The Cult of Boar-Mal

Icy Scottish winds blew the hanging arms of the weeping willow shredding them of their furry vegetation. Beneath it the leaves encircled the slender trunk like primitive beings around an object of worship. If I had only been so observant of my fellow man I might still have some dangling thread of humanity left.
My name is Doctor Piel, although many a toe would curl on hearing me call myself Doctor for I have not been in practice for over a decade, yet it is what I am. I was respected, once. I would have been the first person you were introduced to upon enrolling at the numerous Universities I taught at and I would be the first person you thanked upon graduating. Now all I have left is the great willow in my garden that I watch from the crumbling doorstep of my once grand home that has in recent years acquired a coat of dilapidation and a hat of rotting gambrel.
I will spare you my sob story and begin this account of what caused my respected and famous name to be grounded into mulch in hope that my last piece of useful advice to a student (yes I consider you a student of mine as I am about to teach you) will not be regarded as fictional drivel. If you know me you will know I have always loathed works of fiction, and if you know that then you will know why. If not then you do not need to know why.
I was hiking in the moors of Scotland the same way I do every March, without a companion as I find it easier to take the more treacherous paths when I have only my own welfare to be concerned about. A thick fog had crested the hilltop I had concerted to climb and was rolling down towards me post haste, not unusual especially at this time of the year, but since the temperature had dropped abnormally low I resolved to head back. However when I turned to face south I realised I had foolishly wandered into an unknown area of meadow, but I knew if I continued south I would surely come back to my home and so I cut short my hike and followed my nose. A half an hour passed and still nothing was familiar to me, this was certainly not the way I had come but being a man of rational judgment I pressed on south. The sun was setting behind a screen of low grey clouds ere I stumbled upon a settlement of cottages. They were quaint and fairly pretty set into the landscape like a natural formation and if I hadn’t had been lost and therefore beside myself I would have been delighted with my discovery. Each garden was laced with dainty little pink and yellow flowers and most of the cottages were covered in thick, climbing ivy which made them charming to behold. Utterly convinced I was entering friendly territory I made no hesitation in galloping to the nearest lodging and calling in through the open window; “Hello? Is anybody in there?”
A woman replied.
Through the window I could see her, it was dim inside and I could only make out faint outlines of objects such as hanging cloves of garlic and rabbit and a table laid out with gingham cloth and fine sliver cutlery. I could see she was a plump woman, about five feet and two inches tall if that. But what I then saw made my heart lurch. I cast it off as a trick of the light but now I know what abhorrent secrets lie deep in the misty moors I can say without faltering that her hand was covered in green scales. When she opened the splintered, weather-worn door (the houses were not quite as attractive as they had seemed from afar) her hands had taken human form and this dispelled all fear from me instantly. I must have been seeing things. Or at least that is what I told myself. When I asked her which way would take me back to the road she insisted that I stay a while and rest. I refused, out of good will for I wouldn't like to impose but she seemed very intent on taking me inside and even sounded rather desperate. Thinking she must be a lonely old spinster or widow I accepted. As I crossed through the terribly low door frame a strong smell of cherry tart and jugged hare enveloped me. It wasn't my favourite dish but my gnawing stomach suggested otherwise. We both sat and supped and drank her locally made mulled wine which tasted bitter and metallic. I had only one glass, she appeared offended when I declined a second but she soon composed herself and went cheerily into the kitchen whilst I sat on a patchwork quilt throw on the brown leather couch. Once the cherry tart was ready we heartily tucked in and conversed like old friends but when I asked of the village or of her family she quickly changed the subject or became silent. I ventured to ask her where she had emigrated from originally as she lacked the thick Scottish tongue that was so present in this area and instead spoke with an assibilate accent that forced her teeth together and made her spit every few words. She told me that she comes from an archaic ancestry of people that live in the mountains of K’hynareh. I said that I had never heard of that place, she smiled, bearing her decaying brown teeth and that was decidedly that. I hadn't noticed it at first but the same metallic taste I had disliked in the wine was present in the tart which added to my discomfort for what ingredient had she used in both? Perhaps the fruit was cultivated differently here and the bitterness was a favourite among the cottagers. But I had never tasted metallic fruit. Nevertheless it was quite enjoyable. The sun was very low by the time we had finished, it wasn't pitch black but the sky glowed red and pink on the horizon. There would be maybe ten minutes of light left which concerned me for I hoped this clumsy-waist’d woman wouldn't expect me to stay the night. I helped her to wash the pots and as I had suspected she begged me to stay. This was the final straw for I had started to feel a wickedness in this house and indeed the whole settlement and wanted nothing more than to get away as soon as possible. I strongly refuse and tore her hand away when she gripped my arm with immeasurable strength, her chipped, long fingernails puncturing my flesh. I burst out of the door onto the cobbled street, around me there were at least one hundred of the village folk all dressed in long, deep purple robes with silver fasteners and pointed hoods that reached down their backs. The bottoms of their faces were all that was visible. One of them stepped forward holding, nay, clutching in his arms like a babe a leather bound book, brown and gold in colour with unholy inscriptions that appeared burnt on by a hot poker. It was frayed all around the edges and the colours were well worn. It was clasped closed by two leather straps and great golden buckles; atop the cover were written the faded words; Necronomicon, a detestable book written by the mad poet Alhazred which until now I had regarded as a mere myth.
