It was the seventeenth anniversary of that night.  

The night when my life as an ordinary citizen of this material world ended.  The night when my entire existence changed.

But allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Phillipe de la Troi, born in Paris in the year 1723, the son of a local magistrate.  Our family was rich, money made in earlier days when noblemen acted according to their own desires with no concern of law or the effects which their actions may yield.  The results of my ancestor's deeds were heralded still, at times when the elder menfolk gathered and talked of 'the old times'.  Their actions, as affected my generation, allowed me the freedom to indulge myself in my studies of the Hidden Lore, the dark secrets of the Necronomicon, the collected ravings of the mad Arab Abdul Al-Hazred.

It is said that the original book was bound in Human skin and sweated still when being held.  Although this tome has been reported lost for centuries, I had managed to procure a copy of part of the book using contacts I had made at various clubs and meetings.  This treasured volume, with several other rare but not so illustrious books, comprised the core of my dark library.  I spent many hours each day hunched in study over my treasures, learning all the occult secrets I could.  I employed learned men to teach me mathematics, astrology, anatomy.  In short, I learned the sciences of man and the universe, trying to weave some meaning into the legends I had been taught as a child.

In following this dark path I had uncovered a knowledge in which I now presumed I held the highest order of expertise.  At this point I began to research the ancient lore of the Egyptians, their Gods, religious practices and monuments.  I learned their hieroglyphs, their ancient written language, and even learned the esoterica of numerology and the mystical significance of sacred numbers.

I booked passage on a ship to Egypt and set about my studies in earnest.  Every day I made measurements of the most ancient and wonderous of Egypt's treasures; the Pyramids of Gizeh!

What man's mind conceived these cyclopean constructions?  And what labours to erect them?  

But I digress, even now I am still drawn in awe to their magnificence.

After many days of making measurements and poring over my growing library of Egyptian esoteric lore, I stumbled (I use this word as, to this day, I believe it was more luck than ability, although of that I had much) across a reference to Narlahotep.  This was an Egyptian name I was unfamiliar with although I was sure I had come across a similar reference in the mad Arab's book.  Sure enough, the Necronomicon mentioned an ancient Elder, Nyarlathotep, surely a reference to the same dead entity, whose power now consisted only of the promise that His invocation would reward the invoker with higher experiences within the realms of existence.

Al Hazred's tome also made reference to the rite to summon this prehistoric deity.  I studied the invocation, making sure to learn the pronunciation of each phrase, the enactment of each gesture, the timing of each response.

In my vigour to stretch my talents further, the next time I entered the Great Pyramid's innermost chamber I took my copy of the Necronomicon and began to scribe a great circle in the center of the floor, within which I would proceed to perform the Rite Of Nyarlathotep.

Firstly I drew upon the stone floor an unbroken double circle, within which lines I laid out sigils of protection as indicated.  Within the circle, a pentacle whose points touched the curve.  I placed a pedestal within the five sided centre of the pentacle and placed the Necronomicon atop it.  With fires burning in braziers to each side of the pedestal, I began to chant the weird phrases recorded by Al-Hazred.  The sound of my voice, reflected back from the rock walls of the chamber, mingled with each new phrase to reverberate into an unearthly chorus.  As the smoke from my braziers began to fill the chamber I struck a bronze gong and threw a powder into the fires, raising my voice to such a volume that the noise within the room was almost deafening.  

Then I stopped.

And, in the silence, waited.

As my apprehension grew I cursed myself for rushing too quickly into such a complex ritual.  I would have to wait until I had further studied the rite and all its subtle nuances.

I prepared to pack away my occult paraphernalia but, as soon as my foot left the outermost circle, a sudden gust of wind (from where I know not) extinguished my fires.  I stumbled backwards and collided with the pedestal, knocking the book onto the floor.  With shaking hands I somehow managed to light a candle and stared wild eyed at the thing which now appeared before me.

There, within the cloying smoke, began to materialise tentacles and eyes.  A form whose visage spoke only of absolute horror and unnatural life.  I watched as it grew more substantial, filling the chamber with its hideous features.  I may have cried out in fear, to whom and for what I do not know, but as I kneeled within the broken lines of my pentacle I prayed to a God to whom I had not spoken since childhood.  

What had I done wrong?  Indeed, what had I done?  For here I was, trapped within a ready made tomb in the presence of a creature from beyond the Pale, unprotected by my puny magics.  

The summoned entity, surely Nyarlathotep himself, began to laugh as its leprous tentacles reached toward me.  I shrank back, gibbering with fear, as I tried to avoid its touch.

As my terror grew to unimaginable proportion I realised my mistake, for there, on the page which that foul book had fallen open at, was written the most cryptic of the mad Arab's ravings:

'That is not dead which can eternal lie,

For through strange aeons even Death may die...'

In that, my final moment, as my very heart stopped beating, I knew that the Elder Gods lived still, imprisoned within their prehistoric tombs, and I knew the ancient evil that was Nyarlathotep's hunger – that for Human life.