One paragraph story... July 1

Acta est fabula, plaudite. I am writing this now because I am about to embark on what might be my last days on this early plain. Many lives paid for this moment to happen; to forbidding doorways which opened to lost times, gaping maws of other worldly beings, or, just as tragic, by the hand of the black hand of the Society of Chorazos. Had I not stumbled upon this accursed Necronomicon in that marketplace at the far reaches of the Interzone perhaps my dearest wife would still be alive. The nights I gave up researching this tome of unspeakable horror; the food left at the door of my office left untouched. My once healthy frame which a Brooks Brothers would sit comfortably is but a hollow shadow of itself. With great hope this missive will be the only record of my egregious thefts of some fifty historic texts from my dear old Miskatonic. As you may espy by my shaky script my hands are a fit with the quakes, but you must understand that when the clock chimes its last ring of four, this ante meridiem of 1 July 18—, I shall have completed the calculations to open the monstrously carven portal here on this frozen Norwegian outpost on this forgotten Pacific isle. I am adorn with Earthen coloured robes. I have put to memory the last of the prose that will displace the remaining mystical lock. I have put in order my meagre items and this missive is the last record of what may be called ‘The Time Before’. I must away. Aeternum vale. Forgive me, Danforth

James C.