Podcasts about Yuggoth

Åter i Varbergs trivsammaste kök för att, precis som utlovat, prata om några väl valda Lovecraft-adaptioner, nämligen The Resurrected av Dan O'Bannon och The Whisperer in Darkness av Sean Branney. Vi får syn på en återkommande berättarstruktur och nämner bland annat därför Indiana Jones mer än en gång under avsnittet. Vi pratar också bland annat om: Stuart Gordon, “Re-Animator”, “Dagon”, “From Beyond”, “Castle Freak”, “hö, hö och hepp, hepp”-faktorn, Fredrik Johanssons podd “Lovecraft på svenska”, “The Case of Charles Dexter Ward”, gotisk skräck, uråldriga familjehemligheter, vampyrer, svart magi, alkemi, existentiell skräck, lovecraftiansk skräck, “The Shadow over Innsmouth”, förbjuden kunskap, det ockulta, kosmisk skräck, galenskap, Cthulhu-mytologin, Brent V. Friedman, “Shatterbrain”, privatdetektiver, film noir, “The Appointment”, John March, Claire Ward, svettig älskog, “Inception”, Providence-myset, Stephen King-myset, romantiseringen av småstaden, kvinnokarlar, body horror, Joseph Curwen, specialeffekter, CGI-fällan, dungeon crawls, ockult mysteriemys, monstermys, 1991 som ett bra år för Tomas, b-filmskänslan, sit com-känslan, Chris Sarandon, Sam Raimi, Don Coscarelli, Richard Band, Van Helsing-typen, Dr Willett, ockulta sammansvärjningar, Call of Cthulhu RPG, “The Resurrected 2: Ashes to Ashes”, H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society, “The Call of Cthulhu”, Albert Wilmarth, Arkham, Miskatonic University, Henry Akeley, Charles Fort, Fox Mulder, snygga props, det återupplevda, The Woman in Black, Shub-Niggurath, The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young, Tsathoggua, Matt Foyer, popcornrullar, Anders Fager, avsaknaden av sex och pengar i Lovecrafts världsbygge, Jan Lööf, A Ghost Story for Christmas, M.R James, science fiction, rymdvarelser, Yuggoth, Outsider-tropen, den vetgiriga akademikern, paranoia, gamla gudar, “Alien”, “Rovdjuret” och Yog-Sothoth. Patrons avnjuter dubbel speltid och djupdykningar i två ytterligare filmer.  Mycket nöje!  

FInd us on... INSTAGRAM Apple Stitcher Facebook Our Patreon

FInd us on... INSTAGRAM Apple Stitcher Facebook Our Patreon

Tod and Claire discuss "The Evil Clergyman" by H.P. Lovecraft, which was first published in the April, 1939 issue of Weird Tales. As this is a horror podcast, this episode might not be for everyone. Notably, the story features an attempted suicide by hanging, an accidental manslaughter, book burning, the Anglican church, possession or possibly hallucination, and abnormally high foreheads. If these elements are likely to disturb you, you should skip this episode.Correction: Tod erroneously implied, rather strongly, that the Vampire card game discussed in episode 58 was out of print for a long time. Turns out, it was just me who wasn't paying attention. We here at Huge Success regret the error.Go now and pick up NecronimiRom-Com from your local bookseller, online! Bookshop.org matches up local buyers and sellers where they can, and source their material from local, democracy- and worker-friendly bookstores. The print editions are gorgeous and make great horror-holiday gifts!https://bookshop.org/a/108817/9781963760019https://bookshop.org/a/108817/9781963760002Check out Zraitor's international live-play Call of Cthulhu RPG podcast, "Big CoC Energy" using your favorite podcatcher. Or, jump straight to the first episode that has Tod in it at the link below:https://www.spreaker.com/episode/episode-14-blackwater-creek-part-one-call-of-cthulhu-7th-edition-ttrpg-actual-play--62596024 Finally, listen to, or even buy, "Speakeasy on Yuggoth" at our Bandcamp site. It's stupid, but maybe it's your kind of stupid.https://podsothoth.bandcamp.comYou can text us now. Why? That's between you and your Elder God. Support the showLike the show? Say so with money! Or just hang out with us on Mastodon, at @podsothoth@defcon.social. Or email us at hideous@podsothoth.club. Best thing? Rate us (positively!) in your favorite podcast app. That helps other people find the show!

Dampyr 294 "Prigionieri su Yuggoth", scritto da Mauro Boselli, disegnato da Nicola Genzianella, Majo e Luca Rossi, edito dalla Sergio Bonelli Editore. Mi trovi anche su Instagram ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠www.instagram.com/fumetti.e.dintorni/⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ E qualcosa la trovi anche su TikTok ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.tiktok.com/@fumettiedintorni⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Se ti piace il mio podcast, offrimi un caffè ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.buymeacoffee.com/fumettiedintorni⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Qui c'è il mio piccolo mercatino su Subito ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.subito.it/utente/16653861⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ E qui quello Vinted ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.vinted.it/member/216819894⁠

Tod and Claire discuss "The Festival," by H.P. Lovecraft, which was was first published in the January, 1925 issue of Weird Tales. As this is a horror podcast, this episode might not be for everyone. Specifically, this story deals with Yuletide and the winter solstice, madness, probable hallucinated delusions, hybridized winged monsters, cultic activity, the silent treatment,  claustrophobia, atonal piping, the Necronomicon, an attempted suicide, and the resultant hospitalization. If such things are likely to bother you, you are urged to skip this episode. If you have a problem with our lefty politics, then you definitely want to skip this and all other discussion episodes.---Stay tuned for the bonus episode, "Vanitas Horendum Lex: From Beyond the Bar!" Editing is nearly done. In the meantime, you can listen to the runaway hit album (hitness not guaranteed) "Speakeasy on Yuggoth" at:https://podsothoth.bandcamp.comStream it for free, or save it for dollars. Seems fair!Read about Liminal, a pretty easy and fun urban fantasy RPG:https://modiphius.net/en-us/collections/liminalWant to ruin your life savings by getting really involved in a collectible trading card game? Great, get super invested in Magic: The Gathering. But, if you just want a fun little hobby collecting a much better game may I suggest _Vampire: The Eternal Struggle_ (formerly known as _Jyhad_), and specifically, Wesley Dodds' Ebay store:https://www.ebay.com/str/ricksjyhadandvtescardshopHe has just oodles of these cards and wants to trade with you.Here are the materials provided by Matthew, as mentioned on the show. Thanks Matthew!* Annotated edition of *Fungi from Yuggoth* by David E. Schultz, with illustrations by Jason Eckhardt, from Hippocampus Press: https://www.hippocampuspress.com/h.-p.-lovecraft/poetry/fungi-from-yuggoth-by-h.-p.-lovecraft-an-annotated-edition-paperback* Anne K. Schwader's sonnet cycle *In the Yaddith Time,* inspired by *Fungi from Yuggoth,* included in her collected works *Twisted in Dream,* from Hippocampus Press: https://www.hippocampuspress.com/mythos-and-other-authors/poetry/twisted-in-dream-the-collected-weird-poetry-of-ann-k.-schwader* Wilum Pugmire's prose poems responding to each sonnet in *Fungi from Yuggoth,* found in his collection *Monstrous Aftermath,* from Hippocampus Press: https://www.hippocampuspress.com/mythos-and-other-authors/fiction/monstrous-aftermath-by-w.-h.-pugmire* Reading of the sonnets by John Arthur, with original music by Mike Olsen and bonus tracks by Farnese (the Farnese tracks were approved by HPL in 1932), from Fedogan & Bremer: https://fedoganandbremer.com/products/fungi-from-yuggoth-deluxe-2-disk-setWant to get in touch? Search for "Podsothoth" on TikTok, Mastodon, or YouTube and you're bound to find us. Or, email us directly: hideous@podsothoth.club and feel free to include a pronunciation guide for your preferred name.You can text us now. Why? That's between you and your Elder God. Support the showLike the show? Say so with money! Or just hang out with us on Mastodon, at @podsothoth@defcon.social. Or email us at hideous@podsothoth.club. Best thing? Rate us (positively!) in your favorite podcast app. That helps other people find the show!

