George Sprangler pt 1

December 29, 2005.
"If you are reading this, then I have failed this planet. I do not have much time. Monsters, ancient, untold horrors are after me. I tried! I tried to send them away! But the charms did me no good. If they find me, I'll go back to Arkham and try to fix all this. But if they
THEY'RE HERE
THE DARKNESS COMES
THEY ARE AMONGST US
THEY________"


November 14, 2005.
It was a common, rainy day in Athens, Greece. Freezing, especially since it was night. Yet, that didn't stop all those citizens from taking their evening strolls down the square, chatting and laughing, browsing through things to buy for their loved ones and getting their early christmas trees and ornaments.
And so the time passed, for every common man and woman.
But not for George Sprangler. He was sitting in front of his desk with a cup of coffee, strong and hot, in which he laid his hopes for staying up for as much as he had to, yet not too much, because he was human after all, and he had limits.
He let a big yawn, covering his mouth even though no one was there, and wondered momentarily when would it all end. He looked at his watch, let a weary sigh, and then turned his attention to his desk once again.
It was covered in notes, photos of deformed dead bodies, circular coffee stains, a large notebook and a pen. All of them, signs of his work that evening.
George Sprangler was a policeman. But lately, for some reason, he had been doing the job of a private investigator. It wasn't something as dull and ordinary as spying on the saucy husband of a suspicious spouse, or anything like that. Quite on the contrary, this was an interesting case indeed, and a little more tiring that it should be, he added.
It was by far the strangest case he had ever been on, in all his years on the force. Some months ago, bizarre scenes of murder made their appearance in town. Slowly, one by one at first, then more and more frequently and with more killings each time. And the most peculiar thing about the killings was the way they were executed. As they say, the devil is in the details.
Bodies, tattered and torn, cuts all over them, and strange symbols carved on them, possibly by knife but even the morts weren't sure, each time in five specific points. One on the forehead, between the eyes, one on the back of each palm, one on each foot. Every time, the same symbols on the same spots.
Must be some kind of cult, George thought. The whole five-point thing reminded him somewhat of Stigmata, the four places where Jesus Christ was said to have the wounds from the nails, plus one on the head by the crown of thorns. But one thing he was sure of. Stigmata could never look so.. So hellish, so ritualistic, arcane and mystique. It seemed that whatever it was these guys were doing -there must be more than one after all, how can one person be so brutal?-, they sure knew how to do it, as well as why and with what goal.
Maxwell Adams, his boss had called him to his office, one cold Friday, and explained to him how things were with the murders. Then he told George that he was one of the best, and that he was sure he could trust him. Trust him about what, he didn't say, but George could easily guess.
'The city is not doing well, George. Not well at all. I can't stand seeing my hometown in this kind of distress. As if it wasn't bad enough with all the everyday muggings and murders. Are you willing to help us, Mr. Sprangler?'
George nodded. When his surname was spoken by ol' Max, it meant that hard times were ahead. Maxwell nodded too.
'We need you to investigate the whole thing. Gather as much information about it as you can, then try to find some kind of pattern they might be using, so that we may use it to predict their moves and try to intercept their movements. We attempted, but to no avail. We are counting on you , George.'
How could he resist? It was a pretty interesting case all by itself, and he thought that maybe something good would come out of it, like a promotion or a raise or something.
But that was then. Now, merely a week later, he wished none of it was real. As he glanced at his watch and saw that three hours had passes since midnight, he simply wanted out.
Bone-chilling murders, done in strange places, in strange ways, and even stranger symbols in them. All those ritualistic, gutual glyphs literary carved on the skin of the dead. They gave him an eerie feeling, like he had seen them before, maybe in a distant dream, or perhaps in another life.. No, that wasn't right. George didn't believe in the whole incarnation thing. It couldn't be right. I mean, you just die. And then nothing.
Right?
He put that thought aside, too tired to think about it longer. He had other things to do now. Thirteen murders so far. A total of twenty-nine dead people. The people notice that kind of thing, especially when little crying old ladies go to talk-shows or even the news, mourning the deaths of their sons, daughters or grandchildren - although the latter was a more uncommon case.
And then, everyone asked the most expected and sensible question:
'Who is to blame? Who is killing our loved ones and why isn't anyone doing anything about it?'
After that, the people started making the same question to each other. They wanted to know what they should watch out for. They needed to know what killed their neighbors, even though they could've cared less for them when they were alive.
And Christmas was close. Very close. You can't have people panicking and worrying about some psychopath who decided to ruin their holidays and lives in general. But frankly, George could really care less about that reason. It wasn't solid enough to be a good reason. People were doing, and whoever killed them was out there. That was the whole point of it.
That, and George wasn't a man for christmas.
When he reached his eighteenth year of age, he moved away from his parents' house. Since then his christmas was even worse than before he left. When he was with his parents, every year at that time, all kinds of weird people would arrive, and Mrs. Sprangler would make a giant buffet for the so-called 'relatives' to feast upon. Everyone would shout, curse, talk about golf or backgammon, ignoring George and his mother- they would've done the same to his father, had he not died in an accident at work when George was five.
Unfortunately, things went exactly as George had wished them to. He moved, after his mother got married again and he was sure she was economically able and healthy, and he managed to make a fresh start. But soon he realized that being alone and single at christmas was even worse than being with insolent and greedy relatives.
Ever since, he decided that if the holidays would stop meaning something special to him, then he would simply stop feeling more alone every such time of the year. And so he did.
But hey, since those people cared, and George cared for the community, it wasn't really a choice to leave the case aside, right?
He rubbed his forehead, and then looked at the right side of his office. There was a pack of cigarettes there. George rolled his eyes.
'No way, I quit.' He said out loud.
Yeah, ten times already, an inner voice told him.
Annoyed at his on self, he looked at the pack again with disgust, knowing that these things where a nasty bunch. They killed you slow, promising you bliss and delight, if you only smoked 'one more.. just one more..'. And with each one, you walked one step closer to Death, who seemed to grin and nudge you with His bony fingers to 'Come Hither, Mortal'.
'Hmph' was George's response, and then he tossed the cigarettes away with a careless slap. After that he noticed, in the chaos that was his desk, that underneath the space previously occupied by the cigs, there was the photograph of a young woman, standing in the rain.
She..
With her cute little face, and her wet black hair, with her delightful smile, as she feels the joy and freedom of dancing in the rain, laughing her heart out, not caring about the cold she had just acquired.
George smiled. Maria was her name. He remembered her. How could he forget? She was his first true love, the only one who actually cared for him and bothered to actually understand him.
They'd met while at high school, and while at first they didn't like each other at all, after some time, when both of them decided to look deeper into the personality of one another, they instantly fell in love.
George took Maria's picture in his hands. He kept staring at her gorgeous eyes (even though half-closed, to avoid getting rain in them), and her petite silouette, dramatically toned by her wet clothes. What a night that was.. He caressed the photo on the part of Maria's head.
And now Maria was dead. It was a car accident, or so they told him. They breaks had broken down, and there was no way for her to slow down when she unexpectedly took a quick turn to avoid some stray cat that had probably decided the road was now its home.
He wiped a tear from his eye, with a bitter smile. How cliche. A car, a slippery road, a little animal in the way, no breaks, haha, you're dead. George wondered how many times this kind of thing had actually happened, and to how many people and families.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he decided to let it all go, and call it a day. Or night, at any rate. A long and cold one too, he added to himself. George sighed and went to sleep, taking off none of his clothes and changing into no kind of PJs.
Well, he thought, I never go outside these days, so my clothes aren't dirty, i also wash them regularly, and after all, it's too damn cold to sleep in pajamas.
He switched off his desk's lamp, glimpsing at the disgusting pictures of the victims' unrecognizable bodies one last time -for this night at least-, tried to clear his head, then lied down on his bed.
The change between awareness and restless sleep was almost instant.


