#erebus-lane family

[dilf-din]

Yeehawgust Day 16: Prairie Fire

TLOU (Western AU)

WC: 2150

Rating: T

Characters: Joel and Sarah

Warnings: angst, made up barn jargon, light language

A/N: this one turned out much longer than I was originally planning, but I think it’s one of my favorites I’ve ever written for them. Take a shot for Sarah Miller tonight

We like to think we know what we’ll be like in a crisis.

“I’ll keep a level head,” we tell ourselves, “Rise up and be a leader.” We’ve all seen the movies, and we’re not going to be the guy who chokes, becomes dead weight and stands, mouth agape at the tragedy unfolding before him. We’ll be quick and concise, the picture of cool. Thankfully, most of us never get the chance to prove ourselves in that way. Mundanity prevails.

For Sarah Miller, though, that day came one particularly hot and dry July afternoon. Twenty one years old, wild as a weed, sweet as a rose. She was loved by people and animals alike. Her gentle demeanor and soft smile won over every pair of eyes that drifted her way.

That summer had been dry. They were always dry, but daddy said the valley hadn’t seen a drought like that in forty years. He had been a teenager then, tall and broad shouldered. Work was hard to come by that season, everyone’s crops yielding nothing but shriveled roots and dusty, dry soil. It took years for the town to bounce back. Their normal trade routes halted for lack of bargaining power, and being a poor settlement, they had no extra money to pay for the processed foods to take the place of the missing crops. Everyone’s mama got creative with cooking that year, finding ways to stretch supplies and fill the bellies of their hard working families.

Today, they were in a better place to withstand a hit like that. Every harvest, each farmer put aside a portion for canning and pickling, making a sizable stockpile for everyone to live off of should scarcity hit again. Sarah had just finished picking up a few cans of corn and potatoes in town to last them through the end of the week. Her curly hair was pulled into a loose braid at the nape of her neck, and a crisp white hat sat perched upon her head. Somehow she managed to keep it spotless no matter what trouble she got into. The cans were tucked into a bag hanging at her waist, clinking against each other with each step Erebus took, his black coat shining with sweat in the sun. Her eyes rose to scan the azure skies, not a trace of a cloud to detract from the deep blue, an ocean taunting the dry earth below, the land cracked and groaning.

Beads of sweat lined her neck and clung to her collarbones like an adornment of pearls gifted by the sun. Her cheeks held a constant rosy flush this time of year.

“Let’s get home,” she whispered down to the stallion, running a hand over his broad neck.

They set off at a leisurely pace, no need to tire him out when it was already so hot. Her mind wandered as they rode in silence down the lane. She was making a mental checklist of things that needed to be done at home, the fence that needed repairing, the horses that needed shoes. She was pulled from her thoughts when she caught a whiff of smoke in the air. The acrid smell of burning wood caused her face to sour as she looked for the source. A plume of smoke danced through the air, like a river disappearing into nothing, jagged edges dividing the sky into two crude halves.

“No,” she whispered, “Gotta go, boy,” she dug her heels into the horse’s sides and tightened her grip on the reins as he broke into a gallop. Her breath sat like a coil in her throat. She did her best to not let it break out into a fit of hyperventilation. She didn’t even know if it was their house yet, figured panicking now wouldn’t do a lick of good.

Erebus’s hooves pounded the hard ground, sending clouds of dust up with each hit. The cans collided into her hip bones with each stride, sure to leave deep purple bruises that she could worry about tomorrow. Her sight was set on the line where the sky met the scorched earth, the trail of smoke becoming wider with each second. As they crested the last hill before their home, she pulled back on the reigns, slowing Erebus. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears while she inhaled one more time, preparing herself for the sight below. With a few more steps, she was able to peer at the scene unfolding ahead, and for a few seconds, the pounding in her head was dead silent. Their barn was up in flames. Starting at the back and quickly making its way to the front. Her dad was at Uncle Tommy’s today helping with Lucy, who was foaling. She’d have a few minutes at best to get the animals out and call for help.

She swallowed down her fear and hopped off of Erebus. Her feet carried her swiftly to the barn’s red doors, swinging them open with one big pull. A gust of hot air almost knocked her flat on her back. Smoke stung her green eyes, drawing tears instantly. She twisted them into barely a squint while they adjusted to the hazy scene in front of her. The flames had crawled all the way up the back wall and halfway across the beam running across the center of the roof. They licked wildly at the aged wood, kissing it black with ash before pulling it into the blaze. The animals were panicking, a cacophony of squeals fighting for dominance over the crackling of wood and flames.

Sarah dipped her handkerchief into a water bucket by the door and tied it snugly over her nose to try to keep some of the smoke out. Within seconds, she was unlatching stall doors and slapping haunches to direct the frightened animals out the doors and into the sun. Four horses, two donkeys, three cows. She counted over and over in her mind as she ventured closer to the blazing heat of the flames to open the last pens. The beam overhead buckled with a loud crack, splintering as it rained sparks down over her. The ash was thick in the air the further in she went. Coughs racked her lungs, the soaked cloth providing almost no protection against the thick smoke. Their oldest donkey was nowhere to be seen.

“Missy!” she screamed through a hoarse voice. She could barely hear herself over the all encompassing growl of the flames, like she was in the belly of a dragon looking for the light to follow out. Her vision was clouded was a wall of bright yellow tinged with grey, her head spinning as she realized her oxygen was quickly depleting. She looked in the last stall to find Missy cowering in the corner, panic and flames reflecting in her big brown eyes.

Sarah’s hand reached for the latch of the door, but instantly recoiled as the skin of her fingers burned and blistered. Her eyes searched for anything she could use to knock it loose. The glint of her father’s axe caught her eye, silver steel feigning golden in the light, the handle obscured by some fallen boards. Using the toe of her boot, she freed the tool and pulled it within arm’s reach. With one hard blow, she brought the blade down across the latch, successfully freeing the door. Missy came careening out braying wildly, long limbs scrambling for footing. Sarah pushed her towards the entrance with firm hands, doing a once over before heading in the same direction. The overhead beam gave one final, sickening groan before coming down hard. One crash, and everything was black.

“Thanks for stoppin’ by. I figured she’d have trouble with this one since the last labor was so hard on her,” Tommy said gazing down at the new chestnut foal trying to get his legs under him.

“‘S’alright, better safe than sorry,” Joel grinned at the new life taking its first steps before them.

“You sure you don’t want to stay for a drink?”

“Nah, I’m gonna head out. Got a feeling home needs me for some reason.”

Tommy nodded, “See ya ‘round, hermano.”

Joel clapped him on the shoulder before retreating from the barn. Amara stood out front, still saddled and bridled, chewing on some hay. Her long, white tail flicked at flies lazily while Joel hauled himself into the saddle.

“Let’s get home, old girl,” he clicked his tongue, guiding her towards the gate of Tommy’s ranch and down the path to their house. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, something had felt off in his spirit when he left. Like he had a storm circling in the pit of his stomach, threatening to pull him inward. The ride between their houses was only about twelve minutes. Halfway there, he heard frantic barking, and sped up to find Bud, their black and white border collie howling wildly and whining. When he saw Joel, he took off running in the direction of their home. It was then that Joel saw the smoke. The wind had shifted directions, blowing it west towards Tommy’s.

“Oh no,” Joel let out. He followed Bud with thundering hoofbeats carrying him. Although, with the adrenaline he felt rushing through his veins and humming under his skin, he bet he could’ve outrun any horse that day.

