It has come to my attention that today, Friday the thirteenth, marks the one-hundredth Terrible Tarot post. I, and the nice young woman who uploads my humble scribblings, would like to thank our readers, all four of you, for your loyalty and for allowing me to teach you to reveal your own impending dooms within pocket-sized pieces of art.

This occasion is doubly-momentous for me, as S.A.U.C.E. has finally raised enough money (mostly from the reward Julen Ibarra earned for us in over the holidays) for a down payment on our new headquarters. You may recall that our previous headquarters was destroyed over the summer.

The realtor, one Mrs. Windle, assures us that the location is so well hidden from the public that I can safely post a photograph. She tells us that one cannot find the house without a guide. As we are the Secret Assembly Unearthing Cartomantic Eventualities, it is imperative that our research be kept out of the public’s hands, lest it incite hysteria on a global scale. Mrs. Windle claims that not even satellite imagery can glimpse its roof, and that this is in no way an ominous sign.

The house is frankly stunning, as you can see. It has room for everyone in the board of directors to, well, board, which is fortunate as many of us contributed all we owned for its acquisition.

Young Danny Delaire (who was, you may recall, instrumental in rescuing her sweetheart Anais Herschel last spring) has only just returned from visiting her family up north. She was not here when we toured the building and signed the paperwork. Perhaps we should have waited for her input.

“You can’t feel that?” she said. “There’s a presence here. No. Multiple presences. Unbelievable.”

When asked for clarification, she elaborated thusly: “It’s haunted. We’re going to let ghosts look over our shoulders while we study the futures of humankind? Really? Cuz if you think the living would panic, imagine how entities made entirely of regret and trauma are going to handle it.”

The realtor was gone and until we get this sorted out, there is nowhere else for us to stay.

“Hoo boy,” said Ms. Delaire. “This’ll be interesting.”

An update: We read a thirteen-card spread to determine whether it would be safer to camp outside for now or sleep inside. The cards pointed to certain and painful death in both scenarios. Then again, they always do.

We have, after consulting twice more with the cards, voting, flipping a coin (which vanished as soon as it hit the mossy ground) and finally eenie-meenie-miney-moeing, we finally agreed to sleep under the stars tonight. None of us are entirely sure there will be stars to see, not because they promise to disappear (yet) but because our location has no cellular phone reception here and we can therefore not consult the official weather forecast. My cards predict a hailstorm. Sorina Jones’ cards predict a warm breeze. Tina and Ray Moretti’s cards say that tarot makes for a poor weather report, and that we should try reading entrails instead.

I deliver this message to my blog assistant by homing pigeon. I would ask the pigeon to return to us with meteorological news, but tragically I cannot speak coo.

May we all survive the night, and for another hundred Terrible Tarot posts.

Yours forever, with deepest respect, abundant gratitude, and in a state of unspeakable dread,

[NAME WITHELD]

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