A private correspondence to David Theurer, written by H. P. Lovecraft, 12th January 1919

from the Tempest
released by Mary D. Flanagan

H.P. Lovecraft (1890-1937) was an amateur American journalist and fiction writer who crafted short stories and novellas. Letters are also an important part of Lovecraft’s literary legacy. The following document was recovered in the papers now archived within the H.P. Lovecraft Collection housed at Brown University. This particular specimen was discovered among the remains of an overlooked trunk, turned on its side, that served as resting place to the laundry basket of Mrs. Letitia Edgcombe Thistlewaite, great-grandmother of the discoverer of the extraordinary letter, Mary Dorchester Flanagan, who has since herewith shared this remarkable evidence with the public on the 90th anniversary of the fantastical voyage documented in the epistle. — the Editor

12th January 1919, Providence
My Dear David Theurer:

You once asked me to explain why I came at all, and why, like you, I continue to dread the lurking menace of that other world, its thin red and green geometries, that spider web of vast and clever choreography, the electrified enigma of brightness and shadow I discovered upon my foray into Your Time. I am certain that the authorities never noticed my sojourn. I am also assured, from your newspaper accounts, that the details behind your work and your present state of mind — the fact that the dark spaces of your dreams were held aloft in shafts of light and rendered so very real – are nearly forgotten in the frenzy of the new and the visible. The dimensions made entirely of light where the creatures live puzzles me so, transporting any body who engages with your mechanical appliance alongside the speed of 10,000 dæmons searching for their next fallen, faithless man. I, Mr. Theurer, retain my own ghastly nightmares conjured continuously since my visit. Like the others, I have joined you in a humming state of waking and sleeping madness. What can be said of the abstract shapes still endeavoring to seek me, and destroy me, flipping and flinging to my side whether I am merely gazing into a window, or strolling down the walkways of my humble township, when the chill of evening begins to stealthily creep through the warmth of a mid-autumn day? Out of the corner of my eye, I still see these light-ridden aggressions now, this very evening. They do indeed persist here, back in my time, as well.

I am forced into speech after my visit to you, having kept abreast of the varied occurrences in your time. It is with significant apprehension that I discuss the impending political crises and the threat of the miniature-working bombs that later generations have produced As you may know, since the episode of my visit, men of science have insisted on creating many more worlds within portals of glass such as those you expressively crafted in the year of 1980. Unfortunately, the others have refused to follow my heartfelt advice cautioning of the hollow madness, which may soon follow one’s encounter with the box. As the remorseful creator of such haunting spectres, you reiterated my warnings to those living in your own time from the depths of your very heart, but you were taken as mad yourself. I saw this most apparent when you so frantically noted to those in power your dire predictions, and ultimately, confessed your demise. “I’ve got this nightmare I have where monsters are coming out of a hole in the ground,” you famously told the authorities, “and I must kill them before they kill me.” You reported your fears to your employers, and your beseeching ran in the free press from periodical to published volume. But – this colloquial confession fell to those already blinded by decades of parading lights, and simple men could not imagine that their beloved machines might conceal something so sinister. Needless to say, your words of the creatures, the dream, and the horror of the lights did not fall empty upon these, my own ears.

It was from your decade that, as a culminating act of desperation, you entreated me to come have a look at the spectacle. “I’ve got to kill them before they get to the surface, and kill me,” you repeatedly cried, and thus built a mechanical appliance to encase the dæmons, and (with hope) put an end to their days. An incredible plan! But your horror proved difficult to abate. Thus, it is due to this direst of unfortunate circumstances that, through my looking-glass, I was feverishly summoned to give whatever assistance I could in the matter, and arrived with my folding and unfolding technique to your time and your despairing and the ill-named city of Sunnyvale. While I was to discover that this was not among the wisest of decisions of my career, it was one I made nonetheless, the summons too vehement to ignore. It was a simultaneous lesson in the folly of righteousness, curiosity, and selfless sacrifice I was later to deeply regret.

There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:
If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
Good things will strive to dwell with’t.

