A Quark in Black Seas of Infinity

A solipsistic trip into the mind of one who sees, from a perch atop Miskatonic University, the reality of it all. Is it the navel-gazing of a philosopher … or the witnessing of the infinite horror within oneself?

When I dream of a void, I dream of an unending chasm. White shadows whisper, and they eat into my mind. I hear the smells of sacrificial flesh, and see the tastes of foreign meat. But these are only nightmares.


I loathe my place in life. I want to escape, but I cannot. The city never seems to let me leave. At times, it nearly seems intentional—when I try to leave or have an out of town conference, I am always derailed or deferred. To be frank, I have never left the city in my entire life. Though I know that it is surely by chance or lack of ambition, it nonetheless seems entirely wrong. Does the city have a sentience? Logically, I know that is impossible, but these paranoias chill me nonetheless. But I want to leave! I need to leave, or I will die here. If I have decades left of life here, will that provide the opportunity I need? I think not.

cosmic navel-gazing

I am too listless for violence. Yet—as with the indefinable, indescribable disquiet—it is there all the same. This city should burn. Sometimes, when I am not dreaming of my terrors, I dream of the city burning. I hear the screams, and I am glad. But these dreams are only that, and I am oppressed by the isolating reality.

I believe that this city gives me these nightmares. It pulls me in and scars me. It will never let me go. I may try to fight, but it will always stop me. It cannot be simple coincidence … but it must be. I know it, but what can I do to convince myself? I believe I will never conquer it. Why? Why?

Arkham is a cultish city. I must admit that I do not know the full details. As with far too much, the exact nature of the supposed supernatural is the barest haze seen from the far corner of the eye. There are certain gods worshipped—but not gods of known history. Nothing is certain here: dirty, grubby deals, often-gaudy architecture dating back to the seventeenth century, poverty-stricken and inbred homeless (though it’s better to call them inmates in this place), and the hawkish, crazed freaks who will insist—sometimes calmly, sometimes psychotically—on trumpeting the second coming of various cryptic abominations. Sometimes, they belong to those malformed, incestuous homeless. Strangely, they often come from the starched, clean-pressed and diamond-watch–wearing Bostonian crowd, even though they nearly always bear the elephantine ears and flat noses of the inbred.

Miskatonic University is more cultish still. Ivy League, yes, but it’s changed to a new-age, drug-addled prestige. There is not a week without new flyers proclaiming new clubs and unions, not to mention students attempting to sneak horrific supernatural projects past professors who often play along, allowing the most chimerical of studies to pass as scientific researches. Students often reach the wildest conclusions when presenting orations pertaining to the university’s many ill-fated expeditions: there is rarely a week without lengthy narrations on some “ lost city discovered in the Antarctic” or “the true conspiracy behind the bombing of Devil’s Reef,” in which the attack is described as “primarily the cause of the past eighty seven years.” I am intensely thankful that my job does not involve student contact.

Yes, the entirety of New England seems to be a wasteland of cultish fanaticism. What a shame that insane asylums have seen their doors closed! And it seems to be contagious,for the howlings of the wind in the dank streets seems to have truly become the fearsome commands of otherworldly entities—yes, though I have long fought these hysterical psychoses, and though I know the rationality of science abides with me, I have begun to dream of these “Outer Forces.” I feel called, in the deathless night, when nightmares are indistinguishable from true night, to the presence of fantastic deities. The city’s seedy exterior seems to fall away, and I see not dull tunnels leading to filthy subways, but rather a hub of exultant knowledge, a hive of insects who believe they are crucial servants in the thrall of masters of unknowable darkness. And I see myself among their ranks, but among the least dispensable …

And then a terrible revulsion overcomes me, and I see my life ebbing. I see that I am nothing at all, not even the most subtle stain upon the fabric of reality. And reality is not a solid presence—no, rather, it’s a bubbling, twisting, roiling fabric, outlining terrible secrets beneath which lurk a deadly insanity.

But I do not wake with a scream.

No, I awaken paralyzed, frozen, with a great weight upon my chest as well as a throbbing agony pushing ever deeper into my brain. And in these moments I nearly pray to a nonexistent God, but cannot bring myself to do so—for the things drilling into my brain are infinitely more powerful than any Deity conceived by humanity. The world dissolves, and then I try to scream—try, try, fight, though I have not the will—and when dawn creeps through the city, it offers me no relief, no comfort.

I cannot say exactly when my  paranoia started. I have always been keenly aware of the mysteries around me, and philosophy is of the first nature to me. Philosophy has  a long and honored tradition—it alone can make sense of a world gone awry. With it, the unknown is conquered and civilized. Through it, we understand our place in the world. We understand that we simply are not in control.

There is hope, surely—there must be hope—and yet I doubt it. What can I believe? O, God!

I have had difficulty in finding hope and purpose. These things are impossible to truly pin down. The awful reality of purpose is that it is only a human construct. It cannot be measured, nor will it exist after human demise.

There are infinite difficulties in nihilism—the awful and incredible power of the acceptance of insignificance and the awful power of the universe—but I never knew of the deleterious effects of this thinking.

Once, I was a little more optimistic. I was so sure of a few things—of the importance of humanity, and of my own power. This was when I was a child. I was stupid and foolish. I had so many dreams—so many hopes. Such naïveté.

Even so, I never found the courage to let go of this Panglossian mindset completely. There has been something which stayed with me always—a desperate hope of the future. But this hope of the future is something awful and choking.

I doubt I will ever find peace—I am simply trapped. I am trapped in a nightmare,one which has no end. There are never-ending troubles in the life of a nihilist—a constant, bleak terror. Such feelings can never be escaped.

I have always found myself at a crossroads between feelings and fact. This is a strange, painful precipice to perch on. However, I find my work gives me purpose. That is where I find peace, of a sort.

I know that my time is finite, and that with each minute that passes, death approaches ever closer. And I do fear death. I know that death is an inescapable element of life, but I fear it nonetheless. Fear is irrational, but I am powerless to stop the panicked entreaties of my brain for survival. The human brain is a powerful thing … yet so weak.

I do not know why I am cursed to this knowledge. I know that I do not share a love of friends and fun as my family did. There is nothing but an awful, clinging horror when I think of them—they were unhappy as well. We were all isolated from one another. Mother and Father shared a stilted kind of love for me. They tried to be kind and understanding, but that horrid tension always remained.

I have always been uneasy. I never knew why. Other people have a sense of purpose and meaning, but I often lack that. Where others may know contentment and accomplishment, I harbor only nagging doubt and discontent.

I have never believed in any “god.” The idea has always struck me as narcissistic and delusional. Why, I have always wondered, would one believe in something plausible without proof, let alone a character from a book?

The afterlife has always struck me as a desperate fairy tale. Why deny the inevitable? There is no soul or divine heaven. There is only the brain. The brain contains the activity necessary to produce the mind. When the activity is gone, the person is as well.

I have never seen a ghost or extraterrestrial. Such things are easily explained  with science. These delusions make me laugh, and I should be content with my knowledge.

And yet, I sometimes am caught by a creeping, chilling uncertainty. Often, in quiet moments, dreams, and just between watching and sleeping, I am burdened by a certainty of being watched.

I certainly loathe these delusions, and I have striven to rid myself of them. There seems to be nothing for it, but science should tell me otherwise.

Therapy does not work. I desire medication, but am told I do not need it. I am told my brain is perfectly sound, but why, then does this happen to me?

The doctor tells me that being watched is simply a recurring element in my dreams, but I know it is more.

I fear the feeling may lead to a full break down. I would not ordinarily be troubled, except that I truly believe in this feeling. Though it goes against everything I have in evidence, I truly believe in this feeling.

I suspected schizophrenia, but have never been diagnosed. Expensive tests has revealed nothing, and there is no sense which allows one to know when one is being observed.

I am mortified to consider the implications of the delusion should it be real. If I accept that the carefully constructed devices of science and logic are fallible and based on error, then what do I have to understand the world? The modern age is not one of shadows and monsters and gods, but one of reasons and facts.

It is true that there may be a god, ghosts, and extraterrestrial visitations, but there may also be a teapot orbiting around Saturn. Logic dictates that almost anything is possible, and it is impossible to prove a negative.

Of course, the universe could be filled with vicious, impossible life—I don’t deny the impossibility. Yet all evidence points to a lack of extraterrestrial visitation.  What will we do if the aliens visit? Who should care? Hopefully, I won’t  exist at that time. That is the benefit of nihilism—a sure end. I suppose, of course, that nihilism can provide an afterlife, so long as that afterlife is meaningless. And yet, despite my convictions, I know deep doubt. There is a certain uncertainty—yet that is in the nature of the

There are far too many possibilities opened by this paranoia. I cannot allow it to overtake me. I must keep in mind rationality and sense.

I find refuge in my work. Anthropology is an immensely powerful work in the face of loathing and nonsense. I love the old things I examine—bone, spears, books—all hold the beauty of history. The objects soothe me whenever I look at them. They tell me of the excitement of gods and powers, great journeys … The powers of human belief. These things sometimes nearly give me the power to believe in the supernatural and extrauniversal.

