My Webley revolver lies on the desk beside me as I write this, its black and oily heft reassuring, even as I know that it is of no use. My nerves have been shot these past six months, ever since that blasted business with the 39 Steps. Lucky we managed to convince everyone it was that Hannay chap and the Germans, otherwise who knows what would have happened.
I write this now as I am the last, all the others are dead or disappeared. I can’t take it anymore, I can’t stand the memories that won’t lay down. Memories of those half seen and unmentionable squamous and rugose things from the stars. Their non-euclidean shadows, stretching always stretching, grasping and burning with that terrible pelucid fire from the shores of Yuggoth. I cannot bear to dwell on those indescribable beings that do not belong in any sane mans mind, those eerie cries of “tek-a-li-li, tek-a-li-li” ring in my ears as loudly now as ever they di…..Oh God! Oh Jesus Christ!! I can hear them on the stairs! I can hear their many angled……