Monday, 31 August 2015

In Deep - 5: Darkness



Getting the cylinder and the laptop out into the car without either being affected by the inclement weather was a laborious undertaking; however, with a backpack and a roll of bubble-wrap, I managed to get it done. I stowed the brain-jar in the footwell behind the front seats and trailed the cable up and over to the passenger side seat. Pulling the computer out of the backpack, I cracked it open and the screen flared to life, displaying the now slightly creepy electronic features of Rodney Parker. While he became adjusted to the new surroundings, I fiddled with the rear-view mirror.

‘Watcha doin, Benson?’ he asked.

I sat back to let him see the rubber squid now dangling from the mirror. I gave it a flick then punched the cigarette lighter, tossing my sodden smoke out into the wet night.

‘Is that one of my lures?’ buzzed the tinny voice.

‘Yep,’ I answered, lighting a new cigarette, ‘I’ve been meaning to come out and get one of these for ages.’

‘But...!’ I cut Rodney off before he got on a roll.

‘Yeah, buddy,’ I said ‘I know: I owe you $12.95. Consider me in debt.’

I gunned the car into life and cranked the handbrake off. Rolling the wheel, I moved through the gears and backed the car through a tight circle. The windscreen wipers flapped wet atmosphere off the glass as we faced into a homewards direction. I crunched a few more gears.

Off to one side, the brick chimney that backed Rodney’s shack exploded into rubble. A piece of brickwork bounced off my hood.

‘Woah!’ I cried. ‘What the Hell was that?’

‘What was what?’ yelled Rodney.

I rolled down my window and stared out through all of the meteorology: a huge shadow moved over Rodney’s shack. Suddenly, there was a screaming of corrugated metal: the shack crumpled like yesterday’s cigarette packet and fell into the swamp with a sad spray of electronic sparks. Where it had once stood was an immense darkness that surged forward towards us like a black, tentacular wave.

‘Gotta go!’

I slammed the car into top gear and planted my foot with emphasis. The engine complained as the wheels fishtailed in the muddy lane. We gained traction as several heavy buffets belaboured the rear window. As we sped out into the night and away from the damp depression, a hideous and bestial howl tore apart the rainy night.

I tapped the rear view mirror and saw teeth fading into the distance.

‘Right,’ I said, ‘time to get back into the city limits...’

I topped the levee and gunned the motor back towards home...


To Be Continued...

Saturday, 29 August 2015

In Deep - 4: Rodney


Of course, I had no intention of cooling my heels until the following morning. Watching the stranger tapping the map in the Gilman House lobby rang a few undersea bells in the octopus’s garden of my brain, so I hot-footed it over to where I parked my car and roared off into the night. My tyres squelched on the blacktop as I slammed through the gears on the column shift, while the wipers slapped ineffectually at the rain blattering off the windshield. In no time I had crossed the Manuxet River falls and was heading to the salt marshes outside of town.

This is an unsavoury-looking stretch of territory at the best of times, but it forms a useful kind of bulwark against the inquisitive prying of Outsiders. The landscape, once you’re up above the falls, is flat, boggy and dangerous clear almost to Newburyport, by which point it’s completely dried out. Meanwhile, it’s a maze of winding creeks, streams and pools that drain eventually at the coast north of Innsmouth. Dead white grass, dense thickets of thornbush and the occasional struggling tree are the only things to see. If not for the main road, built upon its own steadfast levee, no-one would ever make it into Innsmouth at all. That being said, local knowledge in this kind of landscape is everything, and I had more than enough of that to see me through.

About four miles out of town, there’s a barely highlighted turn-off that leads to a dirt trail along a creek; this in turn takes you to a gate, beyond which is a tumble-down shed of corrugated iron with a big old chimney rising up behind it. Painted on the side of this ruin, in flaking letters, are the words “Rodney’s Rubber Worx! (It Does!)”.

Rodney Parker moved to Innsmouth about three decades ago. A washed-up movie technician and special-effects artist, he had heard that the folk around here were, shall we say, of a “different aesthetic”. He came and he marvelled, and set up a small factory which made rubber Halloween masks, some of them truly terrifying, based on sculpts and casts which he took of the locals. Unfortunately, success was Rodney’s worst enemy: everything he made on the masks, he inhaled through his bong and so he missed out on many opportunities to expand his enterprise. Nowadays, he does a small mail-order business with very realistic rubber squid lures for open-sea fishing, but his main efforts lie in mending inflatable rafts, tyres and wetsuits. I hauled on my handbrake and looked up at the cartoon-y sign on the wall, ill-lit by a hooded bulb rocking in the wind and rain. In and of itself, this meant little as to whether Rodney would be at home or not, but I took it as a good omen.

Outside the car, the sounding of dreary rain pelting the landscape prickled all around in the moody silence. The car door slammed shut with a thunk and I squelched through the gate and over to the shack. As I got closer, the noise of water gurgling in the gutters and downspouts made a ruckus like a Temple meeting in full swing and I had a sudden flash of the three intertwined crescent moons that comprised the Order’s emblem. For some reason, I visualised it in sparkling silver and it seemed to mean something significant to imagine it that way... but then I was at Rodney’s factory door and pounding for admittance.

No answer came the stern reply. I tried the handle and the door opened up like a rummy offered a pint of bourbon. There were no lights and no noise inside.

Stepping through into the darkness, the sound of wind and rain outside became muted, although the drops panging off the corrugated roof were sharper in their delivery. The hovering light from outside waved through the flyspecked and grimy windows: as it beamed in, it illuminated rows of severed heads hanging from the wall. After my initial start, I realised this was the wall display of Rodney’s Halloween masks. There were the usual run of bygone presidents, film monsters and movie stars, but also masks that bore a distinct likeness to some of my high school buddies. A few were scattered around the floor, as if someone had had a hurried browse through the stock on offer.

A bright flash of light cut short my poking about.

‘Don’t make a move!’ barked a voice made tinny by electronic transmission. ‘I’ve got cameras wired throughout this joint and – who knows? – maybe some other surprises as well. Put your hands up and turn around slowly.’

I complied with this request and, as I pivoted slowly, I saw that the light was coming from a laptop screen, angled to face into the room. Rodney’s face peered out into the darkness, a grainy and garishly-coloured image. He squinted at me.

‘Benson? Is that you?’ he said.

‘A very good copy if it isn’t,’ I replied. ‘Can I drop the pose?’

‘Sure, sure buddy,’ Rodney’s menacing tone fell away at once. ‘Hey! Long time, no see!’

‘What’s with the hi-tech security, Rodney? You been having trouble with burglars?’

‘Naw,’ he said, ‘only aliens.’

I paused in the middle of lighting my cigarette. ‘Aliens? You serious?’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘just the other night there were these big lights outside in the swamp and then this weird-lookin’ critter drifted on down and said they were going to give me the whole abduction treatment, probes an’ all.’

‘Seriously?’

‘No joke!’ he grinned, ‘I said yeah baby – sign me up!’

As Rodney started to go into details, I stepped forward and looked at the laptop. It was plugged in to the wall as per usual, but there was a lumpy, odd-looking cable that emerged from a USB port and headed towards a gunmetal grey cylinder standing on the bench to one side.

‘...And the hallucinations! Man, what a rush!’ Rodney’s enthusiasm rolled onwards.

I cut him off. ‘So Rodney, if you’re broadcasting through the computer here, where are you transmitting from? The mother ship?’

‘No,’ he replied, ‘the alien said that he was going to put my body into a state of suspended hibernation to protect it while my mind was elsewhere. He said he’d be back in a few days to reverse the process.’

‘Uh-huh,’ I said, ‘and where did he do this exactly?’

‘In the back office, I think,’ he said.

