The Final Words of William Doughtrieve

by Gregory Halloran

The smoke trail from my cigarette twisted like a serpent towards the ceiling as I sat, miserable, in my chair. Used to be I abhorred smoking inside the livingroom, but now a fine layer of ash covers the floor and days old dishes stack on the coffee table. A leaning testament to my fragile state. But, I digress, and surely that has caused you to form an opinion of me out of context. No good reader, I am no common drunk who lets the filth pile around him. In fact, I used to employ someone to keep my house as sharp and clean as an orthodox porno. I had someone for the house, another for the pool, and several more to keep my proud garden in line. Now all that's changed, and there will be time to discuss that later. My name is William Doughtrieve and if your reading this then i failed. I failed to free myself from the yellow tatters that tear at my mind.


I write this in one of my rare lucid moments, between images of dread Carcosa and the twin suns in an endless night sky. My friends all tried to help, but one after another they stopped coming by. I felt nothing; you can recommend doctors to me all day and it will do no good. I am not sick! Atleast, not in any sense that mortal man can understand. You see, there are things in this universe that were created to harm mankind...created for the sole purpose of sowing chaos and ruining lives...and I found one. Curiosity killed the cat is what they say, but this time its done much more than that. I can no longer stand to be in this room; for the first time in almost a week I feel a great urge to leave this place. First however, as has become habit, I check the lock on the basement door. Its intact as ever, but somehow feels slightly less...thick? I fear this only means that my time here is nearly up. Strange how the others left so quickly and yet I lingered, but that thought perished from my mind almost as soon as it appeared, and I came to stand on my patio overlooking what was once my grand botanical garden. People once came from all over the country to view my rare and exotic species, and I took great pleasure in showing off every nook and cranny that had plant life in it. Now I look without emotion over a blighted and overgrown monstrosity. The hedges that once outlined clear paths to different areas of the garden have grown out of control, and hint at shapeless horrors that lurk in the dark corners of my imagination. I shiver for the firsts time in days, though the heat and electricity have long since been canceled. My hand has pulls something out of my pocket, and tears roll down my face as I gaze upon the beautifully evil object that I hold. Reader, I have seen the Yellow Sign, and i now see Carcosa; where cloud waves break upon the shore, and shadows lengthen as the twin suns sink behind the lake. I know the lock on the basement is gone, and I hear the tatters of the King approaching me. Finally I understand why I was spared. Forgive me reader, I've doomed you to share in my fate. Id advise you to stop reading now, if i didnt know better. I feel his breath on my neck, as cold and unforgiving as the great glaciers of the north. Ive done His work on Earth today, and may god have mercy on my soul for it...if he has any say in the matter at all.


Police found the bodies of Anna Loveheart, Johnathon Gables, Benjamin Hornsby, and several others, all thought to be caretakers of Mr. Doughtrieve's property, hanging from the rafters in the basement, On further inspection of the bodies it was found that they were hung post-mortem, and there was no conclusive evidence pointing towards a cause of death. The famed researcher Mr. Doughtrieve, was nowhere to be found.

(Note found under main body of text. Strangely, in a different style of handwriting)

Strange is the Night where black stars rise,

and strange moons circle through the skies.

But stranger still is

Lost Carcosa

(The crudely drawn image underneath the note is indescribable, and police thought it better not to mention it to the media)

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