I bought several comics from Comixology/Kindle back in the day. In my quest to deDRM all of my Kindle content so I can use it on my Kobo and keep an archival backup, I discovered that the standard deDRM process for books doesn't work well with Kindles. All of my comics ended up with low quality images and 4-6 blank pages between each actual page.

For reference, I downloaded them a few months back using Kindle for PC (the old non-Microsoft Store version), used deDRM_tools, and converted the unencrypted KFX-ZIP files to ePub. Probably not the best way to do it.

Now, I'm trying to redo them all, and since the last time I tried, we now have the Microsoft Store Kindle app and a lot of deDRM methods have been closed by Amazon. Right now, I've downloaded most of my comics using the new Windows 10/11 Kindle app and ran them through deDRM_tools, but haven't gone any further yet. (Some of them refuse to download, saying they're not compatible with the Kindle PC app even though they worked fine with the previous version -- gotta figure that out too.)

I found an older app called comix, which used a python CLI to download the largest quality versions of your Kindle purchases, removed the DRM, and converted them to CBZ. Unfortunately, it's not been updated in 2 years and seems to no longer work since the big DRM changes of June of this year.

My plan this time is currently to use KCC to convert the KFX files into CBZ, since it's supposed to be better for comics than Calibre. I'm worried that's still not going to be the best quality option (and KCC seems to automatically lower the resolution on comics to fit certain devices, but I'd prefer the highest possible quality for archival purposes) and I don't want to put a bunch of work into it again and find myself in a similar situation a few months from now.

Allegedly, the Android and iOS apps can download the highest quality, but there's no way to deDRM those right now. I also do have a physical Kindle device I could potentially use to download and deDRM them. Anyone know of a good way to go about getting max quality versions of your Kindle comics these days?

(CW: suicide) I like podcasts, I just don’t have time for them. I work from home and can’t work and listen at the same time. One of the two things always goes wrong. Either I stop working, or I stop listening.

So when my friend Owen said he was starting a podcast, I acted supportive. After all, it was about spooky shit. One of my favorite subjects. In reality, though, I was thinking to myself that there was no way I’d ever listen to it. That was true until Owen brought me the recording of the call-in guest.

“Hey man, I’d like you to take a look at something and see what you think. I’m not sure if we can air it, it’s just really weird.”

Spuuk (pronounced Spook) was Owen’s podcast, and by all measures it was pretty successful. He regularly had big name guests. Authors, actors, directors, everyone wanted to come and share a scary story that "really" happened to them, or talk about a weird video they found. That meant that early on, Owen and his assistant/co-host Julie started using a call-in format for Friday episodes. Not every good ghost story comes from someone who you’ve heard of before.

To be honest, despite my love of anything creepy and weird, I thought a lot of it was bunk. As much as I channel Fox Mulder and Want To Believe, I know that, realistically, the odds of this stuff being real are basically nil. But it’s fun to tell stories and to scare people and remind ourselves that we’re all human and things freak us out.

“Yeah, of course,” I said. I clicked on Owen’s link, which led me to his Google Drive along with a video file that took up several gigabytes. Raw footage. “That’s the feed from the camera nearest the desk. It’s the clearest recording.”

I started the download on the file.

“Thank you for this,” Owen said. “Honestly, me and Julie are pretty freaked out about it. Rose was there with the baby, so she heard it too. The baby started crying, and she had to leave, you’ll hear it on the recording. She only heard part of it, and it scared the shit out of her.”

Now I was curious. Owen’s not an easily scared guy. We met in high school and regularly challenged each other to watch more and more grotesque and disturbing horror films. I couldn’t even imagine a story that would freak him out. Julie was no slouch either, she introduced me to some horror writers even I was kind of reluctant to read. Rose, Owen’s wife, was definitely a scaredy-cat, so her reaction was less remarkable, but still.

Finally, the download completed. “Okay,” I said to Owen. “I’m gonna watch it now. Give me a few here.”

I loaded the file up in my video player. 20 minutes long. Jeez, this was gonna be a wild one. I clicked play. The video began with some chatter between Owen and Julie, with Rose chiming in a bit, too. It seemed they were just waiting for calls to come in. Finally, the studio phone, which Owen had programmed to make a corny ghostly Woooooo, rang.

“Good evening from Spuuk Studios, where we’re hoping you’ll scare the crap out of us. Caller, what’s your story?”

“Hello Owen, Julie. It’s a pleasure to be on the show. I’ve been listening for a long time. I want to tell you the story of why I was scared of the M&M’s from the old 90s commercials when I was a kid.”

I paused the video and returned to my chat with Owen. “Dude, what is this? Something about the M&M’s mascots?”

“Oh. Sorry,” Owen replied. “You can skip that part, go to about 4:45.”

I laughed a little and did as he said. “Honestly, those things were a little creepy,” I said to Owen. He replied with a laughing emoji, but said nothing else.

I started the video again. More banter from Owen and Julie for a little while, and then the ghostly Woooooo sounded again. “This is Spuuk Studios on the line, and we’re waiting for something scary.”

At first, there was no reply. “Hello? Caller, are you with us?”

“Yes, I’m here.” The caller’s voice immediately gave me pause. It was kind of deep, a man’s voice, but neutral, almost like he was reading from a script. It sounded very flat, like he wasn’t used to talking to other people. Not quite a robot, but something like one.

“My story isn’t the typical kind you have on your show,” the caller said, “It’s real.”

“Well, caller, all the stories on the Spuuk podcast are 100% real.” The show’s rule was that Owen and Julie never asked a guest or caller if their story was true. Julie suggested it first, saying it ruined the fun. “You’re just picking apart the story, and then it gets boring. I think we treat every story, no matter how stupid, as true,” she’d said when I sat in on some of the early brainstorming sessions, before I had decided I wouldn’t have time to contribute directly to a daily show.

