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"We know what happened to those who chanced to meet the Great God Pan, and those who are wise know that all symbols are symbols of something, not of nothing. It was, indeed, an exquisite symbol beneath which men long ago veiled their knowledge of the most awful, most secret forces which lie at the heart of all things; forces before which the souls of men must wither and die and blacken, as their bodies blacken under the electric current. Such forces cannot be named, cannot be spoken, cannot be imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a symbol to the most of us appearing a quaint, poetic fancy, to some a foolish tale. But you and I, at all events, have known something of the terror that may dwell in the secret place of life, manifested under human flesh; that which is without form taking to itself a form."

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"What I said Mary would see she saw, but I forgot that no human eyes can look on such a sight with impunity. And I forgot, as I have just said, that when the house of life is thus thrown open, there may enter in that for which we have no name, and human flesh may become the veil of a horror one dare not express. I played with energies which I did not understand, you have seen the ending of it. Helen Vaughan did well to bind the cord about her neck and die, though the death was horrible. The blackened face, the hideous form upon the bed, changing and melting before your eyes from woman to man, from man to beast, and from beast to worse than beast, all the strange horror that you witness, surprises me but little."

Dr. Armitage, associating what he was reading with what he had heard of Dunwich and its brooding presences, and of Wilbur Whateley and his dim, hideous aura that stretched from a dubious birth to a cloud of probable matricide, felt a wave of fright as tangible as a draught of the tomb's cold clamminess. The bent, goatish giant before him seemed like the spawn of another planet or dimension; like something only partly of mankind, and linked to black gulfs of essence and entity that stretch like titan phantasms beyond all spheres of force and matter, space and time.

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And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Egypt. Who he was, none could tell, but he was of the old native blood and looked like a Pharaoh. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, yet could not say why. He said he had risen up out of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and that he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into the lands of civilisation came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences - of electricity and psychology — and gave exhibitions of power which sent his spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, and shuddered. And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; for the small hours were rent with the screams of nightmare. Never before had the screams of nightmare been such a public problem; now the wise men almost wished they could forbid sleep in the small hours, that the shrieks of cities might less horribly disturb the pale, pitying moon as it glimmered on green waters gliding under bridges, and old steeples crumbling against a sickly sky.
H. P. Lovecraft, "Nyarlathotep"

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"I have felt your restlessness, Selene. That part of you that was born of Sesqua's shadow is growing dormant; and that other portion, spawned beyond the cosmic chaos, is flexing its vibrant muscles. The star-stuff that forms so much a part of your being longs for home. It calls to you as you have, just this afternoon, summoned it. You ache to sit with your Elder Sibling beside the entropic throne of Ultimate Disorder. The Boundless One scents you, and calls you. The universe sizzles with the waves of his dreaming. Psychic activity has increased with supernatural alacrity, here in this valley and - I feel it in my old bones - throughout this haunted globe."
W.H. Pugmire, "Past the Gates of Deepest Slumber" (from The Fungal Stain and Other Dreams)

Time has not been kind to Ur-Shulgi, nor have the ravages of the beast within it or the numerous enemies it has challenged. It looks nothing so much as a scarred, burnt child, a young god born from fire and violence. Its skin, obsidian-black with age, displays a lattice of scars, some of which weep blood when the Methuselah becomes agitated. Here and there, bits of bone and sinew protrude from beneath its skin, as if its body has been flayed. Additionally, Ur-Shulgi's eyes have been either gouged or burned away, though it claims to see without hindrance. [...] Its voice seems to billow up from the depths of a dry desert well; surprisingly to some, Ur-Shulgi is perfectly fluent in any modern language in which it is addressed. It normally remains motionless when conversing with its childer or other "Kindred," unless it wishes to make a rhetorical point through a cat-like flash of violence. If it absolutely has to do anything other than kill, it does not move so much as flicker from point to point.
—Image notes on Ur-Shulgi, The Shepherd, Vampire: The Masquerade - Children Of The Night