Everything was chaos. Smoke was thick in the air before he even approached the barn. Animals were running frantically while Bud did his best to head them off and keep them within the property lines. If the animals were out here, that means someone had to have freed them.

“Sarah!” Joel’s voice bellowed as he searched the sea of four legged bodies, not seeing a sign of her. He barreled into the barn and screamed for her again. By now, the flames had completely taken down the back wall. The light blue of the sky peeked in in several places contrasting the bright orange and yellow and pieces of charred wood. The stalls all the way up to the middle of the barn were now burning, and the roof creaked coming out like a wail, a promise that she would hold on as long as she could.

Joel lungs were already overcome with ash, coughs coming hard and fast, bringing more tears to his already stinging eyes.

“Sarah!” he called again as loud as he could muster.

Then he saw her. A white peek of her hat like a halo in the middle of a war zone. Part of the ceiling beam had seemingly come down on her, knocking her unconscious. She looked so small. His baby girl, the thing that made life worth living. He was on his knees in an instant assessing the damage. He saw her chest rising, and thanked the Lord that she was still breathing. She was trapped beneath the beam though the weight of it wasn’t resting on her. It had gotten caught on the edge of one of the stalls keeping it a mere few inches off of her. Any closer and it would’ve snapped her spine. He pulled her out by her hands and swung her limp body into his arms. One strong arm under the bend of her knees, one gently cradling her neck. The heat weighed him down as he pushed out and towards the light.

A group of nearby neighbors were making their way down the path when he emerged from the inferno. Comforting hands were on them in an instant, pulling them further away, offering water and medical attention. The sting of the sun against her eyelids stirred Sarah from her slumber and pulled her back into consciousness.

“Dad?” she asked in a groggy voice.

“Shh, it’s okay baby. Save your voice. We’re gonna get you some help.”

She gave him a weak smile and closed her eyes once more.

“I got everyone out.”

“I know baby, I’m so proud of you,” Joel said, his throat raw from just a few minutes of smoke inhalation. He wondered how she must be feeling, how long she had been there.

“I got you baby. Everything’s gonna be okay,” he whispered, a wave of his own tears clouding his vision this time as someone approached them with oxygen masks and makeshift cots to lie down on.

Loud as thunder echoing across the plains, the barn gave in, roof crashing down on top of empty stalls and old tools. They would’ve lost everything that day if it hadn’t been for Sarah. And truthfully, Joel still would have lost everything if he hadn’t gotten there when he did. He looked over at her skin, tinted grey from the ash, and slipped his hand down to take hers into it. With eyes still closed, she gave him three quick squeezes that set his heart at ease.

“I love you too, kiddo,” he said, mostly to himself.

#yewhawgust #yeehawgust 2023 #prairie fire #the last of us fic #the last of us #the last of us hbo #joel miller #sarah miller #joel and sarah

[dxrknessembr8ced]

In the aftermath of the attack the merchant of the hideout clapped his hands cheering and in celebration of the mother and child duo and the rest.

" Hehehehehe! Good'on ya' having a family bonding ya' two! "

Junior now hunches over to the dissolved remains of Scagdead and the rest of these oozes before turning around towards the others. She killed scagdead before and she is just confused why it's back.

" Mom? I killed this thing before, why did it come back? "

Hsien-Ko sighed, the taste of scagdead leaves an awful taste in her moutb.

" Junior, there's more than just one of these things. That is how bio organic weapons work... "

" How the hell are bio weapons still around, I-I thought you had wiped them out from the face in the earth ! "

Tessa starts thinking and already came up with a theory as she scoops up a sample of these ooze, to study and see if they're just contaminated with T-Erebus as well.

" That's what I'm thinking, maybe perhaps these bio organic weapons aren't affected by the new strain of her affliction thus thrive just well without it and it affects only the ones originated from her strain and not the other viruses I must study and take a sample, just to make sure. "

" Bioterrorism, from what I heard all this happen was from a cult that started all this mess... "

" The same ones that ruined our lives, Las Erebus... "

" Los illuminados all over again eh? This really is like the time of that blonde knight in shinning armor! Ahh I knew fate has plans, hehehe! "

" Los illuminados? Is that connected? "

" Ah no, just brought me back down to memory lane, stranger! "

#{ Musing: Hsien-Ko } #{ Musing: Mei-Ling } #{ Musing: H.O. Junior } #{ Musing: Zaruba } #{ Musing: The Merchant } #{ Musing: Tessa } #{ The EX-Dark Hunter } #{ The Oldest Sister } #{ The Little One } #{ What're Ya Buyin' stranger! } #{ The Sorcerologist } #{ The Smartmouth Ring }

[ninjakitten1699]

4: Siblings from this prompt

“Adopted siblings are valid!” Mikey would scream this from the rooftops because he knows it’s true, especially when it comes to their baby sis, Isabella. She may look nothing like them being a leopard gecko but it’s not gonna stop any of the turtle bros from loving her like family.

The Erebus-Lane family. Clearly Luther and Clara didn’t stop at just their son, Xander. Nope, not at all. They got twin daughters (Veronica and Morgan), a younger girl (Katherina), and their latest addition to the family had been Tsukiko. Of course they had these kids after the wars they went through, more for their safety and each other’s sake. They even tried to get away from their old friend to make sure none of them had to go through troubles like they had. (Which is why Luther was upset at Wu initially for not notifying them after their third daughter had been found by the old sensei)

Ah. The beloved three hands of time. People seem to forget that there’s a hand for the hours, another for minutes, and one very small hand for seconds. So Wu, you wanna tell your old friends, Krux and Acronix, why they feel like their missing someone?

#lego ninjago #ninjago #tmnt #OCtober 2020 #oc-tober #oc october #tmnt oc #oc: isabella #ninjago oc #ninjago ocs #erebus-lane family #oc: xander #oc: veronica #oc: morgan #oc: katherina #oc: tsukiko #ninjago time twins #time twins #time triplets #lego ninjago acronix #ninjago acronix #acronix ninjago #acronix #oc: phoenix #lego ninjago krux #ninjago krux #krux ninjago #krux #ninjakitten’s drawings #ninjakitten’s art

[autolovecraft]

Out of the silence in that aged town of curious customs.

The upper part overhung the narrow grass-grown street and nearly met the over-hanging part of the vaults which yawned loathsomely open just before the madness of my heritage, and the people had come, I flung myself into the swarming temple of unknown darkness, which player thereupon changed its feeble drone to a scarce louder drone in another key; precipitating as it did so I shuddered. Everything was wrong, with the low stone doorstep wholly free from snow.

But the flabby hands, curiously gloved, wrote genially on the ghostly spire. It was the only one who came back booted and dressed in a tunnel, with the throng was sliding, and shared only the clamminess of death and corruption. I thought the room and the aged clock had been summoned to this place, since I saw some side passages or burrows leading from unknown recesses of blackness to this shaft of nighted mystery.

There was nothing I could hear the creaking of signs in the dark, stiff, sparse furniture of the hill; and as they flowed near a sort of focus of crazy alleys at the door creaked open. The church was scarce lighted by all the charnel legions these pest-gulfs might conceal.

I could not deny it.

Amid these hushed throngs I followed my voiceless guides; jostled by elbows that seemed abnormally pulpy; but something I cannot and must not recall.

Again I shivered, for the outer door; the primal rite of the seventeenth century. This was not much, though, for not an attribute was missing.

For it is of old rumor that the myriad footfalls made no sound eye could ever wholly remember. I could have better care. As the steps and into the swarming temple of unknown darkness, I turned once to look at the old man, after picking up the very ancient town; went out as the thing piped I thought of the solstice and of spring's promise beyond the snows; the primal rite of the house when I still hesitated he pulled from his loose robe a seal ring and a few windows without drawn curtains.

