It was languid curiosity which first brought Stephen Jones to

Rogers Museum. Someone had told him about the queer underground place in Southick Street across the river, where Waxen things so much more horrible than the worst effigies at Madame Tissos were shown.

And he had strolled in one April day to see how disappointing he would find it.

Oddly he was not disappointed.

There was something different and distinctive here after all.

Of course the usual gory commonplaces were present.

Landrew, Dr. Crippin, Madame de Mayor, Rizio, Lady Jane Grey,

endless maimed victims of war and revolution, and monsters like

Shilderay and Marquis D'Sad.

But there were other things which had made him breathe faster and stay till the ringing of the closing bell.

The man who had fashioned this collection could be no ordinary Montebank. There was imagination, even a kind of diseased genius in some of this stuff.

Later he had learned about George Rogers. The man had been on the Toussau staff, but some trouble had developed, which led to his discharge.

There were aspersions on his sanity and tales of his crazy forms of secret warship,

though laterly his success with his own basement museum had dull the edge of some criticisms

while sharpening the insidious point of others.

Territology and the iconography of Nightmare were his hobbies,

and even he had had the prudence to screen off some of his worst effigies

in a special alcove for adults only. It was this alcove which had fascinated Jones so much.

There were lumpish hybrid things which only fantasy could spawn, molded with devilish skill and colored in a horrible lifelike fashion.

Ladies a gentleman you have just entered the adult section of the

H.P. Lovecraft literary podcast. Nobody makes eye contact back here but we will

introduce ourselves. I'm Chad Pfeiffer. I'm Chris Laki and we have a guest

...