• amp1972 22w

    Blood on my touchscreen

    © Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved


    No warranties. This ebook, and its context, is a work of fiction.

    You can voluntarily support the author with $ or € via: http://paypal.me/AMPietroschek

    It is the fifth of April in the year 2015. I am writing this in a hurry, as a certain pressure makes me expect to be seriously distracted soon. My name is Morton Bryce. I am the son of Walton T. Bryce and Emma-Maria Whiteley. While many would have called me a hopeless scoundrel, a vagabond, and a seriously outclassed small-scale criminal such had never been my true calling.

    I was a born believer, a cultist for a real cause, not the mere madness or drug-crazed dreams of the modern, urban folks. And I can proudly note that I will stay that to the very moment of my own death! Like many rural people I had childhood full of hard work, folklore, and familial closeness I actually had to accept as my burden, just as most other folks had to.

    Since Al-Hazarded published that book for the bored morons trapped in ignorance, and choosing to stay so, I was part of a living community hellbent on more than the mere survival, cattle herding, and dying on our family farm. And yes, that Necronomicon hysteria blinded shockingly many to the very fact that more than ninety percent of those who dabbled in it met a premature and disastrous nemesis soon thereafter.

    My own core suspicion was that the book, combined with Al-Hazarded's personal madness, maybe due the ordeal of reaching his publisher or escaping the equivalent to a book-burning church chorus eager to prevent that, made it a beacon to forces not even cultists would easily sympathize or associate with. But that is just something like bible sermon to Christianity. It makes every yokel barely able to recite a punchline seem like he is a major player involved in global and divine schemes of utmost importance!

    I am no necromancer, I am not capable of summoning greater cosmic powers, personalized or abstract, and neither did I ever go insane enough to attempt such. The gruesome years von Junzt needed to learn communicating with ghouls should have made it clear that each cult needs a focus, and enough sanity left to actually survive mundane and cosmic threats. A struggle which usually ends with the cultists loosing it.

    Our opponents, envious schemers, and foes work hard to publicly insist such proves we fight on the wrong side of the wrong cause. I always thought such might come from a faint resemblance to the American civil War, and the psycho-social or cultural aftermath it made people live in. I could err though! All of some decent education or life experience and maturity will, once contemplating it, realize that we actually just do what mortality demands from everybody who was born, survive and prosper, or die trying. Human nature within the laws even larger powers cannot undo completely.

    Additionally I am used to both, introspection and retrospection. Many cults, and several cultists, actually never waste a minute of their lifetime on learning the wisdom of such. I think we are the rural peoples dark side of independence. We are, oft depicted, partly criminals, partly manipulative pseudo-clergy, and free from the shackles of a society only accepting us as underpaid laborers, maltreated lackeys, or not at all.

    Old letters, letters are predecessors to email, fax, or “What'sApp” kinda technological communicating, and diary notes or family heritage do indeed mention the subtle notes it takes to become a cultist and learn communicating with powers beyond, below, or in cosmic anomalies we fail to understand. Just that nobody promised it is easy, harmless, or guaranteed to be good for us.

    My own grandparents heard the vivid memories of their elders, of things manifesting, of barely surviving the first encounter, of feeling the power so much worthier than the farm-life we had to be content with. Many of us actually shared in the joy of mum or dad proudly retelling how they acquired their first real occult book, or how they met the one stranger who was not just babbling the insane sermon of escapees from psychiatric institutions.

    When it runs in the family, then it is usually either more freaky or more comforting than the solitary start. Many think us alike the cults doing nothing but indulging perversion or insanity, still those are the people who forget that some of us long succeeded into gaining patronage or tutoring from more powerful minds than those humanity cares to muster. My grandparents spoke of surviving two World Wars. Rarely ever about anything occult or beyond.

    It was due the fact that I was born without mutations or signs of dire degeneration that allowed me to participate in the normed society, like kindergarten or base school, middle school, high school, and some university. Henceforth I had my personal expertise about what I disliked about society, why I was not satisfied being a lackey or soldier, especially an underpaid one, and stay content with that.

