the new yorker
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At seven-thirty on a recent August morning, Providence was shrouded in mist. I scuttled down Steeple Street, entered the Art Deco Biltmore Hotel, and took the elevator to the seventeenth floor. Two cloaked and hooded men swept past, bearing fruit cups. It was the last day of NecronomiCon Providence, billed as “The International Conference and Festival of Weird Fiction, Art, and Academia.” Bumper stickers encouraged everyone to “Keep Providence Eldritch.” It was almost time for the Cthulhu Prayer Breakfast to begin.