A curious parcel arrived last night

[forcesinbalance]

While out today, I became convinced that I was being followed. I caught glimpses of a figure out of the corner of my eye, but whoever it was whisked out of sight when I tried to get a better look. It could be that lack of sleep is catching up to me, making me see things. Given my current circumstances, however, I decided to indulge my paranoia. I chose an elaborate route, changing directions and doubling back often. I didn't make for home until an hour had passed with no further sign of my tail.

Once I returned home, I made substantial progress despite my nagging fears. Several extensive passages seem to describe sacrificial rites, but full translation eluded me. I concentrated my efforts instead on a list of ceremonial objects, as it seems to be relatively simple. I have found detailed descriptions of several ritual knives, some jewelry, and—most interestingly—the very box in which I found this document!

[+Josh]

Oooh, suspense. Don't be concerned with my lack of posting, I just haven't found much to say

Do you mind linking to the original thread? I'd like to see your "experiment" in progress.

[forcesinbalance]

OOC:

Sure thing. Just a heads-up: The other board has looser restrictions on content than this one does. There is a bit of harsh language in the responses (although nothing major), and the version of the story posted there may include some descriptive text that I will leave out or modify here to meet the posting guidelines.

Here's the link: http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/show...p?t=440833

Don't be alarmed by the name of the site, by the way--it has nothing to do with drugs. "The Straight Dope" is a newspaper column that's been running since 1973, answering reader questions, no matter how weird or obscure. It's attracted lots of really smart, educated posters. They're also nice folks, for the most part.

[forcesinbalance]

The description of the box was most instructive. Among other things, it was described as “cunningly sealed” to “protect the sacred text”. I am not sure if this refers to the intricate lock—which is described in detail elsewhere in the passage—or if it means that the box had been made airtight somehow. I see no sign of such a seal now, but it could have broken down or been removed in the intervening years. If the box was hermetically sealed for any significant period, the documents could be older than I originally guessed.

That is a minor matter, however. The passage revealed something more important, something that I had missed. There is a second compartment in the box, hidden under a false bottom. There was no need for guesswork or experimentation this time; the passage included instructions for opening it. It proved to contain another sheaf of papers, as well as providing access to the lock mechanisms and two small reservoirs of fluid that I can only assume to be poison.

Much to my relief, the new papers are in Latin. My Latin is not the best, but it is far better than my Aramaic. I should have at least a rough translation soon.

[forcesinbalance]

The author's Latin was nearly as bad as my own. It appeared at first that the Latin text was part of some sort of philosophical treatise, but it quickly deteriorated into raving. Here is a freewheeling translation of the parts that seemed most interesting:

Quote:When a thing changes, we give it a new name. When we give a thing a new name, the thing changes. The word becomes the truth. When a boy comes of age, we call him a man, but he is not a man. He is still a boy, but as we call him a man, he changes, becoming a man in truth. If the people of a village turn upon an honest man, and call him a villain, they will drive him out. Exiled and angry, he will turn to villainy. The word becomes the truth...

...a faster way. I have suffered in this pit, but I have learned. There are old ways here, old wisdom. I know the way now. The way of the serpent, the way to make lies into truth. Only small lies at first, slowly, slowly, as the serpent creeps into hidden places. I have found all I need. The tongue of my tormentors will not do, no. The serpent's tongue speaks only old words. I will change their names, and they will suffer....

There is more in that vein, rants against the author's “tormentors”. His reluctance to refer to them by name is frustrating, but not surprising, given the importance he attaches to names. He seems to have been an exile of some sort, or held against his will under harsh conditions. Despite frequent mentions of “the serpent” in his ravings, he does not refer directly to the cult or to the box itself.

The final page, however, proved to be a simple list of various things. Some of them were clear enough—soot and blood, for instance—but others forced me to consult my herbals in addition to my dictionary. It appears to be a recipe of some sort—maybe for carbon ink, given the inclusion of soot.

