Terror is never routine, but the management of it? That's a job like any other. Fifteen years after the events of Cornucopia House, the Agents responsible have gotten away with it. But what is fifteen years to the beast that wrote their fates in the screams of tortured children? None have escaped. Fate conspires to put them back on the hunt, for though they've been recruited by the Program, the Children of the force that truly controls them have grown. --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/michael-brake/support

Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods—the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep. --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/michael-brake/support

This was supposed to be a simple heist. A group of well-dressed criminals arrive at a warehouse after pulling off an extraordinary crime. They know each other only by their pseudonyms - Mister Black, Mister Red, Mister Green, Mister Purple, Mister Beige and Mister Silver. The plan is simply to sit tight until midnight when someone will arrive to ferry them - and the loot - across the bay to make a final delivery to the boss. Sounds easy, right? --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/michael-brake/support

Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods—the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep. --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/michael-brake/support

Two agents meet in the kitchen of a closed truck stop. This meeting leads to a hellish night in which the agents must discover what ancient force has awoken at the children's home. --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/michael-brake/support

Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods—the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep. --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/michael-brake/support

Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods—the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep. --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/michael-brake/support

Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods—the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep. --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/michael-brake/support

Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods—the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep. --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/michael-brake/support

On the evening of Friday, October 30th, 1970, you’re headed for the Carnival Pandemonium in western Massachusetts on the night before Halloween. It's a time for pumpkins, costumes, apple cider, colorful leaves, wood smoke, and of course, bone chilling terror! Most of the folks going there tonight are families and couples just out for a bit of fun, games, and a little spooky excitement, but others have far more serious or even sinister purposes. Whatever your reason for being there, one thing is certain. Everyone at the carnival this evening will experience things unimagined in their darkest nightmares. You don’t know it yet, but the part you play may determine the fate of all humanity. --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/michael-brake/support