Little Angel

Attention – The subject material in the following story is adult in content, containing graphic scenes of child abuse, mutilation and rape.

Found in a dirty and bloodstained sketchbook, written in a little girl’s scrawly handwriting, accompanied by extremely disturbing pictures drawn with crayons. Investigators have validated the handwriting to be that of 13-year-old Angela Hearce, although the language and grammar sometimes employed suggests the possibility of another author. The images were compared to other images found at her former residential home in Eastsector DownTown and seem to be genuine.

Scrawled in big letters across the first page: Daddy always calls me his little angel. And then the hurting starts.

There are no dates given, so the time frame cannot be determined exactly. It is suggested that the first entry was written at least two years before the execution of Search and Seizure Warrant 9374/AI364-073A.


Momma gave me this book for my birthday. She said that it is for me and that I shall write my wishes into the book. They come true then. She said I should keep the book secret from daddy, because otherwise he would hit mommy. I don’t want daddy to hit mommy. Please do not make daddy hurt mommy. Do not hurt mommy. Do not hurt mommy. Do not hurt–

I am afraid. Daddy has found out about Mrs. Sheldon next door. She teaches me how to write. She is very old and knows a lot of things. Daddy said he doesn’t want her to spoil his little angel. He sent me home and Mrs. Sheldon looked frightened when I left. I heard him screaming in the apartment across the floor and when he returned he hit mommy. He hit her very bad and there was blood. When he noticed me standing in the door he shooed me away into my room. Told me to be his little angel and everything would be fine. But he kept hitting mommy. She is still screaming. They are in the bedroom now and I am scared. I can hear him slapping her with his belt and I can hear her sobs. Please make it stop. Please! Mommy doesn’t stop screaming and moaning. The bed is rocking against the wall and I can hear daddy scream “Yes, yes, yes!” while mommy’s sighs are muffled. After she has screamed out loud, now everything is silent. I am afraid.

Mrs. Sheldon doesn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore. She calls me spoilt and rotten, but she is afraid of daddy and I don’t want daddy to hurt her like he hurts mommy. During the early afternoon daddy is sleeping. I can watch Teevee then. I want to be like Captain Contract. Or like Bloody Valentine. She is a serial killer and everybody is afraid of her, but she is strong and she wouldn’t let daddy slap her. I wish she would come here and help me.

Scrawled in tiny letters around the margins of the page: I wish she would kill daddy.

Mommy’s face was bruised again and there were ugly blue-yellow marks around her neck. Daddy was still asleep and mommy told me to pack my things. I ran into my room and began to gather up my stuff. But daddy must have woken up and he screamed at mommy. Said she wanted to poison him. That she put rat poison into his beer. He hit her again and things got broken. I heard him scream and I became even more scared. I wanted to hide and crawl under my bed so that he cannot find me when he comes looking for me, but the screaming and hurting didn’t stop.

I went outside and I saw them both in the kitchen niche. Mommy was holding a knife and daddy’s head was bleeding. There was a deep cut along his temple. He was furious in anger and when he tried to cut mommy with the broken beer bottle in his hand she tried to stab him.

I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. Mommy hit daddy in the shoulder, but daddy slapped the broken bottle into her face and mommy fell to the ground, bleeding and screaming. Daddy noticed me then. He screamed at me and I ran into my room. At the door I had to turn around and I could see daddy kneeling down above mommy, picking up the broken bottle. He hit her in the face with the shards. I ran into my room.

Outside daddy was screaming “Do you like this bitch?” and I could hear the squishy sounds. And then mommy started to scream at the top of her lungs.

I want to die. Please make me die. Please. Please. Please.

He is killing mommy. I know. The screaming doesn’t stop but daddy is silent now. I want to help mommy, but I can’t. Please kill daddy. Please. Bloody Valentine. Please.

Daddy has left now. He came into my room this evening. Mommy had stopped screaming an hour ago or so. I had crawled into my bed and covered me with the sheets, but it didn’t go away. I heard it. Heard the ripping and tearing. And I heard him eating.

His mouth is smeared with blood and there is blood all over his body. There are deep gashes in his right palm. He sat next to me and told me that mommy tried to kill daddy. That she was insane and wanted to kill him first and then me. But he had to protect me. I was his little angel. And he took me in his arms and began to stroke me. I was terrified. His grip was like a vise and I could smell the blood all around me. He touched me between my legs and stroked me there with his bloody and wounded hand. Slipped his fingers into me. Told me I was so small. Then he left.

