At this horror, it is our guarantee you'll sink nearly to the lichened earth, transfixed with a dread not of this nor any world, but only of the mad spaces between the stars!

Out of the unimaginable blackness beyond the gangrenous glare of that cold flame, out of the Tartarean leagues through which that oily river rolled uncanny, unheard, and unsuspected, there will flop rhythmically a horde of tame, trained, hybrid winged things that no sound eye could ever wholly grasp, or sound brain ever wholly remember.

They are not altogether crows, nor moles, nor buzzards, nor ants, nor vampire bats, nor decomposed human beings; but something you cannot and must not recall.

Bare witness to the new digital Ancient Ones, with impronounceable tongues and eyes to behold all hells that may come before them.