I write this account with trembling hands, not out of remorse, but as a warning. If you value your sanity, heed my words and leave this tale unfinished. There are truths too horrifying to behold, and I—Professor T. Halberd of Extempory College, scholar of ancient linguistics and gender studies—am a man undone by such experiences!
It was New Year’s Eve when this all began, though that night feels distant, like a half-remembered nightmare. I was walking home, alone as usual, through the quiet streets of Haddonfield. Snow crunched underfoot, muffling the slight wheezing of my breath. Fireworks whispered in the distance, though they brought no joy to me. I’ve never been one for celebrations, dear reader. My colleagues barely tolerate me, and my students mock me when they think I’m out of earshot; yet, I’ve made peace with solitude, as such is the cost of genius.
That night, however, an unfamiliar dread gnawed at me. As I passed under the glow of the white holiday rope lights, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I glanced over my shoulder more than once, but the streets were empty save for my solitary shadow, stretching grotesquely behind me. Yet, the sensation persisted, an oppressive weight pressing down on the back of my neck.
It was then, just as I turned the corner onto Haddon Avenue, that my eyes caught something peculiar. A row of trashcans stood haphazardly in the alley, their lids askew as if rifled through by squirrels—indeed one squirrel still clung to a tree behind them…staring at me. I was then overcome by a strange impulse—a compulsion I cannot fully explain. I approached the bins, my breath clouding the frigid air, and began to poke through the refuse.
I hadn’t expected to find anything of interest, yet there it was: a VHS tape. It was coated in grime, the dark purple plastic cracked along one edge. What struck me most were the symbols etched into its surface, not painted or labeled, but carved—deliberate, intricate patterns that seemed to writhe under the streetlamp’s half golden light. They were not symbols from any arcane culture I recognized, and I had studied hundreds.
Before I could examine it further, a burst of laughter shattered the silence. I whipped around to see three of my students walking past on the opposite sidewalk. Their eyes glinted with mischief as they took in the sight of their disheveled professor rooting through garbage.
“Nice haul, Professor!” one of them jeered. Another doubled over in laughter.
“Those little jerks probably voted for Trump!” I thought as I stuffed the tape into my man purse and hurried away. My pulse thundered in my ears, not from embarrassment, but from the inescapable conviction that their laughter wasn’t the only thing pursuing me. I quickened my pace, the cold biting at my face as I reached my modest home—well technically my mom’s home; she lets me stay in the basement.
Once inside, I bolted the door and leaned against it, catching my breath. The sensation of being watched had not abated. I closed the blinds and double-checked the locks before turning my attention to the purple tape. Curiosity warred with trepidation as I retrieved it from my…my ‘bag’ and examined the arcane markings again under the warm glow of my desk lamp. What could it contain? Why had it been discarded in such an unceremonious manner?
The questions drove me to action. In the attic, amidst dusty boxes and forgotten relics, I unearthed my old VHS player. It was an ancient contraption, relic of an era long past, yet it still functioned. With care, I cleaned the tape, sliding it into the player and connecting it to my flatscreen—using 3 adapters. The screen flickered to life, crackling with static. My heart raced as I pressed "play." The grainy footage revealed a dimly lit room, the only source of light a flickering Christmas tree casting long, dancing shadows. Sitting on the threadbare carpet, a boy in faded pajamas stared intently at the floor. His eyes, wide and alert, seemed to fix on something just beyond the camera's view. A collection of nutcrackers lay scattered around him, their painted smiles frozen in grotesque grimaces, their jaws agape as if in a silent scream. This is what he whispered as he played.
Beneath the wide sky where the autumn winds play, A boy knelt in soil, where his soldiers lay. From the box at his side, he cast them around, A scatter of warriors upon the dirt mound.
Yeethai walder staishlaw ga, tlande iskoon fashbaw thloolm,Oosenflaukh chaeg awde nal, tlande aahungtagaa raapthingi basheln,Aazraw saesh ga dema bashen aidroogen awtluh otlai baeyaa,Mauluhmpeed ese olsenraapaa kothai stoob nalee ga.
Disorder reigned first, a chaos untamed,Yet the boy, undeterred, would see it reframed.“For soldiers,” he said, “must stand in their line,Each in their station, each by design.”
Wendesketleste oosenmelkeeyor maudaegeed, yelzos yuhneechaw,Oot chaeg mauyaindnaakee ga aagraagen awtluht otlai doo.“Felde raapthingi,” awkan bashen “aacheshlabroot aw rawf tluhl,Thoowen aw paashleh basheln, thoowen otlai induhtlooh.”
He reached for the first, the Private, the least,A bearer of burdens, a cog in the beast.These men hold the line, with rifles in hand,The steadfast foundation of any command.
Bashen eethaes ebri wendeskewen ga, Kadreehwik ga, draugeyeewen ga,Awlbramool ese khawshaw thleez aw droogfik ga,Raile de igen uhrawf ga, tichee kuhbaang aw ro,otlai ootshawkes yuhneeluhmpee e etzawg thoo.
Next came the (Corporal), a proven young blade,A rank for the brave, for the strong unafraid.Promoted for valor, they rally the mass,Ensuring the orders of leaders shall pass.
Otlai pledee onathal Kafaehwik ga, zaekat yuhneewizle drafee,Karawfwik skau staidradawen, skau raidradawen ai mauzabookhee.Ookotawn ootaw staidradad ootawnawnat bashe aadar ga,Tlauspuh ooshotawn tho espuhzaw elzawlgaw uhgruhbel.
Then rose the Sergeant, their guide,The keeper of discipline, standing with pride.Not merely a soldier, but mentor as well,They bind men to duty where chaos would dwell.
