# The Confession of Sarai Mocksley and other tales



## Wicht (Jun 5, 2002)

This thread contains short stories that I have recently written.  They are not the records of a game but are merely here for your reading enjoyment.  Unless otherwise noted, all stories herein are copyrighted 2002 by Jonathan McAnulty and I reserve the right to edit them, delete them, laugh at them, or sell them to a publisher.  Anyone reading this thread is hereby granted permission to print the stories for personal use (since somebody asked) but you may not distribute, sell or reprint the stories without first receiving permission from the author.    

And now a table of contents
1) The Confession of Sarai Mocksley _Some confessions are better never made!_

2) The Elusive Mr. Teaholt _Death and madness follow Mr. Teaholt?  Who is this man?_

3) The Strange Case of Walter Poindexter III _Hear his bizarre tale of woe!_

4) The Turning of the Worm _Happy is the town whose wizards are all ash!_

5) Cthulhu Door to Door _They are not from Avon!_

*and coming soon (I hope):* _The wine, the woman and the wolf: Three cautionary tales of woe._

Thanks for all who take the time to read.


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## Wicht (Jun 5, 2002)

*The Confession of Sarai Mocksley*
*by Jonathan McAnulty*

“Come in, Come in…

“The weather is beastly I am afraid but I am glad you could make it.  May I take your hat?  And Your coat?  Thank you…  I will just hang them here… they will be quite safe.

“How was the drive?  I am afraid that my rather peculiar interest of necessity demands isolation, but surely you understand that?  Yes, I thought you would.  Would you like any refreshments?  A little tea?  Coffee? … perhaps something stronger?  No?  

“The library is this way…  I am rather proud of my little collection though perhaps you will have seen better…

“Servants?  No, I had servants for many years but they are… no longer with us.  

“No.  I am not always alone.  I get visitors upon occasion and have many an interesting discussion.  You are here for instance.  There are others…  And of course I get out of the house too… There is the market of course, one must eat, and then I still manage to go on…excursions.  Just up this way if you will.

“Yes, It does get harder with age.  I must admit that digging is a young man’s work and it is harder to be unseen when you move slower and the joints creak, but one must have a hobby I always say.  Watch that last step please.  The board is rotted I’m afraid.  

“Oh that.  It is Ruxious you hear.  He is my pet.  I let him have free reign of the house and he can make quite a racket at times.  But he is really just like a big kitten with me.  And so clever, perhaps you can meet him after we look at the books.  Down this hall…  

“Two doors down and then a sharp turn to the left…  sorry, I am perhaps too much alone after all.  It is a habit of mine, talking to myself…  Do you notice the paneling?  Yes I thought you would.  

“No, I did not carve those, I found them in Tibet, rather gruesome but then they add character to the place…  and they serve other purposes as well. 

“Yes, I keep the library locked.  My collection is small and not as prestigious as some, but it is my bread and butter so to speak, though in a literal fashion I must confess much of my money comes from investments made earlier in life, but then you know what I mean, heh… yes, I thought you would.  And I have found other ways to keep the books safe as well.  There are more than just locks about if you take my meaning.  Come on in then.  Look around.  

“There are about a hundred books in here as you see, many of them quite old… I actually have another room downstairs in which I keep my more mundane books, cook books, fiction, the like, but these are the books you want to look at I will warrant.  Some of them are fairly commonplace.  Here is a Malleus Maleficarum, in the latin, a horrible book, but I keep it for sentimental reasons.  And here is a 1575 edition of Daneau.  Quite valuable but again, mostly rubbish.  Trite sentiments of a misinformed clergyman.  Now here is one I warrant you have not seen before, it is a pamphlet written by Pascual de Andagoya.  It contains things he did not share with the public at large, things he found too horrible.  He knew more than he let on, that one did… There are one or two interesting facts in there… 

“Yes that is Cotton Mather and here is a latin copy of the Key of Solomon… 

“That small one there is a rather obscure play, you would be better off not reading it, heh… 

“Now on this shelf are three that I am rather proud of and I will warrant you have not read any of them… though you may have heard of two of them…This octavo is the Cultus Maleficarum by Baron Frederic, a translation really of a quite older work.  Yes I thought you might have heard of it,…  your knowledge does you credit…

“And this one I am very, very proud of.  Yes, it is bound in what you think it is bound in… De Vermiis Mysteriis,… It was quite a chore digging this one up I tell you… hehe… No.  I will not tell you where I obtained it, at least not until we have known each other better,… You wish to read it?  I thought you might… I can see that gleam in your eye… You would do better to hide it you know… your ambition that is.  It gives you away it does… One must have ambition, but subtlety is often just as val… 

“Ah… the last one, yes it is rather small, only 67 pages but in some ways it is the most practical of all the books I own… It is called the Confessions of Sarai Mocksley… written by hand by one Samuel Wainswright, a witch hunter in England.  There are only four copies in existence that I know of… yes… I do know where two of the others are as a matter of fact,…  though I believe that this copy is the original.  It is in quite good shape considering it was written in 1656…  all except for this stain on the corner of the cover. One of the previous owners was a bit careless I am afraid, but things like that add character to a book in my opinion, give it a story and this book has quite an interesting story behind it…

“Would you like to hear the story? …Excellent… One does enjoy having others to talk too.  Let me tell you then about Sarai Mocksley and Samuel Wainswright…

“Samuel Wainswright was a witch hunter in 1656 and Sarai Mocksley was a witch… I gather that both were unscrupulous and wicked in their own ways.  Sarai, I know, made no attempt to hide what she was but I imagine Samuel took pains to be thought of as pious and godly.  But I daresay he did enjoy what he did, the torturing, the raping, the smell of burning flesh and fresh blood… And by 1656, the courts were becoming a bit more meticulous in England as to evidence and so Samuel had to put on quite a front I am afraid.  Yes, I daresay he was very likely something of a hypocrite…

“Sarai Mocksley on the other hand was said to be a terror to her neighbors, not that anybody lived within three miles of her cottage all alone in the moors there.  She was no pretender nor was she an innocent accused by enemies.  I tell you the truth, she was the real thing!  A sorceress… a consorter of demons and worse…  There are no records of her birth but local legend placed her age at well over a hundred.  She spoke French and Hebrew.  She could read Latin, Greek, Arabic and other more dread languages.  I do not know what books she had but I know that she brewed potions of sublime effect.  There were tales of those who had heard her laughing voice speak to them from far up in the very air and it was said that she could curse a man with a touch.  But yet what truly terrified her neighbors was her familiar.  Her pet was a great lizard, as long as a man but far heavier, with great teeth and a spike tipped tail…  No.  It was not a crocodile I assure you… It was something far older… and yet it was not so old… hehe…

“How do I know for sure?  Well, have I not read the book?  …And there is more… let me continue and then perhaps you will see for yourself…

“The story goes that Sarai had often been seen with this creature and that on at least two occasions it attacked and killed sturdy men who crossed her.  It was obviously a meat eater and it seemed to delight in the flesh of men.  The country-folk called it a dragon or a demon and the fear of it kept men from harming Sarai for many a long year while all over England and Europe other, more harmless women, were being tortured and maimed and hung until they were dead.  But not Sarai.  She dwelt alone and removed from others and none dared turn her in to the witch hunters.