— The Tempest, Act I, Sc. II

The long row of shops were laid out together in a concretely bound, orderly assembly and appeared almost as though Jules Verne’s cities of the future had taken root. But instead of pyres in the sky, this city had grown elongated and flattened-out, as though the buildings were themselves a discriminate attempt to disguise the location of the sublime mechanical appliance among uniform pattern and palette. I was one of those fortunate enough to knew of the location from the jumbled notes you had sent on. But Mr. Theurer, I must admit my awe! What fascinating a place to house a portal so fantastic! I had once glimpsed it on a trip to the market as I settled into my lodging. The roads all around were cured and hardened, and much wider than those I am accustomed; the length alone of the seemingly nameless buildings was something to behold. I found price of goods to be far greater than I had foresaw, and thus found myself holding currency of little interest even to numistmatists. In my dress — well, all I can admit is that I managed, but the somberness of my heavy-coated retinue in comparison to the lines and bright fabrics of the day, as well as the sheer absence of so many layers among passersby, may have let on my secret to those with a keen sense of observance to seasonal whims. Nonetheless, I pressed on in the newly neighborhood with only an air about me of mild eccentricity or somnambulistic tendency, and, without much interruption, found, and then again returned to, the source of my mission’s most heartfelt obligation.

My looking-position was just at the edge of the flattened allotment outside the shops. From there, I could just barely glimpse the remarkable portal of glass in its holding-box; said box resting inside a shop with curious, unsightly chairs affixed by some means to the legs of the table they serviced, as though to keep them from escaping the curious dim light of the place. At first I surmised that the holding-box could be a remnant of a battered Mutoscope, but the ambience of the place, and the material of the object, were quite exceptional. The box itself might also be in use as a scientific display depicting the modern wonders of electricity — but, why was it positioned thus? In other words, to my eyes, the majesty and magic emanating from the holding-box did not fit the decor. The holding-box, positioned near the back wall (some eight yards from the window), faced the North, with a bias to North West, as though the box had been jostled by its hosts in a heaving struggle to attain some ritualistic and proper alignment. It was covered with a strange marking, an ostensibly graphical depiction of a spider’s web, with what looked to be a set of explosions emanating from the centre. There were other marks as well; perhaps these were of mystical origins.

I wished to enter the shop and blend in with the personages of that locale by sitting down, perhaps to examine the newspaper or eat the type of baked good that seemed to be the establishment’s specialty – perhaps funnel cake, perhaps pizza. The seating apparatuses, however, appeared so rigid and foreboding – I feared that I, in my greatcoat, could not casually sidle in unnoticed. Thus, that first day, I was only able to spy the holding-box from afar. A sheen from the sadly ordered, overhead, chemically-infused glowing illumination source — an unnatural phosphorescence, or perhaps the units were termed fluorescence — glossed the view of the portal within its holding-box as observed from the wide casement of glass in front of me. Nonetheless, from its current resting spot, the mechanical appliance projected… well, a certain… possibility. When I left my perch for the day, the night sky was ablaze with more artificial light.

Even though there seemed to be a significant challenge in Sunnyvale, I resolved that the dæmons were naught less than the others I had encountered during the ongoing course of my chronicles. I anticipated that mine was a relatively easy task: I would merely silence the monsters you described so eloquently in your missive, lock them back into the abyss of the mind, and be done with this place, this time. Was it old Ephraim’s soul that was locked in there too? The thing that calls itself Azathoth? On the second day of my visit, I again decided to watch from across the glass of the establishment window wherein the box lie, resting. Due to an afternoon cloud, I could see a bit more clearly into the depths of the shop. I longed to approach the box and stare deeply into the portal of glass merely to glimpse flickering signifiers as they shifted to and fro, if only to confirm that inside, there might be housed some tremendous types of sentient life. To my astonishment, finally, I saw! Bright blue and green lines on the deepest raven black formed on the portal of glass, and these shifted to form and form again shrieking geometric bodies, but bodies which seemed at the same time to consist entirely of light. Forms did bustle about within the box, in a hideous unknown blend of color and tipped with tongues of foul flame. In one feverish kaleidoscopic instant there burst up from that doomed box a gleaming eruptive cataclysm of unnatural sparks and substance, of luminous amorphousness — yet all this without even a concerned look from passersby! The cabinet did not seem to be the ‘monster-trap” I had imagined at all, but something far more difficult to comprehend, and menacing. The whole scene, however, was treated by those of the public as little more than a neglected shrine at which a visitor may make an offering, or perhaps, a birdcage, where a collection of fantastic finches might flit about entirely without notice.

