Atop​ ​the​ ​tallest​ ​of​ ​earth’s​ ​peaks​ ​dwell​ ​the​ ​gods​ ​of​ ​earth,​ ​and​ ​suffer​ ​no​ ​man​

​to​ ​tell​ ​that​ ​he 

hath​ ​looked​ ​upon​ ​them.​ ​Lesser​ ​peaks​ ​they​ ​once​ ​inhabited;​ ​but​ ​ever​ ​the​ ​men​ ​from​ ​the​ ​plains 
would​ ​scale​ ​the​ ​slopes​ ​of​ ​rock​ ​and​ ​snow,​ ​driving​ ​the​ ​gods​ ​to​ ​higher​ ​and​ ​higher​ ​mountains 
till​ ​now​ ​only​ ​the​ ​last​ ​remains.​ ​When​ ​they​ ​left​ ​their​ ​older​ ​peaks​ ​they​ ​took​ ​with​ ​them​ ​all​ ​signs 
of​ ​themselves;​ ​save​ ​once,​ ​it​ ​is​ ​said,​ ​when​ ​they​ ​left​ ​a​ ​carven​ ​image​ ​on​ ​the​ ​face​ ​of​ ​the 
mountain​ ​which​ ​they​ ​called​ ​Ngranek. 
 
Randolph​ ​Carter,​ ​who​ ​had​ ​all​ ​his​ ​life​ ​sought​ ​to​ ​escape​ ​from​ ​the​ ​tedium​ ​and​ ​limitations​ ​of 
waking​ ​reality​ ​in​ ​the​ ​beckoning​ ​vistas​ ​of​ ​dreams​ ​and​ ​fabled​ ​avenues​ ​of​ ​other​ ​dimensions, 
disappeared​ ​from​ ​the​ ​sight​ ​of​ ​man​ ​on​ ​the​ ​seventh​ ​of​ ​October,​ ​1928,​ ​at​ ​the​ ​age​ ​of​ ​fifty-four. 
His​ ​career​ ​had​ ​been​ ​a​ ​strange​ ​and​ ​lonely​ ​one,​ ​and​ ​there​ ​were​ ​those​ ​who​ ​inferred​ ​from​ ​his 
curious​ ​novels​ ​many​ ​episodes​ ​more​ ​bizarre​ ​than​ ​any​ ​in​ ​his​ ​recorded​ ​history.​ ​His​ ​association 
with​ ​Harley​ ​Warren,​ ​the​ ​South​ ​Carolina​ ​mystic​ ​whose​ ​studies​ ​in​ ​the​ ​primal​ ​Naacal​ ​language 
of​ ​the​ ​Himalayan​ ​priests​ ​had​ ​led​ ​to​ ​such​ ​outrageous​ ​conclusions,​ ​had​ ​been​ ​close.​ ​Indeed,​ ​it 
was​ ​he​ ​who—one​ ​mist-mad,​ ​terrible​ ​night​ ​in​ ​an​ ​ancient​ ​graveyard—had​ ​seen​ ​Warren 
descend​ ​into​ ​a​ ​dank​ ​and​ ​nitrous​ ​vault,​ ​never​ ​to​ ​emerge.​ ​Carter​ ​lived​ ​in​ ​Boston,​ ​but​ ​it​ ​was 
from​ ​the​ ​wild,​ ​haunted​ ​hills​ ​behind​ ​hoary​ ​and​ ​witch-accursed​ ​Arkham​ ​that​ ​all​ ​his​ ​forbears 
had​ ​come.​ ​And​ ​it​ ​was​ ​amid​ ​those​ ​ancient,​ ​cryptically​ ​brooding​ ​hills​ ​that​ ​he​ ​had​ ​ultimately 
vanished. 
 
