The day's battery of tests had revealed nothing out of the ordinary, 
other than a resistance to fire. The whole of the site was too focused 
on potential XK-Class disasters to be worried about a simple bit of 
mistletoe. "You don't care about the Mayan calendar. About any of 
this. Tomorrow will just be another day for you." He looked at his 
watch. Five minutes to go. "Nothing's gonna happen." 


Midnight came, and as it turns out, Christopher Hastings was right. 
E-672 showed no anomalous activity, other than a slight rustling of 
the leaves and low-level luminescence. Shaking his head, 
Researcher Hastings took some notes, stepped out of the 
hothouse... 


...and into the first snowfall of the year. 


|Hub| 


Playing with Flames 


The Foundation really isn't comfortable with using terms like 
"magic". We know that magic exists, but calling it that implies that it 
can't be explained by quantifiable, scientific means. For example, 
they try to explain it away as "manipulation of the planet's 
electromagnetic field to produce sudden bursts of heat" when 
someone starts a fire with a single word. The Foundation doesn't 
use "magic", either, because it's not consistent. And yet, | study it 
every day. Go figure. 


- Montgomery Reynolds, Site 87 Theology department 


"O Vesta, Lady of the Hearth. | call on thee. | call on thee. O Vulcan, 
Lord of Flame. | call on thee. | call on thee." A hooded figure raised 

a knife. "I call on thee! Bring me the knowledge of flame!" The steel 

blade plunged down suddenly, cutting through the skin of the rabbit 

easily. A rush of wind and then... 


Silence. 
And more silence. 


...and even more silence. The hooded figure groaned. "Fuck a 
truck." Dr. Katherine Sinclair stood up, lowering the hood and 
glowering at the one-way glass on the other end of the test 
chamber. "| told you it wouldn't work with a taxidermied specimen. It 
has to be live. Or at least, fresher than this." 


"What do you expect us to do, Katherine? Requisition an ox so you 
can try haruspicy again?" Monty rubbed his balding scalp on the 
other side of the glass, his other hand keeping the intercom button 
depressed. "The Foundation doesn't put much stock in your 
research, I'm afraid. Thaumaturgical research-" 


"For fucks sake, Monty, call it magic. It's so much easier." Kat 


walked out of the chamber, removing her ceremonial robe. 


"-is of no value to the Foundation unless it can be executed with 
consistent results. You remember when you tried divining dreams 
and predicted Site 87 being overrun by gerbils?" 


"| also correctly predicted the whole 'Keter Skeeter’ incident, even if 
it was all in Hendricks's head." She frowned at Montgomery. "Magic 
is inherently inconsistent. Sometimes you get a few sparks from a 
fire invocation, sometimes you Summon a chunk of solid plasma 
from a distant star... and sometimes you're forced to offer a 
taxidermied rabbit as sacrifice, and nothing happens." Kat fiddled 
with her fiery hair and chewed her lip. "What's the next trial?" 


"We've got an Assyrian scroll that's supposed to cause a rainstorm 
within the immediate area in order to water crops. Want to try that?" 


One Flooded Test Chamber Later... 


"Well, at least we know it works," muttered Dr. Sinclair, wringing out 
her labcoat. "Next time, we do that outside. Maybe in one of the 
greenhouses or something." 


Reynolds toweled off his head. "Shall we take a break? Maybe hit 
the cafeteria?" 


"Sure. Just let me grab something." Dr. Sinclair went back into the 
theology department, and came back with a book entitled Basic 
Spells You Can Do At Home. The author was unknown, but it was 
probably something along the lines of Hector Oaks or Charlie Tan. 
"A few of these actually have some sound magical theory to them; 
maybe we can try them when we get back from lunch." 


Monty shook his head. "As long as you're not reading the so-called 
powerful multidimensional beings text." He walked alongside Dr. 
Sinclair, whose nose was in the book the whole way to the cafeteria. 
How could one person be so obsessed with this kind of thing? He 
wanted to study traditions involving magic, not the mechanics like 
she did. He didn't want to end up as Professor Dumbledore, waving 
a stick of elm everywhere and looking into a god-damn crystal ball. 


Whilst thinking about this, he grabbed a tray and frowned at the 
choice of music that was currently playing on the radio: Do You 
Believe In Magic by... some band he never wanted to know the 
name of. This song was aural cancer to him. To the contrary, Dr. 
Sinclair perked up at the sound of it. 


"You actually like this, Katherine?" 


"Yeah. | listened to it all the time when | was a kid." Kat scooped up 
some salad onto her tray and hummed along with the song. "Heck, 
some people say that music is a form of magic." 


"All this is saying to me is Crucio," groaned Reynolds, to which 
Sinclair frowned. "| understand the theory, yes. Art is 
indistinguishable from magic, writing is a form of magic using 
symbols to invoke various emotions and responses, change 
consciousness." He gave the radio a soft glare, and static filled the 
airwaves momentarily. "And right now, this song is making me want 
to bash my brains against a wall." 


