tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27125748092881909382024-03-12T18:11:31.049-07:00Stygian Darkness Across The PotomacA blog which will serve as an online diary of weird occurrences around the Washington, D.C. area and my efforts to document these eerie events to the best of my ability.theProtagonisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03957989211177220039noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712574809288190938.post-17768436359704679782011-05-31T10:01:00.000-07:002011-05-31T10:15:26.517-07:00The Old Sculptor<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc0iFz8Xf71yM68pn8uj8A8QxlMR2GPLWObx7jDcyI32IK6ZhIJa8zkR6YhABt8JYaFfmwajSNv319Kqz04BMkqyIDtR7V_tPrTayyA_NfYZ73O6asXIoRimwuqKHvsBWSUAMYnVaw9Nyb/s1600/IMG_0116.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc0iFz8Xf71yM68pn8uj8A8QxlMR2GPLWObx7jDcyI32IK6ZhIJa8zkR6YhABt8JYaFfmwajSNv319Kqz04BMkqyIDtR7V_tPrTayyA_NfYZ73O6asXIoRimwuqKHvsBWSUAMYnVaw9Nyb/s320/IMG_0116.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612928877974847938" border="0" /></a><br />As of late, I have been busy with my law practice and with summer here in the National Capital Region, I have been trying to enjoy the warm weather with my wife and have neglected my paranormal researches. My dreams have been prosaic recently and I have thought that perhaps the eeriness of the last few years have been due to work related nerves. Until my friend Worthingham sent me a frantic email a weeks ago and the slow skulking confusion once again entered back into my idyllic life. Friend Worthingham told me a tale that was both peculiar and absurd. If I had not known him since our days together in law school, I would have thought him insane. Allow me to start from the beginning…<br /><br />It was during the first week of May when I awoke one morning, checking my email before breakfast, as is my morning routine. Most of the emails were spam or announcements from various professional associations I belong too. One email address stuck out though. The email was from my old law school friend, Henry Worthingham of the IP law firm: Spittle, Sachs and Worthingham. Worthingham had made partner five years ago and we had lost contact with one another ever since that time, due to busy schedules.<br /><br />I clicked on the email in my inbox and I found the message to be both terse and frantic. This was unusual since old Worthingham was always an affable and playful chap. The message merely read: <span style="font-style:italic;">PLEASE!!! SEE ME TOMORROW NIGHT AT OUR OLD HAUNT, 8 PM SHARP, I NEED TO TALK TO SOMEONE WHO UNDERSTANDS!!!<br /></span><br />I did not know what to make of it. My first thought was that Worthingham was in some sort of financial trouble. I emailed him back immediately that I would of course meet him at The Continental, our old English style pub in Old Town Alexandria, near the Potomac River. We hadn’t had a pint in there in years but I knew it was still in business and I am always willing to assist a friend in his time of need.<br /><br />The following day was both cold and rainy. The weather report from the previous day had predicted a warmer and partly cloudy day, but no rain. I drove my BMW slowly down King Street, probing for serviceable on-street parking, finding none, I resigned to parking in a gritty garage. The parking garage was overseen by a half-asleep, uninterested Ethiopian attendant who casually tossed me my parking ticket. I walked to the pub in my trench coat and umbrella, trying to avoid the tenacious, dark puddles of water springing up around me like land mines.<br /><br />The Continental was warm inside, with a few patrons milling around the dart board and some government workers in dark suits dawdling at the bar, nursing their Black and Tans. Many of the booths were empty, except a few invaded by tourist families with little to see at that hour. Worthingham was standing at the bar, holding a Bass, staring out into space. He looked in a dreadful state, his dark, threadbare suit was wet and rumpled, clearly he had not bothered with either a rain coat or umbrella. Worthingham had always been a ginger haired fellow of good size girth and ruddy checks. The man standing before me was a gaunt, pale and almost bald imitation of the jovial Worthingham I once knew. I walked up to him and greeted him.<br /><br />He looked up at me, his eyes reddish and unblinking. His half-hearted attempt at a smile was more of a severe grimace, as if he were in constant physical pain. I ordered a Strongbow Cider and suggested we find a booth. I did not want Worthingham to unburden himself to me with a group of strangers milling about in earshot. Worthingham nodded his consent and after the barkeep placed my cider in hand, we walked to a corner booth, far from the lackadaisical patrons. We sat down and before I could say another word, Worthingham’s bloodless lips parted and he began his harrowing account.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Do you remember how much I loved art, Old Son? It used to bring me such pleasure to go to a museum or to find some artist’s gallery to peruse. Well…no longer, now I stay as far away from any artist workshop or building that contains anything of an imaginative nature. Do you believe? Do you believe, Old Son that art can contain evil? I’m not just talking about depicting evil; anything by Hieronymus Bosch can display that! I’m talking about actually contain evil in its very fiber! Four months ago, I would have laughed at anyone suggesting just a ridiculous concept. In fact, I used to read your blog for amusement and imagine the crackpots who use to believe such superstitious drivel. </span><br /><br />He turned his eyes downward at the old pockmarked wooden table. Worthingham took a deep breath, more of a wheeze really and continued.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />I don’t laugh at you anymore. In fact, I think you will understand what I am about to confess to you. Take from it what you will. However…know this, I won’t live to see the fall, Old Friend. </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Just after the new year, I decided one Tuesday to ‘play hooky’ from my firm. Ever since Elyse left me for that damn quack psychiatrist, I found that on occasion, I needed an art related distraction. So I drove out from the District and decided to peruse the old Torpedo Factory Art Studios. I had not been there in a long time and I knew that it being winter and a week day, few tourists or art lovers would be around. I know you’re not much of an art amasser and probably have never been there.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You see, Old Son… as you know…the torpedo factory, by the Alexandria waterfront, built torpedoes for the U.S. Navy in World War II. For many years that hulking structure stood dormant at the terminus of Old Town, until a group of artists, along with the city decided to turn it into a place that housed various art studios with a wide mixture of art mediums. All of the studios have large window facing outward where casual passersby can observe the artists at work.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />I had not been there in a few years and decided this would be the perfect distraction for the day…a decision I truly regret. I found a parking space close by due to the few individuals lurking around that cold winter day. I walked inside and found the structure almost vacant of artists, many of the studios closed for the day. A painter here or there but no one who stood out to me. I took the stairs and sauntered about the second floor for a bit, when I observed an eerily glow from a small corner studio, the peculiar light emanating inside drew me towards it.<br /><br />When I reached the studio, I stared into the large window and observed a most peculiar looking artist. He was a bald, very gaunt looking man, dressed in a simple white cotton shirt and jeans, his feet were bare and he wore a large weathered leather smock, giving him the appearance of an old fashioned butcher. I could not see his face because his back was towards me. He seemed to be a sculptor of some sort, since he was working with a type of clay, which I was not familiar. The clay itself was sickly, yellowish in pigment, unlike the typical earthy brown clay of a pottery artist. I could not see the work of art fully, since the artist was in front of it, working deliberately and diligently.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />The studio was weirdly lit due to many of the overhead fluorescent lights malfunctioning in a weird sort of cadence. Only one would remain lit at one time while several others would blink on and off. I don’t know why but I felt my hair on the back of my neck and arms stiffen. My tongue grew dry in my mouth and my heart began hammering against my chest. I was rooted to that stop, outside that large display window in the hallway. Any thought of knocking on the studio door quickly vanished. In fact, the very thought of stepping into that studio filled me with an existential dread that I have never experienced. