For Your Eyes Only

Rupert Addlesfield

The year has been spent in research of a personal project. You have been compiling a bestiary of sorts, listing a variety of occult entities noted across various texts, contexts, and periods - attempting to find a common link perhaps. It seems an age now since you looked at 'Ancestor Spirits', a topic that you spent a considerable amount of time on -  it being a new and exciting subject for your keen mind to explore. You learnt about the various different types of hells in Buddhism and Ancient Sumerian, as well as the eternal war of Zoroastrianism. You research took you deeper into less well known texts and areas.

Your curiosity led you to research entities known as 'Byachi', though the names of these creatures were spelt differently across texts and their appearance varied, but the common feature of leathery wings and a paralysing touch remained a common feature. The more you researched, the more you felt there were a number of other common themes linking some of these creatures, a sense in which they were servants to other more obscure beings, whose nature you could not fathom. Take for instance vague references to ‘Children of the Sea’, which you came across in reference texts detailing an unknown book - which for the first time in an age filled you with a peculiar dread.

These creatures of supra-human intelligence appeared to occupy their incredible intellects with a variety of twisted forms of research, awaiting a day when their mother would call them. Their utter apathy was only matched by their intense cruelty. The text mentioned “a cruelty beyond any human ken”, but in the service of what appeared a noble scheme of progressive understanding. What horrified you more was their attempts - if the text was true - to interbreed with humans, developing a hybrid not only of incredible strength and cunning, but also of monstrous deformity and rage.

With some relief you finally came to 'zombi' - a duller topic of sorts, but still one full of variety. Across cultures you found a variety of references to animation, some divinely inspired, such as the famed tale of Isis and Osiris, others from human agency. In a variety of cultures a number of wardings seemed to conjoin the references you read, mostly involving drawing a protective line or circle, the medium varying. Salt was often used to ward ‘ju-ju zombies’ - originally an African custom, but later intermingled with missionary preachings to form the curious beliefs of many occidental cults. In more Westernised accounts, the banishing of the spirit with ritual incantations, or more extreme forms of physical destruction using fire or decapitation was common. Another common feature of these accounts was the relentless march of destruction these creatures could enact, and their incredible durability in the face of structural damage, not to mention their total obedience to their master.

In your mind you recalled the terrible poetry of Wilfred Owen and Sasson, and the carnage of the lost enacted during the Great War, where such life was lost at the will of faceless masters who brushed away the lives of thousands at a whim it seemed. You felt some pangs of guilt at that time, but were thankful never to have been fed to the meat grinder that the war had become; glad you would never be involved in such a thing again.

Now summer is ending and already there is a hint in the air of a cold autumnal chill, the season of decay, a portent of the deathly chill of winter. It has been another long night in the family library. The candle in front of you flickers and you look up. You realise the dawn light is emerging over the dark horizon, spreading its welcome over the gardens where you and your sisters would play, running carefree through the hedge maze, so carefully tended by old Thomas the gardener - God rest his soul.

After your marathon project, you've been settling down on a commissioned report. You've spent some long lonely nights on a researching Dianic cults around Northern France and Germany. It was a strange piece of work - on the surface fairly straightforward. Of course, you knew that The D'Ardnennes Forest was mythically linked to the worship of the Huntress Diana, so it was a mere trifle to put together a basic treatise on this area, an undergraduate would have done as much. Ever curious, you wanted to look further, as a distant memory guided you to notes you scribbled hastily in the dark corners of Miskatonic University, after a particularly long discussion with your tutor Dr. Armitage.

It was a theory you had shared with him about some obscure classical references to the ‘Queen of the Night’, and its relation with the Germanic version of the ‘Wild Hunt’, as a predecessor of the Roman Dianic cults. Your radical theory was that rather than the concept of the Wild Hunt being a transmigration of Roman cults into the Germanic belief system, that there was a little known cult of the Dark Mother of Night whose initiates promoted a rather disturbing version of the Dianic tradition, one that you felt owed a direct lineage to a 'secret' tradition connecting many of the darker aspects of cultish worship, including the corruptions of druidic and Celtic ritual. This reminded you of some of the themes of an underlying 'hidden' history that you had begun to suspect after you compiled your bestiary. You called these the 'hidden traditions' whose beliefs and practices were based on a much more esoteric family of worship, calling on Gods and Goddesses unknown to modern scholars.

