I realize I haven't been one to write or say much, and there is good reason for that. You see, I am not much used to writing in a journal, though I am able to read, write, and speak English very well, and for that reason I was loathe to speak until now. I do not like having my private thoughts readable by others. However, I feel now is the best time to say such things, or I fear they may weigh too much on my troubled mind. I feel I am the only one able to relay for now, as Mahmoud is not doing well of mind, Mei-lin and McCloud are resting, Brady has been in and out of our current base of operations, and Laurent... well, you will see.
I say that Mahmoud is not doing well of mind because he is experiencing the most terrible night terrors. I was in fact awoken by his cries. He was moaning the name of his wife, Munna, fearfully in his sleep - as if he feared she had become something terrible. His dread reached a fever pitch, and at first I believed it was a simple nightmare as all soldiers have - McCloud has certainly had more than a few of his own, reliving the plane crash that cost him his leg. But then I listened more intently to Mahmoud as he fitfully tossed and turned on the spare couch he was using for a bed.
"N-no... D-damned emerald-eyed, fan-bearing... Lying, Masked Thing... In the name of the Most Compassionate, I..."
My blood was cold as I realized what he dreamed of, and his screaming as he awoke only confirmed such. He dreamed of the Lady of the Black Fan, just as Mei-lin had read to us from that accursed poem we found in Ho Fong's mansion. She had clawed her way into Mahmoud's mind, like the damned spirit she was, like the mask of great evil she was... and was now tormenting him. She was tormenting us all, and I cursed to myself silently as I realized I had also had odd, shaky dreams of a woman, fan held to her face. She was always just out of my reach in the dark of my nightly visions, watching and taunting me...
No good can come of such things. I have heard stories of such dreams as a child before, but it is said in those that a mocking, dark figure with a long red tongue and many changing faces would follow and torment those afflicted. It was a sort of curse, placed upon another by the most wicked sort of sorcerer, and always ended with the afflicted one's awful death. "Do not cross those with magic, Muuzaji," my father would say to me, "For they know the Red-Tongued One, God of Chaos, and they will send him after you."
This perhaps, must have been similar to those dreams, and indeed I have dreamed of this figure as well, which horrifies me. Could it be that all Clayton and Sarah had told us was true? That this Lady of the Black Fan was the very same as the Red-Tongued One? Could it be more than just a story or cultist lunacy? In my heart, I knew the answer was yes, though I was afraid to admit it. Perhaps we are cursed... or perhaps, we are chosen.
No. This was no mere dream - this was an omen.
Laurent had shut himself away for the past week, a matter which gravely concerned both myself and the others - especially McCloud. We were, in a way, responsible for the man and his friends, and now he was acting strangely. We heard him shuffling around in his darkened room at night, the door locked. He spoke with us in little more than affirmative grunts as we left his food for him, which Mr. Mu has kindly helped provide. Laurent in fact would leave the food to fester and rot somewhat, and would become annoyed if we tried to move the spoiling material from near the door. He would then unlock the door, open it slightly, and pull the rotting food into the dark, leaving only an empty plate a few moments later.
It was yesterday that we thought to check on him as we all feared for his mind, particularly since Mr. Mu had mentioned that a certain specialty book of his was stolen. I do not know French, but I know the title sounded French; I believe he said it was called Cultes des Goules. It had been snatched in the middle of the night from a locked cabinet, one that had been picked expertly and then locked up again. We therefore suspected Laurent, for he has some skill at picking locks, and French is his native tongue. This is how we came to be at his door, the lone guest bedroom in the place which he had taken all for himself. We attempted to speak through the door to him, and he reluctantly agreed. He had taken the book, but he only wished to borrow it. He did not want to come out, the light hurt his eyes. He agreed to return the book and even to reach out to give it to us... but as his arm reached around the door, cracked open as it was, we immediately saw something was not right.
His arm was not his. It was furred in a coarse dark hair, the same color as his hair on his head, and the skin had an unpleasant, pale rubbery sheen to it. His nails had gnarled into twisted claws like those of a lion, though they clutched the book gently. Concern gripped me, and I reacted immediately, throwing the door open. He pushed the door back with a monstrous strength as I did, but I was much faster and got the advantage. And when I threw the door open, the figure I saw... It was monstrous. Two glowing yellow eye-lights, like those of a lion at night, hung in the blackness, attached to a hunched figure that seemed somewhat wolfish in the thin light through the door. It was not a man, and yet it wore Laurent's clothing and had a puzzled look on its hideous dog-like face as we recoiled in horror and Mahmoud drew his gun.
"Merciful Allah!" He cried, aiming the rifle at the creature. "A ghul! It has eaten Laurent!"
"Don't shoot!" The beast replied, in Laurent's voice, and a collective shock settled over us all as we all had the same realization. This creature had not eaten Laurent. It was Laurent. And Mahmoud had very nearly shot him.
We were stunned. What had happened to Laurent, we do not know, but he was a beast-man now, one which could only consume the decaying or dead. A ghul, as Mahmoud had put it. Laurent himself was confused by our concern, insisting he had always looked this way, at least since Ho Fong's house, and we had never shown concern before... But he of course had not, he had lost his mind. Had his mind so inflicted his body that he became what he believed he was? Had Ho Fong cursed him? Had the book done something to him? We did not know. We still do not know.
What we do know is that after this, he took to leaving Mu's house more frequently, every night. He came back with chunks of what I must assume are pig's carcasses, for I am afraid to say they may be human remains. Then he began to make the most hideous gibbering noises, like a hyena's laughter, and eventually he began to show up at the house less and less. He said he had found others like him, that were what he was now, and he was on nightly raids with them and brought them to our door once. We realized this could be advantageous and sent his new pack to attack those horrible gardens we had been captured in earlier. I must assume it went well, for we could hear sounds of terrible cackling as they left, and again as they came back... but they did not stop at the house. Laurent did not return again after this, and I believe he must be with his pack now. I do not know if he can, or ever will, return to human, but I certainly hope his new life is good... if disturbing.
Mr. Mu tells us he will have the translation of the Cryptical Books by tomorrow. He has found the relevant passage about the Eye which Brady and Clayton had, and is working overnight to translate it. He says it is possible to use it as a protective sigil, perhaps to ward a place with it and thus desecrate evil with it, but we will not know until he finishes the translation. As for Brady, she has returned and told us her contacts with New China Army, some sort of paramilitary Communist group I have been told, are willing to aid us if need be. Once Mr. Mu is done with the translation and we better comprehend the Eye, Brady says she can move us there. They have concerns about activities on Grey Dragon Island, Ho Fong's believed stronghold, and want our help since we have had such extensive contact with the man.
Perhaps we are cursed, or blessed. Or, perhaps it is as the strange figure in my dreams has said, his tongue a bloody red as it licked his lips, his eyes as black as night and his skin darker than any man's could ever be: You are but pawns in a Great Game...
I have been told in America, where McCloud is from, that the proper response for accepting this challenge is, "Your move."
-- Muuzaji, Wary but Determined (June 5th, 1928)