Share This

The Chuthlu Crush

The Magpie’s Bird Room

There was once a woman born Abigail Frost who thought she saw a very strange creature when she was just a child. This fateful event put her on a path that would slowly cause her to become more and more dedicated to the task of proving the reality of what she thought she saw. This task became an obsession and this obsession would finally be satisfied, only the reward for her driven pursuit was not exactly what she was looking for. Abigail was transformed into a creature known as a Taurean and her immortal name became the Magpie. In the mythology of the Taureans and Saturnines the Magpie became a well known figure. Her fabled bird room housed countless species of bird or rumored to exist. This was her passion for decades until a chance introduction to a book about Lovecraft’s old gods caused her to make a sudden and sharp turn. Her crush on the old thing named Cthulhu found strange changes taking place in the Magpie…

A Taurean is a woman who has a burning need to find out the truth of something arcane. The Saturnine is her male counterpart. Each allow their quest for knowledge to consume them till the word obsession is a noun far from strong enough to describe them. When the quest is accomplished the individual’s manner of sight changes. Only those who experience this phenomenon can describe to you how this feels and what takes place. Those on the outside looking in notice the big changes. They witness the madness that comes over the person, they see the physical change in their eyes. And if you spend enough time with the person you see how time stops for them. A day is no longer a day, an hour is no longer sixty minutes. It all changes as if the person is pulled from the thread of time and set somewhere along side of it. Their eyes glow and are capable of seeing not just their own reality, but the reality of all plains that exist together at one time. They can see the Akashik Record, they can see the glowing strands of a person’s life line, they can see the dead and the spirits of the living not yet born. They become something not quite human and defiantly not mortal. They graduate to a new existence and can never go back to the lives they lived before they found the truth they sought in the arcane. This explanation sounds terribly simple when the more detailed and elaborate explanation is quite profound in a way I have no words for.

Very few know the nature of the Taureans and Saturnines, but those who do seek them out. These creatures are a living doorway to knowledge mortals are not meant to have. They are a bridge to real magic, to the plain of knowledge of all things, to death and life, and the most coveted of all things; the answers to the mysteries of the arcane. They are flukes of nature and there are any number of people and societies in this world who would do just about anything to be in possession of just one of these creatures. Think of it in terms of a great writer or artist who stumbles across a real live muse, like the ones spoken of in Greek mythology. Eight our of ten of such creative types would steal away that muse and strive to keep them under their control at all costs. Researchers of the arcane would do just the same to a Taurean or Saturnine.

In Etta’s research she was able to discover societies devoted to these creatures. She was able to single out individuals of great importance, she documented their names, their histories and created rough sketches of what they look like in their mortal form and their immortal form. She fleshed out the fairy tale and the actual facts of their nature. Etta managed to create the first written account of the Taurean and Saturnine, their history and their secrets. As the Taurean is a doorway to the arcane, Etta became a doorway to the Taurean. The book she created is hard to find, and though she is proud of her work and a trader of dry-goods, you won’t be able to buy the book from her. In researching these immortals and understanding the dangers of their obsessions, she was able to see and acknowledge her own. Etta has no desire to encourage this behavior in anyone else. The book is titled A Nocturne for My Saturnine and can be found if one knows where to look. The cost, however, is set at a rate few people can afford. Etta would charge you a riddle and the answer would be the proper payment. But there is the trick. The riddle she might ask has an answer only known by the dead. It takes a certain type of person to procure answers from the dead. Those types might be able to handle what the dead would tell them. * Bethalynne Bajema

A Nocturne for My Saturnine is my second Bajema’s Web collection and should be available fairly soon, the art gods be willing. This collection contains the complete collection of Nocturnes art and my mechanical insects, presented along side of a new Etta Diem story. Pop by here or my website time to time for more information.

Share This

After much frustration and failure Professor Vogel came upon an invention that seemed to conduct itself perfectly. The rather large invention was a reading machine, a device that could be placed over a page of written words that were read and clearly reproduced aloud from a speaking apparatus at the top of the machine. The professor hoped such a machine would greatly aid the blind in finally having access to books without needing someone else to read them to them, or waiting for them to be translated into brail. The only mishaps the good professor kept encountering were that the words being read aloud often times were not the words to be found on the pages. He couldn’t quite tell if this was a simple matter of the reader not being able to translate what it was reading, or something along those lines. What troubled and vexed him was the fact that what was being spoken aloud, though not what was on the page, was still a well thought out and perfectly understandable speech. It almost sounded like the reading machine was reading its own stories in place of what it read on the pages of the book or paper its reading eye glass was moved over.