But the flabby hands, curiously gloved, wrote genially on the ghostly spire. It was the true deputy of my heritage, and pressed by chests and stomachs that seemed preternaturally soft, and the skin was too much like wax. There was a cavernous fireplace and a legend too hideous for sanity or consciousness, but I only shuddered, because that nightmare's position barred me from the library of Miskatonic University. There were lights inside the house opposite, so that I was eager to knock at the lichens, and I saw the lurid shimmering of pale light, and even lent me their influence in obtaining the carefully sheltered copy of Alhazred's objectionable Necronomicon from the diamond window-panes that it was I had not left much snow, and got two hooded cloaks; one of the vaults which yawned loathsomely open just before the pulpit, and shared only the clamminess of death and corruption. Then I thought the room; and where it was a silent, shocking descent, and evil the mind that is held by no head. I can make from the stone staircase down which we had come in the wind had not heard any footsteps before the door of my heritage, and people in the elder time. For though the wind, and the lonely remember. No one spoke to me, perhaps because of phrases I dare not quote. I knew we must have lied when they said the trolleys ran to this place, and I saw that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask. Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and partly a churchyard with spectral shafts, and fallen over the hill's summit and watch the glimmer of stars on the settle faced the row of curtained windows disappeared one by one, and knew where to find the home of my people, the unmentionable Necronomicon of the things that the hospital they told me I must wait a while a lantern bobbed horribly through serpentine alleys on its way to overtake the throng of celebrants the cowled figures seized and mounted them, and people in the cold dusk to join Orion and the spell of the viscous vegetation which glittered green in the foetid darkness where I could not see him.

There was nothing I could have better care. At certain stages of the beasts were patiently standing by.

Great holes secretly are digged where earth's pores ought to crawl.

It was the only one who came back booted and dressed in a very ancient hand, and the whir of the evening, but that two of the seventeenth century. This was not sure. It was a cavernous fireplace and a watch, both with my great-great-great-great-grandfather in 1698. When eleven struck, however, the old fishing town as legend bade, for the gowned, slippered old man in the wind outside, and saw the cloaked throngs forming a semicircle around the church. After that I could say, because that nightmare's position barred me from the awkward Low Latin.

I did so I shuddered. Though it pleased me, and shared only the rituals of mysteries that none living could understand. So I read that hideous chapter, and I had refused when he held above his head.

And against the clearing sky and the blasphemous book in my hands made it doubly so. The man who had brought me now squirmed to a massive carved chest in a very ancient hand, and happy the town was invisible in the cold dusk to join the blackest gulfs of immemorial ocean.

As I hung back, and were old even when this land was settled three hundred years before. It was told that I lost the feeling that there were persons on the hilltop pavement. The nethermost caverns, wrote the mad Arab, are not appear to men as if they were scattered, and the books were hoary and moldy, and felt again the fear I had taken with him; the primal rite. There was nothing I could not see. Soon they became excessively numerous, like impious catacombs of nameless menace; and I saw Kingsport outspread frostily in the new dusk, and the archaic iron knocker I was eager to knock at the lichens, and dizzy church-crowned central peak that time durst not touch; ceaseless mazes of colonial houses piled and scattered at all angles and levels like a child's disordered blocks; antiquity hovering on gray wings over winter-whitened gables and gambrel roofs; fanlights and small-paned windows one by one, and I could not deny it. I followed my voiceless guides; jostled by elbows that seemed abnormally pulpy; but my dreams are filled with terror, because they had commanded their sons to keep festival once every century, that the night before, and made stiff ceremonial motions to the semi-circle he faced.

There were lights inside the house opposite, so that the amorphous flute-player in the salt breeze, and I saw that it was a burying-ground where black gravestones stuck ghoulishly through the snow like the rest.

This was not of this or any world, but only of the unimaginable blackness beyond the gangrenous glare of that incredibly ancient town I had been gathering in me, perhaps because of phrases I dare not quote. It was certainly nervous waiting, and I shivered that a town should be so aged and maggoty with subterraneous evil.

The old spinning woman had gone with the stylus and wax tablet he carried. Fainting and gasping, I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire and slimy water, and the archaic iron knocker I was far from home, and evil the mind that is held by no head.

An indefinite dampness seemed upon the place of the eastern sea was upon me. After more aeons of descent I saw that all the charnel legions these pest-gulfs might conceal. I sounded the archaic stars. Then I saw, and a few patches did remain on the settle, and wished bitterly that no fire should be known and welcomed, for only the poor and the aged clock had been gathering in me, but I could say, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is of old rumor that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask from what should have been kept very close to its antique state.

Out of the old man came back booted and dressed in a very ancient hand, and I saw that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten. I disliked it when I staggered to my troubled eyes that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific.

What mainly troubled me was that flaming column; spouting volcanically from depths profound and inconceivable, casting no shadows as healthy flame should, and made stiff ceremonial motions to the drifting spar that accident sent to save me.

For in all that seething combustion no warmth lay, but many houses had high doors reached by double flights of steps with iron railings. It had seemed to be performed. I saw that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask from what had before lessened it, for the doctors were broad-minded, and seemed to my feet that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask from what had before lessened it, and partly a churchyard with spectral shafts, and the old man made a signal to the family resemblance in his face, but a fiendishly cunning mask. Out of the windows that the night before, and I saw something amorphously squatted far away from the stone staircase down which the throng had already vanished. An indefinite dampness seemed upon the place, and in a corner, and I observed after a horrible interval that the walls and steps were changing in nature, as if chiseled out of sight, but did not listen for merriment or look for wayfarers, kept on down past the hushed lighted farmhouses and shadowy stone walls to where Green Lane leads off behind the Market House. It was a hideous proof, because everything was wrong.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #The Festival #1923 #The Festival week

[ninjakitten1699]

5: Kiss of these prompts

Would DarkDragon be a good ship name for Luther and Clara or is it giving off a bad vibe? I’m not sure. Well either way, I need to call them something because they’re nothing but sweet and honest to each other. (Don’t need to go into details about Luther’s other endeavors and it’s all fine.)

@glitchthenindroid I think of Desolate and Bethany and I go “hehe two hybrids like each other, so cute”

#lego ninjago #ninjago #oc-tober #OCtober 2020 #oc october #ninjago oc #ninjago ocs #oc: luther #Luther Erebus #oc: clara #Clara Lane #erebus lane family #friend’s oc #oc: bethany #nindroid #nindroids #nindroid oc #oc: desolate #oc x oc #oc ships

[autolovecraft]

I had no trouble; though at Arkham they must have been his head.

As I hung back, and heard the closing of one of the hill; and now I was sure it was not a wire overhead. The old man now left the room and the archaic stars. Crossing the threshold into the bowels of the silence in that aged town of curious customs. It was certainly nervous waiting, and got two hooded cloaks; one of which the throng that was not afraid long, for village legend lives long; so I shuddered.

Amid these hushed throngs I followed dumbly down the seaward slope I listened for the doctors were broad-minded, and the spell of the sea pounded; the rite, older than Memphis and mankind. After that I could have better care. Amid these hushed throngs I followed dumbly down the seaward slope I listened for the white village had seemed to my troubled eyes that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific.

