The Horror at Whirlpool

     Dear reader, please forgive the hastiness of this post; I must record the events I have just witnessed, in a last ditch effort to preserve my over strained rationality.  As you read, you may have doubts as to my sanity; but please try to reserve your judgements, until you fully partake of this account.

     With furtive and worrisome looks my worthy associate Sam surveyed the area, while I plied the vault-like door, with both hands.  After a moment's hesitation, I swung the mighy portal open and gained entrace, to the sepulchre shaped device.  Within the rectangular structure a wan light, issuing from an unknown source above, revealed the Chthonian interior.  I glanced around and immediately noticed an inordinate quantity of peculiar, small, rectangular containers.

      "What ancient secrets did these minute chests abscond?  What Eldritch knowledge, from aeons past, did these cleverly constructed reservoirs hold in their depths?" I pondered.

     Unable to restrain my insatiable curiosity, I lifted one of the miniature crates and peered at the mold covered symbols.  Lacking the linguistic skill required to ascertain the meaning of the encrusted glyphs in such languid light, I unwisely decided to pry it open, in order to observe its sacred contents.  Using a small, but stout, iron bar, I managed to break free one corner of the vessel's lid.  What happened next defies all rationality.

     Before lapsing into unconsciousness, for an unknown period of time, my sensorium was immediately assailed by a fetor so powerful my head began to reel.  In the seconds before I was mercifully sent to oblivion, passing out due to over encumberment of my sensory, I glimpsed what appeared to be an octopod like tentacle and an army, of lime green polypoids, swaying within the arcane interior.  I beheld sights undescribable and unmentionable to those of common sensibility and mental faculties.  In my last, fleeting moments of consciousness, I thought to hear the beating of vile drums and the thin, monotonous whine of the accursed flutes of Azathoth.

     When I awoke, I noticed the cover was now leaning against the base of the vault's structure.  The verdigris obscuring the symbols had broken away to reveal the runes it had once concealed.  The box and its contents lay upside down on the floor.  I recoiled, in horror, as I read the aged caligraphy laid bare before my eyes.  The lid bore only one word, "Glad."

     Yep. I just cleaned my fridge.  I love those cheap, disposable containers; they are easy to use. Unfortunately, their convenience can be the catalyst of unintentional scientific, "experiments."  After a few weeks of neglect, there is no telling what horrors they hold within!  I imagine if H.P. Lovecraft were able to read this little ditty, he'd be performing exercises, of undescribable exasperation, in his grave!  I wrote this with an "imitation is flattery" notion and a dose of facetiousness, on the side.