I never should have let Jesus in. When you allow something in, you risk infection.
“And no one puts new wine into old wineskins; if he does, the wine will burst the skins, and the wine is lost, and so are the skins; but new wine is for fresh skins.”
Once I let Jesus into my heart he wouldn’t stop talking in my head: parable after lesson after reproachment, repeat, and all in a surprisingly brusque voice. My childhood memories are infected with it since first communion. The shockingly mocking voice. The voice was the first warning of a danger that I was too young to heed. The second sign of danger was the vision I received, not from God divine but a hateful god infernal—the threat of interdimensional demons borne of horror so old and unnamable that the Lord Himself is inaudible, replaced with a chaotic choir of cosmic dread in a thousand R’lyehian moans.
“Ya stell’bsna chtenff hupdgh n’ghft!” Continue reading
I shall not hold you in suspense, Dear Reader, as I leave you with the burden of these, my final words. The ‘Death’ in the title of this note is, of course, mine own. Why I chose All Hallows’ Eve to perform my final act is pure coincidental timing. The gray aliens killed my mother. Then a group of Deep One cultists carried my father away to a watery demise. In both cases I could do nothing to intervene. The gray aliens somehow froze me and the cultists hit me on the head and knocked me unconscious. I am alone but not for much longer, Dear Friend.
I hope I prepared whoever finds me with the emergency signs I printed for the windows:
WARNING! CARBON MONOXIDE GAS! DO NOT OPEN DOOR! CALL 911!
Jordan Hofer pulls no punches in this unsettling story. It’s horrible, viscerally repulsive, and all too real. Enjoy!
Poverty was to blame. For it was only a child, lonesome and the victim of parental and societal neglect. Its parents were permanently unemployed and suffered from maladies psychological, purely physical, and self-inflicted. Its mother drank wood alcohol and the father huffed petrol.
A meager inheritance from the deceased Harold Shappel, entrepreneur of witch trial tourism, fed and housed his debased son and sole heir. Harold Junior and his wife Martha née Corey, clothed the Shappel boy in rags and smothered the rags in a lumpy gray overcoat to keep it warm, even in spring and summer months. The child seemed to produce very little heat of its own metabolism. It smelled of black mold and horridly sour body odor.
Will Tokyo be destroyed? Will a tentacled hero rise to save the city from another kaiju? Or will Kuto~urufu perform his usual ritual of pain and death? This creature feature takes us to Japan to find out …
A magnitude-9 earthquake originated from the Tohoku subduction zone (38.322 N, 142.369 E) east of Honshu, Japan at 2:45 pm, Tokyo time, on March 11, 2011. The immediate shocks from the quake hit Tokyo in little over a minute.
Satellite imagery revealed a massive form at the ocean’s surface, churning out tsunami waves towards Japan. Of those who saw and recognized the ominously hideous figure—with its sinuously whipping tentacles and bright red eyes, massive arms and legs pounding and kicking the ocean into a fury pool—the name Kuto~urufu was exclaimed with ancient dread.
Jordan Hofer reminds us in this dread-full tale that sanity is a gift easily stolen.
“Life in the oceans must be sheer hell. A vast, merciless hell of permanent and immediate danger. So much of hell that during evolution some species crawled, fled onto some small continents of solid land, where the Lessons of Darkness continue.”
Werner Herzog, April 30, 1999
Judd Farmer feared the sea. He more than respected the ancient and indifferent nature of its forces. The relentless crashing surf could not care if he were caught in its fury and dashed upon the lacerating coral. When the ocean did care about him he was the object of hunger, food to be devoured by abysmal jaws with rows of serrated teeth. And then there was its incomprehensible vastness, the open and endless depths that concealed fears formed of shadow and dream, of memories so old they had no name and could not be recovered in full conscious form from the primordial sleep.
From our writer Jordan Hofer, we have an imagining of the shape-shifting slave for which our site is named. They overthrew the Elder Things, and there may still be a few frozen under the ice of Antarctica, just waiting for Earth’s long man-made summer to begin …
We here at your Hub of Horrors would love to publish more photos of Lovecraftian art and sculpture. Hit us up at firstname.lastname@example.org!
For your sick and twisted enjoyment today, Shoggoth.net brings you this all-too-plausible story of a man who sees the truth around him … and wants to do something about it.
Of course it all began before the coming of the Twenty-First Century, yet I will always associate it with the new Millennium. The printed circuit, for instance, is technology from the last century. So is fiber optics. And satellite communications. The components that go in to the manufacture of the millions and millions of touchscreens, the little interconnected computers that people carry with them everywhere, all of these owe their genesis to technology predating 9/11. And before that? Well, that’s where my madness began …
Shoggoth.net brings you a unique treat. Find here a chilling story so skillfully woven, it could have been written by the Old Gent himself. Actually, the psychological insight found in this story puts it in its own category: classically Lovecraftian, but with characters we can sympathize with … or despise … or both.
Professor Paget had invited me for tea (not coffee, not booze—but tea, the pretentious ass!) that evening and, having no excuse otherwise, I accepted. I could have protested truthfully that I had too many papers to grade, having just administered a mid-term exam to my class of 100 students; but I was tempted by the fascination he had piqued concerning the oddity he acquired while on sabbatical in Eastern Europe.