Project Demigod

📅 Published on June 21, 2022

“Project Demigod”

Written by Corpse Child
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available


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…In an attempt to convince the prince to do his duty, he assumes his multi-armed form and he says, ‘Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds’… I suppose we all felt that in a way…

– J. Robert Oppenheimer

People always used to ask me, “What makes you special?” Usually, it was over the fact that I was given just about anything I wanted.  Life was handed to me on a silver platter.  At least, in the eyes of most.

Yes, I came from money.  Yes, I lived in a VERY nice house in a VERY nice place.  And yes, I even was enrolled in the top-tier schools growing up.  I even had an account to my name with over $120,000 that I’d have immediate access to whenever I turned 18.  So yes, I guess you could say I was blessed or “Special.”

Of course, it didn’t exactly feel that way.  Money or no money, I wasn’t without my own struggles personally.  I may have always had more than enough to eat, never having to worry about where I’d lay my head at night in an alley or an overpass somewhere, sure, and don’t get me wrong, I never tried to really flaunt my fortune in anyone’s face, either.  But, I wasn’t without problems of my own.

..the biggest of which being my relationship with my father.

Growing up, it was just him and me.  I never knew my mother; Dad never even so much as mentioned her in any sort of conversation, the few I can actually remember us having.  My father worked as a biological researcher and chemist for the government at one of their research centers.

Back then, he’d be gone for most of the day and sometimes wouldn’t even come home until well into the next afternoon.  This didn’t bother me too much, though.  I’d usually pass the time either painting in the art studio my father had set up in our house in an empty room or in my own room, reading one of the innumerable novels on Celtic, Nordic, eastern, and many other folk legends and/or mythos.  That was, of course, my favorite of the two pastimes.

I’d be lost for hours, imagining myself in those fantastical worlds, either rescuing a princess, slaying a mighty beast, or being granted some magical ability that elevated me beyond that of other people. Oftentimes, being as quiet as it was in the house during the day, my imagination would go so far as to cause me to conjure up some of these creatures who’d play with me.  Of course, at the time, at least, I knew they weren’t real, but it was still better to me than being alone every day.  At night, too, when I’d lay in my bed, I’d hear them calling out to me, telling me that they were there, that they’d always be there.

Unfortunately, this was also, for reasons I couldn’t yet understand, a big thing that my father most disapproved of.  I found this out one morning when I was younger, about fourteen or fifteen at the time. I came into my room from school to find him in my room, holding one of my paintings with a look of absolute fear chiseled into his face.  “What are these?” he asked, shaking.

“Th-They’re my paintings, Dad…” I replied, confusion and anxiety mixing and causing my legs to quiver.  His eyes further widened.  I watched the olive complexion drain from his face, leaving him a ghoulish pale.  “What’s wrong with them?”

“Where did you see this?”


“Where did you see this?!” he repeated, snapping at me.

“Th-they were from the books.”

“What books?”

I led him to the library and showed him.  The apprehension on his face grew when I showed him the books.  “Get out,” he said coldly.  “Get out, and don’t ever let me find you in here again, do you understand?” I just stared blankly at him.  “Get out!”  This time, he shouted it.  His voice echoed throughout the walls of the library, causing me to run out as fast as I could.

I remember how rapidly my heart kept beating when I left the library and ran down the hall.  My mind raced.  Why was he so worked up over me reading those books?  Why was it so wrong for me to be in there?  What was so wrong?

I remember contemplating this for hours that day, sitting alone on my bed.  I eventually came back out when I heard his footsteps stomping down the hall with a purposeful stride.  His eyes were stitched open and bloodshot, looking almost wild like those of an animal.  In his hands were a stack of books from the library.  He went into the living room and set the fireplace before haphazardly throwing them in two at a time.

This caused me to run into the living room, screaming, “Wait, don’t!  What are you doing?!”  He paid me no attention, continuing to feed the flames like his life was somehow dependent on it.  I ran over to try and save the rest of the books, only to be met with a hard shove by my father.  I was sent flat on my rear, him boring into me with a crazed look.  I was so caught up in my own state of shock and fear that I couldn’t really tell that he, in some fashion, had the same look on his own face.  There was “Something” that evidently frightened him about those books, or at least, about me reading them. Again, though, that context was all but lost on me.

I just sat there, helpless to whatever my father was going to do next.  I expected him to wig out, to start throwing things around the room or even hit me, something!  Instead, he just continued staring at me in a state of fright all his own.  Eventually, his face broke into tears, which in turn caused me to turn on the waterworks myself.  He seized me and held me close, sobbing heavily.  I was confused, but more than that, I was afraid.  My head was spinning so quickly that all I could do was hang there in his arms, crying my own eyes out.

What was going on?  What was Dad so afraid of?  Why was he afraid of me reading those books?  His head pressed down into the top of mine; I could hear him mutter through sobs, “This is all my fault…” over and over again.

