Bacchanalia

The time of the winter solstice is almost upon us my dear readers. Fall has come and is almost gone now, the trees are bereft of their life giving foliage and the natural world either slowly dies or prepares for its long slumber. Unfortunately, my slumber has not been so restful. I continue to experience protracted nights of strange, alien places and creatures in my nightly reveries. Thankfully, by morning, I have forgotten the contents of most of them, leaving my sanity intact. However, one particular dream comes to me every fortnight without hesitation. The setting is not so alien, yet it is terrifying nevertheless.

You see, here in the National Capital Region, I am surrounded by beautiful colonial structures, which breathes life into the mythic origins of our republic’s founding. I have always been fascinated with eighteenth century America, a time when it seems almost anything was possible. For instance, even a humble hardworking man with enough wit and wherewithal could launch a prosperous business enterprise or an assiduous surveyor could become a popular general.

At the same time, some of these old historic places fill me with a strange dread, as if something foul took place there long ago but a malevolent energy lingers still, as if time itself refuses to move on from the foul deeds which were perpetuated there hundreds of years ago. One such place is the old Ball’s Crossroads at Wilson Boulevard and Glebe Road, in the Ballston area of Arlington. Located near a major thoroughfare, many commuters drive by the area on their daily sojourn without giving it even a passing look. For me, the area takes on an indescribable sinister quality, whenever I pass by it even though original structure no longer stands and in its place sits a rather banal appearing historical marker. However, I cannot but help feel the hair on the back of my neck begin to prickle whenever I am near the area.

Many times I assumed this reaction was due to some anxiety at having to deal with heavy commuter traffic or the poor driving skills of the other motorists. Then the dream started coming to me this fall. As far as I can tell, I have never had such a dream, which was both vivid and realistic in terms of its locale and the people who populated it. I will describe the dream with as much detail (and courage) as I can muster. Occasionally, the dream varies somewhat in the personal interactions I have with others but I am always the same “character” and travelling the same localities.

In the dream, I groggily wake up, as if my life now was just a vividly detailed nocturnal reverie. I awake from my slumber dressed in a fashionable men’s nightgown of the eighteenth century. I walk to a large washbasin on a table in a small, plain wooden room and with a small mirror begin my daily absolutions with soap and razor. The trance like fog which had clouded my mind begins to evaporate and I begin to recollect who I am. I am Josiah Miles Smith, a newly minted lieutenant in the fledging continental army. I have been living in Northern Virginia, at a newly commandeered house, formerly owned by a wealthy loyalist, now deceased by his own hand, in the City of Alexandria. The year is 1777 and I am attached to the 1st Continental Light Dragoons. I have been here for the past few weeks, convalescing, after receiving a minor wound at the Battle of Philadelphia, which had occurred during the fall.

As I pull on my cotton shirt and leather breeches, I feel my quiet self-confidence begin to radiate throughout my fiber. I look forward to going back and joining General Washington’s campaign to the north. My previous dream of a outlandish and distant future has all but disappeared, as I don my distinctive white and blue Dragoon tunic and strap on my large horseman’s saber. I admire my highly polished black riding boots before exiting the small bedroom and walking downstairs to the dining area. I greet the other recuperating officers who are seated at the large wooden Queen Anne table preparing for their morning meal. However, I prepare for my other morning ritual, instead of a shared meal. During most mornings, I prefer a long ride on horseback near the banks of the Patowmack River.

As I stand at the entrance of the outside stable, waiting for the stable boy to retrieve my large black stallion, one of the house servants comes outside and calls me by name. A middle-aged, rotund, friendly chap with a cherub face, he now appears hesitant. He hands me a letter and simply states that it was delivered late at night and the messenger had been heavily bound from head to foot (not unusual considering the cold rain storm we experienced the previous evening). Nonetheless, I was told that there was something ‘sinister’ in the way the man simply shoved the letter into the hand of the shocked doorman who answered the heavy, repeated knocking during that howling storm. The doorman stated that the rider simply turned around and “disappeared into the night” without “even a word or glance back.” The servant turned then and fled from my presence, as if I carried an invisible pox.

The letter was small and rather dainty, on the outside in neat flowing script, it stated:

Lt. J. M. Smith, 1st CLD
For Eyes Only

I pondered this enigmatic missive briefly, before placing it in my tunic for later analysis. The stable boy handed me the reins to my horse and I eyed him wearily, being that he was filthy and wretched, looking more like a street urchin than a respectable stableman. However, my stallion appeared freshly groomed and fed, therefore, I grudgingly parted with a halfpenny.

I rode southeast, past the waterfront of Alexandria, sneering at the various foreign sailors unloading their exotic goods on to the docks. I eventually increased my stead’s speed into a gallop, moving away from the banks of the river and enter the splendor of the solitary forests. I ride for a while longer and begin to feel my mount tire; I slow his pace and decide to dismount on the outskirts of a large plantation owned by the general himself. As I rest by my charger, watching the slaves slowly work the plantation fields, I take my water skin from my saddle and swallow some water. It was only while unbuttoning my tunic that I rediscovered the forgotten letter. I sat near an old oak tree stump and tore into the envelope. The letter was respectful and concise in tone and written in the same neat, flowing script. The letter proclaimed the following:

Dear Lt. Smith,

You have never met me, nor do I wish to announce my identity, sir. I know you only through reputation. It is this honorable reputation as a cavalry officer and Virginia gentleman I now beseech. I have been told that you are a former divinity student, Harvard Divinity College no less, prior to joining this just cause of ours. As a decent Christian man, I need your help, Sir! Acts of unspeakable brutality and blasphemy are being unchecked in this region, under the eyes of the Divine One himself!

I have tried to implore various authorities in the past to investigate, but due to the war, no one takes my indictments earnestly. I know that you are a young favorite of our beloved general and are attached to his staff. Perhaps, you can confirm what I have seen and heard and entreat our patriotic leaders to cleanse this impious region of its veiled, wicked denizens. Tomorrow night, there will be a masquerade, hosted by various leading families of Northern Virginia. A dashing, young cavalry officer, with an upright reputation, such as yourself could easily infiltrate such a soiree and confirm what I have espoused. In the basement of this house, appalling incantations are made and ghastly acts of sacrifices are made to appease horrors which should not be. Please Sir! Go to this masque and probe these horrors, do not allow our young country to be governed by those worshipping dark pagan gods!

In Yours,
X

I place the letter back in my tunic and button it. Although I find the letter entertaining, I’m also fascinated by how the author knew my identity and location. I had not told anyone where I was going to recuperate and only a few members of the general’s staff knew the exact whereabouts of my accommodations. Also, I had received such an invitation earlier in the week. The masque ball which was being hosted by the Balls of Fairfax, was a way of both raising funds for the Continental Army, as well as the spirits of the local revolutionaries, or so I was told. I had not planned on attending, preferring to keep my identity discreet, in case loyalist spies were present. Although I had no interest in searching for pagan gods, I found being a cavalry officer during wartime is an expensive undertaking and the lavish attentions of a wealthy widow would improve my pecuniary concerns. In my experience, masque balls never lacked in lonesome affluent widows. I smiled to myself as I promptly made up my mind to attend. I straddled my charger and rode off, with the tobacco picking slaves giving me curious glances.

