The lurking squamous horror in the unearthly depths of the orb of despair

The siren call of incipient madness calls to me even now, as I scratch these words as a warning to others. How can I begin to describe the horrors that I have witnessed in those occluded depths? It would be so much easier to blot such things from my mind and succumb to gibbering madness, and end my days shut up in a cell in the asylum at Arkham, but I must continue before my will fails.

Very well. Picture if you can, a large, hollow glass orb, containing some pebbles doubtless dredged from the forbidden depths of the dread city of Ryleh and some plants of an alien and eldritch form with a strange plasticity not seen outside of the fetid jungles of the old ones. The inner surface of the orb was covered with a mysterious green growth, reminiscent of the algae to be seen on a sea bloated corpse washed up in Innsmouth harbour under the light of a gibbous moon.

Peering through the murk, I could see flashes of movement as four ichthyoid creatures, darted and shimmered, their pale underbellies counter pointed by their squamous backs, golden in colour like the fires that burn on the dark plateau of Leng. I observed these strange creatures for some while, noting how they were sustained by the libations of some foul smelling insectoid substance introduced to their sphere at regular intervals.

It was difficult to precisely count their number, given the strange angular distortions of the glass that twisted the light through strange dimensions and the ever present clouding algae. I became fixed by a growing obsession that there were now only three of these creatures present in the bowl instead of the four that their had been previously.

With a sense of mounting terror, I removed the lid of the bowl and plucked the plants from the watery depths. My worst fear was confirmed. Of the original four, one had now vanished utterly and there was no other conclusion to be drawn. The black eyes of the remaining three regarded me with cool alien malevolence as I realised that these creatures had consumed their erstwhile companion in a fit of ichthyoid cannibalism.

What sane human could tolerate such creatures in the environs of a humble kitchen? Too late, my eye was drawn to the creature overseeing this madness - an unearthly union of octopus and bat, rendered in plush fabric as if to mock the cosy domestic comforts of a child's teddy bear.

I recoiled in fear, recalling the words that I had once seen inscribed in a gnostic manuscript …

That is not dead, which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons, even a pet goldfish may die ...