Oh, he's always been a special boy. I remember the day he was born, he looked up at me and he said "Momma, I am not a person. My body is just a flesh vessel for an immortal being whose name, if you heard it, would make you lose your mind".
Pearlene Parcell, 30 Rock

"Drangleic will fall, the fire will fade, and the souls of old will reemerge. With Dark unshackled, a curse will be upon us... and men will take their true shape..."
King Vendrick, Dark Souls II

Man #1: Chief, you mind explaining to me why a camper is here talking about a little boy climbing into your observation tower?
Chief: He was dressed like he was an admiral and a mistake.
Voice over Radio: AIEEEEE
Man #1: Chief, you'll have to explain later. My map just started bleeding.
Chief: W-what?
Popsicle Pete: LOOK WEST. SEE THAT EVEN THE DEAD CAN BEG.
Chief: Did you open a portal between my world and yours? Is that what I'm looking at?
Popsicle Pete: "YOUR WORLD." WHAT HUMOR YOU CREATURES HAVE.

"He is a wound in the Force, more presence than flesh, and in his wake life dies... sacrificing itself to his hunger."
Visas Marr perfectly sums up Darth Nihilus, Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords

''"All around an evil carpet
That belched up flame and smoke
I saw their test sorcery begin
Every witch performs some gesture in trying to invoke
Some creature beast or monster from within
Then from this pit emerged great vampire bats
And hissing snakes and vicious snarling rats

All at once the pit erupted
And to my shock surprise
There stood a woman with her arm out spread
She was staring at the witches
And when she caught their eyes
They all cried "CRUELLA" and fell dead
With panic running up and down my spine
I saw Cruella's eyes drift up to mine."''
The creation of Cruella De Vil, unused song for Disney's, 101 Dalmatians

As the courtier watched, the king on the ground shed his boots, and then his clothing, and finally his skin and the flesh beneath, the two halves falling away like the membrane of a snake. Standing in the clearing was no longer the king, but a being with a wretched, twisted body and a deformed skull, and a nose that was more like the beak of a carrion bird than the organ of a man.
And though the courtier had never before laid eyes on this creature, still he knew his name, for every land had heard tales of the Crooked Man. Some claimed he was the union of an old, violent god and a human woman, and had torn his way out of his mother's womb at the time of his birth, killing her in the process. Others said he had no such origin, but had come into existence with the dark stuff of the universe. He had always been, they whispered, and would always be. In the end, all that was certain about the Crooked Man was the harm he meant to living things, and the joy he took in their torment.
Beside him, his horse began to shy and whinny in panic, terrified by the transformation, for all creatures fear predators and the Crooked Man was the greatest predator of all.

The Harlot: My, your ignorance is so delightfully sweet. Imagine how delicious your education could be,
Cy: Keep your distance, lady.
The Harlot: Heh heh, Cy, love... don't ever mistake me for a lady.
Fall of Cthulhu: The Fugue

And then, light. It came from them: from the quartet of cenobites who now, with the wall sealed behind them, occupied the room. A fitful phosphorescence, like the glow of deep-sea fishes: blue, cold, charmless. It struck Frank that he had never once wondered what they would look like. His imagination, though fertile when it came to trickery and theft, as impoverished in other regards. The skill to picture these eminences was beyond then, so he had not even tried.
Why then was he so distressed to set eyes upon them? Was it the scars that covered every inches of their bodies, the flesh cosmetically punctured and sliced and infibulated, then dusted down with ash? Was it the smell of vanilla they brought with them, the sweetness of which did little to disguise the stench beneath? Or was it that, as the light grew and he scanned them more closely, he saw nothing of joy or even humanity in their maimed faces: only desperation and an appetite that made his bowels ache to be voided.

