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The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft PDF
The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft PDF
The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft PDF
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Howard Phillips Lovecraft (August 20, 1890 – March 15, 1937), a prolific and problematic
writer, is often considered one of the greatest authors of early American horror, science-
fiction, and "weird" fiction. His stories echo such great horror and fantasy authors as Poe,
Dunsany, and Chambers. But Lovecraft also brought to his writing a "cosmic horror," which
sprang out of his fantasies and nightmares.
The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft contains all Lovecraft's solo writings as an adult,
beginning in 1917 with "The Tomb" and ending in 1935 with "The Haunter of the Dark." His
collaborative works and revisions are not included.
Table of Contents
Preface .............................................................................................................................2
The Tomb..........................................................................................................................5
Dagon .............................................................................................................................12
Polaris.............................................................................................................................16
Beyond the Wall of Sleep ...............................................................................................19
Memory...........................................................................................................................26
Old Bugs .........................................................................................................................27
The Transition of Juan Romero ......................................................................................32
The White Ship ...............................................................................................................37
The Doom That Came to Sarnath ...................................................................................41
The Statement of Randolph Carter .................................................................................45
The Terrible Old Man ......................................................................................................49
The Tree .........................................................................................................................51
The Cats of Ulthar...........................................................................................................54
The Temple .....................................................................................................................56
Facts Concerning the Late Arthur Jermyn and His Family ..............................................64
The Street .......................................................................................................................70
Celephaïs .......................................................................................................................74
From Beyond ..................................................................................................................78
Nyarlathotep ...................................................................................................................83
The Picture in the House ................................................................................................85
Ex Oblivione ...................................................................................................................90
The Nameless City .........................................................................................................92
The Quest of Iranon ......................................................................................................100
The Moon-Bog ..............................................................................................................104
The Outsider .................................................................................................................109
The Other Gods ............................................................................................................ 113
The Music of Erich Zann ............................................................................................... 116
Herbert West — Reanimator ........................................................................................121
Hypnos .........................................................................................................................139
What the Moon Brings ..................................................................................................144
Azathoth .......................................................................................................................146
The Hound ....................................................................................................................147
The Lurking Fear ..........................................................................................................152
The Rats in the Walls ....................................................................................................165
The Unnamable ............................................................................................................177
The Festival ..................................................................................................................182
The Shunned House .....................................................................................................188
The Horror at Red Hook ...............................................................................................204
He .................................................................................................................................217
In the Vault....................................................................................................................224
The Descendant ...........................................................................................................229
Cool Air .........................................................................................................................232
The Call of Cthulhu .......................................................................................................238
Pickman's Model...........................................................................................................256
The Silver Key ..............................................................................................................264
The Strange High House in the Mist .............................................................................272
The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath .........................................................................278
The Case of Charles Dexter Ward ................................................................................338
The Colour Out of Space ..............................................................................................414
The Very Old Folk .........................................................................................................431
The Thing in the Moonlight ...........................................................................................435
The History of the Necronomicon .................................................................................437
Ibid ................................................................................................................................439
The Dunwich Horror .....................................................................................................442
The Whisperer in Darkness ..........................................................................................469
At the Mountains of Madness .......................................................................................510
The Shadow Over Innsmouth .......................................................................................572
The Dreams in the Witch House ...................................................................................612
The Thing on the Doorstep ...........................................................................................634
The Evil Clergyman ......................................................................................................651
The Book ......................................................................................................................654
The Shadow Out of Time ..............................................................................................656
The Haunter of the Dark ...............................................................................................694
The Tomb
(1917)
In relating the circumstances which have led to my confinement within this refuge for the
demented, I am aware that my present position will create a natural doubt of the authenticity
of my narrative. It is an unfortunate fact that the bulk of humanity is too limited in its mental
vision to weigh with patience and intelligence those isolated phenomena, seen and felt only
by a psychologically sensitive few, which lie outside its common experience. Men of broader
intellect know that there is no sharp distinction betwixt the real and the unreal; that all things
appear as they do only by virtue of the delicate individual physical and mental media through
which we are made conscious of them; but the prosaic materialism of the majority condemns
as madness the flashes of super-sight which penetrate the common veil of obvious
empiricism.
My name is Jervas Dudley, and from earliest childhood I have been a dreamer and a
visionary. Wealthy beyond the necessity of a commercial life, and temperamentally unfitted for
the formal studies and social recreations of my acquaintances, I have dwelt ever in realms
apart from the visible world; spending my youth and adolescence in ancient and little-known
books, and in roaming the fields and groves of the region near my ancestral home. I do not
think that what I read in these books or saw in these fields and groves was exactly what other
boys read and saw there; but of this I must say little, since detailed speech would but confirm
those cruel slanders upon my intellect which I sometimes overhear from the whispers of the
stealthy attendants around me. It is sufficient for me to relate events without analysing
causes.
I have said that I dwelt apart from the visible world, but I have not said that I dwelt alone. This
no human creature may do; for lacking the fellowship of the living, he inevitably draws upon
the companionship of things that are not, or are no longer, living. Close by my home there lies
a singular wooded hollow, in whose twilight deeps I spent most of my time; reading, thinking,
and dreaming. Down its moss-covered slopes my first steps of infancy were taken, and
around its grotesquely gnarled oak trees my first fancies of boyhood were woven. Well did I
come to know the presiding dryads of those trees, and often have I watched their wild dances
in the struggling beams of a waning moon—but of these things I must not now speak. I will tell
only of the lone tomb in the darkest of the hillside thickets; the deserted tomb of the Hydes, an
old and exalted family whose last direct descendant had been laid within its black recesses
many decades before my birth.
The vault to which I refer is of ancient granite, weathered and discoloured by the mists and
dampness of generations. Excavated back into the hillside, the structure is visible only at the
entrance. The door, a ponderous and forbidding slab of stone, hangs upon rusted iron hinges,
and is fastened ajar in a queerly sinister way by means of heavy iron chains and padlocks,
according to a gruesome fashion of half a century ago. The abode of the race whose scions
are here inurned had once crowned the declivity which holds the tomb, but had long since
fallen victim to the flames which sprang up from a disastrous stroke of lightning. Of the
midnight storm which destroyed this gloomy mansion, the older inhabitants of the region
sometimes speak in hushed and uneasy voices; alluding to what they call ―divine wrath‖ in a
manner that in later years vaguely increased the always strong fascination which I felt for the
forest-darkened sepulchre. One man only had perished in the fire. When the last of the Hydes
was buried in this place of shade and stillness, the sad urnful of ashes had come from a
distant land; to which the family had repaired when the mansion burned down. No one
remains to lay flowers before the granite portal, and few care to brave the depressing
shadows which seem to linger strangely about the water-worn stones.
I shall never forget the afternoon when first I stumbled upon the half-hidden house of death. It
was in mid-summer, when the alchemy of Nature transmutes the sylvan landscape to one
vivid and almost homogeneous mass of green; when the senses are well-nigh intoxicated with
the surging seas of moist verdure and the subtly indefinable odours of the soil and the
vegetation. In such surroundings the mind loses its perspective; time and space become
trivial and unreal, and echoes of a forgotten prehistoric past beat insistently upon the
enthralled consciousness. All day I had been wandering through the mystic groves of the
hollow; thinking thoughts I need not discuss, and conversing with things I need not name. In
years a child of ten, I had seen and heard many wonders unknown to the throng; and was
oddly aged in certain respects. When, upon forcing my way between two savage clumps of
briers, I suddenly encountered the entrance of the vault, I had no knowledge of what I had
discovered. The dark blocks of granite, the door so curiously ajar, and the funereal carvings
above the arch, aroused in me no associations of mournful or terrible character. Of graves
and tombs I knew and imagined much, but had on account of my peculiar temperament been
kept from all personal contact with churchyards and cemeteries. The strange stone house on
the woodland slope was to me only a source of interest and speculation; and its cold, damp
interior, into which I vainly peered through the aperture so tantalisingly left, contained for me
no hint of death or decay. But in that instant of curiosity was born the madly unreasoning
desire which has brought me to this hell of confinement. Spurred on by a voice which must
have come from the hideous soul of the forest, I resolved to enter the beckoning gloom in
spite of the ponderous chains which barred my passage. In the waning light of day I
alternately rattled the rusty impediments with a view to throwing wide the stone door, and
essayed to squeeze my slight form through the space already provided; but neither plan met
with success. At first curious, I was now frantic; and when in the thickening twilight I returned
to my home, I had sworn to the hundred gods of the grove that at any cost I would some day
force an entrance to the black, chilly depths that seemed calling out to me. The physician with
the iron-grey beard who comes each day to my room once told a visitor that this decision
marked the beginning of a pitiful monomania; but I will leave final judgment to my readers
when they shall have learnt all.
The months following my discovery were spent in futile attempts to force the complicated
padlock of the slightly open vault, and in carefully guarded inquiries regarding the nature and
history of the structure. With the traditionally receptive ears of the small boy, I learned much;
though an habitual secretiveness caused me to tell no one of my information or my resolve. It
is perhaps worth mentioning that I was not at all surprised or terrified on learning of the nature
of the vault. My rather original ideas regarding life and death had caused me to associate the
cold clay with the breathing body in a vague fashion; and I felt that the great and sinister
family of the burned-down mansion was in some way represented within the stone space I
sought to explore. Mumbled tales of the weird rites and godless revels of bygone years in the
ancient hall gave to me a new and potent interest in the tomb, before whose door I would sit
for hours at a time each day. Once I thrust a candle within the nearly closed entrance, but
could see nothing save a flight of damp stone steps leading downward. The odour of the
place repelled yet bewitched me. I felt I had known it before, in a past remote beyond all
recollection; beyond even my tenancy of the body I now possess.
The year after I first beheld the tomb, I stumbled upon a worm-eaten translation of Plutarch‘s
Lives in the book-filled attic of my home. Reading the life of Theseus, I was much impressed
by that passage telling of the great stone beneath which the boyish hero was to find his
tokens of destiny whenever he should become old enough to lift its enormous weight. This
legend had the effect of dispelling my keenest impatience to enter the vault, for it made me
feel that the time was not yet ripe. Later, I told myself, I should grow to a strength and
ingenuity which might enable me to unfasten the heavily chained door with ease; but until
then I would do better by conforming to what seemed the will of Fate.
Accordingly my watches by the dank portal became less persistent, and much of my time was
spent in other though equally strange pursuits. I would sometimes rise very quietly in the
night, stealing out to walk in those churchyards and places of burial from which I had been
kept by my parents. What I did there I may not say, for I am not now sure of the reality of
certain things; but I know that on the day after such a nocturnal ramble I would often astonish
those about me with my knowledge of topics almost forgotten for many generations. It was
after a night like this that I shocked the community with a queer conceit about the burial of the
rich and celebrated Squire Brewster, a maker of local history who was interred in 1711, and
whose slate headstone, bearing a graven skull and crossbones, was slowly crumbling to
powder. In a moment of childish imagination I vowed not only that the undertaker, Goodman
Simpson, had stolen the silver-buckled shoes, silken hose, and satin small-clothes of the
deceased before burial; but that the Squire himself, not fully inanimate, had turned twice in his
mound-covered coffin on the day after interment.
But the idea of entering the tomb never left my thoughts; being indeed stimulated by the
unexpected genealogical discovery that my own maternal ancestry possessed at least a slight
link with the supposedly extinct family of the Hydes. Last of my paternal race, I was likewise
the last of this older and more mysterious line. I began to feel that the tomb was mine, and to
look forward with hot eagerness to the time when I might pass within that stone door and
down those slimy stone steps in the dark. I now formed the habit of listening very intently at
the slightly open portal, choosing my favourite hours of midnight stillness for the odd vigil. By
the time I came of age, I had made a small clearing in the thicket before the mould-stained
facade of the hillside, allowing the surrounding vegetation to encircle and overhang the space
like the walls and roof of a sylvan bower. This bower was my temple, the fastened door my
shrine, and here I would lie outstretched on the mossy ground, thinking strange thoughts and
dreaming strange dreams.
The night of the first revelation was a sultry one. I must have fallen asleep from fatigue, for it
was with a distinct sense of awakening that I heard the voices. Of those tones and accents I
hesitate to speak; of their quality I will not speak; but I may say that they presented certain
uncanny differences in vocabulary, pronunciation, and mode of utterance. Every shade of
New England dialect, from the uncouth syllables of the Puritan colonists to the precise rhetoric
of fifty years ago, seemed represented in that shadowy colloquy, though it was only later that I
noticed the fact. At the time, indeed, my attention was distracted from this matter by another
phenomenon; a phenomenon so fleeting that I could not take oath upon its reality. I barely
fancied that as I awoke, a light had been hurriedly extinguished within the sunken sepulchre. I
do not think I was either astounded or panic-stricken, but I know that I was greatly and
permanently changed that night. Upon returning home I went with much directness to a rotting
chest in the attic, wherein I found the key which next day unlocked with ease the barrier I had
so long stormed in vain.
It was in the soft glow of late afternoon that I first entered the vault on the abandoned slope. A
spell was upon me, and my heart leaped with an exultation I can but ill describe. As I closed
the door behind me and descended the dripping steps by the light of my lone candle, I
seemed to know the way; and though the candle sputtered with the stifling reek of the place, I
felt singularly at home in the musty, charnel-house air. Looking about me, I beheld many
marble slabs bearing coffins, or the remains of coffins. Some of these were sealed and intact,
but others had nearly vanished, leaving the silver handles and plates isolated amidst certain
curious heaps of whitish dust. Upon one plate I read the name of Sir Geoffrey Hyde, who had
come from Sussex in 1640 and died here a few years later. In a conspicuous alcove was one
fairly well-preserved and untenanted casket, adorned with a single name which brought to me
both a smile and a shudder. An odd impulse caused me to climb upon the broad slab,
extinguish my candle, and lie down within the vacant box.
In the grey light of dawn I staggered from the vault and locked the chain of the door behind
me. I was no longer a young man, though but twenty-one winters had chilled my bodily frame.
Early-rising villagers who observed my homeward progress looked at me strangely, and
marvelled at the signs of ribald revelry which they saw in one whose life was known to be
sober and solitary. I did not appear before my parents till after a long and refreshing sleep.
Henceforward I haunted the tomb each night; seeing, hearing, and doing things I must never
reveal. My speech, always susceptible to environmental influences, was the first thing to
succumb to the change; and my suddenly acquired archaism of diction was soon remarked
upon. Later a queer boldness and recklessness came into my demeanour, till I unconsciously
grew to possess the bearing of a man of the world despite my lifelong seclusion. My formerly
silent tongue waxed voluble with the easy grace of a Chesterfield or the godless cynicism of a
Rochester. I displayed a peculiar erudition utterly unlike the fantastic, monkish lore over which
I had pored in youth; and covered the flyleaves of my books with facile impromptu epigrams
which brought up suggestions of Gay, Prior, and the sprightliest of the Augustan wits and
rimesters. One morning at breakfast I came close to disaster by declaiming in palpably
liquorish accents an effusion of eighteenth-century Bacchanalian mirth; a bit of Georgian
playfulness never recorded in a book, which ran something like this:
Come hither, my lads, with your tankards of ale,
And drink to the present before it shall fail;
Pile each on your platter a mountain of beef,
For ‘tis eating and drinking that bring us relief:
About this time I conceived my present fear of fire and thunderstorms. Previously indifferent to
such things, I had now an unspeakable horror of them; and would retire to the innermost
recesses of the house whenever the heavens threatened an electrical display. A favourite
haunt of mine during the day was the ruined cellar of the mansion that had burned down, and
in fancy I would picture the structure as it had been in its prime. On one occasion I startled a
villager by leading him confidently to a shallow sub-cellar, of whose existence I seemed to
know in spite of the fact that it had been unseen and forgotten for many generations.
At last came that which I had long feared. My parents, alarmed at the altered manner and
appearance of their only son, commenced to exert over my movements a kindly espionage
which threatened to result in disaster. I had told no one of my visits to the tomb, having
guarded my secret purpose with religious zeal since childhood; but now I was forced to
exercise care in threading the mazes of the wooded hollow, that I might throw off a possible
pursuer. My key to the vault I kept suspended from a cord about my neck, its presence known
only to me. I never carried out of the sepulchre any of the things I came upon whilst within its
walls.
One morning as I emerged from the damp tomb and fastened the chain of the portal with
none too steady hand, I beheld in an adjacent thicket the dreaded face of a watcher. Surely
the end was near; for my bower was discovered, and the objective of my nocturnal journeys
revealed. The man did not accost me, so I hastened home in an effort to overhear what he
might report to my careworn father. Were my sojourns beyond the chained door about to be
proclaimed to the world? Imagine my delighted astonishment on hearing the spy inform my
parent in a cautious whisper that I had spent the night in the bower outside the tomb; my
sleep-filmed eyes fixed upon the crevice where the padlocked portal stood ajar! By what
miracle had the watcher been thus deluded? I was now convinced that a supernatural agency
protected me. Made bold by this heaven-sent circumstance, I began to resume perfect
openness in going to the vault; confident that no one could witness my entrance. For a week I
tasted to the full the joys of that charnel conviviality which I must not describe, when the thing
happened, and I was borne away to this accursed abode of sorrow and monotony.
I should not have ventured out that night; for the taint of thunder was in the clouds, and a
hellish phosphorescence rose from the rank swamp at the bottom of the hollow. The call of
the dead, too, was different. Instead of the hillside tomb, it was the charred cellar on the crest
of the slope whose presiding daemon beckoned to me with unseen fingers. As I emerged
from an intervening grove upon the plain before the ruin, I beheld in the misty moonlight a
thing I had always vaguely expected. The mansion, gone for a century, once more reared its
stately height to the raptured vision; every window ablaze with the splendour of many
candles. Up the long drive rolled the coaches of the Boston gentry, whilst on foot came a
numerous assemblage of powdered exquisites from the neighbouring mansions. With this
throng I mingled, though I knew I belonged with the hosts rather than with the guests. Inside
the hall were music, laughter, and wine on every hand. Several faces I recognised; though I
should have known them better had they been shrivelled or eaten away by death and
decomposition. Amidst a wild and reckless throng I was the wildest and most abandoned. Gay
blasphemy poured in torrents from my lips, and in my shocking sallies I heeded no law of
God, Man, or Nature. Suddenly a peal of thunder, resonant even above the din of the swinish
revelry, clave the very roof and laid a hush of fear upon the boisterous company. Red tongues
of flame and searing gusts of heat engulfed the house; and the roysterers, struck with terror at
the descent of a calamity which seemed to transcend the bounds of unguided Nature, fled
shrieking into the night. I alone remained, riveted to my seat by a grovelling fear which I had
never felt before. And then a second horror took possession of my soul. Burnt alive to ashes,
my body dispersed by the four winds, I might never lie in the tomb of the Hydes! Was not my
coffin prepared for me? Had I not a right to rest till eternity amongst the descendants of Sir
Geoffrey Hyde? Aye! I would claim my heritage of death, even though my soul go seeking
through the ages for another corporeal tenement to represent it on that vacant slab in the
alcove of the vault. Jervas Hyde should never share the sad fate of Palinurus!
As the phantom of the burning house faded, I found myself screaming and struggling madly in
the arms of two men, one of whom was the spy who had followed me to the tomb. Rain was
pouring down in torrents, and upon the southern horizon were flashes of the lightning that had
so lately passed over our heads. My father, his face lined with sorrow, stood by as I shouted
my demands to be laid within the tomb; frequently admonishing my captors to treat me as
gently as they could. A blackened circle on the floor of the ruined cellar told of a violent stroke
from the heavens; and from this spot a group of curious villagers with lanterns were prying a
small box of antique workmanship which the thunderbolt had brought to light. Ceasing my
futile and now objectless writhing, I watched the spectators as they viewed the treasure-trove,
and was permitted to share in their discoveries. The box, whose fastenings were broken by
the stroke which had unearthed it, contained many papers and objects of value; but I had
eyes for one thing alone. It was the porcelain miniature of a young man in a smartly curled
bag-wig, and bore the initials ―J. H.‖ The face was such that as I gazed, I might well have
been studying my mirror.
On the following day I was brought to this room with the barred windows, but I have been kept
informed of certain things through an aged and simple-minded servitor, for whom I bore a
fondness in infancy, and who like me loves the churchyard. What I have dared relate of my
experiences within the vault has brought me only pitying smiles. My father, who visits me
frequently, declares that at no time did I pass the chained portal, and swears that the rusted
padlock had not been touched for fifty years when he examined it. He even says that all the
village knew of my journeys to the tomb, and that I was often watched as I slept in the bower
outside the grim facade, my half-open eyes fixed on the crevice that leads to the interior.
Against these assertions I have no tangible proof to offer, since my key to the padlock was
lost in the struggle on that night of horrors. The strange things of the past which I learnt during
those nocturnal meetings with the dead he dismisses as the fruits of my lifelong and
omnivorous browsing amongst the ancient volumes of the family library. Had it not been for
my old servant Hiram, I should have by this time become quite convinced of my madness.
But Hiram, loyal to the last, has held faith in me, and has done that which impels me to make
public at least a part of my story. A week ago he burst open the lock which chains the door of
the tomb perpetually ajar, and descended with a lantern into the murky depths. On a slab in
an alcove he found an old but empty coffin whose tarnished plate bears the single word
―Jervas”. In that coffin and in that vault they have promised me I shall be buried.
Vainly did I struggle with my drowsiness, seeking to connect these strange words with some
lore of the skies which I had learnt from the Pnakotic manuscripts. My head, heavy and
reeling, drooped to my breast, and when next I looked up it was in a dream; with the Pole Star
grinning at me through a window from over the horrible swaying trees of a dream-swamp. And
I am still dreaming.
In my shame and despair I sometimes scream frantically, begging the dream-creatures
around me to waken me ere the Inutos steal up the pass behind the peak Noton and take the
citadel by surprise; but these creatures are daemons, for they laugh at me and tell me I am
not dreaming. They mock me whilst I sleep, and whilst the squat yellow foe may be creeping
silently upon us. I have failed in my duty and betrayed the marble city of Olathoë; I have
proven false to Alos, my friend and commander. But still these shadows of my dream deride
me. They say there is no land of Lomar, save in my nocturnal imaginings; that in those realms
where the Pole Star shines high and red Aldebaran crawls low around the horizon, there has
been naught save ice and snow for thousands of years, and never a man save squat yellow
creatures, blighted by the cold, whom they call ―Esquimaux‖.
And as I writhe in my guilty agony, frantic to save the city whose peril every moment grows,
and vainly striving to shake off this unnatural dream of a house of stone and brick south of a
sinister swamp and a cemetery on a low hillock; the Pole Star, evil and monstrous, leers down
from the black vault, winking hideously like an insane watching eye which strives to convey
some strange message, yet recalls nothing save that it once had a message to convey.
Suddenly Romero leaped from his bunk; pausing before me to gaze at the strange ring on my
hand, which glistened queerly in every flash of lightning, and then staring intently in the
direction of the mine shaft. I also rose, and both stood motionless for a time, straining our
ears as the uncanny rhythm seemed more and more to take on a vital quality. Then without
apparent volition we began to move toward the door, whose rattling in the gale held a
comforting suggestion of earthly reality. The chanting in the depths—for such the sound now
seemed to be—grew in volume and distinctness; and we felt irresistibly urged out into the
storm and thence to the gaping blackness of the shaft.
We encountered no living creature, for the men of the night shift had been released from duty,
and were doubtless at the Dry Gulch settlement pouring sinister rumours into the ear of some
drowsy bartender. From the watchman‘s cabin, however, gleamed a small square of yellow
light like a guardian eye. I dimly wondered how the rhythmic sound had affected the
watchman; but Romero was moving more swiftly now, and I followed without pausing.
As we descended the shaft, the sound beneath grew definitely composite. It struck me as
horribly like a sort of Oriental ceremony, with beating of drums and chanting of many voices. I
have, as you are aware, been much in India. Romero and I moved without material hesitancy
through drifts and down ladders; ever toward the thing that allured us, yet ever with a pitifully
helpless fear and reluctance. At one time I fancied I had gone mad—this was when, on
wondering how our way was lighted in the absence of lamp or candle, I realised that the
ancient ring on my finger was glowing with eerie radiance, diffusing a pallid lustre through the
damp, heavy air around.
It was without warning that Romero, after clambering down one of the many rude ladders,
broke into a run and left me alone. Some new and wild note in the drumming and chanting,
perceptible but slightly to me, had acted on him in startling fashion; and with a wild outcry he
forged ahead unguided in the cavern‘s gloom. I heard his repeated shrieks before me, as he
stumbled awkwardly along the level places and scrambled madly down the rickety ladders.
And frightened as I was, I yet retained enough of perception to note that his speech, when
articulate, was not of any sort known to me. Harsh but impressive polysyllables had replaced
the customary mixture of bad Spanish and worse English, and of these only the oft repeated
cry ―Huitzilopotchli” seemed in the least familiar. Later I definitely placed that word in the
works of a great historian—and shuddered when the association came to me.
The climax of that awful night was composite but fairly brief, beginning just as I reached the
final cavern of the journey. Out of the darkness immediately ahead burst a final shriek from
the Mexican, which was joined by such a chorus of uncouth sound as I could never hear
again and survive. In that moment it seemed as if all the hidden terrors and monstrosities of
earth had become articulate in an effort to overwhelm the human race. Simultaneously the
light from my ring was extinguished, and I saw a new light glimmering from lower space but a
few yards ahead of me. I had arrived at the abyss, which was now redly aglow, and which had
evidently swallowed up the unfortunate Romero. Advancing, I peered over the edge of that
chasm which no line could fathom, and which was now a pandemonium of flickering flame
and hideous uproar. At first I beheld nothing but a seething blur of luminosity; but then
shapes, all infinitely distant, began to detach themselves from the confusion, and I saw—was
it Juan Romero?—but God! I dare not tell you what I saw! . . . Some power from heaven,
coming to my aid, obliterated both sights and sounds in such a crash as may be heard when
two universes collide in space. Chaos supervened, and I knew the peace of oblivion.
I hardly know how to continue, since conditions so singular are involved; but I will do my best,
not even trying to differentiate betwixt the real and the apparent. When I awaked, I was safe in
my bunk and the red glow of dawn was visible at the window. Some distance away the lifeless
body of Juan Romero lay upon a table, surrounded by a group of men, including the camp
doctor. The men were discussing the strange death of the Mexican as he lay asleep; a death
seemingly connected in some way with the terrible bolt of lightning which had struck and
shaken the mountain. No direct cause was evident, and an autopsy failed to shew any reason
why Romero should not be living. Snatches of conversation indicated beyond a doubt that
neither Romero nor I had left the bunkhouse during the night; that neither had been awake
during the frightful storm which had passed over the Cactus range. That storm, said men who
had ventured down the mine shaft, had caused extensive caving in, and had completely
closed the deep abyss which had created so much apprehension the day before. When I
asked the watchman what sounds he had heard prior to the mighty thunderbolt, he mentioned
a coyote, a dog, and the snarling mountain wind—nothing more. Nor do I doubt his word.
Upon the resumption of work Superintendent Arthur called on some especially dependable
men to make a few investigations around the spot where the gulf had appeared. Though
hardly eager, they obeyed; and a deep boring was made. Results were very curious. The roof
of the void, as seen whilst it was open, was not by any means thick; yet now the drills of the
investigators met what appeared to be a limitless extent of solid rock. Finding nothing else,
not even gold, the Superintendent abandoned his attempts; but a perplexed look occasionally
steals over his countenance as he sits thinking at his desk.
One other thing is curious. Shortly after waking on that morning after the storm, I noticed the
unaccountable absence of my Hindoo ring from my finger. I had prized it greatly, yet
nevertheless felt a sensation of relief at its disappearance. If one of my fellow-miners
appropriated it, he must have been quite clever in disposing of his booty, for despite
advertisements and a police search the ring was never seen again. Somehow I doubt if it was
stolen by mortal hands, for many strange things were taught me in India.
My opinion of my whole experience varies from time to time. In broad daylight, and at most
seasons I am apt to think the greater part of it a mere dream; but sometimes in the autumn,
about two in the morning when winds and animals howl dismally, there comes from
inconceivable depths below a damnable suggestion of rhythmical throbbing . . . and I feel that
the transition of Juan Romero was a terrible one indeed.
Return to Table of Contents
The White Ship
(1919)
I am Basil Elton, keeper of the North Point light that my father and grandfather kept before
me. Far from the shore stands the grey lighthouse, above sunken slimy rocks that are seen
when the tide is low, but unseen when the tide is high. Past that beacon for a century have
swept the majestic barques of the seven seas. In the days of my grandfather there were
many; in the days of my father not so many; and now there are so few that I sometimes feel
strangely alone, as though I were the last man on our planet.
From far shores came those white-sailed argosies of old; from far Eastern shores where
warm suns shine and sweet odours linger about strange gardens and gay temples. The old
captains of the sea came often to my grandfather and told him of these things, which in turn
he told to my father, and my father told to me in the long autumn evenings when the wind
howled eerily from the East. And I have read more of these things, and of many things
besides, in the books men gave me when I was young and filled with wonder.
But more wonderful than the lore of old men and the lore of books is the secret lore of ocean.
Blue, green, grey, white, or black; smooth, ruffled, or mountainous; that ocean is not silent. All
my days have I watched it and listened to it, and I know it well. At first it told to me only the
plain little tales of calm beaches and near ports, but with the years it grew more friendly and
spoke of other things; of things more strange and more distant in space and in time.
Sometimes at twilight the grey vapours of the horizon have parted to grant me glimpses of the
ways beyond; and sometimes at night the deep waters of the sea have grown clear and
phosphorescent, to grant me glimpses of the ways beneath. And these glimpses have been
as often of the ways that were and the ways that might be, as of the ways that are; for ocean
is more ancient than the mountains, and freighted with the memories and the dreams of Time.
Out of the South it was that the White Ship used to come when the moon was full and high in
the heavens. Out of the South it would glide very smoothly and silently over the sea. And
whether the sea was rough or calm, and whether the wind was friendly or adverse, it would
always glide smoothly and silently, its sails distant and its long strange tiers of oars moving
rhythmically. One night I espied upon the deck a man, bearded and robed, and he seemed to
beckon me to embark for fair unknown shores. Many times afterward I saw him under the full
moon, and ever did he beckon me.
Very brightly did the moon shine on the night I answered the call, and I walked out over the
waters to the White Ship on a bridge of moonbeams. The man who had beckoned now spoke
a welcome to me in a soft language I seemed to know well, and the hours were filled with soft
songs of the oarsmen as we glided away into a mysterious South, golden with the glow of that
full, mellow moon.
And when the day dawned, rosy and effulgent, I beheld the green shore of far lands, bright
and beautiful, and to me unknown. Up from the sea rose lordly terraces of verdure, tree-
studded, and shewing here and there the gleaming white roofs and colonnades of strange
temples. As we drew nearer the green shore the bearded man told me of that land, the Land
of Zar, where dwell all the dreams and thoughts of beauty that come to men once and then
are forgotten. And when I looked upon the terraces again I saw that what he said was true, for
among the sights before me were many things I had once seen through the mists beyond the
horizon and in the phosphorescent depths of ocean. There too were forms and fantasies more
splendid than any I had ever known; the visions of young poets who died in want before the
world could learn of what they had seen and dreamed. But we did not set foot upon the
sloping meadows of Zar, for it is told that he who treads them may nevermore return to his
native shore.
As the White Ship sailed silently away from the templed terraces of Zar, we beheld on the
distant horizon ahead the spires of a mighty city; and the bearded man said to me: ―This is
Thalarion, the City of a Thousand Wonders, wherein reside all those mysteries that man has
striven in vain to fathom.‖ And I looked again, at closer range, and saw that the city was
greater than any city I had known or dreamed of before. Into the sky the spires of its temples
reached, so that no man might behold their peaks; and far back beyond the horizon stretched
the grim, grey walls, over which one might spy only a few roofs, weird and ominous, yet
adorned with rich friezes and alluring sculptures. I yearned mightily to enter this fascinating
yet repellent city, and besought the bearded man to land me at the stone pier by the huge
carven gate Akariel; but he gently denied my wish, saying: ―Into Thalarion, the City of a
Thousand Wonders, many have passed but none returned. Therein walk only daemons and
mad things that are no longer men, and the streets are white with the unburied bones of those
who have looked upon the eidolon Lathi, that reigns over the city.‖ So the White Ship sailed
on past the walls of Thalarion, and followed for many days a southward-flying bird, whose
glossy plumage matched the sky out of which it had appeared.
Then came we to a pleasant coast gay with blossoms of every hue, where as far inland as we
could see basked lovely groves and radiant arbours beneath a meridian sun. From bowers
beyond our view came bursts of song and snatches of lyric harmony, interspersed with faint
laughter so delicious that I urged the rowers onward in my eagerness to reach the scene. And
the bearded man spoke no word, but watched me as we approached the lily-lined shore.
Suddenly a wind blowing from over the flowery meadows and leafy woods brought a scent at
which I trembled. The wind grew stronger, and the air was filled with the lethal, charnel odour
of plague-stricken towns and uncovered cemeteries. And as we sailed madly away from that
damnable coast the bearded man spoke at last, saying: ―This is Xura, the Land of Pleasures
Unattained.‖
So once more the White Ship followed the bird of heaven, over warm blessed seas fanned by
caressing, aromatic breezes. Day after day and night after night did we sail, and when the
moon was full we would listen to soft songs of the oarsmen, sweet as on that distant night
when we sailed away from my far native land. And it was by moonlight that we anchored at
last in the harbour of Sona-Nyl, which is guarded by twin headlands of crystal that rise from
the sea and meet in a resplendent arch. This is the Land of Fancy, and we walked to the
verdant shore upon a golden bridge of moonbeams.
In the Land of Sona-Nyl there is neither time nor space, neither suffering nor death; and there
I dwelt for many aeons. Green are the groves and pastures, bright and fragrant the flowers,
blue and musical the streams, clear and cool the fountains, and stately and gorgeous the
temples, castles, and cities of Sona-Nyl. Of that land there is no bound, for beyond each vista
of beauty rises another more beautiful. Over the countryside and amidst the splendour of
cities rove at will the happy folk, of whom all are gifted with unmarred grace and unalloyed
happiness. For the aeons that I dwelt there I wandered blissfully through gardens where
quaint pagodas peep from pleasing clumps of bushes, and where the white walks are
bordered with delicate blossoms. I climbed gentle hills from whose summits I could see
entrancing panoramas of loveliness, with steepled towns nestling in verdant valleys, and with
the golden domes of gigantic cities glittering on the infinitely distant horizon. And I viewed by
moonlight the sparkling sea, the crystal headlands, and the placid harbour wherein lay
anchored the White Ship.
It was against the full moon one night in the immemorial year of Tharp that I saw outlined the
beckoning form of the celestial bird, and felt the first stirrings of unrest. Then I spoke with the
bearded man, and told him of my new yearnings to depart for remote Cathuria, which no man
hath seen, but which all believe to lie beyond the basalt pillars of the West. It is the Land of
Hope, and in it shine the perfect ideals of all that we know elsewhere; or at least so men
relate. But the bearded man said to me: ―Beware of those perilous seas wherein men say
Cathuria lies. In Sona-Nyl there is no pain nor death, but who can tell what lies beyond the
basalt pillars of the West?‖ Natheless at the next full moon I boarded the White Ship, and with
the reluctant bearded man left the happy harbour for untravelled seas.
And the bird of heaven flew before, and led us toward the basalt pillars of the West, but this
time the oarsmen sang no soft songs under the full moon. In my mind I would often picture the
unknown Land of Cathuria with its splendid groves and palaces, and would wonder what new
delights there awaited me. ―Cathuria,‖ I would say to myself, ―is the abode of gods and the
land of unnumbered cities of gold. Its forests are of aloe and sandalwood, even as the
fragrant groves of Camorin, and among the trees flutter gay birds sweet with song. On the
green and flowery mountains of Cathuria stand temples of pink marble, rich with carven and
painted glories, and having in their courtyards cool fountains of silver, where purl with
ravishing music the scented waters that come from the grotto-born river Narg. And the cities
of Cathuria are cinctured with golden walls, and their pavements also are of gold. In the
gardens of these cities are strange orchids, and perfumed lakes whose beds are of coral and
amber. At night the streets and the gardens are lit with gay lanthorns fashioned from the
three-coloured shell of the tortoise, and here resound the soft notes of the singer and the
lutanist. And the houses of the cities of Cathuria are all palaces, each built over a fragrant
canal bearing the waters of the sacred Narg. Of marble and porphyry are the houses, and
roofed with glittering gold that reflects the rays of the sun and enhances the splendour of the
cities as blissful gods view them from the distant peaks. Fairest of all is the palace of the great
monarch Dorieb, whom some say to be a demigod and others a god. High is the palace of
Dorieb, and many are the turrets of marble upon its walls. In its wide halls many multitudes
assemble, and here hang the trophies of the ages. And the roof is of pure gold, set upon tall
pillars of ruby and azure, and having such carven figures of gods and heroes that he who
looks up to those heights seems to gaze upon the living Olympus. And the floor of the palace
is of glass, under which flow the cunningly lighted waters of the Narg, gay with gaudy fish not
known beyond the bounds of lovely Cathuria.‖
Thus would I speak to myself of Cathuria, but ever would the bearded man warn me to turn
back to the happy shores of Sona-Nyl; for Sona-Nyl is known of men, while none hath ever
beheld Cathuria.
And on the thirty-first day that we followed the bird, we beheld the basalt pillars of the West.
Shrouded in mist they were, so that no man might peer beyond them or see their summits—
which indeed some say reach even to the heavens. And the bearded man again implored me
to turn back, but I heeded him not; for from the mists beyond the basalt pillars I fancied there
came the notes of singer and lutanist; sweeter than the sweetest songs of Sona-Nyl, and
sounding mine own praises; the praises of me, who had voyaged far under the full moon and
dwelt in the Land of Fancy.
So to the sound of melody the White Ship sailed into the mist betwixt the basalt pillars of the
West. And when the music ceased and the mist lifted, we beheld not the Land of Cathuria, but
a swift-rushing resistless sea, over which our helpless barque was borne toward some
unknown goal. Soon to our ears came the distant thunder of falling waters, and to our eyes
appeared on the far horizon ahead the titanic spray of a monstrous cataract, wherein the
oceans of the world drop down to abysmal nothingness. Then did the bearded man say to me
with tears on his cheek: ―We have rejected the beautiful Land of Sona-Nyl, which we may
never behold again. The gods are greater than men, and they have conquered.‖ And I closed
my eyes before the crash that I knew would come, shutting out the sight of the celestial bird
which flapped its mocking blue wings over the brink of the torrent.
Out of that crash came darkness, and I heard the shrieking of men and of things which were
not men. From the East tempestuous winds arose, and chilled me as I crouched on the slab
of damp stone which had risen beneath my feet. Then as I heard another crash I opened my
eyes and beheld myself upon the platform of that lighthouse from whence I had sailed so
many aeons ago. In the darkness below there loomed the vast blurred outlines of a vessel
breaking up on the cruel rocks, and as I glanced out over the waste I saw that the light had
failed for the first time since my grandfather had assumed its care.
And in the later watches of the night, when I went within the tower, I saw on the wall a
calendar which still remained as when I had left it at the hour I sailed away. With the dawn I
descended the tower and looked for wreckage upon the rocks, but what I found was only this:
a strange dead bird whose hue was as of the azure sky, and a single shattered spar, of a
whiteness greater than that of the wave-tips or of the mountain snow.
And thereafter the ocean told me its secrets no more; and though many times since has the
moon shone full and high in the heavens, the White Ship from the South came never again.
May the merciful gods, if indeed there be such, guard those hours when no power of the will,
or drug that the cunning of man devises, can keep me from the chasm of sleep. Death is
merciful, for there is no return therefrom, but with him who has come back out of the
nethermost chambers of night, haggard and knowing, peace rests nevermore. Fool that I was
to plunge with such unsanctioned phrensy into mysteries no man was meant to penetrate;
fool or god that he was—my only friend, who led me and went before me, and who in the end
passed into terrors which may yet be mine.
We met, I recall, in a railway station, where he was the centre of a crowd of the vulgarly
curious. He was unconscious, having fallen in a kind of convulsion which imparted to his slight
black-clad body a strange rigidity. I think he was then approaching forty years of age, for there
were deep lines in the face, wan and hollow-cheeked, but oval and actually beautiful; and
touches of grey in the thick, waving hair and small full beard which had once been of the
deepest raven black. His brow was white as the marble of Pentelicus, and of a height and
breadth almost godlike. I said to myself, with all the ardour of a sculptor, that this man was a
faun‘s statue out of antique Hellas, dug from a temple‘s ruins and brought somehow to life in
our stifling age only to feel the chill and pressure of devastating years. And when he opened
his immense, sunken, and wildly luminous black eyes I knew he would be thenceforth my only
friend—the only friend of one who had never possessed a friend before—for I saw that such
eyes must have looked fully upon the grandeur and the terror of realms beyond normal
consciousness and reality; realms which I had cherished in fancy, but vainly sought. So as I
drove the crowd away I told him he must come home with me and be my teacher and leader
in unfathomed mysteries, and he assented without speaking a word. Afterward I found that his
voice was music—the music of deep viols and of crystalline spheres. We talked often in the
night, and in the day, when I chiselled busts of him and carved miniature heads in ivory to
immortalise his different expressions.
Of our studies it is impossible to speak, since they held so slight a connexion with anything of
the world as living men conceive it. They were of that vaster and more appalling universe of
dim entity and consciousness which lies deeper than matter, time, and space, and whose
existence we suspect only in certain forms of sleep—those rare dreams beyond dreams
which come never to common men, and but once or twice in the lifetime of imaginative men.
The cosmos of our waking knowledge, born from such an universe as a bubble is born from
the pipe of a jester, touches it only as such a bubble may touch its sardonic source when
sucked back by the jester‘s whim. Men of learning suspect it little, and ignore it mostly. Wise
men have interpreted dreams, and the gods have laughed. One man with Oriental eyes has
said that all time and space are relative, and men have laughed. But even that man with
Oriental eyes has done no more than suspect. I had wished and tried to do more than
suspect, and my friend had tried and partly succeeded. Then we both tried together, and with
exotic drugs courted terrible and forbidden dreams in the tower studio chamber of the old
manor-house in hoary Kent.
Among the agonies of these after days is that chief of torments—inarticulateness. What I
learned and saw in those hours of impious exploration can never be told—for want of symbols
or suggestions in any language. I say this because from first to last our discoveries partook
only of the nature of sensations; sensations correlated with no impression which the nervous
system of normal humanity is capable of receiving. They were sensations, yet within them lay
unbelievable elements of time and space—things which at bottom possess no distinct and
definite existence. Human utterance can best convey the general character of our
experiences by calling them plungings or soarings; for in every period of revelation some part
of our minds broke boldly away from all that is real and present, rushing aërially along
shocking, unlighted, and fear-haunted abysses, and occasionally tearing through certain well-
marked and typical obstacles describable only as viscous, uncouth clouds or vapours. In
these black and bodiless flights we were sometimes alone and sometimes together. When we
were together, my friend was always far ahead; I could comprehend his presence despite the
absence of form by a species of pictorial memory whereby his face appeared to me, golden
from a strange light and frightful with its weird beauty, its anomalously youthful cheeks, its
burning eyes, its Olympian brow, and its shadowing hair and growth of beard.
Of the progress of time we kept no record, for time had become to us the merest illusion. I
know only that there must have been something very singular involved, since we came at
length to marvel why we did not grow old. Our discourse was unholy, and always hideously
ambitious—no god or daemon could have aspired to discoveries and conquests like those
which we planned in whispers. I shiver as I speak of them, and dare not be explicit; though I
will say that my friend once wrote on paper a wish which he dared not utter with his tongue,
and which made me burn the paper and look affrightedly out of the window at the spangled
night sky. I will hint—only hint—that he had designs which involved the rulership of the visible
universe and more; designs whereby the earth and the stars would move at his command,
and the destinies of all living things be his. I affirm—I swear—that I had no share in these
extreme aspirations. Anything my friend may have said or written to the contrary must be
erroneous, for I am no man of strength to risk the unmentionable warfare in unmentionable
spheres by which alone one might achieve success.
There was a night when winds from unknown spaces whirled us irresistibly into limitless
vacua beyond all thought and entity. Perceptions of the most maddeningly untransmissible
sort thronged upon us; perceptions of infinity which at the time convulsed us with joy, yet
which are now partly lost to my memory and partly incapable of presentation to others.
Viscous obstacles were clawed through in rapid succession, and at length I felt that we had
been borne to realms of greater remoteness than any we had previously known. My friend
was vastly in advance as we plunged into this awesome ocean of virgin aether, and I could
see the sinister exultation on his floating, luminous, too youthful memory-face. Suddenly that
face became dim and quickly disappeared, and in a brief space I found myself projected
against an obstacle which I could not penetrate. It was like the others, yet incalculably denser;
a sticky, clammy mass, if such terms can be applied to analogous qualities in a non-material
sphere.
I had, I felt, been halted by a barrier which my friend and leader had successfully passed.
Struggling anew, I came to the end of the drug-dream and opened my physical eyes to the
tower studio in whose opposite corner reclined the pallid and still unconscious form of my
fellow-dreamer, weirdly haggard and wildly beautiful as the moon shed gold-green light on his
marble features. Then, after a short interval, the form in the corner stirred; and may pitying
heaven keep from my sight and sound another thing like that which took place before me. I
cannot tell you how he shrieked, or what vistas of unvisitable hells gleamed for a second in
black eyes crazed with fright. I can only say that I fainted, and did not stir till he himself
recovered and shook me in his phrensy for someone to keep away the horror and desolation.
That was the end of our voluntary searchings in the caverns of dream. Awed, shaken, and
portentous, my friend who had been beyond the barrier warned me that we must never
venture within those realms again. What he had seen, he dared not tell me; but he said from
his wisdom that we must sleep as little as possible, even if drugs were necessary to keep us
awake. That he was right, I soon learned from the unutterable fear which engulfed me
whenever consciousness lapsed. After each short and inevitable sleep I seemed older, whilst
my friend aged with a rapidity almost shocking. It is hideous to see wrinkles form and hair
whiten almost before one‘s eyes. Our mode of life was now totally altered. Heretofore a
recluse so far as I know—his true name and origin never having passed his lips—my friend
now became frantic in his fear of solitude. At night he would not be alone, nor would the
company of a few persons calm him. His sole relief was obtained in revelry of the most
general and boisterous sort; so that few assemblies of the young and the gay were unknown
to us. Our appearance and age seemed to excite in most cases a ridicule which I keenly
resented, but which my friend considered a lesser evil than solitude. Especially was he afraid
to be out of doors alone when the stars were shining, and if forced to this condition he would
often glance furtively at the sky as if hunted by some monstrous thing therein. He did not
always glance at the same place in the sky—it seemed to be a different place at different
times. On spring evenings it would be low in the northeast. In the summer it would be nearly
overhead. In the autumn it would be in the northwest. In winter it would be in the east, but
mostly if in the small hours of morning. Midwinter evenings seemed least dreadful to him.
Only after two years did I connect this fear with anything in particular; but then I began to see
that he must be looking at a special spot on the celestial vault whose position at different
times corresponded to the direction of his glance—a spot roughly marked by the constellation
Corona Borealis.
We now had a studio in London, never separating, but never discussing the days when we
had sought to plumb the mysteries of the unreal world. We were aged and weak from our
drugs, dissipations, and nervous overstrain, and the thinning hair and beard of my friend had
become snow-white. Our freedom from long sleep was surprising, for seldom did we succumb
more than an hour or two at a time to the shadow which had now grown so frightful a menace.
Then came one January of fog and rain, when money ran low and drugs were hard to buy. My
statues and ivory heads were all sold, and I had no means to purchase new materials, or
energy to fashion them even had I possessed them. We suffered terribly, and on a certain
night my friend sank into a deep-breathing sleep from which I could not awaken him. I can
recall the scene now—the desolate, pitch-black garret studio under the eaves with the rain
beating down; the ticking of the lone clock; the fancied ticking of our watches as they rested
on the dressing-table; the creaking of some swaying shutter in a remote part of the house;
certain distant city noises muffled by fog and space; and worst of all the deep, steady, sinister
breathing of my friend on the couch—a rhythmical breathing which seemed to measure
moments of supernal fear and agony for his spirit as it wandered in spheres forbidden,
unimagined, and hideously remote.
The tension of my vigil became oppressive, and a wild train of trivial impressions and
associations thronged through my almost unhinged mind. I heard a clock strike somewhere—
not ours, for that was not a striking clock—and my morbid fancy found in this a new starting-
point for idle wanderings. Clocks—time—space—infinity—and then my fancy reverted to the
local as I reflected that even now, beyond the roof and the fog and the rain and the
atmosphere, Corona Borealis was rising in the northeast. Corona Borealis, which my friend
had appeared to dread, and whose scintillant semicircle of stars must even now be glowing
unseen through the measureless abysses of aether. All at once my feverishly sensitive ears
seemed to detect a new and wholly distinct component in the soft medley of drug-magnified
sounds—a low and damnably insistent whine from very far away; droning, clamouring,
mocking, calling, from the northeast.
But it was not that distant whine which robbed me of my faculties and set upon my soul such
a seal of fright as may never in life be removed; not that which drew the shrieks and excited
the convulsions which caused lodgers and police to break down the door. It was not what I
heard, but what I saw; for in that dark, locked, shuttered, and curtained room there appeared
from the black northeast corner a shaft of horrible red-gold light—a shaft which bore with it no
glow to disperse the darkness, but which streamed only upon the recumbent head of the
troubled sleeper, bringing out in hideous duplication the luminous and strangely youthful
memory-face as I had known it in dreams of abysmal space and unshackled time, when my
friend had pushed behind the barrier to those secret, innermost, and forbidden caverns of
nightmare.
And as I looked, I beheld the head rise, the black, liquid, and deep-sunken eyes open in
terror, and the thin, shadowed lips part as if for a scream too frightful to be uttered. There
dwelt in that ghastly and flexible face, as it shone bodiless, luminous, and rejuvenated in the
blackness, more of stark, teeming, brain-shattering fear than all the rest of heaven and earth
has ever revealed to me. No word was spoken amidst the distant sound that grew nearer and
nearer, but as I followed the memory-face‘s mad stare along that cursed shaft of light to its
source, the source whence also the whining came, I too saw for an instant what it saw, and
fell with ringing ears in that fit of shrieking and epilepsy which brought the lodgers and the
police. Never could I tell, try as I might, what it actually was that I saw; nor could the still face
tell, for although it must have seen more than I did, it will never speak again. But always I
shall guard against the mocking and insatiate Hypnos, lord of sleep, against the night sky, and
against the mad ambitions of knowledge and philosophy.
Just what happened is unknown, for not only was my own mind unseated by the strange and
hideous thing, but others were tainted with a forgetfulness which can mean nothing if not
madness. They have said, I know not for what reason, that I never had a friend, but that art,
philosophy, and insanity had filled all my tragic life. The lodgers and police on that night
soothed me, and the doctor administered something to quiet me, nor did anyone see what a
nightmare event had taken place. My stricken friend moved them to no pity, but what they
found on the couch in the studio made them give me a praise which sickened me, and now a
fame which I spurn in despair as I sit for hours, bald, grey-bearded, shrivelled, palsied, drug-
crazed, and broken, adoring and praying to the object they found.
For they deny that I sold the last of my statuary, and point with ecstasy at the thing which the
shining shaft of light left cold, petrified, and unvocal. It is all that remains of my friend; the
friend who led me on to madness and wreckage; a godlike head of such marble as only old
Hellas could yield, young with the youth that is outside time, and with beauteous bearded
face, curved, smiling lips, Olympian brow, and dense locks waving and poppy-crowned. They
say that that haunting memory-face is modelled from my own, as it was at twenty-five, but
upon the marble base is carven a single name in the letters of Attica—‘ΥΠΝΟΣ.
Return to Table of Contents
What the Moon Brings
(1922)
I hate the moon—I am afraid of it—for when it shines on certain scenes familiar and loved it
sometimes makes them unfamiliar and hideous.
It was in the spectral summer when the moon shone down on the old garden where I
wandered; the spectral summer of narcotic flowers and humid seas of foliage that bring wild
and many-coloured dreams. And as I walked by the shallow crystal stream I saw unwonted
ripples tipped with yellow light, as if those placid waters were drawn on in resistless currents
to strange oceans that are not in the world. Silent and sparkling, bright and baleful, those
moon-cursed waters hurried I knew not whither; whilst from the embowered banks white lotos
blossoms fluttered one by one in the opiate night-wind and dropped despairingly into the
stream, swirling away horribly under the arched, carven bridge, and staring back with the
sinister resignation of calm, dead faces.
And as I ran along the shore, crushing sleeping flowers with heedless feet and maddened
ever by the fear of unknown things and the lure of the dead faces, I saw that the garden had
no end under that moon; for where by day the walls were, there stretched now only new
vistas of trees and paths, flowers and shrubs, stone idols and pagodas, and bendings of the
yellow-litten stream past grassy banks and under grotesque bridges of marble. And the lips of
the dead lotos-faces whispered sadly, and bade me follow, nor did I cease my steps till the
stream became a river, and joined amidst marshes of swaying reeds and beaches of
gleaming sand the shore of a vast and nameless sea.
Upon that sea the hateful moon shone, and over its unvocal waves weird perfumes brooded.
And as I saw therein the lotos-faces vanish, I longed for nets that I might capture them and
learn from them the secrets which the moon had brought upon the night. But when the moon
went over to the west and the still tide ebbed from the sullen shore, I saw in that light old
spires that the waves almost uncovered, and white columns gay with festoons of green
seaweed. And knowing that to this sunken place all the dead had come, I trembled and did
not wish again to speak with the lotos-faces.
Yet when I saw afar out in the sea a black condor descend from the sky to seek rest on a vast
reef, I would fain have questioned him, and asked him of those whom I had known when they
were alive. This I would have asked him had he not been so far away, but he was very far,
and could not be seen at all when he drew nigh that gigantic reef.
So I watched the tide go out under that sinking moon, and saw gleaming the spires, the
towers, and the roofs of that dead, dripping city. And as I watched, my nostrils tried to close
against the perfume-conquering stench of the world‘s dead; for truly, in this unplaced and
forgotten spot had all the flesh of the churchyards gathered for puffy sea-worms to gnaw and
glut upon.
Over those horrors the evil moon now hung very low, but the puffy worms of the sea need no
moon to feed by. And as I watched the ripples that told of the writhing of worms beneath, I felt
a new chill from afar out whither the condor had flown, as if my flesh had caught a horror
before my eyes had seen it.
Nor had my flesh trembled without cause, for when I raised my eyes I saw that the waters had
ebbed very low, shewing much of the vast reef whose rim I had seen before. And when I saw
that this reef was but the black basalt crown of a shocking eikon whose monstrous forehead
now shone in the dim moonlight and whose vile hooves must paw the hellish ooze miles
below, I shrieked and shrieked lest the hidden face rise above the waters, and lest the hidden
eyes look at me after the slinking away of that leering and treacherous yellow moon.
And to escape this relentless thing I plunged gladly and unhesitatingly into the stinking
shallows where amidst weedy walls and sunken streets fat sea-worms feast upon the world‘s
dead.
—Arthur Machen.
I.
Not many weeks ago, on a street corner in the village of Pascoag, Rhode Island, a tall,
heavily built, and wholesome-looking pedestrian furnished much speculation by a singular
lapse of behaviour. He had, it appears, been descending the hill by the road from Chepachet;
and encountering the compact section, had turned to his left into the main thoroughfare where
several modest business blocks convey a touch of the urban. At this point, without visible
provocation, he committed his astonishing lapse; staring queerly for a second at the tallest of
the buildings before him, and then, with a series of terrified, hysterical shrieks, breaking into a
frantic run which ended in a stumble and fall at the next crossing. Picked up and dusted off by
ready hands, he was found to be conscious, organically unhurt, and evidently cured of his
sudden nervous attack. He muttered some shamefaced explanations involving a strain he had
undergone, and with downcast glance turned back up the Chepachet road, trudging out of
sight without once looking behind him. It was a strange incident to befall so large, robust,
normal-featured, and capable-looking a man, and the strangeness was not lessened by the
remarks of a bystander who had recognised him as the boarder of a well-known dairyman on
the outskirts of Chepachet.
He was, it developed, a New York police detective named Thomas F. Malone, now on a long
leave of absence under medical treatment after some disproportionately arduous work on a
gruesome local case which accident had made dramatic. There had been a collapse of
several old brick buildings during a raid in which he had shared, and something about the
wholesale loss of life, both of prisoners and of his companions, had peculiarly appalled him.
As a result, he had acquired an acute and anomalous horror of any buildings even remotely
suggesting the ones which had fallen in, so that in the end mental specialists forbade him the
sight of such things for an indefinite period. A police surgeon with relatives in Chepachet had
put forward that quaint hamlet of wooden colonial houses as an ideal spot for the
psychological convalescence; and thither the sufferer had gone, promising never to venture
among the brick-lined streets of larger villages till duly advised by the Woonsocket specialist
with whom he was put in touch. This walk to Pascoag for magazines had been a mistake, and
the patient had paid in fright, bruises, and humiliation for his disobedience.
So much the gossips of Chepachet and Pascoag knew; and so much, also, the most learned
specialists believed. But Malone had at first told the specialists much more, ceasing only
when he saw that utter incredulity was his portion. Thereafter he held his peace, protesting
not at all when it was generally agreed that the collapse of certain squalid brick houses in the
Red Hook section of Brooklyn, and the consequent death of many brave officers, had
unseated his nervous equilibrium. He had worked too hard, all said, in trying to clean up those
nests of disorder and violence; certain features were shocking enough, in all conscience, and
the unexpected tragedy was the last straw. This was a simple explanation which everyone
could understand, and because Malone was not a simple person he perceived that he had
better let it suffice. To hint to unimaginative people of a horror beyond all human conception—
a horror of houses and blocks and cities leprous and cancerous with evil dragged from elder
worlds—would be merely to invite a padded cell instead of restful rustication, and Malone was
a man of sense despite his mysticism. He had the Celt‘s far vision of weird and hidden things,
but the logician‘s quick eye for the outwardly unconvincing; an amalgam which had led him far
afield in the forty-two years of his life, and set him in strange places for a Dublin University
man born in a Georgian villa near Phoenix Park.
And now, as he reviewed the things he had seen and felt and apprehended, Malone was
content to keep unshared the secret of what could reduce a dauntless fighter to a quivering
neurotic; what could make old brick slums and seas of dark, subtle faces a thing of nightmare
and eldritch portent. It would not be the first time his sensations had been forced to bide
uninterpreted—for was not his very act of plunging into the polyglot abyss of New York‘s
underworld a freak beyond sensible explanation? What could he tell the prosaic of the antique
witcheries and grotesque marvels discernible to sensitive eyes amidst the poison cauldron
where all the varied dregs of unwholesome ages mix their venom and perpetuate their
obscene terrors? He had seen the hellish green flame of secret wonder in this blatant,
evasive welter of outward greed and inward blasphemy, and had smiled gently when all the
New-Yorkers he knew scoffed at his experiment in police work. They had been very witty and
cynical, deriding his fantastic pursuit of unknowable mysteries and assuring him that in these
days New York held nothing but cheapness and vulgarity. One of them had wagered him a
heavy sum that he could not—despite many poignant things to his credit in the Dublin
Review—even write a truly interesting story of New York low life; and now, looking back, he
perceived that cosmic irony had justified the prophet‘s words while secretly confuting their
flippant meaning. The horror, as glimpsed at last, could not make a story—for like the book
cited by Poe‘s German authority, ―es lässt sich nicht lesen—it does not permit itself to be
read.‖
II.
To Malone the sense of latent mystery in existence was always present. In youth he had felt
the hidden beauty and ecstasy of things, and had been a poet; but poverty and sorrow and
exile had turned his gaze in darker directions, and he had thrilled at the imputations of evil in
the world around. Daily life had for him come to be a phantasmagoria of macabre shadow-
studies; now glittering and leering with concealed rottenness as in Beardsley‘s best manner,
now hinting terrors behind the commonest shapes and objects as in the subtler and less
obvious work of Gustave Doré. He would often regard it as merciful that most persons of high
intelligence jeer at the inmost mysteries; for, he argued, if superior minds were ever placed in
fullest contact with the secrets preserved by ancient and lowly cults, the resultant
abnormalities would soon not only wreck the world, but threaten the very integrity of the
universe. All this reflection was no doubt morbid, but keen logic and a deep sense of humour
ably offset it. Malone was satisfied to let his notions remain as half-spied and forbidden
visions to be lightly played with; and hysteria came only when duty flung him into a hell of
revelation too sudden and insidious to escape.
He had for some time been detailed to the Butler Street station in Brooklyn when the Red
Hook matter came to his notice. Red Hook is a maze of hybrid squalor near the ancient
waterfront opposite Governor‘s Island, with dirty highways climbing the hill from the wharves
to that higher ground where the decayed lengths of Clinton and Court Streets lead off toward
the Borough Hall. Its houses are mostly of brick, dating from the first quarter to the middle of
the nineteenth century, and some of the obscurer alleys and byways have that alluring
antique flavour which conventional reading leads us to call ―Dickensian‖. The population is a
hopeless tangle and enigma; Syrian, Spanish, Italian, and negro elements impinging upon
one another, and fragments of Scandinavian and American belts lying not far distant. It is a
babel of sound and filth, and sends out strange cries to answer the lapping of oily waves at its
grimy piers and the monstrous organ litanies of the harbour whistles. Here long ago a brighter
picture dwelt, with clear-eyed mariners on the lower streets and homes of taste and
substance where the larger houses line the hill. One can trace the relics of this former
happiness in the trim shapes of the buildings, the occasional graceful churches, and the
evidences of original art and background in bits of detail here and there—a worn flight of
steps, a battered doorway, a wormy pair of decorative columns or pilasters, or a fragment of
once green space with bent and rusted iron railing. The houses are generally in solid blocks,
and now and then a many-windowed cupola arises to tell of days when the households of
captains and ship-owners watched the sea.
From this tangle of material and spiritual putrescence the blasphemies of an hundred dialects
assail the sky. Hordes of prowlers reel shouting and singing along the lanes and
thoroughfares, occasional furtive hands suddenly extinguish lights and pull down curtains,
and swarthy, sin-pitted faces disappear from windows when visitors pick their way through.
Policemen despair of order or reform, and seek rather to erect barriers protecting the outside
world from the contagion. The clang of the patrol is answered by a kind of spectral silence,
and such prisoners as are taken are never communicative. Visible offences are as varied as
the local dialects, and run the gamut from the smuggling of rum and prohibited aliens through
diverse stages of lawlessness and obscure vice to murder and mutilation in their most
abhorrent guises. That these visible affairs are not more frequent is not to the
neighbourhood‘s credit, unless the power of concealment be an art demanding credit. More
people enter Red Hook than leave it—or at least, than leave it by the landward side—and
those who are not loquacious are the likeliest to leave.
Malone found in this state of things a faint stench of secrets more terrible than any of the sins
denounced by citizens and bemoaned by priests and philanthropists. He was conscious, as
one who united imagination with scientific knowledge, that modern people under lawless
conditions tend uncannily to repeat the darkest instinctive patterns of primitive half-ape
savagery in their daily life and ritual observances; and he had often viewed with an
anthropologist‘s shudder the chanting, cursing processions of blear-eyed and pockmarked
young men which wound their way along in the dark small hours of morning. One saw groups
of these youths incessantly; sometimes in leering vigils on street corners, sometimes in
doorways playing eerily on cheap instruments of music, sometimes in stupefied dozes or
indecent dialogues around cafeteria tables near Borough Hall, and sometimes in whispering
converse around dingy taxicabs drawn up at the high stoops of crumbling and closely
shuttered old houses. They chilled and fascinated him more than he dared confess to his
associates on the force, for he seemed to see in them some monstrous thread of secret
continuity; some fiendish, cryptical, and ancient pattern utterly beyond and below the sordid
mass of facts and habits and haunts listed with such conscientious technical care by the
police. They must be, he felt inwardly, the heirs of some shocking and primordial tradition; the
sharers of debased and broken scraps from cults and ceremonies older than mankind. Their
coherence and definiteness suggested it, and it shewed in the singular suspicion of order
which lurked beneath their squalid disorder. He had not read in vain such treatises as Miss
Murray‘s Witch-Cult in Western Europe; and knew that up to recent years there had certainly
survived among peasants and furtive folk a frightful and clandestine system of assemblies
and orgies descended from dark religions antedating the Aryan world, and appearing in
popular legends as Black Masses and Witches‘ Sabbaths. That these hellish vestiges of old
Turanian-Asiatic magic and fertility-cults were even now wholly dead he could not for a
moment suppose, and he frequently wondered how much older and how much blacker than
the very worst of the muttered tales some of them might really be.
III.
It was the case of Robert Suydam which took Malone to the heart of things in Red Hook.
Suydam was a lettered recluse of ancient Dutch family, possessed originally of barely
independent means, and inhabiting the spacious but ill-preserved mansion which his
grandfather had built in Flatbush when that village was little more than a pleasant group of
colonial cottages surrounding the steepled and ivy-clad Reformed Church with its iron-railed
yard of Netherlandish gravestones. In his lonely house, set back from Martense Street amidst
a yard of venerable trees, Suydam had read and brooded for some six decades except for a
period a generation before, when he had sailed for the old world and remained there out of
sight for eight years. He could afford no servants, and would admit but few visitors to his
absolute solitude; eschewing close friendships and receiving his rare acquaintances in one of
the three ground-floor rooms which he kept in order—a vast, high-ceiled library whose walls
were solidly packed with tattered books of ponderous, archaic, and vaguely repellent aspect.
The growth of the town and its final absorption in the Brooklyn district had meant nothing to
Suydam, and he had come to mean less and less to the town. Elderly people still pointed him
out on the streets, but to most of the recent population he was merely a queer, corpulent old
fellow whose unkempt white hair, stubbly beard, shiny black clothes, and gold-headed cane
earned him an amused glance and nothing more. Malone did not know him by sight till duty
called him to the case, but had heard of him indirectly as a really profound authority on
mediaeval superstition, and had once idly meant to look up an out-of-print pamphlet of his on
the Kabbalah and the Faustus legend, which a friend had quoted from memory.
Suydam became a ―case‖ when his distant and only relatives sought court pronouncements
on his sanity. Their action seemed sudden to the outside world, but was really undertaken
only after prolonged observation and sorrowful debate. It was based on certain odd changes
in his speech and habits; wild references to impending wonders, and unaccountable
hauntings of disreputable Brooklyn neighbourhoods. He had been growing shabbier and
shabbier with the years, and now prowled about like a veritable mendicant; seen occasionally
by humiliated friends in subway stations, or loitering on the benches around Borough Hall in
conversation with groups of swarthy, evil-looking strangers. When he spoke it was to babble
of unlimited powers almost within his grasp, and to repeat with knowing leers such mystical
words or names as ―Sephiroth‖, ―Ashmodai‖, and ―Samaël‖. The court action revealed that he
was using up his income and wasting his principal in the purchase of curious tomes imported
from London and Paris, and in the maintenance of a squalid basement flat in the Red Hook
district where he spent nearly every night, receiving odd delegations of mixed rowdies and
foreigners, and apparently conducting some kind of ceremonial service behind the green
blinds of secretive windows. Detectives assigned to follow him reported strange cries and
chants and prancing of feet filtering out from these nocturnal rites, and shuddered at their
peculiar ecstasy and abandon despite the commonness of weird orgies in that sodden
section. When, however, the matter came to a hearing, Suydam managed to preserve his
liberty. Before the judge his manner grew urbane and reasonable, and he freely admitted the
queerness of demeanour and extravagant cast of language into which he had fallen through
excessive devotion to study and research. He was, he said, engaged in the investigation of
certain details of European tradition which required the closest contact with foreign groups
and their songs and folk dances. The notion that any low secret society was preying upon
him, as hinted by his relatives, was obviously absurd; and shewed how sadly limited was their
understanding of him and his work. Triumphing with his calm explanations, he was suffered to
depart unhindered; and the paid detectives of the Suydams, Corlears, and Van Brunts were
withdrawn in resigned disgust.
It was here that an alliance of Federal inspectors and police, Malone with them, entered the
case. The law had watched the Suydam action with interest, and had in many instances been
called upon to aid the private detectives. In this work it developed that Suydam‘s new
associates were among the blackest and most vicious criminals of Red Hook‘s devious lanes,
and that at least a third of them were known and repeated offenders in the matter of thievery,
disorder, and the importation of illegal immigrants. Indeed, it would not have been too much to
say that the old scholar‘s particular circle coincided almost perfectly with the worst of the
organised cliques which smuggled ashore certain nameless and unclassified Asian dregs
wisely turned back by Ellis Island. In the teeming rookeries of Parker Place—since
renamed—where Suydam had his basement flat, there had grown up a very unusual colony
of unclassified slant-eyed folk who used the Arabic alphabet but were eloquently repudiated
by the great mass of Syrians in and around Atlantic Avenue. They could all have been
deported for lack of credentials, but legalism is slow-moving, and one does not disturb Red
Hook unless publicity forces one to.
These creatures attended a tumbledown stone church, used Wednesdays as a dance-hall,
which reared its Gothic buttresses near the vilest part of the waterfront. It was nominally
Catholic; but priests throughout Brooklyn denied the place all standing and authenticity, and
policemen agreed with them when they listened to the noises it emitted at night. Malone used
to fancy he heard terrible cracked bass notes from a hidden organ far underground when the
church stood empty and unlighted, whilst all observers dreaded the shrieking and drumming
which accompanied the visible services. Suydam, when questioned, said he thought the ritual
was some remnant of Nestorian Christianity tinctured with the Shamanism of Thibet. Most of
the people, he conjectured, were of Mongoloid stock, originating somewhere in or near
Kurdistan—and Malone could not help recalling that Kurdistan is the land of the Yezidis, last
survivors of the Persian devil-worshippers. However this may have been, the stir of the
Suydam investigation made it certain that these unauthorised newcomers were flooding Red
Hook in increasing numbers; entering through some marine conspiracy unreached by
revenue officers and harbour police, overrunning Parker Place and rapidly spreading up the
hill, and welcomed with curious fraternalism by the other assorted denizens of the region.
Their squat figures and characteristic squinting physiognomies, grotesquely combined with
flashy American clothing, appeared more and more numerously among the loafers and
nomad gangsters of the Borough Hall section; till at length it was deemed necessary to
compute their numbers, ascertain their sources and occupations, and find if possible a way to
round them up and deliver them to the proper immigration authorities. To this task Malone was
assigned by agreement of Federal and city forces, and as he commenced his canvass of Red
Hook he felt poised upon the brink of nameless terrors, with the shabby, unkempt figure of
Robert Suydam as arch-fiend and adversary.
IV.
Police methods are varied and ingenious. Malone, through unostentatious rambles, carefully
casual conversations, well-timed offers of hip-pocket liquor, and judicious dialogues with
frightened prisoners, learned many isolated facts about the movement whose aspect had
become so menacing. The newcomers were indeed Kurds, but of a dialect obscure and
puzzling to exact philology. Such of them as worked lived mostly as dock-hands and
unlicenced pedlars, though frequently serving in Greek restaurants and tending corner news
stands. Most of them, however, had no visible means of support; and were obviously
connected with underworld pursuits, of which smuggling and ―bootlegging‖ were the least
indescribable. They had come in steamships, apparently tramp freighters, and had been
unloaded by stealth on moonless nights in rowboats which stole under a certain wharf and
followed a hidden canal to a secret subterranean pool beneath a house. This wharf, canal,
and house Malone could not locate, for the memories of his informants were exceedingly
confused, while their speech was to a great extent beyond even the ablest interpreters; nor
could he gain any real data on the reasons for their systematic importation. They were reticent
about the exact spot from which they had come, and were never sufficiently off guard to
reveal the agencies which had sought them out and directed their course. Indeed, they
developed something like acute fright when asked the reasons for their presence. Gangsters
of other breeds were equally taciturn, and the most that could be gathered was that some god
or great priesthood had promised them unheard-of powers and supernatural glories and
rulerships in a strange land.
The attendance of both newcomers and old gangsters at Suydam‘s closely guarded nocturnal
meetings was very regular, and the police soon learned that the erstwhile recluse had leased
additional flats to accommodate such guests as knew his password; at last occupying three
entire houses and permanently harbouring many of his queer companions. He spent but little
time now at his Flatbush home, apparently going and coming only to obtain and return books;
and his face and manner had attained an appalling pitch of wildness. Malone twice
interviewed him, but was each time brusquely repulsed. He knew nothing, he said, of any
mysterious plots or movements; and had no idea how the Kurds could have entered or what
they wanted. His business was to study undisturbed the folklore of all the immigrants of the
district; a business with which policemen had no legitimate concern. Malone mentioned his
admiration for Suydam‘s old brochure on the Kabbalah and other myths, but the old man‘s
softening was only momentary. He sensed an intrusion, and rebuffed his visitor in no
uncertain way; till Malone withdrew disgusted, and turned to other channels of information.
What Malone would have unearthed could he have worked continuously on the case, we shall
never know. As it was, a stupid conflict between city and Federal authority suspended the
investigations for several months, during which the detective was busy with other
assignments. But at no time did he lose interest, or fail to stand amazed at what began to
happen to Robert Suydam. Just at the time when a wave of kidnappings and disappearances
spread its excitement over New York, the unkempt scholar embarked upon a metamorphosis
as startling as it was absurd. One day he was seen near Borough Hall with clean-shaved
face, well-trimmed hair, and tastefully immaculate attire, and on every day thereafter some
obscure improvement was noticed in him. He maintained his new fastidiousness without
interruption, added to it an unwonted sparkle of eye and crispness of speech, and began little
by little to shed the corpulence which had so long deformed him. Now frequently taken for
less than his age, he acquired an elasticity of step and buoyancy of demeanour to match the
new tradition, and shewed a curious darkening of the hair which somehow did not suggest
dye. As the months passed, he commenced to dress less and less conservatively, and finally
astonished his new friends by renovating and redecorating his Flatbush mansion, which he
threw open in a series of receptions, summoning all the acquaintances he could remember,
and extending a special welcome to the fully forgiven relatives who had so lately sought his
restraint. Some attended through curiosity, others through duty; but all were suddenly
charmed by the dawning grace and urbanity of the former hermit. He had, he asserted,
accomplished most of his allotted work; and having just inherited some property from a half-
forgotten European friend, was about to spend his remaining years in a brighter second youth
which ease, care, and diet had made possible to him. Less and less was he seen at Red
Hook, and more and more did he move in the society to which he was born. Policemen noted
a tendency of the gangsters to congregate at the old stone church and dance-hall instead of
at the basement flat in Parker Place, though the latter and its recent annexes still overflowed
with noxious life.
Then two incidents occurred—wide enough apart, but both of intense interest in the case as
Malone envisaged it. One was a quiet announcement in the Eagle of Robert Suydam‘s
engagement to Miss Cornelia Gerritsen of Bayside, a young woman of excellent position, and
distantly related to the elderly bridegroom-elect; whilst the other was a raid on the dance-hall
church by city police, after a report that the face of a kidnapped child had been seen for a
second at one of the basement windows. Malone had participated in this raid, and studied the
place with much care when inside. Nothing was found—in fact, the building was entirely
deserted when visited—but the sensitive Celt was vaguely disturbed by many things about
the interior. There were crudely painted panels he did not like—panels which depicted sacred
faces with peculiarly worldly and sardonic expressions, and which occasionally took liberties
that even a layman‘s sense of decorum could scarcely countenance. Then, too, he did not
relish the Greek inscription on the wall above the pulpit; an ancient incantation which he had
once stumbled upon in Dublin college days, and which read, literally translated,
―O friend and companion of night, thou who rejoicest in the baying of dogs and spilt
blood, who wanderest in the midst of shades among the tombs, who longest for
blood and bringest terror to mortals, Gorgo, Mormo, thousand-faced moon, look
favourably on our sacrifices!‖
When he read this he shuddered, and thought vaguely of the cracked bass organ notes he
fancied he had heard beneath the church on certain nights. He shuddered again at the rust
around the rim of a metal basin which stood on the altar, and paused nervously when his
nostrils seemed to detect a curious and ghastly stench from somewhere in the
neighbourhood. That organ memory haunted him, and he explored the basement with
particular assiduity before he left. The place was very hateful to him; yet after all, were the
blasphemous panels and inscriptions more than mere crudities perpetrated by the ignorant?
By the time of Suydam‘s wedding the kidnapping epidemic had become a popular newspaper
scandal. Most of the victims were young children of the lowest classes, but the increasing
number of disappearances had worked up a sentiment of the strongest fury. Journals
clamoured for action from the police, and once more the Butler Street station sent its men
over Red Hook for clues, discoveries, and criminals. Malone was glad to be on the trail again,
and took pride in a raid on one of Suydam‘s Parker Place houses. There, indeed, no stolen
child was found, despite the tales of screams and the red sash picked up in the areaway; but
the paintings and rough inscriptions on the peeling walls of most of the rooms, and the
primitive chemical laboratory in the attic, all helped to convince the detective that he was on
the track of something tremendous. The paintings were appalling—hideous monsters of every
shape and size, and parodies on human outlines which cannot be described. The writing was
in red, and varied from Arabic to Greek, Roman, and Hebrew letters. Malone could not read
much of it, but what he did decipher was portentous and cabbalistic enough. One frequently
repeated motto was in a sort of Hebraised Hellenistic Greek, and suggested the most terrible
daemon-evocations of the Alexandrian decadence:
HEL • HELOYM • SOTHER • EMMANVEL • SABAOTH • AGLA •
TETRAGRAMMATON • AGYROS • OTHEOS • ISCHYROS • ATHANATOS •
IEHOVA • VA • ADONAI • SADAY • HOMOVSION • MESSIAS • ESCHEREHEYE.
Circles and pentagrams loomed on every hand, and told indubitably of the strange beliefs and
aspirations of those who dwelt so squalidly here. In the cellar, however, the strangest thing
was found—a pile of genuine gold ingots covered carelessly with a piece of burlap, and
bearing upon their shining surfaces the same weird hieroglyphics which also adorned the
walls. During the raid the police encountered only a passive resistance from the squinting
Orientals that swarmed from every door. Finding nothing relevant, they had to leave all as it
was; but the precinct captain wrote Suydam a note advising him to look closely to the
character of his tenants and protégés in view of the growing public clamour.
V.
Then came the June wedding and the great sensation. Flatbush was gay for the hour about
high noon, and pennanted motors thronged the streets near the old Dutch church where an
awning stretched from door to highway. No local event ever surpassed the Suydam-Gerritsen
nuptials in tone and scale, and the party which escorted bride and groom to the Cunard Pier
was, if not exactly the smartest, at least a solid page from the Social Register. At five o‘clock
adieux were waved, and the ponderous liner edged away from the long pier, slowly turned its
nose seaward, discarded its tug, and headed for the widening water spaces that led to old
world wonders. By night the outer harbour was cleared, and late passengers watched the
stars twinkling above an unpolluted ocean.
Whether the tramp steamer or the scream was first to gain attention, no one can say.
Probably they were simultaneous, but it is of no use to calculate. The scream came from the
Suydam stateroom, and the sailor who broke down the door could perhaps have told frightful
things if he had not forthwith gone completely mad—as it is, he shrieked more loudly than the
first victims, and thereafter ran simpering about the vessel till caught and put in irons. The
ship‘s doctor who entered the stateroom and turned on the lights a moment later did not go
mad, but told nobody what he saw till afterward, when he corresponded with Malone in
Chepachet. It was murder—strangulation—but one need not say that the claw-mark on Mrs.
Suydam‘s throat could not have come from her husband‘s or any other human hand, or that
upon the white wall there flickered for an instant in hateful red a legend which, later copied
from memory, seems to have been nothing less than the fearsome Chaldee letters of the
word ―LILITH‖. One need not mention these things because they vanished so quickly—as for
Suydam, one could at least bar others from the room until one knew what to think oneself.
The doctor has distinctly assured Malone that he did not see IT. The open porthole, just
before he turned on the lights, was clouded for a second with a certain phosphorescence, and
for a moment there seemed to echo in the night outside the suggestion of a faint and hellish
tittering; but no real outline met the eye. As proof, the doctor points to his continued sanity.
Then the tramp steamer claimed all attention. A boat put off, and a horde of swart, insolent
ruffians in officers‘ dress swarmed aboard the temporarily halted Cunarder. They wanted
Suydam or his body—they had known of his trip, and for certain reasons were sure he would
die. The captain‘s deck was almost a pandemonium; for at the instant, between the doctor‘s
report from the stateroom and the demands of the men from the tramp, not even the wisest
and gravest seaman could think what to do. Suddenly the leader of the visiting mariners, an
Arab with a hatefully negroid mouth, pulled forth a dirty, crumpled paper and handed it to the
captain. It was signed by Robert Suydam, and bore the following odd message:
―In case of sudden or unexplained accident or death on my part, please deliver me
or my body unquestioningly into the hands of the bearer and his associates.
Everything, for me, and perhaps for you, depends on absolute compliance.
Explanations can come later—do not fail me now.
ROBERT SUYDAM.‖
Captain and doctor looked at each other, and the latter whispered something to the former.
Finally they nodded rather helplessly and led the way to the Suydam stateroom. The doctor
directed the captain‘s glance away as he unlocked the door and admitted the strange
seamen, nor did he breathe easily till they filed out with their burden after an unaccountably
long period of preparation. It was wrapped in bedding from the berths, and the doctor was
glad that the outlines were not very revealing. Somehow the men got the thing over the side
and away to their tramp steamer without uncovering it. The Cunarder started again, and the
doctor and a ship‘s undertaker sought out the Suydam stateroom to perform what last
services they could. Once more the physician was forced to reticence and even to mendacity,
for a hellish thing had happened. When the undertaker asked him why he had drained off all
of Mrs. Suydam‘s blood, he neglected to affirm that he had not done so; nor did he point to
the vacant bottle-spaces on the rack, or to the odour in the sink which shewed the hasty
disposition of the bottles‘ original contents. The pockets of those men—if men they were—had
bulged damnably when they left the ship. Two hours later, and the world knew by radio all that
it ought to know of the horrible affair.
VI.
That same June evening, without having heard a word from the sea, Malone was desperately
busy among the alleys of Red Hook. A sudden stir seemed to permeate the place, and as if
apprised by ―grapevine telegraph‖ of something singular, the denizens clustered expectantly
around the dance-hall church and the houses in Parker Place. Three children had just
disappeared—blue-eyed Norwegians from the streets toward Gowanus—and there were
rumours of a mob forming among the sturdy Vikings of that section. Malone had for weeks
been urging his colleagues to attempt a general cleanup; and at last, moved by conditions
more obvious to their common sense than the conjectures of a Dublin dreamer, they had
agreed upon a final stroke. The unrest and menace of this evening had been the deciding
factor, and just about midnight a raiding party recruited from three stations descended upon
Parker Place and its environs. Doors were battered in, stragglers arrested, and candlelighted
rooms forced to disgorge unbelievable throngs of mixed foreigners in figured robes, mitres,
and other inexplicable devices. Much was lost in the melee, for objects were thrown hastily
down unexpected shafts, and betraying odours deadened by the sudden kindling of pungent
incense. But spattered blood was everywhere, and Malone shuddered whenever he saw a
brazier or altar from which the smoke was still rising.
He wanted to be in several places at once, and decided on Suydam‘s basement flat only after
a messenger had reported the complete emptiness of the dilapidated dance-hall church. The
flat, he thought, must hold some clue to a cult of which the occult scholar had so obviously
become the centre and leader; and it was with real expectancy that he ransacked the musty
rooms, noted their vaguely charnel odour, and examined the curious books, instruments, gold
ingots, and glass-stoppered bottles scattered carelessly here and there. Once a lean, black-
and-white cat edged between his feet and tripped him, overturning at the same time a beaker
half full of a red liquid. The shock was severe, and to this day Malone is not certain of what he
saw; but in dreams he still pictures that cat as it scuttled away with certain monstrous
alterations and peculiarities. Then came the locked cellar door, and the search for something
to break it down. A heavy stool stood near, and its tough seat was more than enough for the
antique panels. A crack formed and enlarged, and the whole door gave way—but from the
other side; whence poured a howling tumult of ice-cold wind with all the stenches of the
bottomless pit, and whence reached a sucking force not of earth or heaven, which, coiling
sentiently about the paralysed detective, dragged him through the aperture and down
unmeasured spaces filled with whispers and wails, and gusts of mocking laughter.
Of course it was a dream. All the specialists have told him so, and he has nothing to prove the
contrary. Indeed, he would rather have it thus; for then the sight of old brick slums and dark
foreign faces would not eat so deeply into his soul. But at the time it was all horribly real, and
nothing can ever efface the memory of those nighted crypts, those titan arcades, and those
half-formed shapes of hell that strode gigantically in silence holding half-eaten things whose
still surviving portions screamed for mercy or laughed with madness. Odours of incense and
corruption joined in sickening concert, and the black air was alive with the cloudy, semi-visible
bulk of shapeless elemental things with eyes. Somewhere dark sticky water was lapping at
onyx piers, and once the shivery tinkle of raucous little bells pealed out to greet the insane
titter of a naked phosphorescent thing which swam into sight, scrambled ashore, and climbed
up to squat leeringly on a carved golden pedestal in the background.
Avenues of limitless night seemed to radiate in every direction, till one might fancy that here
lay the root of a contagion destined to sicken and swallow cities, and engulf nations in the
foetor of hybrid pestilence. Here cosmic sin had entered, and festered by unhallowed rites
had commenced the grinning march of death that was to rot us all to fungous abnormalities
too hideous for the grave‘s holding. Satan here held his Babylonish court, and in the blood of
stainless childhood the leprous limbs of phosphorescent Lilith were laved. Incubi and
succubae howled praise to Hecate, and headless moon-calves bleated to the Magna Mater.
Goats leaped to the sound of thin accursed flutes, and aegipans chased endlessly after
misshapen fauns over rocks twisted like swollen toads. Moloch and Ashtaroth were not
absent; for in this quintessence of all damnation the bounds of consciousness were let down,
and man‘s fancy lay open to vistas of every realm of horror and every forbidden dimension
that evil had power to mould. The world and Nature were helpless against such assaults from
unsealed wells of night, nor could any sign or prayer check the Walpurgis-riot of horror which
had come when a sage with the hateful key had stumbled on a horde with the locked and
brimming coffer of transmitted daemon-lore.
Suddenly a ray of physical light shot through these phantasms, and Malone heard the sound
of oars amidst the blasphemies of things that should be dead. A boat with a lantern in its prow
darted into sight, made fast to an iron ring in the slimy stone pier, and vomited forth several
dark men bearing a long burden swathed in bedding. They took it to the naked
phosphorescent thing on the carved golden pedestal, and the thing tittered and pawed at the
bedding. Then they unswathed it, and propped upright before the pedestal the gangrenous
corpse of a corpulent old man with stubbly beard and unkempt white hair. The
phosphorescent thing tittered again, and the men produced bottles from their pockets and
anointed its feet with red, whilst they afterward gave the bottles to the thing to drink from.
All at once, from an arcaded avenue leading endlessly away, there came the daemoniac rattle
and wheeze of a blasphemous organ, choking and rumbling out the mockeries of hell in a
cracked, sardonic bass. In an instant every moving entity was electrified; and forming at once
into a ceremonial procession, the nightmare horde slithered away in quest of the sound—
goat, satyr, and aegipan, incubus, succuba, and lemur, twisted toad and shapeless elemental,
dog-faced howler and silent strutter in darkness—all led by the abominable naked
phosphorescent thing that had squatted on the carved golden throne, and that now strode
insolently bearing in its arms the glassy-eyed corpse of the corpulent old man. The strange
dark men danced in the rear, and the whole column skipped and leaped with Dionysiac fury.
Malone staggered after them a few steps, delirious and hazy, and doubtful of his place in this
or in any world. Then he turned, faltered, and sank down on the cold damp stone, gasping
and shivering as the daemon organ croaked on, and the howling and drumming and tinkling
of the mad procession grew fainter and fainter.
Vaguely he was conscious of chanted horrors and shocking croakings afar off. Now and then
a wail or whine of ceremonial devotion would float to him through the black arcade, whilst
eventually there rose the dreadful Greek incantation whose text he had read above the pulpit
of that dance-hall church.
―O friend and companion of night, thou who rejoicest in the baying of dogs (here a hideous
howl burst forth) and spilt blood (here nameless sounds vied with morbid shriekings), who
wanderest in the midst of shades among the tombs (here a whistling sigh occurred), who
longest for blood and bringest terror to mortals (short, sharp cries from myriad throats), Gorgo
(repeated as response), Mormo (repeated with ecstasy), thousand-faced moon (sighs and
flute notes), look favourably on our sacrifices!‖
As the chant closed, a general shout went up, and hissing sounds nearly drowned the
croaking of the cracked bass organ. Then a gasp as from many throats, and a babel of barked
and bleated words—―Lilith, Great Lilith, behold the Bridegroom!‖ More cries, a clamour of
rioting, and the sharp, clicking footfalls of a running figure. The footfalls approached, and
Malone raised himself to his elbow to look.
The luminosity of the crypt, lately diminished, had now slightly increased; and in that devil-
light there appeared the fleeing form of that which should not flee or feel or breathe—the
glassy-eyed, gangrenous corpse of the corpulent old man, now needing no support, but
animated by some infernal sorcery of the rite just closed. After it raced the naked, tittering,
phosphorescent thing that belonged on the carven pedestal, and still farther behind panted
the dark men, and all the dread crew of sentient loathsomenesses. The corpse was gaining
on its pursuers, and seemed bent on a definite object, straining with every rotting muscle
toward the carved golden pedestal, whose necromantic importance was evidently so great.
Another moment and it had reached its goal, whilst the trailing throng laboured on with more
frantic speed. But they were too late, for in one final spurt of strength which ripped tendon
from tendon and sent its noisome bulk floundering to the floor in a state of jellyish dissolution,
the staring corpse which had been Robert Suydam achieved its object and its triumph. The
push had been tremendous, but the force had held out; and as the pusher collapsed to a
muddy blotch of corruption the pedestal he had pushed tottered, tipped, and finally careened
from its onyx base into the thick waters below, sending up a parting gleam of carven gold as it
sank heavily to undreamable gulfs of lower Tartarus. In that instant, too, the whole scene of
horror faded to nothingness before Malone‘s eyes; and he fainted amidst a thunderous crash
which seemed to blot out all the evil universe.
VII.
Malone‘s dream, experienced in full before he knew of Suydam‘s death and transfer at sea,
was curiously supplemented by some odd realities of the case; though that is no reason why
anyone should believe it. The three old houses in Parker Place, doubtless long rotten with
decay in its most insidious form, collapsed without visible cause while half the raiders and
most of the prisoners were inside; and of both the greater number were instantly killed. Only
in the basements and cellars was there much saving of life, and Malone was lucky to have
been deep below the house of Robert Suydam. For he really was there, as no one is
disposed to deny. They found him unconscious by the edge of a night-black pool, with a
grotesquely horrible jumble of decay and bone, identifiable through dental work as the body of
Suydam, a few feet away. The case was plain, for it was hither that the smugglers‘
underground canal led; and the men who took Suydam from the ship had brought him home.
They themselves were never found, or at least never identified; and the ship‘s doctor is not
yet satisfied with the simple certitudes of the police.
Suydam was evidently a leader in extensive man-smuggling operations, for the canal to his
house was but one of several subterranean channels and tunnels in the neighbourhood.
There was a tunnel from this house to a crypt beneath the dance-hall church; a crypt
accessible from the church only through a narrow secret passage in the north wall, and in
whose chambers some singular and terrible things were discovered. The croaking organ was
there, as well as a vast arched chapel with wooden benches and a strangely figured altar. The
walls were lined with small cells, in seventeen of which—hideous to relate—solitary prisoners
in a state of complete idiocy were found chained, including four mothers with infants of
disturbingly strange appearance. These infants died soon after exposure to the light; a
circumstance which the doctors thought rather merciful. Nobody but Malone, among those
who inspected them, remembered the sombre question of old Delrio: ―An sint unquam
daemones incubi et succubae, et an ex tali congressu proles nasci queat?”
Before the canals were filled up they were thoroughly dredged, and yielded forth a
sensational array of sawed and split bones of all sizes. The kidnapping epidemic, very clearly,
had been traced home; though only two of the surviving prisoners could by any legal thread
be connected with it. These men are now in prison, since they failed of conviction as
accessories in the actual murders. The carved golden pedestal or throne so often mentioned
by Malone as of primary occult importance was never brought to light, though at one place
under the Suydam house the canal was observed to sink into a well too deep for dredging. It
was choked up at the mouth and cemented over when the cellars of the new houses were
made, but Malone often speculates on what lies beneath. The police, satisfied that they had
shattered a dangerous gang of maniacs and man-smugglers, turned over to the Federal
authorities the unconvicted Kurds, who before their deportation were conclusively found to
belong to the Yezidi clan of devil-worshippers. The tramp ship and its crew remain an elusive
mystery, though cynical detectives are once more ready to combat its smuggling and rum-
running ventures. Malone thinks these detectives shew a sadly limited perspective in their
lack of wonder at the myriad unexplainable details, and the suggestive obscurity of the whole
case; though he is just as critical of the newspapers, which saw only a morbid sensation and
gloated over a minor sadist cult which they might have proclaimed a horror from the
universe‘s very heart. But he is content to rest silent in Chepachet, calming his nervous
system and praying that time may gradually transfer his terrible experience from the realm of
present reality to that of picturesque and semi-mythical remoteness.
Robert Suydam sleeps beside his bride in Greenwood Cemetery. No funeral was held over
the strangely released bones, and relatives are grateful for the swift oblivion which overtook
the case as a whole. The scholar‘s connexion with the Red Hook horrors, indeed, was never
emblazoned by legal proof; since his death forestalled the inquiry he would otherwise have
faced. His own end is not much mentioned, and the Suydams hope that posterity may recall
him only as a gentle recluse who dabbled in harmless magic and folklore.
