Tech Death Thowlsday: Godless Truth
My sanity began to unravel the day I heard the sounds in the library. Even now, I fear I cannot trust the words I write—but it would be wicked not to warn you of the Godless Truth that obliterated my reality.
How strange to feel a breeze, ripe with the cinnamon-sweet stench of rot, coming from a wall of solid brick. I laid down my books on the nearest shelf and traced my fingers along the lines of grout in a pattern that seemed to spring from nowhere. The wall was gone; in its place, a single aisle paraded to the limits of my vision. Leather-bound books lined the shelves, so much like the wizened bodies propped up in intervals along the walls. Before you think “Have you ever seen a horror movie?” or “Are you a great big dummy?”, ask yourself what you’d have done. I had a chance to be a bridge to a different world, and I made the decision.
At the end of the aisle, an ornately-carved dais rose, displaying a weathered volume: the Techronomicon, by none other than the Mad American, Hamu’ron Pol-ov Lovecrifft. My hands moved without my neurons firing, and that was the last moment I was wholly myself. However, I still managed to flip past the unnecessary prologue; these forbidden treatises have a habit of starting with a bunch of fluff: lists of ethereal realms, their properties and denizens—essentially an anti-cosmic waiting room.
A new chapter of my (our; you are we now; hello TovH) life began as the tablature pierced our eyes and sent us beyond reason. Visions of fingers splayed in impossible geometries turned our stomach. A sphere of writhing tentacles pounded with great speed against the interior of our skull. And the screaming—surely not of this world, these twisted cords amongst the chords. The torrent of numbers along the staves formed various landscapes as we turned the pages: cruel hooks of stone split the ground beside gently curving rivers, all the more depraved for their proximity to chaos.
Looking in the margins, we saw a storied line of stewardship, notes written by many hands: tales of Decrepit Births from monstrous wombs; recipes for melodic Khemmistry; spells to call the Winds of Plague. But even before these scribbles, before Earth, before space, before time ( i.e. 1994), there was Godless Truth. We will bring this truth to the people of the world; of all worlds. And they will rejoice.