The Ritual
This was just something I wrote one day when I was bored, it's a stylistic tribute/parody to HP Lovecraft.
Were it in some way possible to undo the unimaginable evils my cursed hands have wrought, I would take the opportunity without so much as a second thought, no matter the price. Only a blind fool would think I ever meant for matters to come this far, but I have heard it said that the road to Hell has been paved with good intentions. I suppose soon enough I’ll be able to find the validity of that statement myself. This document may as well serve as my last will and testament in addition to my confession, though I have no possessions left to my name save my madness and grief. On the desk next to the candle by which I write it lay the revolver with whose hot caress I hope to find redemption.
The chain of events that led me to this miserable existence began innocuously enough, as these things are wont to do. A colleague of mine, a fellow professor of Philosophy and Religion at the University, lent into my possession a small but nevertheless intriguing book, written by a name by the name of Roderick Entwood. The focus of this book was the observation of the esoteric practices of heathens and believers of pagan religions in several less-traveled regions of the world. My friend had given it to me thinking I might find some measure of entertainment within its pages, as he thought the descriptions of these rituals to be whimsical and amusing in their absurdity. Had he any idea of the havoc his simple act of giving me the book would unleash upon my life, I imagine he would have destroyed it rather than let my eyes fall upon that damned tome.
Regrettably, the book still found its way into my hands, and I read it with great fascination and interest. I avidly devoured the Entwood’s brief overviews of séances, voodoo rituals, ancient druidic ceremonies, and that reviled art of witchcraft. I had certainly already known of such things as these, as any scholar of religion would be lax in his studies to overlook the influence of the occult - but never before had I learned any details of what went on during these dark rites. While the book was not directly responsible for the nigh-unspeakable event caused by my own folly, it (either by awakening some dormant attraction, or perhaps the book was even more sinister and cursed than I imagine) instilled in me an insatiable appetite for more such unwholesome knowledge.
I soon found myself frequenting shady, out of the way bookstores which dealt in rare and unusual literature. At first my searches produced little of value, though there was a book or two in a local shop which gave me a few more details of some of the ancient customs of the Celtic druids. I eventually began to make excursions to nearby towns, scouring all the libraries and booksellers for any and all tomes of occult studies I could find. My beautiful and loving wife Eleanor simply assumed I was doing some form of research for the University; she never suspected what eldritch and forbidden knowledge I was discovering. However, none of this dabbling would have had such a terrible impact on my life and mind, had I not made one fateful trip all the way up to Arkham, where I had heard tales that many great volumes of that subject which had me captivated were stored.
As soon as I spied the digest which would become my undoing, I knew it was what I had been looking for all those long months. It was located in an antiquated, unassuming bookshop in downtown Arkham, behind a dust-encrusted display case. The proprietor was loathe to let the piece go, as it was one of his most prized possessions, yet at the same time, I saw in his eyes that he feared the foul artifact as much as, if not more than, he treasured it. The superstition of some ignorant old man did not dissuade me from my desire to own the piece, even though it cost me nearly all the money I had on me at the time.
I returned to my home, and greedily I began to delve into my new trophy. The book appeared, at first glance, to be nothing more than an old manuscript written by hand that was near to falling apart. Some of the pages were made largely unreadable due to what appeared to be water damage and fire, though the majority of them were in passable condition. My initial reaction during my reading was disappointment, for most of what was said in the early half of the book was information my previous research had already told me. Soon enough, however, there was a particular chapter which I read with what I can only describe as complete enthrallment.
In perfect detail, this chapter enumerated the specific steps required for a certain ritual of summoning that was unfathomably ancient. The book claimed this ceremony would bring forth into this world a creature whose name has blissfully disappeared from my consciousness. I am not sure what madness gripped me then; whether it was a burning desire to dispel my own remaining skepticism regarding such practices, or something far more evil and sordid in my psyche I will never know. The only thing that can be said for certain was that I set forth to recreate this ritual for myself after a mere two days’ study of the process.
