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Saturday, August 6, 2016

Pages from the Journal of Dr. Tarrec

I have been sorting through the large steamer trunk filled with the assorted papers, and writings of my friend, Dr. Tarrec. Amongst his scientific articles, religious tractates, and alchemical studies I found a few pages from his journal. When I asked him about the events recorded in these pages his one good eye bored into me with such ferocity that I thought he would strike me down in a murderous rage. Then, after a silent beat, he casually waved his hand through the air and said, “I do not remember what I remember.”

June 18, 1979
The bells have been rung, a solemn tone to tune our minds for the ceremony. The bell has tolled, the curtain closed. It is time for a séance in the theatre basement. The pentagram is marked on the floor in glow-tape. All is prepared.

June 20, 1979
I set the curtains on fire; burned the playhouse down. Now what? Shall I lay claim to the cold resplendence and silver glory of the moon?

July 3, 1979
There are knife-handed Kobolds tunneling into the basement. I hear them digging, clawing-constantly hamming and drilling their tunnels, shoveling through the rock. I feel their dim vibrations through the floor.

July 7, 1979
The rain (six days now) is tearing down the sky. Many broken limbs are downed in the storm. From the West to the East I travel on bandsaw vibrations. I need more light and less suspense.

July 8, 1979
There are monsters in the ICU, and bodies hidden under a pile of public rubble. There is a lizard on the roof and a man burning in the desert. Fire fell from the sky. I am frightened.

July 18, 1979
I have been entrusted with a secret, a terrible burden. I have been given the chemical formula of the most powerful hallucinogenic substance in the Milky Way. This data must be kept secret at all costs. The Kremlin would do horrific things to me if they knew what I know. They would send Soviet Strontium-90 hammers to beat upon my head, to pound me with a 28.8 year migraine headache. O Lord, my God, is there no help for the wounded son?

July 24, 1979
There is blood issuing from a steam in the Earth-thick, dark blood. There is a man dead in the road. He speaks unscheduled words in the darkness.

July 30, 1979
Headlights are approaching. This is a death car, a phantom coup filled with ghosts in warrior’s garb. This is the traveling of ill-tempered gypsies-tramps and thieves disgruntled from the grave.

August 1, 1979
A peasant woman gave birth today to a monstrosity. The deformed child two heads with empty faces, three legs (two normal, the third hanging like a tail), and three arms (the third growing grotesquely from its back). I was there at the end; I saw these things with my own lonely eyes. This is a dark omen, to be sure, but what it portends I cannot say. 

August 16, 1979
At sunset this evening there was, in the Eastern sky, a bright comet blazing-a right, fearful comet. Its long, broad tail stretched into the third heavens and glowed pale yellow in color. It will cost many a man his life. Even still, we are not abandoned. We are lost, but not alone. 

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