H. P. Lovecraft

THE FUNGI FROM YUGGOTH
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XXVI. The Familiars

 John Whateley lived about a mile from town,
 Up where the hills begin to huddle thick;
 We never thought his wits were very quick,
 Seeing the way he let his farm run down.
 He used to waste his time on some queer books
 He'd found around the attic of his place,
 Till funny lines got creased into his face,
 And folks all said they didn't like his looks.
 
 When he began those night-howls we declared
 
 He'd better be locked up away from harm,
 So three men from the Aylesbury town farm
 Went for him - but came back alone and scared.
 They'd found him talking to two crouching things
 That at their step flew off on great black wings.