The components of the unholy service were shockingly easy to obtain, with one notable exception. Items that were called for included a sprig of poison ivy, a pound of soil upon which the roots of a great elm tree have fed, and the blood of a freshly killed animal, in addition to the incantations and sigils which also made up the summoning ritual. These symbols I carefully transcribed upon the wooden floor of my basement using a piece of chalk, following the examples in the book to the minutest detail. I soon had an expansive ring of archaic symbols in which I was to gather the material aspects together and perform this ghastly ceremony.
As I’ve said, the instructions I was following called for the blood of an innocent creature to be spilled, and there is no measure to the shame that consumes me when I write that I chose to murder a neighborhood tomcat to this end. The stray was a dreadful scavenger I had no great love for; I did not however hold any particular enmity towards the poor beast either. After tricking the cat into trusting me by taking advantage of his ever-present hunger, I carried him down into my basement along with the sharpest knife I was able to liberate from the kitchen. I was careful not to draw the attention of my wife, who was occupying herself at the time with the preparation of that fateful evening’s supper which was, in the end, never eaten.
It was at this point that the mania in which I was rapt reached its apex; as soon as the door was closed behind me and I stood in front of that damnable circle of white characters of some unspeakable tongue, I calmly throttled the tomcat’s neck and snapped it with one smooth twist of my hands. Before the horrible realization of what I had done could sink in, I found my vile hands already slicing open the corpse, splattering guts and blood all across the floor. Foolishly hoping with all my might that the ritual would do as the book claimed so that I would not have to live up with the despicable act I had just committed, I began to read those unnatural invocations which would seal my fate. I would not dare to write them down here, even if I could recall them now; not that anyone would be foolish enough to attempt to emulate my actions after this tale is told.
The scene I relate now is one which would come to haunt my dreams and even my waking thoughts during the next two miserable weeks. At the same moment I spoke the last of those abominable words, my wife opened the door and came down the stairs leading into that den of evil our basement had become. She was hoping to find out what I had been about, and that much she certainly discovered. Seconds after I noticed her presence, a horrific wail issued from the walls themselves, worse than even the most bereaved mourner’s cry. A fissure broke open in the ground, leading from what I am convinced in my heart was Hell itself. My wife began to shriek in abject terror, and I was on the verge of it myself when the most hideous sight my eyes will have ever seen choked any cry I could have made before it could escape. Issuing forth from the portal was a demon of unspeakable vileness; this stygian, Cyclopean monstrosity appeared to be vaguely humanoid, though it was far too large and its appendages far too numerous for anybody to ever mistake it for anything other than the fiend it was. Its mouth was a black gulf of blood-stained spears, whose fatal bite I fear even now.
I scrambled towards the stairs, trying to drag my wife up with me, but she was in a state of shock too deep to move. While I at least should have known what sort of awful creation to expect, she had been equipped with absolutely no mental preparation for the heinous surprise that awaited her in the basement that night. When I realized imploring her to run for her very life had no effect on her, and that I was unable to drag her with me up the stairs, a distinct sense of panic set in deep. I lost all capacity for reason; with the imperative to flee wailing in my head like a subconscious siren, I dashed up the staircase. I spared only one glance back, and many times since I have wished that I hadn’t. I turned my head in time to see that unwholesome beast eviscerating my beloved with one bite of that horrid mouth. The chortling sound that bellowed from its gullet upon doing so is one that has woken me up screaming almost every night following this incident.
The thing in the basement was so thoroughly occupied with the murder of Eleanor that it seemed to pay my escape no mind, but I still ran as hard I could to the nearest station, until my heartbeat was pounding in my head and my lungs were searing coals. I managed to board a train out of town without much delay, and have been on the move ever since, heading steadily west, and never stopping in a town for more than one night. I fear it has done me no good though. Whether it is actually my paranoia or unrelenting guilt driving me to this feeling I know not, but I can feel that black monstrosity watching me, hunting me like I were some wild animal. Soon enough it will not matter anymore, and death is no less than I deserve - though I refuse to die by that demon’s hand. To whoever should come upon this writing, I ask only that you never repeat the folly that led me to the madness and sorrow I have found myself in. Oh, Dear God! I think I hear something beyond the door!