“That is, not until Samuel Wainswright rode into town in 1656 on his well bred horse and while inquiring after witches, as was his wont and trade, he heard from one drunk about the awful old witch who lived alone on the moors.  This man confessed that he had seen _things_ flying to the desolate house out of the heavens and he had heard _sounds_ that weren’t human and he had seen the witch’s familiar.  This accusation was all that Samuel needed and he set out the next day with a half dozen hired men to arrest the woman.  Several of the village leaders, including the mayor, begged him not to go and told him about the familiar and the men it had killed but Samuel would not be stayed.  I suspect he did not believe the stories.  How many times had he himself forced such confessions, though he knew them to be lies, from the mouths of innocents?  I don’t doubt but that he was a greater skeptic at heart than those who decried his work.   

“The men made their way through the moors until at last they espied the house.  There was no sign of the dread familiar as they made their way towards the lonely structure, but they did see Sarai Mocksley.  She was locking the door of her little house when they first saw her and as they rode closer she strode purposefully towards they men.  

“It was Sarai who spoke first.  ‘Hello my brave Mr Wainswright,’ she is reported to have said with a smile, ‘You now know of me and I have known thee for much longer.  Let us not waste time for we have much to do thee and me.’

“When Samuel saw Sarai for the first time he was much taken aback for he had heard that she was over a hundred years of age and yet to his eyes she looked to be no older than thirty or forty. And he was, of course, startled that she, who he had never seen, seemed to know him so well…

“‘Silence witch,’ commanded Samuel, trying to take control of the situation.  I would guess that He had never had an accused act quite this way before, though he had personally sent over thirty women to their deaths.  Dismounting from his horse he continued, ‘You stand accused of witchcraft and whoredom, idolatry and all manners of diverse wickedness.  Do you acknowledge before God and man that these accusations are true.’

“Samuel’s introduction at the front of The Confession says that Sarai Mocksley laughed at his speech and boldly walked up to her accuser. ‘I do confess.  I confess that I have danced with the black man and flown in the sky with nameless and faceless demons.  I confess that I have spoken with the elder things and dreamed of R’yleh under the sea where no man may dwell.  I confess that I have paid homage to Dagon and to he who walks upon the wind.’

“‘I confess all this and more,’ said Sarai Mocksley with a wry grin. ‘Oh, Mr. Wainswright, I am most anxious to make a full confession, for I do further confess that I have not much longer for this world and I want certain things to be set aright afore I take my leave.  But I must warn you Mr. Wainswright’ and now one gathers from the way Samuel records the following that she became more earnest and sinister, ‘that the first man to lay a hand on me shall be cursed.  He shall be cursed and shall become a byword and a curse in the mouth of his countrymen.  Be forewarned, Mr. Wainswright, be forewarned.’

“At hearing her bold statements and upon hearing her warning of a dire curse, the men with Samuel grew afraid and would have left then and there if not for the fact that their leader was made of sterner stuff.  It takes a strong stomach to be in the business he was in and it takes a cold heart.  I would guess that he had seen so many women killed so easily that he was not going to allow himself to be afraid of this one female.  Seeing his men step back, he turned and struck her on the jaw with his gauntlet-covered fist.  It was a hard blow that should have laid her cold, bleeding and broken.  But the story goes that she scarcely flinched and laughing she made as if it were nothing, merely noting in a sing-song voice, ‘As it was spoken so shall it be, cursed be the first that touched me.’  

“After this, they took her back to town with them, indeed she came eagerly and they placed her in the small dungeon of the local magistrate.  Despite her confession, Samuel was determined to treat her as a common accused witch and torture her for information.  But in privacy she spoke to him slow and carefully of deeds he had done, naming names and telling how in each case he had fabricated the evidence that condemned the accused.  She spoke of his spring-loaded knife with which he could prick a supposed witch mark and draw no blood.  She told him quietly of those women he had done it to and where and when.  She detailed the lies he had planted in the mouths of men and women and children as he twisted their thumbs under the thumbscrews.  She told him the secret workings of his heart and threatened to tell others if he did not take her confession in the manner she desired.  He began to notice too that the hand with which he had struck her felt numb and cold.  He began to grow afraid of this woman who did not flinch, who did not bleed when struck, and who was clearly unafraid of him.  He did not torture her but sat with her for a solid week transcribing word for word her confession.

“And what a confession.  She described in detail her activities and how she had accomplished them.  She told of her travels through the colds of space on the back of the Nightgaunts.  She told of the angles and dimensions that she had learned and what they did.  She told him the truth of the black man who screamed aloud at the moon without a face.  She told him all this and more.  And she forced him to draw diagrams and charts, to list the ingredients for her potions, to make it simple and easy for others to follow in her footsteps.  Oh yes, it was a very practical confession, a sublime cookbook of ancient truths and diabolical evils.  Oh, and she told him one other thing…

“She told him the truth about her familiar, explaining what it was, where it had come from and how she had obtained it.  And as she described this to Samuel, his cold heart melted and he trembled at her words for it was too horrible for him to contemplate.

“Samuel Wainswright sat for a week and dutifully recorded every word that Sarai spoke.  No other was allowed into the chamber where they labored over her confession.  And though Samuel Wainswright would not speak to any other of what she had told him nor of what he had written, all could tell it was terrible for they could see the effect it was having on him.  His face was becoming haggard and his eyes sunken.  His hair thinned day by day as if he had been pulling it out in horror.  Some claim that they could hear him screaming from behind the locked doors of his room at night.  Others said he was crying and still others claimed that he was praying.  

“Finally, the week was over and the confession was complete.  But no trial was held nor any execution.  Dumbly Samuel led Sarai out of the doors of the prison and let her go.  He seemed to be drained and for the first time others noticed that his skin was peeling, almost as if it were becoming scaly.  

“‘Goodby, Mr. Wainswright,’ the witch is said to have said, and then ‘but not forever I am glad to say.’ Laughing gaily she left.  No one stopped her as she walked out of town.  Samuel’s men had spoken in hushed tones to all who would listen of the curse she had called forth on the head of the witch hunter and all eyed him with pity for they felt they saw now the end of that curse.  They were sure that he was to die.

