Diary of R. Angleton, Esotericist

[Egon the Monkey]

At last, I have it. The nonagram is prepared. At even points, items of the aether. At odd points, items of the body. Drugs to open the mind. Potions to open oneself to the Weave. In the centre, an old, faded tarot, and the preserved tentacle from Deep Below. All of this for the chance, perhaps, to secure my inheritance.

For so long, my mother called me a failure, called me the prodigal son of a proud line of wizards. Though my theory might be sound, my intellect decent enough, it was always the somatic component that evaded me. They said I had the hands of a butcher, not the hands of a musician. Twaddle, of course, but I was always better at anatomy than at the practicals of evocation. Cousin Sara used to joke I'd make a better go of it as a necromancer. She always had poor taste, but as least she stopped it once I knocked her stupid pointy hat off with that skeletal foot.

For years, I plied instead the trade of a fortune teller. Applying my knowledge to the tarot, to the stars. A poor substitute for my heritage. The bust of Evocator-Colonel Angleton staring down judgementally in the foyer, each time that I would visit the family seat. Judging me for spending my days at the hunt and my nights scribing horoscopes. The life of a dilettante and servant, not a master of magic. Well, fuck him, the old blowhard! There is power in the stars. Power these fools were too blinded and deafened by years of chucking point-blank fireballs to even notice. Power that will be mine.

I felt it first when I made the starlight dance, I feel it when I infuse my body with it, feel its protection. When I draw a card and it hums with the music of the spheres! But I can never quite progress further. I know I am close. And thus, to take the first dose. Process the stations of the nonagram. Take power not just from the Stars, but from beyond them!