…three barrels of pigs’ blood, the bones of seven different bird species (see addendum 41.1), three caged virgins, a dozen disposable sacrificial daggers, one pound of rare gems (USE SPARINGLY), half a ton of salt, six dozen beeswax candles...

Brother Harold went over the clipboard in his hands, ticking each box with a scarlet red pen. He cursed the flickering lanternlight in The Unspeakable One’s name. While dim, failing lanterns were vital to establish a general atmosphere about the place, it made doing the paperwork downright Hell to do; and not the kind worth invoking. 

He removed the crowbar tucked in his elbow and exerted himself opening each crate, mumbling all the while about how labour was not in his job description. Returning it to his armpit, he inspected the contents, ensuring they were to specification. These materials were quite expensive, and it was always a hassle to replenish The Cult’s supplies after some goody two-shoes hero gets it in their head to rescue the virgins. Like they even know the strict guidelines under which He Who Dwells Beneath the Black even considers something “virgin.” One time, He took a jar of olives. This was later discovered to be an oversight, and He waged His wrathful vengeance upon The Cult as compensation.

He drummed his fingers along the back of the clipboard. Everything appeared to be in order, though he had suspicions about the candles. The last candlemaker had given them tallow, which proved to be excellent for fulfilling that week’s criteria for “the ribcage of a blasphemer.” Bought Brother Joseph another half month of life, at the very least.

Brother Harold tucked the clipboard into his sacred robes, emblazoned with His Ineffable Mark. 

Brother Archibald silently shuffled into the chamber. He peered into one of the barrels of pig’s blood. “Very good,” he said. “This is pig, yes? Well and true?”

“It better be,” Brother Harold grumbled. “You remember the last time it wasn’t.”

“Ah, yes,” Brother Archibald recalled, almost dreamily. “I sure do.”

“Have you come to bother me about anything in particular, Brother Archibald, or just to double check my work and insult my competency?”

“Brother Harold, such words are beneath you. I wanted to remind you that Brother Lucas and Brother Micah are having poker tonight and wanted me to extend the invitation to you. Don’t look at me like that. Vices are good for you, you know. Keeps you close to His Inviolable Plan.”

Brother Harold waved dismissively. “I’ve too much to do either way. Since we lost The Cult over in New Grandewel resources have been thin.”

“Don’t forget Texas.”

“I didn’t forget.” Brother Harold’s hand stroked his scratchy, graying beard. He was twenty-six years old. “Just preferred to keep those thoughts on the backburner. For now, at least.”

“Walk with me.” Brother Harold and Archibald left the chamber, entering what was, for all intents and purposes, a mineshaft. Wooden support beams held up dirt walls and ceilings. The Cult was built in a series of caves within a quarry, which invariably opened up on the other end to some sort of castle or otherwise headquarters-worthy building and was seemingly completely inaccessible by any other means. Brother Mann tried to coin it “The Universal Law of Cult Hideouts.” (He had even taken the hypothesis to Harvard. However, he had forgotten he was banned from every major post-secondary institution in North America, including the ones he hadn’t been to or even heard of, such as the college in Muenster, Saskatchewan). “Are you prepared for the coming blood moon?”

“Are we prepared, Brother. And no, we never are.” He threw his hands in the air. His voice rang tinny on the moldy supports. “Supplies had been thin for years before this, but now? I mean, there was that cult in Sweden, but they stopped talking to the rest of us, and the Scientologists–”

“Yes. But consider His plan.”

Brother Harold sighed. “Yes, yes, His plan. You know, Gary–”

“I won’t hear any negative words about Gary.”

“Right, right. Gary loves us and all that. But I’m just saying, he got the closest to summoning His Horridness and even then, some mentally ill priest defeated him. Not some well-armed hero type or an engineer or something. Not even was it a mere survival, he straight up beat him. Just saying we need to diversify.”

Brother Archibald set his hands on his hips and blew a breath through tightened lips. Silence filled the space between the two for a time. Distant evil hymns and the occasional scream of a sacrifice ringing down the halls were commonplace sounds to these folk, and as such registered mostly as white noise.

Brother Harold knew these were the six o’clock sacrifices. They would have been scheduled for 6:66, if only there was an extra six minutes in an hour.

“I think you need some time off, Brother Harold.”

“What, and let this place fall apart? I barely managed to complete the summoning location spreadsheet.”

“We’ll manage fine without you for a day.”

Brother Harold stopped abruptly. “No, you can’t. Not an option. Last time I did you sacrificed the wrong amount of people, several minutes late, at the wrong location entirely…” he counted the mistakes on his fingers. “I don’t know where the communication issue happened, and quite frankly I don’t get what in Hell’s unholy name is so difficult about my job, but I seem to be the only one capable.” He jabbed a finger in Brother Archibald’s chest. “I’ll send an email. I’m going home.”

Harold’s eyes opened to the ceiling above him, dimly illuminated by the light of his cellphone, lying face-up on his bedside table with the ringer on. The sound of screaming was his ringtone.

He was off the clock hours ago.

“What?”

“Brother Harold,” the voice was a low growl that he heard in his soul rather than from his phone’s speaker. “The time is nigh.” He parted the blinds by his bed. 

The time was, in fact, not nigh. It was eleven o’clock and he said as much over the phone.

There was a long pause on the other side of the phone. “Where is the cult recruitment index?”

Harold sighed, wiping crust from his eyes. He could see the file explorer in front of his eyes, even this late. He saw it in his sleep. “Disciples of Nyarlathotep?”

“Followers of the Crawling Chaos, HARBINGERS OF THE BLACK PHARAOH–” his voice climbed to a horrible crescendo. 

