Harhil'Gnur: Duke over the Massacre

Only in the most frantic and life threatening of scenarios would ensue wherein a car, of perfect upkeep, fails to start ignition. This spine tingling scenario only the most foolish of paranoid people would prepare for was fully realized when Danik tried to start his car. It would wheeze and start up, only to die after a few seconds of torque.

Ashton looked behind them as Danik tried to start the car a gain. The engine hummed to life as the back lights shone to reveal the bloodied and bandaged upright dog creature a few hundred meters away from the car. The car was to die again, only to hum back to life. As the backlight shone again, the creature came closer.

“Hurry up!” Ashton would yell into Danik’s ear, fearing what that eldritch abomination could do to them if it were able to reach them.
As the back light flickered faster, so did the bloody creature in its approach. The car then died; its engine, as quiet as the night. Danik froze in fear. He took the key of and pushed it in again as he began to turn quietly. Not even in his frantic mania would Ashton dare to make a faint squeak. He had hoped that the creature was deaf and would leave them be if they were to stay silent.

As Danik started the car up and the headlights flared, he saw on his side mirror the visage of the accursed Harhil’gnur staring back at him. His pupils dilated as he choked on his own saliva. At that moment, the car burst into a coughing and wheezing hum. He stepped on the accelerator and turned it up a gear for good measure as they skid off the glens to escape the monster of the shack.

“What was that thing?” Danik screamed in frantic fear.

“It was an aranganal!” Ashton said. “Our nightmares are manifesting! Are we going insane, Danik? Ashton asked.

“I’m not sure…” Danik told Ashton. “I hope we are…because if that thing wasn’t an illusion, I’d never sleep again!”

They soon made their way to San Jorje, they parked their car on the street side and ran as quickly as they could up their apartment. Tucking their figurative manhood between their legs, they slammed the door behind them as they breathed heavily as they leaned on the flimsy plastic door.

They locked the latch and sunk into their swiveling chairs. The fear that consumed the shack on Canal Nagid had leached unto the soil and is ready to leak on all of San Jorje. Danik turned to his left where his lopsided shelves stood. They were old and termite infested and the structure was yet to give way. It held almanacs spanning from the world war one up to the present day. San Jorje was known to harbor this knowledge in all corners. It was a town where learning institutions would mushroom; a new school every two years and a new daycare center ever six months.

Danik took a thicker almanac from the pile, taking it out as if playing jenga to stop the shelf from losing equilibrium. He read it aloud to Ashton, who was asphyxiating himself with his unevenness, but was all ears nonetheless.
“Ashton, I think you might want to take a gander at this!’ Danik told him.

“What is it?” Ashton inquired, rising from his seat and walking towards Danik.
“These murders were so frequent and regular, that the farmer’s Almanac documented it from 1889 all the way to the late 1940’s!” Danik said. “It says here for ‘farmers to beware leading their water carabaos to drink from the stream there at night, lest they be the next to disappear and be found dead at the shack!”
“This goes back that far?” Ashton said in amazement. “What was the first recorded case?” Ashton asked.
“I think the records are on your side.” Danik said. “Hang on, why are the murder cases on your side.” He asked.
“Insurance...” Ashton replied.
Danik pursed his lips and nodded his head side wards in agreement. Ashton scurried through his folders and found the first murder of the year 1889.

---
December 2, 1889
The corpses of 2 year old [REDACTED] and 22 year old [REDACTED], father and daughter, were found dead inside a shack at Port Kuratan’g Laayo in Canal Nagid at around 4:16 in the afternoon by an old woman. Police reports say that the 2 year-old infant, [REDACTED] was nailed to a wood board after being --------------------- and --------------, the ------------------being wrapped around her neck. Further investigations found large traces of anesthetic with the infant’s bloodstream and, along with distinctions and irregularities in the lacerations, revealed that the infant was still alive when -------------- were pulled out as she was choked to death with them before being ------------- completely.
Her father, 22 year old [REDACTED], had his -------------------- removed after being hung on a meat hook. His wrists were cut open diagonally and thin ------------------------------------------ blood, police suspected. The skin on his -----------------were detached from the flesh and was -------------- to cover the scalp.
The crime was suspected to be perpetrated by a doctor or surgeon due to the accurate incisions and professional use of anesthetics. The perpetrator is yet to be found.
-SJBP