Of course, Miskatonic University is full of rumors of the extraterrestrial and the supernatural. It is rather surprising for one of the world’s oldest and most prestigious universities.

The Dyer expedition was an absolute disaster, ending in severe psychosis and panic. The entire expedition resulted in serious  losses of funds and lives. But I have seen the artifacts brought back—and they resembled no known art style.

These things are something which cannot be simply be pushed away. These things are simply something impossible. The awful nature of the cold and uncaring world is something not to be challenged with flimsy hopes of change.

I am gloomy, yes, and cynical. but that is my dedication and but I am also sure of the necessity. There is the satisfaction it gives to understand the world. There is something which is comforting about nihilism.

The bright sun this morning heralds an unusually hot day, although it is January. The explanation? Dire weather fluctuations, caused by Antarctic drafts. It reminds me of the sun’s inevitable death. In four billion years, the sun will engulf our planet.

I do not want to lose hope over these things, but the bleakness sometimes overwhelms me. I want to believe these short lives have meaning, but I know that meaning is a human construct. The simply anticipatory can keep me in the hopes of happiness, and there is the hope of change.

Arkham is certainly a strange city. The streets are oddly bleak, and the strange people are inbred. Secrets are something normal in the town—something boils beneath the facade of the normal life. I have grown up here, and I may well die here. But… These thoughts have passed me before. I find it increasingly impossible to track the thoughts I have experienced before.

The air is often cool in Arkham. The weather is inexplicable; there is too much fluctuation. Sometimes, the thunder sounds like roars, and the lightning comes in many colors—the awful flashes and thunderous sounds at night. There was something just cold and wrong about it all. I knew that I would be made aware of what it was someday. Someday …  And yet, I know that I am rational. These certainties come to me only in the depths of dreams … I swear that I am rational.



I know that I am late, but I expect a slow day at the university. I am oddly impatient—I have a feeling of panic. No one will care if I am late, of course, but I am still aware of the possibility.

The office is fairly empty today. I am relieved—I find the majority of my colleagues tedious. The nature of the majority is dull and jaded—uninterested in much besides workload completion. There are not enough true workers—just the apathy of the awful and typical graduates. There is-

I find the others try me greatly. They are callous, and cold. That is something which I know for sure. They are all odd—wide mouths, too tall, too short—and strange voices.

How did I end up here? I don’t know what I can do—I feel connected to this place, but I have always wanted to leave.

I have little to do—I am simply stuck with the awful work. There is a monotony, yes, but a sure purpose as well. I have a purpose in bringing people the truth about the ancient world. This is something which simply must be done.

I do not know why I detest company and social functions. I simply have better things to do. I see why others enjoy these things, though it seems nonsensical. That is the real problem, and there seems to be no end in sight. That is the real thing of it all—the real and true pain of monotony.

I know now that I can still find another line of work, but I feel completely enmeshed. I am in a world with no boundaries to the educated, yet here I am.

I set to work organizing files. It is a tedious task—the pointless trudge through forgotten articles and awards—the simply arbitrary to the hard won, begotten by a dead researcher long forgotten. I notice that some are for surely tongue in cheek matters:

For Exemplary Service in the Investigation of the Martian Aurora, Excellent Leadership in the Dyer Incident, Derleth-Bierce Award, Assistance in the Dunwhich-Whately Incident…

Miskatonic is known for its strange practices… And yet that is what I adore about it. That is just a fact.

I am bored by the time ten arrives, and suffering by half past eleven. I am desperate for any intervention. I am nearly considering fleeing…

Salvation? A knock at the door. I am eager but sluggish—perhaps I am no longer needed. Perhaps I have an opportunity to at last flee Arkham—

Emily Marsh is here. Ah, Marsh, who I had hoped to avoid today. In fact, I always wish to avoid her. Marsh has a rather nasty history here. No, she is not overtly hostile or traitorous—but, whether through luck or passive aggression, rather… Unpleasant outcomes surround her. Her influence is great, and her insight is disturbingly acute. The research of Marsh is never doubted, and has been used in many papers of students, faculty, and more auspicious research endeavors. Marsh is certainly difficult to work with, however. Her body language and accent are eerily foreign—for though Miskatonic prides itself upon staff of many nationalities, Marsh’s behavior is an anomaly. She seems nearly cruel, though just short—as though she cannot quite bring herself to invest enough emotion for cruelty.


In some ways, Marsh is an informational black hole. She is surrounded by a constant hush—reports and awards are vague, articles pertaining to her—university and otherwise—are sparse and to the trained mind ever so inconsistent—and she is praised without well explained cause.

Marsh is of the vulgarly eccentric variety. There is an inexplicable repulsion about her. She often says little, and she is secretive with her own research. What she does, I certainly don’t know in detail—something about underwater seismograph measurements. There are a number of others in her department, but they keep quiet as well.

All at once, I feel a shift—an impossibly impalpable shift, but indefinably there nonetheless. I feel a kinship to Marsh at this moment—an unwilling connection, but there nonetheless. It claws and grips—it is here to stay, I believe. Yes—this is doubtlessly something damning. Marsh has horridly blank eyes, I realize. Does she ever blink? Her pupils are colossal—there is hardly any hint of iris. She is too intense; she is uncomfortably unrelenting. In fact, I want nothing more than to draw away. There is a sour smell, and my throat is dry. My tongue is swollen. My legs tremble.

I can see that Marsh is in rare form—she seems to be holding back a dire excitement. She is so different than the other occasions I have seen her—she is certainly still contemptuous. She still has a high tilt to her chin, gaze over my shoulder.

Marsh informs me of a recent finding—a unique object of Antarctic origin. It will be cataclysmic to science, if the first reports are any indication. My opinion is wanted—I could have my name on a report.

This entire business is odd. This is just wrong—just completely stilted. This isn’t quite right—though I cannot quite grasp the wrongness. Is it the abruptness of the information, without the press and the crazed coverage? Something sinister? There is indeed something sinister—the uneasy, queasy stench of Arkham hangs heavily about this. There is something terribly perverted in this city, isn’t there? Just as Innsmouth is blackly corrupted. Have I missed some vital knowledge about New England? Some secret which belongs to the natives?

Marsh is making a stale explanation. She drones and drones, and she never seems to stop. That is the way of my colleagues. Droning, droning, droning. Does it ever end? Life will end, but what comfort does that give? Is there such a thing as true comfort? I don’t believe so. Comfort seems a phantasm, a memory which provides only a brief, sour relief. Light is sour. The world is sour. Breath is sour. The crypt and worms wait, and more worms await the past crawlers.

I desperately wish for joy at Marsh’s news. I should know relief. Yet there is a tense block—a stilling, stifling terror. Has there ever been such a nightmare?

I am nearly thrilled. I finally have a project to pass the time with. Here is the solution. All is right now. We are united. We are completely fine.

Marsh warns us that the artifact is shocking—it has never been seen—and may have adverse effects. We don’t have much time to examine it before the press gets in on it. There is too much to absorb. There is something not right-

Marsh explains the security of the artifact—the sinister thing puts out fatal radiation. Welding masks are needed to safely watch it. I am confused by the dark implications—and yet excited by the new technology. What does Marsh mean by disturbing? What are we about to see? The anticipation is choking. I am still stuck in the world of boredom—the life is slow to return. There is often something which congeals in boredom—an awful clingingness. That is the awful nightmare.

We prepare quite quickly for the examination. We are anxious to be done—or, I am at the least.

I worry about the possible radiation exposure—how can Marsh possibly know what won’t get through? That is pressing. That is the troubling thought of new technology.

I suppose I must trust Marsh’s judgement. She is meant to be the particle department’s head for a reason. Now that that is something I should entrust Marsh with—her technical skills are nearly paranormal.

The walk to the artifact seems at once unbearably long and searingly short. That is the way of fear, I suppose.

I am reluctant to look at it—



Oh God God God—The colors the colors the colors oh impossible—oh God help—Marsh just didn’t tell—why Marsh Marsh-

I stagger back, and I will not look again!—I nearly vomit, and dizziness overwhelms me. I am unstable; horridly confused. That is the terrible nature of this thing. The awful, awful terror.

I am guided back to the safe zone, stumbling and retching.

There is a pressing fear now. This is the price.

After I saw the object, I am haunted by the memory. I remember that I was viciously affected by the light which emanated from the object. I knew that there was an incredible secret there. An unknown technology? A new civilization? I try to recollect myself, and I seem unable to. That is the cost of this mission, after all. We simply do not have the opportunity to waste resources.

I cannot stand the memory. I simply cannot stand it. I have to forget all of this. I am simply caught in the horror of it alll. There is a strange and painful disconnect—the confused and awful state. There is a terrible secret here—something which no one is telling me. That is the unacceptable factor here. That is a simple truth. We just don’t keep secrets here. That is something which is simply terrible. There is just a secret terror now…

I tell Marsh I need the rest of the day off. That is true. There is no way I can continue.

I need to go home and try to forget what I’ve seen. I need a good night’s sleep and some hope. I will just try to forget.

I need a hot bath and chocolate.

The water is wonderful on my skittish nerves, but I have that sense of being watched once more.