ASMR reading of HP Lovecraft's 1929 book of sonnets, Fungi from Yuggoth. A creaking pirate ship and ocean sounds have been added as background ambience to help you sleep and aid in symptoms of anxiety, depression, and ptsd. Fungi from Yuggoth is a sequence of 36 sonnets by H.P. Lovecraft, written between December 1929 and January 1930. The poems follow a continuous first-person narrative about an occultist who discovers an ancient book of forbidden knowledge. This book allows the protagonist to travel to other planets and strange parts of the universe. The journey described in the sonnets is filled with cosmic horror and alienation, typical of Lovecraft's style. Each poem reveals a new horrifying dream-vision, taking the reader through space, time, and alternate realities. The sequence is known for its blend of Petrarchan and Shakespearean sonnet forms, ending with a rhyming couplet that often provides a surprising twist. This channel is intended to provide you with a comfortable space to relax and fall asleep. I welcome all comments and suggestions for stories because this channel is meant for you, my darling. Having recently suffered from depression and shutting down, I promise that I will do everything in my power to make this channel consistent and make our way through these wonderful classic stories. Please reach out to me on my social channels anytime: X/Twitter: @tomebytomeasmr Instagram: @tomebytomeasmr TikTok: @tomebytomeasmr Patreon: TomebyTomeASMR Donations: paypal.me/TomebyTome buymeacoffee.com/tomebytomeasmr This video is intended for sleep. #sleepaid As many of the larger channels noticed first, in November 2023, YouTube rolled out non-optional end-roll ads on all videos. Because this video is intended for you to relax and fall asleep, I'm hoping by adding this hashtag that YouTube becomes aware of the placement of ads on certain video types, like ASMR. Video art and video animation are done by me using Canva, Movavi, and Motionleap tools. TAGS: asmr, rain, wind sounds for sleep, unintentional asmr, sleepaid, sleep podcast, sleepcast, bedtime stories for grown ups, read me to sleep, asmr sleep reading, talk to me sleep, dark sleep ambiance, dark sleep ambience, sleep aid for adults, asmr for adults, audiobooks, asmr audiobooks, audible, book on tape, complete audiobook, willy Wonka, Charlie and the chocolate factory, twilight, hp lovecraft, fairy tales, brothers grimm, asmr brothers grimm, asmr lovecraft, lovecraft in asmr, bedtime stories for adults, asmr audiobook reading, female voice, soft spoken female voice, soft spoken whisper female, nightmare before xmas, spooky story, asmr spooky story, sleep scary story, asmr spooky scary story, sweet and creepy dreams, asmr voice reading, banned books, banned books podcast, asmr banned books, gothic literature, hp lovecraft, call of Cthulhu, the alchemist, thomas ligotti, dark horror story, reading dark horror, modern horror

Only lightly edited for loudness normalization, this is the live Fungi From Yuggoth discussion recorded at NecronomiCon 2024. If AI generated music offends you, then you definitely want to skip this episode, and we shall never speak of this again. In fact, you should never go looking for such things at https://podsothoth.bandcamp.com,You can text us now. Why? That's between you and your Elder God. Support the Show.Like the show? Say so with money! Or just hang out with us on Mastodon, at @podsothoth@defcon.social. Or email us at hideous@podsothoth.club. Best thing? Rate us (positively!) in your favorite podcast app. That helps other people find the show!

You have received the enclosed special interruption. Please make a note of it.Also, we have a TikTok now, and hope to throw some video there somewhat routinely.We also, somehow, maintain the NecronomiCon Mastodon account, at https://mastodon.boston/@NecronomiconPVD . Give it a follow!Finally, feel free to write in about Episode 55, "The Fungi from Yuggoth," or really anything else, if you want your missives mentioned in the next episode as well as live on stage at the Black Box Theater or at the symposium presentation the following morning. Drop a line to hideous@podsothoth.club with your mad scribbles, especially if those scribbles contain a funny legal question for our crack team of Lovecraftian Lawyers.Sounds for this episode were sourced from SpeechGen.io and Morse CoderYou can text us now. Why? That's between you and your Elder God. Support the Show.Like the show? Say so with money! Or just hang out with us on Mastodon, at @podsothoth@defcon.social. Or email us at hideous@podsothoth.club. Best thing? Rate us (positively!) in your favorite podcast app. That helps other people find the show!

A reading of "The Fungi From Yuggoth," by H.P. Lovecraft, first published in its entirety in _Beyond the Wall of Sleep_ by Arkham House in 1943, though published individually and sporadically in _Weird Tales_ and other magazines after they were completed on January 4th, 1930.  It was first read by Tod on July 21, 2024.As this is a horror podcast, this episode might not be for everyone. Specifically, this sequence of sonnets deals with shoplifting, several ancient farmhouses, glimpses of alien worlds, madness, and some very scary tickle monsters. If such elements are likely to disturb or offend you, you are urged to skip this episode.On the other hand, if you'd like to dive into Lovecraft's poetry, we'll be discussing this sequence of sonnets, as well as other Lovecraftian nonsense live and in person, on Thursday, August 15, 2024 at 7:00pm at the historic Black Box Theater in downtown Providence, Rhode Island. Come join us, as audience participation will be encouraged, though not required. Ticketing info can be found at https://hugesuccess.org/necro2024, and entrance is free for NecronomiCon badge holders.The complete text can be found on HPLovecraft.com, at https://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/poetry/p289.aspxThe ambience sounds for this episode can be found at "Ambiance:  Star Trek TNG Warp Core Ambient Engine Noise," at  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aRk-DQUUlz8You can text us now. Why? That's between you and your Elder God. Support the Show.Like the show? Say so with money! Or just hang out with us on Mastodon, at @podsothoth@defcon.social. Or email us at hideous@podsothoth.club. Best thing? Rate us (positively!) in your favorite podcast app. That helps other people find the show!

Terror de Ramsey Campbell, considerado uno de los grandes maestros del terror contemporáneo. Es considerado uno de los mayores exponentes del género de terror del siglo XX. Sus primeras historias, aunque situadas en lugares hipotéticos de Gran Bretaña (a instancias de su editor) y no en Estados Unidos, eran claramente lovecraftianas; según algunos críticos esta influencia está presente hasta su colección de relatos Demons by delight (1973), donde quedaría superada. Entre sus novelas realistas cabe destacar: The face that must die (El rostro que debía morir, 1983); The count of eleven (La cuenta de once, 1991) y The one safe place (El único lugar seguro, 1995). El grupo de sus novelas sobrenaturales incluye Incarnate (Encarnado, 1983), que difumina las fronteras entre sueño y realidad, Midnight sun (Sol de medianoche, 1990) y Needing ghosts (1990, Fantasmas necesitados), una fantasía que mezcla horror y comicidad. Ha sacado a la luz antologías como New tales of the Cthulhu mythos (1980), New terrors (1980), los primeros cinco volúmenes de Best new horror (1990-1994), y Uncanny banquet (1992). La obra de Campbell, tanto corta como en formato largo, ha sido galardonada en múltiples ocasiones, siendo uno de los autores del género con más premios en su haber. Campbell realizó notables aportaciones a los Mitos de Cthulhu, al introducir en su panteón nuevas divinidades como Gla'aki y Daoloth, y dos nuevos grimorios: las Revelaciones de Gla'aki y El libro innombrado de Johannes Pott. Además, añadió un par de citas de De Vermis Mysteriis y el Necronomicón. Y lo que ha pasado más desapercibido es que agregó al universo de los Mitos un material tan sintético y poco ortodoxo como el plástico, a efecto de los relatos: Insectos de Shaggai, El que rasga los velos y La mina de Yuggoth (notas del prefacio de Óscar Mariscal, Las revelaciones de Campbell). CC-BY-SA La camada, de Ramsey Campbell https://go.ivoox.com/rf/79594637 La base musical pertenece a Epidemic Sound con licencia Premium autorizada 🛑BIO Olga Paraíso: https://instabio.cc/Hleidas 📢Nuevo canal informativo en Telegram: https://t.me/historiasparaserleidas Si esta historia te ha cautivado y deseas unirte a nuestro grupo de taberneros galácticos, tienes la oportunidad de contribuir y apoyar mi trabajo desde tan solo 1,49 euros al mes. Al hacerlo, tendrás acceso exclusivo a todos las historias para nuestros mecenas y podrás disfrutar de los episodios sin interrupciones publicitarias. ¡Agradezco enormemente tu apoyo y tu fidelidad!. Aquí te dejo la página directa para apoyarme: 🚀https://www.ivoox.com/support/552842 ▶️Canal de YouTube Historias para ser Leídas con nuevo contenido, muy pronto te traeré un cuento guiado hasta el planeta Arrakis. ¿Te apuntas?🚀 https://www.youtube.com/c/OlgaParaiso 🚀 Voz y sonido Olga Paraíso, marca registrada Historias para ser Leídas Escucha el episodio completo en la app de iVoox, o descubre todo el catálogo de iVoox Originals

Terror de Ramsey Campbell, considerado uno de los grandes maestros del terror contemporáneo. Es considerado uno de los mayores exponentes del género de terror del siglo XX. Sus primeras historias, aunque situadas en lugares hipotéticos de Gran Bretaña (a instancias de su editor) y no en Estados Unidos, eran claramente lovecraftianas; según algunos críticos esta influencia está presente hasta su colección de relatos Demons by delight (1973), donde quedaría superada. Entre sus novelas realistas cabe destacar: The face that must die (El rostro que debía morir, 1983); The count of eleven (La cuenta de once, 1991) y The one safe place (El único lugar seguro, 1995). El grupo de sus novelas sobrenaturales incluye Incarnate (Encarnado, 1983), que difumina las fronteras entre sueño y realidad, Midnight sun (Sol de medianoche, 1990) y Needing ghosts (1990, Fantasmas necesitados), una fantasía que mezcla horror y comicidad. Ha sacado a la luz antologías como New tales of the Cthulhu mythos (1980), New terrors (1980), los primeros cinco volúmenes de Best new horror (1990-1994), y Uncanny banquet (1992). La obra de Campbell, tanto corta como en formato largo, ha sido galardonada en múltiples ocasiones, siendo uno de los autores del género con más premios en su haber. Campbell realizó notables aportaciones a los Mitos de Cthulhu, al introducir en su panteón nuevas divinidades como Gla'aki y Daoloth, y dos nuevos grimorios: las Revelaciones de Gla'aki y El libro innombrado de Johannes Pott. Además, añadió un par de citas de De Vermis Mysteriis y el Necronomicón. Y lo que ha pasado más desapercibido es que agregó al universo de los Mitos un material tan sintético y poco ortodoxo como el plástico, a efecto de los relatos: Insectos de Shaggai, El que rasga los velos y La mina de Yuggoth (notas del prefacio de Óscar Mariscal, Las revelaciones de Campbell). CC-BY-SA La camada, de Ramsey Campbell https://go.ivoox.com/rf/79594637 La base musical pertenece a Epidemic Sound con licencia Premium autorizada 🛑BIO Olga Paraíso: https://instabio.cc/Hleidas 📢Nuevo canal informativo en Telegram: https://t.me/historiasparaserleidas Si esta historia te ha cautivado y deseas unirte a nuestro grupo de taberneros galácticos, tienes la oportunidad de contribuir y apoyar mi trabajo desde tan solo 1,49 euros al mes. Al hacerlo, tendrás acceso exclusivo a todos las historias para nuestros mecenas y podrás disfrutar de los episodios sin interrupciones publicitarias. ¡Agradezco enormemente tu apoyo y tu fidelidad!. Aquí te dejo la página directa para apoyarme: 🚀https://www.ivoox.com/support/552842 ▶️Canal de YouTube Historias para ser Leídas con nuevo contenido, muy pronto te traeré un cuento guiado hasta el planeta Arrakis. ¿Te apuntas?🚀 https://www.youtube.com/c/OlgaParaiso 🚀 Voz y sonido Olga Paraíso, marca registrada Historias para ser Leídas

