December 2nd, 1944. The Ardennes Forest, outside Libramont, France

Bravo Crew moved silently towards the town, weapons loaded. The small village of Libramont lay ahead, with dim lights flickering in the dark night. The thick foliage of the Ardennes obscured them, and the freshly fallen snow muted their steps.

Lieutenant Perry motioned for the men to ready their weapons as they crept into town. Private Harris jittered nervously, and fumbled with his rifle. Private Burch quieted him with a stern gaze, and they moved forward. Boots crunched softly on the snow and thick undergrowth.

Lieutenant Perry looked around anxiously. No alarm had been raised yet, nor had the Germans struck at them. No sniper fire from the church tower, no tank ripping through the narrow streets. There were no soft snores of sleeping French villagers. Something was wrong. Silence echoed down the cobblestone roads and the snow swirled around them.

A scream echoed behind Perry, and the company turned around with weapons raised. Nothing.

“Take roll boys,” Perry whispered to his men, his breath frosting in the freezing air. He began to count out the men. Private Burch was there, checking his magazine. Private Robin crouched on the ground, peering around anxiously. Private First Class Simpson adjusted the scope on his rifle. The other fire team stood behind them, looking at their officer, Sergeant Troesch. Private Harris was no where to be seen.

“Damnit men, lets make a run for the church! Secondary fire team, secure the village and report back to the church!” Perry ordered loudly.

The team exploded into action. Private Robin hung back, swinging his automatic Thompson around the village, while the rest made a dash for the church. He followed quickly. The second fire team headed for the nearest cottage, weapons raised, and clustered together tightly.

Once inside, the primary fire team barred the large wooden door. Perry and Simpson headed for the tower, while Robin and Burch took a look around the church. It was oddly baroque and extravagantly Romanesque for a small church, and oddly rather Catholic. A monolithic stone cross stood behind an opulent gold altar at the end of the church.

“There is something terribly wrong here Gabe,” Private Robin whispered. His statement echoed ominously through the cavernous church.

. . .

The secondary fire team bashed into a small cottage, grouped together closely. Sergeant Troesch peered about calmly, and his gaze swung towards the ruin in front of him. Two bodies were pinned to a gore-spattered wall by large iron spikes. The dead men’s faces were contorted in agony, and their limbs lay slack at their side.

Private Konrath began to retch in the corner, while all the men turned their heads in disgust.

“Damnit,” Troesch whispered, “what has happened here?”

The men gathered themselves and stood at attention, keeping their gaze away from the gruesome sight.

“Private Singh, check the upstairs. The rest of you, lets clear the remainder of this floor. Tanenbaum, get those bodies down,” Troesch ordered.

The men set to work, entering the remaining rooms and sweeping their guns through. Room after room was empty, as if nothing had ever happened, and the world was still at peace.

A scream echoed from the upstairs, and wild gunfire erupted.

“Men, down!” Troesch screamed, as he dove towards the wooden floor. Bullets exploded through the wooden ceiling and struck the ground in front of him. The team threw over a table and crawled behind it, pointing their weapons toward the staircase.

The gunfire abruptly ceased. Silence filled the house, and the men looked at each other nervously.

Suddenly, the sound of a door opening broke the silence. It creaked menacingly, and then slammed shut. The plodding of boots could be heard, thudding above them, slowly and deliberately. The men raised their guns, gritting their teeth.

Private Singh emerged from above, grinning madly.

“The Dark Man,” Singh said, in an unnaturally high voice, walking down the stairs casually, “it was him. It’s been a century, he said. The amorphous forms of the Great Old Ones hold court in Azathoth’s domain. He showed me everything.”

Singh let out a terrifying laugh, grabbed his pistol, and shot himself in the head before anyone could react.

. . .

“Gabe, hear that?” PFC Robin asked Private Burch, who was rummaging behind the altar.

Private Burch poked his head up and listened. “Gunshots.”

“For God's sake man,” Robin cried, “something is terribly wrong in this town. Radio Perry, ask for orders.”

Private Burch was ahead of him, his radio already out.

“Contact has been lost with secondary fire team. Standby, prepare to defend. We have sniper cover up here, over,” screeched the radio.

“Damn this mission, Gabe. I’ll get a window, you keep looking around,” Sam snarled, checking his weapon.

Private Robin headed for a nearby window and pointed his gun towards it, peering around warily. Private Burch began to rummage among the pews, and suddenly gasped. His hands closed around a strange book, and he lifted it high.

“Sam! A book of some sort, hidden among these benches. Maybe its just another Bible.” Private Burch exclaimed, his voice echoing loudly in the church. It was a large book bound with faded bronze clasps, and its old leather cover was decorated by strange symbols. On its worn cover the title Livre d’Eibon was emblazoned. It seemed to give off a terrible aura, and the air grew dense with its intangible malignancy.

“Gabe, thats certainly not a Bible.”

. . .

“Write down everything Private Singh said, Tanenbaum,” Colonel Troesch ordered, monotonously. “You know, I’ve heard that sort of language before.”

The men set about their work, some pulling Private Singh from the staircase, others pulling the bodies from the wall. The spikes came out with a sickeningly wet sound. PFC Tanenbaum moved his pen rhythmically over a notebook. Colonel Troesch stared, in deep thought.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed. “There was this novelist... Lovecraft was his name. He wrote a few novels a while back, and that name was mentioned. Azathoth! Lovecraft wrote these books about demons and the like, and-”

“Sir,” Private Konrath interjected, “are you saying this is the work of demons?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t the Krauts, Konrath,” Troesch said, without humor.

The men continued about their work, hands shaking and nerves shot.

“Men, we need to check the upstairs,” Troesch said unflinchingly.

. . .

“Simpson, you see that?” Lieutenant Perry asked his spotter, who was lying prone next to him. Simpson moved to peer through a hole in the slightly dilapidated wall.

Simpson scanned the village square, and his eyes locked on a shambling man making his way for the frozen fountain in the center.

“Appears to be a French civilian sir, but something seems wrong about him. He’s walking in a strange manner,” Simpson reported.

Perry opened his mouth to speak, but was stopped by a horrific cry erupting from the man below them. He threw up his arms in agony and began to shake wildly. The man fell to the ground, writhing, and after a few seconds of convulsions, was still.

Simpson waited anxiously, scanning the town beneath him, while Perry squeezed his rifle tightly.

The man who had just collapsed in the snow rose to his feet fluidly. He brushed himself off and blinked several times. Looking around, he finally set his gaze upon the church tower where Simpson and Perry lay in wait. The man smiled at them, mirthfully, then began to walk towards to church.

Scores of other men and women began to file out from nowhere, all headed towards the church. Each one had a ridiculous smile on their faces.

“Private Robin,” Perry radioed, “Incoming bogeys. Give them warning... and if they do not comply, engage. Colonel Troesch, if you can hear me out there, make your way back to the church as fast as you can. We’re going to be in for a fight soon enough.”