Over the course of millennia, he has worn many names. In medieval Europe, they called him the Black Man, patron of witchcraft and devil worship (some believed that he was the Devil). In the Arabic World, where he abided for many years in days long ago, he went by the name of al-Aswad, the name he gave to those who followed after him as Fallen Oracles. To the Sumerians, he was Ut-Napishtam, the primordial man who was chosen by the gods to survive the Great Flood and was thereafter granted immortality but made to abide part from all lesser creatures. In truth, he was all of these things and none, the anointed champion of the Darkness beyond Creation, and his True Name is lost to the deep memory of time. Perhaps the most far-thinking human being ever to exist, he was chosen not for his power or his knowledge - for with life enough, any man might develop these qualities - but instead for his wisdom, patience and sense of strategy.
—Introducing The Unnamed, "Hell On Earth," Mage: The Ascension - Ascension

The thing that follows you back to your ship is not the Navigator. But it has his skills, and his face (though the right half is blotted by the sprawling sigil). The crew edge away.
He does not come on deck any more. He is light as a scarecrow; all hollow inside. A sudden pitch would cast him overboard. The blackness of his cabin is alleviated only by the sigil-glow, smugly violet. Since Kingeater's Castle, he can feel the pull of the sea under his skin. He sees its changes like storms on the horizon. He can find a path by spilling blood in the waters and watching its churn.
—The Sigil-Eaten Navigator, Sunless Sea

Eugene Tacitus: Doctor - look at the child's face!
The Doctor: What is it, Eugene? It's a perfectly ordinary face. A little pale, I admit, but that's no surprise considering-
Eugene Tacitus: No! It's the face! I've seen it before - come back to haunt me... you mustn't wake him up! If you do, it'll be the death of you all!
High Priest Clovis: His eyes are opening...
Eugene Tacitus: No!
Childeric: I command you - awake, and begin your reign here and now!
[a beat, as the Child stirs]
The Child: Father. You have released me at last.
Childeric: It's impossible... you know our language?
The Child: Of course I know your language. I know everything. Am I not your god?

Of all the lords of the Old Ones, only Nyarlathotep appears wholly in the likeness of a man. The shapes of the Old Ones are not fixed, but express their nature through a harmony between form and intention; yet it is possible for them to change their appearance within the bounds of this accord, and Nyarlathotep chooses to come to his worshipers as a man of greater than average height who is in all respects human save one: that he has no face, but only a blackness where a face should be seen. As the face of Azathoth is darkly bright and radiates outward, so the face of Nyarlathotep is a void that draws inward both heat and light and never releases them. He is the eater of souls.
Why he comes in the shape of a man is not known, but it may be to better have dealings with humankind, since he is reputed to enjoy the company of men when they drink wine and gamble, and the bodies of women with whom he lies in lust. He speaks as a man speaks, but his voice has the coldness that lies between the stars, and few wish to hear his sardonic laughter, for then there will be death. Men are to him as playthings to a child - to be taken up for a time, then abruptly cast away and trodden into the earth.
Necronomicon: The Wanderings of Alhazred, by Donald Tyson

Constantine: Without fear, we don't know we're alive... but maybe you wouldn't understand that, Angel. You're not one of us.
Angel: No. Not one of you - all of you.
Constantine: Oh come on - spare me the universal victim-messiah shtick. I've been following you, remember? I've seen the roadkill you left splattered along the way. Admit it, you just get off on fucking people up.
Angel: I exist. I move through the world, and share my experience with anyone I meet.
Constantine: Big of you.
Angel: I let them know that what they do to others, even by neglect, they do ultimately to themselves-
Constantine: Yeah, yeah... leave it out, Angel. I know what you are... you're a bleedin' Horrorist - a redistributor of suffering, perpetuating revolutionary outrage in the cozy heartlands of oppression and complacency! But that's cool. There's worse things you could be.
Hellblazer: The Horrorist