“What is?” I whimpered, more desperate for an explanation of some kind more than an apology.  He never answered, though.  Instead, he pulled away from me and made his way back into the library.  I remained sitting still in front of the open fireplace.  In front of me was only a handful of the stack of books he’d brought from the library.  A part of me wanted to reach out and grab them, scurrying like a mouse back to my bedroom before Dad came back to burn them, too, but I didn’t.  No, I just sat and watched the ones that had been thrown in slowly turn to ash.

I fell asleep there that night, and in the morning, I was awakened by my father roughly shaking me awake.  “Wake up, start packing your things,” he said in a voice that was hollow like the look on his face when he said it.  I was confused.

“W-What’s going on?” I asked, stirring awake.  He didn’t answer at first, instead moving toward the hallway and rolling two suitcases towards me.  He wouldn’t look at me.  “Dad, what’s going on? Where’re we going?”

“Pack your clothes, all of them.  Pack up anything that’s yours.”  My heart rate sped up while at the same time sinking from my chest into my stomach.  I may have been young, but I knew what this meant.  He was kicking me out.  I stood, my knees shaking.

“What’s going on, Dad?  Why do I have to–”

“NOW!” he snapped, now making eye contact with me again.  He had that same face he did the night previous.  It was empty, yet somehow sympathetic at the same time.  I could see that, whatever the reason was, he didn’t want to send me away any more than I wanted to leave.  I swear I even saw a single tear streak its way down his face.  “Just…” he shuddered, wiping his face with his hand, “Just please, Joseph.  Do as I say, and pack your things.”

“Where am I going?”

“You’re going to go stay with your Grandma Wendy for a while.  She’ll be by this evening to get you.” He started back into the hallway towards the library.

“Wait!” I cried.  “What about school?  What about my friends?”  He stopped and told me, numbly, dismissively, that he had that taken care of.  I wanted to press further, to cry out and beg him to let me stay or at the very least tell me why I had to go.  But I didn’t.  Before I’d even have the chance, I heard the door to the library close, and I was alone in the living room.

Everything was quiet.  Far too quiet, the way you’d expect from a place that was long abandoned.  In a way, that’s what the situation was; abandonment.  No cause or reason given as to why or how long. Just doing away with life as I knew it.  I can’t really describe what I felt as I stood in the empty living room.  I wanted to cry, sure.  It was a frightening situation.  But no, it wasn’t fright I felt.

I wanted to scream, too.  I wanted to punch, kick, and toss around everything around me that I could pick up and just wreck the place in a fit of confused hysteria, but I didn’t do any of that, either.  I guess the word I’m looking for is that I was “numb.”  So overclocked with confusion that my mind essentially had to reset like a computer, leaving me “numb.”  Hollow, like my father was.

This was how I would spend the rest of that day, absent-mindedly stuffing everything of mine that I could get to fit into those two suitcases.  It was around 6:00 that evening that Grandma Wendy came for me.  I remember walking to the front door, taking one last look around the house.  Still, empty, quiet. My father came out of the library carrying an armful of books that I knew he intended to burn when the doorbell rang.

Grandma Wendy greeted us with a smile.  I can only wonder what she thought when she was received with grim expressions from the both of us.  I was told to put my things in the car and wait there while they talked for a moment.  By that point, I was beyond trying to figure out why everybody was trying to be so vague with what was going on.  I just did as I was told.

I remember, though, taking one last look at Dad, silently pleading for him to change his mind.  He just looked back at me with a mournful stare and nodded for me to go on.  He didn’t say anything to me, nor I to him.  I just turned around and went to the car.  For a while, I just sat there, lost, afraid, and just confused.  No matter how hard I tried not to think about it, I just couldn’t help but brood on the simple question of what I had done to deserve this.  What did I do for my father to have to send me away?

I thought briefly about the story books, the fairy tale collections, that he was so quick to destroy.  I thought, too, of the way he reacted when he discovered my artwork based off of them.  None of it made sense.  I, try as hard as I damn well could, couldn’t come up with any logical answer as to why my father was so adamantly against me reading them, against my enjoyment of fantasy.  All of this continued to lead me back to the one central question, one that, only now, many years later, am I finally getting an answer for; what was I not being told?

As far as it went at the time, it was about thirty minutes later that Grandma Wendy came back to the car.  I remember how she gave me a warm smile, sympathetic, silently telling me, “It’s gonna be okay now.” I looked one last time at the house.  My father stood on the porch, watching as we started away from the house.  Only a few seconds later, we were on the highway on the 4-6 hour drive away to her house, ending the life I’d known for at least fourteen years.

Things changed drastically for me, of course.  I no longer attended the prep school I did back home, instead having a tutor come to homeschool me (something that my father apparently arranged beforehand).  As well as this, given that Grandma Wendy didn’t come from money like my father, I had to learn how to make income for myself like everyone else.  I guess what I’m saying is I wasn’t “Special” anymore like how I said earlier.