I shall admit, I have personally witnessed the nickelodeon, and of course I am highly aware of the phenomenon of moving pictures, as well as the history of automata and mechanical devices. But this phenomenon was truly peculiar. This device lacked a whirring of gears — strange; it must somehow rely upon the wonders of electricity –and something else entirely. A Dial emerged from a shelf just under the glass, where a human hand might rest as if upon a holy book while contemplating this world — also, there lie small raised circles which seemed to promise places for the fingers, just as the carved tabs in great books helped to mark one’s alphabetical or biblical progress. As the scene dimmed, I realized I had maintained my cautious vigilance a goodly number of hours. I believe I saw English words flicker by in blue lines within the box. The short phrase, in all capital letters, appeared to spell out “AVOID SPIKES.” Was this a sign of the divination powers of the box? As it infused the air around me, the smell of the baked dough ravaged the air with potency, but instead of entering the shop and nearing the holding-box, I returned to my rooms, watching each step carefully, looking for sharp objects. I consumed a sup of tomato soup with a strange dollop of yoghurt inclusive (a “fusion” dish the innkeeper proudly stated), and I took to writing my recollections well into the night.

I had to return a third day (late, due to an extended rest) to finally see the orchestration in propinquity. Certainly, not a fresh market lyme could shine as bright, no plum could ink the brightness from the day with as much exacting sameness as the colors emitting from that very box. That third day, I encountered the glowing world within the portal in close proximity. The scene I peered down into seemed like the coming doom so desperately feared: the world seemed to consist entirely of lines, dominated by the ceaseless movement of contradictory two-dimensional geometric outlines that strained on the variable, storm-ravaged surface. These outlines, however, strangely possessed a strong sense of depth, as though the shadow of nameless fear went deep into the earth. The world’s initial flatness echoed to add a dimension – what was a flat web of lines dancing across in patterns became something more. I cannot describe the emotions when I actually realized that this initial appearance was merely a geometrical and dimensional illusion. Once my vision shifted to catch on to this trick, I immediately began to render the unfamiliar and comprehend that there was depth in this world. And finally, there it was — a figure-eight-shaped hole in the ground; and upon peering down into the chasm, indeed, there were creatures that emerged from this depth — sometimes only intermittently, sometimes with a fever-pitch (the vantage point entirely arranged in single-point perspective). The creatures as described in the account of the dream climbed up from the abyss and emerged to dance about the edges of the mysterious hole — while in my very company! Then, the holding-box would shudder as the creatures emitted sounds, and the portal, after a time, flickered, producing an entirely different scenario of world geometry. After each flicker, the hole appeared as various shapes; new holes and chasms appeared, which each included ideal vantage points into the abyss from which the creatures emerged. At other times, the abyss was a mere line, a canyon straight down into the earth. The variously shaped creatures — some quick and bow-tie-shaped, some more like glowing balls, and some that careened out from the cavity as straight lines — these all moved quickly, emerging to the present up from the long tubes which extended down into the centre of the line-defined earth. A claw — both a substitute for hand, I discovered, and some sort of arcane looking, dimensional vehicle — seemed to embody the very agency of the world-watcher and could be spun around the world’s edge, around the creatures’ hollow place. Clearly, the creatures were interested in their own behalf, and saw any interruption as a threat to their livelihood. How can we know how this husk of a world works? Must we read the scripts of Τάρταρος, the deep place where from the creatures come? I asked myself. Does it recognize me as part of it? Which world do I in fact find myself?

Scrutinizing, and entranced, I was suddenly brought to my senses by a bespeckled, gangly youth who tapped me on the shoulder. “Lights out, dude. Time to go.” Perhaps I had stood there for nearly two hours — perhaps more — fixated by the infinite struggle, which lay before my eyes. I still possessed a final, desperate hope that they were a mere illusion born of delirium. As I trundled limbs limp from tiredness, shuffled in my greatcoat, and departed, the fluorescence flickered into to the turbidity of night, bringing phantasmal flashed of hideously familiar patterns out into the streetscene. I looked back. The box and its portal of glass did not fail when other light was quenched. Life continued in there, Mr. Theurer. As you knew it would.

To my initial dismay, I could not reach you to converse about the dæmons, or offer you any comfort whatsoever. It was all the ultimate apex of nightmare, made worse by the blasphemous tug of half-knowledge. Nay, it was inconsequential how secret your captors kept, I knew by my glass where you were held in reserve. Yet merely appearing to you would seem to manifest one of several dæmons — this might have further contributed to raging madness. This is not to say that I avoided my research and the task at hand. It cost me terrible effort, but through the course of my fervent mission, I found less and less want for instruction regarding my interactions.