As he grew increasingly frustrated with a device that seemed to be working perfectly and yet was not, he found himself one night spilling his woes to his sister Belle over several glasses of brandy and sinful truffles. His sister suggested he leave the reading machine with her and see what she could make of it. She was just as bright as her older brother, just as capable at construction and invention, and in this case she would be a pair of fresh eyes taking an equally fresh look at the machine. Vogel agreed and left his reading machine with Belle.

Professor Vogel did not hear from his sister for a week after giving over the reading machine to her. He made several stops to her flat but found her not answering her door bell on each occasion. Finally, more worried than anything else, he forced his way into her small flat to make sure all was well. What he found was Belle huddled in a corner, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs as she rocked back and forth. Her eyes were wide open and her lips mumbling silently. He could not rouse her from this state. It was only when he moved over to the reading machine, that sat perched above an array of scattered books, that Belle suddenly came around. She jumped up and violently pushed her brother away from the machine. “Don’t let it speak Semper! Don’t let it!” she cried out.

Belle never recovered from this state and no one knows why or how she came to be in this way. The only thing doctors could draw from her was mad jibberish about how it spoke for them. The it and them in question she never gave a name for. Though Professor Vogel was not one to buy into foolishness, he could not ignore a few facts regarding his sister. She had been fine until he left her alone with his reading machine. The reading machine that spoke stories but not stories found in the books given to it to read. He didn’t want to draw strange conclusions, but his sister had been driven mad in a matter of days with only the reading machine being the new addition to her environment. Feeling somehow responsible for the state of his sister, Professor Vogel placed his reading machine in a crate and had it stored away in his basement, never to look at it again.

Decades later after the professor’s death, the contents of his house became the property of the university that he had taught at. Much of his belongings were auctioned off and the proceeds given over to the student charity fund. Some of these items were purchased by a group representing the Miskatonic Archive. Professor Vogel’s reading machine came into possession of the Archive.

Though study of the reading machine has only just begun, a few things were noticed right off by its new owners. The reading machine when put into use did indeed translate the written word into a spoken word. But what it was reading was not coming from the books laid out in front of it. The reading eye glass of this invention was able to see something those around it could not, and it was this unseen thing that the machine read aloud. The tone of this content seemed to depend greatly upon who was handling the machine and what type of environment surrounded it. In the brightly lit glass walled office of Babel Jean Tea-Hymn the machine told enchanting fairy tales never before read. When the reading machine was in the gloomy and neglected rooms of the Archive’s old storage facility the tales it told were dark and so ominous that those listening to it quickly covered their ears and rushed to shut the machine off.

A team of two Archive professors and a handful of interns have taken on the duty of properly studying Professor Vogel’s reading machine. The notes of Professor Vogel’s that once explained how he crafted the device have sadly been lost. But the researchers hope to carefully take the machine apart and put it back together again and try and understand how this device’s strange abilities came to be…

The artwork accompanying this story is copyright 2009 Bethalynne Bajema, All Rights Reserved. This print is currently available as a limited edition signed metallic print. For ordering info/options please follow this link.

Share This

The more eccentric tellers of origin tales claim Miss Von Swank was really discovered in 1893 at roughly 80 to 90 feet of digging in the notorious Oak Island Money Pit. These tales claim a stone box with a variety of strange engraved markings was found and brought to the surface. Upon opening the box nothing but emptiness was discovered, however the box was cleaned off and set aside so researchers could take their time studying the strange markings. The excavationer’s went to sleep and come sunrise were shocked to hear the gurgling of baby coos from inside the box. There sat the nude form of a baby happily playing with a very small and strange sliding wooden box camera. Explanations for how this child came to be here were wild and varied, even including a strange theory not unlike Schrödinger’s cat. When all was said and done the origins of the little girl were never discovered, but her gift for capturing the bizarre through the eye of her camera and the alluring and macabre nature of her craft cause most people to not really care if Von Swank is the product of blood raining from the moon or two uber-nerds getting jiggy with it.