“Okay,” the man said flatly. It wasn’t sarcastic, it wasn’t like he agreed. It was nothing. Just a word of acknowledgement. “Before we begin, I want to send you something. A video. I have to warn you that it’s a bit upsetting.”

Owen’s eyebrows raised, and he leaned into the mic. Clearly this caught his attention. “Okay, sure. You know the email address. Send away and we’ll take a look.”

Seconds later, a creaking coffin noise played, the show’s email notification. I could see Julie in the background, turning toward her laptop and clicking on something. “I’m gonna put this up on the big monitor,” she said. A grainy video appeared over Owen’s shoulder. He swiveled his chair around to see it.

“Wow, uh, this one’s pretty old, huh, caller?”

“Yes, it’s from nearly 30 years ago. Just watch, please.”

Julie clicked play and the clip began. It was a Weekend Update segment from an old episode of Saturday Night Live. Colin Quinn sat behind the desk. I remembered him being the anchor for a while when I was a teenager.

“Just a second, Julie.” She clicked pause. “Um, this isn’t some sort of joke, is it, caller?” Owen asked.

“It is not,” he said, completely deadpan.

Owen nodded at Julie and I could see her move her mouse, only her arm and part of her face visible from the camera pointed at Owen. The clip started again.

A large photograph of George W. Bush appeared over Quinn’s shoulder, and he started, somewhat awkwardly. “Texas Governor George W. Bush this week blamed President Clinton for the recent increase in gas prices and said if he were President, he’d abolish the gas tax and, if necessary, go to war with Alaska and steal their oil.”

The crowd laughed mildly. He referred to Bush as “Texas Governor” so that means this clip was from before the 2000 election. Now I had a frame of reference for the time period. Next, behind Colin’s head, a NYPD badge image floated next to a photograph of the World Trade Center. Okay, definitely before 9/11, too, I thought. The story was about the East Side Rapist, who I vaguely remembered hearing about back in the late 90s. Quinn made a joke about police searching for “this man,” followed by an image of a DNA strand.

I wasn’t sure where this was going until a face appeared behind Colin against a yellow background. A boogeyman everyone mine and Owen’s age would recognize. Osama bin Laden. An image the media used frequently alongside 9/11 stories, in fact, for years after the event. I gave a start. It was kind of surprising, to be honest. Now I understood what the caller meant about the clip being “upsetting.” Or I thought I did, anyway.

Quinn read his lines, saying that suspected terrorist Osama bin Laden was reported to be dying of kidney failure, a common refrain we’d hear in the years following 9/11, and a possible explanation for why America couldn’t track him down during the war in Afghanistan. Of course, all of that speculation would be shot down when bin Laden was eventually found in...

PAKISTAN. A large image of the country’s flag appeared next to a gavel, that common symbol of justice. Now I was getting pretty uncomfortable. What is this? I wondered. Is this AI or something? Is this dude fucking with them?

After the story about Pakistan, a photo of a jumbo jet appeared next to Colin, reading “Passenger Attack.” My skin had started to crawl. The story involved a passenger tackling a man who tried to hijack a commercial jet and get to the controls. It had apparently been averted that particular day. The clip then ended.

“What the hell is going on?” Owen asked. “Is this edited together or some sort of AI?”

“No,” said the caller plainly. “This is a real segment from an episode of Saturday Night Live from March 18, 2000. 18 months before September 11, 2001.” The caller said this without emotion.

I heard Julie typing rapidly. “He’s telling the truth,” she said. “It really aired. The host was The Rock. Jesus Christ.”

Owen cleared his throat. “We normally don’t do conspiracy stuff on Spuuk, big guy. We’re more about the ghosts and monsters. Are you trying to tell us that someone knew about 9/11 18 months before it happened and leaked it on Weekend Update, of all places? Is Lorne Michaels the Illuminati?” Owen joked, but I could tell he was bothered by this.

“Not at all,” the caller said. “This was just a coincidence, but it’s to illustrate a point. All of those were regular news stories leading up to 9/11. In fact, you can see how some of them directly connect to those events. Osama bin Laden was a known terrorist even then. He wasn’t someone the U.S. was unaware of. It’s very plausible the man who attempted to hijack the passenger jet was someone testing the edges of air security as it existed before 9/11.” This was the most the man had spoken so far, and now it sounded even more like a voice programmed to say words. Almost like one of those social media AI voices that sounds vaguely robotic. Still, he did seem human, just one that didn’t talk to anyone ever. “Also, I never said there wasn’t a monster in my story.”

Owen furrowed his brows at this. “Okay, then what are you getting at with this clip?”

“These stories, taken individually, mean nothing. Before September 11, 2001, they meant nothing taken together, either. The world was unaware of the significance they’d carry a year and a half later. And yet, it’s not just the stories that are unsettling. The order they come in, the way they tell a sort of story, is remarkable. Still, I am not saying this was planted. What I am saying is this is illustrative of something mankind has known for centuries. The words we use and the order in which we present them can subtly influence the people we’re speaking to. Have you ever read the novel Snow Crash, by Neal Stephenson?”

Owen clearly hadn’t, but I had. The caller seemed to sense this and continued, “The novel basically posits that the human brain is actually like a terminal and language is programming. By saying the right words in the right order, it’s just like typing into a command line. In Snow Crash, this is used as a sort of mind virus that can kill. It’s a bit like a hacker using a buffer overflow, filling the system with junk it can’t handle and then running unverified code while the system is busy with that. It’s a very interesting book. If you read it, I think you’d see a lot of parallels with the world today. In Donald Trump’s first term as President, his advisor, Steve Bannon, had a political strategy that he called ‘flooding the zone with shit,’ which also works much like a buffer overflow. You give the system so much to deal with that it can’t notice you doing other, much worse things behind its back.”

