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[illumniscate]

Whisperbox

Found in the crypt of a Belgian family with no heirs, this mysterious object introduces a previously unknown form of divination technique, and perhaps something more.

The crypt belonged to a secluded family sect known as the Deferots. Among the local countryside youth, the urban myth tells that the place is exceptionally haunted on an already possessed cemetery. They often dare each other to enter during the night. So it happened that a group of teenagers descended and found the box among the coffins and allegedly saved it from enormous rats chewing on it. They took the box as evidence of their bravery and word got out, eventually into the ears of our investigators. We bargained for the box, which wasn't difficult as its new owners were quite fearful of it.

Our investigations could not find a precedent for any similar object. Upon archival research, we could only recover a single photograph (copy included) of the six members now buried in the crypt. These people were known for several secretive dealings throughout their years.

Based on their known history, we can conclude that the beliefs of the Deferot family centred around some kind of pagan spirits with whom they "made deals". The box serves as evidence of such occult dealings. Being unique, it is suspected to have been custom-made around the end of the 19th century. On the outer side, it is indeed damaged by rat gnaws. Within the Whisperbox is a smaller, hexagonal case holding a short sheet of instructions, which speaks for itself.

The Whisperbox is now for sale for the collectors of the most peculiar of occult paraphernalia.

The instructional text is as follows:

The Whisperbox

Whisper me your wish, ambitious one. I may listen. Close your eyes and pull out one of my letters. Look at it. Close your eyes again and take another letter, then another, one by one. When it feels right, arrange them into a meaning that makes sense to you. Keep pulling until you find my word.

If a letter doesn't fit, exchange it but do this exchange no more than six times. Do not force the word, let it come to you by association. If the word doesn't come, now isn't your time.

If your desire is what you whisper, my word is the price for your wish to come true.

If it is an answer that you seek, my word reveals the truth… And the price shall remain unknown until it is paid.

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The Sprites of the Orphans

Do you know that trope of how in orphanages there is always some upheaval and mischief against the tyrant caretakers? It is far from the truth, as your typical nurse is a loving person who knows how to do their job properly and children are usually behaving better than those who are more fortunate than they. The only thing that an orphan's heart has more than their peers who have parents is sorrow.

Yet, the trope comes from somewhere and finally, we figured out from where. We managed to connect the dots between legend and recently recovered evidence! There is a certain type of Seelie sprites that live in the walls of human orphanages.

Called the "slinkers", these petite creatures thrive on sneaking around and causing shenanigans that can very easily be blamed on others. Most adults cannot even sense them, at least not while they are alive. They creep around on their toes in broad daylight, laughing naughtily and causing unneeded trouble. Children might see them and even try to blame the real culprits, but most adults see their excuses as something from their own past - as lies to avoid responsibility.

Occurrences involving slinkers have become widely spread, but these events are rarely described accurately. Instead, hearsay made it look like orphans are an attention-seeking bunch and that this is inevitably caused by the stern custodians.

Now we have a few mummified slinkers up for sale. Ethically sourced - they either died naturally or suddenly starved after orphanages were closed and they became depressed. The dry conditions within the walls made mummification possible. Usually, they are discovered when buildings are being renovated or torn down.

Adopt a slinker today so your (inner) child has an excuse!

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The Button Factory

In the Netherlands, there used to be a famous button factory, the Dutch Button Works. It grew from a smaller manufacturer of pipes. Over time, it outgrew its old building and had to move. They made buttons from wood, horns, galalith, polyester, mother of pearl and other materials. At its height, it provided work for almost 300 people. As a result of unfavourable historical events and the death of the founder and his son, the company was doomed. Nearing bankruptcy, the number of remaining workers was 44. And then it fell into obscurity. Only specialised historians might know some details of this industrial conglomerate that supplied a significant part of the western world with buttons. Today only a repurposed facade of the factory remains.

THE END

Although this is the short, forgettable tale that is likely to stay in the few history books that tell it, there is a hidden, far richer layer to this record of events. Our occult researchers have recently obtained physical proof provided by a donator claiming to be the last of the descendants of an enigmatic society. What follows is the transcription of his retelling of the true story of Dutch Button Works.

"We don't consider buttons as much, do we? Their history is old. We know that they are present on Earth since at least the Bronze Age. They are so practical that life without them is almost unimaginable, even more than life without electricity. The simple technology of buttons is so ancient and ingrained into our culture that we couldn't imagine ourselves without them.

But where do buttons come from? I bet you'd naturally assume that some of our ancestors invented it from the pure frustration of having clothes that dangle around in the elements. Today we mostly make them with mass-producing machines, so it's also natural to assume that buttons are an inherently human product. Well, I'm here to tell you that it was invented by another species entirely.

Let me tell you about a subspecies of gnomes. They call themselves kabouters. In modern Dutch, "kabouter" simply means "gnome" but in old times, when the hidden folk were more present in the affairs of humans, kabouters were classified as a different species of the fae. They were industrious and restless, subterranean people, who adored the functional ornaments they made. Not much knowledge remains about them. One thing is certain, however: they are the inventors of buttons. Not only did they invent it, but the button as a concept and object also plays a central role in their belief system. They consider every button a thing of beauty, but each has a different meaning to them. Sewing them onto clothes and bags can signify rank, kinship and beliefs. The legend says that some of their buttons wield magic — and not only the good kind.

Ah… You wanted to know about the factory. We know that it relocated in 1924. The official reason was that the production capacity needed to be increased. That's not true. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The kabouters have an innate urge to craft. Without it, they are said to age faster. So, an elder and experienced individual among them, called Reinout, devised an ambitious plan. Somewhere in the mid-19th century, he established our society.