Sinclair rolled her eyes, and went to the table, sitting down and 
reading her book. 


They arrived back at their lab 15 minutes later, where Dr. Sinclair 
was still reading, and Reynolds was looking at the ritual they had 
attempted earlier. Why any cult would worship both Vesta and 
Vulcan was beyond him; Vesta was the Goddess of Sacred Flame, 
and Vulcan was just the God of Fire, including volcanic fire. Maybe it 
had something to do with a sacred volcano? 


"Or maybe it was a cult of pyromaniacs founded by Nero, ha ha ha." 
He continued poring over the documentation of the ritual. 
"Katherine, did you use steel or obsidian when you cut the rabbit?" 


"Steel." She looked up from her book inquisitively. "Why? Does it 
require obsidian?" 


"It shouldn't hurt, all things considered. Vulcan was the god of 
volcanoes." 


"He's also the god of the forge. Steel should work just as well." 


Monty exhaled— not quite a sigh, but almost. "I suppose..." 
Montgomery scratched his scalp and looked around; the rest of the 
laboratory was empty, as nobody else in Theology would be 
bothered with studying magic as an actual practice, rather than just 
looking at old spell books and translating some of them before 
shoving them in the Archives. 


So, why wasn't he doing that? Maybe he just wanted to see the 
actual thing instead of reading about it. Maybe he didn't want Dr. 
Sinclair to be the Witch of S & C Plastics, all alone in her lab and her 
office, trying to generate gusts of air via unexplained means. 
Maybe... he should stop thinking about these things and get back to 
trying to figure out the damn flame ritual. 


"Well... it's a step up from taxidermy." Katherine held up the dead 
laboratory rat, before placing it on the floor of the test chamber and 
putting up the hood of her ritual garb. She looked across the room, 
where a target was situated for her to blast in case it worked. "Is the 
equipment running, Montgomery?" 


"It's up. Just give the thermal camera a second... there we go. You 
may begin the procedure." 


She lit two candles and picked off two pieces of flesh from the rat, 
burning one in each flame before warming her blade in the flames. 
She said a prayer to Vesta and Vulcan, thanking them for the gift of 
fire and hearth, and asking for the ability to use their element, but 
also protection from its power. Finally, at the end, a big, dramatic 
finish. 


"O Vesta, Lady of the Hearth. | call on thee. | call on thee. O Vulcan, 
Lord of Flame. | call on thee. | call on thee." She raised her knife. "1 

call on thee!" With a snikt, the obsidian blade plunged into the dead 
rat's heart. 


Silence. 


The thermal cameras picked up a steady temperature increase, and 


suddenly, bright orange spots appeared around Katherine's hands. 
She stood up, and jutted them out towards the target. It was 
instantly incinerated; the cameras picked up temperatures upwards 
of 700 Centigrade. 


"Hell yes! It works!" Dr. Sinclair waved her hands around, attempting 
to put the magical fire out. It wouldn't extinguish. She tried again. 
Suddenly, she felt a sharp, searing pain from her hands; she let out 
a scream. Her hands were on fire, and she could feel it. She called 
out for help as the flames made their way up her arms, the scent of 
burning flesh filling the room- 


Reynolds ran into the room with a bucket of water and threw it over 
Sinclair, who fell to the ground, screaming in agony. The flames had 
made their way up to her elbow before they were extinguished. The 
burns formed a distinct pattern on her right arm, which formed 
words. They read, in Latin: 


"NON CONTENTI SUMUS" 


Katherine Sinclair cried in pain, bawling like a child at the burns on 
her arms. Montgomery Reynolds pulled the medic alarm, before 
carefully pulling Katherine out of the test chamber and placing her 
on the ground. "Katherine, it's all right Katherine, the medics will be 
here soon..." 


Katherine hissed in pain, a few coherent words escaping her lips. 
"Do... do you..." 


"Katherine?" 


"Do... you believe in... magic... in a young girl's... heart? How the... 
music can... free her... whenever it starts?" She was delirious, but 
at least she was talking. Montgomery cupped his hands over his 
face and breathed a sigh of relief into them, shivering from the 
experience. She was still singing when they carried her away to the 
infirmary. 


|Hub| 


Local Legends 


Let me tell you about the Goatman, children. 


Baby Bone Bridge, Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin. 


The old stone bridge is decrepit, nearly falling apart. The only people 
who come out here nowadays are foolish urban explorers, hunters, 
or spooks from Site 87. Ever since the dam was built in the 1940s, 
no water flows under the bridge. It is an excellent place for creatures 
to hide. 


The Goatman hides under this bridge, cursing and chewing ona 
horror magazine. His hourglass-shaped pupils looked in the general 
direction of Sloth's Pit. "There's never anything about me anymore. 
It's all "Slenderman" this or "Paperboy" that or "Jeff The Killer strikes 
again!" He groaned. "I miss the old days." 