Please understand, I’m not here to cry over that.  I’m not saying that because of that little paradigm shift that life became a waking hell or anything like that.  I was still able to live happily, even if I had to adjust to a new lifestyle.  I grew up just fine, graduated (top of the class, even if I wasn’t actually there), got a bachelor’s degree in English Literature, and lived in a very nice house of my own.  Life went on, and I was still happy.

One thing stayed the same, though.  Even if I could no longer read those books, I could still see them; the beings, the fairies, gods and goddesses from them.  Even into adulthood, I’d still hear them calling out to me.  They’d tell me how they wanted me to join them in their realm.  This, among anything else, proved to be my biggest predicament in life.  I guess, given that I’d lived so long by that point away from the realm of childlike imagination, having to live normally, I realized that it wasn’t exactly “natural,” I guess you could say, that I heard the voices of fairies.

I’d been seeing a therapist for it for a while, and it’d helped a little.  For the most part, with his help, I’d managed to see and hear them less and less; not completely gone, but not too much to really be problematic.  His theory was that it was sort of my mind’s way of “holding onto a piece of the past.” He said that our minds, usually after something shocking or traumatic like that day at the house, will grab onto something happy as a sort of defense mechanism.  In short, because I’d see the fairies when I was younger and had many fond memories of them, I would see and hear them now as a way of preserving the past.

This would ultimately become my way of accepting what I was experiencing.  Not only that, but it was also how I’d make peace with what happened at the house, with what happened between my father and me.  Until now, I’d never thought anything more of it.  Then, last Tuesday happened, and I got the phone call.

After I left, I never actually saw my father again.  He never called or wrote, either.  The only word I’d ever receive from him was a birthday card in the mail, along with a check for $300 (at least, until my 21st, where it was a bottle of imported red wine instead).  Outside of that, the old man basically didn’t exist to me anymore.  Hell, I won’t lie, for a while, despite looking more and more just like him whenever I’d look in the mirror, I actually started to forget what he even looked like.

I guess, along with my memory of him, my anger towards him also faded into obscurity.  It was early morning last Tuesday when I got the call that changed all of that.  It was from an old colleague of his from the laboratory he worked at.  My father’s body was found hanging from the rafters in the library. He told me he’d been absent for almost a month and a half, having put in a letter of resignation, and he went to check in with him.  When he was found, it was clear he’d been dead at least three days.

I left the next afternoon back to my old home, having taken off a month from the office on paid leave. I arrived that evening, where I was greeted by the colleague and a few other of my father’s associates, as well as men in black suits.  Legal consultants, I figured.  Each of them briefly exchanged condolences before leaving.  One of them, the one I spoke on the phone with, gave me a folded piece of paper before he left, telling me he found it with the body.

Once everyone was gone, It was dead silent again.  Just like old times; no creaking, no tittering, no whir of air, nothing.  Standing alone once again in the empty living room, the memories came back to me.  All the fantastic adventures I used to have, the “Quests” I’d embark on, and with this, “they” came back as well.  I could hear one, the soft, crooning voice of what I imagined to be a beautiful goddess. “There’s nothing for you here, child… Come, it’s time, my child.”

I shoved this down, though.  Even if the voices were just a “preservation of memory,” they weren’t welcome at that moment.  No, being there, in that living room, in that empty, silent house, only brought memories of loneliness, of abandonment.  I looked over to the fireplace, a stack of books sitting in front of it.  I went over and took a closer look at them.  They were a mix of textbooks on biology, as well as a few on quantum physics and engineering, a few on philosophy and religion, and the rest were a couple of the mythology and folklore collections I used to read.

This prompted me to go into the library, where I then finally took out the piece of paper.  Unfolding it, I saw that at the top of it was a paperclipped photo of him smiling with me cradled in his arms, asleep. This actually got to me for a moment, not because it was a heartfelt moment or because it was a “Happy memory of him and me together,” but rather because of the fact that, for most of my life, even early on, he’d never been there.  I guess that was another reason why it wasn’t hard for me to all but forget about him when he sent me away.

Seeing that picture, though, I didn’t know how to feel.  Below the photo was, scribbled like he was in a hurry when he wrote it, was what looked to me like some sort of serial code.  Because of the way it was written, I couldn’t make out all of it.  What I could read was “MONOLITH D-1473 Proj Demi.”  Under this was the following message, written almost just as illegibly;

“There IS a god, and I only hope I can be forgiven for my sins.  The file has everything; it tells of what I and the others did.  It’s in the black cabinet, second shelf, under “D” category.  The time has come that I have to stop hiding and reveal the truth, to the world and to my son, Joseph.  The things I did, I did for him.  But now I must pay for my wrongdoings.”

I must’ve read that message almost a thousand times.  Two main emotions hit me at the exact same time; confusion and anxiety.  What was this “file?”  Hell, what was this “black cabinet?”  In all the times past that I’d lingered in that room, even as big as it was, I’d never once seen any filing cabinets, black or otherwise.  More importantly, what was it that file contained that apparently haunted my father, so much so that he eventually took his own life, and what did it have to do with me?