I am so afraid.


The next pages are full of images of humanoid shapes drawn in black and red crayon. The Maudsley staff is still analyzing them, but several figures have been identified: a man, a woman, a head, a dismembered hand, a knife. On the last page is a drawing that can only be an erected penis and a small girl’s head having to swallow it.

Daddy comes every night. He tells me that daughters have to take their mother’s place when mommy leaves. First he only made me lick it, today he told me that I am ready to become his real angel. He called it “making love”.

I have to sleep in daddy’s bed now. He is making love to me every day now. If I don’t do exactly like he wants he hits me. He likes hitting me between the legs and making love then. He says that little angels like making love when they are hurting down there.

Daddy hit me so hard I have bruises all over my body. I told him that I don’t want to be his little angel. He beat me until I fell unconscious. When I woke up I had my head in his lap. I want to kill him. On GoreZone people bleed like Carnivorous Pigs when they are shot between the legs. I wanted to cut off his penis, but I am too afraid. I want to cut. I want to cut. I want to cut.

Scrawled in tiny letters around the margins of the page: I want to bite off his prick.

Today I found some razor blades in the bathroom. Daddy must have hidden them there, but I found them when I was trying to fix the tub. I was looking at them and thought about cutting daddy. I want to cut him to pieces. When I heard him stir in his sleep I became afraid. I don’t want him to make love to me any more. It all feels rotten where he touches me at night. I want to cut off his touches and I want to cut off his smell on me.

The following page is full of crude drawings of a distorted male head, interspersed with the same message scrawled in tiny letters: Swallow your own prick and suffocate.

The first time I used the razor blades was the most painful. Daddy was furious when he saw that I had cut my chest, and he hit me until I cried before he made me do it. The next day I wanted to kill myself, but I cut my chest again and the pain went away. When he hits me now I think of cutting me again and it all goes away.

Scattered all over the next pages are images of a girl cutting herself with a razor blade; most prominently featured in the drawings is the chest and vaginal area.

I miss mommy, but I have a new friend. She moved into our building a few days ago and I met her on the stairs today. She is old enough to buy smokes at Jelly’s offie around the corner. I met her when daddy sent me outside to buy some new beer. Her name is Patty but she told me to call her Pretty. She is pretty and very nice. She offered my one of her cigarettes and we talked. I want to move in with her, but daddy would hurt her as he hurt mommy.

I miss mommy so much–

Pretty knows about daddy. She told me she knew the moment she met me. She told me that daddy is insane and a pervert, like all adults. But she promised to take care of me.

Daddy hasn’t come this evening. I can hear him in front of the Teevee. He found the razor blades I hid in the bathroom and threw them away and he locked me in my room. But I have another blade hidden here. Pretty gave it to me. She noticed my scarred arms and I told her. I told her everything. We were in her empty flat and she told me to show her where I had cut myself. At first I was afraid, but I did and she was fascinated when I showed her my chest. She told me that she liked all my pretty marks. I am so happy.

There is only one entry left in the book, the rest of the pages are full of a disturbed child’s drawings of mutilation and self-mutilation. The last entry reads:

I sneaked out of our flat tonight. I know that daddy wants to rape me again. Pretty told me that daddy wasn’t making love to me, but that he was raping me. I knew it all along, but when Pretty said it –

I went to Pretty to sleep there. Daddy gave me the look at dinner. Pretty says that you can see their insanity in their eyes that you can see –

Pretty’s bed was warm and comfy. I liked it how she held me that night. I felt protected, like when mommy held me back then. When mommy was still alive –

Before daddy killed her –

– and ate her

Suddenly daddy was there and hurled me out of the bed. But Pretty protected me.

She saved me.

I love her.

I wish she was my mother.


Testimony of Operative Carlyle, SCL 5C,
conducted conducted November 11th 895 at Maudsley Institute of Criminal Psychosis.

Please state your full name, package and SCL.

Brian Carlyle, Investigation package, SCL 5C.

Mr. Carlyle, what is the reason of your current stay at Maudsley?

I was deemed unfit for further Operative duty in the psych evaluation after my last BPN.

Do you suggest that you are fit for Operative duty?

(laughs) It doesn’t matter if I am fit. I won’t go out there any more.