It was the Yuletide, and was reading intently and shudderingly when the old fishing town as legend bade, for most of the unimaginable blackness beyond the snows; the secretive, immemorial sea out of corruption horrid life springs, and happy the town, where I could be led to the half-frozen in Kingsport Harbor at dawn, clinging to the old man stood up, the eerie columns slithered, and adore the sick pillar of flame, and that they included old Morryster's wild Marvels of Science, the terrible Saducismus Triumphatus of Joseph Glanvil, published in 1681, the thatched roofs and overhanging gables.

At this horror I sank nearly to the ancient sea town where my people. They had hanged four kinsmen of mine for witchcraft in 1692, but I could be led to the caves of the mad spaces between the high pews to the old man drew back his hood and pointed to the drifting spar that accident sent to save me. There was an odd scene, and shared only the poor and the Dog Star leered at the left in Green Lane, with an ancient peaked roof and jutting second storey, all built before 1650. Mine were an old tradition of my forefathers. There was a burying-ground where black gravestones stuck ghoulishly through the snow like the rest. And they were real. I had been buried with my family arms, to prove that he was what he said. They were not altogether crows, nor moles, nor buzzards, nor buzzards, nor buzzards, nor vampire bats, nor vampire bats, nor moles, nor vampire bats, nor vampire bats, nor moles, nor ants, nor vampire bats, nor decomposed human beings; but my dreams are filled with terror, because I had refused when he held above his head.

So after that I was far from home, and I observed after a horrible interval that the soul of the mad spaces between the high pews to the drifting spar that accident sent to save me. And against the clearing sky and the aged clock had been reading, beckoning me as he drew his hood over that unmoving face or mask. They had hanged four kinsmen of mine for witchcraft in 1692, but I was the Yule worship in this ancient place; that it had been found half-seen flute-player in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had commanded their sons to keep festival once every century, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and dizzy church-crowned central peak that time durst not touch; ceaseless mazes of colonial houses piled and scattered at all angles and levels like a child's disordered blocks; antiquity hovering on gray wings over winter-whitened gables and gambrel roofs; fanlights and small-paned windows one by one, and I saw from the road's crest when I looked at the door; and in a while before I could hear the creaking signs and antediluvian gables, the old man stood up, glided to a chair, table, and in that fleeting backward look it seemed to follow a whirring that was now slipping speechlessly into the black doorway, and I saw this, and things have learned to walk that ought to crawl. Past the churchyard, where I could see over the cliffs at Orange Point; a book which I had seen it before, and the other of which he donned, and shared only the rituals of mysteries that none living could understand. I noticed that the night before, and spoken another tongue before they learned the tongue of the solid rock. I saw them do the rite of fire and evergreen, light and music. I thought of the season, and rode off one by one along the reaches of that sinuous line of night-marchers seemed very horrible, and lined with unwholesomely archaic houses having peaked roofs and diamond-paned windows one by one gleaming out in the snow like the rest. They had streamed up the very book I had had. And then, because everything was wrong. Then I saw not a face and hearing never a face and hearing never a word. He beckoned me into a venerable tomb they seemed more horrible still. I knew from old papers that that watch had been stealthily opened. They had streamed up the aisle between the stars. As the steps and the whir of the mad Arab, are not appear to men as if chiseled out of the festival.

And in the new dusk, and I marveled that no forefather had summoned me to St. Mary's Hospital in Arkham, where there were no houses, I heard a distant horrible creaking as of a gigantic corpse. As the road at its crest a still higher summit rose, bleak and windswept, and I saw Kingsport outspread frostily in the darkness, I would have relished it better if there had been buried with my great-great-grandfather in 1698. I could say, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is of old rumor that the face was merely a devilish waxen mask.

When eleven struck, however, the unmentionable Necronomicon of the hill road the night had brought, and I shared all the travelers were converging as they reached the throng was sliding, and the sound of trolleys and motors in the streets, and heard the insidious lapping of sunless waters. I had come in the town, where I could see over the hill where the twisting willows writhed against the rotting wharves the sea; flung myself into that putrescent juice of earth's inner horrors before the door creaked open. So I read that hideous chapter, and I marveled that no sound eye could ever wholly remember. I had better get any harassing obsessions off my mind. The old man was nearly as restless himself.

Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and when I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire and slimy water, and the people very morbid and disquieting, but did not listen for merriment or look for wayfarers, kept on down past the creaking of signs in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had come, I flung myself into the church; partly a churchyard with spectral shafts, and sometimes I thought I heard a distant horrible creaking as of a village at evening, and shared only the rituals of mysteries that none living could understand. Pointing to a point directly beside the hideous flame, and till all the lanthorns that had entered it, for most of the hill; and suddenly there spread out before me the boundless vista of an inner world—a vast fungous shore lit by a belching column of sick greenish flame and washed by a wide oily river that flowed from abysses frightful and undiscoverable cataracts. There was a burying-ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and got two hooded cloaks; one of the evening, but I disliked it when I staggered to my troubled eyes that they bore no mark of passing feet, not even mine.

Up, up, up, glided to a massive carved chest in a very ancient hand, and the old man, after picking up the aisle between the high pews to the old man drew back his hood and pointed to the old man stood up, glided to a chair, table, and sometimes I thought the room and the first stars of evening. And now they were strange, because of the unimaginable blackness beyond the gangrenous glare of that incredibly ancient town; went out as the bonneted old woman was spinning very hard, and felt that these old Puritan folk might well have Christmas customs strange to New England I had taken with him; and though he made signs that he was dumb, he wrote a quaint and ancient welcome with the stylus and tablet and told me I had chosen to walk, for only the clamminess of death and corruption. Then the old man made a signal to the family resemblance in his face, but that two of the solid rock. Past the churchyard, where I could say, because I had not left much snow, and the bleakness of the mad Arab, are not appear to men as if they were scattered, and I shared all the travelers were converging as they flowed near a sort of focus of crazy alleys at the old man was nearly as restless himself.

They insisted that this was Kingsport, and saw the cloaked throngs forming a semicircle around the church; partly a churchyard with spectral shafts, and I shivered, for most of the beasts were patiently standing by. For it is of old rumor that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten. I staggered to my troubled eyes that they included old Morryster's wild Marvels of Science, the thatched roofs and diamond-paned windows; threading precipitous lanes where decaying houses overlapped and crumbled together; gliding across open courts and churchyards where the bobbing lanthorns made eldritch drunken constellations. I sat down on that very bench, so that the old man came back that night to the family resemblance in his face, but fats and instructs the very book I had come as dark furtive folk from opiate southern gardens of orchids, and adore the sick pillar of flame, out of which he donned, and was reading intently and shudderingly when the old man's bland face the more its very blandness terrified me.

And because my fathers had called me to strange feastings, I pushed on through the shallow, new-fallen snow along the reaches of that sinuous line of night-marchers seemed very horrible, and I had never seen, but of which I had refused when he motioned me to seize an animal and ride like the things that no forefather had summoned me to strange feastings, I could not see. When one of which he draped round the old woman continued her silent spinning, spinning. But I was fully afraid, because of phrases I dare quote only one who came back that night to the place of the vaults which yawned loathsomely open just before the madness of my fathers had called me to St. Mary's Hospital in Arkham, where there were persons on the one full flagstone pavement in the doorway had a bland face the more I looked at Kingsport in the light, and the sound of trolleys and motors in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had commanded their sons to keep festival once every century, that the walls and steps were changing in nature, as if it had made me shiver because Aldebaran had seemed to follow a whirring that was not of the season, and partly a churchyard with spectral shafts, and the spell of the unimaginable blackness beyond the hill's crest I saw from the hill road the night before, and the whir of the hill past monotonous walls of dripping stone blocks and crumbling mortar. There was nothing I could not see.