  The Haunter of the Dark By H. P. Lovecraft (Dedicated to Robert Bloch) I have seen the dark universe yawning Where the black planets roll without aim— Where they roll in their horror unheeded, Without knowledge or lustre or name. —Nemesis. Cautious investigators will hesitate to challenge the common belief that Robert Blake was killed by lightning, or by some profound nervous shock derived from an electrical discharge. It is true that the window he faced was unbroken, but Nature has shewn herself capable of many freakish performances. The expression on his face may easily have arisen from some obscure muscular source unrelated to anything he saw, while the entries in his diary are clearly the result of a fantastic imagination aroused by certain local superstitions and by certain old matters he had uncovered. As for the anomalous conditions at the deserted church on Federal Hill—the shrewd analyst is not slow in attributing them to some charlatanry, conscious or unconscious, with at least some of which Blake was secretly connected. For after all, the victim was a writer and painter wholly devoted to the field of myth, dream, terror, and superstition, and avid in his quest for scenes and effects of a bizarre, spectral sort. His earlier stay in the city—a visit to a strange old man as deeply given to occult and forbidden lore as he—had ended amidst death and flame, and it must have been some morbid instinct which drew him back from his home in Milwaukee. He may have known of the old stories despite his statements to the contrary in the diary, and his death may have nipped in the bud some stupendous hoax destined to have a literary reflection. Among those, however, who have examined and correlated all this evidence, there remain several who cling to less rational and commonplace theories. They are inclined to take much of Blake's diary at its face value, and point significantly to certain facts such as the undoubted genuineness of the old church record, the verified existence of the disliked and unorthodox Starry Wisdom sect prior to 1877, the recorded disappearance of an inquisitive reporter named Edwin M. Lillibridge in 1893, and—above all—the look of monstrous, transfiguring fear on the face of the young writer when he died. It was one of these believers who, moved to fanatical extremes, threw into the bay the curiously angled stone and its strangely adorned metal box found in the old church steeple—the black windowless steeple, and not the tower where Blake's diary said those things originally were. Though widely censured both officially and unofficially, this man—a reputable physician with a taste for odd folklore—averred that he had rid the earth of something too dangerous to rest upon it. Between these two schools of opinion the reader must judge for himself. The papers have given the tangible details from a sceptical angle, leaving for others the drawing of the picture as Robert Blake saw it—or thought he saw it—or pretended to see it. Now, studying the diary closely, dispassionately, and at leisure, let us summarise the dark chain of events from the expressed point of view of their chief actor. Young Blake returned to Providence in the winter of 1934–5, taking the upper floor of a venerable dwelling in a grassy court off College Street—on the crest of the great eastward hill near the Brown University campus and behind the marble John Hay Library. It was a cosy and fascinating place, in a little garden oasis of village-like antiquity where huge, friendly cats sunned themselves atop a convenient shed. The square Georgian house had a monitor roof, classic doorway with fan carving, small-paned windows, and all the other earmarks of early nineteenth-century workmanship. Inside were six-panelled doors, wide floor-boards, a curving colonial staircase, white Adam-period mantels, and a rear set of rooms three steps below the general level. Blake's study, a large southwest chamber, overlooked the front garden on one side, while its west windows—before one of which he had his desk—faced off from the brow of the hill and commanded a splendid view of the lower town's outspread roofs and of the mystical sunsets that flamed behind them. On the far horizon were the open countryside's purple slopes. Against these, some two miles away, rose the spectral hump of Federal Hill, bristling with huddled roofs and steeples whose remote outlines wavered mysteriously, taking fantastic forms as the smoke of the city swirled up and enmeshed them. Blake had a curious sense that he was looking upon some unknown, ethereal world which might or might not vanish in dream if ever he tried to seek it out and enter it in person. Having sent home for most of his books, Blake bought some antique furniture suitable to his quarters and settled down to write and paint—living alone, and attending to the simple housework himself. His studio was in a north attic room, where the panes of the monitor roof furnished admirable lighting. During that first winter he produced five of his best-known short stories—“The Burrower Beneath”, “The Stairs in the Crypt”, “Shaggai”, “In the Vale of Pnath”, and “The Feaster from the Stars”—and painted seven canvases; studies of nameless, unhuman monsters, and profoundly alien, non-terrestrial landscapes. At sunset he would often sit at his desk and gaze dreamily off at the outspread west—the dark towers of Memorial Hall just below, the Georgian court-house belfry, the lofty pinnacles of the downtown section, and that shimmering, spire-crowned mound in the distance whose unknown streets and labyrinthine gables so potently provoked his fancy. From his few local acquaintances he learned that the far-off slope was a vast Italian quarter, though most of the houses were remnants of older Yankee and Irish days. Now and then he would train his field-glasses on that spectral, unreachable world beyond the curling smoke; picking out individual roofs and chimneys and steeples, and speculating upon the bizarre and curious mysteries they might house. Even with optical aid Federal Hill seemed somehow alien, half fabulous, and linked to the unreal, intangible marvels of Blake's own tales and pictures. The feeling would persist long after the hill had faded into the violet, lamp-starred twilight, and the court-house floodlights and the red Industrial Trust beacon had blazed up to make the night grotesque. Of all the distant objects on Federal Hill, a certain huge, dark church most fascinated Blake. It stood out with especial distinctness at certain hours of the day, and at sunset the great tower and tapering steeple loomed blackly against the flaming sky. It seemed to rest on especially high ground; for the grimy facade, and the obliquely seen north side with sloping roof and the tops of great pointed windows, rose boldly above the tangle of surrounding ridgepoles and chimney-pots. Peculiarly grim and austere, it appeared to be built of stone, stained and weathered with the smoke and storms of a century and more. The style, so far as the glass could shew, was that earliest experimental form of Gothic revival which preceded the stately Upjohn period and held over some of the outlines and proportions of the Georgian age. Perhaps it was reared around 1810 or 1815. As months passed, Blake watched the far-off, forbidding structure with an oddly mounting interest. Since the vast windows were never lighted, he knew that it must be vacant. The longer he watched, the more his imagination worked, till at length he began to fancy curious things. He believed that a vague, singular aura of desolation hovered over the place, so that even the pigeons and swallows shunned its smoky eaves. Around other towers and belfries his glass would reveal great flocks of birds, but here they never rested. At least, that is what he thought and set down in his diary. He pointed the place out to several friends, but none of them had even been on Federal Hill or possessed the faintest notion of what the church was or had been. In the spring a deep restlessness gripped Blake. He had begun his long-planned novel—based on a supposed survival of the witch-cult in Maine—but was strangely unable to make progress with it. More and more he would sit at his westward window and gaze at the distant hill and the black, frowning steeple shunned by the birds. When the delicate leaves came out on the garden boughs the world was filled with a new beauty, but Blake's restlessness was merely increased. It was then that he first thought of crossing the city and climbing bodily up that fabulous slope into the smoke-wreathed world of dream. Late in April, just before the aeon-shadowed Walpurgis time, Blake made his first trip into the unknown. Plodding through the endless downtown streets and the bleak, decayed squares beyond, he came finally upon the ascending avenue of century-worn steps, sagging Doric porches, and blear-paned cupolas which he felt must lead up to the long-known, unreachable world beyond the mists. There were dingy blue-and-white street signs which meant nothing to him, and presently he noted the strange, dark faces of the drifting crowds, and the foreign signs over curious shops in brown, decade-weathered buildings. Nowhere could he find any of the objects he had seen from afar; so that once more he half fancied that the Federal Hill of that distant view was a dream-world never to be trod by living human feet. Now and then a battered church facade or crumbling spire came in sight, but never the blackened pile that he sought. When he asked a shopkeeper about a great stone church the man smiled and shook his head, though he spoke English freely. As Blake climbed higher, the region seemed stranger and stranger, with bewildering mazes of brooding brown alleys leading eternally off to the south. He crossed two or three broad avenues, and once thought he glimpsed a familiar tower. Again he asked a merchant about the massive church of stone, and this time he could have sworn that the plea of ignorance was feigned. The dark man's face had a look of fear which he tried to hide, and Blake saw him make a curious sign with his right hand. Then suddenly a black spire stood out against the cloudy sky on his left, above the tiers of brown roofs lining the tangled southerly alleys. Blake knew at once what it was, and plunged toward it through the squalid, unpaved lanes that climbed from the avenue. Twice he lost his way, but he somehow dared not ask any of the patriarchs or housewives who sat on their doorsteps, or any of the children who shouted and played in the mud of the shadowy lanes. At last he saw the tower plain against the southwest, and a huge stone bulk rose darkly at the end of an alley. Presently he stood in a windswept open square, quaintly cobblestoned, with a high bank wall on the farther side. This was the end of his quest; for upon the wide, iron-railed, weed-grown plateau which the wall supported—a separate, lesser world raised fully six feet above the surrounding streets—there stood a grim, titan bulk whose identity, despite Blake's new perspective, was beyond dispute. The vacant church was in a state of great decrepitude. Some of the high stone buttresses had fallen, and several delicate finials lay half lost among the brown, neglected weeds and grasses. The sooty Gothic windows were largely unbroken, though many of the stone mullions were missing. Blake wondered how the obscurely painted panes could have survived so well, in view of the known habits of small boys the world over. The massive doors were intact and tightly closed. Around the top of the bank wall, fully enclosing the grounds, was a rusty iron fence whose gate—at the head of a flight of steps from the square—was visibly padlocked. The path from the gate to the building was completely overgrown. Desolation and decay hung like a pall above the place, and in the birdless eaves and black, ivyless walls Blake felt a touch of the dimly sinister beyond his power to define. There were very few people in the square, but Blake saw a policeman at the northerly end and approached him with questions about the church. He was a great wholesome Irishman, and it seemed odd that he would do little more than make the sign of the cross and mutter that people never spoke of that building. When Blake pressed him he said very hurriedly that the Italian priests warned everybody against it, vowing that a monstrous evil had once dwelt there and left its mark. He himself had heard dark whispers of it from his father, who recalled certain sounds and rumours from his boyhood. There had been a bad sect there in the ould days—an outlaw sect that called up awful things from some unknown gulf of night. It had taken a good priest to exorcise what had come, though there did be those who said that merely the light could do it. If Father O'Malley were alive there would be many the thing he could tell. But now there was nothing to do but let it alone. It hurt nobody now, and those that owned it were dead or far away. They had run away like rats after the threatening talk in '77, when people began to mind the way folks vanished now and then in the neighbourhood. Some day the city would step in and take the property for lack of heirs, but little good would come of anybody's touching it. Better it be left alone for the years to topple, lest things be stirred that ought to rest forever in their black abyss. After the policeman had gone Blake stood staring at the sullen steepled pile. It excited him to find that the structure seemed as sinister to others as to him, and he wondered what grain of truth might lie behind the old tales the bluecoat had repeated. Probably they were mere legends evoked by the evil look of the place, but even so, they were like a strange coming to life of one of his own stories. The afternoon sun came out from behind dispersing clouds, but seemed unable to light up the stained, sooty walls of the old temple that towered on its high plateau. It was odd that the green of spring had not touched the brown, withered growths in the raised, iron-fenced yard. Blake found himself edging nearer the raised area and examining the bank wall and rusted fence for possible avenues of ingress. There was a terrible lure about the blackened fane which was not to be resisted. The fence had no opening near the steps, but around on the north side were some missing bars. He could go up the steps and walk around on the narrow coping outside the fence till he came to the gap. If the people feared the place so wildly, he would encounter no interference. He was on the embankment and almost inside the fence before anyone noticed him. Then, looking down, he saw the few people in the square edging away and making the same sign with their right hands that the shopkeeper in the avenue had made. Several windows were slammed down, and a fat woman darted into the street and pulled some small children inside a rickety, unpainted house. The gap in the fence was very easy to pass through, and before long Blake found himself wading amidst the rotting, tangled growths of the deserted yard. Here and there the worn stump of a headstone told him that there had once been burials in this field; but that, he saw, must have been very long ago. The sheer bulk of the church was oppressive now that he was close to it, but he conquered his mood and approached to try the three great doors in the facade. All were securely locked, so he began a circuit of the Cyclopean building in quest of some minor and more penetrable opening. Even then he could not be sure that he wished to enter that haunt of desertion and shadow, yet the pull of its strangeness dragged him on automatically. A yawning and unprotected cellar window in the rear furnished the needed aperture. Peering in, Blake saw a subterrene gulf of cobwebs and dust faintly litten by the western sun's filtered rays. Debris, old barrels, and ruined boxes and furniture of numerous sorts met his eye, though over everything lay a shroud of dust which softened all sharp outlines. The rusted remains of a hot-air furnace shewed that the building had been used and kept in shape as late as mid-Victorian times. Acting almost without conscious initiative, Blake crawled through the window and let himself down to the dust-carpeted and debris-strown concrete floor. The vaulted cellar was a vast one, without partitions; and in a corner far to the right, amid dense shadows, he saw a black archway evidently leading upstairs. He felt a peculiar sense of oppression at being actually within the great spectral building, but kept it in check as he cautiously scouted about—finding a still-intact barrel amid the dust, and rolling it over to the open window to provide for his exit. Then, bracing himself, he crossed the wide, cobweb-festooned space toward the arch. Half choked with the omnipresent dust, and covered with ghostly gossamer fibres, he reached and began to climb the worn stone steps which rose into the darkness. He had no light, but groped carefully with his hands. After a sharp turn he felt a closed door ahead, and a little fumbling revealed its ancient latch. It opened inward, and beyond it he saw a dimly illumined corridor lined with worm-eaten panelling. Once on the ground floor, Blake began exploring in a rapid fashion. All the inner doors were unlocked, so that he freely passed from room to room. The colossal nave was an almost eldritch place with its drifts and mountains of dust over box pews, altar, hourglass pulpit, and sounding-board, and its titanic ropes of cobweb stretching among the pointed arches of the gallery and entwining the clustered Gothic columns. Over all this hushed desolation played a hideous leaden light as the declining afternoon sun sent its rays through the strange, half-blackened panes of the great apsidal windows. The paintings on those windows were so obscured by soot that Blake could scarcely decipher what they had represented, but from the little he could make out he did not like them. The designs were largely conventional, and his knowledge of obscure symbolism told him