When I arrived back at my temporary abode, I immediately drafted a letter announcing my presence for later that evening at the Ball’s country estate. I had one of the reluctant servants (all of them appeared uneasy at the mere mention of the name ‘Ball’) deliver the document and spent the rest of the day organizing my affairs and making sure my uniform and accoutrements were suitably presentable. The day flitted away quickly due to the season and I found myself once again on my faithful steed, heading west towards the Ball’s estate. As I travelled westward and the city streets gave way to silent, deserted dirt roads. I found myself surrounded by bare sinister looking trees and small appalling farmsteads. As I drew closer to the estate, the air seemed heavier and almost quietly overwhelming. Eventually, I located the sprawling mansion hall and moved my reluctant mount towards the large black stable nearby.

A stable slave even more dreadful appearing then my own emerged from the shadows of the dark stable. Apparently, my charger shunned the smell of him based on his braying and his initial attempt to pull away. I asked the slave a few simple questions; he simply lifted a thin, dirty sleeved arm and pointed towards the house. I assumed the boy must be mute and turned on a boot heel and marched smartly towards the grand entrance of the hall. Outside, a black masked servant, wearing small antlers atop his head and a whitish robe of ancient Rome ushered me inside the finely decorated foyer. Once inside the Grecian adorned grand hall, another toga wearing servant, acted as guest greeter and crier. He announced my attendance to the forty or so guests which were present.

Inside, all the masked guests were dressed in their finest raiment. Servants dressed in togas with curious bulky animal masks enclosing their entire heads served lavish sustenance and drink. My hosts, the Ball family, along with another politically powerful family, the Carlins were also dressed in togas. These togas were a sinister red in color with gaudy purple trimming. All around me, they conspired in whispered tones, while drinking from exquisite wine glasses. A masked gentlemen, tall and slender in build, wearing a naval uniform, broke away from the retinue and walked towards me.

“Lieutenant, do come in and enjoy our hospitality. I am Ensign John Ball, one of the hosts for this evening. Please help yourself to some victuals on this bitter fall night and refresh yourself. Would you like me to make some introductions for you?”

I declined the ensign’s courteousness. I advised him that I would make my own introductions; Ensign Ball smiled warmly and turned his attention to another newly arrived guest. A strange uneasiness had descended upon me. Although a great fire roared from a fireplace inside a prodigious brick chimney, the air inside the great hall was inexplicably cold. I passed by the servants with their trays of food and beverage, I found I had no appetite. Perhaps the letter writer was not touched in the head as I previously dismissed him to be. Slowly but deliberately, I made my way closer to another doorway, which appeared to lead to the kitchen. A constant flow of servants moved in and out this doorway. As I made my way to this doorway, I stopped and made witty banter with various masquerade guests, so as not to appear suspicious and draw attention to the social etiquette I was about to break. It was well over an hour before I finally made my way across the hall.

Finally, I was at the doorway, I waited until there was little ingress and egress of servant foot traffic and quickly ducked instead. Inside, I walked a short hallway, this lead to the kitchen. A small army of slaves were present, busily preparing trays and cooking. Outwardly, I put on my sternest countenance and barged into the kitchen. To make my performance appear even more intimating, my right fist was clasped around the pommel of my saber. The slaves, for their part, did their best to appear as if such an intrusion were an everyday occurrence. They cast their eyes downward and fully ignored my presence. I walked straight towards another door at the other end of the kitchen, which brought me outside.

My goal was to find the exterior basement door and stairs, which would lead me down into the cellar of Ball’s Hall, every such estate had them. It was then that I experienced the utterly profane “music.” I involuntarily shuddered at the sound, which was a cross between a whistle and a poorly tuned viola. In a copse of oak trees, to the north, torch lights could be seen. The music drifted to me from that location and I spied a small foot path which led into the dense grove. I trembled slightly, imagining what may exist in that ancient coppice. Briefly, I considered going back to my charger and retrieving my saddle pistols. Then…the music stopped and my previously drained mettle returned somewhat. I took a deep breath and slowly drew my saber. I presumed my swordplay would have to be good enough to meet whatever challenge lay at the end of the footpath. I cautiously exited the lawn of the estate and entered the wood.

The path was narrow but well worn, it twisted and turned and the oak trees loomed over me evilly. Some of the branches of the trees appeared to move, even though no wind was present. I began to perspire and my heart quickened in pace. I had too much of an imaginative mind. As I neared the end of the path, I heard voices. The voices started out in disparate whispers but soon became a unified cacophony of prayer. The prayer was neither in English or Latin, blessedly, I could make out little other than: “Ia, Sub-nigguarath…Ia, Sub-nigguarath.” However, even this…even this simple phrase made my bowels shift and my knees weak. I gripped my saber tighter until my knuckles went white and burst forward into a large dirt clearing.

In the clearing, an unimaginable horror began to materialize. A group of men and women in the garish reddish and purple togas, wore animal masks, chief among them, Ensign Ball, sans uniform and the only worshipper without either mask or clothes, had his naked arms raised in the air as he finished his blasphemous invocation. Ensign Ball stood naked a few feet from a large stone well which spouted in the middle of the clearing. The other dozen masked worshippers became silent and began to hypnotically sway to an unearthly melody, which was unheeded to me in my traumatized state. Then a sound I cannot (will not?) described gurgled up from the well. Ball’s face contorted into ecstasy and a maniacal laugh issued from his lips and chilled me to the bone. Ball suddenly cried out:

“She comes…she comes…the mother of a thousand young…come and bare witness children…she comes for me and I shall give her my seed.”

The true dreadfulness of this liturgy suddenly became apparent, as Ball’s manhood suddenly and fully became erect, engorged with blood. Large, fibrous tentacles, covered in black icur arose from the well and moved upward, they encircled him in an almost sensual embrace. The trees…God help me! The trees began to sluggishly move forward into the clearing, but they were not trees! The now living branches were in reality, twisted appendages and the creatures moved on large cloven hooves, great, sycophantic maws opened and spewed forth the previously heard “music!” My God, it was their LANGUAGE! I froze at the utter horror of this outlandish orgy. Ball continued to laugh witlessly as he fused with the thing ascending from the well and I screamed. I screamed as no man has ever shrieked and then….

…I am in my bed, in my home, my wife has me by both shoulders and is yelling at me, telling me I am having a nightmare. I am covered in sweat, my pajamas soaked through, my heart is hammering against my chest…yes…a dream I tell myself, only a dream. I repeat this to myself over and over again. I pray that through repetition of this statement, I will eventually believe it. Yet… this statement does not explain why whenever I pass the above historical marker of Ball’s Crossroads on Wilson Boulevard, a deep shiver runs down my spine and my palms become cold and clammy. No colonial farm estate stands in the area any longer, only a few nondescript modern office buildings. I still can’t help but wonder, if in the bowels of one of those ordinary buildings, a stone lined pit still remains, where something awful and terrifying sleeps and waits for a specific kind of sacrifice.

