May 23rd, 1929-
They came to me in the night. They came and they went and I saw them. I saw things and now I don’t even know what is real and what isn’t.
They are the ones that serve the throne of Thelog-As’hai, his spawn, the ones that come from below the earth. For centuries he has slept, and he shall not awaken, he must not. What in god’s name (ha! God! He surely has no relevance in this place) were we thinking? Who are we to elect ourselves as important? We are flies on the corpse of a god, who are we to try to know our place?
There are stories of this place, of the half-real things that exist below. The natives of New Guinea, the Aborigines, even the natives of Micronesia have legends, passed down from unknowable ancestry. They talk of the Gunung di Bawah Bumi, the Mountain Below the Earth. Perhaps even the Mad Arab, when speaking of Y’ha-nthlei, may have been referring to this place, of the city that lives below.
The bodies are gone, taken by them. Trails on the rock, left in gleaming fluids, pass through the camp, inquisitive, searching through the camp, inquisitive, searching through my tent and looking at my few possessions. The gun and food are missing, and the water is gone, dragged over the hill and to the rapidly draining pool that seeps away behind me. Something in the water was there, and that something is still there. It has scarred my mind and my soul, and I feel it now, its pressure exerted on me, crushing itself into my being. I am no longer a man, I am animal, less than human. But what is human if not less than them?
These few pages are my will. My suicide note. If I enter whatever is there, in the acrid crater behind me, I shall not return, living or dead. The land seems to be melting and shifting before my eyes, whether through seismic activity or something older, I cannot ever know. The ship is moored at 53’36″S 123°23’36″W, but for the sake of sanity and health I beg the world to stay away. This land is so far from civilization for a reason. You must not bring civilization here.
I am sealing these pages in a bottle, the wax of my last candle should keep the water out. With a good arm, I may be able to pitch this 20 yards or so out into the ocean. The currents that abhor us so must be relied upon to do the rest. Enclosed is the list of all those that have been lost on our expedition, stolen and no doubt examined by those that live below. Perhaps they want a fresh specimen.
Captain J. Wortham
James Ault Dmitri Menkelos Bernard Dudley
Don Carew Thomas Edmunds James Rowntree
Zachary Tollson Gilbert Triggs Robert Moore
Emile Bouvre Owen Marshall Thomas Anderson
Samuel August Lloyd Almey Bertram Seargant
Martin Jacks Sam Hall Toby Ayers
Eli Carman Landon Webb Aaron Cox
Michael Tod Dexter Weekes James Christianson
Reginald Parsons Carson Atwood Martin Conner
Keiran Rollins Edward Vincent Russel Cookson