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The mimes followed his movements, jerking about in ways that no human body should ever have. The tentacles, or whatever they were attached to seemed to have no interest in stopping Moore, a fact that chilled him more than the sightless eyes that watched him. Moore mused upon how his life had gone from surreal fantasy to Lovecraftian chiller in the space of a few lines. Though, he supposed, Lovecraft would never, ever, have written about mimes.
The basement door and the thick mass of tentacles loomed ahead. As he reached the threshold, the tentacles parted, flinging mime carcasses about the room. They ringed the doorway like and arch. A large tentacle crept up the stairs towards Moore and for a moment he thought it was going to snatch him up. The psuedopod wrapped gently around his torso, more like a lover than a slime-ridden thing, and pulled him forward. Guiding him down into the wet and total darkness. Eventually, halfway down the stairs, all the tentacles retracted, apart from his guide, and the basement door shut. Moore was left alone with the light pressure of the tentacle on his waist, and the sounds of what he could only assume was breathing.
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