Cross and Miskatonic University: No

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It was masterful and elegant.

The grand hall of the Cross branch of Miskatonic University was everything one would expect to find in a school dedicated to higher education and to hidden decadence of thought.

I’m not quite sure how much money was spent on the building’s construction, though there were whispers that it was upwards of a million dollars, perhaps more. I know that special wood had been harvested deep in the Teutoburg Forest in Germany, and the crystals in the chandeliers were rumored to have been crafted in vile homes in Paris.

The building, known as Miskatonic Hall, was the gem of the school.

When it was finally finished after three years of continuous work, the building was an absolute masterpiece. I confess that when I looked upon it for the first time, I was impressed. The architect, from the same firm that had designed the chapel at the United States Military Academy at West Point, had outdone himself. As I walked through it, I could see the sigils and symbols hidden in the wood and the floors. When I listened, I heard the whisper of the creatures hiding within the walls and lurking in the subfloors.

Yes, it was everything that the school hoped it would be, and after my initial visit, they did not allow me near the structure.

I don’t blame them.

The university and I are not on amicable terms.

True, they did invite me to view the structure, but it was more to flaunt what they had accomplished than to solicit my opinion.

I was impressed that they put additional guards at the front gate, and they even set up a system of roving patrols.

This morning, as I was drinking my coffee and considering which apple trees needed a fresh feeding, my house was shaken by an explosion. When I reached town, I went and stood with the rest to look at the ruins of Miskatonic Hall.

The staff members were beside themselves with anguish. Their first faculty soiree was to have been this evening.

I confess that I felt bad when I saw the smoldering ruins.

I was never any good with explosives. The finer points of timers always seem to elude me.

#horror #fear

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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