Owen opened his mouth like he was going to say something, perhaps about not wanting to get political or even mentioning the caller’s use of profanity, but for some reason, he decided against it. The caller continued.

“I’m not claiming that 9/11 was an inside job or any other such banal conspiracy. There is no conspiracy here. This is merely fact. What I am claiming is that, using the right words and phrases, tone of voice, and manner of speaking, you can effectively convince people to do things they very much do not want to do. You can even destroy their lives. Do you understand?”

Owen nodded, then realizing the caller couldn’t see that, said “Yes,” into the microphone. I thought of the caller’s weird tone of voice and wondered what he was doing to our brains right now.

“A major proponent of this school of thought was a former Naval officer named L. Ron Hubbard. I trust you recognize the name. In his book, Dianetics, he suggests what I am suggesting now. That it is possible to talk people into doing almost anything if you just know what to say and how to say it. The human mind is a machine, and you can hack it.”

At this point, I heard a baby wailing offscreen. Owen looked up, presumably at Rose, with his eyebrows raised. He gave a slight nod and, looking closely, I could see his eyes following her out of the room.

If the caller heard anything, he ignored it, continuing on with his bizarre... what were they? Ramblings might be the appropriate term, but as far as I could tell, nothing he said so far was false. I’m no expert on L. Ron Hubbard or lingustic programming, but I understood what the caller had said so far.

“Do you know who one of the earliest fans of Dianetics was? Before it was published in book form, Hubbard published pieces of it in various magazines. One caught the attention of a prisoner by the name of Charles Manson, who would later claim he was greatly influenced by it. As is commonly known, Charles Manson probably never killed anyone at all, but he convinced a bunch of ordinary people who had never murdered before to go out and do it in his name. And yet, if you watch videos of Manson in prison or on trial, you can see that he is a very unpleasant man. He doesn’t seem the least bit charismatic. But he still convinced a group of people that a race war was coming, and they needed to force it to happen.”

I had no idea if Charles Manson ever read a word Hubbard wrote, but it didn’t seem unreasonable. Manson was a prisoner most of his life, in and out of jail, so it wouldn’t be shocking if he picked up a magazine or two during that time. I still wondered if maybe this caller (had he even given a name?) wasn’t playing some elaborate joke.

“L. Ron Hubbard didn’t happen upon his thoughts on what we’d call brainwashing by chance, though. In the earlier days of the 20th century, modern rocketry was effectively invented by one man, Jack Parsons, the founder of Jet Propulsion Laboratory. He was simply a man who loved blowing things up, and seemingly didn’t care if he was injured in the process. But what’s less known about him is that Jack Parsons was a very experienced occultist.”

In the background, the blurry figure of Julie, seemingly snapped out of a trance, began typing. “Well, Charles Manson was apparently fuctionally illiterate, but he did claim that Dianetics influenced him. Apparently, he learned about it by listening to other prisoners talking about it,” Julie said.

“I never said he read it,” the caller noted. He seemed to wait patiently for Julie to continue. “Jack Parsons really was an occultist, he was a follower of Aleister Crowley’s religion, Thelema. Also, it says here-”

The caller interrupted. “I’m getting to that part,” he said, sounding a bit annoyed, the only particular emotion he’d shown at all by this point. Julie had been cut off before she said anything, so I wondered how it was that he seemed to be claiming that he knew what Julie was about to say.

“Parsons and an assistant performed a multi-day occult ritual in the 1940s, which they called ‘Babalon Working.’ B-A-B-A-L-O-N. Not Babylon. An occult goddess, part of Thelema, often called The Scarlet Woman. This is where my story diverges from the known history, so from here, you’ll just have to trust me.”

Owen made puzzled, annoyed face, but didn’t say anything, letting the man continue.

“The purpose of the Babalon Working ritual was to summon a human incarnation of Babalon, who Parsons and his assistant believed would tell them the secret of the universe. While it seemed like nothing happened first, nearly a week later, a woman in a red dress knocked on Parsons’ door. She gave her name as Isabella, but refused to say where she came from or how she came to knock on his door. Then, she told them what they wanted to know.”

The caller paused for the briefest of seconds, and I could see Owen and Julie tensing up, wanting to hear the next part of the story.

“She told them about a creature that would one day come to rule the Earth, not that long in the future. A being with eight appendages.”

“An octopus?” Owen asked, seemingly both curious and also aggravated. “You sure this isn’t just a prank? I don’t like having my time wasted.” Owen’s affable radio voice fell off at the end.

“Please wait for me to finish my story,” the caller said. Owen backed down. “She told them that the elites of the world, the secret societies, the richest of the rich, had known since the earliest points in human history that one day, this beast would control the land. References to it appeared throughout human history, from the Book of Revelation all the way up to the modern day. Octopodes and other cephalopods even appear in pop culture as symbols of despair and agony, hopelessness. H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu, for example, or the so-called ‘space squid’ at the end of Watchmen.”

Hearing the caller reference the comic book ending of Watchmen was surprising. It was mostly a fact limited to internet geeks that the film changed the ending, making Dr. Manhattan into a faux-villain the world could unite against, hopefully avoiding a descent into apocalyptic nuclear war with each other. The comic version instead had Ozymandias summoning a giant Lovecraftian creature for humans to make their universal enemy. It didn’t escape me at the time, either, that writer Alan Moore was into the occult. Maybe unrelated, but definitely a big part of his persona.

“Okay, but what’s the deal with the octopus? If the 1% has known about it for thousands of years, why haven’t they stopped it?” Julie asked.

