Star-Fired Beef

The Secret Lore – Samhain 2012

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See all the Secret Lore here.

We leave Solomon Island behind us with this final lore post. The initial Samhain celebrations in 2012 were mostly confined to events in Solomon Island. A significant part of the event leads you to the Franklin Mansion, before ending up at the Blue Ridge Mine. Although the lore itself doesn’t reference the zone, the locations you need to visit for this event make this the appropriate place to include this lore post.

Samhain 2012

TRANSMIT – initiate the Samhain signal – RECEIVE – initiate the darker half – ERROR – spam the black bee frequency.

SECURITY SCAN – shhh, the spyware is unaware. THREATS DETECTED – none, nil, naught, black infinite zeros, immense immeasurable emptiness. Move along. Nothing to see here.

LISTEN – the screaming, the pain, the broken bones crackling in flame.

WITNESS – the summer curtains call. Time to reap what you have sown.

Initiate the nights out of time. When boundaries between worlds collapse – a structural imbalance, perhaps – all creatures come and all things mingle. Prepare the feast of the dead. Tonight’s festivities will begin in three, two, one… Commemorations must be made. Sacrifices. Tell them Tigernmas. Who held your heads on the Plain of Prostration?

EMBRACE – the naked shingles of the world.

LISTEN – the nameless aimless petition for prayers. No need to leave the door ajar. The burdened with sin will find a way in.

But why this night?

Come a little closer, we won’t bite.

A night for divination. LISTEN – the heartbeat of the girl standing in the mirror. She waits for a boy to peek over her shoulder. So cute, so sweet, such silly superstition. There’s no love, little girl, only filth and ambition.

Hop-tu-naa, trol-la-laa.

LISTEN – the screaming, the pain, the broken bones crackling in flame.

Commemorations must be made. Sacrifices. Tell them Tigernmas. Who held your heads on the Plain of Prostration?

No one.

Ten hundred and three thousand noses crushed. Taste and see. Nothing is free.

But why this night?

Winter is death, darkness is fright. Each year, the weather channel portends both in good measure.

LISTEN – skrak, skrik, skrawlivik. The old gods, myths and beasts all scamper. Think rats trapped in a hamper. But they know how to survive and how to claw through.

HINT – it’s nights like this; it’s people like you. Initiate the hounding horrors.

The room here you were when… The eyes of the man that… The words she screamed as… Fear sears into memory, takes the mind hostage, keeps the content alive.

The old ones don’t die; they dig trenches in your nightmares. They bide their time, drinking sherry and playing cards, waiting for the tin-din of summer symphonies to pass. Waiting for the night when…

Everyone gathers on Samhain.

Hop-tu-naa, trol-la-laa.

Call the tribal assemblies. Light the bonfires. Slaughter your animals for the winter. Soon the fields will be frozen. Soon there’ll be nothing left to grind but teeth and imaginations. It’s only a few long months in the dark.

But why this night?

Your ancestors made the appointment. The dates were carved into the earth in blood.

REMINDER – rituals were meant to purify the land, guide the lost spirits, defeat the evil ones, rouse the wasting sun. PAYMENT OVERDUE – darkness demands to be acknowledged. Commemorate, challenge, fear it.

Fear it.

The curtains still open; every year, though they’ve lost faith in you, the spirits still come.

Rush-hour traffic bursts both ways. Cuchalainn came through. Nera too. Today’s breed of traveler is a little different. The openings are crowded with the worst of them and the sickest of you.


Commemorations have dwindled; relations are at an all-time low.

The man who skins witches has moved onto myths. Makes it an annual retreat. Spends his summers in nightmare trenches, then sneaks through in search of new curtains to tear, new faces to wear. The old and weak have learned to heed, for they can suffer and they can bleed.

Just as Irusan.

Oh yes, indeed.

WITNESS – myth – mythos – to make a sound – to scream.

Hop-tu-naa, trol-la-laa.

Dreams are personalised myths. Myths are communal nightmares.

FINAL NOTICE – light bulbs won’t save you from payments owed. Go ahead, dustbust the dead, sweep old bones under the rug. The darkness doesn’t care. Its ledgers are up-to-date.

BUT WAIT – order now and you’ll get thirteen.

Look at the little guisers today. The nightly crawl through suburban sprawl.

“What are you supposed to be?” “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!”

The children scamper through the richest neighbourhoods. The boys throw rotten eggs at cars. A great cold is coming. An old witch closes the curtains of her crypt. She’s given up on the world. There’s no point in going out anymore. In lighting fires to see all this.

Let them reap what they sow.

What claws at the curtains of Halloween? The devils know.

Hop-tu-naa, trol-la-laa.

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