With these questions freshly engulfing the mind, the next morning I again revisited the scene. The holding-box provided all the visitors just beyond the shop’s ordering counter with permanent movement, with distraction. Without realizing the severity of the supreme horror of where the dæmons lay, the holding box appeared as an innocent, whimsical, and portable sanctuary from the future. Those onlookers would approach the counter in search of those (I assume now, a regional peculiarity) baked pizzas of tomato and cheese, and some wandered off to watch the portal. In this way it provided a waiting haven, and indeed, seemed to shew itself to be an innocent window to a new possible world. The holding box, perhaps, pleased the delusional visitors as well as those dark grotesque spirits which lay so close. The innocents even went out of their way to relinquish themselves and shew respect in distorted worship, as though one’s higher place in the cosmic order were secured the longer one spent with the creatures.

A young girl approached the holding-box with eagerness. With the devoutness of a pilgrim, she attempted to please the spirits with a well-practiced and an oft-intoned ritual, inserting a silver talisman (which I have now identified as not just currency, but a marker for a sacred fund – a coin more or less figured, a talisman with a memorable carved portraiture) into a slot in the cabinet as a church-goer secures funds into the hallowed collection box as a payment towards immortality. After inserting the talisman, the girl proceeded to grasp the Dial, and tense her muscles for an encounter with the thing extraordinary. This girl understood the creatures and their lair without the haze of delirium or fear which had become habit in my adventures. Her eyes widened and she gripped the Dial with ferocity beyond that of any natural nine-year-zeal I have witnessed. The girl spun the Dial, and I could see from behind her particular challenges: bow tie monsters “flipping” about the edges of the lines, diamonds which come toward the Claw, then split into mirror enemies. Spiral-moving trails left explosive mines in their wake. At one point the girl shouted “FUSE-BALL!” with rage in her bright eyes. I do not know if that is the name of a magical portent, or the name of the multiple-coloured sparks moving in the girls’ Claw direction. It became clear that she had complete control of the Claw and its speed, though her engagement was clearly venturing into more of a frenzy than a simple interaction. “Perhaps,” I thought, affixed to the scene, “the machine is like a microscope for a scale at once great and small… there is the possibility that it could allow the viewer to observe and interact with another dimension that is both inside and around the present reality.” There were pulsing style zig-zag chargers that appeared to make electric or otherwise dangerous the bits of the lines in which the Claw was trapped. The girl stopped short with her actions, a noise was heard of unpleasant tones, and her hand fell from the Dial. The creatures had won their insidious duel yet again.

When the girl had gone, and the place was more or less silent but for the tones emanating from the machine, I approached the counter and requested access to the Box. I exchanged some paper funds for the talismans, and advanced. I could comprehend the presence of life inside the mechanical appliance despite the absence of typical transforming markers of space; indeed, the geometric life that appeared to me in the portal of glass subsisted as though spawning from a pond of life, the very primordial soup gone golden through a strange angle of time. Peculiar in its simultaneous depth and flatness, the lights in fact emerged brightly, lizard green and peacock blue from directly through anomalously changing angles and shapes. The creatures’ gestures were formed by abstractions and shadowing. Green, yellow, and red shapes emerged from other shapes, as though lines collapsed themselves here and there to form bowties, parallelograms — creatures, quite frankly, of unfamiliar dimensions. With every moment, my feeling of elusive cosmic horror increased.

Of the progress of time I kept no record, for time had become to me the merest illusion. I know only that something very singular happened in this holding-box, in this world you called “a Tempest,” and no god or dæmon could have aspired to create among persons. I shiver as I speak of them. I cannot say how many talismans I fed the Holding-box. I do know that if I had been living tiny lives, my progress was more akin to generations of the fruit fly, wherein the brief flurry of vibrant life shakes up the otherwise cold universe in between. My abilities and agency swelled and stayed as ocean waves, until another talisman could come to again renew the cycle of life.

Fool that I was to become inured to your mechanical appliance in the first place, oh Mr. Theurer! Fool, too, was I to discover the emanating voice from your appliance so very musical; the voice tuned to deep toils, the voice of crystalline spheres. To look at the appliance was one such hypnotic interlude; but in the night, I often felt the musical call too great to resist. Fool that I was to plunge into the fray with such unsanctioned frenzy. Now, it is clear that it was a mistake to succumb to the temptation of my own hero’s-narrative.

The fifth day, I perhaps lost two hours. The holding-box — that morning, what a longing for its embrace I can express to you now, even with the foreboding sense of despair t’would claim me later! To some unaware, the holding-box merely served to prop up the Dial for a visitor to your mechanical appliance. But for me, the shelter of its sides to guard the portal, to encase the player in a touch of saint’s solitude — this is what I wished to return to and return
to again.