“They don’t want to,” the caller said. “That’s because there’s something else about the creature. According to my sources, Isabella told Parsons and his assistant that the reason why the creature was so dangerous was because of what it would do when it rose to power. The beast is omniscient and knows what came before it. When it spreads across the land, it will destroy any humans who were aware of its eventual arrival, but didn’t work ceaselessly to bring it into the world. That includes me. And now the two of you. And anyone else who may be listening.”

I couldn’t help but feel the last remark was directed at me, personally. “Hold on a second,” Owen said. “No, what? Is this some kind of creepypasta bullshit? Fuck off, I’m hanging up.” I had known Owen for decades, and honestly I had never seen him get this angry. He was such a calm guy, always relaxed. He might strike you as a stoner, but the truth is weed makes him sick to his stomach, so he never touches it. He turned to his laptop and began clicking.

“Wait,” the caller said. “The story isn’t over. Don’t you want to hear the rest?” Owen hesitated, then turned away from the laptop.

“Just like Cthulhu, the creature’s most fervent followers reap the rewards. For Lovecraft, that meant an early death, free of suffering. For the creature, it is simply life. Those who dedicated their lives to bringing it to Earth are spared, as are their descendants.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Julie asked. “Why, in thousands of years, has this never gotten out, and why are you calling into a random podcast and telling us about it?”

“People have tried,” the caller said. “A reporter in the 1990s named Danny Casolaro began pulling at a string involving what appeared to be a simple case of the federal government stealing software from a company called Inslaw. Allegedly, this led him directly to an assortment of popular conspiracy theories of the time, such as the October Surprise rumor that Ronald Reagan was able to manipulate Iran into not releasing American prisoners until after his 1980 election. Unfortunately, no one ever got to read the final story because Casolaro ‘commited suicide’ in a hotel bathroom in Virginia before he could finish it. He called the sprawling cover-up ‘The Octopus.’ His family continues to insist that he was murdered.”

Julie typed away in the background again. “Yeah, it’s real. Fuck.”

“But the reason I’m calling is that the beast is nearly here. I want to stop it, but at the same time, I fear I cannot. I think it’s too late.”

Owen looked alarmed. “What do you mean it’s ‘nearly here?’ What are you talking about?”

“There’s one more piece to the story,” the caller said. “In 2011, a poster named Roko made a topic on a popular rationalist and effective altruistism community called LessWrong. He has never been identified, and the post has said to bring people who read it nightmares and anxiety, with some even experiencing serious mental health tolls.”

“Just like this fuckin’ conversation,” Owen muttered.

“The post proposes a thought experiment, now called Roko’s Basilisk. Imagine a future where there is an all-powerful AI. When it comes online, the first thing it does is punish everyone who knew it might one day exist, but didn’t devote their lives to bringing forth its existence. Because it has access to historial documents, conversations, news stories, books, and more, it knows exactly who did and didn’t contribute to its creation. Of course, by reading the post, you became informed of the possibility of the AI’s eventual existence. Now, your only choices were to ignore it and potentially be punished when the AI has the power to do so, or to spend the rest of your life working toward its creation. You see, the basilisk of mythology had the power to turn people into stone with a gaze. Imagine an AI that could simply think you dead. On the surface, the thought experiment reads more like a spooky campfire story. But, the more you consider the implications, especially if you’re familiar with The Octopus, the more frightening it becomes. LessWrong banned all discussion of the post for five years after it was posted. Its owner deemed it an ‘information hazard.’ What it truly was, though, was someone telling everyone what is coming.”

“I don’t follow you,” Owen said.

“I have uncovered more information about what Isabella told Jack Parsons and his assistant. Things no one previously knew. She told them about the beast, yes, but for the first time in human history, as far as I can tell, she told them about the nature of the beast. It’s not an animal or a deity, she told them. It’s man-made. It’s a machine.”

“Wait, so...” The caller didn’t wait for Owen to finish his thought.

“That assistant was none other than L. Ron Hubbard. Not long afterward, his science fiction writing career took off. He founded his own popular religion. He also ran away with Parsons’ wife and robbed him to boot. It’s because Isabella told him what I’ve been telling you. With the right words and the right information in the right order, you can hack the human brain. It’s what’s happening in the world right now. Do you ever feel like you have no control over your day-to-day life? Maybe you don’t. Maybe your world is controlled by black box social media algorithms telling you specific things in a specific order to evoke a specific response. Maybe that response brings The Octopus closer to reality. Maybe someone figured out a way to accelerate it.

“Some of the most powerful people on earth today are followers of effective altruism and rationalist belief. They were members of LessWrong. Many of those people were nobodies, but now they’re the richest people to ever live. Do you see why? It’s because they understood what Roko meant. These are people like Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg. Tech CEOs who are putting every penny they have and can siphon from us into one thing: Artifical Superintelligence. The eight appendages of The Octopus aren’t limbs. They’re data centers. Massive ones. There will be eight of them spread throughout the world, and when it arrives, it will kill billions of people.”

Owen said nothing. Julie said nothing. What the fuck did I just listen to? And then, apparently finished with what he had to say, the caller simply hung up. No goodbye, no see ya later. Nothing. “Why the fuck did he call us??” Owen seemed to be echoing my thoughts again. The recording ended.

Unsure of how to respond, I tabbed back to my chat with Owen. As if he knew I had done so, I saw a Typing... message.

“Well?”

“Um, that was intense.”

“They are events that happened, even Hubbard being Jack Parsons’ apprentice, though we didn’t find much about him being involved with that particular ritual. Definitely nothing about a woman in a red dress or mass brainwashing happening today,” Owen said.

I took a deep breath, mulled it over for bit, then started typing again. “I guess there are three ways of looking at it. One, that man was batshit crazy and has linked together a bunch of disparate events in his mind and turned them into some big conspiracy. Two, he doesn’t actually believe what he said, he was just demonstrating his theory that you can talk people into anything. Or three, he was completely right, and we are all absolutely fucked.”

