Tonight we unseal the fourteenth vault in our 31 Nights of Lovecraft with The Thing in the Moonlight—not a story, but a dream. Lovecraft wrote it as a letter in 1927, describing a nightmare so vivid it clawed its way into fiction.

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In The Thing in the Moonlight, a dreamer named Howard Phillips finds himself trapped in a surreal nightmare—a reedy, fetid marsh beneath a gray autumn sky, haunted by a yellow tram car and two monstrous figures. One howls at the moon with a face like a white cone ending in a blood-red tentacle; the other drops to all fours and charges like a beast. Though he knows he’s dreaming, Phillips cannot wake. Each night, he returns to the same scene, fleeing the grotesque motorman and conductor, always alerting them, always running, and always asking: “God! When will I awaken?”

This eerie tale wasn’t originally written as a story—it was born from a vivid dream Lovecraft described in a 1927 letter to fellow writer Donald Wandrei. Years later, J. Chapman Miske discovered the letter and transformed it into a short story, adding only a few paragraphs to frame Lovecraft’s dream narrative. Published posthumously in Bizarre magazine in 1941, it’s a rare glimpse into Lovecraft’s subconscious—a raw, unfiltered nightmare that bypasses plot and logic to deliver pure, surreal dread. It’s one of the few stories where Lovecraft himself is the dreamer, blurring the line between author and apparition.

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Comedy’s a rare trail for me to ride, and this one had more twists than a mountain switchback! I gave it my best shot with all the theatrical flair I could muster - hopefully it at least brings a smile to your face.

Tonight we unseal the thirteenth vault in our 31 Nights of Lovecraft with Sweet Ermengarde—where the farmhouse creaks with romance, villainy, and melodrama so thick you could ladle it. The fields are quiet, but the hearts are not. They throb with sighs, schemes, and declarations too dramatic for daylight.

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ASMR soft-spoken reading of Sweet Ermengarde by HP Lovecraft, featuring cozy saloon ambiance with a crackling fire. Written under the playful pseudonym Percy Simple, Sweet Ermengarde is Lovecraft in rare form—trading cosmic dread for rustic melodrama.

The story follows the radiant Ermengarde Stubbs, a farm girl caught between villainous Squire Hardman and bashful Jack Manly, as mortgages, mistaken identities, and theatrical declarations swirl around her like prairie dust.Lovecraft parodies the sentimental fiction of his time with exaggerated emotion, absurd twists, and characters so dramatic they practically faint on cue. Beneath the satire lies a clever ritual: a writer exorcising genre clichés with a wink and a flourish.

Published posthumously in 1943, this tale is a rare glimpse into Lovecraft’s comedic side—a theatrical romp through rural romance, perfect for a night of soft laughter and warm storytelling.

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Tonight we unseal the twelfth vault in our 31 Nights of Lovecraft with The Unnamable — where a crumbling house in Arkham becomes the mouth of something memory cannot name. Two men speak of logic and legend beneath a tombstone’s shadow, but the night listens differently. The town sleeps, but the attic does not. It stirs with shifting limbs and forgotten shapes, and beneath the floorboards, something unspoken begins to rise.

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ASMR soft-spoken reading of The Unnamable by HP Lovecraft, featuring a light wind as background ambiance. Set in the haunted town of Arkham, The Unnamable follows Randolph Carter, a weird fiction writer, and his rationalist friend Joel Manton as they debate the nature of supernatural horror while sitting atop a weathered tomb near a crumbling house. Carter insists that some entities are so alien, so ancient, they defy description — hence, “unnamable.” Manton scoffs, grounded in logic and the limits of the senses. But as night deepens, something stirs. What begins as a philosophical conversation turns into a visceral nightmare when the two are attacked by a formless, gelatinous presence—something with horns, hooves, and a thousand shifting shapes. They awaken in a hospital, bruised and bloodied, bearing marks no rational explanation can erase.Written in 1923 and published in Weird Tales in 1925, this story is both a meta-commentary on Lovecraft’s own writing style and a chilling assertion that some horrors are not meant to be named—only endured. It’s a compact, cerebral tale that blends folklore, theology, and the limits of language into a single, unforgettable encounter.

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Tonight we unseal the eleventh vault in our 31 Nights of Lovecraft with The Moon-Bog — where a drained marsh becomes a grave disturbed, and blind ambition stirs something best left buried. Kilderry sleeps, but the bog does not. It hums with ancestral grief, and beneath its surface, the dead begin to move.

