It was a dark and stormy night as Brinkley sat at the messy desk in his basement laboratory. Quite the Thing, INDEED, he shouted to a stack of papers just moments before he grabbed his overcoat and headed out into the rainy pitch black. The way would be long and the work hard, but it was his discovery, now, his find. The world would know now as it had not in the past. They would know! They would look upon The Thing and they would understand. They would see it and tremble at the thought of it, for the thought of it was a terrible kind of horror, its implications dry and clear and an unforgiving kind of certain. Their amazement would be total, and they would know what Brinkley had sought to know for some time. They would see The Thing and they would see Brinkley there, too, his image embedded firmly in the discovery of the horrible Thing's lurid existence.
Some time later, huddled behind the gravestone of someone long since past and gone from the world, Brinkley would fear his own demise in the blanketing light. He would tremble and see The Thing and would, in a sense that he couldn't fully, before, comprehend from that basement laboratory, genuinely discover the horror he had only - and only could have guessed at.
The pain was immense and quick and then gone along with Brinkley.