It was with these questions infesting my mind that I took to scouring the room, looking for the elusive black cabinet.  I tore that entire room apart, top to bottom, tossing books around and eventually even resorting to toppling some of the shelves over to find it.  It was only after, purely by accident, I had thrown aside one of the large brown encyclopedias on the second to last bookshelf that remained standing that I watched an area of the wall at the far end of the room — ironically, the space that used to be occupied with the fantasy books I used to read — slide to the right, revealing a doorway to another room.

My eyes grew when I saw this.  My heart jackhammered away at my ribcage.  My knees threatened to buckle beneath me as I slowly approached the room.  When I crossed the threshold, blinding fluorescent lights blinked to life, revealing a small, cramped office with a large mahogany desk in the center that had multiple stacks of manila folders as well as a few miscellaneous documents; some of which were lying discarded on the floor around it.  Curiosity was replaced with a hint of excitement as I glanced at the folders, seeing them marked with similar codes to what I’d seen on the note.

I knew then that whatever this “file” was and whatever was in it, it would be found in that office. Behind the desk were two filing cabinets, one white and the other being the black cabinet I was looking for.  I rifled through the second shelf for about twenty seconds through all of the similarly labeled folders until finding the file labeled with the code written on the note.  The front of it was marked with a small logo of a long structure or tower with the words “Monolith site D-1473 secure file; Project Demigod — classified data” stamped across the front.

Immediately, I closed the drawer and sat down at the desk and opened the file.  The first several documents were blueprints and diagrams for these weird contraptions that, honestly, I’d have no idea how to really describe.  One notable thing about each of them, however, was that they were all labeled as being “Interdimensional compatible.”  Some of the diagrams depicted crude drawings of human-like figures, looking to be primarily female in nature upon closer examination, emerging through what I inferred to be a wormhole or portal or something along those lines.  A doorway, in other words, to some world so far unknown to the world; that is, except for my father and the unknown persons that apparently assisted him on this.

As well as this, some depicted some sort of chamber or vessel evidently used for containment.  These were noted as being made from solid steel and titanium.  A bit more digging through the file, and I was met with the first official document.  It was an introductory note; detailing what “Project Demigod” was and their hypothesis.  Attached is my transcription of this and all of the report entries pertaining to the project.  A quick note is that these are all undated, or at least not that I could find, having been purposefully redacted, so it is unknown when exactly any of the events following occurred or the exact time span in between entries.


Prefatory matters and Introduction

My name is Dr. Weston Grier.  Today marks the beginning of a new step in both the realms of scientific possibility and the next evolution of human understanding.  After almost nine years of research, hard work, and tireless dedication, we here at Monolith site D are ready to begin our most ambitious project yet since first establishment.  The first step toward a larger world.  “Project Demigod”

Hypothesis: We will bring a being from another realm, an immortal being, far elevated in every way from any mortal man, into our plane and, having it breed with a human, will bear a god into the world. We will give birth to god among men.

Method: Through various machinery (See attached diagrams), we will open the door between our realm and the realm we refer to simply as “The Veil,” where a subject {CLASSIFIED DETAIL} will then enter and, utilizing a harness specially designed by our technicians, bind and bring back a worthy specimen for breeding.  For the breeding process, we have selected five male subjects of varying backgrounds, ethnicities, body types and religions to see which would constitute the best result in a hybrid spawn of man and god.

Subject 1 is a Caucasian male, 6’2”, 235 lbs, former Marine, unmarried, Catholic.  Subject 2 is an Oriental male, 5’6”, 185 lbs, farmer and fisherman, wife deceased, Buddhist.  Subject 3 is an African-American male, 5’9”, 250lbs, cook in an Italian restaurant, unmarried, atheist.  Subject 4 is a Hispanic male, 5’7”, 230 lbs, politician, divorced, Christian.  And Subject 5 is a Native American male, 6’, 215lbs, owner of a metaphysical shop, unmarried, Wiccan, practicing different forms of shamanism. Each subject was hand selected by the team of site D and are willing participants in this experiment, having signed a legal contract and term of agreement.  Each have been promised $500 in remuneration for their participation in the project.  Subjects were also noted to have no immediate families to speak of or next of kin.

The process of opening the door and accessing “The Veil” will commence at 1200 hours sharp.


Entry 1

The first attempt at opening “The Veil” has ended in failure.  Equipment was functional, but miscalculations were made with sending live subjects through.  The first subject was unable to breach through before his flesh was inexplicably flash-seared from his bones.  It is unknown at this time what it is that caused this reaction.  Associates claim it could have been something with the supernaturally high levels of ultraviolet radiation being emitted from the portal.

Adjustments are being made to account for this theory, and we intend to begin another trial at this time tomorrow.


Entry 2

For our next attempts of opening “The Veil,” we took the liberty of selecting multiple subjects, whom I will henceforth be referring to as “Retrievers,” all individuals who have little to no money and no known ties to community or next of kin to speak of.  To gauge the most effective method for being able to survive the procedure, we tried various forms of UV protection for most of them.