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">As if on cue; the artist suddenly stopped. He stood straight up, he must have easily been well over six feet and he turned. For the first time I saw that terrible countenance. The skin of the artist was very dark and his features very angular. From behind, I had assumed he was African in origin, but his nose was long and pointed and his lips thin and cruel looking. He had no eye brows and his eye color…well, I simply cannot describe the color because I have never viewed such a color in all my years on this earth. He smiled at me, I would not believe that such a face could appear even more terrible but when he smiled, I glimpsed ancient yellowish teeth which were sharp, jagged and animal looking. He appeared ancient, not so much in the physical sense but in a strange sort of cosmic manner that I cannot intellectually explain, even now as I sit here</span>.<br /><br />It was at this point of the tale that Henry Worthingham began to quiver, he eye lids began to twitch and his hands reached out and grasped my wrists. Worthingham’s fingers curled around my shirt cuffs and as he began to speak again, his nails dug into fabric. I could not break his stout grip and as he continued, he fell into a near psychotic state.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />For the first time I saw…I saw what he was working on so diligently. It was a large bust… it was a large bust of a man…a man screaming in terror. The mouthed was agape and aimed at the sky, his large curls cascading down towards the floor, the lips pulled back in pure agony and his eyes bulged from their sockets. And the face! My god! Even frozen in such passionate suffering…I still recognized my own face!</span><span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 4);ButtonMouseDown(this);" class="on" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Italic" title="Italic"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" alt="Italic" class="gl_italic" border="0" /></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />I don’t remember how I came to be outside, a full four blocks west of the factory, on King Street. I was told a police officer on patrol had found me in a back alley, sometime in the evening, covered in my own vomit, crying and muttering to myself. I was transported to Alexandria Hospital where I was examined by an ER physician, then transferred to a psychiatric ward where I spent the night. The next day after passing some mental status exams, I was allowed to be discharged and given the name and phone number of a local inpatient substance abuse clinic. I went home and called my secretary advising her that I going to be out for the next week on sick leave. I must have slept the entire week.</span><br /><br />I told Worthingham that it was quite a tale and he was lucky to survive such an apocalyptic experience. Worthingham regained some composure and released his grip. He consumed the rest of his drink and took a few deep breaths and continued.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Oh, but my tale isn’t finished, Old Son. You see, once I had regained some soundness of mind and body, I decided to find out more about this dark, old sculptor and his “art work.” I knew I could not physically go back there. Instead, I found a phone number for the Torpedo Factory and called it, I spoke to a volunteer who was little help. She advised me that she thought that the studio space I described was vacant but gave me an email address of the director of this artist enclave.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Immediately, I emailed said director and pretended I was interested in renting a studio at the factory. She responded a few days later. She confirmed that the space was indeed vacant, had been vacant for well over a year in fact. The reason for this she felt was because of what happened to the last artist. Apparently, he was an unusual chap who painted scenes of a grotesque nature (she would not go into detail). This artist had an affectation for the both the occult and the cosmos, spending most of his free time visiting an old book shop in Dupont Circle and gazing at the stars with his telescope. The other artists reported his behavior becoming more erratic (again…no details) and he suddenly changed his medium from painting to sculpting. Tragically, he took his own life not long after starting his sculpting and never completed any works in this medium. This was all the information the director either knew or was willing to share with me. </span><br /><br />I advised Worthingham that this was indeed interesting. He held up his right palm, indicating that he was not finished with his story.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">In answer to your next question, no the artist was not as I described, in fact, I found a picture of him on the internet. He was of Asian descent and had a full head of hair. It was not long after this minor investigation that I decided to stop going to any art galleries and forgo anything related to art altogether. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It didn’t help. In my dreams I began to see the Old Sculptor, he would laugh at me and beckon me to follow him to some strange unknown place. I always refused but sometimes when I would wake up, I would see small bits of yellowish clay on my wooden floor, near my old easel where I use to paint, on the other side of my bedroom.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"> After these mysterious clay instances, I found myself a complete insomniac. I am unable to sleep at night and can only nap a few hours a day in the afternoons. The other law partners in my firm made me see an internal medicine physician and what I thought would be a routine check-up with possibly a prescription for sleeping or anti-anxiety medication turned out much worse. You see, Old Son, I have advanced bone cancer. I was sent to an oncologist but she could not explain how such cancer could develop and advance so rapidly, in such a short span of time. I knew…but why bother telling anyone (except yourself), they would just assume I had gone loony and put me in a state mental hospital until the inevitable. I am so tired now, the pain from the cancer gets worse and the prescribed pain meds no longer have any effect. Thank you…thank you for allowing me to unburden myself.</span><br /><br />I reached and patted his shoulder and told him that if he needed anything to not hesitate to call but I knew from the expression on his face that his time grew short. We stood up and said our goodbyes and walked out into the rain together and went our separate ways. Two days later I received an email stating that Henry Worthingham had committed suicide at his home and a funeral was being planned for that weekend. I went to the outdoor funeral and like all funerals, it was a solemn occasion of remembrance for the deceased. As I watched the casket being lowered into the ground, I could not help but notice the soil inside of the soon to be covered grave, it was clay, with a very yellowish pallor, unlike the typical dark soil found in most of Alexandria. I do not know what to make of this.<br /><br />Should you be interested in knowing more about the Alexandria Torpedo Factory, more information can be found <a href="http://www.torpedofactory.org/">here</a>. If you should find yourself in a dark corner near a strangely lit art studio, I would decidedly take care and not venture any further.theProtagonisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03957989211177220039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712574809288190938.post-47103483019269960542010-12-15T14:01:00.000-08:002010-12-15T14:07:44.455-08:00Bacchanalia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqay28bGJKo7CTlq3MpGuYSLHMi07Hb00Qz5kfPWUlsi6XNd6wZXjegGBwoa5jKGioRgOLpUaqk3KCjSIEGfzrrLWMhJlfmt5oUvOhlHZMq8gudWPTCASOyMjKFEhHFV1O-kODtAJQhqzP/s1600/IMAG0004.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqay28bGJKo7CTlq3MpGuYSLHMi07Hb00Qz5kfPWUlsi6XNd6wZXjegGBwoa5jKGioRgOLpUaqk3KCjSIEGfzrrLWMhJlfmt5oUvOhlHZMq8gudWPTCASOyMjKFEhHFV1O-kODtAJQhqzP/s320/IMAG0004.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551033306332340194" /></a><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />The letter was small and rather dainty, on the outside in neat flowing script, it stated:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Lt. J. M. Smith, 1st CLD<br />For Eyes Only<br /></span><br />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.<br /><br />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: <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Lt. Smith,<br /><br /> 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! <br /><br />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! <br /><br />In Yours,<br /> X </span><br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />“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.” <br /><br />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….