The Lies of Truth

This night is a night few will remember, nevertheless it is a crucial evening. Tonight I die. No longer do the thumps of passion save me. No longer will the taste of grand foods sustain me. Money, money is useless now. All my years I collected and hoarded it, uselessly for this moment. For what? To barter with Death herself? No.

What are the words? 'Once upon a midnight dreary,' what a phrase. How true it rings now. By all circumstances this is a perfect night to die. There is a soft chill wind at my window. Out into that dark void there is no happenstance of thunder and lightning, only snow, only stars, isn't that odd.

This house, this grandiose place is filled with too many memories, a ghost of a ghost. Long ago my name was Daniel Walter, a man with ambition, though I do not recognize it now. No one could resist me. I was once young, but it seems such a stretch for an old man to talk of youth. I will not let embarrassment stop me now. I have everything to fear and my life seems such a trivial matter to care what others think.

I cannot help but delight as the snow is cast into the room. Have you ever seen such a beautiful thing. Do we ever pay close attention. The flames of my fire wrap the snow flakes into rapture, they die into absolute splendor. It is only seconds before the corpses soften into water, nothing so poetic as a snow flake.

Undoutedly this will be my last written letter. Without a doubt, the townsfolk will be brandishing their pitchforks and torches. Because what I have done was necessary. I have some time to kill. I will spend it pening everything I can. I am not some freudian example of insanity. My faculties have not diminished with age.

I know what I saw. I must repeat, I am not insane. Please understand that before the end. How do we begin? Do I beguile you with my youthful fancies? Do I explain the parties, the orgies, the simple man's adventures? There is not enough time for all that.

Let us begin where I rightfully should. The midnight all of this started on October 20th, 1915, yesterday. I had been drinking absinthe as I often do. I even found myself wrapped in a particular book. It was called Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, I believe. Yes, it was a gift from my niece. Such a sweet girl. However, I highly doubt she knew about the vast majority of double entendres that can be worked within.

The drink had played havoc on me and I quickly found the book away. It would do me no good to read it in such a state. I sat there in that library, drinking quietly as hours passed. I remember the quick progression at which my eyes drifted. No one seems to ponder what a dream is, I do now. Was it the green lady or some rueful power that struck me so? I was hauled into dreaming the most vivid things I would ever find clearful. Even now it seems but seconds ago.

I slipped into a dream as centered as every waking minute. The clarity of such a place was like looking through a bottle. There was an ocean, it spanned forever. It was the object of any seaman's fable. It was the inspiration and drawing force of Melville. Such was the impact of that place that it drew me to these conclusions. I was drawn forward, not swimming but sort of gliding, pulled.

The impact of ever wave seemed to push me along. How can one fight against the full force of any ocean. My eyes riveted wide at the sight which rose out of those waters. It peaked up with all the will and inevitability of a shifting mass. This new land rose with all the bile and illeloquence of a gelled mold. Any geometric law looked ignorant and childish in comparison. It oozed forward and still held the rotund non-euclidean shapes.

Whatever I was to expect apprehension would hold its sway. I was let stand on the accursed island. The foreboding was sufferable and near to suffocate. It took more than a moment to collect myself. What nameless senses might I begin to describe? What invisible forces held dominion here? This dream was all too lavish and improper.

For all my tingling presage, I declared all this to be mine, the fool. There was only one noise, only one sound to preturb me. It was the wind, that god awful sound. I dare not press upon you to imagine it. I walked on lest my mind strike me still. On and on it slipped crawling into my unconcious fiber.

At first it seemed to have no vocal pariah. Then as it sloshed over and over in that dreadful tempo it took lucidity. There was even a prechance of lyrical tone. But what voice, what sound it made. It will haunt my grave forever. They follow me even into this house into my waking reprieve. I remember the words carefully and here they are:



R'lyeh is the prison,
R'lyeh is the key.



They will not remand your cogitation long. You have not heard what I have heard, those shuddersome keys. Let's move on. I pressed under the shadow of the molding city. I passed under a herculean archway, down, down, down I went. There seemed a moment when I wondered what I was looking for. It was put aside as easily as a child passes over corn for cake. Though I do not know no why.

Miles of cyclopean masonry loomed forward in suprising length. Elliptic forms of such startling lines make me lose my equilibrium. Some higher force spread through my lobes, enveloping, sitting, weighting. I knew at any moment it could destroy my every fabrication. Then there seemed to loom one titanic gate before me. It was locked by means I would rather not discuss but locked and closed are two different matters.

It was left agape, I know now luck and chance are words seldom used properly. Out of some dark desperation of understanding I crept forward. Curiosity can outway even common sense. I could feel the thump, the excitement, the thirst that waited beyond that threshold. My fingers touched upon that gate and felt the icy chill of chaos. I could not preceed, what madness was I conjuring? It was too late and my eyes found upon it. Behold there lay The Cosmic Wizard, The Dead Dreamer, Cthulhu.

Hundreds of pages flipped through my mind, tomes, grimoires, fables and tales. All of them were proven useless in comparison. No words of description are needed for it. How could I possibly try to retrace it for you. Jesus Christ what have I done. It was awake. I tore my eyes away as my sanity crumbled. I could feel it. I can feel it.

The gate trembled but held steady. I awoke in a terrible nausea and malaise. I sat trembling in a cold sweat ready for many more spirits. But they would hold no temper to me now. How can I describe the revelation? The world seemed clear. Everything was made apparent and tarnished.

I could not sit any longer. I had to get some fresh air. I walked down the lanes. I must have seemed a man possesed to move openly in my night clothes. It did not matter, none of it did, not anymore. The spirits may not have held me close but I grasped that bottle all the more. It is the only comfort I can make against my reality. It is the only thing that keeps me.

I was not alone on those streets, people passed me with queer looks. Yet I saw in there faces ignorance. I alone had suffered the face of God. I alone know a fragment of such a damnable truth. Truth, truth, truth what does the word mean anymore? Every so often a fresh face would pass me. The eyes are filled with knowing. The eyes are considerable. Those crescendos of green, that green!

What was I to do? What would you have done? Would you judge me so harshly, if you knew what I know? Would you curse me if you saw what I saw? I did what any sane man would do. I ask no reprieve for it! I did what I had to do!

I can see the light of the torches out of my window, through the veil of snow. They will not forgive me for what I have done. I await my judgement with a fresh bottle. I await with a smile on my lips. It seems so easy to chuckle now, what else can I do? Wait, those are not torch lights.