For example, the first of our “Retrievers” was stripped naked and covered from head to toe in multiple coatings of SPF 5,000.  Another was given a radiation suit, one of our strongest tailored.  The last was given nothing.  The last “Retriever” would act as another sort of “control” for attempting to breach through a second time.

Each of these resulted in failure and loss of life for all three “Retrievers.”  Both the protected and unprotected were fried immediately upon contact with the doorway.  This, naturally, has led to speculation that either the UV rays are far too strong for any man-made implements to protect against or that there is something else entirely that is causing this result.  At this time, we are unsure exactly how to proceed.  Funding for the project was already at risk with the expense of gathering the necessary implements.  Because of this, we must tread carefully when proceeding further and do our best to make the next attempts a success.


Entry 3

Another of the researchers on my team, Dr. Emil Pence, a theologist and professor of religion at the university, has given a new theory.  It is his belief that because the realm in which we’re attempting to access is largely similar to those spoken of in fiction (mainly children’s fiction), that perhaps success can be yielded by utilizing a child.  The primary idea behind this belief is that, because children’s minds typically hold onto the possibilities of fantasy and innocence more than the minds of adults, they may stand a better chance at withstanding the forces being emitted from the doorway.

Most others are very skeptical of this theory.  I, myself, am not entirely quick to attempt this, either, though I will admit that a part of me finds itself considering it as the more plausible solution.  Of course, with this comes the question of where and how to obtain child volunteers for the project.  Never mind the question of ethics of that decision; there would also be MAJOR legal obstacles with it as well. As we are, yet again, at a complete loss of how to proceed, myself and the team are on a five-day furlough, paid leave.

Hopefully, a short absence from the project will allow for a viable option to present itself when we return.


Entry 4

After almost a week’s leave, we still hadn’t come to any viable conclusion.  It was during our last conference that the idea of using children as “Retrievers” was brought into question once again.  Like last time, most immediately dismissed the idea, primarily due to the far-fetched logic Pence presented with it.  I, on the other hand, was a little more open to discussing the idea.

The dilemma presents itself once again: Where would we be able to find children who can volunteer for something as dangerous as this?  I personally would be against it entirely, but I know of no other solutions at this time.  Time is starting to run thin, as well, with sponsors and contributors to the project expecting an update in only a few weeks.  They’re expecting results.  I currently, however, only have failure.


Entry 5

What I do next, I take no pride in.  I will state for the record that this decision of mine did not come easily.  It came only after many days and nights spent in long and drawn-out contemplation, and even then, it would ultimately be the looming fear of the project being discontinued that decided me.  What I do, I will also do without the assistance of many of the others, some of whom have defected from the project because of what I plan to do.

My plan is to adopt a handful of the children from the local orphanage to utilize as “Retrievers.”  If Pence’s theory is correct, and I can only pray with all my heart that it is, then by utilizing the children’s capacity for imagination, for their suspension of disbelief, they stand the best chance at being able to breach “The Veil” without themselves being harmed.  May God have mercy on me and all of us for whatever may happen next.


Entry 6

A couple of weeks have now passed with no progress on the project.  We had to put everything on hold while attempting to ensure the department of social services would allow the children in our care.  It’s not like they’d have ever allowed us to have them if they knew of our real intention for them.  The children have been living in the loft, off-site from the facility, for almost two weeks.  Pence and one of the biologists on our team, Dr. Amelia Orne, have acted as the pseudo parental figures for that time. Yesterday was the finalization of the adoption process, and with that, the project may continue.

The first attempt with the children will commence promptly at 2300 hours tomorrow night.


Entry 7

We have now had our first glimpse at success since the project’s beginning!  Pence’s theory seemed to prevail, at least from an effective standpoint.  Still not entirely sold on the science or reasoning behind it, but the result was there.  Once opened, the modified “Retriever” was able to breach the doorway without being harmed.  We now wait.  We have estimated it taking a minimum of five hours and a maximum of 8-10 for the “Retriever” to harness the specimen and make his way back through the doorway.  It is at this time that I hold my breath and pray that “The Retriever” may emerge with our specimen.

Personal Note: Four hours have elapsed now since sending in our “Retriever.”  During this time, I can’t stop myself from imagining what that young man is seeing right now in there, in “The Veil.”  I remember how afraid he was when he was met with the opening of “The Veil.”  He’s still so young.  I wonder if he looks at any of it in fascination and wonder, as was characterized by Dr. Pence, or in terror, as I’m sure I and so many others would if faced with such as he is now.  More than this, however, I can’t, try as I would, quell the growing senses of shame for delving to such extremes as this.  Such is the pursuit of knowledge, I suppose.