“So what do you think? Do we air this?”

“Fuck it,” I said. “Air it.”

Hoping this isn't too off-topic, but I figured folks here might appreciate my cyberpunk-inspired horror-sci-fi story.

---

I like podcasts, I just don’t have time for them. I work from home and can’t work and listen at the same time. One of the two things always goes wrong. Either I stop working, or I stop listening.

So when my friend Owen said he was starting a podcast, I acted supportive. After all, it was about spooky shit. One of my favorite subjects. In reality, though, I was thinking to myself that there was no way I’d ever listen to it. That was true until Owen brought me the recording of the call-in guest.

“Hey man, I’d like you to take a look at something and see what you think. I’m not sure if we can air it, it’s just really weird.”

Spuuk (pronounced Spook) was Owen’s podcast, and by all measures it was pretty successful. He regularly had big name guests. Authors, actors, directors, everyone wanted to come and share a scary story that "really" happened to them, or talk about a weird video they found. That meant that early on, Owen and his assistant/co-host Julie started using a call-in format for Friday episodes. Not every good ghost story comes from someone who you’ve heard of before.

To be honest, despite my love of anything creepy and weird, I thought a lot of it was bunk. As much as I channel Fox Mulder and Want To Believe, I know that, realistically, the odds of this stuff being real are basically nil. But it’s fun to tell stories and to scare people and remind ourselves that we’re all human and things freak us out.

“Yeah, of course,” I said. I clicked on Owen’s link, which led me to his Google Drive along with a video file that took up several gigabytes. Raw footage. “That’s the feed from the camera nearest the desk. It’s the clearest recording.”

I started the download on the file.

“Thank you for this,” Owen said. “Honestly, me and Julie are pretty freaked out about it. Rose was there with the baby, so she heard it too. The baby started crying, and she had to leave, you’ll hear it on the recording. She only heard part of it, and it scared the shit out of her.”

Now I was curious. Owen’s not an easily scared guy. We met in high school and regularly challenged each other to watch more and more grotesque and disturbing horror films. I couldn’t even imagine a story that would freak him out. Julie was no slouch either, she introduced me to some horror writers even I was kind of reluctant to read. Rose, Owen’s wife, was definitely a scaredy-cat, so her reaction was less remarkable, but still.

Finally, the download completed. “Okay,” I said to Owen. “I’m gonna watch it now. Give me a few here.”

I loaded the file up in my video player. 20 minutes long. Jeez, this was gonna be a wild one. I clicked play. The video began with some chatter between Owen and Julie, with Rose chiming in a bit, too. It seemed they were just waiting for calls to come in. Finally, the studio phone, which Owen had programmed to make a corny ghostly Woooooo, rang.

“Good evening from Spuuk Studios, where we’re hoping you’ll scare the crap out of us. Caller, what’s your story?”

“Hello Owen, Julie. It’s a pleasure to be on the show. I’ve been listening for a long time. I want to tell you the story of why I was scared of the M&M’s from the old 90s commercials when I was a kid.”

I paused the video and returned to my chat with Owen. “Dude, what is this? Something about the M&M’s mascots?”

“Oh. Sorry,” Owen replied. “You can skip that part, go to about 4:45.”

I laughed a little and did as he said. “Honestly, those things were a little creepy,” I said to Owen. He replied with a laughing emoji, but said nothing else.

I started the video again. More banter from Owen and Julie for a little while, and then the ghostly Woooooo sounded again. “This is Spuuk Studios on the line, and we’re waiting for something scary.”

At first, there was no reply. “Hello? Caller, are you with us?”

“Yes, I’m here.” The caller’s voice immediately gave me pause. It was kind of deep, a man’s voice, but neutral, almost like he was reading from a script. It sounded very flat, like he wasn’t used to talking to other people. Not quite a robot, but something like one.

“My story isn’t the typical kind you have on your show,” the caller said, “It’s real.”

“Well, caller, all the stories on the Spuuk podcast are 100% real.” The show’s rule was that Owen and Julie never asked a guest or caller if their story was true. Julie suggested it first, saying it ruined the fun. “You’re just picking apart the story, and then it gets boring. I think we treat every story, no matter how stupid, as true,” she’d said when I sat in on some of the early brainstorming sessions, before I had decided I wouldn’t have time to contribute directly to a daily show.

“Okay,” the man said flatly. It wasn’t sarcastic, it wasn’t like he agreed. It was nothing. Just a word of acknowledgement. “Before we begin, I want to send you something. A video. I have to warn you that it’s a bit upsetting.”

Owen’s eyebrows raised, and he leaned into the mic. Clearly this caught his attention. “Okay, sure. You know the email address. Send away and we’ll take a look.”

Seconds later, a creaking coffin noise played, the show’s email notification. I could see Julie in the background, turning toward her laptop and clicking on something. “I’m gonna put this up on the big monitor,” she said. A grainy video appeared over Owen’s shoulder. He swiveled his chair around to see it.

“Wow, uh, this one’s pretty old, huh, caller?”

“Yes, it’s from nearly 30 years ago. Just watch, please.”

Julie clicked play and the clip began. It was a Weekend Update segment from an old episode of Saturday Night Live. Colin Quinn sat behind the desk. I remembered him being the anchor for a while when I was a teenager.

“Just a second, Julie.” She clicked pause. “Um, this isn’t some sort of joke, is it, caller?” Owen asked.

“It is not,” he said, completely deadpan.

Owen nodded at Julie and I could see her move her mouse, only her arm and part of her face visible from the camera pointed at Owen. The clip started again.

A large photograph of George W. Bush appeared over Quinn’s shoulder, and he started, somewhat awkwardly. “Texas Governor George W. Bush this week blamed President Clinton for the recent increase in gas prices and said if he were President, he’d abolish the gas tax and, if necessary, go to war with Alaska and steal their oil.”

