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kerisham-review · 3 years

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A House In Isolation

By Mme. Bechet

As a departure from my usual fare, I'd like to tell you about the place i live in.

This is an old house.

It has had enough people in its walls that it stopped remembering who they all were. It hasn't forgotten what they've done.

There are three balusters to each side of each step, each combination different. some are old, well worn and thick, others, still shining in their newness, spiraling up like a barber's pole or tapering like a teardrop. Still others, unfinished, stand out against their darker peers, newest, homemade. every few steps, one is broken, hanging down unsupported, motionless.

The drier squeaks in the basement. Each revolution emitting a pained, unoiled, squeak. I think often about that empty space. It feels older than the rest of the house. It doesn't pretend to be new, it appears as if it were assembled from rounded rocks with the gaps filled with mortar. It looks primal, ancient, winning the war against its concrete floor, covered in rubble. Given the state of the walls it's not hard to guess where the rubble came from.

Those same walls, however are not the walls of a house, but of a cave. Black streams that were once moisture highlight some corners of the room, and The thought comes unbidden: the rubble is from the floor. Stones, leaves, fiberglass, cardboard, concrete, plaster, and stones again litter the artificial base of the house, though a damaged section hints at a deeper place.

I wonder, idly, where the leaves came from and I am confronted with a door. leaves emanate from this spot, tumbling down broken concrete stairs, fall browns in the deep of winter. The door does not open. We try several times, but no. Closed it remains.

Those leaves, then, are from not this past fall, but one before. My attention is then drawn to how little they have decayed. I am then all at once aware that nothing in this basement seems to age.

Taken aback by this I notice an unassuming corner. It is black, moreso than the rivulets I saw on the walls closer to the basement stairs, and looking into it makes the wall seem longer.

I tear away my gaze and look instead up, and in contrast with the cave around me, there are pipes pipes, illogically thin and chaotically placed. I follow one, only to make a wrong turn and hit a dead end. I follow another and it goes out of sight behind the stairs. One would think that they would all start or end in the boiler which dominated the center of the room. That one would be wrong. Pipes dive down from the crumbling exposed boards above, only to shoot upwards again, never to be seen again. I follow them all for a moment and get lost in the maze. Once again, I am aware of the black spot in the corner of the room and I leave.

I look at the kitchen for a moment, feel the cold draft from the pantries and step back on the main steps. I consider the second floor, much more compact than the first; seeming only a small hallway and four tiny rooms. Nothing in this house is the right size. Each of the rooms feels no larger than a closet and no smaller than a ballroom. Each is full of a person. All of them are empty.

I hear a wet thump followed by dampened skittering above me. I don't bother looking up, as i have gotten used to this place's antics. There are seven other people that live here, but they make a small and recognizable fraction of the sounds.

I walk to my room, full of physical versions of my personality and yet, barren, hostile to my presence. A false sun lights up one corner of my room in a feeble attempt to make the room livable, but it's small light only deepens the grey artificiality of the room. One wall bulges outwards above my bed, cracked. There is no corresponding hole on the other side, which makes the room feel smaller than it should be.

Once, on a very bad day, this bulge combined with the darkness of a room which knows only artificial light made the walls feel alive. The darkness moved, shifting, watching. My hanging clothes broke all sight lines and so there was no way to rule out the impossible things that I was sure were there.

Whenever I sit alone here, I am aware, in the corner of my vision, of the black rotting corner in the basement. When I'm falling asleep and the sounds that are not people fill my ears, I become convinced that this is not a house: this is a person. I reflect briefly on how trapped I am in their body -- or perhaps I am a part of their imagination -- before I dip into chemically induced unconsciousness.

In dreams, I am aware of the Other, a persistent character or place to which i am intimately tied. I hear far off sounds of people but I understand none of it as I fade between my room and somewhere else. I lay instead alone, encased in walls.

Sometimes I sharpen the knives in the kitchen, and I can't help but think about how much material I wash off of the whetstone. Each stroke leaves behind a grey-black blood which stains skin blue. I wipe the fresh blade on dried animal skin and admire my work, before snapping it back to the magnetic strip that promises unconvincingly to hold it aloft.