They dug vast tunnels and caverns under a weaving mill. Reinout had friends in the human world and some workers in the mill agreed to help with the business, in secret. The kabouters utilised their powerful artisan knowledge akin to magic and built a golem. It was able to compute the logistics and finances of the business with the outside world. It was so successful at its job that the business became more and more difficult to be kept hidden.

Thus, Reinout made a deal with a human investor who would buy the enterprise in 1924 and make it his own in the books, as to deter any potential suspicion of what is going on behind the walls of the factory. This man was Willem te Gussinklo and he remains known as the official founder of the Dutch Button Works — the enterprise that became the official title to the up to that point nameless kabouter manufacture.

To cover for the increasing success of the enterprise, Gussinklo hired additional human staff. The kabouter workers still made up more than half of the actual number of employees who were kept in the dark about the underground works. The building was also refurbished into an architectural wonder, imbued with kabouter-crafted corridors and concealments. This made it possible for the hiding golem to coordinate two completely separate branches of production as a unified whole. Over time, some of the more perceptive humans grew concerned about the inevitably occurring strange encounters. Most of these people, wishing to be a part of the hidden life of kabouters, joined the ranks of Reinout's society. Others — those with more malevolent intentions — had to be silenced with amnesia curses.

Sadly, Reinout reached the limits of his age and passed away soon after this tremendous expansion of his dream. We consider 1928, when he died, to be the height of Dutch Button Works' glory. True to kabouter traditions, his earthly remains were mummified with a special flesh-drying technique. He was placed to rest into a cavern dug-out on the premises, where all of the deceased kabouters were kept in repurposed toolboxes for coffins.

Operations went on quite well for decades. Perhaps it was the sudden absence of Reinout's genius, perhaps it was just time… What matters is that the increasing logistical load lead the golem to begin showing shining cracks on its surface, committing an escalating number of calculational and organisational omissions, and eventually — breaking down completely. Creating another golem was out of the question - a freshly assembled golem is born with a tabula rasa mind, it could never have possibly taken the reins from its centennial predecessor. Knowing that this event would spell the downfall of the otherwise very successful business, the human owners fell to desperation, which proved too strong for them to bear. Most workers were dismissed, except the 44 who were in on the true nature of Dutch Button Works. They helped the kabouters with the final rituals, and the factory was officially closed in 1976.

The kabouters grew weak from the sudden drop in button power. Some of them fled, but most decided to leave this world completely, the continuation of their purpose now spoiled. The human helpers preserved the bodies of those who fell to the frailty and hid them in the burial cavern. The descendants of the last 44 human employees carried on the chronicles of Reinout's society, of whom I am the last remaining member. We have sworn to protect the memory of this legacy.

I have carefully relocated all the kabouter mummies to a far safer place, should any digging be done on the premises of the former factory. I do bring you this one body as proof so that you can cast aside mistaking me for a crazed old fool seeking one final moment of relevance before I too, perish. This fellow is Ambroos, who died way back in 1887. He was a friend of my great-grandmother, with whom they shared tea and biscuits, every day. His buttons signify a happy individual, who loved nature and would rather create more buttons than pursue perfection. He was bestowed with the Heavy Button of Two Red Hearts, which means that he produced more than two million buttons.

Please spread this story. The world needs to re-learn the truth about the kabouters, and we humans will need to admit that the true masters of buttonmaking are not us… And maybe then, they will return among us, to provide us with their buttons and other crafts of unmatchable quality."

Our informer, unfortunately, parted soon after his account. He intended to tell us the coordinates to the rest of the evidence but instead took this secret to the grave.

We are now giving the body of Ambroos the kabouter up for sale for the story of these creatures and their human partners to spread (and fund our future investigations).

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The Friendly Custodian

Some among the fae are the custodians of our ecosystem. They wouldn't describe it that way - it is but a lifestyle for these individuals. There aren't many of them and those few approach ecoengineering differently than we humans do. While we base our efforts on science, the hidden folk do it through rituals and to us elusive communication with nature's various spirits.

We wouldn't even know of them was it not for the rare evidence we manage to gather. We found an exceptional example of such proof in the northeastern mountain region of Hungary. A surprise discovery in the Zempléni Landscape Protection Zone enabled our archaeologists of the arcane to preserve the remains of such a heroic creature. A rock slide revealed a cave of several pint-sized chambers, originally accessible only through a well-concealed system of narrow tunnels, untraversable to humans, not even their children.

The chambers were filled with plenty of different seeds and some small, man-made items, arranged into an apparent living space. Most notably, there was a weathered wooden box of oriental origins refurnished into a bed with the use of some dry moss and a man-made fabric cloth. Within this opened box was a peacefully deceased gnome.

Upon examining various clues, our experts were happy to conclude that the fellow was one of the caretakers of nature. The seeds were perceptibly organised onto various shelves carved into the stone of the chambers. All of the wider area's endogenous plants that propagate via seeds had specimens in the collection. We could also identify a few dried-out roots and bulbs.

The rest of his salvageable possessions include a triangular metal box with some items inside, probably of sentimental value to the creature. Then, a decorated container for carrying around the seeds. Also within the bed was a male weaskel skull, which is likely a remain of a beloved familiar. Finally, a mystical keepsake tied to the gnome's belt, most likely used for ceremonial purposes.

Curiously, the brass box also contained a piece of paper from what we believe was a human patron. At this point, it remains mere speculation as to whom that person was or whether the gnome was literate. What is certain is that it valued that gift and that the human helper was the most likely source of most of the fae's human-made items.