much concerning some of the ancient patterns. The few saints depicted bore expressions distinctly open to criticism, while one of the windows seemed to shew merely a dark space with spirals of curious luminosity scattered about in it. Turning away from the windows, Blake noticed that the cobwebbed cross above the altar was not of the ordinary kind, but resembled the primordial ankh or crux ansata of shadowy Egypt. In a rear vestry room beside the apse Blake found a rotting desk and ceiling-high shelves of mildewed, disintegrating books. Here for the first time he received a positive shock of objective horror, for the titles of those books told him much. They were the black, forbidden things which most sane people have never even heard of, or have heard of only in furtive, timorous whispers; the banned and dreaded repositories of equivocal secrets and immemorial formulae which have trickled down the stream of time from the days of man's youth, and the dim, fabulous days before man was. He had himself read many of them—a Latin version of the abhorred Necronomicon, the sinister Liber Ivonis, the infamous Cultes des Goules of Comte d'Erlette, the Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Junzt, and old Ludvig Prinn's hellish De Vermis Mysteriis. But there were others he had known merely by reputation or not at all—the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Book of Dzyan, and a crumbling volume in wholly unidentifiable characters yet with certain symbols and diagrams shudderingly recognisable to the occult student. Clearly, the lingering local rumours had not lied. This place had once been the seat of an evil older than mankind and wider than the known universe. In the ruined desk was a small leather-bound record-book filled with entries in some odd cryptographic medium. The manuscript writing consisted of the common traditional symbols used today in astronomy and anciently in alchemy, astrology, and other dubious arts—the devices of the sun, moon, planets, aspects, and zodiacal signs—here massed in solid pages of text, with divisions and paragraphings suggesting that each symbol answered to some alphabetical letter. In the hope of later solving the cryptogram, Blake bore off this volume in his coat pocket. Many of the great tomes on the shelves fascinated him unutterably, and he felt tempted to borrow them at some later time. He wondered how they could have remained undisturbed so long. Was he the first to conquer the clutching, pervasive fear which had for nearly sixty years protected this deserted place from visitors? Having now thoroughly explored the ground floor, Blake ploughed again through the dust of the spectral nave to the front vestibule, where he had seen a door and staircase presumably leading up to the blackened tower and steeple—objects so long familiar to him at a distance. The ascent was a choking experience, for dust lay thick, while the spiders had done their worst in this constricted place. The staircase was a spiral with high, narrow wooden treads, and now and then Blake passed a clouded window looking dizzily out over the city. Though he had seen no ropes below, he expected to find a bell or peal of bells in the tower whose narrow, louver-boarded lancet windows his field-glass had studied so often. Here he was doomed to disappointment; for when he attained the top of the stairs he found the tower chamber vacant of chimes, and clearly devoted to vastly different purposes. The room, about fifteen feet square, was faintly lighted by four lancet windows, one on each side, which were glazed within their screening of decayed louver-boards. These had been further fitted with tight, opaque screens, but the latter were now largely rotted away. In the centre of the dust-laden floor rose a curiously angled stone pillar some four feet in height and two in average diameter, covered on each side with bizarre, crudely incised, and wholly unrecognisable hieroglyphs. On this pillar rested a metal box of peculiarly asymmetrical form; its hinged lid thrown back, and its interior holding what looked beneath the decade-deep dust to be an egg-shaped or irregularly spherical object some four inches through. Around the pillar in a rough circle were seven high-backed Gothic chairs still largely intact, while behind them, ranging along the dark-panelled walls, were seven colossal images of crumbling, black-painted plaster, resembling more than anything else the cryptic carven megaliths of mysterious Easter Island. In one corner of the cobwebbed chamber a ladder was built into the wall, leading up to the closed trap-door of the windowless steeple above. As Blake grew accustomed to the feeble light he noticed odd bas-reliefs on the strange open box of yellowish metal. Approaching, he tried to clear the dust away with his hands and handkerchief, and saw that the figurings were of a monstrous and utterly alien kind; depicting entities which, though seemingly alive, resembled no known life-form ever evolved on this planet. The four-inch seeming sphere turned out to be a nearly black, red-striated polyhedron with many irregular flat surfaces; either a very remarkable crystal of some sort, or an artificial object of carved and highly polished mineral matter. It did not touch the bottom of the box, but was held suspended by means of a metal band around its centre, with seven queerly designed supports extending horizontally to angles of the box's inner wall near the top. This stone, once exposed, exerted upon Blake an almost alarming fascination. He could scarcely tear his eyes from it, and as he looked at its glistening surfaces he almost fancied it was transparent, with half-formed worlds of wonder within. Into his mind floated pictures of alien orbs with great stone towers, and other orbs with titan mountains and no mark of life, and still remoter spaces where only a stirring in vague blacknesses told of the presence of consciousness and will. When he did look away, it was to notice a somewhat singular mound of dust in the far corner near the ladder to the steeple. Just why it took his attention he could not tell, but something in its contours carried a message to his unconscious mind. Ploughing toward it, and brushing aside the hanging cobwebs as he went, he began to discern something grim about it. Hand and handkerchief soon revealed the truth, and Blake gasped with a baffling mixture of emotions. It was a human skeleton, and it must have been there for a very long time. The clothing was in shreds, but some buttons and fragments of cloth bespoke a man's grey suit. There were other bits of evidence—shoes, metal clasps, huge buttons for round cuffs, a stickpin of bygone pattern, a reporter's badge with the name of the old Providence Telegram, and a crumbling leather pocketbook. Blake examined the latter with care, finding within it several bills of antiquated issue, a celluloid advertising calendar for 1893, some cards with the name “Edwin M. Lillibridge”, and a paper covered with pencilled memoranda. This paper held much of a puzzling nature, and Blake read it carefully at the dim westward window. Its disjointed text included such phrases as the following: “Prof. Enoch Bowen home from Egypt May 1844—buys old Free-Will Church in July—his archaeological work & studies in occult well known.” “Dr. Drowne of 4th Baptist warns against Starry Wisdom in sermon Dec. 29, 1844.” “Congregation 97 by end of '45.” “1846—3 disappearances—first mention of Shining Trapezohedron.” “7 disappearances 1848—stories of blood sacrifice begin.” “Investigation 1853 comes to nothing—stories of sounds.” “Fr. O'Malley tells of devil-worship with box found in great Egyptian ruins—says they call up something that can't exist in light. Flees a little light, and banished by strong light. Then has to be summoned again. Probably got this from deathbed confession of Francis X. Feeney, who had joined Starry Wisdom in '49. These people say the Shining Trapezohedron shews them heaven & other worlds, & that the Haunter of the Dark tells them secrets in some way.” “Story of Orrin B. Eddy 1857. They call it up by gazing at the crystal, & have a secret language of their own.” “200 or more in cong. 1863, exclusive of men at front.” “Irish boys mob church in 1869 after Patrick Regan's disappearance.” “Veiled article in J. March 14, '72, but people don't talk about it.” “6 disappearances 1876—secret committee calls on Mayor Doyle.” “Action promised Feb. 1877—church closes in April.” “Gang—Federal Hill Boys—threaten Dr. —— and vestrymen in May.” “181 persons leave city before end of '77—mention no names.” “Ghost stories begin around 1880—try to ascertain truth of report that no human being has entered church since 1877.” “Ask Lanigan for photograph of place taken 1851.” . . . Restoring the paper to the pocketbook and placing the latter in his coat, Blake turned to look down at the skeleton in the dust. The implications of the notes were clear, and there could be no doubt but that this man had come to the deserted edifice forty-two years before in quest of a newspaper sensation which no one else had been bold enough to attempt. Perhaps no one else had known of his plan—who could tell? But he had never returned to his paper. Had some bravely suppressed fear risen to overcome him and bring on sudden heart-failure? Blake stooped over the gleaming bones and noted their peculiar state. Some of them were badly scattered, and a few seemed oddly dissolved at the ends. Others were strangely yellowed, with vague suggestions of charring. This charring extended to some of the fragments of clothing. The skull was in a very peculiar state—stained yellow, and with a charred aperture in the top as if some powerful acid had eaten through the solid bone. What had happened to the skeleton during its four decades of silent entombment here Blake could not imagine. Before he realised it, he was looking at the stone again, and letting its curious influence call up a nebulous pageantry in his mind. He saw processions of robed, hooded figures whose outlines were not human, and looked on endless leagues of desert lined with carved, sky-reaching monoliths. He saw towers and walls in nighted depths under the sea, and vortices of space where wisps of black mist floated before thin shimmerings of cold purple haze. And beyond all else he glimpsed an infinite gulf of darkness, where solid and semi-solid forms were known only by their windy stirrings, and cloudy patterns of force seemed to superimpose order on chaos and hold forth a key to all the paradoxes and arcana of the worlds we know. Then all at once the spell was broken by an access of gnawing, indeterminate panic fear. Blake choked and turned away from the stone, conscious of some formless alien presence close to him and watching him with horrible intentness. He felt entangled with something—something which was not in the stone, but which had looked through it at him—something which would ceaselessly follow him with a cognition that was not physical sight. Plainly, the place was getting on his nerves—as well it might in view of his gruesome find. The light was waning, too, and since he had no illuminant with him he knew he would have to be leaving soon. It was then, in the gathering twilight, that he thought he saw a faint trace of luminosity in the crazily angled stone. He had tried to look away from it, but some obscure compulsion drew his eyes back. Was there a subtle phosphorescence of radio-activity about the thing? What was it that the dead man's notes had said concerning a Shining Trapezohedron? What, anyway, was this abandoned lair of cosmic evil? What had been done here, and what might still be lurking in the bird-shunned shadows? It seemed now as if an elusive touch of foetor had arisen somewhere close by, though its source was not apparent. Blake seized the cover of the long-open box and snapped it down. It moved easily on its alien hinges, and closed completely over the unmistakably glowing stone. At the sharp click of that closing a soft stirring sound seemed to come from the steeple's eternal blackness overhead, beyond the trap-door. Rats, without question—the only living things to reveal their presence in this accursed pile since he had entered it. And yet that stirring in the steeple frightened him horribly, so that he plunged almost wildly down the spiral stairs, across the ghoulish nave, into the vaulted basement, out amidst the gathering dusk of the deserted square, and down through the teeming, fear-haunted alleys and avenues of Federal Hill toward the sane central streets and the home-like brick sidewalks of the college district. During the days which followed, Blake told no one of his expedition. Instead, he read much in certain books, examined long years of newspaper files downtown, and worked feverishly at the cryptogram in that leather volume from the cobwebbed vestry room. The cipher, he soon saw, was no simple one; and after a long period of endeavour he felt sure that its language could not be English, Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, Italian, or German. Evidently he would have to draw upon the deepest wells of his strange erudition. Every evening the old impulse to gaze westward returned, and he saw the black steeple as of yore amongst the bristling roofs of a distant and half-fabulous world. But now it held a fresh note of terror for him. He knew the heritage of evil lore it masked, and with the knowledge his vision ran riot in queer new ways. The birds of spring were returning, and as he watched their sunset flights he fancied they avoided the gaunt, lone spire as never before. When a flock of them approached it, he thought, they would wheel and scatter in panic confusion—and he could guess at the wild twitterings which failed to reach him across the intervening miles. It was in June that Blake's diary told of his victory over the cryptogram. The text was, he found, in the dark Aklo language used by certain cults of evil antiquity, and known to him in a halting way through previous researches. The diary is strangely reticent about what Blake deciphered, but he was patently awed and disconcerted by his results. There are references to a Haunter of the Dark awaked by gazing into the Shining Trapezohedron, and insane conjectures about the black gulfs of chaos from which it was called. The being is spoken of as holding all knowledge, and demanding monstrous sacrifices. Some of Blake's entries shew fear lest the thing, which he seemed to regard as summoned, stalk abroad; though he adds that the street-lights form a bulwark which cannot be crossed. Of the Shining Trapezohedron he speaks often, calling it a window on all time and space, and tracing its history from the days it was fashioned on dark Yuggoth, before ever the Old Ones brought it to earth. It was treasured and placed in its curious box by the crinoid things of Antarctica, salvaged from their ruins by the serpent-men of Valusia, and peered at aeons later in Lemuria by the first human beings. It crossed strange lands and stranger seas, and sank with Atlantis before a Minoan fisher meshed it in his net and sold it to swarthy merchants from nighted Khem. The Pharaoh Nephren-Ka built around it a temple with a windowless crypt, and did that which caused his name to be stricken from all monuments and records. Then it slept in the ruins of that evil fane which the priests and the new Pharaoh destroyed, till the delver's spade once more brought it forth to curse mankind. Early in July the newspapers oddly supplement Blake's entries, though in so brief and casual a way that only the diary has called general attention to their contribution. It appears that a new fear had been growing on Federal Hill since a stranger had entered the dreaded church. The Italians whispered of unaccustomed stirrings and bumpings and scrapings in the dark windowless steeple, and called on their priests to banish an entity which haunted their dreams. Something, they said, was constantly watching at a door to see if it were dark enough to venture forth. Press items mentioned the long-standing local superstitions, but failed to shed much light on the earlier background of the horror. It was obvious that the young reporters of today are no antiquarians. In writing of these things in his diary, Blake expresses a curious kind of remorse, and talks of the duty of burying the Shining Trapezohedron and of banishing what he had evoked by letting daylight into the hideous jutting spire. At the same time, however, he displays the dangerous extent of his fascination, and admits a morbid longing—pervading even his dreams—to visit the accursed tower and gaze again into the cosmic secrets of the glowing stone. Then something in the Journal on the morning of July 17 threw the diarist into a veritable fever of horror. It was only a variant of the other half-humorous items about the Federal Hill restlessness, but to Blake it was somehow very terrible indeed. In the night a thunderstorm had put the city's lighting-system out of commission for a full hour, and in that black interval the Italians had nearly gone mad with fright. Those living near the dreaded church had sworn that the thing in the steeple had taken advantage of the street-lamps' absence and gone down into the body of the church, flopping and bumping around in a viscous, altogether dreadful way. Toward the last it had bumped up to the tower, where there were sounds of the shattering of glass. It could go wherever the darkness reached, but light would always send it fleeing. When the current blazed on again there had been a shocking commotion in the tower, for even the feeble light trickling through the grime-blackened, louver-boarded windows was too much for the thing. It had bumped and slithered up into its tenebrous steeple just in time—for a long dose of light would have sent it back into the abyss whence the crazy stranger had called it. During the dark hour praying crowds had clustered round the church in the rain with lighted candles and lamps somehow shielded with folded paper