Dare I detail the enemies which swirled up and around the varied shapes of sixteen layers of the spangled night sky, or sixteen shaped dimensions depicted in the holding-box? I believe myself to have been most able against the Flippers, those bow-tie shapes which came up, flipping toward me as though they were gymnasts in search of a lost olympiædic city and burned with wishes they dare not utter in words but rather shewed through the body. Next were Tankers, alleging themselves to the grandeur of diamonds and masquerading as mineral when, in fact, they split into several versions of themselves, untoward, and with utmost intention of driving us away.

The mischief of the Spikers cannot be overestimated; even then I plunged into this ocean of nervous ether and the sinister exhortation of the Spikers. Viscous barriers and barely-fallible obstacles were clawed and chewed and conquered in rapid succession by each of the subsequent Monsters of this cursed mission. Their tempest spins with a great speed and creates in its wake new notions of space and dimensions. Flippers leapt and attacked, Tankers burst into my vision, and there was nothing. I started again. Over and over again, when actions bound to perceptions emerged in my consciousness with a most maddening intensity, the alternating pulsations of joy and thronging urged nervousness and convulsing. I lost all lost parts of memory, and instead, was all being and presence. It was clear that my own perceptions of the infinity of time, and the infinity of the place from which my enemies emerged, converged down in single-point perspective.

I said to myself, with the ardor of a zealot, that apropos of this world, the sublime adventure of all our days, we may find that there are those who are willing to transpose themselves into the fantastic world you have dreamed for us. I certainly was one of those bold adventurers. The fleeting feeling of joy of the most maddeningly untransmissible sort thronged within me. Indeed, while inching my inch-worm self across your dream’s invasion, I experienced perceptions of infinity which at the time convulsed me with joy. Such spinning, of freedom, saturated my consciousness. I victored against enemies whom I learned were named Tankers, Spikers, Flippers, and all of their evil bretheren — at least temporarily.

My research observations were cut short by the closing hour of the establishment, which housed the mechanical appliance, but I was to return again.

You, Mr. Theurer, arrived, in my imagination, and thanked me; this scene repeated. I took in your gratitude as I grew conqueror, night by night, talisman by talisman. I subdued the beasts as King George to the dragons of Europe. I was able to enter my initials on-high with those of others. HPL. HPL. These letters climbed above the others in the short list provided. I reached the top of the list, but I did not destroy the creatures. They kept returning, as did I. The quest was taking longer than
I had anticipated.

The night was such when winds from unknown spaces whirled us directly into the nightmare. It required the discovery of one of the hundreds of common silver talismans in circulation among the general populace. I should tell you I was shocked to find the silver talismans in such popular use, even though they allowed access to the hypnotic and dangerous portal of glass, irresistibly drawn into a limitless vacuum beyond all thought and entity. Nevertheless, in the dreaming portal, I spun and crossed lines and lines. The creatures seemed to emerge from infinity. I became gradually aware through the course of my visits that this holding box was as much a shrine to a type of technological dimension, a realm of extraterrestrials or supreme beings –not supernatural, but the most natural, the ancient, close to the life force of the universe. Somehow, the technological light within matched the ancient glow of time in a way I could find no words to describe. Inside this world, the “enemies” could not be evil, for they expressed no emotion, and were from that place in existence from before evil itself reared its ugly head. They appeared ultimately undefeatable. Even an ephemeral victory over the encroaching monsters would be ephemeral, because Old Chronos would inevitably resurrect the geometric-prism creatures and they would resume their perdurable march forward.

There are those who observe my feelings about your world as to be among the most fearful, of the most entreated fanaticism. This is unfortunately due to what happened upon abandoning the portal.

Somewhere around the third week of my visit, I learned more of the psychological controversy surrounding the mechanical appliance holding in the dæmons. This date is only approximate, as I cannot now recall exactly how the events match with my journal’s notes, for I had stumbled upon things no mortal ought ever to know. Vague legends of bad luck began to cluster around similar holding boxes in other locales as well as in this local spot. It appears that those who tried their fortunes with the talismans were haunted by spectres of the enemies in their dreams. This was a group of at least 10, if not 20 or 30 regular visitors to the holding-box. A Doctor was consulted, one Dr. Stickgold, who studied these participants’ deepest sleep. Dr. Stickgold told us all he would observe us, but indeed, in light of historical examination of madness, these were medical experiments of the kind pursued by none other than Mse. Charcot, the founder of modern neuroscience. This, of course, never reached your news media. I am not sure if you are aware of this, and I must let you know such experiments have indeed been conducted.

