Late in the twentieth century, on Spaceship Earth, witchdoctors and snakeoil salesmen engineered the global village. Some were good, some were bad, and the fruits of their collective labors became the binary information code — the latticework that has formed our daily lives. WIth all this “information” available, the process of formal education became ever slicker, though not easier. The process of gleaning trueknowlede from the electronic superhighway has become an art unto itself. But there is a limit! The lack of community created by large masses of people staring at large cathode ray tubes has become as disheartening as the sound of the data compression schemes being foisted upon us. A dull light illuminates us.

…as we approach the end of this century and continue to complicate our lives in an attempt to simplify we will gravitate toward the impulses and waveforms which pull us in. In the end nature will win.

-David Baker
MMW Recording Engineer/Producer

I could sense my friend’s dismay as he related what happened next: when he went to the can to check the progress of the draining, it was the next day. As he walked toward it, he could see quite plainly that it seemed even more bloated than previous, and he found the holes that he drilled gaping open in darkness, no water coming from them. Upon inspection, he saw that someone had, out of inconsiderate convenience no doubt, jammed several stumps and sticks from nearby trees they had been trimming into the refuse, neatly tearing open the bag in which his scraps of vine had been discarded. He told me that it seemed that the plant had dissolved into a kind of green and white muck which had formed a membrane through which the water would not pass. He attempted to tip the can, but to no avail. Guessing that at least some water had drained, he drilled a few more holes and resolved to bring the entire thing out for the collectors later in the week. He hoped they would realize that this circumstance had occurred likely due to their negligence and would perhaps dispose of at least some of the contents.

This is not what happened. Over the course of the next week, Mr. Lakatosh told me, the region saw a massive, humid heat wave followed by more extreme storms, undoing the work he had done thus far. One night, well after dark and on his way home from his restaurant, he noticed a strange phosphorescent glow from the outside of the can, something like a solid mist coating the outside top of the can, slightly green in color, glowing steadily and strangely in the night. He reasonably assumed the contents of the can had spoiled somewhat and implored my help.

I told him that, certainly, the situation was not going to become any better on its own and asked his plan, but he had none. After some thought, I said: “I would not recommend using a drill on it any more than you have. It’s dangerous, with the water.” He agreed, stating that a large sharp object would be worth the task, but what was there to use? The only knives he owned were in his restaurant, and being incredibly valuable using them was simply out of the question. It was then that I thought of the knife I had purchased - valuable, for certain, but no doubt more rugged than Luke’s kitchen utensils. The thing was, after all, hundreds of years old and had seen much worse than a rancid trash can full of water. I told him about this and he gratefully nodded, and we agreed to meet again at his home at 1:00 am the following morning. As I left his house, I couldn’t help but glance at the now enormous can and imagine that I heard something from its direction, like a whisper or the mad scraping and creaking of something old, blind, and dangerous.

To be continued …

As tends to be the case with human beings, I was infatuated with the blade for a short period of time before I put it away. Eventually, I all but forgot about the artifact and carried on my usual business. Part of this business was to visit with my friend Luke Lakatosh, a resident of the nearby borough of Yardley. Though a small town, Yardley was rich in history and very old architecture. It was peopled by two distinct groups: the descendants of the original settlers to the area who were a quiet and eccentric folk - having the knowledge of the strange oral tales passed down from generations - that kept to themselves and the newcomers who were attracted to the town’s recently acquired status as a popular resort town for those who did not struggle with their means. The area is dominated by Lake Afton, a small but idyllic body of water on the edge of the borough before the roads disappear into farmlands. Luke’s restaurant sat just across the road from the lake.

One day nearly a year after obtaining the knife I remember clearly as the first time that Mr. Lakatosh illuminated me on a particular problem he was having with a waterlogged receptacle outside of his house - less than 200 paces from the restaurant. It seems that a few weeks prior he had obtained a particularly choice recipe which called for the inclusion of an exotic and rare plant, eryxiana arboria or the Eryx Vine. He knew little of the vine and did not divulge to me how he came in possession of a sample but did note that there were clear instructions to keep the trimmings dry and away from rapid temperature changes to keep them from spoiling. He served the dish to a full house and, satisfied with the day’s commerce, brought the scraps of the plant home with him to salvage what could. The remainders, and they were little, he disposed of and then thought nothing of it.

