. Alas poor Enoch! Though my dear friend was confined in that refuge for the demented, locked within the grey stone of Arkham Asylum, but the knower of the gate, the All-in-One and One-in-All whose limitless being is beyond the unbounded sweep of existence and mathematics and fancy alike, he which the crustaceans of Yuggoth worship as the Beyond-One, and which the vaporous brains of the spiral nebulae know by an untranslatable Sign. Oh spawn of the Dog Star, frightful messenger from unformed realms of infinity beyond all Nature as we know it, lurching from out of black extra-cosmic gulfs beyond the space-time continuum! He the Opener of the Way would suffer not man to tell that he hath looked upon them who press hideously upon our world from unholy dimensions which only the dead and moonstruck can glimpse!
Friend Enoch is gone! Disappeared, vanished, like a wraith in the night into the deep woods which no axe has ever cut. Though that madhouse that caged him did not bring restful dreams to its unfortunate inmates who lack the capacity to evolve mentally beyond man’s former state of subservience to primate instinct and pugnacity, it was in its own bleak way a safe haven, or den where the dominant beast sleeps lightly beneath the coverlet of civilization, a haunt which valued lessening the agony of existence. Yet good and evil are not comic truths or laws…but I ramble, forgive me, I must impart to you this final warning.
It is he who guards the last door, The Great Dreamer, The Sleeper of R'lyeh, the Great Old One, Cthulhu! Learn the words; escape the shadows though terror dwells in broad daylight.
That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die.
My friend is gone, I suspect, nay I know the reasons for his disappearance. They took him, or perhaps it was their masters. I shudder to think what grisly fate befell him. Indeed, I fear for my own wellbeing as well. Forgive me traveller, past and present and future are as one to he who has ignorantly peered beyond the gate, unknowingly pierced the veil, gazed into that infernal abyssal plain of absolute non-existence yet still retained a shred of sanity enough to give warning if not pause. I entrust this knowledge to you.
May god have mercy on my soul.
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Diary Entry 5
25 July, 1918
The autumn heat lingers misting the night, a sulphurous odour rises from the sodden earth, monstrous guilt upon the land as abyssal as the gulfs between the stars, this terrible town of unnumbered crimes, houses dull with age, aimless streets forgotten by the vermin-gnawed years, shadows slink in old alleys as green water glides under bridges and steeples crumble. A ghastly midnight of rotting creation, I behold a nameless rock, the corpse of a dead world whose cities are unsanctified temples clawing at the hoary dawn of Armageddon.
That room is an unlighted chamber beyond time, a haunt of mindless gargoyles. Heed my warning traveller – he is The Crawling Chaos, The Howler in the Dark, The Black Pharaoh, herald of Azathoth the Nuclear Chaos who holds court in the centre of infinity! Nyarlathotep! He who guards the third door! Thy bloody tongue speaks doom!
Cave ianuam!
May god have mercy on my soul.
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Diary Entry 4
24 July, 1918
Night falls upon me once again and the hours drag on until blessed amaranthine dawn. The King and the Pallid Mask, dare not look upon that unmasked visage! What uncanny science, so much like magic to we mere mortals, unknowable and beyond our ken. From the ruins of Sarnath in the Dreamlands to the cyclopean towers of the City of Gugs in the Underworld, the nightmare tracks of colossal feet do stalk. Harken me traveller, past and present and future collide, a fracture of reality seen only in the mind’s eye.
Know this – The Yellow Sign marks the second door, the thing on the doorstep, the lurker in the threshold, The Unspeakable One, Him Who Is Not to be Named, ‘tis the mark of The Yellow King; doorways, sundered rents in reality’s seams, who knows what lurks beyond? Hark do thee not wish to. Magnum Innominandum!
Whence you are in its snare, look to the stars! Look up towards that bacchanalia of bats, the stars that scream their silent dirge in fathomless gulfs of time and space. Beyond reckoning, beyond knowledge, beyond thought, ne plus ultra! The iron hinges of the dream close from sight the horrors that turn my brain to opal! The stars are golden lepers; their pallid light shall save thee from granite hells!