Miss Von Swank can be found in the lovely and warm state of California bettering her photographic craft and working on specialized portraits or music videos. Miss Von Swank welcomes inquiries to work with her but cautions all to treat her well during these interactions or she might be forced to set her personal protection on you, which are rather vicious, hidden pokey-stick packin’ mechanical scarabs.

Please take a moment to visit Miss Von Swank at her portfolio: VonSwank.com
Photographs in this entry are copyright Robyn Von Swank, All Rights Reserved. They are reposted here with permission from Robyn. Many thanks to her!

Share This

There are many things to be found in Etta Diem’s eccentric attic shop. I remember visiting once where I spent nearly an hour sorting through a shelf full of beautifully crafted bottles — often called Egyptian Tear Catchers. Each of these small and elegantly spun bottles held a small tag that offered a name of the bottle and the properties of the fluids kept inside. One of the most tall and narrow of these bottles, painted an incredibly pearl like black and crimson and extremely beautiful, claimed to contain the tears of a mythical dragon of very old legends. When Etta’s back was turned I did a rude thing on impulse and removed the stopper of the bottle and lifted it to my noise. The smell alone caused my noise to recoil in pain and my eyes instantly watered. Nervously I tipped the bottle a pinch and watched a droplet fall from the bottle and hit the wooden floor with an evil hiss of burning. That one droplet burned clear through the floor, and then through the items that lie in the basement below. I quickly put the bottle back and excused myself from Etta’s shop. So it didn’t even cause me to pause or doubt the strange shopkeep when she showed me her collection of antique and very special scissors. Each elaborately crafted tool that she finds I take up to the Archive and do my best to study and document its cursed or enchanted properties. I drew up the diagram of the individual sheers that Ms Diem currently has in her shop. And below this image I have summed up the things claimed of each sheer. Please admire their eerie beauty, however… I don’t recommend you touch any of them, even for a second…

The Blue Pearl Tick Wick Slip Sheers – The Tick Wick sheers infect through the skin of the user and turn their blood into a pearl-like blue substance. The infected’s blood begins to smell like water lotus and the body becomes numb. When the whites of the eyes become a deep blue the effects of the infection are irreversible.

The Bog Moth Argonaut Cutters – The Bog Moth cutters cause any materials they cut to turn into golden fleece. They’ve been prized for centuries because of this rumor of wealth. However, skin cut by the cutters also become infected and turn into gold while keeping the afflicted alive.

The Brass Gears Scarab Clock Tenders – The Brass Gears Scarab sheers can cut through any metal known to man. Legend also states they can cut through the unbreakable silk webbing of the mythical Snow Spider.

The Elegant Whip-tail Scorpion Blossom Clippers – The Blossom clippers are imbibed with the Elegant Whip-tail’s venom and their cut turns the touched material into the soft fleshy texture of a flower blossom. Infamous female killers through the ages have used these clippers as their means of soft feminine harm.

The Baptista Imp Paper-doll Sheers – The Baptista Imp sheers were designed by a child and cursed by the same child when she reached maturity. Anyone who uses the scissors will fall into a trance where they exert all energy into creating paper-dolls. The curse brings the paper creatures to life. The dolls steal their life energy from their scissor holding creator. The doll creation and energy stealing lasts until the user dies, drained of all life force.

The Slim Despot Slice – The nature of the Slim Despot is unknown. Anyone who has actually handled these sheers ceases the ability to communicate in any fashion. Even collectors refuse to handle the cursed sheers.

The Tinkerbot Butterfly – The Tinkerbot Butterfly enchants the person who handles it. The enchantment is strong and all consuming, the victim rarely ever loses the obsessive desire to hold the sheers and touch the delicate metal detailing of the wings.

The Sakura Cave Spider Slashing Sheers – The Sakura Sheers smell of cherry blossoms and are always cool to the touch. They infect the user with the desire to slash any surfaces that are smooth and unmarked. The materials or persons who are cut by these sheers find the smell of the cherry blossoms infect the wounds and can never be washed away.