“But he did not die that day nor the next.  Instead he mailed the written confession to a certain man as instructed by Sarai.  This man in turn made three copies,… No I will not tell you his name…  Let me finish my story.

“Samuel, having sent off the confession locked himself in his room in the inn and would not come out.  Days passed and people began to wonder.  They knew he was not dead for he prayed and he shouted and he wept.  He called out strange names that they had not heard before but which filled them with trembling.  He pleaded with Nyarlathotep, and called after Hastur and even shouted to blind and idiotic Azathoth.  He ranted and raved behind his locked door.  But none dared open it until at last all was silent one morning and they figured him to be dead.

“They opened it then but he was not dead.  The truth was worse.  He tore out the throat of one villager before escaping into the moors and he ate another.  But the villagers would not speak to any officials of what they had seen.  But they do tell that for a time Sarai Mocksley was seen walking with two familiars, both great lizards with sharp teeth and spiked tails.  She left this earth soon after that and never returned.  They eventually torched her lonely house in the moors and forgot about her except as a warning to the children.  But she left her confessions behind so that others might follow her… so that others might follow her…

“…did I tell you that I am so glad you have come?  I must make a confession myself.  It does sometimes get lonely here with just me and Ruxious.  

“What?  You laugh…?  

“Really sir?  A gun?  

“Yes I know these books are quite valuable.  Indeed, I know it better than you.  You are not the first you know…  Others have heard about my books and tried to take them from me.  I had hoped you would be different.  The letter you wrote made me hope almost that you might be one I could take under my wing for like Sarai, I must say, I am not much longer for this world and one does want to have others that will follow…    

“You think to threaten me?  Heh!  Have you not listened?  Did I not tell you that I have read Sarai’s confessions?  Did I not make plain to you how simple and practical they were?  Are you so dim!  I see I had misjudged you.  You think me a common grave robber like so many others.  

“But let me tell you.  I too have flown in the depths of the abyss.  I too have danced with the black man who howls at the moon.  I have seen the Shoggoths and have talked to those who have gone before.  Did I tell you that Sarai comes every now and then herself?  No! I am not mad!  Soon I know I shall depart with her and not return!

“Ah, here is Ruxious…  I think you should meet him…  A cat? Whatever made you think I kept a cat?  Look at those teeth!  See how those muscles ripple under his scales.  I am afraid that he is partial to flesh….


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## Skarp Hedin (Jun 6, 2002)

Pretty nice story, Wicht.  But what's _The Conquerer Worm_ ?


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## Maldur (Jun 6, 2002)

Very nice, I really like the narrative style. 

Do you have more of these marvels?


It has a feel of Cthullu and of The Ninth gate. Books are fasinating are they not .


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## Wicht (Jun 6, 2002)

Skarp Hedin said:
			
		

> *Pretty nice story, Wicht.  But what's The Conquerer Worm ? *




_The Conquerer Worm _ is a psuedo horror movie about a real witch hunter (with some embelishments as to his demise) in england during the 17th century.  It is not a feel good movie.  It stars Vincent Price and is one of his best performances in the opinion of many.


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## Rune (Jun 6, 2002)

Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!


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## Wicht (Jun 7, 2002)

The following, I just wrote up today and I may yet make some changes to the text.  Normally I write something, let it sit a few days and then come back to it and make changes.  But i was pretty pleased with how it turned out, and since the first story got good reviews I felt emboldened to try posting another one.  If you like it let me know and I might make the time to write up more.


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## Wicht (Jun 7, 2002)

*The Elusive Mr Teaholt*

*The Elusive Mr. Teaholt**
By Jonathan McAnulty*

It was the last scream that started it for Carson.

“I do it for you! For You, the Great Crawling Chaos!”

That was what Doctor Fredrick Walters had screamed before he had jumped.  Carson was on the roof when Walters jumped and did not see him hit the ground twenty stories below.  But he knew he would dream about it nevertheless.

_I do it for you!  For You, the Great Crawling Chaos!_

That was what Carson was chewing over in his mind as he went down the steps from the roof.  It struck a chord.  Reminded him of something.  Carson was not an imaginative man.  Nor was he a deep thinker.  He had reached his position through hard work and a bulldog’s persistence.  He was not a great thinker but nevertheless, once he had an idea, he did not let it go till he had followed it everywhere.  He knew the doctor’s last scream reminded him of something.  But he did not know what.

The doctor’s office on the fourth floor was a mess.  That was putting it mildly.  There were four corpses.  One of them was a young child.  One was the child’s mother.  One was a nurse and the other was the office secretary.  The doctor had done unspeakable things to them after he had killed them.  Carson knew that this too he would see in his dreams.  It was turning into a bad summer and Carson had not been sleeping well at all lately.  This was the fifth mass-murder/suicide in as many weeks.  They were all unspeakable.  The press was having a hey-day.  It was being dubbed the summer of blood.  Some of the Baptists were already preaching it was a sign of the last days.  

There were no witnesses to the murders.  Those who had seen the doctor last were obviously dead.  The police had only reached the scene when they did because Walters had spent on hour on the roof, babbling, crying, and screaming. In the end, the arrival of the police had made no real difference.  Walters had jumped anyway with nothing but cement to catch him.  And in the time spent with Walters on the roof Carson had learned nothing of his motives.

_For You, the Great Crawling Chaos!_

Walters had not talked on the roof about the murders he had committed but instead had gone on and on and on about the end of the world.  Maybe the Baptists were right after all.

There was an entry in the secretary’s log that was called to Carson’s attention.  Half an hour before seeing in Mrs. Anderson and her son (and hacking them into small pieces) Dr. Walters had seen a salesman and two assistants.  It was recorded in the log as R. Teaholt, salesman, 2 assts.  They had obviously not been killed with the others.  Perhaps someone could provide some answers as to motive after all.

A search of the office also turned up a business card.

_Ryan P. Teaholt
Azathoth Pharmaceuticals
Est.  1926

We bring dead things to life!_

The card was strange to say the least.  Carson flipped it over.  There was nothing on the other side.  No address.  No phone number.  Carson turned the name of Teaholt over in his mind.  It had rung another bell.  Where had he seen that name lately?  He put an officer in charge of locating Ryan P. Teaholt for questioning.  By the time Carson was ready to go home later in the day he received word.  Neither Teaholt nor the company on the card seemed to exist.  The only fingerprints on the card had belonged to the secretary.

At home Diane had made a pot roast.  She had spent the day quilting.  Charley had scored two goals at his soccer game.  Carson listened to his wife and son distractedly as they discussed their day. 

