Skip to content


The Shibboleth hulks before them, a thing out of time, its skin a sloughing mess and its mouths full of feelers. Some of the expedition vomits; some clutch their heads.

Percy steps forward.

“We have not come so far to hesistate at a thing like this,” he says, steaming in Antarctic air. “Stand aside. We will enter the city of madness!”

“What dost thou seek therein?” hisses the Shibboleth in a dozen languages.

“The tomb,” says Percy, “of dread Chtulu!”

It snorts. “Who?” it says.

“Chtulu!” says Percy, less certain.

“Thou art not from around here,” it giggles, looming, “art thou?”

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 License.