“It’s in the folder titled Lovecraft, then USA, then Pennsylvania, Jakob, then it’s labeled “Paranormal Cult Recruitment Index - Dusk  - 2018.” A long silence on the line. “Is that all?”

“I… I can’t find it,” said the voice from behind Harold’s ear. “Where?”

“It’s organized by type of entity, then Country, then Region, then Cult, named after the leader. In the U.S.A. I have it organized by States instead of region. What folder are you looking at?”

“This isn’t my recruitment index.” The voice with weight beyond weight sounded confused and vaguely annoyed. 

“What folder are you in?”

“I don’t remember recruiting Tom Cruise–”

“That’s the Scientology one, that’s an entirely different folder! You aren’t even in the Lovecraft one!”

“Who’s Lovecraft?”

Harold held the phone from his ear and recited some calming mantras. “Go. to. The proper folder.”

“Could you just email it to me?”

“I AM NOT AT THE COMPUTER. IT IS 11PM, JAKOB. FIND THE RIGHT FOLDER. IT LITERALLY HAS YOUR NAME ON IT. GOOD NIGHT.” Brother Harold dramatically pressed the big red button on the touch screen, then slapped his phone on his nightstand. He ruffled the blankets and turned away. He’d get a good night’s sleep yet.

Then the phone rang again.

Brother Harold was half asleep. He sat in a plain, bluish-black chair at the far end of an old wooden table. While the table’s style did not correspond to any known civilization, that was much the point. Each chair was situated on one of the vertices of the great sigil beneath them. It was easy to lose the mysticism when it was your job.

Surrounding the table were many people who Brother Harold would consider his boss. While, of course, he worked directly beneath the High Priest of Cult Management, each individual cult leader could also be said to be his boss.

He nursed a very large coffee cup, about fifty percent espresso and fifty percent Vile Liquids (the proprietary Cult blend, normally drunk from a goblet or chalice or somesuch). His laptop, a thing black as the space between the stars, was opened to a large spreadsheet. There were numbers. There were always numbers.

A man with incredibly ornate robes and round glasses stood at the front of the office, illuminated by the ghastly light of chandeliers. He pointed to a chart. Brother Harold remembered making the chart. 

“As for upcoming events–Brother Harold?”

Brother Harold rose from his seat. Face with varying quantities of eyes gazed at him, eyes with the mundane villainy of the deranged and the unfathomable evil of something deep and ancient. He sipped his coffee. “As you all know, the blood moon is coming up next week. This means we have various summoning rituals in the works.” He tapped the trackpad on his laptop and the slide changed. “I put together a table of everyone’s attempted summoning locations. I hope there’s no overlap. I’m still waiting to hear word from Jakob on where exactly, but he said he subcontracted the U.S. Military to secure him a spot. I can only hope it’s out of the way–put that damn cube down.” He pointed to a pale man in skintight leather holding a puzzlebox, half-solved.

“Anyways. Please spend some time looking at this table. Also please keep in mind any local heroes, figures of note, or people you may have wronged recently. Family members of sacrifices, mostly. Remember the Efficiency of Sacrifice Clause–always sacrifice whole families, and never leave a sacrifice waiting for too long.”

“This isn’t fair,” said a man in yellow robes. “How come the Arkham cult gets R’lyeh? They got it last blood moon.”

“Because the Yellow King doesn’t have any direct connections to R’lyeh. Cthulhu does. You guys got Vermont.”

“Not Arkham?” Brother Harold was beginning to not like this new representative of Hastur’s cult.

“The Shoggoth Cult got it this year.” The Shoggoth representative, too horrible for eyes to behold, shuddered excitedly. The Hastur representative mumbled something about “country bumpkins.”

“The Children of the Scarlet King are pleased with this.” said a man clad in scarlet robes. “This building has much concrete. But it is… too remote. The Third Law would be unfulfilled.”

“I know you wanted Grand Central Station, but–”

“We called it first,” snapped the leader of yet another cult with King in the name. 

“That’s bullshit, you got Stonehenge last year.”

“We need much stone to summon Him.”

“How’s about usies? This spotses in rural Arkansas seems useless to we. Methinks we’d prefers somewhere in Canada. Much woodsier,” inquired a balding satyr with a third eye on the far end of the table.

“Could we get Maryland?” Asked the sole member of the cult of the Blair Witch, whose use of “we” was completely unnecessary.

The boardroom grew to a hellish clamour. Beings with unearthly power rose from their seats, screaming in voices which rent the fabric of normalcy around them. Brother Harold’s eyes glazed over, the screaming figures turning into blurred colours and shapes, lashing out and retreating as they pointed accusationally and dramatically swept items off the table.

The fighting rose. The east wall disappeared, revealing a sheer stone surface. The chandeliers rocked. A gun went off somewhere, and that one cult leader from Montana slumped motionless against the wall.

“That’s it!” cried Brother Harold in a painfully normal voice. “I’m done. I’m going home. Fuck you all. Figure it out yourself.” He unbuttoned his robe, slammed it on the table as dramatically as the fabric would allow, and stormed out the door, which had ceased to exist.

Harold marched out of the cathedral, back into the quarry, up a completely senseless elevator, through the mineshaft, and out into the cold Appalachian air, grumbling all the while. Rage, deeply human rage, filled him. He understood why so many waged war against cults, but he understood it in much a different way than many heroes. If it were up to him, he’d upload a memetic kill agent to the Drive and be done with it, but half the leaders wouldn’t know where to find it or even how to open it.

He boarded a mysterious train that had no reason being this deep in the woods. It carried him far to his home, where he climbed the dingy steps and into his messy one-room apartment. He flung himself on the couch and lit a cigarette. The day would pass, and tomorrow would be another one. He just needed to be away from it for a bit.

He’d almost made it through Fight Club when the phone rang.