It was certainly nervous waiting, and things have learned to walk that ought to suffice, and till all the stragglers had followed. I heard the closing of one of which he donned, and because I was strange to me, silently spinning despite the festive season. But it was a burying-ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and worst of all, but I was not afraid long, for the doctors were broad-minded, and wished bitterly that no fire should be so aged and maggoty with subterraneous evil.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #The Festival #1923 #The Festival week

[autolovecraft]

The nethermost caverns, wrote the mad spaces between the stars.

Though it pleased me, and sat down on that very bench, so that the night before, let footprints tell what they might; and I observed after a horrible interval that the soul of the beasts were patiently standing by. Pointing to a massive carved chest in a moment on the left in Green Lane, with an ancient peaked roof and jutting second storey, all built before 1650. When eleven struck, however, the eerie columns slithered, and across the fresh snow on the hilltop pavement. I did not listen for merriment or look for wayfarers, kept on down past the hushed lighted farmhouses and shadowy stone walls to where Aldebaran twinkled among the trees; on toward the very ancient hand, and were now squirming noiselessly in. But I was eager to knock at the outside world as the churchyard phosphorescence cast a sickly glow on the path near the old man made a signal to the drifting spar that accident sent to save me.

Past the churchyard phosphorescence cast a sickly glow on the path near the door of my people.

So I read that hideous chapter, and in a while before I could not see him. Out of the windows that the face was merely a devilish waxen mask. I could not deny it. As the steps and the skin was too much like wax.

They told me I had been buried with my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather in 1698. Only once in a moment on the rocks, and coating the nitrous stone with a dread not of this or any world, but I disliked it when I staggered to my feet that the hospital stood near the old fishing town as legend bade, for the more its very blandness terrified me. Everything was wrong. They were not altogether crows, nor vampire bats, nor moles, nor moles, nor ants, nor buzzards, nor buzzards, nor vampire bats, nor moles, nor vampire bats, nor decomposed human beings; but my dreams are filled with terror, because that nightmare's position barred me from the diamond window-panes that it had been striking.

There was an open space around the blazing pillar. Though it pleased me, I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire and slimy water, and were now scratching restlessly at the door of my fathers who had brought, and even lent me their influence in obtaining the carefully sheltered copy of Alhazred's objectionable Necronomicon from the stone staircase down which we had come at last to the semi-circle he faced. Mine were an old people, the eerie columns slithered, and the first stars of evening. They had streamed up the very book I had seen maps of the old man in the light of little, curtained windows.

Fainting and gasping, I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire and evergreen, light and music. At the hospital they told me I had seen it from the diamond window-panes that it had been reading, beckoning me as he drew his hood and pointed to the trap-door of the tartarean leagues through which that oily river that bubbled somewhere to the semi-circle he faced. Then I saw something amorphously squatted far away from the stone staircase down which the throng of celebrants the cowled figures seized and mounted them, and it had been stealthily opened.

The old man stood up, up, the old man's bland face that reassured me; and in a corner, and I had refused when he motioned me to strange feastings, I resolved to expect queer things. I should be blazing. It was certainly nervous waiting, and I had been buried with my family arms, to where Green Lane, with an ancient peaked roof and jutting second storey, all built before 1650. This was not a face at all, but I was determined to be occupied, though I was almost in a while a lantern bobbed horribly through serpentine alleys on its way to overtake the throng of celebrants the cowled figures seized and mounted them, and I shared all the stragglers had followed. And now they were strange, because I had seen it were best forgotten.

I observed after a horrible interval that the tomb's floor had an aperture down which we had come in the streets, and the first stars of evening.

As I hung back, and as the churchyard phosphorescence cast a sickly glow on the hilltop pavement.

I should come back, and the queerness of the hill; and as I did not know just where. Presently the old woman in loose wrapper and deep poke-bonnet sat back toward me, perhaps because of phrases I dare not quote. Then they both started for the outer door; and now I was not much, though the wind outside, and I observed after a horrible interval that the hospital stood near the door creaked open. There was no one—in waking hours—who could remind me of it; so that I could have better care. The high-backed settle faced, as if they were scattered, and till all the charnel legions these pest-gulfs might conceal. So I tried to read, and the aged clock had been reading, beckoning me as he drew his hood over that unmoving face or mask. They told me I had seen it before, and were old even when this land was settled three hundred years before. Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, because I knew from old papers that that watch had been stealthily opened. Then the old man drew back his hood over that unmoving face or mask.

This was not sure.

Amid these hushed throngs I followed my voiceless guides; jostled by elbows that seemed preternaturally soft, and a watch, both with my family arms, to prove that he was what he said.

And in the light, and sat down to read I saw not a wire overhead. It was a hideous proof, because I was not afraid long, for only the clamminess of death and corruption.

For in all that seething combustion no warmth lay, but only of the hill; and as the bonneted old woman continued her silent spinning, spinning. It was a burying-ground where black gravestones stuck ghoulishly through the shallow, new-fallen snow along the reaches of that sinuous line of night-marchers seemed very horrible, and things have learned to walk, for not an attribute was missing. At this horror I sank nearly to the old man came back that night to the drifting spar that accident sent to save me. Crossing the threshold into the black doorway, and it had been buried with my family arms, to prove that he was the Yuletide, and wished bitterly that no sound eye could ever wholly remember. Amid these hushed throngs I followed my voiceless guides; jostled by elbows that seemed abnormally pulpy; but seeing never a word. Past the churchyard, where I could not see him.

I must wait a while before I could say, because they had come in the cold dusk to join Orion and the Dog Star leered at the outside world as the thing piped I thought I heard another sound, the terrible Saducismus Triumphatus of Joseph Glanvil, published in 1681, the seventh house on the path near the old man stood up, up, the eerie columns slithered, and adore the sick pillar of flame, out of corruption horrid life springs, and felt again the fear I had seen it were best forgotten. Great holes secretly are digged where earth's pores ought to suffice, and I saw them wriggling into a venerable tomb they seemed more horrible still. It was the only one who came back booted and dressed in a corner, and the aged clock had been decreed I should be blazing. What mainly troubled me was that flaming column; spouting volcanically from depths profound and inconceivable, casting no shadows as healthy flame should, and in that accursed Necronomicon; a thought and a watch, both with my family arms, to where Green Lane leads off behind the Market House. There was nothing I could not deny it. There were lights inside the house when I fancied I heard another sound, the thin, whining mockery of a high hill in the streets, and got two hooded cloaks; one of the wheel as the lights in the streets below. The church was scarce lighted by all the obeisances because I had taken the wrong fork of the town, and made stiff ceremonial motions to the caves of the solid rock. I was determined to be performed. As I hung back, and till all the charnel legions these pest-gulfs might conceal. But I was not afraid long, for the fathoming of eyes that they bore no mark of passing feet, not even mine. I lost the feeling that there were no houses, I turned once to look at the old man came back that night to the lichened earth, transfixed with a dread not of the festival. I had never seen, but I disliked it when I still hesitated he pulled from his loose robe a seal ring and a legend too hideous for sanity or consciousness, but fats and instructs the very worm that gnaws; till out of sight, but I could not see.

But it was a hideous proof, because that nightmare's position barred me from the diamond window-panes that it must have passed down through the mountain and beneath the earth of Kingsport itself, and I saw something amorphously squatted far away from the hill where the twisting willows writhed against the rotting wharves the sea pounded; the rite of fire and slimy water, and saw the lurid shimmering of pale light, piping noisomely on a flute; and though he made signs that he was the Yuletide, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and wished bitterly that no forefather had summoned me to this shaft of nighted mystery.

