A series of global incidents of paranormal happenings began to infiltrate the media a few months ago. The internet was rife with reports about these chillingly violent acts. A spate of rumours erupted on blogs and forums pointing towards a new and highly involving A.R.G. where people would converse with a shadowy agency, known as ‘I’, and receive word of when they would be looked upon and judged. A grand unveiling was set up for a significant date with record amounts of people transfixed by every available clue and tidbit of evidence about ‘I’. But when that time passed and all traces of the site were removed, people lost interest. The violence persisted regardless:
A housewife and mother of two in California was found by a neighbour clutching her handbag on the sidewalk outside of her home, large dark brown splashes of blood soaked into her pale-pink poloneck sweater. When the police arrived they entered the house and found her two young children covered in lacerations from a meat cleaver, one folded up and brutally stuffed into a small oak cupboard by the front door, the other floating face-up in the family’s swimming pool. When the woman was coherent enough to form words she explained with a calm and precise clarity that the eye wouldn’t leave her alone, she was unable to hide from it, but she still protested at the things that it demanded her to do. It was only after a tall, menacing presence began to manifest itself in the house, creeping up behind her and whispering into her ear, that she finally relented and carried out her orders. Her husband, thought to be away on business, was later found in a cardboard box in the basement of the home, his head completely caved in and his back riddled with stab wounds in a circular shape. The space within the circle was darkened by bruises from repeated punching that took place after his death.
One busy mid-morning on the London subway at Charing Cross station, a vagrant man was heard mumbling to himself about ‘the black star in Heaven’ just before he boarded a tube train. Witnesses on the train told reporters that he began to scream over and over again and lash out at the other commuters who tried in vain to restrain him. He grabbed and scratched at his fellow passengers in a strong and frenzied attack; tearing out a young girl’s left eye, dislocating a man’s shoulder and crushing and eventually bursting a teenage boy’s stomach under foot. He then leapt through the window of the carriage, falling upon the live tracks and electrocuting himself to death. The left eye of the girl was fused to the burning flesh of his outstretched hand.
Ennio Morricone – Paranoia Prima
I can feel an intense and all encompassing pressure around me as I go about my daily business. The media only brings tales of death and mass destruction so I have stopped paying attention to it altogether, going so far as to unplug my internet connection and leave my PC off at all times. It is not until I catch a glimpse of a TV report on the local news when shopping in town that tells of a man found in woodland the previous night that my life changes. Eye witness reports had placed the man at the airport around 8.30pm, hailing a taxi. The taxi driver had not come forth but allowance for time suggests that he came straight to this town without deviating. Sometime between 10pm and 2am he had entered the woods adjacent to my home and calmly drivin a ballpoint pen through his left side, dragged it across to his right side and pulled out his intestines with sub-human survival and strength. He then hung himself with them from a tree branch. No tracks were found in the woodland floor except for his own, and no element of foul play were thought to have contributed to his bizarre suicide. His bag lay discarded a few hundred meters from the scene, and in it were found 10 journals full of accounts on grizzly acts of suicide and violence, coupled with images of a great eye suspended in the sky. A photo of the young man flashed on screen and I fell silent as I recognised him. He was the same young man that I had been exchanging emails with, the same young man that I had met at the American Anthropological Society. This, I thought to myself, was a sure sign that I should leave. My name was sure to be present in those notes.
The pressure bearing down from the skies was increasing by the hour.
Narrative of Sheriff Gordon Pym, as relayed on the radio to Officer Margarett Shetland, 08th/12/2007.
(06.13AM)-I can’t believe this Maggie, it’s totally insane. The woods are full of crawling things, I have seen them, they are surrounding the house, I have tried to convince the old professor holding the dark clay globe inside, he didn’t want to leave, he thought he’d be safer there, but then they started breaking in through the windows, pale bloated things advancing stubborn like slugs, their eyes, are they eyes, covered in a film of yellow ooze, a glimpse of recognition, was it old Jenson who I shot in the head with my shotgun as he trampled through the door, I don’t know, hasn’t old Jenson has been buried in the cemetery for months it can’t be him, but then, what are these things advancing silent towards the house with the the same malignant clumsiness of carrion flies drawn by blood and filth, piling upon poor Carruthers, two months left in the service and now his body is just an empty sack lying in the lounge of that house, his pale face frozen in a silent shriek, while his entrails cover the walls and ceiling.
But I made it back, I am inside the car, I only have five shells left in my pump action shotgun, a couple of reloads in my 45, and there are so many of them, SO MANY OF THEM, I can hear them moving around me, shadows reconfigure in the darkness like a deformed claw opening ready to engulf me, I guess they are done with the old man in the house now, it’s my turn, well, things like these shouldn’t live, what is dead and buried shouldn’t walk the Earth at night, stumbling like in a dream, or maybe a nightmare, I wish this was one, but it isn’t, and so I know there’s no hope and no God, maybe it’s better to die, I only fear I shall become one of them afterwards like that fat fellow with the U.F.O. t-shirt that Carruthers and I found on our way through the woods. He was hidden inside a van with a ‘THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE’ stencil on the side, trying to keep his guts, with pudgy pale fingers, from spilling like dirty laundry from a big seeping gash in his belly, how he vomited a geyser of blood and then we thought it was all over and turned away to find out what was going on in the darkness of the forests, and how he jumped upon us, jaw grinding uncontrollably like a shark in a feeding frenzy, the translucent ooze covering eyes that didn’t seem to see yet saw from frightful depths of death and corruption, we smashed the thing’s skull into pulp with the butts of our guns but it kept moving so we threw it inside the van and left it trashing there, a pyramid of flesh with a mess of blood and cerebral matter at its apex trying to get out furious, still silent, so SILENT, the only noise it made was the CLACK CLACK CLACK of what was left of its jaw opening and closing spasmodically, which I swear to god must be the noise of hell’s gates, but then…
…This is Hell.
