Dreams From the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror
“McClellan asked, his hand firmly on his scotch, one leg behind him. He stood in John Bream’s house, a thing of palmwood and thatch, answering Bream’s current refrain that he was damned by the gods in all things. Bream was a failure up north, forced farther and farther south as his various projects resulted in more loss than gain, more humiliation than triumph. He was in Ecuador now, where bribes were cheap and land plentiful. Unfortunately, the land held trees and vines and ants and natives, al...l of which had to be removed before his properties could be made profitable.
“The size of a god?” Bream laughed contemptuously. He liked to make expansive gestures and he liked to seem smarter than his friends. “Gods are large, of course. If they were small it wouldn’t matter to anyone at all.”
“I think they might be small,” McClellan continued, musing. “Aren’t we more at risk of underestimating them if they’re small?”
Bream looked at the man sharply. He had only met him a month earlier, at the market in the nearest village.MoreLess
“The size of a god?” Bream laughed contemptuously. He liked to make expansive gestures and he liked to seem smarter than his friends. “Gods are large, of course. If they were small it wouldn’t matter to anyone at all.”
“I think they might be small,” McClellan continued, musing. “Aren’t we more at risk of underestimating them if they’re small?”
Bream looked at the man sharply. He had only met him a month earlier, at the market in the nearest village.MoreLess
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