Entry 8

Hour twelve has passed, and there has been no activity from “The Veil.”  No sight nor sound has been reported from either the “Retriever” or anything/one else from the other side.  Pence believes this is “just a minor delay,” to use his words.  He estimates that this could be due to the “Retriever’s” own sense of curiosity.  In other words, he believes he is simply exploring “The Veil.”  This, of course, is only speculation, given that we cannot see what the “Retriever” does, but it’s the most sound conclusion presented thus far.

Dr. Pence has suggested that we wait a further three hours before attempting anything further.

Personal Note: I can’t help it.  I feel as though he is in grave danger.  Pence has advised that I and the others attempt to get some rest, but I can’t sleep.  I can’t even think of sleeping.  Not with him still in there, alone, faced with wonders that no grown man appears to be able to withstand.  I can’t close my eyes without seeing the look of cold, unbridled fear on his innocent face.  It is now that the haunting query presents itself to me, the bane of all scientific ambitions: will what we’re doing be for the better for our fellow man, and if so, how steep a price must be paid to achieve it?  At this time, I cannot conclusively answer this.


Entry 9

The three hours have passed, along with an extra two for added measure.  Still nothing from either the doorway or the “Retriever.”  This was when then “Retriever” was officially declared dead, and this trial another failure.  At this time, the team and I are discussing what our next move should be.  Most collectively agree that utilizing another “Retriever” is a risky venture, not to mention largely unethical. Dr. Pence, however, disagrees, advising to utilize another of them immediately.  At this time, we are undecided, and we have so little time remaining to yield any results.


Entry 10

Against the judgment of many of the others on the team, as well as my own conscience, we utilized another of our “Retrievers.”  This one was a little girl, the only one of the bunch.  This adjustment was, of course, done at Dr. Pence’s recommendation.  It must be mentioned that it would be at this time that many more from the research team stepped away from the project for moral and ethical reasons, leaving only a fraction of our original crew left to continue.

At 2330 hours last night, we deployed the second “Retriever” through the doorway.  Like with the first, almost a full 12 – 13 hours passed with no activity from the other side before she, too, was declared a loss.  Further use of the “Retrievers” is currently being debated.

Personal Note: I cannot lie, my own faith in “Project Demigod” and its merit has waned significantly since commencement.  I can’t blame those that have deserted the project.  In truth, I felt compelled to do the same when I realized we’d sent yet another sweet, innocent child to their death.  I’m honestly not sure how much longer I’ll be willing to go on with any of this myself.  Dr. Pence is also beginning to worry me.  Up to the present, he’s not seemed to give any second thoughts about using the children. I’m sure the others feel the same.  They see it, too, the way in which he all but directly sees them, not as children but simply as tools.  He is a brilliant man and has built much rapport with the scientific community and with the higher-ups of Monolith, but I’m finding myself wanting to trust him and his judgment less and less.


Entry 11

Due to breach of conduct and ethics, Dr. Emil Pence has been withdrawn from any further involvement with the project.  On a routine checkup of the remaining “Retrievers” in the loft, one of them notified me that he’d selected another of their number to be taken back to the site.  At that time, I’d not been made aware of any decision to continue with another “Retriever” trial.  This proved to be the case indeed when, asking the others why I’d not been notified, nor had any meeting been called to discuss the matter, they answered that this was because no such decision had yet been made.

When I went into the testing room, I found Dr. Pence guiding the “Retriever” into the doorway.  I was too late to halt the procedure, and the third “Retriever” trial was set in motion, unauthorized.  Upon interrogation, Pence explained that he’d devised a way to ensure the “Retriever’s” return; through virtue of a stuffed teddy bear, theorizing that carrying the toy while inside would act as an anchor to our world, thus reducing the chances of getting lost inside “The Veil.”  Only five hours later, activity was reported from the other side doorway and, after about five minutes of intense energy spikes, the doorway opened, and from it emerged the unauthorized “Retriever,” along with a live specimen.

The trial was a success.  All the same, though, I couldn’t tolerate a blatant violation such as this.  It was unanimously agreed that Dr. Pence cannot be allowed any further involvement with “Project Demigod” for the safety and well-being of ourselves and of others.  At this time, primarily for our own protection from legal prosecution over this and the first several losses of life, no criminal charges will be pursued against Dr. Pence.

Personal Note: This situation has served to only further solidify my anxiety about whether or not our work here is justified by the principles of scientific discovery.  On the one hand, it would, of course, be easy to say that Dr. Pence’s actions were foolish and wrong; psychotic, even.  Yet, at the same time, I can’t help but wonder if, like me, he really did only have the best intentions with the larger picture as a whole.  What he did was dangerous, not to mention deceitful, but as stated in the report, it worked.  We were successfully able to send and bring back a “Retriever,” along with a live specimen.  This has led me to ask one big and damning question: would I, in only a short matter of time more, have perhaps done the same?


