Shoggoth.net

Prologue:  The Madness of Herbert West

Madness is a terrible thing, and an even worse thing to be accused of, particularly if one knows for a certainty that one is truly not mad.  I suppose it is the nature of madness to deny being mad, but this was the situation in which my colleague Herbert West found himself.  I did what I could to defend him, but the military tribunal would hear none of it, and threatened me with arrest as well, suggesting that I may have not been a simple bystander, but rather a co-conspirator in the rampage that left one of our colleagues dead.

Cybil opened another can of Monster Zero to fuel her third-day stretch of no sleep. The windows and curtains of Cybil’s studio apartment remained closed. Stale smoke swirled amongst the sour tang of energy drinks, mingling pungent in the air. She had rid her residence of anything possessing holes. Fresh sunflowers—in the trash. Her hairbrush, once she had cleaned it off her hair—had too many holes. The fridge once contained watermelon, strawberries, and swiss cheese—gone. The latte was once delivered from Starbucks. The foam. The holes! Now, energy drinks are delivered by Insta-cart—no straws, please. 

Cassilda and Cassandra and Caterina and Calliope and Cassiopeia were all seated at their places, the King wasn’t presently in attendance, and the others were all on their own. The other two sisters had already gone to their rewards.

Back in his chamber, Jenkin was frowning into the vanity mirror.

Keziah was trying to keep him relatively calm, as this was probably his last chance to both attend the buffet after the Play and, maybe, possibly, renew his humanity, if he could keep from making a beast out of himself. It was a time of rejoicing, the anniversary of the victory against the Foe, He Who is NOT to be Named.

The sun at high noon was a curse on the earth when the exhausted pinto mare that bore Lope Obregon and Eight-Finger Nate into the dooryard of the long-forgotten mission dropped dead under their weight. The two men slashed their saddlebags free of the dead horse and ran for the arched doorway at the foot of the bone-white church, and the gaunt, hooded figure that stood in its shadow as if awaiting the desperate men.

“Bless me, padre, for I have sinned,” said Lope Obregon, crossing himself while his partner drew his mismatched pistols. “We claim sanctuary…”