I’ve sold almost a hundred million books. That number baffles even me. It’s not like I write for anyone but myself. I’m not what you’d call a populist. Murder, rape, incest, infanticide; sick, twisted and cruel characters suffering similar fates. Monsters – human and inhuman – haunting desolate spaces. A world controlled by misanthropes, torn asunder, reduced to bodily fluids. And still… people keep reading. Says a whole lot about the state of the world, doesn’t it? My head isn’t a good place for a visit, but you read one of my novels, that’s exactly where you’re going. I’ve got a mean streak a mile wide, and the things I’ve seen make me loathe mankind. If we were to be wiped out tomorrow, all of us, I’d say not a minute too soon.
Are you here for a signature? I’ll make it out to “Christ almighty,” since you’re so intent on dying for our sins.
Can’t say I’m surprised to find your type in this place, at this point in time. I’ve been writing about your world for decades, and the secrets speak to me, torture me, in my dreams. My only relief was with the keyboard. Or a bottle. But the madness would always catch up with me, always pull me back, and i don’t have the capacity for ignorance. I can’t unsee what I’ve seen, I can’t give back what I’ve learned. I can’t come home after a long day at the office, beat the kids, fuck the wife, and pass out in front of the ballgame with a case of Bud. I envy the sheep and their infinite capacity for ignorance. You know what they say: idiocy is bliss.
Kingsmouth was founded by the Illuminati. This whole community – the entire island – was built by cabalists. They claimed they picked this place because it was isolated, easy to protect. Bullshit. There’s power here, begging to be released and the Illuminati, they tried their best. In their arrogance they believed they could tame it, use it somehow. That’s why the entire island is riddled with esoteric markings and archaic symbols, with tunnels and secret rooms. They dug deep. And what they found scared them. They wised up, eventually, moved on to bigger and better things, left the town to rot. Those who remained… Well, who would they leave behind? Not their best and brightest, I can guarantee you that. Those people, they kept feeding on the power until it permeated everything. The town, the forest, the school… That’s what brought me here. To succumb myself in evil. To understand it. Learn about it. Write about it. But it seemed to have faded, like the paint on the picket fences. This place seemed no more cruel than any other small town on this blighted continent, filled with pettiness and jealousy and murderous thoughts, but human. Boy, was I wrong. I’d say I got more than I bargained for, but you might think I got exactly what I deserved – and you’d probably be right.
The day the fog rolled in, I stood up here in this ivory tower and watched it all. It came like an avalanche, like a tsunami, obscuring everything in its path. First the shoreline, then the fields, the forest – the town. It lingered for a while, before receding. There was no one left. The fog took them, all of them. At least, that’s what I thought at first glance. Turned out there were others who escaped the fog – somehow. Me – and the sheriff, she was paying a friendly visit – I was above it all. It didn’t tough us. That night, it was deathly quiet. The fog around the island obscured everything, sight and sound. One or two people tried to leave. They walked into that thick mist, and all we heard were the screams. The next morning – with the dawn – came the townsfolk, returning from the sea, like one of my stories. Followed by what the Wabanaki once called ‘the pale men.” The Draug. That’s when I decided to stay put and keep writing. There’s a strange inspiration to be found in imprisonment.
Life Imitating Art
Horror author Sam Krieg’s worldview, and his opinion of the secret world, is as bleak as his best-selling novels. Is the man’s unkind muse reacting to the events of Solomon Island, or was it predicting them all along?
Read between the lines to see the pattern. The writer writes for himself, what he knows to be true. Each time he rewrites himself closer to that truth. He thinks himself master of events, though he is servant to them. For the sequence of events are preordained. The sequence of responses to them are not. Read between the lines and see decisions made and decisions not made repeating, infinite, like fractals. We do not predict. We explore possibilities. It is not the Dragon's purpose to control the world, but to free it from controlling influence.
A Reasonable Man
Sam Krieg snipes at zombies from atop the lighthouse. Helping him on the ground could lead to some interesting insights into zombie behavior.
Who is Sam Krieg to question the purpose and reason for the very wheel of life? Only a fool would willingly seek to break the circle. Consequently, Sam Krieg is a fool and not worth listening to. The undead have an equal part to play. It is for us to find out what that part is, not to attempt to remove them from the equation. Your detailed report is appreciated. The black pools appear to multiply. Sightings are becoming increasingly frequent. We are gathering as much information as we can on this phenomenon. Change is good, but too much changer too fast, is not. 1939999R9-1
Crime and Punishment
Sam Krieg seems to know a lot about the shadowy sickness that underlies Solomon Island’s history. Trace the famous author’s research into the island, and find the source of his knowledge.
