Five days remain in this most hallowed tradition I have rekindled—this dark ritual of reading one tale each day during the sinister month of October, drawn from the dread corpus of that ineffable master of cosmic horror, H. P. Lovecraft. It is no small coincidence, then, that today’s reading, “The Other Gods,” should coincide with the gathering known, in euphemism, as my grandson’s so-called “Harvest Festival.” Oh, how they attempt to mask its true nature beneath pastoral pretense, but none are deceived! For the air is thick with the revelry of costumed children—those harbingers of something far older, far darker, than they know. Ghosts, vampires, and creatures of unspeakable eldritch ancestry scuttle across the fields, playing games for tributes of sugary indulgence and venturing into what they believe is a mere “haunted castle.”
Yet the disguises are not perfect. Among the specters of folklore wander apparitions clothed in the garb of anime and superheroes, modern-day idols of a distracted age. No matter that the air hangs heavy at 77 degrees, and that beneath masks and layers of fabric some may fall prey to the sun’s cruel heat. I gaze upon mothers who have taken on the mantle of witches and fathers—foolishly—adorning themselves with the logos of death metal bands like Entombed. The laughter, the merriment—it is all but a mask. They call it a “Harvest Festival,” yet we, who have delved into the forbidden lore, know better. We gather here for darker reasons, unspoken but understood by those who dare to see beyond the veil.
Now, I turn to today’s reading, whose lines tremble with the names of long-forbidden places: Ulthar, where no man may kill a cat; unknown Kadath, that dread, unreachable city of the gods; and the ominous Pnakotic Manuscripts, those repositories of knowledge mankind was not meant to possess. Ah, how the tendrils of these eldritch realms weave through Lovecraft’s many tales, binding us closer to the great and terrible unknown that lurks just beyond the fragile shell of our world!
Barzai the Wise, high priest of Hatheg-Kla and prophet of unutterable mysteries, stood as one accursed with knowledge, for in his veins ran the eldritch blood of antiquity, and his mind was haunted by the forgotten lore of the Great Ones—the “gods of earth,” beings revered by mortals but ever elusive. His quest, driven by a mad thirst to behold these celestial powers face to face, led him to the accursed slopes of Hatheg-Kla. Accompanied by the trembling Atal, his youthful disciple, Barzai’s ascent was filled with a sense of dark destiny, as the winds whispered secrets known only to those doomed to blasphemous revelations.
Upon reaching the dread summit, Barzai’s countenance shifted from triumph to terror, for the air grew thick with the presence of something far more terrible than the Great Ones themselves. The “gods of earth,” frail and ephemeral, were not alone in their dominion, for they were but puppets, mere playthings of an older, far darker pantheon—the “Other Gods,” nameless entities from the outer hells, watchers over the feeble earthbound deities, their malice unspeakable, their gaze upon Barzai a curse of eternal madness.
With a shriek that echoed through the aeons, Atal fled in terror down the mountainside, his soul forever scarred by the glimpse of unholy truth. Of Barzai, nothing remained but an emptiness more profound than the void between stars. No mortal eye ever beheld him again, and it is whispered in forgotten corners of the world that his doom was woven into the very fabric of the abyss, claimed by powers too vast and too hideous for the frail mind of man to comprehend.