Why is that so? Does it have to do with what happened during your last BPN?

You can say that.

What happened?

You wouldn’t believe. Or, perhaps you would actually believe. But it wouldn’t matter. Because you would be dead. Like me –.

Mr. Carlyle, you are quite protected here. SLA Industries makes sure that all the inmates of this facility cannot come to harm – form either themselves or outside. So please tell me what you are afraid of.

Well, I guess since they ordered you to debrief me, I must tell you.

Does this mean that you are afraid of Cloak Division? Or Internal Affairs?

(laughs) What’s to be afraid about those two? No, they are like children compared to the others.

Operative Carlyle’s laughter becomes hysterical and doesn’t stop. The interview has to be suspended for several hours, necessary to stabilize Operative Carlyle’s mood enough to resume questioning.

Operative Carlyle, you were about to tell me what you are afraid of.

What I am afraid of? Don’t you see them? They are his eyes and his hands! They are here! They come to kill. Kill! Kill! Kill!

Operative Carlyle lapses again into a psychotic state. The interview is stopped for the day. I hope that tomorrow finds him in a better mental frame. Dr Butler suggests a different approach, starting with the BPN and slowly working into the center of his psychosis. The interview is resumed two days later; the Operative is calm and eager to participate, but perhaps a touch too distant.

Operative Carlyle, please state the nature of your last BPN.

Basic Investigation. A grey BPN to find a missing girl.

A Grey BPN for a missing girl? Isn’t that unusual?

They lost the previous three squads. That’s why the SCL requirement was raised to 5 and that’s why they called me.

By “they” you mean SLA Industries?

SLA Industries, Cloak, Internal. Whoever assigns those BPNs. Yes.

Can you elaborate on what happened during the BPN, Operative Carlyle?

I read the files on the investigations of the other squads and then went to the scene.

The scene of the abduction of the girl?

She wasn’t abducted. No, I went to her former home.

What were you looking for?

I wanted to see the place myself. I read her diary and I had to see the place. I knew that it was the key to all of this.

You mention her diary. Is it this book?

Operative Carlyle is presented with evidence #4984DUV-3846/rz. His physical reaction is sudden and surprising. Eyes wide in shock, he slips from his chair and falls to the floor. He tries to crawl into the far corner of the room but stops right at the rim of the spotlight illuminating the cell from above. He begins to whimper.

Operative Carlyle? Operative? Are you all right?

(his voice is high-pitched, the words impossible to understand) ——–

Operative Carlyle?

(whispers) Do – not – open – it

Do not open it? Why, Operative?

(begins to sob) She will come

Who will come? The girl?

(nods and buries his head in his hands)

Operative Carlyle, do you want us to take a break now?

The interview is resumed several hours later. Operative Carlyle has first lapsed into a catatonic state, but after a combination of the right sedatives and stimulants was administered, he has first slept his terror off and now wants to resume the interview. Dr Butler did suggest in the meantime that a psychologically more experienced member of his personal staff should conduct the interview, but my orders were explicit.

Operative Carlyle, before we took a break you warned me to open a book, because – I quote – “She would come”. The girl you were looking for?

Yes.

How is that possible?

It’s a part of her. Open it and open this place up for her. She can come.

Please rest assured that this is not possible, Operative Carlyle.

(looks up with a curious look on his face) Why not?

Because we have her in custody.

(frightened) Here?

Of course not, Operative. We would never endanger those entrusted to the care of Maudsley Institute. I will not open the book, Operative, but please state what you found at her place.

It was a place deep in DownTown. Close to Paxton Street, a ruined building block. Completely run down. Strange, because even the rats shunned it. If I was an Ebon I would say it had a sinister air or some kinda Ebon crap, but … it had.

I entered the building. Shivers had declared it structurally safe within limits after they had cleared out the bodies.

The bodies?

Yes. Several adult bodies in different states of decomposition.

Do you know the identities?

Yes. She told me. Her father was upstairs, in the room she said Pretty lived in. The corpses of the other neighbours were in their respective flats. Not one body was intact. Parts missing, bitten off. And I don’t mean by rats.

Did the girl eat them?