The lighthouse is filled with books and discarded papers. This room is the culmination of Sam Krieg’s interest in Solomon Island. Find out what first brought him here, and trace the evidence back to the source of his knowledge.
Sam Krieg’s agent put him in contact with a fan on Solomon Island. This man must have been integral to Krieg’s research for the surly author to have paid him a visit. After visiting the fan, Sam stopped at the gas station and discarded a photo before driving over to the lighthouse. There has to be some way of determining where the meeting with this informant took place.
This is the house in the photo of Krieg with his fan. Whatever information the man had about Solomon Island should be inside. With nothing else to go on, i’ll take a look at that website: samkriegsightings.wordpress.com. The code was the last 4 digits of “The Resident Horror”, 8237
Inside the basement I discovered a computer filled with “reports” on various mysterious happenings and locales throughout Solomon Island.
Kingsmouth: Solomon Islnd as magnet for grimy souls (is there any other kind?); King Arthur's fibroma; things that go bump in the mouth; occult ambitions and the soil's turmoil fed on each other like alien corals, like acne and depression, perfect fit for Illuminati doctrine: max - influence, min - exposure; abandoned in the flight to New York; gone corporate; infiltrated by communists? Island's power hasn't waned; only feeds and festers. The Academy: Founded in 1978 as private boarding school; front for --- something; smuggling the devil's gifts? funded by Russian prince? run by the Illuminati? rituals on every syllabus; rebuilt in 1850 after the great fire; rebuilt in 1904 after the earthquake; rebuilt in 1967 after the explosion (Soviets wanted it back); the most feared track and field team in the state. Henderson Farm: Henderson had talent for excruciating arts; always restless, somber, volatile; broke from occult circles to build farm; why? oldest son crushed in 1904 (Bolsheviks?); wife suicide; enter sorrow; dug deeper into necromancy, thanatology, Egyptian rites; both daughters died; enter madness and melancholy; exit with razor. Blue Ridge Mine: Built during the mining boom of the 1870s; machines greased with blood; conflict with the Wabanaki (they had socialist sympathies); mine was shut down; reopened in the 1970s; foreman shot the shaman; protesters jailed; land sold to third party (unablbe to trace, could be Soviet); recently started quarrying at the site; soil is like skin; no limit to how deep our nails can dig. Atlantic Island Park: Maine magnate Nathaniel Winter (born Kaminsky?) bought the Henderson farm in the late 1970s; wanted to build amusement park - front for Soviet missile base? Henderson's dark legacy in the air; Henderson's blood soaking in the soil; Winter fast-tracked his permits (money and connections) and pushed through all red tape and resistance; hell bent on children's amusement. Overlook Motel: Motel built in 1960s; Shirley's temple; cold day in November, 1986; the Little American Town doctrine; five quests disappeared (five points on a pentagram?); iron curtains; journalist been poking around; Cold War communication base? walls were known to be thin. Black House: Built in 1974 by Carrie Killian - a single woman from Miami; may have spent time in Minsk; locals didn't take kindly to her arts; filed up rumors; torch-bearing mob; bar the doors and windows! the night we burned her down; now it's a party house for the punks at Innsmouth; frat initiation rites; beat the fright; stay a night; no one ever does. Sam Krieg: Born September 11, 1951; history teacher; married three times; Anne-Marie Ellsworth left him in 1983 (glasnost was a front); TV star Bobbi Mann (born Popescu!) left him in 1986; third wife, Elizabeth Galvan, died of breast cancer in 2002; writes letters to his dead wife; loves cashmere; hates the Habs; misanthrope; knows all about the darkness in our hearts; the cadence of shit; conspiracy buff; dominant theme in his novels: people pulled into the abyss; drinking problems; writer's block; OCD. This local conspiracy theorist - John Anderson - is an entirely American construct. His paranoias are rooted in the cold War. His favourite author is a second-rate genre writer. his knowledge of secret societies begins and ends with information about New York. That is why the Illuminati are looking for this man. He fled the island soon after his meeting with Krieg because he knew they would come. One man's informant is another man's bane is another man's commodity. If the Illuminati really wish to find this man, they need look no further than a locked room in a nameless town inhabited by monks. It is amazing how far silence can go in getting a man to tell you everything he knows.