LoveKraft Tentacles & Cheese
Found Journal
Editor’s Note:
This document was discovered tucked behind the employee microwave in the break room of a recently condemned grocery store just off Route 66. The store's records show no indication that the product in question, LoveKraft Tentacles & Cheese, was ever stocked, ordered, or approved by any supplier.
Authorities dismissed the journal as an elaborate prank. We, however, believe it deserves a wider audience. For legal reasons, we do not endorse the consumption of any non-canonical macaroni products that hum, whisper, or attempt to rearrange your furniture.
Proceed with caution. And maybe skip lunch.
The shelf was empty, then suddenly, there it was: one box. Cold to the touch despite the lack of refrigeration. A blue rectangle. So blue. Like staring into a cloudless sky, unable to blink.
The package hummed when I picked it up. Just the fluorescent lights, probably. But a low, rhythmic murmur seemed to thread through the hum, too soft to grasp, almost like words but so faint I couldn't make them out.
LoveKraft
Tentacles & Cheese
Fhtagn! Flavour
I laughed, although it was forced. Clever pun. Must be some kind of novelty brand. The sort of ironic gourmet gag your friends bring to potlucks.
With an effort, I put it back on the shelf.
But when I unloaded my cart at checkout, it was there. I don’t remember picking it up again. And yet, I bought it. The transaction somehow feeling like a tithe and also deviantly sinful.
I don’t remember the drive home. But as I sat listening to the ticking of my car's cooling engine, the world already dark, I realised it had been afternoon when I left the store.
I cooked it for dinner.
The directions were written in a language I didn’t know, yet I knew exactly what to do.
Stir widdershins. Unleash the essence. Recite the incantation while facing magnetic north, "until the cheese remembers."
The noodles squirmed. Not like worms. Like tentacles from a nightmare. They pulsed, recalling some briny trauma from beyond the stars.
Like they knew me.
And the cheese! Dear God, the cheese! It shimmered with an iridescent slickness, like an oil spill dreaming.
The first bite was euphoric. A mouthful of dread and sharp cheddar, warm and unholy, thick and unctuous, humming with memories that were not mine.
Between the first bite and the second, I dreamed of deep places. Black cities beneath blacker seas. Cyclopean towers encrusted with coral and time. And something stirred down there, its body shifting in rhythms I couldn't comprehend. Tentacled and waiting. Shifting. Smothering stars. Crushing planets.
It's nonsense, isn't it?
I found the box on the sidewalk.
Just...sitting there, like it had been waiting. Blue as the deep. Cold to the touch. A little too heavy for its size. The lid clicked when I opened it, like a lock releasing. Like permission granted.
It was empty.
No noodles. No cheese. Just the faintest residue, clinging to the inside in slick constellations. Patterns that made my temples ache to look at for too long. There was a smell. Not unpleasant. But not...food. More like memory. Like a smell from a dream.
I didn’t mean to take it. I just...did. Tucked it under my arm and kept walking. It felt wrong to leave it there. Like leaving a crying child on the curb.
And now?
Now I keep hearing something.
When it's quiet. When I'm alone. Just under the threshold of thought. Like breath on the back of my neck, barely there.
A whisper.
I opened the box again. It was filled with noodles and cheese.
I haven't eaten anything today.
But I'm hungry.
So hungry.
Not for the faint of heart! With every evil, savory bite, you'll find yourself grappling with questions of existence and mortality. Yet amidst the terror, there's a strange comfort, a realization that perhaps our fears are just as integral to the human experience as our joys.
If you're craving a dining experience that not only satisfies your taste buds but also plunges you into a pit of existential despair, look no further than LoveKraft Tentacles and Cheese. Just be sure to have a blankie and a nightlight nearby. You'll need them.
"Tasted like screaming. But like…comfort screaming?" —H. Armitage
With an effort, I put it back on the shelf.
But when I unloaded my cart at checkout, it was there. I don’t remember picking it up again. And yet, I bought it. The transaction somehow feeling like a tithe and also deviantly sinful.
I don’t remember the drive home. But as I sat listening to the ticking of my car's cooling engine, the world already dark, I realised it had been afternoon when I left the store.
I cooked it for dinner.
The directions were written in a language I didn’t know, yet I knew exactly what to do.
As I stirred, syllables seemed to rise from the pot, a whispered echo I dismissed as my imagination.
Like they knew me.
And the cheese! Dear God, the cheese! It shimmered with an iridescent slickness, like an oil spill dreaming.
It was sinful, but not in the way of ordinary indulgence, not the dopamine thrill of sugar or salt, something deeper. More intimate. Lubricious. I tasted the collapse of civilizations, the grief of drowned empires, and something else. Something sweet, like childhood, but twisted at non-Euclidean angles.
