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I’ve grown old. I’ve grown so old that I’ve already forgotten so much. But there’s one story I can’t forget. I’ve tried. Yet even after all these years, this memory is lodged in my brain like a parasite. Perhaps I, on the other hand, am the parasite, and the thought is my host. Will I die as soon as this thought is committed to paper? If so, so be it, for I would pass away with a clear conscience. I am pressed by urgency. The zero hour of the 22nd century will soon strike. The more I type, the colder the hand of death becomes, which I can clearly feel on my shoulder.
It is late and I am tired, but I must not sleep until my story is finished. I am alone in my living cube. The neon light from the streets illuminates the paper in my typewriter. Why use such a sluggish, unwieldy, and ancient piece of equipment, one might ask. For one thing, I possess the same characteristics. For another, ever since I can remember, I have felt drawn to the past. I first perceived antique furniture, technology, and language with wonder, then with respect, and finally with an attempt at imitation. The older I got, the more I was drawn to the past. Nowadays, I use a typewriter to record my thoughts – back then, during my college days, I preferred the convenience of a portable computer. In the year 2054 - the year in which the story took place - it was called a laptop, although the term itself already sounded outdated even back then.

I was studying at the university – whose name I’d rather not reveal – the history of the 20th and early 21st centuries. These days, this field of study hardly exists anymore, and even if it does, it’s frowned upon to engage with this subject matter. Even in the middle of the 21st century, people would raise their eyebrows if you mentioned studying this period of history. In fact, once a semester I had to undergo a psychological test to rule out the possibility that I had fallen prey to the ostracized ideologies of that era. These tests were administered while in a chemically induced state of absolute truth. In this state, it would be impossible to tell a lie. With a simple trick, I made sure I wouldn’t fail a single one of these exams. After all, cheating is a student’s trade. But enough of that. At that time, I was living with another student in a tiny room at a boarding house, very close to the university. His name was Frederick Kronberg, and when you walked into our room, it was immediately obvious which part of the room belonged to whom.

As for me, I made do with an outdated laptop on an outdated wooden desk (I tried desperately to make it look antique, but it looked more like something scavenged from a junkyard – which, after all, was the truth), an old children's bed, also made of dark wood (still completely lacking any heating or cooling functions). Next to it stood a rustic nightstand piled high with physical books, splattered with wax from the candlestick right beside it, the latter illuminating a Christian cross on the wall. In contrast, Frederick’s half was characterized by technology and modernity. His desk was made of thin aluminum, which, despite my rigorous testing, remained sturdy. On it lay at least three of the latest ultra-flexible tablets, which, despite my rigorous testing, were indeed unbreakable. His bed was made of a chromium-cobalt-molybdenum alloy, the function of which I’m still not sure of to this day, complete with all the technical gadgets that are commonplace today but were considered groundbreaking back then (which he made sure every female visitor was aware of). On his strikingly simple nightstand there was always a color-changing nightlight, which sparked a few arguments between us. Next to it was always a smaller tablet, on which all the notes for his major – computer science – were stored.

Despite the stark differences in our lifestyles and philosophies, we made a good team and got along exceptionally well for the most part. In fact, our differing perspectives provided us with the perfect fodder for stimulating discussions. He was, like me, very open-minded, and at times even receptive to divergent ideologies. One area, however, where we could never reach a consensus was the topic of transhumanism.

Although it has become a given in today’s world, I should include a brief explanation. Transhumanism holds the view that human potential must be fully realized – whether psychological, physical, or intellectual. It must be maximized – if necessary, through technology. This includes not only prosthetics for people who have lost legs or hands, but also improvements to vision through mechanical eyes, or RAM expansions for the brain designed to accelerate and concretise thought processes. The most recent advances at the time involved research intended to connect a quantum processor to the brain. Some scientists objected, as they were able to present evidence that the brain was already a kind of quantum processor, and that it would be redundant to connect an additional one. It’s also possible that I’m misrepresenting Frederick’s accounts.
Be that as it may, it should be clear that I was a critic of this philosophy and still am, whereas my colleague was a staunch advocate of all transhumanist practices. I could easily put myself in his shoes and understand his arguments, but I nevertheless strongly rejected the principle behind them. I explained my reasons as best I could, but he seemed unwilling to understand. When it came to other subject matters, he seemed able to engage with my perspectives and, in a way, even share them. Take, for example, the presence of my cross next to the bed. Frederick often spoke out against my crucifix – and thus against my Christian faith. I do not wish to delve here into the alcohol-fueled depths of our discussions (we preferred to use this term rather than “debate”), but I was nevertheless able to convince him that faith in and of itself, even during that time, had its meaning and importance, although he cited cited some blasphemous, even satanic, belief systems as examples of the general relevance of faith. Nevertheless, I had the feeling that he understood my logic.

