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Howard

It is at night, during those weeks when the moon starves or gorges, that Howard finds himself drawn to read it. The URL is unpronounceable, full of strange and squamous diacritics; but it crawls from his fingers even when his browser refuses to autocomplete.

The story is grotesque beyond the imagination of a Poe or a Bulwer. His attention is captured by a vast description: a page in a book which, the story says, cannot convey in mere words its own unutterable hideousness.

Howard imagines going mad, reading it.

“The window!” he gasps, scrambling to click its corner X. “The window!”

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