<br /><br />…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.theProtagonisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03957989211177220039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712574809288190938.post-3167140715691202002010-10-19T08:47:00.000-07:002010-10-19T09:33:41.950-07:00In and Out of Time<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3XF0S_ABGaWdY3n7uqvm1WivrjsEIyGMpw-_kFVuphqrpUxPIhC2MjI6lBRXtrB5UmHdeuNCFZE1A7RT050woh7wtLJWTW8ucnWGhKEuERZLTDIopp55CJt8RiAyTnodIUmBh5oxXcqAk/s1600/IMG_0118%5B1%5D"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3XF0S_ABGaWdY3n7uqvm1WivrjsEIyGMpw-_kFVuphqrpUxPIhC2MjI6lBRXtrB5UmHdeuNCFZE1A7RT050woh7wtLJWTW8ucnWGhKEuERZLTDIopp55CJt8RiAyTnodIUmBh5oxXcqAk/s320/IMG_0118%5B1%5D" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529795436396095154" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB1GbGsZtRNfbEWRiBz4liUuMoXNE0qEDpSOPhtNcO_HfetP8InfShqhqBc_hFfeMVvfsendR6cW5EW3igHpXz3VLXsaYy2iQQ0nlbs8MKrJTC3Jeg5P2lvTQPlwozkjieIEQMe7PA_I4f/s1600/IMG_0117%5B1%5D"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB1GbGsZtRNfbEWRiBz4liUuMoXNE0qEDpSOPhtNcO_HfetP8InfShqhqBc_hFfeMVvfsendR6cW5EW3igHpXz3VLXsaYy2iQQ0nlbs8MKrJTC3Jeg5P2lvTQPlwozkjieIEQMe7PA_I4f/s320/IMG_0117%5B1%5D" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529795128635436514" /></a><br />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…<br /><br />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:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">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!” </span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />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.<br /><br />During this hearing, Ms. Towner and her son, Charles gave testimony before the court. Ms. Towner explicated:<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><blockquote></blockquote>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.</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />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! <br /><br />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!<br /><br />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!!!!<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span> <br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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… <br /></span><br />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<br /><br />As always, I have placed some pictures of the exterior of the Lyceum at the beginning of this entry.theProtagonisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03957989211177220039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712574809288190938.post-40888860698919576522010-04-18T16:19:00.000-07:002010-04-18T16:30:11.590-07:00I, Ghoul or The Changeling<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjNes9oh0Sjz2mF74W9k2C6lDJazWcZtLftOqGCO1oOZtFPn4XpAfxkAR796j0xV3UNnoxUIWdtUnu88Tm4aYiUD43WuCQFd9ujdWuIPGP22IAOHIpvwS1hY0xteOd2JcOPqmspzUjQSIC/s1600/IMG_0110.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjNes9oh0Sjz2mF74W9k2C6lDJazWcZtLftOqGCO1oOZtFPn4XpAfxkAR796j0xV3UNnoxUIWdtUnu88Tm4aYiUD43WuCQFd9ujdWuIPGP22IAOHIpvwS1hY0xteOd2JcOPqmspzUjQSIC/s320/IMG_0110.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461621818154054818" /></a><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Hello,<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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? <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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. <br /><br />“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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…</span></span><br /><br />(End of Message). <br /><br />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.theProtagonisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03957989211177220039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712574809288190938.post-87086357100231868062010-03-14T08:19:00.000-07:002010-03-14T08:34:19.200-07:00Nameless Dread on Theodore Roosevelt Island<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKdt1iush1D2PKTfA2TlU1KsSN9b3cJFj7qF50UxgjBy5tZiE7keOBFDRS-OHiZnp3kfULeLOerztPBH-ZjTFCmVUd0b5ZSx3H2i1v6Vuz-I3Gzp3ikx91m50gtqGtJWNGCumodSmJTzp/s1600-h/IMG_0109.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKdt1iush1D2PKTfA2TlU1KsSN9b3cJFj7qF50UxgjBy5tZiE7keOBFDRS-OHiZnp3kfULeLOerztPBH-ZjTFCmVUd0b5ZSx3H2i1v6Vuz-I3Gzp3ikx91m50gtqGtJWNGCumodSmJTzp/s200/IMG_0109.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448510680391816754" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtMJQj_mewwMo_4fRzBJ3zUzxZBIDQpX4gTKLVCoctkX9xYOMN1KWLIO2KJ6z6dl8API18jsU0JdqEqih4qYHv0ZI3uVpHjS1rMoSz-YQcZnl4sya6aE5K6MKO2QxqYxL_vm7A_bkzfXwy/s1600-h/IMG_0106.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtMJQj_mewwMo_4fRzBJ3zUzxZBIDQpX4gTKLVCoctkX9xYOMN1KWLIO2KJ6z6dl8API18jsU0JdqEqih4qYHv0ZI3uVpHjS1rMoSz-YQcZnl4sya6aE5K6MKO2QxqYxL_vm7A_bkzfXwy/s200/IMG_0106.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448510357479918418" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnjEpEGHgXWLk6q0oUd6SITDtCQlVuVhMTCQfms2XeiIPO6PYEDeHR3LruEVawtLyraTVp_uLEGpJSVRK3nyssFlCIeS40ztsNIyGglKwOmS4IUIzqw7_yA1QtwAuuWgK5xaFvXORjV9ST/s1600-h/IMG_0101.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnjEpEGHgXWLk6q0oUd6SITDtCQlVuVhMTCQfms2XeiIPO6PYEDeHR3LruEVawtLyraTVp_uLEGpJSVRK3nyssFlCIeS40ztsNIyGglKwOmS4IUIzqw7_yA1QtwAuuWgK5xaFvXORjV9ST/s200/IMG_0101.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448509995269482562" /></a><br />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. <br />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. <br /><br />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?<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Sir,<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Sincerely,<br />F.G.</span><br /><br />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: <br /><br />http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theodore_Roosevelt_Island <br /><br />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.theProtagonisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03957989211177220039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712574809288190938.post-28255268757471174882010-02-08T10:38:00.000-08:002010-02-08T10:51:45.243-08:00When Ithaqua Awakes or The Man in the Snow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNC49iCGCgMXgH4ZnU19xL0_nRl4CBUOuaHjN58ldg3RBbBm1b-6tUALCvgAESyZdSpgE8TI2zJatT9VrCmY65_rT6ys1Y7a9k0VYQg5Ilh9VwkpXWv3i3qUhuLdL8SDNdUmh6mTK9W2f/s1600-h/Temple2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNC49iCGCgMXgH4ZnU19xL0_nRl4CBUOuaHjN58ldg3RBbBm1b-6tUALCvgAESyZdSpgE8TI2zJatT9VrCmY65_rT6ys1Y7a9k0VYQg5Ilh9VwkpXWv3i3qUhuLdL8SDNdUmh6mTK9W2f/s200/Temple2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435945198590555394" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUaV-FgD9jc5yzLUTU5w2AquIsjlLZtrKOJimuxx4itSMTVVMBelhvb5IXaJaviFIRVXuOXCSY5sdTgCaVXZ8mftzIOsYuldpaY_hHxn5IOhR3jxtud3m1JxWdTaH5olYzfxPQndfWFT-e/s1600-h/Temple1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUaV-FgD9jc5yzLUTU5w2AquIsjlLZtrKOJimuxx4itSMTVVMBelhvb5IXaJaviFIRVXuOXCSY5sdTgCaVXZ8mftzIOsYuldpaY_hHxn5IOhR3jxtud3m1JxWdTaH5olYzfxPQndfWFT-e/s200/Temple1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435944912514811074" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74oXbExKgcJfqlkmXz0Rrb5p0GD_H1N2vZgq3CdngEpi0ASZTYHLXChydp2hGe743Hc_OeGs6Mm-Z132iuhc6BAd32zWJsPyPYD_do1iROmuz3pncE6_NeMB8Vhvd8wN1KjC5JlG8P_z7/s1600-h/Ithaqua.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74oXbExKgcJfqlkmXz0Rrb5p0GD_H1N2vZgq3CdngEpi0ASZTYHLXChydp2hGe743Hc_OeGs6Mm-Z132iuhc6BAd32zWJsPyPYD_do1iROmuz3pncE6_NeMB8Vhvd8wN1KjC5JlG8P_z7/s200/Ithaqua.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435944503928423762" /></a><br />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…<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“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. <br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“Please continue,” I implored as I slowly slipped my coffee and prepared myself for the tale to come.<br /><br />“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."<br /><br />“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...”