You are aware of the peculiar tradition of the Merovigians and their involvement in mythic murders in France, and how these are somehow linked to the hidden treasures of the Freemasons, especially the connection with the D'Ardennes being a place of ritual sacrifice. There was something significant about this region, as it is quite literally soaked in blood as a result of the number of battles, and more recently the Battle of the Frontiers during the Great War, where thousands upon thousands of corpses piled up under withering machine gun fire. Men, dogs, horses, all joined in the common grave of the forest grove. Unblessed, doomed to a hell of man-made hatred.

Well...it's been a long night, and you've come to the end of your treatise You wrap up your findings ready to be sent by courier to Major Adams. You ring the bell and a few minutes later your butler attends, ready to take your manuscript to your rather generous sponsor. Thinking little more of it you take a seat near the dying embers of the fireplace and settle into a fitful sleep.

The next few days pass uneasily - there's a sense of something unfinished about the manuscript you sent, like a novel with the final few pages torn out. You feel there's something missing, something so obvious that you've overlooked it. You spend the next few days lost in thought, even more than usual. Then you receive a letter - is this the letter you've been waiting for? The one you've half expected since the sign of Hermes kept copping up in most texts you've consulted?

Trembling, you open the sealed note, tearing it open you read the letter in cold anticipation. It's a request to attend a meeting - damn this waste of time, interrupting your train of thought! Throwing the letter to one side, you knock a book from the table. As you pick it up, you notice that a sheet of paper has fallen from the back sleeve. It is marked with a strange sign that you instantly recognise from your original thesis, it's from an obscure codex that you finally located in Arkham - a text locked away and only revealed to you after a few years of teaching. It talked of how to maintain control over animated corpses, not an unknown ritual for the Dark Continent and one you consulted fairly recently in your bestiary, but this book was apparently European in origin with traces of theoretical contamination from across the world, what a find! A treatise on animated corpses with apparently little connection to the so called rituals from African continents, right down to details of how to protect oneself using salt to draw a sympathetic connection with life such that these creatures could not cross it.

You pick up the note, intrigued. Reading it in more detail you see it is a request to attend a meeting, a conference of like-minded academics and skilled professionals. Suddenly, your reading is interrupted by your maid Agnes, who comes running into the study in tears.

“Sir, Sir! Something terrible has happened! Mr. James was tending to your horse when it broke free and trampled him, sir. He's alive, sir, but the horse, sir, it bolted off and impaled itself on the Manor gates as it tried to get away, sir! It's horrible, sir - blood everywhere and its screams, sir… I... I”

She falls to the ground, pale as a sheet. You cannot believe what has happened. Some dreadful accident has taken your faithful horse – and you have a feeling that this may be some form of portent. You look down at the note, and notice that the last line says “A car will come to pick you up later this morning. Any necessary obstacles to your attendance will be dealt with - your presence is required by His Majesty's Government”.

You hear a car pull up outside, you feel you have been well and truly hooked into something worrying, but your curiosity has been piqued and you cannot resist the mystery. You hurriedly pack a suitcase. Approaching the car, you are met by a man in military uniform introducing himself as Lance-Corporal Montague. He informs you that your destination is confidential, but that the meeting is of the utmost importance. You climb in the back of the car, which is sumptuously upholstered – even more so than your Silver Shadow. You pour yourself a drink from the decanter and sip as the Lance-Corporal whisks you through the familiar back streets. The alcohol has a strange musty smell and a curious taste. You feel a little flushed, and loosen your collar. You start to feel a little dizzy, and you lose your grip on the whiskey tumbler. The last thing you hear is Lance-Corporal Montague telling you “Not to worry”, before you slip into unconsciousness.

You awaken in what appears to be an airfield. You notice the high security surrounding the place. Dog patrols pace their way about the perimeter, and 2 tall observation towers look down upon you. Lance-Corporal Montague opens the car door and apologises for drugging you. He then directs you towards the location of the meeting.

You enter a room designated as ‘BRIEFING’ with some trepidation and take a seat. Hushed whispers are being exchanged by some of the assembled people here, but these are quickly ended as an authoritative voice booms behind you, “For those of you that don’t know me, my name is Major Frederick Adams” A tall, well-built man strides towards the front of the room and takes his place behind a lectern. “Most of you won’t know why you are here. I will now explain why it has been necessary to take extreme measures to bring you here.”

“Lights” The Major orders to a man at the back of the room. A second later, the lights are dimmed, and your attention is drawn towards a screen to the side of the Major. Another officer hands you a dossier, and switches on a small reading light in front of you.

“Recently, one of our operatives in Northern France intercepted a message. This message was heavily encrypted, but was decoded by our Intelligence and Logistics department. Ladies and gentlemen, the contents of this message are very worrying. You can find the letter in the first page of your dossier.”