* * * * * * * * * *


George Sprangler was standing in the middle of a cobblestone-road, staring at the little houses, all in a dull brown-greyish color, reminding him of some books about old manors he once read.
Where the hell was he? And how did he get here? But.. He couldn't remember where he should've been, too.
He checked his costume jacket's inner pocket, and his hand came to his mouth, holding a nicely carved wooden pipe. Interesting, he thought. For some reason, I feel like I shouldn't be wearing a costume, or having a pipe and matches in my jacket's pocket - or a jacket, as a matter of fact-, and I shouldn't be smoking the pipe, and I shouldn't be playing with my healthy, well-trimmed mustache.
Galloping. Suddenly all his thoughts were drained away by the sudden noise of horses riding fast towards him. By the time the information entered his head, his instinct had already burst into action. George quickly jumped to the side of the road, falling down and avoiding the fast and almost certain death that would have found him, had he not been lucky.
'Crazy fool!'
George turned to look at his near-death-experience cause: a black carriage, horse-dragged, and on top of it, the one that cursed at him, the driver. He opened his eyes wide, upon closer inspection of the drivers face: it had fins. His face structure clearly human, yet he had fins all over! And these full black eyes... Georges jaw dropped.
'Are you alright, sir?' A young female voice asked behind him.
Still looking at the shrinking figure of the carriage rushing through the street, he got up and tried patting on his shoulders to remove the dust.
'Yes, I think I'm alright. Barely dodged it.' While saying this, he turned to face the one who asked him if he was alright.
And then he lost his voice and his throat went dry. What he stared at was a figure of a woman, with a head like some alien octopus, all green and with flaming-red eyes, tentacles where the mouth should have been, and fins for ears.
George took a sudden step back.
'Are you sure you're alright? Sir?' It asked.
George stepped back again, his feet barely keeping him standing upright. Nearly staggering, he managed to say, in a weak and low voice:
'Wh.. What.. Are.. You?..'
'Sir?' The figure's voice was more deep now, ancient, brutal and visceral.
'Get.. Away from me..'
'AZ'GOTGH?' Its voice bellowed like thunder, so elder, so gutual and otherwordly. It would be the voice with which the deep ocean would claim its victims, if it would talk.
George's feet gave up on him. He fell on his back and just barely felt something burning his hand. He quickly glanced at it, and saw that the tobacco from his pipe had fallen on his hand and was burning it. He tossed it aside and noticed a spot of burned skin. He turned his attention to the creature again. The last thing he saw was its tentacles clasped on his head.
'NO!'
And then he was on his bed again, breathing fast, sweating and touching his face on the places where the tentacles had caught him. It was all a dream... He went to the kitchen to get a glass of water to calm him down. And when he reached out to get a glass, he noticed something on his right hand.
A spot of burned skin.


* * * * * * * * * * *