Tag Archives: shrunken heads

32: Heads Full of Light

***CONNECTING…CONNECTING…BEGIN TRANSMISSION***

Carried I’m being carried through the dark the night the dark and the Mountain and the door and the light and

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Edna sits, sobbing, in the beer cooler. Cecil is gone now, gone off into the night, nimble and crazy and cruel. She shouldn’t have done it, he said. Shouldn’t have loved him. Shouldn’t have let him love her. Nothing good can come of love, he said, and as the light shines in and floods the cooler, she knows that he was right. He spoke the truth. The ugly truth. Ugly like her old woman’s body, exposed and cold and shriveled. Bulging in all the wrong places, sagging in the right ones. She feels his old man’s seed leaking out of her, cold and spent and useless, and she knows the truth.

She’d known it before Cecil, of course. Known it for years, on those dark lonely nights when she couldn’t sleep. She ignored it when the sun was out, ignored it and threw herself into her work, keeping this damn store running and running and running and running. Threw her everything into it, and what did it give her back? Never what she needed. And so she’d starved, shrunken down into a nosy old biddy. A busy-body. A character, to be laughed at and never understood.

Oh, how she longed to be understood.

But she’d killed a man with her love, and put it away, and waited too long to find it again. So many years wasted, cold and alone, and now… She despairs that anyone will ever understand her again. And without that, what’s the point?

She sobs again, blinks away the tears, and her eyes fall on a shard of green glass, glinting in that horrible searing light. Piece of a bottle, she thinks. Big piece. Big enough to…

She unwraps one of her arms from around her breasts, reaches out, and

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Report 20: Oscar and Cecil

Hi, Chief. Or Simmons. Whoever. This is Denise again. X-23’s out on more business this morning, and the Somnambulists are refusing to provide transcription after that business with Heyoka. Which is ridiculous. The Alo are a notoriously secretive people, and X-23 has entered into certain confidences with them. His personal notes are already longer than their entry in the Blue Book, and he plans to turn them over as soon as the case is done. But there are things he just can’t share, and the Somnambulists have got to understand that.

Sorry. I’m just pissed off that I’m stuck here transcribing our dinner conversation with Cecil Murden, when I should be out tracking down the doctors who performed the Melmoth’s girl’s MRIs. Oh, the life of the Good Girl Friday!

Anyway. This Murden. As I said last night, I don’t like him. He’s fake. Superficially charming, but under that? I don’t know. Something nasty. X-23 says he’s just seen too much, but we both know he’s too easily charmed by crusty old bastards. And they don’t come much crustier than Murden. His eye patch has this… wet spot on it. And he taps that wooden foot of his constantly, like he won’t know where it is if it’s not raising a racket. Made transcribing the tape a joy, let me tell you.

Alright. That’s enough editorializing. Here we go.

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Photo-Report 1: The Many Heads of Cecil Murden

Denise here, Chief. Or Simmons. Or whoever’s reading this. We’ve just returned from dinner with Cecil Murden. Interesting guy. Don’t like him. You’ll get our full report in the morning. But first, I thought I’d upload this photo he gave us. He claims that, other than himself, this is all that remains of his final expedition for Oscar Melmoth:

Shrunken Heads

Ignore for a minute how unlikely it is that this photo was taken in 1970 like he claims, and look closely at the writing down the right hand side. That’s not a script either of us can identify, but X-23 has a feeling it’s one of the pre-human alphabets from the Black Lexicon. Check it out for us, will you? If the old man’s not hoaxing us, it could be important.

— Denise, signing off.