and umbrellas—a guard of light to save the city from the nightmare that stalks in darkness. Once, those nearest the church declared, the outer door had rattled hideously. But even this was not the worst. That evening in the Bulletin Blake read of what the reporters had found. Aroused at last to the whimsical news value of the scare, a pair of them had defied the frantic crowds of Italians and crawled into the church through the cellar window after trying the doors in vain. They found the dust of the vestibule and of the spectral nave ploughed up in a singular way, with bits of rotted cushions and satin pew-linings scattered curiously around. There was a bad odour everywhere, and here and there were bits of yellow stain and patches of what looked like charring. Opening the door to the tower, and pausing a moment at the suspicion of a scraping sound above, they found the narrow spiral stairs wiped roughly clean. In the tower itself a similarly half-swept condition existed. They spoke of the heptagonal stone pillar, the overturned Gothic chairs, and the bizarre plaster images; though strangely enough the metal box and the old mutilated skeleton were not mentioned. What disturbed Blake the most—except for the hints of stains and charring and bad odours—was the final detail that explained the crashing glass. Every one of the tower's lancet windows was broken, and two of them had been darkened in a crude and hurried way by the stuffing of satin pew-linings and cushion-horsehair into the spaces between the slanting exterior louver-boards. More satin fragments and bunches of horsehair lay scattered around the newly swept floor, as if someone had been interrupted in the act of restoring the tower to the absolute blackness of its tightly curtained days. Yellowish stains and charred patches were found on the ladder to the windowless spire, but when a reporter climbed up, opened the horizontally sliding trap-door, and shot a feeble flashlight beam into the black and strangely foetid space, he saw nothing but darkness, and an heterogeneous litter of shapeless fragments near the aperture. The verdict, of course, was charlatanry. Somebody had played a joke on the superstitious hill-dwellers, or else some fanatic had striven to bolster up their fears for their own supposed good. Or perhaps some of the younger and more sophisticated dwellers had staged an elaborate hoax on the outside world. There was an amusing aftermath when the police sent an officer to verify the reports. Three men in succession found ways of evading the assignment, and the fourth went very reluctantly and returned very soon without adding to the account given by the reporters. From this point onward Blake's diary shews a mounting tide of insidious horror and nervous apprehension. He upbraids himself for not doing something, and speculates wildly on the consequences of another electrical breakdown. It has been verified that on three occasions—during thunderstorms—he telephoned the electric light company in a frantic vein and asked that desperate precautions against a lapse of power be taken. Now and then his entries shew concern over the failure of the reporters to find the metal box and stone, and the strangely marred old skeleton, when they explored the shadowy tower room. He assumed that these things had been removed—whither, and by whom or what, he could only guess. But his worst fears concerned himself, and the kind of unholy rapport he felt to exist between his mind and that lurking horror in the distant steeple—that monstrous thing of night which his rashness had called out of the ultimate black spaces. He seemed to feel a constant tugging at his will, and callers of that period remember how he would sit abstractedly at his desk and stare out of the west window at that far-off, spire-bristling mound beyond the swirling smoke of the city. His entries dwell monotonously on certain terrible dreams, and of a strengthening of the unholy rapport in his sleep. There is mention of a night when he awaked to find himself fully dressed, outdoors, and headed automatically down College Hill toward the west. Again and again he dwells on the fact that the thing in the steeple knows where to find him. The week following July 30 is recalled as the time of Blake's partial breakdown. He did not dress, and ordered all his food by telephone. Visitors remarked the cords he kept near his bed, and he said that sleep-walking had forced him to bind his ankles every night with knots which would probably hold or else waken him with the labour of untying. In his diary he told of the hideous experience which had brought the collapse. After retiring on the night of the 30th he had suddenly found himself groping about in an almost black space. All he could see were short, faint, horizontal streaks of bluish light, but he could smell an overpowering foetor and hear a curious jumble of soft, furtive sounds above him. Whenever he moved he stumbled over something, and at each noise there would come a sort of answering sound from above—a vague stirring, mixed with the cautious sliding of wood on wood. Once his groping hands encountered a pillar of stone with a vacant top, whilst later he found himself clutching the rungs of a ladder built into the wall, and fumbling his uncertain way upward toward some region of intenser stench where a hot, searing blast beat down against him. Before his eyes a kaleidoscopic range of phantasmal images played, all of them dissolving at intervals into the picture of a vast, unplumbed abyss of night wherein whirled suns and worlds of an even profounder blackness. He thought of the ancient legends of Ultimate Chaos, at whose centre sprawls the blind idiot god Azathoth, Lord of All Things, encircled by his flopping horde of mindless and amorphous dancers, and lulled by the thin monotonous piping of a daemoniac flute held in nameless paws. Then a sharp report from the outer world broke through his stupor and roused him to the unutterable horror of his position. What it was, he never knew—perhaps it was some belated peal from the fireworks heard all summer on Federal Hill as the dwellers hail their various patron saints, or the saints of their native villages in Italy. In any event he shrieked aloud, dropped frantically from the ladder, and stumbled blindly across the obstructed floor of the almost lightless chamber that encompassed him. He knew instantly where he was, and plunged recklessly down the narrow spiral staircase, tripping and bruising himself at every turn. There was a nightmare flight through a vast cobwebbed nave whose ghostly arches reached up to realms of leering shadow, a sightless scramble through a littered basement, a climb to regions of air and street-lights outside, and a mad racing down a spectral hill of gibbering gables, across a grim, silent city of tall black towers, and up the steep eastward precipice to his own ancient door. On regaining consciousness in the morning he found himself lying on his study floor fully dressed. Dirt and cobwebs covered him, and every inch of his body seemed sore and bruised. When he faced the mirror he saw that his hair was badly scorched, while a trace of strange, evil odour seemed to cling to his upper outer clothing. It was then that his nerves broke down. Thereafter, lounging exhaustedly about in a dressing-gown, he did little but stare from his west window, shiver at the threat of thunder, and make wild entries in his diary. The great storm broke just before midnight on August 8th. Lightning struck repeatedly in all parts of the city, and two remarkable fireballs were reported. The rain was torrential, while a constant fusillade of thunder brought sleeplessness to thousands. Blake was utterly frantic in his fear for the lighting system, and tried to telephone the company around 1 a.m., though by that time service had been temporarily cut off in the interest of safety. He recorded everything in his diary—the large, nervous, and often undecipherable hieroglyphs telling their own story of growing frenzy and despair, and of entries scrawled blindly in the dark. He had to keep the house dark in order to see out the window, and it appears that most of his time was spent at his desk, peering anxiously through the rain across the glistening miles of downtown roofs at the constellation of distant lights marking Federal Hill. Now and then he would fumblingly make an entry in his diary, so that detached phrases such as “The lights must not go”; “It knows where I am”; “I must destroy it”; and “It is calling to me, but perhaps it means no injury this time”; are found scattered down two of the pages. Then the lights went out all over the city. It happened at 2:12 a.m. according to power-house records, but Blake's diary gives no indication of the time. The entry is merely, “Lights out—God help me.” On Federal Hill there were watchers as anxious as he, and rain-soaked knots of men paraded the square and alleys around the evil church with umbrella-shaded candles, electric flashlights, oil lanterns, crucifixes, and obscure charms of the many sorts common to southern Italy. They blessed each flash of lightning, and made cryptical signs of fear with their right hands when a turn in the storm caused the flashes to lessen and finally to cease altogether. A rising wind blew out most of the candles, so that the scene grew threateningly dark. Someone roused Father Merluzzo of Spirito Santo Church, and he hastened to the dismal square to pronounce whatever helpful syllables he could. Of the restless and curious sounds in the blackened tower, there could be no doubt whatever. For what happened at 2:35 we have the testimony of the priest, a young, intelligent, and well-educated person; of Patrolman William J. Monahan of the Central Station, an officer of the highest reliability who had paused at that part of his beat to inspect the crowd; and of most of the seventy-eight men who had gathered around the church's high bank wall—especially those in the square where the eastward facade was visible. Of course there was nothing which can be proved as being outside the order of Nature. The possible causes of such an event are many. No one can speak with certainty of the obscure chemical processes arising in a vast, ancient, ill-aired, and long-deserted building of heterogeneous contents. Mephitic vapours—spontaneous combustion—pressure of gases born of long decay—any one of numberless phenomena might be responsible. And then, of course, the factor of conscious charlatanry can by no means be excluded. The thing was really quite simple in itself, and covered less than three minutes of actual time. Father Merluzzo, always a precise man, looked at his watch repeatedly. It started with a definite swelling of the dull fumbling sounds inside the black tower. There had for some time been a vague exhalation of strange, evil odours from the church, and this had now become emphatic and offensive. Then at last there was a sound of splintering wood, and a large, heavy object crashed down in the yard beneath the frowning easterly facade. The tower was invisible now that the candles would not burn, but as the object neared the ground the people knew that it was the smoke-grimed louver-boarding of that tower's east window. Immediately afterward an utterly unbearable foetor welled forth from the unseen heights, choking and sickening the trembling watchers, and almost prostrating those in the square. At the same time the air trembled with a vibration as of flapping wings, and a sudden east-blowing wind more violent than any previous blast snatched off the hats and wrenched the dripping umbrellas of the crowd. Nothing definite could be seen in the candleless night, though some upward-looking spectators thought they glimpsed a great spreading blur of denser blackness against the inky sky—something like a formless cloud of smoke that shot with meteor-like speed toward the east. That was all. The watchers were half numbed with fright, awe, and discomfort, and scarcely knew what to do, or whether to do anything at all. Not knowing what had happened, they did not relax their vigil; and a moment later they sent up a prayer as a sharp flash of belated lightning, followed by an earsplitting crash of sound, rent the flooded heavens. Half an hour later the rain stopped, and in fifteen minutes more the street-lights sprang on again, sending the weary, bedraggled watchers relievedly back to their homes. The next day's papers gave these matters minor mention in connexion with the general storm reports. It seems that the great lightning flash and deafening explosion which followed the Federal Hill occurrence were even more tremendous farther east, where a burst of the singular foetor was likewise noticed. The phenomenon was most marked over College Hill, where the crash awaked all the sleeping inhabitants and led to a bewildered round of speculations. Of those who were already awake only a few saw the anomalous blaze of light near the top of the hill, or noticed the inexplicable upward rush of air which almost stripped the leaves from the trees and blasted the plants in the gardens. It was agreed that the lone, sudden lightning-bolt must have struck somewhere in this neighbourhood, though no trace of its striking could afterward be found. A youth in the Tau Omega fraternity house thought he saw a grotesque and hideous mass of smoke in the air just as the preliminary flash burst, but his observation has not been verified. All of the few observers, however, agree as to the violent gust from the west and the flood of intolerable stench which preceded the belated stroke; whilst evidence concerning the momentary burned odour after the stroke is equally general. These points were discussed very carefully because of their probable connexion with the death of Robert Blake. Students in the Psi Delta house, whose upper rear windows looked into Blake's study, noticed the blurred white face at the westward window on the morning of the 9th, and wondered what was wrong with the expression. When they saw the same face in the same position that evening, they felt worried, and watched for the lights to come up in his apartment. Later they rang the bell of the darkened flat, and finally had a policeman force the door. The rigid body sat bolt upright at the desk by the window, and when the intruders saw the glassy, bulging eyes, and the marks of stark, convulsive fright on the twisted features, they turned away in sickened dismay. Shortly afterward the coroner's physician made an examination, and despite the unbroken window reported electrical shock, or nervous tension induced by electrical discharge, as the cause of death. The hideous expression he ignored altogether, deeming it a not improbable result of the profound shock as experienced by a person of such abnormal imagination and unbalanced emotions. He deduced these latter qualities from the books, paintings, and manuscripts found in the apartment, and from the blindly scrawled entries in the diary on the desk. Blake had prolonged his frenzied jottings to the last, and the broken-pointed pencil was found clutched in his spasmodically contracted right hand. The entries after the failure of the lights were highly disjointed, and legible only in part. From them certain investigators have drawn conclusions differing greatly from the materialistic official verdict, but such speculations have little chance for belief among the conservative. The case of these imaginative theorists has not been helped by the action of superstitious Dr. Dexter, who threw the curious box and angled stone—an object certainly self-luminous as seen in the black windowless steeple where it was found—into the deepest channel of Narragansett Bay. Excessive imagination and neurotic unbalance on Blake's part, aggravated by knowledge of the evil bygone cult whose startling traces he had uncovered, form the dominant interpretation given those final frenzied jottings. These are the entries—or all that can be made of them. “Lights still out—must be five minutes now. Everything depends on lightning. Yaddith grant it will keep up! . . . Some influence seems beating through it. . . . Rain and thunder and wind deafen. . . . The thing is taking hold of my mind. . . . “Trouble with memory. I see things I never knew before. Other worlds and other galaxies . . . Dark . . . The lightning seems dark and the darkness seems light. . . . “It cannot be the real hill and church that I see in the pitch-darkness. Must be retinal impression left by flashes. Heaven grant the Italians are out with their candles if the lightning stops! “What am I afraid of? Is it not an avatar of Nyarlathotep, who in antique and shadowy Khem even took the form of man? I remember Yuggoth, and more distant Shaggai, and the ultimate void of the black planets. . . . “The long, winging flight through the void . . . cannot cross the universe of light . . . re-created by the thoughts caught in the Shining Trapezohedron . . . send it through the horrible abysses of radiance. . . . “My name is Blake—Robert Harrison Blake of 620 East Knapp Street, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. . . . I am on this planet. . . . “Azathoth have mercy!—the lightning no longer flashes—horrible—I can see everything with a monstrous sense that is not sight—light is dark and dark is light . . . those people on the hill . . . guard . . . candles and charms . . . their priests. . . . “Sense of distance gone—far is near and near is far. No light—no glass—see that steeple—that tower—window—can hear—Roderick Usher—am mad or going mad—the thing is stirring and fumbling in the tower—I am it and it is I—I want to get out . . . must get out and unify the forces. . . . It knows where I am. . . . “I am Robert Blake, but I see the tower in the dark. There is a monstrous odour . . . senses transfigured . . . boarding at that tower window cracking and giving way. . . . Iä . . . ngai . . . ygg. . . . “I see it—coming here—hell-wind—titan blur—black wings—Yog-Sothoth save me—the three-lobed burning eye. . . .”

