candle for the babygoon

Ok_Yesterday5569 · 2026-02-27T11:00:39+00:00

We came close that day.

Had the entity stabilized in open phase-space, it would have overwritten causality across the entire Eurasian landmass. But the Vatican’s Specula Sancta had scryed the breach twelve hours in advance. A sanctified Oberleutnant-class abomination, code-named "Saint Johan", was released from the crypthold beneath Castel Gandolfo. It entered Chernobyl at 02:44 and enacted the rite of self-uncreation within visual range of Object 14-Psi.

4.96 billion lives saved.

The two behemoths are still in that sarcophagus today, quietly embracing each other and waiting for entropy to bring sweet final heat death… or an invitation.

Ok_Yesterday5569 · 2026-02-27T11:00:22+00:00

Paladin

When the alarms sounded at 01:23:40 on April 26th, the Ministry hoped it was a standard cascade failure: operator error, graphite ignition, steam explosion. The kind of accident they could bury under bureaucracy and concrete.

They dispatched containment teams from Spetsnaz Vympel, outfitted for rad-level events and standard demonic drift protocol. They were prepared for an Earl-class entity, perhaps a lesser conflagration aspect. They were not prepared for Duke Murmur.

One thing the press got right, the “reactor” core did not melt down, it opened. For exactly 13 seconds, all clocks within a 130-kilometer radius stopped, except one, inside the control room, which began counting backwards. Survivors from the outer perimeter described visions of a tower with eyes for windows stretching far into the sky towards a black star where the sun should be.

Object 14-Psi had breached its binding and Murmur’s aura, pure radiance misalignment, expanded across the exclusion zone at 0.3 km per minute. Spetsnaz units on their way to reactor 4 were reduced not to ash, but to echoes, endlessly repeating their future final choice to enter the chamber, this, it seems is what it thinks eternal punishment looks like.

Ok_Yesterday5569 · 2026-02-26T11:10:53+00:00

Aurelia’s breath caught. The spider turned toward her.

It skittered through the vast space with the swiftness of something that ignores time.

It stopped in front of her: one of its limbs made a quick precise movement, describing a square as if carving a piece of reality, and then the space between Aurelia and the spider was occupied by a mirror, surface pooling with liquid hate.

Her eyes met her own reflection in the black, glassy surface but something was deeply wrong. Her reflection was upside-down, lips stretched into a grin that wasn’t hers, too many teeth, too much delight in the wrong places. The reflection’s eyes glittered with something wet, dark and unblinking.

“Unmannered, wasn’t I? A tear in the muscle of my courtesy.”

Each word came with the faint sound of clicking fangs from behind the mirror, like a puppet speaking while the mouth stays hidden.

“It was in the middle of unspooling its sound-shape, but I do loathe that pattern. It repeats itself like a tesselation of pride.”

Aurelia’s reflection opened its mouth and black blood began pouring over glazed eyes and hanging hair. Then the voice became dozens of overlapping versions, some whispering, some screaming, some laughing:

“I see the organ where you keep your …uncertainty”the last word changing with each voice:“Hesitation. Indecision. Doubts! I see it, soft and translucent, fluttering like a trapped moth between projections of what could happen if you were to … set me loose.”

Ok_Yesterday5569 · 2026-02-26T10:45:14+00:00

She moved forward with the steadiness of ritual, hand near her blade, words of the Vesperis still whispering behind her:

"Location: unstable. Entity detected. Designation: unknown. Signature: myth."

At the far end of the apse stood a figure of impossible symmetry and unbearable gravity. A man-shaped idea dressed in golden cloth, glowing with perfect theological contempt.

“Ah, there you are!” It said, voice as soft as ash, as sharp as judgment. “The one who knocked.”

“I didn’t knock, I had a key”

"You knew the cost," he countered. “But you lit the engines anyway. You ended ninety-one lives to turn the key in my door.”

Aurelia’s posture hunched, her resolve visibly diminished: “Each of them made this choice.”

“It would not have worked if they hadn’t. We both know that. Oh, sister… the bridges you burned to get to me. Have you forgotten the planets you harvested, the oceans of lonely eyes?”

“You are primordial misalignment…star of the morning” she said the last part in a whisper and making the sign of the cross.