In and Out of Time

Fall has finally arrived here in the Washington, D.C. area. My work in litigation has kept me blessedly busy and entirely focused over the summer. I have never taken such pleasure in mundane tasks until now. Since the last disturbing email I received (see previous weblog entry), blessedly, I have heard no more of the strange and inexplicable activities around the Potomac area. Until now…

Yesterday, as is my habit every Sunday morning, weather permitting, I was drinking coffee on my patio and reading that weekly tittle-tattle rag, the Potomac Free Press. I consider the stories in it no more than local gossip and one could hardly consider these stories as real, fact based “journalism.” However, I enjoy the weekly crossword puzzle and as many of you have discovered in previous entries, it has exposed a notable event or two in its dubious pages. While reading this “newspaper” I discovered a very curious article about a recent mental health competency hearing in regards to a local prominent dowager. I present you the following article in its entirety:

Yesterday morning, at approximately 10 a.m. Alexandria police responded to a noise/disorderly conduct complaint in the 200 hundred block of South Washington Street, in Old Town. Pedestrians touring the Lyceum reported an older woman in her fifties arguing loudly with a younger man in his twenties, even hitting him with her purse at one point. The woman, who gave her name as Leslie Towner was heard exclaiming vociferously to the young man, “you are not my son, where is my son???” Responding patrol officers had to physically restrain the agitated woman. The young man who identified himself as Charles Towner, advised police that as of late, his mother had not been acting herself. Apparently, when Ms. Towner heard this statement, she flew into a rage and exclaimed, “I haven’t been acting myself?!? Explain to me how a college dropout, who never had ANY interest in academics, suddenly masters complex principles of physics and strange forms of geometry!”

At this point, due to her instability and at her son’s insistences for his mother’s mental health, Ms. Towner was taken into custody by Alexandria Police. Ms. Towner was taken before a local magistrate at the old Alexandria court house off of King Street. A competency hearing was held to determine whether Ms. Towner should be hospitalized involuntary. Ms. Towner is the widow of the late William E. Towner, the former owner of the hugely successful Chesapeake Clam Cake restaurant chain.

During this hearing, Ms. Towner and her son, Charles gave testimony before the court. Ms. Towner explicated:

I remember very vividly the change in my son occurred two months ago. You see my son has always been very social and outgoing, to the detriment of his academics. Scholastic pursuits just did not seem to interest him in the least; he preferred to search for the next thrill instead. Charles WAS always the life of the party, when his father was alive it drove him crazy. Charles would go out with his friends to various parties and not return until late in the morning, where he would then precede to spend all day in bed until sundown. However, since he was our only child we indulged him and allowed him his hedonistic pursuits, even when he was asked to leave American University after only two semesters.

Suddenly, everything changed, at first I thought it was wonderful that Charles had decided to mature and take up a more responsible hobby. Charles stopped spending time with friends, refused all party invitations; instead he would spend hours at the Library of Congress or the libraries of the various universities in the area. Charles became a complete introvert. He would shut himself up in his studio apartment above the carriage house garage at night. Once while he was out, I sneaked into his apartment, I still had a spare key you see. I couldn’t believe what I found inside!

Almost the entire floor and every available table space, just littered in various books, old texts and astrology maps. Some of these texts were very ancient, I think written in Latin? This explained all the packages we had been receiving from various antique book stores from around the area. Many of these packages were from a Mr. R. Corvino. In addition to the antique texts, Charles had purchased various modern text books on theoretical physics and non-Euclidean geometry. I found piles upon piles of notebooks written in Charles handwriting. The notebooks made no sense! One scrawled word, “Yig” was constantly repeated throughout these notes. Charles appeared to be critiquing these various books and making a record of what he considered the most relevant material and cataloging it for God knows what!

I confronted him that very evening when he returned home. He became enraged and snarled at me for invading his privacy and not to concern myself about “areas which my limited ape mind could never fathom!” Charles never talked like that to me…or anyone! Charles retreated to his apartment, buying and installing new dead bolt locks the very next day. Sometimes at night, if the wind was just right, I could hear something akin to chanting coming from the small apartment. This isn’t my lovely, playful son, this is some sort of monstrous doppelganger!!!!


At this point in the proceedings, Ms. Towner became so upset and emotional that she had to be taken out of the court room. The magistrate asked Charles Towner to testify as to his mother’s accusations.

Charles Towner was calm and reticent when he relayed his version of events. Mr. Towner advised that a few months ago, he had been involved in a car accident, while out with friends. Mr. Towner stated that during the accident he “blacked out and lost track of time for several minutes.” Once he had become re-oriented to time and place, he decided he needed to take life more seriously and pursue areas of knowledge that were vast and unsolved. Charles Towner advised that the chanting his mother heard was a form of Buddhist meditation he had decided to practice and his coolness towards her was simply part of his maturation process as an adult.

A forensic psychiatrist who had been tasked to conduct a clinical assessment of Ms. Towner state of mind by the court testified. It was of the professional opinion of Dr. Deidre Jenkins that Ms. Towner suffered from Delusional Disorder, most likely brought on by the stress of her husband’s recent death. Dr. Jenkins opined that Ms. Towner needed hospitalization in order to be treated properly. At that the magistrate had Ms. Towner involuntarily committed to the Northern Virginia Mental Health Institute until she was deemed by staff as being healthy enough to live back in the community and not be a danger to herself or others. Calls by this newspaper to Mr. Charles Towner went unanswered and indeed no one has seen Mr. Towner since his mother was hospitalized. The old Towner manor near Del Ray appears to be abandoned and has now been taken over by Bank of America. Ms. Towner’s health has declined significantly and she is no longer capable of coherent speech…

I found this to be such a fascinating article, if not a bit lurid. It is not every day that an enormously wealthy widow is involuntarily committed and her former errant son goes missing. Of course what really drew my eye was the antique bookseller; it had to be the same Corvino, that peculiar antiquary who absconded in the middle of the night, not long after my visit during the winter. Out of morbid curiosity, I took a stroll down South Washington Street, near the intersection of Duke Street in Old Town Alexandria and took a few pictures of the Lyceum, apparently a favorite place for young Mr. Towner to ruminate. The Lyceum of Alexandria was built in 1839 as a sort of library, lecture hall and private study/reading room for the community. To this day, it still functions as a lecture hall and exhibition museum. More information about this fascinating structure can be found at the museum’s official website: http://oha.alexandriava.gov/lyceum

As always, I have placed some pictures of the exterior of the Lyceum at the beginning of this entry.