The Wasp Masquerader Cog Fly Nips – The Cog Fly nippers inspire a strange and demented type of lunacy upon those that handle them. A malicious sense of dark humor comes over them and causes them to act out cruel jokes that are often harmful, but the nip inflicted jokester never realizes.

The Silver Wisp – The Silver Wisp is a tool of healing. The sheers painlessly move through skin and are able to snip away disease. They were prized in Medieval times for their curing ways, though most doctors found in possession of them were put to death on the suspicion of turning to dark forces to bring about their healing magic.

To order this image as a print, stop by our Etta Diem shop. Limited edition 16 by 20 inch metallic prints available for a short time.

Share This

Travel Log, 27th of June, 2008, or 1908, I can never tell anymore.
Mechanical Insects in the Forest

A small path presented itself in the foliage and we used this spot to slip into the wall of green. About four minutes of walking into the forest presented us with our first novelty. Or well, perhaps novelty is not the best word. Aberration? No. Weird stuffs? Yes, we were presented with weird stuffs in the form of a thick old tree that was covered in clock faces. One would think there would be a neatly designed sign beside the tree to explain its strange shrine of visual time, like most strange or historical markers have in New England. But no. The tree stood alone in a small clearing and a vast variety of clock faces in just as many sizes lay hooked to the tree.

Upon looking a little closer it became apparent that not one of the clocks was keeping the same time. The difference in some may only be minutes, but the exact time was not to be had from any of them. Michael leaned in to have a closer look at this and jumped back as a strange crickety creature came between him and the clock face he was staring at.

Now, this creature looked like an insect, but its movements seemed very sluggish and labored, as though its small body was carrying nearly too much weight for its wings. Looking closely we could see that it indeed was nearly too heavy for its wispy wings, as its body was made of a gold metal. It landed on the top of one of the clock faces, fidgeted with its legs around the top of the clock till it got a strong purchase on a hook hanging from a nob on the tree. It gave its wings a frenzied buzzing before lifting off and taking the clock with it. The clocks surrounding the newly departed one all clanked back into place, leaving only a small spot on the tree visible.

Another metal insect of a different design came along and followed the same routine. And then another. We were so busy watching this strange display that we almost missed the large and labored beetle moving across the ground. He had gears sticking out from its bum and some type of circular reading glass on its back. Behind it it dragged a clock. Slowly it moved over the tree’s thick trunk legs and up the side of the tree. It found one of the empty nobs and placed the clock face on it.

The whole thing was very efficient and timely, this more obvious the longer we stayed to watch. But the whole thing was terribly surreal. I mean, to what purpose was this tree and its many clocks here? And who had crafted these mechanical insects to tend to the tree and its coming and going clocks? A mystery very tempting to solve. The only problem was the sun was starting to set, and long shadows were starting to darken up the forest. We feared staying much longer might lead to us not finding our way out again.

In a rash move, desperate for some sort of information about this scene, Michael reached out and grabbed one of the larger mechanical creatures off of the tree before it could fly away with a clock. The clock fell to the ground and its glass face broke. The glass shards caused the clock hands to bend and stop moving steadily forward. The strangest noise filled the forest as this was going on. It was as if somewhere in the wooded area someone was moaning over head and it vibrated within the trees.

As we tried to ignore this strange sound, Michael took his pocket knife from his back pocket and used one of the thin blades to remove the cover of the dragonfly’s back. Inside were more mechanical parts, lots of turning cogs and rotating parts. But resting neatly in the middle of all of this was a small, rolled up piece of parchment. Michael held the dragonfly’s metal bits apart so that I could slip my fingers inside of it and remove the parchment.

I unwrapped the aged looking little thing and squinted to read the very small script that was very elegantly written on the page. It read: Eleanor Patch, stolen time twelve minutes. Taken from her at four o’clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday. She is to be returned eight minutes of that, at three o’clock on a Thursday. The Fates are all in agreement on this solicitation and request.

At reading this Michael dropped the dragonfly and both of us stepped away from it and the tree. The bug turned, seeming to stare up at us from its mesh looking fake eyes. It soon recovered and took back to the air, rushing away from the tree. Another of the large beetles had come and was slowly dragging the broken clock away, while smaller, almost tick like insects were busy eating the remains of the glass and small clock bits.