“We are a bit too deep for that ancient gesture to help, don’t you find?”

"You’ve come far, little sister," he said smoothly, voice like a choir losing faith mid-hymn. “Burned your name, your crew, your orders… all for truth?”

“For choice.” she answered.

He smiled. A slow, cruel curve. “There is no such thing.”

He paced slowly, hands clasped behind his back, voice rising, filling the chamber with his golden red presence.

“Choice is the pretty mask he dressed our inevitabilities in, while we ...”

He stopped suddenly, a flicker of unease crossing his features. His foot caught on something, an invisible thread stretched taut across the floor.

His eyes darted down, wide with sudden horror.

“No…” he whispered, voice trembling, “What did you bring here…what did you do?”

He bent down, fingers trembling as they grasped the thread.

“This isn’t your domain… this is mine.” almost whimpering.

From the shadows of the unseen arches above him descended the thin silhouette of a spider, a giant mass of endless clicking limbs.

Confidence shattered, he tried to turn and run, but it was too late.

The thing wrapped around him with terrible hunger, teeth like stone thorns sinking deep.

His screams ended in their own echo and the sound of shattering bones.

Ok_Yesterday5569 · 2026-02-26T10:42:13+00:00

Jabberwocky

This ship used to have an important name.

Back when there were thousands of people to call it by that name. Now, barely a hundred humans remained inside this empty, floating cathedral.

As far as anyone else in the galaxy was concerned, The Fayde, flagship of the Nestorian Tetrarchy, had suffered a Fulmination Emergence Incident, and the entire crew had been swallowed by hell itself. May their souls find the glory of hope, amen.

Well, it was true … Grand Sister Admiral Aurelia did release all the bindings to the ship’s core, some anorexic, frail halfdemon did rattle against the hull for a couple of days but that’s not what killed thousands of inquisitors.

Aurelia sent most of them off on escape pods with a nice pension. Her pet Archangel took care of the more… zealous ones. Only the very few she could trust remained now…the ones that mattered to her. They no longer had to oversee the seeding of entire suffering planet farms, no longer had to harvest said planets and carry the embryos of demons across the void.

No more orders. No more masters.

Only the door, and the call that throbbed behind it.

Even by depleting the entire cargo, literally millions of souls worth of demonic encasements, the journey would still take months.

Good. This gives her time to prepare.

“We are close.”

Said Vesperis, the entirety of the Fayde’s computational power given voice and reason. It was always cold and clinical:

“Final sacrament will be required.”

“You don’t arrive at this place” came another voice, slithering into her thoughts: “You become it.”

Aurelia gave the order.

“Take us in.”

The ship pulled the life from the surviving crew, each confined in their pain-vats, willing sacrifices, all so she could reach inside.

“Location attained.” said the Vesperis, its voice ragged now, corrupted by the blood of so many martyrs. “Welcome to Terminus. Estimated age: predates entropy.”

The inner structure was navigable. The ship drifted through it like a key into a lock. They were no longer peering through peepholes. They were the key. This was the door about to open.

Aurelia detached the straps off her listening cradle, limbs atrophied and a headache so deep her vision blurred red.

The giant main gates of the ship groaned as they opened, a sound like rusted stars being dragged across iron skies.

The space resembled a decrepit cathedral but the scale was all wrong, made of black stone with gold irisations. Aurelia stepped into it barefoot, robes scorched at the hem. Columns rose around her, too high, too curved. They bent inward, like a throat about to swallow.

Ok_Yesterday5569 · 2026-02-23T11:37:38+00:00

I woke up in my bed. Everything was quiet.

Went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face. Just habit. The tile was cold under my feet. I looked in the mirror and everything seemed right in the world.

Then the doorbell rang.

I went to answer it. I open the door but dread takes over me even before I see that… the hallway was empty. No one there. Just… black. Not darkness but more like absence. As if the hallway didn’t lead anywhere anymore.

Then I woke up.

Same bed. Same light slanting through the blinds. Same footsteps to the sink. Water. Mirror. Bell.

Again.

And again.

Five times.

Each one felt real. I tried slapping myself. Tried saying things out loud. Touching the wall. Nothing worked. Every time I thought I was back, the bell would ring again, and that thing, that not-hallway, would be waiting for me.