<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“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. <br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“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. <br /><br />“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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“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. <br /><br />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: <br /><br />http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Temple<br /><br />Stay warm and do not look upon the sky during a snowfall, you may not like what you see.theProtagonisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03957989211177220039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712574809288190938.post-66649138169431596492010-01-24T17:47:00.000-08:002010-01-31T00:21:12.880-08:00The Horror at the Bell Tower<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH9wxJNUo6CIqvc10kLSDLxJ3xTdyCBBes7SM9aLSOSXzoi4Cs_MPevFsOgs_nsFEtqleC4I5iZ0fYDzYxHGD4CAIAhI2PFeW1-Xt0aY5n5mKEnXJrXIFb3grvAKaiaAivK8Y7njOf1A5M/s1600-h/IMG_0063_2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH9wxJNUo6CIqvc10kLSDLxJ3xTdyCBBes7SM9aLSOSXzoi4Cs_MPevFsOgs_nsFEtqleC4I5iZ0fYDzYxHGD4CAIAhI2PFeW1-Xt0aY5n5mKEnXJrXIFb3grvAKaiaAivK8Y7njOf1A5M/s200/IMG_0063_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430489005819056674" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVWmQuQDu_DMttP6ptrDHjQI65YCNtRHluMf6XyJ_klZxw15DRSBZDSeGrXtqWvjS9S2aowzDKEeEiIbk1DP_pau6NkrnFoxXL2exgos2-js7zPHayB5yOybCTzL_B7fUQYsHGQXlgKoVG/s1600-h/IMG_0066_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVWmQuQDu_DMttP6ptrDHjQI65YCNtRHluMf6XyJ_klZxw15DRSBZDSeGrXtqWvjS9S2aowzDKEeEiIbk1DP_pau6NkrnFoxXL2exgos2-js7zPHayB5yOybCTzL_B7fUQYsHGQXlgKoVG/s200/IMG_0066_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430488793250290738" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6PThNGEXDRLc0UtX0TE5huTMxJn972ihyH0_3HsYavZDKW7W-xS4XSwZVrySpQ6D5Kj1z81q2t8jAWD-QQlYULawoA8Z574K9o4rXH74_Zyjmw8aiezTiRcYolAkyAyD4Nyv5j7Mje5-2/s1600-h/IMG_0064_2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6PThNGEXDRLc0UtX0TE5huTMxJn972ihyH0_3HsYavZDKW7W-xS4XSwZVrySpQ6D5Kj1z81q2t8jAWD-QQlYULawoA8Z574K9o4rXH74_Zyjmw8aiezTiRcYolAkyAyD4Nyv5j7Mje5-2/s200/IMG_0064_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430488633376937154" /></a><br />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. <br /><br />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:<br /><br />http://www.nps.gov/archive/gwmp/carillon.htm<br /><br />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. <br /><br />From the Potomac Free Press:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. </span> <br /><br />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.theProtagonisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03957989211177220039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712574809288190938.post-20309865519634606852009-12-20T08:25:00.000-08:002010-01-16T12:22:47.499-08:00The Curious Book Seller Near Dupont Circle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj36NvmpUgnKa80eWyAvgnGaW2TNOMSvkMH00otsOJnd3v-8K1YXnzpi_Erkzx1B0JF2m7NSUQgGh4coH57NaEywFghZ1tu0UGo3QsUaYRLF95dutBFlunKscIpboeFSG4OP_NSiExjuI5f/s1600-h/History+of+Dupont.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj36NvmpUgnKa80eWyAvgnGaW2TNOMSvkMH00otsOJnd3v-8K1YXnzpi_Erkzx1B0JF2m7NSUQgGh4coH57NaEywFghZ1tu0UGo3QsUaYRLF95dutBFlunKscIpboeFSG4OP_NSiExjuI5f/s200/History+of+Dupont.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417359907986282354" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_J3bNWU-ghl8K5C1esao27EgJOCTzPo6xf7rNiB2KXdkHLQXms5NX3Rx_veelU23uLqZqGtTZA2zCNwZRVunGoCwg9mP_iFx7tz9bT7HmhL4vBNSn-UXmmcPu3V95-3JxzQeroLgLuuI/s1600-h/Q+Street+NW+Dupont+Circle+Area.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_J3bNWU-ghl8K5C1esao27EgJOCTzPo6xf7rNiB2KXdkHLQXms5NX3Rx_veelU23uLqZqGtTZA2zCNwZRVunGoCwg9mP_iFx7tz9bT7HmhL4vBNSn-UXmmcPu3V95-3JxzQeroLgLuuI/s200/Q+Street+NW+Dupont+Circle+Area.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417360049950375810" border="0" /></a>
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcce5Mfs58VRr7S-8vjOnI6GRYQJdaM3iwd5CadjCms4dlTulrv9rGco-pMGaWj3OX_A0Wf4wE3JV3FostAiBS3Ut8dsqtT1gOZ2PeWe40CuMBB7Zp0_CI1C0VaS2FzsadDu_DAsoG8NYH/s1600-h/Q+Street+NW++Dupont+Circle+Area.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcce5Mfs58VRr7S-8vjOnI6GRYQJdaM3iwd5CadjCms4dlTulrv9rGco-pMGaWj3OX_A0Wf4wE3JV3FostAiBS3Ut8dsqtT1gOZ2PeWe40CuMBB7Zp0_CI1C0VaS2FzsadDu_DAsoG8NYH/s200/Q+Street+NW++Dupont+Circle+Area.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417359741855208914" border="0" /></a>
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<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CAAROND%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="State"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="address"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="Street"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {color:blue; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {color:purple; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} p {mso-style-link:"Normal \(Web\) Char"; mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0in; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} span.NormalWebChar {mso-style-name:"Normal \(Web\) Char"; mso-style-locked:yes; mso-style-link:"Normal \(Web\)"; mso-ansi-font-size:12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt; mso-ansi-language:EN-US; mso-fareast-language:EN-US; mso-bidi-language:AR-SA;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p>On occasion, as part of my research, I locate various antiquarian book dealers in the District and browse their shops for both books and curiosities which may help explain what I have been experiencing for the past several months. Education I know will be the key to my salvation from this madness. The proprietors of these shops tend to be both erudite, in regards to esoteric knowledge, as well as shall I say…eccentric in manner? This past weekend, I found myself preoccupied in the area of <st1:place st="on">Northwest D.C.</st1:place> called ‘<st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Dupont Circle</st1:address></st1:street>.’ </p> <p>This area of D.C. is home to many of the well-heeled artists, writers and free-thinkers in the <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Washington</st1:city>, <st1:state st="on">D.C.</st1:state></st1:place> area. The area is named after a Civil War Rear Admiral, a certain Samuel Francis DuPont, for deeds rendered during the war. This largely residential area began blossoming in the late 1800s, by the turn of the 20<sup>th</sup> Century the Dupont neighborhood was a prosperous and vivacious neighborhood in <st1:place st="on">Northwest DC</st1:place>. The area is well known for a small park in the center of the circle with a double-tiered white marble fountain positioned there around 1921. More information about the history of this unique residential area can be found at the following U.S. National Park Service website here: <a href="http://www.nps.gov/history/Nr/travel/wash/dc50.htm">http://www.nps.gov/history/Nr/travel/wash/dc50.htm</a></p> <p><o:p></o:p>As I walked I admired the beautiful architecture. Specifically, I found myself admiring the Richardsonian Romanesque Revival style rowhouses on <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Q Street</st1:address></st1:street>. I even managed to snap a few pictures which I placed at the top of this blog entry. Overall, a rather relaxing and prosaic stroll, little did I know my stroll out in the sunshine would degenerate into existential obscurity.</p> <p>I had heard rumors that an old antiquarian book seller lived on <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Q Street</st1:address></st1:street> and dealt in various ancient occult texts. The man did not actively advertise for the simple fact that those who wanted his books found him. Through painstaking research, I only ever discovered a name and general location, “Mr. Rolan Corvino, <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Q Street NW</st1:address></st1:street>.” So I put on my heavy winter pea coat, along with hat and gloves and took the metro train to the <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Dupont Circle</st1:address></st1:street> metro stop. I exited the to the north side entrance when I arrived. I walked away from maddening holiday crowds, down <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Q Street</st1:address></st1:street> on that sunny but frigid day hoping to find a sign by one of the rowhouses which indicated a book seller. No one else was around, so I could not ask anyone which row house may be Mr. Corvino’s residence. </p> <p>As I walked by a particularly sinister looking yellowish brownstone rowhouse, I happened to look down. This particular ominous dwelling had an English basement entrance to the lower left of the doubled door front entrance. The door to the English basement was a dark green color but what caught my eye was the brass plate attached to the English basement door. I walked down the five steps and stood in front of the door and examined the brass door plate. The plate in large letters simply stated, “Rolan S. Corvino, DFA” and nothing else. Cautiously, not knowing if I had the right person, I knocked. </p> <p>From inside, I heard a chair scraping against floorboards and light foot steps becoming louder and louder as they approached the door, then several deadbolt locks being slowly disengaged. The door opened wide and standing before me was a well dressed elderly gentleman of average height and girth. He was paler than me; shaven headed with large bright intelligent eyes and gave me a wide smile of unnaturally white pointed teeth.