We sit down with Peter Scartabello, owner of Yuggoth Records and the mind behind numerous projects on the label. We discuss running an underground label, Lovecraftian/cosmic horror, new albums from Seer and Chris Bozzone and Peter's work creating the film score for the animated fantasy epic The Spine of Night and the horror film The Bunnyman Massacre. We also talk about Ozzy Osbourne's new podcast and spinal injury, Rhode Island food and NE regional cuisine. We also dig deep into our favourite horror films, our love of 70s prog rock and much more. Listen to Yuggoth Records: https://yuggothrecords.bandcamp.com/ Follow Yuggoth Records: https://www.facebook.com/yuggothrecords https://www.instagram.com/yuggothrecords/ https://twitter.com/YuggothRecords

We gather 'round dim candlelightTo delve where sanest avoid sight Into twisted worlds that Lovecraft penned Where cosmic terrors apprehensions rendThese truths not meant for mortal brainBut like those in Lovecraftian vein Drawn by fascination grim and dire To learn what none should e'er acquireAs films that try to emulateThe mythos they dare replicate They court revelation of the dire kind And risk what's left of human mindSo wish them well on nightmare quest That some humanity in them rest Pray that benign powers hear our plea To guard what's left of sanityJoin us, if you be so inclined As we descend into darkest mindWith Ray, Tommy, and Pete our guide Though fraying sanity be their plightThe doors of perception now open wide The black stars align, let terror inside Our ritual begins, the incantations unfold Beyond sanity's edge we now go boldOK, ok... as a trio, we didn't have the most extensive background in the works of Lovecraft. That's what makes the film adaptations the perfect fodder for this fair show. So, we did the work and watched a starter package of a bunch of films that are either direct adaptations or clearly influenced by the writing of Lovecraft, and we present our experience today. Want to watch along? Check out our Letterboxd list and get going!Lovecraft's fiction focused heavily on fear of the vast unknown universe, inherited evil, and his potential for mental collapse. Though not widely known during his lifetime, he developed a cult following for his weird tales published in pulp magazines in the 1920s-30s. Lovecraft helped popularize cosmic horror with recurring elements like the fictional Miskatonic University and entities like Cthulhu. He allowed other writers to borrow his ideas freely, helping spread his Cthulhu Mythos. After his 1937 death, his influence quietly grew until it permeated modern horror. His cosmic themes and tropes are now ubiquitous across literature, visual art, film, games, and pop culture. However, appreciation of his problematic views has lagged, sparking debates on separating his ideas from his beliefs.Many films have adapted Lovecraft's stories or integrated his themes. The Haunted Palace, The Dunwich Horror, Re-Animator, and other direct adaptations capture the tone of impending madness and futility in the face of elder gods. Meanwhile, The Thing, Prince of Darkness, In the Mouth of Madness, Annihilation, and The Lighthouse incorporate Lovecraftian elements into original narratives. Creative choices must be made to translate his verbose prose into visuals. Performances that show protagonists struggling to cling to sanity resonate as Lovecraftian. Later horror creators owe a debt to Lovecraft's brand of unknowable, cerebral fear.He was a troubled guy, and as filmmakers continue to reimagine the mythos, we're seeing updates to problematic elements while, in many cases, artfully preserving the essence of his disturbing philosophical horror. He is among many case examples of needing to separate the art from the artist, however, and some of the film adaptations are, frankly, much better than others. Still, you can't deny his influence on the art form. (00:00) - Welcome to Sitting in the Dark (04:39) - What We Know About Lovecraft (07:59) - He was... problematic (13:16) - A Recitation of the Movies (14:21) - Impressions of the Films (19:40) - The Necronomicon (27:15) - The Lighthouse v Call of Cthulu (33:59) - Greatest Hits of the Lovecraftian Vibe (01:06:05) - Awakenings (01:09:37) - Coming Attractions: The Movie-lover's Guide to Lycanthropy Start your own podcast journey with the best host in the business. Try TRANSISTOR today!Want to upgrade your LETTERBOXD account? Use our PROMO CODE to get a DISCOUNT and help us out in the process!Find source material for The Next Reel's family of podcasts – and thousands of other great reads – at AUDIBLE! Get your free audiobook and 30-day free trial today.Join the conversation with movie lovers from around the world on The Next Reel's DISCORD channel!Here's where you can find us around the internet:The WebLetterboxdPeteRayTommyWe spend hours every week putting this show together for you, our dear listener, and it would sure mean a lot to us if you considered becoming a member. When you do, you get early access to shows, ad-free episodes, and a TON of bonus content. To those who already support the show, thank you. To those who don't yet: what are you waiting for?Become a Member here: $5 monthly or $55 annuallyWhat are some other ways you can support us and show your love? Glad you asked!You can buy TNR apparel, stickers, mugs and more from our MERCH PAGE.Or buy or rent movies we've discussed on the show from our WATCH PAGE.Or buy books, plays, etc. that was the source for movies we've discussed on the show from our ORIGINALS PAGE.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft (1890-1937),​ más conocido como H. P. Lovecraft, fue un escritor estadounidense, autor de relatos y novelas de terror y ciencia ficción. Se le considera un gran innovador del cuento de terror, al que aportó una mitología propia —los Mitos de Cthulhu—, desarrollada en colaboración con otros autores, actualmente en vigencia.​ Su obra constituye un clásico del horror cósmico, una línea narrativa que se aparta de las tradicionales historias de terror sobrenatural —satanismo, fantasmas—, incluyendo elementos de ciencia ficción como, por ejemplo, razas alienígenas, viajes en el tiempo o existencia de otras dimensiones. (Fuente: Wikipedia) Mi nombre es Juan Carlos y te ofrezco mi voz como locutor online y narrador de audiolibros profesional, con estudio propio. Si crees que mi voz encajaría con tu proyecto o negocio contacta conmigo sin compromiso. Contacto profesional: info@locucioneshablandoclaro.com www.locucioneshablandoclaro.com También estoy en Twitter: @VengadorT Estudio de narración: - Micrófono: Neumann TLM-103 - Interfaz: Universal Audio Apollo Twin - Cabina: Demvox ECO100 - Plugins: Universal Audio - Música: Epidemic Sound, con licencia Escucha el episodio completo en la app de iVoox, o descubre todo el catálogo de iVoox Originals