_I do it for You! For You, the Great Crawling Chaos!_

The phrase turned itself over in his mind again, together with the name Teaholt.  Ryan P. Teaholt to be exact.  Diane, who did not love her husband’s job, though she dearly loved him, recognized his mood and did not query.  She never liked hearing details.  Her and Charley did the dishes while Carson sat in front of the TV, thinking, not observing.  
Later that night as he lay awake besides Diane it came to him to look in some of the other files of the Suicide/murders of late.  Mentally satisfied he managed to catch a few hours of sleep.  But it was filled with visions of Walters jumping, screaming, babbling, the gnawed arm of his nurse clutched in one hand. 

_I do it for You!_

Carson did not wake feeling rested.

Looking through the files the next day reminded Carson of what he already knew.  There were almost no witnesses, living witnesses anyway, of the events and precious few clues as to motive.  Most people were putting it down to mass hysteria and copycat killings done by those with such pitiful lives that they craved any form of attention.  Carson was not sure.  He looked in a file written up by one of the other detectives and found what he was looking for.  The only other suicide to be witnessed had also included a quote before death.  The woman, after taking an ax to her husband and six month old baby, and just before she set fire to herself in the middle of a suburban street, had clearly yelled, “I do it for You! For You, The Bringer of Destruction!”

_I do it for You!_

The quotes were too similar for Carson to believe it was mere coincidence.  Briefly envisioning a promotion and heaps of praise if he could show a common cause for all the recent bizarre deaths, Carson set to work to find other links between the events.

One turned up.  The name Teaholt.

_We bring dead things to life!_

Carson knew it had struck a chord in his memory for a reason.  Shortly before killing two of his coworkers and then electrocuting himself, a normally mild mannered accountant had been hard at work.  The papers on his desk evidenced that he had up to the very minute of the murders been jotting down numbers and names.  One such name being R.P. Teaholt.  

Thinking of that particular scene made Carson’s stomach lurch for a moment.  He vividly remembered the coroner having to try to figure out which heart belonged to which victim. That had given him bad dreams for a week.  The accountant had killed himself by sticking his hand repeatedly into the socket of his desk lamp.  Carson wondered whether he had screamed anything at the end.  Maybe not.  His mouth had, after all, been full.  

Carson sat back and thought.  The name Teaholt jotted on a scrap of paper had, at the time, meant nothing.  But maybe the late accountant had, before developing insane tendencies, entertained a visitor in his office.  Or, Carson corrected himself, assuming his assistants had accompanied Teaholt, three visitors.  Assuming it was the same man. 

Carson who did not believe in coincidence went on the assumption it was.  He searched through the records some more and found a full text of what the accountant had jotted down.  R.P. Teaholt, private attorney, death and taxes.  That was it.  Nothing more.  Pulling out a phonebook Carson scanned down through the names of the attorneys.  There were more lawyers listed than doctors and so the search took a while.  In the end it proved what Carson had assumed it would prove.  There was no such attorney practicing in the area.

_We bring dead things to life.
Death and taxes_

There was obviously a disturbing pattern, but Carson realized he had no evidence of foul play except the man in question did not seem to exist.  An alias aroused suspicion. 

He picked up the phone and called down to the detective who had investigated the flaming suburban housewife.  Did the name Teaholt come up anywhere in a search of the premises?  It did?  A business card?  Was it in the evidence files?  Carson thanked the man politely, hung up and went to the storage area of the station and dug out the necessary box.  A bit of searching did indeed turn up the business card the other detective had said would be there.  Like the other card there was no phone number, no address and no email address, just a name, a business and a logo.

_Ryan P. Teaholt
Abhoth’s Cleaning Services

Voids, Vortexes and Vaccuums
Are Our Specialties_

Lawyer, cleaner, salesman.  Three professions, but Carson was willing to bet there was only one man.  And two assistants.  One man tied circumstantially to three out of five mass murder/suicides.  

By the end of the day, Carson had connected the name Teaholt to one other murder/suicide.  Going through the evidence boxes and then the contents of a wallet produced yet one more business card.  

_Dr. Ryan P. Teaholt
Individual Therapy

Master of Madness_

The wallet had been in the pocket of Arthur Fesborn the day he had killed his dentist.  After this he had hacked the nurse into pieces.  Mr. Fesborn was by then quite alone, for all the patients in the waiting room had fled in terror when the nurse had started screaming.  Mr Fesborn had, in the privacy of the moment, rather brutally torn his own throat out with the dentist’s drill.  Carson wondered whether Mr. Fesborn had not first stopped by to see a Dr. Teaholt for some individual therapy before taking up the notion to operate on his dentist.  Psychiatrist, Lawyer, Salesman, Cleaner.  

_Death and taxes
Master of madness_

Master of madness indeed.  There was no doubt now in the mind of Carson that this elusive Mr. Teaholt was at the heart of recent homicidal events.  As he drove home, Carson wondered whether Teaholt was some sort of cult leader.  Did he use hypnotism?  

_For You, the Great Crawling Chaos!
For You, the Bringer of Destruction!_

There was more here than met the eye Carson realized.  Something else was going on.  But he figured he had enough to bring the existence of Ryan P. Teaholt to the attention of his superiors.  Circumstantial evidence or no, it was enough to start some deeper inquiries.

When he got home, Diane had just left to pick up Charley from soccer and so Carson had the house to himself.

Pleased with the fact that he felt like he was making progress and imagining in his slow way the pleasant prospect of a promotion, or at the least a pay raise, Carson poured himself a drink and sat down to relax.  Just two days ago everyone in the world had assumed the deaths of late were all unconnected.  And now, merely through the overheard scream of a man about to kill himself and some good investigative work, Carson had proven, at least to himself, that there was a connection.  Something sinister was going on and he, all by himself, had uncovered it.  It was a good feeling and he basked in it.

At least he basked until he heard the ringing of the doorbell a few minutes after sitting down.  Pulling himself out of his revelries, Carson lurched to his feet and answered it.  There was a man standing there.  He was dressed in a black suit with gray pinstripes and a red tie.  He had dark skin and a large smile that did not go all the way to his fierce eyes.  Behind him stood two other men.  They also were in suits but they seemed ill at ease and Carson blinked as he thought he saw one of the arms of the men twitch in a _peculiar_ way.  But he had no time to dwell on it for the man in front, a very tall man, took Carson’s hand and shook it.  Carson noticed that his grip was strong and his skin was cold and rough.

“Detective Carson,” said the dark man and his accent called to mind Egypt in Carson’s mind and he had a brief vision of the man before him dressed as a Pharaoh, dark and terrible.  

“I thought it was time we met,” continued the man pulling Carsons mind back to reality, “Let me give you my card.  May we come inside?”

Carson, his mind suddenly fogged and confused, nodded dumbly as he took the card.  

_Ryan P. Teaholt
Evangelist

Preaching the Eternal Words of
Death and Damnation_

Teaholt entered through the door, followed by his two assistants, one of whom whistled a greeting in a strange piping voice as he passed.

