H.P. Podcraft.com.

The Orange Hotel stands in High Street near the railway station in Bloom-Fontaine, South Africa. On Sunday, January 24th, 1932, four men sat shivering

from terror in a room on its third floor.

One was George C. Titteridge, proprietor of the hotel.

Another was police constable Ian Duit of the central station.

A third was Johannes Bogart, the local coroner. The fourth, and apparently

the least disorganized of the group, was Dr. Cornelius Van Kulen, the coroner's physician.

On the floor, uncomfortably evident amidst the stifling summer heat,

was the body of a dead man, but this was not what the four were afraid of. Their glances wandered from the table on which lay a curious assortment of things, to the ceiling overhead across whose smooth whiteness a series of huge faltering alphabetical characters had somehow

been scrawled in ink. And every now and then Dr. Van Kulen would glance half-furtively at a worn leather blank book which he held in his left hand.

The horror of the four seemed about equally divided among the blank book, the scrawled words on the ceiling, and a dead fly of peculiar aspect

which floated in a bottle of ammonia on the table.

Also on the table were an open ink well, a pen and writing pad, a physician's medical case, a

bottle of hydrochloric acid, and a tumbler about a quarter full of black oxide of manganese.

That was the first few paragraphs from H.P. Lovecraft and Hazel Heeled's

winged death.

And you are listening to the H.P. Lovecraft Lofcraft literary podcast.

Here at H.Podcraft.com, my name is Chad Fyfer.

And I am Chris Laki, and we will guide you through this story.

You know what, I'm no reason to get to this at the end of the thing.

I really like this one. It was really good. I really enjoyed reading it, too.

Except when I talk about it, it's a really stupid idea.

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