</p> <p>“May I help you, Sir?” He asked with a slight almost imperceptible European accent, which I could not place. I asked if he was Mr. Rolan Corvino, the antiquarian book seller. His immense smile became even wider and the sunshine gleaming off of the abnormal white teeth nearly blinded me.</p> <p>“I am indeed, Sir. I thought you might be a buyer, not many solicitors are as well dressed yourself. Please come into my humble studio and we can discuss your specific interests and what type of codex you may be seeking.” Corvino stepped away from the door and with a flourish of his arm, directed me inside.</p> <p>The English apartment was essentially a studio apartment; only one other door was located inside, at the other end of the room. The walls were lined with huge book cases and various preserved maps of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Washington</st1:city>, <st1:state st="on">D.C.</st1:state></st1:place> and the surrounding jurisdictions from the eighteenth century. The book cases appeared elegantly designed from some type of hardwood and a glass enclosure surrounded the books themselves. </p> <p>My eyes took some time to adjust to the lack of natural light, only a few dim artificial lights provided illumination. Corvino must have noticed this.</p> <p>“I keep all my books in the basement of the house, Sir. All the natural sunlight from my rooms upstairs would harm these ancient delicate texts. I converted this basement apartment to be my private studio many years ago. One can only slow the progression of age, not stop it I’m afraid. Please have a sit, Sir.” </p> <p>He pointed to a couple of cushioned wooden chairs next to a large oak table. We both sat down. I looked around the room once my eyes adjusted, other than the stout table and two matching wood chairs; the only other furniture was a large roll top office desk, also made of oak with a leather back chair in front of it. On top of the desk was a laptop and printer. The room served as a home office which was both sparse and functional. The book shelves were colossal and impressive, containing hundreds of books I estimated, all guarded under lock and key in their glass prisons.</p> <p>I did not want this established learned gentleman to think me mad, so I portrayed myself as a collector of occult texts. First, I introduced myself and I told him I was looking for a tome of a strange and unusual nature. Corvino cocked his head, closed his pale blue eyes and listening intently, he bade me to continue. I told old Corvino that I was looking for a text which discussed supernatural communication through the use of music, perhaps even a study in this area from some knowledgeable ancient scholar or alchemist. I advised Corvino that I would prefer an English translation but my Latin was passable enough. </p> <p>Corvino stood up from his chair, from a pocket underneath his charcoal colored cardigan wool sweater he pulled out a pair of thin, black framed glasses. He put the glasses on and walked over to one of the book shelves and peered at each of the texts, almost lovingly. As he inspected each of the spines of the text, he spoke with his back to me. </p> <p>“I keep all my occult related texts in this particular bookcase, makes tracking them at my age much easier. Let me see here…I have a copy here of various fragments of the ‘Pnakotic Manuscripts’ but in all honesty, I’m not really sure what language it is, a while back I sent it to a professor of ancient languages at Miskatonic University in Massachusetts. He hastily sent it back to me along with a very odd and frantic note…”</p> <p>“Ah-ha! This is what I was looking for!” Corvino shouted and his eyes widened. He took from the pocket of his dim colored chino pants a small metal key and proceeded to open the glass display case. From the shelf he gingerly pulled out a leather bound text. He placed the text on the table in front of me.</p> <p>“This, my good Sir, is a genuine Silas Andrus edition, from 1820, of Cotton Mather’s ‘Magnalia Christi Americana.’ I think you will find the chapter on the witch trials in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Salem</st1:place></st1:city> to be of particular interest to your ‘research.” He stressed the last word with great prominence. I asked Corvino how the witch trials in seventeenth century <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Massachusetts</st1:place></st1:state> would relate to what I had described to him earlier. </p> <p>“In the text, Mather describes hearing testimony from a teenage witness who felt she had been bewitched. Specifically, she describes washing clothes near a river one early morning. When she began her washing, she suddenly stopped because she heard a ‘queer sort of music’ in the air. She testified that ‘the music’ made her body sway to and fro. She could not explain this occurrence and it was, of course, attributed to witchcraft.”</p> <p>I looked at the text on the table, the cover resplendent in rich leather. Corvino hand me a pair of white cotton gloves, so I could turn the pages without putting undue stress on the antique pages. The pages were yellowed but still firm. I found the chapter old Corvino spoke of and as I scanned it quickly, the testimony of the young woman Corvino described was listed. Mather himself seemed to have found it fascinating as well. </p> <p>Grippingly, the young woman was found dead not long after the witch trials. She was found in bed one morning by her father. According to the authorities of the town, her entire throat had been torn out some time in the night, along with her tongue. Yet, no one else in the house heard an attack; in fact they all had slept extraordinarily soundly through the night. The young woman’s father had to break down the door in order to access her bedroom, it had been locked from the inside and the bedroom contained no windows, only a small closet to store her things. The authorities, who had at this time tired of witchcraft and the supernatural, had listed her death as a ‘suicide due to a lingering madness’ leftover from the long, exhausting witch trials. Yet no one could explain how she killed herself, without access to a knife or what happened to her the remains of her throat…or her tongue which also was never found. </p> <p>“It makes for a strange read, doesn’t it, Sir?” Corvino remarked with a smile, from his thin bloodless lips, showing his perfect, white canine resembling teeth. Inwardly, I shuddered slightly. I suddenly wanted to be out of that basement tomb, full of odd and ancient damned texts, which smelled of festering mould and other fungi. I was finding it harder to breath and I felt my heart beating faster, my head began to swim and my respiration increased. I quickly made my apologies to Corvino, advising him that although I was interested in purchasing the book, I would have to be back later, since I was not feeling well.</p> <p>I remember well, Corvino’s last words to me, “Tomorrow, by cover of night, Sir, I am receiving a particularly fascinating tome, which I can translate for you, it is in German and speaks of many ancient deities and their cruel worshipping cults.” He winked at me and gently ushered me out the front door. Once outside, back in the sunshine and after several minutes of walking and taking in the crisp winter air, I began to feel better. </p> <span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";">A week later, feeling both brave and inquisitive about the text which Corvino remarked on during my departure, I decided to go back to his English basement studio in Dupont. I never asked him for a phone number or email, so I hoped he would be at his studio. When I arrived at the location, I found a strange sight. Some workmen in overalls were carting away Corvino’s heavy but meager furniture. I stopped one and asked him what was going on and where I could find Rolan Corvino. The workman advised me that Corvino had suddenly left the area, with all his books and had quickly sold his property to a neighbor. Corvino had left no forwarding address and according to the workman, who had seen him the day before, he appeared to be in a ‘bizarre and frightful’ state. I have scoured the internet and attempted to locate him through other antiquarians but no one has heard or seen Rolan Corvino since he fled <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Dupont Circle</st1:address></st1:street> in his panic stricken state.</span>
<br />
