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MMCM - Through the Gates of the Silver Key

   • This is what I call Lovecraft Vol. 3: Drea...   MMCM - Through the Gates of the Silver Key H. P. Lovecraft; E. Hoffmann Price; Through the Gates of the Silver Key (written 1932 to 1933; published 1934; Weird Tales, July 1934, pulp magazine; collaboration) The narrative begins years after Randolph Carter’s disappearance. A group of relatives, acquaintances, and legal figures gather to resolve Carter’s estate. The conversation is tense and skeptical, because the last known reports describe Carter walking out into the country and vanishing in a way that sounds like fraud or madness. A mysterious visitor arrives, Swami Chandraputra, who claims to know what became of Carter. The room shifts from practical questions about property to a fierce dispute about what counts as truth. The swami’s manner and knowledge are unsettling, and the listeners are forced to confront the possibility that Carter’s “fantasy” was real. The swami describes Carter’s passage beyond human boundaries, through gates that do not merely connect places. Each gate undermines an assumption: that time is linear, that identity is single, that the universe is built for human senses. Carter experiences realities where minds can inhabit different forms, where the self can be parceled, exchanged, or reinterpreted by larger forces. The account is not a victory story. Carter’s curiosity brings him into contact with powers that treat human will as small and negotiable. The cosmos is shown as layered and indifferent, and the journey suggests that stepping beyond one’s nature can mean being rewritten. By the end, the gathering is shaken and split. Some accept the explanation, some reject it, and at least one is broken by what it implies. Carter’s fate is left as a warning: the gates open, but they do not promise that the one who walks through will remain the same, or remain human at all. --- They asked where I went. I answered with blank paper. A circle of men with lamps and clean cuffs, and I sat calm in their questions. Their pens scratched for comfort. Their faces wanted a simple map. But the room was too small for what I saw. The ceiling pressed down. The air tasted of wire. Their certainty began to drown. Turn the symbol, lose the skin. (Skin, skin.) Keep the will, shed the name. (Name, name.) Step past measure, past time. (Time, time.) Past the reach of human claim. (Claim.) The key does not open a door. It edits the mind. A corridor of angles, a voice that speaks in distances. I felt my thoughts become a scaffold, and the scaffold began to twist. A hand that was mine, then not mine, touched a wall that was not a wall. The light turned heavy. The sound turned thin. I tried to count my breaths, and numbers fell apart. Turn the symbol, lose the skin. (Skin, skin.) Keep the will, shed the name. (Name, name.) Step past measure, past time. (Time, time.) Past the reach of human claim. (Claim.) A cold wide choir of stars. A planet with a broken sun. A body taken, traded, worn, discarded. I watched my face become a rumor. I watched my voice become a tool, and I could not take it back. I learned the cost of curiosity, not pain, not fire. The cost is scale. You return smaller than your own memories. You carry a door inside your skull, and it never fully shuts. Turn the symbol, lose the skin. (Skin, skin.) Keep the will, shed the name. (Name, name.) Step past measure, past time. (Time, time.) Past the reach of human claim. (Claim.)