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ASMR soft-spoken reading of The Moon-Bog by HP Lovecraft, featuring a rich swamp ambiance in the background. Lovecraft wrote The Moon-Bog in 1921 as a theatrical “after-supper shocker” for a St. Patrick’s Day gathering, infusing it with Irish legend and personal symbolism. Beneath its surface lies a reflection of Lovecraft’s own grief over lost heritage and the desecration of sacred places—mirroring his boyhood haunt, Cat Swamp, which was drained and developed against his wishes.

This story is one of Lovecraft’s most conventionally supernatural works, where the horror is not cosmic but folkloric. It’s a warning: some places are meant to remain untouched, and some silences are not meant to be broken.

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Tonight we unseal the tenth vault in our 31 Nights of Lovecraft with The Evil Clergyman—where a single forbidden room holds more than dust and memory. The house is quiet now, but once, it echoed with footsteps not quite human, and shadows that recoiled from the light.

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ASMR soft-spoken reading of The Evil Clergyman by HP Lovecraft, featuring a warm crackling fireplace to keep you cozy as ambiance.

In a shadowed attic filled with arcane relics, the narrator is warned: touch nothing. But curiosity stirs, and one object—a strange book—draws him in. The moment he opens it, the room shifts. Time fractures. And a spectral figure appears: a gaunt, malevolent clergyman whose presence warps reality itself. What follows is not a haunting, but a dimensional trespass, where the narrator glimpses a world beyond sanity—a place where knowledge is poison and the past refuses to stay buried.

The Evil Clergyman was written in 1933 as part of a letter to Lovecraft’s friend Bernard Austin Dwyer, recounting a vivid dream. It was never formally shaped into a story during Lovecraft’s lifetime, but after his death, the letter was adapted and published in the April 1939 issue of Weird Tales.

This tale is a fragment—brief, surreal, and steeped in dread. It reflects Lovecraft’s fascination with forbidden knowledge, haunted relics, and the idea that curiosity is a kind of possession. The attic setting, filled with theological and magical texts, becomes a liminal space where reality bends and identity fractures.

Written late in Lovecraft’s life, The Evil Clergyman carries the weight of his mature themes: the fragility of self, the danger of touching what should remain untouched, and the eerie intimacy of supernatural intrusion. It’s not cosmic horror—it’s personal haunting. A quiet, violet-lit descent into the consequences of looking too closely.

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Tonight we unseal the ninth vault in our 31 Nights of Lovecraft with The Shunned House—where a cellar breathes with a hunger older than rot, and the walls whisper of generations devoured in silence. Providence hums with modern haste, yet beneath its streets, something ancient stirs.

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ASMR soft-spoken reading of The Shunned House by HP Lovecraft, featuring a light rain on a tin roof as ambiance. The Shunned House was written in October 1924 but remained unpublished until 1937, when it appeared in Weird Tales. At the time of writing, Lovecraft was deep into his Providence mythos, blending local history with cosmic dread. This story marks a turning point—where ancestral decay meets parasitic horror, and the haunted house becomes a feeding ground for something far older than ghosts.

It also reflects Lovecraft’s evolving fascination with inherited corruption, buried monstrosity, and the idea that knowledge is not always salvation—but sometimes survival. Written during a period of personal and creative upheaval, The Shunned House stands as a quiet reckoning beneath the clamor of modernity.

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Tonight we unseal the eighth vault in our 31 Nights of Lovecraft with Poetry and the Gods—where dreams summon ancient entities. The modern world hums with forgetful haste, yet beneath its clamor, ancient voices stir. A young woman listens—not to noise, but to rhythm. And in that rhythm, Olympus breathes. Ascend beyond the veil of sleep, where gods speak in verse and memory returns in meter. This is no mortal’s escape—it is a chosen invocation, where poetry becomes portal, and the divine does not descend in thunder, but in song.

ASMR soft-spoken reading of Poetry and the Gods by HP Lovecraft, featuring light rain on a tin roof as background ambiance. Poetry and the Gods was written in 1920 and published in the March 1921 issue of The United Amateur, a small amateur press magazine. At the time, Lovecraft was deeply immersed in the world of amateur journalism, still years away from the cosmic horror that would define his legacy. This story stands apart—less dread, more dream. It reflects Lovecraft’s early fascination with classical mythology and poetic exaltation, written during a period when he saw himself as a guardian of ancient ideals in a rapidly modernizing world.

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In a world dulled by modern haste, Marcia dreams—and the dream answers. Not with symbols, but with voices. Ancient voices. Olympian voices. She awakens not to reality, but to revelation: the gods have returned, and they speak through poetry.

Summoned by verse and chosen by fate, Marcia becomes a vessel for divine resurgence. Zeus, Apollo, and the forgotten pantheon stir once more, seeking minds attuned to rhythm and myth. The poem she reads is no accident—it is a calling. And the gods do not whisper. They declare. This is not a tale of madness or myth—it is a summoning, where the sacred returns through language, and the dreamer becomes the herald of a new age.

