Wiesenbornweg in Heusenstamm; 2008-06-10
Presently the transport ship sank toward the clouds. It sped through them, stone-blind from the mist. And then there was a small airfield below, and the pilot and co-pilot began a pattern of ritualistic conversation.
—Is your sister at Pemberley still?
—Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.
—And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?
—Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have filtered down from the stars and concocted earth life as a joke or mistake; and the wild tales of cosmic hill things from outside told by a folklorist colleague in Miskatonic's English department, these three weeks. So from the wells of night to the gulfs of space, and from the gulfs of space to the wells of night, ever the praises of Great Cthulhu, of Tsathoggua, and of Him Who is not to be Named. Ever Their praises, and abundance to the Black Goat of the Woods. Ia! Shub-Niggurath! The Goat with a Thousand Young!
—Ia! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!