As for Red Hook—it is always the same. Suydam came and went; a terror gathered and
faded; but the evil spirit of darkness and squalor broods on amongst the mongrels in the old
brick houses, and prowling bands still parade on unknown errands past windows where lights
and twisted faces unaccountably appear and disappear. Age-old horror is a hydra with a
thousand heads, and the cults of darkness are rooted in blasphemies deeper than the well of
Democritus. The soul of the beast is omnipresent and triumphant, and Red Hook‘s legions of
blear-eyed, pockmarked youths still chant and curse and howl as they file from abyss to
abyss, none knows whence or whither, pushed on by blind laws of biology which they may
never understand. As of old, more people enter Red Hook than leave it on the landward side,
and there are already rumours of new canals running underground to certain centres of traffic
in liquor and less mentionable things.
The dance-hall church is now mostly a dance-hall, and queer faces have appeared at night at
the windows. Lately a policeman expressed the belief that the filled-up crypt has been dug out
again, and for no simply explainable purpose. Who are we to combat poisons older than
history and mankind? Apes danced in Asia to those horrors, and the cancer lurks secure and
spreading where furtiveness hides in rows of decaying brick.
Malone does not shudder without cause—for only the other day an officer overheard a
swarthy squinting hag teaching a small child some whispered patois in the shadow of an
areaway. He listened, and thought it very strange when he heard her repeat over and over
again,
―O friend and companion of night, thou who rejoicest in the baying of dogs and spilt
blood, who wanderest in the midst of shades among the tombs, who longest for
blood and bringest terror to mortals, Gorgo, Mormo, thousand-faced moon, look
favourably on our sacrifices!‖
—Algernon Blackwood.
Legrasse, deeply impressed and not a little bewildered, had inquired in vain concerning the
historic affiliations of the cult. Castro, apparently, had told the truth when he said that it was
wholly secret. The authorities at Tulane University could shed no light upon either cult or
image, and now the detective had come to the highest authorities in the country and met with
no more than the Greenland tale of Professor Webb.
The feverish interest aroused at the meeting by Legrasse‘s tale, corroborated as it was by the
statuette, is echoed in the subsequent correspondence of those who attended; although scant
mention occurs in the formal publications of the society. Caution is the first care of those
accustomed to face occasional charlatanry and imposture. Legrasse for some time lent the
image to Professor Webb, but at the latter‘s death it was returned to him and remains in his
possession, where I viewed it not long ago. It is truly a terrible thing, and unmistakably akin to
the dream-sculpture of young Wilcox.
That my uncle was excited by the tale of the sculptor I did not wonder, for what thoughts must
arise upon hearing, after a knowledge of what Legrasse had learned of the cult, of a sensitive
young man who had dreamed not only the figure and exact hieroglyphics of the swamp-found
image and the Greenland devil tablet, but had come in his dreams upon at least three of the
precise words of the formula uttered alike by Esquimau diabolists and mongrel Louisianans?
Professor Angell‘s instant start on an investigation of the utmost thoroughness was eminently
natural; though privately I suspected young Wilcox of having heard of the cult in some indirect
way, and of having invented a series of dreams to heighten and continue the mystery at my
uncle‘s expense. The dream-narratives and cuttings collected by the professor were, of
course, strong corroboration; but the rationalism of my mind and the extravagance of the
whole subject led me to adopt what I thought the most sensible conclusions. So, after
thoroughly studying the manuscript again and correlating the theosophical and
anthropological notes with the cult narrative of Legrasse, I made a trip to Providence to see
the sculptor and give him the rebuke I thought proper for so boldly imposing upon a learned
and aged man.
Wilcox still lived alone in the Fleur-de-Lys Building in Thomas Street, a hideous Victorian
imitation of seventeenth-century Breton architecture which flaunts its stuccoed front amidst
the lovely colonial houses on the ancient hill, and under the very shadow of the finest
Georgian steeple in America. I found him at work in his rooms, and at once conceded from
the specimens scattered about that his genius is indeed profound and authentic. He will, I
believe, some time be heard from as one of the great decadents; for he has crystallised in
clay and will one day mirror in marble those nightmares and phantasies which Arthur Machen
evokes in prose, and Clark Ashton Smith makes visible in verse and in painting.
Dark, frail, and somewhat unkempt in aspect, he turned languidly at my knock and asked me
my business without rising. When I told him who I was, he displayed some interest; for my
uncle had excited his curiosity in probing his strange dreams, yet had never explained the
reason for the study. I did not enlarge his knowledge in this regard, but sought with some
subtlety to draw him out. In a short time I became convinced of his absolute sincerity, for he
spoke of the dreams in a manner none could mistake. They and their subconscious residuum
had influenced his art profoundly, and he shewed me a morbid statue whose contours almost
made me shake with the potency of its black suggestion. He could not recall having seen the
original of this thing except in his own dream bas-relief, but the outlines had formed
themselves insensibly under his hands. It was, no doubt, the giant shape he had raved of in
delirium. That he really knew nothing of the hidden cult, save from what my uncle‘s relentless
catechism had let fall, he soon made clear; and again I strove to think of some way in which
he could possibly have received the weird impressions.
He talked of his dreams in a strangely poetic fashion; making me see with terrible vividness
the damp Cyclopean city of slimy green stone—whose geometry, he oddly said, was all
wrong—and hear with frightened expectancy the ceaseless, half-mental calling from
underground: ―Cthulhu fhtagn‖, ―Cthulhu fhtagn‖. These words had formed part of that dread
ritual which told of dead Cthulhu‘s dream-vigil in his stone vault at R‘lyeh, and I felt deeply
moved despite my rational beliefs. Wilcox, I was sure, had heard of the cult in some casual
way, and had soon forgotten it amidst the mass of his equally weird reading and imagining.
Later, by virtue of its sheer impressiveness, it had found subconscious expression in dreams,
in the bas-relief, and in the terrible statue I now beheld; so that his imposture upon my uncle
had been a very innocent one. The youth was of a type, at once slightly affected and slightly
ill-mannered, which I could never like; but I was willing enough now to admit both his genius
and his honesty. I took leave of him amicably, and wish him all the success his talent
promises.
The matter of the cult still remained to fascinate me, and at times I had visions of personal
fame from researches into its origin and connexions. I visited New Orleans, talked with
Legrasse and others of that old-time raiding-party, saw the frightful image, and even
questioned such of the mongrel prisoners as still survived. Old Castro, unfortunately, had
been dead for some years. What I now heard so graphically at first-hand, though it was really
no more than a detailed confirmation of what my uncle had written, excited me afresh; for I felt
sure that I was on the track of a very real, very secret, and very ancient religion whose
discovery would make me an anthropologist of note. My attitude was still one of absolute
materialism, as I wish it still were, and I discounted with almost inexplicable perversity the
coincidence of the dream notes and odd cuttings collected by Professor Angell.
One thing I began to suspect, and which I now fear I know, is that my uncle‘s death was far
from natural. He fell on a narrow hill street leading up from an ancient waterfront swarming
with foreign mongrels, after a careless push from a negro sailor. I did not forget the mixed
blood and marine pursuits of the cult-members in Louisiana, and would not be surprised to
learn of secret methods and poison needles as ruthless and as anciently known as the cryptic
rites and beliefs. Legrasse and his men, it is true, have been let alone; but in Norway a certain
seaman who saw things is dead. Might not the deeper inquiries of my uncle after
encountering the sculptor‘s data have come to sinister ears? I think Professor Angell died
because he knew too much, or because he was likely to learn too much. Whether I shall go
as he did remains to be seen, for I have learned much now.
III. The Madness from the Sea.
If heaven ever wishes to grant me a boon, it will be a total effacing of the results of a mere
chance which fixed my eye on a certain stray piece of shelf-paper. It was nothing on which I
would naturally have stumbled in the course of my daily round, for it was an old number of an
Australian journal, the Sydney Bulletin for April 18, 1925. It had escaped even the cutting
bureau which had at the time of its issuance been avidly collecting material for my uncle‘s
research.
I had largely given over my inquiries into what Professor Angell called the ―Cthulhu Cult‖, and
was visiting a learned friend in Paterson, New Jersey; the curator of a local museum and a
mineralogist of note. Examining one day the reserve specimens roughly set on the storage
shelves in a rear room of the museum, my eye was caught by an odd picture in one of the old
papers spread beneath the stones. It was the Sydney Bulletin I have mentioned, for my friend
has wide affiliations in all conceivable foreign parts; and the picture was a half-tone cut of a
hideous stone image almost identical with that which Legrasse had found in the swamp.
Eagerly clearing the sheet of its precious contents, I scanned the item in detail; and was
disappointed to find it of only moderate length. What it suggested, however, was of portentous
significance to my flagging quest; and I carefully tore it out for immediate action. It read as
follows:
MYSTERY DERELICT FOUND AT SEA. Vigilant Arrives With Helpless Armed New
Zealand Yacht in Tow. One Survivor and Dead Man Found Aboard. Tale of
Desperate Battle and Deaths at Sea. Rescued Seaman Refuses Particulars of
Strange Experience. Odd Idol Found in His Possession. Inquiry to Follow.
The Morrison Co.‘s freighter Vigilant, bound from Valparaiso, arrived this morning at its wharf
in Darling Harbour, having in tow the battled and disabled but heavily armed steam yacht Alert
of Dunedin, N. Z., which was sighted April 12th in S. Latitude 34° 21', W. Longitude 152° 17'
with one living and one dead man aboard.
The Vigilant left Valparaiso March 25th, and on April 2nd was driven considerably south of her
course by exceptionally heavy storms and monster waves. On April 12th the derelict was
sighted; and though apparently deserted, was found upon boarding to contain one survivor in
a half-delirious condition and one man who had evidently been dead for more than a week.
The living man was clutching a horrible stone idol of unknown origin, about a foot in height,
regarding whose nature authorities at Sydney University, the Royal Society, and the Museum
in College Street all profess complete bafflement, and which the survivor says he found in the
cabin of the yacht, in a small carved shrine of common pattern.
This man, after recovering his senses, told an exceedingly strange story of piracy and
slaughter. He is Gustaf Johansen, a Norwegian of some intelligence, and had been second
mate of the two-masted schooner Emma of Auckland, which sailed for Callao February 20th
with a complement of eleven men. The Emma, he says, was delayed and thrown widely south
of her course by the great storm of March 1st, and on March 22nd, in S. Latitude 49° 51', W.
Longitude 128° 34', encountered the Alert, manned by a queer and evil-looking crew of
Kanakas and half-castes. Being ordered peremptorily to turn back, Capt. Collins refused;
whereupon the strange crew began to fire savagely and without warning upon the schooner
with a peculiarly heavy battery of brass cannon forming part of the yacht‘s equipment. The
Emma‘s men shewed fight, says the survivor, and though the schooner began to sink from
shots beneath the waterline they managed to heave alongside their enemy and board her,
grappling with the savage crew on the yacht‘s deck, and being forced to kill them all, the
number being slightly superior, because of their particularly abhorrent and desperate though
rather clumsy mode of fighting.
Three of the Emma‘s men, including Capt. Collins and First Mate Green, were killed; and the
remaining eight under Second Mate Johansen proceeded to navigate the captured yacht,
going ahead in their original direction to see if any reason for their ordering back had existed.
The next day, it appears, they raised and landed on a small island, although none is known to
exist in that part of the ocean; and six of the men somehow died ashore, though Johansen is
queerly reticent about this part of his story, and speaks only of their falling into a rock chasm.
Later, it seems, he and one companion boarded the yacht and tried to manage her, but were
beaten about by the storm of April 2nd. From that time till his rescue on the 12th the man
remembers little, and he does not even recall when William Briden, his companion, died.
Briden‘s death reveals no apparent cause, and was probably due to excitement or exposure.
Cable advices from Dunedin report that the Alert was well known there as an island trader,
and bore an evil reputation along the waterfront. It was owned by a curious group of half-
castes whose frequent meetings and night trips to the woods attracted no little curiosity; and it
had set sail in great haste just after the storm and earth tremors of March 1st. Our Auckland
correspondent gives the Emma and her crew an excellent reputation, and Johansen is
described as a sober and worthy man. The admiralty will institute an inquiry on the whole
matter beginning tomorrow, at which every effort will be made to induce Johansen to speak
more freely than he has done hitherto.
This was all, together with the picture of the hellish image; but what a train of ideas it started
in my mind! Here were new treasuries of data on the Cthulhu Cult, and evidence that it had
strange interests at sea as well as on land. What motive prompted the hybrid crew to order
back the Emma as they sailed about with their hideous idol? What was the unknown island on
which six of the Emma‘s crew had died, and about which the mate Johansen was so
secretive? What had the vice-admiralty‘s investigation brought out, and what was known of
the noxious cult in Dunedin? And most marvellous of all, what deep and more than natural
linkage of dates was this which gave a malign and now undeniable significance to the various
turns of events so carefully noted by my uncle?
March 1st—our February 28th according to the International Date Line—the earthquake and
storm had come. From Dunedin the Alert and her noisome crew had darted eagerly forth as if
imperiously summoned, and on the other side of the earth poets and artists had begun to
dream of a strange, dank Cyclopean city whilst a young sculptor had moulded in his sleep the
form of the dreaded Cthulhu. March 23d the crew of the Emma landed on an unknown island
and left six men dead; and on that date the dreams of sensitive men assumed a heightened
vividness and darkened with dread of a giant monster‘s malign pursuit, whilst an architect had
gone mad and a sculptor had lapsed suddenly into delirium! And what of this storm of April
2nd—the date on which all dreams of the dank city ceased, and Wilcox emerged unharmed
from the bondage of strange fever? What of all this—and of those hints of old Castro about
the sunken, star-born Old Ones and their coming reign; their faithful cult and their mastery of
dreams? Was I tottering on the brink of cosmic horrors beyond man‘s power to bear? If so,
they must be horrors of the mind alone, for in some way the second of April had put a stop to
whatever monstrous menace had begun its siege of mankind‘s soul.
That evening, after a day of hurried cabling and arranging, I bade my host adieu and took a
train for San Francisco. In less than a month I was in Dunedin; where, however, I found that
little was known of the strange cult-members who had lingered in the old sea-taverns.
Waterfront scum was far too common for special mention; though there was vague talk about
one inland trip these mongrels had made, during which faint drumming and red flame were
noted on the distant hills. In Auckland I learned that Johansen had returned with yellow hair
turned white after a perfunctory and inconclusive questioning at Sydney, and had thereafter
sold his cottage in West Street and sailed with his wife to his old home in Oslo. Of his stirring
experience he would tell his friends no more than he had told the admiralty officials, and all
they could do was to give me his Oslo address.
After that I went to Sydney and talked profitlessly with seamen and members of the vice-
admiralty court. I saw the Alert, now sold and in commercial use, at Circular Quay in Sydney
Cove, but gained nothing from its non-committal bulk. The crouching image with its cuttlefish
head, dragon body, scaly wings, and hieroglyphed pedestal, was preserved in the Museum at
Hyde Park; and I studied it long and well, finding it a thing of balefully exquisite workmanship,
and with the same utter mystery, terrible antiquity, and unearthly strangeness of material
which I had noted in Legrasse‘s smaller specimen. Geologists, the curator told me, had found
it a monstrous puzzle; for they vowed that the world held no rock like it. Then I thought with a
shudder of what old Castro had told Legrasse about the primal Great Ones: ―They had come
from the stars, and had brought Their images with Them.‖
Shaken with such a mental revolution as I had never before known, I now resolved to visit
Mate Johansen in Oslo. Sailing for London, I reëmbarked at once for the Norwegian capital;
and one autumn day landed at the trim wharves in the shadow of the Egeberg. Johansen‘s
address, I discovered, lay in the Old Town of King Harold Haardrada, which kept alive the
name of Oslo during all the centuries that the greater city masqueraded as ―Christiana‖. I
made the brief trip by taxicab, and knocked with palpitant heart at the door of a neat and
ancient building with plastered front. A sad-faced woman in black answered my summons,
and I was stung with disappointment when she told me in halting English that Gustaf
Johansen was no more.
He had not survived his return, said his wife, for the doings at sea in 1925 had broken him. He
had told her no more than he had told the public, but had left a long manuscript—of ―technical
matters‖ as he said—written in English, evidently in order to safeguard her from the peril of
casual perusal. During a walk through a narrow lane near the Gothenburg dock, a bundle of
papers falling from an attic window had knocked him down. Two Lascar sailors at once helped
him to his feet, but before the ambulance could reach him he was dead. Physicians found no
adequate cause for the end, and laid it to heart trouble and a weakened constitution.
I now felt gnawing at my vitals that dark terror which will never leave me till I, too, am at rest;
―accidentally‖ or otherwise. Persuading the widow that my connexion with her husband‘s
―technical matters‖ was sufficient to entitle me to his manuscript, I bore the document away
and began to read it on the London boat. It was a simple, rambling thing—a naive sailor‘s
effort at a post-facto diary—and strove to recall day by day that last awful voyage. I cannot
attempt to transcribe it verbatim in all its cloudiness and redundance, but I will tell its gist
enough to shew why the sound of the water against the vessel‘s sides became so
unendurable to me that I stopped my ears with cotton.
Johansen, thank God, did not know quite all, even though he saw the city and the Thing, but I
shall never sleep calmly again when I think of the horrors that lurk ceaselessly behind life in
time and in space, and of those unhallowed blasphemies from elder stars which dream
beneath the sea, known and favoured by a nightmare cult ready and eager to loose them on
the world whenever another earthquake shall heave their monstrous stone city again to the
sun and air.
Johansen‘s voyage had begun just as he told it to the vice-admiralty. The Emma, in ballast,
had cleared Auckland on February 20th, and had felt the full force of that earthquake-born
tempest which must have heaved up from the sea-bottom the horrors that filled men‘s
dreams. Once more under control, the ship was making good progress when held up by the
Alert on March 22nd, and I could feel the mate‘s regret as he wrote of her bombardment and
sinking. Of the swarthy cult-fiends on the Alert he speaks with significant horror. There was
some peculiarly abominable quality about them which made their destruction seem almost a
duty, and Johansen shews ingenuous wonder at the charge of ruthlessness brought against
his party during the proceedings of the court of inquiry. Then, driven ahead by curiosity in their
captured yacht under Johansen‘s command, the men sight a great stone pillar sticking out of
the sea, and in S. Latitude 47° 9', W. Longitude 126° 43' come upon a coast-line of mingled
mud, ooze, and weedy Cyclopean masonry which can be nothing less than the tangible
substance of earth‘s supreme terror—the nightmare corpse-city of R‘lyeh, that was built in
measureless aeons behind history by the vast, loathsome shapes that seeped down from the
dark stars. There lay great Cthulhu and his hordes, hidden in green slimy vaults and sending
out at last, after cycles incalculable, the thoughts that spread fear to the dreams of the
sensitive and called imperiously to the faithful to come on a pilgrimage of liberation and
restoration. All this Johansen did not suspect, but God knows he soon saw enough!
I suppose that only a single mountain-top, the hideous monolith-crowned citadel whereon
great Cthulhu was buried, actually emerged from the waters. When I think of the extent of all
that may be brooding down there I almost wish to kill myself forthwith. Johansen and his men
were awed by the cosmic majesty of this dripping Babylon of elder daemons, and must have
guessed without guidance that it was nothing of this or of any sane planet. Awe at the
unbelievable size of the greenish stone blocks, at the dizzying height of the great carven
monolith, and at the stupefying identity of the colossal statues and bas-reliefs with the queer
image found in the shrine on the Alert, is poignantly visible in every line of the mate‘s
frightened description.
Without knowing what futurism is like, Johansen achieved something very close to it when he
spoke of the city; for instead of describing any definite structure or building, he dwells only on
broad impressions of vast angles and stone surfaces—surfaces too great to belong to any
thing right or proper for this earth, and impious with horrible images and hieroglyphs. I
mention his talk about angles because it suggests something Wilcox had told me of his awful
dreams. He had said that the geometry of the dream-place he saw was abnormal, non-
Euclidean, and loathsomely redolent of spheres and dimensions apart from ours. Now an
unlettered seaman felt the same thing whilst gazing at the terrible reality.
Johansen and his men landed at a sloping mud-bank on this monstrous Acropolis, and
clambered slipperily up over titan oozy blocks which could have been no mortal staircase. The
very sun of heaven seemed distorted when viewed through the polarising miasma welling out
from this sea-soaked perversion, and twisted menace and suspense lurked leeringly in those
crazily elusive angles of carven rock where a second glance shewed concavity after the first
shewed convexity.
Something very like fright had come over all the explorers before anything more definite than
rock and ooze and weed was seen. Each would have fled had he not feared the scorn of the
others, and it was only half-heartedly that they searched—vainly, as it proved—for some
portable souvenir to bear away.
It was Rodriguez the Portuguese who climbed up the foot of the monolith and shouted of what
he had found. The rest followed him, and looked curiously at the immense carved door with
the now familiar squid-dragon bas-relief. It was, Johansen said, like a great barn-door; and
they all felt that it was a door because of the ornate lintel, threshold, and jambs around it,
though they could not decide whether it lay flat like a trap-door or slantwise like an outside
cellar-door. As Wilcox would have said, the geometry of the place was all wrong. One could
not be sure that the sea and the ground were horizontal, hence the relative position of
everything else seemed phantasmally variable.
Briden pushed at the stone in several places without result. Then Donovan felt over it
delicately around the edge, pressing each point separately as he went. He climbed
interminably along the grotesque stone moulding—that is, one would call it climbing if the
thing was not after all horizontal—and the men wondered how any door in the universe could
be so vast. Then, very softly and slowly, the acre-great panel began to give inward at the top;
and they saw that it was balanced. Donovan slid or somehow propelled himself down or along
the jamb and rejoined his fellows, and everyone watched the queer recession of the
monstrously carven portal. In this phantasy of prismatic distortion it moved anomalously in a
diagonal way, so that all the rules of matter and perspective seemed upset.
The aperture was black with a darkness almost material. That tenebrousness was indeed a
positive quality; for it obscured such parts of the inner walls as ought to have been revealed,
and actually burst forth like smoke from its aeon-long imprisonment, visibly darkening the sun
as it slunk away into the shrunken and gibbous sky on flapping membraneous wings. The
odour arising from the newly opened depths was intolerable, and at length the quick-eared
Hawkins thought he heard a nasty, slopping sound down there. Everyone listened, and
everyone was listening still when It lumbered slobberingly into sight and gropingly squeezed
Its gelatinous green immensity through the black doorway into the tainted outside air of that
poison city of madness.
Poor Johansen‘s handwriting almost gave out when he wrote of this. Of the six men who
never reached the ship, he thinks two perished of pure fright in that accursed instant. The
Thing cannot be described—there is no language for such abysms of shrieking and
immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A
mountain walked or stumbled. God! What wonder that across the earth a great architect went
mad, and poor Wilcox raved with fever in that telepathic instant? The Thing of the idols, the
green, sticky spawn of the stars, had awaked to claim his own. The stars were right again,
and what an age-old cult had failed to do by design, a band of innocent sailors had done by
accident. After vigintillions of years great Cthulhu was loose again, and ravening for delight.
Three men were swept up by the flabby claws before anybody turned. God rest them, if there
be any rest in the universe. They were Donovan, Guerrera, and Ångstrom. Parker slipped as
the other three were plunging frenziedly over endless vistas of green-crusted rock to the boat,
and Johansen swears he was swallowed up by an angle of masonry which shouldn‘t have
been there; an angle which was acute, but behaved as if it were obtuse. So only Briden and
Johansen reached the boat, and pulled desperately for the Alert as the mountainous
monstrosity flopped down the slimy stones and hesitated floundering at the edge of the water.
Steam had not been suffered to go down entirely, despite the departure of all hands for the
shore; and it was the work of only a few moments of feverish rushing up and down between
wheel and engines to get the Alert under way. Slowly, amidst the distorted horrors of that
indescribable scene, she began to churn the lethal waters; whilst on the masonry of that
charnel shore that was not of earth the titan Thing from the stars slavered and gibbered like
Polypheme cursing the fleeing ship of Odysseus. Then, bolder than the storied Cyclops, great
Cthulhu slid greasily into the water and began to pursue with vast wave-raising strokes of
cosmic potency. Briden looked back and went mad, laughing shrilly as he kept on laughing at
intervals till death found him one night in the cabin whilst Johansen was wandering deliriously.
But Johansen had not given out yet. Knowing that the Thing could surely overtake the Alert
until steam was fully up, he resolved on a desperate chance; and, setting the engine for full
speed, ran lightning-like on deck and reversed the wheel. There was a mighty eddying and
foaming in the noisome brine, and as the steam mounted higher and higher the brave
Norwegian drove his vessel head on against the pursuing jelly which rose above the unclean
froth like the stern of a daemon galleon. The awful squid-head with writhing feelers came
nearly up to the bowsprit of the sturdy yacht, but Johansen drove on relentlessly. There was a
bursting as of an exploding bladder, a slushy nastiness as of a cloven sunfish, a stench as of
a thousand opened graves, and a sound that the chronicler would not put on paper. For an
instant the ship was befouled by an acrid and blinding green cloud, and then there was only a
venomous seething astern; where—God in heaven!—the scattered plasticity of that nameless
sky-spawn was nebulously recombining in its hateful original form, whilst its distance widened
every second as the Alert gained impetus from its mounting steam.
That was all. After that Johansen only brooded over the idol in the cabin and attended to a
few matters of food for himself and the laughing maniac by his side. He did not try to navigate
after the first bold flight, for the reaction had taken something out of his soul. Then came the
storm of April 2nd, and a gathering of the clouds about his consciousness. There is a sense of
spectral whirling through liquid gulfs of infinity, of dizzying rides through reeling universes on a
comet‘s tail, and of hysterical plunges from the pit to the moon and from the moon back again
to the pit, all livened by a cachinnating chorus of the distorted, hilarious elder gods and the
green, bat-winged mocking imps of Tartarus.
Out of that dream came rescue—the Vigilant, the vice-admiralty court, the streets of Dunedin,
and the long voyage back home to the old house by the Egeberg. He could not tell—they
would think him mad. He would write of what he knew before death came, but his wife must
not guess. Death would be a boon if only it could blot out the memories.
That was the document I read, and now I have placed it in the tin box beside the bas-relief
and the papers of Professor Angell. With it shall go this record of mine—this test of my own
sanity, wherein is pieced together that which I hope may never be pieced together again. I
have looked upon all that the universe has to hold of horror, and even the skies of spring and
the flowers of summer must ever afterward be poison to me. But I do not think my life will be
long. As my uncle went, as poor Johansen went, so I shall go. I know too much, and the cult
still lives.
Cthulhu still lives, too, I suppose, again in that chasm of stone which has shielded him since
the sun was young. His accursed city is sunken once more, for the Vigilant sailed over the
spot after the April storm; but his ministers on earth still bellow and prance and slay around
idol-capped monoliths in lonely places. He must have been trapped by the sinking whilst
within his black abyss, or else the world would by now be screaming with fright and frenzy.
Who knows the end? What has risen may sink, and what has sunk may rise. Loathsomeness
waits and dreams in the deep, and decay spreads over the tottering cities of men. A time will
come—but I must not and cannot think! Let me pray that, if I do not survive this manuscript,
my executors may put caution before audacity and see that it meets no other eye.
It was near the docks along the southerly part of the Town Street, however, that the worst
things were muttered about Joseph Curwen. Sailors are superstitious folk; and the seasoned
salts who manned the infinite rum, slave, and molasses sloops, the rakish privateers, and the
great brigs of the Browns, Crawfords, and Tillinghasts, all made strange furtive signs of
protection when they saw the slim, deceptively young-looking figure with its yellow hair and
slight stoop entering the Curwen warehouse in Doubloon Street or talking with captains and
supercargoes on the long quay where the Curwen ships rode restlessly. Curwen‘s own clerks
and captains hated and feared him, and all his sailors were mongrel riff-raff from Martinique,
St. Eustatius, Havana, or Port Royal. It was, in a way, the frequency with which these sailors
were replaced which inspired the acutest and most tangible part of the fear in which the old
man was held. A crew would be turned loose in the town on shore leave, some of its members
perhaps charged with this errand or that; and when reassembled it would be almost sure to
lack one or more men. That many of the errands had concerned the farm on the Pawtuxet
Road, and that few of the sailors had ever been seen to return from that place, was not
forgotten; so that in time it became exceedingly difficult for Curwen to keep his oddly assorted
hands. Almost invariably several would desert soon after hearing the gossip of the Providence
wharves, and their replacement in the West Indies became an increasingly great problem to
the merchant.
In 1760 Joseph Curwen was virtually an outcast, suspected of vague horrors and daemoniac
alliances which seemed all the more menacing because they could not be named,
understood, or even proved to exist. The last straw may have come from the affair of the
missing soldiers in 1758, for in March and April of that year two Royal regiments on their way
to New France were quartered in Providence, and depleted by an inexplicable process far
beyond the average rate of desertion. Rumour dwelt on the frequency with which Curwen was
wont to be seen talking with the red-coated strangers; and as several of them began to be
missed, people thought of the odd conditions among his own seamen. What would have
happened if the regiments had not been ordered on, no one can tell.
Meanwhile the merchant‘s worldly affairs were prospering. He had a virtual monopoly of the
town‘s trade in saltpetre, black pepper, and cinnamon, and easily led any other one shipping
establishment save the Browns in his importation of brassware, indigo, cotton, woollens, salt,
rigging, iron, paper, and English goods of every kind. Such shopkeepers as James Green, at
the Sign of the Elephant in Cheapside, the Russells, at the Sign of the Golden Eagle across
the Bridge, or Clark and Nightingale at the Frying-Pan and Fish near the New Coffee-House,
depended almost wholly upon him for their stock; and his arrangements with the local
distillers, the Narragansett dairymen and horse-breeders, and the Newport candle-makers,
made him one of the prime exporters of the Colony.
Ostracised though he was, he did not lack for civic spirit of a sort. When the Colony House
burned down, he subscribed handsomely to the lotteries by which the new brick one—still
standing at the head of its parade in the old main street—was built in 1761. In that same year,
too, he helped rebuild the Great Bridge after the October gale. He replaced many of the
books of the public library consumed in the Colony House fire, and bought heavily in the
lottery that gave the muddy Market Parade and deep-rutted Town Street their pavement of
great round stones with a brick footwalk or ―causey‖ in the middle. About this time, also, he
built the plain but excellent new house whose doorway is still such a triumph of carving. When
the Whitefield adherents broke off from Dr. Cotton‘s hill church in 1743 and founded Deacon
Snow‘s church across the Bridge, Curwen had gone with them; though his zeal and
attendance soon abated. Now, however, he cultivated piety once more; as if to dispel the
shadow which had thrown him into isolation and would soon begin to wreck his business
fortunes if not sharply checked.
2.
The sight of this strange, pallid man, hardly middle-aged in aspect yet certainly not less than a
full century old, seeking at last to emerge from a cloud of fright and detestation too vague to
pin down or analyse, was at once a pathetic, a dramatic, and a contemptible thing. Such is
the power of wealth and of surface gestures, however, that there came indeed a slight
abatement in the visible aversion displayed toward him; especially after the rapid
disappearances of his sailors abruptly ceased. He must likewise have begun to practice an
extreme care and secrecy in his graveyard expeditions, for he was never again caught at
such wanderings; whilst the rumours of uncanny sounds and manoeuvres at his Pawtuxet
farm diminished in proportion. His rate of food consumption and cattle replacement remained
abnormally high; but not until modern times, when Charles Ward examined a set of his
accounts and invoices in the Shepley Library, did it occur to any person—save one embittered
youth, perhaps—to make dark comparisons between the large number of Guinea blacks he
imported until 1766, and the disturbingly small number for whom he could produce bona fide
bills of sale either to slave-dealers at the Great Bridge or to the planters of the Narragansett
Country. Certainly, the cunning and ingenuity of this abhorred character were uncannily
profound, once the necessity for their exercise had become impressed upon him.
But of course the effect of all this belated mending was necessarily slight. Curwen continued
to be avoided and distrusted, as indeed the one fact of his continued air of youth at a great
age would have been enough to warrant; and he could see that in the end his fortunes would
be likely to suffer. His elaborate studies and experiments, whatever they may have been,
apparently required a heavy income for their maintenance; and since a change of
environment would deprive him of the trading advantages he had gained, it would not have
profited him to begin anew in a different region just then. Judgment demanded that he patch
up his relations with the townsfolk of Providence, so that his presence might no longer be a
signal for hushed conversation, transparent excuses of errands elsewhere, and a general
atmosphere of constraint and uneasiness. His clerks, being now reduced to the shiftless and
impecunious residue whom no one else would employ, were giving him much worry; and he
held to his sea-captains and mates only by shrewdness in gaining some kind of ascendancy
over them—a mortgage, a promissory note, or a bit of information very pertinent to their
welfare. In many cases, diarists have recorded with some awe, Curwen shewed almost the
power of a wizard in unearthing family secrets for questionable use. During the final five years
of his life it seemed as though only direct talks with the long-dead could possibly have
furnished some of the data which he had so glibly at his tongue‘s end.
About this time the crafty scholar hit upon a last desperate expedient to regain his footing in
the community. Hitherto a complete hermit, he now determined to contract an advantageous
marriage; securing as a bride some lady whose unquestioned position would make all
ostracism of his home impossible. It may be that he also had deeper reasons for wishing an
alliance; reasons so far outside the known cosmic sphere that only papers found a century
and a half after his death caused anyone to suspect them; but of this nothing certain can ever
be learned. Naturally he was aware of the horror and indignation with which any ordinary
courtship of his would be received, hence he looked about for some likely candidate upon
whose parents he might exert a suitable pressure. Such candidates, he found, were not at all
easy to discover; since he had very particular requirements in the way of beauty,
accomplishments, and social security. At length his survey narrowed down to the household of
one of his best and oldest ship-captains, a widower of high birth and unblemished standing
named Dutee Tillinghast, whose only daughter Eliza seemed dowered with every conceivable
advantage save prospects as an heiress. Capt. Tillinghast was completely under the
domination of Curwen; and consented, after a terrible interview in his cupolaed house on
Power‘s Lane hill, to sanction the blasphemous alliance.
Eliza Tillinghast was at that time eighteen years of age, and had been reared as gently as the
reduced circumstances of her father permitted. She had attended Stephen Jackson‘s school
opposite the Court-House Parade; and had been diligently instructed by her mother, before
the latter‘s death of smallpox in 1757, in all the arts and refinements of domestic life. A
sampler of hers, worked in 1753 at the age of nine, may still be found in the rooms of the
Rhode Island Historical Society. After her mother‘s death she had kept the house, aided only
by one old black woman. Her arguments with her father concerning the proposed Curwen
marriage must have been painful indeed; but of these we have no record. Certain it is that her
engagement to young Ezra Weeden, second mate of the Crawford packet Enterprise, was
dutifully broken off, and that her union with Joseph Curwen took place on the seventh of
March, 1763, in the Baptist church, in the presence of one of the most distinguished
assemblages which the town could boast; the ceremony being performed by the younger
Samuel Winsor. The Gazette mentioned the event very briefly, and in most surviving copies
the item in question seems to be cut or torn out. Ward found a single intact copy after much
search in the archives of a private collector of note, observing with amusement the
meaningless urbanity of the language:
―Monday evening last, Mr. Joseph Curwen, of this Town, Merchant, was married to
Miss Eliza Tillinghast, Daughter of Capt. Dutee Tillinghast, a young Lady who has
real Merit, added to a beautiful Person, to grace the connubial State and
perpetuate its Felicity.‖
The collection of Durfee-Arnold letters, discovered by Charles Ward shortly before his first
reputed madness in the private collection of Melville F. Peters, Esq., of George St., and
covering this and a somewhat antecedent period, throws vivid light on the outrage done to
public sentiment by this ill-assorted match. The social influence of the Tillinghasts, however,
was not to be denied; and once more Joseph Curwen found his house frequented by persons
whom he could never otherwise have induced to cross his threshold. His acceptance was by
no means complete, and his bride was socially the sufferer through her forced venture; but at
all events the wall of utter ostracism was somewhat worn down. In his treatment of his wife
the strange bridegroom astonished both her and the community by displaying an extreme
graciousness and consideration. The new house in Olney Court was now wholly free from
disturbing manifestations, and although Curwen was much absent at the Pawtuxet farm which
his wife never visited, he seemed more like a normal citizen than at any other time in his long
years of residence. Only one person remained in open enmity with him, this being the youthful
ship‘s officer whose engagement to Eliza Tillinghast had been so abruptly broken. Ezra
Weeden had frankly vowed vengeance; and though of a quiet and ordinarily mild disposition,
was now gaining a hate-bred, dogged purpose which boded no good to the usurping
husband.
On the seventh of May, 1765, Curwen‘s only child Ann was born; and was christened by the
Rev. John Graves of King‘s Church, of which both husband and wife had become
communicants shortly after their marriage, in order to compromise between their respective
Congregational and Baptist affiliations. The record of this birth, as well as that of the marriage
two years before, was stricken from most copies of the church and town annals where it ought
to appear; and Charles Ward located both with the greatest difficulty after his discovery of the
widow‘s change of name had apprised him of his own relationship, and engendered the
feverish interest which culminated in his madness. The birth entry, indeed, was found very
curiously through correspondence with the heirs of the loyalist Dr. Graves, who had taken with
him a duplicate set of records when he left his pastorate at the outbreak of the Revolution.
Ward had tried this source because he knew that his great-great-grandmother Ann Tillinghast
Potter had been an Episcopalian.
Shortly after the birth of his daughter, an event he seemed to welcome with a fervour greatly
out of keeping with his usual coldness, Curwen resolved to sit for a portrait. This he had
painted by a very gifted Scotsman named Cosmo Alexander, then a resident of Newport, and
since famous as the early teacher of Gilbert Stuart. The likeness was said to have been
executed on a wall-panel of the library of the house in Olney Court, but neither of the two old
diaries mentioning it gave any hint of its ultimate disposition. At this period the erratic scholar
shewed signs of unusual abstraction, and spent as much time as he possibly could at his farm
on the Pawtuxet Road. He seemed, it was stated, in a condition of suppressed excitement or
suspense; as if expecting some phenomenal thing or on the brink of some strange discovery.
Chemistry or alchemy would appear to have played a great part, for he took from his house to
the farm the greater number of his volumes on that subject.
His affectation of civic interest did not diminish, and he lost no opportunities for helping such
leaders as Stephen Hopkins, Joseph Brown, and Benjamin West in their efforts to raise the
cultural tone of the town, which was then much below the level of Newport in its patronage of
the liberal arts. He had helped Daniel Jenckes found his bookshop in 1763, and was
thereafter his best customer; extending aid likewise to the struggling Gazette that appeared
each Wednesday at the Sign of Shakespear‘s Head. In politics he ardently supported
Governor Hopkins against the Ward party whose prime strength was in Newport, and his
really eloquent speech at Hacker‘s Hall in 1765 against the setting off of North Providence as
a separate town with a pro-Ward vote in the General Assembly did more than any other one
thing to wear down the prejudice against him. But Ezra Weeden, who watched him closely,
sneered cynically at all this outward activity; and freely swore it was no more than a mask for
some nameless traffick with the blackest gulfs of Tartarus. The revengeful youth began a
systematic study of the man and his doings whenever he was in port; spending hours at night
by the wharves with a dory in readiness when he saw lights in the Curwen warehouses, and
following the small boat which would sometimes steal quietly off and down the bay. He also
kept as close a watch as possible on the Pawtuxet farm, and was once severely bitten by the
dogs the old Indian couple loosed upon him.
3.
In 1766 came the final change in Joseph Curwen. It was very sudden, and gained wide notice
amongst the curious townsfolk; for the air of suspense and expectancy dropped like an old
cloak, giving instant place to an ill-concealed exaltation of perfect triumph. Curwen seemed to
have difficulty in restraining himself from public harangues on what he had found or learned or
made; but apparently the need of secrecy was greater than the longing to share his rejoicing,
for no explanation was ever offered by him. It was after this transition, which appears to have
come early in July, that the sinister scholar began to astonish people by his possession of
information which only their long-dead ancestors would seem to be able to impart.
But Curwen‘s feverish secret activities by no means ceased with this change. On the contrary,
they tended rather to increase; so that more and more of his shipping business was handled
by the captains whom he now bound to him by ties of fear as potent as those of bankruptcy
had been. He altogether abandoned the slave trade, alleging that its profits were constantly
decreasing. Every possible moment was spent at the Pawtuxet farm; though there were
rumours now and then of his presence in places which, though not actually near graveyards,
were yet so situated in relation to graveyards that thoughtful people wondered just how
thorough the old merchant‘s change of habits really was. Ezra Weeden, though his periods of
espionage were necessarily brief and intermittent on account of his sea voyaging, had a
vindictive persistence which the bulk of the practical townsfolk and farmers lacked; and
subjected Curwen‘s affairs to a scrutiny such as they had never had before.
Many of the odd manoeuvres of the strange merchant‘s vessels had been taken for granted
on account of the unrest of the times, when every colonist seemed determined to resist the
provisions of the Sugar Act which hampered a prominent traffick. Smuggling and evasion
were the rule in Narragansett Bay, and nocturnal landings of illicit cargoes were continuous
commonplaces. But Weeden, night after night following the lighters or small sloops which he
saw steal off from the Curwen warehouses at the Town Street docks, soon felt assured that it
was not merely His Majesty‘s armed ships which the sinister skulker was anxious to avoid.
Prior to the change in 1766 these boats had for the most part contained chained negroes,
who were carried down and across the bay and landed at an obscure point on the shore just
north of Pawtuxet; being afterward driven up the bluff and across country to the Curwen farm,
where they were locked in that enormous stone outbuilding which had only high narrow slits
for windows. After that change, however, the whole programme was altered. Importation of
slaves ceased at once, and for a time Curwen abandoned his midnight sailings. Then, about
the spring of 1767, a new policy appeared. Once more the lighters grew wont to put out from
the black, silent docks, and this time they would go down the bay some distance, perhaps as
far as Namquit Point, where they would meet and receive cargo from strange ships of
considerable size and widely varied appearance. Curwen‘s sailors would then deposit this
cargo at the usual point on the shore, and transport it overland to the farm; locking it in the
same cryptical stone building which had formerly received the negroes. The cargo consisted
almost wholly of boxes and cases, of which a large proportion were oblong and heavy and
disturbingly suggestive of coffins.
Weeden always watched the farm with unremitting assiduity; visiting it each night for long
periods, and seldom letting a week go by without a sight except when the ground bore a
footprint-revealing snow. Even then he would often walk as close as possible in the travelled
road or on the ice of the neighbouring river to see what tracks others might have left. Finding
his own vigils interrupted by nautical duties, he hired a tavern companion named Eleazar
Smith to continue the survey during his absences; and between them the two could have set
in motion some extraordinary rumours. That they did not do so was only because they knew
the effect of publicity would be to warn their quarry and make further progress impossible.
Instead, they wished to learn something definite before taking any action. What they did learn
must have been startling indeed, and Charles Ward spoke many times to his parents of his
regret at Weeden‘s later burning of his notebooks. All that can be told of their discoveries is
what Eleazar Smith jotted down in a none too coherent diary, and what other diarists and
letter-writers have timidly repeated from the statements which they finally made—and
according to which the farm was only the outer shell of some vast and revolting menace, of a
scope and depth too profound and intangible for more than shadowy comprehension.
It is gathered that Weeden and Smith became early convinced that a great series of tunnels
and catacombs, inhabited by a very sizeable staff of persons besides the old Indian and his
wife, underlay the farm. The house was an old peaked relic of the middle seventeenth century
with enormous stack chimney and diamond-paned lattice windows, the laboratory being in a
lean-to toward the north, where the roof came nearly to the ground. This building stood clear
of any other; yet judging by the different voices heard at odd times within, it must have been
accessible through secret passages beneath. These voices, before 1766, were mere
mumblings and negro whisperings and frenzied screams, coupled with curious chants or
invocations. After that date, however, they assumed a very singular and terrible cast as they
ran the gamut betwixt dronings of dull acquiescence and explosions of frantic pain or fury,
rumblings of conversation and whines of entreaty, pantings of eagerness and shouts of
protest. They appeared to be in different languages, all known to Curwen, whose rasping
accents were frequently distinguishable in reply, reproof, or threatening. Sometimes it seemed
that several persons must be in the house; Curwen, certain captives, and the guards of those
captives. There were voices of a sort that neither Weeden nor Smith had ever heard before
despite their wide knowledge of foreign parts, and many that they did seem to place as
belonging to this or that nationality. The nature of the conversations seemed always a kind of
catechism, as if Curwen were extorting some sort of information from terrified or rebellious
prisoners.
Weeden had many verbatim reports of overheard scraps in his notebook, for English, French,
and Spanish, which he knew, were frequently used; but of these nothing has survived. He did,
however, say that besides a few ghoulish dialogues in which the past affairs of Providence
families were concerned, most of the questions and answers he could understand were
historical or scientific; occasionally pertaining to very remote places and ages. Once, for
example, an alternately raging and sullen figure was questioned in French about the Black
Prince‘s massacre at Limoges in 1370, as if there were some hidden reason which he ought
to know. Curwen asked the prisoner—if prisoner it were—whether the order to slay was given
because of the Sign of the Goat found on the altar in the ancient Roman crypt beneath the
Cathedral, or whether the Dark Man of the Haute Vienne Coven had spoken the Three
Words. Failing to obtain replies, the inquisitor had seemingly resorted to extreme means; for
there was a terrific shriek followed by silence and muttering and a bumping sound.
None of these colloquies were ever ocularly witnessed, since the windows were always
heavily draped. Once, though, during a discourse in an unknown tongue, a shadow was seen
on the curtain which startled Weeden exceedingly; reminding him of one of the puppets in a
show he had seen in the autumn of 1764 in Hacker‘s Hall, when a man from Germantown,
Pennsylvania, had given a clever mechanical spectacle advertised as a ―View of the Famous
City of Jerusalem, in which are represented Jerusalem, the Temple of Solomon, his Royal
Throne, the noted Towers, and Hills, likewise the Sufferings of Our Saviour from the Garden
of Gethsemane to the Cross on the Hill of Golgotha; an artful piece of Statuary, Worthy to be
seen by the Curious.‖ It was on this occasion that the listener, who had crept close to the
window of the front room whence the speaking proceeded, gave a start which roused the old
Indian pair and caused them to loose the dogs on him. After that no more conversations were
ever heard in the house, and Weeden and Smith concluded that Curwen had transferred his
field of action to regions below.
That such regions in truth existed, seemed amply clear from many things. Faint cries and
groans unmistakably came up now and then from what appeared to be the solid earth in
places far from any structure; whilst hidden in the bushes along the river-bank in the rear,
where the high ground sloped steeply down to the valley of the Pawtuxet, there was found an
arched oaken door in a frame of heavy masonry, which was obviously an entrance to caverns
within the hill. When or how these catacombs could have been constructed, Weeden was
unable to say; but he frequently pointed out how easily the place might have been reached by
bands of unseen workmen from the river. Joseph Curwen put his mongrel seamen to diverse
uses indeed! During the heavy spring rains of 1769 the two watchers kept a sharp eye on the
steep river-bank to see if any subterrene secrets might be washed to light, and were
rewarded by the sight of a profusion of both human and animal bones in places where deep
gullies had been worn in the banks. Naturally there might be many explanations of such
things in the rear of a stock farm, and in a locality where old Indian burying-grounds were
common, but Weeden and Smith drew their own inferences.
It was in January 1770, whilst Weeden and Smith were still debating vainly on what, if
anything, to think or do about the whole bewildering business, that the incident of the
Fortaleza occurred. Exasperated by the burning of the revenue sloop Liberty at Newport
during the previous summer, the customs fleet under Admiral Wallace had adopted an
increased vigilance concerning strange vessels; and on this occasion His Majesty‘s armed
schooner Cygnet, under Capt. Charles Leslie, captured after a short pursuit one early
morning the snow Fortaleza of Barcelona, Spain, under Capt. Manuel Arruda, bound
according to its log from Grand Cairo, Egypt, to Providence. When searched for contraband
material, this ship revealed the astonishing fact that its cargo consisted exclusively of
Egyptian mummies, consigned to ―Sailor A. B. C.‖, who would come to remove his goods in a
lighter just off Namquit Point and whose identity Capt. Arruda felt himself in honour bound not
to reveal. The Vice-Admiralty Court at Newport, at a loss what to do in view of the non-
contraband nature of the cargo on the one hand and of the unlawful secrecy of the entry on
the other hand, compromised on Collector Robinson‘s recommendation by freeing the ship
but forbidding it a port in Rhode Island waters. There were later rumours of its having been
seen in Boston Harbour, though it never openly entered the Port of Boston.
This extraordinary incident did not fail of wide remark in Providence, and there were not many
who doubted the existence of some connexion between the cargo of mummies and the
sinister Joseph Curwen. His exotic studies and his curious chemical importations being
common knowledge, and his fondness for graveyards being common suspicion; it did not take
much imagination to link him with a freakish importation which could not conceivably have
been destined for anyone else in the town. As if conscious of this natural belief, Curwen took
care to speak casually on several occasions of the chemical value of the balsams found in
mummies; thinking perhaps that he might make the affair seem less unnatural, yet stopping
just short of admitting his participation. Weeden and Smith, of course, felt no doubt
whatsoever of the significance of the thing; and indulged in the wildest theories concerning
Curwen and his monstrous labours.
The following spring, like that of the year before, had heavy rains; and the watchers kept
careful track of the river-bank behind the Curwen farm. Large sections were washed away,
and a certain number of bones discovered; but no glimpse was afforded of any actual
subterranean chambers or burrows. Something was rumoured, however, at the village of
Pawtuxet about a mile below, where the river flows in falls over a rocky terrace to join the
placid landlocked cove. There, where quaint old cottages climbed the hill from the rustic
bridge, and fishing-smacks lay anchored at their sleepy docks, a vague report went round of
things that were floating down the river and flashing into sight for a minute as they went over
the falls. Of course the Pawtuxet is a long river which winds through many settled regions
abounding in graveyards, and of course the spring rains had been very heavy; but the
fisherfolk about the bridge did not like the wild way that one of the things stared as it shot
down to the still water below, or the way that another half cried out although its condition had
greatly departed from that of objects which normally cry out. That rumour sent Smith—for
Weeden was just then at sea—in haste to the river-bank behind the farm; where surely
enough there remained the evidences of an extensive cave-in. There was, however, no trace
of a passage into the steep bank; for the miniature avalanche had left behind a solid wall of
mixed earth and shrubbery from aloft. Smith went to the extent of some experimental digging,
but was deterred by lack of success—or perhaps by fear of possible success. It is interesting
to speculate on what the persistent and revengeful Weeden would have done had he been
ashore at the time.
4.
By the autumn of 1770 Weeden decided that the time was ripe to tell others of his
discoveries; for he had a large number of facts to link together, and a second eye-witness to
refute the possible charge that jealousy and vindictiveness had spurred his fancy. As his first
confidant he selected Capt. James Mathewson of the Enterprise, who on the one hand knew
him well enough not to doubt his veracity, and on the other hand was sufficiently influential in
the town to be heard in turn with respect. The colloquy took place in an upper room of Sabin‘s
Tavern near the docks, with Smith present to corroborate virtually every statement; and it
could be seen that Capt. Mathewson was tremendously impressed. Like nearly everyone else
in the town, he had had black suspicions of his own anent Joseph Curwen; hence it needed
only this confirmation and enlargement of data to convince him absolutely. At the end of the
conference he was very grave, and enjoined strict silence upon the two younger men. He
would, he said, transmit the information separately to some ten or so of the most learned and
prominent citizens of Providence; ascertaining their views and following whatever advice they
might have to offer. Secrecy would probably be essential in any case, for this was no matter
that the town constables or militia could cope with; and above all else the excitable crowd
must be kept in ignorance, lest there be enacted in these already troublous times a repetition
of that frightful Salem panic of less than a century before which had first brought Curwen
hither.
The right persons to tell, he believed, would be Dr. Benjamin West, whose pamphlet on the
late transit of Venus proved him a scholar and keen thinker; Rev. James Manning, President
of the College which had just moved up from Warren and was temporarily housed in the new
King Street schoolhouse awaiting the completion of its building on the hill above Presbyterian-
Lane; ex-Governor Stephen Hopkins, who had been a member of the Philosophical Society at
Newport, and was a man of very broad perceptions; John Carter, publisher of the Gazette; all
four of the Brown brothers, John, Joseph, Nicholas, and Moses, who formed the recognised
local magnates, and of whom Joseph was an amateur scientist of parts; old Dr. Jabez Bowen,
whose erudition was considerable, and who had much first-hand knowledge of Curwen‘s odd
purchases; and Capt. Abraham Whipple, a privateersman of phenomenal boldness and
energy who could be counted on to lead in any active measures needed. These men, if
favourable, might eventually be brought together for collective deliberation; and with them
would rest the responsibility of deciding whether or not to inform the Governor of the Colony,
Joseph Wanton of Newport, before taking action.
The mission of Capt. Mathewson prospered beyond his highest expectations; for whilst he
found one or two of the chosen confidants somewhat sceptical of the possible ghastly side of
Weeden‘s tale, there was not one who did not think it necessary to take some sort of secret
and coördinated action. Curwen, it was clear, formed a vague potential menace to the welfare
of the town and Colony; and must be eliminated at any cost. Late in December 1770 a group
of eminent townsmen met at the home of Stephen Hopkins and debated tentative measures.
Weeden‘s notes, which he had given to Capt. Mathewson, were carefully read; and he and
Smith were summoned to give testimony anent details. Something very like fear seized the
whole assemblage before the meeting was over, though there ran through that fear a grim
determination which Capt. Whipple‘s bluff and resonant profanity best expressed. They would
not notify the Governor, because a more than legal course seemed necessary. With hidden
powers of uncertain extent apparently at his disposal, Curwen was not a man who could
safely be warned to leave town. Nameless reprisals might ensue, and even if the sinister
creature complied, the removal would be no more than the shifting of an unclean burden to
another place. The times were lawless, and men who had flouted the King‘s revenue forces
for years were not the ones to balk at sterner things when duty impelled. Curwen must be
surprised at his Pawtuxet farm by a large raiding-party of seasoned privateersmen and given
one decisive chance to explain himself. If he proved a madman, amusing himself with shrieks
and imaginary conversations in different voices, he would be properly confined. If something
graver appeared, and if the underground horrors indeed turned out to be real, he and all with
him must die. It could be done quietly, and even the widow and her father need not be told
how it came about.
While these serious steps were under discussion there occurred in the town an incident so
terrible and inexplicable that for a time little else was mentioned for miles around. In the
middle of a moonlight January night with heavy snow underfoot there resounded over the
river and up the hill a shocking series of cries which brought sleepy heads to every window;
and people around Weybosset Point saw a great white thing plunging frantically along the
badly cleared space in front of the Turk‘s Head. There was a baying of dogs in the distance,
but this subsided as soon as the clamour of the awakened town became audible. Parties of
men with lanterns and muskets hurried out to see what was happening, but nothing rewarded
their search. The next morning, however, a giant, muscular body, stark naked, was found on
the jams of ice around the southern piers of the Great Bridge, where the Long Dock stretched
out beside Abbott‘s distil-house, and the identity of this object became a theme for endless
speculation and whispering. It was not so much the younger as the older folk who whispered,
for only in the patriarchs did that rigid face with horror-bulging eyes strike any chord of
memory. They, shaking as they did so, exchanged furtive murmurs of wonder and fear; for in
those stiff, hideous features lay a resemblance so marvellous as to be almost an identity—
and that identity was with a man who had died full fifty years before.
Ezra Weeden was present at the finding; and remembering the baying of the night before, set
out along Weybosset Street and across Muddy Dock Bridge whence the sound had come. He
had a curious expectancy, and was not surprised when, reaching the edge of the settled
district where the street merged into the Pawtuxet Road, he came upon some very curious
tracks in the snow. The naked giant had been pursued by dogs and many booted men, and
the returning tracks of the hounds and their masters could be easily traced. They had given
up the chase upon coming too near the town. Weeden smiled grimly, and as a perfunctory
detail traced the footprints back to their source. It was the Pawtuxet farm of Joseph Curwen,
as he well knew it would be; and he would have given much had the yard been less
confusingly trampled. As it was, he dared not seem too interested in full daylight. Dr. Bowen,
to whom Weeden went at once with his report, performed an autopsy on the strange corpse,
and discovered peculiarities which baffled him utterly. The digestive tracts of the huge man
seemed never to have been in use, whilst the whole skin had a coarse, loosely knit texture
impossible to account for. Impressed by what the old men whispered of this body‘s likeness to
the long-dead blacksmith Daniel Green, whose great-grandson Aaron Hoppin was a
supercargo in Curwen‘s employ, Weeden asked casual questions till he found where Green
was buried. That night a party of ten visited the old North Burying Ground opposite
Herrenden‘s Lane and opened a grave. They found it vacant, precisely as they had expected.
Meanwhile arrangements had been made with the post riders to intercept Joseph Curwen‘s
mail, and shortly before the incident of the naked body there was found a letter from one
Jedediah Orne of Salem which made the coöperating citizens think deeply. Parts of it, copied
and preserved in the private archives of the Smith family where Charles Ward found it, ran as
follows:
―I delight that you continue in ye Gett‘g at Olde Matters in your Way, and doe not
think better was done at Mr. Hutchinson‘s in Salem-Village. Certainely, there was
Noth‘g butt ye liveliest Awfulness in that which H. rais‘d upp from What he cou‘d
gather onlie a part of. What you sente, did not Worke, whether because of Any
Thing miss‘g, or because ye Wordes were not Righte from my Speak‘g or yr
Copy‘g. I alone am at a Loss. I have not ye Chymicall art to followe Borellus, and
owne my Self confounded by ye VII. Booke of ye Necronomicon that you
recommende. But I wou‘d have you Observe what was tolde to us aboute tak‘g
Care whom to calle up, for you are Sensible what Mr. Mather writ in ye Magnalia of
——, and can judge how truely that Horrendous thing is reported. I say to you
againe, doe not call up Any that you can not put downe; by the Which I meane, Any
that can in Turne call up somewhat against you, whereby your Powerfullest
Devices may not be of use. Ask of the Lesser, lest the Greater shall not wish to
Answer, and shall commande more than you. I was frighted when I read of your
know‘g what Ben Zariatnatmik hadde in his ebony Boxe, for I was conscious who
must have tolde you. And againe I ask that you shalle write me as Jedediah and
not Simon. In this Community a Man may not live too long, and you knowe my Plan
by which I came back as my Son. I am desirous you will Acquaint me with what ye
Blacke Man learnt from Sylvanus Cocidius in ye Vault, under ye Roman Wall, and
will be oblig‘d for ye Lend‘g of ye MS. you speak of.‖
Another and unsigned letter from Philadelphia provoked equal thought, especially for the
following passage:
―I will observe what you say respecting the sending of Accounts only by yr Vessels,
but can not always be certain when to expect them. In the Matter spoke of, I
require onlie one more thing; but wish to be sure I apprehend you exactly. You
inform me, that no Part must be missing if the finest Effects are to be had, but you
can not but know how hard it is to be sure. It seems a great Hazard and Burthen to
take away the whole Box, and in Town (i.e. St. Peter‘s, St. Paul‘s, St. Mary‘s, or
Christ Church) it can scarce be done at all. But I know what Imperfections were in
the one I rais‘d up October last, and how many live Specimens you were forc‘d to
imploy before you hit upon the right Mode in the year 1766; so will be guided by
you in all Matters. I am impatient for yr Brig, and inquire daily at Mr. Biddle‘s
Wharf.‖
A third suspicious letter was in an unknown tongue and even an unknown alphabet. In the
Smith diary found by Charles Ward a single oft-repeated combination of characters is clumsily
copied; and authorities at Brown University have pronounced the alphabet Amharic or
Abyssinian, although they do not recognise the word. None of these epistles was ever
delivered to Curwen, though the disappearance of Jedediah Orne from Salem as recorded
shortly afterward shewed that the Providence men took certain quiet steps. The Pennsylvania
Historical Society also has some curious letters received by Dr. Shippen regarding the
presence of an unwholesome character in Philadelphia. But more decisive steps were in the
air, and it is in the secret assemblages of sworn and tested sailors and faithful old
privateersmen in the Brown warehouses by night that we must look for the main fruits of
Weeden‘s disclosures. Slowly and surely a plan of campaign was under development which
would leave no trace of Joseph Curwen‘s noxious mysteries.
Curwen, despite all precautions, apparently felt that something was in the wind; for he was
now remarked to wear an unusually worried look. His coach was seen at all hours in the town
and on the Pawtuxet Road, and he dropped little by little the air of forced geniality with which
he had latterly sought to combat the town‘s prejudice. The nearest neighbours to his farm, the
Fenners, one night remarked a great shaft of light shooting into the sky from some aperture in
the roof of that cryptical stone building with the high, excessively narrow windows; an event
which they quickly communicated to John Brown in Providence. Mr. Brown had become the
executive leader of the select group bent on Curwen‘s extirpation, and had informed the
Fenners that some action was about to be taken. This he deemed needful because of the
impossibility of their not witnessing the final raid; and he explained his course by saying that
Curwen was known to be a spy of the customs officers at Newport, against whom the hand of
every Providence shipper, merchant, and farmer was openly or clandestinely raised. Whether
the ruse was wholly believed by neighbours who had seen so many queer things is not
certain; but at any rate the Fenners were willing to connect any evil with a man of such queer
ways. To them Mr. Brown had entrusted the duty of watching the Curwen farmhouse, and of
regularly reporting every incident which took place there.
5.
The probability that Curwen was on guard and attempting unusual things, as suggested by
the odd shaft of light, precipitated at last the action so carefully devised by the band of serious
citizens. According to the Smith diary a company of about 100 men met at 10 p.m. on Friday,
April 12th, 1771, in the great room of Thurston‘s Tavern at the Sign of the Golden Lion on
Weybosset Point across the Bridge. Of the guiding group of prominent men in addition to the
leader John Brown there were present Dr. Bowen, with his case of surgical instruments,
President Manning without the great periwig (the largest in the Colonies) for which he was
noted, Governor Hopkins, wrapped in his dark cloak and accompanied by his seafaring
brother Esek, whom he had initiated at the last moment with the permission of the rest, John
Carter, Capt. Mathewson, and Capt. Whipple, who was to lead the actual raiding party. These
chiefs conferred apart in a rear chamber, after which Capt. Whipple emerged to the great
room and gave the gathered seamen their last oaths and instructions. Eleazar Smith was with
the leaders as they sat in the rear apartment awaiting the arrival of Ezra Weeden, whose duty
was to keep track of Curwen and report the departure of his coach for the farm.
About 10:30 a heavy rumble was heard on the Great Bridge, followed by the sound of a coach
in the street outside; and at that hour there was no need of waiting for Weeden in order to
know that the doomed man had set out for his last night of unhallowed wizardry. A moment
later, as the receding coach clattered faintly over the Muddy Dock Bridge, Weeden appeared;
and the raiders fell silently into military order in the street, shouldering the firelocks, fowling-
pieces, or whaling harpoons which they had with them. Weeden and Smith were with the
party, and of the deliberating citizens there were present for active service Capt. Whipple, the
leader, Capt. Esek Hopkins, John Carter, President Manning, Capt. Mathewson, and Dr.
Bowen; together with Moses Brown, who had come up at the eleventh hour though absent
from the preliminary session in the tavern. All these freemen and their hundred sailors began
the long march without delay, grim and a trifle apprehensive as they left the Muddy Dock
behind and mounted the gentle rise of Broad Street toward the Pawtuxet Road. Just beyond
Elder Snow‘s church some of the men turned back to take a parting look at Providence lying
outspread under the early spring stars. Steeples and gables rose dark and shapely, and salt
breezes swept up gently from the cove north of the Bridge. Vega was climbing above the
great hill across the water, whose crest of trees was broken by the roof-line of the unfinished
College edifice. At the foot of that hill, and along the narrow mounting lanes of its side, the old
town dreamed; Old Providence, for whose safety and sanity so monstrous and colossal a
blasphemy was about to be wiped out.
An hour and a quarter later the raiders arrived, as previously agreed, at the Fenner
farmhouse; where they heard a final report on their intended victim. He had reached his farm
over half an hour before, and the strange light had soon afterward shot once into the sky, but
there were no lights in any visible windows. This was always the case of late. Even as this
news was given another great glare arose toward the south, and the party realised that they
had indeed come close to the scene of awesome and unnatural wonders. Capt. Whipple now
ordered his force to separate into three divisions; one of twenty men under Eleazar Smith to
strike across to the shore and guard the landing-place against possible reinforcements for
Curwen until summoned by a messenger for desperate service, a second of twenty men
under Capt. Esek Hopkins to steal down into the river valley behind the Curwen farm and
demolish with axes or gunpowder the oaken door in the high, steep bank, and the third to
close in on the house and adjacent buildings themselves. Of this division one third was to be
led by Capt. Mathewson to the cryptical stone edifice with high narrow windows, another third
to follow Capt. Whipple himself to the main farmhouse, and the remaining third to preserve a
circle around the whole group of buildings until summoned by a final emergency signal.
The river party would break down the hillside door at the sound of a single whistle-blast, then
waiting and capturing anything which might issue from the regions within. At the sound of two
whistle-blasts it would advance through the aperture to oppose the enemy or join the rest of
the raiding contingent. The party at the stone building would accept these respective signals
in an analogous manner; forcing an entrance at the first, and at the second descending
whatever passage into the ground might be discovered, and joining the general or focal
warfare expected to take place within the caverns. A third or emergency signal of three blasts
would summon the immediate reserve from its general guard duty; its twenty men dividing
equally and entering the unknown depths through both farmhouse and stone building. Capt.
Whipple‘s belief in the existence of catacombs was absolute, and he took no alternative into
consideration when making his plans. He had with him a whistle of great power and
shrillness, and did not fear any upsetting or misunderstanding of signals. The final reserve at
the landing, of course, was nearly out of the whistle‘s range; hence would require a special
messenger if needed for help. Moses Brown and John Carter went with Capt. Hopkins to the
river-bank, while President Manning was detailed with Capt. Mathewson to the stone building.
Dr. Bowen, with Ezra Weeden, remained in Capt. Whipple‘s party which was to storm the
farmhouse itself. The attack was to begin as soon as a messenger from Capt. Hopkins had
joined Capt. Whipple to notify him of the river party‘s readiness. The leader would then deliver
the loud single blast, and the various advance parties would commence their simultaneous
attack on three points. Shortly before 1 a.m. the three divisions left the Fenner farmhouse;
one to guard the landing, another to seek the river valley and the hillside door, and the third to
subdivide and attend to the actual buildings of the Curwen farm.
Eleazar Smith, who accompanied the shore-guarding party, records in his diary an uneventful
march and a long wait on the bluff by the bay; broken once by what seemed to be the distant
sound of the signal whistle and again by a peculiar muffled blend of roaring and crying and a
powder blast which seemed to come from the same direction. Later on one man thought he
caught some distant gunshots, and still later Smith himself felt the throb of titanic and
thunderous words resounding in upper air. It was just before dawn that a single haggard
messenger with wild eyes and a hideous unknown odour about his clothing appeared and told
the detachment to disperse quietly to their homes and never again think or speak of the
night‘s doings or of him who had been Joseph Curwen. Something about the bearing of the
messenger carried a conviction which his mere words could never have conveyed; for though
he was a seaman well known to many of them, there was something obscurely lost or gained
in his soul which set him for evermore apart. It was the same later on when they met other old
companions who had gone into that zone of horror. Most of them had lost or gained
something imponderable and indescribable. They had seen or heard or felt something which
was not for human creatures, and could not forget it. From them there was never any gossip,
for to even the commonest of mortal instincts there are terrible boundaries. And from that
single messenger the party at the shore caught a nameless awe which almost sealed their
own lips. Very few are the rumours which ever came from any of them, and Eleazar Smith‘s
diary is the only written record which has survived from that whole expedition which set forth
from the Sign of the Golden Lion under the stars.
Charles Ward, however, discovered another vague sidelight in some Fenner correspondence
which he found in New London, where he knew another branch of the family had lived. It
seems that the Fenners, from whose house the doomed farm was distantly visible, had
watched the departing columns of raiders; and had heard very clearly the angry barking of the
Curwen dogs, followed by the first shrill blast which precipitated the attack. This blast had
been followed by a repetition of the great shaft of light from the stone building, and in another
moment, after a quick sounding of the second signal ordering a general invasion, there had
come a subdued prattle of musketry followed by a horrible roaring cry which the
correspondent Luke Fenner had represented in his epistle by the characters ―Waaaahrrrrr—
R’waaahrrr”. This cry, however, had possessed a quality which no mere writing could convey,
and the correspondent mentions that his mother fainted completely at the sound. It was later
repeated less loudly, and further but more muffled evidences of gunfire ensued; together with
a loud explosion of powder from the direction of the river. About an hour afterward all the dogs
began to bark frightfully, and there were vague ground rumblings so marked that the
candlesticks tottered on the mantelpiece. A strong smell of sulphur was noted; and Luke
Fenner‘s father declared that he heard the third or emergency whistle signal, though the
others failed to detect it. Muffled musketry sounded again, followed by a deep scream less
piercing but even more horrible than those which had preceded it; a kind of throaty, nastily
plastic cough or gurgle whose quality as a scream must have come more from its continuity
and psychological import than from its actual acoustic value.
Then the flaming thing burst into sight at a point where the Curwen farm ought to lie, and the
human cries of desperate and frightened men were heard. Muskets flashed and cracked, and
the flaming thing fell to the ground. A second flaming thing appeared, and a shriek of human
origin was plainly distinguished. Fenner wrote that he could even gather a few words belched
in frenzy: ―Almighty, protect thy lamb!‖ Then there were more shots, and the second flaming
thing fell. After that came silence for about three-quarters of an hour; at the end of which time
little Arthur Fenner, Luke‘s brother, exclaimed that he saw ‗a red fog‘ going up to the stars
from the accursed farm in the distance. No one but the child can testify to this, but Luke
admits the significant coincidence implied by the panic of almost convulsive fright which at the
same moment arched the backs and stiffened the fur of the three cats then within the room.
Five minutes later a chill wind blew up, and the air became suffused with such an intolerable
stench that only the strong freshness of the sea could have prevented its being noticed by the
shore party or by any wakeful souls in Pawtuxet village. This stench was nothing which any of
the Fenners had ever encountered before, and produced a kind of clutching, amorphous fear
beyond that of the tomb or the charnel-house. Close upon it came the awful voice which no
hapless hearer will ever be able to forget. It thundered out of the sky like a doom, and
windows rattled as its echoes died away. It was deep and musical; powerful as a bass organ,
but evil as the forbidden books of the Arabs. What it said no man can tell, for it spoke in an
unknown tongue, but this is the writing Luke Fenner set down to portray the daemoniac
intonations: ―DEESMEES–JESHET–BONE DOSEFE DUVEMA–ENITEMOSS‖. Not till the
year 1919 did any soul link this crude transcript with anything else in mortal knowledge, but
Charles Ward paled as he recognised what Mirandola had denounced in shudders as the
ultimate horror among black magic‘s incantations.
An unmistakably human shout or deep chorused scream seemed to answer this malign
wonder from the Curwen farm, after which the unknown stench grew complex with an added
odour equally intolerable. A wailing distinctly different from the scream now burst out, and was
protracted ululantly in rising and falling paroxysms. At times it became almost articulate,
though no auditor could trace any definite words; and at one point it seemed to verge toward
the confines of diabolic and hysterical laughter. Then a yell of utter, ultimate fright and stark
madness wrenched from scores of human throats—a yell which came strong and clear
despite the depth from which it must have burst; after which darkness and silence ruled all
things. Spirals of acrid smoke ascended to blot out the stars, though no flames appeared and
no buildings were observed to be gone or injured on the following day.
Toward dawn two frightened messengers with monstrous and unplaceable odours saturating
their clothing knocked at the Fenner door and requested a keg of rum, for which they paid
very well indeed. One of them told the family that the affair of Joseph Curwen was over, and
that the events of the night were not to be mentioned again. Arrogant as the order seemed,
the aspect of him who gave it took away all resentment and lent it a fearsome authority; so
that only these furtive letters of Luke Fenner, which he urged his Connecticut relative to
destroy, remain to tell what was seen and heard. The non-compliance of that relative,
whereby the letters were saved after all, has alone kept the matter from a merciful oblivion.
Charles Ward had one detail to add as a result of a long canvass of Pawtuxet residents for
ancestral traditions. Old Charles Slocum of that village said that there was known to his
grandfather a queer rumour concerning a charred, distorted body found in the fields a week
after the death of Joseph Curwen was announced. What kept the talk alive was the notion
that this body, so far as could be seen in its burnt and twisted condition, was neither
thoroughly human nor wholly allied to any animal which Pawtuxet folk had ever seen or read
about.
6.
Not one man who participated in that terrible raid could ever be induced to say a word
concerning it, and every fragment of the vague data which survives comes from those outside
the final fighting party. There is something frightful in the care with which these actual raiders
destroyed each scrap which bore the least allusion to the matter. Eight sailors had been killed,
but although their bodies were not produced their families were satisfied with the statement
that a clash with customs officers had occurred. The same statement also covered the
numerous cases of wounds, all of which were extensively bandaged and treated only by Dr.
Jabez Bowen, who had accompanied the party. Hardest to explain was the nameless odour
clinging to all the raiders, a thing which was discussed for weeks. Of the citizen leaders, Capt.
Whipple and Moses Brown were most severely hurt, and letters of their wives testify the
bewilderment which their reticence and close guarding of their bandages produced.
Psychologically every participant was aged, sobered, and shaken. It is fortunate that they
were all strong men of action and simple, orthodox religionists, for with more subtle
introspectiveness and mental complexity they would have fared ill indeed. President Manning
was the most disturbed; but even he outgrew the darkest shadow, and smothered memories
in prayers. Every man of those leaders had a stirring part to play in later years, and it is
perhaps fortunate that this is so. Little more than a twelvemonth afterward Capt. Whipple led
the mob who burnt the revenue ship Gaspee, and in this bold act we may trace one step in
the blotting out of unwholesome images.
There was delivered to the widow of Joseph Curwen a sealed leaden coffin of curious design,
obviously found ready on the spot when needed, in which she was told her husband‘s body
lay. He had, it was explained, been killed in a customs battle about which it was not politic to
give details. More than this no tongue ever uttered of Joseph Curwen‘s end, and Charles
Ward had only a single hint wherewith to construct a theory. This hint was the merest
thread—a shaky underscoring of a passage in Jedediah Orne‘s confiscated letter to Curwen,
as partly copied in Ezra Weeden‘s handwriting. The copy was found in the possession of
Smith‘s descendants; and we are left to decide whether Weeden gave it to his companion
after the end, as a mute clue to the abnormality which had occurred, or whether, as is more
probable, Smith had it before, and added the underscoring himself from what he had
managed to extract from his friend by shrewd guessing and adroit cross-questioning. The
underlined passage is merely this:
―I say to you againe, doe not call up Any that you can not put downe; by the Which
I meane, Any that can in Turne call up somewhat against you, whereby your
Powerfullest Devices may not be of use. Ask of the Lesser, lest the Greater shall
not wish to Answer, and shall commande more than you.”
In the light of this passage, and reflecting on what last unmentionable allies a beaten man
might try to summon in his direst extremity, Charles Ward may well have wondered whether
any citizen of Providence killed Joseph Curwen.
The deliberate effacement of every memory of the dead man from Providence life and annals
was vastly aided by the influence of the raiding leaders. They had not at first meant to be so
thorough, and had allowed the widow and her father and child to remain in ignorance of the
true conditions; but Capt. Tillinghast was an astute man, and soon uncovered enough
rumours to whet his horror and cause him to demand that his daughter and granddaughter
change their name, burn the library and all remaining papers, and chisel the inscription from
the slate slab above Joseph Curwen‘s grave. He knew Capt. Whipple well, and probably
extracted more hints from that bluff mariner than anyone else ever gained respecting the end
of the accused sorcerer.
From that time on the obliteration of Curwen‘s memory became increasingly rigid, extending
at last by common consent even to the town records and files of the Gazette. It can be
compared in spirit only to the hush that lay on Oscar Wilde‘s name for a decade after his
disgrace, and in extent only to the fate of that sinful King of Runazar in Lord Dunsany‘s tale,
whom the Gods decided must not only cease to be, but must cease ever to have been.
Mrs. Tillinghast, as the widow became known after 1772, sold the house in Olney Court and
resided with her father in Power‘s Lane till her death in 1817. The farm at Pawtuxet, shunned
by every living soul, remained to moulder through the years; and seemed to decay with
unaccountable rapidity. By 1780 only the stone and brickwork were standing, and by 1800
even these had fallen to shapeless heaps. None ventured to pierce the tangled shrubbery on
the river-bank behind which the hillside door may have lain, nor did any try to frame a definite
image of the scenes amidst which Joseph Curwen departed from the horrors he had wrought.
Only robust old Capt. Whipple was heard by alert listeners to mutter once in a while to
himself, ―Pox on that ———, but he had no business to laugh while he screamed. ‘Twas as
though the damn‘d ——— had some‘at up his sleeve. For half a crown I‘d burn his ———
house.‖
III. A Search and an Evocation
1.
Charles Ward, as we have seen, first learned in 1918 of his descent from Joseph Curwen.
That he at once took an intense interest in everything pertaining to the bygone mystery is not
to be wondered at; for every vague rumour that he had heard of Curwen now became
something vital to himself, in whom flowed Curwen‘s blood. No spirited and imaginative
genealogist could have done otherwise than begin forthwith an avid and systematic collection
of Curwen data.
In his first delvings there was not the slightest attempt at secrecy; so that even Dr. Lyman
hesitates to date the youth‘s madness from any period before the close of 1919. He talked
freely with his family—though his mother was not particularly pleased to own an ancestor like
Curwen—and with the officials of the various museums and libraries he visited. In applying to
private families for records thought to be in their possession he made no concealment of his
object, and shared the somewhat amused scepticism with which the accounts of the old
diarists and letter-writers were regarded. He often expressed a keen wonder as to what really
had taken place a century and a half before at that Pawtuxet farmhouse whose site he vainly
tried to find, and what Joseph Curwen really had been.
When he came across the Smith diary and archives and encountered the letter from Jedediah
Orne he decided to visit Salem and look up Curwen‘s early activities and connexions there,
which he did during the Easter vacation of 1919. At the Essex Institute, which was well known
to him from former sojourns in the glamorous old town of crumbling Puritan gables and
clustered gambrel roofs, he was very kindly received, and unearthed there a considerable
amount of Curwen data. He found that his ancestor was born in Salem-Village, now Danvers,
seven miles from town, on the eighteenth of February (O.S.) 1662–3; and that he had run
away to sea at the age of fifteen, not appearing again for nine years, when he returned with
the speech, dress, and manners of a native Englishman and settled in Salem proper. At that
time he had little to do with his family, but spent most of his hours with the curious books he
had brought from Europe, and the strange chemicals which came for him on ships from
England, France, and Holland. Certain trips of his into the country were the objects of much
local inquisitiveness, and were whisperingly associated with vague rumours of fires on the
hills at night.
Curwen‘s only close friends had been one Edward Hutchinson of Salem-Village and one
Simon Orne of Salem. With these men he was often seen in conference about the Common,
and visits among them were by no means infrequent. Hutchinson had a house well out toward
the woods, and it was not altogether liked by sensitive people because of the sounds heard
there at night. He was said to entertain strange visitors, and the lights seen from his windows
were not always of the same colour. The knowledge he displayed concerning long-dead
persons and long-forgotten events was considered distinctly unwholesome, and he
disappeared about the time the witchcraft panic began, never to be heard from again. At that
time Joseph Curwen also departed, but his settlement in Providence was soon learned of.
Simon Orne lived in Salem until 1720, when his failure to grow visibly old began to excite
attention. He thereafter disappeared, though thirty years later his precise counterpart and self-
styled son turned up to claim his property. The claim was allowed on the strength of
documents in Simon Orne‘s known hand, and Jedediah Orne continued to dwell in Salem till
1771, when certain letters from Providence citizens to the Rev. Thomas Barnard and others
brought about his quiet removal to parts unknown.
Certain documents by and about all of these strange characters were available at the Essex
Institute, the Court House, and the Registry of Deeds, and included both harmless
commonplaces such as land titles and bills of sale, and furtive fragments of a more
provocative nature. There were four or five unmistakable allusions to them on the witchcraft
trial records; as when one Hepzibah Lawson swore on July 10, 1692, at the Court of Oyer and
Terminer under Judge Hathorne, that ‗fortie Witches and the Blacke Man were wont to meete
in the Woodes behind Mr. Hutchinson‘s house‘, and one Amity How declared at a session of
August 8th before Judge Gedney that ‗Mr. G. B. (Rev. George Burroughs) on that Nighte putt
ye Divell his Marke upon Bridget S., Jonathan A., Simon O., Deliverance W., Joseph C.,
Susan P., Mehitable C., and Deborah B.‘ Then there was a catalogue of Hutchinson‘s
uncanny library as found after his disappearance, and an unfinished manuscript in his
handwriting, couched in a cipher none could read. Ward had a photostatic copy of this
manuscript made, and began to work casually on the cipher as soon as it was delivered to
him. After the following August his labours on the cipher became intense and feverish, and
there is reason to believe from his speech and conduct that he hit upon the key before
October or November. He never stated, though, whether or not he had succeeded.
But of the greatest immediate interest was the Orne material. It took Ward only a short time to
prove from identity of penmanship a thing he had already considered established from the
text of the letter to Curwen; namely, that Simon Orne and his supposed son were one and the
same person. As Orne had said to his correspondent, it was hardly safe to live too long in
Salem, hence he resorted to a thirty-year sojourn abroad, and did not return to claim his lands
except as a representative of a new generation. Orne had apparently been careful to destroy
most of his correspondence, but the citizens who took action in 1771 found and preserved a
few letters and papers which excited their wonder. There were cryptic formulae and diagrams
in his and other hands which Ward now either copied with care or had photographed, and one
extremely mysterious letter in a chirography that the searcher recognised from items in the
Registry of Deeds as positively Joseph Curwen‘s.
This Curwen letter, though undated as to the year, was evidently not the one in answer to
which Orne had written the confiscated missive; and from internal evidence Ward placed it not
much later than 1750. It may not be amiss to give the text in full, as a sample of the style of
one whose history was so dark and terrible. The recipient is addressed as ―Simon‖, but a line
(whether drawn by Curwen or Orne Ward could not tell) is run through the word.
Prouidence, I. May (Ut. vulgo)
Brother:—
My honour‘d Antient ffriende, due Respects and earnest Wishes to Him whom we
serve for yr eternall Power. I am just come upon That which you ought to knowe,
concern‘g the Matter of the Laste Extremitie and what to doe regard‘g yt. I am not
dispos‘d to followe you in go‘g Away on acct. of my Yeares, for Prouidence hath not
ye Sharpeness of ye Bay in hunt‘g oute uncommon Things and bringinge to Tryall.
I am ty‘d up in Shippes and Goodes, and cou‘d not doe as you did, besides the
Whiche my ffarme at Patuxet hath under it What you Knowe, that wou‘d not waite
for my com‘g Backe as an Other.
But I am not unreadie for harde ffortunes, as I haue tolde you, and haue longe
work‘d upon ye Way of get‘g Backe after ye Laste. I laste Night strucke on ye
Wordes that bringe up YOGGE-SOTHOTHE, and sawe for ye firste Time that fface
spoke of by Ibn Schacabao in ye ——. And IT said, that ye III Psalme in ye Liber-
Damnatus holdes ye Clauicle. With Sunne in V House, Saturne in Trine, drawe ye
Pentagram of Fire, and saye ye ninth Uerse thrice. This Uerse repeate eache
Roodemas and Hallow‘s Eue; and ye Thing will breede in ye Outside Spheres.
And of ye Seede of Olde shal One be borne who shal looke Backe, tho’ know’g not
what he seekes.
Yett will this availe Nothing if there be no Heir, and if the Saltes, or the Way to
make the Saltes, bee not Readie for his Hande; and here I will owne, I have not
taken needed Stepps nor founde Much. Ye Process is plaguy harde to come neare;
and it uses up such a Store of Specimens, I am harde putte to it to get Enough,
notwithstand‘g the Sailors I have from ye Indies. Ye People aboute are become
curious, but I can stande them off. Ye Gentry are worse than the Populace, be‘g
more Circumstantiall in their Accts. and more believ‘d in what they tell. That Parson
and Mr. Merritt have talk‘d some, I am fearfull, but no Thing soe far is Dangerous.
Ye Chymical substances are easie of get‘g, there be‘g II. goode Chymists in
Towne, Dr. Bowen and Sam: Carew. I am foll‘g oute what Borellus saith, and haue
Helpe in Abdool Al-Hazred his VII. Booke. Whatever I gette, you shal haue. And in
ye meane while, do not neglect to make use of ye Wordes I haue here giuen. I
haue them Righte, but if you Desire to see HIM, imploy the Writings on ye Piece of
—— that I am putt‘g in this Packet. Saye ye Uerses every Roodmas and Hallow‘s
Eue; and if yr Line runn out not, one shall bee in yeares to come that shal looke
backe and use what Saltes or Stuff for Saltes you shal leaue him. Job XIV. XIV.
I rejoice you are again at Salem, and hope I may see you not longe hence. I have a
goode Stallion, and am think‘g of get‘g a Coach, there be‘g one (Mr. Merritt‘s) in
Prouidence already, tho‘ ye Roades are bad. If you are dispos‘d to Travel, doe not
pass me bye. From Boston take ye Post Rd. thro‘ Dedham, Wrentham, and
Attleborough, goode Taverns be‘g at all these Townes. Stop at Mr. Bolcom‘s in
Wrentham, where ye Beddes are finer than Mr. Hatch‘s, but eate at ye other House
for their Cooke is better. Turne into Prou. by Patucket ffalls, and ye Rd. past Mr.
Sayles‘s Tavern. My House opp. Mr. Epenetus Olney‘s Tavern off ye Towne Street,
Ist on ye N. side of Olney‘s Court. Distance from Boston Stone abt. XLIV Miles.
Josephus C.
To Mr. Simon Orne,
William‘s-Lane, in Salem.
This letter, oddly enough, was what first gave Ward the exact location of Curwen‘s Providence
home; for none of the records encountered up to that time had been at all specific. The
discovery was doubly striking because it indicated as the newer Curwen house built in 1761
on the site of the old, a dilapidated building still standing in Olney Court and well known to
Ward in his antiquarian rambles over Stampers‘ Hill. The place was indeed only a few squares
from his own home on the great hill‘s higher ground, and was now the abode of a negro family
much esteemed for occasional washing, housecleaning, and furnace-tending services. To
find, in distant Salem, such sudden proof of the significance of this familiar rookery in his own
family history, was a highly impressive thing to Ward; and he resolved to explore the place
immediately upon his return. The more mystical phases of the letter, which he took to be
some extravagant kind of symbolism, frankly baffled him; though he noted with a thrill of
curiosity that the Biblical passage referred to—Job 14, 14—was the familiar verse, ―If a man
die, shall he live again? All the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come.‖
2.
Young Ward came home in a state of pleasant excitement, and spent the following Saturday
in a long and exhaustive study of the house in Olney Court. The place, now crumbling with
age, had never been a mansion; but was a modest two-and-a-half story wooden town house
of the familiar Providence colonial type, with plain peaked roof, large central chimney, and
artistically carved doorway with rayed fanlight, triangular pediment, and trim Doric pilasters. It
had suffered but little alteration externally, and Ward felt he was gazing on something very
close to the sinister matters of his quest.
The present negro inhabitants were known to him, and he was very courteously shewn about
the interior by old Asa and his stout wife Hannah. Here there was more change than the
outside indicated, and Ward saw with regret that fully half of the fine scroll-and-urn
overmantels and shell-carved cupboard linings were gone, whilst much of the fine
wainscotting and bolection moulding was marked, hacked, and gouged, or covered up
altogether with cheap wall-paper. In general, the survey did not yield as much as Ward had
somehow expected; but it was at least exciting to stand within the ancestral walls which had
housed such a man of horror as Joseph Curwen. He saw with a thrill that a monogram had
been very carefully effaced from the ancient brass knocker.
From then until after the close of school Ward spent his time on the photostatic copy of the
Hutchinson cipher and the accumulation of local Curwen data. The former still proved
unyielding; but of the latter he obtained so much, and so many clues to similar data
elsewhere, that he was ready by July to make a trip to New London and New York to consult
old letters whose presence in those places was indicated. This trip was very fruitful, for it
brought him the Fenner letters with their terrible description of the Pawtuxet farmhouse raid,
and the Nightingale-Talbot letters in which he learned of the portrait painted on a panel of the
Curwen library. This matter of the portrait interested him particularly, since he would have
given much to know just what Joseph Curwen looked like; and he decided to make a second
search of the house in Olney Court to see if there might not be some trace of the ancient
features beneath peeling coats of later paint or layers of mouldy wall-paper.
Early in August that search took place, and Ward went carefully over the walls of every room
sizeable enough to have been by any possibility the library of the evil builder. He paid
especial attention to the large panels of such overmantels as still remained; and was keenly
excited after about an hour, when on a broad area above the fireplace in a spacious ground-
floor room he became certain that the surface brought out by the peeling of several coats of
paint was sensibly darker than any ordinary interior paint or the wood beneath it was likely to
have been. A few more careful tests with a thin knife, and he knew that he had come upon an
oil portrait of great extent. With truly scholarly restraint the youth did not risk the damage
which an immediate attempt to uncover the hidden picture with the knife might have done, but
just retired from the scene of his discovery to enlist expert help. In three days he returned with
an artist of long experience, Mr. Walter C. Dwight, whose studio is near the foot of College
Hill; and that accomplished restorer of paintings set to work at once with proper methods and
chemical substances. Old Asa and his wife were duly excited over their strange visitors, and
were properly reimbursed for this invasion of their domestic hearth.
As day by day the work of restoration progressed, Charles Ward looked on with growing
interest at the lines and shades gradually unveiled after their long oblivion. Dwight had begun
at the bottom; hence since the picture was a three-quarter-length one, the face did not come
out for some time. It was meanwhile seen that the subject was a spare, well-shaped man with
dark-blue coat, embroidered waistcoat, black satin small-clothes, and white silk stockings,
seated in a carved chair against the background of a window with wharves and ships beyond.
When the head came out it was observed to bear a neat Albemarle wig, and to possess a
thin, calm, undistinguished face which seemed somehow familiar to both Ward and the artist.
Only at the very last, though, did the restorer and his client begin to gasp with astonishment at
the details of that lean, pallid visage, and to recognise with a touch of awe the dramatic trick
which heredity had played. For it took the final bath of oil and the final stroke of the delicate
scraper to bring out fully the expression which centuries had hidden; and to confront the
bewildered Charles Dexter Ward, dweller in the past, with his own living features in the
countenance of his horrible great-great-great-grandfather.
Ward brought his parents to see the marvel he had uncovered, and his father at once
determined to purchase the picture despite its execution on stationary panelling. The
resemblance to the boy, despite an appearance of rather greater age, was marvellous; and it
could be seen that through some trick of atavism the physical contours of Joseph Curwen had
found precise duplication after a century and a half. Mrs. Ward‘s resemblance to her ancestor
was not at all marked, though she could recall relatives who had some of the facial
characteristics shared by her son and by the bygone Curwen. She did not relish the
discovery, and told her husband that he had better burn the picture instead of bringing it
home. There was, she averred, something unwholesome about it; not only intrinsically, but in
its very resemblance to Charles. Mr. Ward, however, was a practical man of power and
affairs—a cotton manufacturer with extensive mills at Riverpoint in the Pawtuxet Valley—and
not one to listen to feminine scruples. The picture impressed him mightily with its likeness to
his son, and he believed the boy deserved it as a present. In this opinion, it is needless to say,
Charles most heartily concurred; and a few days later Mr. Ward located the owner of the
house—a small rodent-featured person with a guttural accent—and obtained the whole
mantel and overmantel bearing the picture at a curtly fixed priced which cut short the
impending torrent of unctuous haggling.
It now remained to take off the panelling and remove it to the Ward home, where provisions
were made for its thorough restoration and installation with an electric mock-fireplace in
Charles‘s third-floor study or library. To Charles was left the task of superintending this
removal, and on the twenty-eighth of August he accompanied two expert workmen from the
Crooker decorating firm to the house in Olney Court, where the mantel and portrait-bearing
overmantel were detached with great care and precision for transportation in the company‘s
motor truck. There was left a space of exposed brickwork marking the chimney‘s course, and
in this young Ward observed a cubical recess about a foot square, which must have lain
directly behind the head of the portrait. Curious as to what such a space might mean or
contain, the youth approached and looked within; finding beneath the deep coatings of dust
and soot some loose yellowed papers, a crude, thick copybook, and a few mouldering textile
shreds which may have formed the ribbon binding the rest together. Blowing away the bulk of
the dirt and cinders, he took up the book and looked at the bold inscription on its cover. It was
in a hand which he had learned to recognise at the Essex Institute, and proclaimed the
volume as the ―Journall and Notes of Jos: Curwen, Gent., of Providence-Plantations, Late of
Salem.”
Excited beyond measure by his discovery, Ward shewed the book to the two curious workmen
beside him. Their testimony is absolute as to the nature and genuineness of the finding, and
Dr. Willett relies on them to help establish his theory that the youth was not mad when he
began his major eccentricities. All the other papers were likewise in Curwen‘s handwriting,
and one of them seemed especially portentous because of its inscription: ―To Him Who Shal
Come After, & How He May Gett Beyonde Time & ye Spheres.” Another was in a cipher; the
same, Ward hoped, as the Hutchinson cipher which had hitherto baffled him. A third, and here
the searcher rejoiced, seemed to be a key to the cipher; whilst the fourth and fifth were
addressed respectively to ―Edw: Hutchinson, Armiger‖ and ―Jedediah Orne, Esq.‖, ‗or Their
Heir or Heirs, or Those Represent‘g Them‘. The sixth and last was inscribed: ―Joseph Curwen
his Life and Travells Bet’n ye yeares 1678 and 1687: Of Whither He Voyag’d, Where He
Stay’d, Whom He Sawe, and What He Learnt.”
3.