I, Ghoul or The Changeling

Forgive me…I do not know how to preface this entry. The email I received was so utterly shocking and disturbing; I considered deleting the unholy and perverse text from my inbox. Even now my hands shake so badly, I can barely type. I pray that the electronic missive I received was a hoax, created by some unwell, perverted prankster.

However, I believe you realize how important it is to me by now to probe the strange phenomenon which is occurring in this region. Against all raison d'être, I am going to place this entry in my web log. I placed a photograph I took of the small memorial park dedicated to Kahlil Gibran, off Massachusetts Ave in Northwest D.C., which our writer mentions. I have no more to say, other than this is what I woke up to one unfortunate morning recently, making the blood in my veins congeal. I present it to you now, unedited and in its original diseased format.

Hello,

By the time you read this, I will be no more…I think. Even now, I’m having trouble typing due to only having the ability to type with my stiffened fingers. My mind, my mind feels as if a noxious fog has descended upon it and enveloped it, strangling my thoughts. My labile emotions rotate between utter ennui and white hot rage. At least I’m still capable of human feeling…for the time being. We have never met but we are both haunted by dreams of that bizarre plateau of Leng, where mold encrusted humanoid creatures gesture to me, urging me to follow, while uttering excited gibbering. However, that is for later; allow me to begin my narrative earlier.

I grew up in Washington, D.C., never knowing my parents. As a baby, my father, according to my adopted parents, a degenerate alcoholic, murdered my mother in an alcohol fueled rage one night, before being shot and killed by DC police. I was told that had the police not arrived in time, I too would have been buried with my mother. My adopted parents, an older professional couple who had been childless, took me in and raised me as their son. They are both deceased now but my lingering memories of them are fond and happy ones.

I had every advantage growing up as a son to an upper middle class, educated couple in Northwest D.C. I attended school at Sidwell, then undergraduate at Georgetown and finally Dentistry College at NYU. Eventually, I took over my adopted father’s dental clinic in Adams Morgan. It was a lucrative practice which allowed me to travel around the globe and indulge in my hobby of collecting strange and fascinating objects of ancient fetish practices.

While on a visit to Southeast Asia, I purchased a most amazing ceremonial mask at a roadside stall. The mask, when I saw it, captured my attention immediately. I purchased it without delay, probably overpaying the villager who seemed all too happy to get rid of it and couldn’t tell much about it other than it was used by an extinct tribe. A tribe I believed he called the Tcho-Tcho?

The mask was humanlike but the nose was broader, almost flat, the mouth with its strange lips was permanently transfixed into a smile, revealing large canine like teeth. The mask even had ears which were strangely pointed. I placed the mask on the wall above my bed, soon after the nightmares began. At first, I could not remember them, only waking up with my heart hammering in my chest, griped by some unknown terror.

My wife, an ER physician, prescribed a mild sedative for me and I tried to put the night terrors out of mind. Yes…my wife, I have not mentioned her before now, have I? Elisa and I met while at NYU several years ago. She followed me back here to D.C., completing her residency at Washington General, where she spent her nights in the ER, stitching up gunshot wounds and fixing the broken bones of abused children from Southeast DC. She later transferred to Sibley where she practiced until her death.

Yes, her death, I can think about it now without falling to pieces. Is it because of my lost humanity? She was driving back to our rowhouse on Massachusetts Avenue, near Embassy Row. After a long shift, she must have been tired and it was raining so hard that night. The policeman who informed me of her death claimed that when she swerved into the truck, her death was very sudden, he said…I was in shock for days afterward, my partner at the office took over seeing my patients, later I would sell him my half of the practice altogether.

I shut myself off from the world in my townhouse, only leaving to take long walks at night (the night was a comfort for me), where I would routinely drink copious amounts of brandy from an old hip flask I had been given by Elisa, at the little park dedicated to Khalil Gibran by the avenue. Elisa was so beautiful and full life. I was later told by one of her co-workers that she had been four weeks pregnant at the time of her death, she was going to surprise me with this joyful news.

One night, as I walked north from the park, I heard strange noises coming from the cemetery near Rock Creek Park. The cemetery, Oak Hill is small but well kept and is where my lovely wife is or rather was interred. I knew that no one had any business to be there at 1 a.m. and decided in my drunken, grief stricken state to investigate the peculiar uttering I heard from the grounds of the cemetery. I climbed over the steel gates, which caused little trouble, being a lean and limber able bodied fellow. As I moved across the cemetery, I found it odd that I was fascinated and not in anyway repulsed from the throaty, frenzied voices I heard, for the sounds were neither man nor animal in origin.

However, to my horror, I discovered the exact location of the uncanny and eerie whispers. The grave of my late wife, who had been laid to rest just a few weeks ago, was now the source of those horrible voices. I was filled with self-righteous rage and sprinted towards her burial site. The grave had been disturbed a large pile of dirt was visible near the headstone, that was the least disturbing image though. Two ‘creatures’ (no other term could describe theses rubbery skinned, slouched, six feet tall humanoids) were fighting over the remains of a corpse which had been bisected at the chest, a corpse of a slim, dark haired woman…my Elisa. I howled at the top of my lungs, a howl that communicated my ire and despair and yet seemed to be an actual language, my GOD I thought…I’m speaking to them in their ‘language.’ The creatures turned their long dog like faces towards me (the heads of these creatures appeared so familiar). One of them spoke to me, yes, I actually understood it.

“Our hunting grounds, little one, find your own…when you have fully matured.” It hissed in an atrocious tone at me and I think…laughed. The second, around my height and weight and with a similar brow (but hairless) as my own, simply gawked at me.

“Get away from her, you…you freaks!” I croaked and prepared to fight them both over the dissected remains of Elisa. Something struck me from behind (probably a hidden confederate of theirs) and darkness closed around me. When I awoke I was surrounded by half dozen police officers and being accused of grave robbing. I began to scream and babble and assuming I had gone mad from grief, I was taken to St. Elizabeth Hospital for psychiatric evaluation. I was released a few days later. Since the grave had been empty (and my home was searched for pieces of the corpse and none were found) and I was the grieving widow, the District decided not to bring charges but I was warned never to return to the cemetery under any circumstances.

When I returned home, my nerves were still badly shaken; even after the benzodiazepines I was prescribed. As I stumbled into the bedroom, my eyes looked up, the mask! The mask was a facsimile of the faces of the two creatures from the cemetery! My head swam with alien thoughts and suppositions. Even before conscious thought was evoked, I voiced the word ‘ghoul’ out loud. As a child, I had heard stories of these graveyard haunted beings who fed upon the recently deceased and kidnapped children from their beds (usually naughty ones). My head throbbed with an all consuming migraine, hideous childhood fantasy blended with cold adult reality. I had witnessed the feeding ritual of a gang (?) of ghouls, clearly there had been more than two. I sat on the edge of my bed and drank some water, as my mind calmed, I wondered aloud why they did not kill me or kidnap me. I knew I had to do more research but I was so tired from the last few days and the benzos took effect, I fell into a deep but restless slumber.