Were it in some way possible to undo the unimaginable evils my cursed hands have wrought, I would take the opportunity without so much as a second thought, no matter the price. Only a blind fool would think I ever meant for matters to come this far, but I have heard it said that the road to Hell has been paved with good intentions. I suppose soon enough I’ll be able to find the validity of that statement myself. This document may as well serve as my last will and testament in addition to my confession, though I have no possessions left to my name save my madness and grief. On the desk next to the candle by which I write it lay the revolver with whose hot caress I hope to find redemption.
The chain of events that led me to this miserable existence began innocuously enough, as these things are wont to do. A colleague of mine, a fellow professor of Philosophy and Religion at the University, lent into my possession a small but nevertheless intriguing book, written by a name by the name of Roderick Entwood. The focus of this book was the observation of the esoteric practices of heathens and believers of pagan religions in several less-traveled regions of the world. My friend had given it to me thinking I might find some measure of entertainment within its pages, as he thought the descriptions of these rituals to be whimsical and amusing in their absurdity. Had he any idea of the havoc his simple act of giving me the book would unleash upon my life, I imagine he would have destroyed it rather than let my eyes fall upon that damned tome.
Regrettably, the book still found its way into my hands, and I read it with great fascination and interest. I avidly devoured the Entwood’s brief overviews of séances, voodoo rituals, ancient druidic ceremonies, and that reviled art of witchcraft. I had certainly already known of such things as these, as any scholar of religion would be lax in his studies to overlook the influence of the occult - but never before had I learned any details of what went on during these dark rites. While the book was not directly responsible for the nigh-unspeakable event caused by my own folly, it (either by awakening some dormant attraction, or perhaps the book was even more sinister and cursed than I imagine) instilled in me an insatiable appetite for more such unwholesome knowledge.
I soon found myself frequenting shady, out of the way bookstores which dealt in rare and unusual literature. At first my searches produced little of value, though there was a book or two in a local shop which gave me a few more details of some of the ancient customs of the Celtic druids. I eventually began to make excursions to nearby towns, scouring all the libraries and booksellers for any and all tomes of occult studies I could find. My beautiful and loving wife Eleanor simply assumed I was doing some form of research for the University; she never suspected what eldritch and forbidden knowledge I was discovering. However, none of this dabbling would have had such a terrible impact on my life and mind, had I not made one fateful trip all the way up to Arkham, where I had heard tales that many great volumes of that subject which had me captivated were stored.
As soon as I spied the digest which would become my undoing, I knew it was what I had been looking for all those long months. It was located in an antiquated, unassuming bookshop in downtown Arkham, behind a dust-encrusted display case. The proprietor was loathe to let the piece go, as it was one of his most prized possessions, yet at the same time, I saw in his eyes that he feared the foul artifact as much as, if not more than, he treasured it. The superstition of some ignorant old man did not dissuade me from my desire to own the piece, even though it cost me nearly all the money I had on me at the time.
I returned to my home, and greedily I began to delve into my new trophy. The book appeared, at first glance, to be nothing more than an old manuscript written by hand that was near to falling apart. Some of the pages were made largely unreadable due to what appeared to be water damage and fire, though the majority of them were in passable condition. My initial reaction during my reading was disappointment, for most of what was said in the early half of the book was information my previous research had already told me. Soon enough, however, there was a particular chapter which I read with what I can only describe as complete enthrallment.
In perfect detail, this chapter enumerated the specific steps required for a certain ritual of summoning that was unfathomably ancient. The book claimed this ceremony would bring forth into this world a creature whose name has blissfully disappeared from my consciousness. I am not sure what madness gripped me then; whether it was a burning desire to dispel my own remaining skepticism regarding such practices, or something far more evil and sordid in my psyche I will never know. The only thing that can be said for certain was that I set forth to recreate this ritual for myself after a mere two days’ study of the process.
