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It was one word. It was an impossible word. It could not be spoken aloud. It had too many consonants, not enough vowels, it was a hateful word, it could not be spoken. It was spoken. It was spoken, it was in Susan's head now. It was there in her head and the head tried to fight it, tried to expel it, this word that no human being was ever meant to know, a word that had nothing to do with humanity or any of the physical laws that made up their universe.
Suffer Little Children, by Robert Shearman

They tell me I was gabbling in a monstrous language not known to man, not even to the priests. I do not remember this, but I believe them, for I have since heard others speaking in this nameless tongue. It is hideous to listen to, and to watch the speaker's mouth try to contort around such abhorrence; it spreads madness and despair like it was a contagion.

Cabal... chanted a seemingly endless litany of inhuman words from an inhuman religion. They were awful words, incomprehensible to her, but jagged, ugly things that he spat out like stones and razors. That he knew them by heart did not escape her, and she feared him for that, for it showed depths in him that opened into the abyss.

Enochian was the wail of dying stars, the whisper of galaxies winging through the void, the gurgle of primordial oceans, the crackle of a cooling planet, the thunder of creation. And beneath it all, a simmering undercurrent of malevolence.

Poe Dameron: 20.3 fazillion languages and you can't read that?
C-3PO: Oh, I have read it, sir. I know exactly where the wayfinder is. Unfortunately, it is written in the runic language of the Sith.
Rey: So what?
C-3PO: My programming forbids me from translating it.
Poe Dameron: So you're telling us the one time we need you to talk, you can't?
C-3PO: Irony, sir. I am mechanically incapable of speaking translations from Sith. I believe the rule was passed by the Senate of the Old Republic...

A repellent sound came murmuring to them. At first it was like the guts of a pig rumbling after just eating its young, perhaps one of them still alive in there, swallowed whole. Then it was like a psycho killer mumbling in his sleep, talking of someone he'd never met — of you, exactly you — and what he'd do to you once he got you alone in a dank basement, chained beyond hope of escaping. Then it sounded like a guttural language. But it was all the same noise.
"What is that?" Chaz asked.
"Hell-speak," Constantine said.
They both shuddered, listening to the language of Hell. Sounding like the babbling of a madman, yet freighted with meaning as fully as any language.

I covered my ears, trying to smother their voices. They had a language all their own, a style of speech well-suited to dead vocal organs. The words were breathless, shapeless rattlings in the back of their throats, parched scrapings at a mausoleum portal. Arid gasps and dry gurgles were their dialects. These grating intonations were especially disturbing as they emanated from the mouths of things that had at least the form of human beings. But worst of all was my realization that I understood perfectly well what they were saying.
— "The Lost Art of Twilight", by Thomas Ligotti

"You don't need a translator, you need a winnowing barrage. Whatever made that shouldn't exist."
Twelve Fusion on the alien communication, A Desolation Called Peace

"The Black Speech was not intentionally modeled on any style, but was meant to be self-consistent, very different from Elvish, yet organized and expressive, as would be expected of a device of Sauron before his complete corruption. It was evidently an agglutinative language, and the verbal system must have included pronominal suffixes expressing the object, as well as those indicating the subject. [...] I have tried to play fair linguistically, and it is meant to have a meaning and not to be a mere casual group of nasty noises, though an accurate translation would even nowadays only be printable in the higher and artistically more advanced forms of literature. According to my taste such things are best left to Orcs, ancient and modern."

That wasn’t fair. How could she take notes when they were speaking another language?
Whatever they were speaking, she didn’t recognize it. They uttered harsh, aggressive sounds, sounds that almost hurt to hear. Yet there was a flow to them like the mournful, deep melody of a lonely whale. She tried, she tried to remember a few words so she could try to search them later, but they wouldn’t stick. They rushed through the holes of her memory like water, leaving her grabbing at air. She opened her phone quickly and started to record.

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