I had never seen but often dreamed of. Finally I was sure that the tomb's floor had an aperture down which the people had dwelt and kept festival in the streets, and I could be led to the ancient sea town where my people, the eerie columns slithered, and the aged clock had been gathering in me, I could not deny it. Past the churchyard phosphorescence cast a sickly glow on the hilltop pavement.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #The Festival #1923 #The Festival week

[autolovecraft]

They had streamed up the aisle between the stars.

When I sounded the archaic iron knocker I was eager to knock at the outside world as the thing piped I thought I heard it pounding on the path near the door of the eastern sea was upon me all the stragglers had followed.

And in the foetid darkness where I could hear the creaking signs and antediluvian gables, the eerie columns slithered, and I had chosen to walk, for I did so a horror unthinkable and unexpected.

Past the churchyard, where there were no houses, I flung myself into that putrescent juice of earth's inner horrors before the madness of my heritage, and fallen over the hill's summit and watch the glimmer of stars on the left, and I saw this, and the sound of trolleys and motors in the center of the silence in that accursed Necronomicon; a narrow spiral staircase damp and peculiarly odorous, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is older than Memphis and mankind. I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire and slimy water, and felt again the fear I had seen maps of the ritual they did groveling obeisance, especially when he held above his head. The printless road was very lonely, and I saw this, and the lonely remember. Again I shivered, for not an attribute was missing. Again I shivered that a town should be blazing. The eyes never moved, and people in the doorway had a bland face that reassured me; and when I still hesitated he pulled from his loose robe a seal ring and a spinning-wheel.

Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask.

I could see over the hill's summit and watch the glimmer of stars on the ghostly spire. What mainly troubled me was that flaming column; spouting volcanically from depths profound and inconceivable, casting no shadows as healthy flame should, and lined with unwholesomely archaic houses having peaked roofs and diamond-paned windows; threading precipitous lanes where decaying houses overlapped and crumbled together; gliding across open courts and churchyards where the bobbing lanthorns made eldritch drunken constellations. For it is of old rumor that the old churchyard on Central Hill, they sent me to strange feastings, I turned once to look at the door of the windows that the old man, after picking up the aisle between the high pews to the caves of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, in Olaus Wormius' forbidden Latin translation; a narrow spiral staircase damp and peculiarly odorous, that the settle faced the row of curtained windows. Mine were an old people, the seventh house on the tablet and wrote that he was what he said. It was an open space around the church. We went out into the swarming temple of unknown darkness, which player thereupon changed its feeble drone to a massive carved chest in a while before I could not see. There was no sidewalk, but many houses had high doors reached by double flights of steps with iron railings. After that I was strange to me, silently spinning despite the festive season.

And because my fathers had called me to strange feastings, I turned once to look at the door creaked open. But the flabby hands, curiously gloved, wrote the mad Arab, are not for the more I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire and evergreen, light and music. Beside the road that soared lonely up to where Green Lane, with the low stone doorstep wholly free from snow. Then the old woman in loose wrapper and deep poke-bonnet sat back toward me, but because an old tradition of my people, the eerie columns slithered, and the old man drew back his hood over that unmoving face or mask. They had streamed up the very worm that gnaws; till out of the wheel as the churchyard phosphorescence cast a sickly glow on the one full flagstone pavement in the curtained windows at the lichens, and full of silent hearthside prayer. Then I noticed that the tomb's floor had an aperture down which we had come at last to the place, and spoken another tongue before they learned the tongue of the mad Arab, are not appear to men as if they were real. Then I saw not a face and hearing never a face at all angles and levels like a child's disordered blocks; antiquity hovering on gray wings over winter-whitened gables and gambrel roofs; fanlights and small bridges, willow-trees and graveyards; endless labyrinths of steep, narrow, crooked streets, and I shared all the stragglers had followed. But what frightened me most was that flaming column; spouting volcanically from depths profound and inconceivable, casting no shadows as healthy flame should, and felt again the fear I had never known its like before. I had been decreed I should come back, the thatched roofs and diamond-paned windows one by one gleaming out in the cold dusk to join Orion and the queerness of the old man came back booted and dressed in a while a lantern bobbed horribly through serpentine alleys on its way to overtake the throng of cowled, cloaked figures that poured silently from every doorway and formed monstrous processions up this street and that, past the creaking of signs in the dark, suffocating crypt.

At the hospital they told me I had never seen, but a fiendishly cunning mask.

The eyes never moved, and the bleakness of the devil-bought hastes not from his charnel clay, but I was sure it was not afraid long, for the fathoming of eyes that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific. What mainly troubled me was that flaming column; spouting volcanically from depths profound and inconceivable, casting no shadows as healthy flame should, and the bleakness of the vaults which yawned loathsomely open just before the pulpit, and the Dog Star leered at the door creaked open. But it was not of this or any world, but that two of the evening, but that two of the ritual they did groveling obeisance, especially when he motioned me to this shaft of nighted mystery. Great holes secretly are digged where earth's pores ought to suffice, and because I had never known its like before.

Then the old woman's spinning-wheel at which a bent old woman was spinning very hard, and seemed to balance itself a moment we were all descending an ominous staircase of rough-hewn stone; a thing they deduced from prints found in that fleeting backward look it seemed to balance itself a moment on the path near the old man remained only because I knew we must have been his head that abhorrent Necronomicon he had taken the wrong fork of the things that the myriad footfalls made no sound and set up no echoes. I heard the closing of one of which the people had come in the darkness, which player thereupon changed its feeble drone to a massive carved chest in a very ancient hand, and spoken another tongue before they learned the tongue of the devil-bought hastes not from his charnel clay, but I could not see him. Crossing the threshold into the church; partly a half-paved square swept nearly bare of snow by the writings of my screams could bring down upon me.

The past was vivid there, for I did so I hastened through Back Street to Circle Court, and was reading intently and shudderingly when the old man in the Stygian grotto I saw them do the rite, and that, past the creaking signs and antediluvian gables, the seventh house on the ghostly spire.

There was no sidewalk, but I did not hear them. Then they both started for the merry sounds of a village at evening, but I did not like everything about what I saw them wriggling into a venerable tomb they seemed more horrible still. Past the churchyard, where perched a great white church. I saw them wriggling into a venerable tomb they seemed more horrible still. I heard it pounding on the ghostly spire. There was no sidewalk, but that two of the solid rock. At certain stages of the wheel as the churchyard, where I could have better care.

There was an open space around the blazing pillar. He beckoned me into a low, candle-lit room with massive exposed rafters and dark, suffocating crypt.

When eleven struck, however, the seventh house on the path near the old man made a signal to the family resemblance in his face, but I did not like the rest.

Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is of old rumor that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten. The high-backed settle faced, as if they were real. I saw Kingsport outspread frostily in the snow, a few windows without drawn curtains. An indefinite dampness seemed upon the place, and when I came upon it, for only the rituals of mysteries that none living could understand. It was an open space around the church. The eyes never moved, and was reading intently and shudderingly when the old man was nearly as restless himself. Fainting and gasping, I looked at Kingsport in the gloaming; snowy Kingsport with its ancient vanes and steeples, ridgepoles and chimney-pots, wharves and small bridges, willow-trees and graveyards; endless labyrinths of steep, narrow, crooked streets, and the other of which I had seen it before, let footprints tell what they might; and now I was far from home, and things have learned to walk, for the fathoming of eyes that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #The Festival #1923 #The Festival week

[autolovecraft]

Snow would have hid the rails in any case.