I pushed open the door to the office and stuck my head inside. Rodney was sitting in there on a short stool. The top of his head had been chopped off roughly like a boiled egg. The contents had been scooped out taking his eyeballs along with them, leaving his eyeholes and eyebrows jaunting up like those little triangular hangers that Franklin Mint plates are supposed to be hooked up by. His jaw hung slackly beneath the mess. I backed out slowly and turned around the cylinder next to the laptop: through a yellowish square of glass on the back, I could see Rodney’s brain slopping around in some thick liquid. I patted the metallic container and walked over to the display of masks.

The hooks from which the rubber heads hung were mostly full. I picked up the masks from the floor and stuck them on empty hooks until I ran out of latex faces. Two hooks remained empty.

‘Tell me Rodney, did you ever make masks of Roy Orbison or Lionel Ritchie?’

‘Sure,’ Rodney enthused, ‘The Orbison is very popular amongst a certain crowd, but the Ritchie only sells when I run out of Michael Jacksons...’

‘Can you think of a reason why your alien friend might have wanted to take one of each?’

‘No,’ mused Rodney, ‘we didn’t talk about masks at all.’

‘Well, it looks like he’s taken ‘em’ I said. There was silence.

‘That bastard!’ spat Rodney’s tinny voice, ‘he owes me $69.95!’



To Be Continued...

Monday, 24 August 2015

In Deep - 3: The Stranger


Outside in the lobby, the arrow on the dial above the elevator finished its descent from 6 to 1. With a tinny little ding, the doors slid open and the lift’s sole occupant tiptoed out onto the balding carpet. It took no detective skill at all to work out that this was the stranger that had got everyone so riled. I lit up a cigarette and watched him slide by.

The first thing I noticed about him was that he seemed top-heavy, like a greyhound walking on its hind legs, all chest and spindles. He moved strangely, as if he was a helium-filled balloon, counterweighted just enough to keep him hovering at floor level: his expensive shoes seemed necessary only to push him along the mouldering pile. He was wearing a heavy coat over a suit with a cravat, and his hair was the definition of bouffant: like 1980s Lionel Ritchie on overdrive. He gazed at the world through heavily-smoked lenses that made me think of Roy Orbison.

As I watched, he wafted over to the side of the foyer where a display of brochures wilted while awaiting the unlikely opportunity to inform tourists. Next to this was a faded map of the town and the stranger busied himself examining it. I noticed that he kept his fingertips nested together and his hands hovered permanently under his chin like a praying mantis: they moved out deliberately a few times to dab at the map, checking certain locales. I made a long-distance note to check those positions on the chart once he was done. Next, the fellow bustled through the leaflets, selecting and disregarding them according to some private agenda. I slid up alongside him.

‘I wouldn’t trust the information in these,’ I said, ‘they’re all pretty much out of date.’

He swivelled around to face me, like he was mounted on gimbals. His head cocked bird-like to one side taking me in.

‘What you want,’ I continued, ‘is more of a local guide, instead of a dusty piece of paper.’ I smiled encouragingly, waving away the cigarette smoke.

The head twitched again looking at the brochures then darted back at me. ‘I - was wondering if this town had a - museum?’ he said.

His voice was very strange, like it was being propelled by lungfuls of fluid; but I know how that usually sounds and this was different, more high-pitched and regular, with a weird buzzing overtone. As well, I could have sworn that his head lit up in discrete patches, like bits of it were bioluminescent inside... I blinked my eyes and put that down to the whiskey I’d been knocking back.

‘Museum? Sure,’ I said shaking my head to clear it a little, ‘but it’s closed after hours. I could pick you up first thing tomorrow and show you where it is, if you’d like? It’s a little tricky to find...’

The little guy scanned the pamphlet rack once more, then nodded his assent. I grinned around my cigarette and extended my hand to grab his and shake it.

‘Swell,’ I said, ‘it’s a date. ‘Name’s Benson Waite; I’ll see you here at 9.00am.’

He recovered his hand quickly, obviously not enjoying the sudden intimacy of a handshake. I could see why too: holding his paw was like grabbing a soft leather pouch with a couple of straight-edge rulers inside. He paddled his two-tone shoes and tip-toed back to the lift, pausing a couple of times to stare back at me. I gave him a little wave as he disappeared inside and slid away upwards to his room.

I stared at my hand. Curiouser and curiouser, I thought...

To Be Continued...


Sunday, 23 August 2015

In Deep - 2: Remora


The walk to the Gilman House wasn’t far. Along the way I spotted a few groups of kids huddling out of the rain under closed store entrances: all hoodies and visible resentment. At least in my day we took pride in our appearance: yeah, we were all into the same issues with booze and glue and petrol sniffing, and even harder drugs, but at least we kept a lid on it.

There’s a thing about Innsmouth that most folks coming here for the first time don’t get – we’re real conservative. The Feds took us down: they invaded our property, burned our houses, imprisoned our people and dynamited our sacred sites. They violated about a dozen of our Constitutional rights and told us to suck it up. We came back humbled; we came back beaten. Nowadays, if a government agency came through here and vetted us, we’d stand up as a beacon of what it means to be American. There are folks living here now who don’t know what it means to be anything else: no-one mows their lawn on a Sunday morning; no-one paints their mailbox a garish colour. Okay: no-one mows lawns here, or paints anything; but if it happened, the community would sort it out. We’re the kind of folks who know that a calm surface can hide a multitude of deep, dark things...

I was born in the camps. I grew up saying “hey Joe – you got gum?” to the guards and I ran all over the compound as a gofer for whoever wanted me. I remembered old man Gilman, back when he used to darken his thinning hair with boot polish, when he was everybody’s ticket back to Innsmouth and a normal way of life. Back then, I don’t think the authorities realised how long-lived we were; but those of us in the know knew who was who and what was what.

I stood outside the crumbling facade of the Gilman House and straightened my hat: this was the site of my high school prom; the place where my family celebrated my 21st birthday; I took Charlene here five days after Doreen told me we were through... I shook my head and pushed open the grandiose glass doors. The foyer was all hard tiles, cane chairs, potted ferns, and a dank whiff of rising damp, just as I remembered it. I fronted up to the Reception Desk and hailed the wage-slave.

‘Hi,’ I said, ‘Winston Gilman says there’s a stranger staying at the hotel – can you give me any particulars?’

The bellhop took a step back and ogled me through his thick lenses: beneath his pill-box hat he looked like a parody of a hotel employee. Like something from a Coen Bros. movie.

‘And you are?’ he said.

‘...Someone in the employ of Winston Gilman,’ I offered. ‘Feel free to confirm that telephonically.’

Coen Bros. chose to do as instructed. In short order, I was shown the guest register.

Our visitor was listed there as “John Smith – Travelling”, so I slammed the book shut, blowing a wave of dust through the air, and slid it back across the desk.

‘Watch it, man,’ complained the wage slave, ‘I got allergies.’

I tipped my hat and wandered away to the Lounge.

Inside, Sherman Sargent was polishing glasses behind the bar, so I bellied up and got him to put the crystal to other uses.

‘You stayin’ fer the supper show?’ he burbled.

‘Depends,’ I said. ‘What’s for supper?

He flashed me a grin that was pure South Pacific; deep south, if you know what I mean.

‘Remora DeLancey,’ he drooled, ‘new singer. Boy! She hits all the right notes! Comin’ on now.’

I turned around to face the stage. The brushes slithered over the snare drum and the double bass throbbed its despair. Around the room a hush descended among the spectators like blood had hit the water.

