“I’ve been reading the Necronomicon,” said Mark, examining with great curiosity the sushi dish that had been placed on the table in front of him. He’d never seen sushi before, and he wasn’t sure whether to eat it or dissect it.

Seb was more shocked by the casual nature of Mark’s statement.

“You’re… I’m sorry, you’re reading what?”

“The Necronomicon,” Mark repeated. “It’s a collection of short stories by H. P. Lovejoy.”

“Lovecraft.”

“That’s the fella,” smiled Mark, trying unsuccessfully and pick up the tuna roll using chopsticks.

“I’m about halfway through. Only,” Mark continued, “He’s not a very good writer.”

“Hang on,” said Seb. “Are you telling me that you think that one of the finest horror writers of the 20th century is ‘not very good’?”

“Pretty much. I mean, alright, his characters seem scared, but instead of actually describing what they’re scared of they just say things like, ‘I cannot describe it, but trust me, it’s really scary, honest.’ How’s that supposed to scare me?”