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The Child of Hastur


This is a collection of stories that I will slowly be adding too. There is a character in H.P. Lovecraft's' stories called Hastur. Hastur was not originally created by Lovecraft and I wanted to take my own spin on Haster and Cthulu's relationship. This is a darker story, as it is written in the style of Lovecraft and take care before you read.

Horror / Thriller
Age Rating:

Its Child

The room was dark and cold. The shutter rattled softly and a blue moon shone through the window. Speaking of this window, it was this particular window that changed everything. The window was dirt speckled and the moons’ gaze on the floor was hazy. The window was shut tightly, but a large crack in one of the panes allowed the wind entrance. However, the moon wasn’t the only thing that gazed and the wind wasn’t the only thing that entered. That is why this window is particular. This is how it got in.

It broke the window lock, a light click. And it entered the room. It stepped onto the floor, ignoring the complaints of the wood and slithered forward with slimy, moist steps. The room was a baby’s room, a nursery, light blue walls and light-colored furniture. The walls were marked with symbols, yellow symbols, that came only from the darkest parts of human minds. It knew, it had put them there, in their minds. These symbols, though terrifyingly pleasing, were not the focus of this mission. It had to move quickly, so they would not realize it had left, so it could return undetected. There, on the other side of the room, was a crib. Blue and white and pretty, speckled with red. The woman sat beside the crib on the chair, slumped over the edge. Her head emptied by the pistol in her left hand, coloring the walls and floor and the baby, a little girl.

She layed in the crib, quiet, watching. She knew something was happening, something important. She knew the creature in her room commanded more attention than her mothers’ corpse. She did not cry, not now; she had cried when her mother had wielded thunder and emptied her head of all thought. She had cried when viscous fluid covered her face and arms, iron in her mouth and red in her vision. She then went silent, her mother slumped over the crib, neck bent, gaping wound gushing until it congealed. As her mother cooled, she calmed. A wave of calm, of acceptance, something was happening, all there was to do now was wait.

And wait she did, until the window broke and it entered. Until its slippery and slimy steps could be heard next to her. It was dressed in yellow, tattered and worn, along with a mask that covered its face and concealed all emotions, its face as empty of thoughts as her mother. It breathed, a wheezing sound and bent down, hunching over to get closer to her. It whispered, a terrible sound that made one think only the most horrible and terrible thoughts, thoughts that somewhere, someone had to think. God help us all if they didn’t.

She was lifted then, into its arms. Its hands, long and thin, were cold and hard, not the softness she was used to. Its grip was not cruel, but neither was it kind. From her new perch, the girl surveyed the room; it was splattered with red among the blue, such a pretty color palette. A high giggle perforated the silence; only a child could laugh at such a scene. She looked up, smiling at the creature. If it smiled back you could not see, and it certainly did not laugh. Instead, it shifted slightly, lowering its face towards her,

’WatCh CHild as I dirtY my TonGue for yOU. yoU wiLl leaRn THe lanGuagE of thE Old oNEs. yOu will Aid mE. I wiLL aId you. wE Will caRe fOr eaCh oThEr. anD whEn tHe tiMe ComEs, yOu wiLl FiGHt hIm. And yoU wiLL wiN. YoUr naME sHall be Yegr-sOraTh. anD nOW yoU kNow miNe”

The girl laughed again, she did know,


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