I knew of the great mysteries of the universe but had no knowledge of their actual description. I searched in fiction and non-fiction for answers about the origin of humanity and the future of our souls. My quest led me to the strangest books known to man, ones created by a man named Lovecraft. In his stories, there were explanations for the forces of evil that work in men’s hearts. The crawling chaos led us through occult channels to our ultimate home in the bosom of Cthulhu and the other space gods that came to earth. In the quiet of the ocean sleeps Cthulhu, ready to be awakened by the most devout followers.
I etched a notch into the wall of my cell marking another day of detainment for my theft of some bread in the local bakery. I was sentenced to fifteen days in the local jail and a fine of fifty drooples for my crime. There were no services for homeless wanderers, with no income and no way to get food for themselves. The government was not responsible for the life of any man. I guess we as a society hadn’t reached that point again since the meteor fell and destroyed most of humanity.
A man was in my other cell. I could hear him use the toilet and attempted to talk to him. I asked how long his stay would be, and only got a grunt out of him. After taking another nap and awaking quite bored, I asked if he had heard of the latest Lovecraftian movement. This finally made him speak.
“I’ve heard of it. We don’t need religion anymore. They’re a bunch of kooks,” he said. “I heard Lovecraft’s books were science fiction, anyway. Not to be taken literally, if you know what I mean.”
“But haven’t you heard of Cthulhu who sleeps in the ocean?” I asked him, incredulous of what he said.
“It’s fiction. He wasn’t trying to start a religion,” the man said from the other cell. His voice was echoing from the hallway connecting us. “Haven’t you heard of Nyarlathotep? He couldn’t have existed as he is said to. None of the Gods could have. It’s just a mythos Lovecraft created to scare people back in the day.”
I had never even considered that Lovecraft’s work could be fiction. I told him of all the stories I read about and he told me each one of them was kind of horror that Lovecraft practiced. It was supernatural horror, not to be mistaken for holy works. After hours of discussion, I could barely support any further arguments the work was religious. The man in the other cell was winning.
“But there is one thing I have seen before, which is worth mentioning,” the man said. “There is a statue figurine mentioned in one of his stories. If you find that, there may be something to the myth. If the statue exists, the mythos could be real.”
I thought that I must seek the statue in order to confirm my faith. But first, I had to get out of jail. Praise Cthulhu, help me.