Author's Note
Hello friends! If you found this story your looking for one of two things, women being brutally raped by monsters or an erotic horror story inspired by the Cthulhu Mythos. If those don't float your boat you should flee for your life. I did something with this story I've never done before I TRIED TO MAKE THE STORY INTERESTING! Because of this it suffers some as a pure stroke story, those you you looking to masturbate with the quickness need to do some skimming. I would appreciate some comments as to whether or not I succeeded in making an interesting story, cause if not I can go back to writing fast beat off style stories. Enjoy!
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My name is John Dumonte, and I am a member of the Silver Fist. In fact, you might say, I AM the Silver Fist. The first, the founder, their leader, and the voice and right hand of the struggle. I have written this for you my brothers and sisters, for it is in your name that we fight, and I would have you know the truth.
There are some who would prefer that the truth be forgotten. I don't condemn them because I understand their fear is all too real, though they wish it were madness. They believe there is no sense in hope, that the struggle cannot be won therefore we should simply forget about it and hope that calamity doesn't fall in our time. I don't need to point out the selfishness in this way of thinking.
As I said though I understand it. Our struggle is one against foes who cannot be killed, who know no fear or pain, creatures, for men they are not, that view us as little more then toys. But their arrogance my brother... it will be the key to our victory, as great Achilles fell to a simple arrow so shall we exploit the weaknesses of our monstrous opponents and toss them back into the Abyss from whence they came.
I will share with you a story of one of the victims of our foes. Through this you will know that their works are evil and must be stopped. Once you understand the depravity and evil that we fight you will, I believe, see that this is something which cannot be ignored.
Her name was Rebecca Dawson, and she was a beautiful girl. Spectacled, sophisticated, a child of high birth and esteemed in her community as both pious before the Lord and scholarly in the ways of society. If some found fault with Ms. Dawson it was in her confidence, her professional attitude, and her zeal for sport which some saw as unbecoming of a woman. She was a free spirit, traveling often and exploring New England as if it were some far off frontier, with herself as the bold Daniel Boone.
Tragedy stuck her with a suddenness as unexpected as it was complete and ruinous. On the first of May, 1932 Ms. Dawson decided to take a vacation into the coastal areas of New England, and chance upon some adventure to delight her mind. She was found by a group of picnickers on the beach with her garments torn, glasses broken, and skin bruised. She was taken to a nearby hotel where a physician tended to her. She did not receive the tender care due one who had suffered so badly though, because within a few days she was committed to Arkham Asylum, another raving lunatic unfit to walk in society.
I must say that the treatment inflicted upon her by men was as uncaring as what the beasts had done, but it was partly her own fault. When questioned about her injuries she descended into violent outburst, screaming about fish men and a great lord of monsters. Twice she attempted to slit her wrist, once she stuck out at the doctor tending to her. She could not be calmed and so she was passed into the hands of those whom it was thought knew best what to do with her.
For four months she rotted in a cell, the first month she had to be force fed because she had resolved to end her miserable existence through starvation. As with a Greek tragedy there was hope in the 4th act that she could be helped. One Doctor Waite was intrigued by her case. He spent uncounted hours with her, hoping to dispel her delusions, or at least shake her from the all consuming depression which threatened her life. A student of Freud, he believed that all inmate's psychosis ought to be helping them cope. In this case however Ms. Dawson's fantasy world was actually worse then anything he could have speculated may have happened to her. He drew up some details of the case and published them in the American Journal of Psychology. I am an avid follower of this publication, for our enemy shows his plans in the madness of men, and in their ravings I have come to learn more about them then they could possibly realize.
I arrived at the Asylum in September. I presented myself to the staff and to Doctor Waite under an assumed identity. I claimed that I was a researcher in rare forms of mental disorder, and that upon reading of the case I decided to come offer my assistance. This this was easy for me to pass off, before I began my struggle I was a magician. Acting came naturally to me. What's more, in a sense I AM a researcher into mental disorder. My tall stature, well kept goatee, and knowledge of the field impressed. Doctor Waite seemed overjoyed after I had introduced myself. He told me that a fresh perspective was precisely what her case needed and that he would be more then willing to let me work with her. He invited me to his office where we sat and he told me everything he knew and much that he had guessed about Rebbecca Dawson.
"It's fairly obvious to me," he began "that the poor girl was raped by a gang of men. The bruises on her body must have from ropes used to tie her down. What I don't understand is why she chooses to believe that she was raped by monsters, that the bruises were made by what she describes as elongated make genitalia, with such strength and mobility that they picked her up and tied her so brutally tight as to draw blood in some spots. This seems to me a much worse fate then just being assaulted by a few drunken men, wouldn't you agree?"
I considered the Doctor's words carefully. It was true what he said. No one would want to replace a painful reality with an earth shattering horror. But as I already suspected, the woman was nether mad nor fanciful.
"Certainly," I replied "But perhaps at the time of the assault her mind was so damaged that to her the men seemed to be monsters, and that is the impression which has stayed with her. Let me ask you Doctor, how have you attempted to treat her?"
Dr Waite wrung his arms in an expression of frustration. For a moment he looked all of his sixty years, his gray beard and hair making him seem like Washington, wearied by the long winter in Valley Forge. "I have tried everything!" he lamented "Now normally with a patient like Dawson, who is still fairy new here, I wouldn't be so put out, after all healing the mind takes time, but this woman does not even begin to respond. It's like there is a brick wall between her and the very first step to any kind of recovery. I once got her to tell me the story, but since then she only sulks and ignores me, unless I prod her too much of course, in which case she flies into a rage or a fit of despair and screams her lungs out while trying to harm herself or others."
We discussed the specifics of her case for some time, at length he informed me that he had other matters to attend to and would have a nurse take me to Ms. Dawson, with the best of luck. I was led to the patients room where upon arriving I was greeted by a large guard with an annoyed expression on his face. He cautioned me against speaking with Ms. Dawson alone and offered to join me inside. I smiled at him, and informed him that I would be quite safe. He gave me a dubious smile.
Ms. Dawson had once been a beautiful woman, and some of that remained, but the last four months of her life had clearly taken it's toll. She was little more then skin and bones, her flesh a pale, sickly color. I greeted her with my most friendly bedside manner, and sat myself on her bed beside her. I half expected some sign of fear, that she would shrink back from me into the corner, but she simply looked at me disinterestedly.
I began but beating thoroughly around the bush. I introduced myself and inquired how she was feeling (fine she replied) told her what a great caretaker she had in the form of Dr. Waite and other pointless exercises in conversation. I let about an hour pass without mentioning anything to do with her attack, but then I decided to take the plunge.
"Tell me Miss, have you ever heard the name Cthulhu?" This was met with a calm expression and a denial.
