Final Whisper

1937, and Howard Phillips Lovecraft, a reclusive writer in Providence, Rhode Island, is frail and dying, his body ravaged by illness. His stories of cosmic horror—tales of Cthulhu, Yog-Sothoth, and the Necronomicon—have earned him a small but devoted following.

Unknown to him, his writings have brushed too close to forbidden truths, drawing the attention of the Mi-Go, fungal aliens from Yuggoth who serve darker powers. As Lovecraft pens his final manuscript, a fragmented tale of an entity called Zhul’thar the Veil-Warden, he unwittingly channels a ritual that thins the membrane between realities.

The Mi-Go, sensing his proximity to cosmic secrets, descend to silence him, but their interference awakens something far worse. Lovecraft’s death becomes a battleground where his mind, stories, and Mythos collide in a terrifying crescendo.

The gaslight in Lovecraft’s attic study flickered, casting shadows that writhed like tendrils across the peeling wallpaper. His skeletal hands trembled as he scratched ink onto yellowed paper, the words spilling out despite the fire in his gut.

The manuscript, untitled, spoke of Zhul’thar, the Veil-Warden, a name that had haunted his dreams for weeks–a shimmering void with fractal tendrils, whispering of unmaking reality. Howard coughed–a wet, ragged sound, and wiped blood from his lips. He didn’t know why he wrote–only that he must.

Outside, Providence was silent, the snow muffling the world. But the air in the room grew heavy and thick with an acrid, fungal scent. His pen faltered as a low hum pulsed in his skull, not unlike the one he’d imagined in his tales of R’lyeh’s sunken depths. The window rattled, though no wind stirred.

“Who’s there?” Howard croaked, his voice barely a whisper. He clutched at the manuscript, pages scattering across his desk.

A shadow moved in the corner—not a man, but a shape that buzzed, its edges blurring like a poorly focused photograph. It was tall, insectoid, with membranous wings and claws glinting like obsidian.

Its face, if it had one, was a cluster of writhing filaments. A Mi-Go, though Howard didn’t recall the name he’d given them in The Whisperer in Darkness. Its voice was a chittering cacophony, yet the words formed in his mind–cold and precise.

“You have seen too much, scribe,” it said. “Your words tear the Veil. Zhul’thar stirs because of you.”

Howard’s heart pounded–his vision swimming. “Fictions,” he gasped. “They’re only stories. I’m no sorcerer.”

The Mi-Go glided closer, its claws clicking. “Stories are keys. You have written the unmaking. The Warden hears your call. The Mi-Go must stop you.”

It extended a claw, and the manuscript glowed, the ink pulsing with iridescent light. Howard recoiled, knocking over an inkwell.

The hum grew louder, vibrating in his bones, and the room warped—walls bending into non-Euclidean angles, the ceiling rippling like water. His desk cracked, and through the fracture, he glimpsed it–a shimmering void, infinite and empty, its fractal tendrils coiling toward him. Zhul’thar.

“No!” Howard screamed, clutching his head.

His memories frayed—his childhood, his mother’s madness, his tales—each unraveling like threads in a tapestry. He saw himself reflected in the window, his face dissolving, eyes bleeding starlight, mouth a silent scream.

The Mi-Go hissed, its filaments twitching. “You have summoned it! Fool! We sought to stop this!”

The tendrils burst through the crack, not fully manifesting but enough to shatter reality. The room became a kaleidoscope of impossible colors, the hum a deafening chorus–Unweave. Unmake.

Howard’s manuscript burned without flame, each word rising as fractal smoke, feeding the void. The Mi-Go lunged, claws slashing, but the tendrils enveloped it, reducing it to a cloud of iridescent dust save for a part of its dark claw.

Howard fell to his knees, his body crumbling. He tried to speak his name—Howard Phillips Lovecraft—but it was gone.

The tendrils brushed his mind, and he saw the truth–his stories were not inventions but echoes of realities he’d glimpsed in dreams, channeled through his pen. Zhul’thar was no fiction but a force he’d unwittingly invoked, drawn by his tales of cosmic dread.

“Please,” he whispered to no one, to everything. “I didn’t know.”

The void pulsed, and the tendrils retreated, the crack sealing with a sound like a dying star. The room snapped back, but Howard lay still, his eyes wide, unseeing.

Outside, the snow fell–undisturbed. And when found the following morning, the doctors called it cancer.