We have now reached the point from which the more academic school of alienists date
Charles Ward‘s madness. Upon his discovery the youth had looked immediately at a few of
the inner pages of the book and manuscripts, and had evidently seen something which
impressed him tremendously. Indeed, in shewing the titles to the workmen he appeared to
guard the text itself with peculiar care, and to labour under a perturbation for which even the
antiquarian and genealogical significance of the find could hardly account. Upon returning
home he broke the news with an almost embarrassed air, as if he wished to convey an idea of
its supreme importance without having to exhibit the evidence itself. He did not even shew the
titles to his parents, but simply told them that he had found some documents in Joseph
Curwen‘s handwriting, ―mostly in cipher‖, which would have to be studied very carefully before
yielding up their true meaning. It is unlikely that he would have shewn what he did to the
workmen, had it not been for their unconcealed curiosity. As it was he doubtless wished to
avoid any display of peculiar reticence which would increase their discussion of the matter.
That night Charles Ward sat up in his room reading the new-found book and papers, and
when day came he did not desist. His meals, on his urgent request when his mother called to
see what was amiss, were sent up to him; and in the afternoon he appeared only briefly when
the men came to install the Curwen picture and mantelpiece in his study. The next night he
slept in snatches in his clothes, meanwhile wrestling feverishly with the unravelling of the
cipher manuscript. In the morning his mother saw that he was at work on the photostatic copy
of the Hutchinson cipher, which he had frequently shewn her before; but in response to her
query he said that the Curwen key could not be applied to it. That afternoon he abandoned
his work and watched the men fascinatedly as they finished their installation of the picture
with its woodwork above a cleverly realistic electric log, setting the mock-fireplace and
overmantel a little out from the north wall as if a chimney existed, and boxing in the sides with
panelling to match the room‘s. The front panel holding the picture was sawn and hinged to
allow cupboard space behind it. After the workmen went he moved his work into the study and
sat down before it with his eyes half on the cipher and half on the portrait which stared back at
him like a year-adding and century-recalling mirror.
His parents, subsequently recalling his conduct at this period, give interesting details anent
the policy of concealment which he practiced. Before servants he seldom hid any paper which
he might be studying, since he rightly assumed that Curwen‘s intricate and archaic
chirography would be too much for them. With his parents, however, he was more
circumspect; and unless the manuscript in question were a cipher, or a mere mass of cryptic
symbols and unknown ideographs (as that entitled ―To Him Who Shal Come After etc.‖
seemed to be), he would cover it with some convenient paper until his caller had departed. At
night he kept the papers under lock and key in an antique cabinet of his, where he also
placed them whenever he left the room. He soon resumed fairly regular hours and habits,
except that his long walks and other outside interests seemed to cease. The opening of
school, where he now began his senior year, seemed a great bore to him; and he frequently
asserted his determination never to bother with college. He had, he said, important special
investigations to make, which would provide him with more avenues toward knowledge and
the humanities than any university which the world could boast.
Naturally, only one who had always been more or less studious, eccentric, and solitary could
have pursued this course for many days without attracting notice. Ward, however, was
constitutionally a scholar and a hermit; hence his parents were less surprised than regretful at
the close confinement and secrecy he adopted. At the same time, both his father and mother
thought it odd that he would shew them no scrap of his treasure-trove, nor give any
connected account of such data as he had deciphered. This reticence he explained away as
due to a wish to wait until he might announce some connected revelation, but as the weeks
passed without further disclosures there began to grow up between the youth and his family a
kind of constraint; intensified in his mother‘s case by her manifest disapproval of all Curwen
delvings.
During October Ward began visiting the libraries again, but no longer for the antiquarian
matter of his former days. Witchcraft and magic, occultism and daemonology, were what he
sought now; and when Providence sources proved unfruitful he would take the train for
Boston and tap the wealth of the great library in Copley Square, the Widener Library at
Harvard, or the Zion Research Library in Brookline, where certain rare works on Biblical
subjects are available. He bought extensively, and fitted up a whole additional set of shelves
in his study for newly acquired works on uncanny subjects; while during the Christmas
holidays he made a round of out-of-town trips including one to Salem to consult certain
records at the Essex Institute.
About the middle of January, 1920, there entered Ward‘s bearing an element of triumph which
he did not explain, and he was no more found at work upon the Hutchinson cipher. Instead,
he inaugurated a dual policy of chemical research and record-scanning; fitting up for the one
a laboratory in the unused attic of the house, and for the latter haunting all the sources of vital
statistics in Providence. Local dealers in drugs and scientific supplies, later questioned, gave
astonishingly queer and meaningless catalogues of the substances and instruments he
purchased; but clerks at the State House, the City Hall, and the various libraries agree as to
the definite object of his second interest. He was searching intensely and feverishly for the
grave of Joseph Curwen, from whose slate slab an older generation had so wisely blotted the
name.
Little by little there grew upon the Ward family the conviction that something was wrong.
Charles had had freaks and changes of minor interests before, but this growing secrecy and
absorption in strange pursuits was unlike even him. His school work was the merest pretence;
and although he failed in no test, it could be seen that the old application had all vanished. He
had other concernments now; and when not in his new laboratory with a score of obsolete
alchemical books, could be found either poring over old burial records down town or glued to
his volumes of occult lore in his study, where the startlingly—one almost fancied
increasingly—similar features of Joseph Curwen stared blandly at him from the great
overmantel on the north wall.
Late in March Ward added to his archive-searching a ghoulish series of rambles about the
various ancient cemeteries of the city. The cause appeared later, when it was learned from
City Hall clerks that he had probably found an important clue. His quest had suddenly shifted
from the grave of Joseph Curwen to that of one Naphthali Field; and this shift was explained
when, upon going over the files that he had been over, the investigators actually found a
fragmentary record of Curwen‘s burial which had escaped the general obliteration, and which
stated that the curious leaden coffin had been interred ―10 ft. S. and 5 ft. W. of Naphthali
Field‘s grave in ye—‖. The lack of a specified burying-ground in the surviving entry greatly
complicated the search, and Naphthali Field‘s grave seemed as elusive as that of Curwen;
but here no systematic effacement had existed, and one might reasonably be expected to
stumble on the stone itself even if its record had perished. Hence the rambles—from which St.
John‘s (the former King‘s) Churchyard and the ancient Congregational burying-ground in the
midst of Swan Point Cemetery were excluded, since other statistics had shewn that the only
Naphthali Field (obiit 1729) whose grave could have been meant had been a Baptist.
4.
It was toward May when Dr. Willett, at the request of the senior Ward, and fortified with all the
Curwen data which the family had gleaned from Charles in his non-secretive days, talked with
the young man. The interview was of little value or conclusiveness, for Willett felt at every
moment that Charles was thoroughly master of himself and in touch with matters of real
importance; but it at least forced the secretive youth to offer some rational explanation of his
recent demeanour. Of a pallid, impassive type not easily shewing embarrassment, Ward
seemed quite ready to discuss his pursuits, though not to reveal their object. He stated that
the papers of his ancestor had contained some remarkable secrets of early scientific
knowledge, for the most part in cipher, of an apparent scope comparable only to the
discoveries of Friar Bacon and perhaps surpassing even those. They were, however,
meaningless except when correlated with a body of learning now wholly obsolete; so that their
immediate presentation to a world equipped only with modern science would rob them of all
impressiveness and dramatic significance. To take their vivid place in the history of human
thought they must first be correlated by one familiar with the background out of which they
evolved, and to this task of correlation Ward was now devoting himself. He was seeking to
acquire as fast as possible those neglected arts of old which a true interpreter of the Curwen
data must possess, and hoped in time to make a full announcement and presentation of the
utmost interest to mankind and to the world of thought. Not even Einstein, he declared, could
more profoundly revolutionise the current conception of things.
As to his graveyard search, whose object he freely admitted, but the details of whose
progress he did not relate, he said he had reason to think that Joseph Curwen‘s mutilated
headstone bore certain mystic symbols—carved from directions in his will and ignorantly
spared by those who had effaced the name—which were absolutely essential to the final
solution of his cryptic system. Curwen, he believed, had wished to guard his secret with care;
and had consequently distributed the data in an exceedingly curious fashion. When Dr. Willett
asked to see the mystic documents, Ward displayed much reluctance and tried to put him off
with such things as photostatic copies of the Hutchinson cipher and Orne formulae and
diagrams; but finally shewed him the exteriors of some of the real Curwen finds—the ―Journall
and Notes”, the cipher (title in cipher also), and the formula-filled message ―To Him Who Shal
Come After”—and let him glance inside such as were in obscure characters.
He also opened the diary at a page carefully selected for its innocuousness and gave Willett a
glimpse of Curwen‘s connected handwriting in English. The doctor noted very closely the
crabbed and complicated letters, and the general aura of the seventeenth century which clung
round both penmanship and style despite the writer‘s survival into the eighteenth century, and
became quickly certain that the document was genuine. The text itself was relatively trivial,
and Willett recalled only a fragment:
―Wedn. 16 Octr. 1754. My Sloope the Wakeful this Day putt in from London with XX
newe Men pick‘d up in ye Indies, Spaniards from Martineco and 2 Dutch Men from
Surinam. Ye Dutch Men are like to Desert from have‘g hearde Somewhat ill of
these Ventures, but I will see to ye Inducing of them to Staye. ffor Mr. Knight Dexter
of ye Boy and Book 120 Pieces Camblets, 100 Pieces Assrtd. Cambleteens, 20
Pieces blue Duffles, 100 Pieces Shalloons, 50 Pieces Calamancoes, 300 Pieces
each, Shendsoy and Humhums. ffor Mr. Green at ye Elephant 50 Gallon Cyttles,
20 Warm‘g Pannes, 15 Bake Cyttles, 10 pr. Smoke‘g Tonges. ffor Mr. Perrigo 1 Sett
of Awles, ffor Mr. Nightingale 50 Reames prime Foolscap. Say‘d ye SABAOTH
thrice last Nighte but None appear‘d. I must heare more from Mr. H. in
Transylvania, tho‘ it is Harde reach‘g him and exceeding strange he can not give
me the Use of what he hath so well us‘d these hundred yeares. Simon hath not
Writ these V. Weekes, but I expecte soon hear‘g from him.‖
When upon reaching this point Dr. Willett turned the leaf he was quickly checked by Ward,
who almost snatched the book from his grasp. All that the doctor had a chance to see on the
newly opened page was a brief pair of sentences; but these, strangely enough, lingered
tenaciously in his memory. They ran: ―Ye Verse from Liber-Damnatus be‘g spoke V
Roodmasses and IV Hallows-Eves, I am Hopeful ye Thing is breed‘g Outside ye Spheres. It
will drawe One who is to Come, if I can make sure he shal bee, and he shall think on Past
thinges and look back thro‘ all ye yeares, against ye which I must have ready ye Saltes or
That to make ‘em with.‖
Willett saw no more, but somehow this small glimpse gave a new and vague terror to the
painted features of Joseph Curwen which stared blandly down from the overmantel. Ever after
that he entertained the odd fancy—which his medical skill of course assured him was only a
fancy—that the eyes of the portrait had a sort of wish, if not an actual tendency, to follow
young Charles Ward as he moved about the room. He stopped before leaving to study the
picture closely, marvelling at its resemblance to Charles and memorising every minute detail
of the cryptical, colourless face, even down to a slight scar or pit in the smooth brow above
the right eye. Cosmo Alexander, he decided, was a painter worthy of the Scotland that
produced Raeburn, and a teacher worthy of his illustrious pupil Gilbert Stuart.
Assured by the doctor that Charles‘s mental health was in no danger, but that on the other
hand he was engaged in researches which might prove of real importance, the Wards were
more lenient than they might otherwise have been when during the following June the youth
made positive his refusal to attend college. He had, he declared, studies of much more vital
importance to pursue; and intimated a wish to go abroad the following year in order to avail
himself of certain sources of data not existing in America. The senior Ward, while denying this
latter wish as absurd for a boy of only eighteen, acquiesced regarding the university; so that
after a none too brilliant graduation from the Moses Brown School there ensued for Charles a
three-year period of intensive occult study and graveyard searching. He became recognised
as an eccentric, and dropped even more completely from the sight of his family‘s friends than
he had been before; keeping close to his work and only occasionally making trips to other
cities to consult obscure records. Once he went south to talk with a strange old mulatto who
dwelt in a swamp and about whom a newspaper had printed a curious article. Again he
sought a small village in the Adirondacks whence reports of certain odd ceremonial practices
had come. But still his parents forbade him the trip to the Old World which he desired.
Coming of age in April, 1923, and having previously inherited a small competence from his
maternal grandfather, Ward determined at last to take the European trip hitherto denied him.
Of his proposed itinerary he would say nothing save that the needs of his studies would carry
him to many places, but he promised to write his parents fully and faithfully. When they saw
he could not be dissuaded, they ceased all opposition and helped as best they could; so that
in June the young man sailed for Liverpool with the farewell blessings of his father and
mother, who accompanied him to Boston and waved him out of sight from the White Star pier
in Charlestown. Letters soon told of his safe arrival, and of his securing good quarters in
Great Russell Street, London; where he proposed to stay, shunning all family friends, till he
had exhausted the resources of the British Museum in a certain direction. Of his daily life he
wrote but little, for there was little to write. Study and experiment consumed all his time, and
he mentioned a laboratory which he had established in one of his rooms. That he said nothing
of antiquarian rambles in the glamorous old city with its luring skyline of ancient domes and
steeples and its tangles of roads and alleys whose mystic convolutions and sudden vistas
alternately beckon and surprise, was taken by his parents as a good index of the degree to
which his new interests had engrossed his mind.
In June, 1924, a brief note told of his departure for Paris, to which he had before made one or
two flying trips for material in the Bibliothèque Nationale. For three months thereafter he sent
only postal cards, giving an address in the Rue St. Jacques and referring to a special search
among rare manuscripts in the library of an unnamed private collector. He avoided
acquaintances, and no tourists brought back reports of having seen him. Then came a
silence, and in October the Wards received a picture card from Prague, Czecho-Slovakia,
stating that Charles was in that ancient town for the purpose of conferring with a certain very
aged man supposed to be the last living possessor of some very curious mediaeval
information. He gave an address in the Neustadt, and announced no move till the following
January; when he dropped several cards from Vienna telling of his passage through that city
on the way toward a more easterly region whither one of his correspondents and fellow-
delvers into the occult had invited him.
The next card was from Klausenburg in Transylvania, and told of Ward‘s progress toward his
destination. He was going to visit a Baron Ferenczy, whose estate lay in the mountains east of
Rakus; and was to be addressed at Rakus in the care of that nobleman. Another card from
Rakus a week later, saying that his host‘s carriage had met him and that he was leaving the
village for the mountains, was his last message for a considerable time; indeed, he did not
reply to his parents‘ frequent letters until May, when he wrote to discourage the plan of his
mother for a meeting in London, Paris, or Rome during the summer, when the elder Wards
were planning to travel in Europe. His researches, he said, were such that he could not leave
his present quarters; while the situation of Baron Ferenczy‘s castle did not favour visits. It was
on a crag in the dark wooded mountains, and the region was so shunned by the country folk
that normal people could not help feeling ill at ease. Moreover, the Baron was not a person
likely to appeal to correct and conservative New England gentlefolk. His aspect and manners
had idiosyncrasies, and his age was so great as to be disquieting. It would be better, Charles
said, if his parents would wait for his return to Providence; which could scarcely be far distant.
That return did not, however, take place until May, 1926, when after a few heralding cards the
young wanderer quietly slipped into New York on the Homeric and traversed the long miles to
Providence by motor-coach, eagerly drinking in the green rolling hills, the fragrant,
blossoming orchards, and the white steepled towns of vernal Connecticut; his first taste of
ancient New England in nearly four years. When the coach crossed the Pawcatuck and
entered Rhode Island amidst the faery goldenness of a late spring afternoon his heart beat
with quickened force, and the entry to Providence along Reservoir and Elmwood avenues
was a breathless and wonderful thing despite the depths of forbidden lore to which he had
delved. At the high square where Broad, Weybosset, and Empire Streets join, he saw before
and below him in the fire of sunset the pleasant, remembered houses and domes and
steeples of the old town; and his head swam curiously as the vehicle rolled down the terminal
behind the Biltmore, bringing into view the great dome and soft, roof-pierced greenery of the
ancient hill across the river, and the tall colonial spire of the First Baptist Church limned pink
in the magic evening light against the fresh springtime verdure of its precipitous background.
Old Providence! It was this place and the mysterious forces of its long, continuous history
which had brought him into being, and which had drawn him back toward marvels and secrets
whose boundaries no prophet might fix. Here lay the arcana, wondrous or dreadful as the
case might be, for which all his years of travel and application had been preparing him. A
taxicab whirled him through Post Office Square with its glimpse of the river, the old Market
House, and the head of the bay, and up the steep curved slope of Waterman Street to
Prospect, where the vast gleaming dome and sunset-flushed Ionic columns of the Christian
Science Church beckoned northward. Then eight squares past the fine old estates his childish
eyes had known, and the quaint brick sidewalks so often trodden by his youthful feet. And at
last the little white overtaken farmhouse on the right, on the left the classic Adam porch and
stately bayed facade of the great brick house where he was born. It was twilight, and Charles
Dexter Ward had come home.
5.
A school of alienists slightly less academic than Dr. Lyman‘s assign to Ward‘s European trip
the beginning of his true madness. Admitting that he was sane when he started, they believe
that his conduct upon returning implies a disastrous change. But even to this claim Dr. Willett
refuses to accede. There was, he insists, something later; and the queernesses of the youth
at this stage he attributes to the practice of rituals learned abroad—odd enough things, to be
sure, but by no means implying mental aberration on the part of their celebrant. Ward himself,
though visibly aged and hardened, was still normal in his general reactions; and in several
talks with Willett displayed a balance which no madman—even an incipient one—could feign
continuously for long. What elicited the notion of insanity at this period were the sounds heard
at all hours from Ward‘s attic laboratory, in which he kept himself most of the time. There were
chantings and repetitions, and thunderous declamations in uncanny rhythms; and although
these sounds were always in Ward‘s own voice, there was something in the quality of that
voice, and in the accents of the formulae it pronounced, which could not but chill the blood of
every hearer. It was noticed that Nig, the venerable and beloved black cat of the household,
bristled and arched his back perceptibly when certain of the tones were heard.
The odours occasionally wafted from the laboratory were likewise exceedingly strange.
Sometimes they were very noxious, but more often they were aromatic, with a haunting,
elusive quality which seemed to have the power of inducing fantastic images. People who
smelled them had a tendency to glimpse momentary mirages of enormous vistas, with
strange hills or endless avenues of sphinxes and hippogriffs stretching off into infinite
distance. Ward did not resume his old-time rambles, but applied himself diligently to the
strange books he had brought home, and to equally strange delvings within his quarters;
explaining that European sources had greatly enlarged the possibilities of his work, and
promising great revelations in the years to come. His older aspect increased to a startling
degree his resemblance to the Curwen portrait in his library; and Dr. Willett would often pause
by the latter after a call, marvelling at the virtual identity, and reflecting that only the small pit
above the picture‘s right eye now remained to differentiate the long-dead wizard from the
living youth. These calls of Willett‘s, undertaken at the request of the senior Wards, were
curious affairs. Ward at no time repulsed the doctor, but the latter saw that he could never
reach the young man‘s inner psychology. Frequently he noted peculiar things about; little wax
images of grotesque design on the shelves or tables, and the half-erased remnants of circles,
triangles, and pentagrams in chalk or charcoal on the cleared central space of the large room.
And always in the night those rhythms and incantations thundered, till it became very difficult
to keep servants or suppress furtive talk of Charles‘s madness.
In January, 1927, a peculiar incident occurred. One night about midnight, as Charles was
chanting a ritual whose weird cadence echoed unpleasantly through the house below, there
came a sudden gust of chill wind from the bay, and a faint, obscure trembling of the earth
which everyone in the neighbourhood noted. At the same time the cat exhibited phenomenal
traces of fright, while dogs bayed for as much as a mile around. This was the prelude to a
sharp thunderstorm, anomalous for the season, which brought with it such a crash that Mr.
and Mrs. Ward believed the house had been struck. They rushed upstairs to see what
damage had been done, but Charles met them at the door to the attic; pale, resolute, and
portentous, with an almost fearsome combination of triumph and seriousness on his face. He
assured them that the house had not really been struck, and that the storm would soon be
over. They paused, and looking through a window saw that he was indeed right; for the
lightning flashed farther and farther off, whilst the trees ceased to bend in the strange frigid
gust from the water. The thunder sank to a sort of dull mumbling chuckle and finally died
away. Stars came out, and the stamp of triumph on Charles Ward‘s face crystallised into a
very singular expression.
For two months or more after this incident Ward was less confined than usual to his
laboratory. He exhibited a curious interest in the weather, and made odd inquiries about the
date of the spring thawing of the ground. One night late in March he left the house after
midnight, and did not return till almost morning; when his mother, being wakeful, heard a
rumbling motor draw up to the carriage entrance. Muffled oaths could be distinguished, and
Mrs. Ward, rising and going to the window, saw four dark figures removing a long, heavy box
from a truck at Charles‘s direction and carrying it within by the side door. She heard laboured
breathing and ponderous footfalls on the stairs, and finally a dull thumping in the attic; after
which the footfalls descended again, and the four men reappeared outside and drove off in
their truck.
The next day Charles resumed his strict attic seclusion, drawing down the dark shades of his
laboratory windows and appearing to be working on some metal substance. He would open
the door to no one, and steadfastly refused all proffered food. About noon a wrenching sound
followed by a terrible cry and a fall were heard, but when Mrs. Ward rapped at the door her
son at length answered faintly, and told her that nothing had gone amiss. The hideous and
indescribable stench now welling out was absolutely harmless and unfortunately necessary.
Solitude was the one prime essential, and he would appear later for dinner. That afternoon,
after the conclusion of some odd hissing sounds which came from behind the locked portal,
he did finally appear; wearing an extremely haggard aspect and forbidding anyone to enter
the laboratory upon any pretext. This, indeed, proved the beginning of a new policy of
secrecy; for never afterward was any other person permitted to visit either the mysterious
garret workroom or the adjacent storeroom which he cleaned out, furnished roughly, and
added to his inviolably private domain as a sleeping apartment. Here he lived, with books
brought up from his library beneath, till the time he purchased the Pawtuxet bungalow and
moved to it all his scientific effects.
In the evening Charles secured the paper before the rest of the family and damaged part of it
through an apparent accident. Later on Dr. Willett, having fixed the date from statements by
various members of the household, looked up an intact copy at the Journal office and found
that in the destroyed section the following small item had occurred:
Nocturnal Diggers Surprised in North Burial Ground
Robert Hart, night watchman at the North Burial Ground, this morning discovered a
party of several men with a motor truck in the oldest part of the cemetery, but
apparently frightened them off before they had accomplished whatever their object
may have been.
The discovery took place at about four o‘clock, when Hart‘s attention was attracted
by the sound of a motor outside his shelter. Investigating, he saw a large truck on
the main drive several rods away; but could not reach it before the sound of his
feet on the gravel had revealed his approach. The men hastily placed a large box
in the truck and drove away toward the street before they could be overtaken; and
since no known grave was disturbed, Hart believes that this box was an object
which they wished to bury.
The diggers must have been at work for a long while before detection, for Hart
found an enormous hole dug at a considerable distance back from the roadway in
the lot of Amasa Field, where most of the old stones have long ago disappeared.
The hole, a place as large and deep as a grave, was empty; and did not coincide
with any interment mentioned in the cemetery records.
Sergt. Riley of the Second Station viewed the spot and gave the opinion that the
hole was dug by bootleggers rather gruesomely and ingeniously seeking a safe
cache for liquor in a place not likely to be disturbed. In reply to questions Hart said
he thought the escaping truck had headed up Rochambeau Avenue, though he
could not be sure.
During the next few days Ward was seldom seen by his family. Having added sleeping
quarters to his attic realm, he kept closely to himself there, ordering food brought to the door
and not taking it in until after the servant had gone away. The droning of monotonous
formulae and the chanting of bizarre rhythms recurred at intervals, while at other times
occasional listeners could detect the sound of tinkling glass, hissing chemicals, running water,
or roaring gas flames. Odours of the most unplaceable quality, wholly unlike any before noted,
hung at times around the door; and the air of tension observable in the young recluse
whenever he did venture briefly forth was such as to excite the keenest speculation. Once he
made a hasty trip to the Athenaeum for a book he required, and again he hired a messenger
to fetch him a highly obscure volume from Boston. Suspense was written portentously over
the whole situation, and both the family and Dr. Willett confessed themselves wholly at a loss
what to do or think about it.
6.
Then on the fifteenth of April a strange development occurred. While nothing appeared to
grow different in kind, there was certainly a very terrible difference in degree; and Dr. Willett
somehow attaches great significance to the change. The day was Good Friday, a
circumstance of which the servants made much, but which others quite naturally dismiss as
an irrelevant coincidence. Late in the afternoon young Ward began repeating a certain
formula in a singularly loud voice, at the same time burning some substance so pungent that
its fumes escaped over the entire house. The formula was so plainly audible in the hall
outside the locked door that Mrs. Ward could not help memorising it as she waited and
listened anxiously, and later on she was able to write it down at Dr. Willett‘s request. It ran as
follows, and experts have told Dr. Willett that its very close analogue can be found in the
mystic writings of ―Eliphas Levi‖, that cryptic soul who crept through a crack in the forbidden
door and glimpsed the frightful vistas of the void beyond:
―Per Adonai Eloim, Adonai Jehova,
Adonai Sabaoth, Metraton On Agla Mathon,
verbum pythonicum, mysterium salamandrae,
conventus sylvorum, antra gnomorum,
daemonia Coeli Gad, Almousin, Gibor, Jehosua,
Evam, Zariatnatmik, veni, veni, veni.‖
This had been going on for two hours without change or intermission when over all the
neighbourhood a pandaemoniac howling of dogs set in. The extent of this howling can be
judged from the space it received in the papers the next day, but to those in the Ward
household it was overshadowed by the odour which instantly followed it; a hideous, all-
pervasive odour which none of them had ever smelt before or have ever smelt since. In the
midst of this mephitic flood there came a very perceptible flash like that of lightning, which
would have been blinding and impressive but for the daylight around; and then was heard the
voice that no listener can ever forget because of its thunderous remoteness, its incredible
depth, and its eldritch dissimilarity to Charles Ward‘s voice. It shook the house, and was
clearly heard by at least two neighbours above the howling of the dogs. Mrs. Ward, who had
been listening in despair outside her son‘s locked laboratory, shivered as she recognised its
hellish import; for Charles had told her of its evil fame in dark books, and of the manner in
which it had thundered, according to the Fenner letters, above the doomed Pawtuxet
farmhouse on the night of Joseph Curwen‘s annihilation. There was no mistaking that
nightmare phrase, for Charles had described it too vividly in the old days when he had talked
frankly of his Curwen investigations. And yet it was only this fragment of an archaic and
forgotten language: ―DIES MIES JESCHET BOENE DOESEF DOUVEMA ENITEMAUS‖.
Close upon this thundering there came a momentary darkening of the daylight, though sunset
was still an hour distant, and then a puff of added odour different from the first but equally
unknown and intolerable. Charles was chanting again now and his mother could hear
syllables that sounded like ―Yi-nash-Yog-Sothoth-he-lgeb-fi-throdog‖—ending in a ―Yah!‖
whose maniacal force mounted in an ear-splitting crescendo. A second later all previous
memories were effaced by the wailing scream which burst out with frantic explosiveness and
gradually changed form to a paroxysm of diabolic and hysterical laughter. Mrs. Ward, with the
mingled fear and blind courage of maternity, advanced and knocked affrightedly at the
concealing panels, but obtained no sign of recognition. She knocked again, but paused
nervelessly as a second shriek arose, this one unmistakably in the familiar voice of her son,
and sounding concurrently with the still bursting cachinnations of that other voice. Presently
she fainted, although she is still unable to recall the precise and immediate cause. Memory
sometimes makes merciful deletions.
Mr. Ward returned from the business section at about quarter past six; and not finding his wife
downstairs, was told by the frightened servants that she was probably watching at Charles‘s
door, from which the sounds had been far stranger than ever before. Mounting the stairs at
once, he saw Mrs. Ward stretched at full length on the floor of the corridor outside the
laboratory; and realising that she had fainted, hastened to fetch a glass of water from a set
bowl in a neighbouring alcove. Dashing the cold fluid in her face, he was heartened to
observe an immediate response on her part, and was watching the bewildered opening of her
eyes when a chill shot through him and threatened to reduce him to the very state from which
she was emerging. For the seemingly silent laboratory was not as silent as it had appeared to
be, but held the murmurs of a tense, muffled conversation in tones too low for
comprehension, yet of a quality profoundly disturbing to the soul.
It was not, of course, new for Charles to mutter formulae; but this muttering was definitely
different. It was so palpably a dialogue, or imitation of a dialogue, with the regular alteration of
inflections suggesting question and answer, statement and response. One voice was
undisguisedly that of Charles, but the other had a depth and hollowness which the youth‘s
best powers of ceremonial mimicry had scarcely approached before. There was something
hideous, blasphemous, and abnormal about it, and but for a cry from his recovering wife
which cleared his mind by arousing his protective instincts it is not likely that Theodore
Howland Ward could have maintained for nearly a year more his old boast that he had never
fainted. As it was, he seized his wife in his arms and bore her quickly downstairs before she
could notice the voices which had so horribly disturbed him. Even so, however, he was not
quick enough to escape catching something himself which caused him to stagger
dangerously with his burden. For Mrs. Ward‘s cry had evidently been heard by others than he,
and there had come from behind the locked door the first distinguishable words which that
masked and terrible colloquy had yielded. They were merely an excited caution in Charles‘s
own voice, but somehow their implications held a nameless fright for the father who
overheard them. The phrase was just this:
―Sshh!—write!”
Mr. and Mrs. Ward conferred at some length after dinner, and the former resolved to have a
firm and serious talk with Charles that very night. No matter how important the object, such
conduct could no longer be permitted; for these latest developments transcended every limit
of sanity and formed a menace to the order and nervous well-being of the entire household.
The youth must indeed have taken complete leave of his senses, since only downright
madness could have prompted the wild screams and imaginary conversations in assumed
voices which the present day had brought forth. All this must be stopped, or Mrs. Ward would
be made ill and the keeping of servants become an impossibility.
Mr. Ward rose at the close of the meal and started upstairs for Charles‘s laboratory. On the
third floor, however, he paused at the sounds which he heard proceeding from the now
disused library of his son. Books were apparently being flung about and papers wildly rustled,
and upon stepping to the door Mr. Ward beheld the youth within, excitedly assembling a vast
armful of literary matter of every size and shape. Charles‘s aspect was very drawn and
haggard, and he dropped his entire load with a start at the sound of his father‘s voice. At the
elder man‘s command he sat down, and for some time listened to the admonitions he had so
long deserved. There was no scene. At the end of the lecture he agreed that his father was
right, and that his noises, mutterings, incantations, and chemical odours were indeed
inexcusable nuisances. He agreed to a policy of greater quiet, though insisting on a
prolongation of his extreme privacy. Much of his future work, he said, was in any case purely
book research; and he could obtain quarters elsewhere for any such vocal rituals as might be
necessary at a later stage. For the fright and fainting of his mother he expressed the keenest
contrition, and explained that the conversation later heard was part of an elaborate symbolism
designed to create a certain mental atmosphere. His use of abstruse technical terms
somewhat bewildered Mr. Ward, but the parting impression was one of undeniable sanity and
poise despite a mysterious tension of the utmost gravity. The interview was really quite
inconclusive, and as Charles picked up his armful and left the room Mr. Ward hardly knew
what to make of the entire business. It was as mysterious as the death of poor old Nig, whose
stiffening form had been found an hour before in the basement, with staring eyes and fear-
distorted mouth.
Driven by some vague detective instinct, the bewildered parent now glanced curiously at the
vacant shelves to see what his son had taken up to the attic. The youth‘s library was plainly
and rigidly classified, so that one might tell at a glance the books or at least the kind of books
which had been withdrawn. On this occasion Mr. Ward was astonished to find that nothing of
the occult or the antiquarian, beyond what had been previously removed, was missing. These
new withdrawals were all modern items; histories, scientific treatises, geographies, manuals
of literature, philosophic works, and certain contemporary newspapers and magazines. It was
a very curious shift from Charles Ward‘s recent run of reading, and the father paused in a
growing vortex of perplexity and an engulfing sense of strangeness. The strangeness was a
very poignant sensation, and almost clawed at his chest as he strove to see just what was
wrong around him. Something was indeed wrong, and tangibly as well as spiritually so. Ever
since he had been in this room he had known that something was amiss, and at last it
dawned upon him what it was.
On the north wall rose still the ancient carved overmantel from the house in Olney Court, but
to the cracked and precariously restored oils of the large Curwen portrait disaster had come.
Time and unequal heating had done their work at last, and at some time since the room‘s last
cleaning the worst had happened. Peeling clear of the wood, curling tighter and tighter, and
finally crumbling into small bits with what must have been malignly silent suddenness, the
portrait of Joseph Curwen had resigned forever its staring surveillance of the youth it so
strangely resembled, and now lay scattered on the floor as a thin coating of fine bluish-grey
dust.
IV. A Mutation and a Madness
1.
In the week following that memorable Good Friday Charles Ward was seen more often than
usual, and was continually carrying books between his library and the attic laboratory. His
actions were quiet and rational, but he had a furtive, hunted look which his mother did not like,
and developed an incredibly ravenous appetite as gauged by his demands upon the cook. Dr.
Willett had been told of those Friday noises and happenings, and on the following Tuesday
had a long conversation with the youth in the library where the picture stared no more. The
interview was, as always, inconclusive; but Willett is still ready to swear that the youth was
sane and himself at the time. He held out promises of an early revelation, and spoke of the
need of securing a laboratory elsewhere. At the loss of the portrait he grieved singularly little
considering his first enthusiasm over it, but seemed to find something of positive humour in its
sudden crumbling.
About the second week Charles began to be absent from the house for long periods, and one
day when good old black Hannah came to help with the spring cleaning she mentioned his
frequent visits to the old house in Olney Court, where he would come with a large valise and
perform curious delvings in the cellar. He was always very liberal to her and to old Asa, but
seemed more worried than he used to be; which grieved her very much, since she had
watched him grow up from birth. Another report of his doings came from Pawtuxet, where
some friends of the family saw him at a distance a surprising number of times. He seemed to
haunt the resort and canoe-house of Rhodes-on-the-Pawtuxet, and subsequent inquiries by
Dr. Willett at that place brought out the fact that his purpose was always to secure access to
the rather hedged-in river-bank, along which he would walk toward the north, usually not
reappearing for a very long while.
Late in May came a momentary revival of ritualistic sounds in the attic laboratory which
brought a stern reproof from Mr. Ward and a somewhat distracted promise of amendment
from Charles. It occurred one morning, and seemed to form a resumption of the imaginary
conversation noted on that turbulent Good Friday. The youth was arguing or remonstrating
hotly with himself, for there suddenly burst forth a perfectly distinguishable series of clashing
shouts in differentiated tones like alternate demands and denials which caused Mrs. Ward to
run upstairs and listen at the door. She could hear no more than a fragment whose only plain
words were ―must have it red for three months‖, and upon her knocking all sounds ceased at
once. When Charles was later questioned by his father he said that there were certain
conflicts of spheres of consciousness which only great skill could avoid, but which he would
try to transfer to other realms.
About the middle of June a queer nocturnal incident occurred. In the early evening there had
been some noise and thumping in the laboratory upstairs, and Mr. Ward was on the point of
investigating when it suddenly quieted down. That midnight, after the family had retired, the
butler was nightlocking the front door when according to his statement Charles appeared
somewhat blunderingly and uncertainly at the foot of the stairs with a large suitcase and made
signs that he wished egress. The youth spoke no word, but the worthy Yorkshireman caught
one sight of his fevered eyes and trembled causelessly. He opened the door and young Ward
went out, but in the morning he presented his resignation to Mrs. Ward. There was, he said,
something unholy in the glance Charles had fixed on him. It was no way for a young
gentleman to look at an honest person, and he could not possibly stay another night. Mrs.
Ward allowed the man to depart, but she did not value his statement highly. To fancy Charles
in a savage state that night was quite ridiculous, for as long as she had remained awake she
had heard faint sounds from the laboratory above; sounds as if of sobbing and pacing, and of
a sighing which told only of despair‘s profoundest depths. Mrs. Ward had grown used to
listening for sounds in the night, for the mystery of her son was fast driving all else from her
mind.
The next evening, much as on another evening nearly three months before, Charles Ward
seized the newspaper very early and accidentally lost the main section. The matter was not
recalled till later, when Dr. Willett began checking up loose ends and searching out missing
links here and there. In the Journal office he found the section which Charles had lost, and
marked two items as of possible significance. They were as follows:
More Cemetery Delving
It was this morning discovered by Robert Hart, night watchman at the North Burial
Ground, that ghouls were again at work in the ancient portion of the cemetery. The
grave of Ezra Weeden, who was born in 1740 and died in 1824, according to his
uprooted and savagely splintered slate headstone, was found excavated and rifled,
the work being evidently done with a spade stolen from an adjacent tool-shed.
Whatever the contents may have been after more than a century of burial, all was
gone except a few slivers of decayed wood. There were no wheel tracks, but the
police have measured a single set of footprints which they found in the vicinity, and
which indicate the boots of a man of refinement.
Hart is inclined to link this incident with the digging discovered last March, when a
party in a motor truck were frightened away after making a deep excavation; but
Sergt. Riley of the Second Station discounts this theory and points to vital
differences in the two cases. In March the digging had been in a spot where no
grave was known; but this time a well-marked and cared-for grave had been rifled
with every evidence of deliberate purpose, and with a conscious malignity
expressed in the splintering of the slab which had been intact up to the day before.
The aspect of Charles now became very haggard and hunted, and all agreed in retrospect
that he may have wished at this period to make some statement or confession from which
sheer terror withheld him. The morbid listening of his mother in the night brought out the fact
that he made frequent sallies abroad under cover of darkness, and most of the more
academic alienists unite at present in charging him with the revolting cases of vampirism
which the press so sensationally reported about this time, but which have not yet been
definitely traced to any known perpetrator. These cases, too recent and celebrated to need
detailed mention, involved victims of every age and type and seemed to cluster around two
distinct localities; the residential hill and the North End, near the Ward home, and the
suburban districts across the Cranston line near Pawtuxet. Both late wayfarers and sleepers
with open windows were attacked, and those who lived to tell the tale spoke unanimously of a
lean, lithe, leaping monster with burning eyes which fastened its teeth in the throat or upper
arm and feasted ravenously.
Dr. Willett, who refuses to date the madness of Charles Ward as far back as even this, is
cautious in attempting to explain these horrors. He has, he declares, certain theories of his
own; and limits his positive statements to a peculiar kind of negation. ―I will not,‖ he says,
―state who or what I believe perpetrated these attacks and murders, but I will declare that
Charles Ward was innocent of them. I have reason to be sure he was ignorant of the taste of
blood, as indeed his continued anaemic decline and increasing pallor prove better than any
verbal argument. Ward meddled with terrible things, but he has paid for it, and he was never a
monster or a villain. As for now—I don‘t like to think. A change came, and I‘m content to
believe that the old Charles Ward died with it. His soul did, anyhow, for that mad flesh that
vanished from Waite‘s hospital had another.‖
Willett speaks with authority, for he was often at the Ward home attending Mrs. Ward, whose
nerves had begun to snap under the strain. Her nocturnal listening had bred some morbid
hallucinations which she confided to the doctor with hesitancy, and which he ridiculed in
talking to her, although they made him ponder deeply when alone. These delusions always
concerned the faint sounds which she fancied she heard in the attic laboratory and bedroom,
and emphasised the occurrence of muffled sighs and sobbings at the most impossible times.
Early in July Willett ordered Mrs. Ward to Atlantic City for an indefinite recuperative sojourn,
and cautioned both Mr. Ward and the haggard and elusive Charles to write her only cheering
letters. It is probably to this enforced and reluctant escape that she owes her life and
continued sanity.
2.
Not long after his mother‘s departure Charles Ward began negotiating for the Pawtuxet
bungalow. It was a squalid little wooden edifice with a concrete garage, perched high on the
sparsely settled bank of the river slightly above Rhodes, but for some odd reason the youth
would have nothing else. He gave the real-estate agencies no peace till one of them secured
it for him at an exorbitant price from a somewhat reluctant owner, and as soon as it was
vacant he took possession under cover of darkness, transporting in a great closed van the
entire contents of his attic laboratory, including the books both weird and modern which he
had borrowed from his study. He had this van loaded in the black small hours, and his father
recalls only a drowsy realisation of stifled oaths and stamping feet on the night the goods
were taken away. After that Charles moved back to his own old quarters on the third floor, and
never haunted the attic again.
To the Pawtuxet bungalow Charles transferred all the secrecy with which he had surrounded
his attic realm, save that he now appeared to have two sharers of his mysteries; a villainous-
looking Portuguese half-caste from the South Main St. waterfront who acted as a servant, and
a thin, scholarly stranger with dark glasses and a stubbly full beard of dyed aspect whose
status was evidently that of a colleague. Neighbours vainly tried to engage these odd persons
in conversation. The mulatto Gomes spoke very little English, and the bearded man, who
gave his name as Dr. Allen, voluntarily followed his example. Ward himself tried to be more
affable, but succeeded only in provoking curiosity with his rambling accounts of chemical
research. Before long queer tales began to circulate regarding the all-night burning of lights;
and somewhat later, after this burning had suddenly ceased, there rose still queerer tales of
disproportionate orders of meat from the butcher‘s and of the muffled shouting, declamation,
rhythmic chanting, and screaming supposed to come from some very deep cellar below the
place. Most distinctly the new and strange household was bitterly disliked by the honest
bourgeoisie of the vicinity, and it is not remarkable that dark hints were advanced connecting
the hated establishment with the current epidemic of vampiristic attacks and murders;
especially since the radius of that plague seemed now confined wholly to Pawtuxet and the
adjacent streets of Edgewood.
Ward spent most of his time at the bungalow, but slept occasionally at home and was still
reckoned a dweller beneath his father‘s roof. Twice he was absent from the city on week-long
trips, whose destinations have not yet been discovered. He grew steadily paler and more
emaciated even than before, and lacked some of his former assurance when repeating to Dr.
Willett his old, old story of vital research and future revelations. Willett often waylaid him at his
father‘s house, for the elder Ward was deeply worried and perplexed, and wished his son to
get as much sound oversight as could be managed in the case of so secretive and
independent an adult. The doctor still insists that the youth was sane even as late as this, and
adduces many a conversation to prove his point.
About September the vampirism declined, but in the following January Ward almost became
involved in serious trouble. For some time the nocturnal arrival and departure of motor trucks
at the Pawtuxet bungalow had been commented upon, and at this juncture an unforeseen
hitch exposed the nature of at least one item of their contents. In a lonely spot near Hope
Valley had occurred one of the frequent sordid waylayings of trucks by ―hi-jackers‖ in quest of
liquor shipments, but this time the robbers had been destined to receive the greater shock.
For the long cases they seized proved upon opening to contain some exceedingly gruesome
things; so gruesome, in fact, that the matter could not be kept quiet amongst the denizens of
the underworld. The thieves had hastily buried what they discovered, but when the State
Police got wind of the matter a careful search was made. A recently arrested vagrant, under
promise of immunity from prosecution on any additional charge, at last consented to guide a
party of troopers to the spot; and there was found in that hasty cache a very hideous and
shameful thing. It would not be well for the national—or even the international—sense of
decorum if the public were ever to know what was uncovered by that awestruck party. There
was no mistaking it, even by these far from studious officers; and telegrams to Washington
ensued with feverish rapidity.
The cases were addressed to Charles Ward at his Pawtuxet bungalow, and State and Federal
officials at once paid him a very forceful and serious call. They found him pallid and worried
with his two odd companions, and received from him what seemed to be a valid explanation
and evidence of innocence. He had needed certain anatomical specimens as part of a
programme of research whose depth and genuineness anyone who had known him in the last
decade could prove, and had ordered the required kind and number from agencies which he
had thought as reasonably legitimate as such things can be. Of the identity of the specimens
he had known absolutely nothing, and was properly shocked when the inspectors hinted at
the monstrous effect on public sentiment and national dignity which a knowledge of the matter
would produce. In this statement he was firmly sustained by his bearded colleague Dr. Allen,
whose oddly hollow voice carried even more conviction than his own nervous tones; so that in
the end the officials took no action, but carefully set down the New York name and address
which Ward gave them as a basis for a search which came to nothing. It is only fair to add
that the specimens were quickly and quietly restored to their proper places, and that the
general public will never know of their blasphemous disturbance.
On February 9, 1928, Dr. Willett received a letter from Charles Ward which he considers of
extraordinary importance, and about which he has frequently quarrelled with Dr. Lyman.
Lyman believes that this note contains positive proof of a well-developed case of dementia
praecox, but Willett on the other hand regards it as the last perfectly sane utterance of the
hapless youth. He calls especial attention to the normal character of the penmanship; which
though shewing traces of shattered nerves, is nevertheless distinctly Ward‘s own. The text in
full is as follows:
―100 Prospect St.
Providence, R.I.,
February 8, 1928.
―Dear Dr. Willett:—
―I feel that at last the time has come for me to make the disclosures which I have
so long promised you, and for which you have pressed me so often. The patience
you have shewn in waiting, and the confidence you have shewn in my mind and
integrity, are things I shall never cease to appreciate.
―And now that I am ready to speak, I must own with humiliation that no triumph
such as I dreamed of can ever be mine. Instead of triumph I have found terror, and
my talk with you will not be a boast of victory but a plea for help and advice in
saving both myself and the world from a horror beyond all human conception or
calculation. You recall what those Fenner letters said of the old raiding party at
Pawtuxet. That must all be done again, and quickly. Upon us depends more than
can be put into words—all civilisation, all natural law, perhaps even the fate of the
solar system and the universe. I have brought to light a monstrous abnormality, but
I did it for the sake of knowledge. Now for the sake of all life and Nature you must
help me thrust it back into the dark again.
―I have left that Pawtuxet place forever, and we must extirpate everything existing
there, alive or dead. I shall not go there again, and you must not believe it if you
ever hear that I am there. I will tell you why I say this when I see you. I have come
home for good, and wish you would call on me at the very first moment that you
can spare five or six hours continuously to hear what I have to say. It will take that
long—and believe me when I tell you that you never had a more genuine
professional duty than this. My life and reason are the very least things which hang
in the balance.
―I dare not tell my father, for he could not grasp the whole thing. But I have told him
of my danger, and he has four men from a detective agency watching the house. I
don‘t know how much good they can do, for they have against them forces which
even you could scarcely envisage or acknowledge. So come quickly if you wish to
see me alive and hear how you may help to save the cosmos from stark hell.
―Any time will do—I shall not be out of the house. Don‘t telephone ahead, for there
is no telling who or what may try to intercept you. And let us pray to whatever gods
there be that nothing may prevent this meeting.
―P.S. Shoot Dr. Allen on sight and dissolve his body in acid. Don‘t burn it.‖
Dr. Willett received this note about 10:30 a.m., and immediately arranged to spare the whole
late afternoon and evening for the momentous talk, letting it extend on into the night as long
as might be necessary. He planned to arrive about four o‘clock, and through all the
intervening hours was so engulfed in every sort of wild speculation that most of his tasks were
very mechanically performed. Maniacal as the letter would have sounded to a stranger, Willett
had seen too much of Charles Ward‘s oddities to dismiss it as sheer raving. That something
very subtle, ancient, and horrible was hovering about he felt quite sure, and the reference to
Dr. Allen could almost be comprehended in view of what Pawtuxet gossip said of Ward‘s
enigmatical colleague. Willett had never seen the man, but had heard much of his aspect and
bearing, and could not but wonder what sort of eyes those much-discussed dark glasses
might conceal.
Promptly at four Dr. Willett presented himself at the Ward residence, but found to his
annoyance that Charles had not adhered to his determination to remain indoors. The guards
were there, but said that the young man seemed to have lost part of his timidity. He had that
morning done much apparently frightened arguing and protesting over the telephone, one of
the detectives said, replying to some unknown voice with phrases such as ―I am very tired
and must rest a while‖, ―I can‘t receive anyone for some time, you‘ll have to excuse me‖,
―Please postpone decisive action till we can arrange some sort of compromise‖, or ―I am very
sorry, but I must take a complete vacation from everything; I‘ll talk with you later‖. Then,
apparently gaining boldness through meditation, he had slipped out so quietly that no one had
seen him depart or knew that he had gone until he returned about one o‘clock and entered
the house without a word. He had gone upstairs, where a bit of his fear must have surged
back; for he was heard to cry out in a highly terrified fashion upon entering his library,
afterward trailing off into a kind of choking gasp. When, however, the butler had gone to
inquire what the trouble was, he had appeared at the door with a great show of boldness, and
had silently gestured the man away in a manner that terrified him unaccountably. Then he had
evidently done some rearranging of his shelves, for a great clattering and thumping and
creaking ensued; after which he had reappeared and left at once. Willett inquired whether or
not any message had been left, but was told that there was none. The butler seemed queerly
disturbed about something in Charles‘s appearance and manner, and asked solicitously if
there was much hope for a cure of his disordered nerves.
For almost two hours Dr. Willett waited vainly in Charles Ward‘s library, watching the dusty
shelves with their wide gaps where books had been removed, and smiling grimly at the
panelled overmantel on the north wall, whence a year before the suave features of old Joseph
Curwen had looked mildly down. After a time the shadows began to gather, and the sunset
cheer gave place to a vague growing terror which flew shadow-like before the night. Mr. Ward
finally arrived, and shewed much surprise and anger at his son‘s absence after all the pains
which had been taken to guard him. He had not known of Charles‘s appointment, and
promised to notify Willett when the youth returned. In bidding the doctor goodnight he
expressed his utter perplexity at his son‘s condition, and urged his caller to do all he could to
restore the boy to normal poise. Willett was glad to escape from that library, for something
frightful and unholy seemed to haunt it; as if the vanished picture had left behind a legacy of
evil. He had never liked that picture; and even now, strong-nerved though he was, there
lurked a quality in its vacant panel which made him feel an urgent need to get out into the
pure air as soon as possible.
3.
The next morning Willett received a message from the senior Ward, saying that Charles was
still absent. Mr. Ward mentioned that Dr. Allen had telephoned him to say that Charles would
remain at Pawtuxet for some time, and that he must not be disturbed. This was necessary
because Allen himself was suddenly called away for an indefinite period, leaving the
researches in need of Charles‘s constant oversight. Charles sent his best wishes, and
regretted any bother his abrupt change of plans might have caused. In listening to this
message Mr. Ward heard Dr. Allen‘s voice for the first time, and it seemed to excite some
vague and elusive memory which could not be actually placed, but which was disturbing to
the point of fearfulness.
Faced by these baffling and contradictory reports, Dr. Willett was frankly at a loss what to do.
The frantic earnestness of Charles‘s note was not to be denied, yet what could one think of its
writer‘s immediate violation of his own expressed policy? Young Ward had written that his
delvings had become blasphemous and menacing, that they and his bearded colleague must
be extirpated at any cost, and that he himself would never return to their final scene; yet
according to latest advices he had forgotten all this and was back in the thick of the mystery.
Common sense bade one leave the youth alone with his freakishness, yet some deeper
instinct would not permit the impression of that frenzied letter to subside. Willett read it over
again, and could not make its essence sound as empty and insane as both its bombastic
verbiage and its lack of fulfilment would seem to imply. Its terror was too profound and real,
and in conjunction with what the doctor already knew evoked too vivid hints of monstrosities
from beyond time and space to permit of any cynical explanation. There were nameless
horrors abroad; and no matter how little one might be able to get at them, one ought to stand
prepared for any sort of action at any time.
For over a week Dr. Willett pondered on the dilemma which seemed thrust upon him, and
became more and more inclined to pay Charles a call at the Pawtuxet bungalow. No friend of
the youth had ever ventured to storm this forbidden retreat, and even his father knew of its
interior only from such descriptions as he chose to give; but Willett felt that some direct
conversation with his patient was necessary. Mr. Ward had been receiving brief and non-
committal typed notes from his son, and said that Mrs. Ward in her Atlantic City retirement
had had no better word. So at length the doctor resolved to act; and despite a curious
sensation inspired by old legends of Joseph Curwen, and by more recent revelations and
warnings from Charles Ward, set boldly out for the bungalow on the bluff above the river.
Willett had visited the spot before through sheer curiosity, though of course never entering the
house or proclaiming his presence; hence knew exactly the route to take. Driving out Broad
Street one early afternoon toward the end of February in his small motor, he thought oddly of
the grim party which had taken that selfsame road a hundred and fifty-seven years before on
a terrible errand which none might ever comprehend.
The ride through the city‘s decaying fringe was short, and trim Edgewood and sleepy
Pawtuxet presently spread out ahead. Willett turned to the right down Lockwood Street and
drove his car as far along that rural road as he could, then alighted and walked north to where
the bluff towered above the lovely bends of the river and the sweep of misty downlands
beyond. Houses were still few here, and there was no mistaking the isolated bungalow with its
concrete garage on a high point of land at his left. Stepping briskly up the neglected gravel
walk he rapped at the door with a firm hand, and spoke without a tremor to the evil
Portuguese mulatto who opened it to the width of a crack.
He must, he said, see Charles Ward at once on vitally important business. No excuse would
be accepted, and a repulse would mean only a full report of the matter to the elder Ward. The
mulatto still hesitated, and pushed against the door when Willett attempted to open it; but the
doctor merely raised his voice and renewed his demands. Then there came from the dark
interior a husky whisper which somehow chilled the hearer through and through though he did
not know why he feared it. ―Let him in, Tony,‖ it said, ―we may as well talk now as ever.‖ But
disturbing as was the whisper, the greater fear was that which immediately followed. The floor
creaked and the speaker hove in sight—and the owner of those strange and resonant tones
was seen to be no other than Charles Dexter Ward.
The minuteness with which Dr. Willett recalled and recorded his conversation of that
afternoon is due to the importance he assigns to this particular period. For at last he concedes
a vital change in Charles Dexter Ward‘s mentality, and believes that the youth now spoke from
a brain hopelessly alien to the brain whose growth he had watched for six and twenty years.
Controversy with Dr. Lyman has compelled him to be very specific, and he definitely dates the
madness of Charles Ward from the time the typewritten notes began to reach his parents.
Those notes are not in Ward‘s normal style; not even in the style of that last frantic letter to
Willett. Instead, they are strange and archaic, as if the snapping of the writer‘s mind had
released a flood of tendencies and impressions picked up unconsciously through boyhood
antiquarianism. There is an obvious effort to be modern, but the spirit and occasionally the
language are those of the past.
The past, too, was evident in Ward‘s every tone and gesture as he received the doctor in that
shadowy bungalow. He bowed, motioned Willett to a seat, and began to speak abruptly in that
strange whisper which he sought to explain at the very outset.
―I am grown phthisical,‖ he began, ―from this cursed river air. You must excuse my speech. I
suppose you are come from my father to see what ails me, and I hope you will say nothing to
alarm him.‖
Willett was studying these scraping tones with extreme care, but studying even more closely
the face of the speaker. Something, he felt, was wrong; and he thought of what the family had
told him about the fright of that Yorkshire butler one night. He wished it were not so dark, but
did not request that any blind be opened. Instead, he merely asked Ward why he had so
belied the frantic note of little more than a week before.
―I was coming to that,‖ the host replied. ―You must know, I am in a very bad state of nerves,
and do and say queer things I cannot account for. As I have told you often, I am on the edge
of great matters; and the bigness of them has a way of making me light-headed. Any man
might well be frighted of what I have found, but I am not to be put off for long. I was a dunce
to have that guard and stick at home; for having gone this far, my place is here. I am not well
spoke of by my prying neighbours, and perhaps I was led by weakness to believe myself what
they say of me. There is no evil to any in what I do, so long as I do it rightly. Have the
goodness to wait six months, and I‘ll shew you what will pay your patience well.
―You may as well know I have a way of learning old matters from things surer than books, and
I‘ll leave you to judge the importance of what I can give to history, philosophy, and the arts by
reason of the doors I have access to. My ancestor had all this when those witless peeping
Toms came and murdered him. I now have it again, or am coming very imperfectly to have a
part of it. This time nothing must happen, and least of all through any idiot fears of my own.
Pray forget all I writ you, Sir, and have no fear of this place or any in it. Dr. Allen is a man of
fine parts, and I owe him an apology for anything ill I have said of him. I wish I had no need to
spare him, but there were things he had to do elsewhere. His zeal is equal to mine in all those
matters, and I suppose that when I feared the work I feared him too as my greatest helper in
it.‖
Ward paused, and the doctor hardly knew what to say or think. He felt almost foolish in the
face of this calm repudiation of the letter; and yet there clung to him the fact that while the
present discourse was strange and alien and indubitably mad, the note itself had been tragic
in its naturalness and likeness to the Charles Ward he knew. Willett now tried to turn the talk
on early matters, and recall to the youth some past events which would restore a familiar
mood; but in this process he obtained only the most grotesque results. It was the same with
all the alienists later on. Important sections of Charles Ward‘s store of mental images, mainly
those touching modern times and his own personal life, had been unaccountably expunged;
whilst all the massed antiquarianism of his youth had welled up from some profound
subconsciousness to engulf the contemporary and the individual. The youth‘s intimate
knowledge of elder things was abnormal and unholy, and he tried his best to hide it. When
Willett would mention some favourite object of his boyhood archaistic studies he often shed
by pure accident such a light as no normal mortal could conceivably be expected to possess,
and the doctor shuddered as the glib allusion glided by.
It was not wholesome to know so much about the way the fat sheriff‘s wig fell off as he leaned
over at the play in Mr. Douglass‘ Histrionick Academy in King Street on the eleventh of
February, 1762, which fell on a Thursday; or about how the actors cut the text of Steele‘s
Conscious Lovers so badly that one was almost glad the Baptist-ridden legislature closed the
theatre a fortnight later. That Thomas Sabin‘s Boston coach was ―damn‘d uncomfortable‖ old
letters may well have told; but what healthy antiquarian could recall how the creaking of
Epenetus Olney‘s new signboard (the gaudy crown he set up after he took to calling his
tavern the Crown Coffee House) was exactly like the first few notes of the new jazz piece all
the radios in Pawtuxet were playing?
Ward, however, would not be quizzed long in this vein. Modern and personal topics he waved
aside quite summarily, whilst regarding antique affairs he soon shewed the plainest boredom.
What he wished clearly enough was only to satisfy his visitor enough to make him depart
without the intention of returning. To this end he offered to shew Willett the entire house, and
at once proceeded to lead the doctor through every room from cellar to attic. Willett looked
sharply, but noted that the visible books were far too few and trivial ever to have filled the
wide gaps on Ward‘s shelves at home, and that the meagre so-called ―laboratory‖ was the
flimsiest sort of a blind. Clearly there were a library and a laboratory elsewhere; but just
where, it was impossible to say. Essentially defeated in his quest for something he could not
name, Willett returned to town before evening and told the senior Ward everything which had
occurred. They agreed that the youth must be definitely out of his mind, but decided that
nothing drastic need be done just then. Above all, Mrs. Ward must be kept in as complete an
ignorance as her son‘s own strange typed notes would permit.
Mr. Ward now determined to call in person upon his son, making it wholly a surprise visit. Dr.
Willett took him in his car one evening, guiding him to within sight of the bungalow and waiting
patiently for his return. The session was a long one, and the father emerged in a very
saddened and perplexed state. His reception had developed much like Willett‘s, save that
Charles had been an excessively long time in appearing after the visitor had forced his way
into the hall and sent the Portuguese away with an imperative demand; and in the bearing of
the altered son there was no trace of filial affection. The lights had been dim, yet even so the
youth had complained that they dazzled him outrageously. He had not spoken out loud at all,
averring that his throat was in very poor condition; but in his hoarse whisper there was a
quality so vaguely disturbing that Mr. Ward could not banish it from his mind.
Now definitely leagued together to do all they could toward the youth‘s mental salvation, Mr.
Ward and Dr. Willett set about collecting every scrap of data which the case might afford.
Pawtuxet gossip was the first item they studied, and this was relatively easy to glean since
both had friends in that region. Dr. Willett obtained the most rumours because people talked
more frankly to him than to a parent of the central figure, and from all he heard he could tell
that young Ward‘s life had become indeed a strange one. Common tongues would not
dissociate his household from the vampirism of the previous summer, while the nocturnal
comings and goings of the motor trucks provided their share of dark speculation. Local
tradesmen spoke of the queerness of the orders brought them by the evil-looking mulatto, and
in particular of the inordinate amounts of meat and fresh blood secured from the two butcher
shops in the immediate neighbourhood. For a household of only three, these quantities were
quite absurd.
Then there was the matter of the sounds beneath the earth. Reports of these things were
harder to pin down, but all the vague hints tallied in certain basic essentials. Noises of a ritual
nature positively existed, and at times when the bungalow was dark. They might, of course,
have come from the known cellar; but rumour insisted that there were deeper and more
spreading crypts. Recalling the ancient tales of Joseph Curwen‘s catacombs, and assuming
for granted that the present bungalow had been selected because of its situation on the old
Curwen site as revealed in one or another of the documents found behind the picture, Willett
and Mr. Ward gave this phase of the gossip much attention; and searched many times without
success for the door in the river-bank which old manuscripts mentioned. As to popular
opinions of the bungalow‘s various inhabitants, it was soon plain that the Brava Portuguese
was loathed, the bearded and spectacled Dr. Allen feared, and the pallid young scholar
disliked to a profound extent. During the last week or two Ward had obviously changed much,
abandoning his attempts at affability and speaking only in hoarse but oddly repellent whispers
on the few occasions that he ventured forth.
Such were the shreds and fragments gathered here and there; and over these Mr. Ward and
Dr. Willett held many long and serious conferences. They strove to exercise deduction,
induction, and constructive imagination to their utmost extent; and to correlate every known
fact of Charles‘s later life, including the frantic letter which the doctor now shewed the father,
with the meagre documentary evidence available concerning old Joseph Curwen. They would
have given much for a glimpse of the papers Charles had found, for very clearly the key to the
youth‘s madness lay in what he had learned of the ancient wizard and his doings.
4.
And yet, after all, it was from no step of Mr. Ward‘s or Dr. Willett‘s that the next move in this
singular case proceeded. The father and the physician, rebuffed and confused by a shadow
too shapeless and intangible to combat, had rested uneasily on their oars while the typed
notes of young Ward to his parents grew fewer and fewer. Then came the first of the month
with its customary financial adjustments, and the clerks at certain banks began a peculiar
shaking of heads and telephoning from one to the other. Officials who knew Charles Ward by
sight went down to the bungalow to ask why every cheque of his appearing at this juncture
was a clumsy forgery, and were reassurred less than they ought to have been when the youth
hoarsely explained that his hand had lately been so much affected by a nervous shock as to
make normal writing impossible. He could, he said, form no written characters at all except
with great difficulty; and could prove it by the fact that he had been forced to type all his
recent letters, even those to his father and mother, who would bear out the assertion.
What made the investigators pause in confusion was not this circumstance alone, for that was
nothing unprecedented or fundamentally suspicious; nor even the Pawtuxet gossip, of which
one or two of them had caught echoes. It was the muddled discourse of the young man which
nonplussed them, implying as it did a virtually total loss of memory concerning important
monetary matters which he had had at his fingertips only a month or two before. Something
was wrong; for despite the apparent coherence and rationality of his speech, there could be
no normal reason for this ill-concealed blankness on vital points. Moreover, although none of
these men knew Ward well, they could not help observing the change in his language and
manner. They had heard he was an antiquarian, but even the most hopeless antiquarians do
not make daily use of obsolete phraseology and gestures. Altogether, this combination of
hoarseness, palsied hands, bad memory, and altered speech and bearing must represent
some disturbance or malady of genuine gravity, which no doubt formed the basis of the
prevailing odd rumours; and after their departure the party of officials decided that a talk with
the senior Ward was imperative.
So on the sixth of March, 1928, there was a long and serious conference in Mr. Ward‘s office,
after which the utterly bewildered father summoned Dr. Willett in a kind of helpless
resignation. Willett looked over the strained and awkward signatures of the cheques, and
compared them in his mind with the penmanship of that last frantic note. Certainly, the change
was radical and profound, and yet there was something damnably familiar about the new
writing. It had crabbed and archaic tendencies of a very curious sort, and seemed to result
from a type of stroke utterly different from that which the youth had always used. It was
strange—but where had he seen it before? On the whole, it was obvious that Charles was
insane. Of that there could be no doubt. And since it appeared unlikely that he could handle
his property or continue to deal with the outside world much longer, something must quickly
be done toward his oversight and possible cure. It was then that the alienists were called in,
Drs. Peck and Waite of Providence and Dr. Lyman of Boston, to whom Mr. Ward and Dr.
Willett gave the most exhaustive possible history of the case, and who conferred at length in
the now unused library of their young patient, examining what books and papers of his were
left in order to gain some further notion of his habitual mental cast. After scanning this material
and examining the ominous note to Willett they all agreed that Charles Ward‘s studies had
been enough to unseat or at least to warp any ordinary intellect, and wished most heartily that
they could see his more intimate volumes and documents; but this latter they knew they could
do, if at all, only after a scene at the bungalow itself. Willett now reviewed the whole case with
febrile energy; it being at this time that he obtained the statements of the workmen who had
seen Charles find the Curwen documents, and that he collated the incidents of the destroyed
newspaper items, looking up the latter at the Journal office.
On Thursday, the eighth of March, Drs. Willett, Peck, Lyman, and Waite, accompanied by Mr.
Ward, paid the youth their momentous call; making no concealment of their object and
questioning the now acknowledged patient with extreme minuteness. Charles, though he was
inordinately long in answering the summons and was still redolent of strange and noxious
laboratory odours when he did finally make his agitated appearance, proved a far from
recalcitrant subject; and admitted freely that his memory and balance had suffered somewhat
from close application to abstruse studies. He offered no resistance when his removal to other
quarters was insisted upon; and seemed, indeed, to display a high degree of intelligence as
apart from mere memory. His conduct would have sent his interviewers away in bafflement
had not the persistently archaic trend of his speech and unmistakable replacement of modern
by ancient ideas in his consciousness marked him out as one definitely removed from the
normal. Of his work he would say no more to the group of doctors than he had formerly said
to his family and to Dr. Willett, and his frantic note of the previous month he dismissed as
mere nerves and hysteria. He insisted that this shadowy bungalow possessed no library or
laboratory beyond the visible ones, and waxed abstruse in explaining the absence from the
house of such odours as now saturated all his clothing. Neighbourhood gossip he attributed to
nothing more than the cheap inventiveness of baffled curiosity. Of the whereabouts of Dr.
Allen he said he did not feel at liberty to speak definitely, but assured his inquisitors that the
bearded and spectacled man would return when needed. In paying off the stolid Brava who
resisted all questioning by the visitors, and in closing the bungalow which still seemed to hold
such nighted secrets, Ward shewed no sign of nervousness save a barely noticed tendency to
pause as though listening for something very faint. He was apparently animated by a calmly
philosophic resignation, as if his removal were the merest transient incident which would
cause the least trouble if facilitated and disposed of once and for all. It was clear that he
trusted to his obviously unimpaired keenness of absolute mentality to overcome all the
embarrassments into which his twisted memory, his lost voice and handwriting, and his
secretive and eccentric behaviour had led him. His mother, it was agreed, was not to be told
of the change; his father supplying typed notes in his name. Ward was taken to the restfully
and picturesquely situated private hospital maintained by Dr. Waite on Conanicut Island in the
bay, and subjected to the closest scrutiny and questioning by all the physicians connected
with the case. It was then that the physical oddities were noticed; the slackened metabolism,
the altered skin, and the disproportionate neural reactions. Dr. Willett was the most perturbed
of the various examiners, for he had attended Ward all his life and could appreciate with
terrible keenness the extent of his physical disorganisation. Even the familiar olive mark on
his hip was gone, while on his chest was a great black mole or cicatrice which had never
been there before, and which made Willett wonder whether the youth had ever submitted to
any of the ―witch markings‖ reputed to be inflicted at certain unwholesome nocturnal meetings
in wild and lonely places. The doctor could not keep his mind off a certain transcribed witch-
trial record from Salem which Charles had shewn him in the old non-secretive days, and
which read: ―Mr. G. B. on that Nighte putt ye Divell his Marke upon Bridget S., Jonathan A.,
Simon O., Deliverance W., Joseph C., Susan P., Mehitable C., and Deborah B.‖ Ward‘s face,
too, troubled him horribly, till at length he suddenly discovered why he was horrified. For
above the young man‘s right eye was something which he had never previously noticed—a
small scar or pit precisely like that in the crumbled painting of old Joseph Curwen, and
perhaps attesting some hideous ritualistic inoculation to which both had submitted at a certain
stage of their occult careers.
While Ward himself was puzzling all the doctors at the hospital a very strict watch was kept on
all mail addressed either to him or to Dr. Allen, which Mr. Ward had ordered delivered at the
family home. Willett had predicted that very little would be found, since any communications
of a vital nature would probably have been exchanged by messenger; but in the latter part of
March there did come a letter from Prague for Dr. Allen which gave both the doctor and the
father deep thought. It was in a very crabbed and archaic hand; and though clearly not the
effort of a foreigner, shewed almost as singular a departure from modern English as the
speech of young Ward himself. It read:
Kleinstrasse 11,
Altstadt, Prague,
11th Feby. 1928.
Brother in Almousin-Metraton:—
I this day receiv‘d yr mention of what came up from the Salts I sent you. It was
wrong, and meanes clearly that ye Headstones had been chang‘d when Barnabas
gott me the Specimen. It is often so, as you must be sensible of from the Thing you
gott from ye Kings Chapell ground in 1769 and what H. gott from Olde Bury‘g Point
in 1690, that was like to ende him. I gott such a Thing in Aegypt 75 yeares gone,
from the which came that Scar ye Boy saw on me here in 1924. As I told you longe
ago, do not calle up That which you can not put downe; either from dead Saltes or
out of ye Spheres beyond. Have ye Wordes for laying at all times readie, and stopp
not to be sure when there is any Doubte of Whom you have. Stones are all chang‘d
now in Nine groundes out of 10. You are never sure till you question. I this day
heard from H., who has had Trouble with the Soldiers. He is like to be sorry
Transylvania is pass‘d from Hungary to Roumania, and wou‘d change his Seat if
the Castel weren‘t so fulle of What we Knowe. But of this he hath doubtless writ
you. In my next Send‘g there will be Somewhat from a Hill tomb from ye East that
will delight you greatly. Meanwhile forget not I am desirous of B. F. if you can
possibly get him for me. You know G. in Philada. better than I. Have him up firste if
you will, but doe not use him soe hard he will be Difficult, for I must speake to him
in ye End.
Yogg-Sothoth Neblod Zin
Simon O.
To Mr. J. C. in
Providence.
Mr. Ward and Dr. Willett paused in utter chaos before this apparent bit of unrelieved insanity.
Only by degrees did they absorb what it seemed to imply. So the absent Dr. Allen, and not
Charles Ward, had come to be the leading spirit at Pawtuxet? That must explain the wild
reference and denunciation in the youth‘s last frantic letter. And what of this addressing of the
bearded and spectacled stranger as ―Mr. J. C.‖? There was no escaping the inference, but
there are limits to possible monstrosity. Who was ―Simon O.‖; the old man Ward had visited in
Prague four years previously? Perhaps, but in the centuries behind there had been another
Simon O.—Simon Orne, alias Jedediah, of Salem, who vanished in 1771, and whose peculiar
handwriting Dr. Willett now unmistakably recognised from the photostatic copies of the Orne
formulae which Charles had once shewn him. What horrors and mysteries, what
contradictions and contraventions of Nature, had come back after a century and a half to
harass Old Providence with her clustered spires and domes?
The father and the old physician, virtually at a loss what to do or think, went to see Charles at
the hospital and questioned him as delicately as they could about Dr. Allen, about the Prague
visit, and about what he had learned of Simon or Jedediah Orne of Salem. To all these
inquiries the youth was politely non-committal, merely barking in his hoarse whisper that he
had found Dr. Allen to have a remarkable spiritual rapport with certain souls from the past, and
that any correspondent the bearded man might have in Prague would probably be similarly
gifted. When they left, Mr. Ward and Dr. Willett realised to their chagrin that they had really
been the ones under catechism; and that without imparting anything vital himself, the confined
youth had adroitly pumped them of everything the Prague letter had contained.
Drs. Peck, Waite, and Lyman were not inclined to attach much importance to the strange
correspondence of young Ward‘s companion; for they knew the tendency of kindred
eccentrics and monomaniacs to band together, and believed that Charles or Allen had merely
unearthed an expatriated counterpart—perhaps one who had seen Orne‘s handwriting and
copied it in an attempt to pose as the bygone character‘s reincarnation. Allen himself was
perhaps a similar case, and may have persuaded the youth into accepting him as an avatar of
the long-dead Curwen. Such things had been known before, and on the same basis the hard-
headed doctors disposed of Willett‘s growing disquiet about Charles Ward‘s present
handwriting, as studied from unpremeditated specimens obtained by various ruses. Willett
thought he had placed its odd familiarity at last, and that what it vaguely resembled was the
bygone penmanship of old Joseph Curwen himself; but this the other physicians regarded as
a phase of imitativeness only to be expected in a mania of this sort, and refused to grant it
any importance either favourable or unfavourable. Recognising this prosaic attitude in his
colleagues, Willett advised Mr. Ward to keep to himself the letter which arrived for Dr. Allen on
the second of April from Rakus, Transylvania, in a handwriting so intensely and fundamentally
like that of the Hutchinson cipher that both father and physician paused in awe before
breaking the seal. This read as follows:
Castle Ferenczy
7 March 1928.
Dear C.:—Hadd a Squad of 20 Militia up to talk about what the Country Folk say.
Must digg deeper and have less Hearde. These Roumanians plague me damnably,
being officious and particular where you cou‘d buy a Magyar off with a Drinke and
ffood. Last monthe M. got me ye Sarcophagus of ye Five Sphinxes from ye
Acropolis where He whome I call‘d up say‘d it wou‘d be, and I have hadde 3 Talkes
with What was therein inhum’d. It will go to S. O. in Prague directly, and thence to
you. It is stubborn but you know ye Way with Such. You shew Wisdom in having
lesse about than Before; for there was no Neede to keep the Guards in Shape and
eat‘g off their Heads, and it made Much to be founde in Case of Trouble, as you
too welle knowe. You can now move and worke elsewhere with no Kill‘g Trouble if
needful, tho‘ I hope no Thing will soon force you to so Bothersome a Course. I
rejoice that you traffick not so much with Those Outside; for there was ever a
Mortall Peril in it, and you are sensible what it did when you ask‘d Protection of
One not dispos‘d to give it. You excel me in gett‘g ye fformulae so another may
saye them with Success, but Borellus fancy‘d it wou‘d be so if just ye right Wordes
were hadd. Does ye Boy use ‘em often? I regret that he growes squeamish, as I
fear‘d he wou‘d when I hadde him here nigh 15 Monthes, but am sensible you
knowe how to deal with him. You can‘t saye him down with ye fformula, for that will
Worke only upon such as ye other fformula hath call‘d up from Saltes; but you still
have strong Handes and Knife and Pistol, and Graves are not harde to digg, nor
Acids loth to burne. O. sayes you have promis‘d him B. F. I must have him after. B.
goes to you soone, and may he give you what you wishe of that Darke Thing
belowe Memphis. Imploy care in what you calle up, and beware of ye Boy. It will be
ripe in a yeare‘s time to have up ye Legions from Underneath, and then there are
no Boundes to what shal be oures. Have Confidence in what I saye, for you knowe
O. and I have hadd these 150 yeares more than you to consulte these Matters in.
Nephren-Ka nai Hadoth
Edw: H.
For J. Curwen, Esq.
Providence.
But if Willett and Mr. Ward refrained from shewing this letter to the alienists, they did not
refrain from acting upon it themselves. No amount of learned sophistry could controvert the
fact that the strangely bearded and spectacled Dr. Allen, of whom Charles‘s frantic letter had
spoken as such a monstrous menace, was in close and sinister correspondence with two
inexplicable creatures whom Ward had visited in his travels and who plainly claimed to be
survivals or avatars of Curwen‘s old Salem colleagues; that he was regarding himself as the
reincarnation of Joseph Curwen, and that he entertained—or was at least advised to
entertain—murderous designs against a ―boy‖ who could scarcely be other than Charles
Ward. There was organised horror afoot; and no matter who had started it, the missing Allen
was by this time at the bottom of it. Therefore, thanking heaven that Charles was now safe in
the hospital, Mr. Ward lost no time in engaging detectives to learn all they could of the cryptic
bearded doctor; finding whence he had come and what Pawtuxet knew of him, and if possible
discovering his current whereabouts. Supplying the men with one of the bungalow keys which
Charles yielded up, he urged them to explore Allen‘s vacant room which had been identified
when the patient‘s belongings had been packed; obtaining what clues they could from any
effects he might have left about. Mr. Ward talked with the detectives in his son‘s old library,
and they felt a marked relief when they left it at last; for there seemed to hover about the
place a vague aura of evil. Perhaps it was what they had heard of the infamous old wizard
whose picture had once stared from the panelled overmantel, and perhaps it was something
different and irrelevant; but in any case they all half sensed an intangible miasma which
centred in that carven vestige of an older dwelling and which at times almost rose to the
intensity of a material emanation.
V. A Nightmare and a Cataclysm
1.
And now swiftly followed that hideous experience which has left its indelible mark of fear on
the soul of Marinus Bicknell Willett, and has added a decade to the visible age of one whose
youth was even then far behind. Dr. Willett had conferred at length with Mr. Ward, and had
come to an agreement with him on several points which both felt the alienists would ridicule.
There was, they conceded, a terrible movement alive in the world, whose direct connexion
with a necromancy even older than the Salem witchcraft could not be doubted. That at least
two living men—and one other of whom they dared not think—were in absolute possession of
minds or personalities which had functioned as early as 1690 or before was likewise almost
unassailably proved even in the face of all known natural laws. What these horrible
creatures—and Charles Ward as well—were doing or trying to do seemed fairly clear from
their letters and from every bit of light both old and new which had filtered in upon the case.
They were robbing the tombs of all the ages, including those of the world‘s wisest and
greatest men, in the hope of recovering from the bygone ashes some vestige of the
consciousness and lore which had once animated and informed them.
A hideous traffick was going on among these nightmare ghouls, whereby illustrious bones
were bartered with the calm calculativeness of schoolboys swapping books; and from what
was extorted from this centuried dust there was anticipated a power and a wisdom beyond
anything which the cosmos had ever seen concentrated in one man or group. They had found
unholy ways to keep their brains alive, either in the same body or different bodies; and had
evidently achieved a way of tapping the consciousness of the dead whom they gathered
together. There had, it seems, been some truth in chimerical old Borellus when he wrote of
preparing from even the most antique remains certain ―Essential Saltes‖ from which the shade
of a long-dead living thing might be raised up. There was a formula for evoking such a shade,
and another for putting it down; and it had now been so perfected that it could be taught
successfully. One must be careful about evocations, for the markers of old graves are not
always accurate.
Willett and Mr. Ward shivered as they passed from conclusion to conclusion. Things—
presences or voices of some sort—could be drawn down from unknown places as well as
from the grave, and in this process also one must be careful. Joseph Curwen had indubitably
evoked many forbidden things, and as for Charles—what might one think of him? What forces
―outside the spheres‖ had reached him from Joseph Curwen‘s day and turned his mind on
forgotten things? He had been led to find certain directions, and he had used them. He had
talked with the man of horror in Prague and stayed long with the creature in the mountains of
Transylvania. And he must have found the grave of Joseph Curwen at last. That newspaper
item and what his mother had heard in the night were too significant to overlook. Then he had
summoned something, and it must have come. That mighty voice aloft on Good Friday, and
those different tones in the locked attic laboratory. What were they like, with their depth and
hollowness? Was there not here some awful foreshadowing of the dreaded stranger Dr. Allen
with his spectral bass? Yes, that was what Mr. Ward had felt with vague horror in his single
talk with the man—if man it were—over the telephone!
What hellish consciousness or voice, what morbid shade or presence, had come to answer
Charles Ward‘s secret rites behind that locked door? Those voices heard in argument—―must
have it red for three months‖—Good God! Was not that just before the vampirism broke out?
The rifling of Ezra Weeden‘s ancient grave, and the cries later at Pawtuxet—whose mind had
planned the vengeance and rediscovered the shunned seat of elder blasphemies? And then
the bungalow and the bearded stranger, and the gossip, and the fear. The final madness of
Charles neither father nor doctor could attempt to explain, but they did feel sure that the mind
of Joseph Curwen had come to earth again and was following its ancient morbidities. Was
daemoniac possession in truth a possibility? Allen had something to do with it, and the
detectives must find out more about one whose existence menaced the young man‘s life. In
the meantime, since the existence of some vast crypt beneath the bungalow seemed virtually
beyond dispute, some effort must be made to find it. Willett and Mr. Ward, conscious of the
sceptical attitude of the alienists, resolved during their final conference to undertake a joint
secret exploration of unparalleled thoroughness; and agreed to meet at the bungalow on the
following morning with valises and with certain tools and accessories suited to architectural
search and underground exploration.
The morning of April 6th dawned clear, and both explorers were at the bungalow by ten
o‘clock. Mr. Ward had the key, and an entry and cursory survey were made. From the
disordered condition of Dr. Allen‘s room it was obvious that the detectives had been there
before, and the later searchers hoped that they had found some clue which might prove of
value. Of course the main business lay in the cellar; so thither they descended without much
delay, again making the circuit which each had vainly made before in the presence of the mad
young owner. For a time everything seemed baffling, each inch of the earthen floor and stone
walls having so solid and innocuous an aspect that the thought of a yawning aperture was
scarcely to be entertained. Willett reflected that since the original cellar was dug without
knowledge of any catacombs beneath, the beginning of the passage would represent the
strictly modern delving of young Ward and his associates, where they had probed for the
ancient vaults whose rumour could have reached them by no wholesome means.
The doctor tried to put himself in Charles‘s place to see how a delver would be likely to start,
but could not gain much inspiration from this method. Then he decided on elimination as a
policy, and went carefully over the whole subterranean surface both vertical and horizontal,
trying to account for every inch separately. He was soon substantially narrowed down, and at
last had nothing left but the small platform before the washtubs, which he had tried once
before in vain. Now experimenting in every possible way, and exerting a double strength, he
finally found that the top did indeed turn and slide horizontally on a corner pivot. Beneath it lay
a trim concrete surface with an iron manhole, to which Mr. Ward at once rushed with excited
zeal. The cover was not hard to lift, and the father had quite removed it when Willett noticed
the queerness of his aspect. He was swaying and nodding dizzily, and in the gust of noxious
air which swept up from the black pit beneath the doctor soon recognised ample cause.
In a moment Dr. Willett had his fainting companion on the floor above and was reviving him
with cold water. Mr. Ward responded feebly, but it could be seen that the mephitic blast from
the crypt had in some way gravely sickened him. Wishing to take no chances, Willett
hastened out to Broad Street for a taxicab and had soon dispatched the sufferer home despite
his weak-voiced protests; after which he produced an electric torch, covered his nostrils with a
band of sterile gauze, and descended once more to peer into the new-found depths. The foul
air had now slightly abated, and Willett was able to send a beam of light down the Stygian
hole. For about ten feet, he saw, it was a sheer cylindrical drop with concrete walls and an
iron ladder; after which the hole appeared to strike a flight of old stone steps which must
originally have emerged to earth somewhat southwest of the present building.
2.
Willett freely admits that for a moment the memory of the old Curwen legends kept him from
climbing down alone into that malodorous gulf. He could not help thinking of what Luke
Fenner had reported on that last monstrous night. Then duty asserted itself and he made the
plunge, carrying a great valise for the removal of whatever papers might prove of supreme
importance. Slowly, as befitted one of his years, he descended the ladder and reached the
slimy steps below. This was ancient masonry, his torch told him; and upon the dripping walls
he saw the unwholesome moss of centuries. Down, down, ran the steps; not spirally, but in
three abrupt turns; and with such narrowness that two men could have passed only with
difficulty. He had counted about thirty when a sound reached him very faintly; and after that he
did not feel disposed to count any more.
It was a godless sound; one of those low-keyed, insidious outrages of Nature which are not
meant to be. To call it a dull wail, a doom-dragged whine, or a hopeless howl of chorused
anguish and stricken flesh without mind would be to miss its most quintessential
loathsomeness and soul-sickening overtones. Was it for this that Ward had seemed to listen
on that day he was removed? It was the most shocking thing that Willett had ever heard, and
it continued from no determinate point as the doctor reached the bottom of the steps and cast
his torchlight around on lofty corridor walls surmounted by Cyclopean vaulting and pierced by
numberless black archways. The hall in which he stood was perhaps fourteen feet high to the
middle of the vaulting and ten or twelve feet broad. Its pavement was of large chipped
flagstones, and its walls and roof were of dressed masonry. Its length he could not imagine,
for it stretched ahead indefinitely into the blackness. Of the archways, some had doors of the
old six-panelled colonial type, whilst others had none.
Overcoming the dread induced by the smell and the howling, Willett began to explore these
archways one by one; finding beyond them rooms with groined stone ceilings, each of
medium size and apparently of bizarre uses. Most of them had fireplaces, the upper courses
of whose chimneys would have formed an interesting study in engineering. Never before or
since had he seen such instruments or suggestions of instruments as here loomed up on
every hand through the burying dust and cobwebs of a century and a half, in many cases
evidently shattered as if by the ancient raiders. For many of the chambers seemed wholly
untrodden by modern feet, and must have represented the earliest and most obsolete phases
of Joseph Curwen‘s experimentation. Finally there came a room of obvious modernity, or at
least of recent occupancy. There were oil heaters, bookshelves and tables, chairs and
cabinets, and a desk piled high with papers of varying antiquity and contemporaneousness.
Candlesticks and oil lamps stood about in several places; and finding a match-safe handy,
Willett lighted such as were ready for use.
In the fuller gleam it appeared that this apartment was nothing less than the latest study or
library of Charles Ward. Of the books the doctor had seen many before, and a good part of
the furniture had plainly come from the Prospect Street mansion. Here and there was a piece
well known to Willett, and the sense of familiarity became so great that he half forgot the
noisomeness and the wailing, both of which were plainer here than they had been at the foot
of the steps. His first duty, as planned long ahead, was to find and seize any papers which
might seem of vital importance; especially those portentous documents found by Charles so
long ago behind the picture in Olney Court. As he searched he perceived how stupendous a
task the final unravelling would be; for file on file was stuffed with papers in curious hands and
bearing curious designs, so that months or even years might be needed for a thorough
deciphering and editing. Once he found large packets of letters with Prague and Rakus
postmarks, and in writing clearly recognisable as Orne‘s and Hutchinson‘s; all of which he
took with him as part of the bundle to be removed in his valise.
At last, in a locked mahogany cabinet once gracing the Ward home, Willett found the batch of
old Curwen papers; recognising them from the reluctant glimpse Charles had granted him so
many years ago. The youth had evidently kept them together very much as they had been
when first he found them, since all the titles recalled by the workmen were present except the
papers addressed to Orne and Hutchinson, and the cipher with its key. Willett placed the
entire lot in his valise and continued his examination of the files. Since young Ward‘s
immediate condition was the greatest matter at stake, the closest searching was done among
the most obviously recent matter; and in this abundance of contemporary manuscript one
very baffling oddity was noted. The oddity was the slight amount in Charles‘s normal writing,
which indeed included nothing more recent than two months before. On the other hand, there
were literally reams of symbols and formulae, historical notes and philosophical comment, in
a crabbed penmanship absolutely identical with the ancient script of Joseph Curwen, though
of undeniably modern dating. Plainly, a part of the latter-day programme had been a sedulous
imitation of the old wizard‘s writing, which Charles seemed to have carried to a marvellous
state of perfection. Of any third hand which might have been Allen‘s there was not a trace. If
he had indeed come to be the leader, he must have forced young Ward to act as his
amanuensis.
In this new material one mystic formula, or rather pair of formulae, recurred so often that
Willett had it by heart before he had half finished his quest. It consisted of two parallel
columns, the left-hand one surmounted by the archaic symbol called ―Dragon‘s Head‖ and
used in almanacks to indicate the ascending node, and the right-hand one headed by a
corresponding sign of ―Dragon‘s Tail‖ or descending node. The appearance of the whole was
something like this, and almost unconsciously the doctor realised that the second half was no
more than the first written syllabically backward with the exception of the final monosyllables
and of the odd name Yog-Sothoth, which he had come to recognise under various spellings
from other things he had seen in connexion with this horrible matter. The formulae were as
follows—exactly so, as Willett is abundantly able to testify—and the first one struck an odd
note of uncomfortable latent memory in his brain, which he recognised later when reviewing
the events of that horrible Good Friday of the previous year.
Y‘AI ‘NG‘NGAH,
YOG-SOTHOTH
H‘EE—L‘GEB
F‘AI THRODOG
UAAAH
OGTHROD AI‘F
GEB‘L—EE‘H
YOG-SOTHOTH
‘NGAH‘NG AI‘Y
ZHRO
So haunting were these formulae, and so frequently did he come upon them, that before the
doctor knew it he was repeating them under his breath. Eventually, however, he felt he had
secured all the papers he could digest to advantage for the present; hence resolved to
examine no more till he could bring the sceptical alienists en masse for an ampler and more
systematic raid. He had still to find the hidden laboratory, so leaving his valise in the lighted
room he emerged again into the black noisome corridor whose vaulting echoed ceaselessly
with that dull and hideous whine.
The next few rooms he tried were all abandoned, or filled only with crumbling boxes and
ominous-looking leaden coffins; but impressed him deeply with the magnitude of Joseph
Curwen‘s original operations. He thought of the slaves and seamen who had disappeared, of
the graves which had been violated in every part of the world, and of what that final raiding
party must have seen; and then he decided it was better not to think any more. Once a great
stone staircase mounted at his right, and he deduced that this must have reached to one of
the Curwen outbuildings—perhaps the famous stone edifice with the high slit-like windows—
provided the steps he had descended had led from the steep-roofed farmhouse. Suddenly the
walls seemed to fall away ahead, and the stench and the wailing grew stronger. Willett saw
that he had come upon a vast open space, so great that his torchlight would not carry across
it; and as he advanced he encountered occasional stout pillars supporting the arches of the
roof.
After a time he reached a circle of pillars grouped like the monoliths of Stonehenge, with a
large carved altar on a base of three steps in the centre; and so curious were the carvings on
that altar that he approached to study them with his electric light. But when he saw what they
were he shrank away shuddering, and did not stop to investigate the dark stains which
discoloured the upper surface and had spread down the sides in occasional thin lines.
Instead, he found the distant wall and traced it as it swept round in a gigantic circle perforated
by occasional black doorways and indented by a myriad of shallow cells with iron gratings and
wrist and ankle bonds on chains fastened to the stone of the concave rear masonry. These
cells were empty, but still the horrible odour and the dismal moaning continued, more insistent
now than ever, and seemingly varied at times by a sort of slippery thumping.
3.
From that frightful smell and that uncanny noise Willett‘s attention could no longer be diverted.
Both were plainer and more hideous in the great pillared hall than anywhere else, and carried
a vague impression of being far below, even in this dark nether world of subterrene mystery.
Before trying any of the black archways for steps leading further down, the doctor cast his
beam of light about the stone-flagged floor. It was very loosely paved, and at irregular
intervals there would occur a slab curiously pierced by small holes in no definite arrangement,
while at one point there lay a very long ladder carelessly flung down. To this ladder, singularly
enough, appeared to cling a particularly large amount of the frightful odour which
encompassed everything. As he walked slowly about it suddenly occurred to Willett that both
the noise and the odour seemed strongest directly above the oddly pierced slabs, as if they
might be crude trap-doors leading down to some still deeper region of horror. Kneeling by
one, he worked at it with his hands, and found that with extreme difficulty he could budge it. At
his touch the moaning beneath ascended to a louder key, and only with vast trepidation did he
persevere in the lifting of the heavy stone. A stench unnamable now rose up from below, and
the doctor‘s head reeled dizzily as he laid back the slab and turned his torch upon the
exposed square yard of gaping blackness.
If he had expected a flight of steps to some wide gulf of ultimate abomination, Willett was
destined to be disappointed; for amidst that foetor and cracked whining he discerned only the
brick-faced top of a cylindrical well perhaps a yard and a half in diameter and devoid of any
ladder or other means of descent. As the light shone down, the wailing changed suddenly to a
series of horrible yelps; in conjunction with which there came again that sound of blind, futile
scrambling and slippery thumping. The explorer trembled, unwilling even to imagine what
noxious thing might be lurking in that abyss, but in a moment mustered up the courage to
peer over the rough-hewn brink; lying at full length and holding the torch downward at arm‘s
length to see what might lie below. For a second he could distinguish nothing but the slimy,
moss-grown brick walls sinking illimitably into that half-tangible miasma of murk and foulness
and anguished frenzy; and then he saw that something dark was leaping clumsily and
frantically up and down at the bottom of the narrow shaft, which must have been from twenty
to twenty-five feet below the stone floor where he lay. The torch shook in his hand, but he
looked again to see what manner of living creature might be immured there in the darkness of
that unnatural well; left starving by young Ward through all the long month since the doctors
had taken him away, and clearly only one of a vast number prisoned in the kindred wells
whose pierced stone covers so thickly studded in the floor of the great vaulted cavern.
Whatever the things were, they could not lie down in their cramped spaces; but must have
crouched and whined and waited and feebly leaped all those hideous weeks since their
master had abandoned them unheeded.
But Marinus Bicknell Willett was sorry that he looked again; for surgeon and veteran of the
dissecting-room though he was, he has not been the same since. It is hard to explain just how
a single sight of a tangible object with measureable dimensions could so shake and change a
man; and we may only say that there is about certain outlines and entities a power of
symbolism and suggestion which acts frightfully on a sensitive thinker‘s perspective and
whispers terrible hints of obscure cosmic relationships and unnamable realities behind the
protective illusions of common vision. In that second look Willett saw such an outline or entity,
for during the next few instants he was undoubtedly as stark mad as any inmate of Dr. Waite‘s
private hospital. He dropped the electric torch from a hand drained of muscular power or
nervous coördination, nor heeded the sound of crunching teeth which told of its fate at the
bottom of the pit. He screamed and screamed and screamed in a voice whose falsetto panic
no acquaintance of his would ever have recognised; and though he could not rise to his feet
he crawled and rolled desperately away over the damp pavement where dozens of Tartarean
wells poured forth their exhausted whining and yelping to answer his own insane cries. He
tore his hands on the rough, loose stones, and many times bruised his head against the
frequent pillars, but still he kept on. Then at last he slowly came to himself in the utter
blackness and stench, and stopped his ears against the droning wail into which the burst of
yelping had subsided. He was drenched with perspiration and without means of producing a
light; stricken and unnerved in the abysmal blackness and horror, and crushed with a memory
he never could efface. Beneath him dozens of those things still lived, and from one of the
shafts the cover was removed. He knew that what he had seen could never climb up the
slippery walls, yet shuddered at the thought that some obscure foot-hold might exist.