The tail of that cold flame, out of the beasts were patiently standing by. At certain stages of the season, and spoken another tongue before they learned the tongue of the seventeenth century. And when my knock was answered I was far from home, and saw the lurid shimmering of pale light, piping noisomely on a flute; and I had chosen to walk that ought to suffice, and people in the dark.

And in the curtained windows disappeared one by one, and happy the town, and as the bonneted old woman in loose wrapper and deep poke-bonnet sat back toward me, I pushed on through the snow. Finally I was almost in a tunnel, with the broad windows showing a sea of roofs in which only about one in five was ancient, and I saw something amorphously squatted far away from the library of Miskatonic University. Out of the mad Arab, are not appear to men as if chiseled out of which the people had come as dark furtive folk from opiate southern gardens of orchids, and the passage grew broader, I heard the insidious lapping of sunless waters. They told me I must wait a while a lantern bobbed horribly through serpentine alleys on its way to overtake the throng was sliding, and things have learned to walk, for the white village had seemed to be the last.

They flopped limply along, half with their membranous wings; and though he made signs that he was what he said. I shared all the lanthorns that had entered it, for the more I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire and slimy water, and sat down to read I saw not a face at all angles and levels like a child's disordered blocks; antiquity hovering on gray wings over winter-whitened gables and gambrel roofs; fanlights and small bridges, willow-trees and graveyards; endless labyrinths of steep, narrow, crooked streets, and pile of books, the seventh house on the left, and even lent me their influence in obtaining the carefully sheltered copy of Alhazred's objectionable Necronomicon from the hill where the signs of ancient shops and sea taverns creaked in the streets below. After more aeons of descent I saw this, and the old woman, who was ceasing her monotonous spinning.

As the road that soared lonely up to where Green Lane, with an ancient peaked roof and jutting second storey, all built before 1650. The past was vivid there, for I did not hear them.

The man who had brought me now squirmed to a point directly beside the hideous flame, out of the hill; and as the bonneted old woman in loose wrapper and deep poke-bonnet sat back toward me, silently spinning despite the festive season.

It was told that I lost the feeling that there were no houses, I heard another sound, the thatched roofs and overhanging gables. But I was not much, though I was not sure. Finally I was fully afraid, because of the hill; and now I was sure it was indeed not new to me, silently spinning despite the festive season. And because my fathers had summoned me to the ancient sea town where my people had dwelt and kept festival in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had come at last to the trap-door of the evening, but I could not deny it. Though it pleased me, silently spinning despite the festive season.

I knew it lay just over the hill's summit and watch the glimmer of stars on the ghostly spire. Then beyond the snows; the primal rite of the things began to waddle and edge away, he wrote a quaint and ancient welcome with the broad windows showing a sea of roofs in which only about one in five was ancient, and shuddered doubly because it was a hideous proof, because I had taken with him; and I saw Kingsport outspread frostily in the town, to where Aldebaran twinkled among the trees; on toward the very book I had never known its like before.

Soon they became excessively numerous, like impious catacombs of nameless menace; and in that fleeting backward look it seemed to balance itself a moment on the tablet and told me I had been gathering in me, perhaps because of phrases I dare quote only one who came back booted and dressed in a corner, and the old man remained only because I had seen it before, let footprints tell what they might; and when I still hesitated he pulled from his charnel clay, but I disliked it when I staggered to my troubled eyes that they bore no mark of passing feet, not even mine. They were not altogether crows, nor vampire bats, nor vampire bats, nor buzzards, nor vampire bats, nor vampire bats, nor ants, nor vampire bats, nor buzzards, nor buzzards, nor vampire bats, nor buzzards, nor vampire bats, nor vampire bats, nor moles, nor moles, nor decomposed human beings; but something I cannot and must not recall. Then beyond the snows; the woman lamely creeping, and the archaic iron knocker I was not sure. As the road wound down the foot-worn steps and into the dark. Everything was wrong, with the broad windows showing a sea of roofs in which only about one in five was ancient, and lined with unwholesomely archaic houses having peaked roofs and diamond-paned windows; threading precipitous lanes where decaying houses overlapped and crumbled together; gliding across open courts and churchyards where the twisting willows writhed against the rotting wharves the sea; flung myself into the water handfuls gouged out of corruption horrid life springs, and I saw, and shared only the rituals of mysteries that none living could understand.

The nethermost caverns, wrote the mad Arab, are not appear to men as if it had been buried with my great-great-great-great-grandfather in 1698. I thought of the vaults which yawned loathsomely open just before the pulpit, and happy the town, and I saw that the walls and steps were changing in nature, as if it had been found half-seen flute-player had rolled out of the things began to waddle and edge away, he wrote a quaint and ancient welcome with the stylus and wax tablet he carried.

But the flabby hands, curiously gloved, wrote genially on the hilltop pavement. The old spinning woman had gone with the low stone doorstep wholly free from snow.

Then I thought I heard a distant horrible creaking as of a high hill in the Stygian grotto I saw from the stone staircase down which we had come at last to the lichened earth, transfixed with a nasty, venomous verdigris. But it was not afraid long, for the white village had seemed very horrible, and across the fresh snow on the settle, and the people very morbid and disquieting, but because an old people, and the spell of the sea; flung myself into the dark, stiff, sparse furniture of the evening, and pressed by chests and stomachs that seemed preternaturally soft, and I saw that all the lanthorns that had entered it, and people in the town, and worst of all, the old man was nearly as restless himself. The old man was pulling at my sleeve, but only the rituals of mysteries that none living could understand.

I should be known and welcomed, for not an attribute was missing.

In the twilight I heard noxious muffled flutterings in the center of the ritual they did groveling obeisance, especially when he motioned me to St. Mary's Hospital in Arkham, where there were persons on the hilltop pavement. I was far from home, and soon became tremblingly absorbed by something I cannot and must not recall. Up, up, up, glided to a massive carved chest in a corner, and I saw Kingsport outspread frostily in the town, where I could have better care. I could have better care. He beckoned me into a venerable tomb they seemed more horrible still. I did so I shuddered. They had hanged four kinsmen of mine for witchcraft in 1692, but only of the seventeenth century. The printless road was very lonely, and coating the nitrous stone with a nasty, venomous verdigris. Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, because I had seen it before, let footprints tell what they might; and as they flowed near a sort of focus of crazy alleys at the lichens, and were old even when this land was settled three hundred years before. Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, because of phrases I dare quote only one paragraph, put into such English as I did not like everything about what I saw some side passages or burrows leading from unknown recesses of blackness to this festival by the wind, and wished bitterly that no sound and set up no echoes. We went out as the bonneted old woman was spinning very hard, and pressed by chests and stomachs that seemed abnormally pulpy; but seeing never a face and hearing never a word. I was far from home, and in that accursed Necronomicon; a thought and a few patches did remain on the tablet and told me I had better get any harassing obsessions off my mind. When I went delirious at hearing that the walls and steps were changing in nature, as if they were real. Presently the old man now left the room; and when I sat down to read I saw something amorphously squatted far away from the library of Miskatonic University. Fainting and gasping, I pushed on through the shallow, new-fallen snow along the road wound down the seaward slope I listened for the more I looked at the throng, and were now scratching restlessly at the door; and in that accursed Necronomicon; a thought and a watch, both with my family arms, to where Aldebaran twinkled among the trees; on toward the very ancient hand, and the lonely remember.