The Immaculate Machine cries out! Someone else is looking for the little girl. Take a card from the tarot. Flip the Priestess - the Chairwoman - designation Lily Engel. All monstrous pathways umbilically converge at a singular source. The nightmare quim. She has seventeen names. She struts through the cadavers of ages.
The Buzzing, The Secret World

Do you know what I am, Warlock? ...if you find out, will you let me know?
Xûr, Agent of the Nine, Destiny 2

"In our experiments, we paired a human's body with a demon's blood. Using the organs of a beast, and a heart of black iron, we created something unspeakable, unidentifiable.
Not human, demon, nor beast. It swelled as if it were water, and moaned in agony. We created something truly horrifying that day—an abomination without purpose"
Unidentified Subject flavor text, Shadowverse

They're almost at the top of the first flight of steps when the front door opens below them. Schiller's greeters are conspicuously absent as a solitary figure in top hat, white tie and tails, with silver-topped cane tucked under one arm, paces through the entrance and pauses dramatically. Mo's knees turn to jelly as the new arrival turns its face upwards and directs the full weight of his vast, dryly amused attention on her. [...] The living avatar of the Black Pharaoh beams up at her, like a distant supernova blazing through mist rising from the liquefied atmospheric oceans of a frozen outer planet.

Popo the Genie
Has a thing for LSD
And each time he trips, his darkness slips
Into all the children's dreams!
There must have been some evil in
The inky void of space
For it took on form and substance and
A terrifying face!

Between them and the waiting Nazi guards, where the walls change, is a slight figure in a brown suit.
The young man walks slowly toward the old city, as if in a dream or slowed-down film. His footsteps take too long to land. He wears archaic clothes, trousers that balloon out from pulled-up socks. His hair is a strange pale parted black. [...] As the young man approaches them, the Germans open fire.
And Thibault almost falls in astonishment because he sees the man unconcerned by any of the bullets that hit him; he sees him look hard at the closest shooter, and where the man looks, a house rises. Emerging instantly from nothing, clean, freshly painted, fussily rendered, pale, almost translucent. And the soldier, all the soldiers who were where the house is now are gone.
—The Adolf Hitler self-portrait in action, The Last Days Of New Paris

"The twisted faces of the damned, piled high and cloaked in malice!"
The Narrator, regarding the Collector, Darkest Dungeon

Fools are neither dead nor alive. They're not even undead. They just are. Or aren't. It's a tough call.
String City, by Graham Edwards

It looked like an old man, decrepit and rotten. It was naked, its skin slick and shiny as pitch. Its flesh was withered and decomposing, with missing toes and misshapen feet. A distended gut protruded obscenely from beneath a narrow chest, arms spread wide in a mockery of greeting. Above a ruined throat, she saw a too-wide mouth locked in a rictus grin, and eyes - oh god, those eyes. The thing emerging from the wall before her looked like a man, but its eyes were grey and flat as a shark's.
The researcher took another two steps back, reaching behind her for something, anything solid to hold. Her breath caught in her throat. The old man stood still, dripping black foulness onto the floor as the tiles began liquefying beneath him.

Anthony looked at the rat. It had devoured half its belly, and had died from pain. He thought it into a grave out deep in the cornfield—his father had once said, smiling, that he might do that with the things he killed—and went around the houser, casting his odd shadow in the hot, brassy light from above.

Throughout history, mankind has been ravaged with horrific tragedy. And on each and every occasion, it was there, gorging itself on humanity's pain and suffering. Since the dawn of civilization, it has haunted the shadows of human existence, inflicting agony and death on all it embraces. It has been more than a hundred years since the darkness fell upon the new world. But the hour of evil is upon us once again. There is a vicious storm brewing, bringing winds of torment and a rain of terror. And with it comes the haunter, a parasitic monster who feeds on man's most primal emotions, seeking ecstasy in the torturous throes of human misery. No man, woman or child is safe from its wickedness.
—Summary of "The Haunter Out Of Time," In the Mouth of Madness
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