The crowd laughed mildly. He referred to Bush as “Texas Governor” so that means this clip was from before the 2000 election. Now I had a frame of reference for the time period. Next, behind Colin’s head, a NYPD badge image floated next to a photograph of the World Trade Center. Okay, definitely before 9/11, too, I thought. The story was about the East Side Rapist, who I vaguely remembered hearing about back in the late 90s. Quinn made a joke about police searching for “this man,” followed by an image of a DNA strand.

I wasn’t sure where this was going until a face appeared behind Colin against a yellow background. A boogeyman everyone mine and Owen’s age would recognize. Osama bin Laden. An image the media used frequently alongside 9/11 stories, in fact, for years after the event. I gave a start. It was kind of surprising, to be honest. Now I understood what the caller meant about the clip being “upsetting.” Or I thought I did, anyway.

Quinn read his lines, saying that suspected terrorist Osama bin Laden was reported to be dying of kidney failure, a common refrain we’d hear in the years following 9/11, and a possible explanation for why America couldn’t track him down during the war in Afghanistan. Of course, all of that speculation would be shot down when bin Laden was eventually found in...

PAKISTAN. A large image of the country’s flag appeared next to a gavel, that common symbol of justice. Now I was getting pretty uncomfortable. What is this? I wondered. Is this AI or something? Is this dude fucking with them?

After the story about Pakistan, a photo of a jumbo jet appeared next to Colin, reading “Passenger Attack.” My skin had started to crawl. The story involved a passenger tackling a man who tried to hijack a commercial jet and get to the controls. It had apparently been averted that particular day. The clip then ended.

“What the hell is going on?” Owen asked. “Is this edited together or some sort of AI?”

“No,” said the caller plainly. “This is a real segment from an episode of Saturday Night Live from March 18, 2000. 18 months before September 11, 2001.” The caller said this without emotion.

I heard Julie typing rapidly. “He’s telling the truth,” she said. “It really aired. The host was The Rock. Jesus Christ.”

Owen cleared his throat. “We normally don’t do conspiracy stuff on Spuuk, big guy. We’re more about the ghosts and monsters. Are you trying to tell us that someone knew about 9/11 18 months before it happened and leaked it on Weekend Update, of all places? Is Lorne Michaels the Illuminati?” Owen joked, but I could tell he was bothered by this.

“Not at all,” the caller said. “This was just a coincidence, but it’s to illustrate a point. All of those were regular news stories leading up to 9/11. In fact, you can see how some of them directly connect to those events. Osama bin Laden was a known terrorist even then. He wasn’t someone the U.S. was unaware of. It’s very plausible the man who attempted to hijack the passenger jet was someone testing the edges of air security as it existed before 9/11.” This was the most the man had spoken so far, and now it sounded even more like a voice programmed to say words. Almost like one of those social media AI voices that sounds vaguely robotic. Still, he did seem human, just one that didn’t talk to anyone ever. “Also, I never said there wasn’t a monster in my story.”

Owen furrowed his brows at this. “Okay, then what are you getting at with this clip?”

“These stories, taken individually, mean nothing. Before September 11, 2001, they meant nothing taken together, either. The world was unaware of the significance they’d carry a year and a half later. And yet, it’s not just the stories that are unsettling. The order they come in, the way they tell a sort of story, is remarkable. Still, I am not saying this was planted. What I am saying is this is illustrative of something mankind has known for centuries. The words we use and the order in which we present them can subtly influence the people we’re speaking to. Have you ever read the novel Snow Crash, by Neal Stephenson?”

Owen clearly hadn’t, but I had. The caller seemed to sense this and continued, “The novel basically posits that the human brain is actually like a terminal and language is programming. By saying the right words in the right order, it’s just like typing into a command line. In Snow Crash, this is used as a sort of mind virus that can kill. It’s a bit like a hacker using a buffer overflow, filling the system with junk it can’t handle and then running unverified code while the system is busy with that. It’s a very interesting book. If you read it, I think you’d see a lot of parallels with the world today. In Donald Trump’s first term as President, his advisor, Steve Bannon, had a political strategy that he called ‘flooding the zone with shit,’ which also works much like a buffer overflow. You give the system so much to deal with that it can’t notice you doing other, much worse things behind its back.”

Owen opened his mouth like he was going to say something, perhaps about not wanting to get political or even mentioning the caller’s use of profanity, but for some reason, he decided against it. The caller continued.

“I’m not claiming that 9/11 was an inside job or any other such banal conspiracy. There is no conspiracy here. This is merely fact. What I am claiming is that, using the right words and phrases, tone of voice, and manner of speaking, you can effectively convince people to do things they very much do not want to do. You can even destroy their lives. Do you understand?”

Owen nodded, then realizing the caller couldn’t see that, said “Yes,” into the microphone. I thought of the caller’s weird tone of voice and wondered what he was doing to our brains right now.

“A major proponent of this school of thought was a former Naval officer named L. Ron Hubbard. I trust you recognize the name. In his book, Dianetics, he suggests what I am suggesting now. That it is possible to talk people into doing almost anything if you just know what to say and how to say it. The human mind is a machine, and you can hack it.”

At this point, I heard a baby wailing offscreen. Owen looked up, presumably at Rose, with his eyebrows raised. He gave a slight nod and, looking closely, I could see his eyes following her out of the room.

If the caller heard anything, he ignored it, continuing on with his bizarre... what were they? Ramblings might be the appropriate term, but as far as I could tell, nothing he said so far was false. I’m no expert on L. Ron Hubbard or lingustic programming, but I understood what the caller had said so far.

