[ WP ] Rewrite a fairytale/myth/legend to include Lovecraftian elements .

It was in a dreary stupor - for in my youth I fancied myself a daring explorer of the outer reaches of the dream-realms; and how bitterly I now regret my hubris! - it was in a most dreary, hazy stupor induced by rare herbs and secret chants ( I will not report them here; and would it be that no one would ever learn of them again! ) that I came, walking along the shores of the Deepest River, whose true name can not be thought, to the Yellow Bridge. 
 
 I do not know, I do not wish to know, which sort of beings they were that built it, for the geometrical patterns adorning it still shine putrescent in my memory; but more horrid than it was the Beast standing in its middle. Vast it was, and strong, and on its crimson back were segmented appendages, not unlike the legs of a gigantic crab. They trashed and quivered, wildly, as the bloated Beast gorged itself on its victims. 
 
 For lo! A road crossed the desolate desert on the other side of the river, and across it crawled a multitude of loathsome, horned, eyeless horrors. In mad frenzy they threw themselves on the bridge, and in mad frenzy the Beast grabbed them with their pincers, and in mad frenzy its probosces sucked their vital fluids ( whose most foul smells I could barely stand even at a distance ) before the Beast threw contemptously their empty husks into their river. The lonesome road across the desert was full of the horrors, all dashing madly towards the river and their Beast; and - no, I was not deceiving myself - the farther I saw, the greater and more terrible they were. 
 
 At last, my eyes looked in the far horizon; and screaming I ran away, following paths I do not wish to remember, and screaming I woke, and naked and screaming I ran from my abode, and naked and screaming and broken my body would have lied under the cliffs of the mountain had the villager not captured me in time. 
 
 One day, the appetite of the Beast will be sated, or its strength bested. On that day, the nameless horned horrors will enter the dreamlands, and they will devour all that lies in them, until they are as desert and desolate as the land across the river. And then... how could the weak wall which separates the dreaming world from the waking world survive their onslaught, if the Beast could not? 
 
 And it gives me no hope to think that perhaps their attack on the bridge could cease, for unknown and unknowable reasons. For if that were to happen - this I know for certain - the Beast's prodigious hunger would then inflict itself on the world of human dreams, and after that on the world of human bodies. 
 
 The world of men - but was it ever ours? Or are we perhaps but fleas, grandly declaring a patch of dog fur our world? I now fear I know the answer... - is soon to end. Nothing can be done about it; and I only write this letter to forewarn you, to forewarn you few who have seen something of the Dreamlands with your waking mind and will not dismiss these for the ramblings of a lunatic. 
 
 When you hear voices of disturbed dreams across the whole world - dreams of a multitude of horned creatures, crawling madly all over the land and all over each other, or dreams of a sole, titanic, red Beast with suckers and pincers - do not, I beg you, do not tarry. Grant yourselves, and your loved ones, a clean and honest death, and spare them from what is to come. 
 
 I will not be there. Since that day, horror unending - the memory of the Beast, and the memory of its preys - covers my life. By passing you this warning, I have discharged my last duty towards my fellow, hopeless kinsmen; and now, at last, Death will come and grant me the only reprieve that I can still have.