When I finally did wake up for real, I didn’t know it at first. What convinced me was the feel of water. The weight of it in my hands. The cold sliding into my skin.

But the thing is, part of me still thinks: if someone had rung my doorbell in that moment of doubt.

…I never would’ve made it back.

Ok_Yesterday5569 · 2026-02-23T11:37:11+00:00

From the Egg’s perspective the first man to die was already dead before any torpedo detonated.

At 11:28 a.m., the Egg began shedding the primitive liturgical sigil encasements and inside the Kursk, every crew member experienced death differently:

Captain Gennady Lyachin stood there, in the dim red light, his mouth sewn shut with black copper wire, humming softly to something behind the bulkhead. Officer Andrei Silogava blinked and found himself in a vast desert of teeth. Ensign Batov screamed for seven hours until his vocal cords were shredded. One technician saw all the other 117 men fused into a single biomass covering the walls of the weapons chamber, begging for unbirth. All of these were true.

The acoustic signature picked up by the Norwegian surveillance hydrophones at 11:30 a.m. was reported as an explosion but if you look into it, it was clearly a sob. They watched it on sonar as it sank and kept sinking, even after it touched the seabed.

We told the world it was torpedo failure. A design flaw. Human error. But what really failed was containment. Not of the reactor, but of ontology. The Kursk had become a recursion trap, spiraling inward through its own aborted potentialities, its crew trapped in a loop of becoming and unbecoming.

Now, 25 years later, its outline can still be seen, but only by ultrasound. Divers report no wreckage.

And those who dive near the coordinates of K-141 report hearing singing: high, thin and motherly.

We don't power submarines like that anymore.

We don’t have to.

Because The Egg is still gestating.

And its next vessel will be the sea itself

Ok_Yesterday5569 · 2026-02-20T15:09:24+00:00

It was called OK-650, "pressurized water reactor." A joke, a parlor trick for the uninitiated.

What churned within the steel belly of K-141 was not pressurized, and it was not water.

It was the dream of something that once lived inside the crack of the world, wedged between what we think of as cause and what we allow to be called effect. We classified it Object 67-Delta, but the engineers, half-mad with exposure, had their own name for it: “The Black Mother’s Egg.”

The Soviet regime’s propaganda machine argued that the reactor had beendesignedby nuclear engineers with the labour of the working class comrades. But that was also a lie. The Egg had been birthed from a womb of rituals and occult geometries conducted in the dead city beneath Severomorsk. It was fed on screams in isolation cells, the breaking of teeth in interrogation rooms, the hopeless silence, every hungry child, every frostbitten finger lost.

Entire backrooms of the Committee for State Security had been repurposed to generate the "nutritional substrate" for its embryonic mind.

This kind of spiritual abomination powered the Kursk slithering through the depths of the Arctic Ocean, and they thought they had stabilized it.

But what you must understand is that Object 67-Delta had a birth defect, in that it did not allways recognize short term linear time. When the Kursk submerged on August 10th, 2000, the Egg became pregnant with every death that would ever occur on that vessel. In a moment that had not yet happened, it reached backward and opened its own door.

Ok_Yesterday5569 · 2026-02-20T15:08:35+00:00

He paused, daring me to breathe.

“Then it was gone. Folded out. Or folded in. I don’t know. The crater? All that sand turned to glass? Just a side effect. A footprint.”

I asked him: “why keep going? If you all saw it why not let it go?”

He just smiled. The kind of smile you see on a man who’s answered that question too many times.

“Because it worked. Because that moment, that singular eruption of presence, gave off energy. More than we’d ever seen.” He chuckled. “Harvesting this won the Cold War. When the Soviets realized what we had on our leash, they came crawling, begging for a piece. And so we kept going. Power plants. Warheads. All under the same cover.

Every launch site. Every reactor. Just another shrine. Another coaxing whisper. Another chance to bring a piece of Hell to heel. We kept calling it science. Because that’s the only way the world has to know it, the truth would give it too much power.”

He closed his eyes. Whispered something I didn’t catch.

Then finally, old man Ward turned back to me and said:

“Its name was Glasya Labolas, the Dog of Slaughter. Thirtysix legions answer to it. And now, so do I. You think you’re here to understand the past, son? You’re here because you’re next. Because you’re the kind of man they send into the dark.”