Carson, unable to comprehend the fog that filled his mind, pointed them into the living room.  “Drink,” asked Carson stupidly.

“No thank you,” said Teaholt with a grim smile, “I just stopped by to congratulate you on making all the connections you did as quickly as you did.  I thought such an effort deserved a reward.”

“Reward?” asked Carson, thoughts of money managing to make their way into his fogged mind.  

“Oh yes! Such an inquisitive mind deserves to learn more!  There is, as you surmise so correctly, more here than meets the eye. Do you want to know what its all about?”  

“What its all about?” repeated Carson not comprehending.

Behind Teaholt, something was happening to his two assistants.  Carson watched them in horror with what attention he could even as Teaholt and the power of his voice kept the rest of his brain occupied.

_We bring Dead things to Life!_

Teaholt, mindless of what his assistants were becoming, spoke in a firm strong voice, power oozing in every nuance, “I will tell you what its all about!  The end of the world is coming, Detective Carson!  The doomsayers are right for I shall bring upon this miserable ball of dirt such a calamity that it will make all that has passed before a trivial thing!”

Dimly Carson realized he still had a gun in his shoulder holster.  He felt like he was falling asleep but yet a corner of his brain began yelling at him that things were not right. 

Teaholt calmed a bit, “Of course all that you have witnessed is really just a sideline.  A hobby I guess you might say.  A few people dying here and there do not an Apocalypse make.  But it is that personal interaction, that one on one if you will, that make it all worthwhile.  Just between you and me I enjoy the little horrors of life almost as much as the big ones."  

Teaholt winked conspiratorially and Carson felt the fog lift from his mind.  “Who are you?” he asked, suddenly alert, his hand reaching for his gun.  

“Who am I?” repeated Ryan P. Teaholt with a smile, “Let me show you.”  

And as Carson drew his gun and the two things behind Teaholt began a mad piping and a wild cavorting, Ryan P. Teaholt, Lawyer, Salesman, Preacher, Master of Madness, and Bringer of Destruction, showed Detective Carson just who he really was.  

Carson never fired his gun.  Instead he screamed and babbled and then sang along with the mad piping…. 

______________________________________

After packaging what was left of his wife and son in gallon-size zip lock bags in the freezer, and just before he kicked the chair out from under his feet, Carson checked the tightness of the rope around his neck and then shouted, “I do it for You!  For you, Oh mighty and powerful Nyarlathotep!”

And then the rope snapped taut.


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## Rune (Jun 8, 2002)

Oh, so _friggin' beautiful_!


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## Wicht (Jun 8, 2002)

Rune said:
			
		

> *Oh, so friggin' beautiful! *




Wow, thank you.


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## Wicht (Jun 8, 2002)

*The strange Case of Walter Poindexter III*

*The strange case of Walter Poindexter III**
By Jonathan McAnulty*

Oh, Wow!  Light!  Thank the stars above!  I can see again!

  Oh, No!  Please! Ma’am! Don’t Scream!  Please!  It’s all right!  Really! Don’t faint….please… ouch, that had to hurt…  

You do know that you are supposed to catch them when they do that?  Women like that sort of thing you know.  Gets you points, wins you kisses later on. Wink, wink.  

Sorry, about that though.  It’s part of my curse.  Women swoon when they see me.  It’s happened for years.  Can’t help it really.  Though it is of course, to be perfectly honest, all my own fault.  

Before you ask, let me assure you that I cannot grant wishes, foretell the future nor can I read minds.  About all I can do is talk and remember.  I have a good memory in case you are interested.  And I talk real well.  To be honest, it’s about all I can do anymore.  My singing voice is shot, for obvious reasons.  Reading books is straight out unless someone volunteers to turn the pages and most people think they have better things to do than stand around turning pages for me.  At least that’s what the last guy said.  

It wasn’t always this way you know.  I was at one time a brilliant, albeit, and I can be honest here, eccentric academic.  I have always, if you wanted to know the truth, blamed my parents for the way I turned out.  What would you have done if you had been named Walter Poindexter III?  There’s not much that you can do with a name like that is there?  Well I know what I did with it.  I turned to books!  I studied history, math, social sciences, archeology and, of course, you can see this coming can’t you, the black arts.  That’s of course where I got in trouble.  I sold my soul but in the heat of the moment I forgot all about being careful about what you wish for, or in my case, how you word your wish.  Let me give you a word of advice.  Never, no matter how tempted you are, try to sell your soul.  It leads to nothing but trouble.  And yes I do know what I…

Hey, is she coming around?  Oh, good.  Hi Ma’am!

Oops.  There she goes again.  Sorry about that.

Anyway, what I wished for, in case its not obvious, was eternal life as one of the undead, making women swoon and men tremble.  Boy, that was a mistake!  I think, at the time, I was envisioning myself as a vampire.  You know, living eternally as a dread creature of the night.  I had always been wanted to be taken seriously, and despite the fact I had plenty of money, nobody takes you seriously when you have a name like Walter Poindexter III.  Vampires on the other hand, are always taken seriously.  Unfortunately for me, the dark powers, it seems, have a sense of humor.  I should have been more specific, but that’s life for you, funny thing really.  

No sooner had I finished my wish then I could tell I wasn’t alive anymore.  There was not, you understand,  any immediate emotional or intellectual change that I could tell.  No taste for flesh, no hunger for blood, nothing like that.  I was still my normal chipper self.  But, then on the other hand, I could tell my heart wasn’t beating and my temperature was dropping to room temperature.  I was dead.  One of the undead.  

At first I was pleased at punch but the drawbacks to all this hit me real quick when my flesh started rotting a few days later.  I was dead you see.  Technically I guess I was what most students of the subject would call a zombie.  That was about when women started really swooning.  I think, looking back, it might have been the smell.  

I tried to be intelligent about the whole thing and I read up real quick on embalming and did a little number on myself, but it was really too late.  Quite a bit of damage had been done to my skin before I halted the process of degeneration.  My social life was a complete wreck.  Zombies, you understand do not get invited to all the best parties.  And they attract flies like, well, like dead meat.  But I tried to keep cheerful about the whole thing.  If I kept myself in good shape, I reasoned I would be around for a long, long time, and that meant I could catch up on all that reading I had been putting off.  I really had no needs as a zombie.  I didn’t need to eat.  I wasn’t going to die of exposure.  And that was good considering I was evicted from my apartment after my landlord’s wife saw me and swooned.  I tried to explain to the guy that it was a rare form of leprosy, but as his wife had swooned at the top of three flights of steps, he wasn’t really in a mood to listen.  

