Masked Cults of Nyarlahotep

The MacGregor Account
Musings upon the Cowell Presentation

Part of me understands that the events of that second night would have torn asunder the minds of normal men. The foundations underpinning their common, ordinary reality are firm and inflexible. The boundaries of sanity indeed depend upon them for form and meaning. I cannot say I was not shaken by what I experienced. But I have been chosen for greater things than have other men. I have been prepared by God for a special place in his plan, and my mind is laid not on sand, but bedrock.

Nevertheless, that first moment when I saw the white eyed spook floatin’ in the middle of a blizzard for the second time, I thought that the end of a long day and morphine might be responsible. Just for a moment mind you.  But then I recognized his garb as matchin’ that of the buck I’d shot the night before and all I knew was that tonight, there would be trouble.

Unsurprisingly, the lecture that night was sparsely attended. Bad weather, the weekend, and an obscure if salacious subject matter all but guaranteed it. Neither did Cowell himself impress as a speaker. Just another dunderheaded intellectual lost in his own cavernous skull. I must confess that I was far more alert to my surroundings than to the presentation, what with what I knew must be coming.

I was not quite expecting them to waltz in quite as calmly as they did, trying to fit in as if they were people. One thing you can always expect from any darky is that he will not remain in his place if he is not shown it. With that in mind I headed off that bit of trouble before it began. Shameful that it took the barrel of a gun to do the convincing, but that is sometimes the way of it. If sugar and spice were sufficient to keep the servant races in line, this country of ours would already be foremost in the world.

As I kept an eye on the pickaninny sons of bitches, I got caught up in poor old Cowell’s presentation. I’ll be damned if what I saw didn’t convince me he was on to something, if even in the most cursory fashion. I confess he had me woolgatherin’ from my earliest childhood. Later when Dennis unfathomably disgorged the name Cthulhu, I put more of it together, but at the time my attention was divided.

And then the little sumabitch had the gall to address in a less than polite tone. I’d had enough. Thank God he had more sense than his companion, or things’d’a got a mite messy right there and then. But I can’t say I’ve failed to hold my own in any staredown I have ever chosen to engage with.

So, a respite ensued wherein I learned the seeming limits of the professor’s cluelessness. Bat this and bat that, it all really comes down to the battles of the gods before men. Oh yes, Mr. Cowell has something in that melon that might help me find the answers I desire. It became more imperative that he live the night.

So, I devised a scheme to that effect, and my fellows complied enthusiastically. We snuck the Cowells out of that buildin’ and to safety, but in the end we did not survive unscathed.

I hesitate to describe the taxi accident because I am not sure it is an event that fits within the aforementioned borders of sanity within which it is necessary to remain in order for there to be communicative discourse. Perhaps in time the words will come.

More immediately of concern was the fact that poor Bumford had landed afoul of this miscreant nigger cabal, and that me and mine were now exposed to their nefarious machinations. I had to call in some heavy favors to protect my property that night, and I am not sure it not injure my standing amongst those who look to me for guidance in these troubled times.

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Desmond's Journal
Jan. 16, 1925


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