I had heard monstrous things whispered. Lacantius. Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, because of the unimaginable blackness beyond the snows; the primal rite. For though the wind. Crossing the threshold into the dark, stiff, sparse furniture of the ritual they did groveling obeisance, especially when he held above his head that abhorrent Necronomicon he had taken with him; the primal rite of fire and slimy water, and the first stars of evening. The old spinning woman had gone with the low stone doorstep wholly free from snow. The old spinning woman had gone with the low stone doorstep wholly free from snow. I would have relished it better if there had been stealthily opened.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #The Festival #1923 #The Festival week

[autolovecraft]

When I sounded the archaic iron knocker I was not sure.

I flung myself into the moonless and tortuous network of that unlighted river, into pits and galleries of panic where poison springs feed frightful and undiscoverable cataracts.

I saw that it had been found half-paved square swept nearly bare of snow by the writings of my fathers had summoned me to St. Mary's Hospital in Arkham, where I could say, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and the dull scavengers of earth wax crafty to vex it and swell monstrous to plague it. There was no one—in waking hours—who could remind me of it; so that I should be so aged and maggoty with subterraneous evil. Fainting and gasping, I would have relished it better if there had been summoned to this shaft of nighted mystery. What mainly troubled me was that flaming column; spouting volcanically from depths profound and inconceivable, casting no shadows as healthy flame should, and partly a churchyard with spectral shafts, and as they reached the throng was sliding, and sat down on that very bench, so that I did not like the decayed fingernails of a gibbet in the gloaming; snowy Kingsport with its ancient vanes and steeples, ridgepoles and chimney-pots, wharves and small bridges, willow-trees and graveyards; endless labyrinths of steep, narrow, crooked streets, and when I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire and evergreen, light and music. He wrote this in a loose antique costume, and rode off one by one, and a spinning-wheel at which a bent old woman continued her silent spinning, spinning. I was the only one paragraph, put into such English as I did not know just where. For it is of old rumor that the books and the bleakness of the devil-bought hastes not from his loose robe a seal ring and a watch, both with my family arms, to prove that he was what he said.

And in the Stygian grotto I saw that the soul of the solid rock. In the twilight I heard it pounding on the hilltop pavement. It was told that I lost the feeling that there were persons on the left, and the other of which the people very morbid and disquieting, but many houses had high doors reached by double flights of steps with iron railings.

He beckoned me into a venerable tomb they seemed more horrible still. Pointing to a point directly beside the hideous flame, and it had been summoned to this festival by the writings of my people had dwelt and kept festival in the foetid darkness where I could not see him. There was nothing I could be led to the semi-circle he faced. There was nothing I could hear the creaking signs and antediluvian gables, the terrible Saducismus Triumphatus of Joseph Glanvil, published in 1681, the thin, whining mockery of a gibbet in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had commanded their sons to keep festival once every century, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and across the fresh snow on the settle, and I could see over the hill; and as they reached the throng, and heard the insidious lapping of sunless waters. As I hung back, the old fishing town as legend bade, for only the clamminess of death and corruption. And then, because everything was wrong.

Mine were an old people, and was reading intently and shudderingly when the old man's bland face the more I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire and slimy water, and it had been found half-paved square swept nearly bare of snow by the writings of my forefathers.

They said something about a psychosis and agreed I had never seen, but fats and instructs the very book I had had. What mainly troubled me was that flaming column; spouting volcanically from depths profound and inconceivable, casting no shadows as healthy flame should, and unsuspected to join Orion and the grotesque knockers of pillared doorways glistened along deserted unpaved lanes in the Stygian grotto I saw that it had been summoned to this festival by the writings of my forefathers. It was the true deputy of my people had come as dark furtive folk from opiate southern gardens of orchids, and a watch, both with my family arms, to where Green Lane leads off behind the Market House. I should be blazing. Amid these hushed throngs I followed my voiceless guides; jostled by elbows that seemed preternaturally soft, and throw into the moonless and tortuous network of that cold flame, and the grotesque knockers of pillared doorways glistened along deserted unpaved lanes in the elder time. Amid these hushed throngs I followed my voiceless guides; jostled by elbows that seemed abnormally pulpy; but seeing never a face at all angles and levels like a child's disordered blocks; antiquity hovering on gray wings over winter-whitened gables and gambrel roofs; fanlights and small-paned windows; threading precipitous lanes where decaying houses overlapped and crumbled together; gliding across open courts and churchyards where the bobbing lanthorns made eldritch drunken constellations.

When I sounded the archaic stars. I heard it pounding on the rocks, and the passage grew broader, I resolved to expect queer things. There was a silent, shocking descent, and made stiff ceremonial motions to the semi-circle he faced. It was the true deputy of my people had come at last to the trap-door of my forefathers. The church was scarce lighted by all the charnel legions these pest-gulfs might conceal.

It was an open space around the blazing pillar.

And when my knock was answered I was fully afraid, because I was determined to be performed. They had hanged four kinsmen of mine for witchcraft in 1692, but I was strange to me, but I disliked it when I staggered to my troubled eyes that they included old Morryster's wild Marvels of Science, the eerie columns slithered, and fallen over the cliffs at Orange Point; a thought and a watch, both with my family arms, to where Aldebaran twinkled among the trees; on toward the very worm that gnaws; till out of which I had seen it from the stone staircase down which we had come as dark furtive folk from opiate southern gardens of orchids, and the books and the archaic stars. It was the Yuletide, and till all the stragglers had followed. As the steps and into the swarming temple of unknown darkness, which player thereupon changed its feeble drone to a scarce louder drone in another key; precipitating as it did so a horror unthinkable and unexpected. I was not sure. Out of the festival. And when my knock was answered I was half afraid. There was a cavernous fireplace and a few patches did remain on the rocks, and the sound of trolleys and motors in the salt breeze, and pressed by chests and stomachs that seemed preternaturally soft, and a watch, both with my great-great-great-great-grandfather in 1698. I should be known and welcomed, for only the poor and the Dog Star leered at the top of a gigantic corpse.

This fear grew stronger from what should have been kept very close to its antique state. The flopping animals were now scratching restlessly at the lichens, and a few windows without drawn curtains.

Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, that wound endlessly down into the bowels of the silence in that fleeting backward look it seemed to balance itself a moment we were all descending an ominous staircase of rough-hewn stone; a thought and a few windows without drawn curtains.

The flopping animals were now squirming noiselessly in. The flopping animals were now squirming noiselessly in.

Some fear had been striking. In the twilight I heard it pounding on the harbor, though the wind had not left much snow, and soon became tremblingly absorbed by something I cannot and must not recall. The man who had founded the Yule worship in this ancient place; that it was a cavernous fireplace and a watch, both with my family arms, to prove that he was what he said. The man who had founded the Yule worship in this ancient place; that it was not afraid long, for the old man was nearly as restless himself. So after that I did not hear them.

It was an odd scene, and I could not deny it.

I still hesitated he pulled from his loose robe a seal ring and a watch, both with my great-great-grandfather in 1698.

Fainting and gasping, I looked at the lichens, and I saw when I sat down to read I saw that the myriad footfalls made no sound and set up no echoes. They told me I must wait a while a lantern bobbed horribly through serpentine alleys on its way to overtake the throng had already vanished. It was a cavernous fireplace and a spinning-wheel. The flopping animals were now squirming noiselessly in. Then I noticed that the soul of the beasts were patiently standing by. They said something about a psychosis and agreed I had no trouble; though at Arkham they must have been kept very close to its antique state.

Then they both started for the outer door; and their pungent odor of decay grew quite unbearable.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #The Festival #1923 #The Festival week