The two of us turned from this scene and quickly left the forest the way we’d come. I think subconsciously we were trying to forget our steps as if to mentally brush dirt over the path we’d taken so that it would remain hidden. It was a strange sight and despite how beautiful the insects were, and the clock faces they tended, there was an overwhelming sensation of something being wrong with the area. Some mysteries are like that, and the sensation of wrongness is meant -to the wise willing to heed it- keep people away. We heeded the sensation.

Back home we tried to put the event behind us and simply watch a movie. The sound of soft gnawing on metal brought our attention back to the car. Instead of worrying about witch doctors and mechanics again, Michael simply grabbed our large and ferocious (in theory) feline, put his harness and leash on him, and took him outside to the car. He opened the hood, set the cat down and pointed to a pair of eyes peering out from behind the engine. “Nom noms! Get him!” He commanded the feline. There were a few icky sounds while Hunter rid the car of its new infestation of gremlins, but it was pretty clean when I went down to retrieve him. And thankfully we’ve yet to have to clean up any gremlin heavy hairballs on the carpet.

Like many of the things we encounter in our shared lives, Michael and I have been trying to artfully recreate the insects we witnessed and the clocks they tended to. Please find enclosed on the next page of this journal a few paint sketches of what we saw.

. .. . .. … .. …. .. … .. . .. .

Mechanical Insects in the Forest Copyright (c)2008 Bethalynne Bajema
Mechanical insects done by both Myke Amend & Bethalynne Bajema (c)2008
Insect and Clock collages by Bethalynne Bajema (c)2008

Share This

. . . .

Table of Contents
…. ~Exhibited Artists
…. ~Mint T. Zolty
…. ~Articles
…. ~Adventure
. . . .

…. ~Exhibited Artists
02.13.08 ~ Myke Amend
02.18.08 ~ Bethalynne Bajema
03.06.08 ~ Georgia Pakadakis
06.11.08 ~ Eliza Gauger
06.27.08 ~ Ramona Szxzerba

. .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .
. . . .

…. ~Mint T. Zolty

Original Post February 16th, 2008 | Attention Archive Staff:
. .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .
t has been brought to my attention that someone has allowed a Mi-go into the Archives.

I would just like to take this opportunity to once again refer staff members to our rules and guidelines about the calling forth and summoning of any creature that can be considered a hostile threat to the overall well being of the Archive, its staff and interns.

Our guidelines strictly state that experiments or conjuring of any kind not addressed to and sanctioned by the elder Archive Staff are only permitted within your own dorm or lodgings, where you will take full responsibility for whatever doom you bring upon yourself.

At the time of this writing the Mi-go was last seen in the north wing preparing to operate on an intern. It is a crustacean-like entity that can be identified by any manner of unique traits such as multiple appendages and antennae where its head should be. And if these things are not a good visual indicator, someone was good enough to fix it with a red collar and a tag that identifies it as Fido.

The person or persons responsible for this will be found through proper means or less scrupulous channels and will be responsible for replacing said intern. For anyone needing a refresher on allowed or proper creature conjuring, please see the the bulletin board on the west wall of the library.

Thank you for your attention and any volunteers willing to help with capture and clean up should see me in my office first thing in the morning.

Sincerely,

Babel-Jean Tea Hymn.

PS It would appear that another of our interns is lacking his brain. Please be on the look out for any brain size containers. A watchful eye and a little team work might help us avoid losing this man’s brain to Pluto and setting us back another intern.

Original Post February 16, 2008 | Attention Archive Staff:
. .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .
It has been brought to my attention that someone has purchased a sinusoidal bath as part of the replacement equipment for the baths in the gymnasium that were destroyed by that localized storm.

May I remind all staff that all equipment brought into the facility must follow proper installation protocol and be maintained or observed as needed for the safety and well-being of all Archive staff.

The electrified remains of elder archive staff member Mint T. Zloty were found in the sinusoidal bath still smoking early this evening. Consequently, Professor Zloty is said to be in the south wing reading presently. As an added sidenote – please keep in mind that smoking is strictly prohibited anyplace other than the smokers’ lounge, the walk-in humidore, the library, or your own personal laboratory.