The close spot flashed on and lit up the singer standing there as if she’d just materialised from space. She wore a tight, black-sequined dress that clung everywhere it was meant to and her arms writhed in long, matching gloves. Her dark hair was piled high in an elaborate coiffure and silver flashed at her pale ears and throat. Her long legs were encased tightly by the shimmering fabric which spilled out around her ankles onto the stage. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard “The Man That Got Away” but after Remora’s performance I wouldn’t need to hear it again.

Enthusiastic applause erupted as she finished. She blew a few kisses to the fans and then shimmered off the stage towards the bar. When she moved it wasn’t anything like walking; more like she just glided across the parquetry. As she approached, the extravagant chignon uncoiled and lay itself flat in a long ropey fall to the small of her back. At this range, I could tell that those sequins were actually scales.

She gave Sherm’ the sign to pour.

‘Name’s Remora’ she said after downing the drink and signalling for another.

‘So I’ve been told,’ I answered and offered Sherm’ the same sign-language.

She gave me a slow-burning sideways look and rolled around against the bar, leaning back on her elbows to survey the room.

‘Lotta woo-woo comin’ outta that dress, lady,’ I observed.

Her eyes slid sideways again and she flashed a pointed smile. ‘Guess I’m having the desired effect then.’

‘Not hardly,’ I said, sending my drink to Davy Jones’s Locker, ‘titties don’t cut much ice where we’re going.’

She hissed like a snake with a sore head and slammed her empty shot glass on the bartop. Sherman leapt to fill the void. She moved close and purred in my ear: ‘You workin’, shamus?’

I signalled Sherm’ for a re-fill. ‘Ah-yup,’ I said, ‘for the moment.’

The black claw on her scaly hand clinked on the rim of my glass and kept me from getting around my dinner. ‘You always drink when you’re working?’ she purred.

I carefully unhooked my whiskey and turned to face her. ‘I said I’m workin’; I didn’t say I ain’t drinkin’.’

She smiled and let her gaze slither across the expanse of my shirtfront.

‘Hmmm,’ she smiled, ‘A man after my own heart. Maybe I’ll see you around then?’

‘Maybe,’ I said, and watched her slide back onto the stage, her hair coiling itself back into its elaborate styling. I ran a finger around the inside of my empty shot glass and wondered how it was she knew so much about me...


To Be Continued...

In Deep - 1: Doreen


One thing’s for certain in this life: if something’s gonna come up out of the Deep Blue and bite you on the ass, you won’t see it coming. This includes death and taxes – unless you’ve got a really good accountant. But that’s the thing about sucker punches: they catch you unawares. I know this from long experience, and the guy who was throwing this one had a wide net.

I was sitting and minding my own business during Bingo Nite at the Esoteric Order of Dagon Community Hall, eating seaweed crackers and taking the odd sly pull from my flask. Around me, the regular players – Pelagic Knights of Y’ha-nthlei, all – were smacking their cards with their bingo dabbers and croaking dire portents about the state of the world today. I wasn’t really playing Bingo; I was eyeing off Doreen Hepplethwaite’s muffin top, wobbling at the top of her sarong dress as she spun the wire cage with the balls in it. She doesn’t know her own strength, so it takes ages for the cage to stop rolling; but every time she dives in for the coloured ball with her meaty hands, and manages to extract it delicately with her needle claws, it makes my heart leap up into my throat.

It was Fruit Night. On Fruit Night, every player got a free serve of fruit cup and Doreen was in her Carmen Miranda outfit, the sarong dress and cropped bolero top, with a pineapple on her turbaned head. Noodle Nights she wore the cheong-sam and the tall black wig with chopsticks; the mini-dress and blonde beehive was for 60s Night. Over the past few years, her wigs had begun to get taller and taller, to accommodate the dorsal fin sprouting from her crown. She’d been a scrawny little thing when we left high school; since then she’d bloomed into a century’s worth of man dreams.

I splashed some hooch into my fruit cup and tuned in to what old Abner Gilman was saying at the table nearby. He had a head like a Nagasaki explosion, like he was wearing a tall, glass collar that forced his jowls up under his ears. His bulbous eyes were exaggerated by his beer-bottle-bottom glasses and the whole effect was crowned by his lodge fez with its twitching tassel. Abner was one of the first returnees after 1928 and the horror that had descended upon the town; the Change was a long time coming with him, but it would be only a few years before he took the plunge and left us. As far as Innsmouth was concerned, Abner was as close to royalty as it gets.

‘We can’t have strangers runnin’ about the place,’ he was saying; ‘it leads ter trouble.’

A round of croaky agreements from his colleagues met this statement, wall-eyes unblinking, flabby lips pouting and ill-functioning paws groping for dessert spoons. Barney Marsh, who was ready to disappear any day now, uttered several uncontrolled yawps before descending once more into a sullen heap.

Stan Eliot, he of the negative forehead and absent chin, was the only dissenting voice. ‘Aw, he’s just some kinda turrist, fer shure. No need to git all antsy about ‘im...’

Abner looked just about to choke on his diced peaches. ‘Mebbe you’ve fergotten the havoc that that Olmstead sprat caused back in ‘27’, he rattled, ‘but I haven’t – I was in the camps, fer chrissakes!’ For emphasis, he pulled up his sleeve to display the watery blue tattoo on his forearm.

‘Easy, Abner,’ said Stanley, lifting his rubbery hands, ‘I ain’t sayin’ we should ignore him. I’m jist sayin’ that we don’t wanna go off half-wound up. Could be sumpin; could be not, ‘sall I’m sayin’...’

‘Well!’ huffed Abner, and stomped his walking stick on the floor.

At that point the door opened and a black shadow shambled in from the dark and stormy night outside. He shook his umbrella and folded it up, then dragged his hand through his wet locks: his rheumy, pale blue popeyes blinked in the sudden light. There was only one guy in town who had those suave, Peter Lorre looks: Winston Gilman.

I popped a seaweed cracker in my mouth and chomped down hard. Winston! In high school I may have been the quarterback but he was captain of the Swim Team. He had dames hanging off his arm everywhere he went: his grampaw was pure Innsmouth gold; his family owned the Gilman House. He had a silver fishhook in his mouth when he was spawned and he let everyone know about it. For awhile we were enemies: Doreen, back in the day, could’ve given that Farrah-Fawcett chick in the poster a run for her money, and Winston thought he was entitled to have her in his stable. But then he became manager of the Gilman House, started the lounge acts and left high school behind. He upgraded to a shark pool of a grander stature.

‘That you Benson?’ I tried to ignore the comment, hunching into my trenchcoat. A heavy hand dropped onto my shoulder.

‘Sure it is,’ Winston smarmed. ‘You entertaining old memories? Imagining what might’ve been?’

‘Just trying to snag me a 10-pound turkey, Winston’ I answered turning to look at him, ‘what brings you to this shindig?’

He stood there picking his gloves off his webbed fingers and ogling Doreen’s curves. ‘Just here to take Grampaw home, Benson,’ he said; ‘man, she’s a hunk o’ woman...’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I said; ‘I’m just here for the fruit cup...’

‘Say,’ he went on, ‘I could use your help – if you’re not otherwise engaged?’

‘I’m not working at the moment, if that’s what you’re asking...’

‘Excellent!’ Winston dragged out a chair and sat down slapping his gloves on his thigh. ‘You heard there’s a stranger in town?’

‘I heard...’

‘He’s staying at the Hotel. I need to know why. ‘Think you can dig up some information about him?’

I pulled out my flask and slowly unscrewed the top. ‘That depends,’ I said, ‘on who he is, where he’s come from, and what he’s done.’

Winston narrowed his china blue eyes. ‘He’s registered at the front desk. Says he’s gonna be here a few days. I don’t wanna ‘nother anthropologist sniffin’ around for potential thesis material, you understand?’

