Sci-Fi Fantasy Killer

That chanting, that chanting which I cannot get it out of my head: “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.” I’ve heard it several time now, while listening to stories written by H. P. Lovecraft.

Why does it draw me such? And what does it mean?

Though I have no idea what is being said, it feels natural to me as if it has been with me or in me all of my life. Perhaps I am gone mad and no one, including me, has figured it out.

There is a moon out this evening and yet everything feels covered in a fog, a blanket of clouds heavier than a wet wool blanket. My heart pounds so hard that I can hear it in my head, I’m finding myself looking behind me and deeper into shadows as if expecting something to spring out at me, snatching me up, dragging me into whatever hidden recess it may reside. Oh, this damned imagination of mine.

There it is again, that chanting, that infernal chanting. What might, “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn” mean.

Even in my sleep I hear it and yet I still cannot even pronounce those hauntingly awful words. Only one word is apparent and that is ‘Cthulhu.’

Why does this keep coming back to me, why has Lovecraft’s fictional character wormed its way into my brain. I do not know how to rid myself of the constant and nagging thought that it is somehow calling to me, drawing me ever closer to itself.

God, please let me sleep. I need sleep — so badly.

How long has it been since I first heard the voices speaking that vile jargon, over and over. I look outside my window, deep into the night and at first I see no one, nothing.

But it is there and it seems as if I am the only person who can hear it. At times the sing-song of the phrase comes on so strong that I feel it vibrating through my very being.

Pray that it isn’t so powerful that it touches my spirit, let alone my soul. I must save my soul from this madness.

Is it the creature, is it the being, that something unseen that calls me, begging for my attention, for my worship. If not, is it all in my mind, has this thing found its way into the folds of my brain?

My fear is that it is trying to destroy me. I fear I am trying to destroy myself.

Not even a strong drink washes the hum of that singular, irregular phrase from my consciousness. Not even covering my ears, burying the sound under the volume of the television, the radio or music helps as the tones echo inside me, and now, not only in my head.

“Cthulhu, I can see your movement,” I said looking into our backyard, beyond the darkness, palpable and horrifying.

“That’s the laundry still on the clothesline,” my wife said.

“No, its Cthulhu. I know it and I’m afraid it’s come for me.”

“If you don’t stop listening to those damn Lovecraft audio books before bedtime, I’ll give you a reason to be afraid. Now get your ass back to bed and keep me warm.”

“You know how to kill a really good science-fiction fantasy.”

“I’m the only fantasy you need, Bub! I have to get up early. Now get some sleep.”

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn,” I mumble sweetly in her ear.

“I swear to God, Tom…” she growls.

“Okay, okay — I may have pushed it too far that time. Good night.”