---
“No human capable of feeling can ever do this!” Ashton said in disbelief. “Whatever they did, whatever it was; just not to an infant!”
“It’s a sad truth that these monsters roam around uncaught, but I believe the perpetrator was indeed caught.” Danik informed.
“By the way, Danik…” Ashton said. “Why were the details snuffed out?” Ashton inquired.
“As a lawyer, the only thing you need to know is the date, time and the crime…” he professed. “No use groaning over details.”

Ashton listened as he looked over some files. As he did, he was able to fish out some photographs of the bodies and the suspect report. It was attached with a news column trimming with the head line ‘NAGID KILLER CUAGHT!’ dancing theatrically on the cover of the Diaryo San Jorjenio, the city’s premier publication.

The photos showcased the man’s body after being put on a white board to be examined and photographed. The man’s head appeared to have had been reshaped to look like the underside of the bowl. It was clear that the man had brown, curly hair and gapped teeth. Half of his face from the nose up was no longer covered as his facial tissue and collagen was exposed to the elements. This was clear, for even if the photo was in black and white, the rot and decay was still visible. One can see in the full body photos, his posture was bent beyond that of which is humanly normal.

Apart from being bent, his whole upper torso was improperly laid on the white canvas, and appeared snake like, as if something fundamental to the foundation of the human skeleton had been removed.

Next was the picture of the female infant. Of all things unholy and evil, the treatment of such a young and innocent child was that of wretched-disheartened incarnate who pines for the fire that which singeth everlasting down in suffering-at-eternity; impyerno.
One of her most distinguishable features was the large mole on her left chest. From the most suggestive of the female regions the perpetrator starts his incision, continuing up and stopping, only to eviscerate the longest of the organs and use it to draw out every and any vestige of breath from the infant until every last alveoli in its tiny lungs started rupturing. The murdered then continued with his incision; hacking upwards at the breast bone that was still soft and undeveloped. It was clear that the demonic surgeon had lost grip, for the weapon flew and landed a few feet away according to police findings. This was supported by the large gash on the infant’s face and throat that came from the same angle of the initial incisions.

Danik and Ashton wished they had not seen these pictures. They were photos that were to haunt their minds unto the grave and beyond oblivion; for these photos are testaments to the dark eldritch excesses that mental depravity coupled with the savage barbaric nature man can bring if discipline within society, and within man, were not to be enforced. As for those afflicted with the curse of depravity, they are to be locked away and taken care of for their sake and those around them. Pray and work towards the combating of an epidemic that spreads without the infectious touch of miasma or filth, but beyond the different elements and environs one might be exposed to. For these factors do not enter through breath or by tainted food, but rather through events, words and experiences.
This is why a demon of insanity is far more dangerous that a demon of pestilence. Pestilence only kills its victims, but insanity employs it’s victims to kill others before killing itself.

These eldritch happenings have a cause, although not scientific, is the first lead to an otherwise leadless case.
Ashton and Danik see the sun rise over the mountains beyond A’Lacvine. They take to their cupboards, which they replenish out of their own pockets if work deprives them of talking meals at home. They quickly mix in a mixture of powdered milk, rolled oats, a chalky biscuit that dissolves easily in water; all combined with hot water. They clink their mugs to a good case and gulp it down.
They grabbed the photos and records and shoved them in a folder as they race down the rickety stairs; disregarding the possibility that their loud footsteps could awaken their neighbors who might still be sleeping. There, the landlady Mdme. La’Croan, who was out to walk her dog, came to stop them.