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CAAROND%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="Street"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="address"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="State"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} h3 {mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0in; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; mso-outline-level:3; font-size:13.5pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; font-weight:bold;} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {color:blue; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {color:purple; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} p {mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0in; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults ext="edit" spidmax="1026"> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout ext="edit"> <o:idmap ext="edit" data="1"> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--><o:p></o:p><h3><span style=""><span style="font-weight: normal;font-size:12;" ><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></h3> theProtagonisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03957989211177220039noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712574809288190938.post-91793065115929448952009-12-03T19:09:00.000-08:002009-12-03T19:34:00.130-08:00Unsettling Murmurs at George Washington Masonic ‘Temple’<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCD0io-A39amnhagG3adZkLjd5P7XHs3VQHvH2pTHt7YASLqDNrZMRORqqduzePREgCoGJ_B56HW6xKskHX_d-rDbsxi-PZxcPaoAPK5H6qbbIAKY3yjHbswOg2AR6ecgSmrrbGG13iVL/s1600-h/IMG_0053.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCD0io-A39amnhagG3adZkLjd5P7XHs3VQHvH2pTHt7YASLqDNrZMRORqqduzePREgCoGJ_B56HW6xKskHX_d-rDbsxi-PZxcPaoAPK5H6qbbIAKY3yjHbswOg2AR6ecgSmrrbGG13iVL/s320/IMG_0053.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411213733564442482" border="0" /></a>
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CAAROND%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C03%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="Street"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="address"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="State"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceName"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceType"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="stockticker"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {color:blue; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {color:purple; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">While checking my email inbox the other day, I received a most distressing email from a gentleman who wishes “to remain anonymous.” The gentleman in question, while doing research on the internet, came across my curious <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Washington</st1:city>, <st1:state st="on">D.C.</st1:state></st1:place> area blog and had a tale of his own to add. I have kept the errors, he appeared to be typing in a hurry. Said gentleman wrote his email as follows:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Dear Sir,<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">I hope this email finds you well. The other day I came across your extraordinary web log</i> <i style="">and wish to relate to you a strange and unpleasant incident which occurred just before the peculiar incident at <b style="">Fort Ward Park</b>. I am not sure if the tale I am about to relate corresponds with what occurred at the park, yet, the close proximity of the two locations bears some consideration. I don't have much time. <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">However, please allow the indulgences of an old man and allow me to provide you some background information. I have lived in the <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Washington</st1:city>, <st1:state st="on">D.C.</st1:state></st1:place> for many years. I have been retired for the past thirteen years (previously, an officer in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region> Army, my last post was at the Pentagon). I tell you this so you do not think of me as some addle brained old fool who sits around idly and makes up tales to entertain himself. I was an infantry officer, Sir! And a damned fine good one!<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">When I retired my wife and I purchased a modest but tasteful colonial style house on Hilltop Terrace, in the city of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Alexandria</st1:place></st1:city>. For many years, I was a serious runner but due to knee surgery and other physical ailments, I had to stop and took up walking instead. I am very familiar with <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Fort</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Ward</st1:placename></st1:place> Park, Sir, since I would take long walks around that area, from my home no less (I told you I wasn’t some frail, indolent old chap). <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>At any rate, my dear wife passed on a few years ago from cancer. In order to ameliorate my grief and loneliness (we never had any children due to my constant deployments), I purchased a most astonishing Welsh Corgi. “Jacob” as I call him, is smart as a whip, like many of his breed and a wonderful companion to an old widower such as myself. Jacob loves going on long explorations outdoors on his leash and me at the helm. We go for long walks together around <st1:city st="on">Alexandria</st1:city>, especially down by the <st1:place st="on">Potomac River</st1:place>.<o:p></o:p>
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">As I stated before, I live on Hilltop Terrace, in the shadow of the George Washington Masonic Memorial, or the ‘<st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">George</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Washington</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Temple</st1:placetype></st1:place>’ as many of us in the neighborhood refer to it. It is a beautiful stone structure with a large expansive well kept lawn at its front. The building is in phenomenal shape considering it was built in the 1920s. Jacob and I have always enjoyed walking around the outskirts of this building on our way home from our outdoor excursions. However, during the bitter and overcast winter months, the building takes on a sinister façade. The cyclopean stone structure becomes forbidding and almost sinister. For the most part, I have always dismissed these sentiments as a seasonal affectation, until recently.Jacob and I were completing our daily walkabout, both of us looking forward to a well deserved supper. As we walked up <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">King Street</st1:address></st1:street>, with the ‘<st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Temple</st1:place></st1:city>’ on our left, I observed a most strange affair. I observed a small cluster of men in dark hooded robes dashing into the ‘<st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Temple</st1:place></st1:city>.’ I had never watched anyone with such strange raiment near the ‘<st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Temple</st1:place></st1:city>’ before. My first thought was that the men were a part of some religious order, although the robes appeared too dark to be a Catholic sect. I must admit, although I am not a nosy man by nature, curiosity got the better of me. These people clearly were not the usual tourists who come to take pictures!<o:p></o:p>
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">Jacob and I began mounting the grassy knoll towards the main entrance, it was steep and my joints were taking a pounding, but the devil was upon me at that moment and I had to know what was going on! Jacob and I came to the column adorned main entry. Inside, I swore I heard some sort of outlandish chanting from within. I could not make out the language for the life of me (I know some Latin and a smattering of ancient Greek and it was clearly none of these languages). I even walked up and placed my ear to the door. The language was intolerable. I could only describe it as hoarse, guttural utterances. A strange transformation overcame Jacob, usually quiet and well behaved, he began to make a low growl and foam at the lips. Throughout the chanting, I only heard one word repeated over and over again, it was ‘Dagon’ I believe. It was then I heard the terrible, retched voice behind me hiss.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“This is a private ceremony, you will leave now!” I turned around a man in a light blue security guard uniform stood before. In his left hand he held a large heavy flashlight, as wicked looking as any police baton. I noticed the man’s right hand hovering near the revolver he wore on a shiny leather pistol belt around his narrow hips. Even in the waning twilight light I noticed his queer physical appearance. He was going absurdly bald, with large round bulbous eyes, an unpronounced chin that had failed to grow into adulthood with him. His form was almost skeletal to behold and his skin, my God, his skin was afflicted by some sort of eczema, giving it a dry, scaly look. He appeared to have some sort of speech impediment, which gave his voice a raspy, raucous quality. <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">I have witnessed such horrors on the battle field, Sir, but I am ashamed to say, I could not be in the same proximity as this creature of a man anymore. “I am sorry, I was merely curious, we are leaving now.” I mumbled to the man as I as quickly walked away, while Jacob still in a state of frenzy barked at the man (?) and tried to break from his leash, it took all my strength to drag him away.