posted on Feb, 11 2009 @ 02:22 PM
A sense of humour and a good pinch of salt are required before reading this, my tribute to the Lovecraft genre.
The Devotee sat at her crystal eye and read with increasing horror the dark and derogatory remarks made by a fellow seeker of truth.
Across the eerie living room, besides the primitive flames dancing in the grate her hell-hound let out a plaintive yelp. 'Be quiet, little yog' she
uttered, dismayed at the intrusion into her musings 'Mummy has to complete her studies of the Arcane'.
The beast rose from the depths of the carpet and aimed a baleful stare at her, then looked pointedly at one of his many grotesque and battered toys.
Small rags, bitten to within an inch of their miserable lives as a dog's playthings.
The Devotee turned her gaze from the imploring canine and concentrated on the shimmering screen in front of her 'twonk' she muttered before being
consumed by Hellish laughter.
Outside, under a cruel bright moon, rattens scurried and skittered through the labyrinth they had gnawed throughout the front garden. In a dish that
had seen better days before becoming a trough for feral, furry things, a viscous risotto languished awaiting its fate. Death by the nibbling of at
least half a dozen rats who relied on it for their sustenance.
Every evening they watched for the hooded woman who brought their offerings. Small, beady eyes glowing greedily from underneath the eldritch bushes
and merciless snow-banks, awaiting the heavy tread of the human. Most of them hoped that it wouldn't have been her who had done the cooking that
Back in the darkening living room the dog sensed their unholy presence and started to whine. He told his tales of verminous creatures infesting the
garden to his pale, fey mistress.
She told him to be quiet and the dog slunk back to his favoured spot besides the now guttering fire. Damn, when would she take her nose out of her
window-on-the-world and throw on a few more worm-ridden logs?
He'd been doing his best, after all, warning her of foul beings, the least she could do would be to pay him some attention and see to his current
need. Sighing, he settled down exuding swathes of resentment for the small black-eyed creatures. He knew she had a special word for them: Cute.
Behind her the woman felt the pull of some members of her book collection. The Dream Cycle of H.P. Lovecraft, two versions of the Necronomicon, A
Guide to the Cthulhu Cult, Polaria- the Gift of the White Stone and the Necronomicon Tarot to name but a few.
As if they had sensed that her mind was on their author, or his influence on their authors, they sent out their Irresistible Tentacles of
Upstairs, snug in its Mahogany Casket, placed on an altar under the eaves her Necronomicon Spellbook slumbered fitfully. It too could feel the pull
of her mind as she focussed on a subject she had long held dear.
As she concentrated on the ridicule of the Unbeliever, who she had unearthed from his lair in the shadows of reality, the Old Ones started to tune
The Yith had read the book of this woman's life with great interest and, knowing that her sensitivity would serve them well, had alerted the Old Ones
to her. Now she had a prize to put before them and the gentle guidance they had bestowed on her would pay off.
Engrossed in her crystal eye on the world the Devotee didn't hear the rumblings at first but they increasingly impinged on her consciousness. Low
stirrings coming from the eaves above her head. She could have taken the steep, dark stairs to the upper chamber to acknowledge the movement of the
Gods, but thought better of it.
There was a cup of tea and biscuits with her name on them and she didn't think the Old Ones would want her to miss out on her sustenance.
She always treated them with the utmost reverence and in return they were sympathetic to her few requests. There weren't many now who were prepared
to welcome them into that world and they appreciated the small chink of light flowing into their restricted reality.
Sometimes energy could be drawn down that small shaft by nefarious means and the Old Ones had only one source of energy. At least, these days they
Many Earthly miles from the Devotee the Unbeliever sat in a cocoon of skepticism. A frail cocoon, it must be said, as it didn't allow for the
existence of the Dark Realities. Not allowing for them, it failed to offer protection against them. When he heard the rumblings under the roof, he
negligently thought it must be thunder or the scavenging, ravenous mice.
The said scavenging, ravenous mice were now actually cowering and ravenous. Their rodently perception enabled them to see the Tentacle of the Old
Ones rummaging through the attic, ensuring that there was no shrine to them. Big mistake, Unbeliever. Finding that the inhabitant of this dwelling
was indeed no adherent of theirs the Tentacle of the Old Ones insinuated its way down the murky stairwell to the place where the man kept his crystal
eye. There he was, staring at the dark surface, oblivious to his danger. Too late, he noticed the ethereal arm crawling towards his brain.
Many months passed and there was no word from the Unbeliever. The Devotee innocently continued to scry her crystal eye and forgot about the ridicule
that had been heaped upon her. There were new and interesting subjects to learn about.
Meanwhile, in the Mountains of Madness a gibbering man could be seen carrying a torch that glowed a sickly green. He had followed the trail of the
Tentacle of the Old Ones this far and felt that he was closing in on his prey.
He tittered to himself and started upon yet another perilous trek on the circle he was creating as he sought out the door to the Cavern of the Old
Ones. He'd come to retrieve the portion of his mind that had been stolen that night so long ago.
Of course, he would go about requesting it in the wrong way and would be unlikely to get it. He should have known to ask nicely and remember, at all
costs, to say 'thank you'. The Devotee could have told him that.