This past Halloween, having been on a bit of a horror fiction kick throughout most of October, I decided it was time I finally got around to checking out H. P. Lovecraft. I’d been putting this off since first learning about the Cthulhu mythos as an RPG nerd in high school, and at forty-seven, I felt it was overdue.
But after about six and a half stories, I had to bail. I was just too creeped out. The stories made me feel really weird and depressed, and the effect was uncanny — almost biochemical, like I was having a reaction to some drug. I’ve since returned to Lovecraft on and off, but every time I limit myself so the effect doesn’t fully kick in.
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