    Noteworthy though is that degeneration, violation, and unintended results are lifelong calamities we have to be cautious about. I think that a major factor of explaining is that the the forces we attune with have a habit of making the same reality we all know and rely on in scientific routine has moments, like an ebb and flow, but through the atmosphere and never along the scientific definitions of physical laws.

    The moments the real forces manifest or bring about changes are, to mortal creatures and mammals, usually overwhelming, discomforting, or outright pandemonium. Lesser cults hence remain on the same proverbial food-chain like any human, but react differently to those whims of natural law and mayhap the God we once prayed to in church.

    Back to me, Morton Bryce: My life went its way, and it is my own decision to write this confession. Because that it is what it comes down to, a confession. Even though I do not even know, if the auto-share will ever upload and spread it. My conscience rested easily, and lived well with producing dozens of what nowadays is called targeted individuals or conspiracy theorists. One of our income sources is providing a service for hire, and terms like gang-stalking, invisible-touch-torment or cyberstalking may be inspired by it.

    Sometimes it is a family who just purchased a house 'where we cannot afford witnesses', or have that 'need to remain undisturbed'. Seriously, sometimes we are not at all about home invasion, family-massacring, or normalcy-crushing. But targeted psycho-social harassment, intimidation, and causing alienation to people who found out or witnessed certain procedures actually spawns from the same root, as the decision to kill in cold blood or burn a house down without warning the inhabitants, so the fire-fighters and insurance have a more believable scene to find.

    Skilled cult leaders sort their assets, avoiding to discomfort them too far, as risk of discovery, opposition, and angered contract partners are tasks our middle-management is duty-bound to handle. Damn, it is just that, subtle threats, pure intimidation, or brute force, kidnapping or poisoning, if compliance could not be enforced in the first rush. Certainly one reason we are met with distrust and vigilance instead of smiles and the proverbial open arms!

    It has something weird how much can become routine to the human mind, and how many changes we can rationalize away, until we realize they are what made us fall from grace. Once we realize that even those who play with dirty tricks can be nailed by consequence, competition, or life itself a lot becomes so much more adult about it... I myself chuckled more than once, lately even about the insight that I actually might die like a figure in one short story written by some Howard Philip Lovecraft, who is rumored to have been member of 'some dilettante social club' reading works like that Necronomicon, and dabbling in anything to snatch attention and easy money.

    These memories and thoughts surge up into my mind, because I am ashamed of the blasphemous simplicity which would be my confession! Really, merely typing the words fails to make transparent how one little outrage of bloodthirstiness caused a wrong I never meant to cause, and harmed people I did not want to be harmed, whereby it may indeed be that only due the way consequences made reality turn out to be I found that guilt-ridden lethargy to accept my supposed fate instead of using my skills to escape or undo it.

    No apology, no 'forgive me!', and no 'I am sorry' would mean that the family gets their beloved wife, mother, sister, and daughter back. No ritual I ever discovered would even help to recompense them, so they could mourn their loss without the social and financial troubles it already caused in addition. Therefor I made me the weird hermit sitting in a small apartment and awaiting 'that which comes up the stairs'.

    I only know due investigative work that my hunter, the man sworn to end my life, was forced out of everything he cherished due my deed. I understood that I had slaughtered his Cthulhu, that I had made his 'magic' leave his world forevermore. For that is what love was to the journalist that man had been before his nervous breakdown, and the aftermath of my outrage, reforged him into another violent prone fate-maker and life-taker.

    The wood oft used for stairs in proletarian social classes makes less noise, when one avoids stepping into the middle of each stair, as that pressures it more than stepping on the left or right of a stair, where the structure is more reinforced.

    I harshly heard my hunter approach, and I can only hope that he will be far away, when those who would attempt to punish me for a job gone bad show up. Seeing the blinking of my USB surfstick I know this file went online, and talking of the mundane, it is the shadow of a simple golf-club I see as the final hint and herald to my own demise. THE END