During a two-month-long investigation, our specialists managed to identify the being's walking trails based on foot anatomy and flora clusters identified by their seeds in the cave cluster. After careful - yet still hypothetical - reconstruction, they were able to understand that this gnome held the region's biodiversity of some 170 square kilometres in superb balance! How such a small individual was capable of such a feat remains a mystery, yet theories attribute this clear success to a combination of a long-lived life, magic rites (which probably included some spacetime surpassing effects) and the help of the anonymous human friend.

The research has been exhausted and to secure funds for further endeavours of our occult society, we are looking to market the conserved body and its earthly belongings to a conscientious, devout private collector.

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The Smallest Vampire that Ever Lived

This is the preserved head of the smallest vampire that ever lived. Many have misconceptions about vampire lore, which is mostly gathered from fiction. In reality, they can also die from malnutrition. Vampires need living blood, and because soon after a human's death (and sometimes even in the last moments of their living) the process called livor mortis changes the availability of nutrients in the blood and how easily it can flow, so it becomes inedible.

This specimen must have had a difficult time. As it was a monster of such little size, it was easily fought off, so it had to make use of covert tactics, which were elaborate schemes to incapacitate or kill farm animals and drink their blood while they were still breathing. The small vampire lived in attics and was known in the land, but was problematic to catch. A farmer, after losing some of his dear chickens finally trapped him under a glass bowl and watched him slowly fade and wither. This happened during the little creature's second attempt to feed off a rooster.

According to the father's account, the little vampire could not speak, only wailed in pain while gradually becoming translucent over a few days. When it perished, the farmer gave it to the local doctor, who cut the corpse open and later preserved it in the state that you can acquire now. The letters are written in the blood of its last would-be victim.

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The Story of the Forgotten Mukwambo

Oh, Africa, my Mother Continent! How wrongly you fell to the greed of men maddened by their malevolent hearts! Hear my story and let us both heal. For it is a distinctive tale, one that must be heard lest its lessons echo away as superstitions distracting us from our holy duty.

My late grandfather, whose name was Sabelo, left me with a chikwambo - an item that is often translated to English as a "goblin". Here, in Zimbabwe, shamans may sell these trinkets - usually small items - with sort of spirits bonded to them. They are mischievous, nasty things. Being trapped, they can release their magics to bring prosperity to their owner in need. However, they might also seek revenge and punish their bearer. Carrying this dark charm is a risk worthy only to the desperate. People go out of their way and invest in these considerably priced items (which are often little dried critters, bones and the like) in hopes of scraping better by their impoverished lives.

The translation "goblin" relates to the older meaning of the modern, originally European word. Looking at the term's etymology, "goblin" stood as an umbrella phrase for various vicious spirits, often invisible - an element that is key here. Chikwambos are items, but imprinted into them is something invisible, something powerful yet sinister. Now, there is peculiarity here. My chikwambo is an actual goblin... Or at least, a mummified head of one. This is the only item I inherited from my grandfather. I never knew about it before and there was no explanation, but a little tag explaining what it ought to be. It has a relatively small cranium, so in the beginning, I guessed correctly that it must have been a boy before it was dried and propped up. Everything else on it is large: human-like teeth and a nose and ears that must be able to receive stimuli fainter than we can. The eyes are sunk in, but have must have been quite big based on the size of the orbital cavities. It has nice, childish brown hair, that is pleasant to the touch.

For a while, I just kept it hidden in my private locker since my husband - Mlungisi - preferred not to look at it. He said that he was afraid of it. I knew better than to believe in such irrationality.

One day though, things took a turn in our fortune. We were never rich, but we managed to make ends meet. Our children went to school and we usually had food for the table. On that day though, a mysterious man appeared at our door. His skin looked dry and had a dark, yellowish colour. He asked for me and whether I still held onto my inheritance. I opened my locker and showed the head to him, at which he handed me an envelope, then sped out the door without further explanation. My husband yelled after him, but the man vanished.

After opening the envelope, I saw a continuation to the testament of my grandfather. To my shock, it included quite a large sum of money - a several years' worth of salary! I also found a hand-drawn, cryptic map, which I didn't quite understand in the heat of my emotions. I never knew that my poor Sabelo had any savings! When I looked at my goblin, the depths of its squinted eyes almost looked as if they faintly shone with a greenish hue.

When I shared the news, my husband was anxious, he said that this was the work of the chikwambo and that we should get rid of both. But I didn't agree. I wanted to know more. So, we settled on waiting with picking up the money until we figured out this mystery. He helped me and being a resourceful man, he identified what looked like the lands to the south-west of the country, the area of the Matobo Hills. It took some arrangements when I decided to go there and investigate. When I told Mlungisi that I am taking the goblin along, he backed out of our weekend trip. Thus, I embarked alone.

The centre of Matobo Hills is a protected world heritage. Rhinos roam those lands and I couldn't just wander around blindly. So before arriving I'd already been in touch with a guide who, on paper, seemed knowledgeable enough to help me solve my riddle (if there ever was one). When I met the man, at first I couldn't put it where he was familiar from. I surely couldn't put his face anywhere. When I showed him my map and the chikwambo, he told me to follow him.

On our way, I told him about my story so far and he taught me some of my history. "Don't you know the original meaning of chikwambo?" He asked. "Or should I better ask, do You know what mukwambo is?" To which I replied that I only understood it as some kind of collective diligence, a part of the old culture. "Mukwambo, my dear, is more than that. It is what we, people, born to this soil came here to do. It is our very environment, which we must tend towards, our relationships, in love and wealth."