The components of the unholy service were shockingly easy to obtain, with one notable exception. Items that were called for included a sprig of poison ivy, a pound of soil upon which the roots of a great elm tree have fed, and the blood of a freshly killed animal, in addition to the incantations and sigils which also made up the summoning ritual. These symbols I carefully transcribed upon the wooden floor of my basement using a piece of chalk, following the examples in the book to the minutest detail. I soon had an expansive ring of archaic symbols in which I was to gather the material aspects together and perform this ghastly ceremony.
As I’ve said, the instructions I was following called for the blood of an innocent creature to be spilled, and there is no measure to the shame that consumes me when I write that I chose to murder a neighborhood tomcat to this end. The stray was a dreadful scavenger I had no great love for; I did not however hold any particular enmity towards the poor beast either. After tricking the cat into trusting me by taking advantage of his ever-present hunger, I carried him down into my basement along with the sharpest knife I was able to liberate from the kitchen. I was careful not to draw the attention of my wife, who was occupying herself at the time with the preparation of that fateful evening’s supper which was, in the end, never eaten.
It was at this point that the mania in which I was rapt reached its apex; as soon as the door was closed behind me and I stood in front of that damnable circle of white characters of some unspeakable tongue, I calmly throttled the tomcat’s neck and snapped it with one smooth twist of my hands. Before the horrible realization of what I had done could sink in, I found my vile hands already slicing open the corpse, splattering guts and blood all across the floor. Foolishly hoping with all my might that the ritual would do as the book claimed so that I would not have to live up with the despicable act I had just committed, I began to read those unnatural invocations which would seal my fate. I would not dare to write them down here, even if I could recall them now; not that anyone would be foolish enough to attempt to emulate my actions after this tale is told.
The scene I relate now is one which would come to haunt my dreams and even my waking thoughts during the next two miserable weeks. At the same moment I spoke the last of those abominable words, my wife opened the door and came down the stairs leading into that den of evil our basement had become. She was hoping to find out what I had been about, and that much she certainly discovered. Seconds after I noticed her presence, a horrific wail issued from the walls themselves, worse than even the most bereaved mourner’s cry. A fissure broke open in the ground, leading from what I am convinced in my heart was Hell itself. My wife began to shriek in abject terror, and I was on the verge of it myself when the most hideous sight my eyes will have ever seen choked any cry I could have made before it could escape. Issuing forth from the portal was a demon of unspeakable vileness; this stygian, Cyclopean monstrosity appeared to be vaguely humanoid, though it was far too large and its appendages far too numerous for anybody to ever mistake it for anything other than the fiend it was. Its mouth was a black gulf of blood-stained spears, whose fatal bite I fear even now.
I scrambled towards the stairs, trying to drag my wife up with me, but she was in a state of shock too deep to move. While I at least should have known what sort of awful creation to expect, she had been equipped with absolutely no mental preparation for the heinous surprise that awaited her in the basement that night. When I realized imploring her to run for her very life had no effect on her, and that I was unable to drag her with me up the stairs, a distinct sense of panic set in deep. I lost all capacity for reason; with the imperative to flee wailing in my head like a subconscious siren, I dashed up the staircase. I spared only one glance back, and many times since I have wished that I hadn’t. I turned my head in time to see that unwholesome beast eviscerating my beloved with one bite of that horrid mouth. The chortling sound that bellowed from its gullet upon doing so is one that has woken me up screaming almost every night following this incident.
The thing in the basement was so thoroughly occupied with the murder of Eleanor that it seemed to pay my escape no mind, but I still ran as hard I could to the nearest station, until my heartbeat was pounding in my head and my lungs were searing coals. I managed to board a train out of town without much delay, and have been on the move ever since, heading steadily west, and never stopping in a town for more than one night. I fear it has done me no good though. Whether it is actually my paranoia or unrelenting guilt driving me to this feeling I know not, but I can feel that black monstrosity watching me, hunting me like I were some wild animal. Soon enough it will not matter anymore, and death is no less than I deserve - though I refuse to die by that demon’s hand. To whoever should come upon this writing, I ask only that you never repeat the folly that led me to the madness and sorrow I have found myself in. Oh, Dear God! I think I hear something beyond the door!