The late horror writer H.P. Lovecraft recently visited our city. Here's what he thought of some of our attractions.
On Sept. 13, 2013, I, a standard first adherent to the commissioner of the German Navy, pen the final letter of a truncated life in front of a withering waterfall at unknown depths in a cave. There occurred two incidents that brought me to this, my ended breaths. Our guide, an elderly fool of English blood, disappeared out of the ether as our expedition approached the point of which Lambert first stood erect eons ago. A flickering of our lanterns caused much disturbance among the crew. At once, the lights were snuffed out, and a gruesome, abnormal howl festooned ahead on the pathway. Upon a return of light, the guide was lost! The next troublesome situation was created by an olfactory damnation of the most putrid. We trotted ahead as the stench grew behind us until, at last, we were before an immense water display. A light shone from the great waterfall, and we cast our eyes downward; objects began floating an uncanny existence. In my mind rose thoughts and fears which centered on Becky in Hamburg. Reaching for my carry sack, I prepared my helmet and lantern and braced for the suffocation of breath. I am a man of sense, but can make none of the events at Ruby Falls. The light is a sheer delusion, and I shall die at the calm deaths of this temple.
My ears recall the flapping of winged demons, the hissing of luciferic reptiles and the distant howling of a forest creature consoled by the blood of mankind under the gibbous moonlight of the dreadful night ... I cannot reveal the path which brought us to the Chattanooga Zoo, nor begin to fathom, on this late evening a fortnight ahead of the wedding ceremony at Baxter Knob, the vision which lends to this sea of infinite blackness. Upon our arrival, a ruthless ape accosted the single female companion on our journey with such ferocity and disdain the expedition nearly became obsolete. Her clothes were covered in a vile, nether filth removed and flung with intention from the dreadful creature’s arse. We pressed on through the grounds as she was hosed by a steward in the cloakroom. A giant, upright bird—no doubt the same beast of The Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alzhared—approached the end of a containment area and seized a sizeable amount of Fritos from my bag with its repressive maw. The horror! The rest of our journey was lived in growing horror and fascination as we passed beast after beast. The stealthy flapping of a web-winged creature has found me reaching for my revolver on the hour. A dreadful place of inevitable doom.
Many times we walked through the valley, but nay once were we snarled by the sinister laugh of frolicking children at Lake Winnepesaukah. As written by the dream-sages, the name itself conjures images of shadowy groves and enchanted woods of crystal oblivion. Tempted by the face of my fated son, our feet found purchase beyond the impervious line of bourgeois awaiting admittance to this festival of revelry. Through the endless twilights, we waited and waited. A rotund female approached and I removed my pants in defiance. No teacher has ever urged nor guided me regarding the rules of societal nudity and I was promptly detained by a constable. Nothing had I undergone before could prepare me for the terror I was about to witness. My son, a docile lad of noble congeniality, began wailing a catechismic shout at the junior security officer. His face contorted into an alienage mass of tentacles out of which a monstrous paw appeared and grasped the officer by the throat. I shouted but my attempts to stop the display were hushed and the creature hand ripped the poor man’s head agonizingly from his body. Nearly mad, I found myself once again on the pathway back to our temporary residence, constantly recalling that moment nightmarishness.
Awakened by the caress of a howling wind from the east, I became suddenly aware of the truth behind legendary accounts of a mysterious figure often associated with a vessel called the Delta Queen. At a dinner gathering the previous evening a lorion spoke of a horror beyond all human conception within the walls of the ancient ship. A sundown masquerade served as a temporary reprieve, yet a gnawing pang of fear sat firmly planted upon the retirement to our quarters. The clicking footfalls and whispered words began as the clock struck thrice. I stood facing the mirror and behind me appeared a glassy-eyed corpse of a woman, tittering and naked with coal-black eyes. In an instant, the whole scene of horror faded. A thunderous crash from above promptly encouraged a fleeing to a nearby closet where the duration of the night was spent awake, aware of a faint tapping of a claw on the door. A lobby receptionist thought we were to blame for the incessant noises and suggested our making of a formal apology to the other guests for our lacking regard for cordiality under the influence of liquor. We will not be patronised. The noise was due to the whispered patois of a gangrenous corpse-lady; to suggest it was due to our violent lovemaking is no way to form a repeat customer.
Bluff View Sculpture Garden
The cumulative effect of consecutive days ruined by winged demons, a flinging ape and a sleepless night spent fending off the demonic advances of a deceased spectre had taken a toll on our party. Coming for the first time upon the town of Chattanooga, the perception was one of a quaint, hospitable Southern city. The reality was a vast wasted space of ineffable loneliness, a city infested with embalmed bodies and queer animations of pestilence. Our final journey, a relaxing trot through a garden of grotesque sculptures by artists whose practice invites not publicity or expression, left remaining a vile acid in the depths of our stomachs. I caught a glimpse of Icarus struck of flint and steel, in flight toward the wretched, black waters below. Good riddance, Chattanooga. I will never return to your tenebrous labyrinths, nor would I direct another man.
This column, in particular, is 100 percent satire and/or absurd, nonsensical ramblings from a completely strange individual. Realize this before you get too upset. The opinions expressed in this column belong solely to the author, not Nooga.com or its employees.
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