FROM THE DARKENED ROOM by John Christopher Tamayo

John Christopher Tamayo

There is a cabal, a horrible star chamber awash in perfidy, a quasi satanic brood of brutish creatures drunk with power.

They operate among us, walking our streets and eating beside us at restaurants. They belly up to the same bar, hastily quaffing bloody marys spiked with the actual blood of enemies both real and imagined. They huddle in small rooms, cackling through mouthfuls of filthy lucre they consume like cheap Chinese food at a small town buffet. They seek to control, to suppress, to taint, to manipulate and ruthlessly destroy. The star chamber is fat but constantly starving, it burns with the heat of three suns but demands the last bit of warmth from sheep that have already been shorn. It speaks often but it is in and of itself ineffable. You can watch it on the television.

The cabal, a terrible ‘gift’ for the City of Brownsville, comes from Cthulhu himself. Lovecraft would have been proud. You’d have never known had I not witnessed the nightly rituals, the bloodcurdling screams, the midnight howls or the stink of infernal incense. Had I found the eternal city of R’lyeh? Did I happen upon a cave with a shimmering portal? Was I in possession of some mystical bauble plundered from the vaults beneath Miskatonic University?

No. I simply watched a Brownsville City Commission meeting on Youtube.

To be fair, you have to know the signs. I don’t blame you for letting this steam past your nose without so much as a twitch.

The cabal’s leader is gleeful. He watches with glittering eyes as the bodies float past. The River Styx, fetid and black, is visible only to him in the back of the chamber. Mark Sossi, the Regency Dandy, his legs broken and brow bruised, bobs along as a sad reminder of great coiffures past. Charlie Cabler, retired city manager and eternal boy scout, gasps for breath as he ponders the price of honor, swallowing murky water and suddenly understanding the life of Frank Serpico. Carlos Elizondo, inflexible BISD vote and marauding Fire Chief, finally consumed by a flame he could not hope to control. Jessica Tetreau, disrespected and pushed and virtually slapped by the Cabal for challenging them, slipping further down the bank into the undertow.

I watched as Ricardo Longoria, a commissioner with more bravery than sense challenged the Cabal on Tuesday, October the 17th, feast day of St.Florentius. Florentius attacked the heresies of his day and was martyred for it. The spirit moved me as I cheered Longoria, fearlessly martyring himself as the bloated, self-important plutocratic Elder Thing worked feverishly to silence him. The dysfunction, borne of a rebellious Cabalista, was quickly squashed as the bespectacled Deep One called for the police chief to thrash the impertinent Tetreau for the crime of independence. Poor, innocent Tetreau. I sincerely hope that Longoria is rewarded someday for his act of strength. When the night falls and the creatures of mythos come knocking, I pray that Longoria remembers his wards against madness.

Meanwhile, I write this from a darkened room awash in candle light and the glow of my computer monitor. One can never know what agents are in service of the cabal. There are many strange creatures in Brownsville. There are Bartons and Montoyas and Mchales and Paz-Martinezes and Wightmans and Sanchezes. Their alliances shift. They are purveyors of information for a dark city in which stories of new olive gardens are treated as hard news. They are burning torches in the dead of night, but where they lead, only the end can tell. Some walk the poor, huddled masses to freedom. Others walk them to R’lyeh, and eternal bondage.

I am still sane, I think. I am still true. The madness is certainly upon me, but it still fails to consume me. Right? Isn’t that right?

Someone write to me please and tell me what happens next. I can’t bear to look. You can reach me at Innsmouth. I will be there on holiday.

Forever.