‘Sure,’ I said, ‘you want him rode out of town on a rail if he is?’

‘No,’ said Winston, ‘you leave that kind of thing to me. I just want to know who he is for now.’ He stood up and patted my shoulder.

‘She used to call you her “Big Palooka”, yes?’

I chugged hard at my flask. ‘There was a time...’ I said.

His flappy hand patted my shoulder. ‘She could always spot quality,’ he said, then he was all “hey Grampaw! What you doin’ out so late...?” and I tuned out.

I stood up and checked my Bingo form: I was so far from winning that I couldn’t see the advertising. I watched as Doreen swatted the cage of ping-pong balls, then made my exit...


To Be Continued...

Monday, 17 August 2015

Review: "Horns"


AJA, Alexandre, Dir., “Horns”, Red Granite/Mandalay Pictures, 2014.


Awhile ago, I wrote a review of the book upon which this film is based and blithely commented that I would be posting a summation of the movie once it came out. Well, it’s been quite a few months since the movie was released and it’s just now, after I found the DVD marked down to peanuts at the local supermarket, that I’m getting around - not only to seeing it - but to sharing my thoughts about it. Not that I expect anyone’s been hanging out for my opinions...

I quite like Joe Hill’s stuff. I thought this book would have been better as a short story, but it wasn’t a total disaster – it just felt a little bit padded in places. Not near as bad as Heart-Shaped Box, but not as finished as NOS4R2. My instincts before watching the film were that the concept would work excellently as a movie and in that sense, I wasn’t wrong. It’s just that, when a director gets hold of someone else’s material, they like to leave their fingerprints all over it. And not necessarily in a good way.

Fortunately, the first thing that director Alexandre Aja excised from the concept were all the bad puns and sly in-jokes which tend to pepper all of Joe Hill’s material, whenever it starts to feel like he’s getting a little bored – no “Devil in a Blue Dress” riffs in this iteration. As well, the heavenly iconography, which was a little too much ‘in your face’ in the book, is scaled right back – for instance, in the book it’s pointed out to the reader that Ig Perrish’s car is a Gremlin; in the film, either you can spot that make of vehicle, or you can’t: it doesn’t make a difference. This being said, Aja makes certain judgement calls about Ig’s status as a human being and turns him into an angel at one point, which was just a little too far-fetched. Not what Hill intended; not what the movie needed.

Other things to go were the fact that fire cures Ig of all damage: in the movie, it just makes him more horrific-looking. The snakes are still involved and Aja takes care of them where Hill didn’t – no reptilian deaths in this flick, which, for my money, was a good change from the source material.

In the movie, Ig doesn’t put his grandmother on the top of a hill in her wheelchair and release the brake; the town priest is somehow immune to most of Ig’s capabilities; and Lee Torneau is somehow oblivious to the change in his former best friend - until he loses his protective crucifix. Most of these elements have been trimmed to bring the movie under time-limits, but they also serve to slightly modify Hill’s vision. Purists will be a little upset at these modifications: it’s nowhere near the kind of manhandling that “League of Extraordinary Gentlemen” was put through, but it is – somewhat – noticeable. The scene with the doughnuts has survived intact, you’ll be pleased to know.

What Aja focuses on, and what holds the viewers’ attention is the romance which is at the heart of the film. I was not convinced that Daniel Radcliffe was the best choice for Ig Perrish, but, as it turns out, he does a very creditable job. The chemistry he shares with Juno Temple as Merrin is very strong and creates a solid centre for the action. But this story is not just a romance film: there’s a murder mystery and a bunch of black comedy all bound together with some rather full-on body horror as well. All of these facets are given their moment to shine, along with a variety of excellent incidents – mostly taken from the novel – which help to underscore the nightmare in which the lead character finds himself: the point where Ig’s mum tells him that she wishes he would “go away so that she can be happy again”, is particularly wounding. Sometimes you get to hear stuff that you’d rather not when your superpower is to learn everyone’s darkest desires...

One thing the film does very well is to ground the story in a real-world environment. Art direction, special effects, make-up and costuming have all rigorously removed or toned-down the garish aspects of the novel and have created a seamless whole. In the book, Ig’s horns are cartoon-y and glowing; in the film they’re more animalistic and ‘natural-looking’. The cold, logging-community backdrop to the action works very well too, removing some artificiality that was present in Hill’s view of the local community. The in-jokes and wordplay that pepper the novel are less garish when they’re just things that you may notice – or not - in passing: because Hill drags them into the spotlight so often in the book version, they get old fairly quickly. What were jaw-grinding puns in one iteration have become “easter eggs” in another, and that’s for the best.

Final analysis? Hard to say. The movie takes out all the rough edges that Hill should’ve smoothed over before going to print; however, the simplistic streamlining of the film’s morality (and the visual depictions thereof) are not welcome. I had heard that Radcliffe’s American accent was patchy, but nothing popped out to alarm me (and neither did that of any of the rest of the cast, most of which seemed to be British). In short, the film loses out because it can’t be as complex as the source material; it wins because it keeps its focus, which is what Hill should have done. It’s a solid romp and its heart is in the right place (probably in an appropriately-formed box).

Four tentacled horrors.

Friday, 14 August 2015

Another Mythos Picture Book...


Whatley, Bruce (illus.) & Rosie Smith, "Whatley's Quest", Angus & Robertson/HarperCollins Publishers, Pymble, NSW, Australia, 1994.

Quarto; hardcover with illustrated boards and decorated endpapers; unpaginated (50pp.), with many full-colour illustrations. Near fine in like dustwrapper.

More Mythos strangeness from the kid’s department at work.

I know the name is spelt slightly differently from the Dunwich Whateleys, but it’s pretty darn close. And this Whatley is a wizard too, just like old Noah! And the page for the letter “O” features a pretty Ominous-looking Octopus. Who knows what sanity-blasting secrets are being disseminated by means of this cartoon-y puzzle book?

Those Whateleys: ya gotta watch ‘em!

Thursday, 13 August 2015

Roman Era Tomes...

The following is a list of magical texts – by no means exhaustive – which date from the period of the Roman Empire. These works are of use to those embroiled upon Cthulhu Invictus campaigns, but may also be of interest to Investigators in any of the other canon periods of Mythos adventuring.

Avesta


The sacred scrolls of the Zoroastrians, the Avesta contains specifics of the Persian gods and their worship. Although this work was damaged when Alexander the Great sacked Persepolis, rumours speak of a second, pristine copy somewhere in the Parthian Empire. The book is comprised of seven sections: the Yasna, which contains the sacred liturgy and hymns of Zoroaster; the Visperad, which supplements the Yasna; the Vendidad, which lists a variety of evil spirits and ways to defeat them, including spells to fight disease and rituals to cleanse everything from dead bodies to the stars in the sky; the Yashts, which include hymns dedicated to individual deities; the Siroza, which details 30 different deities; the Khordeh Avesta, which serves as a book of prayers; and the Fragments, which cover material not included in any other section of the Avesta.

Avestan; Zoroaster; c. 1400BCE; Sanity Loss 1D8/1D12; Cthulhu Mythos +10 percentiles; Occult +15 percentiles; Medicine +15 percentiles; average 84 weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: Any the Keeper desires, including 1D8 of the following: Augury; Baneful Dust of Hermes Trismegistus; Bind Enemy; Cast Out Devil; Create Bad-Corpse Dust; Curse of Darkness; Detect Enchantment; Dust of Suleiman; Find Gate; Identify Spirit; Imprison Mind; Powder of ibn-Ghazi; Unmask Demon; View Gate; Voorish Sign; Warding; Warding the Eye.