What the thing was, he would never tell. It was like some of the carvings on the hellish altar,
but it was alive. Nature had never made it in this form, for it was too palpably unfinished. The
deficiencies were of the most surprising sort, and the abnormalities of proportion could not be
described. Willett consents only to say that this type of thing must have represented entities
which Ward called up from imperfect salts, and which he kept for servile or ritualistic
purposes. If it had not had a certain significance, its image would not have been carved on
that damnable stone. It was not the worst thing depicted on that stone—but Willett never
opened the other pits. At the time, the first connected idea in his mind was an idle paragraph
from some of the old Curwen data he had digested long before; a phrase used by Simon or
Jedediah Orne in that portentous confiscated letter to the bygone sorcerer: ―Certainely, there
was Noth‘g butt ye liveliest Awfulness in that which H. rais‘d upp from What he cou‘d gather
onlie a part of.‖
Then, horribly supplementing rather than displacing this image, there came a recollection of
those ancient lingering rumours anent the burned, twisted thing found in the fields a week
after the Curwen raid. Charles Ward had once told the doctor what old Slocum said of that
object; that it was neither thoroughly human, nor wholly allied to any animal which Pawtuxet
folk had ever seen or read about.
These words hummed in the doctor‘s mind as he rocked to and fro, squatting on the nitrous
stone floor. He tried to drive them out, and repeated the Lord‘s Prayer to himself; eventually
trailing off into a mnemonic hodge-podge like the modernistic Waste Land of Mr. T. S. Eliot
and finally reverting to the oft-repeated dual formula he had lately found in Ward‘s
underground library: ―Y’ai ’ng’ngah, Yog-Sothoth”, and so on till the final underlined ―Zhro”. It
seemed to soothe him, and he staggered to his feet after a time; lamenting bitterly his fright-
lost torch and looking wildly about for any gleam of light in the clutching inkiness of the chilly
air. Think he would not; but he strained his eyes in every direction for some faint glint or
reflection of the bright illumination he had left in the library. After a while he thought he
detected a suspicion of a glow infinitely far away, and toward this he crawled in agonised
caution on hands and knees amidst the stench and howling, always feeling ahead lest he
collide with the numerous great pillars or stumble into the abominable pit he had uncovered.
Once his shaking fingers touched something which he knew must be the steps leading to the
hellish altar, and from this spot he recoiled in loathing. At another time he encountered the
pierced slab he had removed, and here his caution became almost pitiful. But he did not
come upon the dread aperture after all, nor did anything issue from that aperture to detain
him. What had been down there made no sound nor stir. Evidently its crunching of the fallen
electric torch had not been good for it. Each time Willett‘s fingers felt a perforated slab he
trembled. His passage over it would sometimes increase the groaning below, but generally it
would produce no effect at all, since he moved very noiselessly. Several times during his
progress the glow ahead diminished perceptibly, and he realised that the various candles and
lamps he had left must be expiring one by one. The thought of being lost in utter darkness
without matches amidst this underground world of nightmare labyrinths impelled him to rise to
his feet and run, which he could safely do now that he had passed the open pit; for he knew
that once the light failed, his only hope of rescue and survival would lie in whatever relief party
Mr. Ward might send after missing him for a sufficient period. Presently, however, he emerged
from the open space into the narrower corridor and definitely located the glow as coming from
a door on his right. In a moment he had reached it and was standing once more in young
Ward‘s secret library, trembling with relief, and watching the sputterings of that last lamp
which had brought him to safety.
4.
In another moment he was hastily filling the burned-out lamps from an oil supply he had
previously noticed, and when the room was bright again he looked about to see if he might
find a lantern for further exploration. For racked though he was with horror, his sense of grim
purpose was still uppermost; and he was firmly determined to leave no stone unturned in his
search for the hideous facts behind Charles Ward‘s bizarre madness. Failing to find a lantern,
he chose the smallest of the lamps to carry; also filling his pockets with candles and matches,
and taking with him a gallon can of oil, which he proposed to keep for reserve use in whatever
hidden laboratory he might uncover beyond the terrible open space with its unclean altar and
nameless covered wells. To traverse that space again would require his utmost fortitude, but
he knew it must be done. Fortunately neither the frightful altar nor the opened shaft was near
the vast cell-indented wall which bounded the cavern area, and whose black mysterious
archways would form the next goals of a logical search.
So Willett went back to that great pillared hall of stench and anguished howling; turning down
his lamp to avoid any distant glimpse of the hellish altar, or of the uncovered pit with the
pierced stone slab beside it. Most of the black doorways led merely to small chambers, some
vacant and some evidently used as storerooms; and in several of the latter he saw some very
curious accumulations of various objects. One was packed with rotting and dust-draped bales
of spare clothing, and the explorer thrilled when he saw that it was unmistakably the clothing
of a century and a half before. In another room he found numerous odds and ends of modern
clothing, as if gradual provisions were being made to equip a large body of men. But what he
disliked most of all were the huge copper vats which occasionally appeared; these, and the
sinister incrustations upon them. He liked them even less than the weirdly figured leaden
bowls whose rims retained such obnoxious deposits and around which clung repellent odours
perceptible above even the general noisomeness of the crypt. When he had completed about
half the entire circuit of the wall he found another corridor like that from which he had come,
and out of which many doors opened. This he proceeded to investigate; and after entering
three rooms of medium size and of no significant contents, he came at last to a large oblong
apartment whose business-like tanks and tables, furnaces and modern instruments,
occasional books and endless shelves of jars and bottles proclaimed it indeed the long-
sought laboratory of Charles Ward—and no doubt of old Joseph Curwen before him.
After lighting the three lamps which he found filled and ready, Dr. Willett examined the place
and all its appurtenances with the keenest interest; noting from the relative quantities of
various reagents on the shelves that young Ward‘s dominant concern must have been with
some branch of organic chemistry. On the whole, little could be learned from the scientific
ensemble, which included a gruesome-looking dissecting table; so that the room was really
rather a disappointment. Among the books was a tattered old copy of Borellus in black-letter,
and it was weirdly interesting to note that Ward had underlined the same passage whose
marking had so perturbed good Mr. Merritt at Curwen‘s farmhouse more than a century and a
half before. That older copy, of course, must have perished along with the rest of Curwen‘s
occult library in the final raid. Three archways opened off the laboratory, and these the doctor
proceeded to sample in turn. From his cursory survey he saw that two led merely to small
storerooms; but these he canvassed with care, remarking the piles of coffins in various stages
of damage and shuddering violently at two or three of the few coffin-plates he could decipher.
There was much clothing also stored in these rooms, and several new and tightly nailed
boxes which he did not stop to investigate. Most interesting of all, perhaps, were some odd
bits which he judged to be fragments of old Joseph Curwen‘s laboratory appliances. These
had suffered damage at the hands of the raiders, but were still partly recognisable as the
chemical paraphernalia of the Georgian period.
The third archway led to a very sizeable chamber entirely lined with shelves and having in the
centre a table bearing two lamps. These lamps Willett lighted, and in their brilliant glow
studied the endless shelving which surrounded him. Some of the upper levels were wholly
vacant, but most of the space was filled with small odd-looking leaden jars of two general
types; one tall and without handles like a Grecian lekythos or oil-jug, and the other with a
single handle and proportioned like a Phaleron jug. All had metal stoppers, and were covered
with peculiar-looking symbols moulded in low relief. In a moment the doctor noticed that these
jugs were classified with great rigidity; all the lekythoi being on one side of the room with a
large wooden sign reading ―Custodes‖ above them, and all the Phalerons on the other,
correspondingly labelled with a sign reading ―Materia‖. Each of the jars or jugs, except some
on the upper shelves that turned out to be vacant, bore a cardboard tag with a number
apparently referring to a catalogue; and Willett resolved to look for the latter presently. For the
moment, however, he was more interested in the nature of the array as a whole; and
experimentally opened several of the lekythoi and Phalerons at random with a view to a rough
generalisation. The result was invariable. Both types of jar contained a small quantity of a
single kind of substance; a fine dusty powder of very light weight and of many shades of dull,
neutral colour. To the colours which formed the only point of variation there was no apparent
method of disposal; and no distinction between what occurred in the lekythoi and what
occurred in the Phalerons. A bluish-grey powder might be by the side of a pinkish-white one,
and any one in a Phaleron might have its exact counterpart in a lekythos. The most individual
feature about the powders was their non-adhesiveness. Willett would pour one into his hand,
and upon returning it to its jug would find that no residue whatever remained on its palm.
The meaning of the two signs puzzled him, and he wondered why this battery of chemicals
was separated so radically from those in glass jars on the shelves of the laboratory proper.
―Custodes‖, ―Materia‖; that was the Latin for ―Guards‖ and ―Materials‖, respectively—and then
there came a flash of memory as to where he had seen that word ―Guards‖ before in
connexion with this dreadful mystery. It was, of course, in the recent letter to Dr. Allen
purporting to be from old Edward Hutchinson; and the phrase had read: ―There was no Neede
to keep the Guards in Shape and eat‘g off their Heads, and it made Much to be founde in
Case of Trouble, as you too welle knowe.‖ What did this signify? But wait—was there not still
another reference to ―guards‖ in this matter which he had failed wholly to recall when reading
the Hutchinson letter? Back in the old non-secretive days Ward had told him of the Eleazar
Smith diary recording the spying of Smith and Weeden on the Curwen farm, and in that
dreadful chronicle there had been a mention of conversations overheard before the old wizard
betook himself wholly beneath the earth. There had been, Smith and Weeden insisted, terrible
colloquies wherein figured Curwen, certain captives of his, and the guards of those captives.
Those guards, according to Hutchinson or his avatar, had ‗eaten their heads off‘, so that now
Dr. Allen did not keep them in shape. And if not in shape, how save as the ―salts‖ to which it
appears this wizard band was engaged in reducing as many human bodies or skeletons as
they could?
So that was what these lekythoi contained; the monstrous fruit of unhallowed rites and deeds,
presumably won or cowed to such submission as to help, when called up by some hellish
incantation, in the defence of their blasphemous master or the questioning of those who were
not so willing? Willett shuddered at the thought of what he had been pouring in and out of his
hands, and for a moment felt an impulse to flee in panic from that cavern of hideous shelves
with their silent and perhaps watching sentinels. Then he thought of the ―Materia‖—in the
myriad Phaleron jugs on the other side of the room. Salts too—and if not the salts of ―guards‖,
then the salts of what? God! Could it be possible that here lay the mortal relics of half the titan
thinkers of all the ages; snatched by supreme ghouls from crypts where the world thought
them safe, and subject to the beck and call of madmen who sought to drain their knowledge
for some still wilder end whose ultimate effect would concern, as poor Charles had hinted in
his frantic note, ‗all civilisation, all natural law, perhaps even the fate of the solar system and
the universe‘? And Marinus Bicknell Willett had sifted their dust through his hands!
Then he noticed a small door at the farther end of the room, and calmed himself enough to
approach it and examine the crude sign chiselled above. It was only a symbol, but it filled him
with vague spiritual dread; for a morbid, dreaming friend of his had once drawn it on paper
and told him a few of the things it means in the dark abyss of sleep. It was the sign of Koth,
that dreamers see fixed above the archway of a certain black tower standing alone in
twilight—and Willett did not like what his friend Randolph Carter had said of its powers. But a
moment later he forgot the sign as he recognised a new acrid odour in the stench-filled air.
This was a chemical rather than animal smell, and came clearly from the room beyond the
door. And it was, unmistakably, the same odour which had saturated Charles Ward‘s clothing
on the day the doctors had taken him away. So it was here that the youth had been
interrupted by the final summons? He was wiser than old Joseph Curwen, for he had not
resisted. Willett, boldly determined to penetrate every wonder and nightmare this nether realm
might contain, seized the small lamp and crossed the threshold. A wave of nameless fright
rolled out to meet him, but he yielded to no whim and deferred to no intuition. There was
nothing alive here to harm him, and he would not be stayed in his piercing of the eldritch
cloud which engulfed his patient.
The room beyond the door was of medium size, and had no furniture save a table, a single
chair, and two groups of curious machines with clamps and wheels, which Willett recognised
after a moment as mediaeval instruments of torture. On one side of the door stood a rack of
savage whips, above which were some shelves bearing empty rows of shallow pedestalled
cups of lead shaped like Grecian kylikes. On the other side was the table; with a powerful
Argand lamp, a pad and pencil, and two of the stoppered lekythoi from the shelves outside set
down at irregular places as if temporarily or in haste. Willett lighted the lamp and looked
carefully at the pad, to see what notes young Ward might have been jotting down when
interrupted; but found nothing more intelligible than the following disjointed fragments in that
crabbed Curwen chirography, which shed no light on the case as a whole:
―B. dy‘d not. Escap‘d into walls and founde Place below.
―Saw olde V. saye ye Sabaoth and learnt ye Way.
―Rais‘d Yog-Sothoth thrice and was ye nexte Day deliver‘d.
―F. soughte to wipe out all know‘g howe to raise Those from Outside.‖
As the strong Argand blaze lit up the entire chamber the doctor saw that the wall opposite the
door, between the two groups of torturing appliances in the corners, was covered with pegs
from which hung a set of shapeless-looking robes of a rather dismal yellowish-white. But far
more interesting were the two vacant walls, both of which were thickly covered with mystic
symbols and formulae roughly chiselled in the smooth dressed stone. The damp floor also
bore marks of carving; and with but little difficulty Willett deciphered a huge pentagram in the
centre, with a plain circle about three feet wide half way between this and each corner. In one
of these four circles, near where a yellowish robe had been flung carelessly down, there stood
a shallow kylix of the sort found on the shelves above the whip-rack; and just outside the
periphery was one of the Phaleron jugs from the shelves in the other room, its tag numbered
118. This was unstoppered, and proved upon inspection to be empty; but the explorer saw
with a shiver that the kylix was not. Within its shallow area, and saved from scattering only by
the absence of wind in this sequestered cavern, lay a small amount of a dry, dull-greenish
efflorescent powder which must have belonged in the jug; and Willett almost reeled at the
implications that came sweeping over him as he correlated little by little the several elements
and antecedents of the scene. The whips and the instruments of torture, the dust or salts from
the jug of ―Materia‖, the two lekythoi from the ―Custodes‖ shelf, the robes, the formulae on the
walls, the notes on the pad, the hints from letters and legends, and the thousand glimpses,
doubts, and suppositions which had come to torment the friends and parents of Charles
Ward—all these engulfed the doctor in a tidal wave of horror as he looked at that dry greenish
powder outspread in the pedestalled leaden kylix on the floor.
With an effort, however, Willett pulled himself together and began studying the formulae
chiselled on the walls. From the stained and incrusted letters it was obvious that they were
carved in Joseph Curwen‘s time, and their text was such as to be vaguely familiar to one who
had read much Curwen material or delved extensively into the history of magic. One the
doctor clearly recognised as what Mrs. Ward heard her son chanting on that ominous Good
Friday a year before, and what an authority had told him was a very terrible invocation
addressed to secret gods outside the normal spheres. It was not spelled here exactly as Mrs.
Ward had set it down from memory, nor yet as the authority had shewn it to him in the
forbidden pages of ―Eliphas Levi‖; but its identity was unmistakable, and such words as
Sabaoth, Metraton, Almousin, and Zariatnatmik sent a shudder of fright through the searcher
who had seen and felt so much of cosmic abomination just around the corner.
This was on the left-hand wall as one entered the room. The right-hand wall was no less
thickly inscribed, and Willett felt a start of recognition as he came upon the pair of formulae so
frequently occurring in the recent notes in the library. They were, roughly speaking, the same;
with the ancient symbols of ―Dragon‘s Head‖ and ―Dragon‘s Tail‖ heading them as in Ward‘s
scribblings. But the spelling differed quite widely from that of the modern versions, as if old
Curwen had had a different way of recording sound, or as if later study had evolved more
powerful and perfected variants of the invocations in question. The doctor tried to reconcile
the chiselled version with the one which still ran persistently in his head, and found it hard to
do. Where the script he had memorised began ―Y’ai ’ng’ngah, Yog-Sothoth”, this epigraph
started out as ―Aye, engengah, Yogge-Sothotha”; which to his mind would seriously interfere
with the syllabification of the second word.
Ground as the later text was into his consciousness, the discrepancy disturbed him; and he
found himself chanting the first of the formulae aloud in an effort to square the sound he
conceived with the letters he found carved. Weird and menacing in that abyss of antique
blasphemy rang his voice; its accents keyed to a droning sing-song either through the spell of
the past and the unknown, or through the hellish example of that dull, godless wail from the
pits whose inhuman cadences rose and fell rhythmically in the distance through the stench
and the darkness.
―Y‘AI ‘NG‘NGAH,
YOG-SOTHOTH
H‘EE—L‘GEB
F‘AI THRODOG
UAAAH!”
But what was this cold wind which had sprung into life at the very outset of the chant? The
lamps were sputtering woefully, and the gloom grew so dense that the letters on the wall
nearly faded from sight. There was smoke, too, and an acrid odour which quite drowned out
the stench from the far-away wells; an odour like that he had smelt before, yet infinitely
stronger and more pungent. He turned from the inscriptions to face the room with its bizarre
contents, and saw that the kylix on the floor, in which the ominous efflorescent powder had
lain, was giving forth a cloud of thick, greenish-black vapour of surprising volume and opacity.
That powder—Great God! it had come from the shelf of ―Materia‖—what was it doing now,
and what had started it? The formula he had been chanting—the first of the pair—Dragon‘s
Head, ascending node—Blessed Saviour, could it be. . . .
The doctor reeled, and through his head raced wildly disjointed scraps from all he had seen,
heard, and read of the frightful case of Joseph Curwen and Charles Dexter Ward. ―I say to
you againe, doe not call up Any that you can not put downe. . . . Have ye Wordes for laying at
all times readie, and stopp not to be sure when there is any Doubte of Whom you have. . . .
Three Talkes with What was therein inhum’d. . . .‖ Mercy of Heaven, what is that shape
behind the parting smoke?
5.
Marinus Bicknell Willett has no hope that any part of his tale will be believed except by certain
sympathetic friends, hence he has made no attempt to tell it beyond his most intimate circle.
Only a few outsiders have ever heard it repeated, and of these the majority laugh and remark
that the doctor surely is getting old. He has been advised to take a long vacation and to shun
future cases dealing with mental disturbance. But Mr. Ward knows that the veteran physician
speaks only a horrible truth. Did not he himself see the noisome aperture in the bungalow
cellar? Did not Willett send him home overcome and ill at eleven o‘clock that portentous
morning? Did he not telephone the doctor in vain that evening, and again the next day, and
had he not driven to the bungalow itself on that following noon, finding his friend unconscious
but unharmed on one of the beds upstairs? Willett had been breathing stertorously, and
opened his eyes slowly when Mr. Ward gave him some brandy fetched from the car. Then he
shuddered and screamed, crying out, ―That beard . . . those eyes. . . . God, who are you?” A
very strange thing to say to a trim, blue-eyed, clean-shaven gentleman whom he had known
from the latter‘s boyhood.
In the bright noon sunlight the bungalow was unchanged since the previous morning. Willett‘s
clothing bore no disarrangement beyond certain smudges and worn places at the knees, and
only a faint acrid odour reminded Mr. Ward of what he had smelt on his son that day he was
taken to the hospital. The doctor‘s flashlight was missing, but his valise was safely there, as
empty as when he had brought it. Before indulging in any explanations, and obviously with
great moral effort, Willett staggered dizzily down to the cellar and tried the fateful platform
before the tubs. It was unyielding. Crossing to where he had left his yet unused tool satchel
the day before, he obtained a chisel and began to pry up the stubborn planks one by one.
Underneath the smooth concrete was still visible, but of any opening or perforation there was
no longer a trace. Nothing yawned this time to sicken the mystified father who had followed
the doctor downstairs; only the smooth concrete underneath the planks—no noisome well, no
world of subterrene horrors, no secret library, no Curwen papers, no nightmare pits of stench
and howling, no laboratory or shelves or chiselled formulae, no. . . . Dr. Willett turned pale,
and clutched at the younger man. ―Yesterday,‖ he asked softly, ―did you see it here . . . and
smell it?‖ And when Mr. Ward, himself transfixed with dread and wonder, found strength to
nod an affirmative, the physician gave a sound half a sigh and half a gasp, and nodded in
turn. ―Then I will tell you,‖ he said.
So for an hour, in the sunniest room they could find upstairs, the physician whispered his
frightful tale to the wondering father. There was nothing to relate beyond the looming up of
that form when the greenish-black vapour from the kylix parted, and Willett was too tired to
ask himself what had really occurred. There were futile, bewildered head-shakings from both
men, and once Mr. Ward ventured a hushed suggestion, ―Do you suppose it would be of any
use to dig?‖ The doctor was silent, for it seemed hardly fitting for any human brain to answer
when powers of unknown spheres had so vitally encroached on this side of the Great Abyss.
Again Mr. Ward asked, ―But where did it go? It brought you here, you know, and it sealed up
the hole somehow.‖ And Willett again let silence answer for him.
But after all, this was not the final phase of the matter. Reaching for his handkerchief before
rising to leave, Dr. Willett‘s fingers closed upon a piece of paper in his pocket which had not
been there before, and which was companioned by the candles and matches he had seized
in the vanished vault. It was a common sheet, torn obviously from the cheap pad in that
fabulous room of horror somewhere underground, and the writing upon it was that of an
ordinary lead pencil—doubtless the one which had lain beside the pad. It was folded very
carelessly, and beyond the faint acrid scent of the cryptic chamber bore no print or mark of
any world but this. But in the text itself it did indeed reek with wonder; for here was no script of
any wholesome age, but the laboured strokes of mediaeval darkness, scarcely legible to the
laymen who now strained over it, yet having combinations of symbols which seemed vaguely
familiar. The briefly scrawled message was this, and its mystery lent purpose to the shaken
pair, who forthwith walked steadily out to the Ward car and gave orders to be driven first to a
quiet dining place and then to the John Hay Library on the hill.
At the library it was easy to find good manuals of palaeography, and over these the two men
puzzled till the lights of evening shone out from the great chandelier. In the end they found
what was needed. The letters were indeed no fantastic invention, but the normal script of a
very dark period. They were the pointed Saxon minuscules of the eighth or ninth century A.D.,
and brought with them memories of an uncouth time when under a fresh Christian veneer
ancient faiths and ancient rites stirred stealthily, and the pale moon of Britain looked
sometimes on strange deeds in the Roman ruins of Caerleon and Hexham, and by the towers
along Hadrian‘s crumbling wall. The words were in such Latin as a barbarous age might
remember—―Corvinus necandus est. Cadaver aq(ua) forti dissolvendum, nec aliq(ui)d
retinendum. Tace ut potes.”—which may roughly be translated, ―Curwen must be killed. The
body must be dissolved in aqua fortis, nor must anything be retained. Keep silence as best
you are able.‖
Willett and Mr. Ward were mute and baffled. They had met the unknown, and found that they
lacked emotions to respond to it as they vaguely believed they ought. With Willett, especially,
the capacity for receiving fresh impressions of awe was well-nigh exhausted; and both men
sat still and helpless till the closing of the library forced them to leave. Then they drove
listlessly to the Ward mansion in Prospect Street, and talked to no purpose into the night. The
doctor rested toward morning, but did not go home. And he was still there Sunday noon when
a telephone message came from the detectives who had been assigned to look up Dr. Allen.
Mr. Ward, who was pacing nervously about in a dressing-gown, answered the call in person;
and told the men to come up early the next day when he heard their report was almost ready.
Both Willett and he were glad that this phase of the matter was taking form, for whatever the
origin of the strange minuscule message, it seemed certain that the ―Curwen‖ who must be
destroyed could be no other than the bearded and spectacled stranger. Charles had feared
this man, and had said in the frantic note that he must be killed and dissolved in acid. Allen,
moreover, had been receiving letters from the strange wizards in Europe under the name of
Curwen, and palpably regarded himself as an avatar of the bygone necromancer. And now
from a fresh and unknown source had come a message saying that ―Curwen‖ must be killed
and dissolved in acid. The linkage was too unmistakable to be factitious; and besides, was not
Allen planning to murder young Ward upon the advice of the creature called Hutchinson? Of
course, the letter they had seen had never reached the bearded stranger; but from its text
they could see that Allen had already formed plans for dealing with the youth if he grew too
‗squeamish‘. Without doubt, Allen must be apprehended; and even if the most drastic
directions were not carried out, he must be placed where he could inflict no harm upon
Charles Ward.
That afternoon, hoping against hope to extract some gleam of information anent the inmost
mysteries from the only available one capable of giving it, the father and the doctor went
down the bay and called on young Charles at the hospital. Simply and gravely Willett told him
all he had found, and noticed how pale he turned as each description made certain the truth
of the discovery. The physician employed as much dramatic effect as he could, and watched
for a wincing on Charles‘s part when he approached the matter of the covered pits and the
nameless hybrids within. But Ward did not wince. Willett paused, and his voice grew indignant
as he spoke of how the things were starving. He taxed the youth with shocking inhumanity,
and shivered when only a sardonic laugh came in reply. For Charles, having dropped as
useless his pretence that the crypt did not exist, seemed to see some ghastly jest in this
affair; and chuckled hoarsely at something which amused him. Then he whispered, in accents
doubly terrible because of the cracked voice he used, ―Damn ‘em, they do eat, but they don’t
need to! That‘s the rare part! A month, you say, without food? Lud, Sir, you be modest! D‘ye
know, that was the joke on poor old Whipple with his virtuous bluster! Kill everything off, would
he? Why, damme, he was half-deaf with the noise from Outside and never saw or heard
aught from the wells! He never dreamed they were there at all! Devil take ye, those cursed
things have been howling down there ever since Curwen was done for a hundred and fifty-
seven years gone!”
But no more than this could Willett get from the youth. Horrified, yet almost convinced against
his will, he went on with his tale in the hope that some incident might startle his auditor out of
the mad composure he maintained. Looking at the youth‘s face, the doctor could not but feel a
kind of terror at the changes which recent months had wrought. Truly, the boy had drawn
down nameless horrors from the skies. When the room with the formulae and the greenish
dust was mentioned, Charles shewed his first sign of animation. A quizzical look overspread
his face as he heard what Willett had read on the pad, and he ventured the mild statement
that those notes were old ones, of no possible significance to anyone not deeply initiated in
the history of magic. ―But,‖ he added, ―had you but known the words to bring up that which I
had out in the cup, you had not been here to tell me this. ‘Twas Number 118, and I conceive
you would have shook had you looked it up in my list in t‘other room. ‘Twas never raised by
me, but I meant to have it up that day you came to invite me hither.‖
Then Willett told of the formula he had spoken and of the greenish-black smoke which had
arisen; and as he did so he saw true fear dawn for the first time on Charles Ward‘s face. ―It
came, and you be here alive?‖ As Ward croaked the words his voice seemed almost to burst
free of its trammels and sink to cavernous abysses of uncanny resonance. Willett, gifted with
a flash of inspiration, believed he saw the situation, and wove into his reply a caution from a
letter he remembered. ―No. 118, you say? But don‘t forget that stones are all changed now in
nine grounds out of ten. You are never sure till you question!” And then, without warning, he
drew forth the minuscule message and flashed it before the patient‘s eyes. He could have
wished no stronger result, for Charles Ward fainted forthwith.
All this conversation, of course, had been conducted with the greatest secrecy lest the
resident alienists accuse the father and the physician of encouraging a madman in his
delusions. Unaided, too, Dr. Willett and Mr. Ward picked up the stricken youth and placed him
on the couch. In reviving, the patient mumbled many times of some word which he must get
to Orne and Hutchinson at once; so when his consciousness seemed fully back the doctor
told him that of those strange creatures at least one was his bitter enemy, and had given Dr.
Allen advice for his assassination. This revelation produced no visible effect, and before it was
made the visitors could see that their host had already the look of a hunted man. After that he
would converse no more, so Willett and the father departed presently; leaving behind a
caution against the bearded Allen, to which the youth only replied that this individual was very
safely taken care of, and could do no one any harm even if he wished. This was said with an
almost evil chuckle very painful to hear. They did not worry about any communications
Charles might indite to that monstrous pair in Europe, since they knew that the hospital
authorities seized all outgoing mail for censorship and would pass no wild or outré-looking
missive.
There is, however, a curious sequel to the matter of Orne and Hutchinson, if such indeed the
exiled wizards were. Moved by some vague presentiment amidst the horrors of that period,
Willett arranged with an international press-cutting bureau for accounts of notable current
crimes and accidents in Prague and in eastern Transylvania; and after six months believed
that he had found two very significant things amongst the multifarious items he received and
had translated. One was the total wrecking of a house by night in the oldest quarter of
Prague, and the disappearance of the evil old man called Josef Nadek, who had dwelt in it
alone ever since anyone could remember. The other was a titan explosion in the
Transylvanian mountains east of Rakus, and the utter extirpation with all its inmates of the ill-
regarded Castle Ferenczy, whose master was so badly spoken of by peasants and soldiery
alike that he would shortly have been summoned to Bucharest for serious questioning had not
this incident cut off a career already so long as to antedate all common memory. Willett
maintains that the hand which wrote those minuscules was able to wield stronger weapons as
well; and that while Curwen was left to him to dispose of, the writer felt able to find and deal
with Orne and Hutchinson itself. Of what their fate may have been the doctor strives
sedulously not to think.
6.
The following morning Dr. Willett hastened to the Ward home to be present when the
detectives arrived. Allen‘s destruction or imprisonment—or Curwen‘s, if one might regard the
tacit claim to reincarnation as valid—he felt must be accomplished at any cost, and he
communicated this conviction to Mr. Ward as they sat waiting for the men to come. They were
downstairs this time, for the upper parts of the house were beginning to be shunned because
of a peculiar nauseousness which hung indefinitely about; a nauseousness which the older
servants connected with some curse left by the vanished Curwen portrait.
At nine o‘clock the three detectives presented themselves and immediately delivered all that
they had to say. They had not, regrettably enough, located the Brava Tony Gomes as they
had wished, nor had they found the least trace of Dr. Allen‘s source or present whereabouts;
but they had managed to unearth a considerable number of local impressions and facts
concerning the reticent stranger. Allen had struck Pawtuxet people as a vaguely unnatural
being, and there was an universal belief that his thick sandy beard was either dyed or false—
a belief conclusively upheld by the finding of such a false beard, together with a pair of dark
glasses, in his room at the fateful bungalow. His voice, Mr. Ward could well testify from his
one telephone conversation, had a depth and hollowness that could not be forgotten; and his
glance seemed malign even through his smoked and horn-rimmed glasses. One shopkeeper,
in the course of negotiations, had seen a specimen of his handwriting and declared it was
very queer and crabbed; this being confirmed by pencilled notes of no clear meaning found in
his room and identified by the merchant. In connexion with the vampirism rumours of the
preceding summer, a majority of the gossips believed that Allen rather than Ward was the
actual vampire. Statements were also obtained from the officials who had visited the
bungalow after the unpleasant incident of the motor truck robbery. They had felt less of the
sinister in Dr. Allen, but had recognised him as the dominant figure in the queer shadowy
cottage. The place had been too dark for them to observe him clearly, but they would know
him again if they saw him. His beard had looked odd, and they thought he had some slight
scar above his dark spectacled right eye. As for the detectives‘ search of Allen‘s room, it
yielded nothing definite save the beard and glasses, and several pencilled notes in a crabbed
writing which Willett at once saw was identical with that shared by the old Curwen
manuscripts and by the voluminous recent notes of young Ward found in the vanished
catacombs of horror.
Dr. Willett and Mr. Ward caught something of a profound, subtle, and insidious cosmic fear
from this data as it was gradually unfolded, and almost trembled in following up the vague,
mad thought which had simultaneously reached their minds. The false beard and glasses—
the crabbed Curwen penmanship—the old portrait and its tiny scar—and the altered youth in
the hospital with such a scar—that deep, hollow voice on the telephone—was it not of this
that Mr. Ward was reminded when his son barked forth those pitiable tones to which he now
claimed to be reduced? Who had ever seen Charles and Allen together? Yes, the officials had
once, but who later on? Was it not when Allen left that Charles suddenly lost his growing fright
and began to live wholly at the bungalow? Curwen—Allen—Ward—in what blasphemous and
abominable fusion had two ages and two persons become involved? That damnable
resemblance of the picture to Charles—had it not used to stare and stare, and follow the boy
around the room with its eyes? Why, too, did both Allen and Charles copy Joseph Curwen‘s
handwriting, even when alone and off guard? And then the frightful work of those people—the
lost crypt of horrors that had aged the doctor overnight; the starved monsters in the noisome
pits; the awful formula which had yielded such nameless results; the message in minuscules
found in Willett‘s pocket; the papers and the letters and all the talk of graves and ―salts‖ and
discoveries—whither did everything lead? In the end Mr. Ward did the most sensible thing.
Steeling himself against any realisation of why he did it, he gave the detectives an article to
be shewn to such Pawtuxet shopkeepers as had seen the portentous Dr. Allen. That article
was a photograph of his luckless son, on which he now carefully drew in ink the pair of heavy
glasses and the black pointed beard which the men had brought from Allen‘s room.
For two hours he waited with the doctor in the oppressive house where fear and miasma were
slowly gathering as the empty panel in the upstairs library leered and leered and leered. Then
the men returned. Yes. The altered photograph was a very passable likeness of Dr. Allen. Mr.
Ward turned pale, and Willett wiped a suddenly dampened brow with his handkerchief.
Allen—Ward—Curwen—it was becoming too hideous for coherent thought. What had the boy
called out of the void, and what had it done to him? What, really, had happened from first to
last? Who was this Allen who sought to kill Charles as too ‗squeamish‘, and why had his
destined victim said in the postscript to that frantic letter that he must be so completely
obliterated in acid? Why, too, had the minuscule message, of whose origin no one dared
think, said that ―Curwen‖ must be likewise obliterated? What was the change, and when had
the final stage occurred? That day when his frantic note was received—he had been nervous
all the morning, then there was an alteration. He had slipped out unseen and swaggered
boldly in past the men hired to guard him. That was the time, when he was out. But no—had
he not cried out in terror as he entered his study—this very room? What had he found there?
Or wait—what had found him? That simulacrum which brushed boldly in without having been
seen to go—was that an alien shadow and a horror forcing itself upon a trembling figure
which had never gone out at all? Had not the butler spoken of queer noises?
Willett rang for the man and asked him some low-toned questions. It had, surely enough,
been a bad business. There had been noises—a cry, a gasp, a choking, and a sort of
clattering or creaking or thumping, or all of these. And Mr. Charles was not the same when he
stalked out without a word. The butler shivered as he spoke, and sniffed at the heavy air that
blew down from some open window upstairs. Terror had settled definitely upon the house, and
only the business-like detectives failed to imbibe a full measure of it. Even they were restless,
for this case had held vague elements in the background which pleased them not at all. Dr.
Willett was thinking deeply and rapidly, and his thoughts were terrible ones. Now and then he
would almost break into muttering as he ran over in his head a new, appalling, and
increasingly conclusive chain of nightmare happenings.
Then Mr. Ward made a sign that the conference was over, and everyone save him and the
doctor left the room. It was noon now, but shadows as of coming night seemed to engulf the
phantom-haunted mansion. Willett began talking very seriously to his host, and urged that he
leave a great deal of the future investigation to him. There would be, he predicted, certain
obnoxious elements which a friend could bear better than a relative. As family physician he
must have a free hand, and the first thing he required was a period alone and undisturbed in
the abandoned library upstairs, where the ancient overmantel had gathered about itself an
aura of noisome horror more intense than when Joseph Curwen‘s features themselves
glanced slyly down from the painted panel.
Mr. Ward, dazed by the flood of grotesque morbidities and unthinkably maddening
suggestions that poured in upon him from every side, could only acquiesce; and half an hour
later the doctor was locked in the shunned room with the panelling from Olney Court. The
father, listening outside, heard fumbling sounds of moving and rummaging as the moments
passed; and finally a wrench and a creak, as if a tight cupboard door were being opened.
Then there was a muffled cry, a kind of snorting choke, and a hasty slamming of whatever
had been opened. Almost at once the key rattled and Willett appeared in the hall, haggard
and ghastly, and demanding wood for the real fireplace on the south wall of the room. The
furnace was not enough, he said; and the electric log had little practical use. Longing yet not
daring to ask questions, Mr. Ward gave the requisite orders and a man brought some stout
pine logs, shuddering as he entered the tainted air of the library to place them in the grate.
Willett meanwhile had gone up to the dismantled laboratory and brought down a few odds
and ends not included in the moving of the July before. They were in a covered basket, and
Mr. Ward never saw what they were.
Then the doctor locked himself in the library once more, and by the clouds of smoke which
rolled down past the windows from the chimney it was known that he had lighted the fire.
Later, after a great rustling of newspapers, that odd wrench and creaking were heard again;
followed by a thumping which none of the eavesdroppers liked. Thereafter two suppressed
cries of Willett‘s were heard, and hard upon these came a swishing rustle of indefinable
hatefulness. Finally the smoke that the wind beat down from the chimney grew very dark and
acrid, and everyone wished that the weather had spared them this choking and venomous
inundation of peculiar fumes. Mr. Ward‘s head reeled, and the servants all clustered together
in a knot to watch the horrible black smoke swoop down. After an age of waiting the vapours
seemed to lighten, and half-formless sounds of scraping, sweeping, and other minor
operations were heard behind the bolted door. And at last, after the slamming of some
cupboard within, Willett made his appearance—sad, pale, and haggard, and bearing the
cloth-draped basket he had taken from the upstairs laboratory. He had left the window open,
and into that once accursed room was pouring a wealth of pure, wholesome air to mix with a
queer new smell of disinfectants. The ancient overmantel still lingered; but it seemed robbed
of malignity now, and rose as calm and stately in its white panelling as if it had never borne
the picture of Joseph Curwen. Night was coming on, yet this time its shadows held no latent
fright, but only a gentle melancholy. Of what he had done the doctor would never speak. To
Mr. Ward he said, ―I can answer no questions, but I will say that there are different kinds of
magic. I have made a great purgation, and those in this house will sleep the better for it.‖
7.
That Dr. Willett‘s ―purgation‖ had been an ordeal almost as nerve-racking in its way as his
hideous wandering in the vanished crypt is shewn by the fact that the elderly physician gave
out completely as soon as he reached home that evening. For three days he rested
constantly in his room, though servants later muttered something about having heard him
after midnight on Wednesday, when the outer door softly opened and closed with phenomenal
softness. Servants‘ imaginations, fortunately, are limited, else comment might have been
excited by an item in Thursday‘s Evening Bulletin which ran as follows:
North End Ghouls Active Again
After a lull of ten months since the dastardly vandalism in the Weeden lot at the
North Burial Ground, a nocturnal prowler was glimpsed early this morning in the
same cemetery by Robert Hart, the night watchman. Happening to glance for a
moment from his shelter at about 2 a.m., Hart observed the glow of a lantern or
pocket torch not far to the northwest, and upon opening the door detected the
figure of a man with a trowel very plainly silhouetted against a nearby electric light.
At once starting in pursuit, he saw the figure dart hurriedly toward the main
entrance, gaining the street and losing himself among the shadows before
approach or capture was possible.
Like the first of the ghouls active during the past year, this intruder had done no
real damage before detection. A vacant part of the Ward lot shewed signs of a little
superficial digging, but nothing even nearly the size of a grave had been
attempted, and no previous grave had been disturbed.
Hart, who cannot describe the prowler except as a small man probably having a full
beard, inclines to the view that all three of the digging incidents have a common
source; but police from the Second Station think otherwise on account of the
savage nature of the second incident, where an ancient coffin was removed and its
headstone violently shattered.
The first of the incidents, in which it is thought an attempt to bury something was
frustrated, occurred a year ago last March, and has been attributed to bootleggers
seeking a cache. It is possible, says Sergt. Riley, that this third affair is of similar
nature. Officers at the Second Station are taking especial pains to capture the gang
of miscreants responsible for these repeated outrages.
All day Thursday Dr. Willett rested as if recuperating from something past or nerving himself
for something to come. In the evening he wrote a note to Mr. Ward, which was delivered the
next morning and which caused the half-dazed parent to ponder long and deeply. Mr. Ward
had not been able to go down to business since the shock of Monday with its baffling reports
and its sinister ―purgation‖, but he found something calming about the doctor‘s letter in spite of
the despair it seemed to promise and the fresh mysteries it seemed to evoke.
―10 Barnes St.,
Providence, R.I.,
April 12, 1928.
―Dear Theodore:—I feel that I must say a word to you before doing what I am going
to do tomorrow. It will conclude the terrible business we have been going through
(for I feel that no spade is ever likely to reach that monstrous place we know of),
but I‘m afraid it won‘t set your mind at rest unless I expressly assure you how very
conclusive it is.
―You have known me ever since you were a small boy, so I think you will not
distrust me when I hint that some matters are best left undecided and unexplored.
It is better that you attempt no further speculation as to Charles‘s case, and almost
imperative that you tell his mother nothing more than she already suspects. When I
call on you tomorrow Charles will have escaped. That is all which need remain in
anyone‘s mind. He was mad, and he escaped. You can tell his mother gently and
gradually about the mad part when you stop sending the typed notes in his name.
I‘d advise you to join her in Atlantic City and take a rest yourself. God knows you
need one after this shock, as I do myself. I am going South for a while to calm
down and brace up.
―So don‘t ask me any questions when I call. It may be that something will go wrong,
but I‘ll tell you if it does. I don‘t think it will. There will be nothing more to worry
about, for Charles will be very, very safe. He is now—safer than you dream. You
need hold no fears about Allen, and who or what he is. He forms as much a part of
the past as Joseph Curwen‘s picture, and when I ring your doorbell you may feel
certain that there is no such person. And what wrote that minuscule message will
never trouble you or yours.
―But you must steel yourself to melancholy, and prepare your wife to do the same. I
must tell you frankly that Charles‘s escape will not mean his restoration to you. He
has been afflicted with a peculiar disease, as you must realise from the subtle
physical as well as mental changes in him, and you must not hope to see him
again. Have only this consolation—that he was never a fiend or even truly a
madman, but only an eager, studious, and curious boy whose love of mystery and
of the past was his undoing. He stumbled on things no mortal ought ever to know,
and reached back through the years as no one ever should reach; and something
came out of those years to engulf him.
―And now comes the matter in which I must ask you to trust me most of all. For
there will be, indeed, no uncertainty about Charles‘s fate. In about a year, say, you
can if you wish devise a suitable account of the end; for the boy will be no more.
You can put up a stone in your lot at the North Burial Ground exactly ten feet west
of your father‘s and facing the same way, and that will mark the true resting-place
of your son. Nor need you fear that it will mark any abnormality or changeling. The
ashes in that grave will be those of your own unaltered bone and sinew—of the
real Charles Dexter Ward whose mind you watched from infancy—the real Charles
with the olive-mark on his hip and without the black witch-mark on his chest or the
pit on his forehead. The Charles who never did actual evil, and who will have paid
with his life for his ‗squeamishness‘.
―That is all. Charles will have escaped, and a year from now you can put up his
stone. Do not question me tomorrow. And believe that the honour of your ancient
family remains untainted now, as it has been at all times in the past.
So on the morning of Friday, April 13, 1928, Marinus Bicknell Willett visited the room of
Charles Dexter Ward at Dr. Waite‘s private hospital on Conanicut Island. The youth, though
making no attempt to evade his caller, was in a sullen mood; and seemed disinclined to open
the conversation which Willett obviously desired. The doctor‘s discovery of the crypt and his
monstrous experience therein had of course created a new source of embarrassment, so that
both hesitated perceptibly after the interchange of a few strained formalities. Then a new
element of constraint crept in, as Ward seemed to read behind the doctor‘s mask-like face a
terrible purpose which had never been there before. The patient quailed, conscious that since
the last visit there had been a change whereby the solicitous family physician had given place
to the ruthless and implacable avenger.
Ward actually turned pale, and the doctor was the first to speak. ―More,‖ he said, ―has been
found out, and I must warn you fairly that a reckoning is due.‖
―Digging again, and coming upon more poor starving pets?‖ was the ironic reply. It was
evident that the youth meant to shew bravado to the last.
―No,‖ Willett slowly rejoined, ―this time I did not have to dig. We have had men looking up Dr.
Allen, and they found the false beard and spectacles in the bungalow.‖
―Excellent,‖ commented the disquieted host in an effort to be wittily insulting, ―and I trust they
proved more becoming than the beard and glasses you now have on!‖
―They would become you very well,‖ came the even and studied response, ―as indeed they
seem to have done.”
As Willett said this, it almost seemed as though a cloud passed over the sun; though there
was no change in the shadows on the floor. Then Ward ventured:
―And is this what asks so hotly for a reckoning? Suppose a man does find it now and then
useful to be twofold?‖
―No,‖ said Willett gravely, ―again you are wrong. It is no business of mine if any man seeks
duality; provided he has any right to exist at all, and provided he does not destroy what called
him out of space.”
Ward now started violently. ―Well, Sir, what have ye found, and what d‘ye want with me?‖
The doctor let a little time elapse before replying, as if choosing his words for an effective
answer.
―I have found,‖ he finally intoned, ―something in a cupboard behind an ancient overmantel
where a picture once was, and I have burned it and buried the ashes where the grave of
Charles Dexter Ward ought to be.‖
The madman choked and sprang from the chair in which he had been sitting:
―Damn ye, who did ye tell—and who‘ll believe it was he after these full two months, with me
alive? What d‘ye mean to do?‖
Willett, though a small man, actually took on a kind of judicial majesty as he calmed the
patient with a gesture.
―I have told no one. This is no common case—it is a madness out of time and a horror from
beyond the spheres which no police or lawyers or courts or alienists could ever fathom or
grapple with. Thank God some chance has left inside me the spark of imagination, that I might
not go astray in thinking out this thing. You cannot deceive me, Joseph Curwen, for I know
that your accursed magic is true!
―I know how you wove the spell that brooded outside the years and fastened on your double
and descendant; I know how you drew him into the past and got him to raise you up from your
detestable grave; I know how he kept you hidden in his laboratory while you studied modern
things and roved abroad as a vampire by night, and how you later shewed yourself in beard
and glasses that no one might wonder at your godless likeness to him; I know what you
resolved to do when he balked at your monstrous rifling of the world‘s tombs, and at what you
planned afterward, and I know how you did it.
―You left off your beard and glasses and fooled the guards around the house. They thought it
was he who went in, and they thought it was he who came out when you had strangled and
hidden him. But you hadn‘t reckoned on the different contents of two minds. You were a fool,
Curwen, to fancy that a mere visual identity would be enough. Why didn‘t you think of the
speech and the voice and the handwriting? It hasn‘t worked, you see, after all. You know
better than I who or what wrote that message in minuscules, but I will warn you it was not
written in vain. There are abominations and blasphemies which must be stamped out, and I
believe that the writer of those words will attend to Orne and Hutchinson. One of those
creatures wrote you once, ‗do not call up any that you can not put down‘. You were undone
once before, perhaps in that very way, and it may be that your own evil magic will undo you all
again. Curwen, a man can‘t tamper with Nature beyond certain limits, and every horror you
have woven will rise up to wipe you out.‖
But here the doctor was cut short by a convulsive cry from the creature before him.
Hopelessly at bay, weaponless, and knowing that any show of physical violence would bring a
score of attendants to the doctor‘s rescue, Joseph Curwen had recourse to his one ancient
ally, and began a series of cabbalistic motions with his forefingers as his deep, hollow voice,
now unconcealed by feigned hoarseness, bellowed out the opening words of a terrible
formula.
―PER ADONAI ELOIM, ADONAI JEHOVA, ADONAI SABAOTH, METRATON. . . .‖
But Willett was too quick for him. Even as the dogs in the yard outside began to howl, and
even as a chill wind sprang suddenly up from the bay, the doctor commenced the solemn and
measured intonation of that which he had meant all along to recite. An eye for an eye—magic
for magic—let the outcome shew how well the lesson of the abyss had been learned! So in a
clear voice Marinus Bicknell Willett began the second of that pair of formulae whose first had
raised the writer of those minuscules—the cryptic invocation whose heading was the
Dragon‘s Tail, sign of the descending node—
―OGTHROD AI‘F
GEB‘L—EE‘H
YOG-SOTHOTH
‗NGAH‘NG AI‘Y
ZHRO!”
At the very first word from Willett‘s mouth the previously commenced formula of the patient
stopped short. Unable to speak, the monster made wild motions with his arms until they too
were arrested. When the awful name of Yog-Sothoth was uttered, the hideous change began.
It was not merely a dissolution, but rather a transformation or recapitulation; and Willett shut
his eyes lest he faint before the rest of the incantation could be pronounced.
But he did not faint, and that man of unholy centuries and forbidden secrets never troubled
the world again. The madness out of time had subsided, and the case of Charles Dexter Ward
was closed. Opening his eyes before staggering out of that room of horror, Dr. Willett saw that
what he had kept in memory had not been kept amiss. There had, as he had predicted, been
no need for acids. For like his accursed picture a year before, Joseph Curwen now lay
scattered on the floor as a thin coating of fine bluish-grey dust.
I.
When a traveller in north central Massachusetts takes the wrong fork at the junction of the
Aylesbury pike just beyond Dean‘s Corners he comes upon a lonely and curious country. The
ground gets higher, and the brier-bordered stone walls press closer and closer against the
ruts of the dusty, curving road. The trees of the frequent forest belts seem too large, and the
wild weeds, brambles, and grasses attain a luxuriance not often found in settled regions. At
the same time the planted fields appear singularly few and barren; while the sparsely
scattered houses wear a surprisingly uniform aspect of age, squalor, and dilapidation. Without
knowing why, one hesitates to ask directions from the gnarled, solitary figures spied now and
then on crumbling doorsteps or on the sloping, rock-strown meadows. Those figures are so
silent and furtive that one feels somehow confronted by forbidden things, with which it would
be better to have nothing to do. When a rise in the road brings the mountains in view above
the deep woods, the feeling of strange uneasiness is increased. The summits are too rounded
and symmetrical to give a sense of comfort and naturalness, and sometimes the sky
silhouettes with especial clearness the queer circles of tall stone pillars with which most of
them are crowned.
Gorges and ravines of problematical depth intersect the way, and the crude wooden bridges
always seem of dubious safety. When the road dips again there are stretches of marshland
that one instinctively dislikes, and indeed almost fears at evening when unseen whippoorwills
chatter and the fireflies come out in abnormal profusion to dance to the raucous, creepily
insistent rhythms of stridently piping bull-frogs. The thin, shining line of the Miskatonic‘s upper
reaches has an oddly serpent-like suggestion as it winds close to the feet of the domed hills
among which it rises.
As the hills draw nearer, one heeds their wooded sides more than their stone-crowned tops.
Those sides loom up so darkly and precipitously that one wishes they would keep their
distance, but there is no road by which to escape them. Across a covered bridge one sees a
small village huddled between the stream and the vertical slope of Round Mountain, and
wonders at the cluster of rotting gambrel roofs bespeaking an earlier architectural period than
that of the neighbouring region. It is not reassuring to see, on a closer glance, that most of the
houses are deserted and falling to ruin, and that the broken-steepled church now harbours
the one slovenly mercantile establishment of the hamlet. One dreads to trust the tenebrous
tunnel of the bridge, yet there is no way to avoid it. Once across, it is hard to prevent the
impression of a faint, malign odour about the village street, as of the massed mould and
decay of centuries. It is always a relief to get clear of the place, and to follow the narrow road
around the base of the hills and across the level country beyond till it rejoins the Aylesbury
pike. Afterward one sometimes learns that one has been through Dunwich.
Outsiders visit Dunwich as seldom as possible, and since a certain season of horror all the
signboards pointing toward it have been taken down. The scenery, judged by any ordinary
aesthetic canon, is more than commonly beautiful; yet there is no influx of artists or summer
tourists. Two centuries ago, when talk of witch-blood, Satan-worship, and strange forest
presences was not laughed at, it was the custom to give reasons for avoiding the locality. In
our sensible age—since the Dunwich horror of 1928 was hushed up by those who had the
town‘s and the world‘s welfare at heart—people shun it without knowing exactly why. Perhaps
one reason—though it cannot apply to uninformed strangers—is that the natives are now
repellently decadent, having gone far along that path of retrogression so common in many
New England backwaters. They have come to form a race by themselves, with the well-
defined mental and physical stigmata of degeneracy and inbreeding. The average of their
intelligence is woefully low, whilst their annals reek of overt viciousness and of half-hidden
murders, incests, and deeds of almost unnamable violence and perversity. The old gentry,
representing the two or three armigerous families which came from Salem in 1692, have kept
somewhat above the general level of decay; though many branches are sunk into the sordid
populace so deeply that only their names remain as a key to the origin they disgrace. Some of
the Whateleys and Bishops still send their eldest sons to Harvard and Miskatonic, though
those sons seldom return to the mouldering gambrel roofs under which they and their
ancestors were born.
No one, even those who have the facts concerning the recent horror, can say just what is the
matter with Dunwich; though old legends speak of unhallowed rites and conclaves of the
Indians, amidst which they called forbidden shapes of shadow out of the great rounded hills,
and made wild orgiastic prayers that were answered by loud crackings and rumblings from
the ground below. In 1747 the Reverend Abijah Hoadley, newly come to the Congregational
Church at Dunwich Village, preached a memorable sermon on the close presence of Satan
and his imps; in which he said:
―It must be allow‘d, that these Blasphemies of an infernall Train of Daemons are
Matters of too common Knowledge to be deny‘d; the cursed Voices of Azazel and
Buzrael, of Beelzebub and Belial, being heard now from under Ground by above a
Score of credible Witnesses now living. I my self did not more than a Fortnight ago
catch a very plain Discourse of evill Powers in the Hill behind my House; wherein
there were a Rattling and Rolling, Groaning, Screeching, and Hissing, such as no
Things of this Earth cou‘d raise up, and which must needs have come from those
Caves that only black Magick can discover, and only the Divell unlock.‖
Mr. Hoadley disappeared soon after delivering this sermon; but the text, printed in Springfield,
is still extant. Noises in the hills continued to be reported from year to year, and still form a
puzzle to geologists and physiographers.
Other traditions tell of foul odours near the hill-crowning circles of stone pillars, and of rushing
airy presences to be heard faintly at certain hours from stated points at the bottom of the great
ravines; while still others try to explain the Devil‘s Hop Yard—a bleak, blasted hillside where
no tree, shrub, or grass-blade will grow. Then too, the natives are mortally afraid of the
numerous whippoorwills which grow vocal on warm nights. It is vowed that the birds are
psychopomps lying in wait for the souls of the dying, and that they time their eerie cries in
unison with the sufferer‘s struggling breath. If they can catch the fleeing soul when it leaves
the body, they instantly flutter away chittering in daemoniac laughter; but if they fail, they
subside gradually into a disappointed silence.
These tales, of course, are obsolete and ridiculous; because they come down from very old
times. Dunwich is indeed ridiculously old—older by far than any of the communities within
thirty miles of it. South of the village one may still spy the cellar walls and chimney of the
ancient Bishop house, which was built before 1700; whilst the ruins of the mill at the falls, built
in 1806, form the most modern piece of architecture to be seen. Industry did not flourish here,
and the nineteenth-century factory movement proved short-lived. Oldest of all are the great
rings of rough-hewn stone columns on the hill-tops, but these are more generally attributed to
the Indians than to the settlers. Deposits of skulls and bones, found within these circles and
around the sizeable table-like rock on Sentinel Hill, sustain the popular belief that such spots
were once the burial-places of the Pocumtucks; even though many ethnologists, disregarding
the absurd improbability of such a theory, persist in believing the remains Caucasian.
II.
It was in the township of Dunwich, in a large and partly inhabited farmhouse set against a
hillside four miles from the village and a mile and a half from any other dwelling, that Wilbur
Whateley was born at 5 A.M. on Sunday, the second of February, 1913. This date was
recalled because it was Candlemas, which people in Dunwich curiously observe under
another name; and because the noises in the hills had sounded, and all the dogs of the
countryside had barked persistently, throughout the night before. Less worthy of notice was
the fact that the mother was one of the decadent Whateleys, a somewhat deformed,
unattractive albino woman of thirty-five, living with an aged and half-insane father about whom
the most frightful tales of wizardry had been whispered in his youth. Lavinia Whateley had no
known husband, but according to the custom of the region made no attempt to disavow the
child; concerning the other side of whose ancestry the country folk might—and did—speculate
as widely as they chose. On the contrary, she seemed strangely proud of the dark, goatish-
looking infant who formed such a contrast to her own sickly and pink-eyed albinism, and was
heard to mutter many curious prophecies about its unusual powers and tremendous future.
Lavinia was one who would be apt to mutter such things, for she was a lone creature given to
wandering amidst thunderstorms in the hills and trying to read the great odorous books which
her father had inherited through two centuries of Whateleys, and which were fast falling to
pieces with age and worm-holes. She had never been to school, but was filled with disjointed
scraps of ancient lore that Old Whateley had taught her. The remote farmhouse had always
been feared because of Old Whateley‘s reputation for black magic, and the unexplained
death by violence of Mrs. Whateley when Lavinia was twelve years old had not helped to
make the place popular. Isolated among strange influences, Lavinia was fond of wild and
grandiose day-dreams and singular occupations; nor was her leisure much taken up by
household cares in a home from which all standards of order and cleanliness had long since
disappeared.
There was a hideous screaming which echoed above even the hill noises and the dogs‘
barking on the night Wilbur was born, but no known doctor or midwife presided at his coming.
Neighbours knew nothing of him till a week afterward, when Old Whateley drove his sleigh
through the snow into Dunwich Village and discoursed incoherently to the group of loungers
at Osborn‘s general store. There seemed to be a change in the old man—an added element
of furtiveness in the clouded brain which subtly transformed him from an object to a subject of
fear—though he was not one to be perturbed by any common family event. Amidst it all he
shewed some trace of the pride later noticed in his daughter, and what he said of the child‘s
paternity was remembered by many of his hearers years afterward.
―I dun‘t keer what folks think—ef Lavinny‘s boy looked like his pa, he wouldn‘t look like nothin‘
ye expeck. Ye needn‘t think the only folks is the folks hereabaouts. Lavinny‘s read some, an‘
has seed some things the most o‘ ye only tell abaout. I calc‘late her man is as good a husban‘
as ye kin find this side of Aylesbury; an‘ ef ye knowed as much abaout the hills as I dew, ye
wouldn‘t ast no better church weddin‘ nor her‘n. Let me tell ye suthin‘—some day yew folks’ll
hear a child o’ Lavinny’s a-callin’ its father’s name on the top o’ Sentinel Hill!”
The only persons who saw Wilbur during the first month of his life were old Zechariah
Whateley, of the undecayed Whateleys, and Earl Sawyer‘s common-law wife, Mamie Bishop.
Mamie‘s visit was frankly one of curiosity, and her subsequent tales did justice to her
observations; but Zechariah came to lead a pair of Alderney cows which Old Whateley had
bought of his son Curtis. This marked the beginning of a course of cattle-buying on the part of
small Wilbur‘s family which ended only in 1928, when the Dunwich horror came and went; yet
at no time did the ramshackle Whateley barn seem overcrowded with livestock. There came a
period when people were curious enough to steal up and count the herd that grazed
precariously on the steep hillside above the old farmhouse, and they could never find more
than ten or twelve anaemic, bloodless-looking specimens. Evidently some blight or distemper,
perhaps sprung from the unwholesome pasturage or the diseased fungi and timbers of the
filthy barn, caused a heavy mortality amongst the Whateley animals. Odd wounds or sores,
having something of the aspect of incisions, seemed to afflict the visible cattle; and once or
twice during the earlier months certain callers fancied they could discern similar sores about
the throats of the grey, unshaven old man and his slatternly, crinkly-haired albino daughter.
In the spring after Wilbur‘s birth Lavinia resumed her customary rambles in the hills, bearing
in her misproportioned arms the swarthy child. Public interest in the Whateleys subsided after
most of the country folk had seen the baby, and no one bothered to comment on the swift
development which that newcomer seemed every day to exhibit. Wilbur‘s growth was indeed
phenomenal, for within three months of his birth he had attained a size and muscular power
not usually found in infants under a full year of age. His motions and even his vocal sounds
shewed a restraint and deliberateness highly peculiar in an infant, and no one was really
unprepared when, at seven months, he began to walk unassisted, with falterings which
another month was sufficient to remove.
It was somewhat after this time—on Hallowe‘en—that a great blaze was seen at midnight on
the top of Sentinel Hill where the old table-like stone stands amidst its tumulus of ancient
bones. Considerable talk was started when Silas Bishop—of the undecayed Bishops—
mentioned having seen the boy running sturdily up that hill ahead of his mother about an hour
before the blaze was remarked. Silas was rounding up a stray heifer, but he nearly forgot his
mission when he fleetingly spied the two figures in the dim light of his lantern. They darted
almost noiselessly through the underbrush, and the astonished watcher seemed to think they
were entirely unclothed. Afterward he could not be sure about the boy, who may have had
some kind of a fringed belt and a pair of dark trunks or trousers on. Wilbur was never
subsequently seen alive and conscious without complete and tightly buttoned attire, the
disarrangement or threatened disarrangement of which always seemed to fill him with anger
and alarm. His contrast with his squalid mother and grandfather in this respect was thought
very notable until the horror of 1928 suggested the most valid of reasons.
The next January gossips were mildly interested in the fact that ―Lavinny‘s black brat‖ had
commenced to talk, and at the age of only eleven months. His speech was somewhat
remarkable both because of its difference from the ordinary accents of the region, and
because it displayed a freedom from infantile lisping of which many children of three or four
might well be proud. The boy was not talkative, yet when he spoke he seemed to reflect some
elusive element wholly unpossessed by Dunwich and its denizens. The strangeness did not
reside in what he said, or even in the simple idioms he used; but seemed vaguely linked with
his intonation or with the internal organs that produced the spoken sounds. His facial aspect,
too, was remarkable for its maturity; for though he shared his mother‘s and grandfather‘s
chinlessness, his firm and precociously shaped nose united with the expression of his large,
dark, almost Latin eyes to give him an air of quasi-adulthood and well-nigh preternatural
intelligence. He was, however, exceedingly ugly despite his appearance of brilliancy; there
being something almost goatish or animalistic about his thick lips, large-pored, yellowish skin,
coarse crinkly hair, and oddly elongated ears. He was soon disliked even more decidedly than
his mother and grandsire, and all conjectures about him were spiced with references to the
bygone magic of Old Whateley, and how the hills once shook when he shrieked the dreadful
name of Yog-Sothoth in the midst of a circle of stones with a great book open in his arms
before him. Dogs abhorred the boy, and he was always obliged to take various defensive
measures against their barking menace.
III.
Meanwhile Old Whateley continued to buy cattle without measurably increasing the size of his
herd. He also cut timber and began to repair the unused parts of his house—a spacious,
peaked-roofed affair whose rear end was buried entirely in the rocky hillside, and whose three
least-ruined ground-floor rooms had always been sufficient for himself and his daughter.
There must have been prodigious reserves of strength in the old man to enable him to
accomplish so much hard labour; and though he still babbled dementedly at times, his
carpentry seemed to shew the effects of sound calculation. It had already begun as soon as
Wilbur was born, when one of the many tool-sheds had been put suddenly in order,
clapboarded, and fitted with a stout fresh lock. Now, in restoring the abandoned upper story of
the house, he was a no less thorough craftsman. His mania shewed itself only in his tight
boarding-up of all the windows in the reclaimed section—though many declared that it was a
crazy thing to bother with the reclamation at all. Less inexplicable was his fitting up of another
downstairs room for his new grandson—a room which several callers saw, though no one was
ever admitted to the closely boarded upper story. This chamber he lined with tall, firm
shelving; along which he began gradually to arrange, in apparently careful order, all the rotting
ancient books and parts of books which during his own day had been heaped promiscuously
in odd corners of the various rooms.
―I made some use of ‘em,‖ he would say as he tried to mend a torn black-letter page with
paste prepared on the rusty kitchen stove, ―but the boy‘s fitten to make better use of ‘em. He‘d
orter hev ‘em as well sot as he kin, for they‘re goin‘ to be all of his larnin‘.‖
When Wilbur was a year and seven months old—in September of 1914—his size and
accomplishments were almost alarming. He had grown as large as a child of four, and was a
fluent and incredibly intelligent talker. He ran freely about the fields and hills, and
accompanied his mother on all her wanderings. At home he would pore diligently over the
queer pictures and charts in his grandfather‘s books, while Old Whateley would instruct and
catechise him through long, hushed afternoons. By this time the restoration of the house was
finished, and those who watched it wondered why one of the upper windows had been made
into a solid plank door. It was a window in the rear of the east gable end, close against the hill;
and no one could imagine why a cleated wooden runway was built up to it from the ground.
About the period of this work‘s completion people noticed that the old tool-house, tightly
locked and windowlessly clapboarded since Wilbur‘s birth, had been abandoned again. The
door swung listlessly open, and when Earl Sawyer once stepped within after a cattle-selling
call on Old Whateley he was quite discomposed by the singular odour he encountered—such
a stench, he averred, as he had never before smelt in all his life except near the Indian circles
on the hills, and which could not come from anything sane or of this earth. But then, the
homes and sheds of Dunwich folk have never been remarkable for olfactory immaculateness.
The following months were void of visible events, save that everyone swore to a slow but
steady increase in the mysterious hill noises. On May-Eve of 1915 there were tremors which
even the Aylesbury people felt, whilst the following Hallowe‘en produced an underground
rumbling queerly synchronised with bursts of flame—―them witch Whateleys‘ doin‘s‖—from
the summit of Sentinel Hill. Wilbur was growing up uncannily, so that he looked like a boy of
ten as he entered his fourth year. He read avidly by himself now; but talked much less than
formerly. A settled taciturnity was absorbing him, and for the first time people began to speak
specifically of the dawning look of evil in his goatish face. He would sometimes mutter an
unfamiliar jargon, and chant in bizarre rhythms which chilled the listener with a sense of
unexplainable terror. The aversion displayed toward him by dogs had now become a matter of
wide remark, and he was obliged to carry a pistol in order to traverse the countryside in
safety. His occasional use of the weapon did not enhance his popularity amongst the owners
of canine guardians.
The few callers at the house would often find Lavinia alone on the ground floor, while odd
cries and footsteps resounded in the boarded-up second story. She would never tell what her
father and the boy were doing up there, though once she turned pale and displayed an
abnormal degree of fear when a jocose fish-peddler tried the locked door leading to the
stairway. That peddler told the store loungers at Dunwich Village that he thought he heard a
horse stamping on that floor above. The loungers reflected, thinking of the door and runway,
and of the cattle that so swiftly disappeared. Then they shuddered as they recalled tales of
Old Whateley‘s youth, and of the strange things that are called out of the earth when a bullock
is sacrificed at the proper time to certain heathen gods. It had for some time been noticed that
dogs had begun to hate and fear the whole Whateley place as violently as they hated and
feared young Wilbur personally.
In 1917 the war came, and Squire Sawyer Whateley, as chairman of the local draft board, had
hard work finding a quota of young Dunwich men fit even to be sent to a development camp.
The government, alarmed at such signs of wholesale regional decadence, sent several
officers and medical experts to investigate; conducting a survey which New England
newspaper readers may still recall. It was the publicity attending this investigation which set
reporters on the track of the Whateleys, and caused the Boston Globe and Arkham Advertiser
to print flamboyant Sunday stories of young Wilbur‘s precociousness, Old Whateley‘s black
magic, the shelves of strange books, the sealed second story of the ancient farmhouse, and
the weirdness of the whole region and its hill noises. Wilbur was four and a half then, and
looked like a lad of fifteen. His lips and cheeks were fuzzy with a coarse dark down, and his
voice had begun to break.
Earl Sawyer went out to the Whateley place with both sets of reporters and camera men, and
called their attention to the queer stench which now seemed to trickle down from the sealed
upper spaces. It was, he said, exactly like a smell he had found in the tool-shed abandoned
when the house was finally repaired; and like the faint odours which he sometimes thought he
caught near the stone circles on the mountains. Dunwich folk read the stories when they
appeared, and grinned over the obvious mistakes. They wondered, too, why the writers made
so much of the fact that Old Whateley always paid for his cattle in gold pieces of extremely
ancient date. The Whateleys had received their visitors with ill-concealed distaste, though
they did not dare court further publicity by a violent resistance or refusal to talk.
IV.
For a decade the annals of the Whateleys sink indistinguishably into the general life of a
morbid community used to their queer ways and hardened to their May-Eve and All-Hallows
orgies. Twice a year they would light fires on the top of Sentinel Hill, at which times the
mountain rumblings would recur with greater and greater violence; while at all seasons there
were strange and portentous doings at the lonely farmhouse. In the course of time callers
professed to hear sounds in the sealed upper story even when all the family were downstairs,
and they wondered how swiftly or how lingeringly a cow or bullock was usually sacrificed.
There was talk of a complaint to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; but
nothing ever came of it, since Dunwich folk are never anxious to call the outside world‘s
attention to themselves.
About 1923, when Wilbur was a boy of ten whose mind, voice, stature, and bearded face
gave all the impressions of maturity, a second great siege of carpentry went on at the old
house. It was all inside the sealed upper part, and from bits of discarded lumber people
concluded that the youth and his grandfather had knocked out all the partitions and even
removed the attic floor, leaving only one vast open void between the ground story and the
peaked roof. They had torn down the great central chimney, too, and fitted the rusty range
with a flimsy outside tin stovepipe.
In the spring after this event Old Whateley noticed the growing number of whippoorwills that
would come out of Cold Spring Glen to chirp under his window at night. He seemed to regard
the circumstance as one of great significance, and told the loungers at Osborn‘s that he
thought his time had almost come.
―They whistle jest in tune with my breathin‘ naow,‖ he said, ―an‘ I guess they‘re gittin‘ ready to
ketch my soul. They know it‘s a-goin‘ aout, an‘ dun‘t calc‘late to miss it. Yew‘ll know, boys,
arter I‘m gone, whether they git me er not. Ef they dew, they‘ll keep up a-singin‘ an‘ laffin‘ till
break o‘ day. Ef they dun‘t they‘ll kinder quiet daown like. I expeck them an‘ the souls they
hunts fer hev some pretty tough tussles sometimes.‖
On Lammas Night, 1924, Dr. Houghton of Aylesbury was hastily summoned by Wilbur
Whateley, who had lashed his one remaining horse through the darkness and telephoned
from Osborn‘s in the village. He found Old Whateley in a very grave state, with a cardiac
action and stertorous breathing that told of an end not far off. The shapeless albino daughter
and oddly bearded grandson stood by the bedside, whilst from the vacant abyss overhead
there came a disquieting suggestion of rhythmical surging or lapping, as of the waves on
some level beach. The doctor, though, was chiefly disturbed by the chattering night birds
outside; a seemingly limitless legion of whippoorwills that cried their endless message in
repetitions timed diabolically to the wheezing gasps of the dying man. It was uncanny and
unnatural—too much, thought Dr. Houghton, like the whole of the region he had entered so
reluctantly in response to the urgent call.
Toward one o‘clock Old Whateley gained consciousness, and interrupted his wheezing to
choke out a few words to his grandson.
―More space, Willy, more space soon. Yew grows—an‘ that grows faster. It‘ll be ready to sarve
ye soon, boy. Open up the gates to Yog-Sothoth with the long chant that ye‘ll find on page 751
of the complete edition, an‘ then put a match to the prison. Fire from airth can‘t burn it
nohaow.‖
He was obviously quite mad. After a pause, during which the flock of whippoorwills outside
adjusted their cries to the altered tempo while some indications of the strange hill noises
came from afar off, he added another sentence or two.
―Feed it reg‘lar, Willy, an‘ mind the quantity; but dun‘t let it grow too fast fer the place, fer ef it
busts quarters or gits aout afore ye opens to Yog-Sothoth, it‘s all over an‘ no use. Only them
from beyont kin make it multiply an‘ work. . . . Only them, the old uns as wants to come back. .
. .‖
But speech gave place to gasps again, and Lavinia screamed at the way the whippoorwills
followed the change. It was the same for more than an hour, when the final throaty rattle
came. Dr. Houghton drew shrunken lids over the glazing grey eyes as the tumult of birds
faded imperceptibly to silence. Lavinia sobbed, but Wilbur only chuckled whilst the hill noises
rumbled faintly.
―They didn‘t git him,‖ he muttered in his heavy bass voice.
Wilbur was by this time a scholar of really tremendous erudition in his one-sided way, and
was quietly known by correspondence to many librarians in distant places where rare and
forbidden books of old days are kept. He was more and more hated and dreaded around
Dunwich because of certain youthful disappearances which suspicion laid vaguely at his door;
but was always able to silence inquiry through fear or through use of that fund of old-time gold
which still, as in his grandfather‘s time, went forth regularly and increasingly for cattle-buying.
He was now tremendously mature of aspect, and his height, having reached the normal adult
limit, seemed inclined to wax beyond that figure. In 1925, when a scholarly correspondent
from Miskatonic University called upon him one day and departed pale and puzzled, he was
fully six and three-quarters feet tall.
Through all the years Wilbur had treated his half-deformed albino mother with a growing
contempt, finally forbidding her to go to the hills with him on May-Eve and Hallowmass; and in
1926 the poor creature complained to Mamie Bishop of being afraid of him.
―They‘s more abaout him as I knows than I kin tell ye, Mamie,‖ she said, ―an‘ naowadays
they‘s more nor what I know myself. I vaow afur Gawd, I dun‘t know what he wants nor what
he‘s a-tryin‘ to dew.‖
That Hallowe‘en the hill noises sounded louder than ever, and fire burned on Sentinel Hill as
usual; but people paid more attention to the rhythmical screaming of vast flocks of unnaturally
belated whippoorwills which seemed to be assembled near the unlighted Whateley
farmhouse. After midnight their shrill notes burst into a kind of pandaemoniac cachinnation
which filled all the countryside, and not until dawn did they finally quiet down. Then they
vanished, hurrying southward where they were fully a month overdue. What this meant, no
one could quite be certain till later. None of the country folk seemed to have died—but poor
Lavinia Whateley, the twisted albino, was never seen again.
In the summer of 1927 Wilbur repaired two sheds in the farmyard and began moving his
books and effects out to them. Soon afterward Earl Sawyer told the loungers at Osborn‘s that
more carpentry was going on in the Whateley farmhouse. Wilbur was closing all the doors
and windows on the ground floor, and seemed to be taking out partitions as he and his
grandfather had done upstairs four years before. He was living in one of the sheds, and
Sawyer thought he seemed unusually worried and tremulous. People generally suspected
him of knowing something about his mother‘s disappearance, and very few ever approached
his neighbourhood now. His height had increased to more than seven feet, and shewed no
signs of ceasing its development.
V.
The following winter brought an event no less strange than Wilbur‘s first trip outside the
Dunwich region. Correspondence with the Widener Library at Harvard, the Bibliothèque
Nationale in Paris, the British Museum, the University of Buenos Ayres, and the Library of
Miskatonic University of Arkham had failed to get him the loan of a book he desperately
wanted; so at length he set out in person, shabby, dirty, bearded, and uncouth of dialect, to
consult the copy at Miskatonic, which was the nearest to him geographically. Almost eight feet
tall, and carrying a cheap new valise from Osborn‘s general store, this dark and goatish
gargoyle appeared one day in Arkham in quest of the dreaded volume kept under lock and
key at the college library—the hideous Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred in
Olaus Wormius‘ Latin version, as printed in Spain in the seventeenth century. He had never
seen a city before, but had no thought save to find his way to the university grounds; where,
indeed, he passed heedlessly by the great white-fanged watchdog that barked with unnatural
fury and enmity, and tugged frantically at its stout chain.
Wilbur had with him the priceless but imperfect copy of Dr. Dee‘s English version which his
grandfather had bequeathed him, and upon receiving access to the Latin copy he at once
began to collate the two texts with the aim of discovering a certain passage which would have
come on the 751st page of his own defective volume. This much he could not civilly refrain
from telling the librarian—the same erudite Henry Armitage (A.M. Miskatonic, Ph. D.
Princeton, Litt. D. Johns Hopkins) who had once called at the farm, and who now politely plied
him with questions. He was looking, he had to admit, for a kind of formula or incantation
containing the frightful name Yog-Sothoth, and it puzzled him to find discrepancies,
duplications, and ambiguities which made the matter of determination far from easy. As he
copied the formula he finally chose, Dr. Armitage looked involuntarily over his shoulder at the
open pages; the left-hand one of which, in the Latin version, contained such monstrous
threats to the peace and sanity of the world.
―Nor is it to be thought,‖ ran the text as Armitage mentally translated it, ―that man is
either the oldest or the last of earth‘s masters, or that the common bulk of life and
substance walks alone. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones
shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them, They walk serene and
primal, undimensioned and to us unseen. Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-
Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present,
future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of
old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They have trod
earth‘s fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them
as They tread. By Their smell can men sometimes know Them near, but of Their
semblance can no man know, saving only in the features of those They have
begotten on mankind; and of those are there many sorts, differing in likeness from
man‘s truest eidolon to that shape without sight or substance which is Them. They
walk unseen and foul in lonely places where the Words have been spoken and the
Rites howled through at their Seasons. The wind gibbers with Their voices, and the
earth mutters with Their consciousness. They bend the forest and crush the city,
yet may not forest or city behold the hand that smites. Kadath in the cold waste
hath known Them, and what man knows Kadath? The ice desert of the South and
the sunken isles of Ocean hold stones whereon Their seal is engraven, but who
hath seen the deep frozen city or the sealed tower long garlanded with seaweed
and barnacles? Great Cthulhu is Their cousin, yet can he spy Them only dimly. Iä!
Shub-Niggurath! As a foulness shall ye know Them. Their hand is at your throats,
yet ye see Them not; and Their habitation is even one with your guarded threshold.
Yog-Sothoth is the key to the gate, whereby the spheres meet. Man rules now
where They ruled once; They shall soon rule where man rules now. After summer
is winter, and after winter summer. They wait patient and potent, for here shall They
reign again.‖
Dr. Armitage, associating what he was reading with what he had heard of Dunwich and its
brooding presences, and of Wilbur Whateley and his dim, hideous aura that stretched from a
dubious birth to a cloud of probable matricide, felt a wave of fright as tangible as a draught of
the tomb‘s cold clamminess. The bent, goatish giant before him seemed like the spawn of
another planet or dimension; like something only partly of mankind, and linked to black gulfs
of essence and entity that stretch like titan phantasms beyond all spheres of force and matter,
space and time. Presently Wilbur raised his head and began speaking in that strange,
resonant fashion which hinted at sound-producing organs unlike the run of mankind‘s.
―Mr. Armitage,‖ he said, ―I calc‘late I‘ve got to take that book home. They‘s things in it I‘ve got
to try under sarten conditions that I can‘t git here, an‘ it ‘ud be a mortal sin to let a red-tape
rule hold me up. Let me take it along, Sir, an‘ I‘ll swar they wun‘t nobody know the difference. I
dun‘t need to tell ye I‘ll take good keer of it. It wa‘n‘t me that put this Dee copy in the shape it
is. . . .‖
He stopped as he saw firm denial on the librarian‘s face, and his own goatish features grew
crafty. Armitage, half-ready to tell him he might make a copy of what parts he needed, thought
suddenly of the possible consequences and checked himself. There was too much
responsiblity in giving such a being the key to such blasphemous outer spheres. Whateley
saw how things stood, and tried to answer lightly.
―Wal, all right, ef ye feel that way abaout it. Maybe Harvard wun‘t be so fussy as yew be.‖ And
without saying more he rose and strode out of the building, stooping at each doorway.
Armitage heard the savage yelping of the great watchdog, and studied Whateley‘s gorilla-like
lope as he crossed the bit of campus visible from the window. He thought of the wild tales he
had heard, and recalled the old Sunday stories in the Advertiser; these things, and the lore he
had picked up from Dunwich rustics and villagers during his one visit there. Unseen things not
of earth—or at least not of tri-dimensional earth—rushed foetid and horrible through New
England‘s glens, and brooded obscenely on the mountain-tops. Of this he had long felt
certain. Now he seemed to sense the close presence of some terrible part of the intruding
horror, and to glimpse a hellish advance in the black dominion of the ancient and once
passive nightmare. He locked away the Necronomicon with a shudder of disgust, but the
room still reeked with an unholy and unidentifiable stench. ―As a foulness shall ye know
them,‖ he quoted. Yes—the odour was the same as that which had sickened him at the
Whateley farmhouse less than three years before. He thought of Wilbur, goatish and ominous,
once again, and laughed mockingly at the village rumours of his parentage.
―Inbreeding?‖ Armitage muttered half-aloud to himself. ―Great God, what simpletons! Shew
them Arthur Machen‘s Great God Pan and they‘ll think it a common Dunwich scandal! But
what thing—what cursed shapeless influence on or off this three-dimensioned earth—was
Wilbur Whateley‘s father? Born on Candlemas—nine months after May-Eve of 1912, when
the talk about the queer earth noises reached clear to Arkham— What walked on the
mountains that May-Night? What Roodmas horror fastened itself on the world in half-human
flesh and blood?‖
During the ensuing weeks Dr. Armitage set about to collect all possible data on Wilbur
Whateley and the formless presences around Dunwich. He got in communication with Dr.
Houghton of Aylesbury, who had attended Old Whateley in his last illness, and found much to
ponder over in the grandfather‘s last words as quoted by the physician. A visit to Dunwich
Village failed to bring out much that was new; but a close survey of the Necronomicon, in
those parts which Wilbur had sought so avidly, seemed to supply new and terrible clues to the
nature, methods, and desires of the strange evil so vaguely threatening this planet. Talks with
several students of archaic lore in Boston, and letters to many others elsewhere, gave him a
growing amazement which passed slowly through varied degrees of alarm to a state of really
acute spiritual fear. As the summer drew on he felt dimly that something ought to be done
about the lurking terrors of the upper Miskatonic valley, and about the monstrous being known
to the human world as Wilbur Whateley.
VI.
The Dunwich horror itself came between Lammas and the equinox in 1928, and Dr. Armitage
was among those who witnessed its monstrous prologue. He had heard, meanwhile, of
Whateley‘s grotesque trip to Cambridge, and of his frantic efforts to borrow or copy from the
Necronomicon at the Widener Library. Those efforts had been in vain, since Armitage had
issued warnings of the keenest intensity to all librarians having charge of the dreaded volume.
Wilbur had been shockingly nervous at Cambridge; anxious for the book, yet almost equally
anxious to get home again, as if he feared the results of being away long.
Early in August the half-expected outcome developed, and in the small hours of the 3d Dr.
Armitage was awakened suddenly by the wild, fierce cries of the savage watchdog on the
college campus. Deep and terrible, the snarling, half-mad growls and barks continued; always
in mounting volume, but with hideously significant pauses. Then there rang out a scream from
a wholly different throat—such a scream as roused half the sleepers of Arkham and haunted
their dreams ever afterward—such a scream as could come from no being born of earth, or
wholly of earth.
Armitage, hastening into some clothing and rushing across the street and lawn to the college
buildings, saw that others were ahead of him; and heard the echoes of a burglar-alarm still
shrilling from the library. An open window shewed black and gaping in the moonlight. What
had come had indeed completed its entrance; for the barking and the screaming, now fast
fading into a mixed low growling and moaning, proceeded unmistakably from within. Some
instinct warned Armitage that what was taking place was not a thing for unfortified eyes to
see, so he brushed back the crowd with authority as he unlocked the vestibule door. Among
the others he saw Professor Warren Rice and Dr. Francis Morgan, men to whom he had told
some of his conjectures and misgivings; and these two he motioned to accompany him inside.
The inward sounds, except for a watchful, droning whine from the dog, had by this time quite
subsided; but Armitage now perceived with a sudden start that a loud chorus of whippoorwills
among the shrubbery had commenced a damnably rhythmical piping, as if in unison with the
last breaths of a dying man.
The building was full of a frightful stench which Dr. Armitage knew too well, and the three men
rushed across the hall to the small genealogical reading-room whence the low whining came.
For a second nobody dared to turn on the light, then Armitage summoned up his courage and
snapped the switch. One of the three—it is not certain which—shrieked aloud at what
sprawled before them among disordered tables and overturned chairs. Professor Rice
declares that he wholly lost consciousness for an instant, though he did not stumble or fall.
The thing that lay half-bent on its side in a foetid pool of greenish-yellow ichor and tarry
stickiness was almost nine feet tall, and the dog had torn off all the clothing and some of the
skin. It was not quite dead, but twitched silently and spasmodically while its chest heaved in
monstrous unison with the mad piping of the expectant whippoorwills outside. Bits of shoe-
leather and fragments of apparel were scattered about the room, and just inside the window
an empty canvas sack lay where it had evidently been thrown. Near the central desk a
revolver had fallen, a dented but undischarged cartridge later explaining why it had not been
fired. The thing itself, however, crowded out all other images at the time. It would be trite and
not wholly accurate to say that no human pen could describe it, but one may properly say that
it could not be vividly visualised by anyone whose ideas of aspect and contour are too closely
bound up with the common life-forms of this planet and of the three known dimensions. It was
partly human, beyond a doubt, with very man-like hands and head, and the goatish, chinless
face had the stamp of the Whateleys upon it. But the torso and lower parts of the body were
teratologically fabulous, so that only generous clothing could ever have enabled it to walk on
earth unchallenged or uneradicated.
Above the waist it was semi-anthropomorphic; though its chest, where the dog‘s rending paws
still rested watchfully, had the leathery, reticulated hide of a crocodile or alligator. The back
was piebald with yellow and black, and dimly suggested the squamous covering of certain
snakes. Below the waist, though, it was the worst; for here all human resemblance left off and
sheer phantasy began. The skin was thickly covered with coarse black fur, and from the
abdomen a score of long greenish-grey tentacles with red sucking mouths protruded limply.
Their arrangement was odd, and seemed to follow the symmetries of some cosmic geometry
unknown to earth or the solar system. On each of the hips, deep set in a kind of pinkish,
ciliated orbit, was what seemed to be a rudimentary eye; whilst in lieu of a tail there depended
a kind of trunk or feeler with purple annular markings, and with many evidences of being an
undeveloped mouth or throat. The limbs, save for their black fur, roughly resembled the hind
legs of prehistoric earth‘s giant saurians; and terminated in ridgy-veined pads that were
neither hooves nor claws. When the thing breathed, its tail and tentacles rhythmically changed
colour, as if from some circulatory cause normal to the non-human side of its ancestry. In the
tentacles this was observable as a deepening of the greenish tinge, whilst in the tail it was
manifest as a yellowish appearance which alternated with a sickly greyish-white in the spaces
between the purple rings. Of genuine blood there was none; only the foetid greenish-yellow
ichor which trickled along the painted floor beyond the radius of the stickiness, and left a
curious discolouration behind it.
As the presence of the three men seemed to rouse the dying thing, it began to mumble
without turning or raising its head. Dr. Armitage made no written record of its mouthings, but
asserts confidently that nothing in English was uttered. At first the syllables defied all
correlation with any speech of earth, but toward the last there came some disjointed
fragments evidently taken from the Necronomicon, that monstrous blasphemy in quest of
which the thing had perished. These fragments, as Armitage recalls them, ran something like
―N’gai, n’gha’ghaa, bugg-shoggog, y’hah; Yog-Sothoth, Yog-Sothoth. . . .” They trailed off into
nothingness as the whippoorwills shrieked in rhythmical crescendoes of unholy anticipation.
Then came a halt in the gasping, and the dog raised its head in a long, lugubrious howl. A
change came over the yellow, goatish face of the prostrate thing, and the great black eyes fell
in appallingly. Outside the window the shrilling of the whippoorwills had suddenly ceased, and
above the murmurs of the gathering crowd there came the sound of a panic-struck whirring
and fluttering. Against the moon vast clouds of feathery watchers rose and raced from sight,
frantic at that which they had sought for prey.
All at once the dog started up abruptly, gave a frightened bark, and leaped nervously out of
the window by which it had entered. A cry rose from the crowd, and Dr. Armitage shouted to
the men outside that no one must be admitted till the police or medical examiner came. He
was thankful that the windows were just too high to permit of peering in, and drew the dark
curtains carefully down over each one. By this time two policemen had arrived; and Dr.
Morgan, meeting them in the vestibule, was urging them for their own sakes to postpone
entrance to the stench-filled reading-room till the examiner came and the prostrate thing could
be covered up.
Meanwhile frightful changes were taking place on the floor. One need not describe the kind
and rate of shrinkage and disintegration that occurred before the eyes of Dr. Armitage and
Professor Rice; but it is permissible to say that, aside from the external appearance of face
and hands, the really human element in Wilbur Whateley must have been very small. When
the medical examiner came, there was only a sticky whitish mass on the painted boards, and
the monstrous odour had nearly disappeared. Apparently Whateley had had no skull or bony
skeleton; at least, in any true or stable sense. He had taken somewhat after his unknown
father.
VII.
Yet all this was only the prologue of the actual Dunwich horror. Formalities were gone through
by bewildered officials, abnormal details were duly kept from press and public, and men were
sent to Dunwich and Aylesbury to look up property and notify any who might be heirs of the
late Wilbur Whateley. They found the countryside in great agitation, both because of the
growing rumblings beneath the domed hills, and because of the unwonted stench and the
surging, lapping sounds which came increasingly from the great empty shell formed by
Whateley‘s boarded-up farmhouse. Earl Sawyer, who tended the horse and cattle during
Wilbur‘s absence, had developed a woefully acute case of nerves. The officials devised
excuses not to enter the noisome boarded place; and were glad to confine their survey of the
deceased‘s living quarters, the newly mended sheds, to a single visit. They filed a ponderous
report at the court-house in Aylesbury, and litigations concerning heirship are said to be still in
progress amongst the innumerable Whateleys, decayed and undecayed, of the upper
Miskatonic valley.
An almost interminable manuscript in strange characters, written in a huge ledger and
adjudged a sort of diary because of the spacing and the variations in ink and penmanship,
presented a baffling puzzle to those who found it on the old bureau which served as its
owner‘s desk. After a week of debate it was sent to Miskatonic University, together with the
deceased‘s collection of strange books, for study and possible translation; but even the best
linguists soon saw that it was not likely to be unriddled with ease. No trace of the ancient gold
with which Wilbur and Old Whateley always paid their debts has yet been discovered.
It was in the dark of September 9th that the horror broke loose. The hill noises had been very
pronounced during the evening, and dogs barked frantically all night. Early risers on the 10th
noticed a peculiar stench in the air. About seven o‘clock Luther Brown, the hired boy at
George Corey‘s, between Cold Spring Glen and the village, rushed frenziedly back from his
morning trip to Ten-Acre Meadow with the cows. He was almost convulsed with fright as he
stumbled into the kitchen; and in the yard outside the no less frightened herd were pawing
and lowing pitifully, having followed the boy back in the panic they shared with him. Between
gasps Luther tried to stammer out his tale to Mrs. Corey.
―Up thar in the rud beyont the glen, Mis‘ Corey—they‘s suthin‘ ben thar! It smells like thunder,
an‘ all the bushes an‘ little trees is pushed back from the rud like they‘d a haouse ben moved
along of it. An‘ that ain‘t the wust, nuther. They‘s prints in the rud, Mis‘ Corey—great raound
prints as big as barrel-heads, all sunk daown deep like a elephant had ben along, only they’s
a sight more nor four feet could make! I looked at one or two afore I run, an‘ I see every one
was covered with lines spreadin‘ aout from one place, like as if big palm-leaf fans—twict or
three times as big as any they is—hed of ben paounded daown into the rud. An‘ the smell was
awful, like what it is araound Wizard Whateley‘s ol‘ haouse. . . .‖
Here he faltered, and seemed to shiver afresh with the fright that had sent him flying home.
Mrs. Corey, unable to extract more information, began telephoning the neighbours; thus
starting on its rounds the overture of panic that heralded the major terrors. When she got Sally
Sawyer, housekeeper at Seth Bishop‘s, the nearest place to Whateley‘s, it became her turn to
listen instead of transmit; for Sally‘s boy Chauncey, who slept poorly, had been up on the hill
toward Whateley‘s, and had dashed back in terror after one look at the place, and at the
pasturage where Mr. Bishop‘s cows had been left out all night.
―Yes, Mis‘ Corey,‖ came Sally‘s tremulous voice over the party wire, ―Cha‘ncey he just come
back a-postin‘, and couldn‘t haff talk fer bein‘ scairt! He says Ol‘ Whateley‘s haouse is all
blowed up, with the timbers scattered raound like they‘d ben dynamite inside; only the bottom
floor ain‘t through, but is all covered with a kind o‘ tar-like stuff that smells awful an‘ drips
daown offen the aidges onto the graoun‘ whar the side timbers is blown away. An‘ they‘s awful
kinder marks in the yard, tew—great raound marks bigger raound than a hogshead, an‘ all
sticky with stuff like is on the blowed-up haouse. Cha‘ncey he says they leads off into the
medders, whar a great swath wider‘n a barn is matted daown, an‘ all the stun walls tumbled
every whichway wherever it goes.
―An‘ he says, says he, Mis‘ Corey, as haow he sot to look fer Seth‘s caows, frighted ez he
was; an‘ faound ‘em in the upper pasture nigh the Devil‘s Hop Yard in an awful shape. Haff on
‘em‘s clean gone, an‘ nigh haff o‘ them that‘s left is sucked most dry o‘ blood, with sores on
‘em like they‘s ben on Whateley‘s cattle ever senct Lavinny‘s black brat was born. Seth he‘s
gone aout naow to look at ‘em, though I‘ll vaow he wun‘t keer ter git very nigh Wizard
Whateley‘s! Cha‘ncey didn‘t look keerful ter see whar the big matted-daown swath led arter it
leff the pasturage, but he says he thinks it p‘inted towards the glen rud to the village.