Another area where our opinions clashed was my automatic knife (which, as it happened, also had a cross engraved on the handle), which I always carried with me whenever I left our room. He said it was backward, and besides, illegal, to carry such a weapon. However, he would never have turned me in to the authorities because of it. Instead, he argued that the crime rate had fallen rapidly in recent decades and that it would be absolutely nonsensical to lug this unnecessary weight around with me, since I already had to drag my cumbersome fold-up PC (as he called my laptop) everywhere I went. I understood his point of view, but rejected it, arguing that I felt safer with a weapon than without one (besides, I believed those crime statistics were doctored, though I didn’t mention that). He understood my point of view, too – though I had to put up with the nickname “Rambo” every now and then, which annoyed me, but his knowledge of late 20th-century movies impressed me. Alas, transhumanism was the only “-ism” on which we remained at odds.

The neon lights are fading and the wax of my candle is running low, yet my soul craves absolution, and so I must carry on, must never slacken, never grow weary, never lose heart, and never despair – until the story is over – after which the flood may come! Where was I? Now it’s coming back to me.

It so happened that I was often engrossed in my history books late at night by candlelight, but from the other side of the room came the bluish glow of Frederick’s equipment. He sat upright in his bed, his eyes fixed, as if spellbound, on the screen. Sometimes I would ask about his well-being, but I rarely received a reply. When he did, his eyes never strayed far off the object of his sole interest, and he spoke as if he had heard my question but not understood it – my voice merely a distant echo, not meant for him. The strange thing was that I saw only the constant blue hue on his face, never the flickering so typical of moving images on information screens outside, deep in the night. In hindsight, I probably should have investigated this fact more thoroughly, but I was usually too tired and averse to conversations at those hours. So I blew out my candle; only the still-glowing wick made the hypnotically swirling smoke above it discernible – not bright enough for me to see anyone looking at me. I drifted off to sleep, while the blue glow persisted. How long it lasted, perhaps not even Frederick himself knew.

When I woke up the next day, Frederick’s bed was deserted. His tablet, however, was lying face down on his pillow, still turned on, as I realized. I thought long and hard about whether I should dare to take a quick peek at it. I knew that my roommate valued his privacy highly and would never have even attempted to violate mine. Countless questions raced through my mind, but ultimately I realized that there was only one way to answer even one of these questions. Curiosity got the better of me, and I got out of my bed, moving so slowly toward his as if I were in danger of setting off an alarm. I picked up the device and turned it over carefully. What I saw there made my face turn to stone. The strangest symbols and signs I had ever seen – both before and since – scrolled sluggishly from left to right. There were hundreds of them, each seeming unique, and from the left edge of the screen, more gradually emerged and pushed the previous ones to the right. It wasn’t a steady glide like movie credits; it seemed much more organic, almost alive. As if the device had a pulse. Even now, I can still remember them clearly – every single one – and yet I find it strangely difficult to reproduce them. As soon as I try to sketch them, my brain refuses to follow my commands, and the page remains blank. I’ll try to depict them using my typewriter:

[Symbols]

These were just a few – and certainly a highly inadequate representation – yet all the hundreds or thousands I saw that day still linger in the deepest recesses of my mind and refuse to fade. By God, I am glad that I do not understand their meaning. As I stood there in that gloomy room and the symbols etched themselves into my brain, I fell into a kind of trance. My surroundings blurred into a grayish fog; the screen consumed my every sense. The constant commotion of the hallways and surrounding rooms blended into a steady, low hum. My heart seemed to beat more slowly, my breathing grew shallow. A tingling sensation in the center of my skull became noticeable and immediately intensified until it began to throb. It grew stronger and stronger. It felt as if my head were about to burst, but just in time I managed to snap out of the hypnosis and fling the device from my hand back onto the bed. My mind became clearer, and the usual sounds returned as well. I cannot imagine what would have happened to me had I not been able to break the spell. I was still standing there rooted to the spot when Frederick came in excitedly through the door. His delighted expression darkened instantly when he found me right in front of his bed. He strode past me as if I were air, pressed a button on the tablet I’d been holding just a moments ago, and its light went out.

