A Tale

 

One Howard Phillips Lovecraft of Providence, Rhode Island, runs down the street of a strange city, a haunted look on his angular face. He comes to a structure of stone and glass, a building he has never seen before, except perhaps in an obscure dream. Finding the door unlocked, he enters and rides the lift to the top floor.

Once ascended, he walks down the corridor and comes upon a door. The one word inscribed on the door which his weary mind can comprehend is "agent." This is good. A man of action is exactly what his situation requires. He knocks. Sounding put out, a man inside bids him enter.

The man, balding and Hebraic, gazes at him in puzzlement. Could he really be the confidant Lovecraft requires? But there is no choice, no time left. He ignores the dubious splendor of the office and speaks.

"I must tell you of the goings on I have seen in Arkham, Massachusetts and elsewhere."

"Go on," the agent prods him.

"Fiendish rituals, held by the seemingly respectable in conjunction with the obviously base. The chanting of blasphemous and obscene hymns, some in a language never meant for human tongue. Hideous beings are brought forth. There are gods that have been sleeping since before the dawn of time, and they are hungry. As their time renews, ours becomes ever more tenuous."

The agent rises to his feet, intrigued.

He whistles. "That sounds like a hell of an act. What do you call it?"

Lovecraft claps his hands in sheer delight.

"THE ARISTOCRATS!"