[forcesinbalance]

Having made what I could of the Latin text, I returned to my labors over the other document. The practice on the simpler passages has improved my facility with the language—the dust is blown off my old knowledge, and I have a better understanding of the quirks of the author's dialect. I had considerable success with some passages dealing with the cult's obsession with secrecy. A curious thing, that—if the cult held this document, why would they not have destroyed it? Who placed it in the box, if not the cult, and why did they keep it secret?

Still puzzling over such questions, I returned to the section dealing with the cult's rituals. The practices described are horrific—even the least monstrous is a match for the vilest rites I've read of in my studies. Even the gruesome practices of the priests of the Flayed One or the child-sacrifices of Tlaloc scarcely approach the cruelty set forth in these pages. The plodding pace of my translation kept the horror at bay for a time, but I was eventually forced to put the document aside. I could not bear to read any more.

I am not certain this cult ever truly existed. I hope it never did, or that its excesses have been exaggerated in this document. I consider myself a cynic, but the idea of such organized vileness has shaken even me. Perhaps that is why I jumped at shadows all day.

My unease remained with me when I retired for the night. I didn't sleep well, and woke suddenly not long after midnight. I couldn't go back to sleep, and I found myself plagued with the feeling that someone was nearby, watching me. I made a circuit, checking doors and windows. They were all secure, but I didn't feel secure. I felt hideously vulnerable, despite the blade I carried on my rounds.

I may have mentioned in the past that I consider myself a philosophical Wiccan. By that, I mean that I have adopted the Rede and certain other aspects of Wiccan philosophy. I do not, however, actually believe in gods, goddesses, spirits, or faeries. I certainly do not believe in magic. As such, I felt immensely foolish at what I did next, and you may think me foolish as well. So be it; you weren't there. I mixed a pitcher of salt water and went from door to window, drawing signs upon them to ward off intrusion, all while trying desperately to believe that it would help.

Perhaps it was a placebo effect, but as I warded the last window, the choking fear that had begun creeping over me faded. Eventually, I was able to sink back into a dreamless sleep that lasted until dawn.

[VermontHermit]

Interesting......in the most respectful sense of the word, rather than dropping the word in passing along to other things. I've read all you've written so far and while it's not the type of thing I normally read, it's stylish, well written and interesting. You have talent. I will read the rest to see where the journey goes. I have not much in the way of comment (it's your story), other than on the last post, in the second paragraph I don't like the word "match" and feel it disrupts the reader's train of thought. The mind stumbles when reading it, as in, it is a match (as in a competetion), rather than as a similar comparison. I think a substition for that word would strengthen the story, and indeed, you go on to say it isn't really a match, an equal, but surpasses the previous horror.
Anyway, the best of luck, and thanks for letting us in on the evolving tale.

[forcesinbalance]

OOC

Thanks for the feedback, Hermit. I can see where that paragraph isn't entirely clear. The idea is that the mildest of the rites in the document are as bad as the worst the protagonist has read of anywhere else, and the worst are more terrible than anything he had ever imagined. So "least horrible here" matches "most horrible elsewhere".

I think the phrasing is a holdover from a draft in which the protagonist became substantially less coherent in the later posts, resulting in tangled syntax. I probably should have recast this when I toned that aspect down for the sake of readability.

[forcesinbalance]

I can't tell anyone in real life about this. They would think me mad. Maybe I am, or maybe this has all just been a terrible dream. Perhaps setting forth an account will help me put my thoughts back in some semblance of order. I can only ask that you bear with me as I reconstruct the sequence of events.

It is hardly surprising that I found myself plagued by nightmares last night. I had forced myself to continue my translation, and the things I had read were enough to ruin anyone's sleep. I started awake time and again, more uneasy with each awakening. The sense of menace was back, and repeating my warding ritual brought no comfort this time. I abandoned my useless pitcher of salt water and returned to my bed. Sheer exhaustion dragged me back into ugly dreams.