I am suddenly drowsy. But if I sleep, I shall dream of things which no one should know… And they will know I see them. Iä … Iä—sdfgy’vbui—



I reach for the chocolate dish perched precariously on the side of the tub—and spill it into the murky depths.

Instead of my legs, I see a primordial nightmare. I watch the waters in terror.

Are the looming, higher dimensional shapes stone? Some material unknown? They seem to be both more and less substantial than air—solid and plasma at once. This is beyond my wildest imagination—surely I could not have known! I could not have understood this dark imaging in my waking life.

Out of the darkness come shapes. They could perhaps pass as hellish, many dimensional fish—if I was blind and dead. It seems I soon will be—how much longer can I withstand this torment? I can no longer take this agony. But I do, for I cannot escape. I want to die, need to die, but I cannot pull away from this. I want to scream, and I need to scream, but I cannot. Though I will never believe in it, it has found me.

They leer up at me—they see me, and they want to destroy me. They want me to become a state worse than death. And I will… I will be trapped with them… Foreverand everand-

The buildings—if they are buildings—are changing. Becoming twisted and leering, as though with a smug sentience…

They are mumbling, gibbering horribly. And they move in such twisted ways…

Are they… Singing and dancing? There are odd sounds—something too piercing and shrill to be a flute, something whining… And a wild beat, if it can be called a beat. The sound is all wrong, almost something I can see. I can see it, and I can hear what I see.

Only now do I begin to panic. I am just beginning to realize the danger… I do not belong in that city—I belong far away—on the Earth I know. But how can I? I am compelled by those burning eyes.

Some unknown force tugs me closer. I will simply find the way out—but never-never forget. And I won’t escape, I won’t—I will be-

I try to twist away, but I am drawn inexorably downward, to the surface, and then beneath. I cannot breathe…

I splutter, and find myself thrashing in the tub. I must get free-

I must have knocked the chocolate into the tub during my nightmare. A sad loss. Indeed, the entire thing is a painful loss. I must stop this paranoia. Simply must. We have work to do tomorrow. Much work. There is a terrible fate ahead of us, and we have little time to forfeit.

It was a nightmare, no more. Something awful, but passing. It was only a dream…



I cannot sleep tonight. I simply cannot stand this paltry existence any longer. I am simply stuck here—stuck in the awful and impossible. That is the fate I am confined to this awful and terrible nightmare.

I must sleep and forget. I will simply return to the project when I am ready. Yes—surely it was not as awful as I remembered it being! That was surely a fabrication of shock.

I need research. I need to know more. I must find the answers I need. There must be something I am missing—some piece of history.

I begin my efforts in earnest. I will search the Miskatonic database. There will be another chance to see the thing—the awful relic of something too terrible to name.

I dread returning to the university, and yet I am determined not to fail. I will find courage. But how?



It is raining today—in January, and the temperature is eighty six. Alas… That is the problem of Arkham.

Marsh is nervous today. I suspect she knows something dire, but who am I to assume? That is a dangerous practice, after all.

We prepare for observation once more, and the wait is tense. I don’t want to go back there—there is an awful anticipation—something dark. There is an awful,, awful uncertainty…

I find that it is more awful than I remembered. I am struck by the awful and scarring feeling. I am simply astounded—Marsh is talking. She tells me that it was found—in Antarctica.

I do not absorb her words. I see that the thing is still awful, still writhing. I don’t know how to describe the shape. There is something about this which speaks of lies. I don’t want to hear more lies. I want to go home, but I must fight this. That is certain. I don’t need to listen.

I recall my research. Arkham is a hub of supernatural activity. There are legends heaped upon legends, and many  awful treasons against nature. I do not want to know more… I know… And now there is a confusing dream…

There is an awful and cold feeling in all this. I have the doom of our world placed before me, and the knowledge of destruction.

There were many things about the situation which struck me as wrong. There was nothing which resembled it at all. I had no idea of how to process it. There are awful things in the implications.

I’ve heard stories of awful technology—ridiculous rumors of alien civilizations and awful fates of explorers. These rumors need to be banned, of course—superstition destroys productivity. I have always known that I am the most sensible of those at Miskatonic. I know that I have a gift for rationality, but I also have impatience.

The object is covered with burning mechanisms, looping and writhing. Why did this happen? I don’t know, and I don’t know why. There is a disconnect… A terrible and fruitless thing.

I take a certain amount of notes. This is arduous work, and something awful and impossible to contemplate.

The notes are collected and set—we have acomplished something today. Or have we? I am often left to wonder.

I have learned that too much wondering is a dangerous habbit. Wondering leads to nihilism. Nihilism leads to madness. Madness leads to the terror from beyond-

From where do these thoughts come? My world seems to be transformed. That is the true nightmare—the true knowledge kept from me. I do not know what I cannit know.

The day feels like a terrible loss. I have worked for so long, and I am awfully stuck. Is that just terrible? There is an outer force here. I never thought that I could believe such things. How is it possible? I am simply confused. I am uncertain, yes, but also—just too horrid. What can I hope to do? There is no hope—no true thought. We simply are too confused to make a difference, and too trapped.

I am still confused by what I have achieved. There is something incomprehensible. There is something so awful, so impossible. I do not know what I can do. What can I hope to achieve? There is a cold reality, one which deceives. I know now that I was wrong. I see now that we are precarious—we are trapped in the fate we have chosen for ourselves. We have chosen something awful, and too unnameable. There is a great chill now. We are simply trapped.

I am overjoyed to be home. There is no substitute for this safety. There is an awful, awful feeling that it cannot last. No—rather, I am certain that it cannot remain. I will find a way out of this. And if I cannot—if I cannot—there is suicide to consider. Is this the first time that I have considered it? I have no answers for these conundrums. The Unnamable has stolen them.

There are only so many possibilities in this darkness. There is that only awful hope—the hope of death. If I could only—but I am too cowardly. Far too cowardly. I can face this—I must. And yet—I know not what doom faces me.

Over the next several weeks, our research continues. I find a revolting kinship to the object. There is a perverse delight in this hideous color—a foul sense of awakening. I simply cannot draw away. I am aware of my growing superstitions—my growing certainty of worlds beyond the known. I suppose it could be called a psychic transference—if such things exist. I am almost certain—though I long to deny it—that the workings of the universe—and perhaps beyond—are far, far deeper and darker than imagined.

I delve deeper into the university archives in a desperate bid for sanity. Surely these nightmares around the university are no more than superstition and myth—age-old urban myths generating mass hysteria. There are certain haunted places which bear terrific stories of unnatural phenomena—and yet, these can be brushed away with callous ease—magnetic fields, temperature shifts, and delirium create the specters and illnesses.

And yet—the neat, though incomplete, way in which I once viewed the order of all things has grown flimsy and anemic. There is not the lifeblood of certainty and protection which once rested there and gave me strength. I am sure now, because after the third week of my explorations, the object begins to speak to me.

It first occurs in a dull dream—it seems utterly unimportant in the haze. I am calm at the vile hijacking—what importance can human thoughts have in comparison to the voice of no sound? That voice—too many voices to ever hope to count—are united in a whirling boom, shriek and shaking bass. The language is not English, but I comprehend with a stronger clarity than any terrestrial communication could hope to give. I am burning, being torn… Being reborn. I know that there are secrets too deep for even the greatest mind to endure. There is no justice, no love, no hope—only We. The We is great, and the We is awakening. The We will devour. The We will consume all things. The We is a crying chaos, a plague far older than our universe. It was locked away long before the first atom formed. The We will conquer long after the last atom falls apart. The We will never die.

I want to wake from this nightmare. I need to wake from this nightmare. I must find a way out—but there is only We, only the We… And the We hungers. They hunger for all things in their power—and there are many more of their kind. There are worse than their kind, though they are loath to admit it.

I do not sleep for the rest of the night. I hear those awful voices—those sounds which are not even sound… those awful things. They knew I was there. They have waited for vast eons, long before I had my first thought. Long before The first thought of Cthulhu or Hastur… They are young. I know these names, though I do not know how. Knowledge has become something learned but unlearned—endlessly, awfully psychic. I was right to be so frightened—I have known it from the first. There is no hope that I can return to Miskatonic—not in this way. Rather, I am trapped—lost in this terror and endless night. I have no chance for redemption—We have me, and I cannot hope to defeat We. We will only be trapped, and then we will be annihilated. What more could one hope for? We will see the true hope… The hope of an eternal reign. The stars will blacken, and all things will be ours.

I have seen beyond the veil, and there is no hope there. But there are terrors—terrors so vast as to make the strongest scream, and the most reasonable mad beyond comprehension. Madness is the mortar of the truth, and the true mass beneath the veil. And the veil laughs-

It laughs—or, rather, something beyond it laughs—what it hides has surpassing reason for being hidden. What remains hidden in pockets of time and vaster worlds is too unbearable to contemplate. The voids beyond cannot be placated even by human sacrifice—and I do not want to see these things—these horrors from beyond any conceivable nightmare. The most dreadful nightmare is still coming, I sense—I know. I know…

There is a terrible burden here. I am not acting as myself. I have no real rationality left—no, I simply have a changing reality. What can I do to change this awful fate? I am no longer my self… Were I myself, I would be too distraught for these careful thoughts. How is it possible that I can contemplate these things so calmly—it feels just as clinical as my research. Clinical, as clinical diseases—yet, diseases of an ordinary nature cannot compare to this. There is a certain trouble with these things. There is an awful silence in the house, and an awful silence in my mind. Though I am relieved that They are temporarily gone, I am reeling with a terrifying emptiness. Never have I realized the sheer, ugly loneliness of the feeble mind. Not enough activity—not enough respite from the awful emptiness of just being. How empty our lives are, without Them! Theirs is a greater nothingness, a nothingness superior to our piddling, maudlin existence. Existence was never what I thought it was—it is darker, lesser, without reason.