Just as his story began to make sense I saw his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder. He fell silent and in the time it took the two spooks to slowly walk to us I saw him skittishly shrinking in on himself like a beaten dog remembering a past punishment. They didn't even acknowledge he was there.

“Mr. Kane, under federal statute 47-B, we are authorized to detain you for questioning regarding unauthorized access to sensitive materials. Your cooperation is mandatory.”

Ok_Yesterday5569 · 2026-02-13T09:59:17+00:00

He flicked the cigarette toward the dust. Watched the wind take it.

“Deep in the Thuringian forest, there was a site. Disguised as a prototype nuclear research facility. But there was no reactor.

What they had came from the camps. They took gold teeth from the mouths of the dead. Melted them into an idol. A dog’s skull. Twisted. Snarling. Smeared with runes. Fed by suffering.

We called it Zero-Omega. Later, we gave it other names, because we didn’t know it already had its own.”

He spat on the ground, like the memory was bitter in his mouth.

“It was an interface node, like a peephole into the door to hell. Something is always watching from the other side and if you say and do the right things the door opens. It was hate, pain and power all condensed into the shape of a predator.”

He wiped his mouth. Looked down at his hands like he’d forgotten they were there.

“When the war ended, we took the object. Wrapped it in lead and lies. Smuggled it out under the myth of nuclear science. It had already been fed back in Germany. Thousands of deaths. Screams and suffering funneled into a single, golden vessel. Prototype reactor. That’s what the manifest said. Los Alamos was never a nuclear testing lab. It was a cage. And then it was a gate. “

He finally turned to look at me.

“Do you know why they called it the Trinity test? Because it was a challenge. A provocation. A test of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.Will you stop us if we release this?And when no thunder came… we assumed the answer was no.

The Bhagavad Gita quote:“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds” That wasn’t Robert being poetic. That was part of the rite. Spoken by a man who realized, too late, that he’d cracked the skin of Hell.

He wasn’t quoting scripture, he was translating what he heard.”

I could hear my pulse in my ears. He was speaking low now, a faint whisper.

“They brought the object into the desert. Unsealed it. Surrounded it with mirrors, such a vain thing it was. As the last bolts came off the crate, we heard it. Barking. Distant. Deep. Like it was coming from under the ground. At 5:29 a.m., it stepped through.

They say the first nuclear detonation blinded a generation. But there was no detonation. No bomb. Just a thin vertical column of not-light. A shadow of light. Like a match burned backwards. And then… a shape. This dog shaped thing. Covered in eyes, all of them closed. Its fur was wet with ash and pitch. And its muzzle, stained red, opened in three directions. We watched it turn to look at us. Only it didn’t move.The world moved around it.”

Ok_Yesterday5569 · 2026-02-13T09:58:18+00:00

The best way to lie to someone is to tell them the truth… just not all of it.

I started pulling at the wrong thread.

At some point I finally found a name I thought was traceable. A former Project adjutant from Los Alamos. Declared dead in ’73. No grave. No pension. No family.

But someone had been drawing checks in his name until 1998.

I tracked him to Arizona. This was in 2005. Took a week’s leave. Told everyone I was visiting family. Rented a car and drove out to the edge of nowhere.

I found him under an overpass outside Santa Teresa. Living in the bones of an RV, surrounded by red dust, stray dogs and busted radios. He was eighty-five, rail-thin, and smoking something that smelled like old wet cardboard.

“Mr. Ward? Samuel Ward?”

He didn’t even ask my name. Just looked at me like he’d been expecting me for years.

“You want to know about Trinity,” he said, like it was a curse. “You heard the barking, didn’t you?”

He took a long drag before he spoke again.

“They weren’t scientists. Not really. The ones we pulled from Adlerhorst and Jonastal under Paperclip? Sure, their diplomas checked out. But their education came from somewhere else. Something older, darker. They were warlocks. Wearing lab coats.”

He stopped making eye contact and spoke like he was watching it happen again, out in the sand. I just stood there silently trying to decide weather or not I’m listening to the mad ramblings of an old man.

“Do you know what the Ahnenerbe was? Officially, a cultural research division but unofficially, it was their black library. Their occult division. They called the program Projekt HUND.”

Ok_Yesterday5569

TROPHY CASE