I felt pressure behind my eyes, like something had awoken inside me and was watching through me. Waiting. Just waiting. Something that had been there all along, perhaps, sleeping beneath the folds of my consciousness. Coiled. Patient. As if my entire life had been a slow procession toward this moment of flavour, of profligacy.
My dog barked once, sharp and sudden. Then she went still. She hasn't moved since. I've called her name. I've shaken her. She simply stares at me. I think she sees what has awakened inside me, whatever it is. She knows better than to move.
The world grew quieter. The hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock, even the restless noise in my own head, gone. My pulse slowed. As though I’d entered a cathedral made of madness and void. I sat in that silence, bowl cradled in my hands, and I swear I could hear the stars breathing. Exhaling and inhaling in slow, cosmic rhythm, their lungs filled with the dust of dying suns.
I sat back, the warmth lingering on my tongue, a deceptive calm settling over me like a shroud. The room seemed to pulse faintly, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
I took another bite.
It was delicious.
Unnaturally so. The kind of flavour that makes you question whether you've ever really tasted food before. It was familiar, like comfort food conjured from a half-remembered childhood, but there was something older curled inside it. A whisper. A presence. I could taste cheddar, yes, sharp and velvety, yet beneath that were other notes: the brine of forgotten oceans, the metallic tang of rust, and something else I couldn't place. Something bitter. Something alive.
It was like eating homesickness. Like chewing on nostalgia laced with mourning. Each bite brought a sense of comfort speared through with agony. A richness that filled my mouth and tightened inside my stomach. It didn't satisfy my hunger, it awakened it, turned it into something rapacious. Esurient. Unholy. Like I was meant to eat this. Like I had always been meant to.
There was salt. Salt the way the sea delivers it: with weight and memory. Salt from a time before tongues and recipes, when flavour was still a function of fear. It spoke of senescence, of decline and rot and grace in decay. A taste that makes you remember regrets. Past lives. Ancient debts.
And beneath it all, there was blood.
I should've been terrified. Any sane person would be.
But I wasn't afraid.
I was hungry.
So hungry.
As I swallowed, I heard them.
Not a sound in the room, not really. Nothing my ears could explain. But something about the texture, the way the noodles slid down my throat, carried...words. Thoughts that weren't mine, but were. Concepts too large and wet to be fully understood. They didn't speak in language, exactly, but in meaning, injected straight into my mind.
The noodles whispered to me.
At first, just fragments. Flickers of knowledge. Half-formed images I couldn't hold onto: an eye opening inside a thundercloud, a name older than breath, a laugh that spanned geological epochs. But then they became more specific. They started telling me things. Facts no one should know. Things no one wants to know.
They told me what really happened in Milwaukee.
I don't even know anyone in Milwaukee. I’ve never been. And yet I saw it. Every detail. The basement. The sacrifice. The sauce. The cover-up. The letters they carved into the grout behind the water heater, still warm with truth.
And that was just the beginning.
Now, when I'm alone I hear them more clearly. Not just in my thoughts, but in the quiet hum between electrical appliances. In the bubbling of the toilet. In the wind as it rattles the flue. A chant, looping and looping. Soft at first, but insistent.
"Ph'nglui... mac and cheesi wgah'nagl fhtagn..."
Except I find myself repeating it under my breath. Sometimes aloud. Sometimes when I'm not even aware I'm speaking.
Last night, I caught myself writing it on the condensation of the bathroom mirror. I wiped it away, but the steam returned. The words were still there.
I think the sun has risen and set a hundred times.
Or maybe only once.
It's hard to say now. Time doesn't move the way it used to, not in straight lines. Not in hours and minutes. The clocks in the house have stopped, not just ticking but functioning. They no longer turn forward or backward; they simply...hum. Like they, too, have been shown something they cannot explain and have chosen stillness over comprehension.
I haven't checked the calendar in days. Weeks? Seasons? I opened the fridge this morning and found fresh lemons that I’m certain I never bought, arranged into a spiral. The milk expired two decades ago. And yet when I opened the container, it smelled fresh and glowed faintly, like moonlight on bone.
Then came the knock.
Not a polite knock. Not demanding. It was expectant. Rhythmic. As if someone were tapping out a summons they didn't fully understand.
I opened the door.
My neighbors stood there. They looked at me like they'd always been waiting at my front door.
They brought side dishes.
And sporks.
I greeted them in a language I didn't know I knew that spilled from my lips like a hymn, each syllable soaked in longing, breaking my throat with its strangeness. They understood.
Together, we dined under the endless tapestry of the stars, all light and judgment, gazing down with silent, unbearable knowing.
I can't remember my name anymore.
I know I had one. It was printed on junk mail. Whispered at birthday parties. Screamed once or twice in ecstasy or warning. But it's gone now, scraped away like melted cheese from the sides of a microwave-safe bowl.
In its place, there is only function. Only role. I am no longer the eater. I am the eaten. And the meal. And the mouth.