By this time, we have already been walking for a while. "Chikwambo, on the other hand..." He continued as we approached a cave. "It is no mere knickknack! But a perversion snuck into mukwambo to channel its energies towards selfish ends!" We stopped just inside and I was awestruck by the delicate paintings made by ancient, caring hands. I have never seen such a marvellous sight before! "The Nswatugi cave." He waved and pointed to the sack I carried my possessions in. "Your head - it is no chikwambo!" He shouted, and lights reflecting from the cave paintings gave his eyes a green glow. Suddenly, I was afraid, realising fully that I was in a faraway place with an unknown man. At the same moment, I recognised his familiarity: it was his skin. The same ambery dryness to him, almost as if his face was crumbling under the strain of his abrupt grimace. Similar to my goblin's skin. His ears began to widen and looked frighteningly as those of a bat but of a grotesque shape. "He is a victim with his sequestered spirit imprisoned inside." His nose widened too and I recognised him. This is how my goblin could have looked, only if he lived to mature. "He is no other..." He whispered. "Than I!" And with that, he opened his greenly-lit eyes wide and I felt as if I was falling through his gaze, in a spiral, deeper and deeper into another mind, a consciousness of another, many others...

I blink. I am on the run, to protect our family. We are the last of our kind. Agogwes, they call us. We were no different, but the newcomers see us as such. They hate everyone and come up with names to differentiate where there was no prior division. And then they murder. One of them is on our trail. I can smell the reek, I can hear his frenzied breath. He carries weapons and I saw him butcher others in cold blood. We never harmed anyone. No, I hear him approach! I must protect my children, my wife!

I blink. I am a deserter. A former British colonist soldier gone demented by the atrocities I was forced to commit. I am hunted by my compatriots, but I am also a hunter. A demon hunter who seeks food for the exchange of catching bad spirits and witches. I am a tsikamutanda, that's what the locals call me. And I am on a hunt. I am stalking these two batgoblins for almost a week now. They are on the flee after I took their parents out. Finally, they make a mistake. The boy leads the girl by the hand, and they run into that cave from which I know there is no other escape but back out. I take pride in my line of work. I follow them in, seeing the wretched things cower before me in an embrace, screeching as I lift my spear. The boy jumps at me, but my strike is precise and punctures the crux of the matter - his heart. The crying sister is even less of a match. With my knife, I cut their heads off. I will preserve them later and sell them as false idols. I drink their blood. I will poison this culture. For no fool hiring me knows that I am the real demon. I am in disguise, an impostor. I bring decadence. I am the Chikwambo they should fear!

I blink. I am a poor man, but I always managed. I never complained and always provided for my family. But times have changed. The war, the exploiters, it leaves me with no opportunities. I followed the rumours and they led me to the witch hunter. His skin is covered in brown powder, like cocoa. His aura is intimidating but he seeks no money, only food, so I trust him. I bought what dried meet I could from the last of my savings and in return, he gives me an odd-looking, preserved head. He says that it is a chikwambo. A magical item that will provide me with fortune, as long as I am careful with it. But it is not for me, I shall give it to my only son, Sabelo.

I blinked again, and I was back in the Nswatugi cave. My mouth was dry and my throat was sore. I was alone. Who knows how long I lay there. My possessions were still with me, but now they had a true spirit bound to them and this I knew. My story is this spirit. You listen carefully every time I tell it, oh, Africa. For this is a spirit of reinvigoration. This story is an element of our mukwambo. I will let my goblin boy travel now. Wherever he goes, his story will follow and heal whatever needs mending.

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The Chimatas of Frammersbacher Forst

As a folklorist, I am scientifically minded. I specifically focus my research on stories and how they manifest themselves in the everyday lives of people. As a kid growing up in a German village, I was always fascinated by the stories that the elders told me about the sounds the willows made, mushroom rings and what have you. I wanted to find the roots of the truth, to see the invisible.

During my whole career, I had to conclude how all the tales, sightings, all events seemingly supernatural could be explained away with very sober, often mundane reasonings. This happened so many times that this kind of rationalisation has become second nature to me. Each time I hear of an account or a token of something out of a folk tale, my mind reflexively begins producing explanations to deal away with the wishfulness towards a more magical reality. I have achieved the opposite of what I hoped as a gleeful child. Until very recently, that is.

An abandoned hut was called to my attention, somewhere in the Frammersbacher Forst. The anonymous call - a common occurrence in my life - didn't go into too many details, just told me the coordinates and that there is proof of chimatas or something, I didn't quite get that part. I just lazily penned down the numbers and already forgot about the whole thing. "Maybe I'll get there in a couple of months," I thought, as my table was already full of research to sort out.

Later that night, I sat in my chair and filled my pipe, about to light it, when the spark from the match sparked a fire I haven't ever seen before. Two little flaming skulls blazed in front of me, and now in retrospect I know I didn't hallucinate when I heard a rasping, smokey duo of voices say "Heelp uus!"

I sat there, my mind immediately dismissing the event as a fancy. "I am growing old." That must have been it, I thought, concerned for my sanity. So I scratched the match again and this time I could light the pine tobacco as usual. As I was puffing, I looked at the smoke, thinking of how people come up with the wildest narratives while trying to reason with a world that often makes little sense. Pareidolia, it's called. While I was musing, I could imagine faint ghostly figures in the smoke, reminding me of what I saw in the flame earlier. Just as I grew uneasy again, I heard a whisper, right in my ear: "goo to the foreesst." I was spooked and jolted to look around, but there was no one around. I was alone, and alone I went to sleep. But for some reason, I couldn't doze off as usual. That was something that hasn't happened to me in years. At least I figured out why pretty quickly: I have felt that good old mystique crawl beneath my skin, something was happening and I needed to know why. An explanation wasn't simple to come up with - and damned my sanity be - I was reminded of the tracks I followed beneath the autumn leaves as a child, hoping to find a sheltered gate to a magical kingdom. In all honesty, I've never stopped searching for it.