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">The worst…the worst I have saved for last. The smell, my God!!! The smell that emanated from that creature. I can only liken the smell to what one smells when standing on a beach and the stench of decaying fish hits ones nostrils from the wind coming off the water. The smell made me want to retch and it took all my discipline to keep my stomach acids where they belong! <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>However, as I was pulling Jacob away from the property, I had enough sense to take out my digital camera from my jacket (I carry it with me during our walks, in case something strikes my fancy and I wish to preserve it). As I raised the camera, the security guard turned around and stared straight into the lens, I snapped off a quick picture and retreated home quickly. <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">In the safety of my living room, near a roaring fire, I fortified myself with some Virginia Gentleman bourbon whiskey. Once my frayed nerves were calm, I looked at the hideous picture of the security guard, he glared back at me with his leering countenance. What horrific gene pool could have produced such a monstrosity? I put the camera on my book shelf and sat on my favorite leather sofa, throwing back another glass of bourbon. Jacob had also calmed down as well and was whining for his supper. <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>The following day, I had several errands to run in the morning and this distraction was exactly what I needed considering the previous evening. I put Jacob outside in the large fenced in back yard, since it was warm and the sky was completely blue. As I pulled my dark Red Jeep Patriot on to King Street, I noticed two men in a black Chevy Tahoe staring at me, both men wore dark watch caps and dark wraparound sunglasses, such unusual characters in such as middle class neighborhood full of families and retirees. Since most of the windows appeared tinted, I could not make anything else out. As I drove to Costco, I assumed my paranoia was due to recent events. As I drove north, my mind calmed and I thought the men were probably undercover police officers on duty. <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">I returned home much later in the afternoon than I had anticipated. What I found chilled me to the bone. As I parked my Jeep and closed the garage door there was a profound silence hanging in the air. I walked out back to see to Jacob, instead…I found nothing! Jacob was no where to be found. The only door to the fence was shut and secured. I checked inside the house and Jacob was not there either. My heart began to pound against my rib cage and my breathing increased exponentially, I began to panic. I ran outside calling his name like a mad man! Neighbors came outside when they witnessed my frenzied state. Once I was calm enough to talk, I told them about Jacob missing. Several of the other retirees (who also greatly prized their dear pets) offered to help me search the neighborhood; we did. It was to no avail, Jacob was never found.<o:p></o:p>
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">Once the sun had gone down, I knew I could do nothing until morning. I collapsed on my comfy sofa, which this night gave me no succor. It was while lying on my sofa that I noticed it or I should say the lack of it. My digital camera was not on the bookshelf, where I distinctly remembered placing it. I searched the house anyway, no camera was found. Suddenly, a dreadful thought came into my mind. I walked outside and looked at my front door, I observed very faint scratches around the area where the key inserts into the lock. Sometimes, I forget to engage the dead bolt and for my lack of detail in fully securing my home, Jacob had paid the price. <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">don’t know why, intuition maybe? At that moment, standing outside, looking at my lock, I turned my head around. Standing at the other end of the street was a figure, who appeared to be watching me, without my glasses, I could not make out any detail, every fiber of being whispered to me that this watcher was part of this violation of my domicile. As I started walking towards the man, he simply turned and disappeared around a bend in the street. By the time I reached the bend, he was gone.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">Time ticked by inside my abode, I reached for my phone on several occasions but I stopped myself every time. How could I report this to the police? Someone broke in and stole my dog and camera? How could I explain that several expensive art pieces, gold coins, computers and a flat screen TV were untouched, even the petty cash I kept in the kitchen hadn’t been handled? They would think me an elderly fool who lost his dog and misplaced his camera. I knew then that the watchers, whoever they were would eventually stop watching and instead act. So for the past week, I have discontinued my long walks, I rarely go out at all. Instead, I comb the internet, searching for information. Every night I sit in my well fortified study with my freshly cleaned .45 <st1:stockticker st="on">ACP</st1:stockticker>…waiting. Already, as I sit here typing, I smell that noxious miasma hanging in the air outside my door step, they have come for me, <b style="">but I will not go without fight, Sir!</b> <span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">That was the end of the email. I have tried to contact our anonymous retired soldier on several occasions, but get no response. I will continue to attempt contact… </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">For those unfamiliar with the George Washington Masonic Memorial in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Alexandria</st1:place></st1:city>, further information can be found here: <a href="http://www.gwmemorial.org/">http://www.gwmemorial.org/</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">From the above referenced website: </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">
<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">This magnificent structure is privately funded through the grateful contributions of Freemasons and others, yet remains open to the public, free of charge, seven days a week.
<br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]-->
<br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">The George Washington Masonic Memorial is more than a colossal memorial and museum. It is a tourist attraction and destination; research center and library; community center; performing arts center and concert hall; banquet and celebration site; and meeting site for local and countless visiting Masonic lodges and organizations. However, first and foremost, it is a memorial to honor and perpetuate the memory, character and virtues of the man who best exemplifies what Freemasons are and ought to be, Brother George Washington</i>. <i style="">The George Washington Masonic Memorial provides a diverse set of impressive facilities for public <b style="">and private functions</b> complete with a variety of furnishings and amenities.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I have never been on the public tour myself, it is offered a few times a month I'm told. I have heard that both the Memorial Hall and North Lodge Room are quite impressive. I cannot help but wonder what better place for a repugnant secret society or cult to hide then in the confines of a more public and accepted ‘secret society.’<span style=""> </span></p>