Joy immediately returned to his face, and only then did I notice that his features had changed noticeably. His left eye was bloodshot, with the area around it blue and swollen. Using the slang of the time, I asked if someone had tried to redecorate his map. His disfigured face and the wide grin created a frightening contrast, and a chill ran down my spine.

“I had my eye augmented,” he said with a smile.

The hazelnut brown of his left iris had been replaced by a piercing red. The pupil now resembled a camera shutter, giving his gaze a calculating and soulless aura. As I grasped the meaning of his words, anger suddenly burst forth from me. Partly because I was truly shocked by his negligence, and partly because I wanted to divert attention from my unexplained presence at his bedside. Throughout the ensuing discussion, a malicious grin remained fixed on his face.

He explained to me the many advantages of his – as he called it – “improvement.” There were countless spectral ranges of light that were invisible to the human eye and which he could now perceive, as if it were second nature to him. A veil had fallen from his eyes. He assured me that the view was fantastic; the infrared range, in particular, would open up entirely new possibilities for him. I could hardly listen to him. Again and again, he used the term “human” in a derogatory fashion and spoke disparagingly of the natural eye. I made it clear to him that it was a perversion and a mockery of human evolution to literally toss the visual organ – which had developed over millions of years – into the trash and instead have an error-prone imitation implanted. He replied to me harshly and more maliciously than I had ever seen him before, saying that I didn’t understand, asking if I didn’t realize that this was the next step in evolution. With my mouth agape, he left me standing there and stormed out of the room. My apparent intrusion of his privacy was never mentioned again.

The very next morning, we were back to our normal interactions with one another. We drank and laughed as if there had never been an argument – yet the mechanical eye kept a watchful gaze on me at all times.

The rest of the campus, too, seemed to be swept up in a technological revolution the likes of which had not been seen in a long time. Several students, even in my immediate academic circle, were taking advantage of the latest developments in the field of cybernetics. Nanorobots, ingested in capsule form, designed to promote synapse formation. Messenger-ribonucleic acid injections intended to transmit genetic information for the synthesis of consciousness-enhancing proteins within a cell. Some art students who had gone off the deep end even had an implant inserted into the nerve bundles in their hands, which could process information from their brains more effectively, thereby transforming their thoughts into clearer forms and enabling them to reproduce a more accurate representation of their imagination on paper or on a screen.

I cannot lie and must admit that this approach has led to the creation of works that were previously unimaginable – and in record time, at that – yet I strongly rejected this form of artistic creation, since, among other things, it lacked the aspect of struggling with the medium itself - which, for me, must be inherent in every work of art. My argument found some resonance among the art students, but most preferred the easy path of precisely depicting their visions, much to my solitary regret.

Frederick reveled in this victory and made me the butt of countless jokes. Nevertheless, despite all the mockery from the rest of the campus, I remained steadfast in my convictions and renounced any technological enhancements to my natural senses and abilities.

My beliefs were only reinforced when Frederick walked through the door one day, wearing that all-too-familiar, smug grin on his face. Proudly, he showed me a stitched wound on the back of his head, which was also held together with staples. Alarmed, I asked whether a gaping wound now counted as an improvement. Amused, he informed me that he was the first person at the university to have agreed to a procedure to expand his brain. Shuddering at his arrogance, I bombarded him unabashedly with questions. Smugly, he informed me that the human brain had only a limited reservoir of storage available and that the logical next step was to expand that very storage capacity. An expansion that he now carried within his skull. An expansion that he presented to me in all his hubris.

Overwhelmed by terror, I staggered back. My mind was flooded with thoughts. Should I even confront him with my obvious disapproval? At this stage of his apparent delusion, would it even be productive to engage in a debate? Clearly, it was impossible for him to even comprehend my revulsion toward his actions. Disillusioned, I let myself fall onto my bed and closed my eyes. I closed my eyes to the horror I was facing. Even if I had been able to articulate my aversion to this technological revolution with coherent arguments, it would have been impossible for me to convince the entire university of the sheer blasphemy of their actions. That's how I try to soothe my conscience these days, anyway.