Book of Apophis

These are papyrus scrolls which provide instructions for fighting Apep, including a complete list of Apep’s secret names. Its chapters include “Spitting Upon Apep”, “Defiling Apep with the Left Foot”, “Taking a Lance to Smite Apep”, “Fettering Apep”, “Taking a Knife to Smite Apep”, and “Putting Fire Upon Apep”. Priests at the temple of Amen-Ra in Thebes perform these rites daily on wax models and drawings of Apep as a form of sympathetic magic.

Egyptian, in hieroglyphics; author(s) unknown; c. 2,000BCE; Sanity Loss: 1D6/1D10; Cthulhu Mythos +4 percentiles; Occult +8 percentiles; average 30 weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: “Banish Apep”

*****

Apep – Great Old One


The Book of Apophis warns of Apep, the “Eater of Souls”, who waits in the underworld beneath the western mountain Bakhu. The living; the dead; even gods: Apep hungers for them all. A serpentine beast more than 16 yards in length with a head made of flint, he blocks the underworld river with his coils, trapping those who travel upon it and hypnotizing them with his gaze. Then, while they stand still as statues, he devours them.

Those who resist Apep’s gaze find themselves fighting not only the Eater of Souls, but the earth and sky as well. The mountain quakes at Apep’s command, dropping boulders upon them, and the ground cracks and splits beneath their feet. Thunderstorms roll across the sky, turning the ground into an impassable mire if they try to run. Even those warriors who bested Apep have struggled in vain; the next day the great serpent rises again, hungry and waiting beneath Bakhu.

Although Apep’s cult is small, Egyptians consider it a grave threat. While the Book of Apophis provides details about fighting Apep, including spells and rituals to banish him, another unnamed book tells how to summon him from his underground lair. Little more is known about the ritual for summoning Apep, except a warning in the Book of Apophis about “when the moon blocks the sun and day turns to night”. To date, Apep’s cult hasn’t found the book to summon him, but their members scour the known world for any trace of it. If they ever find it, the Egyptians know they will call forth Apep and doom all humanity.

Hypnotize Attack: If Apep succeeds in a POW vs. POW roll on the Resistance Table, the victim is stunned for 1D4 rounds.

“The Eater of Souls”
char.
value
char.
value
char.
value
STR
56
POW
30
Move
18
CON
60
DEX
22
HP
64
SIZ
67
APP
n/a
Magic Points
30
INT
20
EDU
n/a
SAN
n/a
Damage Bonus: 7D6
Weapon:       Bite 53%, 2D6+db
Armour:        Apep is immune to all non-magical attacks
Spells             Control Weather, plus any others which the Keeper desires
SAN Loss       It costs 1D12/1D20 SAN to see Apep

*****

The Chuma Scrolls


This sheaf of five scrolls contains information about the cult of Yibb-Tstll (known as “Chuma” to the sub-Saharan tribes). It contains information about contacting and summoning the god, his blood, and nightgaunts.

Egyptian, in Hieratic; translated by unknown scribes from a sub-Saharan original; c. 1800BCE. Sanity Loss 1D6/2D6; Cthulhu Mythos +8 percentiles; average 8 weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: “Awaken Chuma” (Summon Yibb Tstll), “Call the Black Blood” (Black Blood), “Summon Child of Chuma” (Summon/Bind Nightgaunt), and any others the Keeper desires.

G’harne Fragments

According to the G’harne Fragments, The Chthonians, along with their leader Shudde M’ell, come from a distant planet named Urakhu. In ancient times, a group of sorcerers associated themselves with the worship of these beings and called their circle the “Followers of Urakhu”. These evil magi based themselves in the lost city of Irem (or Iram), which was quite well documented during the Roman period, and tyrannised the local populace with their activities.

Copies of the ‘Fragments which this cult uses, are based upon transcriptions devised by an ancient shaman named Ashod, who directed his followers to the locale where they built the city of Iram. In the process, they drove out a civilisation of reptilian humanoids which retreated beneath the dunes and left the wizards to their own devices. During the height of the Roman Civilisation, Iram was ruled by a Grand wizard named Shaddad, until he overstepped his bounds and doomed his empire forever.

One Follower of Urakhu named Dabir, feared that the oral rendition of the G’harne Fragments originally created by Ashod would be lost, so he captured an Assyrian scribe and forced him to transcribe the work as Dabir read it aloud to him. The resulting work consists of three heavily-damaged scrolls, stored in the library of Iram. When Iram (or Irem) is destroyed, it’s most likely that, so too, are these scrolls.

Assyrian, in cuneiform; transcribed by an unknown Assyrian prisoner from an Arabian translation; c. 980BCE; Sanity Loss 1D6/1D10; Cthulhu Mythos +10 percentiles; average 12 weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: “Converse with the Gods of the Earth” (Contact Chthonian); “Speak with a Genius of the Air” (Contact Elder Thing); “Address the King of the Earth Spirits” (Contact Shudde M’ell), “A Barrier of the Earth’s Blood” (Red Sign of Shudde M’ell).

The Writings of Tacitus



"Inde consilium mihi ... tradere ... sine ira et studio, quorum causas procul habeo."

(“My purpose is to relate ... without either anger or zeal, motives from which I am far removed.”)

-Tacitus

If Herodotus is often referred to as the “Father of History”, then Tacitus can be said to be the “Father of Historiography” (although he does owe a debt to Sallust who came before him). He is known, not only for the histories which he compiled, but for the method he adopted to do so: his prose is dense but spare, and never glosses over the essential facts. He never acts as a cheerleader, loudly proclaiming the might of the Empire and sweeping its defeats under the rug: in fact, his material, discussing as it does the corrupting influences of politics and power, can be roundly described as pessimistic.

Tacitus lived during the reign of Domitian and comments briefly upon the decadence and corruption which blighted that period; some have said that it was the tenor of those times which caused Tacitus to become a “glass half empty” kind of reviewer. At all times Tacitus appears to walk a neutral path: as often as he approves the decisions of a particular emperor or general, he later castigates them without apology.

Tacitus wrote two major works in his lifetime, along with three monographs (at least, these are what have survived down to our time, although internal evidence would also seem to limit his output to this handful). The two major works are the Histories and the Annals: The monographs came first and were followed by the Histories and the unfinished Annals. The works overlap each other: the “Agricola” outlines a certain period, but the Histories goes over the same terrain in greater – or different – detail. Even the monographs themselves re-examine earlier material: the “Agricola” touches on the society of Germania in its scope, but the later “Germania” invests more time on the subject. The “Dialogus” is tentatively considered to be the work of Tacitus: it is a more stylised work, adopting the literary approaches of Cicero, and feels less “naturally Tacitusian” than the rest of his work. Finally, the Annals covers a period before the Histories, but is unfinished: although earlier sections discuss the area to be covered, Tacitus died before completing it. Today it is known as one of the earliest secular histories to record the existence of Jesus Christ.

For the purposes of this list, it’s not so much what’s in Tacitus’s works that’s of interest but what is not. Not all of his works have survived and – despite knowing from the extant writings what would have been discussed – there is a huge amount of space for keen keepers to fill in the blanks. The monographs are more or less intact, but it’s the Annals and the Histories that will most suit Call of Cthulhu players.

The Histories was written before the Annals, although it covers a period after the events of the later work. The intent of the Histories was to cover the period from “The Year of Four Emperors” up until the end of the rule of the Flavians. Only the first four books remain, along with twenty-six chapters of the fifth book, taking the project up to the suppression of the Great Jewish Revolt by Titus (the years 69-70). It is believed that the work would have continued right up until the year 96, and the death of the Emperor Domitian. Most of book five contains an ethnographic overview of Roman attitudes towards the Jews and is considered an important record nowadays.