Things went downhill from there and I knew I might need to do something with my existence when they wouldn’t let me in the library anymore.  I tried contacting the dark powers again but as I did not have another soul to bargain with they refused to answer my calls.  I was stuck as a zombie, like it or not, and I was not wanted by society at large.  If I hung around my hometown much longer I could tell people would soon be after me with pitchforks and torches.  I did know, you see, what to expect, having done a good amount of reading on the subject.  So I thought to myself.  Self, I said, you have all the time in the world so why don’t you… see the world!  I had the money socked away, so finances weren’t a real problem.   I decided on Egypt.  

That was about when I lost all the fingers on my left hand.  My nerves were dead and I did not really have any feeling left in my hands, which made some things difficult as you can imagine, but it also meant that I didn’t notice it when I accidentally slammed my hand in a car door at the pier.  The silly thing wouldn’t close.  It was only after trying to get the door shut I realized hat it had been my own fingers in the way and that I had smashed them to a pulp through my own efforts.  I would say a bloody pulp, but as I was filled with embalming fluid, it wasn’t technically all that bloody.  The practical effect was that not only did I miss the first boat but I ended up just cutting off the whole hand and replacing it with a hook.  More practical that way and easier to explain, I thought.  Besides which, people take a man with a hook more seriously and despite the fact I was a walking dead, I still felt like people weren’t really taking Walter Poindexter III all that seriously yet.

I went to Egypt and it was there that I hit on the idea of bandages.  Bandages, mummies, pyramids, you know.  For one bandages helped keep the flies off.  Flies are after all attracted to zombies like to…. Oh.  I said that already.  Sorry.  Anyway the bandages helped keep the flies off and it made some social interactions easier.  I just bundled up in heavy clothes and explained I had an allergy to the sun.  A surprising number of people bought that and for a time women even stopped swooning.  That was nice, but I really harbored no great expectations of developing a romantic life.  I was after all, dead, if you, um….  Well, to cut a long story short, filled with a new confidence from the bandages I decided to explore the heart of Africa.  I thought I could see all those places I had read about that others were afraid to visit.  What did I have to be afraid of?  I was dead!  

I decided I did not need to hire help.  I had no food or supplies to carry.  Nor did I think I needed a guide.  I had all the time in the world, right?  So, I just set off, and with the tireless energy of the undead I startedt on a walking tour of the Dark Continent.  Looking back it wasn’t actually the greatest idea in the world.  

For one thing Vultures could smell me for miles and I had about twenty of them circling over my head at any given moment.  They were waiting for me to drop I think.  And then there was the lion.  She tore off my right leg before the smell hit her and she ran away.  The hyenas were no picnic either.  I fought them off with my hook but they ended up dragging off my severed leg in the end, though I doubt they really relished the taste of the embalming fluid.  

The loss of my leg also meant the loss of a lot of fluid.  Added to this,  it was a real chore trying to learn to walk with a piece of wood stabbed up into my stump in place of the leg.  You try it sometime.  Hack off your leg and see how well you do.  But I hobbled along as best as I could, trying to be my normal cheerful self.  I must have looked a sorry wreck though.  And there really wasn’t, to be honest, a whole lot interesting, other than the wildlife, to see.  And after the first hundred giraffes, the excitement wears off a bit you know…

To be honest it was almost a relief when I was attacked by the natives.  Even if they were headhunters.  It was no great loss.  I had already lost my hand and my leg.  A little bit more wasn’t going to hurt.  They turned me over to their local witchdoctor and he polished up what was left and stuck me in a box.  

That lasted for a while and he used me to impress his tibe at special parties.  But then a passing Englishman stole me, put me in this box and carted me back up to Egypt.  That lasted a while and then one day he never came back.  He was killed I always assumed.  And then for a long while I have just sat here, in the dark, waiting.  But now there is you, the new and proud owner of a *genuine talking skull!*


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## alsih2o (Jun 8, 2002)

bump to wicht!


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## Rune (Jun 9, 2002)

Heh heh heh.  No one would take a *genuine talking skull* named Walter Poindexter III seriously!

Silly skull...


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## DM with a vengence (Jun 9, 2002)

I know HP Lovecraft, and you sir, are no HP Lovecraft!

You're better.

The Elusive Mr. Teaholt is one of the scariest things I've ever read, you know how its going to end, but yet you're (un)pleasantly anyway.


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## Sodalis (Jun 9, 2002)

for some reason, while I was reding through it, the voicef woody allen kept popping into my head.  Afetra  while- he was the one narrating the story for me- and his face became representative of poindexter.  

go figure...

awesome story


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## Chimera (Jun 10, 2002)

Ok, Wicht/Jonathon, just which nefarious grimoire have YOU been reading lately?  Did you just 'get inspired' and write these three stories lately?

They're good.  See about publishing them, if you haven't.


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## Maldur (Jun 10, 2002)

Short, to the point, and utterly disturbing.

Very nice!

please tell us you have more


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## Wicht (Jun 11, 2002)

*The Turning of the Worm
By Jonathan McAnulty*

_“Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and happy the town at night whose wizards are all ashes.  For it is of old rumour that the soul of the devil-bought hastes not from his charnel clay, but fats and instructs the very worm that gnaws…” *The Necronomicon*_

The worm tunneled slowly through the decomposing brain, and as it did so awareness grew.  Whether it was the brain or the worm which was special it was hard to say, but, to those who observe such things, it was certain that the worm was growing ever more intelligent.

The _intelligence_ began with cognitive thought, a rarity among earthworms, even earthworms as large and resplendent as this one.  The worm for the first time in its life really noticed its surroundings.  It felt the coolness of the soil and tasted the flavor of the dirt.   It wiggled and it jiggled and it felt alive as it had never felt alive before.  “Peachy Keen!” thought the worm and then, with awe, the worm realized that it knew words!

Indeed words had began to spring full blown into its psyche and the worm trying to keep up with its own growing mental faculties began to give the proper names to things.  It named the dirt and then it named the root it had just brushed.  It named a stone and then curling up into itself for a moment it felt its own lubricating secretions and squished.  It named the feeling of squishing.

“Squish, squish, squish,” thought the worm to itself happily.  If it had possessed hands it would have clapped at its cleverness.  If it had possessed vocal cords it would have sang with glee.  But it possessed neither and so it squished again, just to be doing it.

The worm realized with a start that it did not have a name for itself.  This could not do and so it cast about in its head for a proper name.  “Wormius Rex,” it thought, and then discarded that grandiose title for the more suitable “Arthur,” which, if it had known, had been the name of the man whose brain it had just recently passed through.