―I tell ye, Mis‘ Corey, they‘s suthin‘ abroad as hadn‘t orter be abroad, an‘ I for one think that
black Wilbur Whateley, as come to the bad eend he desarved, is at the bottom of the breedin‘
of it. He wa‘n‘t all human hisself, I allus says to everybody; an‘ I think he an‘ Ol‘ Whateley
must a raised suthin‘ in that there nailed-up haouse as ain‘t even so human as he was. They‘s
allus ben unseen things araound Dunwich—livin‘ things—as ain‘t human an‘ ain‘t good fer
human folks.
―The graoun‘ was a-talkin‘ lass night, an‘ towards mornin‘ Cha‘ncey he heerd the
whippoorwills so laoud in Col‘ Spring Glen he couldn‘t sleep nun. Then he thought he heerd
another faint-like saound over towards Wizard Whateley‘s—a kinder rippin‘ or tearin‘ o‘ wood,
like some big box er crate was bein‘ opened fur off. What with this an‘ that, he didn‘t git to
sleep at all till sunup, an‘ no sooner was he up this mornin‘, but he‘s got to go over to
Whateley‘s an‘ see what‘s the matter. He see enough, I tell ye, Mis‘ Corey! This dun‘t mean no
good, an‘ I think as all the men-folks ought to git up a party an‘ do suthin‘. I know suthin‘
awful‘s abaout, an‘ feel my time is nigh, though only Gawd knows jest what it is.
―Did your Luther take accaount o‘ whar them big tracks led tew? No? Wal, Mis‘ Corey, ef they
was on the glen rud this side o‘ the glen, an‘ ain‘t got to your haouse yet, I calc‘late they must
go into the glen itself. They would do that. I allus says Col‘ Spring Glen ain‘t no healthy nor
decent place. The whippoorwills an‘ fireflies there never did act like they was creaters o‘
Gawd, an‘ they‘s them as says ye kin hear strange things a-rushin‘ an‘ a-talkin‘ in the air
daown thar ef ye stand in the right place, atween the rock falls an‘ Bear‘s Den.‖
By that noon fully three-quarters of the men and boys of Dunwich were trooping over the
roads and meadows between the new-made Whateley ruins and Cold Spring Glen, examining
in horror the vast, monstrous prints, the maimed Bishop cattle, the strange, noisome wreck of
the farmhouse, and the bruised, matted vegetation of the fields and roadsides. Whatever had
burst loose upon the world had assuredly gone down into the great sinister ravine; for all the
trees on the banks were bent and broken, and a great avenue had been gouged in the
precipice-hanging underbrush. It was as though a house, launched by an avalanche, had slid
down through the tangled growths of the almost vertical slope. From below no sound came,
but only a distant, undefinable foetor; and it is not to be wondered at that the men preferred to
stay on the edge and argue, rather than descend and beard the unknown Cyclopean horror in
its lair. Three dogs that were with the party had barked furiously at first, but seemed cowed
and reluctant when near the glen. Someone telephoned the news to the Aylesbury Transcript;
but the editor, accustomed to wild tales from Dunwich, did no more than concoct a humorous
paragraph about it; an item soon afterward reproduced by the Associated Press.
That night everyone went home, and every house and barn was barricaded as stoutly as
possible. Needless to say, no cattle were allowed to remain in open pasturage. About two in
the morning a frightful stench and the savage barking of the dogs awakened the household at
Elmer Frye‘s, on the eastern edge of Cold Spring Glen, and all agreed that they could hear a
sort of muffled swishing or lapping sound from somewhere outside. Mrs. Frye proposed
telephoning the neighbours, and Elmer was about to agree when the noise of splintering
wood burst in upon their deliberations. It came, apparently, from the barn; and was quickly
followed by a hideous screaming and stamping amongst the cattle. The dogs slavered and
crouched close to the feet of the fear-numbed family. Frye lit a lantern through force of habit,
but knew it would be death to go out into that black farmyard. The children and the womenfolk
whimpered, kept from screaming by some obscure, vestigial instinct of defence which told
them their lives depended on silence. At last the noise of the cattle subsided to a pitiful
moaning, and a great snapping, crashing, and crackling ensued. The Fryes, huddled together
in the sitting-room, did not dare to move until the last echoes died away far down in Cold
Spring Glen. Then, amidst the dismal moans from the stable and the daemoniac piping of late
whippoorwills in the glen, Selina Frye tottered to the telephone and spread what news she
could of the second phase of the horror.
The next day all the countryside was in a panic; and cowed, uncommunicative groups came
and went where the fiendish thing had occurred. Two titan swaths of destruction stretched
from the glen to the Frye farmyard, monstrous prints covered the bare patches of ground, and
one side of the old red barn had completely caved in. Of the cattle, only a quarter could be
found and identified. Some of these were in curious fragments, and all that survived had to be
shot. Earl Sawyer suggested that help be asked from Aylesbury or Arkham, but others
maintained it would be of no use. Old Zebulon Whateley, of a branch that hovered about half
way between soundness and decadence, made darkly wild suggestions about rites that ought
to be practiced on the hill-tops. He came of a line where tradition ran strong, and his
memories of chantings in the great stone circles were not altogether connected with Wilbur
and his grandfather.
Darkness fell upon a stricken countryside too passive to organise for real defence. In a few
cases closely related families would band together and watch in the gloom under one roof;
but in general there was only a repetition of the barricading of the night before, and a futile,
ineffective gesture of loading muskets and setting pitchforks handily about. Nothing, however,
occurred except some hill noises; and when the day came there were many who hoped that
the new horror had gone as swiftly as it had come. There were even bold souls who proposed
an offensive expedition down in the glen, though they did not venture to set an actual
example to the still reluctant majority.
When night came again the barricading was repeated, though there was less huddling
together of families. In the morning both the Frye and the Seth Bishop households reported
excitement among the dogs and vague sounds and stenches from afar, while early explorers
noted with horror a fresh set of the monstrous tracks in the road skirting Sentinel Hill. As
before, the sides of the road shewed a bruising indicative of the blasphemously stupendous
bulk of the horror; whilst the conformation of the tracks seemed to argue a passage in two
directions, as if the moving mountain had come from Cold Spring Glen and returned to it
along the same path. At the base of the hill a thirty-foot swath of crushed shrubbery saplings
led steeply upward, and the seekers gasped when they saw that even the most perpendicular
places did not deflect the inexorable trail. Whatever the horror was, it could scale a sheer
stony cliff of almost complete verticality; and as the investigators climbed around to the hill‘s
summit by safer routes they saw that the trail ended—or rather, reversed—there.
It was here that the Whateleys used to build their hellish fires and chant their hellish rituals by
the table-like stone on May-Eve and Hallowmass. Now that very stone formed the centre of a
vast space thrashed around by the mountainous horror, whilst upon its slightly concave
surface was a thick and foetid deposit of the same tarry stickiness observed on the floor of the
ruined Whateley farmhouse when the horror escaped. Men looked at one another and
muttered. Then they looked down the hill. Apparently the horror had descended by a route
much the same as that of its ascent. To speculate was futile. Reason, logic, and normal ideas
of motivation stood confounded. Only old Zebulon, who was not with the group, could have
done justice to the situation or suggested a plausible explanation.
Thursday night began much like the others, but it ended less happily. The whippoorwills in the
glen had screamed with such unusual persistence that many could not sleep, and about 3
A.M. all the party telephones rang tremulously. Those who took down their receivers heard a
fright-mad voice shriek out, ―Help, oh, my Gawd! . . .‖ and some thought a crashing sound
followed the breaking off of the exclamation. There was nothing more. No one dared do
anything, and no one knew till morning whence the call came. Then those who had heard it
called everyone on the line, and found that only the Fryes did not reply. The truth appeared an
hour later, when a hastily assembled group of armed men trudged out to the Frye place at the
head of the glen. It was horrible, yet hardly a surprise. There were more swaths and
monstrous prints, but there was no longer any house. It had caved in like an egg-shell, and
amongst the ruins nothing living or dead could be discovered. Only a stench and a tarry
stickiness. The Elmer Fryes had been erased from Dunwich.
VIII.
In the meantime a quieter yet even more spiritually poignant phase of the horror had been
blackly unwinding itself behind the closed door of a shelf-lined room in Arkham. The curious
manuscript record or diary of Wilbur Whateley, delivered to Miskatonic University for
translation, had caused much worry and bafflement among the experts in languages both
ancient and modern; its very alphabet, notwithstanding a general resemblance to the heavily
shaded Arabic used in Mesopotamia, being absolutely unknown to any available authority.
The final conclusion of the linguists was that the text represented an artificial alphabet, giving
the effect of a cipher; though none of the usual methods of cryptographic solution seemed to
furnish any clue, even when applied on the basis of every tongue the writer might conceivably
have used. The ancient books taken from Whateley‘s quarters, while absorbingly interesting
and in several cases promising to open up new and terrible lines of research among
philosophers and men of science, were of no assistance whatever in this matter. One of them,
a heavy tome with an iron clasp, was in another unknown alphabet—this one of a very
different cast, and resembling Sanscrit more than anything else. The old ledger was at length
given wholly into the charge of Dr. Armitage, both because of his peculiar interest in the
Whateley matter, and because of his wide linguistic learning and skill in the mystical formulae
of antiquity and the Middle Ages.
Armitage had an idea that the alphabet might be something esoterically used by certain
forbidden cults which have come down from old times, and which have inherited many forms
and traditions from the wizards of the Saracenic world. That question, however, he did not
deem vital; since it would be unnecessary to know the origin of the symbols if, as he
suspected, they were used as a cipher in a modern language. It was his belief that,
considering the great amount of text involved, the writer would scarcely have wished the
trouble of using another speech than his own, save perhaps in certain special formulae and
incantations. Accordingly he attacked the manuscript with the preliminary assumption that the
bulk of it was in English.
Dr. Armitage knew, from the repeated failures of his colleagues, that the riddle was a deep
and complex one; and that no simple mode of solution could merit even a trial. All through late
August he fortified himself with the massed lore of cryptography; drawing upon the fullest
resources of his own library, and wading night after night amidst the arcana of Trithemius‘
Poligraphia, Giambattista Porta‘s De Furtivis Literarum Notis, De Vigenère‘s Traité des
Chiffres, Falconer‘s Cryptomenysis Patefacta, Davys‘ and Thicknesse‘s eighteenth-century
treatises, and such fairly modern authorities as Blair, von Marten, and Klüber‘s Kryptographik.
He interspersed his study of the books with attacks on the manuscript itself, and in time
became convinced that he had to deal with one of those subtlest and most ingenious of
cryptograms, in which many separate lists of corresponding letters are arranged like the
multiplication table, and the message built up with arbitrary key-words known only to the
initiated. The older authorities seemed rather more helpful than the newer ones, and Armitage
concluded that the code of the manuscript was one of great antiquity, no doubt handed down
through a long line of mystical experimenters. Several times he seemed near daylight, only to
be set back by some unforeseen obstacle. Then, as September approached, the clouds
began to clear. Certain letters, as used in certain parts of the manuscript, emerged definitely
and unmistakably; and it became obvious that the text was indeed in English.
On the evening of September 2nd the last major barrier gave way, and Dr. Armitage read for
the first time a continuous passage of Wilbur Whateley‘s annals. It was in truth a diary, as all
had thought; and it was couched in a style clearly shewing the mixed occult erudition and
general illiteracy of the strange being who wrote it. Almost the first long passage that Armitage
deciphered, an entry dated November 26, 1916, proved highly startling and disquieting. It was
written, he remembered, by a child of three and a half who looked like a lad of twelve or
thirteen.
―Today learned the Aklo for the Sabaoth,‖ it ran, ―which did not like, it being
answerable from the hill and not from the air. That upstairs more ahead of me than
I had thought it would be, and is not like to have much earth brain. Shot Elam
Hutchins‘ collie Jack when he went to bite me, and Elam says he would kill me if he
dast. I guess he won‘t. Grandfather kept me saying the Dho formula last night, and
I think I saw the inner city at the 2 magnetic poles. I shall go to those poles when
the earth is cleared off, if I can‘t break through with the Dho-Hna formula when I
commit it. They from the air told me at Sabbat that it will be years before I can clear
off the earth, and I guess grandfather will be dead then, so I shall have to learn all
the angles of the planes and all the formulas between the Yr and the Nhhngr. They
from outside will help, but they cannot take body without human blood. That
upstairs looks it will have the right cast. I can see it a little when I make the Voorish
sign or blow the powder of Ibn Ghazi at it, and it is near like them at May-Eve on
the Hill. The other face may wear off some. I wonder how I shall look when the
earth is cleared and there are no earth beings on it. He that came with the Aklo
Sabaoth said I may be transfigured, there being much of outside to work on.‖
Morning found Dr. Armitage in a cold sweat of terror and a frenzy of wakeful concentration. He
had not left the manuscript all night, but sat at his table under the electric light turning page
after page with shaking hands as fast as he could decipher the cryptic text. He had nervously
telephoned his wife he would not be home, and when she brought him a breakfast from the
house he could scarcely dispose of a mouthful. All that day he read on, now and then halted
maddeningly as a reapplication of the complex key became necessary. Lunch and dinner
were brought him, but he ate only the smallest fraction of either. Toward the middle of the next
night he drowsed off in his chair, but soon woke out of a tangle of nightmares almost as
hideous as the truths and menaces to man‘s existence that he had uncovered.
On the morning of September 4th Professor Rice and Dr. Morgan insisted on seeing him for a
while, and departed trembling and ashen-grey. That evening he went to bed, but slept only
fitfully. Wednesday—the next day—he was back at the manuscript, and began to take copious
notes both from the current sections and from those he had already deciphered. In the small
hours of that night he slept a little in an easy-chair in his office, but was at the manuscript
again before dawn. Some time before noon his physician, Dr. Hartwell, called to see him and
insisted that he cease work. He refused; intimating that it was of the most vital importance for
him to complete the reading of the diary, and promising an explanation in due course of time.
That evening, just as twilight fell, he finished his terrible perusal and sank back exhausted.
His wife, bringing his dinner, found him in a half-comatose state; but he was conscious
enough to warn her off with a sharp cry when he saw her eyes wander toward the notes he
had taken. Weakly rising, he gathered up the scribbled papers and sealed them all in a great
envelope, which he immediately placed in his inside coat pocket. He had sufficient strength to
get home, but was so clearly in need of medical aid that Dr. Hartwell was summoned at once.
As the doctor put him to bed he could only mutter over and over again, ―But what, in God’s
name, can we do?”
Dr. Armitage slept, but was partly delirious the next day. He made no explanations to Hartwell,
but in his calmer moments spoke of the imperative need of a long conference with Rice and
Morgan. His wilder wanderings were very startling indeed, including frantic appeals that
something in a boarded-up farmhouse be destroyed, and fantastic references to some plan
for the extirpation of the entire human race and all animal and vegetable life from the earth by
some terrible elder race of beings from another dimension. He would shout that the world was
in danger, since the Elder Things wished to strip it and drag it away from the solar system and
cosmos of matter into some other plane or phase of entity from which it had once fallen,
vigintillions of aeons ago. At other times he would call for the dreaded Necronomicon and the
Daemonolatreia of Remigius, in which he seemed hopeful of finding some formula to check
the peril he conjured up.
―Stop them, stop them!‖ he would shout. ―Those Whateleys meant to let them in, and the
worst of all is left! Tell Rice and Morgan we must do something—it‘s a blind business, but I
know how to make the powder. . . . It hasn‘t been fed since the second of August, when
Wilbur came here to his death, and at that rate. . . .‖
But Armitage had a sound physique despite his seventy-three years, and slept off his disorder
that night without developing any real fever. He woke late Friday, clear of head, though sober
with a gnawing fear and tremendous sense of responsibility. Saturday afternoon he felt able to
go over to the library and summon Rice and Morgan for a conference, and the rest of that day
and evening the three men tortured their brains in the wildest speculation and the most
desperate debate. Strange and terrible books were drawn voluminously from the stack
shelves and from secure places of storage; and diagrams and formulae were copied with
feverish haste and in bewildering abundance. Of scepticism there was none. All three had
seen the body of Wilbur Whateley as it lay on the floor in a room of that very building, and
after that not one of them could feel even slightly inclined to treat the diary as a madman‘s
raving.
Opinions were divided as to notifying the Massachusetts State Police, and the negative finally
won. There were things involved which simply could not be believed by those who had not
seen a sample, as indeed was made clear during certain subsequent investigations. Late at
night the conference disbanded without having developed a definite plan, but all day Sunday
Armitage was busy comparing formulae and mixing chemicals obtained from the college
laboratory. The more he reflected on the hellish diary, the more he was inclined to doubt the
efficacy of any material agent in stamping out the entity which Wilbur Whateley had left
behind him—the earth-threatening entity which, unknown to him, was to burst forth in a few
hours and become the memorable Dunwich horror.
Monday was a repetition of Sunday with Dr. Armitage, for the task in hand required an infinity
of research and experiment. Further consultations of the monstrous diary brought about
various changes of plan, and he knew that even in the end a large amount of uncertainty must
remain. By Tuesday he had a definite line of action mapped out, and believed he would try a
trip to Dunwich within a week. Then, on Wednesday, the great shock came. Tucked obscurely
away in a corner of the Arkham Advertiser was a facetious little item from the Associated
Press, telling what a record-breaking monster the bootleg whiskey of Dunwich had raised up.
Armitage, half stunned, could only telephone for Rice and Morgan. Far into the night they
discussed, and the next day was a whirlwind of preparation on the part of them all. Armitage
knew he would be meddling with terrible powers, yet saw that there was no other way to
annul the deeper and more malign meddling which others had done before him.
IX.
Friday morning Armitage, Rice, and Morgan set out by motor for Dunwich, arriving at the
village about one in the afternoon. The day was pleasant, but even in the brightest sunlight a
kind of quiet dread and portent seemed to hover about the strangely domed hills and the
deep, shadowy ravines of the stricken region. Now and then on some mountain-top a gaunt
circle of stones could be glimpsed against the sky. From the air of hushed fright at Osborn‘s
store they knew something hideous had happened, and soon learned of the annihilation of the
Elmer Frye house and family. Throughout that afternoon they rode around Dunwich;
questioning the natives concerning all that had occurred, and seeing for themselves with
rising pangs of horror the drear Frye ruins with their lingering traces of the tarry stickiness, the
blasphemous tracks in the Frye yard, the wounded Seth Bishop cattle, and the enormous
swaths of disturbed vegetation in various places. The trail up and down Sentinel Hill seemed
to Armitage of almost cataclysmic significance, and he looked long at the sinister altar-like
stone on the summit.
At length the visitors, apprised of a party of State Police which had come from Aylesbury that
morning in response to the first telephone reports of the Frye tragedy, decided to seek out the
officers and compare notes as far as practicable. This, however, they found more easily
planned than performed; since no sign of the party could be found in any direction. There had
been five of them in a car, but now the car stood empty near the ruins in the Frye yard. The
natives, all of whom had talked with the policemen, seemed at first as perplexed as Armitage
and his companions. Then old Sam Hutchins thought of something and turned pale, nudging
Fred Farr and pointing to the dank, deep hollow that yawned close by.
―Gawd,‖ he gasped, ―I telled ‘em not ter go daown into the glen, an‘ I never thought nobody‘d
dew it with them tracks an‘ that smell an‘ the whippoorwills a-screechin‘ daown thar in the dark
o‘ noonday. . . .‖
A cold shudder ran through natives and visitors alike, and every ear seemed strained in a kind
of instinctive, unconscious listening. Armitage, now that he had actually come upon the horror
and its monstrous work, trembled with the responsibility he felt to be his. Night would soon
fall, and it was then that the mountainous blasphemy lumbered upon its eldritch course.
Negotium perambulans in tenebris. . . . The old librarian rehearsed the formulae he had
memorised, and clutched the paper containing the alternative one he had not memorised. He
saw that his electric flashlight was in working order. Rice, beside him, took from a valise a
metal sprayer of the sort used in combating insects; whilst Morgan uncased the big-game rifle
on which he relied despite his colleague‘s warnings that no material weapon would be of help.
Armitage, having read the hideous diary, knew painfully well what kind of a manifestation to
expect; but he did not add to the fright of the Dunwich people by giving any hints or clues. He
hoped that it might be conquered without any revelation to the world of the monstrous thing it
had escaped. As the shadows gathered, the natives commenced to disperse homeward,
anxious to bar themselves indoors despite the present evidence that all human locks and
bolts were useless before a force that could bend trees and crush houses when it chose.
They shook their heads at the visitors‘ plan to stand guard at the Frye ruins near the glen; and
as they left, had little expectancy of ever seeing the watchers again.
There were rumblings under the hills that night, and the whippoorwills piped threateningly.
Once in a while a wind, sweeping up out of Cold Spring Glen, would bring a touch of ineffable
foetor to the heavy night air; such a foetor as all three of the watchers had smelled once
before, when they stood above a dying thing that had passed for fifteen years and a half as a
human being. But the looked-for terror did not appear. Whatever was down there in the glen
was biding its time, and Armitage told his colleagues it would be suicidal to try to attack it in
the dark.
Morning came wanly, and the night-sounds ceased. It was a grey, bleak day, with now and
then a drizzle of rain; and heavier and heavier clouds seemed to be piling themselves up
beyond the hills to the northwest. The men from Arkham were undecided what to do. Seeking
shelter from the increasing rainfall beneath one of the few undestroyed Frye outbuildings,
they debated the wisdom of waiting, or of taking the aggressive and going down into the glen
in quest of their nameless, monstrous quarry. The downpour waxed in heaviness, and distant
peals of thunder sounded from far horizons. Sheet lightning shimmered, and then a forky bolt
flashed near at hand, as if descending into the accursed glen itself. The sky grew very dark,
and the watchers hoped that the storm would prove a short, sharp one followed by clear
weather.
It was still gruesomely dark when, not much over an hour later, a confused babel of voices
sounded down the road. Another moment brought to view a frightened group of more than a
dozen men, running, shouting, and even whimpering hysterically. Someone in the lead began
sobbing out words, and the Arkham men started violently when those words developed a
coherent form.
―Oh, my Gawd, my Gawd,‖ the voice choked out. ―It‘s a-goin‘ agin, an’ this time by day! It‘s
aout—it‘s aout an‘ a-movin‘ this very minute, an‘ only the Lord knows when it‘ll be on us all!‖
The speaker panted into silence, but another took up his message.
―Nigh on a haour ago Zeb Whateley here heerd the ‘phone a-ringin‘, an‘ it was Mis‘ Corey,
George‘s wife, that lives daown by the junction. She says the hired boy Luther was aout drivin‘
in the caows from the storm arter the big bolt, when he see all the trees a-bendin‘ at the
maouth o‘ the glen—opposite side ter this—an‘ smelt the same awful smell like he smelt when
he faound the big tracks las‘ Monday mornin‘. An‘ she says he says they was a swishin‘,
lappin‘ sound, more nor what the bendin‘ trees an‘ bushes could make, an‘ all on a suddent
the trees along the rud begun ter git pushed one side, an‘ they was a awful stompin‘ an‘
splashin‘ in the mud. But mind ye, Luther he didn‘t see nothin‘ at all, only just the bendin‘ trees
an‘ underbrush.
―Then fur ahead where Bishop‘s Brook goes under the rud he heerd a awful creakin‘ an‘
strainin‘ on the bridge, an‘ says he could tell the saound o‘ wood a-startin‘ to crack an‘ split.
An‘ all the whiles he never see a thing, only them trees an‘ bushes a-bendin‘. An‘ when the
swishin‘ saound got very fur off—on the rud towards Wizard Whateley‘s an‘ Sentinel Hill—
Luther he had the guts ter step up whar he‘d heerd it furst an‘ look at the graound. It was all
mud an‘ water, an‘ the sky was dark, an‘ the rain was wipin‘ aout all tracks abaout as fast as
could be; but beginnin‘ at the glen maouth, whar the trees had moved, they was still some o‘
them awful prints big as bar‘ls like he seen Monday.‖
At this point the first excited speaker interrupted.
―But that ain‘t the trouble naow—that was only the start. Zeb here was callin‘ folks up an‘
everybody was a-listenin‘ in when a call from Seth Bishop‘s cut in. His haousekeeper Sally
was carryin‘ on fit ter kill—she‘d jest seed the trees a-bendin‘ beside the rud, an‘ says they
was a kind o‘ mushy saound, like a elephant puffin‘ an‘ treadin‘, a-headin‘ fer the haouse.
Then she up an‘ spoke suddent of a fearful smell, an‘ says her boy Cha‘ncey was a-screamin‘
as haow it was jest like what he smelt up to the Whateley rewins Monday mornin‘. An‘ the
dogs was all barkin‘ an‘ whinin‘ awful.
―An‘ then she let aout a turrible yell, an‘ says the shed daown the rud had jest caved in like the
storm hed blowed it over, only the wind wa‘n‘t strong enough to dew that. Everybody was a-
listenin‘, an‘ we could hear lots o‘ folks on the wire a-gaspin‘. All to onct Sally she yelled agin,
an‘ says the front yard picket fence hed just crumbled up, though they wa‘n‘t no sign o‘ what
done it. Then everybody on the line could hear Cha‘ncey an‘ ol‘ Seth Bishop a-yellin‘ tew, an‘
Sally was shriekin‘ aout that suthin‘ heavy hed struck the haouse—not lightnin‘ nor nothin‘, but
suthin‘ heavy agin the front, that kep‘ a-launchin‘ itself agin an‘ agin, though ye couldn‘t see
nothin‘ aout the front winders. An‘ then . . . an‘ then . . .‖
Lines of fright deepened on every face; and Armitage, shaken as he was, had barely poise
enough to prompt the speaker.
―An‘ then . . . Sally she yelled aout, ‘O help, the haouse is a-cavin‘ in‘ . . . an‘ on the wire we
could hear a turrible crashin‘, an‘ a hull flock o‘ screamin‘ . . . jest like when Elmer Frye‘s place
was took, only wuss. . . .‖
The man paused, and another of the crowd spoke.
―That‘s all—not a saound nor squeak over the ‘phone arter that. Jest still-like. We that heerd it
got aout Fords an‘ wagons an‘ raounded up as many able-bodied menfolks as we could git, at
Corey‘s place, an‘ come up here ter see what yew thought best ter dew. Not but what I think
it‘s the Lord‘s jedgment fer our iniquities, that no mortal kin ever set aside.‖
Armitage saw that the time for positive action had come, and spoke decisively to the faltering
group of frightened rustics.
―We must follow it, boys.‖ He made his voice as reassuring as possible. ―I believe there‘s a
chance of putting it out of business. You men know that those Whateleys were wizards—well,
this thing is a thing of wizardry, and must be put down by the same means. I‘ve seen Wilbur
Whateley‘s diary and read some of the strange old books he used to read; and I think I know
the right kind of spell to recite to make the thing fade away. Of course, one can‘t be sure, but
we can always take a chance. It‘s invisible—I knew it would be—but there‘s a powder in this
long-distance sprayer that might make it shew up for a second. Later on we‘ll try it. It‘s a
frightful thing to have alive, but it isn‘t as bad as what Wilbur would have let in if he‘d lived
longer. You‘ll never know what the world has escaped. Now we‘ve only this one thing to fight,
and it can‘t multiply. It can, though, do a lot of harm; so we mustn‘t hesitate to rid the
community of it.
―We must follow it—and the way to begin is to go to the place that has just been wrecked. Let
somebody lead the way—I don‘t know your roads very well, but I‘ve an idea there might be a
shorter cut across lots. How about it?‖
The men shuffled about a moment, and then Earl Sawyer spoke softly, pointing with a grimy
finger through the steadily lessening rain.
―I guess ye kin git to Seth Bishop‘s quickest by cuttin‘ acrost the lower medder here, wadin‘
the brook at the low place, an‘ climbin‘ through Carrier‘s mowin‘ and the timber-lot beyont.
That comes aout on the upper rud mighty nigh Seth‘s—a leetle t‘other side.‖
Armitage, with Rice and Morgan, started to walk in the direction indicated; and most of the
natives followed slowly. The sky was growing lighter, and there were signs that the storm had
worn itself away. When Armitage inadvertently took a wrong direction, Joe Osborn warned
him and walked ahead to shew the right one. Courage and confidence were mounting; though
the twilight of the almost perpendicular wooded hill which lay toward the end of their short cut,
and among whose fantastic ancient trees they had to scramble as if up a ladder, put these
qualities to a severe test.
At length they emerged on a muddy road to find the sun coming out. They were a little beyond
the Seth Bishop place, but bent trees and hideously unmistakable tracks shewed what had
passed by. Only a few moments were consumed in surveying the ruins just around the bend.
It was the Frye incident all over again, and nothing dead or living was found in either of the
collapsed shells which had been the Bishop house and barn. No one cared to remain there
amidst the stench and tarry stickiness, but all turned instinctively to the line of horrible prints
leading on toward the wrecked Whateley farmhouse and the altar-crowned slopes of Sentinel
Hill.
As the men passed the site of Wilbur Whateley‘s abode they shuddered visibly, and seemed
again to mix hesitancy with their zeal. It was no joke tracking down something as big as a
house that one could not see, but that had all the vicious malevolence of a daemon. Opposite
the base of Sentinel Hill the tracks left the road, and there was a fresh bending and matting
visible along the broad swath marking the monster‘s former route to and from the summit.
Armitage produced a pocket telescope of considerable power and scanned the steep green
side of the hill. Then he handed the instrument to Morgan, whose sight was keener. After a
moment of gazing Morgan cried out sharply, passing the glass to Earl Sawyer and indicating a
certain spot on the slope with his finger. Sawyer, as clumsy as most non-users of optical
devices are, fumbled a while; but eventually focussed the lenses with Armitage‘s aid. When
he did so his cry was less restrained than Morgan‘s had been.
―Gawd almighty, the grass an‘ bushes is a-movin‘! It‘s a-goin‘ up—slow-like—creepin‘ up ter
the top this minute, heaven only knows what fur!‖
Then the germ of panic seemed to spread among the seekers. It was one thing to chase the
nameless entity, but quite another to find it. Spells might be all right—but suppose they
weren‘t? Voices began questioning Armitage about what he knew of the thing, and no reply
seemed quite to satisfy. Everyone seemed to feel himself in close proximity to phases of
Nature and of being utterly forbidden, and wholly outside the sane experience of mankind.
X.
In the end the three men from Arkham—old, white-bearded Dr. Armitage, stocky, iron-grey
Professor Rice, and lean, youngish Dr. Morgan—ascended the mountain alone. After much
patient instruction regarding its focussing and use, they left the telescope with the frightened
group that remained in the road; and as they climbed they were watched closely by those
among whom the glass was passed around. It was hard going, and Armitage had to be
helped more than once. High above the toiling group the great swath trembled as its hellish
maker re-passed with snail-like deliberateness. Then it was obvious that the pursuers were
gaining.
Curtis Whateley—of the undecayed branch—was holding the telescope when the Arkham
party detoured radically from the swath. He told the crowd that the men were evidently trying
to get to a subordinate peak which overlooked the swath at a point considerably ahead of
where the shrubbery was now bending. This, indeed, proved to be true; and the party were
seen to gain the minor elevation only a short time after the invisible blasphemy had passed it.
Then Wesley Corey, who had taken the glass, cried out that Armitage was adjusting the
sprayer which Rice held, and that something must be about to happen. The crowd stirred
uneasily, recalling that this sprayer was expected to give the unseen horror a moment of
visibility. Two or three men shut their eyes, but Curtis Whateley snatched back the telescope
and strained his vision to the utmost. He saw that Rice, from the party‘s point of vantage
above and behind the entity, had an excellent chance of spreading the potent powder with
marvellous effect.
Those without the telescope saw only an instant‘s flash of grey cloud—a cloud about the size
of a moderately large building—near the top of the mountain. Curtis, who had held the
instrument, dropped it with a piercing shriek into the ankle-deep mud of the road. He reeled,
and would have crumpled to the ground had not two or three others seized and steadied him.
All he could do was moan half-inaudibly,
―Oh, oh, great Gawd . . . that . . . that . . .‖
There was a pandemonium of questioning, and only Henry Wheeler thought to rescue the
fallen telescope and wipe it clean of mud. Curtis was past all coherence, and even isolated
replies were almost too much for him.
―Bigger‘n a barn . . . all made o‘ squirmin‘ ropes . . . hull thing sort o‘ shaped like a hen‘s egg
bigger‘n anything, with dozens o‘ legs like hogsheads that haff shut up when they step . . .
nothin‘ solid abaout it—all like jelly, an‘ made o‘ sep‘rit wrigglin‘ ropes pushed clost together . .
. great bulgin‘ eyes all over it . . . ten or twenty maouths or trunks a-stickin‘ aout all along the
sides, big as stovepipes, an‘ all a-tossin‘ an‘ openin‘ an‘ shuttin‘ . . . all grey, with kinder blue or
purple rings . . . an’ Gawd in heaven—that haff face on top! . . .‖
This final memory, whatever it was, proved too much for poor Curtis; and he collapsed
completely before he could say more. Fred Farr and Will Hutchins carried him to the roadside
and laid him on the damp grass. Henry Wheeler, trembling, turned the rescued telescope on
the mountain to see what he might. Through the lenses were discernible three tiny figures,
apparently running toward the summit as fast as the steep incline allowed. Only these—
nothing more. Then everyone noticed a strangely unseasonable noise in the deep valley
behind, and even in the underbrush of Sentinel Hill itself. It was the piping of unnumbered
whippoorwills, and in their shrill chorus there seemed to lurk a note of tense and evil
expectancy.
Earl Sawyer now took the telescope and reported the three figures as standing on the
topmost ridge, virtually level with the altar-stone but at a considerable distance from it. One
figure, he said, seemed to be raising its hands above its head at rhythmic intervals; and as
Sawyer mentioned the circumstance the crowd seemed to hear a faint, half-musical sound
from the distance, as if a loud chant were accompanying the gestures. The weird silhouette
on that remote peak must have been a spectacle of infinite grotesqueness and
impressiveness, but no observer was in a mood for aesthetic appreciation. ―I guess he‘s
sayin‘ the spell,‖ whispered Wheeler as he snatched back the telescope. The whippoorwills
were piping wildly, and in a singularly curious irregular rhythm quite unlike that of the visible
ritual.
Suddenly the sunshine seemed to lessen without the intervention of any discernible cloud. It
was a very peculiar phenomenon, and was plainly marked by all. A rumbling sound seemed
brewing beneath the hills, mixed strangely with a concordant rumbling which clearly came
from the sky. Lightning flashed aloft, and the wondering crowd looked in vain for the portents
of storm. The chanting of the men from Arkham now became unmistakable, and Wheeler saw
through the glass that they were all raising their arms in the rhythmic incantation. From some
farmhouse far away came the frantic barking of dogs.
The change in the quality of the daylight increased, and the crowd gazed about the horizon in
wonder. A purplish darkness, born of nothing more than a spectral deepening of the sky‘s
blue, pressed down upon the rumbling hills. Then the lightning flashed again, somewhat
brighter than before, and the crowd fancied that it had shewed a certain mistiness around the
altar-stone on the distant height. No one, however, had been using the telescope at that
instant. The whippoorwills continued their irregular pulsation, and the men of Dunwich braced
themselves tensely against some imponderable menace with which the atmosphere seemed
surcharged.
Without warning came those deep, cracked, raucous vocal sounds which will never leave the
memory of the stricken group who heard them. Not from any human throat were they born, for
the organs of man can yield no such acoustic perversions. Rather would one have said they
came from the pit itself, had not their source been so unmistakably the altar-stone on the
peak. It is almost erroneous to call them sounds at all, since so much of their ghastly, infra-
bass timbre spoke to dim seats of consciousness and terror far subtler than the ear; yet one
must do so, since their form was indisputably though vaguely that of half-articulate words.
They were loud—loud as the rumblings and the thunder above which they echoed—yet did
they come from no visible being. And because imagination might suggest a conjectural source
in the world of non-visible beings, the huddled crowd at the mountain‘s base huddled still
closer, and winced as if in expectation of a blow.
―Ygnaiih . . . ygnaiih . . . thflthkh’ngha . . . Yog-Sothoth . . .” rang the hideous croaking out of
space. ―Y’bthnk . . . h’ehye—n’grkdl’lh. . . .”
The speaking impulse seemed to falter here, as if some frightful psychic struggle were going
on. Henry Wheeler strained his eye at the telescope, but saw only the three grotesquely
silhouetted human figures on the peak, all moving their arms furiously in strange gestures as
their incantation drew near its culmination. From what black wells of Acherontic fear or feeling,
from what unplumbed gulfs of extra-cosmic consciousness or obscure, long-latent heredity,
were those half-articulate thunder-croakings drawn? Presently they began to gather renewed
force and coherence as they grew in stark, utter, ultimate frenzy.
―Eh-ya-ya-ya-yahaah—e’yayayayaaaa . . . ngh’aaaaa . . . ngh’aaaa . . . h‘yuh . . . h‘yuh . . .
HELP! HELP! . . . ff—ff—ff—FATHER! FATHER! YOG-SOTHOTH! . . .‖
But that was all. The pallid group in the road, still reeling at the indisputably English syllables
that had poured thickly and thunderously down from the frantic vacancy beside that shocking
altar-stone, were never to hear such syllables again. Instead, they jumped violently at the
terrific report which seemed to rend the hills; the deafening, cataclysmic peal whose source,
be it inner earth or sky, no hearer was ever able to place. A single lightning-bolt shot from the
purple zenith to the altar-stone, and a great tidal wave of viewless force and indescribable
stench swept down from the hill to all the countryside. Trees, grass, and underbrush were
whipped into a fury; and the frightened crowd at the mountain‘s base, weakened by the lethal
foetor that seemed about to asphyxiate them, were almost hurled off their feet. Dogs howled
from the distance, green grass and foliage wilted to a curious, sickly yellow-grey, and over
field and forest were scattered the bodies of dead whippoorwills.
The stench left quickly, but the vegetation never came right again. To this day there is
something queer and unholy about the growths on and around that fearsome hill. Curtis
Whateley was only just regaining consciousness when the Arkham men came slowly down
the mountain in the beams of a sunlight once more brilliant and untainted. They were grave
and quiet, and seemed shaken by memories and reflections even more terrible than those
which had reduced the group of natives to a state of cowed quivering. In reply to a jumble of
questions they only shook their heads and reaffirmed one vital fact.
―The thing has gone forever,‖ Armitage said. ―It has been split up into what it was originally
made of, and can never exist again. It was an impossibility in a normal world. Only the least
fraction was really matter in any sense we know. It was like its father—and most of it has
gone back to him in some vague realm or dimension outside our material universe; some
vague abyss out of which only the most accursed rites of human blasphemy could ever have
called him for a moment on the hills.‖
There was a brief silence, and in that pause the scattered senses of poor Curtis Whateley
began to knit back into a sort of continuity; so that he put his hands to his head with a moan.
Memory seemed to pick itself up where it had left off, and the horror of the sight that had
prostrated him burst in upon him again.
―Oh, oh, my Gawd, that haff face—that haff face on top of it . . . that face with the red eyes an’
crinkly albino hair, an’ no chin, like the Whateleys . . . It was a octopus, centipede, spider kind
o’ thing, but they was a haff-shaped man’s face on top of it, an’ it looked like Wizard
Whateley’s, only it was yards an’ yards acrost. . . .”
He paused exhausted, as the whole group of natives stared in a bewilderment not quite
crystallised into fresh terror. Only old Zebulon Whateley, who wanderingly remembered
ancient things but who had been silent heretofore, spoke aloud.
―Fifteen year‘ gone,‖ he rambled, ―I heerd Ol‘ Whateley say as haow some day we‘d hear a
child o‘ Lavinny‘s a-callin‘ its father‘s name on the top o‘ Sentinel Hill. . . .‖
But Joe Osborn interrupted him to question the Arkham men anew.
―What was it anyhaow, an‘ haowever did young Wizard Whateley call it aout o‘ the air it come
from?‖
Armitage chose his words very carefully.
―It was—well, it was mostly a kind of force that doesn‘t belong in our part of space; a kind of
force that acts and grows and shapes itself by other laws than those of our sort of Nature. We
have no business calling in such things from outside, and only very wicked people and very
wicked cults ever try to. There was some of it in Wilbur Whateley himself—enough to make a
devil and a precocious monster of him, and to make his passing out a pretty terrible sight. I‘m
going to burn his accursed diary, and if you men are wise you‘ll dynamite that altar-stone up
there, and pull down all the rings of standing stones on the other hills. Things like that brought
down the beings those Whateleys were so fond of—the beings they were going to let in
tangibly to wipe out the human race and drag the earth off to some nameless place for some
nameless purpose.
―But as to this thing we‘ve just sent back—the Whateleys raised it for a terrible part in the
doings that were to come. It grew fast and big from the same reason that Wilbur grew fast and
big—but it beat him because it had a greater share of the outsideness in it. You needn‘t ask
how Wilbur called it out of the air. He didn‘t call it out. It was his twin brother, but it looked
more like the father than he did.”
My dear Sir:—
I have read with great interest the Brattleboro Reformer‘s reprint (Apr. 23, ‘28) of
your letter on the recent stories of strange bodies seen floating in our flooded
streams last fall, and on the curious folklore they so well agree with. It is easy to
see why an outlander would take the position you take, and even why ―Pendrifter‖
agrees with you. That is the attitude generally taken by educated persons both in
and out of Vermont, and was my own attitude as a young man (I am now 57)
before my studies, both general and in Davenport‘s book, led me to do some
exploring in parts of the hills hereabouts not usually visited.
I was directed toward such studies by the queer old tales I used to hear from
elderly farmers of the more ignorant sort, but now I wish I had let the whole matter
alone. I might say, with all proper modesty, that the subject of anthropology and
folklore is by no means strange to me. I took a good deal of it at college, and am
familiar with most of the standard authorities such as Tylor, Lubbock, Frazer,
Quatrefages, Murray, Osborn, Keith, Boule, G. Elliot Smith, and so on. It is no news
to me that tales of hidden races are as old as all mankind. I have seen the reprints
of letters from you, and those arguing with you, in the Rutland Herald, and guess I
know about where your controversy stands at the present time.
What I desire to say now is, that I am afraid your adversaries are nearer right than
yourself, even though all reason seems to be on your side. They are nearer right
than they realise themselves—for of course they go only by theory, and cannot
know what I know. If I knew as little of the matter as they, I would not feel justified
in believing as they do. I would be wholly on your side.
You can see that I am having a hard time getting to the point, probably because I
really dread getting to the point; but the upshot of the matter is that I have certain
evidence that monstrous things do indeed live in the woods on the high hills which
nobody visits. I have not seen any of the things floating in the rivers, as reported,
but I have seen things like them under circumstances I dread to repeat. I have
seen footprints, and of late have seen them nearer my own home (I live in the old
Akeley place south of Townshend Village, on the side of Dark Mountain) than I dare
tell you now. And I have overheard voices in the woods at certain points that I will
not even begin to describe on paper.
Now my object in writing you is not to start an argument, but to give you
information which I think a man of your tastes will find deeply interesting. This is
private. Publicly I am on your side, for certain things shew me that it does not do
for people to know too much about these matters. My own studies are now wholly
private, and I would not think of saying anything to attract people‘s attention and
cause them to visit the places I have explored. It is true—terribly true—that there
are non-human creatures watching us all the time; with spies among us gathering
information. It is from a wretched man who, if he was sane (as I think he was), was
one of those spies, that I got a large part of my clues to the matter. He later killed
himself, but I have reason to think there are others now.
The things come from another planet, being able to live in interstellar space and fly
through it on clumsy, powerful wings which have a way of resisting the ether but
which are too poor at steering to be of much use in helping them about on earth. I
will tell you about this later if you do not dismiss me at once as a madman. They
come here to get metals from mines that go deep under the hills, and I think I know
where they come from. They will not hurt us if we let them alone, but no one can
say what will happen if we get too curious about them. Of course a good army of
men could wipe out their mining colony. That is what they are afraid of. But if that
happened, more would come from outside—any number of them. They could easily
conquer the earth, but have not tried so far because they have not needed to. They
would rather leave things as they are to save bother.
I think they mean to get rid of me because of what I have discovered. There is a
great black stone with unknown hieroglyphics half worn away which I found in the
woods on Round Hill, east of here; and after I took it home everything became
different. If they think I suspect too much they will either kill me or take me off the
earth to where they come from. They like to take away men of learning once in a
while, to keep informed on the state of things in the human world.
I shall welcome further communication with you, and shall try to send you that
phonograph record and black stone (which is so worn that photographs don‘t shew
much) by express if you are willing. I say ―try‖ because I think those creatures have
a way of tampering with things around here. There is a sullen, furtive fellow named
Brown, on a farm near the village, who I think is their spy. Little by little they are
trying to cut me off from our world because I know too much about their world.
They have the most amazing way of finding out what I do. You may not even get
this letter. I think I shall have to leave this part of the country and go to live with my
son in San Diego, Cal., if things get any worse, but it is not easy to give up the
place you were born in, and where your family has lived for six generations. Also, I
would hardly dare sell this house to anybody now that the creatures have taken
notice of it. They seem to be trying to get the black stone back and destroy the
phonograph record, but I shall not let them if I can help it. My great police dogs
always hold them back, for there are very few here as yet, and they are clumsy in
getting about. As I have said, their wings are not much use for short flights on
earth. I am on the very brink of deciphering that stone—in a very terrible way—and
with your knowledge of folklore you may be able to supply missing links enough to
help me. I suppose you know all about the fearful myths antedating the coming of
man to the earth—the Yog-Sothoth and Cthulhu cycles—which are hinted at in the
Necronomicon. I had access to a copy of that once, and hear that you have one in
your college library under lock and key.
To conclude, Mr. Wilmarth, I think that with our respective studies we can be very
useful to each other. I don‘t wish to put you in any peril, and suppose I ought to
warn you that possession of the stone and the record won‘t be very safe; but I think
you will find any risks worth running for the sake of knowledge. I will drive down to
Newfane or Brattleboro to send whatever you authorise me to send, for the
express offices there are more to be trusted. I might say that I live quite alone now,
since I can‘t keep hired help any more. They won‘t stay because of the things that
try to get near the house at night, and that keep the dogs barking continually. I am
glad I didn‘t get as deep as this into the business while my wife was alive, for it
would have driven her mad.
Hoping that I am not bothering you unduly, and that you will decide to get in touch
with me rather than throw this letter into the waste basket as a madman‘s raving, I
am
It would be difficult to describe my sentiments upon reading this strange document for the first
time. By all ordinary rules, I ought to have laughed more loudly at these extravagances than
at the far milder theories which had previously moved me to mirth; yet something in the tone
of the letter made me take it with paradoxical seriousness. Not that I believed for a moment in
the hidden race from the stars which my correspondent spoke of; but that, after some grave
preliminary doubts, I grew to feel oddly sure of his sanity and sincerity, and of his
confrontation by some genuine though singular and abnormal phenomenon which he could
not explain except in this imaginative way. It could not be as he thought it, I reflected, yet on
the other hand it could not be otherwise than worthy of investigation. The man seemed unduly
excited and alarmed about something, but it was hard to think that all cause was lacking. He
was so specific and logical in certain ways—and after all, his yarn did fit in so perplexingly
well with some of the old myths—even the wildest Indian legends.
That he had really overheard disturbing voices in the hills, and had really found the black
stone he spoke about, was wholly possible despite the crazy inferences he had made—
inferences probably suggested by the man who had claimed to be a spy of the outer beings
and had later killed himself. It was easy to deduce that this man must have been wholly
insane, but that he probably had a streak of perverse outward logic which made the naive
Akeley—already prepared for such things by his folklore studies—believe his tale. As for the
latest developments—it appeared from his inability to keep hired help that Akeley‘s humbler
rustic neighbours were as convinced as he that his house was besieged by uncanny things at
night. The dogs really barked, too.
And then the matter of that phonograph record, which I could not but believe he had obtained
in the way he said. It must mean something; whether animal noises deceptively like human
speech, or the speech of some hidden, night-haunting human being decayed to a state not
much above that of lower animals. From this my thoughts went back to the black hieroglyphed
stone, and to speculations upon what it might mean. Then, too, what of the photographs
which Akeley said he was about to send, and which the old people had found so convincingly
terrible?
As I re-read the cramped handwriting I felt as never before that my credulous opponents
might have more on their side than I had conceded. After all, there might be some queer and
perhaps hereditarily misshapen outcasts in those shunned hills, even though no such race of
star-born monsters as folklore claimed. And if there were, then the presence of strange bodies
in the flooded streams would not be wholly beyond belief. Was it too presumptuous to
suppose that both the old legends and the recent reports had this much of reality behind
them? But even as I harboured these doubts I felt ashamed that so fantastic a piece of
bizarrerie as Henry Akeley‘s wild letter had brought them up.
In the end I answered Akeley‘s letter, adopting a tone of friendly interest and soliciting further
particulars. His reply came almost by return mail; and contained, true to promise, a number of
kodak views of scenes and objects illustrating what he had to tell. Glancing at these pictures
as I took them from the envelope, I felt a curious sense of fright and nearness to forbidden
things; for in spite of the vagueness of most of them, they had a damnably suggestive power
which was intensified by the fact of their being genuine photographs—actual optical links with
what they portrayed, and the product of an impersonal transmitting process without prejudice,
fallibility, or mendacity.
The more I looked at them, the more I saw that my serious estimate of Akeley and his story
had not been unjustified. Certainly, these pictures carried conclusive evidence of something in
the Vermont hills which was at least vastly outside the radius of our common knowledge and
belief. The worst thing of all was the footprint—a view taken where the sun shone on a mud
patch somewhere in a deserted upland. This was no cheaply counterfeited thing, I could see
at a glance; for the sharply defined pebbles and grass-blades in the field of vision gave a
clear index of scale and left no possibility of a tricky double exposure. I have called the thing a
―footprint‖, but ―claw-print‖ would be a better term. Even now I can scarcely describe it save to
say that it was hideously crab-like, and that there seemed to be some ambiguity about its
direction. It was not a very deep or fresh print, but seemed to be about the size of an average
man‘s foot. From a central pad, pairs of saw-toothed nippers projected in opposite
directions—quite baffling as to function, if indeed the whole object were exclusively an organ
of locomotion.
Another photograph—evidently a time-exposure taken in deep shadow—was of the mouth of
a woodland cave, with a boulder of rounded regularity choking the aperture. On the bare
ground in front of it one could just discern a dense network of curious tracks, and when I
studied the picture with a magnifier I felt uneasily sure that the tracks were like the one in the
other view. A third picture shewed a druid-like circle of standing stones on the summit of a wild
hill. Around the cryptic circle the grass was very much beaten down and worn away, though I
could not detect any footprints even with the glass. The extreme remoteness of the place was
apparent from the veritable sea of tenantless mountains which formed the background and
stretched away toward a misty horizon.
But if the most disturbing of all the views was that of the footprint, the most curiously
suggestive was that of the great black stone found in the Round Hill woods. Akeley had
photographed it on what was evidently his study table, for I could see rows of books and a
bust of Milton in the background. The thing, as nearly as one might guess, had faced the
camera vertically with a somewhat irregularly curved surface of one by two feet; but to say
anything definite about that surface, or about the general shape of the whole mass, almost
defies the power of language. What outlandish geometrical principles had guided its cutting—
for artificially cut it surely was—I could not even begin to guess; and never before had I seen
anything which struck me as so strangely and unmistakably alien to this world. Of the
hieroglyphics on the surface I could discern very few, but one or two that I did see gave me
rather a shock. Of course they might be fraudulent, for others besides myself had read the
monstrous and abhorred Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; but it nevertheless
made me shiver to recognise certain ideographs which study had taught me to link with the
most blood-curdling and blasphemous whispers of things that had had a kind of mad half-
existence before the earth and the other inner worlds of the solar system were made.
Of the five remaining pictures, three were of swamp and hill scenes which seemed to bear
traces of hidden and unwholesome tenancy. Another was of a queer mark in the ground very
near Akeley‘s house, which he said he had photographed the morning after a night on which
the dogs had barked more violently than usual. It was very blurred, and one could really draw
no certain conclusions from it; but it did seem fiendishly like that other mark or claw-print
photographed on the deserted upland. The final picture was of the Akeley place itself; a trim
white house of two stories and attic, about a century and a quarter old, and with a well-kept
lawn and stone-bordered path leading up to a tastefully carved Georgian doorway. There
were several huge police dogs on the lawn, squatting near a pleasant-faced man with a close-
cropped grey beard whom I took to be Akeley himself—his own photographer, one might infer
from the tube-connected bulb in his right hand.
From the pictures I turned to the bulky, closely written letter itself; and for the next three hours
was immersed in a gulf of unutterable horror. Where Akeley had given only outlines before, he
now entered into minute details; presenting long transcripts of words overheard in the woods
at night, long accounts of monstrous pinkish forms spied in thickets at twilight on the hills, and
a terrible cosmic narrative derived from the application of profound and varied scholarship to
the endless bygone discourses of the mad self-styled spy who had killed himself. I found
myself faced by names and terms that I had heard elsewhere in the most hideous of
connexions—Yuggoth, Great Cthulhu, Tsathoggua, Yog-Sothoth, R‘lyeh, Nyarlathotep,
Azathoth, Hastur, Yian, Leng, the Lake of Hali, Bethmoora, the Yellow Sign, L‘mur-Kathulos,
Bran, and the Magnum Innominandum—and was drawn back through nameless aeons and
inconceivable dimensions to worlds of elder, outer entity at which the crazed author of the
Necronomicon had only guessed in the vaguest way. I was told of the pits of primal life, and of
the streams that had trickled down therefrom; and finally, of the tiny rivulet from one of those
streams which had become entangled with the destinies of our own earth.
My brain whirled; and where before I had attempted to explain things away, I now began to
believe in the most abnormal and incredible wonders. The array of vital evidence was
damnably vast and overwhelming; and the cool, scientific attitude of Akeley—an attitude
removed as far as imaginable from the demented, the fanatical, the hysterical, or even the
extravagantly speculative—had a tremendous effect on my thought and judgment. By the time
I laid the frightful letter aside I could understand the fears he had come to entertain, and was
ready to do anything in my power to keep people away from those wild, haunted hills. Even
now, when time has dulled the impression and made me half question my own experience
and horrible doubts, there are things in that letter of Akeley‘s which I would not quote, or even
form into words on paper. I am almost glad that the letter and record and photographs are
gone now—and I wish, for reasons I shall soon make clear, that the new planet beyond
Neptune had not been discovered.
With the reading of that letter my public debating about the Vermont horror permanently
ended. Arguments from opponents remained unanswered or put off with promises, and
eventually the controversy petered out into oblivion. During late May and June I was in
constant correspondence with Akeley; though once in a while a letter would be lost, so that
we would have to retrace our ground and perform considerable laborious copying. What we
were trying to do, as a whole, was to compare notes in matters of obscure mythological
scholarship and arrive at a clearer correlation of the Vermont horrors with the general body of
primitive world legend.
For one thing, we virtually decided that these morbidities and the hellish Himalayan Mi-Go
were one and the same order of incarnated nightmare. There were also absorbing zoölogical
conjectures, which I would have referred to Professor Dexter in my own college but for
Akeley‘s imperative command to tell no one of the matter before us. If I seem to disobey that
command now, it is only because I think that at this stage a warning about those farther
Vermont hills—and about those Himalayan peaks which bold explorers are more and more
determined to ascend—is more conducive to public safety than silence would be. One
specific thing we were leading up to was a deciphering of the hieroglyphics on that infamous
black stone—a deciphering which might well place us in possession of secrets deeper and
more dizzying than any formerly known to man.
III.
Toward the end of June the phonograph record came—shipped from Brattleboro, since
Akeley was unwilling to trust conditions on the branch line north of there. He had begun to
feel an increased sense of espionage, aggravated by the loss of some of our letters; and said
much about the insidious deeds of certain men whom he considered tools and agents of the
hidden beings. Most of all he suspected the surly farmer Walter Brown, who lived alone on a
run-down hillside place near the deep woods, and who was often seen loafing around corners
in Brattleboro, Bellows Falls, Newfane, and South Londonderry in the most inexplicable and
seemingly unmotivated way. Brown‘s voice, he felt convinced, was one of those he had
overheard on a certain occasion in a very terrible conversation; and he had once found a
footprint or claw-print near Brown‘s house which might possess the most ominous
significance. It had been curiously near some of Brown‘s own footprints—footprints that faced
toward it.
So the record was shipped from Brattleboro, whither Akeley drove in his Ford car along the
lonely Vermont back roads. He confessed in an accompanying note that he was beginning to
be afraid of those roads, and that he would not even go into Townshend for supplies now
except in broad daylight. It did not pay, he repeated again and again, to know too much
unless one were very remote from those silent and problematical hills. He would be going to
California pretty soon to live with his son, though it was hard to leave a place where all one‘s
memories and ancestral feelings centred.
Before trying the record on the commercial machine which I borrowed from the college
administration building I carefully went over all the explanatory matter in Akeley‘s various
letters. This record, he had said, was obtained about 1 a.m. on the first of May, 1915, near the
closed mouth of a cave where the wooded west slope of Dark Mountain rises out of Lee‘s
Swamp. The place had always been unusually plagued with strange voices, this being the
reason he had brought the phonograph, dictaphone, and blank in expectation of results.
Former experience had told him that May-Eve—the hideous Sabbat-night of underground
European legend—would probably be more fruitful than any other date, and he was not
disappointed. It was noteworthy, though, that he never again heard voices at that particular
spot.
Unlike most of the overheard forest voices, the substance of the record was quasi-ritualistic,
and included one palpably human voice which Akeley had never been able to place. It was
not Brown‘s, but seemed to be that of a man of greater cultivation. The second voice,
however, was the real crux of the thing—for this was the accursed buzzing which had no
likeness to humanity despite the human words which it uttered in good English grammar and
a scholarly accent.
The recording phonograph and dictaphone had not worked uniformly well, and had of course
been at a great disadvantage because of the remote and muffled nature of the overheard
ritual; so that the actual speech secured was very fragmentary. Akeley had given me a
transcript of what he believed the spoken words to be, and I glanced through this again as I
prepared the machine for action. The text was darkly mysterious rather than openly horrible,
though a knowledge of its origin and manner of gathering gave it all the associative horror
which any words could well possess. I will present it here in full as I remember it—and I am
fairly confident that I know it correctly by heart, not only from reading the transcript, but from
playing the record itself over and over again. It is not a thing which one might readily forget!
(INDISTINGUISHABLE SOUNDS)
(A CULTIVATED MALE HUMAN VOICE)
. . . is the Lord of the Woods, even to . . . and the gifts of the men of Leng . . . so
from the wells of night to the gulfs of space, and from the gulfs of space to the wells
of night, ever the praises of Great Cthulhu, of Tsathoggua, and of Him Who is not
to be Named. Ever Their praises, and abundance to the Black Goat of the Woods.
Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Goat with a Thousand Young!
(BUZZING VOICE)
. . . go out among men and find the ways thereof, that He in the Gulf may know. To
Nyarlathotep, Mighty Messenger, must all things be told. And He shall put on the
semblance of men, the waxen mask and the robe that hides, and come down from
the world of Seven Suns to mock. . . .
(HUMAN VOICE)
. . . (Nyarl)athotep, Great Messenger, bringer of strange joy to Yuggoth through the
void, Father of the Million Favoured Ones, Stalker among. . . .
HENRY AKELY
But the affair was steadily deepening. Upon my replying to the telegram I received a shaky
note from Akeley with the astonishing news that he had not only never sent the wire, but had
not received the letter from me to which it was an obvious reply. Hasty inquiries by him at
Bellows Falls had brought out that the message was deposited by a strange sandy-haired
man with a curiously thick, droning voice, though more than this he could not learn. The clerk
shewed him the original text as scrawled in pencil by the sender, but the handwriting was
wholly unfamiliar. It was noticeable that the signature was misspelled—A-K-E-L-Y, without the
second ―E‖. Certain conjectures were inevitable, but amidst the obvious crisis he did not stop
to elaborate upon them.
He spoke of the death of more dogs and the purchase of still others, and of the exchange of
gunfire which had become a settled feature each moonless night. Brown‘s prints, and the
prints of at least one or two more shod human figures, were now found regularly among the
claw-prints in the road, and at the back of the farmyard. It was, Akeley admitted, a pretty bad
business; and before long he would probably have to go to live with his California son whether
or not he could sell the old place. But it was not easy to leave the only spot one could really
think of as home. He must try to hang on a little longer; perhaps he could scare off the
intruders—especially if he openly gave up all further attempts to penetrate their secrets.
Writing Akeley at once, I renewed my offers of aid, and spoke again of visiting him and
helping him convince the authorities of his dire peril. In his reply he seemed less set against
that plan than his past attitude would have led one to predict, but said he would like to hold off
a little while longer—long enough to get his things in order and reconcile himself to the idea of
leaving an almost morbidly cherished birthplace. People looked askance at his studies and
speculations, and it would be better to get quietly off without setting the countryside in a
turmoil and creating widespread doubts of his own sanity. He had had enough, he admitted,
but he wanted to make a dignified exit if he could.
This letter reached me on the twenty-eighth of August, and I prepared and mailed as
encouraging a reply as I could. Apparently the encouragement had effect, for Akeley had
fewer terrors to report when he acknowledged my note. He was not very optimistic, though,
and expressed the belief that it was only the full moon season which was holding the
creatures off. He hoped there would not be many densely cloudy nights, and talked vaguely of
boarding in Brattleboro when the moon waned. Again I wrote him encouragingly, but on
September 5th there came a fresh communication which had obviously crossed my letter in
the mails; and to this I could not give any such hopeful response. In view of its importance I
believe I had better give it in full—as best I can do from memory of the shaky script. It ran
substantially as follows:
Monday.
Dear Wilmarth—
Hastily—
AKELEY
But this was not the only letter from Akeley to cross mine. On the next morning—September
6th—still another came; this time a frantic scrawl which utterly unnerved me and put me at a
loss what to say or do next. Again I cannot do better than quote the text as faithfully as
memory will let me.
Tuesday.
Clouds didn‘t break, so no moon again—and going into the wane anyhow. I‘d have
the house wired for electricity and put in a searchlight if I didn‘t know they‘d cut the
cables as fast as they could be mended.
I think I am going crazy. It may be that all I have ever written you is a dream or
madness. It was bad enough before, but this time it is too much. They talked to me
last night—talked in that cursed buzzing voice and told me things that I dare not
repeat to you. I heard them plainly over the barking of the dogs, and once when
they were drowned out a human voice helped them. Keep out of this, Wilmarth—it
is worse than either you or I ever suspected. They don’t mean to let me get to
California now—they want to take me off alive, or what theoretically and mentally
amounts to alive—not only to Yuggoth, but beyond that—away outside the galaxy
and possibly beyond the last curved rim of space. I told them I wouldn‘t go where
they wish, or in the terrible way they propose to take me, but I‘m afraid it will be no
use. My place is so far out that they may come by day as well as by night before
long. Six more dogs killed, and I felt presences all along the wooded parts of the
road when I drove to Brattleboro today.
It was a mistake for me to try to send you that phonograph record and black stone.
Better smash the record before it‘s too late. Will drop you another line tomorrow if
I‘m still here. Wish I could arrange to get my books and things to Brattleboro and
board there. I would run off without anything if I could, but something inside my
mind holds me back. I can slip out to Brattleboro, where I ought to be safe, but I
feel just as much a prisoner there as at the house. And I seem to know that I
couldn‘t get much farther even if I dropped everything and tried. It is horrible—don‘t
get mixed up in this.
Yrs—AKELEY
I did not sleep at all the night after receiving this terrible thing, and was utterly baffled as to
Akeley‘s remaining degree of sanity. The substance of the note was wholly insane, yet the
manner of expression—in view of all that had gone before—had a grimly potent quality of
convincingness. I made no attempt to answer it, thinking it better to wait until Akeley might
have time to reply to my latest communication. Such a reply indeed came on the following
day, though the fresh material in it quite overshadowed any of the points brought up by the
letter it nominally answered. Here is what I recall of the text, scrawled and blotted as it was in
the course of a plainly frantic and hurried composition.
Wednesday.
W—
Yr letter came, but it‘s no use to discuss anything any more. I am fully resigned.
Wonder that I have even enough will power left to fight them off. Can‘t escape even
if I were willing to give up everything and run. They‘ll get me.
Had a letter from them yesterday—R.F.D. man brought it while I was at Brattleboro.
Typed and postmarked Bellows Falls. Tells what they want to do with me—I can‘t
repeat it. Look out for yourself, too! Smash that record. Cloudy nights keep up, and
moon waning all the time. Wish I dared to get help—it might brace up my will
power—but everyone who would dare to come at all would call me crazy unless
there happened to be some proof. Couldn‘t ask people to come for no reason at
all—am all out of touch with everybody and have been for years.
But I haven‘t told you the worst, Wilmarth. Brace up to read this, for it will give you
a shock. I am telling the truth, though. It is this—I have seen and touched one of
the things, or part of one of the things. God, man, but it‘s awful! It was dead, of
course. One of the dogs had it, and I found it near the kennel this morning. I tried to
save it in the woodshed to convince people of the whole thing, but it all evaporated
in a few hours. Nothing left. You know, all those things in the rivers were seen only
on the first morning after the flood. And here‘s the worst. I tried to photograph it for
you, but when I developed the film there wasn’t anything visible except the
woodshed. What can the thing have been made of? I saw it and felt it, and they all
leave footprints. It was surely made of matter—but what kind of matter? The shape
can‘t be described. It was a great crab with a lot of pyramided fleshy rings or knots
of thick, ropy stuff covered with feelers where a man‘s head would be. That green
sticky stuff is its blood or juice. And there are more of them due on earth any
minute.
Walter Brown is missing—hasn‘t been seen loafing around any of his usual corners
in the villages hereabouts. I must have got him with one of my shots, though the
creatures always seem to try to take their dead and wounded away.
Got into town this afternoon without any trouble, but am afraid they‘re beginning to
hold off because they‘re sure of me. Am writing this in Brattleboro P.O. This may be
goodbye—if it is, write my son George Goodenough Akeley, 176 Pleasant St., San
Diego, Cal., but don’t come up here. Write the boy if you don‘t hear from me in a
week, and watch the papers for news.
I‘m going to play my last two cards now—if I have the will power left. First to try
poison gas on the things (I‘ve got the right chemicals and have fixed up masks for
myself and the dogs) and then if that doesn‘t work, tell the sheriff. They can lock
me in a madhouse if they want to—it‘ll be better than what the other creatures
would do. Perhaps I can get them to pay attention to the prints around the house—
they are faint, but I can find them every morning. Suppose, though, police would
say I faked them somehow; for they all think I‘m a queer character.
Must try to have a state policeman spend a night here and see for himself—though
it would be just like the creatures to learn about it and hold off that night. They cut
my wires whenever I try to telephone in the night—the linemen think it is very
queer, and may testify for me if they don‘t go and imagine I cut them myself. I
haven‘t tried to keep them repaired for over a week now.
I could get some of the ignorant people to testify for me about the reality of the
horrors, but everybody laughs at what they say, and anyway, they have shunned
my place for so long that they don‘t know any of the new events. You couldn‘t get
one of those run-down farmers to come within a mile of my house for love or
money. The mail-carrier hears what they say and jokes me about it—God! If I only
dared tell him how real it is! I think I‘ll try to get him to notice the prints, but he
comes in the afternoon and they‘re usually about gone by that time. If I kept one by
setting a box or pan over it, he‘d think surely it was a fake or joke.
Wish I hadn‘t gotten to be such a hermit, so folks don‘t drop around as they used
to. I‘ve never dared shew the black stone or the kodak pictures, or play that record,
to anybody but the ignorant people. The others would say I faked the whole
business and do nothing but laugh. But I may yet try shewing the pictures. They
give those claw-prints clearly, even if the things that made them can‘t be
photographed. What a shame nobody else saw that thing this morning before it
went to nothing!
But I don‘t know as I care. After what I‘ve been through, a madhouse is as good a
place as any. The doctors can help me make up my mind to get away from this
house, and that is all that will save me.
Write my son George if you don‘t hear soon. Goodbye, smash that record, and
don‘t mix up in this.
Yrs—AKELEY
The letter frankly plunged me into the blackest of terror. I did not know what to say in answer,
but scratched off some incoherent words of advice and encouragement and sent them by
registered mail. I recall urging Akeley to move to Brattleboro at once, and place himself under
the protection of the authorities; adding that I would come to that town with the phonograph
record and help convince the courts of his sanity. It was time, too, I think I wrote, to alarm the
people generally against this thing in their midst. It will be observed that at this moment of
stress my own belief in all Akeley had told and claimed was virtually complete, though I did
think his failure to get a picture of the dead monster was due not to any freak of Nature but to
some excited slip of his own.
V.
Then, apparently crossing my incoherent note and reaching me Saturday afternoon,
September 8th, came that curiously different and calming letter neatly typed on a new
machine; that strange letter of reassurance and invitation which must have marked so
prodigious a transition in the whole nightmare drama of the lonely hills. Again I will quote from
memory—seeking for special reasons to preserve as much of the flavour of the style as I can.
It was postmarked Bellows Falls, and the signature as well as the body of the letter was
typed—as is frequent with beginners in typing. The text, though, was marvellously accurate
for a tyro‘s work; and I concluded that Akeley must have used a machine at some previous
period—perhaps in college. To say that the letter relieved me would be only fair, yet beneath
my relief lay a substratum of uneasiness. If Akeley had been sane in his terror, was he now
sane in his deliverance? And the sort of ―improved rapport‖ mentioned . . . what was it? The
entire thing implied such a diametrical reversal of Akeley‘s previous attitude! But here is the
substance of the text, carefully transcribed from a memory in which I take some pride.
Townshend, Vermont,
Thursday, Sept. 6, 1928.
My dear Wilmarth:—
It gives me great pleasure to be able to set you at rest regarding all the silly things
I‘ve been writing you. I say ―silly‖, although by that I mean my frightened attitude
rather than my descriptions of certain phenomena. Those phenomena are real and
important enough; my mistake had been in establishing an anomalous attitude
toward them.
It seems that the evil legends about what they have offered to men, and what they
wish in connexion with the earth, are wholly the result of an ignorant misconception
of allegorical speech—speech, of course, moulded by cultural backgrounds and
thought-habits vastly different from anything we dream of. My own conjectures, I
freely own, shot as widely past the mark as any of the guesses of illiterate farmers
and savage Indians. What I had thought morbid and shameful and ignominious is
in reality awesome and mind-expanding and even glorious—my previous estimate
being merely a phase of man‘s eternal tendency to hate and fear and shrink from
the utterly different.
Now I regret the harm I have inflicted upon these alien and incredible beings in the
course of our nightly skirmishes. If only I had consented to talk peacefully and
reasonably with them in the first place! But they bear me no grudge, their emotions
being organised very differently from ours. It is their misfortune to have had as their
human agents in Vermont some very inferior specimens—the late Walter Brown,
for example. He prejudiced me vastly against them. Actually, they have never
knowingly harmed men, but have often been cruelly wronged and spied upon by
our species. There is a whole secret cult of evil men (a man of your mystical
erudition will understand me when I link them with Hastur and the Yellow Sign)
devoted to the purpose of tracking them down and injuring them on behalf of
monstrous powers from other dimensions. It is against these aggressors—not
against normal humanity—that the drastic precautions of the Outer Ones are
directed. Incidentally, I learned that many of our lost letters were stolen not by the
Outer Ones but by the emissaries of this malign cult.
All that the Outer Ones wish of man is peace and non-molestation and an
increasing intellectual rapport. This latter is absolutely necessary now that our
inventions and devices are expanding our knowledge and motions, and making it
more and more impossible for the Outer Ones‘ necessary outposts to exist secretly
on this planet. The alien beings desire to know mankind more fully, and to have a
few of mankind‘s philosophic and scientific leaders know more about them. With
such an exchange of knowledge all perils will pass, and a satisfactory modus
vivendi be established. The very idea of any attempt to enslave or degrade
mankind is ridiculous.
As a beginning of this improved rapport, the Outer Ones have naturally chosen
me—whose knowledge of them is already so considerable—as their primary
interpreter on earth. Much was told me last night—facts of the most stupendous
and vista-opening nature—and more will be subsequently communicated to me
both orally and in writing. I shall not be called upon to make any trip outside just
yet, though I shall probably wish to do so later on—employing special means and
transcending everything which we have hitherto been accustomed to regard as
human experience. My house will be besieged no longer. Everything has reverted
to normal, and the dogs will have no further occupation. In place of terror I have
been given a rich boon of knowledge and intellectual adventure which few other
mortals have ever shared.
The Outer Beings are perhaps the most marvellous organic things in or beyond all
space and time—members of a cosmos-wide race of which all other life-forms are
merely degenerate variants. They are more vegetable than animal, if these terms
can be applied to the sort of matter composing them, and have a somewhat
fungoid structure; though the presence of a chlorophyll-like substance and a very
singular nutritive system differentiate them altogether from true cormophytic fungi.
Indeed, the type is composed of a form of matter totally alien to our part of space—
with electrons having a wholly different vibration-rate. That is why the beings
cannot be photographed on the ordinary camera films and plates of our known
universe, even though our eyes can see them. With proper knowledge, however,
any good chemist could make a photographic emulsion which would record their
images.
The genus is unique in its ability to traverse the heatless and airless interstellar
void in full corporeal form, and some of its variants cannot do this without
mechanical aid or curious surgical transpositions. Only a few species have the
ether-resisting wings characteristic of the Vermont variety. Those inhabiting certain
remote peaks in the Old World were brought in other ways. Their external
resemblance to animal life, and to the sort of structure we understand as material,
is a matter of parallel evolution rather than of close kinship. Their brain-capacity
exceeds that of any other surviving life-form, although the winged types of our hill
country are by no means the most highly developed. Telepathy is their usual
means of discourse, though they have rudimentary vocal organs which, after a
slight operation (for surgery is an incredibly expert and every-day thing among
them), can roughly duplicate the speech of such types of organism as still use
speech.
Their main immediate abode is a still undiscovered and almost lightless planet at
the very edge of our solar system—beyond Neptune, and the ninth in distance from
the sun. It is, as we have inferred, the object mystically hinted at as ―Yuggoth‖ in
certain ancient and forbidden writings; and it will soon be the scene of a strange
focussing of thought upon our world in an effort to facilitate mental rapport. I would
not be surprised if astronomers became sufficiently sensitive to these thought-
currents to discover Yuggoth when the Outer Ones wish them to do so. But
Yuggoth, of course, is only the stepping-stone. The main body of the beings
inhabits strangely organised abysses wholly beyond the utmost reach of any
human imagination. The space-time globule which we recognise as the totality of
all cosmic entity is only an atom in the genuine infinity which is theirs. And as much
of this infinity as any human brain can hold is eventually to be opened up to me, as
it has been to not more than fifty other men since the human race has existed.
You will probably call this raving at first, Wilmarth, but in time you will appreciate
the titanic opportunity I have stumbled upon. I want you to share as much of it as is
possible, and to that end must tell you thousands of things that won‘t go on paper.
In the past I have warned you not to come to see me. Now that all is safe, I take
pleasure in rescinding that warning and inviting you.
Can‘t you make a trip up here before your college term opens? It would be
marvellously delightful if you could. Bring along the phonograph record and all my
letters to you as consultative data—we shall need them in piecing together the
whole tremendous story. You might bring the kodak prints, too, since I seem to
have mislaid the negatives and my own prints in all this recent excitement. But
what a wealth of facts I have to add to all this groping and tentative material—and
what a stupendous device I have to supplement my additions!
Don‘t hesitate—I am free from espionage now, and you will not meet anything
unnatural or disturbing. Just come along and let my car meet you at the Brattleboro
station—prepare to stay as long as you can, and expect many an evening of
discussion of things beyond all human conjecture. Don‘t tell anyone about it, of
course—for this matter must not get to the promiscuous public.
The train service to Brattleboro is not bad—you can get a time-table in Boston.
Take the B. & M. to Greenfield, and then change for the brief remainder of the way.
I suggest your taking the convenient 4:10 p.m.—standard—from Boston. This gets
into Greenfield at 7:35, and at 9:19 a train leaves there which reaches Brattleboro
at 10:01. That is week-days. Let me know the date and I‘ll have my car on hand at
the station.
Pardon this typed letter, but my handwriting has grown shaky of late, as you know,
and I don‘t feel equal to long stretches of script. I got this new Corona in
Brattleboro yesterday—it seems to work very well.
Awaiting word, and hoping to see you shortly with the phonograph record and all
my letters—and the kodak prints—
I am
Yours in anticipation,
HENRY W. AKELEY.
To Albert N. Wilmarth, Esq.,
Miskatonic University,
Arkham, Mass.
The complexity of my emotions upon reading, re-reading, and pondering over this strange
and unlooked-for letter is past adequate description. I have said that I was at once relieved
and made uneasy, but this expresses only crudely the overtones of diverse and largely
subconscious feelings which comprised both the relief and the uneasiness. To begin with, the
thing was so antipodally at variance with the whole chain of horrors preceding it—the change
of mood from stark terror to cool complacency and even exultation was so unheralded,
lightning-like, and complete! I could scarcely believe that a single day could so alter the
psychological perspective of one who had written that final frenzied bulletin of Wednesday, no
matter what relieving disclosures that day might have brought. At certain moments a sense of
conflicting unrealities made me wonder whether this whole distantly reported drama of
fantastic forces were not a kind of half-illusory dream created largely within my own mind.
Then I thought of the phonograph record and gave way to still greater bewilderment.
The letter seemed so unlike anything which could have been expected! As I analysed my
impression, I saw that it consisted of two distinct phases. First, granting that Akeley had been
sane before and was still sane, the indicated change in the situation itself was so swift and
unthinkable. And secondly, the change in Akeley‘s own manner, attitude, and language was
so vastly beyond the normal or the predictable. The man‘s whole personality seemed to have
undergone an insidious mutation—a mutation so deep that one could scarcely reconcile his
two aspects with the supposition that both represented equal sanity. Word-choice, spelling—
all were subtly different. And with my academic sensitiveness to prose style, I could trace
profound divergences in his commonest reactions and rhythm-responses. Certainly, the
emotional cataclysm or revelation which could produce so radical an overturn must be an
extreme one indeed! Yet in another way the letter seemed quite characteristic of Akeley. The
same old passion for infinity—the same old scholarly inquisitiveness. I could not a moment—
or more than a moment—credit the idea of spuriousness or malign substitution. Did not the
invitation—the willingness to have me test the truth of the letter in person—prove its
genuineness?
I did not retire Saturday night, but sat up thinking of the shadows and marvels behind the
letter I had received. My mind, aching from the quick succession of monstrous conceptions it
had been forced to confront during the last four months, worked upon this startling new
material in a cycle of doubt and acceptance which repeated most of the steps experienced in
facing the earlier wonders; till long before dawn a burning interest and curiosity had begun to
replace the original storm of perplexity and uneasiness. Mad or sane, metamorphosed or
merely relieved, the chances were that Akeley had actually encountered some stupendous
change of perspective in his hazardous research; some change at once diminishing his
danger—real or fancied—and opening dizzy new vistas of cosmic and superhuman
knowledge. My own zeal for the unknown flared up to meet his, and I felt myself touched by
the contagion of the morbid barrier-breaking. To shake off the maddening and wearying
limitations of time and space and natural law—to be linked with the vast outside—to come
close to the nighted and abysmal secrets of the infinite and the ultimate—surely such a thing
was worth the risk of one‘s life, soul, and sanity! And Akeley had said there was no longer any
peril—he had invited me to visit him instead of warning me away as before. I tingled at the
thought of what he might now have to tell me—there was an almost paralysing fascination in
the thought of sitting in that lonely and lately beleaguered farmhouse with a man who had
talked with actual emissaries from outer space; sitting there with the terrible record and the
pile of letters in which Akeley had summarised his earlier conclusions.
So late Sunday morning I telegraphed Akeley that I would meet him in Brattleboro on the
following Wednesday—September 12th—if that date were convenient for him. In only one
respect did I depart from his suggestions, and that concerned the choice of a train. Frankly, I
did not feel like arriving in that haunted Vermont region late at night; so instead of accepting
the train he chose I telephoned the station and devised another arrangement. By rising early
and taking the 8:07 a.m. (standard) into Boston, I could catch the 9:25 for Greenfield; arriving
there at 12:22 noon. This connected exactly with a train reaching Brattleboro at 1:08 p.m.—a
much more comfortable hour than 10:01 for meeting Akeley and riding with him into the close-
packed, secret-guarding hills.
I mentioned this choice in my telegram, and was glad to learn in the reply which came toward
evening that it had met with my prospective host‘s endorsement. His wire ran thus:
ARRANGEMENT SATISFACTORY. WILL MEET 1:08 TRAIN WEDNESDAY.
DON‘T FORGET RECORD AND LETTERS AND PRINTS. KEEP DESTINATION
QUIET. EXPECT GREAT REVELATIONS.
AKELEY.
Receipt of this message in direct response to one sent to Akeley—and necessarily delivered
to his house from the Townshend station either by official messenger or by a restored
telephone service—removed any lingering subconscious doubts I may have had about the
authorship of the perplexing letter. My relief was marked—indeed, it was greater than I could
account for at that time; since all such doubts had been rather deeply buried. But I slept
soundly and long that night, and was eagerly busy with preparations during the ensuing two
days.
VI.
On Wednesday I started as agreed, taking with me a valise full of simple necessities and
scientific data, including the hideous phonograph record, the kodak prints, and the entire file
of Akeley‘s correspondence. As requested, I had told no one where I was going; for I could
see that the matter demanded utmost privacy, even allowing for its most favourable turns. The
thought of actual mental contact with alien, outside entities was stupefying enough to my
trained and somewhat prepared mind; and this being so, what might one think of its effect on
the vast masses of uninformed laymen? I do not know whether dread or adventurous
expectancy was uppermost in me as I changed trains in Boston and began the long westward
run out of familiar regions into those I knew less thoroughly. Waltham—Concord—Ayer—
Fitchburg—Gardner—Athol—
My train reached Greenfield seven minutes late, but the northbound connecting express had
been held. Transferring in haste, I felt a curious breathlessness as the cars rumbled on
through the early afternoon sunlight into territories I had always read of but had never before
visited. I knew I was entering an altogether older-fashioned and more primitive New England
than the mechanised, urbanised coastal and southern areas where all my life had been spent;
an unspoiled, ancestral New England without the foreigners and factory-smoke, billboards
and concrete roads, of the sections which modernity has touched. There would be odd
survivals of that continuous native life whose deep roots make it the one authentic outgrowth
of the landscape—the continuous native life which keeps alive strange ancient memories, and
fertilises the soil for shadowy, marvellous, and seldom-mentioned beliefs.
Now and then I saw the blue Connecticut River gleaming in the sun, and after leaving
Northfield we crossed it. Ahead loomed green and cryptical hills, and when the conductor
came around I learned that I was at last in Vermont. He told me to set my watch back an hour,
since the northern hill country will have no dealings with new-fangled daylight time schemes.
As I did so it seemed to me that I was likewise turning the calendar back a century.
The train kept close to the river, and across in New Hampshire I could see the approaching
slope of steep Wantastiquet, about which singular old legends cluster. Then streets appeared
on my left, and a green island shewed in the stream on my right. People rose and filed to the
door, and I followed them. The car stopped, and I alighted beneath the long train-shed of the
Brattleboro station.
Looking over the line of waiting motors I hesitated a moment to see which one might turn out
to be the Akeley Ford, but my identity was divined before I could take the initiative. And yet it
was clearly not Akeley himself who advanced to meet me with an outstretched hand and a
mellowly phrased query as to whether I was indeed Mr. Albert N. Wilmarth of Arkham. This
man bore no resemblance to the bearded, grizzled Akeley of the snapshot; but was a younger
and more urban person, fashionably dressed, and wearing only a small, dark moustache. His
cultivated voice held an odd and almost disturbing hint of vague familiarity, though I could not
definitely place it in my memory.
As I surveyed him I heard him explaining that he was a friend of my prospective host‘s who
had come down from Townshend in his stead. Akeley, he declared, had suffered a sudden
attack of some asthmatic trouble, and did not feel equal to making a trip in the outdoor air. It
was not serious, however, and there was to be no change in plans regarding my visit. I could
not make out just how much this Mr. Noyes—as he announced himself—knew of Akeley‘s
researches and discoveries, though it seemed to me that his casual manner stamped him as
a comparative outsider. Remembering what a hermit Akeley had been, I was a trifle surprised
at the ready availability of such a friend; but did not let my puzzlement deter me from entering
the motor to which he gestured me. It was not the small ancient car I had expected from
Akeley‘s descriptions, but a large and immaculate specimen of recent pattern—apparently
Noyes‘s own, and bearing Massachusetts licence plates with the amusing ―sacred codfish‖
device of that year. My guide, I concluded, must be a summer transient in the Townshend
region.
Noyes climbed into the car beside me and started it at once. I was glad that he did not
overflow with conversation, for some peculiar atmospheric tensity made me feel disinclined to
talk. The town seemed very attractive in the afternoon sunlight as we swept up an incline and
turned to the right into the main street. It drowsed like the older New England cities which one
remembers from boyhood, and something in the collocation of roofs and steeples and
chimneys and brick walls formed contours touching deep viol-strings of ancestral emotion. I
could tell that I was at the gateway of a region half-bewitched through the piling-up of
unbroken time-accumulations; a region where old, strange things have had a chance to grow
and linger because they have never been stirred up.
As we passed out of Brattleboro my sense of constraint and foreboding increased, for a
vague quality in the hill-crowded countryside with its towering, threatening, close-pressing
green and granite slopes hinted at obscure secrets and immemorial survivals which might or
might not be hostile to mankind. For a time our course followed a broad, shallow river which
flowed down from unknown hills in the north, and I shivered when my companion told me it
was the West River. It was in this stream, I recalled from newspaper items, that one of the
morbid crab-like beings had been seen floating after the floods.
Gradually the country around us grew wilder and more deserted. Archaic covered bridges
lingered fearsomely out of the past in pockets of the hills, and the half-abandoned railway
track paralleling the river seemed to exhale a nebulously visible air of desolation. There were
awesome sweeps of vivid valley where great cliffs rose, New England‘s virgin granite shewing
grey and austere through the verdure that scaled the crests. There were gorges where
untamed streams leaped, bearing down toward the river the unimagined secrets of a
thousand pathless peaks. Branching away now and then were narrow, half-concealed roads
that bored their way through solid, luxuriant masses of forest among whose primal trees
whole armies of elemental spirits might well lurk. As I saw these I thought of how Akeley had
been molested by unseen agencies on his drives along this very route, and did not wonder
that such things could be.
The quaint, sightly village of Newfane, reached in less than an hour, was our last link with that
world which man can definitely call his own by virtue of conquest and complete occupancy.
After that we cast off all allegiance to immediate, tangible, and time-touched things, and
entered a fantastic world of hushed unreality in which the narrow, ribbon-like road rose and
fell and curved with an almost sentient and purposeful caprice amidst the tenantless green
peaks and half-deserted valleys. Except for the sound of the motor, and the faint stir of the
few lonely farms we passed at infrequent intervals, the only thing that reached my ears was
the gurgling, insidious trickle of strange waters from numberless hidden fountains in the
shadowy woods.
The nearness and intimacy of the dwarfed, domed hills now became veritably breath-taking.
Their steepness and abruptness were even greater than I had imagined from hearsay, and
suggested nothing in common with the prosaic objective world we know. The dense, unvisited
woods on those inaccessible slopes seemed to harbour alien and incredible things, and I felt
that the very outline of the hills themselves held some strange and aeon-forgotten meaning,
as if they were vast hieroglyphs left by a rumoured titan race whose glories live only in rare,
deep dreams. All the legends of the past, and all the stupefying imputations of Henry Akeley‘s
letters and exhibits, welled up in my memory to heighten the atmosphere of tension and
growing menace. The purpose of my visit, and the frightful abnormalities it postulated, struck
me all at once with a chill sensation that nearly overbalanced my ardour for strange delvings.
My guide must have noticed my disturbed attitude; for as the road grew wilder and more
irregular, and our motion slower and more jolting, his occasional pleasant comments
expanded into a steadier flow of discourse. He spoke of the beauty and weirdness of the
country, and revealed some acquaintance with the folklore studies of my prospective host.
From his polite questions it was obvious that he knew I had come for a scientific purpose, and
that I was bringing data of some importance; but he gave no sign of appreciating the depth
and awfulness of the knowledge which Akeley had finally reached.
His manner was so cheerful, normal, and urbane that his remarks ought to have calmed and
reassured me; but oddly enough, I felt only the more disturbed as we bumped and veered
onward into the unknown wilderness of hills and woods. At times it seemed as if he were
pumping me to see what I knew of the monstrous secrets of the place, and with every fresh
utterance that vague, teasing, baffling familiarity in his voice increased. It was not an ordinary
or healthy familiarity despite the thoroughly wholesome and cultivated nature of the voice. I
somehow linked it with forgotten nightmares, and felt that I might go mad if I recognised it. If
any good excuse had existed, I think I would have turned back from my visit. As it was, I could
not well do so—and it occurred to me that a cool, scientific conversation with Akeley himself
after my arrival would help greatly to pull me together.
Besides, there was a strangely calming element of cosmic beauty in the hypnotic landscape
through which we climbed and plunged fantastically. Time had lost itself in the labyrinths
behind, and around us stretched only the flowering waves of faery and the recaptured
loveliness of vanished centuries—the hoary groves, the untainted pastures edged with gay
autumnal blossoms, and at vast intervals the small brown farmsteads nestling amidst huge
trees beneath vertical precipices of fragrant brier and meadow-grass. Even the sunlight
assumed a supernal glamour, as if some special atmosphere or exhalation mantled the whole
region. I had seen nothing like it before save in the magic vistas that sometimes form the
backgrounds of Italian primitives. Sodoma and Leonardo conceived such expanses, but only
in the distance, and through the vaultings of Renaissance arcades. We were now burrowing
bodily through the midst of the picture, and I seemed to find in its necromancy a thing I had
innately known or inherited, and for which I had always been vainly searching.
Suddenly, after rounding an obtuse angle at the top of a sharp ascent, the car came to a
standstill. On my left, across a well-kept lawn which stretched to the road and flaunted a
border of whitewashed stones, rose a white, two-and-a-half-story house of unusual size and
elegance for the region, with a congeries of contiguous or arcade-linked barns, sheds, and
windmill behind and to the right. I recognised it at once from the snapshot I had received, and
was not surprised to see the name of Henry Akeley on the galvanised-iron mail-box near the
road. For some distance back of the house a level stretch of marshy and sparsely wooded
land extended, beyond which soared a steep, thickly forested hillside ending in a jagged leafy
crest. This latter, I knew, was the summit of Dark Mountain, half way up which we must have
climbed already.
Alighting from the car and taking my valise, Noyes asked me to wait while he went in and
notified Akeley of my advent. He himself, he added, had important business elsewhere, and
could not stop for more than a moment. As he briskly walked up the path to the house I
climbed out of the car myself, wishing to stretch my legs a little before settling down to a
sedentary conversation. My feeling of nervousness and tension had risen to a maximum
again now that I was on the actual scene of the morbid beleaguering described so hauntingly
in Akeley‘s letters, and I honestly dreaded the coming discussions which were to link me with
such alien and forbidden worlds.
Close contact with the utterly bizarre is often more terrifying than inspiring, and it did not cheer
me to think that this very bit of dusty road was the place where those monstrous tracks and
that foetid green ichor had been found after moonless nights of fear and death. Idly I noticed
that none of Akeley‘s dogs seemed to be about. Had he sold them all as soon as the Outer
Ones made peace with him? Try as I might, I could not have the same confidence in the
depth and sincerity of that peace which appeared in Akeley‘s final and queerly different letter.
After all, he was a man of much simplicity and with little worldly experience. Was there not,
perhaps, some deep and sinister undercurrent beneath the surface of the new alliance?
Led by my thoughts, my eyes turned downward to the powdery road surface which had held
such hideous testimonies. The last few days had been dry, and tracks of all sorts cluttered the
rutted, irregular highway despite the unfrequented nature of the district. With a vague curiosity
I began to trace the outline of some of the heterogeneous impressions, trying meanwhile to
curb the flights of macabre fancy which the place and its memories suggested. There was
something menacing and uncomfortable in the funereal stillness, in the muffled, subtle trickle
of distant brooks, and in the crowding green peaks and black-wooded precipices that choked
the narrow horizon.
And then an image shot into my consciousness which made those vague menaces and flights
of fancy seem mild and insignificant indeed. I have said that I was scanning the
miscellaneous prints in the road with a kind of idle curiosity—but all at once that curiosity was
shockingly snuffed out by a sudden and paralysing gust of active terror. For though the dust
tracks were in general confused and overlapping, and unlikely to arrest any casual gaze, my
restless vision had caught certain details near the spot where the path to the house joined the
highway; and had recognised beyond doubt or hope the frightful significance of those details.
It was not for nothing, alas, that I had pored for hours over the kodak views of the Outer Ones‘
claw-prints which Akeley had sent. Too well did I know the marks of those loathsome nippers,
and that hint of ambiguous direction which stamped the horrors as no creatures of this planet.
No chance had been left me for merciful mistake. Here, indeed, in objective form before my
own eyes, and surely made not many hours ago, were at least three marks which stood out
blasphemously among the surprising plethora of blurred footprints leading to and from the
Akeley farmhouse. They were the hellish tracks of the living fungi from Yuggoth.
I pulled myself together in time to stifle a scream. After all, what more was there than I might
have expected, assuming that I had really believed Akeley‘s letters? He had spoken of
making peace with the things. Why, then, was it strange that some of them had visited his
house? But the terror was stronger than the reassurance. Could any man be expected to look
unmoved for the first time upon the claw-marks of animate beings from outer depths of
space? Just then I saw Noyes emerge from the door and approach with a brisk step. I must, I
reflected, keep command of myself, for the chances were this genial friend knew nothing of
Akeley‘s profoundest and most stupendous probings into the forbidden.