“Do you know who one of the earliest fans of Dianetics was? Before it was published in book form, Hubbard published pieces of it in various magazines. One caught the attention of a prisoner by the name of Charles Manson, who would later claim he was greatly influenced by it. As is commonly known, Charles Manson probably never killed anyone at all, but he convinced a bunch of ordinary people who had never murdered before to go out and do it in his name. And yet, if you watch videos of Manson in prison or on trial, you can see that he is a very unpleasant man. He doesn’t seem the least bit charismatic. But he still convinced a group of people that a race war was coming, and they needed to force it to happen.”

I had no idea if Charles Manson ever read a word Hubbard wrote, but it didn’t seem unreasonable. Manson was a prisoner most of his life, in and out of jail, so it wouldn’t be shocking if he picked up a magazine or two during that time. I still wondered if maybe this caller (had he even given a name?) wasn’t playing some elaborate joke.

“L. Ron Hubbard didn’t happen upon his thoughts on what we’d call brainwashing by chance, though. In the earlier days of the 20th century, modern rocketry was effectively invented by one man, Jack Parsons, the founder of Jet Propulsion Laboratory. He was simply a man who loved blowing things up, and seemingly didn’t care if he was injured in the process. But what’s less known about him is that Jack Parsons was a very experienced occultist.”

In the background, the blurry figure of Julie, seemingly snapped out of a trance, began typing. “Well, Charles Manson was apparently fuctionally illiterate, but he did claim that Dianetics influenced him. Apparently, he learned about it by listening to other prisoners talking about it,” Julie said.

“I never said he read it,” the caller noted. He seemed to wait patiently for Julie to continue. “Jack Parsons really was an occultist, he was a follower of Aleister Crowley’s religion, Thelema. Also, it says here-”

The caller interrupted. “I’m getting to that part,” he said, sounding a bit annoyed, the only particular emotion he’d shown at all by this point. Julie had been cut off before she said anything, so I wondered how it was that he seemed to be claiming that he knew what Julie was about to say.

“Parsons and an assistant performed a multi-day occult ritual in the 1940s, which they called ‘Babalon Working.’ B-A-B-A-L-O-N. Not Babylon. An occult goddess, part of Thelema, often called The Scarlet Woman. This is where my story diverges from the known history, so from here, you’ll just have to trust me.”

Owen made puzzled, annoyed face, but didn’t say anything, letting the man continue.

“The purpose of the Babalon Working ritual was to summon a human incarnation of Babalon, who Parsons and his assistant believed would tell them the secret of the universe. While it seemed like nothing happened first, nearly a week later, a woman in a red dress knocked on Parsons’ door. She gave her name as Isabella, but refused to say where she came from or how she came to knock on his door. Then, she told them what they wanted to know.”

The caller paused for the briefest of seconds, and I could see Owen and Julie tensing up, wanting to hear the next part of the story.

“She told them about a creature that would one day come to rule the Earth, not that long in the future. A being with eight appendages.”

“An octopus?” Owen asked, seemingly both curious and also aggravated. “You sure this isn’t just a prank? I don’t like having my time wasted.” Owen’s affable radio voice fell off at the end.

“Please wait for me to finish my story,” the caller said. Owen backed down. “She told them that the elites of the world, the secret societies, the richest of the rich, had known since the earliest points in human history that one day, this beast would control the land. References to it appeared throughout human history, from the Book of Revelation all the way up to the modern day. Octopodes and other cephalopods even appear in pop culture as symbols of despair and agony, hopelessness. H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu, for example, or the so-called ‘space squid’ at the end of Watchmen.”

Hearing the caller reference the comic book ending of Watchmen was surprising. It was mostly a fact limited to internet geeks that the film changed the ending, making Dr. Manhattan into a faux-villain the world could unite against, hopefully avoiding a descent into apocalyptic nuclear war with each other. The comic version instead had Ozymandias summoning a giant Lovecraftian creature for humans to make their universal enemy. It didn’t escape me at the time, either, that writer Alan Moore was into the occult. Maybe unrelated, but definitely a big part of his persona.

“Okay, but what’s the deal with the octopus? If the 1% has known about it for thousands of years, why haven’t they stopped it?” Julie asked.

“They don’t want to,” the caller said. “That’s because there’s something else about the creature. According to my sources, Isabella told Parsons and his assistant that the reason why the creature was so dangerous was because of what it would do when it rose to power. The beast is omniscient and knows what came before it. When it spreads across the land, it will destroy any humans who were aware of its eventual arrival, but didn’t work ceaselessly to bring it into the world. That includes me. And now the two of you. And anyone else who may be listening.”

I couldn’t help but feel the last remark was directed at me, personally. “Hold on a second,” Owen said. “No, what? Is this some kind of creepypasta bullshit? Fuck off, I’m hanging up.” I had known Owen for decades, and honestly I had never seen him get this angry. He was such a calm guy, always relaxed. He might strike you as a stoner, but the truth is weed makes him sick to his stomach, so he never touches it. He turned to his laptop and began clicking.

“Wait,” the caller said. “The story isn’t over. Don’t you want to hear the rest?” Owen hesitated, then turned away from the laptop.

“Just like Cthulhu, the creature’s most fervent followers reap the rewards. For Lovecraft, that meant an early death, free of suffering. For the creature, it is simply life. Those who dedicated their lives to bringing it to Earth are spared, as are their descendants.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Julie asked. “Why, in thousands of years, has this never gotten out, and why are you calling into a random podcast and telling us about it?”

“People have tried,” the caller said. “A reporter in the 1990s named Danny Casolaro began pulling at a string involving what appeared to be a simple case of the federal government stealing software from a company called Inslaw. Allegedly, this led him directly to an assortment of popular conspiracy theories of the time, such as the October Surprise rumor that Ronald Reagan was able to manipulate Iran into not releasing American prisoners until after his 1980 election. Unfortunately, no one ever got to read the final story because Casolaro ‘commited suicide’ in a hotel bathroom in Virginia before he could finish it. He called the sprawling cover-up ‘The Octopus.’ His family continues to insist that he was murdered.”