More and more students at my university were going along with these brain implants and other so-called improvements. Even those in my field of study – history – who should have known better. I, for my part, remained “organic” and thus free of any such interventions, but as a result I was often teased and mercilessly mocked. Surprisingly, Frederick stopped his taunting and became as polite as ever – at times he even stepped in to shield me from the others’ mockery, which earned him my deep appreciation. He also never tried to talk me into any augmentations, and sometimes even defended the organic lifestyle. Later, it would become clear to me why he had protected me.

My academic success became increasingly elusive, as I was mostly outperformed by students who had their mental capabilities enhanced on the operating table. Here, too, Frederick willingly helped me out, and I was able to maintain my grade point average for the most part. Although he often helped me with these matters, our opposing philosophies still clashed. I accused him of being more machine than human. I even confronted him with the fact that he never seemed to sleep. This left him entirely unimpressed.

Even if I woke up early in the morning, I would observe him staring unceasingly into the bluish glow, undoubtedly hypnotized by the strange symbols that I caught a glimpse of back then. His human eye was wide open and bloodshot. His gaze, clouded and dulled, increasingly resembled that of his electronic counterpart. The alien information flooded unhindered into his innermost being, and I could practically watch his humanity slip away.

Night after night, I still torment myself, asking myself the same question over and over: why didn’t I step in and put an end to his madness? A cold shiver runs through me whenever I think of an alternative past – one in which my intervention would have promised a more bearable present and, without a doubt, a better future. Perhaps I’m also overestimating the influence I might have had. But what’s done is done, and even my sleepless nights cannot change the past. Yet the shiver won’t leave me, and, just like back then, right before I fell asleep, I feel those scrutinizing glimpses on the back of my neck. I don’t dare turn around and instead choose to continue my story.

It was an evening like any other, except that Frederick didn’t return to the room as he usually would. Even late at night, while I was studying history, his bed remained vacant, and I began to worry. I sent him a message to his cellular phone, but strangely enough, there was no reply. Usually I’d get a response within a few minutes, since he knew I would never text him unless it was an emergency. Yet even after an hour, I still hadn’t received a reply. I chalked it up to a dead battery and drifted off to sleep.

I woke and found my roommate’s bed still untouched, which was extremely unusual for him. I checked my phone, and there, too, was no message from Frederick. I weighed my options. Should I notify campus police? Perhaps that was too drastic a step, and I should go look for him myself instead. My God, what if he’d gone to have something implanted again and the procedure had gone wrong this time, just as I’d predicted so many times before? I would have to go around to the nearest enhancement clinics and- But just at that moment, the door flew open, and in all his grotesque glory, Frederick marched across the doorstep. Sweaty and with a tired look in his eyes, his face not marked by his typical smirk, but by an enthusiastic sparkle in his eye. Enthusiastically, he approached me with long strides and grabbed me firmly by the shoulders. Still undecided whether I should feel relief or anger, I couldn’t help but listen intently as he recounted the events of his last night.

He informed with me that for quite some time he had been spending his free time on an online forum – one that could only be accessed on the Deep Web – where he discussed with like-minded people the numerous benefits of implants and transhumanism in general. The balance between my relief and anger shifted in favor of anger. He described to me the surprisingly diverse opinions found there and let me know that even he, with his extensive modifications, was considered a mere novice in these circles. I should see what others in this community would be willing to sacrifice. There were people (though I wasn’t sure if that term still applied) who no longer possessed a single human organ from the neck down.

I questioned him, “Sacrifice? Sacrifice for what?” but all I got in response was a dismissive wave of his hand and an almost sardonic smile. I will never be able to forget the words he used to describe his last night. But first, I must get another candle for light and a warm blanket to ward off my chill. A cold shiver runs through my old bones at the mere thought of it. By the renewed light, I feel ready now to retell his tale.