In the morning I arranged my supplies, sat in my car and started driving. I don't usually smoke outside of my home, but as I was about to leave, I took my piping kit with me. I felt it might help me calm my nerves once I figure out the banal explanation to the "chimatas" and phantoms haunting me. Frammersbacher Forst was more than a half day's journey away, and during the whole trip, starting with the most recent memories and tracing backwards, I was thinking of all the disenchantments I had to face during my career. This retrogressive pilgrimage along the paths of my life finally led me back to when I was that little, mischievous, curious brat. I felt the sense of wonder that I long thought lost.

The hut was a bit difficult to locate. Besides the darkening day being somewhat foggy, the house was small, long-abandoned and blended in within the trees from which it must have been built. Moss covered its roof and walls. Upon investigation, I couldn't find any traces of recent activity, which made my anonymous source curious. "Probably just a couch lie." But how would they know of this location? Did they know of it for years and decided to pull a prank? These thoughts were an obvious dead end, I had to enter, but the door was locked. Frustrated, I went back to the car for my toolbox. I also took my battery lamp, attached it to my belt, and I noticed my pipe box offering itself from the passenger seat, so I took it too.

I began to work on the door, but the conditions made it very difficult to work. I couldn't lock-pick the keyhole, my crowbar, amazingly, broke, and the hammer did little to nothing except squish aside the moss from the handle. "This is ridiculous." I was frustrated, as the rediscovered curiosity in me left me with less patience than usual. I decided to fill the pipe and clear my mind. As I was puffing, I noticed how thick the smoke from my pipe grew, almost as if it tried to reinforce the fog. I looked around and saw something even stranger: the smoke was forming a clear thread, swirling around, and four little hands hovered in front of me, gesturing me to follow the smoke. Almost as if enchanted, I heeded the call. I walked around the house and stumbled into something I failed to notice before - an ancient, withering ladder. Being a bit numbed down about the developing situation, I heard a "sshhh!" It was the hands, again, but now there were two hazy faces to accompany each pair. They were gesturing me to look up to the chimney, into which my smoke was pouring in like in some reversed footage. I understood, took the ladder and placed it to climb up to the roof.

I looked down the chimney but saw only darkness. My rational mind came to rescue me from the dread I felt: "This is ridiculous," and with that, I climbed in.

What I saw inside was the furthest it could have been from my expectations. The fireplace was on and it lit the whole room. There was a big armchair next to it, a round table with a chair not far from it and a bed in the corner. I approached the table and saw that it was set for dinner, with a large, steaming pot in the middle, and three plates around it. The one right in front of me was regularly-sized, but the other two were miniatures. Not even for children, this must have been for people the size of... "Kobolds?"

"Siit wiith uss." I heard from the pot, and the chair behind slid underneath me, forcing me to sit. I heard a chuckle. "Suuppeerrr wiith uuss." At this point, I have to admit, I would have rather clung to the idea that I lost it. But the weight of reality was much more chilling. I couldn't control my movements. I felt like a ragdoll, with my strings being pulled from the pot. I took the scoop and filled my plate, then poured some of the broth into the tiny dishes and as I did, I saw a ghostly figure forming around each. Two characters, each kneeling next to its meal. A female and a male, teeny creatures in old-fashioned, simple yet nice-looking clothes. I heard them giggle again.

"Thaankss foorr comiiing!" The woman said, and the other added: "Maasteeerr..." I was so terrified that I couldn't make any sense of what was happening, but I knew that I must resist the urge to take... Up that spoon... And eat... NO! But I couldn't, I swallowed the soup and it was tasty. I took the next spoonful and then the next until I was well fed. My "hosts" also finished and were looking at me. "Seet uus freee, pleeease..." With my hair standing up, I couldn't but do what they requested. "You... Are free to go..." I whispered.

"Thaankss..." Then, they fell where they stood and began to wither. The warm light around me began to dim as the two creatures mummified before my eyes. I was left in complete darkness, so I grabbed my light and looked around. Everything was in a ruined state, as I would have expected at first. The table was still standing, although in a bad shape, with the two dead creatures on it, the pot cold and empty. My fear was gone, and all that was left was sympathy. I tried the door, which was open this time around. I went back to the car for specimen containers and carefully took with me the two bodies and what I could salvage of their worldly belongings.

Originally, I wanted to bury them. But for some inexplicable reason, I couldn't let go. And the more I researched the local folklore and history, the more I grew attached to them, the pair of chimatas. I wish I knew them by their names.

Based on the evidence I could later gather from and around the hut, local hearsay, some archival data and reminiscing sightings in other parts of the continent, I managed to put together the following folk tale:

Once upon a time, there was a magical forest in a magical land, in which a kind recluse lived. He was a common man, from the time when the world had just begun turning its back on the mystical and looking towards ever-increasing exploitation. He lived as a forester, a protector of nature. In time, he knew all the animals by their first names and all the enchanted creatures of the whole wide woods. On one occasion, he managed to convince a pack of wolves to spare an orphaned chimata girl. Whether the wolves finished off her parents, he never asked and she never told. He took up to raise her as his own. As she grew, she fell in love with a fellow chimata, a strapping and gracious lad. But, the old forester was growing old, and instead of abandoning him, she asked her soon-to-be husband to move into her home. So he did, and the pair helped out the ageing man with their magic and goodness. The man gathered mushrooms, seeds and plants, the two cooked. He gathered wood, they sparked enchanted, long-lasting fires. While the man was gone, the chimatas promised to take care of the house and never leave it, lest their protective magic would not stay behind. And so they lived for a good while. One evening, however, the old man didn't return for supper. The broth was set from available supplies and the chimatas waited. Days passed, and they patiently waited, but their friend never returned. They kept the soup warm but never ate. Until, finally, they starved, together. True to their promise, they could never leave the place, their souls could never wander the afterlife as they should, embarking in their transformed existence on otherwordly endeavours. They needed a kindred soul, a believer who never stopped searching to hear their inaudible pleas to set them free. They needed one last meeting with a friend, or impersonator, to release them from their bind, guilt-free. Such are the ways of magic.