In my dreams, I was in a strange land, at night, running across open fields with semi-cloven feet. I stopped by a large tree, a putrid stench entered my nose and my long gray tongue ran over my sharp, jagged teeth. I raised my hairless head and inhaled deeply what to me was a heady, delectable perfume. My claw like fingers gouged the thick black earth near the tree, knocking over some sort of religious marker, I did not care. Raw hunger drove me and my hands dug deeper, until I find the swaddle rags and I pulled the round bundle from the ground. A raw, gleeful crackle escaped from my rough throat. My long hard, bony claws tore the cloth apart. The empty eye sockets of the dead baby stared back at me in innocence. I scraped the maggots away from the black distended flesh. I cracked and tore the plump left arm from its small shoulder socket like a fetid turkey leg. My mouth widened as I moved the arm to my watering mouth…I woke up screaming but the words which come out of my mouth are not the English language.

In the morning, I met with my dental partner and his lawyer, we sign the necessary papers for him to take over the business. I have enough money from the sale, my savings and Elisa’s life insurance policy that I will never have to work. I am determined to spend my ‘retirement’ investigating and researching these repellent man-beasts.

I turned to the internet for my initial research but the information I located was fruitless, useless speculation only. However, I do locate a strange antique book seller in Dupont Circle, he sold me a copy of a book, written in English but transcribed from a much older text originally written in Latin and rumored to have been authored by the ancient English alchemist John Dee himself. It was a warm day when I purchased the book and decided to read it at that little memorial park dedicated to Gibran, where all this began.

The accursed text is a horrid thing and can only be described as blasphemous to all that is natural and commonsensical. Various strange spells and incantations are described which I will not go into detail, in order to shield your sanity. Towards the end of the text though I find what I have been searching for since this horror began, a history of the ghoul in the western society. These creatures were described as eaters of the dead (ravaging local burial sites for their repast) and are drawn to areas of ancient influence and magick, for the ghoul is a harbinger of worse horrors to come, the vanguard of a ghastly inhuman invasion. The ghouls have a tendency to precede various disasters, both nature and otherwise. According to that vile text, their keen dog-like senses can smell impending horror. In physical description the ghouls are listed as exactly as I have witnessed.

As disgusting as these passages were to read, it was the final passage that filled me with despair and dread. According to Dee’s accursed translated text, ghouls could breed but not very fruitfully and a human could transform and become a ghoul. A human, who ate of dead flesh and lived in very close proximity of a clan of ghouls would, over time, transform and take on the physical and eventually the psychological characteristics of a ghoul. In order to increase their numbers, ghouls were known to kidnap newborn human infants and place their own ghoul infants in the stolen child’s crib. An infant ghoul is indistinguishable from a human infant. The human infant will be raised by the ghoul clan eventually turning into one. The ghoul child will grow to be an adult and once he or she reaches a certain age will began a hideous metamorphosis.

I slammed the book shut and looked down at my hands. Since Elisa’s death my fingers had begun to feel arthritic, the bones curling and painful, my fingernails were hard and yellow, impossible to clip so I just gave up. My general lack of hygiene was becoming appalling but those few friends who still visited me assumed I was still in a state of severe bereavement. However, even they began to visit me less and less and would gasp whenever I would open my front door to greet them. No…no…I am imagining things. I need to walk and collect myself; I gathered the book and my uneaten snack into my leather messenger bag and began walking. I walked all the way to the Dupont Circle metro station and boarded it. Not really knowing why, I found myself on the orange line to Rosslyn and then the Blue line towards the Pentagon. I exited at the Arlington Cemetery station and strolled into the vast burial place.

My pace began to quicken and I picked up a pungent scent that increased as I weaved my way around various tombstones of service members and government dignitaries. Suddenly, I stopped and fell to my knees. An odor I can only describe as the most delicious scent to ever invade my nostrils was upon me and I found its origin. Before me, lay a pile of dirt. A freshly interred soldier, killed in Afghanistan, placed in his final resting spot a few days before. I wept, those passing by assumed I was a bereaved friend or relative. However, I mourned for something far different, I mourned for my lost humanity, at the foot of that grave,that I wanted to so badly desecrate.

The next few months saw me become a recluse. I burned that accursed book in my fireplace but that act was borne out of frustration than anything else. I knew nothing could stop the transformation. Although I had a receding hairline for a few years, I quickly lost all of it, including my body hair. The mail carrier spotted me one day and said how sorry he was that I had cancer, after that I shut myself off from the world completely. As I write this my face has undergone a hideous alteration, my teeth are sharp and wicked in appearance, my skin like pliant leather. At night, I hear their call, the voices… chattering…nails scraping on my windowsill. I find myself looking at recent obituaries and contemplating the most noxious acts imaginable. I sleep all day and only awake at night, prowling around my rowhouse, from the outside, miles away; luscious fragrances enter my deformed flat nose and tempt me, even in my self-imposed prison. It won’t be long now. I can’t fight my birthright much longer. I know now why my “father” drank so much and why he felt the need to destroy his family, some how he knew. He knew I was not really his son, born of his flesh, he knew I was a changeling and what I would eventually become…it no longer matters, my memories fade as the hunger begins to overtake me completely…

(End of Message).

A few other lines were written as well, they appeared to be ramblings of this very poor deluded fellow, something along the lines of: Ia! Subb-niggarath? Should I receive anymore emails from this highly disturbed fellow in the future, I shall delete them without reading them. May God have mercy on his soul.

Nameless Dread on Theodore Roosevelt Island

I have been receiving more email lately from many of you who are curious about this blog. As I assumed, many readers question my sanity and believe that I am fabricating these ‘stories.’ No matter, my documentation is real and I continue to be afflicted with horrible nightmares of a creeping eldritch nature.
In many of these lucid dreams, I see a bizarre man resplendent in a yellowish threadbare robe, his face hidden by some sort of glossy mask, sitting upon a great and ancient onyx throne. He points a grotesque finger at me and laughs at me in a horrible, high pitched maniacal voice. The dream always ends with me being shaken awake by my wife. The voice… it’s loud piercing, insane laughter still rings in my ears. My wife claims that it is me, while asleep, who makes the laugh but nothing human could emit such a sound! She begs me to see a sleep specialist; I know it would be pointless, these are not night terrors.

I recognize I am not alone in experiencing these nameless horrors. While perusing my inbox yesterday, I received a curious email from another fellow Washingtonian, who also has a weird tale to tell. Once again, I shall present the email in its entirety and allow you to be the judge, is he insane or has he stumbled across something frighteningly incredible which needs to be told as well?

Dear Sir,

I came across your blog while researching a strange and upsetting phenomenon which I have (unfortunately) recently experienced. First, allow me to introduce myself. My name is F.G. (name edited out for the sake of privacy) and I have lived in the Washington, D.C. area all my life. For many years, I worked as an archivist at the Smithsonian on the National Mall, specifically in the National Museum of American History. Although I am now retired, I still teach classes, on occasion, about how to properly catalog museum pieces at George Washington University. I consider myself a freethinker and a man of science.

