This memo is in protest to the memo previously left by Ms. Babel-Jean Teahymn, and for the purpose of disputing my status as a former employee, ex-employee, demised employee, or employee who has otherwise ceased to be.

This letter is being transcribed by intern Tom Lazythint, as for some reason or another I have become temporarily incompatible with objects on the material plane of existence - a mere phase which I am sure will pass in time, and something I am sure must happen to most people my age at some point or another. Regardless, this statement is a disclaimer against possible typos and other displays of intern daftness which might occur within this transcription.

I would like to say that in fact, I feel quite fine, and very well up to my duties regardless of my current state, and declare that I will fight tooth and nail with anyone who even as much as attempts to park their autocar in my assigned parking spot, parks their grimy feet on my fine brazilian cherrywood desk, or even thinks to attempt to raid my tobacco stocks, pilfer my chocolate stores, violate my taxidermied werebeasts, or as you whippersnapper deviants tend to say “yiffing the howlers”.

I do realize that the corpse found in the bath may in some ways resemble my own proud and well-bred visage in various ways such as height and remarkably well-tailored swimwear, and in this I can see where this confusion may have stemmed from. I do however assure you that I am right as rain and feeling as though I am well in my prime.

I would also like to inform that putting an end to my pay and benefits, or allowing anyone access to my office, would be very ill-advised, considering that I am a storehouse of information - information which this fine establishment would most likely prefer to have limited solely to this fine establishment, rather than in the hands of entities such as perturbed villagers and inquisitive constables.

Yours, if you know what is good for you,

Mint T. Zloty

P.S. Oh drat! I seem to have slipped through my chair again… no! don’t type that you boob! Just help me up or I swear you will receive the caning of your life! You there! I said stop typing you knitwitted son of a diseased mongoloid poopsmith! Just what do you think you are doing?! Get me out of this floor God blast it!

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(1928) H. P. Lovecraft as published April 1929 in “Weird Tales”

The Dunwich Horror

Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimaeras - dire stories of Celaeno and the Harpies - may reproduce themselves in the brain of superstition - but they were there before. They are transcripts, types - the archtypes are in us, and eternal. How else should the recital of that which we know in a waking sense to be false come to affect us all? Is it that we naturally conceive terror from such objects, considered in their capacity of being able to inflict upon us bodily injury? O, least of all! These terrors are of older standing. They date beyond body - or without the body, they would have been the same… That the kind of fear here treated is purely spiritual - that it is strong in proportion as it is objectless on earth, that it predominates in the period of our sinless infancy - are difficulties the solution of which might afford some probable insight into our ante-mundane condition, and a peep at least into the shadowland of pre-existence.

- Charles Lamb: Witches and Other Night-Fears (more…)

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