In lieu of anything interesting to report (or the time required to report it), I thought it might be cute to present my favorite “tweets” from Twitter personality @HowardLovecraft. Now, I must inform you that I have no clue whether this character is indeed the reanimated HP Lovecraft or just a bored fan, but I can tell you this — his 140-character prattling is Cthulhu-rific.
As the Aeons pass blindly, the Old Ones slumber mutely. That is, until now.
Where, but from beneath the seething, inky depths of the nighttime sea, might such fetid, eldritch horrors have been summoned?
Miskatonic Church is slathered in briny ichor, its pungent offal searing my nostrils as I step hastily over the slick cobbled walkway.
A rake-thin man of Mid East descent visited me today, with tales of mysterious desert cults who worship a foul Beast from beyond the Stars.
What others may call a hobby or the queer product of an overactive imagination, I call a vocation and a wearying flight from madness.
I’ve been finding dried scales in the garden, of odd texture and an unusual luminescence. What watery phantasm haunts these grounds?
A covered walking bridge spans a narrow section of the Miskatonic. Some wretched thing with hundreds of eyes rests in its dark hollows.
For my birthday, I received one hoary tome of indeterminate age, throughout which are etched numerous symbols and cthonic prose.
To all those who offered birthday salutations yesterday: may your curdled dreams always be tickled by tendrils of imperceptible madness!
I’ve been reminded that today is my birthday. How utterly abhorrent such commemorations are.
Blather and bluster is the sum of what this old scribe has produced of late. I’d call it writer’s block, but that is too kind a descriptor.
I lately gather specimens from the garden. One such creature possessed a dozen legs and what can be loosely described as a woman’s face.
Today, I spoke to a local man of the cloth about the impossibility of a benevolent Creator. By conversation’s end, he was most perturbed.
Humanity is a seething mass of ignorance and outright stupidity, barely worth the calories they will provide the wakened Old Ones.
The hours darken and the years grow black with evil things, and mad machines spawn monstrous fears that follow sleep with somber wings.
A pulsing mass at the entrance to a sewer drain by the Miskatonic river. Ratty children of local malcontents poke at it with a stick.
I’ve witnessed that which was thought beyond the grasp of mankind’s apprehension. Now, shattered of constitution and bereft of sanity.
Despite a colleague’s descent into mordant madness, I have decided, against all sound judgment, to accelerate my investigations.
A recent translation of an ancient bundle of reedy paper by a noted Arkham professor has resulted in said academic’s utter dissolution.
As the evening air becomes cool, the fervid, wordless wailing of the degenerate forest-dwellers drowns out all other nighttime sound.
It seems @AMachen and I have simultaneously uncovered strange messages, possibly related, though thousands of miles apart at their source.
A letter from an archeologist friend includes a passage in an untranslatable tongue, which he says was copied from an ancient fetish idol.
Between the maddening tribal chants which emanate from deep within the forest canopy can be heard the obscene flapping of leathery wings.
If there is a psychological malady that can’t be alleviated by spending time with an affectionate feline, I know not what it is.
The human species’ capacity for ignorance helps a majority thwart madness, but it also produces the most despicable aggregate beliefs.
Ever Their praises, and abundance to the Black Goat of the Woods. Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!
At breakfast, I spied an incipient eyeball peering out at me from my poached egg. When poked with a fork it spewed forth glutenous ichor.
Within my journal are missing pages, apparently torn out with furious haste. I remember not composing these entries, nor removing them.
Caressed by icy fingertips as I descend the basement stairs to locate the old leatherbound tome lent to me years ago by a dark visitor.
Craven women claw at themselves before a grotesque obsidian idol of an ancient being; perhaps the twisted offspring of long-slumbering Gods.
Caught up in my own deranged imaginings, some of which I’ve managed to put to paper. Others shall dwell permanently in the mists of dream.
Carved in the stone pillars that frame the entrance to Arkham Grange are two oddly familiar symbols that I cannot quite place.
Driven to despair and the edges of sanity, the weary worshipers of Dagon find themselves without respite on this sullen summer evening.
Among the shadowy brambles that grow in unkempt tufts along the sanatorium wall lie the crumpled, yellow-lined scribbles of former inmates.
I often ponder at why I have not yet found a suitable bride. Then I recall the thing in my basement and its ravenous hunger.
On my constitutional, I struck up a conversation with a young man of curious airs. His nails were long, and his porcelain teeth sharp.
Consternation is the disposition of the unseemly lot who congregate by the river. Yet their sour attitude is preferable to their red eyes.
Under these carefully arranged stones lies an aged parchment of terrible wisdom. Within it is rumored to be the words to waken Yog-Sothoth.
The strange, luminous shapes in the sky might be aurora borealis, except Providence is not northerly enough. I am, at present, unnerved.
Panic and dread rise from the pit of my abdomen at the thought of the dead-eyed, gill-marked townsfolk I encountered at the grocers.
Madness lurks at the periphery of apprehension. Behind the veil of the commonplace lurks the ancient Chaos whose true Name is known by few.
Beneath the calm stillness of Miskatonic river lies a terrible force that eminates a cthonic energy in a maddening (and widening) radius.
Tonight’s howling noises are infinitely less unnerving than the previous evening’s cackles and horrid scratching from down the corridor.
Queasy symbols perform an idiot dance across the walls of the abandoned shack. The floor is slick with briny offal and mouldering plasma.
I’ve begun a correspondence with a professor from Boston, who aids me in deciphering the curious markings in an old book of my father’s.
Tonight, I heard the foghorn wail. Tomorrow morn, we shall be blanketed in dank mist, yet hardly enough to obscure our festering dementia.
Sullen faces in Arkham’s watering hole. I don’t imbibe, but I often stroll past, wondering what foul secrets are shared between patrons.
And that’s just the beginning. If you’re on Twitter, you can follow the weird scribe for your daily dose of madness From Beyond. (You might also be interested in our soon-to-be-ressurected series of Lovecraft Haiku.)