As I turn to leave, I notice the two holes in the kitchen wall. There are five total (that we know of) in this house. One, which we call the Bellybutton, opens a rectangular outcropping in A's room. another greets all those who pass the first landing. The last is in the basement. They all appear too deep.

Sometimes I am angry with the Other, and I tell it that they will be destroyed when we leave. Sometimes they are angry with me, and they tell me how short my life will be next to theirs. Most of the time we sit in uneasy silence. We sit aware of each-other, our dark hearts beating in unison, pushing out of their corners. They imagine me as an avatar, a doll, to interact with their other inhabitants, unable to think outside of being a set piece. I imagine them as a forgetful old thing, full of antiquated ideas, alive and active.

Together, we sometimes dream of outside, confused to its purpose.

Eight people live here. Nobody visits. The lights are off. Nobody is home.

#kerisham review #kerisham review volume 1 issue 4

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kerisham-review · 5 years

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The Histories

By Mme. Bechet

I have written before about the existence of other worlds -- the Histories. Many would be tempted to call them copies of our world with minor alterations: an empire falls here, a king survives there; you wear a different outfit on that day, met someone on another -- but they are more than this. In some, the rules governing the very mechanics of the world are different; in others, beasts that can only barely be imagined by the fragile human minds roam in abundance.

Care must always be taken that the Histories stay separate: the good Dr. Albeth and others like him understood this, but some of the other Histories are not quite so, shall we say, amicable. Our History has crossed the others countless times, sometimes resulting in beautiful months and years of impossible things, and sometimes resulting in wars that are difficult to remember and more difficult still to find evidence of.

Most historical theorists agree that we live in a demi-History of the third major History (in the convention of Hersault), that ours is the result of the bloody and impossible Hidden Wars of the fifteenth and eighteenth centuries. The walls of our world are thin, drawing in artefacts and beings that could not exist here normally. In summoning, we are making a small incision in the thin membrane between us and, usually, the first History -- which some theorists say is where one might find the house without walls.

Once you understand the Histories, once you know that they are, you begin to notice things; there's the usual of feeling watched and so forth that some put down to our nearness to the fourth History, but there are, of course, more tangible observations. Students of the higher gates will know the power of particular mirrors, and summoners of some distinction will have catalogued first History beasts that reside within panes of glass. While it is not known how they kill their prey in our world, it is well documented that the first History is nearer when close to reflective surfaces. Things from the fourth History are often found in the dark and shadows, although attempts to breach the skin of dark places have often led to pure madness or otherwise unreliable results.

But, dear reader, our intersection of histories -- the mundane third, reflective first, and darkened fourth -- are not the end of what we might see. Within the next decade or so, some historians believe there will be another intersection of histories. If we are lucky, we will collide once more with the beautiful second History for the first time in a millennium and, perhaps, we shall then see what only the true travellers have seen.

#cultist simulator #kerisham review #kerisham review volume 1 issue 3

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kerisham-review · 5 years

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Cultist Spotlight: Dr. James Albeth

By Mme Bechet

Not everyone drawn to the world of the occult is of the lowest cast of society. Indeed, even the most prestigious of the world are drawn into the mystery and wonder of our viewpoint.

Not long ago, I had heard that a doctor at the local asylum had taken steps down the Way – and who else would it be, save the most well-respected doctor of our time, Dr. James Albeth.

Renowned for his reform techniques and effective practices, he began to see reason in his patients’ madness. At a later date he would tell me, “It was like suddenly seeing the light of day after a lifetime of darkness. My patients – they never got it right. They never saw how it all fits!”

He was first introduced to the Glorious lore by one of the more unstable members of the fallen Wildwood Club. While he couldn’t give me particulars, this member was one who had travelled to the Old Continent and had seen what should never be seen. Naturally, the good doctor had wanted to see the creature that had sent his patient mad – and he did. The drawings that he showed me were all at once spectacular, fantastic, and terrifying, even for the initiated.

He returned over and over to this monster’s spot, gaining more information each time, taking more people with him. His papers were fascinating – he knew how this thing moved from one dimension to the next, altering the world around it, building impossible structures for it’s den.

