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In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and a faint, distant baying as of some gigantic hound. It is not dream—it is not, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. St. John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and such is my knowledge that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the same way. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch phantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.–HP Lovecraft

Follow on children of horror by padded, clawed feet as we journey ever on into shadowed waterways, fog-foetid bayous, and amongst the darkness of decayed swamp without torch, flashlight, or candle flame with only lunar light to guide our way.

Those distant baying howls you hear are nothing to fear. And the growl circling you can’t be a w—, or can they? There’s no such thing of course.