“Dying moonlight framed upon dark walls Throughout this black home the silence is deafening None can hear what echoes from within But I can hear the endless screaming Behind the locked door.”


The message came to her non-verbally via the auspices of conventional hearing, instead, entering her mind through an intrusion into her very root consciousness itself – telepathic communication which first took the sounds, inaugurally, of screaming machinery being churned into itself, harshly, insanely, but which, through some esoteric fashion, transformed itself – within her mind – to words which she could somehow understand.


Huge, thick rivulets of deep crimson, blood, elixir, dripped down the pointed chin of the alien’s almond-shaped face – from a thin, slitted mouth, behind which only small, sharp and predatory fangs could be seen.

Eyes, black upon deepest black, unchanging, uncaring, unmerciful – and indeed, undead; gave no indicator, no solace, no indication of any emotion, of any mercy – of any empathy remotely related to the “understanding” which marks the exchange between human betwixt-human and, which in her case, had apparently become a standard now obsolete.

Atop his head was perched a curious item, a broad-brimmed felt hat, possessed of a high crown, pinched symmetrically at the four corners. On the center front of this hat was emblazoned the numerals three-three-three which appeared black, yet thick and pulsating, as if the numbers themselves had been imprinted onto the accouterment with blood, obtained via some foul, evil and torturous practice and – no doubt – culled from, perhaps, the most innocent of victims.

Seemingly pixelated images began to burst into her vision, her eyes rolling up into their sockets, images that seemed alien to her own earth planet, in quintessence, yet were possessed with strange shapes that seemed to resonate with her despite their bizarre nature – and – indeed – the trauma-laden nature of their delivery.

The alien rubbed a skeletal finger, dripping with the blood of the little girl’s parents, across it’s military BDU jacket, which hung relatively limp against it’s emaciated, undead frame. In his other hand he held a crystal tetrahedron, drenched in blood, which pulsated with pale, disturbing light.

Embroidered upon it’s right chest was the legend “GREY” – apparently, it’s surname. A strange geometric symbol, which the little girl would, later, learn to be the insignia of a group called the Order of Nine Angles – dedicated to opening up portals to other worlds and bring in Acausal, Dark Gods, through catastrophic acts of terror and profuse bloodshed, was pinned in medallion form upon it’s left.

The sound of several booming male voices, yet too deep in metre to be human at all, began to echoe out from the corners of the room, sounding a sinister chant unlike any that had been heard prior upon that earthly terra firma, each voice seeming to hold within it the inconceivable potency of every evil act, every horrific deed, every act of disruption, terror; cruelty and deceit; manipulation and inducement to insanity that she could imagine that they had done; that sinister chant could be felt upon their breath from afar, like a cold shade.

“AGIOS O BUDSTURGA!” screamed Drill Sargeant Grey.

Drill Sargeant Grey fingered the long disciplinary paddle attached to his utility belt, drilled with holes to reduce wind resistance and cause additional blistering and bruising, with no discernible emotion upon his face. Emotions has been killed, burned away – burned with the infernal fire of Satanic ordeal, Satanic trial and the uttermost limits of transgression of human laws in every moral sense.

“To those outside it is a simple construction of wood But those inside know what is truly in store… Behind the locked door.”

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