Shenga ayaakoshlabroot Kanodenwik ga, aulhlaes bashel,Aelthel shlaizeelir ga ai aashlabroot otlai hae,Zrazroot raapthing oot daebuhyee maeploom,Bashe ootawnawer aeraile bae khlod, tlande adraethen yelzos.
The (Sergeant Major) stood with command in his frame, A master of troops, his deeds earn acclaim. No battle too fierce, no task done in vain, He tempers the ranks like a smith at his flame.
Kabodenwik ga ashlabroot otlai endzawgee,Thlob e shleekhee ogrees plini basheln auhlaitai.Zrege otsookh tlo khee zro laum mauchedee,Ooskogratawn bashen eekarawfwiki ga otlai starekhthing tichee lais.
To lead them yet higher, the Lieutenant appeared, A thinker, a planner, both bold and revered. His task is to lead on the tactical field, To maneuver the forces—never to yield.
Tlauspuh auhlaes aebashe eto stai ko, onathal Kayagwik,Awluhlaun drada, iltlooh eshoolee.Kluhm basheln aeram aulhaes thai fawth itloohraapee,Ootawnelifneem aatla ga, ai ithet zratlai.
At this moment I had to hit the pause button. When the screen froze and flickered it seemed that the Nutcracker the boy held was staring at me. He knew I was watching him. I trembled for a bit before finally summoning the courage to hit the play button again.
The Captain came next, a commander of might, A warrior and scholar who masters the fight.He guides with precision, his orders like steel, A leader of companies, shaping the wheel.
Otlai pledee onathal Kathagwik ga elzawg e graf,Raapthing ee broshoorthing ai awthlob oyondsookh.Bashen auhlaes otlai kli, tichee espuhzaawgaw ese starekh,Aulhlaes orduhriluh, ai uhdawtootawn eebenin ga.
Above him stood now the Major, the wise,A voice in the fray where confusion can rise.He crafts the grand plans, a master of schemes,Balancing strategy with the Kings’ dreams.
Khauma bashen aashlabroot Kazagwik zaneepdae ga,Hal aw etruhnzel tleste awren wuhd.Bashen itlooh otlai staibrawdee, thlob e ootkluhfuh,Ooyowotawn oyatraapitlooh tichee elwini melkeeyolir ga.
The Colonel, last, took his place in the dirt, A general of men, of honor and worth. The arbiter of armies, the hand of the cause, He guides the great forces and earns their applause.
Shenga Kadoruhfwik ga, otlai tona, oo ooshawkes aw gruhn,Goodaag e raile, e khlait ee staibrawd.Ailklaad e raapnada, roth yigrald ga,Auhlaes bashen aatla staibrawdee ga, daebuh ogrees aadrikstad bashel.
Then last came the General, commanding them all, A figure of vision, both mighty and small. With dirt on his fingers and dreams in his eyes, The boy stood above them, their guide ‘neath the skies.
Otlai tona onathal Kagoodaagwik, ga ai ezawg aakhograd,Seen e andgen, khogra grafee ee keete.Chee gruhn thai geetle basheln, chee wisi aw loo basheln,Chaeg ga ashlabroot koma bashe, aulhlaes bashel yeema walder ga.
"I am their leader," he said with a grin," To plot their great battles, to see that they win. From chaos to order, from mess to design, These troops are my army, their fate now is mine.
“Leed aeram aulhlaes bashel,” awkan bashen ai ador,“Tlauspuh ookluhf oyotsookhoo e brawd bashel, tlauspuh ooshotawn eeyuhndzebir bashel.Aazraw yelzos aa daeg, aazraw shluhh aa induhtlooh,Shleekhee ga aeram raapnad leeld, kaeb bashel hlaud aeram leeld.”
Each rank now aligned, from lowest to grand, In gleaming array, they proudly stand. Their buttons like stars, their colors ablaze, A sight to inspire, a commander’s gaze.
Karawfwik thoo hlaud edaegootawn, aazraw draugeyee aa draugeko,Aw daeg ai aakesal, aashlabroot bashe otlai hae.Hligi bashel otlai lookoo, maefae bashel ai aekhlaat,Atgen pa nayasked, hlawk elzaulg.
“These soldiers,” he said, “now ready to fight, Stand firm in their order, prepared for the night. For chaos brings ruin, but order brings power, And a force well-prepared shall stand through the hour.”
“Raapthingi ga,” awkan bashen, “hlaud nau skaupa oondsookh,Aashlabroot otlai naskogra ee daegee bashel, nau pa elstaeth ga.Felde yelzos oochaur asphlaazaekh, oot daeg oochaur graf,Daebuh tlah stainau aagraashlabrot aataw haudrith ga!”
Then it was over. I don’t know how long I sat there, paralyzed, as the creepy little dictator addressed his minions. Shaking, I ejected the tape and threw it into the toilet. I flushed but it just twirled and danced in mocking genuflection! Undaunted by this insult, I fished it out and threw it into the trash—where it belonged! My hands trembled as I carried the bag outside, discarding it in the curbside bin. Even then, I felt the shadows pressing in, as if the very night had become aware of my intrusion into its secrets.
I have not slept since that night. The feeling of being watched has only grown, and I swear I have caught glimpses of movement just beyond the edge of my vision. I have barricaded my windows, disconnected my phone, and refused to answer the door. But it is no use.
I write this not to explain, for there is no explanation, but to warn. If you ever come across this purple tape, do not watch it. Burn it, bury it, cast it into the deep waters—not a toilet. Let not its horrors trample your mind! I fear it is too late for me kind reader! The watchers are closing in! The truth is not meant to be known. For your sake, leave them buried where they belong.