OFF-CUTS!

The Erebusian Anomaly

         Our bones vibrate, audibly rattling 'neath lady winter's harsh caress. When she comes with such terrible fervor, there's no escaping her. How I wish she'd leave again, even a moments relief from her insufferable chill would be welcomed by all in our paltry camp. If she won't then I fear that others may soon, and all our hard work would be for naught.

         Obscured by a thick brown tarpaulin, untouched by luminescent moonbeams, lies a grand cyclopean tablet covered in ancient weathered etchings of arcane origin. We found it months ago, near the mighty peak of Mount Erebus. Afterwards we dragged the damned heavy slate to the shore before loading it in our last remaining lifeboat and rowing it to a small uninhabited island near the South Orkneys, where we are now camped.

         To say our journey's been troubling would be an understatement. We've lost more than two dozen men on this expedition, as well as our ship, the Polly-Anna, and some of us have started to lose their sanity.

         At the beginning of our perilous voyage, a drunkard lying in the gutter muttered a curse most wretched. I thought him a fool then, now I'm not so sure. How else could I explain this series of horrid misfortune?

         I may just be a laborer, hired muscle to lug the load, tug the rock and row the oars, but I sure hope that the smarter members of our remaining crew can work out what the rock says so we can finally go home. Just being near that weird tablet gives me the willies. I think I'm the only one though; on more than a few occasions, I have caught glimpses of some of the others caressing the carvings, and whispering to the stone as if it were alive.

         What should I expect? Our rations are running low, and morale is even lower. What we need is a temporary escape, something trivial to boost our spirits. Luckily, I've brought along just the trick to stave off our impending mental blight. A deck of lewdly decorated playing cards. If only more of the crew joined our nightly games, then perhaps we'd hear less rumored acts of lunacy.

         Lately we've spotted various crew-members manically pawing at the jagged rocks off the shore in an attempt to capture wispy-shadows which they swear dance in daylight as if they possessed sentience. By nightfall, their mashed hands are so weak that they bend over the table and lap at their supper like starved dogs. I was the first to notice that all those who've succumbed to this island's madness would disappear for hours only to suddenly reappear hours later, not exactly an easy feat here.

         Out of a dozen, only five of us remain lucid, untouched by this mysterious ailment. These included two fellow laymen, Frank Lang and Ivan "Skinner" King, the well-learned linguist, Doctor Hans Marsh, famed archaeologist, Doctor Owen "Grizzly" Adams, and myself, Paul "Yip-Yap" Norman.

         We decided it would be best to follow one of these sick scoundrels and see where they go, although we weren't prepared for what we found.

         Former university professor Jim Dickson, whom was once considered the highest authority on the earthly sciences, staggered to the sea-line, and commenced that same brutally strange shadow hunting ritual we'd seen before. Crouched behind a nearby bush, we watched him wade neck-deep into the calm glacial waters before he ran his horribly scarred hands over the sharp protruding stone, and firmly clutched a rather jagged chunk that jutted out the top like the horn of a narwhal that'd gazed at the mythical gorgon.

         Our jaws gaped at the ease at which this madman pulled himself atop the boulder, unworried about his profusely bleeding palms. All we could do was stare in wonder as he disappeared into what must have been a hidden crevice upon the rock's surface.

         The five of us waited in place, obscured behind our tiny bush for what seemed like hours before we spotted movement. Ejected high into the air by some unseen force, Jim Dickson splashed back down hard into the deep wintry water before swimming back to shore whilst wearing a smile most wicked.

         As he was skittering back to camp, we swiftly circled around him, startling him.

         "Where have you been Dickson?" Frank, the quietest and usually most reserved of our little group, posed his question with a hint of malice in his voice. "I go for swim." The odd ones all speak in simple monosyllabic sentences now, answering questions but not conversing.

         "So I didn't see you go inside a damn rock just now?" Jim whimpered and quickly shook his head as an inhuman fear turned his eyes pale white momentarily. Doc Grizzly grabbed his hands and brought them up to the poor fellow's face. "We saw you go in there Jim. The proof is right here on your hands. Just tell us what you know and we'll let you go." He wrestled out of Doc Grizzly's loose grip before he fell victim to violent involuntary convulsions which threw him backwards onto the hard sand.

         Each of us stepped back as Jim's body began to slowly emit a rancid black smoke, which eventually obscured his body so much that we couldn't discern his features at all! A moment later, Skinner grabbed a fallen branch and poked right through the dark hazy mound as if nothing was there. He waved the stick around it, clearing the thick smoky shape to reveal that Jim had somehow vanished.

         Bestial shrieks came from the direction of our camp, leading us to run over to find several other slightly human shaped plumes of dark smoke. Had the other afflicted among us suffered the same mysterious fate as Jim?

         We didn't have time to voice our fears, because we noticed the tent which held the peculiar tablet was emanating a bright light. Curiously, instead of running far from there and never looking back, an unexplainable force drove us to investigate.

         Inside, a radiant otherworldly aurora of shifting majesty graced our eyes, the likes of which the heavens themselves could not display. Through the wonder, we glimpsed the etchings on the stone move and twist of their own volition. Whilst the marvelous ordeal entranced the rest of us, Dr. Hans Marsh, pulled out a notebook and began frenziedly scribbling.

         As soon as it started it ended. Everything quieted to a still. The other crew-men returned, the light receded, the initial etchings returned to the stone, and the only one of us that wasn't happy about it was the good Doctor Hans Marsh.

         He explained to us that the strange arcane symbols that flashed upon the tablet were actually a jumble of letters, whose origins ranged from ancient Mesopotamian to modern Greek! Although he translated what he saw, he noted that they didn't spell anything legible in English, yet.

         That night we devised a devilishly immoral plan to further Marsh's research, a plan which we first set into motion as soon as the sun rose the following day. Again, we surrounded Jim, as Doctor Marsh stayed with the tablet; I regret to admit, we berated and belittled the poor man to allow that baffling shadowy smoke to overtake him one more time, sending into motion the same mystical events as the day prior, thus giving Marsh more letters for his research.

         We've repeated this process for weeks now, though Marsh refuses to tell us the fruits which our vile experiments have bore. I hope we can end this soon; I don't know how long the smoke will leave us be, before they too bring us to whatever hell they take our unlucky comrades to.