Orikan Empowered by ~Technorakel

Fungi by Oliver Wetter

Pages from the Necronomicon

" Then one night in the Dream-City of Zakarion I found a yellowed papyrus filled with the thoughts of the Dream-sages who dwelt of old in that city, and who were too wise to be born in the waking world." - H.P. Lovecraft. Art by Xueguo Yang

"Cthulhu’s house" by Adolfo Navarro

Today—the fifteenth of March, 2014—marks the 77th anniversary of H. P. Lovecraft’s death when he died in his beloved Providence, Rhode Island, at the age of 46.

Here’s to Grandpa Theobald, the master of horror.

It was notable, perhaps, that this pale, scrawny sack of flesh had managed to stitch together some degree of coherence in the wake of the revelation that it was not only not alone in the universe, but not alone in the identity of Jonathan Crane - notable, but not impressive. No, it’s comprehension was still so limited by ‘possibility’, by the clinging hope of what could be as opposed to what simply was. It clung to its ignorance in the guise of ‘sanity’, and He observed it through the eyes of His fresh puppet, but the barest piece of His whole Self channeled into this thing of fur and earth and spongy, pulsating meat - enough to Speak through, enough to interpret His incomprehensible howling into something such a narrow mind could understand. He observed, and by its thought and its pale speech came to know it a little more.

Arkham. Arkham, where Reality had ever been thin, where the dreaming of ancient things had never needed an alignment of distant stars to twist the threads of possibility - where the geometry of existence was sometimes blissfully correct and the odd alleyway might lead along the angles of Time, unleashing beautiful creatures from distant realities that He had had occasion to covet. Hounds of distant Tindalos that crooned at the touch of His presence, and perhaps other things too. Yes, it was well that this little creature had tasted the miasma of Arkham, but it was obvious that it did not yet understand. Not fully.

That was something that could be remedied.

                                        ＡＲＥ ＹＯＵ？

A simple question, delivered over the lunatic jabbering of a hundred thousand mouths in a Voice considerably more urbane, so deep it throbbed within the body and throughout the mind. There was a moment, long and pregnant, in which the meat puppet simply stared, and then its intent became more apparent, as the first signs of decay began to set in. Its costume - which was not in fact a costume, but skin - began to split, exposing the necrotic rot within with a rancid stench that hit the air and quickly made breathing it objectionable to the extreme. Flesh sloughed off the abominable creature in chunks as it stepped forward, and it was only when smooth, clean skin became visible beneath the shedding refuse that the forme resolved itself back into some semblance of rationality.

Until, perhaps, enough of it was revealed to show the Doctor a crude, manic facsimile of his own face, laughing mad and, though to look at a perfect replica, so utterly wrong it defied description.

         ѕнαℓℓ ωє

                                                               S̷͞҉̮̻̙̞̲H̞̤̫̠͔͍̮Ò̵̻̟͙̗͙͉̟̰W̷̡͈̘̥ ͏̧̬͍̬̻̜̲̦̩Y̸̠̤O͏̢҉̥̭̝̞̲̲U̴͔̺͙̪̪?̨̧̮̯̤

Oh, how he wanted to leave already.  This, he remembered, this...It wasn't exactly what he had felt when he visited Arkham, but, moreso a ghost of what he felt. Arkham, if he recalled, was unlike any town he had ever been in previously.  Far from the dry, hot fields of Georgia, Arkham was foggy and damp--drowned in mysteries, plunged in secrets, choked with the Unnamable and Things That Should Not Be. No matter where he went, he could have sworn that  s o m e t h i n g  was behind him as he walked, plotting quietly to drink his soul and eat his brains, or there lurked in the depths a hideous creature that so desperately wanted to turn his flesh inside-out, and pick out which organs that it wanted to feast upon first. Or--at the very least, something of that equal nature. But when Jonathan peered over his shoulder, and down into the murky Arkham waters, there was nothing to seen, and this greatly puzzled him. Of course, Crane didn't know if that was true; he hadn't the slightest idea, naïve traveler that he was. Monsters weren't real. They were things made up stories to scare children. Or, freaks in costumes that hung out at night in dingy city alleyways. Perhaps those "monsters" were hiding from him as his curious, prying eyes tried to hold but a single glimpse of the unnatural.

His voice grew tinny and quiet as he looked upon his doppelgänger. Things were not quite right--not at all! In fact, he had never seen anything like this in his entire life. Was this what was in Arkham, beyond the visible shores of what could be seen, what could be comprehended by the human brain?

Were events like this normal?

What was even the point of creatures who did such a thing?

Was their evil in our eyes the good in their minds?

"We do not want to know..." Scarecrow answered, mind feeling like it was already being ripped in half, painfully and slowly, as if two giant, clawed hands grasped it, and dug their talons within it, and then, inch by inch, they attempted to pull it a p a r t. "We are--we," he said to the other. "...In this universe, there is only one."

