Some things are not made for the eyes of men. I know that now. But the price I had to pay for that knowledge is nearly unbearable. I always considered myself a blessed man. I’ve lived a life rich of possibilities and friendship. Some would say that I was even a spoiled child, with few challenges to contest and harden me. But in this hour, writing these lines, I come to wonder if I would have taken my experiences of late in a different manner were I of stronger character. Would I be able to think back on these unmentionable horrors with a self-assured grin on my face instead of this pale expression of outright terror that seems to have befallen me? Would I still be able to sleep instead of lying awake, night after night, just waiting silently in the dark? I do not know. But it seems to me that my only hope of getting through these traumatic times is by writing about it. In the end, maybe it will also prepare others for similar occurrences, should the same dark tides fall upon other places of our gentle, oblivious Earth.

Let me start by saying that our world rests on a history that is much more ancient and horrifying than any scholar could have imagined. There are things in our past that most men have forgotten by now and that only a few rare texts speak of. During my travels in the Arabic countries I came upon one of these rare texts, or at least an extract of such a thing. At an overcrowded bazaar I was lured into a shaded alley by an overly charismatic merchant who spoke excellent English with a certain taste for articulating his consonants. What he offered me was a number of books that he claimed were antiques, books that would be worth a fortune back in Britannia and that he offered me for a small portion of their real value. I browsed through the books as he told stories of how he acquired the different volumes, but as I held one of the books in my hands, a book called the Al Azif, he looked at me in silence. In those quiet moments it became clear to me that this book was not like the others, and even though I only understood parts of it, I bought it on the spot and never saw the man again. Going back to my squadron, with the Al Azif in my hands, I felt a thrill of excitement overwhelm me. I never let the book leave my side. I carried it with me throughout my travels, through sandstorms and monasteries, at battles and executions. I really could not wait to study its contents in detail.

Shortly thereafter, I disbanded from the military and left for the family manor back in York. Having constantly carried the book by my side for so many months, I was struck with a queer feeling when I finally sat down in my study to investigate it. In those quiet quarters, away from family and friends, I could truly occupy myself with my own personal affections, no matter what the hour. My progress with the work was astounding. After only a couple of months I had, with the help of various translation resources and other means, fully translated the text. With the work done in different segments, it was not until I finally sat down in the lavatory to read them through that I could fully grasp the content in its entirety.

Yes, this might appear quite inappropriate to you, but I am certain that I am not the only gentleman in our country to use the lavatory in such a way. In fact, I would say that the lavatory is my most precious reading place in the entire manor. Countless times have I sat there to read Chaucer, Shakespeare and Shelley! But as I sat there and read my notes, the once so peaceful room changed before my very own eyes. Whether it was a direct consequence of my reading the text or some other occurrence, I do not know. But as the room suddenly appeared darker and gloomier than before, I heard the voices for the first time.

It is a strange thing that the acoustics of the room did not seem to affect the sound of those horrid voices. Even though it should have echoed, due to the sleek marble walls, the sounds were very dense, as if the voices were right next to me or, worse yet, inside me. It was as if I had hummed those cruel and wicked words myself, only much clearer, louder and darker. I could not understand them at first; I was struck with panic. But as I ran towards the door, the words started to make sense to me, in a very unearthly manner. I stopped and listened. Somehow, I felt aroused and unsoundly interested in hearing more. As I walked back towards the toilet seat to find the source of the sounds, I gazed down into the water of the seat, only to find an unconceivable infinity of burning stars and unknown worlds in its place. The words rang strongly in my ears and I still remember them as sure as I did that night.

Later on, I would find the same words written multiple times in the very text that I had translated. Its full meaning is something that I will not mention here, but I assure you that they are words of the most unholy kind for ungodly rituals performed by heretics and unchristian zealots. Upon hearing these words, though, I found myself in the queerest condition. Even though I had, on my travels, undergone the effects of many different drugs and substances, the state that my mind reached at this point could not be compared to anything I had ever experienced before. There was no longer a room around me, or a toilet in my weak, trembling hands. I was completely engrossed in loneliness, sent on an aerial journey through uncharted space and over unknown wastelands which I cannot describe. After what in recollection feels like an eternity, I finally found myself back on ground again, staring down hazardous cliffs into an abyss of a vast green ocean. All of a sudden, I realized that the voices were silent and that the only sounds in that queer place were those of the waves striking against the twisted cliffs, and my own beating heart. It was then that He emerged from the sea.

What words reached me through this massive being that suddenly appeared before me remains a shrouded memory that I, even in these pondering hours, dare not reflect upon. The few things that I do remember from my encounter are mostly sparse impressions of twisted shapes in the darkness that still, when I close my eyes at night, haunt me. I imagine that the greatness of the being in front of me is much greater than what my weak, human mind can actually fathom. However, an image that repeatedly comes to mind when I try to recollect the evasive shapes is that of a giant squid. And under the great being’s watchful eyes, I whimpered, convinced of my imminent doom. As I gazed into the face of the beast, I saw death and infinity stare back at me, a soulless, black oblivion that I knew would one day grab hold of us all and enchain our thirst for life. And following this insight, these ghastly imaginings of my damaged mind, I once again could see the familiar walls of my bathroom and could only feel the cold, marble floor beneath me.

I plead to you, my prospective reader, that you do not measure me a madman for these accounts, for what I here write I write in the fullest honesty of a true gentleman with completely altruistic intentions. Though I wish I could further delve into details to prove the authenticity of these events, I must admit that I am rather relieved that my memory seems to fail me. Though I hope that I will never face such horrors again, I know that it is certain to happen again. Even in these late hours of the night, writing these records in the other wing of the manor, I can hear those familiar sounds coming from across the halls, from my study and beyond. I know it is inevitable, that I must go there at least once more. As sure as our bodies’ simple functions control our daily routines, we must all face what has been measured out for us. We must all pay heed to our destinies and we must all face our maker. And with this in mind, I will rest my pen and, though I strongly wish it could be otherwise, meet whatever awaits me inside the lavatory.

For when nature calls, great Cthulhu calls with it.