After some time studying this creature, he began figuring out how to play with reality himself. It cost him many of his acquaintances and patients, but he finally worked it out.

You see, most seeking to ascend the House are searching for immortality or true power, but he – he found his particular knowledge. He became a Voidwalker. His name is scattered across the histories, his visage found where you least expect, his homes never quite within reality.

The last he was officially seen was in the Sidestreets. He was attacked by a group of thugs – a nice suit looking for trouble would do that – and just as an officer came to his aid, the strongest of the group took a swing at Dr. Albeth – but, instead of the usual thump of fist-on-face, the doctor disappeared, appearing behind the group and perched on the edge of the stone wall separating the streets from the river. The officer – who had simply assumed that the man was extraordinarily fast or clever – attempted to break up the scene, just as an unfortunate throw of a loose pebble passed slightly too close to Dr. Albeth.

The officer reports, to the best of his understanding, that the shadows deepened around the man as the stone seemed to multiply around him, moving, as he said, very fast. We both know that this was more than the uninitiated eye would see, and as it turned out, the Voidwalker was, indeed hungry that night. The poor soul who had thrown the stone could barely let out a yelp before being near-vaporized – leaving nothing save a pile of cloth scraps. The Voidwalker’s smile widened unnaturally, his eyes glowed and the darkness became absolute.

When the officer could see again, the thugs were gone, leaving nothing save a scattering of cloth and a mangled body wearing doctor’s attire.

The Voidwalker did not perish that night, for he would go on to give me his – purposefully incomplete – research notes for safekeeping.

If you see him, you will have seen an aspect of the worlds beyond, and to an extent, the creature that he studied. If you want to find him, seek out an impossible nest beyond the mists of the Old Continent, and you may just find both the man and his monster, traversing realities, and feeding.

#cultist simulator #kerisham review #kerisham review volume 1 issue 2

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kerisham-review · 5 years

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Cultist Spotlight: Lia

By Mme Bechet

For the first of (quite possibly) many introductions to the occult world, I will recount the sad tale of my dear friend Lia (whose other identifying information shall, understandably, remain anonymous).

Lia came to the city seeking a new life — a chance at real success — instead, she went from being a peasant in the countryside of the continent to a cleaner in the hospital. She would often tell me of how the screams would haunt her, even after the fateful day when she was fired.

Hungry, alone, and nearly out of funds, she turned to the city. She eventually stumbled upon the shop of my good friend, Miss Morland, and took the first steps towards the truths.

By the time we met, she had knew her way through the Wood. She had found her way into the circles that I have enjoyed for years, and was speaking about what she had found. She was laughed out of some circles — they either knew too much or too little to care for her musings — and ruled others, but eventually, she found mine.

At the time, of course, I had no interest in publishing any of her work, but her charisma and tenacity impressed me, as well as a few of my colleagues. We became friends, and our frequent chats over tea were quite illuminating.

Her cult, which she called the Wildwood Club, began to make clear strides toward the house. At one point, her operatives could be seen all over the city most nights, though not many who saw understood.

Gradually she learned the Ways, the lore, she began to experiment — to truly see what her newfound knowledge could do. She managed to summon some of the more wondrous patrons of the House Without Walls; she once brought a Raw Prophet to our little rendezvous, partly to show me, and partly because it wouldn’t leave her alone — it was a fantastic being whose form can scarcely be contained by words.

Her gifts, however, would be her downfall. Towards the end, she had begun to look different — thinner, I suppose — as well as, and I mean this in the most literal sense, glowing. When we last met, she was insatiably hungry, but between bites, she told me that she was about to try something big. She wouldn’t give specifics, but on the day of her experiment, the Great Warehouse Fires started. She, and many of her associates, were never found, but the rubble could not wholly cover her folly. King Crucible had come, and he was not contained.

Her legacy was not wholly forgotten, however, several of her disciples lived on, some of which I have come to know (and may feature in in this publication), and, most strangely, she left her notes to someone who she’d never mentioned to anyone else before. Perhaps this person will come into the light soon — or, perhaps, their fate will be the same as Lia’s. Who can say?

#cultist simulator #kerisham review #kerisham review vol 1 issue 1

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