“And where are you gentlemen going at this hour?” the stern old woman said as her old St. Bernard tugs on its leash.
“Legal business, Madame…” Danik said as he fixed his shoe. “We are heading for the archives!”
“Yes!” Ashton responded. “…very, very important legal business!”
Madame nodded and told them to get lost, figuratively speaking. She then tied her St. Bernard, Arnold, to the stair post as she went up the stairs to wake up the tenants. She passed by Ashton and Danik’s office, and thought the pigsty needed some cleaning out.
They rushed through the apartment streets and quickly drove off to the capitol. The drive was quick and direct without the need for detours. It was early morn. The morning rush does not usually start until six-thirty.
S they reach the capitol, they fumble over the stairs leading to the Central Archives. There, they check in to Ms. Marcela Jean Abalateson, the librarian.
“Gentlemen!” she looked at their haggard, sweaty constitutions in surprise. “What brings the both of you here so early?” she asked.
“Ms. Abaleteson…” Ashton said trying to catch his breath. “We require full reign over your faculties.”
“What?” She said in surprise. The two men thought nothing of it, but imagine yourself in the shoes of a lonely public servant being approached by two suspicious men asking if they could have ‘full reign over your faculties.’
Danik, getting tired and eager said: “we need the library to ourselves.” He spat out.

Relieved, the librarian silently opened the velvet rope and allowed them access to the region’s most expansive library. It employs archivists that have been cataloguing the region’s happenings ever since the first journal the “Georgian Almanac”.
Ashton and Dannik searched through the library. Starting with almanacs and leaflets; they slowly escalate into thicker and thicker materials such as codices and encyclopedias about a foot and a half thick, scaling arithmetically with age.

They soon stumbled upon a small odd page, probably from that of a notebook, judging by its blue and red lines that strike horizontally across the pages. Danik took the page and read it. It was the handwriting of a grown man in blue ink, for no child was capable of quick, legible American shorthand. The squiggling was a sign of uneasiness and fear. Every stroke was driven by a racing pulse from an imminent danger that grew closer towards him.

“What is it?” Ashton inquired, looking over Danik’s shoulder and on to the page.
“I’ve been asking myself the same question.” Danik replied, rubbing his forefinger and thumb against the paper’s edge. “Probably the reason why you would die if you got a prescription note from an American doctor…”
---
“Emilia, I am so sorry… I hope you can forgive me, please Emilia! I’m sorry it took her out. Im sorry I didn’t make much time for you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…
--- [INDISCERNABLE WRITING] ---
She keeps on crying. She wants her mama. Where are you? I’m sorry. I’m at Nkanit (Naganid?)
--- [INDISCERNABLE WRITING] ---
I’m going to die, but I promise I will make sure baby Lina and
--- [INDISCERNABLE WRITING] ---
. Take care of baby Emille.
--- [INDISCERNALBLE WRITING]---
--- [END] ---
---
There was a blot next to the end of the letter that was very hard to read. It was the kind of shorthand writing that suggested the literal meaning of ‘short hand’: that the writer was short of a hand.

Then, as we tried to word out the blotted signage; a familiar, grandmotherly voice spoke behind us. It was the creaking and cracking voice of an old woman; and old woman that has seen things that only surviving through time’s current can afford. It was Mdme. Elsie La’Croan as she said: ‘Love, Eddie.’

“Madame!” Danik exclaimed, turning to the octogenarian behind them as she read the letter word for word along with them. “How did you find us?”

“I was cleaning your filthy room…” Madame started.
The two blushed for two reasons. For one; their landlady had witnessed the clutter in their decaying room. And the second; the first woman to enter their office in years was the godforsaken landlady.
“And then I went around looking for information on my husband’s disappearance in your office…” she said. “And I thought you could help me…” she said.
“Your husbands…disappearance?” Danik asked her.
“…and my daughters…” Madame La’Croan added. “He went missing with my daughters, they were still babies then when me and Emille where in our early twenties.” She said in detail.
“Emille?” Ashton worded out with his lips, as he turned to Danik.

Madame noticed the movements and gestures and turned to Ashton, optimism leaking out of her wrinkles as she smiled, hoping that he knew something of their fat. Ashton did, he knew everything. Each and every incision, each and every mind twisted, grim atrocity that befell the father and daughter; Ashton have had them burned in to his mind the eldritch artwork of this demon virtuoso. But the man did not have the heart to tell this hopeful woman, keeping up a face of poignant reassurance as he hides the photos and files of their true and gruesome end behind him.

