I am writing this to document (for who ever may be interested), to explain what led to the creation of this website. Though I doubt there are many who are. I’ve grown accustomed to fighting this battle alone, speaking into the void on this fools errand. In any case, the original goal was first, use this site as a sort of foil against the newest incarnation of The Vault. A way to discourage potential new members from being recruited. In that endeavour, there were some successes, though not enough to make a difference. Second, find the location of the “Crawford G”.
I had discovered the existence of the machine from Gregory Simmons back in the 90’s, which led me to Sonia in Missouri, living off-grid with her followers. My initial approach was to be persuasive, try to convince her with the truth, that the signal was not to be trusted, that the abomination they had built was in service of evil. She was as stubborn as her husband however, unwilling to listen to reason. So my next course of action was to destroy it, wipe the influence at the source. Sonia must have guessed my intentions, because it was moved beyond my reach, hidden carefully by a man named Harold Cohle, a prominent member of her commune.
At the time, I was still keeping a low profile from ‘the company’; a shadowy organization who had previously employed me, of which we had a falling out. Due to a mutual understanding we came to in the 2000’s, I will not name them here. Back then however, I was still an ‘active target’ and they discovered my whereabouts in Missouri, leading to me fleeing the state, then the country, vowing to return one day and finish the task.
Years went by, as they are want to do, dulling this vow with their passage while I got caught up with my own research and projects related to the signal. Trying to gain new understandings so as to effectively wipe its stain from this planet. Eventually, after many failed efforts, each leading further from those answers sought, I ruminated on the machine once again. It was possible that it held something of significance to be learned, to aid me in my mission. So I found myself once again in Ohio, back to where it all began. Retracing the steps of all the original Vault members, hoping to find some new or overlooked piece of information to unearth from the past.
It was no easy task, but after enough digging I discovered that a private investigator had also been looking into the cult tangentially, regarding a missing girl he was searching for during the 90’s. I found him in a retirement home in Dayton, still as sharp as ever, eager to help by sharing his files once convinced of my intentions. Which led me to St. Louis on the trail of Harold Cohle.
For weeks I trailed him, waiting for any indication that he was still involved, or in contact with any of the cult. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Cohle would go to work driving all over the state, then home, eat at bars and restaurants in between. No unusual meetings, no out of the way places. If he was still in contact with The Vault, it must have been through his phone, maybe online. I would need to clone it to confirm my suspicions. Which would require me to get close and wait for the perfect opportunity.
At a busy roadside diner late in the evening, I discovered that Harold Cohle is a very cautious man, not to be underestimated. While parking my rental car at the dark end of the lot, he approached as if out of nowhere and knocked on the window, inviting me inside for a talk. We sat across from each other in silence, just two more patrons among the others dotted around the semi-busy restaurant; waiting for our server to leave after that first customary coffee pour. After taking a few sips, Cohle settled into his seat with narrowed eyes and informed me that not only had he been aware of my presence for weeks, he knew who I was from all those years ago. That Sonia was dead and in no uncertain terms would I get anywhere near the machine. A quiet click followed this brief exchange, revealing the gun pointed inches from my person under the table. Straight to the point.
Let’s take a walk.
Pocketing the weapon, he led me outside, motioning towards the back of the building. There was some heated words exchanged between us as I stalled for an opening. Whatever sinister intentions Cohle had in mind, he wasn’t going to kill me there in the open with all those witnesses. When a couple of loud customers exited the diner, their boisterous conversation drew his attention giving me a chance to attack, knocking the weapon from his hand. A brief scuffle followed which ended when I managed to grab the gun after being knocked to the ground with Cohle on top of me. A crack over the head rendered my foe unconscious, allowing me to retrieve his phone and plug in a usb device loaded with the executable file needed to clone it. It was thankfully a quick operation. Once finished, I raced to my car and got the hell out of there.
Going through all the data took a few days, sifting through emails logs, images, messages. The work paid off when I found he visited a chat board through the tor browser on a frequent basis. Sure enough, that site was where he kept in contact with the others. Browsing through older entries revealed that their number was quite small, 7 regulars. There were others who would come and go, not considered true believers. Not considered zealots more like. Of the core group, some were original members from the 90’s like Harold. A couple seemed to have been the children of members since deceased, their parent’s lineage passed down. The bulk of their posts were a mixture of reminiscing about the good old days, beginning the work again and waiting for a certain someone.
