In-demand international businessman Abdul Nyarlathotep and his charming wife Shub Niggurath had never seen a challenge like the old Gloaming homestead, but, having once seen it, they knew they had to have it. Putting to good use all their famed persuasiveness, the duo finally convinced the eccentric recluse to let them take possession.

“Yes,” chuckles the dryly avuncular Nyarlathotep, “you could say we made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

The couple have previously given our readers tantalizing glimpses of the gardens and furnishings, but are now ready to reveal their elegant and eldritch abode to our eager cameras. As I liveblog this, my tummy is rumbling, for there is to be a buffet dinner party later, doubtless some marvelously exotic recipes they’ve picked up in their travels, and Mrs. Nyarlathotep has promised that, as her highly esteemed guests from Unspeakable Homes and Gardens, we will be eating first.

Stylist Walter Gilman describes the remarkable chapeau for us:

I sometimes compare the hat to prisms, labyrinths, clusters of cubes and planes, and Cyclopean buildings; and the organic things strike me variously as groups of bubbles, octopi, centipedes, living Hindoo idols, and intricate arabesques roused into a kind of ophidian animation. Also, I believe you can see a congeries of globes in there somewhere.

Quite so.

Mrs. Nyarlathotep, or Shub as she prefers to be called (“You can’t use the N-word, my dears, not in this country,” she explains, laughingly. “It’s considered unspeakable. I’ve always been unspeakable, really!”) leads us to the mansion’s ornate entrance. There will be a special service in the family chapel later, one to which we’ve wrangled a very exclusive invite.

“The ceremony is something very special, something we introduce to only a select few. You have been extremely helpful to us. Your articles have brought us many curious and innocent seekers after forbidden knowledge. You will be eating first,” Nyarlathotep reminds us, with just a hint of … is it a Texan accent we detect in the last sentence?

And now for some more photos:

The lovely exterior of the palatial Nyarlathotep residence. They’ve booked a choir to entertain their star-struck guests, most of whom shuffle forward in silence, jostling for position in the velvety darkness of the tropical night. It must be remarked that, from the flabby softness of the crushing bodies, this crowd can hardly be said to be fashionably fit. They are, however, wearing what appear to be carefully distressed and oddly bunched robes of earthy colours, perhaps Vivienne Westwood, John Galliano, or late Helmut Lang.

Well, wasn’t that…remarkable. If one were to hazard a guess, one would suggest that the distinctively dissonant melody had been composed by Diamanda Galas.

The interior of the house is beautifully accessorised, with throw rugs of amusingly faux alien hides and a wall of similarly ironic stuffed trophy heads, among them a very lifelike effigy of Andy Warhol.

“He was close to us, and we like to keep him there,” says Shub, reading over my shoulder. “‘Ironic.’ My dear, you have no idea. But you’ll see later…” she teases.

Got to go. It’s time for the service and then, the feast!