I awoke again in deep darkness, as if a terrible storm had cut off all light to my room, but the night was still. I fumbled for the small crossbow I had left beside my bed. No toy that—it has a pull to match any recurve bow I've used, but with fear clawing at me, I hardly noticed that I had cocked it. A hint of corruption in the air told me that I was not alone, and I stared into the night, waiting for some hint of what was to come.

A faint hiss gave me my cue. I fired my bolt blindly, hoping it would find a mark; a solid thud marked the impact, but there was no cry of pain. The sound of something heavy thrashing about offered the guide I needed, however, and I bolted away from it and out of the room.

Some desperate instinct led me to drop the now-useless bow and snatch up my pitcher of salt water as I blundered out of the room and around the corner into my study. Perhaps I had some notion that the wards had delayed this assault, and that I could somehow use it to buy more time...or maybe it was just a handy blunt object. Regardless, my flight led to a surer weapon—the box itself. Surely this was what they had come for, and I had some dim hope of bargaining my way out of this nightmare.

Clutching the box, I staggered across the room to my fireplace. There were candles on the hearth and matches on the mantle; at least I would have light. I spun about on the hearth, pouring a circle of salt water on the floor for the sake of whatever protection it might offer. The stench of decay, stronger now, closed in about me as I struck a match for the candles.

Only inches away, just outside the circle, stood Digger.

The faint light of the match spared me none of the hideous violations inflicted upon my old friend. I can only pray that most of what was done to him happened after his death.

Twined all about his body were snakes. They twitched in a grotesque mockery of muscle, holding the body limply upright, as if some monstrous puppeteer were playing with it. Choking on bile, I lurched back from the squamous thing as the match guttered out. I expected any moment to feel the sting of fangs, or a blow from a dead arm, but nothing came.

I didn't want to look upon the abomination again, but I could not bear the darkness; I struck another match. The thing that had been my friend had not moved, although dozens of scaly heads followed as I knelt to light the candles at my feet. I was easily within their reach, but each time they struck at me, they were turned aside. Somehow, the circle was holding.

Behind Digger, I caught a glimpse of movement in the flickering shadows. Two more figures slouched clumsily through the doorways from other rooms. I quickly saw that the nearest was—or had been—the Spook. The enormous serpent that protruded from his distended mouth was pinned to his chest by my bolt; its death throes had surely driven him aside as I fled my room. Behind him, the blue glimmer of a tattered uniform told me that the hapless Lisa had been drawn into our nightmare through no fault of her own. Like Digger, they stood and waited, cutting off the exits to the room.

What were they waiting for? Even if they couldn't cross the circle themselves, they could surely have forced me out of it. My wards had not kept them out of my home; how could my hasty circle stop them now? I steeled myself to look at Digger again, forcing myself to see only details, and not the whole of what he had become. The brighter light showed me that some of what I had taken for blood wasn't. It was soot. It hadn't occurred to me to ward the chimney, only the doors and windows.

I looked back into the fireplace. A shadow writhed in the ashes, a shadow that defied the candlelight. It seemed as if smoke were coiling steadily down the chimney, yet somehow there was a sense of deadly solidity to it. Even as I watched, a column rose up again and spread a hood as wide as my shoulders. My eyes darted back to the faint line of salt water on the floor, tracing it...into the fireplace. The Serpent was inside the circle, and I was doomed.

The Serpent hissed, gathering itself, and I could almost hear mocking words in its vile exhalation. My mind darted wildly over my reading...”The Serpent's tongue speaks only old words.” “The word becomes the truth.” And I knew it was whispering of my death, or worse.

From somewhere, I felt a last, stubborn flare of defiance. For some unfathomable reason, these monsters wanted those papers intact, and I could at least deny them their prize. The box was still wedged open, and as the Serpent drew back to strike, I snatched out the papers and thrust them at the massed candles. The bone-dry pages burst into flame, and I dropped them on the hearth.