(laughs) They had to eat something, didn’t they? First they ate the mother. I don’t know how long she lasted, but we found nothing of her, not even the skeleton. They didn’t have a freezer either. (giggles)

What are you telling me, Operative? That her father killed her mother and ate her together with his daughter? That they killed the rest of the neighbours ­–

No, no, no. She told me. Her father killed the neighbours. All of them, she said. Every time they noticed or grew suspicious. She said nobody cared. And then Pretty killed the father.

This “Pretty”. Who is “Pretty”?

(blood shoots from Operative Carlyle’s eyes, splattering over the steel table. His hand tears apart the chain link between his hand-cuffs with ease and clutches one of the legs of the steel table, ripping it from its fittings. The table collapses and with a smooth motion Operative Carlyle plunges the table leg deep into the investigator’s eye socket)

I AM PRETTY!


Operative Carlyle has been placed in a holding cell. His hand-cuffs have been reinforced and he has been sedated since the unfortunate incident that resulted in Investigator Vattel’s demise. Operative Ivory from the Department of Ebb is tasked to continue the investigation, using deep Ebb screenings into Operative Carlyle’s mind.

I am entering now. The hallway. A maze of thoughts and memories. Wait, this is not right. Oh man, this guy is twisted. Blood all over the hallway. I have never seen a mind this fucked up before. Not even Crimson ’s.

There are pieces of bodies lining the walls. The walls change, pulse. They are made of human skin. They are changing. I can see faces, they push against the skin from the inside. They want out … what are they doing? I have to get closer, seems the faces are nibbling at the skin … they have teeth? FUCK!

(Operative Ivory flinches noticeably in his chair in front of the holding cell. His eyes are moving rapidly under his closed lids and he is inhaling quickly)

Man that was intense. The skin burst and sucked me inside, through the flesh. I’m now in a clean corridor full of light. There seems to be a source of light at the end. I’ll advance.

The light dims. The walls of the corridor are not clean any longer, they are dirty, rotten and full of cracks. Like a dilapidated house in DownTown. The corridor has a definite end, the ceiling gets lower and there is something at the end. A stair?

Yes, it’s a stair, leading up. The floor is completely dirty now, full of puddles of black water. It feels sticky, kinda like glue. The stair isn’t in a better shape, the steps worn and corroded and I must be careful not to break them.

Blood is beginning to leak down the steps. The whole upper floor is covered in blood, it is freely flowing down the corridor, a stream of blood, dripping down the steps. A shape stands in the middle of the corridor. A girl. Blonde hair, slim frame, torn leather jacket, the lapels pierced by safety pins and a collection of stickers and buttons: serial and contract killer, band and brand. She looks up, her face is pretty, young, of undeterminable age, slim. Her lips are a deep rust red, almost black, her eyes are ringed with kohl.

She smiles.

I stop in front of her, weary. “Who are you?”

Her voice is friendly, full of optimism, ill-fitting to this place “I am Pretty.”

I nod. “Yes. I know. But who are you, Pretty?”

“I am Angela’s friend. Do you want to be my friend, too?”

“Such an innocent question, Pretty. But it carries hidden meaning, doesn’t it?”

She laughs. Clear and friendly. Like … like … sunshine on a rainy day.

“If you don’t want to be my friend, then why are you here?”

“I want to know what happened to Angela.”

“You know what happened to her. You are holding her in a cell in a building you call Maudsley Asylum, watched by what you call Dark Finders.”

I am shocked by her reply, utterly casual and nonchalant. As if this all was nothing but a game. I am beginning to be afraid. She acts as if she is completely in control … and I am reaching for straws here.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Ivory. Remember what they taught you, fear is the killer. I won’t harm you. I will help you.”

I swallow hard, pushing aside the consequences of what she just said. “Like you helped Angela?”

She smiles again–

(like the sun over green meadows)

–and I feel a sharp pain in my heart, and a chill radiating outward slowly. What was that image? Deep inside, I know that I am going to die.

Her high voice, so friendly and inviting that it is scaring me, “Come.”

The chill has reached my legs, I cannot control them, but they begin to move. Following her through the next door into the room beyond. A bathroom, broken white tiles, a dirty floor. Blood spattered across the broken mirror, across the toilet seat and all over the grimy bathtub. She stops in the middle of the room.

And turns around.

It isn’t her any more.

It is Angela.

I vomit and piss myself.