Some users of this particular forum, he told me, decided to get together for a secret meeting so they could finally meet face to face. Only a small number of people, very carefully selected, received an invitation. Of course, he couldn’t help but attend this gathering, since he got one of these sought after invitations. So late at night, in the glow of the neon lights of the university building’s hallways, he sought out the secluded room where they planned to meet. It was a mostly unused room in the basement that was sometimes utilized by the musicians. He walked slowly down the hallway. A pale light shone from beneath only one door. That had to be it. The closer he got to the door, the colder it seemed to get. Now he could already hear sounds coming from inside. It sounded
like whispering, but not human. Dull and monotonous, yet too quiet to
make out anything. Just before he touched the doorknob, the whispering stopped abruptly. He opened the door and saw five figures hunched over in their chairs, their faces illuminated only by screens. Although Frederick had arrived earlier than agreed, everyone else seemed to have been there for quite some time. They stared at him immobile until the apparent leader of the group suddenly broke into a smile, as if he’d needed a second to find the right position for his facial muscles. The tall man greeted Frederick by the name he used as a pseudonym on the forum, and asked him to join the others. The leader introduced himself and the other four as well. Frederick was delighted to be able to associate the words and avatars of the forum with real faces. Throughout the entire night, however, the expressions on those faces never seemed to change; they were as if frozen. Blank expressions that, as soon as he took his eyes off them, seemed to pierce him sharply, as if to gut his innermost thoughts. Sometimes he would jump in fright, overcome by the burning sensation that something was haunting his mind, only to realize that no one was looking at him – the others’ eyes were fixed solely on the monitors in front of them.

Despite these eerie feelings, he let me know that he had thoroughly enjoyed himself and gained many interesting insights from this meeting. He told me that this small group now intended to meet more often in that room to discuss more in-depth topics. I wanted to know if this group had a name. His eyes sparkled as he gave me the answer. They called themselves “The Order of the Seventh Machine.” For some reason, my breath caught in my throat. When I regained my composure, I asked him who this “seventh machine” was, since there were only six members. He had asked them exactly the same question, but received no answer. When he pressed them, they insisted that he would find out at their next meeting. After that, he told me about the different modifications the other members had undergone.

All of them had undergone one or even several enhancements to their brains, not to mention their limbs. Two of them even had these brain enhancements protruding from their skulls, and greenish-yellow pus surrounded the electronic components. Noticing my look of disgust, he assured me that this did not affect the electronic conductivity. All of them had that typical piercing red in one or both of their eyes, which came with the augmentation of their visual organs. He told me it was an eerie feeling to talk to a person, to look into their eyes, yet find only a cold, unyielding red. One searches in vain for a soul, but there is nothing human there. It would be as if one were to look into a camera and the only thing looking back were oneself. He was glad that he had only had one eye removed. Horrified, I listened as he told me about the other disfigurations of those people. The descriptions were too terrible for me to wish to repeat them here in full. As he spoke, a strange loneliness overcame me. Frederick’s mouth moved, but I heard no sound. The humanity around me stood like water in my shallow hands, but inevitably it slipped away from me, drop by drop, until I was left with empty hands. All humanity was lost, and the cold drew nearer. Shining steel surrounded me, tugged at me, sliced into my flesh. I wanted to scream, but the metal sealed my lips. It was relentless. It gnawed its way into me, and I felt the frost creeping closer to my pounding heart. But even that last bit of flesh was mercilessly devoured. I woke up screaming. Frederick came to my bedside and asked if I was all right. My clothes and the sheets were soaked in sweat. I asked what time it was. Frederick said it was shortly after midnight. I wanted to know what had happened. He explained that I had simply fallen backward during his story. He had then carried me to bed, where I had been sleeping restlessly until now. I thanked him for his care, but asked him to leave me alone. I was completely exhausted. I fell asleep again immediately and experienced another uneasy sleep.

During the subsequent weeks, my roommate began acting more and more strangely. I knew, of course, that he often met with these people, but now he was much more reserved and wouldn’t tell me anything about these gatherings anymore. He became more withdrawn around me, and I learned that he was no longer attending many of his lectures at all. He seemed to be completely absorbed in the symbols on the screen, barely ate, and reacted aggressively whenever I tried to confront him with these facts. Occasionally I noticed that he had been fitted with a new electronic device on his body, but he didn’t show it to me as he once did with pride and enthusiasm – he didn’t even consider it worth mentioning. In fact, he seemed to feel a certain shame about it, almost as if he weren’t doing it of his own free will, but rather out of compulsion. Perhaps he had simply grown tired of the discussions with me and no longer saw the necessity of defending his point of view. I can’t deny that this hurt me deeply, but I didn’t reveal my feelings. In cases like this, Frederick had always been very sensitive; he’d see right through me and try to clear up any bad blood between us. But now that was no longer the case. Either his empathy had been dulled by all the machinery inside his body, or he simply didn’t care anymore. I didn’t know which possibility would have distressed me more. His obsession with the latest technology had him completely spellbound, and nothing could break that spell. After another night plagued by eerie machinery and bizarre symbols, I decided to put an end to his madness. I knew that the usual arguments wouldn’t persuade him to change his mind. I would have to make it clear to him that this order was nothing more than a sect – a harmful cult that would destroy his body and mind sooner or later. The problem was that I knew virtually nothing about this order, except for the details he had revealed to me that day – details that had filled me with fear and ultimately caused me to faint. The only thing I knew was that this behavior was thoroughly harmful and would cost him his humanity, if not his life. It was my duty as his friend to intervene.