In my spare time, I have a hobby which I practice with assiduousness fervor. You see I am a geocacher, who belongs to a geocache society of other retired professionals such as myself. We have a website (which I will not name in order to protect the anonymity of the other members). Specifically, each member of our little community is expected to go out once a week and search for a hidden ‘cache’ or item somewhere in the Washington, D.C. area and also hide a ‘cache’ for another member to locate.

We do this through the use of GPS receivers and the coordinates of the various caches are placed on our website for the other members to find. It is a thoroughly pleasurable activity and allows me to stretch my legs as the ‘hunt’ usually involves a bit of hiking and skulking around. I am always looking for outlandish and unique places to lay my ‘cache.’ Last week, I thought I found the perfect location, to my horror, something much worse found me.

It was not long after the first day of the new year, I found myself on a crisp and cold winter Sunday walking on to the small wooden planked pedestrian bridge which allows ingress to Theodore Roosevelt Island, on the Potomac River. I had my GPS receiver with me and was prepared to find a suitable location for my ‘cache’, a small tin box with an inexpensive ornament hidden inside. As I walked on to the island, the dirt underneath my boots was frozen solid and a cold, eerie silence hung in the air like the icicles hanging from the tree branches. I felt conscientiously alone on that little island in the Potomac.

As I walked around the outer perimeter of the island, I could hear vehicle traffic moving across the Potomac River on a bridge nearby, traffic moving in and out of the District. I decided to move off of the common walking paths into the interior of the island, hoping to find some secluded area that was not frozen, in order to bury my ‘cache.’ I came across the large seventeen foot statue of Theodore Roosevelt, standing majestically in the middle of the island and its surrounding memorial plaza in stone. Not wanting to desecrate the grand commemorative plaza, I walked towards the barren northwest part of the island, where it is more secluded and not prone to disturbances by idle hikers. I found more than I bargained for…

While wading through a particularly vicious inhospitable area overgrown with thorn bushes and other ferocious undergrowth, I spied an incredible hole in the ground. The dimensions of the hole appeared a little over five feet in circumference. Before I even approached the hole, I was filled with a feeling I can only describe as dread. From inside the hole came a shrill, peculiar buzzing sound, as if a large hive of frenzied bees were animated inside. Although I am no biologist, I know enough that bees simply could not be active in such temperatures as we are experiencing. For no apparent reason, I felt all the hair on my body stand on end and my heart began racing and my breath quickened, still…against better judgment…I leaned forward, towards the hole to get a better view!

What briefly came into view, I will never forget and shuddered my sanity to its very foundations. Some sort of hard, scaly appendage, a few feet in length, arose out of the hole. The appendage was distended and crablike; its color simply cannot be described with human vocal cords. My God…it...it...moved towards me! My mind simply broke at that instant and I screamed a blasphemous wail and turned my back to that horrific…thing. I ran blindly through the thorn bushes and tree branches, not caring about the scratches I was accumulating on my bloodied face and hands. I did not stop until I reached the parking lot across the pedestrian bridge. Just recognizing the normal Sunday traffic moving up and down the George Washington Parkway brought me back to a sense of customariness in my now fractured world. I sat on a curb in the parking lot, breathing heavily, exhausted, I began to weep. A few curious onlookers, probably assuming I was some sort of lunatic released from St. Elizabeth’s Hospital for the deranged, gave me a wide berth as they walked by.

“Are you feeling alright, Sir?” a deep, authoritative masculine voice asked me. I looked up to see a uniformed U.S. Park Police Officer in a dirty dark blue winter parka, probably the officer assigned to monitor and patrol that part of the parkway and specifically the island.

“On the island…a hole…this thing came out of it…like a giant crab…” I sputtered, regretting that I could not articulate fully what I saw.

“Sir…maybe you should just go back home and forget what you saw…I’m sure it had nothing to do with you. You wouldn’t want to bring yourself undue attention and trouble, now would you?” the officer asked in a voice which before I realized it, had gone from sounding concerned to dramatically menacing.

I looked up at the officer, suddenly afraid. His eyes steadily stared back at me without blinking, his jaw clenched tight. For the second time that day, my hair stood on end. A subtle threat had been registered in my broken mind. The officer gave me a predatory smile, reached out and picked a foot high metal cylinder which he had been carrying but put down when he was talking to me apparently. The cylinder was really remarkable with three sockets in a triangle shape raised from the surface of the smooth surface, with a single typed label. I cannot be sure but I believe the label said ‘Akeley’ on it. The officer turned his back on me and with his strange cargo in hand, walked towards the pedestrian bridge and the island. As for myself, I gathered together my frayed nerves and I walked back to the Rosslyn metro stop. I traveled by metro back home, not before stopping in a corner liquor store and buying the most potent brandy I could locate.

I have now given up my hobby and prefer the pavement and concrete of the city to the woods and fauna of the parks and wilds. For now on… I shall stay close to the civilization of man.

Sincerely,
F.G.

A strange tale indeed. I know the area of Roosevelt Island well, having walked around the perimeter of the island on many occasions, even picnicking by the monument. Since receiving this email, I have toured the park myself, taking some pictures for my readers benefit. I have even discovered a curious hole described by F.G., which I took a picture of and placed at top of this entry. I dared not investigate any further, in case something sinister was revealed to me at the bottom of that covered hole. The island is maintained by the National Park Service and more information can be found here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theodore_Roosevelt_Island

To my knowledge nothing strange or usual has ever been reported on the island (until now). If you can add any information about strange occurrences on the island, please email me the particulars.

When Ithaqua Awakes or The Man in the Snow

As many who read this web log must know, the Mid Atlantic experienced an implausible whiteout recently. Here in the Washington, D.C. area, it was the worst snowstorm in recent living memory. Many theories have been speculated as to the causes of this antagonistic snowstorm, most of them having to do with pressure systems from the west. However, to my utter dread, yesterday, I learned the real answer…terrifying and alarming me beyond reason. It did not come from the west, it came from the east, from that accursed plateau I sometimes dream, where the unnamed sovereign in yellow robe and silken mask mocks all humanity in psychotic glee. However, I’m moving ahead of myself, let me start from the beginning…

The snow began falling on Friday, I had just come home from my office in Northwest D.C. and was preparing to shut myself indoors at home all weekend. I had planned on spending my weekend completing a document review for a case and possibly consuming a hot toddy or two. As the snow began falling Friday and into Saturday, the gently falling snow was ghastly in its banality. The world from my window sill became nothing more than large mounds and lumps of white. The various news programs droned on and on about the historical significance of what was happening outside my home. Happily, the document review kept my mind occupied until Sunday morning.

When I awoke Sunday morning, I was overcome with cabin fever. My wife was out of town and with nothing more to keep me company than television and a few unruly cats, I decided to venture outside with my camera and record this historic event. After suiting up appropriately for the weather, I decided to take the metro subway into Northwest D.C. and survey the snow and its resulting damage around the locale of my office building. The metro train trip was uneventful. I was surprised at how efficient and rapid the commute was considering how unreliable the archaic and inept metro system is on a good day.

