In The Fullness Of Time (The Shores of Lost Carcosa Remix) by synecdochic - SG1 by way of Robert Chambers. Now why I'm reccing this.
I have a serious weakness for well-executed pastiche--for that matter, any kind of stylization when it's done well. Syne pulled the formal first-person of twenties horror (and you know who else wrote like this? Lovecraft. Yes). This is good and I was utterly thrilled to give it a look over because this isn't a style that's seen anymore outside of pastiche. The story is good and solid and I'd recommend on its merits, but even if I didn't like the story, I'd recommend it anywa for the mastery of this particular and demanding style of writing.
Even if you have no interest in SG1, Phillips, or horror, read it for the delicate attention to language, the careful formality of the prose, and the weaving of horror to the cusp of drama but never quite touching. Syne skillfully uses the formality to increase the peripheral of horror, the things that seep through the edges of reality, paying careful attention to setting and a very modern character. The rhythm gets to me; reading it out loud is almost surreal, this feeling of being in a very dark New England in a very old house with something far more ancient than Time surrounding you.
As a fanfic, it's Syne, so it goes without saying that it's good. As an exercise in style, it's close to flawless.
Dear reader, I dreamed, and knew myself to be dreaming; the carpet upon which I trod was thick and luxurious, my feet sinking into it with every step, its warp and weft reaching for me even as I stepped upon it; the walls of the corridor in which I stood were papered richly with an ivory and silken damask, upon which were drawn, not roses, but the unlikely choice of cabbage-flowers. In the distance I could hear the rustle of voices, paper-thin and indistinct; the clatter of glassware punctuated the disjointed threads of music arising from the string quartet whose presence could not be seen, only assumed. The music crept outward, filling my ears, so subtle it was barely audible and yet so compelling it crept into my thoughts and nested there, as though it sought to carve itself a corner of my mind. In the way of dreams I could not now name you the air they played. I only know it for the sense it left me, edgy and nervous as though it were a knife's-edge danger; it took me some moments to identify the cause, the lead violin racing ahead of the other strings by half a step, leaving discord in its wake.
Try reading it out loud. Seriously.