Last night the Silver Key opened a portal to dreams of boreal horror - dreams filled with intimations of something which yet lurks beneath the primal ice of the Arctic: something which filtered down from nameless gulfs of infinity, to swim languidly through seas of pitch on far-distant Yuggoth; something which, by the dawn of the Pliocene, had wended its way to Earth, borne through the depths of space on solar winds; something with claw-like appendages and three monstrous eyes; something whose name our early hominids ancestors shrieked and howled amidst nameless rites, long before the coming of the ice; something which slumbers yet within its glacial tomb, dreaming of the time when the stars once again come rightness.
Something whose rough, misshapen approximation, hewed in rough, pale stone, appeared at the foot of my bed after a night of foreboding dreams.
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