If someone would be so kind – please seek out Mint and please inform him that he is dead and we will not be expecting him to show up for work in the morning.

Thank you.

Sincerely, Babel-Jean Tea Hymn

Original Post February 16, 2008 | Rumours of my death are greatly exaggerated
. .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .
This memo is in protest to the memo previously left by Ms. Babel-Jean Teahymn, and for the purpose of disputing my status as a former employee, ex-employee, demised employee, or employee who has otherwise ceased to be.

This letter is being transcribed by intern Tom Lazythint, as for some reason or another I have become temporarily incompatible with objects on the material plane of existence – a mere phase which I am sure will pass in time, and something I am sure must happen to most people my age at some point or another. Regardless, this statement is a disclaimer against possible typos and other displays of intern daftness which might occur within this transcription.

I would like to say that in fact, I feel quite fine, and very well up to my duties regardless of my current state, and declare that I will fight tooth and nail with anyone who even as much as attempts to park their autocar in my assigned parking spot, parks their grimy feet on my fine brazilian cherrywood desk, or even thinks to attempt to raid my tobacco stocks, pilfer my chocolate stores, violate my taxidermied werebeasts, or as you whippersnapper deviants tend to say “yiffing the howlers”.

I do realize that the corpse found in the bath may in some ways resemble my own proud and well-bred visage in various ways such as height and remarkably well-tailored swimwear, and in this I can see where this confusion may have stemmed from. I do however assure you that I am right as rain and feeling as though I am well in my prime.

I would also like to inform that putting an end to my pay and benefits, or allowing anyone access to my office, would be very ill-advised, considering that I am a storehouse of information – information which this fine establishment would most likely prefer to have limited solely to this fine establishment, rather than in the hands of entities such as perturbed villagers and inquisitive constables.

Yours, if you know what is good for you,

Mint T. Zloty

P.S. Oh drat! I seem to have slipped through my chair again… no! don’t type that you boob! Just help me up or I swear you will receive the caning of your life! You there! I said stop typing you knitwitted son of a diseased mongoloid poopsmith! Just what do you think you are doing?! Get me out of this floor God blast it!

Original Post March 07, 2008 | Mint T. Zloty
. .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .
Professor Mint T. Zloty is a highly valued member of the Archives and of the University, whether living or dead, and we have no desire whatsoever to ever lose his presence in our fine establishment.

However, were he to say, step into the light, or the darkness, or whatever force might be calling him away from us, we would bear him no grudge whatsoever, and though it might be hard for us, we would find some way to muddle through it. This, especially because on the other side of the light would be many wondrous things, all the iced cream he could eat, another world, anxiously awaiting a great and forgiving man such as himself – which would certainly be something much much better than haunting the corridors of our university or hanging around his dusty laboratory.

In fact, should he, in his great wisdom, come to the realization that he is in fact dead, we would probably be compelled to build a wing on the archives in his name, erect a statue, and perhaps even fund a moving picture about his adventures and exploits in his great honor – especially should he sign a simple waiver, agreeing not to be summoned by any members of other colleges, or law enforcement representatives.

However, until then, and after, he will always be regarded as the greatest professor ever to grace this establishment, and an all-around spectacular example of learning and of wisdom.

Current State of Affairs | The Good Professor Zolty
. .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .
Currently Professor Zolty is still attempting to teach his classes and interact with the Archive staff as though we can overlook the fact that he is deceased. While it is within the staff’s ability to simply treat Zolty’s ethereal state as just another minor handicap for an otherwise perfectly fine individual, the Elder Staff is afraid this would set a standard that would encourage more of the recently deceased to continue their work at the Archive and elsewhere. Quite frankly we simply do not have enough room for the dead to work among the living. Also, many of the younger staff members argue that they’ll never get a chance to graduate to higher levels of position at the Archive if we continue to allow departed older staff to stay on. Presently all arguements are being taken into consideration. In the meantime, we suggest you simply ignore Mint and perhaps he’ll eventually go away. Some staffers would argue that it’s already bad enough that we cannot seem to remove the smell of his sizzled remains from the gymnasium baths.
. .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .
. . . .

