Archive for March, 2012

EMERGENCY

Posted in Meta on March 11, 2012 by glasganon

I’ve scheduled this post to be sent out at midnight on a Sunday, so that, if I’m not around to disable it, it will send out this message. I’m also making a habit of updating this post every other week so that if something happens to me, you will have as much information as I can give you.

The last date I edited this post was: 6th March 2012.

This post will be the longest by far, because something is going on in Glasgow. Something major has changed, and we’re all feeling the fallout. Not just acolytes – the Keys are moving so close to the general public that they’re bound to finally notice. A meteor passing across the sky. An image of Princess Diana being caught on camera in a Glasgow church. You don’t need to know about Wormeswood and Kempion, or the Secret Canonisation, to know that these things are tinged with the paranormal.

But they’re just the fallout of bigger events that the public never sees.

According to The Voice of Other Glasgows, the Glascau Curator has been killed, and everything from its exhibition has been taken – all acolytes are being turned away. If the exhibits fall into the wrong hands, we could have a new disease hitting the streets – made up of every disease that has come before.

People using the Glascau Tarot have reported seeing a new card show up in the “future” position of spreads – “The Damselfly”. It seems to take the place of The Hermit, and some people are interpreting it as an omen of “the birth of a new death” – a contact of mine claims it “sleeps in the amniotic lake, steeped in placental dirt”. Other forms of divination report similar ideas.

A gang of Coerceomancers have gotten involved with football throughout the city, which has led to the tumultuous period for Celtic (with their manager embroiled in bomb plots) and Rangers (going into administration and numerous other business disasters). The gang has gone unnoticed due to the relatively mundane, down-to-earth havoc they have wreaked – but it’s all really to weaken the power of “The Church of Our Lady of the Old Firm”, a group of occultists who have been trying to give football the same sanctified status as religion.

The Watchtower bleeds. Ankle-deep blood on the top, dripping down through the cracks of the concrete. The plains around are empty.

And most damaging for me – I saw my own body pulled out of the Sacred Ground. I know it’s not a concrete, inviolate portent of doom, but it’s unsettling enough to have given me some sense of memento mori. I need to make sure I have everything in order. That’s what this was for.

Eilidh is missing. No-one at the consultancy has seen her since two Sundays ago. I keep getting messages from her phone, but they’re not from her. I’ve had phonecalls too. I don’t answer them any more. They sound like her, but they can’t be her. Eilidh would tell me where she was, what had happened: the voice on the phone screams, and cries. I listened to the voice for fifteen straight minutes, and it never said a word. Screaming and crying, for fifteen minutes, and it sounds like my best friend. My last friend.

Even Steph is gone.

I think she killed Dom. She’d been acting really weird since I took her to visit the Borstal and we opened the splinter there. When we left, she told me she wanted help her find answers – I thought she meant about Dom, since the things we experienced in the Bostal are so closely tied to the things that Dom was investigating. I wanted answers too, so I took her to visit Ms. Marshall at the lab, and we took some of Gideon’s Key: I woke up the next day in Steph’s apartment, and walked into the kitchen to find her at the sink, with blood dripping down from the worktops and all over the floor. She was slicing away layers of skin on her left ring finger, just cutting and cutting away without making any noise. She jumped when she saw me, and her hand slipped, taking the full finger clean off. She didn’t scream, or shout, or anything. She just breathed in. There was a noise like metal hitting the floor – I looked down, and saw her finger, purple and blue from the blood being cut off by a ring that had the word “ZEBA” engraved on the front.

I looked up. She was watching me the whole time, maybe trying to gauge if I had worked something out. I hadn’t – but it didn’t stop her. Steph thrust the knife at my face without even blinking, and just set at me. She jabbed the knife at me, but I managed to shove her away so that she slipped on the floor, and I ran out of the flat.

I went back every few days, but she never answered the door. The lights were always out when I visited in the evenings. Then, this Saturday, I saw a “To Let” notice on her flat’s window. She’s gone, and I don’t know where.

I don’t know what to make of all this. I’ve tried using the Glass Bones, but they don’t work for me. I’m writing down as much as I can now, but I don’t know how much time I have left. There’s still so much I’ve need to tell people. The Scavenger’s Daughter, The False Saint, the Clock that Crawls, the Witch Tree, the Ochre Room, the Doll Colony, the Centipede Mosaic… I haven’t finished my work yet.

Just in case, though, I’m taking what I’ve written so far and giving it to Judith at the book-store: 75 entries will be enough for Bible John’s black book. If anyone could find a way to weather any storm that’s coming Glasgow’s way, it’d be that bastard.