As I walked around the area of New Hampshire Avenue and 17th Street, watching the weather shocked crowds amble along the snow packed streets, I discerned something odd. Near the sidewalk which bordered the northeastern portion of the International Temple of the Order Eastern Star lay the crumpled body of a well dressed man…laying directly in a large snow bank, as if placed there by some unseen hand, in a fetal position. In the District it is not unusual to see many unfortunate homeless souls sleeping wherever they can find a space where they won’t be bothered. However, this particular man lay directly in the snow without even a single blanket to protect him from the severe elements. Just as shocking, the man was dressed in a business suit, as if he had just left some corporate office.

It was then that I heard him whimper and detected his chest rise and fall. My God! The man was still alive! It was only twenty-five degrees outside, why is he not dead of hypothermia! I put my camera away and ran to assist the gentleman.

“Sir, are you all right? May I get you some help?” I cried aloud as I ran forward. Damn! I thought, I left my cell phone back at the townhouse. He turned his head and stared at me, his eyes abnormally dilated. He must have consumed some type of drug, it would certainly explain his bizarre behavior. I reached out my hand and grasped his arm to pull him up. He neither helped me nor fought me, he appeared in almost a trance like state. I eased him on to his feet, his head turned towards mine, his face was clean shaven, smooth with few lines or the hardness of chiseled features. I estimated his age at around thirty years. His eyes were very blue and his light blondish hair was already receding dramatically. Inexplicably, he was quite warm to the touch, as if he had just come out of a very hot bathe but not wet at all. Clearly, this man had been out all night, gotten high on something and while wondering around probably trying to find home, he fell asleep in the snow. Still, his preternatural body heat actually gave me the chills. I reasoned that his aberrant warmness was a side effect of the drug he had consumed.

Since I had no cell phone and I myself was becoming rather chilled from the cold. I decided to walk him to a nearby café and ply him with coffee (to sober him and warm myself) and call the police. I draped his right arm across my shoulder and grabbed his waist with my left arm and we marched towards the café a few blocks away. Once again, he neither assisted nor resisted me. Luckily, he was light and we were only going a few blocks. His legs seemed to move automatically like an automaton after lurching the first few feet, as if he forgotten then suddenly remembered how to walk. As we walked, I tried to engage him in civilized conversation.

“Are you trying to find your way home, Sir? What is your name? Is there anyone I can call for you?” I interrogated him mercilessly for those few blocks we ambulated. For his part, he only stared idiotically straight ahead and only uttered one word.

“Ithaqua” he slowly pronounced the word as if he had to will his vocal cords back to life. Thankfully, we made it to the café without incident and the place was practically deserted. I found a table and a couple of chairs in a back corner, near a heater. I placed him in the chair. As I lowered him in the chair, I noticed that his body was no longer radiating such intense heat. Perhaps the drug was wearing off? I walked to the front of the café and ordered two coffees. I walked back to the man and placed the coffees on the table. The well dressed gentleman was still staring ahead but was…crying. I was about to ask him what was wrong, when he found his voice completely, turned his pale blue eyes upon me and began his ghastly tale.

“Monday, three weeks ago, began like any other day. I arrived early at the International Temple to continue my cataloguing of recently discovered documents in the lower crypt. Most of the documents were biographies of various OES brethren from the 19th century. Prosaic stuff mostly.” As he spoke, his eyes cleared somewhat and he addressed me directly.

“Please continue,” I implored as I slowly slipped my coffee and prepared myself for the tale to come.

“I discovered an ancient, battered leather folder among the papers. No one could explain where it had been located, not really unusual, considering the brethren never really had a very efficient bureaucracy set-up for the vast amount of information collected over the years. As I opened the slim folder, I pulled out a few ancient sheaves of parchment, written in some strange ink with quill. The handwriting was small and neat. The text was written in Latin and I confess it has been some years since I have had to translate more than an axiom. I brought the items to the Right Worthy Grand Secretary, who was much more versed in Latin than I. He frowned while reading the parchment and when he had finished, he looked at me and gave a simple command: ‘This is just blasphemous gibberish, Mr. Sloane. I want you to destroy them at the first opportunity and DO NOT catalogue these items.’ Since he was the Grand Secretary and I am bound by oath to obey him, I advised him that I would do this."

“Still, I was intrigued and my life is sorely lacking in intrigue. On my lunch break, I scanned the items and emailed them to a professor of classics acquaintance of mine at Catholic University and asked him to email me back an English translation. My friend did as asked and his corresponding email back was very tongue in cheek, he felt as if I was playing a joke on him and making fun of his Catholic faith. It turns out the parchment was a sort of summoning spell. The spell was supposed to call forth an ancient Sumerian deity, specifically an air elemental. The name of the deity is...”

“Ithaqua,” I simply stated. Mr. Sloane visibly began to shake violently at the name. I also noticed that his skin appeared paler than before and his lips had a bluish tinge, strange, since I felt quite balmy with the heater near us.

“Yes…that is what it was called by the Sumerians…but truth be told…it had no name…or at least one which could be produced by our primitive tongues. God Help me! I became obsessed with that spell. It was so simple, yet so seductively…enthralling. What would happen if one could call forth such a creature?! What could such a creature teach me?!” Sloan’s eyes were wide with fanaticism and he had grabbed me by my shoulders, his hands ice cold…I could feel the cold penetrate all three layers of my clothing. I suddenly sat back in my chair, breaking contact with his icy touch. Sloan’s hands fell into his lap and his head dropped forward on his chest, in an almost defeated gesture. He continued his tale, his voice monotone, without eye contact.

“As I stated before…this ‘calling’ spell was simple. It simply demanded a creditable sacrifice, some symbols written in the blood of the sacrifice and the words read aloud in a specific order and cadence. I decided to try my hand in calling forth this elemental. Course, a human sacrifice was out of the question. Instead, I purchased a rabbit to use in place of a person, assuming that this would not have any kind of consequence…how wrong I was.

“I gathered all the required materials on Thursday night of this past week.” Sloane appeared to wobble at the thought of the recent memory. “I won’t go into detail of the ceremony I performed. I assumed it was a failure, nothing happened. I stood in the middle of my apartment with a dead, bloodied rabbit in one hand and bloody scribbles all over my wooden floor, feeling ridiculous. I felt my obsession to summon an air elemental had been nothing more than a form of ‘temporary insanity.’ I cleaned up my apartment and prepared myself for work the following day.” I noticed his voice had begun to weaken at this point and he seemed to struggle, as if moving his lips had become a Herculean task.

“While at work the following day, I was completing some minor tasks when I heard a weather report about the upcoming blizzard. The predication of the accumulated snow and high winds was dire indeed. From what little research material I had previously located, I knew that when Ithaqua comes, it is always surrounded by a maelstrom of snow and wind. Could this be the result of my summoning him? I put it out mind and continued my work, snowstorms happen all the time without ethereal intervention.

