No desire have I to recount the horrors I have endured in reading a collection of short stories by H.P. Lovecraft, and yet I feel that I must - not for my own sake, for I am lost, but for those who may read these words of mine and, having done so, still harbour hopes of sleeping an untroubled sleep.
For myself, I am now only too aware that there are nameless forces with names like Yog-Sothoth, eldritch entities powerful and malign, waiting to issue into this gloomily adjectival world of ours from dimensions dark and numberless beyond the count of numbers.
Should they succeed - and who knows how many of the foolish and degenerate among us are willing to open the portals on their behalf, whether for motives of power or of vain vanity - then there will tentacles, lots of tentacles, and rats, and noisome smells at once both repugnant and repellent, and unheard sounds that can never be heard nor described so as to be intelligible to the pitifully limited faculties of our all-too-human minds, and there will be more tentacles.
Such is my warning to you, my dear and unwittingly doomed fellow travellers: there are people who like Lovecraft's brand of horror, and you might know one.
No comments:
Post a Comment