Delta Green - The Way It Went Down - Stories of the Cthulhu Mythos.pdf

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Contents
Introduction
The Key
The Junk Shop
Into the West
Inside
At the Shore
In the Back Seat
Kay’s Voice
The Witness
Dear Cind
The Phone Man and I
The Lady of the Rock
Between Here and Forever
It Was Not Her
Words
End of the World of the End
What the Voice Said
Water Town
The Last Machines
Life in a Box
Where the Trains Don’t Go
The Last Go Round
Group
Face Games
There’s Life Underground
What’s Your Name
Something Behind the Eyes
What Do You Do?
White Was Coming In From the Edges
The Strange People
The Weight of the Water
He Dies, Again
Awake
The First Report
Copyright
Introduction
Delta Green, the U.S. government's black project dedicated to stopping
unnatural threats, has survived under one name or another for over ninety
years. The individual stories that make up that long history never last very
long. Its operations would be infamous for their desperation and high
casualty rate, if anyone were to take the records public. If we are lucky, no
one ever will.
In the meantime, Dennis Detwiller has written—reported? transcribed?
channeled?—these moments from that hidden world. They're the shortest
of stories, flickers of memory and glimpses of possible futures. There is no
comfort to be found in their brevity. Horrors formed us, surround us, will
subsume us.
But you probably know all that. When you learn about Delta Green, you
either join the mission or you become the mission. You are already
implicated.
Shane Ivey
Chelsea, Alabama
January 2018
The Key
OK. Sure. First. OK. Listen. Innsmouth. It began in Innsmouth,
Massachusetts in nineteen hundred and twenty-eight—write that down. It
began there, but it didn’t end there. Fuck. It’s still going on. Right now. No
doubt.
OK. Sure. You’ve heard rumors. That fucking silver hubcap in the
desert in forty-whatever—true. The things the Nazis were calling at the
bottom of the ocean? Also true. That city beneath the ice in the Antarctic.
Fucking take three guesses. It’s a big goddamn world, and we don’t know
shit.
How do I know? Me? I worked in this place. This was in the Fifties, so,
you know, you wouldn’t understand. We had our shit strapped down. We
knew what was what. I was a file clerk. Just a kid who worked in a library
and joined the Marines to fight some fucking Commies. Left in 1954, short
about half my nerve. Got a job in Naval Intelligence because I pulled some
geezer off the line and got him to a field hospital, and that guy—well, he
was fucking connected. That job was just about heaven.
I’d file in the day and I’d file at night. “Do this, Don,” and so, you
know, I’d do it. Sometimes, I’d go in after hours to finish up and read. I
read a lot of the files.
Then, one day my boss comes in the dry room where we keep all the old
stuff. I’m filing. He’s holding a fire axe. The axe looks like it’s covered in
Hershey’s syrup, but I figure out right quick it’s blood. I’m fast that way.
He says to me, “Don.” I say, “Yessir.” He had the axe, right?

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