When Harlan Ellison died, nobody believed it.
“Poke him with a stick,” said the head of the Writers Guild. “Poke him hard. The last time, he was faking.”
By the time they got to “Set him on fire and beat him with a shovel” they knew for certain he was dead.
His estate was put up for auction.
Except for his old typewriter.
It was encased in concrete and sunk to the bottom of a deep lake.
Sometimes, at night, a strange green fog bubbles up from the lake.
As for the screaming tentacles, that’s just a myth.
Isn’t it?