“Im sorry, Madame.” He told her. “We have not found anything.” Ashton said. It was far better for her health to lie, after all.
“Ashton!” Danik called his attention. “We need to go, now!” Danik told him.

Ashton and Danik soon raced out of the library. Danik had found several newspaper clippings following patterns on where the last murders would occur before the suspects were found in their usual catatonic, soulless states. They happened at Dab’Nail, Gableitun, Portal West and Canal Nagid. By piecing together the regular patterns that showed up on the numerous murders that stayed exactly the same amount for every new murderer, Danik predicted the last murder for this ‘season’ was on Canal Nagid; where it had all started.

They jumped out into the streets, nearly falling head first down the stairs. They then jumped inot their sedan and drove off unto Canal Nagid. Halfway into the drive, Ashton had forgotten his files and the photos. The next day, the Carlin Apartment on Kuro-og Street was the scene of a riot consisting of newspaper reporters and photographers being held back by the police as they surround the body of the building’s owner as she lie dead on the street above her room balcony facing that very street. She was taken to the morgue, but when the embalmer had come to see her, she was no were to be found.

Danik and Ashton arrive at the spot, but they were already too late. The long grass stalks have been folded and crushed under the weight of footsteps as they their path was slightly drizzled with blood from a messily bagged body. The perpetrator was still dragging the body to very shack of horrors that had served as the prime setting of Mr. Montrose’s horror.

“I’m not going back in there again…” Danik said as he turned to leave. Ashton held his shoulder.
“We don’t have to!” he reasoned out. “The shmuck’s still outside! We can get him!” Ashton told Danik.

They ran up to him to apprehend the man and put a stop, for at least a while as they had understood, to the murders. They ran up to him, but the like a lake of cement, the grass melted into sludge as it caught their legs in some sort of cursed limbo. The clouds had stopped moving and the entire scene is now completely black and white. The murderer stopped in his tracks. He melted like a flaming candle. He dribbled into a clear and pungent pool of blood and other bodily liquid coalesced into a soup of gross morbidity. It was repulsive, burning through Danik and Ashton’s mortal nostrils and constricting their breathing for they stood merely a few meters away when their legs failed to come any closer.

The blood flowed like tiny river stream upwards unto the shack. The reddish-orange light seemed to shine luminescently from the cracks and openings of the shack, a growling sound could be heard from the unknown centre within this accursed abode of pure evil and horror. The plastic wrapping melted of the body, for anything seemed to be possible in this black and white realm of abstract fear. It was like a tear through a dimension that could not be explained. The melting plastic bag revelaed the crushed ribs and snapped spine of their landlady, Mdme. La’Croan.

As the plastic melted off, the shack door slammed open. Despite the glowing light emanating from the cracks, the farthest part of the hack seemed like the dark peering heart of an endless tunnel. From that very vantaesque darkness grew a long, thin and winding arm that dragged the landlady’s body towards the shack. As the body entered, the shack, the door slammed shut and the lights went off.
The silence was completely and utterly maddening. For these things to transpire and not even a burst of madness to sequel it was as unbearably unnerving as the fright itself. But upon the enty of this very thought into the two minds, the shack ruptured into infinite nothingness and before them stood, Harhi’gnur.

It his truest and most eldritch form, the two men close their eyes and plead to all the deities they have ever known and read about for their intercession to their safety. Safety for their sake, safety against the unnamable vicar of the devil and the indescribable violence and terror it is unknowingly capable of. Its hair writhed in strands that floated almost ethereally from its head. Its mouth dripped with the blood of all that ever lost their knife to the sharpened metal edge.

Its bandages unfurled to reveal it’s beating heart; the corpse of the first murderer, alive and sustained by the blood of all those who followed in his footsteps. The blood flowed from the veins and arteries beating in blood from the beast’s claws and viscera. It let out a screech that signified the great massacre that would ensue. Behold! Harhil’gnur: Duke over the Massacre.