“Ahk Boar-Mal ire hǽvath!” He chanted, the language is completely unknown to me, but I can hear his words clearly as though they were branded into my mind. He continued; “Mirah kassar ahk Boar-Mal Gatorom!”
The others then joined in;
“Boar-Mal Gatorom, Boar-Mal Gatorom, Boar-Mal Gatorom.”
Even though I did not understand the words they spoke my body trembled in the heat of the wretchedness they brought. It was almost like they had waked some ancient and dormant fear within me for the name Boar-Mal felt parlous and familiar. My way back up the hill was blocked entirely by the mass of cloaked bodies, I was trapped, I had no other choice but to allow myself to be led by them to whatever ungodly citadel they were congregating at. When we arrived they each lit lanterns that burned a vivid green and the one bearing that dreadful book marked a symbol on the stone floor which opened up a hidden stairwell, here is a copy of that symbol Ϡ I believe it to be Greek but I can’t be sure. The stairwell led down into a basement– dungeon a more appropriate word and at the very bottom a sanguine hue throbbed. In the writhing mound of bodies rushing aimlessly into the abyss I was swept along with the tide. My feet barely touched a step on the way down. Being the only one uncloaked I feared that I wasn’t going to be blending into the back ground during this ceremony or sermon, whatever was happening. At the bottom I and the others entered into a damp pit filled with stalactites and stalagmites larger than any I’d ever seen when exploring caves, some even reaching from top to bottom. The biggest was in the centre. It was thick and pale green with white mucus running down the sides, it almost looked alive. The men who had descended the stairs before me were already gathered around it and the others soon joined them creating three compact circles of hooded bodies stood eerily still in front on the altar-like formation. A low hum of chanting began.
“Boar-Mal Gatorom, Ahk Creatum muhl Gatorom, Boar-Mal Gatorom, Ahk Creatum muhl Gatorom”
They became louder and louder, a mixture of deep male voices salted with higher female tones. I watched from afar hoping that whatever diabolical goings on I was to witness would evade me completely. After a minute or so the chasm began to shake violently and cracks split down the walls which burned crimson red inside as though the very bowels of hell were forcing their way in. They may well have been, for the giant object that the village dwellers were gathered around began to crack itself, a large opening from head to toe divided down the middle and a pulsating beam of fiery light burst out almost blinding me and the cloaked ones. They coward behind their arms and scuttled backwards away from the thing. I felt foolish for them for they obviously had no idea exactly what they had awakened. There was movement from within the pod, a creature was inside. A goat’s leg emerged from within and the sound of its cloven hoof stomping the stone floor echoed throughout the silent cavern. It then gripped the sides of its egg with a scaly, clawed hand. A few of the cloaked ones screamed and ran in terror and tried to climb back up the stairs but they had vanished and the trap door was fused back into the stone. The elder and more misshapen members of the group were on their knees worshipping it without a trace of fright or apprehension. One or two of their hoods fell backwards and revealed malformed, crocodile heads. The beast craned its head out, from what I saw it wore a boar’s face with a thick, hairy snout and four colossal tusks, yellowing and chipped growing haphazardly from its raw flesh. On its neck and chest were more dark green scales. What abomination stood before my eyes!? Half boar, half crocodile, all dǽmon. It was as though my darkest nightmares had swallowed me whole and spat me out into this oblivion. I joined those scratching at where the staircase used to be but it was to no avail. As I was crushed further into the cold slab of wall by the panicking sea of half lizard men in hoods all I heard before having my head smacked unconscious was the maddening roar of the thirty foot beast behind me. Then all went black.
When I woke I was lay on my back in a meadow in the soft sunshine gazing up at the powder blue sky. I stood; my house was visible over the brook. Was that the end of my ordeal? Oh how I wish it was, but each night my pink body splits agonisingly apart and shreds itself to uncover a foetid crocodile body beneath my own skin. But the worst of it all is knowing that one day I will have to join them, my brothers, in that cursed village when they finally come to collect me.