Sometimes I think the most merciful thing in the world is the inability of the human mind to correlate its contents. We live on a placid isle of ignorance amidst black seas of chaos, and it is not meant that we should voyage far.
The Call of Cthulhu
Howard Phillips Lovecraft

I curse the demon impulse of senseless, animal curiosity that drove me to break the seal on my late uncle’s journal, that led me to open his heretofore mercifully long-forgotten trunk, that incited me to this frenzy of ceaseless probing until I had the answers, the answers to every unthinkable and unspeakable question it had ever been my doom to encounter in my quest to learn what really happened to my late, and much-beloved mentor and uncle.

A lifelong bachelor, he had left me, his only living relative, his entire estate, diminished as all must be in the fullness of time but still enough to enable me to tender my resignation from my position as a researcher at Miskatonic University and devote myself to the genealogical and mythological studies which my parents had always discouraged. They were very practical folk, and the mere hint of anything eldritch would get me stern looks, an interminable lecture about staying “grounded,” and temporarily banned from the swimming lessons which I loved so well.

Would that I had listened to them! Alas, I was callow and had no concept of their knowledge, or their burden. It is mine alone now, so I write it down in this journal, the last of the Whatleys, and soon I will take recourse to that revolver which glitters so seductively in the smoky dusk of my study and end my accursed existential burden forever.

But not before a warning. I must ensure that the next generation is freed from this unspeakable bondage to which we have, all unknowingly, been enslaved.

I will not review the discoveries and events which led to my final, apocalyptic realization; my psyche is tender after the abuses it has endured, and it would serve no purpose but to waste time; if you want the story, it is here, in this journal, and in the papers and artifacts my uncle left in that horrible, thrice-accursed trunk carven of no wood native to our wholesome planet.

I will say just this: you must look behind the tinsel trappings of the season for there all is revealed. Part the glittering strands and your eyes will catch a glimpse of something cyclopean, something squamous, something partly rugose, something which once walked the Earth and now lies dreaming in his sunken city of R’lyeh.

You doubt? You consider these to be the ravings of a madman? Then I challenge you with my last breath, as I pick up the handgun which my great-grandfather used to exterminate that which his daughter brought forth into the world, the thing that he buried by the seashore, the thing that came for him twenty years after, I challenge you to lift up the hoary waxen disk that long ago recorded sounds made by no human throat, take it to the turntable, and play Jingle Bells backwards.

del.icio.us: conspiracy carols
blinklist: conspiracy carols
Digg it: conspiracy carols
ma.gnolia: conspiracy carols
Stumble it: conspiracy carols
simpy: conspiracy carols
newsvine: conspiracy carols
reddit: conspiracy carols
fark: conspiracy carols
Technorati me!