The Unknown Horror
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The Unknown Horror The place was an old studio. To him it seemed abandoned, yet who knows? Certainly nothing there was in its place - not the broken odds and ends lying about, not the scattered papers, not even the dust that caked the panes of the skylight. Yet who can be sure? Perhaps there was some unrevealed interval between activity and abandonment, some fine phase of things that he was unable to detect at the moment. He stooped and picked up a few of the crumpled papers, which appeared to be drawings. He shuffled a stack of them page after page before his eyes. So intricate, everything in them was made of tiny, tiny hairs or little veins - insect veins. There were shapes: he could not tell what they were supposed to be, but something about the shape of the shapes, their twistings and the way they flared...


