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aeonsjenni · 06-17-2023, 12:42 PM

In a letter from one M. Marie to a local recreational ice hockey front office, July 1937

HARK!

God help us all, for a Creature of detestable sin has descended upon our kind and tender league! It has come to claim the blessèd souls of those who may oppose it on the icy fields of conflict. I write you to offer this exhortation: flee in terror! face it not! For I have seen it with my own eyes, and my heart stampedes through my enfeebled body and I only wish to return to the bliss of un-knowing! O, God, how I wish my mind could be wiped clean of such a memory! I loom so closely to death, and even closer still to insanity. I cannot describe its form to you—not even if I wished to. Only know that it is loathsome and horrible. And... O, God. My companions. E-, she was closest to it. I don't think she escaped at all. And S-, she could not tear her eyes away, not for so very long. After we escaped she clawed her own eyes out. She was never as strong as I. She's bled to death by now. I'm sure of it. How I envy them both. They are spared the pain of a mind fractured and forced witness to unknowable form and maddening malevolence. Once again I beg you: do not face it. Abandon all hope. For this unholy and profane demi-god has arrived to punish us for the indulgence of such optimism. This I know! Please! Please! PLEASE!

From the journal of one L. Milligen, an amateur ice hockey player living in St. Louis, Missouri, January 1980

I hit someone way too hard during the game today. She must have not been wearing her mouthguard correctly, she was bleeding from her mouth really bad. Maybe she bit off her own tongue. I really don't know why I did it. To be honest, I don't even really remember doing it. I only remember my teammate escorting me outside, to an alleyway. She left me alone. Isolated in that alleyway, I felt the weight of something horrible looming over me. Was it crushing guilt? Shame? Was it hatred? Hatred for her? Why wouldn't she wear her mouthguard? Surely it's her fault things went wrong. Maybe it was hatred for myself. I do not know, but I know for certain that I keenly felt that I was being observed. Perhaps God was watching me, and condemning me to damnation for my malice. I threw up in the alleyway. The league suspended me for the season. Maybe it's deserved. Even as I prepare for bed, I cannot say that I no longer feel watched. Something awful is here—I only hope it is not within me.

From the journal of the same L. Milligen, an amateur ice hockey player living in St. Louis, Missouri, March 1980

I had another outburst today. I was made to see a psychiatrist. He told me that my insistence that I had no memory of my outbursts was really my refusal to take responsibility for my actions. He told me that I had "unresolved anger issues" and that I was holding undue anger towards other people. So what if I am! The world is a cruel and awful place, and it reminds me of that at every opportunity! Can I not be cruel right back?! I told the psychiatrist that. Well, really I screamed it at him. He began to cry, and someone came into the room and escorted me away. I was told to never come back.

I still feel God watching me. His unholy sight makes me feel small and horrible. The shame destroys me. I am sure He is judging me. Fuck God. He can go to Hell.

From the journal of the same L. Milligen, a former ice hockey player on the run in Montana, June 1980

I have done something truly horrible. Unspeakably cruel. I have left home. I no longer feel shame. I only feel fear—fear of that which watches me (likely not God, I suspect)—fear of the weight of my own violence. I don't want to be this way anymore. I just want to be alone. I will never be alone again.

From the journal of the same L. Milligen, now changed, a former ice hockey player on the run somewhere in Canada, some time in the 1980's

My tooth fell out of my mouth yesterday. It is a lot more jagged than I expected it to be. I cut myself on the brambles leading up to my hideaway. The wound oozes something that is too thick to be blood. Something is horribly wrong with me.

From scrawlings on the cave once inhabited by that which was once known as L. Milligen, some time in the 1980's

i am not alone i am one with that thing that has been watching me——i am so scared of it——it is my only friend——i just want to go back——i miss playing hockey——i will go back——i cannot be alone anymore——i will go back and i will play hockey again——i miss my old friends——my old team——i hope they miss me——i will go back

From the notes of J. Andrew, SMJHL scout, October 2056

This town is very strange, and their hockey league is stranger still. Many many people come to play hockey here almost every day, for hours at a time. There is something here, it plays hockey with them. I think it demands they play. I cannot truly look at it directly. The time I spent close to it was miserable. It radiates enmity. But. There is one thing about it, which we may be interested in.

It is incredibly fucking good at hockey.

THE TRADE DEADLINE DRAWS NEAR.

DEFENSIVE READ IS BETTER KNOWN AS DREAD.

MAY GOD HELP US ALL.