Anonymous Letter

Only madmen take dreams as a literal truth. Only the committed should confuse the boundary between their demented imagination and what truly exists in our world — our world, which the populace loves to believe is stable and normal; above all that we are safe and beloved by one or some of many benevolent protectors, gods in whom we have our origins. Madmen believe that their awful dreams of scorched landscapes are what has become of other mortal worlds and what will become of Earth when the Elder Gods return to wage their almighty war against one another with no regard for what becomes of insignificant mortal creatures of flesh! A world where man's greatest achievements crumble beneath the paws of a million hellish ghouls whose extradimensional forms are not meant to be understood by man, where flame rains from the sky in wide columns, and where the water of the sea boils away to reveal immense marine fortresses constructed by things in strange eons of the past; they are to come again.
The maddening things which lie so tantalizingly just out of common reach reveal startling truths and have potential to grant us the morbid answers of life; that life as we know it exists merely as a failed replica or inbred, damned fetus of the Eldritch beings who roam between realms of existence, that our world consists of hopelessly powerless tri-planal creatures bound to this third dimension and disabled from traveling further ahead or back. Their names are documented in forbidden tomes from throughout history, primarily by the hands of the clinically insane (who were once revered in more primitive times as noble shamans from whom could be inferred great truths and macabre revelations) — names such as the dreadful Yog-Sothoth, Hastur the Unspeakable, Nyarlathotep, Helucciak, Neileidle, the far-off frozen planet of fungus Yuggoth, Earth's otherworldly parallel Julneuos, The Holders, the horrible Jkomneut civilization, and the not soon to be forgotten Bayn-Ghem.
The knowledge passed from each set of corrupted hands to the next has hastily been converted from arcane wisdom to blasphemous indulgences punishable by death, following accusations of witchery or sinfulness. The lunatics whose inexplicable understanding bridges the tiniest of gaps between the woefully imperfect human race and something that which lurks outside of our dimensional walls are the closest that man can ever possibly approach the cosmic status of these so-called Elder Gods, yet in our unwillingness to accept what we know to be true (yet another flaw inflicted upon us by our galactic imperfection) we have shunned the insane and destroyed their all-revealing wisdom! The dreams which come to some have potentially held more meaning than all of conventional human history, in which we have wrapped ourselves in our own petty affairs rather than existence at large. The philosophers throughout history have been wiped from the face of the Earth, their philosophies dying with them. But it isn't to die; never to die, because always there will be those who are far disconnected from mankind and more rooted to the Eldritch dead things who rest in varying states of being, breathing poison and radiating nightmare into the universe.
The ones who you call mad cannot be silenced. That is why I confess here to the actions of which I have been accused over the previous eighteen months. The defiling of several graves in Archbishop Cemetery was the work of myself and several others, two of whom I will name by their pseudonyms: Clark Harrison and Gordon English. Disappearances of farmstock also have their origins in my endeavors to reawaken something veritably beneath our noses — that is, something predating ancient man and perhaps even ancient Earth or Earth itself that has somehow come to rest so close dimensionally to our place in the third dimension. Macabre methods derived from such places as the Old Arabias, the Ch'qulekls of South America, or faraway Aboriginal tribes (whose techniques admittedly still elude me in their purest form) are of utmost importance in waking what we know is here, no matter the disturbing cost of the methods themselves. What is lost now will be gained again if we should succeed in our struggles, properly reviving what we have gleaned from the forbidden White Book to be a deathly god-beast called by the name Kummun-bar'Gzel, among the mightiest ranks of the Elder Gods, and indisputably our one true savior — with his sixteen mouths whispering incomprehensible enlightenments and his amorphous yet static body with protruding bits of cosmic leakage, and the penetrative voices of alien frequencies set to devastate unwary mortal listeners.
The death of Father Morris of the Archbishop Catholic Church, too, I must claim as my own handiwork; but it was not without good cause. A particular ingredient which can only be attained through a slight degree of holiness was our motive in that situation, and I promise that Gordon English and I kept the death of Father Morris as merciful as we possibly could — unfortunately for Morris, that was not to a very high... degree. I refuse to elaborate on this detail in this letter, however upon my capture (which I foresee will be very soon) I will not hesitate to answer all interrogations. I am not without honor, as you can tell, despite my unhealthy state of mind. Above all, the damages inflicted upon the Archbishop Second Elementary School were affirmatively caused by myself and Clark Harrison during our exploits to further our progress. You will find upon my capture sufficient funds to finance the repairs, no matter how severe the acidic meltings may be on the concrete slabs of that school. This has been my humble confession and reflection based on the recent troublesome occurrences in my beloved town — I certainly do regret that my pursuit of realism has wrought such terror on my hometown, for I love it very much — but my work will not cease, and under normal circumstances I should not have even written this letter, yet evidence is growing ever stronger that I am the source of the troubles, and the hunt is closing in. I write this in hopes of perhaps sparking the interest of these matters in whomever may find this when I am gone and committed; the Elder Gods who wait sleeping in their homes beyond the stars will soon wake regardless of man's tampering, but I find it prudent to affect the outcomes earlier than the stars intend.
Category:Mental Illness
Category:Lovecraftian
Category:Dreams/Sleep
Category:Monsters
Category:We Go Bump 3