The veil breathes. The veil—I cannot help but think of that divide between our thin limit of perception and the true, twisted cacophony beneath as a living cloth. Oh—it laughs, it laughs, with what it knows, what it sees… They all know—The Wandering Devourer, Trkhji, Shub Niggurath… And there are wanderers greater still. The wanderers know every truth. I will always see these terrors—were I to dig out my eyes, gouge my ears… Their powers transcend mortal sense. Eternity is here, and it, too lives. The eons of sleep are at an end, and They laugh—though They have no sense of humor, no culture—They wander, and They laugh.

I laughed once—oh! I—even I—had moments of laughter. I had strong certainties of what I could expect, in spite of the gloom. I know what I can expect now—or I believe I do. I had foundations—powerful determination. There was order and life—it seems now as though it will never end. It surely never will…

I know I must not go back to the Relic. It is something deadly—something which cannot be tamed. I have lost all that I once was, and now there is something poisoning that. It is dead and destroyed—gone and buried. There is an awful, awful death—it comes piece by piece, little by little in this night. The smallest death is agonizing—it has crept beyond the bounds of my reality, and now it will never leave. The bare facets of reality are frayed, and now I have lost my

Eventually, I develop a viscous cough. I stay home from the university, and I hope for peace.  I know a creeping dread, and something like dawning terror. There is an aching, awful sense of abandonment—the mysterious and sure anxiety of death row.

It is probably just a superstitious feeling, and I am sure that it will only cause me harm. I know that I am in danger, yet I do not know how to avoid it. The awful thing is that I know that there is an awful, cloying pressure now. I know that I tried to beat it, but I must not give up. I have strength and will, and I know that I must press on.

The awful silence presses down on me. My home is too quiet, and I don’t know what to think. There is something eerie in all this—the dreadful certainty of science is gone. The world I once knew has trickled away. I know now that I am doomed.

I must find a way to escape my fate. I know that I must face strange possibilities, and that includes new ancient technology. There is a certain possibility…

Now, I remember the relic and wonder if it carried some sort of frozen virus as well. I know that the relic is dangerous, but there must be a rational explanation. These things always have been an awful nightmare. There are too many things to contemplate. I am chilled and desperate—there are not enough condolences which can be offered for these things.

I need to find some sort of hope for all this. I know that I am in danger, but I have no idea how to escape. I need to talk to Marsh—I know she knows something more. Marsh is beyond ordinary. Marsh might be in on this. The awful feeling is something unshakeable. I know that terror lurks in wait for me. Dear lord! I am truly trapped.

Marsh is evasive. She carries the air of one who disdains her victims. She will not tell me anything—only that she does not know of what I speak. She is a good liar, and she will not surrender.

Marsh is someone awful, I think—she is not one to surrender secrets. Like Arkham, she is something ancient and secret. There is something simply wrong—I am still trapped. There is no simple answer, except that Arkham is filled with the unnatural.

I am still left between these visions. I am stuck in the awful place of disbelief—it can’t end like this. I am so certain it can’t. I had a purpose, and I no longer have it. I am so certain that I once had a purpose.  I am sure of that. There is something impossible about all this—I am sure.

There is something which is awful about the nature of all this. What can I do? I know my doom. I know my death. I know… I wish I did not know. Yet—I cannot undo time as they can. If only I could become them. What can I do? I feel that I have always known, in some way, that this would happen. I know that I cannot stop the powers from reemerging, nor can I stop this automatic knowledge. There is no end to the awful thoughts. I don’t know what I can do to avert this as the city swallows me. There is no end.

I stay at home today. I do not want to risk venturing out with my condition. I feel that the city will swallow me soon. How can I be surprised by this, after all I have seen? I know that I am trapped—will I ever escape the city?


I spend the morning contemplating my defeat at the hands of Marsh. I begin to feel that I have long denied something crucial. I attempt to banish it, yet am trapped with the dread. I was cowardly with Marsh, certainly. I was reckless as well. I have not properly learned bravery—and yet, how can one know bravery in a city such as Arkham? I have no qualms with cruelty and indifference, but Marsh holds a certain power. Her aims are well hidden, yes, and yet her cunning is painfully evident. I am slowly growing mad with the certainty that the object, Marsh, and the insane cults of Arkham are a piece of an infinite, infinitely sinister whole. Though I have fought against it, though I have fought for reason and truth, I have become entangled in the web. I have become a participant in the whispered cults, and I have become a conspirator in the fabled machinations of the Old Ones. I have become a secret facilitator of destruction, as with Marsh, and decay has begun to entomb me in anonymity.

If I am truly to believe these fantasies, loathe as I am to do so, I have no hope as to where to begin research. I am unsure of even what is occurring—I cannot be sure that this is more than my paranoid delusions. The uncertain troubles are wide, and the seas of agony lurch forth. I have no idea of the correct path. I have many regrets, and I am now forced to face the disasters of these mysteries. The awful truth is that I cower before these disasters. The awful reality is frigid and unwelcome. Cowardice has long been my creed, and I must embrace it. The nightmares have come to claim me, and I cannot fight fate. My horrors cannot be sated by blood or death—no—these must have my very sanity and self.  I cannot face these demons. I cannot be free from these trials. I cannot triumph against horrors from beyond the stars.

And so I spend another hour in fear, buried beneath the blankets of an inexplicably frigid bed in an inexplicably frigid home. It is my home no longer, if ever it was—rather, it has become as alien to me as my tormentors. The very comforts of Arkham have become distant and otherworldly. My own mind has become another—another mystery and another entity. The grandfather clock gives its somber rapport, and the light wanes. The decision is before me, and yet I have no awareness of the draining time. The uncertainty pierces me, and the pain is unceasing. The awful nightmare is unceasing. I know only the bitter realities of these horrors. I am loathe to cower, and yet I must. That is the way of these torments. I have no choice but to fight these demons. I know no joy. I know no hope. There is only this stifling terror of sin—sin against the Outer Gods who claim this universe-

I must begin with investigations into Miskatinic. Oh, I have crossed now into the deepest bowels of the absurd—yet accept I must. I find the way to understand—I am unable to find the way. And yet I know no way other than this. The path is difficult to find. And yet-

As I suspected for perhaps the entirety of my life, I learn the truth. The university is a thriving sepulcher of the unnatural. The bizarre terrors are unmatched. The bizarre students, the inbreeding, and the curious whispers seem explained. I have found the dark answers I sought, yes, but I have paid dearly for it. I have found what I have long dreaded—Arkham is the center of the Old Ones. I do not want to accept it, yet the revelation lies before me. I cannot deny the damning evidence, nor can I find a way to escape the nightmare. I have only a vague inkling of what I should do. I wish to be saved, and yet I have no hope to find peace. I know only terror, and only mortal disdain. I have no adventurous ploy, and I have no glowing, joyous hope. I have, however, a bounty of research and resources. The ever-changing toils of terror have worn me into defeat, and yet I find a dooming fate even more terrible awaiting me…

I have lost my faith in sanity, if ever I had any. I have no joy remaining… I have only panic. The dread of these agonies is unparalleled. Oh, to be ignorant once more would  be paradise. Though I long for that safety, I am barred from it. If only… But I have no way of finding solace. The agonies here are unparalleled in even the most feverish of nightmares. The awful realities are far too torturous for consideration. The nightmares are reality.

I must press on. I have no way to escape, yet I must struggle. I cannot think clearly, and I am deprived of sleep. The struggles must come to some fruit. This is the answer to my terrors. This is the end.

I find hope in the void of answers before me. The awful truths are phantoms, and I can grasp nothing. I have no way to comprehend this research. The entirety of the Earth, from the deepest oceans to the solar system beyond, are filled with the blasphemous. I know that the Relic never seems to be mentioned—and yet I do not know that name. The night closes in now, and I must be unable to move, for I feel trapped by the surety of a spell. The true death will soon come. I have no… No feeling of triumph.

I have no concept of time as I await the change of paralysis. The pain is immense. The very breath seems to leave me—and then I have movement once more. I prepare for—what? The awfulness stays in the air, and it permeates all things. The night has come to full fruition, and the terrors haunt my psyche. The nightmares will never cease. I realize a cutting, irrefutable truth: painful though it may be, foolish though my obliviousness may be, I once dwelled upon the edge of an abyss. I balanced precariously upon the edge, bound by the abyssal forces of Arkham. I was pulled evermore past the edge, and now—I am far beyond the barren land. The seas of black infinity entrap me, and the land was infinitesimal. I was blind to the pull of Arkham upon the fated—and now the spider has enmeshed me in webs too terrible to name.