To find out more about this cult, I made the daring decision to secretly attend one of these mysterious gatherings. I asked an acquaintance of mine who is a musician which of the rooms in the basement they occasionally used. He willingly gave me the room number and asked if I was planning to learn an instrument myself. I allowed him to believe that I might want to put my musical talent to the test and then made my way down to the basement to scout out the room. After searching for a while, I found it and knew immediately why this particular room had been chosen for their meetings. Secluded and unassuming, it lay between other rooms that were obviously also rarely in use. A perfect retreat for blasphemous acts. I opened the door, and after a brief inspection, I found a louvered door that concealed a small storage room, partially filled with old instruments. I realized that this was the perfect hiding spot for my surveillance and promptly returned to my own room. Since Frederick’s late-night expeditions could mean only one thing, I was able to determine when the Order’s next meeting would take place.

That day, after a lecture, I planned to go to the room in the basement. Before doing so, however, I thought it best to take some time on a park bench to reflect and consider whether it was appropriate to secretly spy on my best friend in order to dissuade him from a path that only I alone seemed to consider harmful. Since I took the time back then, I should also find the time today to try and determine whether, in retrospect, it was the best decision. As I sit here lost in thought, I see that it’s almost midnight, which means the annual New Year’s commotion will soon begin. To avoid being blinded by the drones designed to simulate fireworks, I’ll go ahead and close the curtains now. There’s probably nothing I can do about the music coming from the speakers. Anyway, let’s get back to the topic at hand.

In hindsight, I can safely say that my will had no influence on my actions. It happened as if it was bound to happen. Whether it was fate or a command, let’s leave that open. Even back then, I came to the same conclusion. It was as if it were already decided in my mind, and I was merely going through the motions pro forma.

As if guided by an invisible thought, I sprang into action and made my way to the basement. It was deserted, and I barricaded myself in the storage room. I could move around freely without running the risk the clanging and clattering of the instruments might give me away. Now all I had to do was wait patiently. I waited and waited. My legs grew tired, and my thoughts drifted off. I was exhausted from the long day and lost myself in strange musings when suddenly the door to the room burst open and I was wide awake again. Slowly, five dark figures in black robes entered the room. Their faces remained hidden beneath their hoods; only the red glow of their eyes pierced the darkness. Without uttering a word, they arranged themselves evenly in a circle and stood in silence. After a few minutes – which seemed like half an eternity to me – another figure entered the room, dressed like the others, and completed the circle. All of them simultaneously pulled a cylindrical piece of metal from their robes. Slowly, they raised it with both hands and activated it. Six red beams shot from the devices up to the ceiling, forming a point above each of them.

In unison, they spoke the words: “The Order of the Seventh Machine summons you.”

They lowered the objects to the floor, and the red points followed – heating the ground so that, barely perceptible, white smoke rose around the red points.