El Oscuro me habla en sueños. Me insta a escribir mis libros, que luego reparte entre algunos que conoce. Cuando llegue ese tiempo al que aspiramos, iremos juntos a revelar los secretos del cosmos que los hombres sólo pueden entender, y apenas vagamente, en sueños. Por eso siempre sueño. Fui elegido para aprender. Y por eso mis sueños me han demostrado tantas cosas, como Yuggoth y el resto… Y ahora… Ahora estoy preparado para mi… apostolado. No puedo decirte mucho más. Debo dormir y escribir sobre un gran acuerdo para el presente, y tengo, por ello, que aprender rápido. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 📌Más contenido extra en nuestro canal informativo de Telegram: ¡¡Síguenos!!https://t.me/historiasparaserleidas 🛑BIO Olga Paraíso: https://instabio.cc/Hleidas 📌Súbete a nuestra nave, gracias por tu apoyo. ¡¡Hasta el próximo audio!! (｡◕‿◕｡) Bloch escribió más de trescientos cuentos de terror, misterio y ciencia ficción, así como veinticinco novelas entre otras la famosa «Psicosis» (1959), pero también tuvo un papel relevante en los comienzos de la televisión como guionista de doce capítulos para la teleserie «La Hora de Alfred Hitchcock» o, posteriormente, como autor de tres Historias originales para la mítica serie «Star Trek» en su primera época. «El que abre el camino» (1945) reúne los primeros relatos escritos por Robert Bloch, y entre ellos encontramos desde historias inspiradas por los temas clásicos del terror, como “Madre de las serpientes” (sobre los misterios del vudú), “El que abre el camino” y “Los ojos de la momia” (de ambientación egipcia), o el destacable “Suyo afectísimo, Jack el destripador” (en el que el asesino de Whitechapel reaparece en Boston en los años cuarenta), Hasta cuentos de Horror cósmico, en la línea de Lovecraft, como “El vampiro estelar” (protagonizado por un místico de Providence, doble de su maestro y amigo HPL), “El dios sin rostro” o “El demonio negro”. Una producción de Historias para ser Leídas 📌Más contenido extra en nuestro canal informativo de Telegram: ¡¡Síguenos!!https://t.me/historiasparaserleidas 😵 Escucha el episodio completo en la app de iVoox, o descubre todo el catálogo de iVoox Originals

