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Horrible beyond conception was the change which had taken place in my best friend, Crawford Tillinghast.

I had not seen him since that day two months and a half before when he had told me toward what goal his physical and metaphysical

researches were leading.

When he had answered my awed and almost frightened remonstrances by driving me from his laboratory

and his house in a burst of fanatical rage.

I had known that he now remained mostly shut in the attic laboratory with that a cursed electrical

machine, eating little and excluding even the servants but I had not thought that a brief

period of ten weeks could so alter and disfigure any human creature. It is not

present to see a stout man suddenly grown thin and and it is even worse when the baggy skin

becomes yellowed or grayed.

The eyes sunken, circled, and uncannally glowing, the forehead veined and corrugated, and the hands tremulous and twitching.

But such was the aspect of Crawford Tillinghast on the night his half coherent message

brought me to his door after my weeks of exile. Such the specter that trembled as it admitted me,

candle in hand, and glanced furtively over its shoulder as if fearful of unseen things in the ancient lonely house set back from

benevolent street. It's just a block down from Fascination Street. The street may be benevolent but I'm not sure of Crawford Tillinghast's tensions are.

Oh, they are not, sir. This is the H.P. Lovecraft literary podcast.

That's right, we're here at H.Podcraft.

My name is Chad Fife.

And I'm Chris Lanky.

We're co-host of this show and that reader was Bruce Green.

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