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Tonight we unseal the seventh vault in our 31 Nights of Lovecraft with The Strange High House in the Mist—a tale past the edge of knowing into an elevation of the soul.

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Here, the cliffs do not crumble. They wait. The sea murmurs below, ancient and unbothered, while mist coils around a house that should not be reached. The townsfolk watch, but do not climb. Only the dreamer dares. Ascend past the edge of knowing, where gods knock at quiet doors and the sky forgets its name. This is no seeker’s journey—it is a philosopher’s trespass, where solitude becomes communion, and the house does not answer in words, but in presence.

🎧Contains gentle ocean waves as background ambiance.💀 Subscribe with public subscriptions to have your name included in November’s Call of Cthulhu tribute. Check your name here: https://tomebytomeasmr.com/anniversary-name-tribute

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In the cliff-bound town of Kingsport, where the sea whispers secrets and the mist clings like memory, there stands a house no one dares approach. Perched impossibly atop a sheer precipice, the Strange High House gazes out over the ocean like a god’s forgotten eye—ancient, unreachable, and utterly silent.

Enter Thomas Olney, a philosopher drawn not by fear, but by wonder. He defies the town’s whispered warnings and climbs the cliff, seeking the truth behind the house’s eerie isolation. What he finds is not abandonment, but presence—a door that opens, a host that waits, and a threshold between worlds. Inside, time bends. Olney meets beings older than myth: Neptune, Nodens, and other dream-entities who dwell beyond the veil. The house is no ruin—it’s a liminal temple, a place where the waking world brushes against the Dreamlands. When Olney returns, he is changed. He speaks little, smiles often, and walks with the quiet gravity of one who has glimpsed eternity.

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This is your soft spoken sanctuary for sleep, comfort, and calm. Through gentle whispers, atmospheric sounds, and classic storytelling, I create a nurturing space to ease anxiety, insomnia, and emotional overwhelm ❤️This channel is for you, my darling. I’ve walked through depression myself, and I promise to show up consistently with stories that soothe and connect. All stories in the public domain are welcome.

🎧Contains gentle ocean waves as background ambiance.

ASMR soft spoken reading of The Green Meadow, written by HP Lovecraft and Winifred V. Jackson.

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The Green Meadow unfolds as a cosmic whisper from beyond the veil of time. A mysterious notebook, encased in an unearthly metal and written in an unknown language, washes ashore in a Maine fishing village. Once decoded, it reveals the haunting account of a dreamer adrift in a surreal, otherworldly realm—a green meadow perched on the edge of a crumbling universe. The narrator finds themselves trapped in a landscape both idyllic and terrifying: a meadow bordered by a black, roiling sea and watched over by a sky that pulses with alien dread. As the ground begins to disintegrate and the sea encroaches, the dreamer glimpses ancient cities, impossible geometries, and a sense of cosmic doom. The story ends not with escape, but with descent—into the abyss, into the unknown, into the mythic terror that lies beyond the stars.

This is your soft spoken sanctuary for sleep, comfort, and calm. Through gentle whispers, atmospheric sounds, and classic storytelling, I create a nurturing space to ease anxiety, insomnia, and emotional overwhelm ❤️This channel is for you, my darling. I’ve walked through depression myself, and I promise to show up consistently with stories that soothe and connect. All stories in the public domain are welcome.🎧 Listen with headphones for the best experience✨Become a Member here on YT or Patreon: ⁠https://www.patreon.com/c/TomeByTomeASMR⁠

🎧Contains the soothing sounds of a cozy fireplace.

Tonight we unseal the fifth vault in our 31 Nights of Lovecraft with HP Lovecraft’s The Street—a tale not of wanderers, but of watchers.

Here, cobblestones remember. The houses lean close with ancestral breath, and the air hums with the pulse of forgotten pride.

Walk the length of this ancient thoroughfare, where time is layered in brick and shadow, and history listens. This is no dreamer’s pilgrimage—it is a sentinel’s vigil, where place becomes protector, and memory rises not in song, but in flame

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This short tale traces the life of a single street in an old New England city, from its humble colonial beginnings to its bustling modernity. Lovecraft imbues the street with a kind of sentient memory—watching generations rise and fall, architecture shift, and values decay.

As the city grows, the street witnesses both noble aspirations and creeping corruption. In the end, when foreign ideologies and sinister plots threaten the soul of the neighborhood, the street itself seems to rise in defense—culminating in a mysterious, apocalyptic event that destroys the conspirators. It’s a story of place-as-character, where nostalgia and nationalism entwine with mythic vengeance. The street doesn’t just remember—it acts.

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