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Some of you may know me as a mild-mannered biologist who has been known to post about evolutionary topics from time to time.  Over the last few years I have discovered that what I have believed my entire life is a facade and I can stand the deception no more.  Be prepared, the horror that awaits below the fold may be too much for our primitive nervous systems.  I can feel mine breaking beneath the strain of the knowledge I have uncovered.  Follow beyond the seething mass of protoplasm that only appears orange to our limited vision and discover the truth if you dare.

In addition to my scientific interests I have long had a fascination with the works of the Bard of Providence, Howard Phillips Lovecraft.  Long have I suspected that something more than mere imagination underlies the noisesome and extradimensional nature of Lovecraft's prose.

Whilst searching the numerous antiquarian bookstores that populate downtown Tallahassee I came across a copy of an issue of Weird Tales from the 1920s.  Excitedly I made my purchase from the vaguely ichthyomorphic shopkeeper and returned home.

It wasn't until later, when I carefully opened the moldering pulp and gingerly prised apart its noxious pages that I discovered something more.  Inside was a slip of paper of even more ancient origin with extensive handwritten notes in a hauntingly familiar hand.  I provide the crucial passages below.

It is no use.  I can delay no longer.  All my attempts at prevarication are at an end.  The foul reach of those that would use me is extensive indeed.  Mr. Wallace, who has been so kind as to consult with me in the past, now appears to have been exposed to the same terrible fate that fell upon me in that remote cyclopean Andean valley.   My mind recoils at the memory of  those towering cliffs, covered with carvings, wrought by no human hand.  Written in a language unknown to man but suggesting such terrible things.  And then the rocks moved  as if in an earthquake.  But no earthquake was recorded...  And then I saw...

No.  I cannot put the words down.  The implications are unspeakable.  And to think that for more than two long decades I have done their bidding.  I have forged data of a foul lie of species transmutation.  For years I have resisted publication but I can do so no more.

Fearing the worst I rushed to library and compared the handwriting to material in our history of science collection.  As I dreaded, the unsigned note matched the handwriting of none other than Charles Darwin himself!

Since that day I have searched the internet and elsewhere for further confirmation of my terrible suspicions.  No more than hints have been found but those hints that suggest influences on human history and even prehistory that are alien and perhaps even extradimensional.  Careful perusal of Darwin's photographs from late in life hint at a cephalopodic influence beneath his luxuriant beard.  This aroused my suspicions about the frequency of facial hair amongst evolutionary biologists (I am clean shaven).  I have also discovered notes from noted evolutionist R.A. Fisher (also bearded) in which subtle mathematical errors are hidden.  Working through the math to discover the truth has driven me to the point of madness.  The corrected equations hint at something I dare not put on paper.

I now I fear I have searched too widely.  I have seen numerous strangers walking the streets of our quiet neighborhood.  Strangers with visages and manners that I can only describe as unquiet and indicative of unspeakable miscegenation with certain ancient forms of life.  A stench, as if from the depths of the sea, sometimes wafts up from the deceptively quiet lake surface.

So I can profit no longer from the lie I teach my students.  Before I face the fate that inevitably awaits me I must send out this message.  Evolution is a lie to hide us from a much more terrible truth.

But now the noxious odor is back, stronger than before.  Frogs of a terrible kind, undocumented in the Daily Bucket, call with frequencies no human was ever meant to hear.  Something is on the deck that is not a raccoon....

Those eyes...  By the far flung moons of Saturn such creatures cannot exist...

Editors note - this draft of a DKOS diary was found in matching mole's account.  The laptop was undamaged by had a trace of a curious slime.  We are publishing it in his honor.

Updated Editorial Note - The text has been mysteriously altered.

Originally posted to Backyard Science on Mon Apr 01, 2013 at 10:19 AM PDT.

Also republished by J Town, Readers and Book Lovers, and Community Spotlight.

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