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Guy Bock doesn't remember which Lovecraft story he read first, but he does report the vague memory of a wild, demented figure storming the local B. Dalton's and seizing the author's works from the shelves. His mental state was all downhill from there.

Mr. Bock can still recall vividly, however, the experience of first reading "The Case of Charles Dexter Ward." A natural speed-reader, Mr. Bock had quickly devoured every story Lovecraft had ever written. "The Case" was to be the last new Lovecraft he ever read. Slowly--oh so slowly--he savored each line and paragraph. Ah, the adjectives! The spurious citations! The suggestive hints and darksome implications of death and madness!

Mr. Bock felt an unhealthy fascination with the Cthulhu Mythos. It was like a giant interlocking puzzle, begging to be explored. He began taking notes on each story. He looked up adjectives in the dictionary, eagerly paged through dusty tomes of historical records, and gloated over yellowed and crumbling maps.

It was with the story "Dagon" that he made the discovery that led him to his present mental condition. Innocently searching for the name of a German warship that might fit the story, he was stunned to find the historical account actually SUPPORTED -- in detail -- what was purported to be a mere work of fiction.

After filling an entire file with deluded scribblings, Mr. Bock began to feel he had taken on a mad task that might consume a human lifetime. If he could only find a way to accumulate this forbidden lore faster than it sapped his sanity, he might survive the experience. Though he was a congenital loner, he was soon driven by a need to seek out others of his ilk with which he might barter forbidden secrets.

Mr. Bock drew to him a band of unbalanced individuals using the then fledgling Internet. For novice alienists who wish to study Mr. Bock's slow descent into madness, his bizarre communications with these persons can still be found at

Mr. Bock became horrified at the actions this small cult preformed in his name. He fled the 'Delvers,' as he would refer to them, and returned to his solitude. But, even such gruesome experiences could not snuff out the flame of lunacy that drove him.

It was at this point in his mania that Mr. Bock began to evidence a desire to inflict his madness on a larger audience. He began to gather his scattered files to be published as The Book. Years passed, and the phantasm of The Book led him inexorably on. To avoid detection in his sickening pursuits Mr. Bock used his position as an engineering student to gain access to university resources that might have otherwise been denied him.

The manuscript of The Book grew larger and larger. Mr. Bock tended with utmost care, feeding it a diet of small helpless facts and unsuspecting historical dates. When it had grown so large as to pose a physical danger, Mr. Bock blindfolded The Book and led it to the offices of a publishing company run by known moral degenerates. Mr. Bock chained The Book to the publisher's front door and ran. He knew the consequences of releasing such writings on the public, but the fear of The Book's wrath had he attempted to thwart it was overpowering. He could only flee in the hopes that he would be one of the few who might survive the unspeakable onslaught.

Years passed, and the unexpected apocalypse failed to materialize. How ironic that the sanity of an entire world rests on the financial meanderings of a small publishing company.

Mr. Bock soon developed a messianic delusion concerning the publication of his book. "It'll be out, maybe in another six months" he'd ramble on pathetically as month after month slipped by. Mr. Bock can now be found preaching his degraded faith each year at the Minneapolis science fiction convention CONvergence. He is regarded as a harmless crackpot, and the
authorities have dropped their 24-hour watch schedule. His case file is officially closed.

But the learned men who have dismissed Mr. Bock have never spent an hour alone with him. He speaks of his madness with such damnable convincingness that I, for one, tremble at the thought of what he might do if The Book ever sees the light of day.


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