Entry 12

With the success of the “Retrieval” aspect of the project, we have begun the second phase, the act of mating and breeding with the specimen.  Specimen is mostly humanoid in appearance, resembling a female, judging from the vaginal genitalia, as well as the appearance of breasts.  Her body is slender, with light yellow skin that almost appears to be glowing, possibly emitting some sort of energy or aura from within her body.  Specimen will be henceforth referred to as “Hera,” named after the Greek queen of the gods and the earth and mother of the mythical demigod, Hercules.

“Hera” appears to be mute, being without the appearance of a mouth.  It is currently unknown if or how she is able to communicate.  Also unknown at this time is what sort of adverse effects, if any, might be inflicted upon the breeding subjects after intercourse.  We are left with only speculation for now.  We began with Subject 3.  He finished in about three minutes and was escorted back to his quarters with the other four subjects.  We intend to wait another month before making another attempt at breeding.


Entry 13

Subject 3 has begun complaining of experiencing extreme migraines, nausea, and frightening hallucinations.  Subject appears to be suffering insomnia as well, as testified from the other subjects. Subject 3 will be given sleeping medication going forward.  “Hera” has remained docile, almost catatonic, since interaction with Subject 3.  Any attempts at stimulating her have resulted in nothing happening.  In another week, we will attempt to breed again using another Subject.


Entry 14

We utilized Subject 1 for the second breeding session.  He was finished in five minutes.  “Hera” reacted, in a way, perhaps more favorably to Subject 1 than Subject 3, judging from the way she appeared to submit more freely to him than the other.  Of course, that is only a rough inference.  Still so much is unknown about “Hera;” her mannerisms, her level of perception, and just her overall sense of emotion — made all the more impossible to figure out by her lack of communicative ability.  For now, we can only guess that she somehow favors Subject 1.

Subject 3, on the other hand, has been getting worse and worse.  Despite routine doses of sleep medication, he still reports suffering fits of insomnia and night terrors.  Subject 3 has noted on multiple occasions to see a woman’s face in his dreams.  He describes this person as having pale, jaundiced skin, long, flowing, green, leafy vines for hair and white, glowing eyes.  He claims it is tormenting him, chastising him as a person.  As well as this, I have personally noticed how withdrawn Subject 3 has become from others around him, always looking over his shoulder at every little noise and even acting aggressively when approached by others.

Consideration is now being discussed on the decision to cut Subject 3 from the project.  In another month’s time, the third breeding trial will commence.


Entry 15

In the late hours of the night, Subjects 1 and 3 engaged in a brutal physical altercation.  The other subjects evidently attempted to break up the two, but were unsuccessful.  In the end, Subject 3 was the only one remaining alive, having murdered the rest.  Subject 3 then attempted to make a beeline for the breeding room, to “Hera.” An attempt was made by one of the other researchers, being without a security team due to limited funds, to subdue him with a tranquillizer.  This resulted in Subject 3 claiming another victim by snapping the man’s neck.  Subject 3 was finally subdued when he reached “Hera” once again, stopping and immediately screaming for her to “Forgive him” and to “Give him peace.”  This distraction provided an opening for me to come up behind and subdue him with a tranquilizer of my own.

Subject 3 was immediately removed from the site, and steps are being taken to ensure that nothing he has seen or done here is spoken about.  At this time, with no living subjects remaining, no viable results, and no more available funds for continued experimentation, steps for the discontinuation of “Project Demigod” are currently in motion.  Most of the already skeletal staff have already taken their leave from Monolith Site D.  Remaining are myself, Dr. Orne, and two of the other physicians on the project.

In two days’ time, Monolith officials will be coming to remove the equipment and seize all data that was gathered during the duration of “Project Demigod.”  In conclusion, “Project Demigod” was a failure.


Entry 16

This, as well as any possible notes or recording of these events going forward, will be an unofficial record.  It was at around 0130 hours this morning, I and Dr. Orne were awakened by what sounded like wails of pain coming from the breeding room.  Upon investigation, we found the source of the sounds to be coming from “Hera” — despite having no mouth to scream from.  Her stomach was extended, and she was clutching it as she appeared to writhe in agony.

Her wailing became deafening with each passing second, and Dr. Orne and I were unsure of what to do. We decided to open the breeding chamber she was contained in and attempt to administer any medical aid we could at that moment.  We had no surgical supplies and only a limited supply of select drugs, mainly anesthetics and/or morphine.  We weren’t sure, given her supernatural nature, what kind of effects the drugs might have on her.  But, in the end, we took action and administered a small dose of morphine to her.

She jerked violently, flailing her arms wildly around, swiping and clawing at the air like she was fending off a predator, before finally relaxing.  A quick check of her vitals confirmed that she was still alive, merely unconscious.  Dr. Orne and I both were very curious as to what caused “Hera” so much pain like that.  Unfortunately, with the equipment decommissioned and officials arriving in a day’s time, we were unable to pursue the matter any further.


Entry 17

Official or otherwise, this will be my last report on “Project Demigod.”  It was this time, two days ago now, that “Hera” awoke, crying in pain once again.  This time was far more painful, and her stomach had swelled even bigger in size from the last time.  When Dr. Orne and myself attempted to investigate, we were met with a shocking discovery.  “Hera” had gone into labor.