What happened next was a truly baffling sequence of unfortunate mishaps. The day following his success at the restaurant, record storms erupted in the region which rose Lake Afton by several feet, flooding many homes, and bringing with it severe winds which knocked the lid from his garbage bin to some unknown location. The heavy rains filled the can with water nearly to the top, so much so that the collectors refused to lift it the following day and my friend was forced to drag the bloated container back to his house, puzzled as to how to proceed. For the meantime he decided it was best to simply drill holes into the side of the container, which he did, to at least unleash the gallons of water inside. He did so, late one night, and left it drain until the morning.

To be continued …

I have always been a collector. As time goes on I have collected various items, my tastes becoming multifarious over the years. My infatuation at the time these events unfolded was in a series of fetishes or dolls from the Orient depicting various soldiers and the invading forces they fought against. I had found a supplier for these somewhat rare artifacts by the name of Dennis Beebe, a sort of ‘technological woodsman’ certainly best built to survive some apocalyptic world more sinister than ours. Mr. Beebe happened to be a librarian, which gave him access to research and means well beyond my own to obtaining these objects. It was a Sunday when I went to see him this particular time. As I approached his apartment, just west of Poroth Farm in New Jersey, I was filled with anticipation as he had told me over the phone that he had found an item of some importance to me.

When he answered the door we made idle talk before our transaction. I found myself incredibly distracted and hazy on entering his apartment and I was barely able to keep in mind what we were discussing. It was as if the air in that place was heavier, somehow, not outright fearful but building over time into a slow dread. My mind cleared completely, however, when Mr. Beebe showed me what he’d brought me there for.

“Mr. Beebe! How did you find this?”

He was holding a tiny doll, a replica of an ancient statue, depicting the famous Commander of the Cobra Order, sinister in his cowl with the hateful eyes of an inhuman god. It was magnificently detailed; royal blue uniform with the red emblem of the Order emblazoned on its chest. His legendary weapon of choice - The Dagger of Walter de la Poer - molded in its resin sheath. Mr. Beebe’s eyes were alight as he told me that this figure was not even the object he spoke about - this precious item was extra, to be mine for free. I felt some of that odd heaviness, the old dread, creep back in as he took me into a cluttered back room. As he moved the curtain aside, he told me that when he had found what he was about to show me, he knew that I would purchase it in an instant. After an odd moment of silence, he reached into a cupboard and removed a silk bundle, unwrapping it to reveal the mythic Dagger of de la Poer itself.

It was approximately 7 or 8 inches long, and serrated on a side with a curve at the sharp tip. It was remarkably unremarkable, fairly unadorned and appearing to possess more utility than aesthetic. As soon as he removed it from its cover I knew it to be the source of the strange uneasiness that permeated his apartment. I felt dizzy and faint as I took it in my hand and I wanted it and did not want it all at once. The moment I grasped it tightly in my fist, however, the dread faded and was replaced by a bold sort of power behind my eyes, a clarity the like I’d never known. I knew this object was genuine, and supposing that it was, the Dagger was certainly the most powerful object I’d ever held. According to the famous researcher, Dr. Bigham at Miskatonic University, this blade held power over evil and things not of this world. It completely defied observation, not in a literal sense, but the more I looked at it the less sense it seemed to make, as if some part of its construction was mathematically impossible though it seemed plain and unadorned. As I gazed in wonder, Mr. Beebe filled me in on how he’d obtained it: that a nomad by the name of Danielle Hunter had by unknown means come into possession of the dagger and, under its influence believing it to be a Masonic artifact was arrested while attempting to dispose of the item into a large body of water. Through a series of fortunate accidents, the blade made its way to Miskatonic University Library, New Jersey Branch, where Mr. Beebe worked on his research.

The blade cost me sixteen thousand dollars and a promise of a considerable favor to Mr. Beebe. Though I carried the blade with me that day, my sense of deep dread vanished the moment I left Mr. Beebe’s apartment, as though the knife had not been where it belonged, and now it was.

To be continued …