Joseph

In the waning days of October, as the eldritch chill of autumn crept through the twilight hours, I once again revived my sacred tradition. Each day, a solitary tale from the arcane mind of the master of cosmic horror, H.P. Lovecraft, graced my thoughts, casting shadows deeper than the encroaching night. Today, I turned my trembling gaze to “Polaris,” that star-born nightmare, whose otherworldly light pierces through the veil of forgotten time and forgotten dreams.

Slumber, watcher, till the spheres
Six and twenty thousand years
Have revolv’d, and I return
To the spot where now I burn.
Other stars anon shall rise
To the axis of the skies;
Stars that soothe and stars that bless
With a sweet forgetfulness:
Only when my round is o’er
Shall the past disturb thy door.

Our tale commences with a narrator, adrift in long, sleepless vigils beneath the infinite vault of night, his gaze riveted upon the baleful presence of Polaris, the Pole Star. He describes it as a malignant, watchful eye, a cosmic sentinel that seems to convey an ancient and terrible message, now long forgotten. One fateful night, beneath a ghostly aurora that writhed above his swamp-bound abode, the narrator’s mind is drawn into a strange dream—a marble city, stark and silent, perched upon a lonely plateau, and bathed in the eerie light of Polaris.

Within this spectral city, he observes its denizens, conversing in a language unknown yet disturbingly familiar to his ears. Upon waking, the dream clings to his consciousness like a shadow, returning night after night, growing ever more vivid and insistent. Our narrator’s obsession deepens, as he grapples with a terrible uncertainty: could this otherworldly city be real? Could his waking life be the true illusion?

Over time, his desire to merely observe the city transforms into something darker, more desperate. He begins to question the very fabric of reality, unsure whether his fragile existence belongs to the waking world or the dream-realm. In one fateful vision, he finds himself not merely a distant observer, but an inhabitant of the city—Olathoë, upon the plateau of Sarkis, in the ancient land of Lomar, now besieged by the brutish Inutos.

Assigned to a watchtower, he is tasked with guarding the city from invasion. Yet as he gazes upon Polaris, its malignant power grips him, and he hears an ancient, cryptic rhyme whispered by the hateful star. Overtaken by confusion, he succumbs to sleep, failing in his duty. Upon awakening, he finds himself once more in his swamp-bound home, yet now utterly convinced that his life is but a dream, and that his true fate lies eternally bound to the lost city of Olathoë, forever unreachable, forever haunting.

In this accursed month of October, I have embarked upon a dread and solitary journey, wherein I shall immerse myself, each day, in the abominable works of the master of cosmic terror, H.P. Lovecraft. Today’s offering to the void is that eldritch tale of unspeakable horrors, “Dagon.”

The end is near. I hear a noise at the door, as of some immense slippery body lumbering against it. It shall not find me. God, that hand! The window! The window!

In this ghastly testament of a broken soul, a man ravaged by morphine recounts a nightmarish incident during his time as an officer in World War I. After his cargo ship is seized by a German raider in the desolate Pacific, he escapes in a lifeboat, drifting aimlessly until he lands upon a loathsome black mire. This hellish wasteland, strewn with decaying sea creatures, seems to be the ocean’s floor, upheaved by some cosmic force from unfathomable depths.

For days, he traverses this foul expanse, finally arriving at a monstrous chasm, where a great white monolith stands. Carved with indecipherable aquatic hieroglyphs and grotesque sculptures, the stone hints at an ancient, aquatic civilization. As he gazes in horror, a nightmarish creature rises from the depths—its form too ghastly to comprehend.

In terror, the mariner flees back to his boat, losing consciousness in a storm, only to awaken later in a San Francisco hospital. There, no one believes his story of the unearthly Pacific upheaval. Even his inquiries into the ancient Philistine god Dagon are dismissed.

Plagued by haunting visions, especially during the gibbous moon, and with his narcotic escape fading, the narrator prepares to end his life. As he writes, he hears a terrifying sound outside—something immense and slick pressing against the door. His final cry, filled with madness, invokes the horror of a monstrous hand at the window before the narrative ends in unspeakable terror.

In the shadowy recesses of my youth, each October I partook in a most curious ritual—a daily communion with the macabre genius of H.P. Lovecraft, immersing myself in one of his dread-laden tales as autumn’s chill encroached. Today, that ancient tradition stirred once more within my soul, compelling me to delve into the spectral pages of “The Tomb.” How strange, yet wondrous, was my discovery that the band Rudimentary Peni had woven Lovecraft’s very drinking song from “Dream City” into their haunting opus, Cacophony! Truly, it was as though the eldritch whispers of the Old Ones still echo through the dim corridors of our modern world.

“The Tomb” unfurls with the darkly enchanted life of Jervas Dudley, a soul possessed by strange reveries. From childhood, his spirit is drawn to a long-abandoned mausoleum belonging to the Hyde family, whose mansion had perished in fire and ruin. Jervas, unable to breach the tomb’s padlock, succumbs to a peculiar obsession, taking solace in slumber beside its cryptic entrance. Yet in the shadowy intervals of years, the tomb seems to call him, beckoning him with spectral light and forgotten secrets.

One fateful night, Dudley uncovers a key in an ancient chest, long since rotten. He descends into the depths of the tomb, finding a coffin eerily inscribed with his own name—“Jervas.” Each night thereafter, Jervas believes himself drawn to rest within that sepulcher, though others see him only beside it, untouched by its interior gloom. Haunted by strange forebodings of thunder and flame, his once peaceful contemplations unravel into visions of debauched revelry within the now-restored Hyde mansion—a phantasmagoric feast doomed to burn as it once had, and again, he perishes within its inferno.

Yet when he awakens, Jervas finds himself restrained, declared mad. The tomb’s lock, untouched by mortal hands, betrays no entry. Consigned to an asylum, his mind writhes in the unfathomable, until his faithful servant, Hiram, at last breaks the lock and reveals what lurked below: the coffin, bearing his name. Jervas, his fate entwined with ancestral doom, declares that he will one day take his rightful place, not in life, but in death’s eternal slumber, as the grave he sought all along was, indeed, his own.

Come hither, my lads, with your tankards of ale,
And drink to the present before it shall fail;
Pile each on your platter a mountain of beef,
For ‘tis eating and drinking that bring us relief:
So fill up your glass,
For life will soon pass;
When you’re dead ye’ll ne’er drink to your king or your lass!

Anacreon had a red nose, so they say;
But what’s a red nose if ye’re happy and gay?
Gad split me! I’d rather be red whilst I’m here,
Than white as a lily–and dead half a year!
So Betty, my miss,
Come give me a kiss;
In hell there’s no innkeeper’s daughter like this!

Young Harry, propp’d up just as straight as he’s able,
Will soon lose his wig and slip under the table;
But fill up your goblets and pass ‘em around–
Better under the table than under the ground!
So revel and chaff
As ye thirstily quaff:
Under six feet of dirt ‘tis less easy to laugh!

The fiend strike me blue! I’m scarce able to walk,
And damn me if I can stand upright or talk!
Here, landlord, bid Betty to summon a chair;
I’ll try home for a while, for my wife is not there!
So lend me a hand;
I’m not able to stand,
But I’m gay whilst I linger on top of the land!

Brynhildr’s birth caused her mother’s death, leading to her father’s deep love and Hansel’s growing resentment. In Japan, Hansel betrays them, killing their father. Brynhildr vows revenge. Read Brynhildr’s saga here.

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