I wrote this for my Stage Arts class in college. We had to write/find a monologue for our…monologue performance, and I wrote a monologue about Nyarlathotep. To be honest, the mere fact that I wrote this scares the shit out of me. Your Mileage May Vary.

NYARLATHOTEP: A Monologue

By Nick Llanes

I look upon you and grin. Your follies. Your loves. Your hideous rituals. You constantly reassure yourselves of your own significance. From up there—out in the stars, dearest Ant, you are nothing but a mere speck of dust one flicks away in annoyance. My master does not even comprehend your existence, the Blind Idiot that He is.

Yet I, the Haunter of the Dark, do. And I laugh. And I laugh. And I laugh. Each and every little paramecium here, has set up a whole plethora of barriers—hindrances, and you call them “Morals”.

Morals?

What are Morals but barriers? See us, in our true forms, and let us see what “Morals” are compared them. So many questions linger in the air, answers rendered meaningless.

What is beauty?

What is horror?

What is Good?

What is Evil?

All this are meaningless when we take that of which is ours. We are things bounded by no such creation—such concepts are incomprehensible to us as our appearances are to you.

The Great Old Ones are sleeping. Azathoth is slumbering. The underwater cities of old are sunken. Yet we shall rise again. What would your puny minds comprehend of us, then? Your gods will not protect you from the True powers of this Universe.

One day, the Old Ones shall rise from their death-like slumber, and the seas once more will be frothing in madness. The Deep Ones shall rise and claim their birth-rights—their lands. The Shoggoths will consume your cities, like alien tidal waves. On that day, humanity shall be rid of their morals, killing and revelling and laughing merrily. Great Cthulhu, from his risen house at sea, shall teach Man new ways of fear.

You look at me now, little dust mites, as if I was some hideous aberration. Point your guns. Point your blades. Point, even your sharpened sticks. My mask is mortal, but my essence is immortal. You look upon me in fear, bacterium, yet I am merely a voice. An echo. A consciousness, able to take forms you measly creatures can comprehend. There are things sleeping underneath the earth, in the depths of the sea, and even in the black void of space, that you must fear more.

Yet I suppose I may say that I am fear.

For when Man lay shivering in the caves, afraid of the black, I was the thing lurking in the dark. When men stare in to the Abyss, I am the Thing staring back. I was the daemon who whispered into Hitler’s ear. I was the one who told Nero burn the Christians in Rome. I have been here, dearest insects, since you were mere apes, and I shall be here when you—all of you—shall realize that you are merely a miniscule electron in this universe of universes.

I have many names and many faces. I am Nephren-ka. I am the Black Pharaoh. I am the Devil. The Haunter of the Dark. The Whisperer in the Darkness. The Walking’ Dude. The Howling God. I am the crawling chaos. I am the Messenger, Will, and Voice of the Outer Gods.

I am Nyarlathotep.