…. ~Articles

Original Post February 17, 2008 | A Terrible Ruse
. .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .
Today, I came across a rather strange assortment of artifacts, piled loosely in a duffel bag in the corner of my office. The duffel bag bore no distinguishing marks other than a sticker reading “Abney Park”, what I believe to be a stamp from a possible stop along the way from its unknown origin.

Having worked tirelessly throughout the day to ascertain their origin, I found about midway through spectographics and other means, that these items were by no means ancient, or even old. However, knowing that there exist modern-times dabblers and adepts in the metaphysical arts and aether-scientific spheres, I decided it would be a good idea to inspect these items more closely.

The first of these items – what seemed to be a pair of flight goggles, with a crudely fashioned set of secondary lenses bound by brass arms, which for some reason did not seem to bend or swing in ways that would be expected for functionality, or even bend at all. In trying to manipulate the lenses, I eventually broke one of these arms, and spent my first hours rather panicked that I may have irreparably damaged something of great importance.

Next I tried the simple approach of wearing the goggles. Whether a result of my error, or simply a matter of design, I found that though I do look quite smashing in them, the goggles do absolutely nothing, nothing at all.

The next items were a pair of what seemed to be hat pins, strange in their making due to the presence of gears and cogs at their tops, these gears not leading to other gears, I thought at first they might be some sort of key, perhaps to some sort of advanced alchemical device yet to be found. In trying to turn these gears, to ascertain how advanced the inner workings might be, I ended up breaking one of these gears from the pin, only to find it the gear was simply bound in place by a sort of jewelers’ glue.

Lastly, there was a top hat, not recently made but certainly by no means old. On it were a variety of things, including more of these rudimentary arms and lenses, some ribbons, and an insignia pin – showing promise in its obscurity. I spent the last hours of my day trying to decode this sigil, to no avail, and finally I surmised what only an educated man such as myself would… that perhaps it was a magical hat – the likes worn by those tricksters and charletans on the square, and by actual practitioners of the ancient arts as well. The only sensible place to go from here was to test this theory.

First, I tried the simple route, taking a nearby glass of goat’s milk, and pouring it into the hat to see if the milk disappeared, or perhaps turned into confetti. The end result was a desk covered in milk, a somewhat saturated hat, and a rather perturbed and milk-drenched dean as a result of my efforts to demonstrate the hat’s presumed powers of milk-to-confetti transmography.

The next test was to insert a pigeon into the hat, and see if it either vanished or turned into a string of joined handkerchiefs, or perhaps a balloon… I like balloons. In order to contain the pigeon, I placed a board over the opening, and set a heavy weight atop the board. This ended only in completely destroying the hat, and regrettably, its contents.

After a long hard day of work, including many many tests, leading to disassembly, and ultimately frustration in having wasted an entire day, I found that these items were all fakes of some sort, perhaps placed in my office by entities from competing universities or perhaps from BEYOND, towards the purpose of distracting me from something groundbreaking and important – such as my research or possibly even tea time.

The fiend, whoever they may be, did manage at both of these – I am however more determined than ever to succeed at whatever it is this miscreant or spectre sought to distract me from – beginning with tea and descending by order of importance.

If anyone has any knowledge regarding the perpetrators of this prank, hoax, or scheme, I would ask that they contact me in my study as soon as humanly or inhumanly possible.

Annoyededly,

Prof. Aden M. Kemy

Original Post February 18, 2008 | Hexed
. .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .
Last night I entered the Miskatonic Archives, and through slight of hand and nimble footing I made it into the professor’s office and lab.

I found no sign of the Necronomicon, nor could I find any of those books that were acquired by the University through the Dunwich incident.

I did however manage to pilfer an impression of Professor Kemy’s scribblings from from a desktop notepad, though nothing as of yet makes much sense at all…

But none of what I found has much to do with my current situation, which I will relay to you now, in case these moments are to be my very last…

Though I had been quite sly and meticulously nimble in my excursion, I neglected to return with my bag… a bag containing a change of clothing, so that I could arrive at the Women’s Cello Society recital well-dressed and in good time for some celebratory drinking.

When I realized this, I was halfway between the University and my intended destination – and, my apartment on Rue d’Auseil being closer, I decided to grab a change of clothing at home instead of returning to Miskatonic University.