<br />theProtagonisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03957989211177220039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712574809288190938.post-69207466759327917312009-11-22T15:15:00.000-08:002009-11-24T15:14:42.163-08:00The Peculiar Incident at Fort Ward Park<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikG5ILnP8smGbkQyWwApmf0zPnpbKQaKoeS1139_Got96dAAZbVb6tQ09jdHD1KOntSI0-JKCXnnKJWugIk-Z6dr0xrQT9-vfZmev4pERDd00BDviVq4nQrHSZ0WtQBpSopPjJPaYOrD7K/s1600/IMG_0050.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikG5ILnP8smGbkQyWwApmf0zPnpbKQaKoeS1139_Got96dAAZbVb6tQ09jdHD1KOntSI0-JKCXnnKJWugIk-Z6dr0xrQT9-vfZmev4pERDd00BDviVq4nQrHSZ0WtQBpSopPjJPaYOrD7K/s320/IMG_0050.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407081436964153234" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-S-issfAzUN-pxpfParE07JqoayrkDIauvP3knbGjJ428ZWiYxrhEtXKxNcXZdNBpFyLlin1btboGx5eniQo_I4nZRxkFMmaABDk9PGjyxpvXrubcqpoEHPvSy2BSYCUbl_d9R-ReQDYv/s1600/IMG_0056.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-S-issfAzUN-pxpfParE07JqoayrkDIauvP3knbGjJ428ZWiYxrhEtXKxNcXZdNBpFyLlin1btboGx5eniQo_I4nZRxkFMmaABDk9PGjyxpvXrubcqpoEHPvSy2BSYCUbl_d9R-ReQDYv/s320/IMG_0056.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407080770924382578" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ-TJzIoEndTGUvilFB_icJFn6fLZDKSv5a1Jy18JIGKApwTyMaIjA3WfBHLj4DstvMhFQ4pR1pDzj7QLizU1F1FQo85_sI0PXerMp7c9RmlFzj7xJPdwCrzKM9O-JyXXnEiMvWa6E9lp0/s1600/IMG_0055.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ-TJzIoEndTGUvilFB_icJFn6fLZDKSv5a1Jy18JIGKApwTyMaIjA3WfBHLj4DstvMhFQ4pR1pDzj7QLizU1F1FQo85_sI0PXerMp7c9RmlFzj7xJPdwCrzKM9O-JyXXnEiMvWa6E9lp0/s320/IMG_0055.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407080567017834050" border="0" /></a><br />Yesterday, I was reading the Friday edition of the Potomac Free Press. I found a curious article in the paper. The article was short and held little detail. The title simply stated “Fort Ward Park Vandalized by Unknown Trespassers”. The article went on to state that the local police, while on patrol, responded to a 911 call of “human screams and other horrific noises” coming from the closed park very late in the evening. As the first patrol officer came upon the entrance of Fort Ward Park he observed three adults (sex and age unknown) in dark hooded robes fleeing the park and into the nearby woods. A subsequent search of the park and surrounding area did not locate these trespassers. While the police searched for the trespassers, they came across a smoldering fire pit in the middle of the park. In the ashes of the fire were found some burnt pages, now illegible from the flames and etched in the dirt near that small fire pit, was what appeared to be a large twisted, five-pointed star with an eye shape in the center. The article contained nothing else of interest. Some sort of pagan cult perhaps?<br /><br />Since Fort Ward Park is located not too far from my home in Arlington, I resolved to drive there and investigate further the following day. I have never been to the park before; it is a small park which was a former civil war earthen fort. Many of these small earthen forts were built to serve as supply depots south of the District of Columbia during the war. From the City of Alexandria website:<br /><br />Construction of Fort Ward began in July 1861, immediately after the Union Army's defeat at the Battle of First Bull Run (First Manassas). The fort was completed in September 1861 and was named for Commander James H. Ward, the first Union naval officer to die in the Civil War. The initial earthwork fort had a perimeter of 540 yards and 24 guns. After the Battle of Second Bull Run, Fort Ward was scheduled for rebuilding beginning in 1863. When the war ended in April 1865, the enlarged fort had a perimeter of 818 yards and emplacements for 36 guns. Throughout the Civil War Fort Ward served as a deterrent and never came under Confederate attack. It was abandoned in December 1865, and salvageable materials were sold at auction. Commander James H. Ward was well known as a scholar and an authority on tactics and gunnery. He was instrumental in establishing the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland. When Virginia seceded, a possible Confederate blockade of the Potomac River posed a serious threat to the main supply line for the capital city of Washington, D.C. Commander Ward was placed in command of a flotilla of seven ships charged with keeping the river open to shipping. While attempting to cover the withdrawal of a small Federal force at Mathias Point, Virginia, he was mortally wounded by gunfire from a Confederate sniper and died shortly thereafter. <br /> <br /><a href="http://oha.alexandriava.gov/fortward">http://oha.alexandriava.gov/fortward</a><br /><br />I parked my vehicle in the first parking lot I came upon, a small gravel lot located just off of West Braddock Road on the right hand side. Not many people were in the park, just a few walkers and runners attempting to keep fit during this cold, windy dreary fall day. I did not know where to start so, with camera in hand; I strolled around the pretending to be a tourist interested in taking pictures of the local history. I took a few cursory shots of the museum and entrance to the park. As I walked over to the magazine storage and gun embankment, I noticed a few curiosities. The doors on the magazine storage doors were roped off, at closer inspection, there appeared to be tool marks around the edge of the door and the lock on the door appeared brand new. Had the vandals gone into the underground magazine?<br /><br />After inspecting the outside of the magazine, it was then I noticed another roped off area to my left. I walked over to this area and as I did so, I took out my camera to snap a picture. The area looked as if fresh sod had been laid down very recently. A park ranger had noticed my camera and had walked to me from across the park. Before I could take the picture, he asked me why I wanted to take a picture of that particular area. He was very stern and perhaps a little frightened. He warned me not to disturb the roped off area. Feigning ignorance, I asked him what had happened. He simply stated that the area had to be repaired due to unspecified damage to the grass and soil. I walked around the park some more, searching for clues...feeling the watchful eyes of the park ranger on me at all times. That is all I could discover from my time at Fort Ward Park in Alexandria. If you have more information, I beg of you to email me!theProtagonisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03957989211177220039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712574809288190938.post-72414196334234530442009-11-14T12:03:00.000-08:002009-11-14T13:01:13.982-08:00IntroductionI am not sure how to begin…I am writing this blog in order to keep myself sane. I have begun to experience strange occurrences and what I thought at first were mere peculiar coincidences, I now believe are much more sinister in nature. I have now begun to do more research into these strange events, I fear I have stumbled upon a conspiracy that has been eons in the making. At times, I see strange shapes from the periphery of my vision, as if someone (something?) were watching me and waiting. <br /><br />Many will read this blog and believe I am psychotic or suffered from some apoplexy of the brain. The signs and portents I believe are real, some depraved, stygian nightmare is coming. Is 2012 truly the end of human civilization? I don’t know. However, I am getting ahead of myself. Allow me to introduce myself first. I came to the Washington, D.C. area several years ago after graduating from law school. I was offered a position at a small law firm specializing in insurance law in the Dupont area of Northwest D.C. Since that time I have lived in Arlington, VA a suburb of the District of Columbia and best know as the location of the National Cemetery, a place where the dead and living exist side by side. <br /><br />Approximately six months ago I began having terrible dreams. During these dreams, I traveled to strange and horrifying places; one was inhabited by race of monstrous looking men who called their home Leng. Other dreams were even more disturbing which I cannot repeat at the moment, due to the amount of anxiety and panic I feel when I think about them. Nevertheless, I knew them to be mere dreams and not real…then I began to hear the music. <br /><br />Although ‘hear’ and ‘music’ are probably not the best descriptors but they are the only descriptors I can use to articulate the occurrence. This first occurred during an evening out with my wife in the city of Alexandria. We were walking together after dinner in the ‘Old Town’ section of the city that has many of its original colonial row houses. As were walking near the Potomac River at the port, I began to feel a vibration within my body. These pulsating sensations were unlike anything I have ever experienced. No migraine can compare to the experience I felt as the vibrations began buzzing within my mind. My body started to sway to this strange ‘music.’ It only lasted a few scant moments. My wife assuming I drunk too much wine at dinner thought it amusing, I knew then that she had not experienced what I had I felt. Since that time, whenever I am walking along the Potomac River at night, the ‘music’ returns. My physician believes I am suffering from work stress and simply need a vacation but I know better… <br /><br />Since the music and dreams began I have come across various weird occurrences around the Washington, D.C. area and I am going to make an effort to document these eerie events for I believe they are all connected somehow. A word of <span style="font-weight:bold;">WARNING, if you value your sanity, DO NOT read any further </span>and forget that you ever came across this blog. I am not responsible for what you discover for yourself.theProtagonisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03957989211177220039noreply@blogger.com0