Most scholars believe that the Annals contained at least sixteen books, but books 7 to 10, parts of books 5, 6, 11 and 16 are missing. The book covers the death of Augustus Caesar in 14AD, and the reigns of Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius and Nero, probably up until the latter’s death in 68, in order to connect nicely with the period covered in the Histories. The work was intended to contain a codicil covering the life of Augustus Caesar and the founding of Rome, and some discussions of the life and reigns of Nerva and Trajan, but these are absent.

So what could be slipped into the blanks? How about this:

“It was a flaming sunset or late afternoon in the tiny provincial town of Pompelo, at the foot of the Pyrenees in Hispania Citerior. The year must have been in the late republic for the province was still ruled by a senatorial proconsul instead of a praetorial legate of Augustus, and the day was the first before the Kalends of November. The hills rose scarlet and gold to the north of the little plain, and the westering sun shone ruddily and mystically on the crude new stone and plaster buildings of the dusty forum and the wooden walls of the circus some distance to the east. Groups of citizens – broad-browed Roman colonists and coarse-haired Romanised natives, together with the obvious hybrids of the two strains, alike clad in cheap woollen togas – and sprinklings of helmeted legionnaires and coarse-mantled, black bearded tribesmen of the circumambient Vascones – all thronged the few paved streets and forum; moved by some vague and ill-defined uneasiness. I myself had just alighted from a litter, which the Illyrian bearers seemed to have brought in haste from Calagurris, across the Iberus to the southward. It appeared that I was a provincial quaestor named L. Caelius Rufus, and that I had been summoned by the proconsul, P. Scribbonius Libo, who had come from Tarrago some days before. The soldiers were the fifth consort of the XIIth Legion, under the military tribune Sex. Asellius...”

This of course is the Halloween dream which H.P. Lovecraft shared with Frank Belknap Long in a letter dated 1929 and which the latter used as the seed for his novella “The Horror From The Hills”, detailing the emerging abomination that is Chaugnar Faugn. Keepers wishing to construct an adventure involving this particular Great Old One, might wish to drop clues about it in an extremely-rare early edition of Tacitus containing some of the missing sections...

“Auferre trucidare rapere falsis nominibus imperium, atque ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant.”

(“To ravage, to slaughter, to usurp under false titles, they call empire; and where they make a desert, they call it peace.”)

-Tacitus, Agricola (“De Vita et Moribus Iulii Agricolae”), 98 AD

“Germania”
This work describes the Germanic tribes of the European mainland, including their religions, politics, warfare, and culture. The Germania (Latin title: De Origine et situ Germanorum) is an ethnographic work on the Germanic tribes outside the Roman Empire. The Germania fits within a classical ethnographic tradition which includes authors such as Herodotus and Julius Caesar. The book begins (chapters 1–27) with a description of the lands, laws, and customs of the various tribes. Later chapters focus on descriptions of particular tribes, beginning with those who lived closest to the Roman Empire, and ending with a description of those who lived on the shores of the Baltic Sea, such as the Fenni. Tacitus had written a similar, albeit shorter piece, in his Agricola (chapters 10–13).

Latin; Tacitus; 98CE; Other Kingdom (Germania) +4 percentiles; Occult +2 percentiles; average four weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: None.

Historia Naturalis


In an impressive sheaf of over a hundred scrolls written in the cramped handwriting of Pliny, this work elucidates many aspects of what is known about the natural history of Europe, Asia, and Africa. 

Latin; Pliny the Elder; c. 40CE; No Sanity loss; Natural History +15 percentiles; Occult +5 percentiles; average 25 weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: None.

Mural of the Reptilian Residents of the Nameless City


The paintings in this series are of differing quality, obviously created over a long period. They include depictions of the reptilian race founding the city, the cataclysm that brought it to the surface, the arrival of the men who would build Iram (also known as Irem), and the reptilian race’s retreat toward an underground paradise. This work is of most use to scholars trying to understand the pre-history of the world and the events that transpired to create the ruins where these murals now stand.

No text; creator(s) unknown; date unknown; Sanity Loss 1D2/1D4; Cthulhu Mythos +3 percentiles; average two weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: None.

Pharmakeutria


Countless healers and magi use this early medical treatise for guidance in creating and mixing potions. It contains instructions for the alchemical process of creating Milk of the Dark Mother, a whitish substance made from the secretions of Shub-Niggurath causing rapid growth, early sexual maturity, and a variety of hideous mutations in plants. Its effect on animals or people is unknown.

Greek; Theocritus; c. 310–250BCE; Sanity Loss 1/1D3; Cthulhu Mythos +3 percentiles; Occult +3 percentiles; Potions +8 percentiles; average 15 weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: “Create Milk of the Dark Mother” (Contain the Black Goat’s Bile); “Speak with the Children of the Dark Mother” (Contact Dark Young of Shub-Niggurath); “Call the Dark Mother” (Contact Shub-Niggurath)

*****

The Black Goat’s Bile


While the milk produced by Shub-Niggurath has myriad effects, not all of which have likely been observed, this other substance has a range of capabilities which are listed within the pages of the Pharmakeutria. It’s likely this excretion of the Black Goat and its Dark Young is useful to it in determining worthy worshippers and cult followers, and also to attack certain enemies.

The Bile causes all unevolved, or partly-evolved, living creatures to suddenly undergo full metamorphosis. This applies to humans with the “Innsmouth Look”, those who have made the Unspeakable Promise with Hastur, Fosterlings of the Old Ones, incipient Ghouls, latent Spawn of Nyogtha, and all other similar creatures whose destiny is to transform into something terrible.

Another effect of the Black Goat’s Bile is to cause vegetable matter to spontaneously erupt into cancerous rapid growth. There are no benefits to be gained from this use of the Bile – all nourishing aspects of the plant matter are removed during the mutation and the plants wither and rot away noisomely in short order.

The spell listed in the Pharmakeutria is not, in fact, a recipe for the making of this effusion but rather a means of creating a vessel to carry the substance. The Bile itself is produced by Shub-Niggurath and her Dark Young, and may be offered up by them as part of a bargain with these monstrous entities.

The caster must prepare a beaker or other receptacle, ensuring that it has a leak-proof lid. This vessel must be made of high-quality materials and then infused with all of the caster’s Magic Points while they chant over it during the course of a single night, during the dark of the moon. Once prepared, the container will hold the Black Goat’s Bile in a potent state for a period of up to one month.

*****

Praesidia Finium (“Frontier Garrison”)


“...The barbarians were wont to call out devils which they sent against us; they called them out from the air and beneath the ground, and one such which they sent killed half a centuria of soldiers before falling to their swords.”

-Brian Lumley, The Transition of Titus Crow

The original version of this work was written in 183 AD; some say the author was in fact the Roman governor, Quintus Lollius Urbicus, however, certain occult scholarship claims that this personality and the writer are two different individuals. It comprises the account of mysterious events which took place during the Roman occupation of Great Britain, in particular, the massacre of a winged being without a head in the North Country near Hadrian’s Wall. The text also mentions, in passing, a battle with a great, invisible dragon in the Severn Valley against troops led by Marcus Quintus Laberius and an unexplained explosion that occurred near York.

There are only two fragmentary copies of the original Latin text: the more complete one is kept in the holdings of the Wharby Museum in Yorkshire; the other resides in the Library at Miskatonic University. The first English translation of this work was produced, in a limited edition of only 50 copies, at a private press around 1703 and the only two surviving copies of this run currently form part of the British Library collection (one other copy was known to have been in the collection of Titus Crow, prior to the destruction of his home). Roman scholarship almost universally holds this work to be a clever fraud, defeated primarily by its subject matter.