And what do you know of the old days, eh, Capricorn? You weren't 
even there when Sloth's manor sank into the ground! A low, 
humming voice sounded around the Goatman. This sarcastic 
presence was known as the Sloth's Pit Hum, but it had several other 
names; the Chippewa Indian tribe called it "The Whispers of The 
Earth". The Goatman preferred to call it "Humbug". He particularly 
enjoyed that word, even if Humbug didn't. 


"| would tell you to bite me, Humbug, but you're not corporeal. So 
just... go away." The Goatman took out an old corncob pipe and 
began smoking it; nasty habit, but hey, if you're immortal, you can 
afford to screw up your body. 


You hear what they did to Sinning Jessie? asked the Hum. Calling 
her Singing Jessie now. They're trying to make her kid-friendly. 


The Goatman nearly spat out his pipe. "How the Hell can you make 
a tale about a prostitute cutting off men's penises and literally eating 


them kid-friendly?" 


Better her than us, eh? You're being kept around by cryptozoology 
nuts. The Hum chuckled. And me? The Plastic Fanatics still haven't 
explained what | am, and hopefully never will. 


"Well, | ain't gonna tell ‘em, Humbug. | don't want to be locked up in 
some white room where they take away my pipe." He looked at the 
old corncob pipe and sighed wistfully. 


Anyway, Goatboy, thought you ought to know there are some teens 
camping in the woods tonight. Guess what they're up to? 


The Goatman's ears perked up at this; he almost seemed 
interested. "Ghost stories, premarital sex and underage drinking?" 


Just stories and sex, actually. The fat kid couldn't get any booze; the 
bitch at the gas station saw right through his fake ID. The Hum 
almost sounded like it was grinning. Well? C'mon, Capricorn. For old 
time's sake? 


"Bah," said the Goatman, standing up and grinning. "Fine. But there 
had better be s'mores! | love those things." 


| wonder what they taste like. 


Once, there was a young couple who became pregnant 
out of wedlock. Ashamed, their families cast them out of 
their houses, and forced them to live in the streets. Their 
punishment did not end here, however. For their sin, 
Satan himself brought one of his generals out of the 
depths of Hell to punish the two: he took the form of a 
tall, handsome stranger, who looked like anyone else... 
except for his cloven hooves. This, children, was the 
Goatman. 


The four unwary campers did, indeed, have s'mores. The camping 
party was made up of two buxom high-school girls, Jessica and 
Catherine; one fat man, Johnny, who they brought along despite his 


failure to get the booze; and one very, very lucky man, Tyler. Or at 
least... he would be lucky before the end of the night. 


"Okay, so." Tyler grinned at the three others with him. "It's starting to 
get dark. You know what that means, right?" He threw open his 
arms. "Ghost stories!" Johnny looked at his bag, which had all three 
volumes of Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark in it; hopefully, none of 
them had read those too carefully. 


"|... I'll. go first, | guess." He reached to his bag, and suddenly turned 
his head sharply; he could've sworn he heard somebody whisper a 
single word next to his ear. 


That word was Goatman. 


Johnny remembered an article he had read for Journalism class 
about a half-man, half-goat creature supposedly from hell, and 
instead of telling the tale of "Wait 'til Martin Comes" again, he started 
weaving a thread about the hellish Goatman. 


First, the Goatman found the husband, and lured him out 
to an unnamed bridge in the woods under the pretense 
of giving him a loan of money. The husband accepted, 
and the Goatman showed its true form, a demonic 
creature with glowing red eyes, gigantic horns, and of 
course, the head of a goat. The Goatman tore out his 
throat and threw him in the riverbed, which he then 
nailed the husband to by his hands, feet, and scrotum. 


Behind a thicket of bushes, the Goatman grinned. "Oooh, | love it 
when they think I'm a demon; it makes me look so neat!" Indeed, as 
he spoke, his eyes turned a glowing shade of red, his horns grew 
curlier, and his teeth grew sharper. 


The Hum muttered something about him being "horny"; the 
Goatman ignored it, watching the campfire. "Um, Humbug?" 


Yes? 


“Thanks for helping me with this. It's been a while since I've been 
scaring... forgot how fun it was." 


Don't thank me until you've actually made them shit their pants. 
Oooh, he's getting to the climax! 


The Goatman then finds the grieving widow, and tells her 
he's seen the husband. He leads her out to the bridge, 
and shows her the corpse in the water. Overcome with 
grief, she falls to her knees and sobs uncontrollably, 
while the Goatman briefly consoles her. "There, there,” 
he says. "You'll be joining him soon." 


He then throws her off the bridge, and she drowns in the 
river. 


Johnny was enjoying this far too much. Cate and Jess were staring 
at him wide-eyed, and he was pretty sure Tyler was just eating the 
s'more as a way to keep his mouth full and prevent himself from 
screaming. Finally, he reached the end. "And then... as she stood at 
the edge of the bridge... the Goatman jumped out and said-" 


"Why, hello my pretty," said a baritone voice from the woods. 
"Welcome Home."