Notes from the Future: Journal of Brother Ambrose

I awakened this morning to find my ink spilled across my desk, the candle burned down to nothing. I was sprawled across my bed, still in my robes. Scattered across my floor was the entire contents of my small library, every book opened and thrown aside. I thought my room had been searched as I slept, a startling thought after so many years away from that world. Now I realize that I have no memory of going to sleep last night. As I was putting the books away, I noticed writing on the formerly blank end pages. This is the phrase I saw that made me fall back and sit heavily on the floor before my bookcase:

"... they tell me this is the Mont Perdu Abbey."

Even now, I can hardly believe it. Looking through all the books, it appears I have filled every blank page and some gaps between chapters with this writing. For it is my handwriting -- if rushed, sloppier than I would allow. 

What impetus has driven me to scrawl thus? Am I in my right mind? Or is there some fiend guiding my hand as I sleep? In all other ways I feel well, no worse the wear for having burnt a fresh twelve-hour candle down to the nub as I wrote through the night. In search of some clue, I herein transcribe my scrawl; my hope is that through earnest investigation I may detect the source and (if possible) truth of what has lead me in my sleep to write of the Forbidden Mountain.

         Friar Rudel stared at the wizard (at once twin to Father Robert and yet not) in a thin white gown with thick, filthy bandages hardened around one leg. The man was pale, dirty, reeking of vomit and shit, a tear in his right arm still weeping some blood. This was the man at whose strange, clean bedside Rudel had found himself standing mere minutes ago. And seconds after his own reappearance here in the circle of flames, this man had appeared with a popping sound and a puff of wind to land face-down in the snow mere feet away from Rudel and Hannibal. They could communicate with one or two words, but other than that this sorcerer -- a word that became less accurate with every passing moment -- looked more like a frightened fool completely out of his element.
         The burning wolf demon, having transformed almost entirely back to human form, had regenerated its legs and most of its body in a soup of its own foul fluids, blood mixed with semen and phlegm and their accompanying greasy black ichor. Wolf form breaking through its human face, the beast had once again asserted itself and once again stood before them in all its horrid strength. Blood, froth and seed dripped from the torn tip of its monstrous, barbed cock. Its three surviving offspring, jealous of Papa, tugged at their own barbed phalli as they grew to the height of their father's furred shoulders. As the burning wolf demon picked up the smallest of its horrid babies, it became clear to everyone within the safety of the circle of flames what was about to happen: Papa was going to throw baby over the wall of flames, into the circle where it could attack and eat anyone. Probably scare the animals. Ah. Yes. Scare them out of the circle, with the girl and Father Robert unconscious, possibly dying, on their backs. Then it would be the simplest thing in the world to just leap and feast. That would be then end of them all. 
         As the beast crouched, ready to throw, Rudel readied himself: no point in running. Better to stay and fight. Drawing his dagger, he felt a little naked. Reaching over to where Father Robert lay across the back of Abelard the donkey, Rudel took a dagger from Father Robert's belt. Looking at the blade, he noticed that there was a line of some lighter metal going up the center. It reflected the blood red light of the fire, making the center of the blade appear to glow with its own flames.
         Just as the beast's shoulders flexed, the shivering, injured man shouted one word. Just one word. The beast paused, its eyes gleaming. Then it dropped its demonspawn onto its own cock and fucked it where the beastling was impaled, in the very spot where Our Lord was pierced in his side by the spear of Longinus. The little creature screamed and squealed and yet seemed to enjoy the pain, turning to look Rudel directly in the eye as it slid further down the shaft of the darkness that was its progenitor.
         The beast stepped forward, gestured, and the newcomer fell to his knees where he stood between Rudel and Hannibal the Talkative (who, it should be noted, had said very little in the last few minutes). Its creature still bleeding to death and now fully penetrated, the beast lifted its left foot, putting first a toe into the red flames, a horror testing the waters of damnation.
         Nothing happened. Stretching it foot with elaborate delicacy, the beast put the rest of its toes through the flames. Still nothing. Looking up at Friar Rudel and Hannibal the Talkative, the beast smiled and, smiling down at the newcomer whose pale face seemed drained of all desire to live, the beast stepped fully onto the circle of flames.
         The flames shifted from brightest red to a smoky red edged with black. In the center of each flame was a soul in torment, Rudel knew this without looking. As the beast had remained whole, he knew something else as well.
         "You fool! You've doomed us all! You've given yourself up to to the beast!" he shouted. His voice sounded small, old and weak.
         The beast reached down and pushed its still-twitching beastling farther onto its cock until the tip ripped through the little demon's back near the opposite shoulder blade; then, with one gnarled, clawed hand, the beast broke the tip from the barb arching up from the head of its infected beastcock, and smiling, brought the sharp, barbed bit of bone to its own lips, murmuring a word or to and kissing the shard before placing it on its tongue. Tilting its head back, it put both hands on the shoulders of its screaming offspring and gave three gigantic thrusts until, on the last, the miniature horror was torn in two -- each half falling to the snow to stain it crimson-black -- and the beast spat the broken barb of bone from its mouth directly at the forehead of the newcomer, piercing the spot immediately above and between his eyes. A spurt of blood and a crunch of bone, and the barb was inside. The newcomer collapsed, twitching, great toadlike noises coming from within him -- though whether from belly or lungs it was hard to tell. 
         The beast chuckled in dark delight and stepped its right foot into the circle. For a moment, silence. The beast inhaled, its ribcage expanding beyond natural capacity as it prepared to howl victory to the unfeeling night.
         With a great spasmodic jerking, the newcomer -- Edouard, Rudel remembered; Edouard the fool -- threw back his own head and arms and cried out in agony: a prolonged sound of pain and distress which echoed, keening, from the towering, jagged stone walls of this desolate valley. Within those echoes, another voice began to speak.
         It was the voice of a woman.
         "You have penetrated a holy, secret place! Your darkness cannot be allowed to thrive here and, like rancid oil, shall be mopped up and left to rot for worms and flies to feast!"
         The flames of the torch burning from the top of Father Robert's staff had stayed deepest brightest bloodiest red, and now grew and sparked until a familiar figure appeared above them all: the nude woman of the fire, She whose threefold enchantment Father Robert himself had broken. No blue sparks now, only red, and the hair of her head and the hair between her legs and under her arms burned bright as the sun, hot enough that snow began to melt around them. Red flames spread out from the base of the staff, snuffing the black from each tongue of fire as they went.
         The beast crouched, cowed, just inside the circle. Too late he tried to turn and run, singeing the tip of his evil phallus and dropping to his knees to cradle and kiss it, whimpering around his jagged, needle-sharp teeth.

This is too much. I must take a rest. I cannot fathom that these words came from my mind, my pen. 

Are these, then, the final days? Could that madman in Oakland have been right all along? Or am I the voice of some new, dark prophecy? Have I perhaps lost my mind? Jesus help me if either of these is so.

Since the earthquake, everything has gone crazy. It could be that this is merely stress from the disappearance of Brother Johannes and Brother Oswald. 

Whatever it may be, how will I find comfort or help without speaking of this to someone? It must be some form of madness, if not full possession. I shall submit myself and all of my writing to the master of our order and await his judgement.