Most of us who work at the temple normally leave around 6 p.m. On this day, the majority of the staff, who live outside the city, decided to leave early due to the coming snow. Since I live nearby in Northwest D.C. I advised the Most Worthy Patron that I would stay behind and lock up the temple. By 2 p.m. I was the last person in the building. Although the snow and wind were picking up outside, I decided to stay just a few more hours to complete my assignments. I did not realize what a mistake this would be…” Sloane’s features were become more acutely bluish pale and I was tempted to interrupt him but I was too enthralled by his story, he continued.

“When I exited the temple at 5:30 p.m., the streets were covered in snow and deserted. The wind started to howl, as if my presence suddenly excited it. The darkness outside was frighteningly malevolent in appearance. I wanted to run to the safety of the underground metro. I had only advanced a few steps when some sort of…whirlwind captured me from behind, I tried to yell but the howling wind became stronger and my voice was lost within its primordial roar. I…I was lifted upwards…into the sky…my body flailing maddeningly. The more I struggled…the more the wind pulled at my limbs, stretching my joints to excruciating pain. Below me I could see several blocks of the city, covered in virgin whiteness. I stopped struggling at one point, due to utter exhaustion and the winds which held me in bondage, also relaxed in response.” At this point, I was snapped out of my mesmerized state and became aware of Sloane’s complete lack of body moment, only his lips moved but his voice had become almost a whisper. I had to lean forward to hear him and he radiated a complete dearth of warmth.

“I saw it then, as it carried me around the city and the suburbs, in the sky, with the swiftly stirring winds. It wanted me to witness what I had wrought in summoning it. It whispered to me in my mind, telling me how it had come from that horrible plateau of Leng, where it slept. It had been angered by my meager sacrifice. It had no real form, in this dimension at least, other than two star like eyes which bore into my mind…my body…I felt it alter…it…” Sloane stopped; he had become immobile as a statue. Dreadfully, I reached out my hand and placed it on his shoulder, his body was as hard as marble, even with his head down, I could observe his petrified eyes to be open and he had been weeping when his body became suddenly inert.

I looked around the café, no one else was inside any longer, except for the propitiator who was busy making preparations behind the counter and not within easy eyesight of our table. I stole one last glance at the frozen statute that was Sloane; nothing could be done for him anymore, he had become Ithaqua’s human sacrifice. I crept out of the café through a back door and never looked back. I pray that Sloane had the good sense to destroy the summoning spell. I fear that if Ithaqua were summoned with an actual human sacrifice the consequences would be truly dire. Before returning home I took some pictures of the damage in the area from the ‘blizzard’, as well as the International Temple of the Order of the Eastern Star, an organization affiliated with the Freemasons. More information can be found at this website:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Temple

Stay warm and do not look upon the sky during a snowfall, you may not like what you see.

The Horror at the Bell Tower

As I write in this blog, winter is in full bloom here in the National Capital Region. I find the brisk winter wind invigorating, reminding me of my youth, growing up in the bitter winters of northern New England. The other night I was reading the Potomac Free Press online, when I came across a very curious story about the Netherlands Carillon near the Arlington National Cemetery.

For those not familiar with the Netherlands Carillon, it is a large bell tower, located between the Iwo Jima Marine Corps Memorial and the northwest portion of the National Cemetery in Arlington. The bell tower is perched on a hill, overlooking the Potomac River. The bell tower was a gift from the Dutch government for American support during and after World War II. More information about the Dutch Carillon can be found here at the U.S. National Park Service Website:

http://www.nps.gov/archive/gwmp/carillon.htm

The bell tower is guarded by two bronze lions located on either side and a tulip garden is situated in front of the tower. It is a popular destination for music lovers, who love to hear the fifty bells of the tower chime on the hour. During special occasions, one can climb the stairs to the observatory platform at the top of the tower and view the panorama. According to a small group of tourists, something else was seen recently that clearly was not part of the Potomac River landscape.

From the Potomac Free Press:

A small group of five Canadian tourists were clustered around the tower just after nine o’clock in the evening on January 12th.. These tourists (professional musicians) were in Washington, D.C. to perform a concert and were preparing to leave the area after their successful concert. The group, reportedly, wanted to visit the bell tower before their flight back to Canada.

As the group were admiring the Netherlands Carillon a curious object was spotted by the group slowly circling the tower. After the incident a common consensus could not be elicited from the group by the authorities about the creature’s description. The group did agree that it was black, almost rubbery in appearance, with bat like wings but an almost human but faceless head with small, what appeared to be inward facing horns. The creature also was described as having claws and a long tail which was barbed. No one could agree on the size of the creature. The authorities dismissed the creature as nothing more than a large errant bat but everyone in the witness assembly agreed that it was larger than any known bat species. The authorities also noted that several of the group members had imbibed strong liquor prior to the incident. However, one particular unpleasant incident which transpired no one could elucidate.

While the group was silently observing this outlandish creature hovering around the tower, a man wearing the khaki and green uniform of a U.S. Park Ranger approached them. The man was thought to have reprimanded the group for coming to the area at such a late hour and to vacate the premise immediately. At that point, several of the group members finally freed themselves from their hypnotic observation of the airborne horror and pointed the creature out to the ranger. By this time, the creature had hidden itself somewhere on top of the tower and could not be seen from below. The ranger dismissed the group’s claim that anything was amiss until a distinct rattling was heard by all at the top of the tower. The ranger admonished the group, assuming that one of its members had ascended the stairs and was now on top of the bell tower, playing a prank on the ranger.

The ranger began taking out his keys and walking towards the tower. One prudent member of the group attempted to verbally dissuade the ranger from climbing the tower but was curtly dismissed by the ranger. The ranger was observed climbing the stairs of the tower, calling out to the imaginary prankster. What happened next, many of the group members wish to never speak of again and all present vowed never to return to Washington, D.C.

To their utter horror, the group heard a ghastly and dreadful cry for help at the top of the tower. Suddenly, the creature was seen launching itself out into the night at a terrible speed. Clutched in its prehensile claws was its human ‘sacrifice.’ The ranger could not flail his arms; only writhe about, its tail wrapped around the ranger’s mouth, cutting off any further screams. Several of the witnesses were overcome with sickness and disgorged their stomach contents on to the grass. When all in the group had regained their reason, they immediately called 911. According to the police public information officer, the group experienced a mass hallucination due to the influence of strong alcohol and possibly other mind altering substances, while observing local wildlife. The U.S. Park Service denies any missing persons among their ranger staff in the National Capital Region and considered the incident an elaborate hoax.

I ventured outside today and traveled from the Rosslyn metro stop to the bell tower and took some pictures of the superlative structure and its leonine guardians. I took these pictures at dusk, I dared not tarried about after dark and hastily left after taking these pictures. I rapidly walked back to the Rosslyn metro stop and left the location of the horrid sighting behind me.