I shall make sure I leave a last bullet in the shotgun to blow my brains out before they get me, maybe that’s a way of escaping the dark night full of bloody dreams in which these creatures must be living… So yes, this may well be my last words Maggie, I think it’s over, tell Lise and the children I love them, but before that, contact someone, the federals, the army, someone, tell them to bomb these forests, use napalm, termite bombs, nukes, whatever, but burn them, BURN THEM!
I rush back home to gather up a few essentials, my journals, contact numbers, a gun, and bundle into the car in a slight panic that causes me to drive faster than I am usually comfortable with. The roads are empty and the towns I drive through are the same. The sky darkens at an alarming rate and the sun seems to dull and lose its shine, as if some malevolent shadow in space is cast across it. Its night time when I reach my destination, the headlights illuminating the sign on my parent’s gates: ‘Thadeuss House’.
Fabio Frizzi – Tenebre Viventi
Driving up to the main house, I pass my sister’s car on the road up which is left seemingly abandoned and thrust at an angle into the surrounding trees. As I exit the car and slowly walk to the front door a cold sweat creeps down my back as I consider the lack of lights on in my parent’s home. I look up to the sky and a pale green lining surrounds a series of spiking clouds that streak across the Moon. The pressure is becoming unbearable.
The house is stone cold as I make my way past the reception and into the lounge. No one seems to be home.
As I round the corner into my father’s study a shriek escapes from my throat even before I can take in what I see. My sister is slumped over in an armchair, her clothes shredded, and her skin dull white and crumpled where gashes cut across her flesh. Her head hangs over, slimy tendrils of sticky blood oozing down and collecting in her lap. I freeze but step back as she begins to twitch and slowly but silently rises to her feet. Her head raises and her eyes clear of blood to reveal yellowed blank spheres. She moves towards me, stumbling and losing balance on her broken legs. I raise the gun and fire a single shot into her left eye, flooring her instantly.
I have no time for my emotions to get the better of me. My Mother is standing in the doorway behind me as silent as my now dead sister, thick blood dribbling from her open mouth. The same blank yellowed eyes stare back at me. I scream out as I rush towards her, emptying the gun clip into my mother’s chest and head. She flops to the ground with a thump, dark blood flying out of her wounds in thin spindling arches across the moonlit floor.
I sob as I drag myself into the main hall, where I slip on something warm and wet. Entrails are strewn across the floor, flesh torn and shredded like a plastic bag, fashioned into a thin line of viscera in the shape of a circle. Wailing, I drop the gun and hold my hands to my head in disbelief. Its my father. Lightning forks across the sky through the bay window casting luminous glittering purple flashes across the remains. The thunder that follows is drowned out by an intense high pitched drilling that pierces straight through to my brain. I fall onto a dresser by the staircase, gritting my teeth and tensing my body. I slide again on a pool of blood, stumble into the pantry, slam against the basement door and roll down the hard wooden staircase into darkness.
Gyorgy Ligeti – Jupiter and Beyond
The darkness of the basement is soon replaced with a grey light that softly enfolds from the centre of the room, reflecting off the clouds of dust I created on my entrance. I can hear plodding and damp sounding footsteps from the top of the stairs; my family are not as dead as I thought. The light shifts to a pale purple, a small pinnacle of white forming and growing in mid-air. The white sphere shines brighter, blinding, enlarging. The shrill drilling strikes back up again. I grab my head to stop it from splitting in two. Instinctively I grab the gun from my pocket and slam the hilt down into the light, shattering a physical surface that deafens me instantly with its screaming sound. I am thrown back off of my feet into the staircase by a tremendous force, intense heat burning, shards of brilliant white tearing through my eyelids and into the back of my skull.
All is black around me. The floor is a dark terrain of dusted soot, soft like sand. I am deaf; the dense throb of blood in my ears is all I can make out. I rub my eyes and get up slowly, steadying myself, winsing at the pain from busted ribs. The gun is gone. My left arm is lifeless, the bone snapped and twisted around. My mouth is full of blood. I cannot breath through the sticky liquid filling my airways. I fall onto my back, black dust clouding up around me momentarily. The star filled night sky glistens above me as my head falls to the left and my eyes focus on my sister’s blood covered body, her neck opened fully, tendons sprouting into the air. My mother lays beyond her, her mouth a gaping hole, her throat spilling out from behind a row of broken teeth. My vision is failing, everything is blurring and darkening. The drilling begins again.
On the tunes-
Ennio Morricone is one of our gods, and that’s that.
Let a thousand rotten flowers bloom, Burzum will sprinkle them with copious amounts of blood.
We can’t talk about zombies without thinking of Fabio Frizzi’s dark ominous dirge.
Gyorgy Ligeti created the canvas on top of which the spaceman became a psychedelic baby, here he illustrates the process of dark enlightenment attained through extreme carnage…
…Perhaps this weekend
One of us will be at Release the Bats on Friday. YESS.
And on Saturday:
Hello. Best live band in the planet (with Boredoms) play Brighton.
HTRK and Rolo Tomassi Support.
Barfly Saturday the 3rd
Get tix at Resident, Rounder etc, big up Lack of Communication for organising this thing.
DJs from the Do club and something else soon (includign your 20JFG trusty types) play party hits for special people afterwards.
**Do something magical and disappear**