Angela’s whole body is scarred, from neck to crotch. Her hair hangs in a dirty and unwashed dark tangle in front of her face, her skin is grey and has the colour of decomposing flesh. Her chest is a quagmire of criss-crossing dark-blue scars, her nipples are craters. But the worst is her crotch, a bloody ruin –

I pass out.

I awake with racing heart. Try to get a sense of time, how long have I been in here? How can I pass out here? 20 minutes maximum for a Soul Caging – is it already too late? And then I notice Angela squatting in front of me, her scarred hand stroking my cheeks and I smell her. Reeking like a years old corpse.

I want to vomit again, retch, but nothing comes.

“Do not be afraid. You still have time.”

“Angela … what happened to you?”

“Daddy made me do it. But Pretty rescued me.”

She strokes back the tangle of dirty hair in front of her face. Her lips are blue-grey, the colour of a drowned corpse, the skin of her face crisscrossed with scars and blue veins, her left eye is a blind milk white. Her scarred lips stretch into a smile, broken–

(a rotting flower in a vase)

What are these images? What is happening here? This is completely out of control.

The chill is spreading, I cannot move.

“Please, Angela. I need to know what happened. What did your Daddy do to you and who is Pretty?”

“Daddy killed mommy. He killed them all. Made me eat them. And raped me. Told me I was his little angel before he raped me. Every night I prayed that somebody would kill him. Slayer, Captain Contract, Bloody Valentine. Anybody. But nobody came. I couldn’t stand it any longer. And then I found the blades; I found a way out. I couldn’t kill me I knew, but I could cut him away. Where he touched me, where he raped me, where he was inside me. He wasn’t my daddy. He was a monster that killed my daddy, and wore his skin!”

Her composure breaks and she begins to cry. I cannot tell her that humans are the worst monsters down here, I must not. I must give solace, not deal out more pain. Although her stink is utterly revolting I try to move to comfort her. She clutches my body like–

(a drowning man reaches for the life line)

–a vise.
Sobs into my shoulder, hot, bitter tears streaming down my neck, biting like acid. Feel the chill leaving my body, taking all feeling with it … as if she is sucking me dry, feeding on my growing despair.

She lets go of me and my body collapses against the wall. She looks up, smiling her broken smile. “But then Pretty answered my prayers.”

“How? How, Angela?”, my voice nothing but a rasp.

“She took care of me. Showed me where to cut, helped me with the deeper cuts. I only had a razor blade; she had a real straight razor. And while I cut him out of me, she took the pain. He didn’t touch me at the end. Said I was disgusting. He hit me even more instead. But Pretty took the pain.

That night I left him, I went to Pretty. She comforted me, like mommy used to. I wish she had been my mommy from the start. She would have killed daddy the first time he tried to touch her.”

“Did she kill your daddy?”

“Yes. But I helped her.”

Too weak for long questions. My time is running out, “How?”

Angela doesn’t answer. “Is she here now, Angela? Answer me, please. Is Pretty here? ”

Her answer, a sigh, “Yes.”

I have to gather all my strength, “How did you help her, Angela?”

“She gave me her body.”

Pretty is back, kneeling in front of me, her face a twisted grin, the kohl around her eyes messed up by Angela’s tears, looking like Brain Waster eyes now.

I feel like floating. The dissociated feeling towards the end of the Soul Caging. This, my dear class, is a last and desperate reminder to return or to be severed from your body. Forever. And you don’t want to spend eternity in the mind of an insane killer, as his plaything, another victim. A victim of your own stupidity.

“Stay with me Mr. Ebon. Don’t go yet. We are so close.”

I want to let go, I want to leave, my soul screams in terror, but I have to know.

“Close to what?”

“The truth.”

“Truth?”

“Just ask the question Mr. Ebon. I will answer you.”

My mind is racing now, complete chaos. I need to return, I must return, but here – now – is the answer I came for.

“Who are you?”

“I am a visitor.”

“From where?”

She smiles–

(like the Cheshire Cat)

–and her smile eats the world.


Statement of
Damien Bates, Department Classified (disclosure of information restricted to Head Office), SCL 2E, November 17th 895

What follows had to be reconstructed from the surveillance transmissions of the interview received by Station Analysis. Towards the end of the session the quality of the transmission completely degrades. It took my team extensive work to restore even as much as you are about to see now. We are not completely sure if this is exactly what happened, but I will give you the version my team and I have deemed to be the most plausible.

