Hypnos

I have rekindled a hallowed ritual in this spectral October—a ritual devoted to imbibing, daily, a single tale drawn from the ominous corpus of H. P. Lovecraft, the master of cosmic horror. Today, I partook of “Hypnos,” a tale whose dark currents struck deeply within me, for I myself am a diligent chronicler of dreams. Of late, a torrent of visions has visited my slumber, compelling me to inscribe them with a meticulousness borrowed from Jung’s own technique—capturing not only the echoes of feeling but also the spectral symbols and archetypes, the nebulous associations and strange, recurrent themes that float in shadowed patterns across my nights. Though many dreams are mundane, there are others that, upon awakening, draw me into long hours of contemplation, teasing at mysteries I cannot quite grasp. Yet none—none—approach the dread majesty or monstrous awe of those Lovecraft has conjured forth.

Death is merciful, for there is no return therefrom, but with him who has come back out of the nethermost chambers of night, haggard and knowing, peace rests nevermore.

In “Hypnos,” a sculptor reveals the tale of his strange and sinister bond with a mysterious figure encountered in the shadowed corridors of a railway station. From the first glimpse of the stranger’s “immense, luminous eyes”—those piercing orbs which seemed to harbor secrets beyond mortal comprehension—the narrator felt an unearthly kinship, an alliance with one whose presence stirred the latent mysteries of his soul. Together, they embarked upon dream-like voyages, traversing surreal and otherworldly realms that defied all human understanding, venturing ever closer to the edge of cosmic truth.

Yet, over time, the stranger’s ambitions grew monstrous, as he became possessed by the idea of wielding these hidden powers to rule over all existence. The narrator, though drawn to the abyss, recoiled from this dread aspiration. Through the use of strange potions and drugs, they evaded sleep, clinging to the waking world with fevered desperation. But each journey left them increasingly haggard, haunted by visions that lurked beyond description. One fateful night, the stranger fell into an unbreakable slumber. In horror, the sculptor found himself alone, surrounded by police, who informed him that his companion was nothing more than a statue, a bust inscribed with the name ΥΠΝΟΣ (Hypnos).