May god have mercy on my soul.
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Diary Entry 3
23 July, 1918
I have travelled, far across the countryside of New England, this blighted land that lays beneath the mad immensities of night. None would have guessed what other-worldly mysteries lay hid amongst the thorns and brambles of this picturesque realm of blissful ignorance. Bliss I shall never know again. I have roamed from Arkham to Dunwich to forsaken Innsmouth, from the blasted heath to the Nameless Rock, from the port of Dylath-Leen on the shores of the Cerenerian Sea to the ruins of ancient Sarkomand, and from the Plateau of Leng to the Forbidden Lands.
Harken, and pay heed, mark my words well – when you walk the halls of the witch house, walk not the dark path, heed the colors, know not to walk upon the blasted heath! Shub-Niggurath guards the first door!
Attain you first the Elder Sign, for it will ward off the evil of Yig, Mother Hydra and Father Dagon! Walk the true path traveller, to misstep is your doom!
May god have mercy on my soul.
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Diary Entry 2
22 July, 1918
I fear my good friend Enoch is indeed mad, of that there is now no doubt. I do not blame him for retreating into the malaise of madness, indeed I fear I may soon follow, if a more grisly fate does not befall me first. Arkham Asylum, where Enoch once resided, is a hideous keep, yet it shames me to say he was for a time well ensconced there. Never again will he walk the halls of academia; never will he know again the joy of imparting esoteric knowledge, his rustication from Miskatonic University was indeed valid and justified though I wish with all the power of my soul it were not so. I feared at first that my dear friend’s dismissal from his praxis of palaeontology was unwarranted, but alas and alack it was not. Friend Enoch is now and I fear evermore a madman. Arkham Asylum, I believed he would at least be well cared for in that spider house of unwoven hysteria, alas I would be proven wrong in that regard, as I will relate in its time. Yet though my unfortunate friend was non-compos mentis, and the dedicated alienists that tried to plumb the depths of his madness with all the resolve and dedication of cenobites did their good work with care and fathomless resolve and fortitude, I yet took it upon my humble self to try and find the root cause of my friend’s mental unhinging, by investigating his past actions and trying to puzzle out wherefore he lost his once great and learned mind. Lo that I had not, for now I fear the dark gloaming of insanity is as infectious as any biological disease, for I have learned to my eternal regret that knowledge can be tainted with the malison of madness, and to know too much of the arcane is to know that the sum total of man’s knowledge is recondite. I take small comfort in the knowledge that even the maggot spawn has some purpose in the cosmic order of things, but enough philosophy, why seek understanding when to crack the façade of ignorance is to shatter the vessel that holds the intellect that seeks recherché rendering all learned understanding nugatory?
I ramble, forgive me. I was able to take possession from my friend’s domicile on the University campus his notes of his doings before his tragic fall and deduce his movements before I found him howling within the shuttered room of that saneless sanctum for the mentally unsound. Friend Enoch was, before his interment in Arkham Asylum, investigating a line of genealogy of local families in the Essex County region, particularly the Olmstead, Williamson, and Waite families. I never learned why Enoch chose to delve into the pasts of these particular bloodlines, but I would suppose in his field of palaeontology and related field of anthropology he perhaps at first believed he had found a link of some sorts to a particular family tree from the continent, his interest perked by the gruesome suicide of the late British nobleman Sir Arthur Jermyn, but that is only conjecture on my part. If only poor Enoch had known not to slake his thirst for knowledge in the tainted blood of the families who dwell in the caliginous regions betwixt the Miskatonic and Manuxet Rivers. If only I had as well. For in addition to his notes I also found amongst Enoch’s possessions his collection of ancient grimoires, heathen works of ghastly antiquity that would cause a soul to shudder at the epic gulfs of time that these tomes cast their uncanny knowledge over into our unscholarly present. Some of these uncanny tomes my poor friend found in the University’s own library, others he procured elsewhere as I have gathered from letters of correspondence with one Doctor Ambrose Dexter of Providence, Rhode Island, and Professor John Kirowan and one John Conrad care of The Wanderer’s Club, City of Exeter, Devon, England. These unearthly grimoires are shuddersome to speak of once one has delved too deeply into their pages. Grisly works such as the unspeakably ancient and authorless Book of Azathoth, the Pnakotic Fragments and their companion volumes the Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan, the Book of Eibon, the De Vermis Mysteriis and the unutterable Dhol Chants, the Cultes des Goules by Francois-Honore Balfour first published in 1702, Observations on the several parts of Africa by Sir Wade Jermyn published 1761, Thaumaturgicall Prodigies in the New-English Canaan by the Reverend Ward Phillips published in 1805, Unaussprechlichen Kulten also known as Nameless Cults or the Black Book written by Friedrich Wilhelm von Junzt first published in 1839; and most loathsome of all, that blasphemous of all grimoires, the dread Necronomicon, written by the mad Abdul Alhazred in 730 AD.
