Gods of Hannibal

One that shall cause the infernal gods of Hannibal
To live again the terror of mankind
There never was more horror not to say ill days
Did happen or shall to the Romans by Babel
-Nostradamus, II-30


It began, innocently enough, like so many other stories. But to say that I myself was innocent of what was to transpire would be of no justice, for know I did. I knew the cause and effect, the means... and the end. I knew.

I knew.

I moved about as if I could control this madness which I was to unleash onto the world. I thought myself better then those who came before me, smarter then those who bid me warning. And yet, with all my meticulous planning in attempting to solve one problem, I had, in fact, created another.

I can bare naught the thoughts, the images of the screaming, the crying! With each passing night, my dreams become more vivid. The dawning does nothing to ease the memories of the night before, nor the blood I see spilt within my mind’s eye. Neither the taste of wine nor drug-induced slumber helps the turmoil that I go through... my only recompense is that those images are not for me.

One might, if he knew of the things which lay in wait, decide it best to do himself in, to commit a perfectly acceptable and justifiable suicide. I for one would not hold it against that fellow, and have often contemplated such an act myself. Numerous times I have sat, pistol resting heavily upon my lap, or a cup of tea flavored with just enough poison, or a noose strapped about my neck as I teetered on a chair’s edge, only to fail miserably in a coward’s lack of action. That I have no strength to perform this one simple act, when I had the strength to condemn the whole of mankind!

But no. It hasn’t happened, and, knowing what I now know, and all I have seen and done, it will not happen. I have to see this through the end, so that I may account for all the lives I have brought to an end.

And so, it is with this, as I type these words, that I confess onto you, a person I have never met, a person I will never see. A person, who, I am afraid, in all likelihood will never see this. Is it not written that “the ones who go first will be envied by those who will last”? If the gods listen, then I pray that you will be one of the first to go, for you do not wish to be left behind.


I had my first vision on the night of April 24. Constant, endless ghostlike images streamed past. There was no particular theme or recurring person; old, young, children. Men and women. At first I had tried to count... 10, 40, 130... But for every one that was tallied, another dozen stood behind. I strained my eyes toward the horizon, but could not see, for the ghosts were countless in their number. And then they turned as one toward me, looking at me with their vacant and drawn eyes. With one great and mighty voice they cried out, first in disbelief, then pain.

Their cries of pain grew louder and louder as I clamped my hands over my ears, but still I could hear them, their throes of suffering penetrating deep into my mind. I closed my eyes and shouted at those teeming dead. I shouted, I shouted . . . my lungs empty, my throat raw, I shouted.

All was quiet.

...end part one...

...part two...

I removed my hands from my ears, and slowly, ever so slightly, opened my eyes. Standing before me was a little girl, perhaps eight years of age. Long curly brown hair, deep brown eyes. She just stood there, looking at me looking at her. She turned her head toward her left shoulder and pointed. A simple motion, but one which unnerved me just the same.

I drew up my courage, and shuffled my feet to face me in the proper direction, and I saw. My eyes began to bulge and a ringing filled my ears as my heart beat inside, threatening to burst free. I dropped to my knees, slumped forward, my hands clawing at the blood soaked dirt which covered the landscape. Above it all I could make out the girl moving closer to me, leaning forward, her head coming closer to mine.

I could feel her hair brushing against my cheek as she whispered one simple word. “Why.” The slightest of whispers, one that is so subtle that it drowns out all other noises. I turned to her, to look at her. I awoke with a start, my bed soaked through with a mixture of sweat and urine.

I grabbed my face and cried, ignoring the blood tinged dirt on my hands. I cried out of fright and helplessness and remorse. I cried because I remembered everything about the dream, everything.
Even how her face erupted into a mass of tentacles and hooked claws, each fleshy appendage reaching for me as the girl continued to cry “why why why.” But I could not remember what it was that the girl had pointed to.

April 24. Saint Mark’s Eve. The ghosts of all those who shall pass in the coming year can be seen at midnight. I looked at the clock, already knowing what it would say, but doing it anyway.

I rose from my bed and stumbled into the sitting room, where I collapsed onto the couch, pulling the quilt my mother insisted I keep upon it over my night shivered body. I closed... no; I tightened my eyes shut and willed sleep to take me. Hours, perhaps only minutes, passed before I felt myself being sucked deeper into the cushions I now rested, and only one thought I allowed to penetrate my mind: The dead made their presence known to me. The girl came to me for an answer. They wanted me to know something, to see something.


The next morning I awoke more tired then I could have imagined, as if I had been drained of both body and spirit. Little surprise, really, when one considers the night I had. I turned my attentions to the bedroom, to remove all signs of the dream and of my weakness in handling the situation. I entered the room slowly, carefully, some deep inner portion of my soul believing that the girl was there waiting for me.

She was.

She just sat there at the foot of the bed, staring at me. No expression could I read written across her face. Her eyes were equally passive, neither moving nor blinking. Staring blankly ahead, not a movement to be seen.

“Go away,” I exclaimed to the vision, the apparition, as I blinked the sleep from my eyes and rubbed my temples. “I am awake, let me be.”

“You’re naked,” she stated matter-of-factly.

I returned my gaze toward her. “What?”

“It isn’t polite, you know, being naked in front of a girl. Even an incorporeal one.” She cocked her head a bit sideways and smirked. “Although, in your condition, I really wouldn’t feel too ashamed.”

My sense of reasoning left me. I entered the room, facing off against this, this... ghost. I was being tormented and insulted by a ghost!