Mein Fuhrer,

The first results of Project Uber-Mensch are very encouraging. We have conducted a number of field tests, and save for a few difficulties that we must iron out, I believe that we are nearing successful completion of the project. It will bring to the end seven years of effort – seven years well spent when you consider the superiority it will give us over anyone who stands in our way. I will of course keep you informed of any progress.

Glory to the Fatherland.

“For a while, we have suspected that the Germans have been up to something. And now we know. Or rather we don’t know. For those of you who don’t speak German, ‘Uber-Mensch’ translates as ‘Super-soldier’. What is ‘Project Super-Soldier’? Why are the Germans in Northern France? These are the questions that I want you to answer for me. Therefore, I am sending you to the Ardennes region on a reconnaissance mission. The mission will be under the command of Lieutenant Savage. I want you to liaise with our operative – Captain Mason-Wickes, and find out what the hell the Germans are up to.”

“Given the time critical nature of this mission, you will be flying out at 1100 hours. We would have preferred to go at night, but there is a scheduled civilian flight over the area which we will take the place of in order to not raise suspicion. If you read the second document in your dossier, you will see that the area of France that you are going to is an Alpha Sensitive area. This means that you should treat it as being behind enemy lines. I have been informed by Central Command that we will maintain a stance of plausible deniability if you are discovered or captured. We will not be sending reinforcements should this happen.” These last sentences send a shiver down your spine as you grasp the enormity of this statement.

“A note to the civilians amongst you - you are expected to follow the orders of the officer in charge at all times and obey the chain of command. You have of course, all signed the Official Secrets Act prior to this briefing, so I do not need to remind you that everything you witness during the course of this mission is NOT to be disclosed to anyone outside Pegasus Division on penalty of the harshest consequences. One final thing – due to the nature of the situation, Central Command has designated this as a ‘Damocles Imperative’ mission - that is a mission which could have worldwide ramifications.”

“That is all, ladies and gentlemen. Good luck and God Speed. God save the King.”

The lights go back on, and you are led out of the room to a bunkhouse.

The evening meal is a strange affair. There is a marked difference between the civilians, such as yourself, and the members of the armed forces. You and your peers are subdued, probably as you contemplate what lies ahead, whilst the military personnel have an excited buzz about them. You keep pretty much to yourself during the meal, but at the end, Lieutenant Savage approaches you and introduces himself. His confident manner and assuredness is somewhat comforting, and the aching in your stomach subsides.

After the meal, the soldiers make themselves busy preparing for the mission. You and the other civilians are led into a training room to learn how to parachute. This was never on the menu! The session is lead by Sergeant Johnson, an infectiously enthusiastic man – although you are slightly worried that parachuting boils down to jumping out of a plane and hoping for the best!

The rest of the evening is your own, and you decide that your time will be best spent getting a bit of sleep. In truth though, the events of the past 24 hours make it almost impossible. However, it seems as if your head has barely touched the pillow before you are woken by a private with a nice hot cup of tea. You dress quickly – the air is cold this morning and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The morning consists of a final briefing on the ‘theatre of operations’, and then the call comes in that the mission is ‘GO’. Once everyone is ready, you are lead out onto the airstrip where a twin-engined plane is warming up on the runway. Major Adams stands by the door, and gives each of you a sturdy handshake and a “Good Luck” as you board the plane. Sergeant Johnson makes sure that everyone is strapped in tightly before heading to the cockpit. As he returns and fastens his own seatbelt, the low hum of the engines increases in pitch and you feel the aircraft begin to edge forward. The plane speeds up and then suddenly you feel the ground drop away as you become airborne. You glance around you – your comrades seem to be either deep in contemplation, sleeping or praying. The hours pass, and you find the drone of the engines strangely hypnotic and relaxing.

You are woken from your reverie by a harsh buzz, and a red light illuminates above the aircraft door. The army personnel unstrap themselves, and then Sergeant Johnson sets about releasing everyone else. Before you rise out of your seat, he clips you onto a guy-line that runs towards the door. Once everyone is safely attached to the line, he pulls the door handle, and opens the cabin to the cold rushing air outside. Your breath is taken away by the conditions outside, as the Lieutenant performs one last check. The buzz sounds again, and the light turns to green.

“This is it chaps. Good luck!” He pats the first in line on the shoulder, and one by one they all throw themselves out of the plane. You feel a tap on your shoulder, and look out of the door at the horizon. The sun is already beginning to set. You jump out into the cold unknown…