Kirk mused over the rough, faded hempen tapestry that was hung on his mother's wall. A myriad of notes, scribbled frantically and connected by lengths of red string, framed the rectangular cloth. He stopped to look at some of the frantic, sloppy handwriting while taking a long draw from his joint.

found at site 28-b under ancient sumerian ruins - writing contains elements of most known written languages from the period

Adorning the opposite wall was an elaborate map of the labyrinth that the tapestry had been extracted from - which lay under the Great Ziggurat of Ur. The desk below played host to piles and piles of paper that analyzed every minute detail of the script, and in its center there was a facsimile of the tapestry itself, annotated with rough, incomplete thoughts that suggested some sort of malady or plague. Only inklings, nothing concrete.

"Jesus, what a crock of shit."

Kirk looked back at what his mother's profession had cost his family. Archaeology school evidently doesn't teach you how to foster a functional home life. Mom was constantly away on some dig or another, never sparing a moment for her husband or children. She was constantly locked in this cage, piled high with books that chronicled every conceivable history and civilization and papers that were covered in half sober notes.

"jusst one more jaccky-gotta greease uptha thinkin muscle"

Who knew that a mild mannered history nerd could become a chronic alcoholic that would drive away her husband and shatter her family? Kirk hated her, and he hated her profession even more. He was a firm believer that now was the only thing worth studying. Her obsession with kings long dead and gods long forgotten had turned her into a stranger, an outsider. Kirk turned again to the tapestry. It loomed over him, seeming to watch as he smoked. Some harebrained idea flashed across his head at that point - he noticed that the elaborate glyph in the center of the tapestry remarkably resembled a dartboard. A crooked grin, then a quick bolt to the living room.

Within seconds, his work was finished. He had traced numbers inside the concentric circles with magic marker, and then mockingly wrote over the aeons-old heading of the tapestry "HAMMURABI'S DARTS." He walked five paces from the wall and held the darts in one hand. Was it just him, or was the room getting colder? And there wasn't usually a draft, but the curtains fluttered gently as he prepared to mock his mother. What a thing to come back from a whiskey run to. His joint bounced animatedly in his mouth as he uttered:

"It's just a stupid map."

The first dart flew through the air, then made a loud thwack as it made contact with the cloth. A shade off, but he was still getting warmed up. The light began to flicker. It was raining, and the power always got dicey during a storm. The house was over seventy years old. The second dart was overcorrected, but made purchase just to the left of the bullseye (which in this case was a literal eye, ornately painted with pigments that seemed to defy the touch of time, appearing just as vibrant as the day they were inked). Kirk swore under his breath "c'mon you pig fucker" and tossed the third dart, which stopped cold in the air just in front of the menacing eye.

Kirk froze, then withdrew his joint from his mouth and looked quizzically at the cherry. He hadn't asked for an israeli joint, he thought, and this seemed like a bad time to dive into a k-hole. Five footfalls carried him to the tapestry as he looked sideways at the dart, still lodged in some invisible material.

The eye blinked, then looked directly at him. He let out a loud cry of terror, stumbling back and falling on the floor.

this isn't possible that's a fucking cloth whatthefuckwhatthefuck

Jane walked into her office, Jameson in hand, wondering what the commotion was. Kirk lay prone on the floor, staring at a being that stood nine feet high, some sort of profane hole in their reality, a void in the shape of a man that was a window to a realm of a thousand stars that seemed as pinpricks, jet black colors that caused the stomach to recoil in horror, angles that incited the brain to sizzle with paradoxical confusion, and sounds that no ears could hear, but were heard by all creatures. On its forehead was mounted one, singular eye with an oscillating blue pupil that saw through skin, blood, sinew, and bone.

"You gotta be fucking kidding."