Hastur Or Pyg
"...also made a mockery out of her own face, pulling it in directions that physics would technically allow but which no one in bloodsbreath of the tears and spillages would seek to ever repeat. That was Westbury and Dunkery. Likewise, in the depths of Chinnock, at the House Of Silent Tides - so far from the sea, even the conchshells gave up no waveforms - you'd find rings of people, linked by odd growths at the collarbone, dancing in oddly Latin (this is 1956 Goddammit!) patterns and chanting wordless incantations towards Hastur or Pyg or Adrian Swyer, the idiot who lived in the lane when he meant to live at the bottom of it. Funny thing, well I laugh, that the last time I went there, the circle had almost broken, just one tiny child with the face of a lemur, playing a tuned tobacco pipe and watching while his sisters - ugly wouldn't make the grade - danced naked and frothing around a single candle, five feet tall and shaped like a fir cone. I asked to join - why not? I still have all my bones - but the kid shook his head and shed so much hair his sisters started to gather it up for the Winter..."
From: Too Much Bracken Got Smoked On The Heath, a memoir olde Somersete Lyes. M. Y. Bramless. Topacatapetl Press. Landhorne.