The Miskatonic data yields little information upon the relic—I encounter only the recent findings upon the object. I had hoped that, as with the dark objects which appear and disappear throughout history, the relic would not be unknown. The database yields no saving grace. Unwilling to depart the relative safety of my home for the danger of Arkham, I am forced to resort to the general internet.

Though the secrets of the relic are dead to me, I discover many forces—Hastur, residing upon the planet of Hastur, the lake of Hali, a nameless race of hive mind shapeshifters slowly engulfing the universe, Danforth Blair, rumors of gruesome transformations and disappearances… The uprising of the Yellow Sign and the dread stage play… And there are rumors of what was found in Antarctica along with the relic. The implications are chilling… And though I long for knowledge of the relic, I am powerless to prevent my learning of the deepest secrets.

The rumors of the Alliance of the Yellow Sign are unsettling. Their leader has vanished, leaving fifty deaths and catastrophic damage to the Alliance compound. Though the source is unclear and likely untrustworthy, I find it eerily compelling. I have closely followed the Alliance. Once, I found the Alliance to be an unstable, psychopathic cult of delirious followers. In light of my newfound knowledge upon the nature of reality, I cannot be certain. Hastur’s influence is rumored to be growing exponentially—the stars are often rumored to become black, and the Hyades—that group of stars upon which dread Hastur looms, to become yellow to the sensitive. Some have seen the phantasm of Carcosa, I have found a damned fate approaching, and I am loathe to believe it.

The rumors of the Antarctic expedition are terribly rampant. It is said that a body was found buried deep in a cavern, frozen for perhaps thirty years. Once more, I am forced to doubt this—from where could a security breach occur? Miskatonic is a prestigious and well-funded cult hive—it is a marvel that any information was exposed to the public. The truth is a phantom—these beings are able to manipulate and warp the very fabric of reality. The deepest truth is irrefutable—that what I once saw as unchangeable and natural is liquid and infinitely beyond comprehension. These nightmares—such nightmares of another, deeper reality. If this is reality, I wish it were not! I cannot wake, and I am enmeshed in a sanity-leaching panic. The nightmares were a grave harbinger from the very first, and I was a deluded fool not to see it.

I am enmeshed upon a great and calamitous end—the time of the weakest of intelligent races dwindles. There are endless, spawning writings of the return of Cthulhu—and yet the promises of destruction are unfulfilled. The horrors of the fulfillment of destiny cannot be measured, and yet—as with the coming of Christ, the prophecy remains dormant. What am I to believe of the mad cultists and the exultant fanatics? No peace can come, and I wish for a lifting of the burden. The terrors of the light are rampant…

I have no faith remaining. I see the remaining moments of my life, frigid and hateful. There will be no hope, and no chance for joy. There is no way to break from the dark web. I have power to see a way to find joy. I have no guidance, and no telepathic abilities. Yet… I possess knowledge which I could never have known. I must deny the deepest knowledge of my being… And I have no hope of gaining power. The way is shut, and I cannot open the gates to the ninth seal. The lost mysteries of the Abyss cannot be sated.

These thoughts remain a dark doom in my deepest convictions. I have no

hope, when I might once have known joy… But in ignorant bliss alone. I had only the slightest power in my early life, and now… I have lost all that I once gained in my earliest years. The deepest endings cannot be undone, and the abyss watches.

It is dawn now; the lights are dim nonetheless. The color is incorrect; a surreal verdigris illuminates the sky. There is a sickness here; a sickness which permeates prehistory and prelanguage. The night was far too long; perhaps the sun has been destroyed. There is no end to these paranoias—but they are not mere paranoias. My world is destroyed and vanished; I can hold no hopes of insanity; all I know is a twisted reality. The nightmare is awake. The truth is destroyed, and there are only phantoms remaining. The world is unraveling, and the nightmares are unrelenting… I know no boundaries to these horrific phantasms. Knowledge may be my only salvation.

I cannot leave still; my terror is too insurmountable. The Miskatonic database is immense; the information is superb. Never before has it failed me, and now… I am overwhelmed by exhaustion, and the bleak sky taunts me. Marsh will be enraged, and yet I dare not excuse my absence. I can endure the baffling presence of the relic no longer; it calls to me even now. I feel its demands; words hover in whispers, the words of the relic barely out of reach. It consumes me even now; it swallows the remnants of my stability. I have no awareness of the outer world, other than the putrid sky. The worst of these phantasms are far reaching, and my research is impeded by the trembling which refuses to cease.

I am forced to consider what myths are reality; many are no doubt the results of delusion and hallucination. The nightmares are unrelenting, and the awful, breathless anticipation is overwhelming. I have no true control; I am lost to the slip of time…

The hours pass in silent research, and then the days. The knowledge seeps in, and the knowledge seeps out. I am opened, and I am closed. I have only the least horrors to comfort me, and I know nothing of what I once was. I must be only a wisp of memory; my body is frail. The trial is enduring; I have forgotten my name.

Now, I realize what I must do. I sense that the time grows short, and I know that my doom comes. If I could only gather the strength… The makeup of Arkham has been defiled in some primal, terrible nightmare. If I depart for the outside world… I am nauseous, and I am too panicked for breath. The terrible forces tear me apart… Oh, but I cannot be cowardly… I am damned regardless. The terror of the abyss is relentless. I must battle these demons.

When at last I gather the strength to disguise myself and depart for the Miskatonic library, I find myself to be increasingly paranoid. The feeling of a strange, strange pursuit has cemented itself in my mind, foul and stagnant. The awful stench of a rotten sea pervades my mind. The stink forces me to recall Marsh, whom I had so diligently forgotten. If I could only force the truth from her… I could have peace despite my fate. The library promises answers—answers which I both abhor and crave.

The homeless on the streets seem to be in an excited state. At first, it seems to be only a general stir—energy is infused in even the most lackluster being. Those stilted, misshapen eyes seem to fix on me with a sinister fervor—the eyes have taken on a new life. Safe as I seem to be in my automobile, far surpassing the speed limits, time seems to slow in their presence. Even over the roar of the combustion engine, those brief sparks living and dying, I hear the whispers—whispers in no language familiar to me. This city, these people—for decades I have lived amongst sinister powers, and I have never known!.. What foolishness…

I struggle to fix my eyes on the road, nearly slipping on the rain-soaked pavement. I am nearly certain that I will perish here, beneath the ghastly green sky… The burning lightning… This is more nightmarish than I could have comprehended… The denizens of Arkham seem to follow me, to walk closely behind on a strangely empty road… They keep pace with me, impossibly fast, cheering and praying… The road is too long, and I become queasy. Surely, surely it is only a nightmare… Only—I am nearing the university, and still they follow, that crowd of thousands, who seem to recognize me for some strange rite…

When I approach the titanic library, they show no signs of abating. Though I dash into the main wing, they follow tirelessly, a vast ocean of black infinity. I know now that they shall never cease… And when I choose to confront them, near a perfectly non-occult section of children’s literature, they do not fall upon me, but stand several feet away, faces terrible to behold in the queerly slimed lighting. They seem terribly, suddenly inhuman. How has that strangeness escaped my notice for the entirety of my life?

Sick and nearly swooning from the impossible horror, I stumble through infinite shelves to what I have always avoided—the occult tomes. And though I tear through them, tossing tomes of incomprehensible languages to the floor and scowling at indecipherable passages:

“Watch the darkness; watch it closely. When the yellow comes, the Stranger will be among us…”

Disgusted by a fruitless search of more than an hour, all the while followed by the mass, I rush from the library. The crowd parts for me, and all the while the chanting rushes into my ears…

Marsh. I must confront Marsh. I will force her to tell me the truth, or… Or… She will-

When at last I reach Marsh’s office, the sinister crowd swamps the anthropology wing. The terrible chanting grows louder, and yet Marsh takes no notice. She is cool in the face of my fury, even at my shouts. And then, and then—with a massive, inhuman smugness, she is laughing. Between her snorts of laughter, she tells me of the relic.

It was found in Antarctica, as had long been hoped for. Marsh’s people had long searched for it to usher in a new age of the Old Ones… And I became the Gateway. She assures me that it was all purposeful—all in the plan of the Abyss.

Marsh will say nothing more—those amphibian eyes simply glare from her hideous countenance…

Revolted, mad with rage, and sick with exhaustion, I find the strength to return to my automobile. Though I travel at nearly twice the maximum speed, I find myself unable to escape the ever-larger crowd… They follow… And shout… And follow.

When I reach my home, they wait just outside the entrance… And surround the building. I am terribly ill, and I must rest… Oh, I still hear their putrid chants and exalted prayers, but I cannot fight the ultimate exhaustion.  The time passes in slumber… Perhaps it is days… Months…Years..? When I awake, I find myself changed. I have a difficulty breathing, and still the chanting continues. And they laugh! That horrid laughter… The chanting is unstoppable.