Hile, Cromrades! We continue our poetry season by opening things up a bit... For this episode we contrast select poems of the Weird Tales Three! Read the entries here:Clark Ashton Smith's Nyctalops!H.P. Lovecraft's Fungi from Yuggoth!Robert E. Howard's Adventurer!One ThingsLuke: The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones!Jon: Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, starring the incomparable John

Wythe Marschall, creator of Stillfleet, shares a monster born in the frozen ammonia crystals of Yuggoth at the far reaches of our solar system 100 billion years in the future. Don't wait, get it now! https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/wythe/the-stillfleet-core-rulebook Get stat blocks, bonus content, and other monstrous perks: https://my.captivate.fm/www.patreon.com/scintillastudio (www.patreon.com/scintillastudio) Join the conversation: https://my.captivate.fm/www.twitter.com/SparkOtter (www.twitter.com/SparkOtter) Meet my guests: Wythe Marschall: https://twitter.com/hollowearths Music by Jason Shaw at Audionautix.com

Video version - ASMR reading of The Book by HP Lovecraft. A very special thank you to my subscribers and a shout out to Elden Lich Amunedal and Tortisebear for reaching out when you did. Support this channel: Donate: https://paypal.me/TomeByTome https://www.podpage.com/tome-by-tome-asmr/ "The Book" is an unfinished short story by American horror fiction writer H. P. Lovecraft, believed to have been written in late 1933. It was first published in the journal Leaves in 1938, after Lovecraft's death. In the story fragment, the narrator is given an ancient book by a strange bookseller, and when he takes it home and examines it, weird and sinister events ensue. In October 1933, Lovecraft wrote in a letter: I am at a sort of standstill in writing—disgusted at much of my older work, and uncertain as to avenues of improvement. In recent weeks I have done a tremendous amount of experimenting with different styles and perspectives, but have destroyed most of the results. The H. P. Lovecraft Encyclopedia suggests that "The Book" was one of the undestroyed experiments—an attempt to translate Lovecraft's poem sequence Fungi from Yuggoth into prose. (The completed fragment corresponds to the first three sonnets, which form more of a coherent narrative than the rest of the sequence.) "The Black Tome of Alsophocus", first published in New Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos (1969), is an attempt by Martin S. Warnes to complete "The Book" Warnes turns the fragment into a tale of possession by Nyarlathotep. In 2019, the latter Warnes completion was adapted into a short film of the same name. The aforementioned film was featured in 2020 Edition of the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival & CthulhuCon and it its included in the Festival's Best of 2020 Short Film Collection bluray. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/lovecraft-asmr/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/lovecraft-asmr/support

ASMR reading of The Book by HP Lovecraft. A very special thank you to my subscribers and a shout out to Elden Lich Amunedal and Tortisebear for reaching out when you did. Support this channel: Donate: https://paypal.me/TomeByTome https://www.podpage.com/tome-by-tome-asmr/ "The Book" is an unfinished short story by American horror fiction writer H. P. Lovecraft, believed to have been written in late 1933. It was first published in the journal Leaves in 1938, after Lovecraft's death. In the story fragment, the narrator is given an ancient book by a strange bookseller, and when he takes it home and examines it, weird and sinister events ensue. In October 1933, Lovecraft wrote in a letter: I am at a sort of standstill in writing—disgusted at much of my older work, and uncertain as to avenues of improvement. In recent weeks I have done a tremendous amount of experimenting with different styles and perspectives, but have destroyed most of the results. The H. P. Lovecraft Encyclopedia suggests that "The Book" was one of the undestroyed experiments—an attempt to translate Lovecraft's poem sequence Fungi from Yuggoth into prose. (The completed fragment corresponds to the first three sonnets, which form more of a coherent narrative than the rest of the sequence.) "The Black Tome of Alsophocus", first published in New Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos (1969), is an attempt by Martin S. Warnes to complete "The Book" Warnes turns the fragment into a tale of possession by Nyarlathotep. In 2019, the latter Warnes completion was adapted into a short film of the same name. The aforementioned film was featured in 2020 Edition of the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival & CthulhuCon and it its included in the Festival's Best of 2020 Short Film Collection bluray. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/lovecraft-asmr/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/lovecraft-asmr/support