The Black House

Come with us,
To the Black House cursed,
Abandoned and charred,
By the flames that once roared.

Initiate the trauma cadence,
For a bad thing happened in its presence,
The scars on the walls speak,
Of the secrets that it keeps.

Do you see what we see?
The Eye and Pyramid reveal the history,
Carrie Killian, a practitioner of magic,
Ostracised by the town's tragic.

Rumours spread like wildfire,
And the mob's intent to frighten became dire,
Torching the house and its inhabitant,
The flames consuming the accused innocent.

Guilt distills into stories,
A palatable way to ease the worries,
Of the townsfolk who now sing,
Carrie Killian's name in a jump rope ring.

Ashes. Ashes. We all fall down,
The legacy of the Black House still around,
An ugly aftermath and a forgotten past,
But the scars on its walls forever last.

Our wisdom flows so sweet,
Taste and see, but do not repeat,
The mistakes of the past,
Or the Black House's curse may last.

Dr. Klein

In ninety-nine dimensions unknown to us,
The Filth flows and twists, a force to fuss,
Dr. Klein believes he's immune to its power,
But it's taken hold of him, consumed him hour by hour.

Obsessed with understanding the black water's might,
He's pushed the limits, experimented day and night,
He thinks he can control it, bend it to his will,
But the Filth has consumed him, its power he can't still.

In the halls of Orochi Group, whispers speak his name,
He's a legend, they say, a man of unmatched fame,
He can bring the dead back, unlock the afterlife,
A god among men, free from all mortal strife.

But the truth is far darker, sinister in its way,
The Filth has twisted his mind, nothing's left to say,
It's his obsession, his religion, his reason for being,
The key to immortality, the answer to everything.

He studies the mummies, the clay, the Filth in his grasp,
Believing he's making progress, he'll soon achieve his task,
But his mind is warped, consumed by the Filth's hold,
He'll stop at nothing to unlock the universe's gold.

The Ankh remains, a symbol of power and mystery,
A gateway to secrets, knowledge and history,
But those who seek it must be prepared to pay,
The ultimate price, to sacrifice all, come what may.

For the Filth has a hold on Dr. Klein, consumed him whole,
And those who dare to follow his path, pay the same toll,
A darkness that will consume them, body and soul,
The price to unlock the universe's secrets, an eternal goal.

So beware the lure of the Ankh, tempting though it may be,
For its knowledge and power comes at a cost, don't you see,
Dr. Klein's obsession should serve as a warning,
A cautionary tale for those who seek power and understanding.

The Ankh

The Ankh, a powerful symbol of ancient Egyptian civilization, holds within it secrets that have long been buried in the sands of time. The hooked needle that pierces the nose, the lusty proboscis that stirs the grey matter of the brain - these are the embalming protocols that ensured the memories of the deceased would be preserved for eternity. The soup, as it is called, flows out, leaving little to tempt the worm.

But the Ankh holds more than just the secrets of the dead. It is a gateway to the unknown, a portal through which the curious can explore the hidden histories of the world. Dr. Klein, ever studious, delves deep into the mysteries of the Blackwater, a substance that has gone by many names over the centuries. The Devouring Plague, the Zero Point Pathogen, the Blackworm Jism - all are names that describe the dark, oily liquid that Dr. Klein studies.

He microdoses himself with the Filth, at first through a syringe, but soon holding droplets in his hand, coaxing it up his nose with a lusty slurp. The Filth pierces his brain, stirs his grey matter, and the soup! The soup! He is part of it now, and it is part of him. He has plumbed depths that others cannot fathom, his skull a tentacular snow globe.

But the secrets of the Ankh do not belong solely to the past. In the Valley of the Sun God, a recent earthquake has uncovered an ancient temple of unusual shape. Guttural sounds emanate from within, and without, a jackal cackles the hymn of madness. The Orochi excavation camp is empty, the high tech equipment hastily abandoned.

Enter the Ankh. Initiate the secret histories.

The Pharaoh Akhenaten made his first pilgrimage to this spot, commanding his slaves to dig deep into the bedrock to reach the black-jellied quim of earth. From this substance, the cult of Aten was born, with its baptismal fluid evoking powerful visions during sermons. Embalmers used it to ensure a cultist's service was as eternal as the sun god, and undead cats savaged slave children to the musical laughter of the Pharaoh.

But time passed, and the black water flowed thicker, the visions stronger, and the deformities more severe. The holy fluid, now a tar, flowed upward on alien gravity, choking passageways in rivulets and tendrils - a crawling chaos.

The Marya, the Young Warriors, descended on the valley, gifting the Aten cultists with the mercy of slaughter. The new Pharaoh commanded that the temple be sealed, the entrance to the hollow collapsed. The black water receded, but the darkness waits, monsters skulking in its belly, moaning for their god.

And now, in the present, digital devices beep for Orochi employees who will never answer. Dr. Klein continues his studies and experiments, and the dead are ever so much more cooperative. He works with the mummified clay, and great Melothat walks the halls as titanic as a plague.