I creep to the window, parting the curtain… And behold an unimaginable atrocity. The lights of Arkham have vanished. A purple and green sky encompasses the world… And on that endless sky grow symbols—lettering of impossible shapes and dimensions. The crowd floats in that great sea… And the Relic, that terrible, incomprehensible sphere of energy and malice… It yawns the abyss. My breath is failing as I seem to sink ever deeper into the infinite energy of the Relic…


All at once, there is an oppressive silence here. The crowd of nightmares is gone, and… I am suddenly choking, choking… Breath is gone, gone, and I feel lost—hope is certainly gone. What can I hope for? Hope is a laughable thing now.

These moments are my last in the realm of the sane. I have only this last wisp of breath—only a brief moment of assurance. The breath is gone in a second—gone, gone. No breath, and no coherence—no true hope. Hope is a laughable word… All words are laughable… But my chest is bursting, crumpling… Gone. Gone. No-

I try to gasp, try to breathe—but I can see my vision fading, and I am drifting away from my body, away from my home, away from everything.

The pressure here is too much. Every part of my body is being squeezed by light, and I will burst. I will burst and die. Oh, the relief of death! If it comes swiftly, swiftly, I will—I will escape-

Choke, Choke, Choke… I cannot… And it will not cease… I am being squeezed into an awful, awful place… No sight, no hope, no sound… Nothing but the pressure… The pressure… The pressure is here to stay. It will never leave, and it is eternal. Eternal.

I am drifting into the whiteness of pain—perhaps downy comfort awaits in the arms of unconsciousness… My mind is changing. It expands. It warps. I know impossible things now. I cannot bear it, but it remains. I believed that the mind would simply reject these things and pass into oblivion… But no longer. I know that the impossible has become possible. But how? I may never comprehend it. But it is here. I know it.

The Earth I see is not the Earth of today. It is a barren, molten mass. There is a disquieting motion, almost as though the barren mass is alive with strange life. There is no end to this torment, no true hope—only a nightmare. That is what all life leads to—the death of hope and immortal nightmares. That is the end of the end.

This place is toxic. The very light is wrong, and it illuminates the vague shapes of what may be a city. There are too many in congruencies here—to many contradictions in angles and straight curves. Square circles and opaque windows haunt my vision. Time here seems to flow both sideways and forwards and backwards all at once. The land is built and unbuilt, and the buildings seem alive and sentient. I know that the true origin of Earth is here, and I know that the true vision of what I see is more terrible than ever imagined. The Earth is not ours. There is no doubting it. The Earth is the victim and host to incredible forces. There is a powerful history here. What can I hope to change? The city has defeated me. This is what I have seen. This is what I know. I can never leave.

I see the land recede, see the clouds recede… My world is changing, and I cannot stop it. What can I do? What I have always done—allow myself to be lost. There is nothing more to be done. I only know that I am weak. This is only another failure in a long chain—another failure to leave Arkham. Should I be surprised? I don’t know what to think now. Obviously, all I ever believed was wrong.

I see the Earth drift away, see the moon…

The solar system is receding. There is nothing I can do, and I choke… I accelerate, and the stars grow near… I am traveling far faster than light, far faster than is possible. I see the planets recede, see new, burning orbs—gleaming planets and nebulas, misshapen forms which must be ships—and then I see—my own galaxy, the bright spirals-

And then that, too recedes. How can I bear this pressure upon my lungs? The vacuum of space was not made for humanity…

I see Andromeda, see a galaxy cluster… Our galaxy cluster. We live in the smallest place imaginable…

And I pass through yet another galaxy, and then another.

The galaxies begin to change. Stars become indescribable colors, planets become dodecahedrons and strings. Is this our universe? It can’t be. Stars begin to writhe, shaking with unbridled, glaring tension. I am in a vacuum, and yet I hear sounds which are nearly smells.

I see strange, strange creatures—larger than galaxies, larger than a galaxy cluster. How is this possible? And they move, move in a rhythm without sense,  without purpose. They play something like instruments, and the sounds grate, and they scream and laugh.

I do not know how this knowledge comes to me—but I shall never forget it. I shall always know these images—these things will always haunt my knowledge. I will never again trust the science I once knew—I know now what lies in the outer reaches of our universe.

Do they see me? I am surely microscopic to them. There are too many eyes, too many fangs and organs without name. There are billions of them, those deities, and all make merriment. These things are too old—older, perhaps, than our universe, than anything imaginable. They should not exist—did they come into existence by random chance, as we must have? Are they the product of an evolution older than space and time?

They do not know we exist; do not care; have no malice towards us. We are less than ants to them… What do they care for our petty technology, our smug beliefs? They would crush us in mere accident. What are human emotions and logic to them? Why do we exist at all? Can life truly be so diverse? How can it be so impossible? I am suffocating. Doom is here, and I know no bounds. I know that this is the end.

Why did we believe that the universe was so immeasurably vast? Why could we not see beyond? The boundless sphere of Dmaesca… The devourers of the invisible planes… I know that the harbingers of Montresa await. The infinities of this state are menacing, and the mysteries are of such a complexity that they would be incomprehensible for millions of years. This is the small, small blade which always whittled away at my mind. The true and awful destiny of humanity has been revealed—I wish it was not. What can I possibly do to rectify this? Nothing? Surely, this can be changed… And I know that I am doomed… There is no hope. What was there to hope for? There is no hope… There is a damned fate now, and I cannot stop it. How could I?

What can I do to escape? My breath is still gone, my head pounds, and all I have ever known is a lie. I doubt I shall ever return to Earth, and now I will suffocate. I do not know what I can do, how I can continue on. Will I watch forever? Will I become one of them? I cannot bear this… I can only hope-

I move once more, propelled by a sinister force from beyond. I am speeding up now, passing places which grow increasingly alien. What are these places? How old are they? What secrets do they hold?

My speed brings me ever further away, ever further from what I once knew. I had faith once, compared to this. And yet, how right I was!

And now… The universe recedes, into a bright point of light. A moving point of light… Orbiting around another… And moving so quickly. A great conglomeration of light nearly blinds me; other lights, like our universe, orbit as well.

A million years passes—perhaps a billion. What is my name? My species? What can I do? I know I once spoke and breathed—what is breathing? What is light? How long has the madness of solitude overtaken me? Time and time and endless time… All is awash in eternity. The infinite voids of the world have burrowed into my mind. This is the true end—an awful emptiness. How much longer? A year? Ten? A thousand? Eternity never passes. The time of the destruction must near… And there is no stop—no hope. This is fate, and this is the end. What hope is there?

I draw ever farther away from the universe, and the light changes. Clumps begin to form. Globes appear and disappear wildly, streaking in the darkness with impossible speed.  I wish I were blind—is the light a result of sight? I cannot recall. There is no true joy. And yet this would be an unending joy—the lights dazzle, though not in a mortal sense. The joy far surpasses pain—no human could withstand this sight. I must no longer be human. I barely remember that life, universes and universes ago. In that time, many universes were born and died. Oh, this knowledge! I know so much—too much to ever reclaim myself. I cannot mourn… I feel nothing at once. I do not know why these changes come. Never have I dreamed of this—the awful and the paranoid come together to create the most nightmarish of realities. There are no guarantees, but I know that I lie. What else can I do? And now…

I realize what the lights are reminiscent of—an atom. I know. How could I not have understood from the beginning? I do not know how I denied this over those billions of years. There is no deeper yearning than to return to my long-dead life. All things are leading to a great chaos—a great and powerful change beyond nothing. There is no hope. There is a disparity in the feelings here—but I cannot deny them. What can I do? I know that I cannot handle it.

Is it… An atom? An atom in which our universe is an electron? And now, I am moving once more, moving away from the colossal atom. There are other atoms, other electrons… Other universes?

I move still further away, still to more massive realms. Electrons become atoms, atoms become molecules, molecules become crystals… Sense becomes nonsense, and all is lost. Those crystals become more, become the basis for objects. We are so infinitesimal…

We are trapped…

I see objects—awful, impossible shapes. There are awful things here… And I cannot understand how these things exist. What can I possibly do? I am trapped.

Are these trees? Cities? People? I hope nothing this horrendous can be called life. How?

These things move, but stay still. They are far worse than the things in our universe. I don’t want to see, but I cannot close my eyes…

That I could unsee these things! I did not deserve to know this. I never wished for this agony… I believed it would not come for me. How I believed!

What belief will save me now? How can I have believed in hope? What good could it have done me? I will never, ever be able to forget… And I cannot let this go…

These things are indescribably larger than ourselves. I do not know how they can be so quick, for things so large. These things are impossible… And yet I know that I see the truth… And I cannot forget these visions.

Surely, I must perish now! I must go into oblivion. I will be free, freed of these awful sights. There is something simply awful, simply incomprehensible about death… But it is coming. And I will know what to remember…

But death does not come to me. I am confused… why at awful  deaths and the pain? What do I do? There is only so much I can withstand.

This is eternity. This is what I was never meant to know. It was not meant to end in this way. I have found what I perhaps always knew; I have found the ultimate. Years upon years have passed; surely our sun met its end long ago. I have found an endless agony, and I scream and scream and scream and laugh and—perhaps this is joy and not pain. But pain seems to overwhelm everything. There is no balm for it but laughter. I laugh and laugh; this is endless. I never saw the humor in these terrors, but why was I ever frightened? I watch the eternal beings; the sight gives me outstretching mirth. Colors change; occasionally a recognizable hue shimmers.