That someone turned out to be Abbey Crawford, Sonia’s daughter. When she popped up on the board, the others flocked to her. Abbey explained that she’d been out of the country for some time, had only been back for a short while. Declared that while travelling, those elusive methods for using the machine successfully had been revealed to her, by parties she chose to leave unnamed.
All I had to do was find out where she was, but like her mother, Abbey Crawford was a ghost. No birth certificate, place of residence, listed profession, social media presence. Nothing. My best bet was to wait and see if she revealed the location of the machine, either by accident or with enough context clues. Meanwhile, things took a turn for the worse on the message board. Abbey was busy recruiting. More and more desperate troubled people flooded in, lost and alone, soothed by her poisoned honeyed words. Ready to embrace the lie of eternal life.
Something had to be done, to save those poor souls from being sacrificed on that monstrosity. Direct confrontation never works with those so deeply entrenched in their dogma, so my approach was make multiple accounts and sprinkle in the link to this site. Plant the seed, instil just a sliver of doubt and maybe, just maybe, save some of them. I kept the articles on here purposefully vague on some details, so as to avoid a drastic reaction, like a complete shut down of the board. Better it be a nuisance rather than a direct threat. Harold of course had his strong suspicions that it was me causing the trouble.
Looking back on it now, there was more I could have done to help those people. Too few turned away from their teachings. But you have to understand, I was on a mission. My thoughts at the time were consumed with the discovery of the machine, cut off their access and the rest would follow. I feel sorry for those still trapped in the web of lies and deceit. I really do. If only they could wake up.
Each new account I’d set up would be quickly banned along with other users who posted the link to this site. Eventually it all became too much for Abbey and she locked the entire board down, setting a password to enter. I cursed myself for pushing things too far and loosing my only lead. That was until Abbey sent PMs to all my remaining active accounts. An invitation to any who would like to rejoin the board, with the stipulation of having to “prove themselves.”
I’ll spare you the details of how I did so. Needless to say, with my extensive knowledge of The Vault’s past along with a solid grasp of their beliefs, it was a simple matter of answering all the questions in a way they wanted to hear. Once back among the much smaller tight-knit circle of members, I resided myself to playing it safe.
When Abbey posted a lengthy diatribe about how she had “succeeded” in resurrecting her lover, there was much celebration on the board. Elation soon turned to concern however, because after that, there was no further contact from her. Harold tried to assure us all that everything was fine, that Abbey had gone dark before. As days turned into weeks, the others contemplated on the fate of their founder after such a monumental step. There was dissent about what to do next. Harold was the only one who knew where Abbey lived but refused to give out the location. Like I said, he is a very cautious man, only revealing that she lived in Missouri.
Apparently, some “pressing business” was stalling him from taking the trip out there, otherwise he would have left sooner. Finally an opportunity had presented itself. What could have been more important than the next great step of their movement? I didn’t know, or care, but would get a pretty good idea.
Under the cover of night, I snuck onto his property, a sizeable piece of land out in the sticks, covered in dense woods. It was a nerve-racking affair, having to avoid various security cameras attached to trees and home-made signalling devices hidden in the dirt. Yet I prevailed, arriving at a clearing of asphalt where two notable structures sat. One was an old farmhouse, its windows dark in the late hour, looking out of place on the level cracked surface, as if plucked out of a different age. The other was a large modern warehouse, the only possible location for any parked vehicles, the targets of my trespass. None were to be seen outside. A small side entrance was the best option to break in. The front sliding doors were illuminated by the orange glow of a flood-light situated above and were heavily surveilled. So I kept to the tree line and weaved through the blind spots of some more strategically placed cameras, then disabled the alarm before picking the lock.