Arthur the worm wiggled delightedly at its new name and went on for another five minutes just naming things.  Arthur stopped naming things only when he realized that he had begun to think in sentences.  He was streaming words together.  “This is language,” the worm thought proudly, “I am a master of grammar and communication!” and then just to prove to himself that he could, he composed a rhyme.  “The dirt cannot hurt!”  This was followed by, “The seed grows into a weed!”

Arthur was momentarily beside himself with delight.  But then, feeling the need for a bit more maturity about the whole thing he forced himself to stop and relax.  “Grammar is mere child’s play,” thought Arthur and decided he needed to challenge himself a bit more.  “I shall take up mathematics,” thought Arthur.  He began by doing simple arithmetic in his head and then followed this up with multiplication.  
“This is hot stuff,” thought Arthur to himself as he calculated pi out to 24 decimal places.  He ran through a host of Algebraic equations, proving them all to himself and then set to with geometry.  He followed this up with statistical analysis but soon found that he grew bored with math.

“Is this all there is to life,” thought Arthur.  “Numbers and Names?  There must be more.  There must be a reason, a purpose.  But what is that purpose?  This is a deep question for a small worm, I must give it thought.”  The worm, wiggling along, chewing on a bit of dirt just to have something to do, turned his full attention to philosophy.  He proved to himself that he did exist and that he was a worm.  He had already decided that mere knowledge for the sake of knowledge was not enough and so began to give consideration to the stoic philosophies.  He contemplated whether or not he would be happier without feelings and then gave equal consideration to the Epicurean school, deciding that perhaps it was better to eat dirt, drink dew and be happy.  This was followed by the serious consideration that there might actually be more to life than just this life and Arthur briefly considered whether he had a soul.  Perhaps the answer lay not in philosophy but in religion.  He cast about in his deepest most parts to decide whether he was good or evil.  

The worm decided on evil.  “I am after all a worm,” he thought rationally, “That which crawls and gnaws and waxes fat on the flesh of the dead.”  He wasn’t sure how he knew that but he knew he knew it and furthermore he decided he liked who and what he was.  

“I am a worm!  And sooner or later all must bow before me for even a king will pass through the belly of a worm!  There is none who can stand before me for I am power incarnate.”  

“I have discovered my philosophy…,” realized the worm, “Knowledge should be used!  It should be used to bring me ever greater and darker powers!”   Mentally, for he still had not the ability to speak, Arthur laughed evilly.  

Arthur reflected on his growing knowledge and realized that he knew quite a lot about certain arcane principles.  He knew the names of demons and devils.  He knew the angles by which to travel to other places.  He knew the rites that would bring up the dead.  He even began to have a faint understanding of where his knowledge came from and in a moment of pure genius realized that if he continued to feast on the brains of men he would gain knowledge and power unparalleled!  With a little patience he could, and would, muster forth dark energies, summon dread powers and then make a place for himself in the world!  “People shall tremble at Arthur as he crushes them!” thought the worm in a moment of maniacal egomania.  

But even as he began making plans for the domination of all life, the ground he crawled through trembled and he felt the earth move.  The earth fell away from about him and he cognitively saw for the first time the sky and the sun and knew the feel of the breeze for what it was.  But his excitement at the new experiences was short lived for it was then that he saw the giant, who, stooping down gathered him up with thick fingers.

For the first time Arthur the worm heard another sentient being speak and knew what the words meant.  

“Will you look at this one!  He’s huge!  C’mon, Dad, put him on the hook!”


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## Rune (Jun 11, 2002)

Wow.  It's like Douglas Adams writing Mythos stories.

_shudder_

...so good...


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## Wicht (Jun 11, 2002)

I wrote that last one, the basics anyway, way back in high school and though i don't remember the inspiration I suspect it was more Gary Larson then Douglas Adams 

but thanks Rune, glad you liked it


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## Rune (Jun 11, 2002)

I can see it, but the writing style has Adams all over it.


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## Wicht (Jun 12, 2002)

Well, I like Adams, so I won' quibble about being compared to him.  

And Adam's is definitely an influence in what I think of when I think of good comedic writings.  So you may be right Rune.

And now for another light hearted dark offering...


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## Wicht (Jun 12, 2002)

*Cthulhu Door to Door**
By Jonathan McAnulty*

Striding purposefully and exuding a palpable politeness, the two young men in pressed white shirts approached the front door of the ranch style suburban house.   The taller of the two looked quizzically at the other and, receiving a curt nod, proceeded to clutch the knocker.  He rapped twice, politely but firmly, against the door.   

As they waited for an answer they looked around patiently, absorbing the atmosphere of the neighborhood: the manicured lawns, the well-polished sports cars, the shaped hedges and the aura of those who live just a little beyond their means.  The taller one started to tap his fingers absently against the leather satchel he was holding until a quick look from the other caused him to stop.  A moment later, they both heard faint footsteps approaching the door.  As one they turned to face the door and began smiling broadly.  The taller one straightened his tie absentmindedly.

“Good Morning, Ma’am,” said the shorter of the two to the woman who opened the door and peered out. 

“Good morning,” said the woman.  She was a brunette, short and slim, dressed casually but smartly, the epitome of the suburban housewife.  As her eyes adjusted to the bright sun reflecting off of the perfectly white shirts, she looked them over, noting they had well cut hair, clean shaven faces and small red nametags pinned to the left pockets of their shirts.  “What can I do for you this morning?”

Again, the shorter of the two spoke.  “My name is Ted,” he said, indicating his nametag,  “And this is William.  We’re both from a local cult, The Eternal Order of Perpetual Noon, perhaps you have heard of us, and this morning we are going door to door, offering some chances for some prizes and also trying to tell people a little about who we are and what we do.”  His taller companion smiled even more broadly and nodded.   

“Oh,” said the woman brightly, “I’ve seen your commercials!  In fact I sent away just last month for that free tome you offered!”

“Very good!” exclaimed Ted, smiling even more broadly, “And did you get it?”

“Yes, I did,” said the woman with a nod, her face serious, “ But, you know, I couldn’t understand a word of it.  I don’t think it was in English.  And I don’t speak Spanish.”

“The Servey mix-up,” said Ted to William.  William nodded knowingly.  “There was a bit of a mix-up about a month ago,” explained Ted, “One of our mail-room workers went completely insane and mailed off Latin copies of the tome to a lot of those who responded to the spot on the television.”  

“Oh.  Latin.  I thought it was Spanish.  I knew it wasn’t English because I had never seen those words before.”
“If you are still interested,” said Ted brightly, “we can arrange for you to get an English translation.”

“That would be nice.  I really have been wanting to learn more about what you it is that you teach.”

“Well,” said William, speaking for the first time, “Perhaps if we can come in, we can tell you a little about who we are and what we do.”

“That would be nice.  My name is Ruth.  Come on in and just leave your shoes there.”

