The hood was unceremoniously torn from over the young man’s head. A tall, gaunt man in antiquated clothing peered at him, his face mere inches away.
“And who do we have here?” hissed the man.
The young man gasped and his mouth dropped open as he stared into the eyes of the person before him seeing nothing but malice and madness.
“I require a name now, or the evil put upon your person will make mere mortal pain seem a convenience,” spat the man.
“My name is Jameson. J..J..Jameson M..M..Molloy,” stammered the young man.
“And why did you come here J…J…Jameson M…M…Molloy?” mocked the older man.
“I am a journalist. I was doing research for an article.”, replied Jameson.
“A journalist, eh? And what type of article would you be writing?”
“There were rumors that there was an organization in the area. That they believed the Necronomicon was not an invention of fiction. That there were those who were building a religion based on the book. It’s close to Halloween and my editor thought it would be good to talk to the people involved. Everyone loves a scary story.”
A laugh bellowed forth from the older man.
“So, you seek to be a writer of scary stories, do you? Well, my unfortunate friend, you seem to have stumbled upon one of the most terrifying of all. And I know from whence I speak. You see, I was once a writer myself. A writer of ‘scary stories.’ As a matter of fact, in these times my old writings have become quite popular.”
“Who are you?”, asked a mystified Jameson.
The man turned and sneered at him.
“If I told you my name, you would not believe me. It is a name associated with a man believed to be long dead.”
“So, you took a dead man’s name in order to do what exactly?”
Jameson felt the blow without ever seeing it. His head reeled as he spat a mouthful of blood to the side.
“Foolish wretch!!”, the man roared. “I have stolen nothing. My name has always been and will always be my name. If you must know, my first name is Howard, but I am more commonly referred to as H.P.”
Jameson chuckled.
“Do you think I’m foolish or mad enough to believe you’re H.P. Lovecraft? One of the most revered fictional horror writers of the 20th century?”
Jameson suffered another blow at this but refused to lose consciousness.
“What you believe or don’t believe is irrelevant. And you are sorely mistaken on one point my misguided friend; the stories you refer to are not fiction.”
As if to punctuate this statement, two creatures vaguely human in shape shuffled to the far edges of the room and lit several small fires with their torches. The large room became illuminated and the profane geometry with which it was built nearly nauseated Jameson. The two creatures moved to either side of Lovecraft and peered at Jameson with fish-lidded eyes.
“This can’t be…”, croaked Jameson.
“Can’t be what? Real? I assure you it is. And in a few short moments you’re going to see just how real.”
“What are you going to do with me?” demanded Jameson.
“With you? Nothing will happen to you that won’t happen to the rest of the beings on this insufferable planet. Soon, life as you know it, will be over. All I’ve worked for, all the indignities I’ve suffered will finally be justified.”
“What are you going to do?”
“For the next few minutes I’m going to tell you a story, so you can see how we came to this place. Then all will be made clear,” sneered Lovecraft.
“You are mad,” said Jameson in a quiet voice.
“Mad? Perhaps. It began long ago. I was frustrated that the world had not taken more notice of my genius. I was tired of watching those beneath me receive accolades that should have been mine. Tired of watching the lesser races muddy the waters of the gene pool.”
“So, you’re a racist and a narcissist then?” uttered Jameson.
Another blow fell, this time breaking his nose.
“I know that the other races are lesser beings. I know that all others are lesser than myself. I have seen it, and with what I’m about to accomplish, I will prove it,” laughed Lovecraft.
He turned for a moment and stared almost wistfully at one of the fires.
“I began to drink and imbibe various substances. Going to places that most men would shun. I sought truth. I sought vengeance on mankind. One night I followed a man. I thought myself far superior to him. He disappeared finally into this very building. I tried to be stealthy but was then caught. For months I was held captive. I was forced to write the books that the world has come to know and love. Then it dawned on me. These books were being written for other seekers of truth. Seekers that could see beyond the label of fiction and recognize the truth within the pages. When I realized this fact, I set to work to aid in ushering a new age for the elder gods. To make a long story short, the time has come. In a moment, the first of the elder gods will emerge from a portal behind me and make me one of them.”
“You’re delusional!!” cried Jameson.
“Think what you like, it matters not,” replied Lovecraft.
At this, the room filled with a cacophony of voices, chanting louder and louder until the foundations of the building shook. A swirling circular mass appeared behind Lovecraft and the chanting intensified. Lovecraft turned to Jameson crying, “You see!! All my work is coming to fruition!!”
An impossibly large tentacle passed through the portal impaling Lovecraft. In moments it had pulled him back through the portal.
A low voice intoned, “The time is not ready, but soon all will know suffering.”
Then everything went black.