Akeley, Noyes hastened to inform me, was glad and ready to see me; although his sudden
attack of asthma would prevent him from being a very competent host for a day or two. These
spells hit him hard when they came, and were always accompanied by a debilitating fever and
general weakness. He never was good for much while they lasted—had to talk in a whisper,
and was very clumsy and feeble in getting about. His feet and ankles swelled, too, so that he
had to bandage them like a gouty old beef-eater. Today he was in rather bad shape, so that I
would have to attend very largely to my own needs; but he was none the less eager for
conversation. I would find him in the study at the left of the front hall—the room where the
blinds were shut. He had to keep the sunlight out when he was ill, for his eyes were very
sensitive.
As Noyes bade me adieu and rode off northward in his car I began to walk slowly toward the
house. The door had been left ajar for me; but before approaching and entering I cast a
searching glance around the whole place, trying to decide what had struck me as so
intangibly queer about it. The barns and sheds looked trimly prosaic enough, and I noticed
Akeley‘s battered Ford in its capacious, unguarded shelter. Then the secret of the queerness
reached me. It was the total silence. Ordinarily a farm is at least moderately murmurous from
its various kinds of livestock, but here all signs of life were missing. What of the hens and the
hogs? The cows, of which Akeley had said he possessed several, might conceivably be out to
pasture, and the dogs might possibly have been sold; but the absence of any trace of cackling
or grunting was truly singular.
I did not pause long on the path, but resolutely entered the open house door and closed it
behind me. It had cost me a distinct psychological effort to do so, and now that I was shut
inside I had a momentary longing for precipitate retreat. Not that the place was in the least
sinister in visual suggestion; on the contrary, I thought the graceful late-colonial hallway very
tasteful and wholesome, and admired the evident breeding of the man who had furnished it.
What made me wish to flee was something very attenuated and indefinable. Perhaps it was a
certain odd odour which I thought I noticed—though I well knew how common musty odours
are in even the best of ancient farmhouses.
VII.
Refusing to let these cloudy qualms overmaster me, I recalled Noyes‘s instructions and
pushed open the six-panelled, brass-latched white door on my left. The room beyond was
darkened, as I had known before; and as I entered it I noticed that the queer odour was
stronger there. There likewise appeared to be some faint, half-imaginary rhythm or vibration in
the air. For a moment the closed blinds allowed me to see very little, but then a kind of
apologetic hacking or whispering sound drew my attention to a great easy-chair in the farther,
darker corner of the room. Within its shadowy depths I saw the white blur of a man‘s face and
hands; and in a moment I had crossed to greet the figure who had tried to speak. Dim though
the light was, I perceived that this was indeed my host. I had studied the kodak picture
repeatedly, and there could be no mistake about this firm, weather-beaten face with the
cropped, grizzled beard.
But as I looked again my recognition was mixed with sadness and anxiety; for certainly, this
face was that of a very sick man. I felt that there must be something more than asthma behind
that strained, rigid, immobile expression and unwinking glassy stare; and realised how terribly
the strain of his frightful experiences must have told on him. Was it not enough to break any
human being—even a younger man than this intrepid delver into the forbidden? The strange
and sudden relief, I feared, had come too late to save him from something like a general
breakdown. There was a touch of the pitiful in the limp, lifeless way his lean hands rested in
his lap. He had on a loose dressing-gown, and was swathed around the head and high
around the neck with a vivid yellow scarf or hood.
And then I saw that he was trying to talk in the same hacking whisper with which he had
greeted me. It was a hard whisper to catch at first, since the grey moustache concealed all
movements of the lips, and something in its timbre disturbed me greatly; but by concentrating
my attention I could soon make out its purport surprisingly well. The accent was by no means
a rustic one, and the language was even more polished than correspondence had led me to
expect.
―Mr. Wilmarth, I presume? You must pardon my not rising. I am quite ill, as Mr. Noyes must
have told you; but I could not resist having you come just the same. You know what I wrote in
my last letter—there is so much to tell you tomorrow when I shall feel better. I can‘t say how
glad I am to see you in person after all our many letters. You have the file with you, of course?
And the kodak prints and record? Noyes put your valise in the hall—I suppose you saw it. For
tonight I fear you‘ll have to wait on yourself to a great extent. Your room is upstairs—the one
over this—and you‘ll see the bathroom door open at the head of the staircase. There‘s a meal
spread for you in the dining-room—right through this door at your right—which you can take
whenever you feel like it. I‘ll be a better host tomorrow—but just now weakness leaves me
helpless.
―Make yourself at home—you might take out the letters and pictures and record and put them
on the table here before you go upstairs with your bag. It is here that we shall discuss them—
you can see my phonograph on that corner stand.
―No, thanks—there‘s nothing you can do for me. I know these spells of old. Just come back
for a little quiet visiting before night, and then go to bed when you please. I‘ll rest right here—
perhaps sleep here all night as I often do. In the morning I‘ll be far better able to go into the
things we must go into. You realise, of course, the utterly stupendous nature of the matter
before us. To us, as to only a few men on this earth, there will be opened up gulfs of time and
space and knowledge beyond anything within the conception of human science and
philosophy.
―Do you know that Einstein is wrong, and that certain objects and forces can move with a
velocity greater than that of light? With proper aid I expect to go backward and forward in
time, and actually see and feel the earth of remote past and future epochs. You can‘t imagine
the degree to which those beings have carried science. There is nothing they can‘t do with the
mind and body of living organisms. I expect to visit other planets, and even other stars and
galaxies. The first trip will be to Yuggoth, the nearest world fully peopled by the beings. It is a
strange dark orb at the very rim of our solar system—unknown to earthly astronomers as yet.
But I must have written you about this. At the proper time, you know, the beings there will
direct thought-currents toward us and cause it to be discovered—or perhaps let one of their
human allies give the scientists a hint.
―There are mighty cities on Yuggoth—great tiers of terraced towers built of black stone like the
specimen I tried to send you. That came from Yuggoth. The sun shines there no brighter than
a star, but the beings need no light. They have other, subtler senses, and put no windows in
their great houses and temples. Light even hurts and hampers and confuses them, for it does
not exist at all in the black cosmos outside time and space where they came from originally.
To visit Yuggoth would drive any weak man mad—yet I am going there. The black rivers of
pitch that flow under those mysterious Cyclopean bridges—things built by some elder race
extinct and forgotten before the things came to Yuggoth from the ultimate voids—ought to be
enough to make any man a Dante or Poe if he can keep sane long enough to tell what he has
seen.
―But remember—that dark world of fungoid gardens and windowless cities isn‘t really terrible.
It is only to us that it would seem so. Probably this world seemed just as terrible to the beings
when they first explored it in the primal age. You know they were here long before the
fabulous epoch of Cthulhu was over, and remember all about sunken R‘lyeh when it was
above the waters. They‘ve been inside the earth, too—there are openings which human
beings know nothing of—some of them in these very Vermont hills—and great worlds of
unknown life down there; blue-litten K‘n-yan, red-litten Yoth, and black, lightless N‘kai. It‘s
from N‘kai that frightful Tsathoggua came—you know, the amorphous, toad-like god-creature
mentioned in the Pnakotic Manuscripts and the Necronomicon and the Commoriom myth-
cycle preserved by the Atlantean high-priest Klarkash-Ton.
―But we will talk of all this later on. It must be four or five o‘clock by this time. Better bring the
stuff from your bag, take a bite, and then come back for a comfortable chat.‖
Very slowly I turned and began to obey my host; fetching my valise, extracting and depositing
the desired articles, and finally ascending to the room designated as mine. With the memory
of that roadside claw-print fresh in my mind, Akeley‘s whispered paragraphs had affected me
queerly; and the hints of familiarity with this unknown world of fungous life—forbidden
Yuggoth—made my flesh creep more than I cared to own. I was tremendously sorry about
Akeley‘s illness, but had to confess that his hoarse whisper had a hateful as well as pitiful
quality. If only he wouldn‘t gloat so about Yuggoth and its black secrets!
My room proved a very pleasant and well-furnished one, devoid alike of the musty odour and
disturbing sense of vibration; and after leaving my valise there I descended again to greet
Akeley and take the lunch he had set out for me. The dining-room was just beyond the study,
and I saw that a kitchen ell extended still farther in the same direction. On the dining-table an
ample array of sandwiches, cake, and cheese awaited me, and a Thermos-bottle beside a
cup and saucer testified that hot coffee had not been forgotten. After a well-relished meal I
poured myself a liberal cup of coffee, but found that the culinary standard had suffered a
lapse in this one detail. My first spoonful revealed a faintly unpleasant acrid taste, so that I did
not take more. Throughout the lunch I thought of Akeley sitting silently in the great chair in the
darkened next room. Once I went in to beg him to share the repast, but he whispered that he
could eat nothing as yet. Later on, just before he slept, he would take some malted milk—all
he ought to have that day.
After lunch I insisted on clearing the dishes away and washing them in the kitchen sink—
incidentally emptying the coffee which I had not been able to appreciate. Then returning to the
darkened study I drew up a chair near my host‘s corner and prepared for such conversation
as he might feel inclined to conduct. The letters, pictures, and record were still on the large
centre-table, but for the nonce we did not have to draw upon them. Before long I forgot even
the bizarre odour and curious suggestions of vibration.
I have said that there were things in some of Akeley‘s letters—especially the second and most
voluminous one—which I would not dare to quote or even form into words on paper. This
hesitancy applies with still greater force to the things I heard whispered that evening in the
darkened room among the lonely haunted hills. Of the extent of the cosmic horrors unfolded
by that raucous voice I cannot even hint. He had known hideous things before, but what he
had learned since making his pact with the Outside Things was almost too much for sanity to
bear. Even now I absolutely refuse to believe what he implied about the constitution of
ultimate infinity, the juxtaposition of dimensions, and the frightful position of our known
cosmos of space and time in the unending chain of linked cosmos-atoms which makes up the
immediate super-cosmos of curves, angles, and material and semi-material electronic
organisation.
Never was a sane man more dangerously close to the arcana of basic entity—never was an
organic brain nearer to utter annihilation in the chaos that transcends form and force and
symmetry. I learned whence Cthulhu first came, and why half the great temporary stars of
history had flared forth. I guessed—from hints which made even my informant pause timidly—
the secret behind the Magellanic Clouds and globular nebulae, and the black truth veiled by
the immemorial allegory of Tao. The nature of the Doels was plainly revealed, and I was told
the essence (though not the source) of the Hounds of Tindalos. The legend of Yig, Father of
Serpents, remained figurative no longer, and I started with loathing when told of the
monstrous nuclear chaos beyond angled space which the Necronomicon had mercifully
cloaked under the name of Azathoth. It was shocking to have the foulest nightmares of secret
myth cleared up in concrete terms whose stark, morbid hatefulness exceeded the boldest
hints of ancient and mediaeval mystics. Ineluctably I was led to believe that the first
whisperers of these accursed tales must have had discourse with Akeley‘s Outer Ones, and
perhaps have visited outer cosmic realms as Akeley now proposed visiting them.
I was told of the Black Stone and what it implied, and was glad that it had not reached me. My
guesses about those hieroglyphics had been all too correct! And yet Akeley now seemed
reconciled to the whole fiendish system he had stumbled upon; reconciled and eager to probe
farther into the monstrous abyss. I wondered what beings he had talked with since his last
letter to me, and whether many of them had been as human as that first emissary he had
mentioned. The tension in my head grew insufferable, and I built up all sorts of wild theories
about the queer, persistent odour and those insidious hints of vibration in the darkened room.
Night was falling now, and as I recalled what Akeley had written me about those earlier nights
I shuddered to think there would be no moon. Nor did I like the way the farmhouse nestled in
the lee of that colossal forested slope leading up to Dark Mountain‘s unvisited crest. With
Akeley‘s permission I lighted a small oil lamp, turned it low, and set it on a distant bookcase
beside the ghostly bust of Milton; but afterward I was sorry I had done so, for it made my
host‘s strained, immobile face and listless hands look damnably abnormal and corpse-like. He
seemed half-incapable of motion, though I saw him nod stiffly once in a while.
After what he had told, I could scarcely imagine what profounder secrets he was saving for
the morrow; but at last it developed that his trip to Yuggoth and beyond—and my own
possible participation in it—was to be the next day‘s topic. He must have been amused by the
start of horror I gave at hearing a cosmic voyage on my part proposed, for his head wabbled
violently when I shewed my fear. Subsequently he spoke very gently of how human beings
might accomplish—and several times had accomplished—the seemingly impossible flight
across the interstellar void. It seemed that complete human bodies did not indeed make the
trip, but that the prodigious surgical, biological, chemical, and mechanical skill of the Outer
Ones had found a way to convey human brains without their concomitant physical structure.
There was a harmless way to extract a brain, and a way to keep the organic residue alive
during its absence. The bare, compact cerebral matter was then immersed in an occasionally
replenished fluid within an ether-tight cylinder of a metal mined in Yuggoth, certain electrodes
reaching through and connecting at will with elaborate instruments capable of duplicating the
three vital faculties of sight, hearing, and speech. For the winged fungus-beings to carry the
brain-cylinders intact through space was an easy matter. Then, on every planet covered by
their civilisation, they would find plenty of adjustable faculty-instruments capable of being
connected with the encased brains; so that after a little fitting these travelling intelligences
could be given a full sensory and articulate life—albeit a bodiless and mechanical one—at
each stage of their journeying through and beyond the space-time continuum. It was as
simple as carrying a phonograph record about and playing it wherever a phonograph of the
corresponding make exists. Of its success there could be no question. Akeley was not afraid.
Had it not been brilliantly accomplished again and again?
For the first time one of the inert, wasted hands raised itself and pointed to a high shelf on the
farther side of the room. There, in a neat row, stood more than a dozen cylinders of a metal I
had never seen before—cylinders about a foot high and somewhat less in diameter, with
three curious sockets set in an isosceles triangle over the front convex surface of each. One
of them was linked at two of the sockets to a pair of singular-looking machines that stood in
the background. Of their purport I did not need to be told, and I shivered as with ague. Then I
saw the hand point to a much nearer corner where some intricate instruments with attached
cords and plugs, several of them much like the two devices on the shelf behind the cylinders,
were huddled together.
―There are four kinds of instruments here, Wilmarth,‖ whispered the voice. ―Four kinds—three
faculties each—makes twelve pieces in all. You see there are four different sorts of beings
presented in those cylinders up there. Three humans, six fungoid beings who can‘t navigate
space corporeally, two beings from Neptune (God! if you could see the body this type has on
its own planet!), and the rest entities from the central caverns of an especially interesting dark
star beyond the galaxy. In the principal outpost inside Round Hill you‘ll now and then find
more cylinders and machines—cylinders of extra-cosmic brains with different senses from
any we know—allies and explorers from the uttermost Outside—and special machines for
giving them impressions and expression in the several ways suited at once to them and to the
comprehensions of different types of listeners. Round Hill, like most of the beings‘ main
outposts all through the various universes, is a very cosmopolitan place! Of course, only the
more common types have been lent to me for experiment.
―Here—take the three machines I point to and set them on the table. That tall one with the two
glass lenses in front—then the box with the vacuum tubes and sounding-board—and now the
one with the metal disc on top. Now for the cylinder with the label ‗B-67‘ pasted on it. Just
stand in that Windsor chair to reach the shelf. Heavy? Never mind! Be sure of the number—
B-67. Don‘t bother that fresh, shiny cylinder joined to the two testing instruments—the one
with my name on it. Set B-67 on the table near where you‘ve put the machines—and see that
the dial switch on all three machines is jammed over to the extreme left.
―Now connect the cord of the lens machine with the upper socket on the cylinder—there! Join
the tube machine to the lower left-hand socket, and the disc apparatus to the outer socket.
Now move all the dial switches on the machines over to the extreme right—first the lens one,
then the disc one, and then the tube one. That‘s right. I might as well tell you that this is a
human being—just like any of us. I‘ll give you a taste of some of the others tomorrow.‖
To this day I do not know why I obeyed those whispers so slavishly, or whether I thought
Akeley was mad or sane. After what had gone before, I ought to have been prepared for
anything; but this mechanical mummery seemed so like the typical vagaries of crazed
inventors and scientists that it struck a chord of doubt which even the preceding discourse
had not excited. What the whisperer implied was beyond all human belief—yet were not the
other things still farther beyond, and less preposterous only because of their remoteness from
tangible concrete proof?
As my mind reeled amidst this chaos, I became conscious of a mixed grating and whirring
from all three machines lately linked to the cylinder—a grating and whirring which soon
subsided into a virtual noiselessness. What was about to happen? Was I to hear a voice? And
if so, what proof would I have that it was not some cleverly concocted radio device talked into
by a concealed but closely watching speaker? Even now I am unwilling to swear just what I
heard, or just what phenomenon really took place before me. But something certainly seemed
to take place.
To be brief and plain, the machine with the tubes and sound-box began to speak, and with a
point and intelligence which left no doubt that the speaker was actually present and observing
us. The voice was loud, metallic, lifeless, and plainly mechanical in every detail of its
production. It was incapable of inflection or expressiveness, but scraped and rattled on with a
deadly precision and deliberation.
―Mr. Wilmarth,‖ it said, ―I hope I do not startle you. I am a human being like yourself, though
my body is now resting safely under proper vitalising treatment inside Round Hill, about a mile
and a half east of here. I myself am here with you—my brain is in that cylinder and I see,
hear, and speak through these electronic vibrators. In a week I am going across the void as I
have been many times before, and I expect to have the pleasure of Mr. Akeley‘s company. I
wish I might have yours as well; for I know you by sight and reputation, and have kept close
track of your correspondence with our friend. I am, of course, one of the men who have
become allied with the outside beings visiting our planet. I met them first in the Himalayas,
and have helped them in various ways. In return they have given me experiences such as few
men have ever had.
―Do you realise what it means when I say I have been on thirty-seven different celestial
bodies—planets, dark stars, and less definable objects—including eight outside our galaxy
and two outside the curved cosmos of space and time? All this has not harmed me in the
least. My brain has been removed from my body by fissions so adroit that it would be crude to
call the operation surgery. The visiting beings have methods which make these extractions
easy and almost normal—and one‘s body never ages when the brain is out of it. The brain, I
may add, is virtually immortal with its mechanical faculties and a limited nourishment supplied
by occasional changes of the preserving fluid.
―Altogether, I hope most heartily that you will decide to come with Mr. Akeley and me. The
visitors are eager to know men of knowledge like yourself, and to shew them the great
abysses that most of us have had to dream about in fanciful ignorance. It may seem strange
at first to meet them, but I know you will be above minding that. I think Mr. Noyes will go
along, too—the man who doubtless brought you up here in his car. He has been one of us for
years—I suppose you recognised his voice as one of those on the record Mr. Akeley sent
you.‖
At my violent start the speaker paused a moment before concluding.
―So, Mr. Wilmarth, I will leave the matter to you; merely adding that a man with your love of
strangeness and folklore ought never to miss such a chance as this. There is nothing to fear.
All transitions are painless, and there is much to enjoy in a wholly mechanised state of
sensation. When the electrodes are disconnected, one merely drops off into a sleep of
especially vivid and fantastic dreams.
―And now, if you don‘t mind, we might adjourn our session till tomorrow. Good night—just turn
all the switches back to the left; never mind the exact order, though you might let the lens
machine be last. Good night, Mr. Akeley—treat our guest well! Ready now with those
switches?‖
That was all. I obeyed mechanically and shut off all three switches, though dazed with doubt
of everything that had occurred. My head was still reeling as I heard Akeley‘s whispering
voice telling me that I might leave all the apparatus on the table just as it was. He did not
essay any comment on what had happened, and indeed no comment could have conveyed
much to my burdened faculties. I heard him telling me I could take the lamp to use in my
room, and deduced that he wished to rest alone in the dark. It was surely time he rested, for
his discourse of the afternoon and evening had been such as to exhaust even a vigorous
man. Still dazed, I bade my host good night and went upstairs with the lamp, although I had
an excellent pocket flashlight with me.
I was glad to be out of that downstairs study with the queer odour and vague suggestions of
vibration, yet could not of course escape a hideous sense of dread and peril and cosmic
abnormality as I thought of the place I was in and the forces I was meeting. The wild, lonely
region, the black, mysteriously forested slope towering so close behind the house, the
footprints in the road, the sick, motionless whisperer in the dark, the hellish cylinders and
machines, and above all the invitations to strange surgery and stranger voyagings—these
things, all so new and in such sudden succession, rushed in on me with a cumulative force
which sapped my will and almost undermined my physical strength.
To discover that my guide Noyes was the human celebrant in that monstrous bygone Sabbat-
ritual on the phonograph record was a particular shock, though I had previously sensed a dim,
repellent familiarity in his voice. Another special shock came from my own attitude toward my
host whenever I paused to analyse it; for much as I had instinctively liked Akeley as revealed
in his correspondence, I now found that he filled me with a distinct repulsion. His illness ought
to have excited my pity; but instead, it gave me a kind of shudder. He was so rigid and inert
and corpse-like—and that incessant whispering was so hateful and unhuman!
It occurred to me that this whispering was different from anything else of the kind I had ever
heard; that, despite the curious motionlessness of the speaker‘s moustache-screened lips, it
had a latent strength and carrying-power remarkable for the wheezings of an asthmatic. I had
been able to understand the speaker when wholly across the room, and once or twice it had
seemed to me that the faint but penetrant sounds represented not so much weakness as
deliberate repression—for what reason I could not guess. From the first I had felt a disturbing
quality in their timbre. Now, when I tried to weigh the matter, I thought I could trace this
impression to a kind of subconscious familiarity like that which had made Noyes‘s voice so
hazily ominous. But when or where I had encountered the thing it hinted at, was more than I
could tell.
One thing was certain—I would not spend another night here. My scientific zeal had vanished
amidst fear and loathing, and I felt nothing now but a wish to escape from this net of morbidity
and unnatural revelation. I knew enough now. It must indeed be true that cosmic linkages do
exist—but such things are surely not meant for normal human beings to meddle with.
Blasphemous influences seemed to surround me and press chokingly upon my senses.
Sleep, I decided, would be out of the question; so I merely extinguished the lamp and threw
myself on the bed fully dressed. No doubt it was absurd, but I kept ready for some unknown
emergency; gripping in my right hand the revolver I had brought along, and holding the pocket
flashlight in my left. Not a sound came from below, and I could imagine how my host was
sitting there with cadaverous stiffness in the dark.
Somewhere I heard a clock ticking, and was vaguely grateful for the normality of the sound. It
reminded me, though, of another thing about the region which disturbed me—the total
absence of animal life. There were certainly no farm beasts about, and now I realised that
even the accustomed night-noises of wild living things were absent. Except for the sinister
trickle of distant unseen waters, that stillness was anomalous—interplanetary—and I
wondered what star-spawned, intangible blight could be hanging over the region. I recalled
from old legends that dogs and other beasts had always hated the Outer Ones, and thought
of what those tracks in the road might mean.
VIII.
Do not ask me how long my unexpected lapse into slumber lasted, or how much of what
ensued was sheer dream. If I tell you that I awaked at a certain time, and heard and saw
certain things, you will merely answer that I did not wake then; and that everything was a
dream until the moment when I rushed out of the house, stumbled to the shed where I had
seen the old Ford, and seized that ancient vehicle for a mad, aimless race over the haunted
hills which at last landed me—after hours of jolting and winding through forest-threatened
labyrinths—in a village which turned out to be Townshend.
You will also, of course, discount everything else in my report; and declare that all the
pictures, record-sounds, cylinder-and-machine sounds, and kindred evidences were bits of
pure deception practiced on me by the missing Henry Akeley. You will even hint that he
conspired with other eccentrics to carry out a silly and elaborate hoax—that he had the
express shipment removed at Keene, and that he had Noyes make that terrifying wax record.
It is odd, though, that Noyes has not even yet been identified; that he was unknown at any of
the villages near Akeley‘s place, though he must have been frequently in the region. I wish I
had stopped to memorise the licence-number of his car—or perhaps it is better after all that I
did not. For I, despite all you can say, and despite all I sometimes try to say to myself, know
that loathsome outside influences must be lurking there in the half-unknown hills—and that
those influences have spies and emissaries in the world of men. To keep as far as possible
from such influences and such emissaries is all that I ask of life in future.
When my frantic story sent a sheriff‘s posse out to the farmhouse, Akeley was gone without
leaving a trace. His loose dressing-gown, yellow scarf, and foot-bandages lay on the study
floor near his corner easy-chair, and it could not be decided whether any of his other apparel
had vanished with him. The dogs and livestock were indeed missing, and there were some
curious bullet-holes both on the house‘s exterior and on some of the walls within; but beyond
this nothing unusual could be detected. No cylinders or machines, none of the evidences I
had brought in my valise, no queer odour or vibration-sense, no footprints in the road, and
none of the problematical things I glimpsed at the very last.
I stayed a week in Brattleboro after my escape, making inquiries among people of every kind
who had known Akeley; and the results convince me that the matter is no figment of dream or
delusion. Akeley‘s queer purchases of dogs and ammunition and chemicals, and the cutting of
his telephone wires, are matters of record; while all who knew him—including his son in
California—concede that his occasional remarks on strange studies had a certain
consistency. Solid citizens believe he was mad, and unhesitatingly pronounce all reported
evidences mere hoaxes devised with insane cunning and perhaps abetted by eccentric
associates; but the lowlier country folk sustain his statements in every detail. He had shewed
some of these rustics his photographs and black stone, and had played the hideous record for
them; and they all said the footprints and buzzing voice were like those described in ancestral
legends.
They said, too, that suspicious sights and sounds had been noticed increasingly around
Akeley‘s house after he found the black stone, and that the place was now avoided by
everybody except the mail man and other casual, tough-minded people. Dark Mountain and
Round Hill were both notoriously haunted spots, and I could find no one who had ever closely
explored either. Occasional disappearances of natives throughout the district‘s history were
well attested, and these now included the semi-vagabond Walter Brown, whom Akeley‘s
letters had mentioned. I even came upon one farmer who thought he had personally glimpsed
one of the queer bodies at flood-time in the swollen West River, but his tale was too confused
to be really valuable.
When I left Brattleboro I resolved never to go back to Vermont, and I feel quite certain I shall
keep my resolution. Those wild hills are surely the outpost of a frightful cosmic race—as I
doubt all the less since reading that a new ninth planet has been glimpsed beyond Neptune,
just as those influences had said it would be glimpsed. Astronomers, with a hideous
appropriateness they little suspect, have named this thing ―Pluto‖. I feel, beyond question, that
it is nothing less than nighted Yuggoth—and I shiver when I try to figure out the real reason
why its monstrous denizens wish it to be known in this way at this especial time. I vainly try to
assure myself that these daemoniac creatures are not gradually leading up to some new
policy hurtful to the earth and its normal inhabitants.
But I have still to tell of the ending of that terrible night in the farmhouse. As I have said, I did
finally drop into a troubled doze; a doze filled with bits of dream which involved monstrous
landscape-glimpses. Just what awaked me I cannot yet say, but that I did indeed awake at
this given point I feel very certain. My first confused impression was of stealthily creaking
floor-boards in the hall outside my door, and of a clumsy, muffled fumbling at the latch. This,
however, ceased almost at once; so that my really clear impressions began with the voices
heard from the study below. There seemed to be several speakers, and I judged that they
were controversially engaged.
By the time I had listened a few seconds I was broad awake, for the nature of the voices was
such as to make all thought of sleep ridiculous. The tones were curiously varied, and no one
who had listened to that accursed phonograph record could harbour any doubts about the
nature of at least two of them. Hideous though the idea was, I knew that I was under the
same roof with nameless things from abysmal space; for those two voices were unmistakably
the blasphemous buzzings which the Outside Beings used in their communication with men.
The two were individually different—different in pitch, accent, and tempo—but they were both
of the same damnable general kind.
A third voice was indubitably that of a mechanical utterance-machine connected with one of
the detached brains in the cylinders. There was as little doubt about that as about the
buzzings; for the loud, metallic, lifeless voice of the previous evening, with its inflectionless,
expressionless scraping and rattling, and its impersonal precision and deliberation, had been
utterly unforgettable. For a time I did not pause to question whether the intelligence behind
the scraping was the identical one which had formerly talked to me; but shortly afterward I
reflected that any brain would emit vocal sounds of the same quality if linked to the same
mechanical speech-producer; the only possible differences being in language, rhythm, speed,
and pronunciation. To complete the eldritch colloquy there were two actually human voices—
one the crude speech of an unknown and evidently rustic man, and the other the suave
Bostonian tones of my erstwhile guide Noyes.
As I tried to catch the words which the stoutly fashioned floor so bafflingly intercepted, I was
also conscious of a great deal of stirring and scratching and shuffling in the room below; so
that I could not escape the impression that it was full of living beings—many more than the
few whose speech I could single out. The exact nature of this stirring is extremely hard to
describe, for very few good bases of comparison exist. Objects seemed now and then to
move across the room like conscious entities; the sound of their footfalls having something
about it like a loose, hard-surfaced clattering—as of the contact of ill-coördinated surfaces of
horn or hard rubber. It was, to use a more concrete but less accurate comparison, as if people
with loose, splintery wooden shoes were shambling and rattling about on the polished board
floor. On the nature and appearance of those responsible for the sounds, I did not care to
speculate.
Before long I saw that it would be impossible to distinguish any connected discourse. Isolated
words—including the names of Akeley and myself—now and then floated up, especially when
uttered by the mechanical speech-producer; but their true significance was lost for want of
continuous context. Today I refuse to form any definite deductions from them, and even their
frightful effect on me was one of suggestion rather than of revelation. A terrible and abnormal
conclave, I felt certain, was assembled below me; but for what shocking deliberations I could
not tell. It was curious how this unquestioned sense of the malign and the blasphemous
pervaded me despite Akeley‘s assurances of the Outsiders‘ friendliness.
With patient listening I began to distinguish clearly between voices, even though I could not
grasp much of what any of the voices said. I seemed to catch certain typical emotions behind
some of the speakers. One of the buzzing voices, for example, held an unmistakable note of
authority; whilst the mechanical voice, notwithstanding its artificial loudness and regularity,
seemed to be in a position of subordination and pleading. Noyes‘s tones exuded a kind of
conciliatory atmosphere. The others I could make no attempt to interpret. I did not hear the
familiar whisper of Akeley, but well knew that such a sound could never penetrate the solid
flooring of my room.
I will try to set down some of the few disjointed words and other sounds I caught, labelling the
speakers of the words as best I know how. It was from the speech-machine that I first picked
up a few recognisable phrases.
(THE SPEECH-MACHINE)
. . . brought it on myself . . . sent back the letters and the record . . . end on it . . .
taken in . . . seeing and hearing . . . damn you . . . impersonal force, after all . . .
fresh, shiny cylinder . . . great God. . . .‖
(FIRST BUZZING VOICE)
―. . . time we stopped . . . small and human . . . Akeley . . . brain . . . saying . . .‖
(NOYES)
―. . . (an unpronounceable word or name, possibly N’gah-Kthun) . . . harmless . . .
peace . . . couple of weeks . . . theatrical . . . told you that before. . . .‖
(NOYES)
―. . . well . . . all yours . . . down here . . . rest . . . place. . . .‖
After that Pabodie, the men, and I hung breathlessly over the receiver. Thought of this titanic
mountain rampart 700 miles away inflamed our deepest sense of adventure; and we rejoiced
that our expedition, if not ourselves personally, had been its discoverers. In half an hour Lake
called us again.
―Moulton‘s plane forced down on plateau in foothills, but nobody hurt and perhaps
can repair. Shall transfer essentials to other three for return or further moves if
necessary, but no more heavy plane travel needed just now. Mountains surpass
anything in imagination. Am going up scouting in Carroll‘s plane, with all weight out.
You can‘t imagine anything like this. Highest peaks must go over 35,000 feet.
Everest out of the running. Atwood to work out height with theodolite while Carroll
and I go up. Probably wrong about cones, for formations look stratified. Possibly
pre-Cambrian slate with other strata mixed in. Queer skyline effects—regular
sections of cubes clinging to highest peaks. Whole thing marvellous in red-gold
light of low sun. Like land of mystery in a dream or gateway to forbidden world of
untrodden wonder. Wish you were here to study.‖
Though it was technically sleeping-time, not one of us listeners thought for a moment of
retiring. It must have been a good deal the same at McMurdo Sound, where the supply cache
and the Arkham were also getting the messages; for Capt. Douglas gave out a call
congratulating everybody on the important find, and Sherman, the cache operator, seconded
his sentiments. We were sorry, of course, about the damaged aëroplane; but hoped it could
be easily mended. Then, at 11 P.M., came another call from Lake.
―Up with Carroll over highest foothills. Don‘t dare try really tall peaks in present
weather, but shall later. Frightful work climbing, and hard going at this altitude, but
worth it. Great range fairly solid, hence can‘t get any glimpses beyond. Main
summits exceed Himalayas, and very queer. Range looks like pre-Cambrian slate,
with plain signs of many other upheaved strata. Was wrong about volcanism. Goes
farther in either direction than we can see. Swept clear of snow above about
21,000 feet. Odd formations on slopes of highest mountains. Great low square
blocks with exactly vertical sides, and rectangular lines of low vertical ramparts, like
the old Asian castles clinging to steep mountains in Roerich‘s paintings. Impressive
from distance. Flew close to some, and Carroll thought they were formed of smaller
separate pieces, but that is probably weathering. Most edges crumbled and
rounded off as if exposed to storms and climate changes for millions of years.
Parts, especially upper parts, seem to be of lighter-coloured rock than any visible
strata on slopes proper, hence an evidently crystalline origin. Close flying shews
many cave-mouths, some unusually regular in outline, square or semicircular. You
must come and investigate. Think I saw rampart squarely on top of one peak.
Height seems about 30,000 to 35,000 feet. Am up 21,500 myself, in devilish
gnawing cold. Wind whistles and pipes through passes and in and out of caves, but
no flying danger so far.‖
From then on for another half-hour Lake kept up a running fire of comment, and expressed
his intention of climbing some of the peaks on foot. I replied that I would join him as soon as
he could send a plane, and that Pabodie and I would work out the best gasoline plan—just
where and how to concentrate our supply in view of the expedition‘s altered character.
Obviously, Lake‘s boring operations, as well as his aëroplane activities, would need a great
deal delivered for the new base which he was to establish at the foot of the mountains; and it
was possible that the eastward flight might not be made after all this season. In connexion
with this business I called Capt. Douglas and asked him to get as much as possible out of the
ships and up the barrier with the single dog-team we had left there. A direct route across the
unknown region between Lake and McMurdo Sound was what we really ought to establish.
Lake called me later to say that he had decided to let the camp stay where Moulton‘s plane
had been forced down, and where repairs had already progressed somewhat. The ice-sheet
was very thin, with dark ground here and there visible, and he would sink some borings and
blasts at that very point before making any sledge trips or climbing expeditions. He spoke of
the ineffable majesty of the whole scene, and the queer state of his sensations at being in the
lee of vast silent pinnacles whose ranks shot up like a wall reaching the sky at the world‘s rim.
Atwood‘s theodolite observations had placed the height of the five tallest peaks at from
30,000 to 34,000 feet. The windswept nature of the terrain clearly disturbed Lake, for it
argued the occasional existence of prodigious gales violent beyond anything we had so far
encountered. His camp lay a little more than five miles from where the higher foothills abruptly
rose. I could almost trace a note of subconscious alarm in his words—flashed across a glacial
void of 700 miles—as he urged that we all hasten with the matter and get the strange new
region disposed of as soon as possible. He was about to rest now, after a continuous day‘s
work of almost unparalleled speed, strenuousness, and results.
In the morning I had a three-cornered wireless talk with Lake and Capt. Douglas at their
widely separated bases; and it was agreed that one of Lake‘s planes would come to my base
for Pabodie, the five men, and myself, as well as for all the fuel it could carry. The rest of the
fuel question, depending on our decision about an easterly trip, could wait for a few days;
since Lake had enough for immediate camp heat and borings. Eventually the old southern
base ought to be restocked; but if we postponed the easterly trip we would not use it till the
next summer, and meanwhile Lake must send a plane to explore a direct route between his
new mountains and McMurdo Sound.
Pabodie and I prepared to close our base for a short or long period, as the case might be. If
we wintered in the antarctic we would probably fly straight from Lake‘s base to the Arkham
without returning to this spot. Some of our conical tents had already been reinforced by blocks
of hard snow, and now we decided to complete the job of making a permanent Esquimau
village. Owing to a very liberal tent supply, Lake had with him all that his base would need
even after our arrival. I wirelessed that Pabodie and I would be ready for the northwestward
move after one day‘s work and one night‘s rest.
Our labours, however, were not very steady after 4 P.M.; for about that time Lake began
sending in the most extraordinary and excited messages. His working day had started
unpropitiously; since an aëroplane survey of the nearly exposed rock surfaces shewed an
entire absence of those Archaean and primordial strata for which he was looking, and which
formed so great a part of the colossal peaks that loomed up at a tantalising distance from the
camp. Most of the rocks glimpsed were apparently Jurassic and Comanchian sandstones and
Permian and Triassic schists, with now and then a glossy black outcropping suggesting a
hard and slaty coal. This rather discouraged Lake, whose plans all hinged on unearthing
specimens more than 500 million years older. It was clear to him that in order to recover the
Archaean slate vein in which he had found the odd markings, he would have to make a long
sledge trip from these foothills to the steep slopes of the gigantic mountains themselves.
He had resolved, nevertheless, to do some local boring as part of the expedition‘s general
programme; hence set up the drill and put five men to work with it while the rest finished
settling the camp and repairing the damaged aëroplane. The softest visible rock—a
sandstone about a quarter of a mile from the camp—had been chosen for the first sampling;
and the drill made excellent progress without much supplementary blasting. It was about
three hours afterward, following the first really heavy blast of the operation, that the shouting
of the drill crew was heard; and that young Gedney—the acting foreman—rushed into the
camp with the startling news.
They had struck a cave. Early in the boring the sandstone had given place to a vein of
Comanchian limestone full of minute fossil cephalopods, corals, echini, and spirifera, and with
occasional suggestions of siliceous sponges and marine vertebrate bones—the latter
probably of teliosts, sharks, and ganoids. This in itself was important enough, as affording the
first vertebrate fossils the expedition had yet secured; but when shortly afterward the drill-
head dropped through the stratum into apparent vacancy, a wholly new and doubly intense
wave of excitement spread among the excavators. A good-sized blast had laid open the
subterrene secret; and now, through a jagged aperture perhaps five feet across and three feet
thick, there yawned before the avid searchers a section of shallow limestone hollowing worn
more than fifty million years ago by the trickling ground waters of a bygone tropic world.
The hollowed layer was not more than seven or eight feet deep, but extended off indefinitely
in all directions and had a fresh, slightly moving air which suggested its membership in an
extensive subterranean system. Its roof and floor were abundantly equipped with large
stalactites and stalagmites, some of which met in columnar form; but important above all else
was the vast deposit of shells and bones which in places nearly choked the passage. Washed
down from unknown jungles of Mesozoic tree-ferns and fungi, and forests of Tertiary cycads,
fan-palms, and primitive angiosperms, this osseous medley contained representatives of
more Cretaceous, Eocene, and other animal species than the greatest palaeontologist could
have counted or classified in a year. Molluscs, crustacean armour, fishes, amphibians,
reptiles, birds, and early mammals—great and small, known and unknown. No wonder
Gedney ran back to the camp shouting, and no wonder everyone else dropped work and
rushed headlong through the biting cold to where the tall derrick marked a new-found
gateway to secrets of inner earth and vanished aeons.
When Lake had satisfied the first keen edge of his curiosity he scribbled a message in his
notebook and had young Moulton run back to the camp to despatch it by wireless. This was
my first word of the discovery, and it told of the identification of early shells, bones of ganoids
and placoderms, remnants of labyrinthodonts and thecodonts, great mososaur skull
fragments, dinosaur vertebrae and armour-plates, pterodactyl teeth and wing-bones,
archaeopteryx debris, Miocene sharks‘ teeth, primitive bird-skulls, and skulls, vertebrae, and
other bones of archaic mammals such as palaeotheres, xiphodons, dinocerases, eohippi,
oreodons, and titanotheres. There was nothing as recent as a mastodon, elephant, true
camel, deer, or bovine animal; hence Lake concluded that the last deposits had occurred
during the Oligocene age, and that the hollowed stratum had lain in its present dried, dead,
and inaccessible state for at least thirty million years.
On the other hand, the prevalence of very early life-forms was singular in the highest degree.
Though the limestone formation was, on the evidence of such typical imbedded fossils as
ventriculites, positively and unmistakably Comanchian and not a particle earlier; the free
fragments in the hollow space included a surprising proportion from organisms hitherto
considered as peculiar to far older periods—even rudimentary fishes, molluscs, and corals as
remote as the Silurian or Ordovician. The inevitable inference was that in this part of the world
there had been a remarkable and unique degree of continuity between the life of over 300
million years ago and that of only thirty million years ago. How far this continuity had extended
beyond the Oligocene age when the cavern was closed, was of course past all speculation. In
any event, the coming of the frightful ice in the Pleistocene some 500,000 years ago—a mere
yesterday as compared with the age of this cavity—must have put an end to any of the primal
forms which had locally managed to outlive their common terms.
Lake was not content to let his first message stand, but had another bulletin written and
despatched across the snow to the camp before Moulton could get back. After that Moulton
stayed at the wireless in one of the planes; transmitting to me—and to the Arkham for relaying
to the outside world—the frequent postscripts which Lake sent him by a succession of
messengers. Those who followed the newspapers will remember the excitement created
among men of science by that afternoon‘s reports—reports which have finally led, after all
these years, to the organisation of that very Starkweather-Moore Expedition which I am so
anxious to dissuade from its purposes. I had better give the messages literally as Lake sent
them, and as our base operator McTighe translated them from his pencil shorthand.
―Fowler makes discovery of highest importance in sandstone and limestone
fragments from blasts. Several distinct triangular striated prints like those in
Archaean slate, proving that source survived from over 600 million years ago to
Comanchian times without more than moderate morphological changes and
decrease in average size. Comanchian prints apparently more primitive or
decadent, if anything, than older ones. Emphasise importance of discovery in
press. Will mean to biology what Einstein has meant to mathematics and physics.
Joins up with my previous work and amplifies conclusions. Appears to indicate, as I
suspected, that earth has seen whole cycle or cycles of organic life before known
one that begins with Archaeozoic cells. Was evolved and specialised not later than
thousand million years ago, when planet was young and recently uninhabitable for
any life-forms or normal protoplasmic structure. Question arises when, where, and
how development took place.‖
————————
―Later. Examining certain skeletal fragments of large land and marine saurians and
primitive mammals, find singular local wounds or injuries to bony structure not
attributable to any known predatory or carnivorous animal of any period. Of two
sorts—straight, penetrant bores, and apparently hacking incisions. One or two
cases of cleanly severed bone. Not many specimens affected. Am sending to camp
for electric torches. Will extend search area underground by hacking away
stalactites.‖
————————
―Still later. Have found peculiar soapstone fragment about six inches across and an
inch and a half thick, wholly unlike any visible local formation. Greenish, but no
evidences to place its period. Has curious smoothness and regularity. Shaped like
five-pointed star with tips broken off, and signs of other cleavage at inward angles
and in centre of surface. Small, smooth depression in centre of unbroken surface.
Arouses much curiosity as to source and weathering. Probably some freak of water
action. Carroll, with magnifier, thinks he can make out additional markings of
geologic significance. Groups of tiny dots in regular patterns. Dogs growing uneasy
as we work, and seem to hate this soapstone. Must see if it has any peculiar odour.
Will report again when Mills gets back with light and we start on underground area.‖
————————
―10:15 P.M. Important discovery. Orrendorf and Watkins, working underground at
9:45 with light, found monstrous barrel-shaped fossil of wholly unknown nature;
probably vegetable unless overgrown specimen of unknown marine radiata. Tissue
evidently preserved by mineral salts. Tough as leather, but astonishing flexibility
retained in places. Marks of broken-off parts at ends and around sides. Six feet end
to end, 3.5 feet central diameter, tapering to 1 foot at each end. Like a barrel with
five bulging ridges in place of staves. Lateral breakages, as of thinnish stalks, are
at equator in middle of these ridges. In furrows between ridges are curious
growths. Combs or wings that fold up and spread out like fans. All greatly damaged
but one, which gives almost seven-foot wing spread. Arrangement reminds one of
certain monsters of primal myth, especially fabled Elder Things in Necronomicon.
These wings seem to be membraneous, stretched on framework of glandular
tubing. Apparent minute orifices in frame tubing at wing tips. Ends of body
shrivelled, giving no clue to interior or to what has been broken off there. Must
dissect when we get back to camp. Can‘t decide whether vegetable or animal.
Many features obviously of almost incredible primitiveness. Have set all hands
cutting stalactites and looking for further specimens. Additional scarred bones
found, but these must wait. Having trouble with dogs. They can‘t endure the new
specimen, and would probably tear it to pieces if we didn‘t keep it at a distance
from them.‖
————————
―11:30 P.M. Attention, Dyer, Pabodie, Douglas. Matter of highest—I might say
transcendent—importance. Arkham must relay to Kingsport Head Station at once.
Strange barrel growth is the Archaean thing that left prints in rocks. Mills,
Boudreau, and Fowler discover cluster of thirteen more at underground point forty
feet from aperture. Mixed with curiously rounded and configured soapstone
fragments smaller than one previously found—star-shaped but no marks of
breakage except at some of the points. Of organic specimens, eight apparently
perfect, with all appendages. Have brought all to surface, leading off dogs to
distance. They cannot stand the things. Give close attention to description and
repeat back for accuracy. Papers must get this right.
―Objects are eight feet long all over. Six-foot five-ridged barrel torso 3.5 feet central
diameter, 1 foot end diameters. Dark grey, flexible, and infinitely tough. Seven-foot
membraneous wings of same colour, found folded, spread out of furrows between
ridges. Wing framework tubular or glandular, of lighter grey, with orifices at wing
tips. Spread wings have serrated edge. Around equator, one at central apex of
each of the five vertical, stave-like ridges, are five systems of light grey flexible
arms or tentacles found tightly folded to torso but expansible to maximum length of
over 3 feet. Like arms of primitive crinoid. Single stalks 3 inches diameter branch
after 6 inches into five sub-stalks, each of which branches after 8 inches into five
small, tapering tentacles or tendrils, giving each stalk a total of 25 tentacles.
―At top of torso blunt bulbous neck of lighter grey with gill-like suggestions holds
yellowish five-pointed starfish-shaped apparent head covered with three-inch wiry
cilia of various prismatic colours. Head thick and puffy, about 2 feet point to point,
with three-inch flexible yellowish tubes projecting from each point. Slit in exact
centre of top probably breathing aperture. At end of each tube is spherical
expansion where yellowish membrane rolls back on handling to reveal glassy, red-
irised globe, evidently an eye. Five slightly longer reddish tubes start from inner
angles of starfish-shaped head and end in sac-like swellings of same colour which
upon pressure open to bell-shaped orifices 2 inches maximum diameter and lined
with sharp white tooth-like projections. Probable mouths. All these tubes, cilia, and
points of starfish-head found folded tightly down; tubes and points clinging to
bulbous neck and torso. Flexibility surprising despite vast toughness.
―Cannot yet assign positively to animal or vegetable kingdom, but odds now favour
animal. Probably represents incredibly advanced evolution of radiata without loss
of certain primitive features. Echinoderm resemblances unmistakable despite local
contradictory evidences. Wing structure puzzles in view of probable marine habitat,
but may have use in water navigation. Symmetry is curiously vegetable-like,
suggesting vegetable‘s essentially up-and-down structure rather than animal‘s fore-
and-aft structure. Fabulously early date of evolution, preceding even simplest
Archaean protozoa hitherto known, baffles all conjecture as to origin.
―Vast field of study opened. Deposits probably of late Cretaceous or early Eocene
period, judging from associated specimens. Massive stalagmites deposited above
them. Hard work hewing out, but toughness prevented damage. State of
preservation miraculous, evidently owing to limestone action. No more found so far,
but will resume search later. Job now to get fourteen huge specimens to camp
without dogs, which bark furiously and can‘t be trusted near them. With nine men—
three left to guard the dogs—we ought to manage the three sledges fairly well,
though wind is bad. Must establish plane communication with McMurdo Sound and
begin shipping material. But I‘ve got to dissect one of these things before we take
any rest. Wish I had a real laboratory here. Dyer better kick himself for having tried
to stop my westward trip. First the world‘s greatest mountains, and then this. If this
last isn‘t the high spot of the expedition, I don‘t know what is. We‘re made
scientifically. Congrats, Pabodie, on the drill that opened up the cave. Now will
Arkham please repeat description?‖
The sensations of Pabodie and myself at receipt of this report were almost beyond
description, nor were our companions much behind us in enthusiasm. McTighe, who had
hastily translated a few high spots as they came from the droning receiving set, wrote out the
entire message from his shorthand version as soon as Lake‘s operator signed off. All
appreciated the epoch-making significance of the discovery, and I sent Lake congratulations
as soon as the Arkham‘s operator had repeated back the descriptive parts as requested; and
my example was followed by Sherman from his station at the McMurdo Sound supply cache,
as well as by Capt. Douglas of the Arkham. Later, as head of the expedition, I added some
remarks to be relayed through the Arkham to the outside world. Of course, rest was an
absurd thought amidst this excitement; and my only wish was to get to Lake‘s camp as
quickly as I could. It disappointed me when he sent word that a rising mountain gale made
early aërial travel impossible.
But within an hour and a half interest again rose to banish disappointment. Lake was sending
more messages, and told of the completely successful transportation of the fourteen great
specimens to the camp. It had been a hard pull, for the things were surprisingly heavy; but
nine men had accomplished it very neatly. Now some of the party were hurriedly building a
snow corral at a safe distance from the camp, to which the dogs could be brought for greater
convenience in feeding. The specimens were laid out on the hard snow near the camp, save
for one on which Lake was making crude attempts at dissection.
This dissection seemed to be a greater task than had been expected; for despite the heat of a
gasoline stove in the newly raised laboratory tent, the deceptively flexible tissues of the
chosen specimen—a powerful and intact one—lost nothing of their more than leathery
toughness. Lake was puzzled as to how he might make the requisite incisions without
violence destructive enough to upset all the structural niceties he was looking for. He had, it is
true, seven more perfect specimens; but these were too few to use up recklessly unless the
cave might later yield an unlimited supply. Accordingly he removed the specimen and dragged
in one which, though having remnants of the starfish-arrangements at both ends, was badly
crushed and partly disrupted along one of the great torso furrows.
Results, quickly reported over the wireless, were baffling and provocative indeed. Nothing like
delicacy or accuracy was possible with instruments hardly able to cut the anomalous tissue,
but the little that was achieved left us all awed and bewildered. Existing biology would have to
be wholly revised, for this thing was no product of any cell-growth science knows about.
There had been scarcely any mineral replacement, and despite an age of perhaps forty
million years the internal organs were wholly intact. The leathery, undeteriorative, and almost
indestructible quality was an inherent attribute of the thing‘s form of organisation; and
pertained to some palaeogean cycle of invertebrate evolution utterly beyond our powers of
speculation. At first all that Lake found was dry, but as the heated tent produced its thawing
effect, organic moisture of pungent and offensive odour was encountered toward the thing‘s
uninjured side. It was not blood, but a thick, dark-green fluid apparently answering the same
purpose. By the time Lake reached this stage all 37 dogs had been brought to the still
uncompleted corral near the camp; and even at that distance set up a savage barking and
show of restlessness at the acrid, diffusive smell.
Far from helping to place the strange entity, this provisional dissection merely deepened its
mystery. All guesses about its external members had been correct, and on the evidence of
these one could hardly hesitate to call the thing animal; but internal inspection brought up so
many vegetable evidences that Lake was left hopelessly at sea. It had digestion and
circulation, and eliminated waste matter through the reddish tubes of its starfish-shaped base.
Cursorily, one would say that its respiratory apparatus handled oxygen rather than carbon
dioxide; and there were odd evidences of air-storage chambers and methods of shifting
respiration from the external orifice to at least two other fully developed breathing-systems—
gills and pores. Clearly, it was amphibian and probably adapted to long airless hibernation-
periods as well. Vocal organs seemed present in connexion with the main respiratory system,
but they presented anomalies beyond immediate solution. Articulate speech, in the sense of
syllable-utterance, seemed barely conceivable; but musical piping notes covering a wide
range were highly probable. The muscular system was almost preternaturally developed.
The nervous system was so complex and highly developed as to leave Lake aghast. Though
excessively primitive and archaic in some respects, the thing had a set of ganglial centres and
connectives arguing the very extremes of specialised development. Its five-lobed brain was
surprisingly advanced; and there were signs of a sensory equipment, served in part through
the wiry cilia of the head, involving factors alien to any other terrestrial organism. Probably it
had more than five senses, so that its habits could not be predicted from any existing analogy.
It must, Lake thought, have been a creature of keen sensitiveness and delicately
differentiated functions in its primal world; much like the ants and bees of today. It reproduced
like the vegetable cryptogams, especially the pteridophytes; having spore-cases at the tips of
the wings and evidently developing from a thallus or prothallus.
But to give it a name at this stage was mere folly. It looked like a radiate, but was clearly
something more. It was partly vegetable, but had three-fourths of the essentials of animal
structure. That it was marine in origin, its symmetrical contour and certain other attributes
clearly indicated; yet one could not be exact as to the limit of its later adaptations. The wings,
after all, held a persistent suggestion of the aërial. How it could have undergone its
tremendously complex evolution on a new-born earth in time to leave prints in Archaean rocks
was so far beyond conception as to make Lake whimsically recall the primal myths about
Great Old Ones who filtered down from the stars and concocted earth-life as a joke or
mistake; and the wild tales of cosmic hill things from Outside told by a folklorist colleague in
Miskatonic‘s English department.
Naturally, he considered the possibility of the pre-Cambrian prints‘ having been made by a
less evolved ancestor of the present specimens; but quickly rejected this too facile theory
upon considering the advanced structural qualities of the older fossils. If anything, the later
contours shewed decadence rather than higher evolution. The size of the pseudo-feet had
decreased, and the whole morphology seemed coarsened and simplified. Moreover, the
nerves and organs just examined held singular suggestions of retrogression from forms still
more complex. Atrophied and vestigial parts were surprisingly prevalent. Altogether, little could
be said to have been solved; and Lake fell back on mythology for a provisional name—
jocosely dubbing his finds ―The Elder Ones‖.
At about 2:30 A.M., having decided to postpone further work and get a little rest, he covered
the dissected organism with a tarpaulin, emerged from the laboratory tent, and studied the
intact specimens with renewed interest. The ceaseless antarctic sun had begun to limber up
their tissues a trifle, so that the head-points and tubes of two or three shewed signs of
unfolding; but Lake did not believe there was any danger of immediate decomposition in the
almost sub-zero air. He did, however, move all the undissected specimens closer together
and throw a spare tent over them in order to keep off the direct solar rays. That would also
help to keep their possible scent away from the dogs, whose hostile unrest was really
becoming a problem even at their substantial distance and behind the higher and higher snow
walls which an increased quota of the men were hastening to raise around their quarters. He
had to weight down the corners of the tent-cloth with heavy blocks of snow to hold it in place
amidst the rising gale, for the titan mountains seemed about to deliver some gravely severe
blasts. Early apprehensions about sudden antarctic winds were revived, and under Atwood‘s
supervision precautions were taken to bank the tents, new dog-corral, and crude aëroplane
shelters with snow on the mountainward side. These latter shelters, begun with hard snow
blocks during odd moments, were by no means as high as they should have been; and Lake
finally detached all hands from other tasks to work on them.
It was after four when Lake at last prepared to sign off and advised us all to share the rest
period his outfit would take when the shelter walls were a little higher. He held some friendly
chat with Pabodie over the ether, and repeated his praise of the really marvellous drills that
had helped him make his discovery. Atwood also sent greetings and praises. I gave Lake a
warm word of congratulation, owning up that he was right about the western trip; and we all
agreed to get in touch by wireless at ten in the morning. If the gale was then over, Lake would
send a plane for the party at my base. Just before retiring I despatched a final message to the
Arkham with instructions about toning down the day‘s news for the outside world, since the full
details seemed radical enough to rouse a wave of incredulity until further substantiated.
III.
None of us, I imagine, slept very heavily or continuously that morning; for both the excitement
of Lake‘s discovery and the mounting fury of the wind were against such a thing. So savage
was the blast, even where we were, that we could not help wondering how much worse it was
at Lake‘s camp, directly under the vast unknown peaks that bred and delivered it. McTighe
was awake at ten o‘clock and tried to get Lake on the wireless, as agreed, but some electrical
condition in the disturbed air to the westward seemed to prevent communication. We did,
however, get the Arkham, and Douglas told me that he had likewise been vainly trying to
reach Lake. He had not known about the wind, for very little was blowing at McMurdo Sound
despite its persistent rage where we were.
Throughout the day we all listened anxiously and tried to get Lake at intervals, but invariably
without results. About noon a positive frenzy of wind stampeded out of the west, causing us to
fear for the safety of our camp; but it eventually died down, with only a moderate relapse at 2
P.M. After three o‘clock it was very quiet, and we redoubled our efforts to get Lake. Reflecting
that he had four planes, each provided with an excellent short-wave outfit, we could not
imagine any ordinary accident capable of crippling all his wireless equipment at once.
Nevertheless the stony silence continued; and when we thought of the delirious force the wind
must have had in his locality we could not help making the most direful conjectures.
By six o‘clock our fears had become intense and definite, and after a wireless consultation
with Douglas and Thorfinnssen I resolved to take steps toward investigation. The fifth
aëroplane, which we had left at the McMurdo Sound supply cache with Sherman and two
sailors, was in good shape and ready for instant use; and it seemed that the very emergency
for which it had been saved was now upon us. I got Sherman by wireless and ordered him to
join me with the plane and the two sailors at the southern base as quickly as possible; the air
conditions being apparently highly favourable. We then talked over the personnel of the
coming investigation party; and decided that we would include all hands, together with the
sledge and dogs which I had kept with me. Even so great a load would not be too much for
one of the huge planes built to our especial orders for heavy machinery transportation. At
intervals I still tried to reach Lake with the wireless, but all to no purpose.
Sherman, with the sailors Gunnarsson and Larsen, took off at 7:30; and reported a quiet flight
from several points on the wing. They arrived at our base at midnight, and all hands at once
discussed the next move. It was risky business sailing over the antarctic in a single aëroplane
without any line of bases, but no one drew back from what seemed like the plainest necessity.
We turned in at two o‘clock for a brief rest after some preliminary loading of the plane, but
were up again in four hours to finish the loading and packing.
At 7:15 A.M., January 25th, we started flying northwestward under McTighe‘s pilotage with ten
men, seven dogs, a sledge, a fuel and food supply, and other items including the plane‘s
wireless outfit. The atmosphere was clear, fairly quiet, and relatively mild in temperature; and
we anticipated very little trouble in reaching the latitude and longitude designated by Lake as
the site of his camp. Our apprehensions were over what we might find, or fail to find, at the
end of our journey; for silence continued to answer all calls despatched to the camp.
Every incident of that four-and-a-half-hour flight is burned into my recollection because of its
crucial position in my life. It marked my loss, at the age of fifty-four, of all that peace and
balance which the normal mind possesses through its accustomed conception of external
Nature and Nature‘s laws. Thenceforward the ten of us—but the student Danforth and myself
above all others—were to face a hideously amplified world of lurking horrors which nothing
can erase from our emotions, and which we would refrain from sharing with mankind in
general if we could. The newspapers have printed the bulletins we sent from the moving
plane; telling of our non-stop course, our two battles with treacherous upper-air gales, our
glimpse of the broken surface where Lake had sunk his mid-journey shaft three days before,
and our sight of a group of those strange fluffy snow-cylinders noted by Amundsen and Byrd
as rolling in the wind across the endless leagues of frozen plateau. There came a point,
though, when our sensations could not be conveyed in any words the press would
understand; and a later point when we had to adopt an actual rule of strict censorship.
The sailor Larsen was first to spy the jagged line of witch-like cones and pinnacles ahead,
and his shouts sent everyone to the windows of the great cabined plane. Despite our speed,
they were very slow in gaining prominence; hence we knew that they must be infinitely far off,
and visible only because of their abnormal height. Little by little, however, they rose grimly into
the western sky; allowing us to distinguish various bare, bleak, blackish summits, and to catch
the curious sense of phantasy which they inspired as seen in the reddish antarctic light
against the provocative background of iridescent ice-dust clouds. In the whole spectacle there
was a persistent, pervasive hint of stupendous secrecy and potential revelation; as if these
stark, nightmare spires marked the pylons of a frightful gateway into forbidden spheres of
dream, and complex gulfs of remote time, space, and ultra-dimensionality. I could not help
feeling that they were evil things—mountains of madness whose farther slopes looked out
over some accursed ultimate abyss. That seething, half-luminous cloud-background held
ineffable suggestions of a vague, ethereal beyondness far more than terrestrially spatial; and
gave appalling reminders of the utter remoteness, separateness, desolation, and aeon-long
death of this untrodden and unfathomed austral world.
It was young Danforth who drew our notice to the curious regularities of the higher mountain
skyline—regularities like clinging fragments of perfect cubes, which Lake had mentioned in
his messages, and which indeed justified his comparison with the dream-like suggestions of
primordial temple-ruins on cloudy Asian mountain-tops so subtly and strangely painted by
Roerich. There was indeed something hauntingly Roerich-like about this whole unearthly
continent of mountainous mystery. I had felt it in October when we first caught sight of Victoria
Land, and I felt it afresh now. I felt, too, another wave of uneasy consciousness of Archaean
mythical resemblances; of how disturbingly this lethal realm corresponded to the evilly famed
plateau of Leng in the primal writings. Mythologists have placed Leng in Central Asia; but the
racial memory of man—or of his predecessors—is long, and it may well be that certain tales
have come down from lands and mountains and temples of horror earlier than Asia and
earlier than any human world we know. A few daring mystics have hinted at a pre-Pleistocene
origin for the fragmentary Pnakotic Manuscripts, and have suggested that the devotees of
Tsathoggua were as alien to mankind as Tsathoggua itself. Leng, wherever in space or time it
might brood, was not a region I would care to be in or near; nor did I relish the proximity of a
world that had ever bred such ambiguous and Archaean monstrosities as those Lake had just
mentioned. At the moment I felt sorry that I had ever read the abhorred Necronomicon, or
talked so much with that unpleasantly erudite folklorist Wilmarth at the university.
This mood undoubtedly served to aggravate my reaction to the bizarre mirage which burst
upon us from the increasingly opalescent zenith as we drew near the mountains and began to
make out the cumulative undulations of the foothills. I had seen dozens of polar mirages
during the preceding weeks, some of them quite as uncanny and fantastically vivid as the
present sample; but this one had a wholly novel and obscure quality of menacing symbolism,
and I shuddered as the seething labyrinth of fabulous walls and towers and minarets loomed
out of the troubled ice-vapours above our heads.
The effect was that of a Cyclopean city of no architecture known to man or to human
imagination, with vast aggregations of night-black masonry embodying monstrous perversions
of geometrical laws and attaining the most grotesque extremes of sinister bizarrerie. There
were truncated cones, sometimes terraced or fluted, surmounted by tall cylindrical shafts here
and there bulbously enlarged and often capped with tiers of thinnish scalloped discs; and
strange, beetling, table-like constructions suggesting piles of multitudinous rectangular slabs
or circular plates or five-pointed stars with each one overlapping the one beneath. There were
composite cones and pyramids either alone or surmounting cylinders or cubes or flatter
truncated cones and pyramids, and occasional needle-like spires in curious clusters of five. All
of these febrile structures seemed knit together by tubular bridges crossing from one to the
other at various dizzy heights, and the implied scale of the whole was terrifying and
oppressive in its sheer giganticism. The general type of mirage was not unlike some of the
wilder forms observed and drawn by the Arctic whaler Scoresby in 1820; but at this time and
place, with those dark, unknown mountain peaks soaring stupendously ahead, that
anomalous elder-world discovery in our minds, and the pall of probable disaster enveloping
the greater part of our expedition, we all seemed to find in it a taint of latent malignity and
infinitely evil portent.
I was glad when the mirage began to break up, though in the process the various nightmare
turrets and cones assumed distorted temporary forms of even vaster hideousness. As the
whole illusion dissolved to churning opalescence we began to look earthward again, and saw
that our journey‘s end was not far off. The unknown mountains ahead rose dizzyingly up like a
fearsome rampart of giants, their curious regularities shewing with startling clearness even
without a field-glass. We were over the lowest foothills now, and could see amidst the snow,
ice, and bare patches of their main plateau a couple of darkish spots which we took to be
Lake‘s camp and boring. The higher foothills shot up between five and six miles away, forming
a range almost distinct from the terrifying line of more than Himalayan peaks beyond them. At
length Ropes—the student who had relieved McTighe at the controls—began to head
downward toward the left-hand dark spot whose size marked it as the camp. As he did so,
McTighe sent out the last uncensored wireless message the world was to receive from our
expedition.
Everyone, of course, has read the brief and unsatisfying bulletins of the rest of our antarctic
sojourn. Some hours after our landing we sent a guarded report of the tragedy we found, and
reluctantly announced the wiping out of the whole Lake party by the frightful wind of the
preceding day, or of the night before that. Eleven known dead, young Gedney missing.
People pardoned our hazy lack of details through realisation of the shock the sad event must
have caused us, and believed us when we explained that the mangling action of the wind had
rendered all eleven bodies unsuitable for transportation outside. Indeed, I flatter myself that
even in the midst of our distress, utter bewilderment, and soul-clutching horror, we scarcely
went beyond the truth in any specific instance. The tremendous significance lies in what we
dared not tell—what I would not tell now but for the need of warning others off from nameless
terrors.
It is a fact that the wind had wrought dreadful havoc. Whether all could have lived through it,
even without the other thing, is gravely open to doubt. The storm, with its fury of madly driven
ice-particles, must have been beyond anything our expedition had encountered before. One
aëroplane shelter—all, it seems, had been left in a far too flimsy and inadequate state—was
nearly pulverised; and the derrick at the distant boring was entirely shaken to pieces. The
exposed metal of the grounded planes and drilling machinery was bruised into a high polish,
and two of the small tents were flattened despite their snow banking. Wooden surfaces left
out in the blast were pitted and denuded of paint, and all signs of tracks in the snow were
completely obliterated. It is also true that we found none of the Archaean biological objects in
a condition to take outside as a whole. We did gather some minerals from a vast tumbled pile,
including several of the greenish soapstone fragments whose odd five-pointed rounding and
faint patterns of grouped dots caused so many doubtful comparisons; and some fossil bones,
among which were the most typical of the curiously injured specimens.
None of the dogs survived, their hurriedly built snow enclosure near the camp being almost
wholly destroyed. The wind may have done that, though the greater breakage on the side
next the camp, which was not the windward one, suggests an outward leap or break of the
frantic beasts themselves. All three sledges were gone, and we have tried to explain that the
wind may have blown them off into the unknown. The drill and ice-melting machinery at the
boring were too badly damaged to warrant salvage, so we used them to choke up that subtly
disturbing gateway to the past which Lake had blasted. We likewise left at the camp the two
most shaken-up of the planes; since our surviving party had only four real pilots—Sherman,
Danforth, McTighe, and Ropes—in all, with Danforth in a poor nervous shape to navigate. We
brought back all the books, scientific equipment, and other incidentals we could find, though
much was rather unaccountably blown away. Spare tents and furs were either missing or
badly out of condition.
It was approximately 4 P.M., after wide plane cruising had forced us to give Gedney up for
lost, that we sent our guarded message to the Arkham for relaying; and I think we did well to
keep it as calm and non-committal as we succeeded in doing. The most we said about
agitation concerned our dogs, whose frantic uneasiness near the biological specimens was to
be expected from poor Lake‘s accounts. We did not mention, I think, their display of the same
uneasiness when sniffing around the queer greenish soapstones and certain other objects in
the disordered region; objects including scientific instruments, aëroplanes, and machinery
both at the camp and at the boring, whose parts had been loosened, moved, or otherwise
tampered with by winds that must have harboured singular curiosity and investigativeness.
About the fourteen biological specimens we were pardonably indefinite. We said that the only
ones we discovered were damaged, but that enough was left of them to prove Lake‘s
description wholly and impressively accurate. It was hard work keeping our personal emotions
out of this matter—and we did not mention numbers or say exactly how we had found those
which we did find. We had by that time agreed not to transmit anything suggesting madness
on the part of Lake‘s men, and it surely looked like madness to find six imperfect
monstrosities carefully buried upright in nine-foot snow graves under five-pointed mounds
punched over with groups of dots in patterns exactly like those on the queer greenish
soapstones dug up from Mesozoic or Tertiary times. The eight perfect specimens mentioned
by Lake seemed to have been completely blown away.
We were careful, too, about the public‘s general peace of mind; hence Danforth and I said
little about that frightful trip over the mountains the next day. It was the fact that only a
radically lightened plane could possibly cross a range of such height which mercifully limited
that scouting tour to the two of us. On our return at 1 A.M. Danforth was close to hysterics, but
kept an admirably stiff upper lip. It took no persuasion to make him promise not to shew our
sketches and the other things we brought away in our pockets, not to say anything more to
the others than what we had agreed to relay outside, and to hide our camera films for private
development later on; so that part of my present story will be as new to Pabodie, McTighe,
Ropes, Sherman, and the rest as it will be to the world in general. Indeed—Danforth is closer
mouthed than I; for he saw—or thinks he saw—one thing he will not tell even me.
As all know, our report included a tale of a hard ascent; a confirmation of Lake‘s opinion that
the great peaks are of Archaean slate and other very primal crumpled strata unchanged since
at least middle Comanchian times; a conventional comment on the regularity of the clinging
cube and rampart formations; a decision that the cave-mouths indicate dissolved calcareous
veins; a conjecture that certain slopes and passes would permit of the scaling and crossing of
the entire range by seasoned mountaineers; and a remark that the mysterious other side
holds a lofty and immense super-plateau as ancient and unchanging as the mountains
themselves—20,000 feet in elevation, with grotesque rock formations protruding through a
thin glacial layer and with low gradual foothills between the general plateau surface and the
sheer precipices of the highest peaks.
This body of data is in every respect true so far as it goes, and it completely satisfied the men
at the camp. We laid our absence of sixteen hours—a longer time than our announced flying,
landing, reconnoitring, and rock-collecting programme called for—to a long mythical spell of
adverse wind conditions; and told truly of our landing on the farther foothills. Fortunately our
tale sounded realistic and prosaic enough not to tempt any of the others into emulating our
flight. Had any tried to do that, I would have used every ounce of my persuasion to stop
them—and I do not know what Danforth would have done. While we were gone, Pabodie,
Sherman, Ropes, McTighe, and Williamson had worked like beavers over Lake‘s two best
planes; fitting them again for use despite the altogether unaccountable juggling of their
operative mechanism.
We decided to load all the planes the next morning and start back for our old base as soon as
possible. Even though indirect, that was the safest way to work toward McMurdo Sound; for a
straight-line flight across the most utterly unknown stretches of the aeon-dead continent
would involve many additional hazards. Further exploration was hardly feasible in view of our
tragic decimation and the ruin of our drilling machinery; and the doubts and horrors around
us—which we did not reveal—made us wish only to escape from this austral world of
desolation and brooding madness as swiftly as we could.
As the public knows, our return to the world was accomplished without further disasters. All
planes reached the old base on the evening of the next day—January 27th—after a swift non-
stop flight; and on the 28th we made McMurdo Sound in two laps, the one pause being very
brief, and occasioned by a faulty rudder in the furious wind over the ice-shelf after we had
cleared the great plateau. In five days more the Arkham and Miskatonic, with all hands and
equipment on board, were shaking clear of the thickening field ice and working up Ross Sea
with the mocking mountains of Victoria Land looming westward against a troubled antarctic
sky and twisting the wind‘s wails into a wide-ranged musical piping which chilled my soul to
the quick. Less than a fortnight later we left the last hint of polar land behind us, and thanked
heaven that we were clear of a haunted, accursed realm where life and death, space and
time, have made black and blasphemous alliances in the unknown epochs since matter first
writhed and swam on the planet‘s scarce-cooled crust.
Since our return we have all constantly worked to discourage antarctic exploration, and have
kept certain doubts and guesses to ourselves with splendid unity and faithfulness. Even
young Danforth, with his nervous breakdown, has not flinched or babbled to his doctors—
indeed, as I have said, there is one thing he thinks he alone saw which he will not tell even
me, though I think it would help his psychological state if he would consent to do so. It might
explain and relieve much, though perhaps the thing was no more than the delusive aftermath
of an earlier shock. That is the impression I gather after those rare irresponsible moments
when he whispers disjointed things to me—things which he repudiates vehemently as soon
as he gets a grip on himself again.
It will be hard work deterring others from the great white south, and some of our efforts may
directly harm our cause by drawing inquiring notice. We might have known from the first that
human curiosity is undying, and that the results we announced would be enough to spur
others ahead on the same age-long pursuit of the unknown. Lake‘s reports of those biological
monstrosities had aroused naturalists and palaeontologists to the highest pitch; though we
were sensible enough not to shew the detached parts we had taken from the actual buried
specimens, or our photographs of those specimens as they were found. We also refrained
from shewing the more puzzling of the scarred bones and greenish soapstones; while
Danforth and I have closely guarded the pictures we took or drew on the super-plateau across
the range, and the crumpled things we smoothed, studied in terror, and brought away in our
pockets. But now that Starkweather-Moore party is organising, and with a thoroughness far
beyond anything our outfit attempted. If not dissuaded, they will get to the innermost nucleus
of the antarctic and melt and bore till they bring up that which may end the world we know. So
I must break through all reticences at last—even about that ultimate nameless thing beyond
the mountains of madness.
IV.
It is only with vast hesitancy and repugnance that I let my mind go back to Lake‘s camp and
what we really found there—and to that other thing beyond the frightful mountain wall. I am
constantly tempted to shirk the details, and to let hints stand for actual facts and ineluctable
deductions. I hope I have said enough already to let me glide briefly over the rest; the rest,
that is, of the horror at the camp. I have told of the wind-ravaged terrain, the damaged
shelters, the disarranged machinery, the varied uneasinesses of our dogs, the missing
sledges and other items, the deaths of men and dogs, the absence of Gedney, and the six
insanely buried biological specimens, strangely sound in texture for all their structural injuries,
from a world forty million years dead. I do not recall whether I mentioned that upon checking
up the canine bodies we found one dog missing. We did not think much about that till later—
indeed, only Danforth and I have thought of it at all.
The principal things I have been keeping back relate to the bodies, and to certain subtle
points which may or may not lend a hideous and incredible kind of rationale to the apparent
chaos. At the time I tried to keep the men‘s minds off those points; for it was so much
simpler—so much more normal—to lay everything to an outbreak of madness on the part of
some of Lake‘s party. From the look of things, that daemon mountain wind must have been
enough to drive any man mad in the midst of this centre of all earthly mystery and desolation.
The crowning abnormality, of course, was the condition of the bodies—men and dogs alike.
They had all been in some terrible kind of conflict, and were torn and mangled in fiendish and
altogether inexplicable ways. Death, so far as we could judge, had in each case come from
strangulation or laceration. The dogs had evidently started the trouble, for the state of their ill-
built corral bore witness to its forcible breakage from within. It had been set some distance
from the camp because of the hatred of the animals for those hellish Archaean organisms, but
the precaution seemed to have been taken in vain. When left alone in that monstrous wind
behind flimsy walls of insufficient height they must have stampeded—whether from the wind
itself, or from some subtle, increasing odour emitted by the nightmare specimens, one could
not say. Those specimens, of course, had been covered with a tent-cloth; yet the low antarctic
sun had beat steadily upon that cloth, and Lake had mentioned that solar heat tended to
make the strangely sound and tough tissues of the things relax and expand. Perhaps the wind
had whipped the cloth from over them, and jostled them about in such a way that their more
pungent olfactory qualities became manifest despite their unbelievable antiquity.
But whatever had happened, it was hideous and revolting enough. Perhaps I had better put
squeamishness aside and tell the worst at last—though with a categorical statement of
opinion, based on the first-hand observations and most rigid deductions of both Danforth and
myself, that the then missing Gedney was in no way responsible for the loathsome horrors we
found. I have said that the bodies were frightfully mangled. Now I must add that some were
incised and subtracted from in the most curious, cold-blooded, and inhuman fashion. It was
the same with dogs and men. All the healthier, fatter bodies, quadrupedal or bipedal, had had
their most solid masses of tissue cut out and removed, as by a careful butcher; and around
them was a strange sprinkling of salt—taken from the ravaged provision-chests on the
planes—which conjured up the most horrible associations. The thing had occurred in one of
the crude aëroplane shelters from which the plane had been dragged out, and subsequent
winds had effaced all tracks which could have supplied any plausible theory. Scattered bits of
clothing, roughly slashed from the human incision-subjects, hinted no clues. It is useless to
bring up the half-impression of certain faint snow-prints in one shielded corner of the ruined
enclosure—because that impression did not concern human prints at all, but was clearly
mixed up with all the talk of fossil prints which poor Lake had been giving throughout the
preceding weeks. One had to be careful of one‘s imagination in the lee of those
overshadowing mountains of madness.
As I have indicated, Gedney and one dog turned out to be missing in the end. When we came
on that terrible shelter we had missed two dogs and two men; but the fairly unharmed
dissecting tent, which we entered after investigating the monstrous graves, had something to
reveal. It was not as Lake had left it, for the covered parts of the primal monstrosity had been
removed from the improvised table. Indeed, we had already realised that one of the six
imperfect and insanely buried things we had found—the one with the trace of a peculiarly
hateful odour—must represent the collected sections of the entity which Lake had tried to
analyse. On and around that laboratory table were strown other things, and it did not take
long for us to guess that those things were the carefully though oddly and inexpertly dissected
parts of one man and one dog. I shall spare the feelings of survivors by omitting mention of
the man‘s identity. Lake‘s anatomical instruments were missing, but there were evidences of
their careful cleansing. The gasoline stove was also gone, though around it we found a
curious litter of matches. We buried the human parts beside the other ten men, and the
canine parts with the other 35 dogs. Concerning the bizarre smudges on the laboratory table,
and on the jumble of roughly handled illustrated books scattered near it, we were much too
bewildered to speculate.
This formed the worst of the camp horror, but other things were equally perplexing. The
disappearance of Gedney, the one dog, the eight uninjured biological specimens, the three
sledges, and certain instruments, illustrated technical and scientific books, writing materials,
electric torches and batteries, food and fuel, heating apparatus, spare tents, fur suits, and the
like, was utterly beyond sane conjecture; as were likewise the spatter-fringed ink-blots on
certain pieces of paper, and the evidences of curious alien fumbling and experimentation
around the planes and all other mechanical devices both at the camp and at the boring. The
dogs seemed to abhor this oddly disordered machinery. Then, too, there was the upsetting of
the larder, the disappearance of certain staples, and the jarringly comical heap of tin cans
pried open in the most unlikely ways and at the most unlikely places. The profusion of
scattered matches, intact, broken, or spent, formed another minor enigma; as did the two or
three tent-cloths and fur suits which we found lying about with peculiar and unorthodox
slashings conceivably due to clumsy efforts at unimaginable adaptations. The maltreatment of
the human and canine bodies, and the crazy burial of the damaged Archaean specimens,
were all of a piece with this apparent disintegrative madness. In view of just such an
eventuality as the present one, we carefully photographed all the main evidences of insane
disorder at the camp; and shall use the prints to buttress our pleas against the departure of
the proposed Starkweather-Moore Expedition.
Our first act after finding the bodies in the shelter was to photograph and open the row of
insane graves with the five-pointed snow mounds. We could not help noticing the
resemblance of these monstrous mounds, with their clusters of grouped dots, to poor Lake‘s
descriptions of the strange greenish soapstones; and when we came on some of the
soapstones themselves in the great mineral pile we found the likeness very close indeed. The
whole general formation, it must be made clear, seemed abominably suggestive of the
starfish-head of the Archaean entities; and we agreed that the suggestion must have worked
potently upon the sensitised minds of Lake‘s overwrought party. Our own first sight of the
actual buried entities formed a horrible moment, and sent the imaginations of Pabodie and
myself back to some of the shocking primal myths we had read and heard. We all agreed that
the mere sight and continued presence of the things must have coöperated with the
oppressive polar solitude and daemon mountain wind in driving Lake‘s party mad.
For madness—centring in Gedney as the only possible surviving agent—was the explanation
spontaneously adopted by everybody so far as spoken utterance was concerned; though I will
not be so naive as to deny that each of us may have harboured wild guesses which sanity
forbade him to formulate completely. Sherman, Pabodie, and McTighe made an exhaustive
aëroplane cruise over all the surrounding territory in the afternoon, sweeping the horizon with
field-glasses in quest of Gedney and of the various missing things; but nothing came to light.
The party reported that the titan barrier range extended endlessly to right and left alike,
without any diminution in height or essential structure. On some of the peaks, though, the
regular cube and rampart formations were bolder and plainer; having doubly fantastic
similitudes to Roerich-painted Asian hill ruins. The distribution of cryptical cave-mouths on the
black snow-denuded summits seemed roughly even as far as the range could be traced.
In spite of all the prevailing horrors we were left with enough sheer scientific zeal and
adventurousness to wonder about the unknown realm beyond those mysterious mountains.
As our guarded messages stated, we rested at midnight after our day of terror and bafflement;
but not without a tentative plan for one or more range-crossing altitude flights in a lightened
plane with aërial camera and geologist‘s outfit, beginning the following morning. It was
decided that Danforth and I try it first, and we awaked at 7 A.M. intending an early trip; though
heavy winds—mentioned in our brief bulletin to the outside world—delayed our start till nearly
nine o‘clock.
I have already repeated the non-committal story we told the men at camp—and relayed
outside—after our return sixteen hours later. It is now my terrible duty to amplify this account
by filling in the merciful blanks with hints of what we really saw in the hidden trans-montane
world—hints of the revelations which have finally driven Danforth to a nervous collapse. I wish
he would add a really frank word about the thing which he thinks he alone saw—even though
it was probably a nervous delusion—and which was perhaps the last straw that put him where
he is; but he is firm against that. All I can do is to repeat his later disjointed whispers about
what set him shrieking as the plane soared back through the wind-tortured mountain pass
after that real and tangible shock which I shared. This will form my last word. If the plain signs
of surviving elder horrors in what I disclose be not enough to keep others from meddling with
the inner antarctic—or at least from prying too deeply beneath the surface of that ultimate
waste of forbidden secrets and unhuman, aeon-cursed desolation—the responsibility for
unnamable and perhaps immensurable evils will not be mine.
Danforth and I, studying the notes made by Pabodie in his afternoon flight and checking up
with a sextant, had calculated that the lowest available pass in the range lay somewhat to the
right of us, within sight of camp, and about 23,000 or 24,000 feet above sea-level. For this
point, then, we first headed in the lightened plane as we embarked on our flight of discovery.
The camp itself, on foothills which sprang from a high continental plateau, was some 12,000
feet in altitude; hence the actual height increase necessary was not so vast as it might seem.
Nevertheless we were acutely conscious of the rarefied air and intense cold as we rose; for
on account of visibility conditions we had to leave the cabin windows open. We were dressed,
of course, in our heaviest furs.
As we drew near the forbidding peaks, dark and sinister above the line of crevasse-riven
snow and interstitial glaciers, we noticed more and more the curiously regular formations
clinging to the slopes; and thought again of the strange Asian paintings of Nicholas Roerich.
The ancient and wind-weathered rock strata fully verified all of Lake‘s bulletins, and proved
that these hoary pinnacles had been towering up in exactly the same way since a surprisingly
early time in earth‘s history—perhaps over fifty million years. How much higher they had once
been, it was futile to guess; but everything about this strange region pointed to obscure
atmospheric influences unfavourable to change, and calculated to retard the usual climatic
processes of rock disintegration.
But it was the mountainside tangle of regular cubes, ramparts, and cave-mouths which
fascinated and disturbed us most. I studied them with a field-glass and took aërial
photographs whilst Danforth drove; and at times relieved him at the controls—though my
aviation knowledge was purely an amateur‘s—in order to let him use the binoculars. We could
easily see that much of the material of the things was a lightish Archaean quartzite, unlike any
formation visible over broad areas of the general surface; and that their regularity was
extreme and uncanny to an extent which poor Lake had scarcely hinted.
As he had said, their edges were crumbled and rounded from untold aeons of savage
weathering; but their preternatural solidity and tough material had saved them from
obliteration. Many parts, especially those closest to the slopes, seemed identical in substance
with the surrounding rock surface. The whole arrangement looked like the ruins of Machu
Picchu in the Andes, or the primal foundation-walls of Kish as dug up by the Oxford–Field
Museum Expedition in 1929; and both Danforth and I obtained that occasional impression of
separate Cyclopean blocks which Lake had attributed to his flight-companion Carroll. How to
account for such things in this place was frankly beyond me, and I felt queerly humbled as a
geologist. Igneous formations often have strange regularities—like the famous Giants‘
Causeway in Ireland—but this stupendous range, despite Lake‘s original suspicion of
smoking cones, was above all else non-volcanic in evident structure.
The curious cave-mouths, near which the odd formations seemed most abundant, presented
another albeit a lesser puzzle because of their regularity of outline. They were, as Lake‘s
bulletin had said, often approximately square or semicircular; as if the natural orifices had
been shaped to greater symmetry by some magic hand. Their numerousness and wide
distribution were remarkable, and suggested that the whole region was honeycombed with
tunnels dissolved out of limestone strata. Such glimpses as we secured did not extend far
within the caverns, but we saw that they were apparently clear of stalactites and stalagmites.
Outside, those parts of the mountain slopes adjoining the apertures seemed invariably
smooth and regular; and Danforth thought that the slight cracks and pittings of the weathering
tended toward unusual patterns. Filled as he was with the horrors and strangenesses
discovered at the camp, he hinted that the pittings vaguely resembled those baffling groups of
dots sprinkled over the primeval greenish soapstones, so hideously duplicated on the madly
conceived snow mounds above those six buried monstrosities.
We had risen gradually in flying over the higher foothills and along toward the relatively low
pass we had selected. As we advanced we occasionally looked down at the snow and ice of
the land route, wondering whether we could have attempted the trip with the simpler
equipment of earlier days. Somewhat to our surprise we saw that the terrain was far from
difficult as such things go; and that despite the crevasses and other bad spots it would not
have been likely to deter the sledges of a Scott, a Shackleton, or an Amundsen. Some of the
glaciers appeared to lead up to wind-bared passes with unusual continuity, and upon reaching
our chosen pass we found that its case formed no exception.
Our sensations of tense expectancy as we prepared to round the crest and peer out over an
untrodden world can hardly be described on paper; even though we had no cause to think the
regions beyond the range essentially different from those already seen and traversed. The
touch of evil mystery in these barrier mountains, and in the beckoning sea of opalescent sky
glimpsed betwixt their summits, was a highly subtle and attenuated matter not to be explained
in literal words. Rather was it an affair of vague psychological symbolism and aesthetic
association—a thing mixed up with exotic poetry and paintings, and with archaic myths lurking
in shunned and forbidden volumes. Even the wind‘s burden held a peculiar strain of
conscious malignity; and for a second it seemed that the composite sound included a bizarre
musical whistling or piping over a wide range as the blast swept in and out of the omnipresent
and resonant cave-mouths. There was a cloudy note of reminiscent repulsion in this sound,
as complex and unplaceable as any of the other dark impressions.
We were now, after a slow ascent, at a height of 23,570 feet according to the aneroid; and
had left the region of clinging snow definitely below us. Up here were only dark, bare rock
slopes and the start of rough-ribbed glaciers—but with those provocative cubes, ramparts,
and echoing cave-mouths to add a portent of the unnatural, the fantastic, and the dream-like.
Looking along the line of high peaks, I thought I could see the one mentioned by poor Lake,
with a rampart exactly on top. It seemed to be half-lost in a queer antarctic haze; such a haze,
perhaps, as had been responsible for Lake‘s early notion of volcanism. The pass loomed
directly before us, smooth and windswept between its jagged and malignly frowning pylons.
Beyond it was a sky fretted with swirling vapours and lighted by the low polar sun—the sky of
that mysterious farther realm upon which we felt no human eye had ever gazed.
A few more feet of altitude and we would behold that realm. Danforth and I, unable to speak
except in shouts amidst the howling, piping wind that raced through the pass and added to
the noise of the unmuffled engines, exchanged eloquent glances. And then, having gained
those last few feet, we did indeed stare across the momentous divide and over the
unsampled secrets of an elder and utterly alien earth.
V.
I think that both of us simultaneously cried out in mixed awe, wonder, terror, and disbelief in
our own senses as we finally cleared the pass and saw what lay beyond. Of course we must
have had some natural theory in the back of our heads to steady our faculties for the moment.
Probably we thought of such things as the grotesquely weathered stones of the Garden of the
Gods in Colorado, or the fantastically symmetrical wind-carved rocks of the Arizona desert.
Perhaps we even half thought the sight a mirage like that we had seen the morning before on
first approaching those mountains of madness. We must have had some such normal notions
to fall back upon as our eyes swept that limitless, tempest-scarred plateau and grasped the
almost endless labyrinth of colossal, regular, and geometrically eurhythmic stone masses
which reared their crumbled and pitted crests above a glacial sheet not more than forty or fifty
feet deep at its thickest, and in places obviously thinner.
The effect of the monstrous sight was indescribable, for some fiendish violation of known
natural law seemed certain at the outset. Here, on a hellishly ancient table-land fully 20,000
feet high, and in a climate deadly to habitation since a pre-human age not less than 500,000
years ago, there stretched nearly to the vision‘s limit a tangle of orderly stone which only the
desperation of mental self-defence could possibly attribute to any but a conscious and
artificial cause. We had previously dismissed, so far as serious thought was concerned, any
theory that the cubes and ramparts of the mountainsides were other than natural in origin.
How could they be otherwise, when man himself could scarcely have been differentiated from
the great apes at the time when this region succumbed to the present unbroken reign of
glacial death?
Yet now the sway of reason seemed irrefutably shaken, for this Cyclopean maze of squared,
curved, and angled blocks had features which cut off all comfortable refuge. It was, very
clearly, the blasphemous city of the mirage in stark, objective, and ineluctable reality. That
damnable portent had had a material basis after all—there had been some horizontal stratum
of ice-dust in the upper air, and this shocking stone survival had projected its image across
the mountains according to the simple laws of reflection. Of course the phantom had been
twisted and exaggerated, and had contained things which the real source did not contain; yet
now, as we saw that real source, we thought it even more hideous and menacing than its
distant image.
Only the incredible, unhuman massiveness of these vast stone towers and ramparts had
saved the frightful thing from utter annihilation in the hundreds of thousands—perhaps
millions—of years it had brooded there amidst the blasts of a bleak upland. ―Corona Mundi . .
. Roof of the World . . .‖ All sorts of fantastic phrases sprang to our lips as we looked dizzily
down at the unbelievable spectacle. I thought again of the eldritch primal myths that had so
persistently haunted me since my first sight of this dead antarctic world—of the daemoniac
plateau of Leng, of the Mi-Go, or Abominable Snow-Men of the Himalayas, of the Pnakotic
Manuscripts with their pre-human implications, of the Cthulhu cult, of the Necronomicon, and
of the Hyperborean legends of formless Tsathoggua and the worse than formless star-spawn
associated with that semi-entity.
For boundless miles in every direction the thing stretched off with very little thinning; indeed,
as our eyes followed it to the right and left along the base of the low, gradual foothills which
separated it from the actual mountain rim, we decided that we could see no thinning at all
except for an interruption at the left of the pass through which we had come. We had merely
struck, at random, a limited part of something of incalculable extent. The foothills were more
sparsely sprinkled with grotesque stone structures, linking the terrible city to the already
familiar cubes and ramparts which evidently formed its mountain outposts. These latter, as
well as the queer cave-mouths, were as thick on the inner as on the outer sides of the
mountains.
The nameless stone labyrinth consisted, for the most part, of walls from 10 to 150 feet in ice-
clear height, and of a thickness varying from five to ten feet. It was composed mostly of
prodigious blocks of dark primordial slate, schist, and sandstone—blocks in many cases as
large as 4 × 6 × 8 feet—though in several places it seemed to be carved out of a solid,
uneven bed-rock of pre-Cambrian slate. The buildings were far from equal in size; there being
innumerable honeycomb-arrangements of enormous extent as well as smaller separate
structures. The general shape of these things tended to be conical, pyramidal, or terraced;
though there were many perfect cylinders, perfect cubes, clusters of cubes, and other
rectangular forms, and a peculiar sprinkling of angled edifices whose five-pointed ground plan
roughly suggested modern fortifications. The builders had made constant and expert use of
the principle of the arch, and domes had probably existed in the city‘s heyday.
The whole tangle was monstrously weathered, and the glacial surface from which the towers
projected was strewn with fallen blocks and immemorial debris. Where the glaciation was
transparent we could see the lower parts of the gigantic piles, and noticed the ice-preserved
stone bridges which connected the different towers at varying distances above the ground. On
the exposed walls we could detect the scarred places where other and higher bridges of the
same sort had existed. Closer inspection revealed countless largish windows; some of which
were closed with shutters of a petrified material originally wood, though most gaped open in a
sinister and menacing fashion. Many of the ruins, of course, were roofless, and with uneven
though wind-rounded upper edges; whilst others, of a more sharply conical or pyramidal
model or else protected by higher surrounding structures, preserved intact outlines despite
the omnipresent crumbling and pitting. With the field-glass we could barely make out what
seemed to be sculptural decorations in horizontal bands—decorations including those curious
groups of dots whose presence on the ancient soapstones now assumed a vastly larger
significance.
In many places the buildings were totally ruined and the ice-sheet deeply riven from various
geologic causes. In other places the stonework was worn down to the very level of the
glaciation. One broad swath, extending from the plateau‘s interior to a cleft in the foothills
about a mile to the left of the pass we had traversed, was wholly free from buildings; and
probably represented, we concluded, the course of some great river which in Tertiary times—
millions of years ago—had poured through the city and into some prodigious subterranean
abyss of the great barrier range. Certainly, this was above all a region of caves, gulfs, and
underground secrets beyond human penetration.