“Thank you,” said Ted, slipping out of his polished loafers, and as she led them through the front room and into a sun-filled kitchen, Ted explained, “Ruth, basically we are a small but sincere group of people dedicated to preparing ourselves for the end of the world.  Surely you have noticed all the violence filling the news lately.”

“Oh goodness yes,” said Ruth, “All those people over there acting like they don’t have any sense, just shooting each other is all.  And just yesterday I was talking to my sister and her son, my nephew, was in an accident on his motorcycle.  Some crazy just plowed right into him.  Would you all like some tea?”

“That would be nice,” said Ted, “The Eternal Order of Perpetual Noon firmly believes that the end is in fact swiftly approaching and that the only hope for individuals is complete service of those dark gods that plan on destroying life as we know it.”

“I see.  Yes that does make some sense.”

Ted nodded and continued, “The cult was founded by the followers of Daniel Ramis.  Have you heard of Mr Ramis?”

“No, I don’t think that I have” said Ruth as she poured out tea into some glasses.  The glasses were covered with large yellow flowers.  “Have a seat.”

“Mr. Ramis was the man who successfully predicted the 1982 Mass Sponge Migration of Hudson Bay,” said Ted as he sat.

“Amazing,” put in William earnestly.

Ted nodded at William and accepting a glass of tea from his hostess continued.  “It was a sign!  And Mr. Ramis has since that time been in frequent contact with a group of alien entities who have predicted the total and utter destruction of humanity in the not too distant future and he has devoutly dedicated his life to preparing his chosen followers for that eventuality.”

“A great man,” intejected William with a serious nod.  Then as Ruth handed him a glass, he smiled at her broadly and took a sip.

As Ruth sat down at the table across from the two young men, William reached into the satchel he carried and pulled out a pamphlet.

“This is a tract,” said Ted, “That we have been handing out door to door this morning.  It explains a little about how we were founded and describes in some detail about how the world is really going to end soon.  And if you look through it you will see that it also mentions some of the family activities that the cult is currently involved in.  We have a very active youth program and as you can imagine, we get together weekly for rituals and sacrifices to the dark gods, so there is a real strong sense of community amongst all the members.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ruth, nodding slightly as she looked over the bright illustrations of smiling, happy cult members.  

“Are you currently a member of a cult?” asked William.

“Oh, no!” said Ruth, adding ambiguously, “But we were both raised Methodist,” 

“Do you have children,” asked Ted.

“Yes! Two.  A boy and a girl.  They are both with their Dad this morning.”

“Our youth program is excellent!” said William excitedly, “My parents joined the Order of Perpetual Noon when I was ten and it has made such a difference in my life.  Close friends who would kill for you!  And so many activities.  Next Saturday, if you and your kids are interested, we’re sponsoring a teen sleep-in.”

“A teen sleep in?  And what would they do there?”

“Tons!” said Ted excitedly, “There’s going to be a motivational speaker. And some singing.  And there will be a swimming pool, some party games, volleyball, a midnight sacrifice, and right before dawn we are going to try to summon one of the children of the she-goat with a thousand young.”  

“That was so much fun as a kid!” said William.

“Are there…” began Ruth a little embarrassed.  The two young men waited politely for her to finish her question.

With a nervous laugh she finished, “…you know, orgies?’

“Oh, No!” said William.

“No!” said Ted, “That is such a common misconception!  You would not believe how many people ask us that.  But Mr. Ramis has taught for years that it is much more practical for our young people to practice total abstinence and remain virgins.”

“Absolutely,” said William.

“That way,” continued Ted explaining, “if the need arises, they can truly give themselves body and soul to the cause.”

“Ah,” said Ruth nodding.

“And we also have a hot dog roast at the beach coming up on Monday in honor of the dread lord Cthulhu,” mentioned William, “perhaps you and your husband might consider coming out to it.  It should be a lot of fun.”

“I will really think about it,” said Ruth earnestly.

“Very good,” said Ted, “It would be so great if you two could join.  I am afraid that when the end comes there are going to be a lot of people surprised by the fact that they are being eaten alive.  Oh, and we will see about that tome for you!  Did we mention, by the way, that we are also conducting a contest of sorts?”

“I remember you saying something about prizes,” said Ruth.

“Yes, we decided that some lucky person this morning was going to win a genuine leather bound copy of the Necronomicon, fully illustrated, with marginal notes and a handy center column cross reference.”

“That would be nice.”

“It is such a very nice copy of such an excellent tome!” said Ted, and then added with a little laugh, “Now mind you, there are some booby prizes as well, but if you are feeling lucky you can give it a try.”

“Oh, why not,” said Ruth smiling.

William pulled a jar filled with slips of paper from his satchel and offered it to Ruth who, winking at him, cheerfully reached in and pulled one out.  She looked at it and then showed it to Ted.  There was a little ink drawing of an ornamental knife.

“Ooo, bad luck!” said Ted, then added brightly, “Of course it could be worse, we had one woman this morning draw a Shoggoth.”

“That was really messy!” agreed William as he pulled a sacrificial dagger out of the satchel.  

“Oh dear,” said Ruth with a little grimace as she eyed the knife.

Ten minutes later Ted and William exited the house, William still rubbing his hands with a paper towel.

“It is such a beautiful day to be out,” said William as he took in the scenery.

“It sure is,” agreed Ted, “A fine day to be out sharing the message with folks.”  As he and William exited the gate they gave a friendly thumbs up to the two young men in pressed white shirts working the other side of the street.


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## Rune (Jun 12, 2002)

Quite disturbing!

I loved the Ghostbusters reference, by the way!


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## Wicht (Jun 12, 2002)

Rune said:
			
		

> *I loved the Ghostbusters reference, by the way! *




Why thank you.  I liked that myself.  There are actually two references, though the second is just a compilation of the Ghostbuster writers/actors to form the name Daniel Ramis.


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## Rune (Jun 12, 2002)

I actually just sort of assumed that was part of the same reference, since they came so close together.  I did notice, though.  Nice touch


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## Twinswords (Jun 13, 2002)

Thank you for ruining my sleep for the next couple of days.
The stories are very good.

Twinswords


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## Wicht (Jun 13, 2002)

Twinswords said:
			
		

> *Thank you for ruining my sleep for the next couple of days.
> *




Sleep is over rated anyways 

Glad you enjoyed them.


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## 333 Dave (Jun 13, 2002)

Daniel Ramis? And Harold Akroyd eh?


Egon: "We witnessed the great sponge migration of blah blah blah."
Peter: "They moved a foot Egon!"

Or was it Ray that said the first line? Arg, its been a long time...


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## Wicht (Jun 13, 2002)

It was Ray.


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## Rune (Jun 13, 2002)

Ya know, I thought it was Egon, too, until I thought about it some.  Go figure.


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