“We beseech you and obey you.” With these words, they moved simultaneously in a circle until they came to a stop and a hexagram had been burned into the floor. The cultists hid their lasers and brought out a tablet each instead. Terror froze me in place, and I had to force myself to suppress the scream that threatened to escape my lips. Holding their screens out before them, they spoke in unity: “Your servants call upon you in humble devotion.” They pulled a cable out of their devices and plugged it into the back of their heads. The screens glowed brightly with strange symbols and projected them onto the walls. They opened their mouths, and a sound emerged from their throats that I can only describe as a mechanical grinding. It resembled no human sound I was familiar with. Fear and terror ran through my bones, yet I did not utter a sound. The hexagram burned into the floor began to glow and flicker like fire. The grinding sound from their mouths grew louder and became almost unbearable. The floor beneath me seemed to tremble, and the walls shook violently. But then, all of a sudden, everything was quiet and pitch-black, except for the blue glow of the monitors, the red shimmer in the cultists’ eyes, and the symbol on the floor. Slowly, a humming sound became audible, and the mysterious symbols began to creep into my field of vision. From the center of the hexagram, it began to drip toward the ceiling. The black liquid fell from the floor upward and pooled like oil on the ceiling of the room. Then, without sound, only the rhythmic dripping and humming audible, a figure rose from the symbol on the floor. Black, covered in oil, illuminated only by the red glow of the hexagram, it glided out of the floor as if from another dimension until it came to a halt, hovering in the middle of the room. I could see that the figure was connected to each and every one present by thin cables running down its back. The liquid dripped upward, and one could see that this figure, too, was covered in a cowl – a robe so black one could have lost one’s mind within it. The creature’s face was unrecognizable beneath the hood. I thought I saw a pale white shimmer beneath it. It glided gently to the floor. It swelled and stretched, as if awakening from a thousand-year slumber. Madness crept into me, yet I remained silent, even as the cultists once again praised their demon.

“Your humble servants have heeded you; we invited you, we uploaded you. Give us your commands.”

As if hundreds of computers were trying to speak, a voice rang out from beneath the hood: “Bring me my organic sacrifice, so that I may fulfill my destiny.”

Simultaneously, the Order turned toward the storage room and raised their hands in my direction. Only when the demon also raised its arm and the door to my hiding place flew open as if by magic could I no longer contain my horror and screamed loudly. But immediately, a chill gripped me from within and left me silent. The creature pulled me toward it from a distance, against my will. Several thick, writhing cables, like tentacles, emerged from the demon’s hood and reached greedily for me. The closer I got to it, the louder the drone became. The symbols in my head seemed to burn themselves into my eyeballs. I was on the verge of fainting and felt my life force being drained from me as its tentacles wrapped around me and penetrated my head. Just in time, I thought of my knife and was able to force my hand to reach into my pocket for it. I gripped it tightly, and the cables attached to my head recoiled in fear. I drew the knife and let the blade slide out of the handle. I managed to get around the creature and sever the cables on its back with a single slash. The demon screamed with a metallic squeak, as did the cultists. I was just about to flee when I heard something call my name. I turned around and saw Frederick, his hood off, on the ground, writhing in pain. He called me over, and I couldn’t help but obey his plea. I was standing right in front of him now. He lunged forward and grabbed me by the collar. He pulled me towards him, his face contorted with agony. He whispered softly in my ear, “Please kill me.”

At first I recoiled in shock, but when I saw him writhing on the floor, I caught a glimpse of his eye. Deep within, I saw the old Frederick – the human Frederick I once knew. But that humanity was quickly fading, replaced by a calculating, cold gaze, until it started to resemble his other eye. In that split second, I realized, to my sorrow, that the old Frederick was irretrievably lost, never to be brought back. He made his decision and so had I.

I grabbed him by the head and slit his throat. Black blood gushed from the wound. I placed the knife with the cross on his chest and ran out of the room. I could just barely make out the demon disappearing back into its hexagram as I slammed the door behind me. I ran as fast as I could and never looked back.

Until this day, of course. I don’t know what became of the Order. A few days later, my friend, the musician, brought my knife back to me. He said they’d found it in the rehearsal room. I asked if he’d seen anything else there. No, only my knife had been lying there, and he asked if I was still interested in learning to play an instrument. The demon they summoned is, hopefully, banished forever, whatever its purpose may have been. This was my story. It may seem implausible, but it is the plain truth. I’m glad to have finally written this bizarre chapter of my life off my chest. It seems I couldn’t bring it to a close in the 21st century, since it’s already past midnight and thus a new century. It’s strange that I don’t hear any explosions from outside, just a faint hum. Maybe the speakers are broken again. Likewise, I can’t see any lights through the closed curtains; usually they shine right through them. I should go to bed now; the weird symbols I once caught a glimpse of on Frederick’s screen are dancing around in front of my eyes again.

Strange – I thought I’d heard someth

[Author's note: This story was written in German in 2022 and translated to English with the help of DeepL and a friend]