I am the vessel.
I am the chef.
I am the cheese.
I can feel it inside me now, churning. Always churning. Not digesting, transforming. Reconstituting. My bones are softening. My thoughts have thickened. My skin sweats whey. I wake up covered in a crust of curd and ash, my tongue thick with forgotten recipes scrawled in dead languages. I have been kneaded by forces too immense to name. Stirred by will alone.
There is no hunger anymore.
No need. No desire. Only command. Only the pull of the collective table. I see now that what I thought was craving was simply the call to commune.
A communion older than salt. Older than gods.
Now, when I close my eyes, I see not darkness, but a spiraling gyre of dairy and sinew and tentacle. A celestial pasta of thought and void, folding forever inward. At the center, a nucleus of melted cheddar, sharp with intention.
There is no "I." Only churn.
Only the eternal churn.
Only the fhtagn.
“That is not cheese which can eternal lie,And with strange hunger even death may die.”
Editor’s Addendum: A Second Note Was Later Discovered
Recovered near the same location, this time tucked into the folds of an empty plastic wrapper lodged in a storm drain two blocks away. The handwriting does not match the original journal entry. The ink is fresher. The spiral begins again.
Just...sitting there, like it had been waiting. Blue as the deep. Cold to the touch. A little too heavy for its size. The lid clicked when I opened it, like a lock releasing. Like permission granted.
It was empty.
No noodles. No cheese. Just the faintest residue, clinging to the inside in slick constellations. Patterns that made my temples ache to look at for too long. There was a smell. Not unpleasant. But not...food. More like memory. Like a smell from a dream.
I didn’t mean to take it. I just...did. Tucked it under my arm and kept walking. It felt wrong to leave it there. Like leaving a crying child on the curb.
And now?
Now I keep hearing something.
When it's quiet. When I'm alone. Just under the threshold of thought. Like breath on the back of my neck, barely there.
A whisper.
"Ph'nglui... mac and cheesi wgah'nagl fhtagn..."
I opened the box again. It was filled with noodles and cheese.
I haven't eaten anything today.
But I'm hungry.
Embrace the Abyss:
LoveKraft Tentacles and Cheese, original Fhtagn! Flavor
Where Existential Dread and Horror Meet in Every Bite!
You've never experienced such a rollercoaster of dark emotions in a single meal until you’ve tried LoveKraft Tentacles and Cheese.
From the moment you open the package, you experience a creeping sense of existential dread, but hey, isn't that what we all crave in a complete meal?
As the tendrils of tentacles dance on your plate, each bite becomes a communion with the unknown, a reminder of the vastness of the universe and our insignificance within it. Delightfully chewy, as if they are reaching out from the depths of the unknown to tickle your taste buds, and maybe your thoughts.
And the cheese? It is as though Cthulhu himself has blessed it with a touch of madness.
Not for the faint of heart! With every evil, savory bite, you'll find yourself grappling with questions of existence and mortality. Yet amidst the terror, there's a strange comfort, a realization that perhaps our fears are just as integral to the human experience as our joys.
If you're craving a dining experience that not only satisfies your taste buds but also plunges you into a pit of existential despair, look no further than LoveKraft Tentacles and Cheese. Just be sure to have a blankie and a nightlight nearby. You'll need them.
Warning: Product may cause hallucinations, memory dilation, spontaneous tongue evolution, and a desire to found a devotional supper cult.
USER REVIEWS
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐"Tasted like screaming. But like…comfort screaming?" —H. Armitage
⭐☆☆☆☆
"Too chewy. Also I can see time now and my cat won’t talk to me." —Randolph C.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
"My kids love it. They haven't blinked in three days." —singlemom2033
Final Editor’s Note:
If you find an empty box, blue, humming faintly, slightly too cold to the touch, do not open it.
Do not sniff it. Do not listen to the whisper.
Just walk away. Slowly.
Or...
Make sure you have some spoons ready.
Embrace the Fhtagn Fashion: Get Your LoveKraft Tentacles & Cheese T-Shirt!
Dare to wear the unspeakable! The eldritch allure of LoveKraft Tentacles & Cheese has slithered beyond the pantry and onto your wardrobe. Snag one of our exclusive t-shirts, featuring the iconic blue box, writhing tentacles, and that unforgettable "Fhtagn! Flavour" drip. Each design is a cosmic tribute to the meal that awakens the abyss within—perfect for potlucks with a purpose or summoning circles with style.
Available now in a range of unholy hues, these shirts are crafted to turn heads and unsettle minds. You’ll carry the weight of forgotten oceans and sharp cheddar with every wear.
Warning: May attract curious neighbors, spontaneous chants, or a sudden craving for the unknown.
Seen the box yourself? Found new recipes in your dreams? Tell us in the comments—just don’t say the chant out loud.
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