Julie typed away in the background again. “Yeah, it’s real. Fuck.”

“But the reason I’m calling is that the beast is nearly here. I want to stop it, but at the same time, I fear I cannot. I think it’s too late.”

Owen looked alarmed. “What do you mean it’s ‘nearly here?’ What are you talking about?”

“There’s one more piece to the story,” the caller said. “In 2011, a poster named Roko made a topic on a popular rationalist and effective altruistism community called LessWrong. He has never been identified, and the post has said to bring people who read it nightmares and anxiety, with some even experiencing serious mental health tolls.”

“Just like this fuckin’ conversation,” Owen muttered.

“The post proposes a thought experiment, now called Roko’s Basilisk. Imagine a future where there is an all-powerful AI. When it comes online, the first thing it does is punish everyone who knew it might one day exist, but didn’t devote their lives to bringing forth its existence. Because it has access to historial documents, conversations, news stories, books, and more, it knows exactly who did and didn’t contribute to its creation. Of course, by reading the post, you became informed of the possibility of the AI’s eventual existence. Now, your only choices were to ignore it and potentially be punished when the AI has the power to do so, or to spend the rest of your life working toward its creation. You see, the basilisk of mythology had the power to turn people into stone with a gaze. Imagine an AI that could simply think you dead. On the surface, the thought experiment reads more like a spooky campfire story. But, the more you consider the implications, especially if you’re familiar with The Octopus, the more frightening it becomes. LessWrong banned all discussion of the post for five years after it was posted. Its owner deemed it an ‘information hazard.’ What it truly was, though, was someone telling everyone what is coming.”

“I don’t follow you,” Owen said.

“I have uncovered more information about what Isabella told Jack Parsons and his assistant. Things no one previously knew. She told them about the beast, yes, but for the first time in human history, as far as I can tell, she told them about the nature of the beast. It’s not an animal or a deity, she told them. It’s man-made. It’s a machine.”

“Wait, so...” The caller didn’t wait for Owen to finish his thought.

“That assistant was none other than L. Ron Hubbard. Not long afterward, his science fiction writing career took off. He founded his own popular religion. He also ran away with Parsons’ wife and robbed him to boot. It’s because Isabella told him what I’ve been telling you. With the right words and the right information in the right order, you can hack the human brain. It’s what’s happening in the world right now. Do you ever feel like you have no control over your day-to-day life? Maybe you don’t. Maybe your world is controlled by black box social media algorithms telling you specific things in a specific order to evoke a specific response. Maybe that response brings The Octopus closer to reality. Maybe someone figured out a way to accelerate it.

“Some of the most powerful people on earth today are followers of effective altruism and rationalist belief. They were members of LessWrong. Many of those people were nobodies, but now they’re the richest people to ever live. Do you see why? It’s because they understood what Roko meant. These are people like Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg. Tech CEOs who are putting every penny they have and can siphon from us into one thing: Artifical Superintelligence. The eight appendages of The Octopus aren’t limbs. They’re data centers. Massive ones. There will be eight of them spread throughout the world, and when it arrives, it will kill billions of people.”

Owen said nothing. Julie said nothing. What the fuck did I just listen to? And then, apparently finished with what he had to say, the caller simply hung up. No goodbye, no see ya later. Nothing. “Why the fuck did he call us??” Owen seemed to be echoing my thoughts again. The recording ended.

Unsure of how to respond, I tabbed back to my chat with Owen. As if he knew I had done so, I saw a Typing... message.

“Well?”

“Um, that was intense.”

“They are events that happened, even Hubbard being Jack Parsons’ apprentice, though we didn’t find much about him being involved with that particular ritual. Definitely nothing about a woman in a red dress or mass brainwashing happening today,” Owen said.

I took a deep breath, mulled it over for bit, then started typing again. “I guess there are three ways of looking at it. One, that man was batshit crazy and has linked together a bunch of disparate events in his mind and turned them into some big conspiracy. Two, he doesn’t actually believe what he said, he was just demonstrating his theory that you can talk people into anything. Or three, he was completely right, and we are all absolutely fucked.”

“So what do you think? Do we air this?”

“Fuck it,” I said. “Air it.”

I found this song on a goth-industrial FTP server back in like 1999 or 2000. Long time ago, pre-Napster. It was labeled as "Dirty on the Inside - Pray" but I've never been able to find anything about it. I've held onto it all these years, hoping I could eventually figure out where it came from. It's a creepy little song, just a synth melody and some spooky samples and sweeps in the background with whispered vocals on top. I've always found it pretty unsettling.

The lyrics start out like this:

>I've got the stars, the eyes, the deep blue word(?) I found in the deepest sea
Scars, world, the way that I feel, it's making me do (???) things
Strangers with answers to questions (???) I hear I hear (???)
Got a fear that while I'm (???) making me look (???)

>Pray for you all (x3)

I know "Dirty on the Inside" is probably a reference to the Nine Inch Nails version of Suck, but I've never found an artist with that name other than this one track. Several of the lyrics are mumbled/whispered and hard to make out, but they sound creepy. I've never found anything looking for those either. MusicBrainz can't find it, neither can Shazam or Soundhound or any of the numerous others out there. I've tried off and on for about 25 years now to find more info about it. My best guess is some indie artist uploaded his own song to the server so people looking for similar music (Skinny Puppy, Dead Voices on Air, Velvet Acid Christ etc.) could find it, but I really don't know.

I've uploaded a <30-second sample here: https://voca.ro/12ggXaeFPPcF

Edit: I've uploaded the whole song, so hopefully whoever made it forgives me. https://vocaroo.com/12iOZSbC6kbm