I read these books. I read them. Not in totality, but enough, heaven help me I read enough.
Upon reading I learned, and the blessed joy of ignorance was stripped from me forever. For my investigations led me to that decrepit vault of tenebrosity at the end of the leaden Manuxet, that Cimmerian haunt fallen like a horrid overgrown holt to blight the earth on the shore of the Stygian sea; darker than a shadow out of time at the end of that long black river. For there in that overflow of rot and corruption that empties into the cruel sea, I found the answers I sought and the answers I wish I could forever strike from my riven mind. Answers enshrined like cursed plunder in the dilapidated town of Innsmouth.
May god have mercy on my soul.
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Diary Entry 1
21 July, 1918.
Deception is a right, truth is a lie, innocence is a figment, madness is a gift, horror is where the heart is.
Dear traveller, whomever you may be, I send you this message in a bottle, more a threat within a warning, as a time capsule to save you from the horrors of mine past so that you may save your own future. Indeed the future of the race of man, the future of us all. I may ramble; I may even be as they have said insane myself, for it is in truth a mad tale, but one I urge with all the power of my soul for you to believe. I write to you on this date, the 21st of November in the year of our lord 1918, for the purpose of causality violation. How long will my dire warning sleep within its glassen tomb drifting upon the waves of the infernal oceans I know not, but however many years the wheel of time grinds through the zodiac to the dirge of screaming stars I pray that this message finds you before the horrors that lurk beneath the stygian deeps find you first.
My hideous tale of horror and degradation begins in the town of Arkham in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in the United States of America; I was to visit a friend of mine there, one Enoch Floyd, a professor of palaeontology at Miskatonic University, but low I found him not within the hallowed halls of that august vault of knowledge and humanity, but within the ghastly haunt of Arkham Asylum, a grim sanatorium for the emotionally disturbed and the mentally deranged. A madhouse, so some would say. I would call it a serious house on serious earth. It was a horrid place, a black den hunched within the shadows of the earth like a graven blight built to house nightmares, the atmosphere about it filled with mad screams and shrieks of unhinged terror combined with peals of insane laughter. Mad mist under a mad moon. Everything that falls from grace lands here. What I found within its cry filled halls would fill me with fear and loathing and uncanny dread, yet the path I trod from that grisly beginning point would lead me to places that would shrive my very soul and send me screaming in stark naked terror back to that vault of the hopelessly insane, as if that madhouse were a safe haven, a sanctuary to hide one from the terrors of reality within the maelstrom of madness. May well we all be mad, I know I doubted mine own sanity more than once, but now I know the terrible truth, and that horrid truth must be known, known to you at least dear traveller, and may you have the strength to repeat my tale as mad as it is, lest all my sufferings be for naught and all the shed blood become as water lost in the sands of time. I will recount to you now my tale of woe.
May God have mercy upon my soul.
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