Jonathon, I'd like to get pictures of the children today.

Flipping thru the pages, we stumble to a key written in Enochian, the language of the angels according to mister John Dee (if one chooses to believe that dogma), refreshingly refreshing from the loosely written words in extinct Latin which is just as useless as Enochian unless you happen to speak the dead language, which our hero did at the time.

So let us read out loud in the mother tongue of heaven's cherubim horsed upon the sightless winds. Crying out like angels trumpet tongued against damnation, the words written on this massively reproduced not so sacred parchment rained tears into the air:

ANK-FO
NU THE SOD
PON RE MOSS
NAU DAU LO VANK SHAW

The last word being sung rather than spoken, as is customary when communicating to those that are now gone, but will return again.

Suddenly, as the words roll out from our hero's tongue like condemnation placing the poisoned chalice to his own lips, the lone candle guarding against the darkness in the room turns out. Our hero feels nervousness grabbing his testicles thru his stomache.

"Fuck you, nervousness." He laments. Perhaps his eyes, worn from midnight readings with little oil in his lamp, are deceiving him, merely playing tricks upon him and jumping at shadows. It is, after all, the eyes of childhood which jump at vaulted images.

Rubbing his eyes, and trying not consider it not so deeply, our hero realizes the ghastly form emitting a light brighter than all the candles in Beaumont. It is no illusion, and it is, in fact, real, Jack.

Startled, our scholar flips thru the momentarily forgotten book searching for a remedy to this current state of affairs. Attempting to wash the filthy witness from his hands quickly, for careful consideration of the situation could drive him mad, he finds some pages near the back of the book. Entitled, "Ra Dosu Valnuk" (Ratify the work of Hell), he gurgles the verses from his humbled throat as the apparition sways like dead trees in a breeze.

The spoken word hinders the situation, as the ghastly apparation appears to gain strength and poise, no longer swaying like a newborn child tired with drink, but reinforced like concrete poured onto steal frames, the lights of the blues and reds swirl around him, a wedding train of horrible colors not seen by any living eye bearing credible witness.

Within the lotus position, our hero realizes his ultimatum to banish this dreadful foe. They must meet in neutral ground, for the physical realm is far too brash and savage for such a delicate dance of death which will no doubt be deduced. Seeing his body from above, as darkness folds into the corners of his green eyes, he heads for a place foregin to the many and known, but well mapped to the few and secret: The Astral Plane!

Thus Spake Thujonu