(Source: “An Item of Supporting Evidence”, Brian Lumley)

Latin; Q. Lollius Urbicus; 138AD; Sanity Loss 1d2/1d6; Cthulhu Mythos +4 percentiles; 3 weeks to study and comprehend
Spells: None

English; Translator unknown; c. 1703; Sanity Loss 1/1d4; Cthulhu Mythos +3 percentiles; 2 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: None

Frontier Garrison


“…And with fifty of our Brotherhood torn and dead beneath the bloody light of Evening’s glow, we thanked the Gods for our victory; then we set to, to build a pyre on which to roast the hewn and steaming gobbets of our foe. For as the mad Pict had warned, if his tribe could but find the corpse, by Dawn’s pallid rays the beast would rise again to ravin in the wilds once more. Beneath the hither shadow of the Wall, we consigned it to its foul, unmarked grave…”
-Frontier Garrison

This edition - typical of many of the Golden Goblin’s catalogue - is a high quality work redolent of the book-production values espoused by William Morris and his set. The text is supported by sixteen detailed woodcut prints and the pages are heavily bordered in scrollwork of black and red. Only three of the plates show the monster; however, possibly due to an error in the translation, or maybe due to a whim on the illustrator’s part, the artist has chosen to depict the creature at all times as a typically medieval demon with its face obscured by foliage, or other elements of the scenery, rather than ‘headless’. This translation is quite at variance with the original text, dropping the dragon encounter and the explosion report, and is shot through with paraphrases and additions, never claiming the events described therein to be factual in the least but rather, a whimsical and eerie tale.

English; Unknown translator; Golden Goblin Press, 1911; Sanity Loss 0/1d2; Cthulhu Mythos +2 percentiles; 1 week to study and comprehend

Spells: None

Sapientia Maglorum


“Ostanes” is, most likely, not a single individual, but rather a conflation of several magical authors. In much the same way that many ancient texts were attributed to “Aristotle” in translation, or “Hermes Trismegistus”, the false attribution has become a kind of shorthand for the phrase “author unknown”. It’s likely that there was an ‘Ostanes’ at one time, but that the amount of occult literature attributed to him is much less in quantity than it would seem.

These powerful scrolls record a lifetime of occult learning. This compendium of dark and arcane sorcery can be very dangerous for the uninitiated to read, not least because it includes a spell to contact Azathoth.

Pehlevi; “Ostanes”; c. 6th century BCE; Sanity Loss 1D4/1D8; Cthulhu Mythos +5 percentiles; Occult +5 percentiles; average 20 weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: “Hide the Soul” (Apportion Ka), “Consign an Enemy to the Flames” (Banishment of Yde Etad), “Beseech Charon”, “Summon a Sandstorm” (Bring Haboob), “Bring Forth the Daemon Sultan!” (Call/Dismiss Azathoth), “Speak with the Oracle of the Green Flame!” (Call/Dismiss Tulzscha), “A Rite to grant Wisdom” (Chant of Thoth), “Garb Oneself with Flames!” (Cloak of Fire), “The Daemon Sultan’s Doom” (Dread Curse of Azathoth), “Create a Magical Beacon” (Enchant Brazier), “A Wicked Curse” (Evil Eye), “A Powerful Spell to Harm One’s Enemies” (Eye of Light and Darkness), “To Remove Obstacles” (Parting Sands), “The Thrall of Sekmenkenhep” (Sekmenkenhep’s Words), “Summon a Flying Steed!” (Summon/Bind Byakhee), “Protection from Wicked Curses” (Warding the Eye), and any others the keeper desires.

A corrupted Greek translation by the Samaritan sorcerer Dositeheus also exists. It contains fewer spells, which are more likely to be unfinished, and has incomplete passages and damaged pages.

Grammatically poor Greek; Dositeheus; c. 6th Century BCE; Sanity Loss 1/1D3; Cthulhu Mythos +2 percentiles; Occult +4 percentiles; average 20 weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: “Hide the Soul” (Apportion Ka), “Summon a Sandstorm” (Bring Haboob), “Bring Forth the Daemon Sultan!” (Call Azathoth, but not Dismiss Azathoth), “Create a Magical Beacon” (Enchant Brazier), “Protection from Wicked Curses” (Warding the Eye).

Scroll of Thoth-Amon


For unknown reasons – certainly unusual ones, given what’s known of his character - the Samaritan Simon of Gitta is believed to have destroyed the only copy of this profane work in 41 CE. Rumour has it however, that scribes at the Temple of Ptah produced a copy (or perhaps several copies) of it and relocated them to Thebes where they were hidden. Most scholars of any credibility think that these rumours are simply that and are grounded more in wishful thinking than in fact; however, we all know that “credible thinkers” tend to gravitate towards the middle ground of reasonableness and ignore distinct possibility. These scrolls are among the most mysterious and powerful works in the ancient world: they include spells for contacting Nyarlathotep in his guise as Set, and for bringing forth demons to serve the bidding of the caster.

Egyptian, in hieroglyphs; Thoth-Amon; c. 10,000BCE; Sanity Loss 1D4/1D8; Cthulhu Mythos +10 percentiles; Occult +6 percentiles; average 15 weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: “To See as far as the Aten” (Augury), “To Invoke the Wisdom of Thoth” (Chant of Thoth), “To Send Confusion to Your Enemies” (Cloud Memory), “A Curse to Smite Your Enemies” (Curse of the Stone), “Request an Audience with Set” (Contact Nyarlathotep), Call Upon an Emissary of the Gods” (Summon/Bind Child of the Sphinx), “The Touch of Anubis” (Wither Limb), “The Scourge of Horus” (Wrack), and any others the keeper desires.

Sibylline Oracles


"estai kai SamoV ammoV, eseitai DhloV adhloV"
-Sibylline Prophecy

These scrolls, comprising a total of 12 books, are a detailed description of the prophecies of the oracle at Cumae. They’re disjointed and hard to understand, even for those with knowledge of the oracles. This work includes information about contacting Hermes, the Greek manifestation of Nyarlathotep.

Greek; Heraclitus; c. 7th century BCE; Sanity Loss 1D4/1D8; Cthulhu Mythos +5 percentiles; Occult +8 percentiles; average 30 weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: “Consult the Omens” (Augury), “Baneful Dust of Hermes Trismegistus”, “Speak with Hermes, Thrice-Wise” (Contact Nyarlathotep), “Speak in Tongues of Flame” (Candle Communication), “To See Afar” (Create Scrying Window), “Mystic Fire” (Enchant Brazier), (Enthrall Victim), “Name a Shade” (Identify Spirit), and any others the keeper desires.

Tilsimati

This work consists of carved tablets detailing the creation of amulets to protect against evil, particularly from an undesirable fate written in the Tablet of Destinies. The amulets are created by carving arcane images and shapes on cylindrical or flat seals. A Greek scholar in Seleucia is/was working on a translation of the Tilsimati using the only known copy.

Sumerian, in cuneiform; author(s) unknown; c. 4th millennium BCE; Sanity Loss 1D3/1D6; Occult +4 percentiles; average 20 weeks to study and comprehend.

Spells: Create Amulet, plus any others the keeper desires.