Looking back to our sensations, and recalling our dazedness at viewing this monstrous
survival from aeons we had thought pre-human, I can only wonder that we preserved the
semblance of equilibrium which we did. Of course we knew that something—chronology,
scientific theory, or our own consciousness—was woefully awry; yet we kept enough poise to
guide the plane, observe many things quite minutely, and take a careful series of photographs
which may yet serve both us and the world in good stead. In my case, ingrained scientific
habit may have helped; for above all my bewilderment and sense of menace there burned a
dominant curiosity to fathom more of this age-old secret—to know what sort of beings had
built and lived in this incalculably gigantic place, and what relation to the general world of its
time or of other times so unique a concentration of life could have had.
For this place could be no ordinary city. It must have formed the primary nucleus and centre
of some archaic and unbelievable chapter of earth‘s history whose outward ramifications,
recalled only dimly in the most obscure and distorted myths, had vanished utterly amidst the
chaos of terrene convulsions long before any human race we know had shambled out of
apedom. Here sprawled a palaeogean megalopolis compared with which the fabled Atlantis
and Lemuria, Commoriom and Uzuldaroum, and Olathoë in the land of Lomar are recent
things of today—not even of yesterday; a megalopolis ranking with such whispered pre-
human blasphemies as Valusia, R‘lyeh, Ib in the land of Mnar, and the Nameless City of
Arabia Deserta. As we flew above that tangle of stark titan towers my imagination sometimes
escaped all bounds and roved aimlessly in realms of fantastic associations—even weaving
links betwixt this lost world and some of my own wildest dreams concerning the mad horror at
the camp.
The plane‘s fuel-tank, in the interest of greater lightness, had been only partly filled; hence we
now had to exert caution in our explorations. Even so, however, we covered an enormous
extent of ground—or rather, air—after swooping down to a level where the wind became
virtually negligible. There seemed to be no limit to the mountain-range, or to the length of the
frightful stone city which bordered its inner foothills. Fifty miles of flight in each direction
shewed no major change in the labyrinth of rock and masonry that clawed up corpse-like
through the eternal ice. There were, though, some highly absorbing diversifications; such as
the carvings on the canyon where that broad river had once pierced the foothills and
approached its sinking-place in the great range. The headlands at the stream‘s entrance had
been boldly carved into Cyclopean pylons; and something about the ridgy, barrel-shaped
designs stirred up oddly vague, hateful, and confusing semi-remembrances in both Danforth
and me.
We also came upon several star-shaped open spaces, evidently public squares; and noted
various undulations in the terrain. Where a sharp hill rose, it was generally hollowed out into
some sort of rambling stone edifice; but there were at least two exceptions. Of these latter,
one was too badly weathered to disclose what had been on the jutting eminence, while the
other still bore a fantastic conical monument carved out of the solid rock and roughly
resembling such things as the well-known Snake Tomb in the ancient valley of Petra.
Flying inland from the mountains, we discovered that the city was not of infinite width, even
though its length along the foothills seemed endless. After about thirty miles the grotesque
stone buildings began to thin out, and in ten more miles we came to an unbroken waste
virtually without signs of sentient artifice. The course of the river beyond the city seemed
marked by a broad depressed line; while the land assumed a somewhat greater ruggedness,
seeming to slope slightly upward as it receded in the mist-hazed west.
So far we had made no landing, yet to leave the plateau without an attempt at entering some
of the monstrous structures would have been inconceivable. Accordingly we decided to find a
smooth place on the foothills near our navigable pass, there grounding the plane and
preparing to do some exploration on foot. Though these gradual slopes were partly covered
with a scattering of ruins, low flying soon disclosed an ample number of possible landing-
places. Selecting that nearest to the pass, since our next flight would be across the great
range and back to camp, we succeeded about 12:30 P.M. in coming down on a smooth, hard
snowfield wholly devoid of obstacles and well adapted to a swift and favourable takeoff later
on.
It did not seem necessary to protect the plane with a snow banking for so brief a time and in
so comfortable an absence of high winds at this level; hence we merely saw that the landing
skis were safely lodged, and that the vital parts of the mechanism were guarded against the
cold. For our foot journey we discarded the heaviest of our flying furs, and took with us a
small outfit consisting of pocket compass, hand camera, light provisions, voluminous
notebooks and paper, geologist‘s hammer and chisel, specimen-bags, coil of climbing rope,
and powerful electric torches with extra batteries; this equipment having been carried in the
plane on the chance that we might be able to effect a landing, take ground pictures, make
drawings and topographical sketches, and obtain rock specimens from some bare slope,
outcropping, or mountain cave. Fortunately we had a supply of extra paper to tear up, place in
a spare specimen-bag, and use on the ancient principle of hare-and-hounds for marking our
course in any interior mazes we might be able to penetrate. This had been brought in case we
found some cave system with air quiet enough to allow such a rapid and easy method in
place of the usual rock-chipping method of trail-blazing.
Walking cautiously downhill over the crusted snow toward the stupendous stone labyrinth that
loomed against the opalescent west, we felt almost as keen a sense of imminent marvels as
we had felt on approaching the unfathomed mountain pass four hours previously. True, we
had become visually familiar with the incredible secret concealed by the barrier peaks; yet the
prospect of actually entering primordial walls reared by conscious beings perhaps millions of
years ago—before any known race of men could have existed—was none the less awesome
and potentially terrible in its implications of cosmic abnormality. Though the thinness of the air
at this prodigious altitude made exertion somewhat more difficult than usual; both Danforth
and I found ourselves bearing up very well, and felt equal to almost any task which might fall
to our lot. It took only a few steps to bring us to a shapeless ruin worn level with the snow,
while ten or fifteen rods farther on there was a huge roofless rampart still complete in its
gigantic five-pointed outline and rising to an irregular height of ten or eleven feet. For this
latter we headed; and when at last we were able actually to touch its weathered Cyclopean
blocks, we felt that we had established an unprecedented and almost blasphemous link with
forgotten aeons normally closed to our species.
This rampart, shaped like a star and perhaps 300 feet from point to point, was built of Jurassic
sandstone blocks of irregular size, averaging 6 × 8 feet in surface. There was a row of arched
loopholes or windows about four feet wide and five feet high; spaced quite symmetrically
along the points of the star and at its inner angles, and with the bottoms about four feet from
the glaciated surface. Looking through these, we could see that the masonry was fully five
feet thick, that there were no partitions remaining within, and that there were traces of banded
carvings or bas-reliefs on the interior walls; facts we had indeed guessed before, when flying
low over this rampart and others like it. Though lower parts must have originally existed, all
traces of such things were now wholly obscured by the deep layer of ice and snow at this
point.
We crawled through one of the windows and vainly tried to decipher the nearly effaced mural
designs, but did not attempt to disturb the glaciated floor. Our orientation flights had indicated
that many buildings in the city proper were less ice-choked, and that we might perhaps find
wholly clear interiors leading down to the true ground level if we entered those structures still
roofed at the top. Before we left the rampart we photographed it carefully, and studied its
mortarless Cyclopean masonry with complete bewilderment. We wished that Pabodie were
present, for his engineering knowledge might have helped us guess how such titanic blocks
could have been handled in that unbelievably remote age when the city and its outskirts were
built up.
The half-mile walk downhill to the actual city, with the upper wind shrieking vainly and
savagely through the skyward peaks in the background, was something whose smallest
details will always remain engraved on my mind. Only in fantastic nightmares could any
human beings but Danforth and me conceive such optical effects. Between us and the
churning vapours of the west lay that monstrous tangle of dark stone towers; its outré and
incredible forms impressing us afresh at every new angle of vision. It was a mirage in solid
stone, and were it not for the photographs I would still doubt that such a thing could be. The
general type of masonry was identical with that of the rampart we had examined; but the
extravagant shapes which this masonry took in its urban manifestations were past all
description.
Even the pictures illustrate only one or two phases of its infinite bizarrerie, endless variety,
preternatural massiveness, and utterly alien exoticism. There were geometrical forms for
which an Euclid could scarcely find a name—cones of all degrees of irregularity and
truncation; terraces of every sort of provocative disproportion; shafts with odd bulbous
enlargements; broken columns in curious groups; and five-pointed or five-ridged
arrangements of mad grotesqueness. As we drew nearer we could see beneath certain
transparent parts of the ice-sheet, and detect some of the tubular stone bridges that
connected the crazily sprinkled structures at various heights. Of orderly streets there seemed
to be none, the only broad open swath being a mile to the left, where the ancient river had
doubtless flowed through the town into the mountains.
Our field-glasses shewed the external horizontal bands of nearly effaced sculptures and dot-
groups to be very prevalent, and we could half imagine what the city must once have looked
like—even though most of the roofs and tower-tops had necessarily perished. As a whole, it
had been a complex tangle of twisted lanes and alleys; all of them deep canyons, and some
little better than tunnels because of the overhanging masonry or overarching bridges. Now,
outspread below us, it loomed like a dream-phantasy against a westward mist through whose
northern end the low, reddish antarctic sun of early afternoon was struggling to shine; and
when for a moment that sun encountered a denser obstruction and plunged the scene into
temporary shadow, the effect was subtly menacing in a way I can never hope to depict. Even
the faint howling and piping of the unfelt wind in the great mountain passes behind us took on
a wilder note of purposeful malignity. The last stage of our descent to the town was unusually
steep and abrupt, and a rock outcropping at the edge where the grade changed led us to
think that an artificial terrace had once existed there. Under the glaciation, we believed, there
must be a flight of steps or its equivalent.
When at last we plunged into the labyrinthine town itself, clambering over fallen masonry and
shrinking from the oppressive nearness and dwarfing height of omnipresent crumbling and
pitted walls, our sensations again became such that I marvel at the amount of self-control we
retained. Danforth was frankly jumpy, and began making some offensively irrelevant
speculations about the horror at the camp—which I resented all the more because I could not
help sharing certain conclusions forced upon us by many features of this morbid survival from
nightmare antiquity. The speculations worked on his imagination, too; for in one place—where
a debris-littered alley turned a sharp corner—he insisted that he saw faint traces of ground
markings which he did not like; whilst elsewhere he stopped to listen to a subtle imaginary
sound from some undefined point—a muffled musical piping, he said, not unlike that of the
wind in the mountain caves yet somehow disturbingly different. The ceaseless five-
pointedness of the surrounding architecture and of the few distinguishable mural arabesques
had a dimly sinister suggestiveness we could not escape; and gave us a touch of terrible
subconscious certainty concerning the primal entities which had reared and dwelt in this
unhallowed place.
Nevertheless our scientific and adventurous souls were not wholly dead; and we mechanically
carried out our programme of chipping specimens from all the different rock types
represented in the masonry. We wished a rather full set in order to draw better conclusions
regarding the age of the place. Nothing in the great outer walls seemed to date from later than
the Jurassic and Comanchian periods, nor was any piece of stone in the entire place of a
greater recency than the Pliocene age. In stark certainty, we were wandering amidst a death
which had reigned at least 500,000 years, and in all probability even longer.
As we proceeded through this maze of stone-shadowed twilight we stopped at all available
apertures to study interiors and investigate entrance possibilities. Some were above our
reach, whilst others led only into ice-choked ruins as unroofed and barren as the rampart on
the hill. One, though spacious and inviting, opened on a seemingly bottomless abyss without
visible means of descent. Now and then we had a chance to study the petrified wood of a
surviving shutter, and were impressed by the fabulous antiquity implied in the still discernible
grain. These things had come from Mesozoic gymnosperms and conifers—especially
Cretaceous cycads—and from fan-palms and early angiosperms of plainly Tertiary date.
Nothing definitely later than the Pliocene could be discovered. In the placing of these
shutters—whose edges shewed the former presence of queer and long-vanished hinges—
usage seemed to be varied; some being on the outer and some on the inner side of the deep
embrasures. They seemed to have become wedged in place, thus surviving the rusting of
their former and probably metallic fixtures and fastenings.
After a time we came across a row of windows—in the bulges of a colossal five-ridged cone
of undamaged apex—which led into a vast, well-preserved room with stone flooring; but these
were too high in the room to permit of descent without a rope. We had a rope with us, but did
not wish to bother with this twenty-foot drop unless obliged to—especially in this thin plateau
air where great demands were made upon the heart action. This enormous room was
probably a hall or concourse of some sort, and our electric torches shewed bold, distinct, and
potentially startling sculptures arranged round the walls in broad, horizontal bands separated
by equally broad strips of conventional arabesques. We took careful note of this spot,
planning to enter here unless a more easily gained interior were encountered.
Finally, though, we did encounter exactly the opening we wished; an archway about six feet
wide and ten feet high, marking the former end of an aërial bridge which had spanned an
alley about five feet above the present level of glaciation. These archways, of course, were
flush with upper-story floors; and in this case one of the floors still existed. The building thus
accessible was a series of rectangular terraces on our left facing westward. That across the
alley, where the other archway yawned, was a decrepit cylinder with no windows and with a
curious bulge about ten feet above the aperture. It was totally dark inside, and the archway
seemed to open on a well of illimitable emptiness.
Heaped debris made the entrance to the vast left-hand building doubly easy, yet for a moment
we hesitated before taking advantage of the long-wished chance. For though we had
penetrated into this tangle of archaic mystery, it required fresh resolution to carry us actually
inside a complete and surviving building of a fabulous elder world whose nature was
becoming more and more hideously plain to us. In the end, however, we made the plunge;
and scrambled up over the rubble into the gaping embrasure. The floor beyond was of great
slate slabs, and seemed to form the outlet of a long, high corridor with sculptured walls.
Observing the many inner archways which led off from it, and realising the probable
complexity of the nest of apartments within, we decided that we must begin our system of
hare-and-hound trail-blazing. Hitherto our compasses, together with frequent glimpses of the
vast mountain-range between the towers in our rear, had been enough to prevent our losing
our way; but from now on, the artificial substitute would be necessary. Accordingly we
reduced our extra paper to shreds of suitable size, placed these in a bag to be carried by
Danforth, and prepared to use them as economically as safety would allow. This method
would probably gain us immunity from straying, since there did not appear to be any strong
air-currents inside the primordial masonry. If such should develop, or if our paper supply
should give out, we could of course fall back on the more secure though more tedious and
retarding method of rock-chipping.
Just how extensive a territory we had opened up, it was impossible to guess without a trial.
The close and frequent connexion of the different buildings made it likely that we might cross
from one to another on bridges underneath the ice except where impeded by local collapses
and geologic rifts, for very little glaciation seemed to have entered the massive constructions.
Almost all the areas of transparent ice had revealed the submerged windows as tightly
shuttered, as if the town had been left in that uniform state until the glacial sheet came to
crystallise the lower part for all succeeding time. Indeed, one gained a curious impression that
this place had been deliberately closed and deserted in some dim, bygone aeon, rather than
overwhelmed by any sudden calamity or even gradual decay. Had the coming of the ice been
foreseen, and had a nameless population left en masse to seek a less doomed abode? The
precise physiographic conditions attending the formation of the ice-sheet at this point would
have to wait for later solution. It had not, very plainly, been a grinding drive. Perhaps the
pressure of accumulated snows had been responsible; and perhaps some flood from the
river, or from the bursting of some ancient glacial dam in the great range, had helped to
create the special state now observable. Imagination could conceive almost anything in
connexion with this place.
VI.
It would be cumbrous to give a detailed, consecutive account of our wanderings inside that
cavernous, aeon-dead honeycomb of primal masonry; that monstrous lair of elder secrets
which now echoed for the first time, after uncounted epochs, to the tread of human feet. This
is especially true because so much of the horrible drama and revelation came from a mere
study of the omnipresent mural carvings. Our flashlight photographs of those carvings will do
much toward proving the truth of what we are now disclosing, and it is lamentable that we had
not a larger film supply with us. As it was, we made crude notebook sketches of certain salient
features after all our films were used up.
The building which we had entered was one of great size and elaborateness, and gave us an
impressive notion of the architecture of that nameless geologic past. The inner partitions were
less massive than the outer walls, but on the lower levels were excellently preserved.
Labyrinthine complexity, involving curiously irregular differences in floor levels, characterised
the entire arrangement; and we should certainly have been lost at the very outset but for the
trail of torn paper left behind us. We decided to explore the more decrepit upper parts first of
all, hence climbed aloft in the maze for a distance of some 100 feet, to where the topmost tier
of chambers yawned snowily and ruinously open to the polar sky. Ascent was effected over
the steep, transversely ribbed stone ramps or inclined planes which everywhere served in lieu
of stairs. The rooms we encountered were of all imaginable shapes and proportions, ranging
from five-pointed stars to triangles and perfect cubes. It might be safe to say that their general
average was about 30 × 30 feet in floor area, and 20 feet in height; though many larger
apartments existed. After thoroughly examining the upper regions and the glacial level we
descended story by story into the submerged part, where indeed we soon saw we were in a
continuous maze of connected chambers and passages probably leading over unlimited
areas outside this particular building. The Cyclopean massiveness and giganticism of
everything about us became curiously oppressive; and there was something vaguely but
deeply unhuman in all the contours, dimensions, proportions, decorations, and constructional
nuances of the blasphemously archaic stonework. We soon realised from what the carvings
revealed that this monstrous city was many million years old.
We cannot yet explain the engineering principles used in the anomalous balancing and
adjustment of the vast rock masses, though the function of the arch was clearly much relied
on. The rooms we visited were wholly bare of all portable contents, a circumstance which
sustained our belief in the city‘s deliberate desertion. The prime decorative feature was the
almost universal system of mural sculpture; which tended to run in continuous horizontal
bands three feet wide and arranged from floor to ceiling in alternation with bands of equal
width given over to geometrical arabesques. There were exceptions to this rule of
arrangement, but its preponderance was overwhelming. Often, however, a series of smooth
cartouches containing oddly patterned groups of dots would be sunk along one of the
arabesque bands.
The technique, we soon saw, was mature, accomplished, and aesthetically evolved to the
highest degree of civilised mastery; though utterly alien in every detail to any known art
tradition of the human race. In delicacy of execution no sculpture I have ever seen could
approach it. The minutest details of elaborate vegetation, or of animal life, were rendered with
astonishing vividness despite the bold scale of the carvings; whilst the conventional designs
were marvels of skilful intricacy. The arabesques displayed a profound use of mathematical
principles, and were made up of obscurely symmetrical curves and angles based on the
quantity of five. The pictorial bands followed a highly formalised tradition, and involved a
peculiar treatment of perspective; but had an artistic force that moved us profoundly
notwithstanding the intervening gulf of vast geologic periods. Their method of design hinged
on a singular juxtaposition of the cross-section with the two-dimensional silhouette, and
embodied an analytical psychology beyond that of any known race of antiquity. It is useless to
try to compare this art with any represented in our museums. Those who see our photographs
will probably find its closest analogue in certain grotesque conceptions of the most daring
futurists.
The arabesque tracery consisted altogether of depressed lines whose depth on unweathered
walls varied from one to two inches. When cartouches with dot-groups appeared—evidently
as inscriptions in some unknown and primordial language and alphabet—the depression of
the smooth surface was perhaps an inch and a half, and of the dots perhaps a half-inch more.
The pictorial bands were in counter-sunk low relief, their background being depressed about
two inches from the original wall surface. In some specimens marks of a former colouration
could be detected, though for the most part the untold aeons had disintegrated and banished
any pigments which may have been applied. The more one studied the marvellous technique
the more one admired the things. Beneath their strict conventionalisation one could grasp the
minute and accurate observation and graphic skill of the artists; and indeed, the very
conventions themselves served to symbolise and accentuate the real essence or vital
differentiation of every object delineated. We felt, too, that besides these recognisable
excellences there were others lurking beyond the reach of our perceptions. Certain touches
here and there gave vague hints of latent symbols and stimuli which another mental and
emotional background, and a fuller or different sensory equipment, might have made of
profound and poignant significance to us.
The subject-matter of the sculptures obviously came from the life of the vanished epoch of
their creation, and contained a large proportion of evident history. It is this abnormal historic-
mindedness of the primal race—a chance circumstance operating, through coincidence,
miraculously in our favour—which made the carvings so awesomely informative to us, and
which caused us to place their photography and transcription above all other considerations.
In certain rooms the dominant arrangement was varied by the presence of maps,
astronomical charts, and other scientific designs on an enlarged scale—these things giving a
naive and terrible corroboration to what we gathered from the pictorial friezes and dadoes. In
hinting at what the whole revealed, I can only hope that my account will not arouse a curiosity
greater than sane caution on the part of those who believe me at all. It would be tragic if any
were to be allured to that realm of death and horror by the very warning meant to discourage
them.
Interrupting these sculptured walls were high windows and massive twelve-foot doorways;
both now and then retaining the petrified wooden planks—elaborately carved and polished—
of the actual shutters and doors. All metal fixtures had long ago vanished, but some of the
doors remained in place and had to be forced aside as we progressed from room to room.
Window-frames with odd transparent panes—mostly elliptical—survived here and there,
though in no considerable quantity. There were also frequent niches of great magnitude,
generally empty, but once in a while containing some bizarre object carved from green
soapstone which was either broken or perhaps held too inferior to warrant removal. Other
apertures were undoubtedly connected with bygone mechanical facilities—heating, lighting,
and the like—of a sort suggested in many of the carvings. Ceilings tended to be plain, but had
sometimes been inlaid with green soapstone or other tiles, mostly fallen now. Floors were
also paved with such tiles, though plain stonework predominated.
As I have said, all furniture and other moveables were absent; but the sculptures gave a clear
idea of the strange devices which had once filled these tomb-like, echoing rooms. Above the
glacial sheet the floors were generally thick with detritus, litter, and debris; but farther down
this condition decreased. In some of the lower chambers and corridors there was little more
than gritty dust or ancient incrustations, while occasional areas had an uncanny air of newly
swept immaculateness. Of course, where rifts or collapses had occurred, the lower levels
were as littered as the upper ones. A central court—as in other structures we had seen from
the air—saved the inner regions from total darkness; so that we seldom had to use our
electric torches in the upper rooms except when studying sculptured details. Below the ice-
cap, however, the twilight deepened; and in many parts of the tangled ground level there was
an approach to absolute blackness.
To form even a rudimentary idea of our thoughts and feelings as we penetrated this aeon-
silent maze of unhuman masonry one must correlate a hopelessly bewildering chaos of
fugitive moods, memories, and impressions. The sheer appalling antiquity and lethal
desolation of the place were enough to overwhelm almost any sensitive person, but added to
these elements were the recent unexplained horror at the camp, and the revelations all too
soon effected by the terrible mural sculptures around us. The moment we came upon a
perfect section of carving, where no ambiguity of interpretation could exist, it took only a brief
study to give us the hideous truth—a truth which it would be naive to claim Danforth and I had
not independently suspected before, though we had carefully refrained from even hinting it to
each other. There could now be no further merciful doubt about the nature of the beings which
had built and inhabited this monstrous dead city millions of years ago, when man‘s ancestors
were primitive archaic mammals, and vast dinosaurs roamed the tropical steppes of Europe
and Asia.
We had previously clung to a desperate alternative and insisted—each to himself—that the
omnipresence of the five-pointed motif meant only some cultural or religious exaltation of the
Archaean natural object which had so patently embodied the quality of five-pointedness; as
the decorative motifs of Minoan Crete exalted the sacred bull, those of Egypt the scarabaeus,
those of Rome the wolf and the eagle, and those of various savage tribes some chosen
totem-animal. But this lone refuge was now stripped from us, and we were forced to face
definitely the reason-shaking realisation which the reader of these pages has doubtless long
ago anticipated. I can scarcely bear to write it down in black and white even now, but perhaps
that will not be necessary.
The things once rearing and dwelling in this frightful masonry in the age of dinosaurs were not
indeed dinosaurs, but far worse. Mere dinosaurs were new and almost brainless objects—but
the builders of the city were wise and old, and had left certain traces in rocks even then laid
down well-nigh a thousand million years . . . rocks laid down before the true life of earth had
advanced beyond plastic groups of cells . . . rocks laid down before the true life of earth had
existed at all. They were the makers and enslavers of that life, and above all doubt the
originals of the fiendish elder myths which things like the Pnakotic Manuscripts and the
Necronomicon affrightedly hint about. They were the Great Old Ones that had filtered down
from the stars when earth was young—the beings whose substance an alien evolution had
shaped, and whose powers were such as this planet had never bred. And to think that only
the day before Danforth and I had actually looked upon fragments of their millennially
fossilised substance . . . and that poor Lake and his party had seen their complete outlines. . .
.
It is of course impossible for me to relate in proper order the stages by which we picked up
what we know of that monstrous chapter of pre-human life. After the first shock of the certain
revelation we had to pause a while to recuperate, and it was fully three o‘clock before we got
started on our actual tour of systematic research. The sculptures in the building we entered
were of relatively late date—perhaps two million years ago—as checked up by geological,
biological, and astronomical features; and embodied an art which would be called decadent in
comparison with that of specimens we found in older buildings after crossing bridges under
the glacial sheet. One edifice hewn from the solid rock seemed to go back forty or possibly
even fifty million years—to the lower Eocene or upper Cretaceous—and contained bas-reliefs
of an artistry surpassing anything else, with one tremendous exception, that we encountered.
That was, we have since agreed, the oldest domestic structure we traversed.
Were it not for the support of those flashlights soon to be made public, I would refrain from
telling what I found and inferred, lest I be confined as a madman. Of course, the infinitely
early parts of the patchwork tale—representing the pre-terrestrial life of the star-headed
beings on other planets, and in other galaxies, and in other universes—can readily be
interpreted as the fantastic mythology of those beings themselves; yet such parts sometimes
involved designs and diagrams so uncannily close to the latest findings of mathematics and
astrophysics that I scarcely know what to think. Let others judge when they see the
photographs I shall publish.
Naturally, no one set of carvings which we encountered told more than a fraction of any
connected story; nor did we even begin to come upon the various stages of that story in their
proper order. Some of the vast rooms were independent units so far as their designs were
concerned, whilst in other cases a continuous chronicle would be carried through a series of
rooms and corridors. The best of the maps and diagrams were on the walls of a frightful abyss
below even the ancient ground level—a cavern perhaps 200 feet square and sixty feet high,
which had almost undoubtedly been an educational centre of some sort. There were many
provoking repetitions of the same material in different rooms and buildings; since certain
chapters of experience, and certain summaries or phases of racial history, had evidently been
favourites with different decorators or dwellers. Sometimes, though, variant versions of the
same theme proved useful in settling debatable points and filling in gaps.
I still wonder that we deduced so much in the short time at our disposal. Of course, we even
now have only the barest outline; and much of that was obtained later on from a study of the
photographs and sketches we made. It may be the effect of this later study—the revived
memories and vague impressions acting in conjunction with his general sensitiveness and
with that final supposed horror-glimpse whose essence he will not reveal even to me—which
has been the immediate source of Danforth‘s present breakdown. But it had to be; for we
could not issue our warning intelligently without the fullest possible information, and the
issuance of that warning is a prime necessity. Certain lingering influences in that unknown
antarctic world of disordered time and alien natural law make it imperative that further
exploration be discouraged.
VII.
The full story, so far as deciphered, will shortly appear in an official bulletin of Miskatonic
University. Here I shall sketch only the salient high lights in a formless, rambling way. Myth or
otherwise, the sculptures told of the coming of those star-headed things to the nascent,
lifeless earth out of cosmic space—their coming, and the coming of many other alien entities
such as at certain times embark upon spatial pioneering. They seemed able to traverse the
interstellar ether on their vast membraneous wings—thus oddly confirming some curious hill
folklore long ago told me by an antiquarian colleague. They had lived under the sea a good
deal, building fantastic cities and fighting terrific battles with nameless adversaries by means
of intricate devices employing unknown principles of energy. Evidently their scientific and
mechanical knowledge far surpassed man‘s today, though they made use of its more
widespread and elaborate forms only when obliged to. Some of the sculptures suggested that
they had passed through a stage of mechanised life on other planets, but had receded upon
finding its effects emotionally unsatisfying. Their preternatural toughness of organisation and
simplicity of natural wants made them peculiarly able to live on a high plane without the more
specialised fruits of artificial manufacture, and even without garments except for occasional
protection against the elements.
It was under the sea, at first for food and later for other purposes, that they first created earth-
life—using available substances according to long-known methods. The more elaborate
experiments came after the annihilation of various cosmic enemies. They had done the same
thing on other planets; having manufactured not only necessary foods, but certain
multicellular protoplasmic masses capable of moulding their tissues into all sorts of temporary
organs under hypnotic influence and thereby forming ideal slaves to perform the heavy work
of the community. These viscous masses were without doubt what Abdul Alhazred whispered
about as the ―shoggoths‖ in his frightful Necronomicon, though even that mad Arab had not
hinted that any existed on earth except in the dreams of those who had chewed a certain
alkaloidal herb. When the star-headed Old Ones on this planet had synthesised their simple
food forms and bred a good supply of shoggoths, they allowed other cell-groups to develop
into other forms of animal and vegetable life for sundry purposes; extirpating any whose
presence became troublesome.
With the aid of the shoggoths, whose expansions could be made to lift prodigious weights, the
small, low cities under the sea grew to vast and imposing labyrinths of stone not unlike those
which later rose on land. Indeed, the highly adaptable Old Ones had lived much on land in
other parts of the universe, and probably retained many traditions of land construction. As we
studied the architecture of all these sculptured palaeogean cities, including that whose aeon-
dead corridors we were even then traversing, we were impressed by a curious coincidence
which we have not yet tried to explain, even to ourselves. The tops of the buildings, which in
the actual city around us had of course been weathered into shapeless ruins ages ago, were
clearly displayed in the bas-reliefs; and shewed vast clusters of needle-like spires, delicate
finials on certain cone and pyramid apexes, and tiers of thin, horizontal scalloped discs
capping cylindrical shafts. This was exactly what we had seen in that monstrous and
portentous mirage, cast by a dead city whence such skyline features had been absent for
thousands and tens of thousands of years, which loomed on our ignorant eyes across the
unfathomed mountains of madness as we first approached poor Lake‘s ill-fated camp.
Of the life of the Old Ones, both under the sea and after part of them migrated to land,
volumes could be written. Those in shallow water had continued the fullest use of the eyes at
the ends of their five main head tentacles, and had practiced the arts of sculpture and of
writing in quite the usual way—the writing accomplished with a stylus on waterproof waxen
surfaces. Those lower down in the ocean depths, though they used a curious phosphorescent
organism to furnish light, pieced out their vision with obscure special senses operating
through the prismatic cilia on their heads—senses which rendered all the Old Ones partly
independent of light in emergencies. Their forms of sculpture and writing had changed
curiously during the descent, embodying certain apparently chemical coating processes—
probably to secure phosphorescence—which the bas-reliefs could not make clear to us. The
beings moved in the sea partly by swimming—using the lateral crinoid arms—and partly by
wriggling with the lower tier of tentacles containing the pseudo-feet. Occasionally they
accomplished long swoops with the auxiliary use of two or more sets of their fan-like folding
wings. On land they locally used the pseudo-feet, but now and then flew to great heights or
over long distances with their wings. The many slender tentacles into which the crinoid arms
branched were infinitely delicate, flexible, strong, and accurate in muscular-nervous
coördination; ensuring the utmost skill and dexterity in all artistic and other manual operations.
The toughness of the things was almost incredible. Even the terrific pressures of the deepest
sea-bottoms appeared powerless to harm them. Very few seemed to die at all except by
violence, and their burial-places were very limited. The fact that they covered their vertically
inhumed dead with five-pointed inscribed mounds set up thoughts in Danforth and me which
made a fresh pause and recuperation necessary after the sculptures revealed it. The beings
multiplied by means of spores—like vegetable pteridophytes as Lake had suspected—but
owing to their prodigious toughness and longevity, and consequent lack of replacement
needs, they did not encourage the large-scale development of new prothalli except when they
had new regions to colonise. The young matured swiftly, and received an education evidently
beyond any standard we can imagine. The prevailing intellectual and aesthetic life was highly
evolved, and produced a tenaciously enduring set of customs and institutions which I shall
describe more fully in my coming monograph. These varied slightly according to sea or land
residence, but had the same foundations and essentials.
Though able, like vegetables, to derive nourishment from inorganic substances; they vastly
preferred organic and especially animal food. They ate uncooked marine life under the sea,
but cooked their viands on land. They hunted game and raised meat herds—slaughtering with
sharp weapons whose odd marks on certain fossil bones our expedition had noted. They
resisted all ordinary temperatures marvellously; and in their natural state could live in water
down to freezing. When the great chill of the Pleistocene drew on, however—nearly a million
years ago—the land dwellers had to resort to special measures including artificial heating;
until at last the deadly cold appears to have driven them back into the sea. For their
prehistoric flights through cosmic space, legend said, they had absorbed certain chemicals
and became almost independent of eating, breathing, or heat conditions; but by the time of
the great cold they had lost track of the method. In any case they could not have prolonged
the artificial state indefinitely without harm.
Being non-pairing and semi-vegetable in structure, the Old Ones had no biological basis for
the family phase of mammal life; but seemed to organise large households on the principles
of comfortable space-utility and—as we deduced from the pictured occupations and
diversions of co-dwellers—congenial mental association. In furnishing their homes they kept
everything in the centre of the huge rooms, leaving all the wall spaces free for decorative
treatment. Lighting, in the case of the land inhabitants, was accomplished by a device
probably electro-chemical in nature. Both on land and under water they used curious tables,
chairs, and couches like cylindrical frames—for they rested and slept upright with folded-down
tentacles—and racks for the hinged sets of dotted surfaces forming their books.
Government was evidently complex and probably socialistic, though no certainties in this
regard could be deduced from the sculptures we saw. There was extensive commerce, both
local and between different cities; certain small, flat counters, five-pointed and inscribed,
serving as money. Probably the smaller of the various greenish soapstones found by our
expedition were pieces of such currency. Though the culture was mainly urban, some
agriculture and much stock-raising existed. Mining and a limited amount of manufacturing
were also practiced. Travel was very frequent, but permanent migration seemed relatively
rare except for the vast colonising movements by which the race expanded. For personal
locomotion no external aid was used; since in land, air, and water movement alike the Old
Ones seemed to possess excessively vast capacities for speed. Loads, however, were drawn
by beasts of burden—shoggoths under the sea, and a curious variety of primitive vertebrates
in the later years of land existence.
These vertebrates, as well as an infinity of other life-forms—animal and vegetable, marine,
terrestrial, and aërial—were the products of unguided evolution acting on life-cells made by
the Old Ones but escaping beyond their radius of attention. They had been suffered to
develop unchecked because they had not come in conflict with the dominant beings.
Bothersome forms, of course, were mechanically exterminated. It interested us to see in
some of the very last and most decadent sculptures a shambling primitive mammal, used
sometimes for food and sometimes as an amusing buffoon by the land dwellers, whose
vaguely simian and human foreshadowings were unmistakable. In the building of land cities
the huge stone blocks of the high towers were generally lifted by vast-winged pterodactyls of
a species heretofore unknown to palaeontology.
The persistence with which the Old Ones survived various geologic changes and convulsions
of the earth‘s crust was little short of miraculous. Though few or none of their first cities seem
to have remained beyond the Archaean age, there was no interruption in their civilisation or in
the transmission of their records. Their original place of advent to the planet was the Antarctic
Ocean, and it is likely that they came not long after the matter forming the moon was
wrenched from the neighbouring South Pacific. According to one of the sculptured maps, the
whole globe was then under water, with stone cities scattered farther and farther from the
antarctic as aeons passed. Another map shews a vast bulk of dry land around the south pole,
where it is evident that some of the beings made experimental settlements though their main
centres were transferred to the nearest sea-bottom. Later maps, which display this land mass
as cracking and drifting, and sending certain detached parts northward, uphold in a striking
way the theories of continental drift lately advanced by Taylor, Wegener, and Joly.
With the upheaval of new land in the South Pacific tremendous events began. Some of the
marine cities were hopelessly shattered, yet that was not the worst misfortune. Another
race—a land race of beings shaped like octopi and probably corresponding to the fabulous
pre-human spawn of Cthulhu—soon began filtering down from cosmic infinity and precipitated
a monstrous war which for a time drove the Old Ones wholly back to the sea—a colossal blow
in view of the increasing land settlements. Later peace was made, and the new lands were
given to the Cthulhu spawn whilst the Old Ones held the sea and the older lands. New land
cities were founded—the greatest of them in the antarctic, for this region of first arrival was
sacred. From then on, as before, the antarctic remained the centre of the Old Ones‘
civilisation, and all the discoverable cities built there by the Cthulhu spawn were blotted out.
Then suddenly the lands of the Pacific sank again, taking with them the frightful stone city of
R‘lyeh and all the cosmic octopi, so that the Old Ones were again supreme on the planet
except for one shadowy fear about which they did not like to speak. At a rather later age their
cities dotted all the land and water areas of the globe—hence the recommendation in my
coming monograph that some archaeologist make systematic borings with Pabodie‘s type of
apparatus in certain widely separated regions.
The steady trend down the ages was from water to land; a movement encouraged by the rise
of new land masses, though the ocean was never wholly deserted. Another cause of the
landward movement was the new difficulty in breeding and managing the shoggoths upon
which successful sea-life depended. With the march of time, as the sculptures sadly
confessed, the art of creating new life from inorganic matter had been lost; so that the Old
Ones had to depend on the moulding of forms already in existence. On land the great reptiles
proved highly tractable; but the shoggoths of the sea, reproducing by fission and acquiring a
dangerous degree of accidental intelligence, presented for a time a formidable problem.
They had always been controlled through the hypnotic suggestion of the Old Ones, and had
modelled their tough plasticity into various useful temporary limbs and organs; but now their
self-modelling powers were sometimes exercised independently, and in various imitative
forms implanted by past suggestion. They had, it seems, developed a semi-stable brain
whose separate and occasionally stubborn volition echoed the will of the Old Ones without
always obeying it. Sculptured images of these shoggoths filled Danforth and me with horror
and loathing. They were normally shapeless entities composed of a viscous jelly which looked
like an agglutination of bubbles; and each averaged about fifteen feet in diameter when a
sphere. They had, however, a constantly shifting shape and volume; throwing out temporary
developments or forming apparent organs of sight, hearing, and speech in imitation of their
masters, either spontaneously or according to suggestion.
They seem to have become peculiarly intractable toward the middle of the Permian age,
perhaps 150 million years ago, when a veritable war of re-subjugation was waged upon them
by the marine Old Ones. Pictures of this war, and of the headless, slime-coated fashion in
which the shoggoths typically left their slain victims, held a marvellously fearsome quality
despite the intervening abyss of untold ages. The Old Ones had used curious weapons of
molecular disturbance against the rebel entities, and in the end had achieved a complete
victory. Thereafter the sculptures shewed a period in which shoggoths were tamed and
broken by armed Old Ones as the wild horses of the American west were tamed by cowboys.
Though during the rebellion the shoggoths had shewn an ability to live out of water, this
transition was not encouraged; since their usefulness on land would hardly have been
commensurate with the trouble of their management.
During the Jurassic age the Old Ones met fresh adversity in the form of a new invasion from
outer space—this time by half-fungous, half-crustacean creatures from a planet identifiable as
the remote and recently discovered Pluto; creatures undoubtedly the same as those figuring
in certain whispered hill legends of the north, and remembered in the Himalayas as the Mi-
Go, or Abominable Snow-Men. To fight these beings the Old Ones attempted, for the first time
since their terrene advent, to sally forth again into the planetary ether; but despite all
traditional preparations found it no longer possible to leave the earth‘s atmosphere. Whatever
the old secret of interstellar travel had been, it was now definitely lost to the race. In the end
the Mi-Go drove the Old Ones out of all the northern lands, though they were powerless to
disturb those in the sea. Little by little the slow retreat of the elder race to their original
antarctic habitat was beginning.
It was curious to note from the pictured battles that both the Cthulhu spawn and the Mi-Go
seem to have been composed of matter more widely different from that which we know than
was the substance of the Old Ones. They were able to undergo transformations and
reintegrations impossible for their adversaries, and seem therefore to have originally come
from even remoter gulfs of cosmic space. The Old Ones, but for their abnormal toughness
and peculiar vital properties, were strictly material, and must have had their absolute origin
within the known space-time continuum; whereas the first sources of the other beings can
only be guessed at with bated breath. All this, of course, assuming that the non-terrestrial
linkages and the anomalies ascribed to the invading foes are not pure mythology.
Conceivably, the Old Ones might have invented a cosmic framework to account for their
occasional defeats; since historical interest and pride obviously formed their chief
psychological element. It is significant that their annals failed to mention many advanced and
potent races of beings whose mighty cultures and towering cities figure persistently in certain
obscure legends.
The changing state of the world through long geologic ages appeared with startling vividness
in many of the sculptured maps and scenes. In certain cases existing science will require
revision, while in other cases its bold deductions are magnificently confirmed. As I have said,
the hypothesis of Taylor, Wegener, and Joly that all the continents are fragments of an original
antarctic land mass which cracked from centrifugal force and drifted apart over a technically
viscous lower surface—an hypothesis suggested by such things as the complementary
outlines of Africa and South America, and the way the great mountain chains are rolled and
shoved up—receives striking support from this uncanny source.
Maps evidently shewing the Carboniferous world of an hundred million or more years ago
displayed significant rifts and chasms destined later to separate Africa from the once
continuous realms of Europe (then the Valusia of hellish primal legend), Asia, the Americas,
and the antarctic continent. Other charts—and most significantly one in connexion with the
founding fifty million years ago of the vast dead city around us—shewed all the present
continents well differentiated. And in the latest discoverable specimen—dating perhaps from
the Pliocene age—the approximate world of today appeared quite clearly despite the linkage
of Alaska with Siberia, of North America with Europe through Greenland, and of South
America with the antarctic continent through Graham Land. In the Carboniferous map the
whole globe—ocean floor and rifted land mass alike—bore symbols of the Old Ones‘ vast
stone cities, but in the later charts the gradual recession toward the antarctic became very
plain. The final Pliocene specimen shewed no land cities except on the antarctic continent
and the tip of South America, nor any ocean cities north of the fiftieth parallel of South
Latitude. Knowledge and interest in the northern world, save for a study of coast-lines
probably made during long exploration flights on those fan-like membraneous wings, had
evidently declined to zero among the Old Ones.
Destruction of cities through the upthrust of mountains, the centrifugal rending of continents,
the seismic convulsions of land or sea-bottom, and other natural causes was a matter of
common record; and it was curious to observe how fewer and fewer replacements were made
as the ages wore on. The vast dead megalopolis that yawned around us seemed to be the
last general centre of the race; built early in the Cretaceous age after a titanic earth-buckling
had obliterated a still vaster predecessor not far distant. It appeared that this general region
was the most sacred spot of all, where reputedly the first Old Ones had settled on a primal
sea-bottom. In the new city—many of whose features we could recognise in the sculptures,
but which stretched fully an hundred miles along the mountain-range in each direction beyond
the farthest limits of our aërial survey—there were reputed to be preserved certain sacred
stones forming part of the first sea-bottom city, which were thrust up to light after long epochs
in the course of the general crumpling of strata.
VIII.
Naturally, Danforth and I studied with especial interest and a peculiarly personal sense of awe
everything pertaining to the immediate district in which we were. Of this local material there
was naturally a vast abundance; and on the tangled ground level of the city we were lucky
enough to find a house of very late date whose walls, though somewhat damaged by a
neighbouring rift, contained sculptures of decadent workmanship carrying the story of the
region much beyond the period of the Pliocene map whence we derived our last general
glimpse of the pre-human world. This was the last place we examined in detail, since what we
found there gave us a fresh immediate objective.
Certainly, we were in one of the strangest, weirdest, and most terrible of all the corners of
earth‘s globe. Of all existing lands it was infinitely the most ancient; and the conviction grew
upon us that this hideous upland must indeed be the fabled nightmare plateau of Leng which
even the mad author of the Necronomicon was reluctant to discuss. The great mountain chain
was tremendously long—starting as a low range at Luitpold Land on the coast of Weddell Sea
and virtually crossing the entire continent. The really high part stretched in a mighty arc from
about Latitude 82°, E. Longitude 60° to Latitude 70°, E. Longitude 115°, with its concave side
toward our camp and its seaward end in the region of that long, ice-locked coast whose hills
were glimpsed by Wilkes and Mawson at the Antarctic Circle.
Yet even more monstrous exaggerations of Nature seemed disturbingly close at hand. I have
said that these peaks are higher than the Himalayas, but the sculptures forbid me to say that
they are earth‘s highest. That grim honour is beyond doubt reserved for something which half
the sculptures hesitated to record at all, whilst others approached it with obvious repugnance
and trepidation. It seems that there was one part of the ancient land—the first part that ever
rose from the waters after the earth had flung off the moon and the Old Ones had seeped
down from the stars—which had come to be shunned as vaguely and namelessly evil. Cities
built there had crumbled before their time, and had been found suddenly deserted. Then
when the first great earth-buckling had convulsed the region in the Comanchian age, a
frightful line of peaks had shot suddenly up amidst the most appalling din and chaos—and
earth had received her loftiest and most terrible mountains.
If the scale of the carvings was correct, these abhorred things must have been much over
40,000 feet high—radically vaster than even the shocking mountains of madness we had
crossed. They extended, it appeared, from about Latitude 77°, E. Longitude 70° to Latitude
70°, E. Longitude 100°—less than 300 miles away from the dead city, so that we would have
spied their dreaded summits in the dim western distance had it not been for that vague
opalescent haze. Their northern end must likewise be visible from the long Antarctic Circle
coast-line at Queen Mary Land.
Some of the Old Ones, in the decadent days, had made strange prayers to those mountains;
but none ever went near them or dared to guess what lay beyond. No human eye had ever
seen them, and as I studied the emotions conveyed in the carvings I prayed that none ever
might. There are protecting hills along the coast beyond them—Queen Mary and Kaiser
Wilhelm Lands—and I thank heaven no one has been able to land and climb those hills. I am
not as sceptical about old tales and fears as I used to be, and I do not laugh now at the pre-
human sculptor‘s notion that lightning paused meaningfully now and then at each of the
brooding crests, and that an unexplained glow shone from one of those terrible pinnacles all
through the long polar night. There may be a very real and very monstrous meaning in the old
Pnakotic whispers about Kadath in the Cold Waste.
But the terrain close at hand was hardly less strange, even if less namelessly accursed. Soon
after the founding of the city the great mountain-range became the seat of the principal
temples, and many carvings shewed what grotesque and fantastic towers had pierced the sky
where now we saw only the curiously clinging cubes and ramparts. In the course of ages the
caves had appeared, and had been shaped into adjuncts of the temples. With the advance of
still later epochs all the limestone veins of the region were hollowed out by ground waters, so
that the mountains, the foothills, and the plains below them were a veritable network of
connected caverns and galleries. Many graphic sculptures told of explorations deep
underground, and of the final discovery of the Stygian sunless sea that lurked at earth‘s
bowels.
This vast nighted gulf had undoubtedly been worn by the great river which flowed down from
the nameless and horrible westward mountains, and which had formerly turned at the base of
the Old Ones‘ range and flowed beside that chain into the Indian Ocean between Budd and
Totten Lands on Wilkes‘s coast-line. Little by little it had eaten away the limestone hill base at
its turning, till at last its sapping currents reached the caverns of the ground waters and joined
with them in digging a deeper abyss. Finally its whole bulk emptied into the hollow hills and
left the old bed toward the ocean dry. Much of the later city as we now found it had been built
over that former bed. The Old Ones, understanding what had happened, and exercising their
always keen artistic sense, had carved into ornate pylons those headlands of the foothills
where the great stream began its descent into eternal darkness.
This river, once crossed by scores of noble stone bridges, was plainly the one whose extinct
course we had seen in our aëroplane survey. Its position in different carvings of the city
helped us to orient ourselves to the scene as it had been at various stages of the region‘s
age-long, aeon-dead history; so that we were able to sketch a hasty but careful map of the
salient features—squares, important buildings, and the like—for guidance in further
explorations. We could soon reconstruct in fancy the whole stupendous thing as it was a
million or ten million or fifty million years ago, for the sculptures told us exactly what the
buildings and mountains and squares and suburbs and landscape setting and luxuriant
Tertiary vegetation had looked like. It must have had a marvellous and mystic beauty, and as I
thought of it I almost forgot the clammy sense of sinister oppression with which the city‘s
inhuman age and massiveness and deadness and remoteness and glacial twilight had
choked and weighed on my spirit. Yet according to certain carvings the denizens of that city
had themselves known the clutch of oppressive terror; for there was a sombre and recurrent
type of scene in which the Old Ones were shewn in the act of recoiling affrightedly from some
object—never allowed to appear in the design—found in the great river and indicated as
having been washed down through waving, vine-draped cycad-forests from those horrible
westward mountains.
It was only in the one late-built house with the decadent carvings that we obtained any
foreshadowing of the final calamity leading to the city‘s desertion. Undoubtedly there must
have been many sculptures of the same age elsewhere, even allowing for the slackened
energies and aspirations of a stressful and uncertain period; indeed, very certain evidence of
the existence of others came to us shortly afterward. But this was the first and only set we
directly encountered. We meant to look farther later on; but as I have said, immediate
conditions dictated another present objective. There would, though, have been a limit—for
after all hope of a long future occupancy of the place had perished among the Old Ones,
there could not but have been a complete cessation of mural decoration. The ultimate blow, of
course, was the coming of the great cold which once held most of the earth in thrall, and
which has never departed from the ill-fated poles—the great cold that, at the world‘s other
extremity, put an end to the fabled lands of Lomar and Hyperborea.
Just when this tendency began in the antarctic it would be hard to say in terms of exact years.
Nowadays we set the beginning of the general glacial periods at a distance of about 500,000
years from the present, but at the poles the terrible scourge must have commenced much
earlier. All quantitative estimates are partly guesswork; but it is quite likely that the decadent
sculptures were made considerably less than a million years ago, and that the actual
desertion of the city was complete long before the conventional opening of the Pleistocene—
500,000 years ago—as reckoned in terms of the earth‘s whole surface.
In the decadent sculptures there were signs of thinner vegetation everywhere, and of a
decreased country life on the part of the Old Ones. Heating devices were shewn in the
houses, and winter travellers were represented as muffled in protective fabrics. Then we saw
a series of cartouches (the continuous band arrangement being frequently interrupted in
these late carvings) depicting a constantly growing migration to the nearest refuges of greater
warmth—some fleeing to cities under the sea off the far-away coast, and some clambering
down through networks of limestone caverns in the hollow hills to the neighbouring black
abyss of subterrene waters.
In the end it seems to have been the neighbouring abyss which received the greatest
colonisation. This was partly due, no doubt, to the traditional sacredness of this especial
region; but may have been more conclusively determined by the opportunities it gave for
continuing the use of the great temples on the honeycombed mountains, and for retaining the
vast land city as a place of summer residence and base of communication with various mines.
The linkage of old and new abodes was made more effective by means of several gradings
and improvements along the connecting routes, including the chiselling of numerous direct
tunnels from the ancient metropolis to the black abyss—sharply down-pointing tunnels whose
mouths we carefully drew, according to our most thoughtful estimates, on the guide map we
were compiling. It was obvious that at least two of these tunnels lay within a reasonable
exploring distance of where we were; both being on the mountainward edge of the city, one
less than a quarter-mile toward the ancient river-course, and the other perhaps twice that
distance in the opposite direction.
The abyss, it seems, had shelving shores of dry land at certain places; but the Old Ones built
their new city under water—no doubt because of its greater certainty of uniform warmth. The
depth of the hidden sea appears to have been very great, so that the earth‘s internal heat
could ensure its habitability for an indefinite period. The beings seem to have had no trouble
in adapting themselves to part-time—and eventually, of course, whole-time—residence under
water; since they had never allowed their gill systems to atrophy. There were many sculptures
which shewed how they had always frequently visited their submarine kinsfolk elsewhere, and
how they had habitually bathed on the deep bottom of their great river. The darkness of inner
earth could likewise have been no deterrent to a race accustomed to long antarctic nights.
Decadent though their style undoubtedly was, these latest carvings had a truly epic quality
where they told of the building of the new city in the cavern sea. The Old Ones had gone
about it scientifically; quarrying insoluble rocks from the heart of the honeycombed mountains,
and employing expert workers from the nearest submarine city to perform the construction
according to the best methods. These workers brought with them all that was necessary to
establish the new venture—shoggoth-tissue from which to breed stone-lifters and subsequent
beasts of burden for the cavern city, and other protoplasmic matter to mould into
phosphorescent organisms for lighting purposes.
At last a mighty metropolis rose on the bottom of that Stygian sea; its architecture much like
that of the city above, and its workmanship displaying relatively little decadence because of
the precise mathematical element inherent in building operations. The newly bred shoggoths
grew to enormous size and singular intelligence, and were represented as taking and
executing orders with marvellous quickness. They seemed to converse with the Old Ones by
mimicking their voices—a sort of musical piping over a wide range, if poor Lake‘s dissection
had indicated aright—and to work more from spoken commands than from hypnotic
suggestions as in earlier times. They were, however, kept in admirable control. The
phosphorescent organisms supplied light with vast effectiveness, and doubtless atoned for
the loss of the familiar polar auroras of the outer-world night.
Art and decoration were pursued, though of course with a certain decadence. The Old Ones
seemed to realise this falling off themselves; and in many cases anticipated the policy of
Constantine the Great by transplanting especially fine blocks of ancient carving from their
land city, just as the emperor, in a similar age of decline, stripped Greece and Asia of their
finest art to give his new Byzantine capital greater splendours than its own people could
create. That the transfer of sculptured blocks had not been more extensive, was doubtless
owing to the fact that the land city was not at first wholly abandoned. By the time total
abandonment did occur—and it surely must have occurred before the polar Pleistocene was
far advanced—the Old Ones had perhaps become satisfied with their decadent art—or had
ceased to recognise the superior merit of the older carvings. At any rate, the aeon-silent ruins
around us had certainly undergone no wholesale sculptural denudation; though all the best
separate statues, like other moveables, had been taken away.
The decadent cartouches and dadoes telling this story were, as I have said, the latest we
could find in our limited search. They left us with a picture of the Old Ones shuttling back and
forth betwixt the land city in summer and the sea-cavern city in winter, and sometimes trading
with the sea-bottom cities off the antarctic coast. By this time the ultimate doom of the land
city must have been recognised, for the sculptures shewed many signs of the cold‘s malign
encroachments. Vegetation was declining, and the terrible snows of the winter no longer
melted completely even in midsummer. The saurian livestock were nearly all dead, and the
mammals were standing it none too well. To keep on with the work of the upper world it had
become necessary to adapt some of the amorphous and curiously cold-resistant shoggoths to
land life; a thing the Old Ones had formerly been reluctant to do. The great river was now
lifeless, and the upper sea had lost most of its denizens except the seals and whales. All the
birds had flown away, save only the great, grotesque penguins.
What had happened afterward we could only guess. How long had the new sea-cavern city
survived? Was it still down there, a stony corpse in eternal blackness? Had the subterranean
waters frozen at last? To what fate had the ocean-bottom cities of the outer world been
delivered? Had any of the Old Ones shifted north ahead of the creeping ice-cap? Existing
geology shews no trace of their presence. Had the frightful Mi-Go been still a menace in the
outer land world of the north? Could one be sure of what might or might not linger even to this
day in the lightless and unplumbed abysses of earth‘s deepest waters? Those things had
seemingly been able to withstand any amount of pressure—and men of the sea have fished
up curious objects at times. And has the killer-whale theory really explained the savage and
mysterious scars on antarctic seals noticed a generation ago by Borchgrevingk?
The specimens found by poor Lake did not enter into these guesses, for their geologic setting
proved them to have lived at what must have been a very early date in the land city‘s history.
They were, according to their location, certainly not less than thirty million years old; and we
reflected that in their day the sea-cavern city, and indeed the cavern itself, had no existence.
They would have remembered an older scene, with lush Tertiary vegetation everywhere, a
younger land city of flourishing arts around them, and a great river sweeping northward along
the base of the mighty mountains toward a far-away tropic ocean.
And yet we could not help thinking about these specimens—especially about the eight perfect
ones that were missing from Lake‘s hideously ravaged camp. There was something abnormal
about that whole business—the strange things we had tried so hard to lay to somebody‘s
madness—those frightful graves—the amount and nature of the missing material—Gedney—
the unearthly toughness of those archaic monstrosities, and the queer vital freaks the
sculptures now shewed the race to have. . . . Danforth and I had seen a good deal in the last
few hours, and were prepared to believe and keep silent about many appalling and incredible
secrets of primal Nature.
IX.
I have said that our study of the decadent sculptures brought about a change in our
immediate objective. This of course had to do with the chiselled avenues to the black inner
world, of whose existence we had not known before, but which we were now eager to find
and traverse. From the evident scale of the carvings we deduced that a steeply descending
walk of about a mile through either of the neighbouring tunnels would bring us to the brink of
the dizzy sunless cliffs above the great abyss; down whose side adequate paths, improved by
the Old Ones, led to the rocky shore of the hidden and nighted ocean. To behold this fabulous
gulf in stark reality was a lure which seemed impossible of resistance once we knew of the
thing—yet we realised we must begin the quest at once if we expected to include it on our
present flight.
It was now 8 P.M., and we had not enough battery replacements to let our torches burn on
forever. We had done so much of our studying and copying below the glacial level that our
battery supply had had at least five hours of nearly continuous use; and despite the special
dry cell formula would obviously be good for only about four more—though by keeping one
torch unused, except for especially interesting or difficult places, we might manage to eke out
a safe margin beyond that. It would not do to be without a light in these Cyclopean
catacombs, hence in order to make the abyss trip we must give up all further mural
deciphering. Of course we intended to revisit the place for days and perhaps weeks of
intensive study and photography—curiosity having long ago got the better of horror—but just
now we must hasten. Our supply of trail-blazing paper was far from unlimited, and we were
reluctant to sacrifice spare notebooks or sketching paper to augment it; but we did let one
large notebook go. If worst came to worst, we could resort to rock-chipping—and of course it
would be possible, even in case of really lost direction, to work up to full daylight by one
channel or another if granted sufficient time for plentiful trial and error. So at last we set off
eagerly in the indicated direction of the nearest tunnel.
According to the carvings from which we had made our map, the desired tunnel-mouth could
not be much more than a quarter-mile from where we stood; the intervening space shewing
solid-looking buildings quite likely to be penetrable still at a sub-glacial level. The opening
itself would be in the basement—on the angle nearest the foothills—of a vast five-pointed
structure of evidently public and perhaps ceremonial nature, which we tried to identify from
our aërial survey of the ruins. No such structure came to our minds as we recalled our flight,
hence we concluded that its upper parts had been greatly damaged, or that it had been totally
shattered in an ice-rift we had noticed. In the latter case the tunnel would probably turn out to
be choked, so that we would have to try the next nearest one—the one less than a mile to the
north. The intervening river-course prevented our trying any of the more southerly tunnels on
this trip; and indeed, if both of the neighbouring ones were choked it was doubtful whether our
batteries would warrant an attempt on the next northerly one—about a mile beyond our
second choice.
As we threaded our dim way through the labyrinth with the aid of map and compass—
traversing rooms and corridors in every stage of ruin or preservation, clambering up ramps,
crossing upper floors and bridges and clambering down again, encountering choked
doorways and piles of debris, hastening now and then along finely preserved and uncannily
immaculate stretches, taking false leads and retracing our way (in such cases removing the
blind paper trail we had left), and once in a while striking the bottom of an open shaft through
which daylight poured or trickled down—we were repeatedly tantalised by the sculptured walls
along our route. Many must have told tales of immense historical importance, and only the
prospect of later visits reconciled us to the need of passing them by. As it was, we slowed
down once in a while and turned on our second torch. If we had had more films we would
certainly have paused briefly to photograph certain bas-reliefs, but time-consuming hand
copying was clearly out of the question.
I come now once more to a place where the temptation to hesitate, or to hint rather than state,
is very strong. It is necessary, however, to reveal the rest in order to justify my course in
discouraging further exploration. We had wormed our way very close to the computed site of
the tunnel‘s mouth—having crossed a second-story bridge to what seemed plainly the tip of a
pointed wall, and descended to a ruinous corridor especially rich in decadently elaborate and
apparently ritualistic sculptures of late workmanship—when, about 8:30 P.M., Danforth‘s keen
young nostrils gave us the first hint of something unusual. If we had had a dog with us, I
suppose we would have been warned before. At first we could not precisely say what was
wrong with the formerly crystal-pure air, but after a few seconds our memories reacted only
too definitely. Let me try to state the thing without flinching. There was an odour—and that
odour was vaguely, subtly, and unmistakably akin to what had nauseated us upon opening the
insane grave of the horror poor Lake had dissected.
Of course the revelation was not as clearly cut at the time as it sounds now. There were
several conceivable explanations, and we did a good deal of indecisive whispering. Most
important of all, we did not retreat without further investigation; for having come this far, we
were loath to be balked by anything short of certain disaster. Anyway, what we must have
suspected was altogether too wild to believe. Such things did not happen in any normal world.
It was probably sheer irrational instinct which made us dim our single torch—tempted no
longer by the decadent and sinister sculptures that leered menacingly from the oppressive
walls—and which softened our progress to a cautious tiptoeing and crawling over the
increasingly littered floor and heaps of debris.
Danforth‘s eyes as well as nose proved better than mine, for it was likewise he who first
noticed the queer aspect of the debris after we had passed many half-choked arches leading
to chambers and corridors on the ground level. It did not look quite as it ought after countless
thousands of years of desertion, and when we cautiously turned on more light we saw that a
kind of swath seemed to have been lately tracked through it. The irregular nature of the litter
precluded any definite marks, but in the smoother places there were suggestions of the
dragging of heavy objects. Once we thought there was a hint of parallel tracks, as if of
runners. This was what made us pause again.
It was during that pause that we caught—simultaneously this time—the other odour ahead.
Paradoxically, it was both a less frightful and a more frightful odour—less frightful intrinsically,
but infinitely appalling in this place under the known circumstances . . . unless, of course,
Gedney. . . . For the odour was the plain and familiar one of common petrol—every-day
gasoline.
Our motivation after that is something I will leave to psychologists. We knew now that some
terrible extension of the camp horrors must have crawled into this nighted burial-place of the
aeons, hence could not doubt any longer the existence of nameless conditions—present or at
least recent—just ahead. Yet in the end we did let sheer burning curiosity—or anxiety—or
auto-hypnotism—or vague thoughts of responsibility toward Gedney—or what not—drive us
on. Danforth whispered again of the print he thought he had seen at the alley-turning in the
ruins above; and of the faint musical piping—potentially of tremendous significance in the light
of Lake‘s dissection report despite its close resemblance to the cave-mouth echoes of the
windy peaks—which he thought he had shortly afterward half heard from unknown depths
below. I, in my turn, whispered of how the camp was left—of what had disappeared, and of
how the madness of a lone survivor might have conceived the inconceivable—a wild trip
across the monstrous mountains and a descent into the unknown primal masonry—
But we could not convince each other, or even ourselves, of anything definite. We had turned
off all light as we stood still, and vaguely noticed that a trace of deeply filtered upper day kept
the blackness from being absolute. Having automatically begun to move ahead, we guided
ourselves by occasional flashes from our torch. The disturbed debris formed an impression
we could not shake off, and the smell of gasoline grew stronger. More and more ruin met our
eyes and hampered our feet, until very soon we saw that the forward way was about to
cease. We had been all too correct in our pessimistic guess about that rift glimpsed from the
air. Our tunnel quest was a blind one, and we were not even going to be able to reach the
basement out of which the abyssward aperture opened.
The torch, flashing over the grotesquely carven walls of the blocked corridor in which we
stood, shewed several doorways in various states of obstruction; and from one of them the
gasoline odour—quite submerging that other hint of odour—came with especial distinctness.
As we looked more steadily, we saw that beyond a doubt there had been a slight and recent
clearing away of debris from that particular opening. Whatever the lurking horror might be, we
believed the direct avenue toward it was now plainly manifest. I do not think anyone will
wonder that we waited an appreciable time before making any further motion.
And yet, when we did venture inside that black arch, our first impression was one of
anticlimax. For amidst the littered expanse of that sculptured crypt—a perfect cube with sides
of about twenty feet—there remained no recent object of instantly discernible size; so that we
looked instinctively, though in vain, for a farther doorway. In another moment, however,
Danforth‘s sharp vision had descried a place where the floor debris had been disturbed; and
we turned on both torches full strength. Though what we saw in that light was actually simple
and trifling, I am none the less reluctant to tell of it because of what it implied. It was a rough
levelling of the debris, upon which several small objects lay carelessly scattered, and at one
corner of which a considerable amount of gasoline must have been spilled lately enough to
leave a strong odour even at this extreme super-plateau altitude. In other words, it could not
be other than a sort of camp—a camp made by questing beings who like us had been turned
back by the unexpectedly choked way to the abyss.
Let me be plain. The scattered objects were, so far as substance was concerned, all from
Lake‘s camp; and consisted of tin cans as queerly opened as those we had seen at that
ravaged place, many spent matches, three illustrated books more or less curiously smudged,
an empty ink bottle with its pictorial and instructional carton, a broken fountain pen, some
oddly snipped fragments of fur and tent-cloth, a used electric battery with circular of
directions, a folder that came with our type of tent heater, and a sprinkling of crumpled
papers. It was all bad enough, but when we smoothed out the papers and looked at what was
on them we felt we had come to the worst. We had found certain inexplicably blotted papers
at the camp which might have prepared us, yet the effect of the sight down there in the pre-
human vaults of a nightmare city was almost too much to bear.
A mad Gedney might have made the groups of dots in imitation of those found on the
greenish soapstones, just as the dots on those insane five-pointed grave-mounds might have
been made; and he might conceivably have prepared rough, hasty sketches—varying in their
accuracy or lack of it—which outlined the neighbouring parts of the city and traced the way
from a circularly represented place outside our previous route—a place we identified as a
great cylindrical tower in the carvings and as a vast circular gulf glimpsed in our aërial
survey—to the present five-pointed structure and the tunnel-mouth therein. He might, I repeat,
have prepared such sketches; for those before us were quite obviously compiled as our own
had been from late sculptures somewhere in the glacial labyrinth, though not from the ones
which we had seen and used. But what this art-blind bungler could never have done was to
execute those sketches in a strange and assured technique perhaps superior, despite haste
and carelessness, to any of the decadent carvings from which they were taken—the
characteristic and unmistakable technique of the Old Ones themselves in the dead city‘s
heyday.
There are those who will say Danforth and I were utterly mad not to flee for our lives after
that; since our conclusions were now—notwithstanding their wildness—completely fixed, and
of a nature I need not even mention to those who have read my account as far as this.
Perhaps we were mad—for have I not said those horrible peaks were mountains of madness?
But I think I can detect something of the same spirit—albeit in a less extreme form—in the
men who stalk deadly beasts through African jungles to photograph them or study their habits.
Half-paralysed with terror though we were, there was nevertheless fanned within us a blazing
flame of awe and curiosity which triumphed in the end.
Of course we did not mean to face that—or those—which we knew had been there, but we
felt that they must be gone by now. They would by this time have found the other
neighbouring entrance to the abyss, and have passed within to whatever night-black
fragments of the past might await them in the ultimate gulf—the ultimate gulf they had never
seen. Or if that entrance, too, was blocked, they would have gone on to the north seeking
another. They were, we remembered, partly independent of light.
Looking back to that moment, I can scarcely recall just what precise form our new emotions
took—just what change of immediate objective it was that so sharpened our sense of
expectancy. We certainly did not mean to face what we feared—yet I will not deny that we
may have had a lurking, unconscious wish to spy certain things from some hidden vantage-
point. Probably we had not given up our zeal to glimpse the abyss itself, though there was
interposed a new goal in the form of that great circular place shewn on the crumpled sketches
we had found. We had at once recognised it as a monstrous cylindrical tower figuring in the
very earliest carvings, but appearing only as a prodigious round aperture from above.
Something about the impressiveness of its rendering, even in these hasty diagrams, made us
think that its sub-glacial levels must still form a feature of peculiar importance. Perhaps it
embodied architectural marvels as yet unencountered by us. It was certainly of incredible age
according to the sculptures in which it figured—being indeed among the first things built in the
city. Its carvings, if preserved, could not but be highly significant. Moreover, it might form a
good present link with the upper world—a shorter route than the one we were so carefully
blazing, and probably that by which those others had descended.
At any rate, the thing we did was to study the terrible sketches—which quite perfectly
confirmed our own—and start back over the indicated course to the circular place; the course
which our nameless predecessors must have traversed twice before us. The other
neighbouring gate to the abyss would lie beyond that. I need not speak of our journey—during
which we continued to leave an economical trail of paper—for it was precisely the same in
kind as that by which we had reached the cul de sac; except that it tended to adhere more
closely to the ground level and even descend to basement corridors. Every now and then we
could trace certain disturbing marks in the debris or litter under foot; and after we had passed
outside the radius of the gasoline scent we were again faintly conscious—spasmodically—of
that more hideous and more persistent scent. After the way had branched from our former
course we sometimes gave the rays of our single torch a furtive sweep along the walls; noting
in almost every case the well-nigh omnipresent sculptures, which indeed seem to have
formed a main aesthetic outlet for the Old Ones.
About 9:30 P.M., while traversing a vaulted corridor whose increasingly glaciated floor
seemed somewhat below the ground level and whose roof grew lower as we advanced, we
began to see strong daylight ahead and were able to turn off our torch. It appeared that we
were coming to the vast circular place, and that our distance from the upper air could not be
very great. The corridor ended in an arch surprisingly low for these megalithic ruins, but we
could see much through it even before we emerged. Beyond there stretched a prodigious
round space—fully 200 feet in diameter—strown with debris and containing many choked
archways corresponding to the one we were about to cross. The walls were—in available
spaces—boldly sculptured into a spiral band of heroic proportions; and displayed, despite the
destructive weathering caused by the openness of the spot, an artistic splendour far beyond
anything we had encountered before. The littered floor was quite heavily glaciated, and we
fancied that the true bottom lay at a considerably lower depth.
But the salient object of the place was the titanic stone ramp which, eluding the archways by
a sharp turn outward into the open floor, wound spirally up the stupendous cylindrical wall like
an inside counterpart of those once climbing outside the monstrous towers or ziggurats of
antique Babylon. Only the rapidity of our flight, and the perspective which confounded the
descent with the tower‘s inner wall, had prevented our noticing this feature from the air, and
thus caused us to seek another avenue to the sub-glacial level. Pabodie might have been
able to tell what sort of engineering held it in place, but Danforth and I could merely admire
and marvel. We could see mighty stone corbels and pillars here and there, but what we saw
seemed inadequate to the function performed. The thing was excellently preserved up to the
present top of the tower—a highly remarkable circumstance in view of its exposure—and its
shelter had done much to protect the bizarre and disturbing cosmic sculptures on the walls.
As we stepped out into the awesome half-daylight of this monstrous cylinder-bottom—fifty
million years old, and without doubt the most primally ancient structure ever to meet our
eyes—we saw that the ramp-traversed sides stretched dizzily up to a height of fully sixty feet.
This, we recalled from our aërial survey, meant an outside glaciation of some forty feet; since
the yawning gulf we had seen from the plane had been at the top of an approximately twenty-
foot mound of crumbled masonry, somewhat sheltered for three-fourths of its circumference
by the massive curving walls of a line of higher ruins. According to the sculptures the original
tower had stood in the centre of an immense circular plaza; and had been perhaps 500 or 600
feet high, with tiers of horizontal discs near the top, and a row of needle-like spires along the
upper rim. Most of the masonry had obviously toppled outward rather than inward—a
fortunate happening, since otherwise the ramp might have been shattered and the whole
interior choked. As it was, the ramp shewed sad battering; whilst the choking was such that all
the archways at the bottom seemed to have been recently half-cleared.
It took us only a moment to conclude that this was indeed the route by which those others had
descended, and that this would be the logical route for our own ascent despite the long trail of
paper we had left elsewhere. The tower‘s mouth was no farther from the foothills and our
waiting plane than was the great terraced building we had entered, and any further sub-glacial
exploration we might make on this trip would lie in this general region. Oddly, we were still
thinking about possible later trips—even after all we had seen and guessed. Then as we
picked our way cautiously over the debris of the great floor, there came a sight which for the
time excluded all other matters.
It was the neatly huddled array of three sledges in that farther angle of the ramp‘s lower and
outward-projecting course which had hitherto been screened from our view. There they
were—the three sledges missing from Lake‘s camp—shaken by a hard usage which must
have included forcible dragging along great reaches of snowless masonry and debris, as well
as much hand portage over utterly unnavigable places. They were carefully and intelligently
packed and strapped, and contained things memorably familiar enough—the gasoline stove,
fuel cans, instrument cases, provision tins, tarpaulins obviously bulging with books, and some
bulging with less obvious contents—everything derived from Lake‘s equipment. After what we
had found in that other room, we were in a measure prepared for this encounter. The really
great shock came when we stepped over and undid one tarpaulin whose outlines had
peculiarly disquieted us. It seems that others as well as Lake had been interested in collecting
typical specimens; for there were two here, both stiffly frozen, perfectly preserved, patched
with adhesive plaster where some wounds around the neck had occurred, and wrapped with
patent care to prevent further damage. They were the bodies of young Gedney and the
missing dog.
X.
Many people will probably judge us callous as well as mad for thinking about the northward
tunnel and the abyss so soon after our sombre discovery, and I am not prepared to say that
we would have immediately revived such thoughts but for a specific circumstance which broke
in upon us and set up a whole new train of speculations. We had replaced the tarpaulin over
poor Gedney and were standing in a kind of mute bewilderment when the sounds finally
reached our consciousness—the first sounds we had heard since descending out of the open
where the mountain wind whined faintly from its unearthly heights. Well known and mundane
though they were, their presence in this remote world of death was more unexpected and
unnerving than any grotesque or fabulous tones could possibly have been—since they gave a
fresh upsetting to all our notions of cosmic harmony.
Had it been some trace of that bizarre musical piping over a wide range which Lake‘s
dissection report had led us to expect in those others—and which, indeed, our overwrought
fancies had been reading into every wind-howl we had heard since coming on the camp
horror—it would have had a kind of hellish congruity with the aeon-dead region around us. A
voice from other epochs belongs in a graveyard of other epochs. As it was, however, the
noise shattered all our profoundly seated adjustments—all our tacit acceptance of the inner
antarctic as a waste as utterly and irrevocably void of every vestige of normal life as the
sterile disc of the moon. What we heard was not the fabulous note of any buried blasphemy of
elder earth from whose supernal toughness an age-denied polar sun had evoked a monstrous
response. Instead, it was a thing so mockingly normal and so unerringly familiarised by our
sea days off Victoria Land and our camp days at McMurdo Sound that we shuddered to think
of it here, where such things ought not to be. To be brief—it was simply the raucous
squawking of a penguin.
The muffled sound floated from sub-glacial recesses nearly opposite to the corridor whence
we had come—regions manifestly in the direction of that other tunnel to the vast abyss. The
presence of a living water-bird in such a direction—in a world whose surface was one of age-
long and uniform lifelessness—could lead to only one conclusion; hence our first thought was
to verify the objective reality of the sound. It was, indeed, repeated; and seemed at times to
come from more than one throat. Seeking its source, we entered an archway from which
much debris had been cleared; resuming our trail-blazing—with an added paper-supply taken
with curious repugnance from one of the tarpaulin bundles on the sledges—when we left
daylight behind.
As the glaciated floor gave place to a litter of detritus, we plainly discerned some curious
dragging tracks; and once Danforth found a distinct print of a sort whose description would be
only too superfluous. The course indicated by the penguin cries was precisely what our map
and compass prescribed as an approach to the more northerly tunnel-mouth, and we were
glad to find that a bridgeless thoroughfare on the ground and basement levels seemed open.
The tunnel, according to the chart, ought to start from the basement of a large pyramidal
structure which we seemed vaguely to recall from our aërial survey as remarkably well
preserved. Along our path the single torch shewed a customary profusion of carvings, but we
did not pause to examine any of these.
Suddenly a bulky white shape loomed up ahead of us, and we flashed on the second torch. It
is odd how wholly this new quest had turned our minds from earlier fears of what might lurk
near. Those other ones, having left their supplies in the great circular place, must have
planned to return after their scouting trip toward or into the abyss; yet we had now discarded
all caution concerning them as completely as if they had never existed. This white, waddling
thing was fully six feet high, yet we seemed to realise at once that it was not one of those
others. They were larger and dark, and according to the sculptures their motion over land
surfaces was a swift, assured matter despite the queerness of their sea-born tentacle
equipment. But to say that the white thing did not profoundly frighten us would be vain. We
were indeed clutched for an instant by a primitive dread almost sharper than the worst of our
reasoned fears regarding those others. Then came a flash of anticlimax as the white shape
sidled into a lateral archway to our left to join two others of its kind which had summoned it in
raucous tones. For it was only a penguin—albeit of a huge, unknown species larger than the
greatest of the known king penguins, and monstrous in its combined albinism and virtual
eyelessness.
When we had followed the thing into the archway and turned both our torches on the
indifferent and unheeding group of three we saw that they were all eyeless albinos of the
same unknown and gigantic species. Their size reminded us of some of the archaic penguins
depicted in the Old Ones‘ sculptures, and it did not take us long to conclude that they were
descended from the same stock—undoubtedly surviving through a retreat to some warmer
inner region whose perpetual blackness had destroyed their pigmentation and atrophied their
eyes to mere useless slits. That their present habitat was the vast abyss we sought, was not
for a moment to be doubted; and this evidence of the gulf‘s continued warmth and habitability
filled us with the most curious and subtly perturbing fancies.
We wondered, too, what had caused these three birds to venture out of their usual domain.
The state and silence of the great dead city made it clear that it had at no time been an
habitual seasonal rookery, whilst the manifest indifference of the trio to our presence made it
seem odd that any passing party of those others should have startled them. Was it possible
that those others had taken some aggressive action or tried to increase their meat supply?
We doubted whether that pungent odour which the dogs had hated could cause an equal
antipathy in these penguins; since their ancestors had obviously lived on excellent terms with
the Old Ones—an amicable relationship which must have survived in the abyss below as long
as any of the Old Ones remained. Regretting—in a flareup of the old spirit of pure science—
that we could not photograph these anomalous creatures, we shortly left them to their
squawking and pushed on toward the abyss whose openness was now so positively proved
to us, and whose exact direction occasional penguin tracks made clear.
Not long afterward a steep descent in a long, low, doorless, and peculiarly sculptureless
corridor led us to believe that we were approaching the tunnel-mouth at last. We had passed
two more penguins, and heard others immediately ahead. Then the corridor ended in a
prodigious open space which made us gasp involuntarily—a perfect inverted hemisphere,
obviously deep underground; fully an hundred feet in diameter and fifty feet high, with low
archways opening around all parts of the circumference but one, and that one yawning
cavernously with a black arched aperture which broke the symmetry of the vault to a height of
nearly fifteen feet. It was the entrance to the great abyss.
In this vast hemisphere, whose concave roof was impressively though decadently carved to a
likeness of the primordial celestial dome, a few albino penguins waddled—aliens there, but
indifferent and unseeing. The black tunnel yawned indefinitely off at a steep descending
grade, its aperture adorned with grotesquely chiselled jambs and lintel. From that cryptical
mouth we fancied a current of slightly warmer air and perhaps even a suspicion of vapour
proceeded; and we wondered what living entities other than penguins the limitless void below,
and the contiguous honeycombings of the land and the titan mountains, might conceal. We
wondered, too, whether the trace of mountain-top smoke at first suspected by poor Lake, as
well as the odd haze we had ourselves perceived around the rampart-crowned peak, might
not be caused by the tortuous-channelled rising of some such vapour from the unfathomed
regions of earth‘s core.
Entering the tunnel, we saw that its outline was—at least at the start—about fifteen feet each
way; sides, floor, and arched roof composed of the usual megalithic masonry. The sides were
sparsely decorated with cartouches of conventional designs in a late, decadent style; and all
the construction and carving were marvellously well preserved. The floor was quite clear,
except for a slight detritus bearing outgoing penguin tracks and the inward tracks of those
others. The farther one advanced, the warmer it became; so that we were soon unbuttoning
our heavy garments. We wondered whether there were any actually igneous manifestations
below, and whether the waters of that sunless sea were hot. After a short distance the
masonry gave place to solid rock, though the tunnel kept the same proportions and presented
the same aspect of carved regularity. Occasionally its varying grade became so steep that
grooves were cut in the floor. Several times we noted the mouths of small lateral galleries not
recorded in our diagrams; none of them such as to complicate the problem of our return, and
all of them welcome as possible refuges in case we met unwelcome entities on their way back
from the abyss. The nameless scent of such things was very distinct. Doubtless it was
suicidally foolish to venture into that tunnel under the known conditions, but the lure of the
unplumbed is stronger in certain persons than most suspect—indeed, it was just such a lure
which had brought us to this unearthly polar waste in the first place. We saw several penguins
as we passed along, and speculated on the distance we would have to traverse. The carvings
had led us to expect a steep downhill walk of about a mile to the abyss, but our previous
wanderings had shewn us that matters of scale were not wholly to be depended on.
After about a quarter of a mile that nameless scent became greatly accentuated, and we kept
very careful track of the various lateral openings we passed. There was no visible vapour as
at the mouth, but this was doubtless due to the lack of contrasting cooler air. The temperature
was rapidly ascending, and we were not surprised to come upon a careless heap of material
shudderingly familiar to us. It was composed of furs and tent-cloth taken from Lake‘s camp,
and we did not pause to study the bizarre forms into which the fabrics had been slashed.
Slightly beyond this point we noticed a decided increase in the size and number of the side-
galleries, and concluded that the densely honeycombed region beneath the higher foothills
must now have been reached. The nameless scent was now curiously mixed with another
and scarcely less offensive odour—of what nature we could not guess, though we thought of
decaying organisms and perhaps unknown subterrene fungi. Then came a startling expansion
of the tunnel for which the carvings had not prepared us—a broadening and rising into a lofty,
natural-looking elliptical cavern with a level floor; some 75 feet long and 50 broad, and with
many immense side-passages leading away into cryptical darkness.
Though this cavern was natural in appearance, an inspection with both torches suggested
that it had been formed by the artificial destruction of several walls between adjacent
honeycombings. The walls were rough, and the high vaulted roof was thick with stalactites;
but the solid rock floor had been smoothed off, and was free from all debris, detritus, or even
dust to a positively abnormal extent. Except for the avenue through which we had come, this
was true of the floors of all the great galleries opening off from it; and the singularity of the
condition was such as to set us vainly puzzling. The curious new foetor which had
supplemented the nameless scent was excessively pungent here; so much so that it
destroyed all trace of the other. Something about this whole place, with its polished and
almost glistening floor, struck us as more vaguely baffling and horrible than any of the
monstrous things we had previously encountered.
The regularity of the passage immediately ahead, as well as the larger proportion of penguin-
droppings there, prevented all confusion as to the right course amidst this plethora of equally
great cave-mouths. Nevertheless we resolved to resume our paper trail-blazing if any further
complexity should develop; for dust tracks, of course, could no longer be expected. Upon
resuming our direct progress we cast a beam of torchlight over the tunnel walls—and stopped
short in amazement at the supremely radical change which had come over the carvings in this
part of the passage. We realised, of course, the great decadence of the Old Ones‘ sculpture
at the time of the tunnelling; and had indeed noticed the inferior workmanship of the
arabesques in the stretches behind us. But now, in this deeper section beyond the cavern,
there was a sudden difference wholly transcending explanation—a difference in basic nature
as well as in mere quality, and involving so profound and calamitous a degradation of skill that
nothing in the hitherto observed rate of decline could have led one to expect it.
This new and degenerate work was coarse, bold, and wholly lacking in delicacy of detail. It
was counter-sunk with exaggerated depth in bands following the same general line as the
sparse cartouches of the earlier sections, but the height of the reliefs did not reach the level of
the general surface. Danforth had the idea that it was a second carving—a sort of palimpsest
formed after the obliteration of a previous design. In nature it was wholly decorative and
conventional; and consisted of crude spirals and angles roughly following the quintile
mathematical tradition of the Old Ones, yet seeming more like a parody than a perpetuation of
that tradition. We could not get it out of our minds that some subtly but profoundly alien
element had been added to the aesthetic feeling behind the technique—an alien element,
Danforth guessed, that was responsible for the manifestly laborious substitution. It was like,
yet disturbingly unlike, what we had come to recognise as the Old Ones‘ art; and I was
persistently reminded of such hybrid things as the ungainly Palmyrene sculptures fashioned in
the Roman manner. That others had recently noticed this belt of carving was hinted by the
presence of a used torch battery on the floor in front of one of the most characteristic designs.
Since we could not afford to spend any considerable time in study, we resumed our advance
after a cursory look; though frequently casting beams over the walls to see if any further
decorative changes developed. Nothing of the sort was perceived, though the carvings were
in places rather sparse because of the numerous mouths of smooth-floored lateral tunnels.
We saw and heard fewer penguins, but thought we caught a vague suspicion of an infinitely
distant chorus of them somewhere deep within the earth. The new and inexplicable odour was
abominably strong, and we could detect scarcely a sign of that other nameless scent. Puffs of
visible vapour ahead bespoke increasing contrasts in temperature, and the relative nearness
of the sunless sea-cliffs of the great abyss. Then, quite unexpectedly, we saw certain
obstructions on the polished floor ahead—obstructions which were quite definitely not
penguins—and turned on our second torch after making sure that the objects were quite
stationary.
XI.
Still another time have I come to a place where it is very difficult to proceed. I ought to be
hardened by this stage; but there are some experiences and intimations which scar too
deeply to permit of healing, and leave only such an added sensitiveness that memory
reinspires all the original horror. We saw, as I have said, certain obstructions on the polished
floor ahead; and I may add that our nostrils were assailed almost simultaneously by a very
curious intensification of the strange prevailing foetor, now quite plainly mixed with the
nameless stench of those others which had gone before us. The light of the second torch left
no doubt of what the obstructions were, and we dared approach them only because we could
see, even from a distance, that they were quite as past all harming power as had been the six
similar specimens unearthed from the monstrous star-mounded graves at poor Lake‘s camp.
They were, indeed, as lacking in completeness as most of those we had unearthed—though it
grew plain from the thick, dark-green pool gathering around them that their incompleteness
was of infinitely greater recency. There seemed to be only four of them, whereas Lake‘s
bulletins would have suggested no less than eight as forming the group which had preceded
us. To find them in this state was wholly unexpected, and we wondered what sort of
monstrous struggle had occurred down here in the dark.
Penguins, attacked in a body, retaliate savagely with their beaks; and our ears now made
certain the existence of a rookery far beyond. Had those others disturbed such a place and
aroused murderous pursuit? The obstructions did not suggest it, for penguin beaks against
the tough tissues Lake had dissected could hardly account for the terrible damage our
approaching glance was beginning to make out. Besides, the huge blind birds we had seen
appeared to be singularly peaceful.
Had there, then, been a struggle among those others, and were the absent four responsible?
If so, where were they? Were they close at hand and likely to form an immediate menace to
us? We glanced anxiously at some of the smooth-floored lateral passages as we continued
our slow and frankly reluctant approach. Whatever the conflict was, it had clearly been that
which had frightened the penguins into their unaccustomed wandering. It must, then, have
arisen near that faintly heard rookery in the incalculable gulf beyond, since there were no
signs that any birds had normally dwelt here. Perhaps, we reflected, there had been a
hideous running fight, with the weaker party seeking to get back to the cached sledges when
their pursuers finished them. One could picture the daemoniac fray between namelessly
monstrous entities as it surged out of the black abyss with great clouds of frantic penguins
squawking and scurrying ahead.
I say that we approached those sprawling and incomplete obstructions slowly and reluctantly.
Would to heaven we had never approached them at all, but had run back at top speed out of
that blasphemous tunnel with the greasily smooth floors and the degenerate murals aping and
mocking the things they had superseded—run back, before we had seen what we did see,
and before our minds were burned with something which will never let us breathe easily
again!
Both of our torches were turned on the prostrate objects, so that we soon realised the
dominant factor in their incompleteness. Mauled, compressed, twisted, and ruptured as they
were, their chief common injury was total decapitation. From each one the tentacled starfish-
head had been removed; and as we drew near we saw that the manner of removal looked
more like some hellish tearing or suction than like any ordinary form of cleavage. Their
noisome dark-green ichor formed a large, spreading pool; but its stench was half
overshadowed by that newer and stranger stench, here more pungent than at any other point
along our route. Only when we had come very close to the sprawling obstructions could we
trace that second, unexplainable foetor to any immediate source—and the instant we did so
Danforth, remembering certain very vivid sculptures of the Old Ones‘ history in the Permian
age 150 million years ago, gave vent to a nerve-tortured cry which echoed hysterically
through that vaulted and archaic passage with the evil palimpsest carvings.
I came only just short of echoing his cry myself; for I had seen those primal sculptures, too,
and had shudderingly admired the way the nameless artist had suggested that hideous slime-
coating found on certain incomplete and prostrate Old Ones—those whom the frightful
shoggoths had characteristically slain and sucked to a ghastly headlessness in the great war
of re-subjugation. They were infamous, nightmare sculptures even when telling of age-old,
bygone things; for shoggoths and their work ought not to be seen by human beings or
portrayed by any beings. The mad author of the Necronomicon had nervously tried to swear
that none had been bred on this planet, and that only drugged dreamers had ever conceived
them. Formless protoplasm able to mock and reflect all forms and organs and processes—
viscous agglutinations of bubbling cells—rubbery fifteen-foot spheroids infinitely plastic and
ductile—slaves of suggestion, builders of cities—more and more sullen, more and more
intelligent, more and more amphibious, more and more imitative—Great God! What madness
made even those blasphemous Old Ones willing to use and to carve such things?
And now, when Danforth and I saw the freshly glistening and reflectively iridescent black
slime which clung thickly to those headless bodies and stank obscenely with that new
unknown odour whose cause only a diseased fancy could envisage—clung to those bodies
and sparkled less voluminously on a smooth part of the accursedly re-sculptured wall in a
series of grouped dots—we understood the quality of cosmic fear to its uttermost depths. It
was not fear of those four missing others—for all too well did we suspect they would do no
harm again. Poor devils! After all, they were not evil things of their kind. They were the men of
another age and another order of being. Nature had played a hellish jest on them—as it will
on any others that human madness, callousness, or cruelty may hereafter drag up in that
hideously dead or sleeping polar waste—and this was their tragic homecoming.
They had not been even savages—for what indeed had they done? That awful awakening in
the cold of an unknown epoch—perhaps an attack by the furry, frantically barking
quadrupeds, and a dazed defence against them and the equally frantic white simians with the
queer wrappings and paraphernalia . . . poor Lake, poor Gedney . . . and poor Old Ones!
Scientists to the last—what had they done that we would not have done in their place? God,
what intelligence and persistence! What a facing of the incredible, just as those carven
kinsmen and forbears had faced things only a little less incredible! Radiates, vegetables,
monstrosities, star-spawn—whatever they had been, they were men!
They had crossed the icy peaks on whose templed slopes they had once worshipped and
roamed among the tree-ferns. They had found their dead city brooding under its curse, and
had read its carven latter days as we had done. They had tried to reach their living fellows in
fabled depths of blackness they had never seen—and what had they found? All this flashed in
unison through the thoughts of Danforth and me as we looked from those headless, slime-
coated shapes to the loathsome palimpsest sculptures and the diabolical dot-groups of fresh
slime on the wall beside them—looked and understood what must have triumphed and
survived down there in the Cyclopean water-city of that nighted, penguin-fringed abyss,
whence even now a sinister curling mist had begun to belch pallidly as if in answer to
Danforth‘s hysterical scream.
The shock of recognising that monstrous slime and headlessness had frozen us into mute,
motionless statues, and it is only through later conversations that we have learned of the
complete identity of our thoughts at that moment. It seemed aeons that we stood there, but
actually it could not have been more than ten or fifteen seconds. That hateful, pallid mist
curled forward as if veritably driven by some remoter advancing bulk—and then came a
sound which upset much of what we had just decided, and in so doing broke the spell and
enabled us to run like mad past squawking, confused penguins over our former trail back to
the city, along ice-sunken megalithic corridors to the great open circle, and up that archaic
spiral ramp in a frenzied automatic plunge for the sane outer air and light of day.
The new sound, as I have intimated, upset much that we had decided; because it was what
poor Lake‘s dissection had led us to attribute to those we had just judged dead. It was,
Danforth later told me, precisely what he had caught in infinitely muffled form when at that
spot beyond the alley-corner above the glacial level; and it certainly had a shocking
resemblance to the wind-pipings we had both heard around the lofty mountain caves. At the
risk of seeming puerile I will add another thing, too; if only because of the surprising way
Danforth‘s impression chimed with mine. Of course common reading is what prepared us both
to make the interpretation, though Danforth has hinted at queer notions about unsuspected
and forbidden sources to which Poe may have had access when writing his Arthur Gordon
Pym a century ago. It will be remembered that in that fantastic tale there is a word of unknown
but terrible and prodigious significance connected with the antarctic and screamed eternally
by the gigantic, spectrally snowy birds of that malign region‘s core. ―Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!” That, I
may admit, is exactly what we thought we heard conveyed by that sudden sound behind the
advancing white mist—that insidious musical piping over a singularly wide range.
We were in full flight before three notes or syllables had been uttered, though we knew that
the swiftness of the Old Ones would enable any scream-roused and pursuing survivor of the
slaughter to overtake us in a moment if it really wished to do so. We had a vague hope,
however, that non-aggressive conduct and a display of kindred reason might cause such a
being to spare us in case of capture; if only from scientific curiosity. After all, if such an one
had nothing to fear for itself it would have no motive in harming us. Concealment being futile
at this juncture, we used our torch for a running glance behind, and perceived that the mist
was thinning. Would we see, at last, a complete and living specimen of those others? Again
came that insidious musical piping—―Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”
Then, noting that we were actually gaining on our pursuer, it occurred to us that the entity
might be wounded. We could take no chances, however, since it was very obviously
approaching in answer to Danforth‘s scream rather than in flight from any other entity. The
timing was too close to admit of doubt. Of the whereabouts of that less conceivable and less
mentionable nightmare—that foetid, unglimpsed mountain of slime-spewing protoplasm
whose race had conquered the abyss and sent land pioneers to re-carve and squirm through
the burrows of the hills—we could form no guess; and it cost us a genuine pang to leave this
probably crippled Old One—perhaps a lone survivor—to the peril of recapture and a
nameless fate.
