Part One of ERRATICA: From the Desk of Fiore Amore, Esq.
The return to campus has assuredly been a turbulent time for everyone. In this foul and plague-ridden year of our lord, 2021, even that which we’re closest to remains unfamiliar. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw just a few short weeks ago, however.
I recently began an investigation into some shocking revelations at this institution. Previously my work here at the Cooper Point Journal was of an autobiographical character, where I told tales strange and mundane to any who’d lend me their eyes and ears. Now my task is a serious one, real journo work.
As campus has reopened, so have the offices of the Journal. After one of our first meetings, I decided to linger, to absorb the space, to draw a connection to days gone by. Once not too long ago, there was something worthwhile here. Or so I thought.
And then I opened the office minifridge.
Here I was confronted with horrors beyond my comprehension. Bile! Decay! Rot! A human hand! What oozed out from one of the drawers certainly couldn’t have been yogurt. I saw tupperware encrusted with the remnants of something which once frothed and gurgled, all the colours of the rainbow on last century’s tuna sandwich, and rice pudding that had developed a life of its own.
This alone was a traumatic experience from which I will never recover. Soon, though, I realized this fridge was not simply an icebox gone wrong, but a passage into the unknown, a hallway unexplained. I took it upon myself, despite the protests of my fellow journalists, to discover what was beyond the pale.
The labyrinth I had entered led me deep into the bowels of the college. The filth I encountered would make the likes of Caligula or Divine blush. No place on this planet is more depraved, more unhinged, more downright disgusting than the hidden chasms of Castle Carmichael.
My journey took me to a fecund chamber, the walls of which breathed and pulsed as my own flesh and blood. In this chamber’s center I saw an egg. The Egg. Amid a sea of slime it sat pristine, untouched, glistening. Rest assured, dear reader, this did not mean what lay before my eyes was free of pestilence. Quite the contrary. Sulfur seeped into my sinuses so strongly I couldn’t help but be sick, emptying my guts in this creature’s domain.
“Good! You’ve purged yourself of what ails you,” boomed a voice with no discernable origin.
“Who are you? How do you know anything ails me, let alone that it lives in my stomach?”
“I am who you see before you. Egg Jonah Eggson is my name. It was I who fathered the publication which now employs you.”
I was aghast. I’ve known many things in this life, be they miracles, manifestations of The Weird, or grand invocations of The Profane. Yet Eggson’s claim to have fathered the Cooper Point Journal was at that moment beyond me. I could muster only one response. “Who’s the mother?”
“Ha! How terrestrial your thoughts are. Have you forgotten the tale of the immaculate conception? I’ve undertaken such a task in a manner befitting a seahorse,” answered Eggson.
“Tell me, sir,” I meekly inquired, “What purpose did your child and its companions serve over these 50 years? Have any before I known of you?”
“My intentions began quite narrowly. You see, it was necessary to document the movements of Speedy. I’m sure you know who they are,” Eggson said. “Speedy is much more than a mascot. They are the heart and soul of this institution. For a time I was obsessed. My child and her caretakers over the years were tasked with bringing me photographs of Speedy’s many activities.”
“You think a mascot was so important it required a newspaper front operation to monitor?”
Eggson grew impatient. “Yes! A million times yes! You can’t begin to conceive of the complexities at play here.” The voice softened. “All you need to know, child, is that something has gone horribly wrong.”
I don’t recall anything beyond this point. When I came to, I was on the office floor, the door to the fridge wide open in front of me. In my left hand I held half a boiled egg, its flesh gone green with age. From the looks of it, I had consumed the missing half. To my right was an immense pool of vomit that could only have been my own. A faint air of alcohol pervaded the room.
Had I killed Egg Jonah Eggson? Did I meet the essence of student journalism only to eat him alive? Or had I simply gone mad with the creative process and seen my brain scrambled? I suppose either outcome is better than oviposition.
What I know for certain is that terrible things have happened at this institution. I believe I have a handle on a specific case. My findings soon approach—be ready.
