You begin to tune in on the frequencies coming from the arch, each hemispherical groove a transmitter for the voice-ghosts, long-range emotive forces emerging from the people, places, and things of Old Providence. You tilt your ear to a stone rainbow that hums louder than the rest:

"...old native blood and looked like..."
"...yeah, I think there's about eight of them..."
"...can you describe any of the suspects..."
"...swarthy, slender, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger..."
"...just came from Andrews. The lamps there, you know, like the big ones on the black poles..."
"...something coming down from the greenish moon, for when we began to depend on its light we drifted into curious involuntary formations..."
"...you can get a medium soda free with that. No? Okay..."
"...shit, man, it's cold outside. I thought the days were getting longer, but it was really dark outside the dorm..."
"...(tri)butes to Him in the Gulf, Azathoth, He of Whom Thou hast taught us marv(els)... on the wings of night out beyond space..."
"...calling security, this shit's too weird. Can you fucking hear..."
"...for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last..."
"...Iä... ngai... ygg... I see it -- coming here -- hell-wind..."
"...evil, Father, I think the old sect has..."
"Madness rides the star-wind... claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses... dripping death..."

Suddenly the image of a black eye, thin razor-lines of white denoting its parts, bores into your mind, a piping, chittering scream rips inwards through your ears. The whispers all fall silent.