Tuscan Rituals

“Pliny, in his Natural History, mentions the Tuscan Rituals, books containing the liturgy of Summanus, Monarch of Night and the Terror That Walketh in Darkness. The cult of this deity is surrounded with mystery and fear. His temple stood near the Circus Maximus, and St. Augustine says that his worshippers were few, the fact being that this horrid cult was conducted with such secrecy that even the most curious antiquarian inquirer could ascertain no particulars ... Martianus Capella, a native of North Africa, explicitly says that Summanus is lord of hell. Assuredly then in the worship of Summanus we have sheer demonolatry.”
-Montague Summers, Witchcraft & Black Magic

In Rome, Summanus was worshipped as a kind of dark Jupiter, controller of the night sky and wielder of the thunderbolt. Its holy day was June the 20th and at that time its worshippers enacted certain rites and ate special wheel-shaped, red cakes. The temple at the Circus Maximus is said to have been built in the 3rd Century BC, and its reputation as a place of evil stems from that time; nowadays, its exact location is unknown. A modern cult to this being still exists today and there are also cults to it in the Dreamlands. The Tuscan Rituals is a collation of all rites dedicated to this Old One, and its exact date of writing is unknown (Pliny gives the earliest mention of it). The text is written in the local “low” language rather than Latin, indicating perhaps the lower class origins of the organised worship of this being.
(Source: Brian Lumley, “What Dark God?”)

Italian; unknown author(s); c. 40CE; Sanity Loss 1/1d3; Cthulhu Mythos +2 percentiles; 3 weeks to study and comprehend

Spells: “To Divine the Will of Summanus” (Augury); “To Speak with the Dark God” (Contact Summanus); “To Banish a Demon” (Curse of Darkness); “To Bind a Demon” (Imprison Mind)

*****


Roman era Spells
The spells which were of use in the Roman era are quite different from those in use in other time periods, and certainly with very different concerns. Individual Keepers may rule that these spells “no longer work” if it suits them to do so; certainly there is enough precedent in Mythos Tome Lore to make this ruling.

Augury
Range: n/a; Duration: Instantaneous; Cost: 1 MP; Sanity Loss: 1D3; Resistance: No

This spell allows Roman augurs to predict the future. Before casting this spell, the auger must determine what form of augury (ex caelo, ex avibus, ex tripudiis, ex quadrupedibus, or ex diris) is most appropriate. He then must carry out the ritual by making a Science (Augury) skill check. If successful, the augur receives a vague glimpse of the future. These can often be interpreted in multiple ways. For example: an augur trying to predict the outcome of a major battle between the Legion and a Celtic tribe might glimpse a vision of battered and bloody centurions returning to Rome; that could be interpreted to mean that the Legions will lose and limp back home, or, on the other hand, might be seen as a portent that victory will be hard-fought. A successful Know roll might help an augur understand an uncertain vision.

This spell is only usable once a week. If the augur sees a creature or event that would result in Sanity loss under normal circumstances, he loses the same amount that he would have lost in a face-to-face encounter.

Awaken Chuma
Range: n/a; Duration: Instantaneous; Cost: 8 MP; Sanity Loss: 1D8; Resistance: No

To bring Chuma, the sub-Saharan manifestation of Yibb-Tstll, from the Dreamlands to the waking world, the casters must gather in a circle around an image of the god during the early hours of the evening and under an open sky. The spell requires a living sacrifice. The sacrifice need not be human, but must have a POW of at least 10. As the spell is cast, the image begins to revolve; all who witness it must make a Sanity roll (1D3/1D6). As the spell progresses, the image spins faster and faster. At the same time, Yibb-Tstll’s blood floats down from the sky and covers the sacrifice, draining 1 POW from it every 30 minutes. When the victim’s POW reaches zero, he falls unconscious and Yibb-Tstll manifests over his body.

Banish Apep
Range: n/a; Duration: 1 Day; Cost: 10 MP; Sanity Loss: 1D4/1D6; Resistance: No

This ritual must be performed in a very precise order. After crafting a wax model or making a small drawing of Apep, the caster must first spit upon the effigy while extolling the power of Ra. While still exalting the sun god, the caster grinds the effigy under his left heel, stabs it with a spear, ties it with a leather strap, slices it with a knife, and tosses the mutilated remains into a fire. He must continue his litany of Ra’s powers and deeds until the likeness of Apep is reduced to ash. Apep has been banished to the land of the dead, and this spell keeps him there. It also affects his followers, each of whom suffers 1D8 points of damage if within a one-mile radius of the casting.

Beseech Charon
Range: n/a; Duration: Instantaneous; Cost: 12 MP; Sanity Loss: 1D10; Resistance: No

This spell must be cast at night in a gateway or archway. By his casting, the magus reaches out and contacts Charon, the keeper of the way over the River Styx in the underworld. Charon is an avatar of Yog-Sothoth, and contacting the avatar invites Yog-Sothoth into the caster.

Black Blood
Range: Sight; Duration: Instantaneous; Cost: 3 MP; Sanity Loss: 1D4; Resistance: No

With a successful casting of this spell, the magus summons forth the blood of Yibb-Tstll to rain from the sky and suffocate his target. The caster must keep the target in his sight for the duration of the casting, which takes 15 minutes.

Create Amulet
Range: n/a; Duration: Permanent (see below); Cost: 5 MP; Sanity Loss: 1; Resistance: No

Before a sorcerer can cast this spell, he must craft an amulet from a semi-precious stone. Each type of stone has its own unique properties that influence the amulet’s specific powers, as do the images carved into it. After creating the talisman, the sorcerer must sacrifice something of value to the person who will wear the amulet. Then, the spell is cast.

When the enchanted amulet is either worn about the neck as a pendant or carried in a pouch, it can be used to summon the aid of a supernatural guardian once per day. This guardian can mitigate five points of damage or increase the wearer’s POW by 3 for one hour.

Create Curse Tablet
Range: Touch; Duration: Special; Cost: 5 MP; Sanity Loss: 1D2; Resistance: Yes

To create a curse tablet, a sorcerer must have access to a lead tablet, which he then inscribes with the desired curse and buries in an underground chamber or tomb. Merely burying the thing in a hole in the ground is insufficient; an existing subterranean structure must be used. The curse must be written in either Greek or Oscan; Latin won’t suffice. Further, the caster must chant while inscribing and burying the tablet. After he buries the tablet, the caster makes a POW vs. POW roll against the curse’s intended victim on the Resistance Table. If the caster is successful, the victim suffers the effects of the curse.

If the victim is successful, the curse has no effect. The nature of the curse must involve fortune or money. A curse cannot kill someone outright, but instead damages his business or livelihood. A curse is permanent unless the lead tablet is removed from its burial place. The instant it’s removed, the curse is lifted. The victim doesn’t have to be the one to remove the tablet from the ground; anyone can do it, even unwittingly. To re-enact the curse, the chants must be repeated while the tablet is reburied.

Evil Eye
Range: Sight; Duration: 1 Day; Cost: 3 MP; Sanity Loss: 1; Resistance: Yes

Rarely found in tomes, sorcerers instead pass this ancient spell from one to the next through the oral tradition.

The Evil Eye curses its victim, bringing misfortune and bad luck. While under its influence, the victim has no more than half chance to succeed at any roll regardless of other modifiers. When the spell is cast, the victim can make an opposed POW vs. POW roll (his own against the caster’s) on the Resistance Table to resist the effects. A given magus may only afflict one person at a time with the Evil Eye.

Summon/Bind Child of the Sphinx
Range: n/a; Duration: 5 min. per MP Cost; Cost: 1 MP per 10 percentiles of success to summon; Sanity Loss: 1D3+creature 0/1D8; Resistance: Yes

Dating to pre-dynastic Egypt, this spell allows the caster to summon a Child of the Sphinx — an anthropomorphic animal construed as the Egyptian gods Ra, Thoth, and so on. In truth, Children of the Sphinx are avatars of Nyarlathotep.

Spending the MP and succeeding, a Child of the Sphinx rises from the sands in 2D10 game minutes. Surviving the Sanity test, the caster must bind it to his will or his life could be forfeit. To exert his control, the caster must oppose the Child’s MP with his own on the Resistance Table. If the caster fails, the Child is free to do as it wishes, which will most likely culminate in the caster’s death. This spell can only be used to control one Child at a time.