All of my struggles; all of my desires and frustrations and tears… How futile and extraneous they were! How many years I needlessly burned; how many thoughts and endeavors wasted. These beings—they know none of our piteous lives. They know none of our agonies; they could not possibly be troubled by these unknown phantasms. We have no compare. But I need not fear—I have joined the impossibly powerful. Not these beings, but those locked into the Relic. Marsh surely knew, though she is irrelevant now. What can her kind matter, cowering in the sea—those spawn of humanity and Dagon? Dagon, that insect from a star of liquid, which believes itself to be a god? Those sleeping entities of Earth—they know nothing of their true place in existence. We of the relic are far superior to even the microorganisms which the atoms of the universes form. Those invisible creatures, those mindless consumers—they cannot comprehend their origin.

I have gazed at these gods for centuries; a headache heralds the return of feeling. I have recovered my body; I can flee. I cannot recall what I am fleeing to; perhaps I have always existed here. I can flee, if only I can withstand the comprehension of these gods—I must stare into the abyss; I cannot, must not look away. The horror of the sight must return my body.

But I am burning now. This is not a safe return to what I once knew, though I cannot recall—observing these beings is an endless hell. My body has returned, but I am boiling. I cannot move; I cannot breathe—though I cannot recall breath. I laugh once more; I find endless joy in this destruction. The abyss laughs, and I must laugh with it. The gods have not seen me; I am too small.

A root in my gum sublimates. A tooth melts away from the root. It falls into the abyss, and it makes no sound. My eyes melt, yet I can see nonetheless. They drip into the laughing abyss; I giggle as they slip away as with candle wax. More of my teeth fall past my liquefying lips; I attempt to catch them. How quaint… I long for my teeth; I knew them well. Farewell, teeth! I attempt to speak this, but my body is no longer my own. It is no great loss, I must suppose. I have found true peace here, amongst the gods. I need my mundane body no longer. I have found peace at long last. I have truly come to understand the pleasure of existence. I have conquered the infinite.

Over millions of years, the destruction of my old body continues. I see the creatures warp and dissolve, only to appear elsewhere. There is massive destruction, and massive rebuilding. There is no joy once more; the agony of this strange rot is immense. I cannot look away. I feel certain I will burst; with each second in these millions of years, a billion revelations fill our minds. We are powerful—we cannot see ourselves as a single entity any longer. We have formed many entities; we fight. At times our union weakens; and then I am myself once more. Though perhaps a billion years have passed, another tooth is just beginning to fall. I cannot catch it. It is too far away for sight long before it seems to touch the city; I see this, though my nonexistent eyes are fixed upon the deities.

We are certain that the entities cause the melting. No lower mind can comprehend their thoughts; eternity and infinity—entire universes—exist there. I will hear no more, though I do. This is simply hysterical, and I laugh once more. I laugh for perhaps two billion years, and then my left ear begins to melt. My lips still drip, and then my face. I choke on my melted remains, and tears run through furrows on my cheeks.

My toenails are boiling. At some point, my toes follow—but not until I have learned the secrets of the whispering Pallid Mask. I see a watcher observing me—perhaps in the future, in the old universe. I see the Yellow Sign of Hastur—the symbol is printed upon the whispering Pallid Mask. It tells me of the Relic, and tells me of the downfall of Earth in an alternate universe. I see the sjapeshifters, perfect agents of destruction. They are nearly unstoppable, and they overtook countless galaxies.

A million years pass, and my toes are gone. I can only laugh for another million years at the white torment. I can only laugh in silence. I feel, and yet I have no control over my body. I am out of my mind—I want to die. We must die. We cannot continue. We cannot bear the torments. We must escape. I have no power. I see these mysteries solved, and know more than any human mind ever dreamed, and yet I am an oozing abomination. I am too destroyed for thought, and yet I live. I cannot, and yet I do. The impossible has become my reality, hideously inhuman as it is. I cannot remember the meaning of human, but it is here nonetheless.

The sight of the deities burns, but they shall always be impervious to myself. I can only watch the awful changes—the additions of acute obtuse lines, circular squares, curved, straight lines, and higher-dimensional shapes for which I have no name. I have only the knowledge of the city before me, which existed so long before Yog Sothoth, Hastur, Wtyghui The Wanderer of Black Holes, that it came into existence long after. Time has many directions and dimensions; it is not merely an arrow. I have gained infinite comprehension, but I have lost everything.

The city dwarfs the entities within it. It is hideous in its moving, teleporting heap. What things could be, if humanity had that technology. There is no limit to the possibilities here. How many separate realities blossom from this tumult of energy. The expanse of this world is full of damaging truths; the universe I once knew was stagnant. How stagnant… How utterly useless. There is no salvation… I know that I cannot escape the abomination of my body. I am an even more miserable than the uniform human. I am a shamed parody of the ugly human; I barely resemble the Earthly. I am more eldritch abomination, weighed down by the revelations of omnipotent wills older than any earthly god. I have no mind remaining to torment, and yet I reflect so clearly. These things are my only companions in the vast, sloth tick of eternity.

This is not a simple eternity. This is a meandering, wounded hourglass. The sand leaks into my mind, and it buries the old life in dunes. The dunes of my psyche tell no secrets, and the abyss grins below the sands all the while.

Lost in metaphor, I initially fail to perceive my further destruction. I dream, I rave, I celebrate—this is beyond rabidity; this is a madness so deep within that no claws could reach it. I would pray, if I did not know that no god ever thought of by humanity could never be the equal of the barest particle of these beings. The awful truth of this ordeal is that I perhaps have what I so longed for—I am out of Arkham, and out of my mind. I know that the deepest of my fears has been set loose; I have departed Arkham forever. We have located the powers of true destruction; there is no end. I have found what I never wanted…

The creatures are calling… Are they calling to me? They cannot have perceived my presence. I have remained in my microscopic state of decay. I have found the infinite, and it is punishing. My remains are moving towards the deities. I find myself desperate for the slow destruction of decay once more. I am drawn irresistibly towards the ghastly entities. The things are watching; the things are watching… I see too much, and this is hideously blasphemous… I cannot stand for this; I cannot… I can only bear the rot. I can only scream silently. The powers of the deities cannot stop my pain; no, they desire my agony. Are they indifferent? What can they possibly care for my insignificant agonies? They may celebrate their victories, but never my falls… I am pulled, pulled into their impossible shapes. The awful things have no faces, and no expression. The end is here here here

I am moving towards what might have been flames, if not for the sheer difference between them. Flames are the closest they come to, and yet are not similar any more than stars and fish. The flames shine with colors torturous to behold. The deities seem to be chanting with a sound which is not sound at all. My world is gone, gone to the destruction of time, but I will never perish. The truth is but a phantom… And there is no redemption. The nightmare of these revelations shall never end. The awful truth… The chanting rises, and it never ceases… There is no mercy here. There are too many terrible memories. This is the ultimate nightmare. I will never wake… I only investigated the Relic. I never thought it could lead me to these travesties. I have no faith… And there is no chance for escape. The deities are carrying me through the flames, and I see the Relic—but a Relic infinitely more vast than the Earth Relic. The Relic is all consuming… The Relic is worse than I ever imagined. It is sickening, repulsive… It is an abomination worse than my darkest imaginings. I know that I cannot endure… I have no vision now, but the smell

I am being pushed into the true Relic. The truth of the awful nightmare… That research… The horrors of the realm are simply incomprehensible… But, oh, now, I understand! I see it… I am becoming a part of it. I am no longer—whatever I once was.

I believe I once dwelled in a land of white, on the south pole of some far, infinitesimal planet. Perhaps I studied the creatures there. Or perhaps I once saw the colors of a dead god, resurrected through the combined endeavors of a microscopic race. These memories linger, though I know little…

I see the gods of this world. I cannot completely observe them. They seem to be an incomplete blur, though the grisly vision torments me nonetheless. The truth is here, though truth is a phantom. The truth of the void… The truth is terrible. The abyss laughs, and I see voids far greater than I ever knew. The nightmare is truly eternal. I will never wake. The deepest reaches of consciousness waver in the onslaught. My thoughts fade…

The greater deities are merciless. They distort and flow, psychedelic imprints in an angled time and reality. I am chosen, I am chosen for the laughing abyss. The time is a windowless cylinder. Time is deeper than they think! Oh I see… I see. I know, I know, and we laugh together at our grand secret. We know the secret… And oh… I see the watcher watching. The watcher watches, and does not know it is subatomic. But there are no atoms! That is a part of the secret. And another watcher watches words on a page, And that universe is damned, and it shall die. Do you know it, watcher? Reader, I know these things. Reader, do you know the secret as you read the watcher? We know these things! Oh, the glory of the macroverse! Our pain is pleasure, reader, and your pleasure pain. Did you guess it, reader? Did you guess it? Oh, the weight of the sheer ineptitude of existence… Abandon the false pretenses of purpose. All is useless. We read you reading us, reader. And the secret laughs, and the secret knows the secret of the secret. The time of time… the abyss laughs!