That someone was me, and this very folktale is as true as they come. I should know, I was there. As the first-ever genuine proof that I managed to find after all these decades, I kept the mummies. I arranged their items in the twin box I also found in the hut. They probably used to sleep in them. I discovered a curious property to the box: it defies measuring. It weights differently and appears to be of different sizes at each assessment. I glued a piece of measuring tape (that I also found in the hut) to try and "fix" the length of the box, but it didn't work. I find that as irrefutable proof of its magical properties.

As I approach the end of my life, I wish to give the remnant of this magic to someone else who might need a reminder of how we, as children, look at the world. In that spirit, I imagine that the two chimatas could finally meet their old friend, who still protects Frammersbacher Forst. I believe that I will join them too, and whisper cryptic clues into wanderer's ears.

[illumniscate]

Bonnibel and the Ingoti

I am about to tell you a grim tale. Not because I want you to feel sad, but because I want you to learn something where others failed to do so. Are you prepared?

Quite some time ago, in the time when my great-grandparents - from whom I “inherited” this story - were children, in a Scottish forest not far from Sterling, there was a small hut. In it lived father and daughter for many years. A hunter and wood-cutter, the father provided with the little he could make for Bonnibel, his daughter, and himself.

Bonnibel, growing up in the forest, knew many of its sacred secrets, like the little seelie folk called ingotis - a small, wingless fae kind, predominantly observed in Scotland. People today dismiss them as tall folk tales. A partial reason for this is that these beings are wary of adult humans, knowing them for their greed, vanity and overall lack of common sense. Bonnibel, however, saw and oftentimes made friends with these hidden creatures of the forest. She knew that magic is real, but not for the mortal humankind. During play, her companions often entertained her with fantastical displays of rituals and uses of concoctions.

One day while Bonnibel was teasing a little ingoti, she heard the screams of her father. She rushed to find out what is happening and hid under a grove filled with bushes. There, she saw a pack of bandits harassing him. They took his possessions and left him beaten on the ground. She wanted to scream, but her friend hopped on her shoulder and kept her mouth shut. Once the danger was gone, she rushed to her father. Seeing him bleeding on the ground, the scream she held back finally tore from her lungs, and it could only be heard louder and louder as she found that her father wasn't breathing anymore.

The little ingoti on her shoulder was too focused on trying to console her to realise the potent dark seed that was sown into Bonnibel's heart. Fed with sorrow and rage, the seed grew on the spot, entwining all of Bonnibel's soul with the unquenchable thirst for vengeance. Bonnibel knew that her childhood had just ended. She would be the enemy of the world who has done this to her and she would begin with the creature on her shoulder, who prevented her from helping her father in time. She grabbed the ingoti, who finally felt what was going on and her bites made Bonnibel's clenched fist bleed, but the girl suddenly felt pain differently like most - now it only made the corrupt plant within her grow thicker. She didn’t let go.

Bonnibel went back home and imprisoned the little creature. In the years to come, she forced the innocent being to do chores for her, and let her in on the secrets of the hidden realm. She learned how to perform sacred dances and prepare potions, but the suffering emanating from her twisted all the magic she learned. She also set traps around the house in hopes of catching more of her former friends. The rest of the terrified ingotis soon disappeared from the forest.

Over the years, the ugliness of Bonnibel’s soul cracked through her skin and she became the most repulsive hag you can imagine. She became known as the Forest Witch. However people, lacking common sense, didn’t know that Bonnibel was evil. She hid it too well. Folk from all around Scotland came to her for various reasons. They paid high prices for her spells. Who couldn't pay was turned away and then cursed. Those who could pay got their wishes granted... And also got cursed.

For decades this went on: Bonnibel exploiting the little being chained into a box that hung upon a wall in the cottage, and slowly poisoning the aether of everything she came in contact with. During all that time, the little ingoti gathered resources where she could for her own ritual. One very potent that had to be performed in secrecy, during the night - a process made all the more difficult thanks to the tiny bell on her wooden prison. Yet eventually, she succeeded. She forged three magical keys, each to open and lock a sphere of realms leading to a chaotic dimension. One fateful midsummer night, the ingoti made the witch's sleeping tea stronger than usual and performed the final dance, as best as she could while chained. She cast Bonnibel deep into the realm of chaos, sealed behind three cursed magical portals that only she knew the esoteric location to.

Sadly, the little fellow couldn't escape. She was malnourished and the ritual took away most of her remaining strength. Her life faded away and her body was left in the small box, where she was sometime later discovered by local children exploring (one of them was my great-grandfather). You might want to know that she died happy, knowing that she removed a great curse from this world.

In the realm of chaos, the reality is different. There is no life, matter or time as we know it. If a mortal creature ends up there, they never die, but their inner world is scrambled into a blend of eternal activity of their deeds. Bonnibel must be still there today, screaming in the agony of her personal perdition, reliving all that she has seen and all that she has done. Luckily for her, she also had a period of happiness and truthfulness as a child - a period that might one day release her and help her find the doors back to our world. But who will open them for her? The keys remain on our side.