Thankfully there were no further obstacles inside the gloomy interior, allowing me to get to work by concealing some store bought tracking devices on Harold’s moving truck and jeep. The range on them wasn’t optimal but it would be enough to follow. Before leaving, there were some wooden crates stacked against one of the walls that I couldn’t help investigate out of sheer curiosity. The lid of one came loose with ease after some gentle prying with a crowbar, found lying amongst other tools on a cluttered workbench. Inside were rows of neatly stacked rifles. Working the lid off another revealed pistols and grenades.
After placing everything back the way it was, I exited the warehouse, reset the alarm and retraced my route back out of the property. All that was left to do was wait. Unfortunately, things took a turn for the worse.
On the day Harold was set to leave, a new account appeared on the board with the handle of Nickkio_001, quickly taking it all over. They claimed to be “the resurrected”, “the path”, whatever that means. That there was no need to worry about Abbey, her “loop was closed.” This new member also knew who I was and quickly locked me out of the board. My only insight into the group… gone. Shortly after, Harold began messaging my account. Explained that he had been informed of my tracking devices and had destroyed them. That there would be retaliation. He was coming after me, no matter what and it would only be a matter of time. I needed to find the location of Abbey’s house while not looking over my shoulder so made the only play that came to mind. Expose their secrets, bring them into the light, and bluff that I was not working alone.
I posted a video under the guise of the private investigator’s son, (he has none) as proof of an alliance, with the mutual interest of ending their cult. It had been among the files given to me. That there was plenty more evidence in our possession we were prepared to release if he didn’t back off. During our meeting at the retirement home in Dayton, the P.I. revealed that he too had crossed paths with other Vault members from Sonia’s commune. Harold would surely remember.
The video can be found here.
It provides more information of The Vault from Gregory Simmons’ point of view and what I assume his death, by Sonia’s hand.
My bluff seemed to work. Harold backed off giving me some breathing room to search. Thinking on it now though, I’m certain that this Nickkio was the actual reason for his retreat. This entity does not seem to care whether information about The Vault, their activities or what they call themselves now, the Children of N, is made public or not. It does not hold the same secretive nature of previous incarnations.
I knew that my search was a fruitless attempt. No clues of where to start, so much ground to cover. Still, I had to at least try. Maybe it was providence, or maybe it was blind luck, but the discovery of an account written by a delivery truck driver named Jay Baker put me back on the trail. A piece of hope. He had by chance met Abbey at her house leading to quite a strange encounter, prompting him to write about it. His tale also confirmed that the machine was indeed in her possession. As good a start as any. It took a bit of digging to find Mr. Baker’s place of employment where I was told by sullen-faced workers that Jay was missing. One of them, an elderly hippie type, opened up about their run in with the Children Of N and divulged the location of the house after some persuasion. The incident had the two men fleeing for their lives through the woods behind her property and police had been called after their narrow escape. The group had since fled. That small piece of hope was gone, the machine out of grasp.
I decided to head up to the house as a last ditch effort. Maybe there was some sort of clue the authorities had overlooked, a scrap of paper, a piece of… anything. The old building lay empty, doors wide open with shredded police tape blowing gently in the chill morning breeze. Every room had been cleared out. The only thing of note was an exhumed grave out back with a toppled marker beside it. The name written on the wooden post was Abbey Crawford. Where the body is now, I don’t know.
So after all my efforts, I had failed. Again. It was a dark day when that evil contraption was brought into this world. It’s my fault. My mistake that needs to be corrected.
To whoever may be reading this, I want to impart onto you that when I call that machine evil, I do not speak lightly. The entity which speaks through it, from the other side beyond this veil, it is evil. I should know. I’ve seen things it does not want others to know. This Nickkio is just another trick orchestrated by the signal, designed to fool all who listen, like it did to Till and Sonia, like it did to me. It’s intentions are malevolent. It’s presence has been a plaque on this earth for the past 70 years. If you are ever approached by these Children of N, save yourself from their lies. There is no afterlife in the digital space, or wherever is claimed now. It is a fantasy created by a troubled man which has refused to die with him.
Of myself, I have returned home. My research indicates that there is a convergence going to occur here, sometime in the near future. The arrival of the signal once again in physical form. A singular event pulling all the threads of past mistakes together into one moment. A chance to put things right, to correct them. I will say no more, only that I must prepare.
A Recounting of The Vault 