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That Which Brushes Worlds
A Lovecraftian tale from above the flatlands.
As excerpted from the personal journal of Professor Emeritus D. E. Gemmell, late of the Miskatonic Mathematical College, Arkham.
There have always been those epochs in the annals of Man that manifest as calamities — singular, unheralded, and curiously unmoored from the customary rigours of probability. Events which strike, not like the clean cut of a scalpel, but as the spasmodic lashings of some vast and mindless limb, flailing down from above the veil of our comprehension.
The Tunguska disturbance — yes, that Titan’s sigh in Siberia’s forsaken wilderness — was ever one such anomaly that held my attention in its cold, gnarled grip. That an entire forest might fall without fire or foe, and remain cloaked in academic ignorance for years, seemed an affront to the ordered world we so desperately embrace.
And yet, there are others.
The vanishings of sky craft above equatorial latitudes, ships swallowed by the ocean’s indifferent belly, expeditions consumed by glacial desolation — each catalogued, footnoted, and shrugged at. Missing. Lost. Unfound. The universe, it would seem, is littered with footnotes no one bothers to read.
It was only in my post-retirement stupor, after decades of instructing dim-witted undergraduates in the…