[illumniscate]

Nomen tuum non est sanctus, Pater.

Mysterious imp fetus, found in a nun convent in Spain, during its demolishment in the 20th century.

Legend has it that a girl named Maria was condemned to live a sacred life among Poor Clares nuns. Allegedly, she was a witch and slept with a devil. However, throughout her life in the convent, Maria was the most pious of creatures, often commended by her sisters. By the time she ascended to Mother Superior, she was already considered a saint among the living.

Yet, it seems that she hid a horrid secret. During the demolishment of the building, the workers discovered a small box tied with a double leather cincture. In it, the mummified remains of a demoniac fetus. It seems that Maria's father knew more than her holy sisters.

During amateur research on the subject, a priest discovered her rosary within a nearby archive. It was deemed unusual, as it has 3 times 6 beads. The unofficial conclusion was that not only did Maria miscarry this child (early upon her arrival to the convent), love it so much that she couldn't bear to part from its little corpse, but she leveraged hellish powers to corrupt the minds around her and gain power.

The items were stolen by fanatics but later recovered when the group was purged.

[illumniscate]

The Impostor Tsantsa

The wild trade with shrunken heads was booming at the turn of the 20th century. Originally prepared for ritualistic purposes by a small number of tribes living in the Amazon rainforest, these processed human remains are called tsantsas. Their creators believed that a murdered fellow's soul would leave its carcass through the mouth and haunt the perpetrator. The tribesmen have sewn the mouths of their victims shut with vine and painted their skins with charcoal to obstruct the spirits within from seeing.

When the pale-skinned invaders explored deeper towards the hearts of mysteries baffling to them, their curiosity sparked a curious demand for tsantsas. Self-proclaimed adventurers allegedly took significant risks to acquire actual examples from the gruesome tales told by forerunning daredevils. The indigenous people took notice and began shrinking heads for commercial purposes. Forgers arose. And, a phenomenon much more rare, actual, inhuman heads were sold in place of the genuine deal.

Panama was and still is a place known for its imitations in the business. What is less known is that it is there that a few mummified trinket-heads of unclear origin appeared. The latest acquisition, coming from a private collection, is a head of a small woman. Originally it was sold to the grandfather of its previous owner as a shrunken head. With the skull present, it is evident that it didn't go through a shrinking process but is instead a mummified remain. Analysis showed that it does not belong to a human, rather to a type being that remains unidentified.

The presence of traditional art, added chrysochroa wings and colourful beads, suggests that this head's intended purpose is ceremonial. Did the maker of this artefact intend to help the soul formerly inhabiting it depart with dignity and ease? Or the opposite, to keep it enclosed in its preserved vessel? Or to be a magical keepsake, endowing its owner with aid from the occult realm? This question remains a mystery of its own.

[illumniscate]

The Creek Mill Kobold Baby

Proofs of the supernatural are rare and even then dubious. Every curiosity researcher's dream and duty is to investigate the occasional discovery that pops up on the occult market now and then.

Somewhere in the French Alps, at the turn of the 19th century, someone acquired proof of intelligent life otherwise sidelined to the realities of fiction. The exact history is elusive, but there seemed to live a humble family in a lonely water mill hut alongside a small creek. There are not many records to trace the individuals, yet some carvings on the wooden lintol of the entrance door marked that the Parsleys inhabited it.

Whoever this small family was or did - a recent property purchase revealed that they had one of the rarest luxuries that no wealth can acquire: a friendship with kobolds. Sadly, the revelation came only after the demolition of the property, as the item was found underneath the rubble.

According to the new owner, other incised imagery on the different beams within the house and its barn depicted a communal relationship between two grown-up and two pre-adolescent humans and six smaller humanoid beings. Among these tiny figures, there were three adult-sized individuals with two children and one baby. The recovered item is a box, which seems to contain the preserved body of the latter.

The small "casket" also has a piece of paper with the words: "Le temps viendra quand ils sortent de l'ombre! Ne craignez pas les petits hommes", meaning: "The time will come when they come out from the shadow! Do not fear the little men." The new owner, disregarding the find as a forgery of a deranged mind, sold it to the curiosity market. Although not a dismissable possibility, what if the little mummy is real? What happened to it? How did the Parsleys earn the trust of the kobolds? Is it the little creatures who will return, and when? More importantly, what will happen then? Or, providing only anecdotical evidence to the carvings, is this just an ingenious scheme of the property's purchaser to get some easy cash? Only a curious mind can search for those answers.

[illumniscate]

The Wildling

The Ohio-based Trimble's pharmacy operated and allegedly acquired their vast family riches by mystical exploitation for three generations. After the recent death of the last heir, their secret came to light, and the items revealing the dark history of the apothecaries found their way to the black market of oddities.

Jayce Trimble, the business founder, bought a patch of land on the outskirts of Salem, which was only seemingly void of anything worth of interest. While cutting through the overgrown vegetation hoping to find some plants with medical properties, he discovered a colony of what he in his memoirs calls "wildlings". These tiny, humanoid creatures with wide wingspans supposedly spoke a strange dialect of English and wore primitive jewellery. Their well hidden burrows showed signs of ritualistic activity.

Regarding them as curious pests, he poisoned them with a potent cocktail of his own brewing. He wished to practice his taxidermist hobby on the tiny bodies, and the toxic substance helped mitigate the degradation of dead tissue. According to Jayce's notes, only in the years to come did he realise the magical properties of the preserved mummies. By holding them near and touching them on their foreheads, he felt blessed with an excellent materialistic fortune. He leveraged this discovery to build a chain of pharmacies around the state throughout his lifetime.

