When I opened the door into the elm-arched blackness a gust of insufferably foetid wind almost flung me prostrate. I choked in nausea, and for a second scarcely saw the dwarfed, humped figure on the steps. The summons had been Edwardâ€™s, but who was this foul, stunted parody? Where had Edward had time to go? His ring had sounded only a second before the door opened.
The caller had on one of Edwardâ€™s overcoatsâ€”its bottom almost touching the ground, and its sleeves rolled back yet still covering the hands. On the head was a slouch hat pulled low, while a black silk muffler concealed the face. As I stepped unsteadily forward, the figure made a semi-liquid sound like that I had heard over the telephoneâ€”â€œglub . . . glub . . .â€
– H.P. Lovecraft, “The Thing on the Doorstep” (1933)
Recommended listening: Finitribe – Monster in the House (from a 1990 single)
I know I run the risk of alienating some folks by leaning hard on real life political horrors this time round, but I don’t give a flying fuck.