Thank heaven we did not slacken our run. The curling mist had thickened again, and was
driving ahead with increased speed; whilst the straying penguins in our rear were squawking
and screaming and displaying signs of a panic really surprising in view of their relatively minor
confusion when we had passed them. Once more came that sinister, wide-ranged piping—
―Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!” We had been wrong. The thing was not wounded, but had merely paused
on encountering the bodies of its fallen kindred and the hellish slime inscription above them.
We could never know what that daemon message was—but those burials at Lake‘s camp had
shewn how much importance the beings attached to their dead. Our recklessly used torch
now revealed ahead of us the large open cavern where various ways converged, and we
were glad to be leaving those morbid palimpsest sculptures—almost felt even when scarcely
seen—behind.
Another thought which the advent of the cave inspired was the possibility of losing our
pursuer at this bewildering focus of large galleries. There were several of the blind albino
penguins in the open space, and it seemed clear that their fear of the oncoming entity was
extreme to the point of unaccountability. If at that point we dimmed our torch to the very
lowest limit of travelling need, keeping it strictly in front of us, the frightened squawking
motions of the huge birds in the mist might muffle our footfalls, screen our true course, and
somehow set up a false lead. Amidst the churning, spiralling fog the littered and unglistening
floor of the main tunnel beyond this point, as differing from the other morbidly polished
burrows, could hardly form a highly distinguishing feature; even, so far as we could
conjecture, for those indicated special senses which made the Old Ones partly though
imperfectly independent of light in emergencies. In fact, we were somewhat apprehensive lest
we go astray ourselves in our haste. For we had, of course, decided to keep straight on
toward the dead city; since the consequences of loss in those unknown foothill
honeycombings would be unthinkable.
The fact that we survived and emerged is sufficient proof that the thing did take a wrong
gallery whilst we providentially hit on the right one. The penguins alone could not have saved
us, but in conjunction with the mist they seem to have done so. Only a benign fate kept the
curling vapours thick enough at the right moment, for they were constantly shifting and
threatening to vanish. Indeed, they did lift for a second just before we emerged from the
nauseously re-sculptured tunnel into the cave; so that we actually caught one first and only
half-glimpse of the oncoming entity as we cast a final, desperately fearful glance backward
before dimming the torch and mixing with the penguins in the hope of dodging pursuit. If the
fate which screened us was benign, that which gave us the half-glimpse was infinitely the
opposite; for to that flash of semi-vision can be traced a full half of the horror which has ever
since haunted us.
Our exact motive in looking back again was perhaps no more than the immemorial instinct of
the pursued to gauge the nature and course of its pursuer; or perhaps it was an automatic
attempt to answer a subconscious question raised by one of our senses. In the midst of our
flight, with all our faculties centred on the problem of escape, we were in no condition to
observe and analyse details; yet even so our latent brain-cells must have wondered at the
message brought them by our nostrils. Afterward we realised what it was—that our retreat
from the foetid slime-coating on those headless obstructions, and the coincident approach of
the pursuing entity, had not brought us the exchange of stenches which logic called for. In the
neighbourhood of the prostrate things that new and lately unexplainable foetor had been
wholly dominant; but by this time it ought to have largely given place to the nameless stench
associated with those others. This it had not done—for instead, the newer and less bearable
smell was now virtually undiluted, and growing more and more poisonously insistent each
second.
So we glanced back—simultaneously, it would appear; though no doubt the incipient motion
of one prompted the imitation of the other. As we did so we flashed both torches full strength
at the momentarily thinned mist; either from sheer primitive anxiety to see all we could, or in a
less primitive but equally unconscious effort to dazzle the entity before we dimmed our light
and dodged among the penguins of the labyrinth-centre ahead. Unhappy act! Not Orpheus
himself, or Lot‘s wife, paid much more dearly for a backward glance. And again came that
shocking, wide-ranged piping—―Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”
I might as well be frank—even if I cannot bear to be quite direct—in stating what we saw;
though at the time we felt that it was not to be admitted even to each other. The words
reaching the reader can never even suggest the awfulness of the sight itself. It crippled our
consciousness so completely that I wonder we had the residual sense to dim our torches as
planned, and to strike the right tunnel toward the dead city. Instinct alone must have carried
us through—perhaps better than reason could have done; though if that was what saved us,
we paid a high price. Of reason we certainly had little enough left. Danforth was totally
unstrung, and the first thing I remember of the rest of the journey was hearing him light-
headedly chant an hysterical formula in which I alone of mankind could have found anything
but insane irrelevance. It reverberated in falsetto echoes among the squawks of the penguins;
reverberated through the vaultings ahead, and—thank God—through the now empty vaultings
behind. He could not have begun it at once—else we would not have been alive and blindly
racing. I shudder to think of what a shade of difference in his nervous reactions might have
brought.
―South Station Under—Washington Under—Park Street Under—Kendall—Central—Harvard. .
. .‖ The poor fellow was chanting the familiar stations of the Boston-Cambridge tunnel that
burrowed through our peaceful native soil thousands of miles away in New England, yet to me
the ritual had neither irrelevance nor home-feeling. It had only horror, because I knew
unerringly the monstrous, nefandous analogy that had suggested it. We had expected, upon
looking back, to see a terrible and incredibly moving entity if the mists were thin enough; but
of that entity we had formed a clear idea. What we did see—for the mists were indeed all too
malignly thinned—was something altogether different, and immeasurably more hideous and
detestable. It was the utter, objective embodiment of the fantastic novelist‘s ‗thing that should
not be‘; and its nearest comprehensible analogue is a vast, onrushing subway train as one
sees it from a station platform—the great black front looming colossally out of infinite
subterraneous distance, constellated with strangely coloured lights and filling the prodigious
burrow as a piston fills a cylinder.
But we were not on a station platform. We were on the track ahead as the nightmare plastic
column of foetid black iridescence oozed tightly onward through its fifteen-foot sinus;
gathering unholy speed and driving before it a spiral, re-thickening cloud of the pallid abyss-
vapour. It was a terrible, indescribable thing vaster than any subway train—a shapeless
congeries of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, and with myriads of temporary eyes
forming and unforming as pustules of greenish light all over the tunnel-filling front that bore
down upon us, crushing the frantic penguins and slithering over the glistening floor that it and
its kind had swept so evilly free of all litter. Still came that eldritch, mocking cry—―Tekeli-li!
Tekeli-li!” And at last we remembered that the daemoniac shoggoths—given life, thought, and
plastic organ patterns solely by the Old Ones, and having no language save that which the
dot-groups expressed—had likewise no voice save the imitated accents of their bygone
masters.
XII.
Danforth and I have recollections of emerging into the great sculptured hemisphere and of
threading our back trail through the Cyclopean rooms and corridors of the dead city; yet these
are purely dream-fragments involving no memory of volition, details, or physical exertion. It
was as if we floated in a nebulous world or dimension without time, causation, or orientation.
The grey half-daylight of the vast circular space sobered us somewhat; but we did not go near
those cached sledges or look again at poor Gedney and the dog. They have a strange and
titanic mausoleum, and I hope the end of this planet will find them still undisturbed.
It was while struggling up the colossal spiral incline that we first felt the terrible fatigue and
short breath which our race through the thin plateau air had produced; but not even the fear of
collapse could make us pause before reaching the normal outer realm of sun and sky. There
was something vaguely appropriate about our departure from those buried epochs; for as we
wound our panting way up the sixty-foot cylinder of primal masonry we glimpsed beside us a
continuous procession of heroic sculptures in the dead race‘s early and undecayed
technique—a farewell from the Old Ones, written fifty million years ago.
Finally scrambling out at the top, we found ourselves on a great mound of tumbled blocks;
with the curved walls of higher stonework rising westward, and the brooding peaks of the
great mountains shewing beyond the more crumbled structures toward the east. The low
antarctic sun of midnight peered redly from the southern horizon through rifts in the jagged
ruins, and the terrible age and deadness of the nightmare city seemed all the starker by
contrast with such relatively known and accustomed things as the features of the polar
landscape. The sky above was a churning and opalescent mass of tenuous ice-vapours, and
the cold clutched at our vitals. Wearily resting the outfit-bags to which we had instinctively
clung throughout our desperate flight, we rebuttoned our heavy garments for the stumbling
climb down the mound and the walk through the aeon-old stone maze to the foothills where
our aëroplane waited. Of what had set us fleeing from the darkness of earth‘s secret and
archaic gulfs we said nothing at all.
In less than a quarter of an hour we had found the steep grade to the foothills—the probable
ancient terrace—by which we had descended, and could see the dark bulk of our great plane
amidst the sparse ruins on the rising slope ahead. Half way uphill toward our goal we paused
for a momentary breathing-spell, and turned to look again at the fantastic palaeogean tangle
of incredible stone shapes below us—once more outlined mystically against an unknown
west. As we did so we saw that the sky beyond had lost its morning haziness; the restless ice-
vapours having moved up to the zenith, where their mocking outlines seemed on the point of
settling into some bizarre pattern which they feared to make quite definite or conclusive.
There now lay revealed on the ultimate white horizon behind the grotesque city a dim, elfin
line of pinnacled violet whose needle-pointed heights loomed dream-like against the
beckoning rose-colour of the western sky. Up toward this shimmering rim sloped the ancient
table-land, the depressed course of the bygone river traversing it as an irregular ribbon of
shadow. For a second we gasped in admiration of the scene‘s unearthly cosmic beauty, and
then vague horror began to creep into our souls. For this far violet line could be nothing else
than the terrible mountains of the forbidden land—highest of earth‘s peaks and focus of
earth‘s evil; harbourers of nameless horrors and Archaean secrets; shunned and prayed to by
those who feared to carve their meaning; untrodden by any living thing of earth, but visited by
the sinister lightnings and sending strange beams across the plains in the polar night—
beyond doubt the unknown archetype of that dreaded Kadath in the Cold Waste beyond
abhorrent Leng, whereof unholy primal legends hint evasively. We were the first human
beings ever to see them—and I hope to God we may be the last.
If the sculptured maps and pictures in that pre-human city had told truly, these cryptic violet
mountains could not be much less than 300 miles away; yet none the less sharply did their
dim elfin essence jut above that remote and snowy rim, like the serrated edge of a monstrous
alien planet about to rise into unaccustomed heavens. Their height, then, must have been
tremendous beyond all known comparison—carrying them up into tenuous atmospheric strata
peopled by such gaseous wraiths as rash flyers have barely lived to whisper of after
unexplainable falls. Looking at them, I thought nervously of certain sculptured hints of what
the great bygone river had washed down into the city from their accursed slopes—and
wondered how much sense and how much folly had lain in the fears of those Old Ones who
carved them so reticently. I recalled how their northerly end must come near the coast at
Queen Mary Land, where even at that moment Sir Douglas Mawson‘s expedition was
doubtless working less than a thousand miles away; and hoped that no evil fate would give
Sir Douglas and his men a glimpse of what might lie beyond the protecting coastal range.
Such thoughts formed a measure of my overwrought condition at the time—and Danforth
seemed to be even worse.
Yet long before we had passed the great star-shaped ruin and reached our plane our fears
had become transferred to the lesser but vast enough range whose re-crossing lay ahead of
us. From these foothills the black, ruin-crusted slopes reared up starkly and hideously against
the east, again reminding us of those strange Asian paintings of Nicholas Roerich; and when
we thought of the damnable honeycombs inside them, and of the frightful amorphous entities
that might have pushed their foetidly squirming way even to the topmost hollow pinnacles, we
could not face without panic the prospect of again sailing by those suggestive skyward cave-
mouths where the wind made sounds like an evil musical piping over a wide range. To make
matters worse, we saw distinct traces of local mist around several of the summits—as poor
Lake must have done when he made that early mistake about volcanism—and thought
shiveringly of that kindred mist from which we had just escaped; of that, and of the
blasphemous, horror-fostering abyss whence all such vapours came.
All was well with the plane, and we clumsily hauled on our heavy flying furs. Danforth got the
engine started without trouble, and we made a very smooth takeoff over the nightmare city.
Below us the primal Cyclopean masonry spread out as it had done when first we saw it—so
short, yet infinitely long, a time ago—and we began rising and turning to test the wind for our
crossing through the pass. At a very high level there must have been great disturbance, since
the ice-dust clouds of the zenith were doing all sorts of fantastic things; but at 24,000 feet, the
height we needed for the pass, we found navigation quite practicable. As we drew close to the
jutting peaks the wind‘s strange piping again became manifest, and I could see Danforth‘s
hands trembling at the controls. Rank amateur though I was, I thought at that moment that I
might be a better navigator than he in effecting the dangerous crossing between pinnacles;
and when I made motions to change seats and take over his duties he did not protest. I tried
to keep all my skill and self-possession about me, and stared at the sector of reddish farther
sky betwixt the walls of the pass—resolutely refusing to pay attention to the puffs of mountain-
top vapour, and wishing that I had wax-stopped ears like Ulysses‘ men off the Sirens‘ coast to
keep that disturbing wind-piping from my consciousness.
But Danforth, released from his piloting and keyed up to a dangerous nervous pitch, could not
keep quiet. I felt him turning and wriggling about as he looked back at the terrible receding
city, ahead at the cave-riddled, cube-barnacled peaks, sidewise at the bleak sea of snowy,
rampart-strown foothills, and upward at the seething, grotesquely clouded sky. It was then,
just as I was trying to steer safely through the pass, that his mad shrieking brought us so
close to disaster by shattering my tight hold on myself and causing me to fumble helplessly
with the controls for a moment. A second afterward my resolution triumphed and we made the
crossing safely—yet I am afraid that Danforth will never be the same again.
I have said that Danforth refused to tell me what final horror made him scream out so
insanely—a horror which, I feel sadly sure, is mainly responsible for his present breakdown.
We had snatches of shouted conversation above the wind‘s piping and the engine‘s buzzing
as we reached the safe side of the range and swooped slowly down toward the camp, but that
had mostly to do with the pledges of secrecy we had made as we prepared to leave the
nightmare city. Certain things, we had agreed, were not for people to know and discuss
lightly—and I would not speak of them now but for the need of heading off that Starkweather-
Moore Expedition, and others, at any cost. It is absolutely necessary, for the peace and safety
of mankind, that some of earth‘s dark, dead corners and unplumbed depths be let alone; lest
sleeping abnormalities wake to resurgent life, and blasphemously surviving nightmares
squirm and splash out of their black lairs to newer and wider conquests.
All that Danforth has ever hinted is that the final horror was a mirage. It was not, he declares,
anything connected with the cubes and caves of echoing, vaporous, wormily honeycombed
mountains of madness which we crossed; but a single fantastic, daemoniac glimpse, among
the churning zenith-clouds, of what lay back of those other violet westward mountains which
the Old Ones had shunned and feared. It is very probable that the thing was a sheer delusion
born of the previous stresses we had passed through, and of the actual though unrecognised
mirage of the dead transmontane city experienced near Lake‘s camp the day before; but it
was so real to Danforth that he suffers from it still.
He has on rare occasions whispered disjointed and irresponsible things about ―the black pit‖,
―the carven rim‖, ―the proto-shoggoths‖, ―the windowless solids with five dimensions‖, ―the
nameless cylinder‖, ―the elder pharos‖, ―Yog-Sothoth‖, ―the primal white jelly‖, ―the colour out
of space‖, ―the wings‖, ―the eyes in darkness‖, ―the moon-ladder‖, ―the original, the eternal, the
undying‖, and other bizarre conceptions; but when he is fully himself he repudiates all this and
attributes it to his curious and macabre reading of earlier years. Danforth, indeed, is known to
be among the few who have ever dared go completely through that worm-riddled copy of the
Necronomicon kept under lock and key in the college library.
The higher sky, as we crossed the range, was surely vaporous and disturbed enough; and
although I did not see the zenith I can well imagine that its swirls of ice-dust may have taken
strange forms. Imagination, knowing how vividly distant scenes can sometimes be reflected,
refracted, and magnified by such layers of restless cloud, might easily have supplied the
rest—and of course Danforth did not hint any of those specific horrors till after his memory
had had a chance to draw on his bygone reading. He could never have seen so much in one
instantaneous glance.
At the time his shrieks were confined to the repetition of a single mad word of all too obvious
source:
―Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”
―I buried her in the farther cellar storeroom under some old boxes and cleaned up
all the traces. The servants suspected next morning, but they have such secrets
that they dare not tell the police. I sent them off, but God knows what they—and
others of the cult—will do.
―I thought for a while I was all right, and then I felt the tugging at my brain. I knew
what it was—I ought to have remembered. A soul like hers—or Ephraim‘s—is half
detached, and keeps right on after death as long as the body lasts. She was
getting me—making me change bodies with her—seizing my body and putting me
in that corpse of hers buried in the cellar.
―I knew what was coming—that‘s why I snapped and had to go to the asylum. Then
it came—I found myself choked in the dark—in Asenath‘s rotting carcass down
there in the cellar under the boxes where I put it. And I knew she must be in my
body at the sanitarium—permanently, for it was after Hallowmass, and the sacrifice
would work even without her being there—sane, and ready for release as a
menace to the world. I was desperate, and in spite of everything I clawed my way
out.
―I‘m too far gone to talk—I couldn‘t manage to telephone—but I can still write. I‘ll
get fixed up somehow and bring you this last word and warning. Kill that fiend if
you value the peace and comfort of the world. See that it is cremated. If you don‘t,
it will live on and on, body to body forever, and I can‘t tell you what it will do. Keep
clear of black magic, Dan, it‘s the devil‘s business. Goodbye—you‘ve been a great
friend. Tell the police whatever they‘ll believe—and I‘m damnably sorry to drag all
this on you. I‘ll be at peace before long—this thing won‘t hold together much more.
Hope you can read this. And kill that thing—kill it.
Yours—Ed.‖
It was only afterward that I read the last half of this paper, for I had fainted at the end of the
third paragraph. I fainted again when I saw and smelled what cluttered up the threshold where
the warm air had struck it. The messenger would not move or have consciousness any more.
The butler, tougher-fibred than I, did not faint at what met him in the hall in the morning.
Instead, he telephoned the police. When they came I had been taken upstairs to bed, but
the—other mass—lay where it had collapsed in the night. The men put handkerchiefs to their
noses.
What they finally found inside Edward‘s oddly assorted clothes was mostly liquescent horror.
There were bones, too—and a crushed-in skull. Some dental work positively identified the
skull as Asenath‘s.
My dear Sir:—
A recent conversation with Dr. E. M. Boyle of Perth, and some papers with your
articles which he has just sent me, make it advisable for me to tell you about
certain things I have seen in the Great Sandy Desert east of our gold field here. It
would seem, in view of the peculiar legends about old cities with huge stonework
and strange designs and hieroglyphs which you describe, that I have come upon
something very important.
The blackfellows have always been full of talk about ―great stones with marks on
them‖, and seem to have a terrible fear of such things. They connect them in some
way with their common racial legends about Buddai, the gigantic old man who lies
asleep for ages underground with his head on his arm, and who will some day
awake and eat up the world. There are some very old and half-forgotten tales of
enormous underground huts of great stones, where passages lead down and
down, and where horrible things have happened. The blackfellows claim that once
some warriors, fleeing in battle, went down into one and never came back, but that
frightful winds began to blow from the place soon after they went down. However,
there usually isn‘t much in what these natives say.
But what I have to tell is more than this. Two years ago, when I was prospecting
about 500 miles east in the desert, I came on a lot of queer pieces of dressed
stone perhaps 3 × 2 × 2 feet in size, and weathered and pitted to the very limit. At
first I couldn‘t find any of the marks the blackfellows told about, but when I looked
close enough I could make out some deeply carved lines in spite of the weathering.
They were peculiar curves, just like what the blacks had tried to describe. I imagine
there must have been 30 or 40 blocks, some nearly buried in the sand, and all
within a circle perhaps a quarter of a mile‘s diameter.
When I saw some, I looked around closely for more, and made a careful reckoning
of the place with my instruments. I also took pictures of 10 or 12 of the most typical
blocks, and will enclose the prints for you to see. I turned my information and
pictures over to the government at Perth, but they have done nothing with them.
Then I met Dr. Boyle, who had read your articles in the Journal of the American
Psychological Society, and in time happened to mention the stones. He was
enormously interested, and became quite excited when I shewed him my
snapshots, saying that the stones and markings were just like those of the masonry
you had dreamed about and seen described in legends. He meant to write you, but
was delayed. Meanwhile he sent me most of the magazines with your articles, and
I saw at once from your drawings and descriptions that my stones are certainly the
kind you mean. You can appreciate this from the enclosed prints. Later on you will
hear directly from Dr. Boyle.
Now I can understand how important all this will be to you. Without question we are
faced with the remains of an unknown civilisation older than any dreamed of
before, and forming a basis for your legends. As a mining engineer, I have some
knowledge of geology, and can tell you that these blocks are so ancient they
frighten me. They are mostly sandstone and granite, though one is almost certainly
made of a queer sort of cement or concrete. They bear evidence of water action,
as if this part of the world had been submerged and come up again after long
ages—all since these blocks were made and used. It is a matter of hundreds of
thousands of years—or heaven knows how much more. I don‘t like to think about it.
In view of your previous diligent work in tracking down the legends and everything
connected with them, I cannot doubt but that you will want to lead an expedition to
the desert and make some archaeological excavations. Both Dr. Boyle and I are
prepared to coöperate in such work if you—or organisations known to you—can
furnish the funds. I can get together a dozen miners for the heavy digging—the
blacks would be of no use, for I‘ve found that they have an almost maniacal fear of
this particular spot. Boyle and I are saying nothing to others, for you very obviously
ought to have precedence in any discoveries or credit.
The place can be reached from Pilbarra in about 4 days by motor tractor—which
we‘d need for our apparatus. It is somewhat west and south of Warburton‘s path of
1873, and 100 miles southeast of Joanna Spring. We could float things up the De
Grey River instead of starting from Pilbarra—but all that can be talked over later.
Roughly, the stones lie at a point about 22° 3' 14" South Latitude, 125° 0' 39" East
Longitude. The climate is tropical, and the desert conditions are trying. Any
expedition had better be made in winter—June or July or August. I shall welcome
further correspondence upon this subject, and am keenly eager to assist in any
plan you may devise. After studying your articles I am deeply impressed with the
profound significance of the whole matter. Dr. Boyle will write later. When rapid
communication is needed, a cable to Perth can be relayed by wireless.
Believe me,
Most faithfully yours,
Robert B. F. Mackenzie.
Of the immediate aftermath of this letter, much can be learned from the press. My good
fortune in securing the backing of Miskatonic University was great, and both Mr. Mackenzie
and Dr. Boyle proved invaluable in arranging matters at the Australian end. We were not too
specific with the public about our objects, since the whole matter would have lent itself
unpleasantly to sensational and jocose treatment by the cheaper newspapers. As a result,
printed reports were sparing; but enough appeared to tell of our quest for reported Australian
ruins and to chronicle our various preparatory steps.
Professors William Dyer of the college‘s geology department (leader of the Miskatonic
Antarctic Expedition of 1930–31), Ferdinand C. Ashley of the department of ancient history,
and Tyler M. Freeborn of the department of anthropology—together with my son Wingate—
accompanied me. My correspondent Mackenzie came to Arkham early in 1935 and assisted
in our final preparations. He proved to be a tremendously competent and affable man of about
fifty, admirably well-read, and deeply familiar with all the conditions of Australian travel. He
had tractors waiting at Pilbarra, and we chartered a tramp steamer of sufficiently light draught
to get up the river to that point. We were prepared to excavate in the most careful and
scientific fashion, sifting every particle of sand, and disturbing nothing which might seem to be
in or near its original situation.
Sailing from Boston aboard the wheezy Lexington on March 28, 1935, we had a leisurely trip
across the Atlantic and Mediterranean, through the Suez Canal, down the Red Sea, and
across the Indian Ocean to our goal. I need not tell how the sight of the low, sandy West
Australian coast depressed me, and how I detested the crude mining town and dreary gold
fields where the tractors were given their last loads. Dr. Boyle, who met us, proved to be
elderly, pleasant, and intelligent—and his knowledge of psychology led him into many long
discussions with my son and me.
Discomfort and expectancy were oddly mingled in most of us when at length our party of
eighteen rattled forth over the arid leagues of sand and rock. On Friday, May 31st, we forded
a branch of the De Grey and entered the realm of utter desolation. A certain positive terror
grew on me as we advanced to this actual site of the elder world behind the legends—a terror
of course abetted by the fact that my disturbing dreams and pseudo-memories still beset me
with unabated force.
It was on Monday, June 3, that we saw the first of the half-buried blocks. I cannot describe the
emotions with which I actually touched—in objective reality—a fragment of Cyclopean
masonry in every respect like the blocks in the walls of my dream-buildings. There was a
distinct trace of carving—and my hands trembled as I recognised part of a curvilinear
decorative scheme made hellish to me through years of tormenting nightmare and baffling
research.
A month of digging brought a total of some 1250 blocks in varying stages of wear and
disintegration. Most of these were carven megaliths with curved tops and bottoms. A minority
were smaller, flatter, plain-surfaced, and square or octagonally cut—like those of the floors
and pavements in my dreams—while a few were singularly massive and curved or slanted in
such a manner as to suggest use in vaulting or groining, or as parts of arches or round
window casings. The deeper—and the farther north and east—we dug, the more blocks we
found; though we still failed to discover any trace of arrangement among them. Professor
Dyer was appalled at the measureless age of the fragments, and Freeborn found traces of
symbols which fitted darkly into certain Papuan and Polynesian legends of infinite antiquity.
The condition and scattering of the blocks told mutely of vertiginous cycles of time and
geologic upheavals of cosmic savagery.
We had an aëroplane with us, and my son Wingate would often go up to different heights and
scan the sand-and-rock waste for signs of dim, large-scale outlines—either differences of
level or trails of scattered blocks. His results were virtually negative; for whenever he would
one day think he had glimpsed some significant trend, he would on his next trip find the
impression replaced by another equally insubstantial—a result of the shifting, wind-blown
sand. One or two of these ephemeral suggestions, though, affected me queerly and
disagreeably. They seemed, after a fashion, to dovetail horribly with something which I had
dreamed or read, but which I could no longer remember. There was a terrible pseudo-
familiarity about them—which somehow made me look furtively and apprehensively over the
abominable, sterile terrain toward the north and northeast.
Around the first week in July I developed an unaccountable set of mixed emotions about that
general northeasterly region. There was horror, and there was curiosity—but more than that,
there was a persistent and perplexing illusion of memory. I tried all sorts of psychological
expedients to get these notions out of my head, but met with no success. Sleeplessness also
gained upon me, but I almost welcomed this because of the resultant shortening of my
dream-periods. I acquired the habit of taking long, lone walks in the desert late at night—
usually to the north or northeast, whither the sum of my strange new impulses seemed subtly
to pull me.
Sometimes, on these walks, I would stumble over nearly buried fragments of the ancient
masonry. Though there were fewer visible blocks here than where we had started, I felt sure
that there must be a vast abundance beneath the surface. The ground was less level than at
our camp, and the prevailing high winds now and then piled the sand into fantastic temporary
hillocks—exposing some traces of the elder stones while it covered other traces. I was
queerly anxious to have the excavations extend to this territory, yet at the same time dreaded
what might be revealed. Obviously, I was getting into a rather bad state—all the worse
because I could not account for it.
An indication of my poor nervous health can be gained from my response to an odd discovery
which I made on one of my nocturnal rambles. It was on the evening of July 11th, when a
gibbous moon flooded the mysterious hillocks with a curious pallor. Wandering somewhat
beyond my usual limits, I came upon a great stone which seemed to differ markedly from any
we had yet encountered. It was almost wholly covered, but I stooped and cleared away the
sand with my hands, later studying the object carefully and supplementing the moonlight with
my electric torch. Unlike the other very large rocks, this one was perfectly square-cut, with no
convex or concave surface. It seemed, too, to be of a dark basaltic substance wholly
dissimilar to the granite and sandstone and occasional concrete of the now familiar
fragments.
Suddenly I rose, turned, and ran for the camp at top speed. It was a wholly unconscious and
irrational flight, and only when I was close to my tent did I fully realise why I had run. Then it
came to me. The queer dark stone was something which I had dreamed and read about, and
which was linked with the uttermost horrors of the aeon-old legendry. It was one of the blocks
of that basaltic elder masonry which the fabled Great Race held in such fear—the tall,
windowless ruins left by those brooding, half-material, alien Things that festered in earth‘s
nether abysses and against whose wind-like, invisible forces the trap-doors were sealed and
the sleepless sentinels posted.
I remained awake all that night, but by dawn realised how silly I had been to let the shadow of
a myth upset me. Instead of being frightened, I should have had a discoverer‘s enthusiasm.
The next forenoon I told the others about my find, and Dyer, Freeborn, Boyle, my son, and I
set out to view the anomalous block. Failure, however, confronted us. I had formed no clear
idea of the stone‘s location, and a late wind had wholly altered the hillocks of shifting sand.
VI.
I come now to the crucial and most difficult part of my narrative—all the more difficult because
I cannot be quite certain of its reality. At times I feel uncomfortably sure that I was not
dreaming or deluded; and it is this feeling—in view of the stupendous implications which the
objective truth of my experience would raise—which impels me to make this record. My son—
a trained psychologist with the fullest and most sympathetic knowledge of my whole case—
shall be the primary judge of what I have to tell.
First let me outline the externals of the matter, as those at the camp know them. On the night
of July 17–18, after a windy day, I retired early but could not sleep. Rising shortly before
eleven, and afflicted as usual with that strange feeling regarding the northeastward terrain, I
set out on one of my typical nocturnal walks; seeing and greeting only one person—an
Australian miner named Tupper—as I left our precincts. The moon, slightly past full, shone
from a clear sky and drenched the ancient sands with a white, leprous radiance which
seemed to me somehow infinitely evil. There was no longer any wind, nor did any return for
nearly five hours, as amply attested by Tupper and others who did not sleep through the
night. The Australian last saw me walking rapidly across the pallid, secret-guarding hillocks
toward the northeast.
About 3:30 a.m. a violent wind blew up, waking everyone in camp and felling three of the
tents. The sky was unclouded, and the desert still blazed with that leprous moonlight. As the
party saw to the tents my absence was noted, but in view of my previous walks this
circumstance gave no one alarm. And yet as many as three men—all Australians—seemed to
feel something sinister in the air. Mackenzie explained to Prof. Freeborn that this was a fear
picked up from blackfellow folklore—the natives having woven a curious fabric of malignant
myth about the high winds which at long intervals sweep across the sands under a clear sky.
Such winds, it is whispered, blow out of the great stone huts under the ground where terrible
things have happened—and are never felt except near places where the big marked stones
are scattered. Close to four the gale subsided as suddenly as it had begun, leaving the sand
hills in new and unfamiliar shapes.
It was just past five, with the bloated, fungoid moon sinking in the west, when I staggered into
camp—hatless, tattered, features scratched and ensanguined, and without my electric torch.
Most of the men had returned to bed, but Prof. Dyer was smoking a pipe in front of his tent.
Seeing my winded and almost frenzied state, he called Dr. Boyle, and the two of them got me
on my cot and made me comfortable. My son, roused by the stir, soon joined them, and they
all tried to force me to lie still and attempt sleep.
But there was no sleep for me. My psychological state was very extraordinary—different from
anything I had previously suffered. After a time I insisted upon talking—nervously and
elaborately explaining my condition. I told them I had become fatigued, and had lain down in
the sand for a nap. There had, I said, been dreams even more frightful than usual—and when
I was awaked by the sudden high wind my overwrought nerves had snapped. I had fled in
panic, frequently falling over half-buried stones and thus gaining my tattered and bedraggled
aspect. I must have slept long—hence the hours of my absence.
Of anything strange either seen or experienced I hinted absolutely nothing—exercising the
greatest self-control in that respect. But I spoke of a change of mind regarding the whole work
of the expedition, and earnestly urged a halt in all digging toward the northeast. My reasoning
was patently weak—for I mentioned a dearth of blocks, a wish not to offend the superstitious
miners, a possible shortage of funds from the college, and other things either untrue or
irrelevant. Naturally, no one paid the least attention to my new wishes—not even my son,
whose concern for my health was very obvious.
The next day I was up and around the camp, but took no part in the excavations. Seeing that I
could not stop the work, I decided to return home as soon as possible for the sake of my
nerves, and made my son promise to fly me in the plane to Perth—a thousand miles to the
southwest—as soon as he had surveyed the region I wished let alone. If, I reflected, the thing
I had seen was still visible, I might decide to attempt a specific warning even at the cost of
ridicule. It was just conceivable that the miners who knew the local folklore might back me up.
Humouring me, my son made the survey that very afternoon; flying over all the terrain my
walk could possibly have covered. Yet nothing of what I had found remained in sight. It was
the case of the anomalous basalt block all over again—the shifting sand had wiped out every
trace. For an instant I half regretted having lost a certain awesome object in my stark fright—
but now I know that the loss was merciful. I can still believe my whole experience an illusion—
especially if, as I devoutly hope, that hellish abyss is never found.
Wingate took me to Perth July 20, though declining to abandon the expedition and return
home. He stayed with me until the 25th, when the steamer for Liverpool sailed. Now, in the
cabin of the Empress, I am pondering long and frantically on the entire matter, and have
decided that my son at least must be informed. It shall rest with him whether to diffuse the
matter more widely. In order to meet any eventuality I have prepared this summary of my
background—as already known in a scattered way to others—and will now tell as briefly as
possible what seemed to happen during my absence from the camp that hideous night.
Nerves on edge, and whipped into a kind of perverse eagerness by that inexplicable, dread-
mingled, pseudo-mnemonic urge toward the northeast, I plodded on beneath the evil, burning
moon. Here and there I saw, half-shrouded by the sand, those primal Cyclopean blocks left
from nameless and forgotten aeons. The incalculable age and brooding horror of this
monstrous waste began to oppress me as never before, and I could not keep from thinking of
my maddening dreams, of the frightful legends which lay behind them, and of the present
fears of natives and miners concerning the desert and its carven stones.
And yet I plodded on as if to some eldritch rendezvous—more and more assailed by
bewildering fancies, compulsions, and pseudo-memories. I thought of some of the possible
contours of the lines of stones as seen by my son from the air, and wondered why they
seemed at once so ominous and so familiar. Something was fumbling and rattling at the latch
of my recollection, while another unknown force sought to keep the portal barred.
The night was windless, and the pallid sand curved upward and downward like frozen waves
of the sea. I had no goal, but somehow ploughed along as if with fate-bound assurance. My
dreams welled up into the waking world, so that each sand-embedded megalith seemed part
of endless rooms and corridors of pre-human masonry, carved and hieroglyphed with symbols
that I knew too well from years of custom as a captive mind of the Great Race. At moments I
fancied I saw those omniscient conical horrors moving about at their accustomed tasks, and I
feared to look down lest I find myself one with them in aspect. Yet all the while I saw the sand-
covered blocks as well as the rooms and corridors; the evil, burning moon as well as the
lamps of luminous crystal; the endless desert as well as the waving ferns and cycads beyond
the windows. I was awake and dreaming at the same time.
I do not know how long or how far—or indeed, in just what direction—I had walked when I first
spied the heap of blocks bared by the day‘s wind. It was the largest group in one place that I
had so far seen, and so sharply did it impress me that the visions of fabulous aeons faded
suddenly away. Again there were only the desert and the evil moon and the shards of an
unguessed past. I drew close and paused, and cast the added light of my electric torch over
the tumbled pile. A hillock had blown away, leaving a low, irregularly round mass of megaliths
and smaller fragments some forty feet across and from two to eight feet high.
From the very outset I realised that there was some utterly unprecedented quality about these
stones. Not only was the mere number of them quite without parallel, but something in the
sand-worn traces of design arrested me as I scanned them under the mingled beams of the
moon and my torch. Not that any one differed essentially from the earlier specimens we had
found. It was something subtler than that. The impression did not come when I looked at one
block alone, but only when I ran my eye over several almost simultaneously. Then, at last, the
truth dawned upon me. The curvilinear patterns on many of these blocks were closely
related—parts of one vast decorative conception. For the first time in this aeon-shaken waste
I had come upon a mass of masonry in its old position—tumbled and fragmentary, it is true,
but none the less existing in a very definite sense.
Mounting at a low place, I clambered laboriously over the heap; here and there clearing away
the sand with my fingers, and constantly striving to interpret varieties of size, shape, and
style, and relationships of design. After a while I could vaguely guess at the nature of the
bygone structure, and at the designs which had once stretched over the vast surfaces of the
primal masonry. The perfect identity of the whole with some of my dream-glimpses appalled
and unnerved me. This was once a Cyclopean corridor thirty feet tall, paved with octagonal
blocks and solidly vaulted overhead. There would have been rooms opening off on the right,
and at the farther end one of those strange inclined planes would have wound down to still
lower depths.
I started violently as these conceptions occurred to me, for there was more in them than the
blocks themselves had supplied. How did I know that this level should have been far
underground? How did I know that the plane leading upward should have been behind me?
How did I know that the long subterrene passage to the Square of Pillars ought to lie on the
left one level above me? How did I know that the room of machines, and the rightward-
leading tunnel to the central archives, ought to lie two levels below? How did I know that there
would be one of those horrible, metal-banded trap-doors at the very bottom, four levels down?
Bewildered by this intrusion from the dream-world, I found myself shaking and bathed in a
cold perspiration.
Then, as a last, intolerable touch, I felt that faint, insidious stream of cool air trickling upward
from a depressed place near the centre of the huge heap. Instantly, as once before, my
visions faded, and I saw again only the evil moonlight, the brooding desert, and the spreading
tumulus of palaeogean masonry. Something real and tangible, yet fraught with infinite
suggestions of nighted mystery, now confronted me. For that stream of air could argue but
one thing—a hidden gulf of great size beneath the disordered blocks on the surface.
My first thought was of the sinister blackfellow legends of vast underground huts among the
megaliths where horrors happen and great winds are born. Then thoughts of my own dreams
came back, and I felt dim pseudo-memories tugging at my mind. What manner of place lay
below me? What primal, inconceivable source of age-old myth-cycles and haunting
nightmares might I be on the brink of uncovering? It was only for a moment that I hesitated,
for more than curiosity and scientific zeal was driving me on and working against my growing
fear.
I seemed to move almost automatically, as if in the clutch of some compelling fate. Pocketing
my torch, and struggling with a strength that I had not thought I possessed, I wrenched aside
first one titan fragment of stone and then another, till there welled up a strong draught whose
dampness contrasted oddly with the desert‘s dry air. A black rift began to yawn, and at
length—when I had pushed away every fragment small enough to budge—the leprous
moonlight blazed on an aperture of ample width to admit me.
I drew out my torch and cast a brilliant beam into the opening. Below me was a chaos of
tumbled masonry, sloping roughly down toward the north at an angle of about forty-five
degrees, and evidently the result of some bygone collapse from above. Between its surface
and the ground level was a gulf of impenetrable blackness at whose upper edge were signs of
gigantic, stress-heaved vaulting. At this point, it appeared, the desert‘s sands lay directly upon
a floor of some titan structure of earth‘s youth—how preserved through aeons of geologic
convulsion I could not then and cannot now even attempt to guess.
In retrospect, the barest idea of a sudden, lone descent into such a doubtful abyss—and at a
time when one‘s whereabouts were unknown to any living soul—seems like the utter apex of
insanity. Perhaps it was—yet that night I embarked without hesitancy upon such a descent.
Again there was manifest that lure and driving of fatality which had all along seemed to direct
my course. With torch flashing intermittently to save the battery, I commenced a mad
scramble down the sinister, Cyclopean incline below the opening—sometimes facing forward
as I found good hand and foot holds, and at other times turning to face the heap of megaliths
as I clung and fumbled more precariously. In two directions beside me, distant walls of carven,
crumbling masonry loomed dimly under the direct beams of my torch. Ahead, however, was
only unbroken blackness.
I kept no track of time during my downward scramble. So seething with baffling hints and
images was my mind, that all objective matters seemed withdrawn into incalculable distances.
Physical sensation was dead, and even fear remained as a wraith-like, inactive gargoyle
leering impotently at me. Eventually I reached a level floor strown with fallen blocks,
shapeless fragments of stone, and sand and detritus of every kind. On either side—perhaps
thirty feet apart—rose massive walls culminating in huge groinings. That they were carved I
could just discern, but the nature of the carvings was beyond my perception. What held me
the most was the vaulting overhead. The beam from my torch could not reach the roof, but
the lower parts of the monstrous arches stood out distinctly. And so perfect was their identity
with what I had seen in countless dreams of the elder world, that I trembled actively for the
first time.
Behind and high above, a faint luminous blur told of the distant moonlit world outside. Some
vague shred of caution warned me that I should not let it out of my sight, lest I have no guide
for my return. I now advanced toward the wall on my left, where the traces of carving were
plainest. The littered floor was nearly as hard to traverse as the downward heap had been,
but I managed to pick my difficult way. At one place I heaved aside some blocks and kicked
away the detritus to see what the pavement was like, and shuddered at the utter, fateful
familiarity of the great octagonal stones whose buckled surface still held roughly together.
Reaching a convenient distance from the wall, I cast the torchlight slowly and carefully over its
worn remnants of carving. Some bygone influx of water seemed to have acted on the
sandstone surface, while there were curious incrustations which I could not explain. In places
the masonry was very loose and distorted, and I wondered how many aeons more this primal,
hidden edifice could keep its remaining traces of form amidst earth‘s heavings.
But it was the carvings themselves that excited me most. Despite their time-crumbled state,
they were relatively easy to trace at close range; and the complete, intimate familiarity of
every detail almost stunned my imagination. That the major attributes of this hoary masonry
should be familiar, was not beyond normal credibility. Powerfully impressing the weavers of
certain myths, they had become embodied in a stream of cryptic lore which, somehow coming
to my notice during the amnesic period, had evoked vivid images in my subconscious mind.
But how could I explain the exact and minute fashion in which each line and spiral of these
strange designs tallied with what I had dreamt for more than a score of years? What obscure,
forgotten iconography could have reproduced each subtle shading and nuance which so
persistently, exactly, and unvaryingly besieged my sleeping vision night after night?
For this was no chance or remote resemblance. Definitely and absolutely, the millennially
ancient, aeon-hidden corridor in which I stood was the original of something I knew in sleep
as intimately as I knew my own house in Crane Street, Arkham. True, my dreams shewed the
place in its undecayed prime; but the identity was no less real on that account. I was wholly
and horribly oriented. The particular structure I was in was known to me. Known, too, was its
place in that terrible elder city of dreams. That I could visit unerringly any point in that
structure or in that city which had escaped the changes and devastations of uncounted ages,
I realised with hideous and instinctive certainty. What in God‘s name could all this mean? How
had I come to know what I knew? And what awful reality could lie behind those antique tales
of the beings who had dwelt in this labyrinth of primordial stone?
Words can convey only fractionally the welter of dread and bewilderment which ate at my
spirit. I knew this place. I knew what lay before me, and what had lain overhead before the
myriad towering stories had fallen to dust and debris and the desert. No need now, I thought
with a shudder, to keep that faint blur of moonlight in view. I was torn betwixt a longing to flee
and a feverish mixture of burning curiosity and driving fatality. What had happened to this
monstrous megalopolis of eld in the millions of years since the time of my dreams? Of the
subterrene mazes which had underlain the city and linked all its titan towers, how much had
still survived the writhings of earth‘s crust?
Had I come upon a whole buried world of unholy archaism? Could I still find the house of the
writing-master, and the tower where S‘gg‘ha, a captive mind from the star-headed vegetable
carnivores of Antarctica, had chiselled certain pictures on the blank spaces of the walls?
Would the passage at the second level down, to the hall of the alien minds, be still unchoked
and traversable? In that hall the captive mind of an incredible entity—a half-plastic denizen of
the hollow interior of an unknown trans-Plutonian planet eighteen million years in the future—
had kept a certain thing which it had modelled from clay.
I shut my eyes and put my hand to my head in a vain, pitiful effort to drive these insane
dream-fragments from my consciousness. Then, for the first time, I felt acutely the coolness,
motion, and dampness of the surrounding air. Shuddering, I realised that a vast chain of
aeon-dead black gulfs must indeed be yawning somewhere beyond and below me. I thought
of the frightful chambers and corridors and inclines as I recalled them from my dreams. Would
the way to the central archives still be open? Again that driving fatality tugged insistently at my
brain as I recalled the awesome records that once lay cased in those rectangular vaults of
rustless metal.
There, said the dreams and legends, had reposed the whole history, past and future, of the
cosmic space-time continuum—written by captive minds from every orb and every age in the
solar system. Madness, of course—but had I not now stumbled into a nighted world as mad
as I? I thought of the locked metal shelves, and of the curious knob-twistings needed to open
each one. My own came vividly into my consciousness. How often had I gone through that
intricate routine of varied turns and pressures in the terrestrial vertebrate section on the
lowest level! Every detail was fresh and familiar. If there were such a vault as I had dreamed
of, I could open it in a moment. It was then that madness took me utterly. An instant later, and
I was leaping and stumbling over the rocky debris toward the well-remembered incline to the
depths below.
VII.
From that point forward my impressions are scarcely to be relied on—indeed, I still possess a
final, desperate hope that they all form parts of some daemoniac dream—or illusion born of
delirium. A fever raged in my brain, and everything came to me through a kind of haze—
sometimes only intermittently. The rays of my torch shot feebly into the engulfing blackness,
bringing phantasmal flashes of hideously familiar walls and carvings, all blighted with the
decay of ages. In one place a tremendous mass of vaulting had fallen, so that I had to
clamber over a mighty mound of stones reaching almost to the ragged, grotesquely stalactited
roof. It was all the ultimate apex of nightmare, made worse by the blasphemous tug of
pseudo-memory. One thing only was unfamiliar, and that was my own size in relation to the
monstrous masonry. I felt oppressed by a sense of unwonted smallness, as if the sight of
these towering walls from a mere human body was something wholly new and abnormal.
Again and again I looked nervously down at myself, vaguely disturbed by the human form I
possessed.
Onward through the blackness of the abyss I leaped, plunged, and staggered—often falling
and bruising myself, and once nearly shattering my torch. Every stone and corner of that
daemoniac gulf was known to me, and at many points I stopped to cast beams of light
through choked and crumbling yet familiar archways. Some rooms had totally collapsed;
others were bare or debris-filled. In a few I saw masses of metal—some fairly intact, some
broken, and some crushed or battered—which I recognised as the colossal pedestals or
tables of my dreams. What they could in truth have been, I dared not guess.
I found the downward incline and began its descent—though after a time halted by a gaping,
ragged chasm whose narrowest point could not be much less than four feet across. Here the
stonework had fallen through, revealing incalculable inky depths beneath. I knew there were
two more cellar levels in this titan edifice, and trembled with fresh panic as I recalled the
metal-clamped trap-door on the lowest one. There could be no guards now—for what had
lurked beneath had long since done its hideous work and sunk into its long decline. By the
time of the post-human beetle race it would be quite dead. And yet, as I thought of the native
legends, I trembled anew.
It cost me a terrible effort to vault that yawning chasm, since the littered floor prevented a
running start—but madness drove me on. I chose a place close to the left-hand wall—where
the rift was least wide and the landing-spot reasonably clear of dangerous debris—and after
one frantic moment reached the other side in safety. At last gaining the lower level, I stumbled
on past the archway of the room of machines, within which were fantastic ruins of metal half-
buried beneath fallen vaulting. Everything was where I knew it would be, and I climbed
confidently over the heaps which barred the entrance of a vast transverse corridor. This, I
realised, would take me under the city to the central archives.
Endless ages seemed to unroll as I stumbled, leaped, and crawled along that debris-cluttered
corridor. Now and then I could make out carvings on the age-stained walls—some familiar,
others seemingly added since the period of my dreams. Since this was a subterrene house-
connecting highway, there were no archways save when the route led through the lower
levels of various buildings. At some of these intersections I turned aside long enough to look
down well-remembered corridors and into well-remembered rooms. Twice only did I find any
radical changes from what I had dreamed of—and in one of these cases I could trace the
sealed-up outlines of the archway I remembered.
I shook violently, and felt a curious surge of retarding weakness, as I steered a hurried and
reluctant course through the crypt of one of those great windowless ruined towers whose
alien basalt masonry bespoke a whispered and horrible origin. This primal vault was round
and fully two hundred feet across, with nothing carved upon the dark-hued stonework. The
floor was here free from anything save dust and sand, and I could see the apertures leading
upward and downward. There were no stairs or inclines—indeed, my dreams had pictured
those elder towers as wholly untouched by the fabulous Great Race. Those who had built
them had not needed stairs or inclines. In the dreams, the downward aperture had been
tightly sealed and nervously guarded. Now it lay open—black and yawning, and giving forth a
current of cool, damp air. Of what limitless caverns of eternal night might brood below, I would
not permit myself to think.
Later, clawing my way along a badly heaped section of the corridor, I reached a place where
the roof had wholly caved in. The debris rose like a mountain, and I climbed up over it,
passing through a vast empty space where my torchlight could reveal neither walls nor
vaulting. This, I reflected, must be the cellar of the house of the metal-purveyors, fronting on
the third square not far from the archives. What had happened to it I could not conjecture.
I found the corridor again beyond the mountain of detritus and stones, but after a short
distance encountered a wholly choked place where the fallen vaulting almost touched the
perilously sagging ceiling. How I managed to wrench and tear aside enough blocks to afford a
passage, and how I dared disturb the tightly packed fragments when the least shift of
equilibrium might have brought down all the tons of superincumbent masonry to crush me to
nothingness, I do not know. It was sheer madness that impelled and guided me—if, indeed,
my whole underground adventure was not—as I hope—a hellish delusion or phase of
dreaming. But I did make—or dream that I made—a passage that I could squirm through. As I
wriggled over the mound of debris—my torch, switched continuously on, thrust deeply within
my mouth—I felt myself torn by the fantastic stalactites of the jagged floor above me.
I was now close to the great underground archival structure which seemed to form my goal.
Sliding and clambering down the farther side of the barrier, and picking my way along the
remaining stretch of corridor with hand-held, intermittently flashing torch, I came at last to a
low, circular crypt with arches—still in a marvellous state of preservation—opening off on
every side. The walls, or such parts of them as lay within reach of my torchlight, were densely
hieroglyphed and chiselled with typical curvilinear symbols—some added since the period of
my dreams.
This, I realised, was my fated destination, and I turned at once through a familiar archway on
my left. That I could find a clear passage up and down the incline to all the surviving levels, I
had oddly little doubt. This vast, earth-protected pile, housing the annals of all the solar
system, had been built with supernal skill and strength to last as long as that system itself.
Blocks of stupendous size, poised with mathematical genius and bound with cements of
incredible toughness, had combined to form a mass as firm as the planet‘s rocky core. Here,
after ages more prodigious than I could sanely grasp, its buried bulk stood in all its essential
contours; the vast, dust-drifted floors scarce sprinkled with the litter elsewhere so dominant.
The relatively easy walking from this point onward went curiously to my head. All the frantic
eagerness hitherto frustrated by obstacles now took itself out in a kind of febrile speed, and I
literally raced along the low-roofed, monstrously well-remembered aisles beyond the archway.
I was past being astonished by the familiarity of what I saw. On every hand the great
hieroglyphed metal shelf-doors loomed monstrously; some yet in place, others sprung open,
and still others bent and buckled under bygone geological stresses not quite strong enough to
shatter the titan masonry. Here and there a dust-covered heap below a gaping empty shelf
seemed to indicate where cases had been shaken down by earth-tremors. On occasional
pillars were great symbols or letters proclaiming classes and sub-classes of volumes.
Once I paused before an open vault where I saw some of the accustomed metal cases still in
position amidst the omnipresent gritty dust. Reaching up, I dislodged one of the thinner
specimens with some difficulty, and rested it on the floor for inspection. It was titled in the
prevailing curvilinear hieroglyphs, though something in the arrangement of the characters
seemed subtly unusual. The odd mechanism of the hooked fastener was perfectly well known
to me, and I snapped up the still rustless and workable lid and drew out the book within. The
latter, as expected, was some twenty by fifteen inches in area, and two inches thick; the thin
metal covers opening at the top. Its tough cellulose pages seemed unaffected by the myriad
cycles of time they had lived through, and I studied the queerly pigmented, brush-drawn
letters of the text—symbols utterly unlike either the usual curved hieroglyphs or any alphabet
known to human scholarship—with a haunting, half-aroused memory. It came to me that this
was the language used by a captive mind I had known slightly in my dreams—a mind from a
large asteroid on which had survived much of the archaic life and lore of the primal planet
whereof it formed a fragment. At the same time I recalled that this level of the archives was
devoted to volumes dealing with the non-terrestrial planets.
As I ceased poring over this incredible document I saw that the light of my torch was
beginning to fail, hence quickly inserted the extra battery I always had with me. Then, armed
with the stronger radiance, I resumed my feverish racing through unending tangles of aisles
and corridors—recognising now and then some familiar shelf, and vaguely annoyed by the
acoustic conditions which made my footfalls echo incongruously in these catacombs of aeon-
long death and silence. The very prints of my shoes behind me in the millennially untrodden
dust made me shudder. Never before, if my mad dreams held anything of truth, had human
feet pressed upon those immemorial pavements. Of the particular goal of my insane racing,
my conscious mind held no hint. There was, however, some force of evil potency pulling at my
dazed will and buried recollections, so that I vaguely felt I was not running at random.
I came to a downward incline and followed it to profounder depths. Floors flashed by me as I
raced, but I did not pause to explore them. In my whirling brain there had begun to beat a
certain rhythm which set my right hand twitching in unison. I wanted to unlock something, and
felt that I knew all the intricate twists and pressures needed to do it. It would be like a modern
safe with a combination lock. Dream or not, I had once known and still knew. How any
dream—or scrap of unconsciously absorbed legend—could have taught me a detail so
minute, so intricate, and so complex, I did not attempt to explain to myself. I was beyond all
coherent thought. For was not this whole experience—this shocking familiarity with a set of
unknown ruins, and this monstrously exact identity of everything before me with what only
dreams and scraps of myth could have suggested—a horror beyond all reason? Probably it
was my basic conviction then—as it is now during my saner moments—that I was not awake
at all, and that the entire buried city was a fragment of febrile hallucination.
Eventually I reached the lowest level and struck off to the right of the incline. For some
shadowy reason I tried to soften my steps, even though I lost speed thereby. There was a
space I was afraid to cross on this last, deeply buried floor, and as I drew near it I recalled
what thing in that space I feared. It was merely one of the metal-barred and closely guarded
trap-doors. There would be no guards now, and on that account I trembled and tiptoed as I
had done in passing through that black basalt vault where a similar trap-door had yawned. I
felt a current of cool, damp air, as I had felt there, and wished that my course led in another
direction. Why I had to take the particular course I was taking, I did not know.
When I came to the space I saw that the trap-door yawned widely open. Ahead the shelves
began again, and I glimpsed on the floor before one of them a heap very thinly covered with
dust, where a number of cases had recently fallen. At the same moment a fresh wave of panic
clutched me, though for some time I could not discover why. Heaps of fallen cases were not
uncommon, for all through the aeons this lightless labyrinth had been racked by the heavings
of earth and had echoed at intervals to the deafening clatter of toppling objects. It was only
when I was nearly across the space that I realised why I shook so violently.
Not the heap, but something about the dust of the level floor was troubling me. In the light of
my torch it seemed as if that dust were not as even as it ought to be—there were places
where it looked thinner, as if it had been disturbed not many months before. I could not be
sure, for even the apparently thinner places were dusty enough; yet a certain suspicion of
regularity in the fancied unevenness was highly disquieting. When I brought the torchlight
close to one of the queer places I did not like what I saw—for the illusion of regularity became
very great. It was as if there were regular lines of composite impressions—impressions that
went in threes, each slightly over a foot square, and consisting of five nearly circular three-
inch prints, one in advance of the other four.
These possible lines of foot-square impressions appeared to lead in two directions, as if
something had gone somewhere and returned. They were of course very faint, and may have
been illusions or accidents; but there was an element of dim, fumbling terror about the way I
thought they ran. For at one end of them was the heap of cases which must have clattered
down not long before, while at the other end was the ominous trap-door with the cool, damp
wind, yawning unguarded down to abysses past imagination.
VIII.
That my strange sense of compulsion was deep and overwhelming is shewn by its conquest
of my fear. No rational motive could have drawn me on after that hideous suspicion of prints
and the creeping dream-memories it excited. Yet my right hand, even as it shook with fright,
still twitched rhythmically in its eagerness to turn a lock it hoped to find. Before I knew it I was
past the heap of lately fallen cases and running on tiptoe through aisles of utterly unbroken
dust toward a point which I seemed to know morbidly, horribly well. My mind was asking itself
questions whose origin and relevancy I was only beginning to guess. Would the shelf be
reachable by a human body? Could my human hand master all the aeon-remembered
motions of the lock? Would the lock be undamaged and workable? And what would I do—
what dare I do—with what (as I now commenced to realise) I both hoped and feared to find?
Would it prove the awesome, brain-shattering truth of something past normal conception, or
shew only that I was dreaming?
The next I knew I had ceased my tiptoe racing and was standing still, staring at a row of
maddeningly familiar hieroglyphed shelves. They were in a state of almost perfect
preservation, and only three of the doors in this vicinity had sprung open. My feelings toward
these shelves cannot be described—so utter and insistent was the sense of old acquaintance.
I was looking high up, at a row near the top and wholly out of my reach, and wondering how I
could climb to best advantage. An open door four rows from the bottom would help, and the
locks of the closed doors formed possible holds for hands and feet. I would grip the torch
between my teeth as I had in other places where both hands were needed. Above all, I must
make no noise. How to get down what I wished to remove would be difficult, but I could
probably hook its movable fastener in my coat collar and carry it like a knapsack. Again I
wondered whether the lock would be undamaged. That I could repeat each familiar motion I
had not the least doubt. But I hoped the thing would not scrape or creak—and that my hand
could work it properly.
Even as I thought these things I had taken the torch in my mouth and begun to climb. The
projecting locks were poor supports; but as I had expected, the opened shelf helped greatly. I
used both the difficultly swinging door and the edge of the aperture itself in my ascent, and
managed to avoid any loud creaking. Balanced on the upper edge of the door, and leaning far
to my right, I could just reach the lock I sought. My fingers, half-numb from climbing, were
very clumsy at first; but I soon saw that they were anatomically adequate. And the memory-
rhythm was strong in them. Out of unknown gulfs of time the intricate secret motions had
somehow reached my brain correctly in every detail—for after less than five minutes of trying
there came a click whose familiarity was all the more startling because I had not consciously
anticipated it. In another instant the metal door was slowly swinging open with only the
faintest grating sound.
Dazedly I looked over the row of greyish case-ends thus exposed, and felt a tremendous
surge of some wholly inexplicable emotion. Just within reach of my right hand was a case
whose curving hieroglyphs made me shake with a pang infinitely more complex than one of
mere fright. Still shaking, I managed to dislodge it amidst a shower of gritty flakes, and ease it
over toward myself without any violent noise. Like the other case I had handled, it was slightly
more than twenty by fifteen inches in size, with curved mathematical designs in low relief. In
thickness it just exceeded three inches. Crudely wedging it between myself and the surface I
was climbing, I fumbled with the fastener and finally got the hook free. Lifting the cover, I
shifted the heavy object to my back, and let the hook catch hold of my collar. Hands now free,
I awkwardly clambered down to the dusty floor, and prepared to inspect my prize.
Kneeling in the gritty dust, I swung the case around and rested it in front of me. My hands
shook, and I dreaded to draw out the book within almost as much as I longed—and felt
compelled—to do so. It had very gradually become clear to me what I ought to find, and this
realisation nearly paralysed my faculties. If the thing were there—and if I were not dreaming—
the implications would be quite beyond the power of the human spirit to bear. What tormented
me most was my momentary inability to feel that my surroundings were a dream. The sense
of reality was hideous—and again becomes so as I recall the scene.
At length I tremblingly pulled the book from its container and stared fascinatedly at the well-
known hieroglyphs on the cover. It seemed to be in prime condition, and the curvilinear letters
of the title held me in almost as hypnotised a state as if I could read them. Indeed, I cannot
swear that I did not actually read them in some transient and terrible access of abnormal
memory. I do not know how long it was before I dared to lift that thin metal cover. I temporised
and made excuses to myself. I took the torch from my mouth and shut it off to save the
battery. Then, in the dark, I screwed up my courage—finally lifting the cover without turning on
the light. Last of all I did indeed flash the torch upon the exposed page—steeling myself in
advance to suppress any sound no matter what I should find.
I looked for an instant, then almost collapsed. Clenching my teeth, however, I kept silence. I
sank wholly to the floor and put a hand to my forehead amidst the engulfing blackness. What I
dreaded and expected was there. Either I was dreaming, or time and space had become a
mockery. I must be dreaming—but I would test the horror by carrying this thing back and
shewing it to my son if it were indeed a reality. My head swam frightfully, even though there
were no visible objects in the unbroken gloom to swirl around me. Ideas and images of the
starkest terror—excited by vistas which my glimpse had opened up—began to throng in upon
me and cloud my senses.
I thought of those possible prints in the dust, and trembled at the sound of my own breathing
as I did so. Once again I flashed on the light and looked at the page as a serpent‘s victim may
look at his destroyer‘s eyes and fangs. Then, with clumsy fingers in the dark, I closed the
book, put it in its container, and snapped the lid and the curious hooked fastener. This was
what I must carry back to the outer world if it truly existed—if the whole abyss truly existed—if
I, and the world itself, truly existed.
Just when I tottered to my feet and commenced my return I cannot be certain. It comes to me
oddly—as a measure of my sense of separation from the normal world—that I did not even
once look at my watch during those hideous hours underground. Torch in hand, and with the
ominous case under one arm, I eventually found myself tiptoeing in a kind of silent panic past
the draught-giving abyss and those lurking suggestions of prints. I lessened my precautions
as I climbed up the endless inclines, but could not shake off a shadow of apprehension which
I had not felt on the downward journey.
I dreaded having to re-pass through that black basalt crypt that was older than the city itself,
where cold draughts welled up from unguarded depths. I thought of that which the Great Race
had feared, and of what might still be lurking—be it ever so weak and dying—down there. I
thought of those possible five-circle prints and of what my dreams had told me of such
prints—and of strange winds and whistling noises associated with them. And I thought of the
tales of the modern blacks, wherein the horror of great winds and nameless subterrene ruins
was dwelt upon.
I knew from a carven wall symbol the right floor to enter, and came at last—after passing that
other book I had examined—to the great circular space with the branching archways. On my
right, and at once recognisable, was the arch through which I had arrived. This I now entered,
conscious that the rest of my course would be harder because of the tumbled state of the
masonry outside the archive building. My new metal-cased burden weighed upon me, and I
found it harder and harder to be quiet as I stumbled among debris and fragments of every
sort.
Then I came to the ceiling-high mound of debris through which I had wrenched a scanty
passage. My dread at wriggling through again was infinite; for my first passage had made
some noise, and I now—after seeing those possible prints—dreaded sound above all things.
The case, too, doubled the problem of traversing the narrow crevice. But I clambered up the
barrier as best I could, and pushed the case through the aperture ahead of me. Then, torch in
mouth, I scrambled through myself—my back torn as before by stalactites. As I tried to grasp
the case again, it fell some distance ahead of me down the slope of the debris, making a
disturbing clatter and arousing echoes which sent me into a cold perspiration. I lunged for it at
once, and regained it without further noise—but a moment afterward the slipping of blocks
under my feet raised a sudden and unprecedented din.
The din was my undoing. For, falsely or not, I thought I heard it answered in a terrible way
from spaces far behind me. I thought I heard a shrill, whistling sound, like nothing else on
earth, and beyond any adequate verbal description. It may have been only my imagination. If
so, what followed has a grim irony—since, save for the panic of this thing, the second thing
might never have happened.
As it was, my frenzy was absolute and unrelieved. Taking my torch in my hand and clutching
feebly at the case, I leaped and bounded wildly ahead with no idea in my brain beyond a mad
desire to race out of these nightmare ruins to the waking world of desert and moonlight which
lay so far above. I hardly knew it when I reached the mountain of debris which towered into
the vast blackness beyond the caved-in roof, and bruised and cut myself repeatedly in
scrambling up its steep slope of jagged blocks and fragments. Then came the great disaster.
Just as I blindly crossed the summit, unprepared for the sudden dip ahead, my feet slipped
utterly and I found myself involved in a mangling avalanche of sliding masonry whose
cannon-loud uproar split the black cavern air in a deafening series of earth-shaking
reverberations.
I have no recollection of emerging from this chaos, but a momentary fragment of
consciousness shews me as plunging and tripping and scrambling along the corridor amidst
the clangour—case and torch still with me. Then, just as I approached that primal basalt crypt
I had so dreaded, utter madness came. For as the echoes of the avalanche died down, there
became audible a repetition of that frightful, alien whistling I thought I had heard before. This
time there was no doubt about it—and what was worse, it came from a point not behind but
ahead of me.
Probably I shrieked aloud then. I have a dim picture of myself as flying through the hellish
basalt vault of the Elder Things, and hearing that damnable alien sound piping up from the
open, unguarded door of limitless nether blacknesses. There was a wind, too—not merely a
cool, damp draught, but a violent, purposeful blast belching savagely and frigidly from that
abominable gulf whence the obscene whistling came.
There are memories of leaping and lurching over obstacles of every sort, with that torrent of
wind and shrieking sound growing moment by moment, and seeming to curl and twist
purposefully around me as it struck out wickedly from the spaces behind and beneath.
Though in my rear, that wind had the odd effect of hindering instead of aiding my progress; as
if it acted like a noose or lasso thrown around me. Heedless of the noise I made, I clattered
over a great barrier of blocks and was again in the structure that led to the surface. I recall
glimpsing the archway to the room of machines and almost crying out as I saw the incline
leading down to where one of those blasphemous trap-doors must be yawning two levels
below. But instead of crying out I muttered over and over to myself that this was all a dream
from which I must soon awake. Perhaps I was in camp—perhaps I was at home in Arkham.
As these hopes bolstered up my sanity I began to mount the incline to the higher level.
I knew, of course, that I had the four-foot cleft to re-cross, yet was too racked by other fears to
realise the full horror until I came almost upon it. On my descent, the leap across had been
easy—but could I clear the gap as readily when going uphill, and hampered by fright,
exhaustion, the weight of the metal case, and the anomalous backward tug of that daemon
wind? I thought of these things at the last moment, and thought also of the nameless entities
which might be lurking in the black abysses below the chasm.
My wavering torch was growing feeble, but I could tell by some obscure memory when I
neared the cleft. The chill blasts of wind and the nauseous whistling shrieks behind me were
for the moment like a merciful opiate, dulling my imagination to the horror of the yawning gulf
ahead. And then I became aware of the added blasts and whistling in front of me—tides of
abomination surging up through the cleft itself from depths unimagined and unimaginable.
Now, indeed, the essence of pure nightmare was upon me. Sanity departed—and ignoring
everything except the animal impulse of flight, I merely struggled and plunged upward over
the incline‘s debris as if no gulf had existed. Then I saw the chasm‘s edge, leaped frenziedly
with every ounce of strength I possessed, and was instantly engulfed in a pandaemoniac
vortex of loathsome sound and utter, materially tangible blackness.
This is the end of my experience, so far as I can recall. Any further impressions belong wholly
to the domain of phantasmagoric delirium. Dream, madness, and memory merged wildly
together in a series of fantastic, fragmentary delusions which can have no relation to anything
real. There was a hideous fall through incalculable leagues of viscous, sentient darkness, and
a babel of noises utterly alien to all that we know of the earth and its organic life. Dormant,
rudimentary senses seemed to start into vitality within me, telling of pits and voids peopled by
floating horrors and leading to sunless crags and oceans and teeming cities of windowless
basalt towers upon which no light ever shone.
Secrets of the primal planet and its immemorial aeons flashed through my brain without the
aid of sight or sound, and there were known to me things which not even the wildest of my
former dreams had ever suggested. And all the while cold fingers of damp vapour clutched
and picked at me, and that eldritch, damnable whistling shrieked fiendishly above all the
alternations of babel and silence in the whirlpools of darkness around.
Afterward there were visions of the Cyclopean city of my dreams—not in ruins, but just as I
had dreamed of it. I was in my conical, non-human body again, and mingled with crowds of
the Great Race and the captive minds who carried books up and down the lofty corridors and
vast inclines. Then, superimposed upon these pictures, were frightful momentary flashes of a
non-visual consciousness involving desperate struggles, a writhing free from clutching
tentacles of whistling wind, an insane, bat-like flight through half-solid air, a feverish burrowing
through the cyclone-whipped dark, and a wild stumbling and scrambling over fallen masonry.
Once there was a curious, intrusive flash of half-sight—a faint, diffuse suspicion of bluish
radiance far overhead. Then there came a dream of wind-pursued climbing and crawling—of
wriggling into a blaze of sardonic moonlight through a jumble of debris which slid and
collapsed after me amidst a morbid hurricane. It was the evil, monotonous beating of that
maddening moonlight which at last told me of the return of what I had once known as the
objective, waking world.
I was clawing prone through the sands of the Australian desert, and around me shrieked such
a tumult of wind as I had never before known on our planet‘s surface. My clothing was in rags,
and my whole body was a mass of bruises and scratches. Full consciousness returned very
slowly, and at no time could I tell just where true memory left off and delirious dream began.
There had seemed to be a mound of titan blocks, an abyss beneath it, a monstrous revelation
from the past, and a nightmare horror at the end—but how much of this was real? My
flashlight was gone, and likewise any metal case I may have discovered. Had there been
such a case—or any abyss—or any mound? Raising my head, I looked behind me, and saw
only the sterile, undulant sands of the waste.
The daemon wind died down, and the bloated, fungoid moon sank reddeningly in the west. I
lurched to my feet and began to stagger southwestward toward the camp. What in truth had
happened to me? Had I merely collapsed in the desert and dragged a dream-racked body
over miles of sand and buried blocks? If not, how could I bear to live any longer? For in this
new doubt all my faith in the myth-born unreality of my visions dissolved once more into the
hellish older doubting. If that abyss was real, then the Great Race was real—and its
blasphemous reachings and seizures in the cosmos-wide vortex of time were no myths or
nightmares, but a terrible, soul-shattering actuality.
Had I, in full hideous fact, been drawn back to a pre-human world of a hundred and fifty
million years ago in those dark, baffling days of the amnesia? Had my present body been the
vehicle of a frightful alien consciousness from palaeogean gulfs of time? Had I, as the captive
mind of those shambling horrors, indeed known that accursed city of stone in its primordial
heyday, and wriggled down those familiar corridors in the loathsome shape of my captor?
Were those tormenting dreams of more than twenty years the offspring of stark, monstrous
memories? Had I once veritably talked with minds from reachless corners of time and space,
learned the universe‘s secrets past and to come, and written the annals of my own world for
the metal cases of those titan archives? And were those others—those shocking Elder Things
of the mad winds and daemon pipings—in truth a lingering, lurking menace, waiting and
slowly weakening in black abysses while varied shapes of life drag out their multimillennial
courses on the planet‘s age-racked surface?
I do not know. If that abyss and what it held were real, there is no hope. Then, all too truly,
there lies upon this world of man a mocking and incredible shadow out of time. But mercifully,
there is no proof that these things are other than fresh phases of my myth-born dreams. I did
not bring back the metal case that would have been a proof, and so far those subterrene
corridors have not been found. If the laws of the universe are kind, they will never be found.
But I must tell my son what I saw or thought I saw, and let him use his judgment as a
psychologist in gauging the reality of my experience, and communicating this account to
others.
I have said that the awful truth behind my tortured years of dreaming hinges absolutely upon
the actuality of what I thought I saw in those Cyclopean buried ruins. It has been hard for me
literally to set down the crucial revelation, though no reader can have failed to guess it. Of
course it lay in that book within the metal case—the case which I pried out of its forgotten lair
amidst the undisturbed dust of a million centuries. No eye had seen, no hand had touched
that book since the advent of man to this planet. And yet, when I flashed my torch upon it in
that frightful megalithic abyss, I saw that the queerly pigmented letters on the brittle, aeon-
browned cellulose pages were not indeed any nameless hieroglyphs of earth‘s youth. They
were, instead, the letters of our familiar alphabet, spelling out the words of the English
language in my own handwriting.
―Dr. Drowne of 4th Baptist warns against Starry Wisdom in sermon Dec. 29, 1844.‖
―Fr. O‘Malley tells of devil-worship with box found in great Egyptian ruins—says
they call up something that can‘t exist in light. Flees a little light, and banished by
strong light. Then has to be summoned again. Probably got this from deathbed
confession of Francis X. Feeney, who had joined Starry Wisdom in ‘49. These
people say the Shining Trapezohedron shews them heaven & other worlds, & that
the Haunter of the Dark tells them secrets in some way.‖
―Story of Orrin B. Eddy 1857. They call it up by gazing at the crystal, & have a
secret language of their own.‖
―Veiled article in J. March 14, ‘72, but people don‘t talk about it.‖
―Ghost stories begin around 1880—try to ascertain truth of report that no human
being has entered church since 1877.‖
Restoring the paper to the pocketbook and placing the latter in his coat, Blake turned to look
down at the skeleton in the dust. The implications of the notes were clear, and there could be
no doubt but that this man had come to the deserted edifice forty-two years before in quest of
a newspaper sensation which no one else had been bold enough to attempt. Perhaps no one
else had known of his plan—who could tell? But he had never returned to his paper. Had
some bravely suppressed fear risen to overcome him and bring on sudden heart-failure?
Blake stooped over the gleaming bones and noted their peculiar state. Some of them were
badly scattered, and a few seemed oddly dissolved at the ends. Others were strangely
yellowed, with vague suggestions of charring. This charring extended to some of the
fragments of clothing. The skull was in a very peculiar state—stained yellow, and with a
charred aperture in the top as if some powerful acid had eaten through the solid bone. What
had happened to the skeleton during its four decades of silent entombment here Blake could
not imagine.
Before he realised it, he was looking at the stone again, and letting its curious influence call
up a nebulous pageantry in his mind. He saw processions of robed, hooded figures whose
outlines were not human, and looked on endless leagues of desert lined with carved, sky-
reaching monoliths. He saw towers and walls in nighted depths under the sea, and vortices of
space where wisps of black mist floated before thin shimmerings of cold purple haze. And
beyond all else he glimpsed an infinite gulf of darkness, where solid and semi-solid forms
were known only by their windy stirrings, and cloudy patterns of force seemed to superimpose
order on chaos and hold forth a key to all the paradoxes and arcana of the worlds we know.
Then all at once the spell was broken by an access of gnawing, indeterminate panic fear.
Blake choked and turned away from the stone, conscious of some formless alien presence
close to him and watching him with horrible intentness. He felt entangled with something—
something which was not in the stone, but which had looked through it at him—something
which would ceaselessly follow him with a cognition that was not physical sight. Plainly, the
place was getting on his nerves—as well it might in view of his gruesome find. The light was
waning, too, and since he had no illuminant with him he knew he would have to be leaving
soon.
It was then, in the gathering twilight, that he thought he saw a faint trace of luminosity in the
crazily angled stone. He had tried to look away from it, but some obscure compulsion drew
his eyes back. Was there a subtle phosphorescence of radio-activity about the thing? What
was it that the dead man‘s notes had said concerning a Shining Trapezohedron? What,
anyway, was this abandoned lair of cosmic evil? What had been done here, and what might
still be lurking in the bird-shunned shadows? It seemed now as if an elusive touch of foetor
had arisen somewhere close by, though its source was not apparent. Blake seized the cover
of the long-open box and snapped it down. It moved easily on its alien hinges, and closed
completely over the unmistakably glowing stone.
At the sharp click of that closing a soft stirring sound seemed to come from the steeple‘s
eternal blackness overhead, beyond the trap-door. Rats, without question—the only living
things to reveal their presence in this accursed pile since he had entered it. And yet that
stirring in the steeple frightened him horribly, so that he plunged almost wildly down the spiral
stairs, across the ghoulish nave, into the vaulted basement, out amidst the gathering dusk of
the deserted square, and down through the teeming, fear-haunted alleys and avenues of
Federal Hill toward the sane central streets and the home-like brick sidewalks of the college
district.
During the days which followed, Blake told no one of his expedition. Instead, he read much in
certain books, examined long years of newspaper files downtown, and worked feverishly at
the cryptogram in that leather volume from the cobwebbed vestry room. The cipher, he soon
saw, was no simple one; and after a long period of endeavour he felt sure that its language
could not be English, Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, Italian, or German. Evidently he would
have to draw upon the deepest wells of his strange erudition.
Every evening the old impulse to gaze westward returned, and he saw the black steeple as of
yore amongst the bristling roofs of a distant and half-fabulous world. But now it held a fresh
note of terror for him. He knew the heritage of evil lore it masked, and with the knowledge his
vision ran riot in queer new ways. The birds of spring were returning, and as he watched their
sunset flights he fancied they avoided the gaunt, lone spire as never before. When a flock of
them approached it, he thought, they would wheel and scatter in panic confusion—and he
could guess at the wild twitterings which failed to reach him across the intervening miles.
It was in June that Blake‘s diary told of his victory over the cryptogram. The text was, he
found, in the dark Aklo language used by certain cults of evil antiquity, and known to him in a
halting way through previous researches. The diary is strangely reticent about what Blake
deciphered, but he was patently awed and disconcerted by his results. There are references
to a Haunter of the Dark awaked by gazing into the Shining Trapezohedron, and insane
conjectures about the black gulfs of chaos from which it was called. The being is spoken of as
holding all knowledge, and demanding monstrous sacrifices. Some of Blake‘s entries shew
fear lest the thing, which he seemed to regard as summoned, stalk abroad; though he adds
that the street-lights form a bulwark which cannot be crossed.
Of the Shining Trapezohedron he speaks often, calling it a window on all time and space, and
tracing its history from the days it was fashioned on dark Yuggoth, before ever the Old Ones
brought it to earth. It was treasured and placed in its curious box by the crinoid things of
Antarctica, salvaged from their ruins by the serpent-men of Valusia, and peered at aeons later
in Lemuria by the first human beings. It crossed strange lands and stranger seas, and sank
with Atlantis before a Minoan fisher meshed it in his net and sold it to swarthy merchants from
nighted Khem. The Pharaoh Nephren-Ka built around it a temple with a windowless crypt, and
did that which caused his name to be stricken from all monuments and records. Then it slept
in the ruins of that evil fane which the priests and the new Pharaoh destroyed, till the delver‘s
spade once more brought it forth to curse mankind.
Early in July the newspapers oddly supplement Blake‘s entries, though in so brief and casual
a way that only the diary has called general attention to their contribution. It appears that a
new fear had been growing on Federal Hill since a stranger had entered the dreaded church.
The Italians whispered of unaccustomed stirrings and bumpings and scrapings in the dark
windowless steeple, and called on their priests to banish an entity which haunted their
dreams. Something, they said, was constantly watching at a door to see if it were dark
enough to venture forth. Press items mentioned the long-standing local superstitions, but
failed to shed much light on the earlier background of the horror. It was obvious that the
young reporters of today are no antiquarians. In writing of these things in his diary, Blake
expresses a curious kind of remorse, and talks of the duty of burying the Shining
Trapezohedron and of banishing what he had evoked by letting daylight into the hideous
jutting spire. At the same time, however, he displays the dangerous extent of his fascination,
and admits a morbid longing—pervading even his dreams—to visit the accursed tower and
gaze again into the cosmic secrets of the glowing stone.
Then something in the Journal on the morning of July 17 threw the diarist into a veritable
fever of horror. It was only a variant of the other half-humorous items about the Federal Hill
restlessness, but to Blake it was somehow very terrible indeed. In the night a thunderstorm
had put the city‘s lighting-system out of commission for a full hour, and in that black interval
the Italians had nearly gone mad with fright. Those living near the dreaded church had sworn
that the thing in the steeple had taken advantage of the street-lamps‘ absence and gone down
into the body of the church, flopping and bumping around in a viscous, altogether dreadful
way. Toward the last it had bumped up to the tower, where there were sounds of the
shattering of glass. It could go wherever the darkness reached, but light would always send it
fleeing.
When the current blazed on again there had been a shocking commotion in the tower, for
even the feeble light trickling through the grime-blackened, louver-boarded windows was too
much for the thing. It had bumped and slithered up into its tenebrous steeple just in time—for
a long dose of light would have sent it back into the abyss whence the crazy stranger had
called it. During the dark hour praying crowds had clustered round the church in the rain with
lighted candles and lamps somehow shielded with folded paper and umbrellas—a guard of
light to save the city from the nightmare that stalks in darkness. Once, those nearest the
church declared, the outer door had rattled hideously.
But even this was not the worst. That evening in the Bulletin Blake read of what the reporters
had found. Aroused at last to the whimsical news value of the scare, a pair of them had defied
the frantic crowds of Italians and crawled into the church through the cellar window after trying
the doors in vain. They found the dust of the vestibule and of the spectral nave ploughed up in
a singular way, with bits of rotted cushions and satin pew-linings scattered curiously around.
There was a bad odour everywhere, and here and there were bits of yellow stain and patches
of what looked like charring. Opening the door to the tower, and pausing a moment at the
suspicion of a scraping sound above, they found the narrow spiral stairs wiped roughly clean.
In the tower itself a similarly half-swept condition existed. They spoke of the heptagonal stone
pillar, the overturned Gothic chairs, and the bizarre plaster images; though strangely enough
the metal box and the old mutilated skeleton were not mentioned. What disturbed Blake the
most—except for the hints of stains and charring and bad odours—was the final detail that
explained the crashing glass. Every one of the tower‘s lancet windows was broken, and two of
them had been darkened in a crude and hurried way by the stuffing of satin pew-linings and
cushion-horsehair into the spaces between the slanting exterior louver-boards. More satin
fragments and bunches of horsehair lay scattered around the newly swept floor, as if
someone had been interrupted in the act of restoring the tower to the absolute blackness of
its tightly curtained days.
Yellowish stains and charred patches were found on the ladder to the windowless spire, but
when a reporter climbed up, opened the horizontally sliding trap-door, and shot a feeble
flashlight beam into the black and strangely foetid space, he saw nothing but darkness, and
an heterogeneous litter of shapeless fragments near the aperture. The verdict, of course, was
charlatanry. Somebody had played a joke on the superstitious hill-dwellers, or else some
fanatic had striven to bolster up their fears for their own supposed good. Or perhaps some of
the younger and more sophisticated dwellers had staged an elaborate hoax on the outside
world. There was an amusing aftermath when the police sent an officer to verify the reports.
Three men in succession found ways of evading the assignment, and the fourth went very
reluctantly and returned very soon without adding to the account given by the reporters.
From this point onward Blake‘s diary shews a mounting tide of insidious horror and nervous
apprehension. He upbraids himself for not doing something, and speculates wildly on the
consequences of another electrical breakdown. It has been verified that on three occasions—
during thunderstorms—he telephoned the electric light company in a frantic vein and asked
that desperate precautions against a lapse of power be taken. Now and then his entries shew
concern over the failure of the reporters to find the metal box and stone, and the strangely
marred old skeleton, when they explored the shadowy tower room. He assumed that these
things had been removed—whither, and by whom or what, he could only guess. But his worst
fears concerned himself, and the kind of unholy rapport he felt to exist between his mind and
that lurking horror in the distant steeple—that monstrous thing of night which his rashness
had called out of the ultimate black spaces. He seemed to feel a constant tugging at his will,
and callers of that period remember how he would sit abstractedly at his desk and stare out of
the west window at that far-off, spire-bristling mound beyond the swirling smoke of the city.
His entries dwell monotonously on certain terrible dreams, and of a strengthening of the
unholy rapport in his sleep. There is mention of a night when he awaked to find himself fully
dressed, outdoors, and headed automatically down College Hill toward the west. Again and
again he dwells on the fact that the thing in the steeple knows where to find him.
The week following July 30 is recalled as the time of Blake‘s partial breakdown. He did not
dress, and ordered all his food by telephone. Visitors remarked the cords he kept near his
bed, and he said that sleep-walking had forced him to bind his ankles every night with knots
which would probably hold or else waken him with the labour of untying.
In his diary he told of the hideous experience which had brought the collapse. After retiring on
the night of the 30th he had suddenly found himself groping about in an almost black space.
All he could see were short, faint, horizontal streaks of bluish light, but he could smell an
overpowering foetor and hear a curious jumble of soft, furtive sounds above him. Whenever
he moved he stumbled over something, and at each noise there would come a sort of
answering sound from above—a vague stirring, mixed with the cautious sliding of wood on
wood.
Once his groping hands encountered a pillar of stone with a vacant top, whilst later he found
himself clutching the rungs of a ladder built into the wall, and fumbling his uncertain way
upward toward some region of intenser stench where a hot, searing blast beat down against
him. Before his eyes a kaleidoscopic range of phantasmal images played, all of them
dissolving at intervals into the picture of a vast, unplumbed abyss of night wherein whirled
suns and worlds of an even profounder blackness. He thought of the ancient legends of
Ultimate Chaos, at whose centre sprawls the blind idiot god Azathoth, Lord of All Things,
encircled by his flopping horde of mindless and amorphous dancers, and lulled by the thin
monotonous piping of a daemoniac flute held in nameless paws.
Then a sharp report from the outer world broke through his stupor and roused him to the
unutterable horror of his position. What it was, he never knew—perhaps it was some belated
peal from the fireworks heard all summer on Federal Hill as the dwellers hail their various
patron saints, or the saints of their native villages in Italy. In any event he shrieked aloud,
dropped frantically from the ladder, and stumbled blindly across the obstructed floor of the
almost lightless chamber that encompassed him.
He knew instantly where he was, and plunged recklessly down the narrow spiral staircase,
tripping and bruising himself at every turn. There was a nightmare flight through a vast
cobwebbed nave whose ghostly arches reached up to realms of leering shadow, a sightless
scramble through a littered basement, a climb to regions of air and street-lights outside, and a
mad racing down a spectral hill of gibbering gables, across a grim, silent city of tall black
towers, and up the steep eastward precipice to his own ancient door.
On regaining consciousness in the morning he found himself lying on his study floor fully
dressed. Dirt and cobwebs covered him, and every inch of his body seemed sore and
bruised. When he faced the mirror he saw that his hair was badly scorched, while a trace of
strange, evil odour seemed to cling to his upper outer clothing. It was then that his nerves
broke down. Thereafter, lounging exhaustedly about in a dressing-gown, he did little but stare
from his west window, shiver at the threat of thunder, and make wild entries in his diary.
The great storm broke just before midnight on August 8th. Lightning struck repeatedly in all
parts of the city, and two remarkable fireballs were reported. The rain was torrential, while a
constant fusillade of thunder brought sleeplessness to thousands. Blake was utterly frantic in
his fear for the lighting system, and tried to telephone the company around 1 a.m., though by
that time service had been temporarily cut off in the interest of safety. He recorded everything
in his diary—the large, nervous, and often undecipherable hieroglyphs telling their own story
of growing frenzy and despair, and of entries scrawled blindly in the dark.
He had to keep the house dark in order to see out the window, and it appears that most of his
time was spent at his desk, peering anxiously through the rain across the glistening miles of
downtown roofs at the constellation of distant lights marking Federal Hill. Now and then he
would fumblingly make an entry in his diary, so that detached phrases such as ―The lights
must not go‖; ―It knows where I am‖; ―I must destroy it‖; and ―It is calling to me, but perhaps it
means no injury this time‖; are found scattered down two of the pages.
Then the lights went out all over the city. It happened at 2:12 a.m. according to power-house
records, but Blake‘s diary gives no indication of the time. The entry is merely, ―Lights out—
God help me.‖ On Federal Hill there were watchers as anxious as he, and rain-soaked knots
of men paraded the square and alleys around the evil church with umbrella-shaded candles,
electric flashlights, oil lanterns, crucifixes, and obscure charms of the many sorts common to
southern Italy. They blessed each flash of lightning, and made cryptical signs of fear with their
right hands when a turn in the storm caused the flashes to lessen and finally to cease
altogether. A rising wind blew out most of the candles, so that the scene grew threateningly
dark. Someone roused Father Merluzzo of Spirito Santo Church, and he hastened to the
dismal square to pronounce whatever helpful syllables he could. Of the restless and curious
sounds in the blackened tower, there could be no doubt whatever.
For what happened at 2:35 we have the testimony of the priest, a young, intelligent, and well-
educated person; of Patrolman William J. Monahan of the Central Station, an officer of the
highest reliability who had paused at that part of his beat to inspect the crowd; and of most of
the seventy-eight men who had gathered around the church‘s high bank wall—especially
those in the square where the eastward facade was visible. Of course there was nothing
which can be proved as being outside the order of Nature. The possible causes of such an
event are many. No one can speak with certainty of the obscure chemical processes arising in
a vast, ancient, ill-aired, and long-deserted building of heterogeneous contents. Mephitic
vapours—spontaneous combustion—pressure of gases born of long decay—any one of
numberless phenomena might be responsible. And then, of course, the factor of conscious
charlatanry can by no means be excluded. The thing was really quite simple in itself, and
covered less than three minutes of actual time. Father Merluzzo, always a precise man,
looked at his watch repeatedly.
It started with a definite swelling of the dull fumbling sounds inside the black tower. There had
for some time been a vague exhalation of strange, evil odours from the church, and this had
now become emphatic and offensive. Then at last there was a sound of splintering wood, and
a large, heavy object crashed down in the yard beneath the frowning easterly facade. The
tower was invisible now that the candles would not burn, but as the object neared the ground
the people knew that it was the smoke-grimed louver-boarding of that tower‘s east window.
Immediately afterward an utterly unbearable foetor welled forth from the unseen heights,
choking and sickening the trembling watchers, and almost prostrating those in the square. At
the same time the air trembled with a vibration as of flapping wings, and a sudden east-
blowing wind more violent than any previous blast snatched off the hats and wrenched the
dripping umbrellas of the crowd. Nothing definite could be seen in the candleless night,
though some upward-looking spectators thought they glimpsed a great spreading blur of
denser blackness against the inky sky—something like a formless cloud of smoke that shot
with meteor-like speed toward the east.
That was all. The watchers were half numbed with fright, awe, and discomfort, and scarcely
knew what to do, or whether to do anything at all. Not knowing what had happened, they did
not relax their vigil; and a moment later they sent up a prayer as a sharp flash of belated
lightning, followed by an earsplitting crash of sound, rent the flooded heavens. Half an hour
later the rain stopped, and in fifteen minutes more the street-lights sprang on again, sending
the weary, bedraggled watchers relievedly back to their homes.
The next day‘s papers gave these matters minor mention in connexion with the general storm
reports. It seems that the great lightning flash and deafening explosion which followed the
Federal Hill occurrence were even more tremendous farther east, where a burst of the
singular foetor was likewise noticed. The phenomenon was most marked over College Hill,
where the crash awaked all the sleeping inhabitants and led to a bewildered round of
speculations. Of those who were already awake only a few saw the anomalous blaze of light
near the top of the hill, or noticed the inexplicable upward rush of air which almost stripped
the leaves from the trees and blasted the plants in the gardens. It was agreed that the lone,
sudden lightning-bolt must have struck somewhere in this neighbourhood, though no trace of
its striking could afterward be found. A youth in the Tau Omega fraternity house thought he
saw a grotesque and hideous mass of smoke in the air just as the preliminary flash burst, but
his observation has not been verified. All of the few observers, however, agree as to the
violent gust from the west and the flood of intolerable stench which preceded the belated
stroke; whilst evidence concerning the momentary burned odour after the stroke is equally
general.
These points were discussed very carefully because of their probable connexion with the
death of Robert Blake. Students in the Psi Delta house, whose upper rear windows looked
into Blake‘s study, noticed the blurred white face at the westward window on the morning of
the 9th, and wondered what was wrong with the expression. When they saw the same face in
the same position that evening, they felt worried, and watched for the lights to come up in his
apartment. Later they rang the bell of the darkened flat, and finally had a policeman force the
door.
The rigid body sat bolt upright at the desk by the window, and when the intruders saw the
glassy, bulging eyes, and the marks of stark, convulsive fright on the twisted features, they
turned away in sickened dismay. Shortly afterward the coroner‘s physician made an
examination, and despite the unbroken window reported electrical shock, or nervous tension
induced by electrical discharge, as the cause of death. The hideous expression he ignored
altogether, deeming it a not improbable result of the profound shock as experienced by a
person of such abnormal imagination and unbalanced emotions. He deduced these latter
qualities from the books, paintings, and manuscripts found in the apartment, and from the
blindly scrawled entries in the diary on the desk. Blake had prolonged his frenzied jottings to
the last, and the broken-pointed pencil was found clutched in his spasmodically contracted
right hand.
The entries after the failure of the lights were highly disjointed, and legible only in part. From
them certain investigators have drawn conclusions differing greatly from the materialistic
official verdict, but such speculations have little chance for belief among the conservative. The
case of these imaginative theorists has not been helped by the action of superstitious Dr.
Dexter, who threw the curious box and angled stone—an object certainly self-luminous as
seen in the black windowless steeple where it was found—into the deepest channel of
Narragansett Bay. Excessive imagination and neurotic unbalance on Blake‘s part, aggravated
by knowledge of the evil bygone cult whose startling traces he had uncovered, form the
dominant interpretation given those final frenzied jottings. These are the entries—or all that
can be made of them.
―Lights still out—must be five minutes now. Everything depends on lightning.
Yaddith grant it will keep up! . . . Some influence seems beating through it. . . . Rain
and thunder and wind deafen. . . . The thing is taking hold of my mind. . . .
―Trouble with memory. I see things I never knew before. Other worlds and other
galaxies . . . Dark . . . The lightning seems dark and the darkness seems light. . . .
―It cannot be the real hill and church that I see in the pitch-darkness. Must be
retinal impression left by flashes. Heaven grant the Italians are out with their
candles if the lightning stops!
―My name is Blake—Robert Harrison Blake of 620 East Knapp Street, Milwaukee,
Wisconsin. . . . I am on this planet. . . .
―Sense of distance gone—far is near and near is far. No light—no glass—see that
steeple—that tower—window—can hear—Roderick Usher—am mad or going
mad—the thing is stirring and fumbling in the tower—I am it and it is I—I want to
get out . . . must get out and unify the forces. . . . It knows where I am. . . .
―I am Robert Blake, but I see the tower in the dark. There is a monstrous odour . . .
senses transfigured . . . boarding at that tower window cracking and giving way. . . .
Iä . . . ngai . . . ygg. . . .
Fin