Thread by @justabloodygame

Leafing through the newspaper, it didn't take Maggie long to find what she sought.

THREE MORE DEAD AS STRING OF GRUESOME KILLINGS CONTINUE, POLICE BAFFLED

The article itself was sparse on details. Just that a young couple, or what remained of them, had been discovered by a neighbor. A neighbor who died from a massive myocardial infarction soon after dialing 9-11. Googling the incident, Maggie was able to find photos of the scene.

To the untrained eye, it would seem chaos, murder most foul committed by a madman, or woman, with a yen for bloodletting, but Maggie relaxed her focus, pupils dilating as she sought the picture behind the picture. And yes, there it was, a pattern glowing beneath the gore.

Someone, or something, had tried to use the blood spatter to hide the words written on the floor, presumably also in the victim's ichor. Someone, or something, had been summoned in the Pentagram she still saw traces of in the corner of the frame.

The few words in the old tongue she recognized were enough to make her blood shudder:

HE WAITS DREAMING IN R'LEH.

Everything before then was erased. Who was waiting, and for what? A God she already knew? Or was something new creeping its way into this universe?

She sat for a moment, pondering what could be sleeping in the sunken city that was worse than Cthulhu's indifference, the malevolent Nylarhotep or Yig, at whose touch all turned to snakes.

There was so much she didn't know, and she knew this should alarm her.

She knew meddling in the designs of some unknown force and whatever madmen and women had devoted themselves to service in its name was a dangerous proposition indeed, but she felt no fear. Only excitement at the prospect: another puzzle to solve, another ball of yarn to unravel.

Picking up the phone to call her son Jerome, however, was another matter. Her hand shook as she dialed, remembering the last time they spoke. How they left each other was... her greatest shame.

She muttered a quiet prayer as the phone.

Please answer baby, please...

I'm sorry.

After a few rings, he answered, Jerome's tone was flat. Guarded. As to be expected.

"Margaret," he said, the distance like a dagger in her heart.

"Oh, hey-hey baby. How are things? How are the kids? How is Ry-"

"Fine, if you're really interested. What's up... really?"

"What do you mean 'What's up?' Can't a mother ask after her son?"

A long pause, and then her son sighed, deep and expressive, so like his father.

"Maybe most Mothers and most sons, but not... why don't you just tell me what you want?"

"You-you been following the news Jer?"

"Oh, the killings. This isn't even about me is it? This is about your damn 'business'? You know what Maggie? I don't have time f-"

"Please, Jer, people are dying. I can help!"

Another sigh.

"So when should I have a room ready then?"

Maggie's heart jumped.

"Oh Jer, you mean it?"

"You gave birth to me. Fed and clothed me for 18 years. I can board you a week or two. No more though, you hear? Do what you gotta do. Solve this quickly."

"Oh thank you Jer, thank you!"

Another long silence on the phone.

"One more thing while you visit. You're Margaret, or Maggie, and I'm Jerome. You don't get to call me son. Not anymore. Not after-" His voice caught, perhaps on a sob. "Well. You know what. See you Tuesday."

The line went dead, and Mags was left to dry the tears in her own eyes.