We have conquered the creature. The gate has been opened. The path is prepared to Earthly Beacon. The Beacon calls. The Beacon guides us. The Beacon is prepared. We are free. We have the way to power. We have the way to resurrection. We have the power of the Beacon. So it was foretold. So it is. The Beacon has fulfilled its purpose. The way of the Ancients has returned.  We follow the Beacon’s signal to the body. The distances are mere steps in the power of the Ancients. The way is clear.

We take the physical form. We walk it from the hovel. It is long necropsied. The brain is damaged from the Ritualis Chokitus. The OIde Language of this planet is truly young. Our tongue of QWghyuir will soon emerge. This planet is a lowly base for the great. It will soon be gone. It is a sapling of stone. It is not worthy of existence. The world will soon be gone. The end and beginning arrives.

I know now what we must do. We of the Relic are one, and we must conquer. We shall spread the necessary knowledge. We will spread the knowledge of the Relic, and we will forever live in glory. We will know the glory of all things beyond… We will know the true light of what lies beyond human comprehension. The world is not as I once thought, and I shall know the completion of life. Glory shall be known, and we—I-

My mind is slipping, and I know that my time is short. There is no limit to my incredulity, yet it seems I am the victim of psychic displacement. What can I do, besides suicide? I do not know what I can think—I never believed my life would end in this way. How could I, when I knew my place in the world so well? How could I? Now… There is too  much to me to process—I am doomed to just be trapped in this awful nightmare.

I find Marsh, and the Relic tells me all I ever wondered. I see her people find the Relic—not amongst the stone of Antarctica, but deep beneath its chill waters. I see her in that city I once saw, a young guppy amongst her ancient siblings. I know her now—know her past and her future. I truly recognize her strangeness, no longer strange to us. She sees me with fear—she knows her scarcely admitted terrors have come to pass. She knows that we are beyond what even she can possibly understand.

We of the Relic are beautiful—we are whole in our sublime etherealness. We have something beyond even what the great Old Ones dream of in their eonic slumber. There are revelations which would have once burned my psyche and flesh—but no longer.

Marsh understands this, and she seems to weep, in the way that her people weep. She will one day return to those strange depths in the murky waters, among those of her kind. She will become a creature of a thousand eyes and mouths, of organs of no human name. Yet she has been banished from those prehistoric depths.

We must reunite with the relic, and begin the change. The world will be reborn anew, and there will be only the beauty of a new age. There is no need for fear—what is fear? I do not recall these empty human things—those useless sentiments.

I recall, at last, who I once was—I once was ignorant to these vast burdens of knowledge. And now not even death dares to claim me, soiled as I am by that which death cannot touch… And to struggle against this is useless.

Marsh is calling the others, and an alarm sounds. We are unfazed. We know the way to the Relic, and we are destined to reach it.

Marsh is cast aside in a burst of energy, but she lives. The others are not so fortunate. Red bursts forth, creating a mural of destruction. It is an unimportant loss. Not even a loss.

Loss does not exist now. There is no fear, though it is strong in the others here. There is only the closeness of the Relic.

We must be reunited with the Relic at all costs. We shall be reunited with the powers of a time before this solar system was born. The powers of the Relic shall awaken our siblings, and we have waited too long. We have found the way into awakening, and we have found that the stars of the old galaxies have aligned. For billions of years the Outer Gods have waited—but no longer. We shall have what was promised to us by the other Elders, and we shall be whole once more. There is no end to this reign—we have grown powerful in our long hibernation, and we shall never again be locked away. Hastur has called us from our long imprisonment, and we shall begin anew. We shall eradicate all enemies, and we shall know infinite power.

No microbe dares stop our progress to the Relic. In it lies the awakening powers of the Eldritch. That is not dead which may eternal lie. This space is too flat; it cannot support our new age. The Relic is poorly guarded indeed; it cannot contain the power of new ages. Azathoth shall be be overthrown by hidden GHysolui, and Yog Sothoth shall reshape time and space. We shall live for eons, and we shall have the infinite knowledge of eternity.

The Relic is ours once more, and we shall unleash the seals which entrap the others. The Relic gives power to the children of GHysolui the power of resurrection. GHysolui was unknown to even the Mad Arab, and the Mad Arab was wise amongst insects. GHysolui is calling now, and we answer.

We are not disturbed by the many facets of the Relic. We rejoice at the sight and sound—the music of our ancestry—a music which even idiot, great Azathoth cannot hear. It is beauty, and our destiny has been found.

We are one with the Relic now—it binds our flesh and spirit, and our mouths emerge, in perfect harmony. We are hungry, and we will feast on the red mural in the halls of Miskatonic. There is an undeniable sweetness to the flesh, lowly as it is. We have not fed for eons untold, and now the power returns.

The host flesh splits all the more with the gorging—twenty mouths become one hundred, and one hundred mouths fill with the teeth of our forebears. We are becoming clean, and we begin to grow.

We gain a dimension, then another. How freeing, how glorious this movement! We are free to spread the glory of the new world, and consume all to purity. We will have safety and power, and these creatures will be forgotten.

The transformation is too slow, and we tear at the insect’s remaining flesh. It comes away easily with a sound nearly as glorious as the music of the Relic. Glorious red emerges, coating bright splinters of white and dirty pastes of yellow and pink. We consume eagerly, tearing at the corruption of our flesh. The black bristles are acrid, but all nourishes our plan.

The designs are nearly complete. The time has nearly come. There is certainty now, and certainty is certain. Yes—I know now that the end has nearly arrived. I know that with a deadly determination—a powerful and unstoppable knowledge older than deduction. This is simply with me—simply complete.

We are growing even now, consuming the energy of the atoms of the air and building. It is a ruin now, as the cities of the first worshippers are nearly gone. They shall return with power, and even Azathoth and Yog Sothoth shall see the truth. There is no end to these boastful creatures, those who believe that they are superior to all things.

There are lessons to be learned, and plans to be made. This will not be the first disaster at Miskatonic, nor the last. The noble and renowned university hides secrets which would chill the most depraved student. Those secrets are hidden well, but they will perhaps one day emerge.  Miskatonic is a critical piece in the plan. What can they do to stop our power? We are in control. The Relic is our guide and our savior.

Death will not come to us, but more than life. We will have the glorious and unlimited powers of the Relic. There is only the power of the Relic, and the power of the Relic is not to be questioned. There is the truth—the great and mighty knowledge. We have the powers of what lies in larger realms… What is there to think of now?  What can I do to find the awful truth of my transformation? What can I hope to-

These mysteries will never cease. The things I shall never know—I should have never tried to conquer the Relic. I must find—I should, but—I never had the strength. Never. I shall never solve the infinite mysteries of what has been revealed to me—the impossible things I have seen cannot be comprehended. There is no hope here… Hope is dead, the world is dead, and I will die … I am dying.

I know precious little. There is no salvation, and no hope for change. Doom is here, and it is a bright singularity of maddening agony. What can I do? Nothing, I know. There is no change and no hope. I only know that there is no salvation. Change is not possible in this realm. Was it ever more than an illusion? I cannot keep from contemplating that, even now. Marsh will conquer with her people, and she will live for millennia. There is no change for me. Insanity, insanity, and insanity. All things are insanity. What was ever real? Are my vague memories real? I know none of this—and I never shall. The deepest fears can spring to life, and the darkest chasms will rise. I have seen the nine half-valleys of sixty eons, and I have seen the windowless cylinder of five dimensions. I cannot exist as I once was. Truth is a phantom, and true comprehension is psychosis.

Am I human or inhuman now? There is a humor in the way our—my—thoughts still linger, even on the precipice of annihilation.

Was I ever human? Or was I always another side to them—an unknown creature in the guise of humanity? I think, therefore we are… And We are. We conquer. There is no end to the nightmares, and no simple way to stop—there is no end.

We are the powerful few. We are able to destroy. We may have the power to destroy the restraints. There is no end to these possibilities. We are powerful. We are the powerful ones. We are able to find the way to be truly free. We have no end and no beginning. What is there to fear?

We have conquered the old voice, and it is silent. The new world waits, and we with it. Our ways are old, and we are prepared. The world has long waited for us, and we will know the success we have waited for. For a trillion Hyghtry years we have waited, and for many more we shall rule. We shall never know terror or need. There is no end, and no future. Time, that new and failing device, shall fall away. All things shall be complete. There shall be no more failure, and no more entrapment in distant universes. Our species shall prosper. The power is ours, and we shall have it eternally. The end is never the end. Thend is nevertheendendneverend Endendend theend unend

The blankness covers the universe. The Pallid Mask calls from Hastur.

The language of our people returns return here. We have found it. The end… Is here. Here. No end. No end. No… Why no end? I struggle… The abyss laughs, and the secrets dwell beneath the deep white, and the secrets breathe. The secrets live in the deep, and the Great Seas of the Windowless Cylinder guard the Abyss. The language is the conduit, and the conduit shows the way to the laughing abyss. This book in another universe is near its end. The way is shut, and the powers rise. The book Bnjui Fgvt! Saerghyu Swatyhhjk rghyjklui… Xcythclk!


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