Immediately, we fetched a pail of ice and water to keep her hydrated during the delivery process.  It was here, however, when another, far stranger phenomenon occurred.  While we attempted to aid in the delivery process, Dr. Orne began seizing and clutching at both her stomach and her temples.  She then began screaming that she could hear a voice speaking to her, taunting her, similar to the earlier situation before with Subject 3.  This was then followed by “Hera’s” body abruptly going motionless, while Dr. Orne then began writhing and flailing, shrieking like “Hera” was.

Dr. Orne underwent this hysteria for almost a full minute before her body seized up, stiffening, with her eyes rolled back into her skull.  Her jaw distended, and in a voice I know not at all how to describe, she said to me, “You, Doctor!  You did this!  You murdered men and children, and now, this woman, and to what end?  You wish to bear God unto the world, and you will.  You will father a child, born from me, the fruit of your perverted ambition, and he will serve only as a reminder of such.  You will look upon him, not with pride, but with grief at what you’ve done.  And the day will come when his memory will be the end of you.  A day when this child, your manufactured god, will find who he truly is.  He will hear my call in his heart and will command power against you and all men like you; the likes no man before has ever fathomed, and will raze you all to ash!”

Upon her speech’s conclusion, I heard a sickening crack of bone and squelching sound, followed by something protruding, nearly breaching, from Dr. Orne’s stomach.  This happened again, this time succeeding in breaching her flesh.  What emerged was a tiny, chubby foot belonging to a newborn infant.  It waved frantically at the air.  Dr. Orne’s convulsing body slowly began to die down until fully relaxed in death.  From her stomach, the spawn’s hand began trying to free itself and the rest of it from Dr. Orne.  For a moment, I simply stared on in terror before cautiously approaching the body.

Still not yet having developed any muscle strength in its arms, the newborn couldn’t free itself the way it evidently wished to.  Unaware of any other action to take, I took a pair of sutures and the scalpel and performed a very crude emergency C-section, successfully birthing the child, as well as sealing the deceased Dr. Orne back up with the sutures.  The newborn screamed and wailed, taking in its very first breath.

I looked into the infant’s eyes.  It had light yellow skin, just as “Hera” had.  It also appeared to bear other resemblances to “Hera,” such as the eyes and light green hair.  The miracle happened; I, Dr. Weston Grier, bore a godlike creature unto the earth.  But the question remains, just how high a price was my success achieved?

I took the child in my arms and held it for a moment.  Suddenly, it fell unconscious, and I watched its skin change complexion from its original yellow to a more natural shade of olive.  Its hair, too, changed to a dark brown.  It looked peaceful, resting in my arms.  Yet, I felt none of the warmth this feeling should bring.  Instead, all I could think of as I watched it sleep were the lives that were senselessly spent simply for the pursuit of scientific expansion.

It was with this in mind that I made the decision that I would raise the child myself.  Taking the child, I seized this file and ran from the facility, where I’ve presently gone rogue.  I have gone through the process to change my name, as well as find a new home, somewhere they’d likely not think to look if/when they do come for me and/or the files.  I live now under the name of Gerard Bishop, and the child I named after my middle name, Joseph.

Admittedly, I fear those dying words:

“…And the day will come when his memory will be the end of you.  A day when this child, your manufactured god, will find who he truly is.  He will hear my call in his heart and will command power against you and all men like you…”

I worry that, despite my best efforts the raise him with love, something will happen to turn him against me one day when he grows up.  What exactly will happen when such a time comes, I know not. Nevertheless, as long as I can help it, Joseph will live a peaceful life with me.  Everything that has happened, and everything I do now, going forward, is for him, my life’s work.


I stared for what felt like hours at that page.  Then, I flipped back and read and re-read through again.  I couldn’t believe what I’d just read.  No, I WOULDN’T believe it.

My father, a brilliant and celebrated scientist, accomplished his greatest achievement by murdering others in the name of science, at least two of which were children?!  And then, even more horrifically, I was that achievement, born and bred out of blood.  No, no, I didn’t want to admit it was true.

But, deep down, I knew it was.

The more I thought back, the more the pieces of a long-unsolved puzzle began falling into place.  I now knew why Dad was almost never around.  I now understood why it petrified him so much when he found out that I’d been reading those books.  I wasn’t just his son.  I wasn’t just his greatest achievement.  I was his reminder of the price of pursuing knowledge.

Moreover, I now understood myself why I was always drawn to the books, the stories, the worlds, the characters.  And I think that’s what he feared most, that I would learn the truth.  That was why he sent me away all those years ago, why he never tried to see me or explain any of this to me, himself, and why his life ended the way it did.  He feared the truth; that even with the best of intentions, he traveled the long, dark road to Hell.

I write this now because the truth needs its day.

After all, it’s what I was born for.

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
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Written by Corpse Child
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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