There was one man in that gathering who understood the monstrous carvings, and who presently shared his meagre insights. This person was the late Joshua Inter-Webb, Professor of Online Communications at UMass Miskatonic, and an explorer of no slight note. Professor Inter-Webb had embarked, a decade before, on a failed tour of Australia and New Zealand in search of some Runic inscriptions. There he had encountered a singular cult of degenerate natives whose curious form of journal-worship chilled him with its almost deliberate pointlessness. It was a faith of which other tribes knew little, and which they mentioned only with shudders, saying that it had come down from horribly ancient aeons before ever the world was made. Besides nameless idioms and memes there were certain queer hereditary rituals addressed to a supreme elder devil, and of this Professor Inter-Webb had taken a careful phonetic copy from an aged geek or wizard-priest, expressing the sounds in Roman letters as best he knew how. The words were carved, the professor stated, on a very crude bas-relief of stone, comprising a hideous idol and much cryptic writing. And so far as he could tell, it was an uncanny match for the bestial thing they had pried from the arms of a feral SouthCoast Massachusetts blogger.
There then followed an exhaustive comparison of details, and a moment of awed silence when both detective and scientist agreed on the virtual identity of the phrase common to two hellish rituals so many worlds of distance apart. What, in substance, both the Oceanic geeks and the SouthCoast swamp-bloggers had chanted to their kindred idols was something very like this: the word-divisions being guessed at from traditional breaks in the phrase as chanted aloud:
"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh NaBloPoMo W'blog wgah'nagl fhtagn."
They worshipped, so they said, the Great Old Ones who lived ages before there were any internets, and who came to the young world out of the sky. Those Old Ones were gone now, inside the earth and under the sea; but their manuscripts had told their secrets in dreams to the first bloggers, who formed a cult which had never died. This was that cult, and the prisoners said it had always existed and always would exist, hidden in distant search engine caches and dark places all over the 'net until the time when the great priest NaBloPoMo,from his dark journal in the mighty city of W'blog under the waters, should rise and bring the Internet again beneath his sway. Some day he would call, when the stars were ready, when All-Hallows-Even had passed, and the secret cult would always be waiting to liberate him.
For now, no more must be told. There was a secret which even torture could not extract: mankind was not absolutely alone among the conscious things of earth, for desperate notions formed out of the dark to visit the minds of a faithful few. But these were not the Great Old Ones. No man had ever seen the Old Ones. The carven idol was great NaBloPoMo. No one could read the old writing now, for it was voluminous, daily gibberish. It was naught but near-insane ramblings to please the Elder Gods by filling space and consuming bandwidth. The rituals themselves were told by word of mouth. The chanted refrain itself was never spoken aloud, only whispered. The chant meant only this: "In his house at W'blog dead NaBloPoMo waits dreaming."
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