It crouches near the center of creation. There is no night where it waits.Only the riddle of which terrible dream will set it loose. It beheaded mercy totake po... » 

It crouches near the center of creation. There is no night where it waits.Only the riddle of which terrible dream will set it loose. It beheaded mercy totake possession of that place. It feasts on darkness from the minds of men. Noone has ever seen its eyeless face. When it sleeps we know a few moments ofpeace. But when it breathes again we go down in fire and mate with jackals. Itknows our fear. It has our number. It waited for our coming and it will abidelong after we have become congealed smoke. It has never heard music and showsits fangs when we panic. It is the beast of our savage past hungering todayand waiting patiently for the mortal meal of all our golden tomorrows. It lieswaiting. Harlan Ellison 15 stories by Harlan Ellison «