Yet, he was losing his confidence. Scarecrow was what gave him strength. Scarecrow and Jonathan were two--different--people. Scarecrow was falling to pieces, leaving Jonathan exposed.

And tonight, along with any other night, was not a good night to be picking an argument with an Eldritch Thing.

"But we shall humor you." He swallowed down a bitter pill. "Show us, please."

There was much to show this little thing, this thing which was two where normally there was one, and where should be Many. There were Revelations in plenty, the reality of 'monsters' perhaps chief among them, and the good doctor's doppelganger curled its lip in an expression of disgust at the same moment a malicious, immaterial appendage lashed out in a thunderclap of geometric impossibilities to all but physically wipe the pale concepts of 'good' and 'evil' from the face of Jonathan Crane's mind, as if by the smack of an impatient nun's ruler. If the progression of Knowledge were to advance, such insignificant distinctions must be banished with the shackles of sanity, and a cacophony of gibbering whispers rose like gnawing gadflies in the Underneath of Not-Crane's staccato thought-voice.

"Çom͏̵̧e̵,͟ ̵҉́t͜͏h͠è͝n͢.̴͟" The foul copy-cat smiled a smile whose chill could be felt in the bone, and deeper still, extending a hand that was somehow not a hand, but a mere collection of repulsive Matter in such a shape. There was a lunatic compulsion behind the gesture, an element of vile force, and at the touch of that clammy, unnatural appendage, Jonathan Crane would be propelled outward onto a plane of putrid, gamboling abominations and mad, absent gods, shielded from utter, explosive insanity only by the great Mind of He, which came about him like a shroud and spoke to him in thunderous, maniac whispers.

To the core of the Multiverse they traveled, along angles of Time which no mortal had ever known, and through this journey across the spirals of branching Realities those mortal eyes were shielded similarly from all but fragmentary glimpses of that which did not compose the singular Revelation their Eldritch Host wished to impart. There came visions then between the senses, a Knowing of distant places amongst the chaos; first an image of Arkham Asylum That Was Not, in whose basement there dwelled a man who had never taught at any university - a man of cold blue eyes and an even colder heart which, seeming to sense in some way the presence of those that spied upon him, sped up for no reason that could be readily determined. 

Gone rapidly was this vision, replaced by the black, dilapidated spires of a city fallen to anarchy and ruin. ᴄᴏɴғᴏʀᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟʏ a distant billboard commanded, and in the mind's eye there came an impression of violently splashing waters, the rancid stench of sewage, and a heat against the skin that could only be carnivorous breath. An impression of Agony and Fear there came, then the cold immersion of water - and then, flung far into the future of this reality there came a sense of Hate, of a great Plan, the threads of which were not yet fully conceived in the mind of their creator.

                                         Ｌ̷̭̯̫̼̙̭̫͙Ｉ͜҉̜͕̠͍̩̭Ｅ̡̖͍͎̹̻̦͉̳̦̕͞Ｓ҉̶̙̩̗

The voice of He thundered and consumed, and this second vision shattered in its wake, scattered on howling solar winds only to reform upon a universe that, in some uncanny sense, felt both duller and indescribably more real. With this newest swath of imagery would come a feeling of mounting dread, as at last approached something the doctor was Not Meant To Know.

                      ＥＭＢＲＡＣＥ ＹＯＵＲ Ｒ̶̜͖̀́Ｅ̢̣̘͇̀͝Ａ̶̡̪͚͖͖̹̹͓̤Ｌ̛͙̺̺̤͉̤̮̭̥Ｉ̀҉̜̺̟̮͓Ｔ̜̤͢Ｙ͎͙͘͝

It was upon the Fall of 1941 they fell, within the homes of two men in the heart of New York City, from whose fevered imaginings there came a fiction.

A fiction named Jonathan Crane.

For here was the universe of the Doctor's origin, from which all other incarnations across the multiverse were nothing but a cause's effect. Here was born a static figure drawn in comicbooks and written in stories, no more real than any of the people or places he had ever known, and that was the heart of this Revelation, this Truth that before the Doctor was now revealed; Jonathan Crane was not real. He was a tale conceived for the amusement of another universe's youth, and this Crane, for all he had ever known himself, was in fact a fancy of imagination belonging to a girl youth before her computer, an entertaining hobby.

And nothing more.

send me 'have you evers' and i will reply with yes or no

we αre ɴow

                                                               ｄｉｓｐｅｎｓｉｎｇ 

                            ＲＥＶＥＬＡＴＩＯＮＳ

Stars and Dust Across Corona Australis Image Credit & Copyright: Marco Lorenzi (Glittering Lights)

ＬＩＫＥ                                               ＭＹ       ＳＥＬＦＩＥ