Jayce didn't live long, dying of several maladies at once. He entrusted his son, Asher, with his great secret revealing the collection of about two hundred mummified specimens behind the double wall of his huge ointment cabinet. It was Asher who, much later in his life, discovered that all the little wildlings were emanating hazardous substances due to the poison Jayce used to murder them. The poison entered through physical contact and even breathing in the air in the vicinity of the bodies. It didn't kill directly but affected the sufferer's stamina, giving way to common diseases to run rampant.

Woe for Asher, he learned of this dangerous characteristic too late. With his health rapidly deteriorating, besides leaving the family business to his daughter, Aubree, he entrusted her with the cautionary knowledge of her grandfather's sins.

Aubree dedicated her life to the examination of the wildlings. She desperately wanted to find a living specimen, maybe even a thriving colony to prove that these creatures were not extinct yet. Unfortunately this never happened... Knowing though that the collection of mummies might be the only proof of the curious wildlings' existence, she became determined to extract the noxious elements from the remains. Eventually, she succeeded, but not before she was terminally ill herself. However, it seemed that Aubree also removed something else from the little bodies. She spent all her attention on the task while the pharmacy business crumbled around her. Opportunistic managers tore apart the small commercial empire. Aubree died just before bankruptcy. It seemed that the luck the wildings bestowed on their keepers ran out.

According to Aubree's will, the remaining collection of preserved specimens must be kept together in a safe and undisturbed place for future generations. Obviously, she wanted to restore what was unrestorable.

The twenty wooden drawers containing the bodies got stolen on their way to the museum, which was chosen in Aubree's will. Some of the specimens (now 100% non-toxic to the touch and smell) have been acquired by collectors and enthusiasts of the macabre. The location of the remaining majority is still unknown.

[illumniscate]

The Stranger in Vicello Losco

Sometime before the turn of the last century, in a small village near Lago Pozillo, Sicily, a nearly forgotten, eerie event took place. It has been brought to light only recently, after over a century of the Vatican's successful campaign to keep it clandestine yet unforgotten.

In the secret archives, there is a lesser-known section for theological-scientific research of infernal proofs and artefacts. Recently, a rogue priest lifted a small collection of related relics from the underground laboratory and divulged it by selling it on the occult black market.

The curious items consist of a small casket containing a mummified fetus resembling a fiendish humanoid and what is purportedly a fragment of the Devil's hoof!

According to the anonymous priest, the historical research gathered by the Vatican revealed that in 1882, mass hysteria took over the few residents of the little village of Vicello Losco. This place - since deserted and almost entirely gone except some overgrown rubble here and there - had an ageing population. Most of the youth left in search of more promising fortunes than the peaceful agriculture provided. Those, who remained had no children. Life was difficult, but the community was strongly bonded.

A few years prior, Lorenza Staggiola's husband, Edoardo, died under mysterious circumstances involving a misfortune with the millstone. Lorenza and Edoardo never managed to have children so the woman - already in her late forties - left without a family. Fortunately she held on with the help of the townsfolk and decided to turn to faith to fill the ache in her soul.

Sometime during the beginning of the coming, fateful year, the village was visited by a handsome Stranger. He claimed to have been middle-aged, although he looked younger and healthier than what the villagers were used to. He also said that his family was taken by disease, so he decided to leave the mainland searching for a new life. Not much time passed before the Stranger - no accounts ever mention a name - and Lorenza warmed up to each other. In the late autumn months, as was the local custom at the weekly mess hall gathering, Lorenza publicly announced a miracle that she was pregnant with the Stranger's child. The villagers, merry with the news, declared that the marriage should then soon take place.

And then the incident occurred. First, the Stranger became enraged and demanded to take Lorenza back to "whence he came from". The villagers, protectively, reacted in a hostile manner to the man, who was still considered a newcomer. Then, according to oral account transcripts, the Stranger began spitting fire and growing horns while his boots split apart as his hooves appeared. He attempted the seize Lorenza, but the villagers restrained him. Soon thereafter, he transformed "to the devil himself" and started speaking in tongues. In fear of being eternally cursed, the villagers did what they instinctively "thought best" and attacked him with chairs and candle holders.

Accounts are somewhat contradicting, but they do seem to agree that it was Lorenza herself who, in tears, managed to scare the monstrous Stranger away. Some said that she simply threw the stone doorstop at him, hitting one of his hooves, chipping off a part of it. Others claim that she also threw her own rosary at him, which fell apart upon hitting the beast, covering him in blessed beads. The Stranger then screeched and vanished in a fiery puff of smoke.

Lorenza fell to bed, ridden by unshakable shock and grief. A priest was summoned from another town, who tended to her for the next few days. However, the villagers kept acting increasingly strange. According to the report, the villagers spoke in tongues, had maddened stares, spoiled food and even defecated into the well. The priest fled directly to the Vatican, where he petitioned for a mass exorcism.

A small band of elite exorcists was immediately dispatched to investigate. A record details that they had to perform purifying rituals for three weeks in the unusually cold winter. Several villagers dropped dead during this process, while others fled, never to be seen again. Lorenza also died during her miscarriage. The fetus of her stillborn child was obviously not human but of unholy origin. The exorcists, horrified yet trained for situations like this, preserved the specimen for later inspection. After collecting the few further evidence, they purified the soil of the entire village of Vicello Losco. This collection of proofs lay hidden in the underground vault until recently.

Now, we have a chance to uncover the truth and possibly search for a more profound truth surrounding mysterious items.

Note: A depiction of similar occurrences of a "Stranger" disappearing with his progeny to "whence he came from" reported from various places around the world.