I do realize so far this sounds rather mundane and innocuous, but here is the point where things become utterly frightening and disturbing…

I returned to the university tonight, and found that my bag had indeed been discovered… my goggles crushed and broken, my hair pins mauled, brutalized, and perhaps violated… And my hat… MY HAT…

My hat, I found in a corner, crushed and mutilated almost beyond all recognition. I say that because I was able to recognize it, though only barely…. and I wish I had not….

It was coated in some ghastly, hideous, and likely supernatural white slime, filled with feathers and blood… the organs of what I believe to have been a chicken’s…. and a bloodied deck of playing cards.

It is obvious that some terrible ritual was performed with my precious hat. I am unsure as to whether they have hexed me to die in some short period of time, or perhaps set some hideous beast from beyond on my trail. They may also have simply used it to scrye my name and whereabouts – regardless, I fear my time in this mortal coil may be numbered… with a rather low number… um… of time.

Oh my. I just sneezed… I knew it! This is the beginning of the end for me… I think I am coming down with some sort of unimaginable, terrible, hideous, and gruesomely eldritch illness! I feel faint… FAINT I SAY!

Now I faint.

Sincerly,

Cordelia Atwood,

Rogue Investigator

Original Post February 18, 2008 | Dunwich Horror isn’t smell
. .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .
“He locked away the Necronomicon with a shudder of disgust, but the room still reeked with an unholy and unidentifiable stench. ‘As a foulness shall ye know them,’ he quoted. Yes – the odour was the same as that which had sickened him at the Whateley farmhouse less than three years before”

First off imagine be sprayed with yellow mustard from giant bottle, being treeted like giant cosmic weiner, then to be called ‘ugly’ or ‘hideous’ by wrinkly old humans I not even know personally, waving their arms about at self all threatening like, screaming at Dunwich Horror when Dunwich Horror not doing anything bad – just happily crusching trees all like “Crunch! Crunch!” minding own business… maybe eat a few humans but it’s okay really.

Then imagine be dissolved from world by meddlesome old people what won’t lend ancient books out and then think you are stinky, and what think brother are stinky which is LIE!

Well, It took long time be conjured back here just to defend myself from terrible old wrinkly man’s malicous comments at Dunwich Horror smell.

I wants to start with saying “Untrue!” at hideous wrinkly human thing what LIE about Dunwich Horror and Dunwich Horror family, want to ruin good name of Dunwich Horror!

Me could explain things about destruction of Earth and sucking it into nother dimension, but not worth dignifying that right now because of more important thing, like, say old man LIE!

Note:

1) Odour was at Whately farm house at SAME TIME Old Man was, then again in library at same time OLD MAN was in library. It does not take a brain genius to figure out this not happenstance or coindicince that SMELL WAS WHERE OLD MAN WAS, both times!

Old man wants to be seen as hero, but in reality, old man make hideous smell – not Dunwich Horror – then wrinkly old man blames hideous smell on Dunwich Horror, and then finds only spell to make Dunwich Horror leave before Dunich Horror tell about him lie to others.

Old Man not hero. Not hero at all! Not banish Dunwich Horror anymore!

Banish Old Man! Banish Old Stinky Man!
. .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .
. . . .

…. ~Adventure

Today I added this mission generator in order to make my days a bit more interesting. It is still in its beta stage, but it is somewhat unlikely that it will cause any sort of dismemberment or death, unless used improperly. Feel free to try it out.

Adventure Mission Generator copyright © 2008 Myke Amend

Share This

“There aren’t any castles in the suburbs of Delaware and there aren’t any haunted mansions with gloomy mansard roofs, either, and because that fact was nearly too tragic for me to bear as a child, Winona Cookie came to comfort me.

“Appearing in a shower of cookie crumbs one rainy thunderstruck afternoon, she has been my lifetime antidote to boredom. While I trudged through graduate schools and internships, Winona has followed her own path, leaving a trail of fanciful stories, watercolors, ink drawings, collages and jewelry in her wake. She favors the darkest faeries, legendary women, arcane subject matter and inventors that never were. She is currently obsessed with the steampunk genre and is running me ragged with collages and stories. They are frankly beginning to pile up! We live in San Diego where I practice psychotherapy and try to find a place for my ill-tempered cat to sit in my studio.”

Share This