The Serpent went mad. It thrashed against the invisible walls of the circle as if racked with agony, and a stray coil slammed into me. The circle on the floor was only water to me, and that saved me, I think. Rather than being crushed, I was hurled out of the circle and across the room. The last thing I felt was the distant impact with a wall.

I awoke to a dim, gray light in my study. False dawn had come, I was alive, and I was alone. Perhaps I should have rejoiced, but I only felt a dull confusion as my eyes darted around the room. There were ashes among the spilled and guttered candles upon the hearth. The Serpent and its terrible servants were gone, as if they had never been. Even the chest that had brought this madness upon me was missing. Had I been trapped in the throes of some delirium? The idea that I had caused the havoc in my study while walking about in a fevered nightmare occurred to me.

Half in a dream, I started for my bedroom. As I passed through the doorway, I felt something underfoot. Looking down, I saw that it was the bolt I had fired into the Spook. I could account for everything else in the room, but how had the bolt come here? I remembered firing it, and there was no clear path for its flight, yet there was no sign that it had struck anything. I looked back. On the floor beside my desk sat the empty strongbox; I had overlooked it in my daze—or perhaps chosen not to see it. Flimsy evidence, perhaps, but enough to shock me out of my attempts at rationalization.

I understand now the purpose of that all-too-precise and scholarly document. It was a blueprint, a design for an instrument of vengeance that lived on long past its mad creator. Every detail was crafted for horror. If my translation had progressed further, I would no doubt found a list of enemies the cult meant to destroy. “The word becomes the truth”--but what happens when the word is then unmade? Does the truth unravel?

I hoped briefly that my actions had somehow undone the cult's nefarious work. The evidence of my study should have told me otherwise. The university still hasn't had any contact with Digger. The Spook's secretary has filed a missing persons report, but the police have no leads. She was crying when I spoke to her; I didn't know that they had been engaged. I don't even want to think about who might be waiting for Lisa to come home.

There is nothing I can do for them. The papers are all burned to ash. The box is gone. There is no evidence to support my wild tale, even should I wish to burden the survivors with such horrors.

[forcesinbalance]

My last post erred in one regard. Not all of the papers were destroyed. A single page remains, having been left with my herbals when I put the other papers away. It is the page which holds the formula for the ink used in the monstrous document I destroyed.

It would, I think, be possible to gather these ingredients. Not easy, no...but I am not without resources. Likewise, my grasp of Aramaic could surely be improved, such that I could write in it to some degree if that proves necessary. I have unmade the cult, but its vile legacy remains. Were I to set pen to this formula, could I undo their crimes? Could I write my lost friends, and the hapless Lisa, back into the world again? Do I have the right?

What else might I do? There are so many wrongs to right in the world, so many injustices to redress. I am not the savage, vengeful man who penned those terrible pages—surely my writings would make the world a better place. What harm, then, if I should reorder things to my liking?

Thank you for reading my account of these events. Having someone to share this with has been a great comfort to me. I must bring it to a close now, however. There is so much to do....

Fin.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

[forcesinbalance]

Now that the story is told, I'd like to ask for some particular feedback, if those of you who have been reading will indulge me. I'm not looking for plot or phrasing commentary, although those are welcome. What I'd like to see are your impressions of things that aren't explicit in the story.

These are going to be some fairly odd questions; please answer as much or as little as you'd like:

1) How do you picture the protagonist? That is, what does he look like, what kind of work does he do, what's his background--any ideas you formed about him.

2) How do you picture the study in which he worked on the translations, and in which the confrontation occurred?

3) What was the weather like over the course of the events in the story?

4) If you were to associate a color with the story, what would it be?

5) Were there any other impressions you formed while reading the story--scents, images, anything like that?

There is no right or wrong to these. I just want to see what the context conveyed.