One of the recurring apparitions, or problems, whatever you want to call it, of staying at the HP Lovecraft Hotel And Casino is that the premises are the, naturally, home grounds of C'thulhu. It's not as though you are not going to be seeing him if you stay there. You know that, right? C'thulhu is very large so he can't just be showing up in the hallways and lavatories of the place. So an underground arena has been excavated for him to run around in. You have to pay admission to go into the arena via the tunnels and coiling passage ways, steaming with foetor. And you have to pay a lot. Plus you will be in there alone. You need to really want to have the shit scared out of you to be in here. At some point you egress a tunnel and you enter a vast, mist-filled humid dirt-packed greenish-ichored-fog-choked empty space with sounds and echoes unearthly and hopeless and then rises up before you, in stench and the smells of rotted oblivion, the great god itself, C'thulhu, ready to reveal to you the reality of your suspicions that your life has meant absolutely nothing and that from this point on only your destruction has any significance to anything: the getting-rid-of you is what actually makes a difference to creation and gives it a justification to stay in existence; your absence gives the universe meaning. This is the conviction that somehow flows through you as if implanted there by some telepathic power of the great ugly squid-brained monstrosity that now monopolizes your vision and your life.
No two people have the same inner experience from having C'thulhu in all his unaromatic baggage stare down at you as he looms continually larger before you as the two of you share existence alone for this little while. Some emerge having a new appreciation for things they before found annoying or unpleasant. Some on the other hand despair of ever experiencing happiness again. But all are changed. And of course change is good. Unless the change results in your death.
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