Operative Ivory’s descriptions became increasingly difficult to understand. It was apparent that he had completely lost control of the Soul Caging process and that whatever was inside Operative Carlyle’s mind was toying with him. Despite all this, Administrator Eldritch ordered the Soul Caging to continue. As the following seconds will show, the probing ended with a complete and spectacular failure:

(Operative Ivory jumps from his seat, his eyes bleeding like waterfalls, screaming)

“No Cheshire in this place! The dunes, bloodstained. Like the foot-prints of a God. White. Birthplace of insanities, nightmares made flesh. Tribes! Primitives! Children of the Dead Seed! Each one of them; the stillborn of the universe! I can see it … It is so fucking huge! The spire … is it made … does it live? No, no, please I don’t want to enter. No …”

(Operative Ivory’s pleading becomes a drawn out scream)

It is unclear if this is because of the bleeding of his eyes or because of his hallucination. At that point it was obvious that the situation was beyond recovery and Administrator Eldritch ordered the emergency evacuation of the place. The last images of this transmission were garbled; Station Analysis noticed an unexplainable disturbance of the signal; an over saturation with white noise.

(Operative Ivory, bloodstained, is standing in front of the holding cell. He has scratched out his eyes and with hollow sockets looks up at the camera)

“I can see him. I can see him. No, no, Nooooo …. Take it away!”

(The Operative’s hands reach for his Blitzer at his hips, murmuring a few words he puts the Blitzer in his mouth and pulls the trigger)

The next sequence is a close-up of his mouth, his last words are amplified:

“Kill the ones you love.”

The following sequence is from within a high-security holding cell: Angela Hearce sits in a steel chair, wearing a white hospital gown, her knees to her chest, smiling cryptically. There is a flurry of motion at the edge of the frame of the video; a Dark Finder enters her cell, holding a Blitzer trained on her head. He pulls the trigger and the round rips off the side of her face. Her jaw is a crude mess, broken and bloody teeth, her left eye slowly slips from its broken socket. Still, her smile doesn’t break. She looks at the Dark Finder. He takes a step into the room towards her, as if remote controlled, like a puppet on a string. She says something, but audio has been completely compromised. Even reconstruction via lip reading is impossible due to the static interference in the picture. The Dark Finder raises the gun, pulls off his facemask and shoots himself into the mouth. As his body collapses. Angela gets up from the chair.

As she looks up at the camera, she is no longer Angela, but the being Operative Ivory has described as “Pretty”. She looks at somebody behind the security glass, outside of her cell. It is clear that somebody is asking her a question. The question is garbled, but has been reconstructed:

“What (are) you?”

She looks up at the camera and smiles. Her words are audible over the static of the transmission.

“I am a visitor.”

She is asked another question, it has been reconstructed as well:

“Why are (you) here?”

“I came here to play.”

Another security camera has picked up these images. They are the last of the transmission:

Outside of Angela Hearce’s holding cell, two Dark Finders are entertwined in death; they have killed each other. Collapsed in the corner is the body of a psych staff technician, he has clawed open his throat with his own hands. Another psych staff technician stands in front of the glass window of Angela’s cell, his back turned towards the camera. She is directly behind the glass, looking straight at him, smiling.

The technician lifts his arms until they are stretched out and raised at shoulder height. Then his whole body begins to float from the floor. Hovering at least one feet above the floor, his head begins to turn towards the camera. His body spasms as the head keeps turning and finally his neck snaps. When his head completely faces the camera, his mouth opens, a voice is heard over the static of the tape:

“This is for you, Slayer! The blood-drenched tide is upon you, crashing on your shores. I will come, brother!”

The head of the technician rolls to one side and suspended in a strange cross-shape he continues to float in mid air, until something shatters the glass of Angela’s holding cell and she walks out, smiling at the camera, leaving.

The last few seconds are either a recap of the lines the technician has spoken before taken from a different camera or a repeat of the message after Angela has left. We cannot fully determine the source of this sequence, as the time code has been completely corrupted.
However in this corrupted time code my team has found encoded images, from what we have decompressed and decoded they show scenes of utter inhumanity, some sort of cannibalistic ritual performed by what must be tribes of mutated and diseased humans. Analysis still continues, expect a full report on this within the week.
The last sequence of the transmission, however, shows the lips of the technician in close-up, his teeth bloody, snarling, “I will come!”

 

© 2005 by dnotice.de

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