...For a ghoul is a ghoul, and at best an unpleasant companion for man.

Music Ov Dark Gods

~EXCERPT FROM "HERBERT WEST REANIMATOR" by H.P. LOVECRAFT~ The bodies had to be exceedingly fresh, or the slight decomposition of brain tissue would render perfect reanimation impossible. Indeed, the greatest problem was to get them fresh enough -- West had had horrible experiences during his secret college researches with corpses of doubtful vintage. The results of partial or imperfect animation were much more hideous than were the total failures, and we both held fearsome recollections of such things. Ever since our first daemoniac session in the deserted farmhouse on Meadow Hill in Arkham, we had felt a brooding menace; and West, though a calm, blond, blue-eyed scientific automaton in most respects, often confessed to a shuddering sensation of stealthy pursuit. He half felt that he was followed -- a psychological delusion of shaken nerves, enhanced by the undeniably disturbing fact that at least one of our reanimated specimens was still alive -- a frightful carnivorous thing in a padded cell at Sefton. Then there was another -- our first -- whose exact fate we had never learned.








. EXCERPT FROM 'THE CASE OF CHARLES DEXTER WARD" by H.P. LOVECRAFT

After a time he reached a circle of pilliars grouped like the monoliths of stonehendge, with a large carved altar on a base of three steps in the centre;
and so curious were the carvings on that altar that he approached to study them with his electric light. But when he saw what they were he shrank away shuddering, and did not stop to investigate the dark stains which discoloured the upper surface and had spread down the sides in occasional thin lines. Instead, he found the distant wall and traced it as it swept round in a gigantic circle perforated by occasional black doorways and indented by a myriad of shallow cells with iron gratings and wrist and ankle bonds on chains fastened to the stone of the concave rear masonry. These cells were empty, but still the horrible odour and the dismal moaning continued, more insistent now than ever, and seemingly varied at times by a sort of slippery thumping.





The Calling
Perhaps it's best that few will ever know
The horror of the Thing that calls to me
While dreaming dead within His tomb below
The surface of the vast, unchanging sea.
He calls to me in nightmares as I sleep
And speaks a message better left unheard;
He whispers ancient secrets from the deep
Of which I dare not tell a single word.
He waits long epochs till the stars come 'round
To wake Him from His slumber once again,
And now I wish that I had never found
This Dreaming One who blasts the minds of men.
I fear His hell-spawned visions every night,
For now I know the truth: the stars are right!









They Wake Off Innsmouth
Off Devil's Reef it's said there loom
Loathsome beings that escaped the booms
Of depth charges lodged there in the past
By obedient sailors, their questions unasked.
The jumbled rocks, then shifted, have since
Realigned and eerie changes now evince,
Which suggest a mysterious upward surge
From fearsome depths it was sought to purge.
Bubbles of unworldly hue are sighed
At times in that area so evilly blighted,
And glimpses of the nameless things below
Have chilled chance mariners to the marrow.
"Before the moon twice more wanes,"
Say the hags in doom-shrouded lanes,
"THEY will issue forth to claim their due."
Now, will the Innsmouth horrors begin anew?