Mr. Theurer, the fact of the matter is, now you have intentionally shared your collection of monsters with me, and with the rest. You have invaded those everyday moments already awash in the bloody sublime images of the body of Christ, the floating virgin mother Mary, the mythic battles between angels and devils, the appearance of the oversexed figure of Gabriel, whose presence seemed to mark the renewed vigor and birth of the Flippers and Spikers. These are virgin monster births awash within our dreams. These monsters from the potter’s ground continue to originate in the deep recesses of Tartaros, and the raven’s black imagination.

Stickgold at once renewed my faith in science, and emphasized the dangers of it. The doctor determined that, though the perception of the participants grew unstable through time, their abilities while using the talisman and such mechanical appliances did increase their expertise — but began to cost them their minds. Men and women engaged with your dream world, Mr. Theurer, and reported great slippery wings, shadows overhead of malignant joy. They slept among those unhallowed pits whither no dreams reach; that last amorphous blight of nether-most confusion where bubbles and blasphemes at infinity’s centre the dæmon-sultan Azathoth, whose name to this day no lips dare speak aloud, in your time, or in mine.

The girl whose visit introduced me to the powers of the world in the portal proved to be a curious anomaly in the study. Stickgold received approval from her parents and studied her connexion to the monsters and the world beyond. She was the only one who shewed no signs of delirium, and functioned quite happily in either world. Her dreams were, on all accounts, much more pleasant than the dreams of the rest, if a touch mysterious.

What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?

— The Tempest, Act I, Sc. II

My consciousness had little hint but instinct to work from during the mission. The comprehension of the potent force of evil, however, became embedded in my dazed will and buried recollection. In this place, in the holding-box, Mr. Theurer, your dreams summoned those replaying endlessly in the locked aspects of my mind. Through time the freezing, petrifying sense of utter alienation and abnormality swamped a wave of sickness and repulsion. Attending Azathoth at his court, are the creatures the Other Gods, dancing mindlessly in regular rhythms to the some silent music playing in the chasms within the cabinet/altar of the holding box. This window into Azathoth’s court, this gateway to perhaps all close encounters with the forces of the universe — climbing a mountain, sailing the seas, exploring deep caves — there is certain risk of death or madness. The gods, though, will never notice.

The end was abrupt, but in a way merciful, your own spirited dæmons finding solace within the hole, within other pretty mechanical appliances that simply, no longer, continued hold my attention. This temple or shrine holds a world as indifferent and destructive to the worshipper or visitor as a tempest on the sea is to the drifting sailor. After the weeks of capitulation, I yielded, and have finally returned home through my looking glass. I found out that I was not alone, for others followed this very same quest. Unfortunately, your cry for help won over not the doubters or cold-blooded citizens who might fall pretty to these monsters; indeed, rather, the men of highest moral fibre who would come to make the ultimate sacrifice to assist you – you, and your spirited dæmons who in the end were merely indifferent to our various campaigns and missions. The men of science of your own time appear to prefer the monsters you have offered to any possible risk of madness. Well, that choice is for your own generation to commend or condemn. The necessity of home out-ruled the necessity of Azaroth, the unleashing your beginning, but the possible end of us all. Yes, you gave a cry, and through my looking-glass, I came to help. Now, I am but the impoverished, soul-tortured victim you are — no more, no less. Out of the corner of my eye, they continue. I must exist on a daily basis with the comprehension that these monsters exist not only in your holding-box, but also in a dimension, which presses against the once-comforting mind we humans hold so much esteemed. Further (and this may resonate as accusatory) I believe the monsters have a much easier time crossing the tissues of dimension because of your mechanical appliance. Therefore, I render you responsible for creating the portal for what amounts to none other than an invasion of the senses, and of consciousness itself.

I bid you farewell. I leave you to the nightmares and to your mechanical appliance. Unlike some rare specimens, such as the girl for whom only joy seemed possible from the claw, Dial, and creatures, I do not sit well with the portal. I am afraid of it – I cannot adapt — for when out of its eminence shines certain scenes, even if familiar and loved, the mechanical appliance fashions them unfamiliar and hideous.

Yours Truly,
H. P. Lovecraft


Some lines, mood, and tenor of this work were culled from the Collected Public Domain Works of H. P. Lovecraft (1890-1937), available at http://librivox.org/collected-public-domain-works-of-h-p-lovecraft/).