I commanded, “I commend you, dear sister, to almighty God, and entrust you to Him whose creature you are. Having paid the debt of human nature in surrendering your soul, may you return to your Maker who formed you out of the dust of the earth!”

...end part two...

...part three...

“There is no need to give me the Rite for Commending a Departing Soul. I’m not the one dying. Try again. Harder.”

“Barra uug uduug uugga!” I shouted with as much conviction as I could muster. That was the oldest, most powerful exorcism that I knew of, dating back before history was recorded.

The girl stood, a full smile spreading across her face. “Well now, I must say that that was better, much better. But where are your sacraments? I don’t detect any offerings or proper methods of preparation. Whatever will you do now?”

I jabbed a pointed finger at her, raising my other arm high into the air. “In the name of Lugalugga, the god of all spirits, of the dead and the unborn, I instruct you, spirit, to leave! Barra uug uduug uugga! Barra uug uduug uugga! Barra uug uduug uugga!”


The girl jumped about, clapping her hands, giggling. She returned to her original spot on the bed, and stared at me, looking into my eyes. “You still believe me to some spirit that can be ordered about? Foolish man. But still, you have proven that you are versed in the old ways, all things considered. But I wonder, how much do you know? All in due time, I suppose.

“And, by the way, you’re still naked. It is rather amazing you expect anybody, physical or spiritual, to take you seriously with that hanging about.”

“What are you?” I questioned, covering myself as best I could, painfully obvious of the humor I was bringing to the creature before me. “What do you want of me?”

“What I am should make no difference, but very well. You’ve entertained me, and I am thankful for it, for I have not had this much fun since I convinced that fool Joseph Smith that he was in possession of a special book. Can you believe he started his own religious following?! Anyway, I am being rude. Allow me to introduce myself; I am the angel Amazarak, and heaven knows we need your help.”

Amazarak? I moved to the dresser, grabbing the fading black jogging pants which lay on top. I turned, quickly getting dressed. “You are right, Amazarak, I am versed in the old ways.”

I faced her once again. “I have sought long and hard for the knowledge of my forefathers, to relearn all that which was taken from us, or kept hidden from us.”

The girl’s face distorted, becoming tighter, sullen. “Be careful of what you speak, mortal. You are becoming quite impetuous. Do you not know of who you are dealing with here?!”

This was good, for it was my turn to smirk. “I know fully well who and what you are; Amazarak of the Watchers. ‘Amazarak taught all the sorcerers, and dividers of roots’. Book of Enoch, Chapter 8, verse 3.”

I slid myself onto the dresser, sitting, staring down an angel that had rebelled against heaven for the sake of lustful wants. “Do not dare think for a moment that you are to turn against me, as you did your others, not when it was you who sought my help.”

“Very well, mortal, I shall be more respectful of your position.”

I nodded my appreciation. “And how can I help one of Eloah’s fallen? If I remember correctly, you are not allowed to seek the pity or assistance of man ever again?”

The girl stood, paced across the room. “If it were not under these circumstances, I could care less of what is about to transpire; but since it affects not only heaven and hell, but myself and my kind...”

She stopped her pacing, her hands clenching and flexing, her head shaking in anger. “We are not allowed to do anything. All the realms, all the levels of existence, are at war, a war in which we are not allowed to fight.”

...end part three...


[edit on 2007/12/8 by The Soothsayer]

...part four...

Amazarak tilted her head to me, impotent frustration flashing behind her blackening eyes. “Because of the pact, the realms of Heaven are forbidden to retaliate. Because they have been damned, the realms of Hell are powerless to do anything. Because we have been cursed by IAM and His messenger, we are not permitted to do anything but watch. I have rebelled against both the En Sof and the Nephilim to seek you out, to inform you, and to bring your learnings to a level beyond your comprehension.”

I leaned forward, my interest and curiosity peaked. “What are you trying to tell me? You need me to what? Fight on behalf of angelic traitors? No, I won’t allow myself to be damned more then what I already am!”

“Fool!” she spat. Within an instant her face was against mine, her eyes burrowing into mine. “Do you not see, can you not understand? You, who knows of the old ways, who has an understanding of the secrets which lay just out of reach, can you not comprehend what I am trying to tell you?!”

I tried to push her away, but her eyes had me frozen, her next words telling me what I could not allow my mind to recall. “The Titans have broken free! The Frost Giants have returned to bring about Ragnarok! The Old Ones awaken!”

“But, but that means that-“

”Yes, Son of Man! The fathers of the gods have broken free of their prisons, and now seek revenge against their captors. They will seek to seize control of all they once held, including their little slave race, human.

“Yes, I have fallen from grace, but I know what side I would rather be on. And that is where you come in to play.”

My mind reeled at what was being reveled to me. Each religion had their own account of this, of how the younger gods imprisoned or slew their fathers, and how, one day, that they would come back to wage war against their offspring.

Amazarak continued.

“I am the angel and the teacher of sorcerers. I have access to the weapons used by myself and my kind, and by the Nephilim, which I will gladly share and give onto you.

“The hosts of Heaven, due to a pact of their own design, are not allowed to act. This pact includes all levels of the angelic hosts, current, fallen, and rebellious. We cannot take up arms to face off or challenge the Old Ones.

“But you?” Amazarak smiled as her eyes squinted at me. “I will teach you of the ways of heaven, hell, and all levels in between. I shall arm you, and those of your choosing. I shall make you onto a god, so that you may slay the fathers of the gods.”

...end for now...