When Ithaqua Awakes or The Man in the Snow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Horror at the Bell Tower

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

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

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

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

From the Potomac Free Press:

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Curious Book Seller Near Dupont Circle

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 Northwest D.C. called ‘Dupont Circle.’

This area of D.C. is home to many of the well-heeled artists, writers and free-thinkers in the Washington, D.C. 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^th Century the Dupont neighborhood was a prosperous and vivacious neighborhood in Northwest DC. 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: http://www.nps.gov/history/Nr/travel/wash/dc50.htm

As I walked I admired the beautiful architecture. Specifically, I found myself admiring the Richardsonian Romanesque Revival style rowhouses on Q 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.

I had heard rumors that an old antiquarian book seller lived on Q 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, Q Street NW.” So I put on my heavy winter pea coat, along with hat and gloves and took the metro train to the Dupont Circle metro stop. I exited the to the north side entrance when I arrived. I walked away from maddening holiday crowds, down Q 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.

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.

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.

“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.

“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.

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 Washington, D.C. 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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

“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…”

“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.

“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 Salem 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 Massachusetts would relate to what I had described to him earlier.

“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.”

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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 Dupont Circle in his panic stricken state.

Unsettling Murmurs at George Washington Masonic ‘Temple’

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 Washington, D.C. 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:

Dear Sir,

I hope this email finds you well. The other day I came across your extraordinary web log and wish to relate to you a strange and unpleasant incident which occurred just before the peculiar incident at Fort Ward Park. 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.

However, please allow the indulgences of an old man and allow me to provide you some background information. I have lived in the Washington, D.C. for many years. I have been retired for the past thirteen years (previously, an officer in the United States 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!

When I retired my wife and I purchased a modest but tasteful colonial style house on Hilltop Terrace, in the city of Alexandria. 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 Fort Ward 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).

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 Alexandria, especially down by the Potomac River.

As I stated before, I live on Hilltop Terrace, in the shadow of the George Washington Masonic Memorial, or the ‘George Washington Temple’ 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 King Street, with the ‘Temple’ on our left, I observed a most strange affair. I observed a small cluster of men in dark hooded robes dashing into the ‘Temple.’ I had never watched anyone with such strange raiment near the ‘Temple’ 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!

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.

“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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 ACP…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, but I will not go without fight, Sir!

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…

For those unfamiliar with the George Washington Masonic Memorial in Alexandria, further information can be found here: http://www.gwmemorial.org/

From the above referenced website:

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.

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. The George Washington Masonic Memorial provides a diverse set of impressive facilities for public and private functions complete with a variety of furnishings and amenities.

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.’