When​ ​for​ ​the​ ​third​ ​time​ ​he​ ​awaked​ ​with​ ​those​ ​flights​ ​still​ ​undescended​ ​and​ ​those​ ​hushed 
sunset​ ​streets​ ​still​ ​untraversed,​ ​he​ ​prayed​ ​long​ ​and​ ​earnestly​ ​to​ ​the​ ​hidden​ ​gods​ ​of​ ​dream 
that​ ​brood​ ​capricious​ ​above​ ​the​ ​clouds​ ​on​ ​unknown​ ​Kadath,​ ​in​ ​the​ ​cold​ ​waste​ ​where​ ​no 
man​ ​treads.​ ​But​ ​the​ ​gods​ ​made​ ​no​ ​answer​ ​and​ ​shewed​ ​no​ ​relenting,​ ​nor​ ​did​ ​they​ ​give​ ​any 
favouring​ ​sign​ ​when​ ​he​ ​prayed​ ​to​ ​them​ ​in​ ​dream,​ ​and​ ​invoked​ ​them​ ​sacrificially​ ​through​ ​the 
bearded​ ​priests​ ​Nasht​ ​and​ ​Kaman-Thah,​ ​whose​ ​cavern-temple​ ​with​ ​its​ ​pillar​ ​of​ ​flame​ ​lies 
not​ ​far​ ​from​ ​the​ ​gates​ ​of​ ​the​ ​waking​ ​world.​ ​It​ ​seemed,​ ​however,​ ​that​ ​his​ ​prayers​ ​must​ ​have 
been​ ​adversely​ ​heard,​ ​for​ ​after​ ​even​ ​the​ ​first​ ​of​ ​them​ ​he​ ​ceased​ ​wholly​ ​to​ ​behold​ ​the 
marvellous​ ​city;​ ​as​ ​if​ ​his​ ​three​ ​glimpses​ ​from​ ​afar​ ​had​ ​been​ ​mere​ ​accidents​ ​or​ ​oversights, 
and​ ​against​ ​some​ ​hidden​ ​plan​ ​or​ ​wish​ ​of​ ​the​ ​gods. 
 
Stephen​ ​Jones,​ ​as​ ​a​ ​leisurely​ ​connoisseur​ ​of​ ​the​ ​bizarre​ ​in​ ​art,​ ​had​ ​sought​ ​out​ ​Rogers 
himself​ ​in​ ​the​ ​dingy​ ​office​ ​and​ ​workroom​ ​behind​ ​the​ ​vaulted​ ​museum​ ​chamber—an 
evil-looking​ ​crypt​ ​lighted​ ​dimly​ ​by​ ​dusty​ ​windows​ ​set​ ​slit-like​ ​and​ ​horizontal​ ​in​ ​the​ ​brick 
wall​ ​on​ ​a​ ​level​ ​with​ ​the​ ​ancient​ ​cobblestones​ ​of​ ​a​ ​hidden​ ​courtyard.​ ​It​ ​was​ ​here​ ​that​ ​the 
images​ ​were​ ​repaired—here,​ ​too,​ ​where​ ​some​ ​of​ ​them​ ​had​ ​been​ ​made.​ ​Waxen​ ​arms,​ ​legs, 
heads,​ ​and​ ​torsos​ ​lay​ ​in​ ​grotesque​ ​array​ ​on​ ​various​ ​benches,​ ​while​ ​on​ ​high​ ​tiers​ ​of​ ​shelves 
matted​ ​wigs,​ ​ravenous-looking​ ​teeth,​ ​and​ ​glassy,​ ​staring​ ​eyes​ ​were​ ​indiscriminately 
scattered.​ ​Costumes​ ​of​ ​all​ ​sorts​ ​hung​ ​from​ ​hooks,​ ​and​ ​in​ ​one​ ​alcove​ ​were​ ​great​ ​piles​ ​of 
flesh-coloured​ ​wax-cakes​ ​and​ ​shelves​ ​filled​ ​with​ ​paint-cans​ ​and​ ​brushes​ ​of​ ​every 
description.​ ​In​ ​the​ ​centre​ ​of​ ​the​ ​room​ ​was​ ​a​ ​large​ ​melting-furnace​ ​used​ ​to​ ​prepare​ ​the​ ​wax 
for​ ​moulding,​ ​its​ ​fire-box​ ​topped​ ​by​ ​a​ ​huge​ ​iron​ ​container​ ​on​ ​hinges,​ ​with​ ​a​ ​spout​ ​which 
permitted​ ​the​ ​pouring​ ​of​ ​melted​ ​wax​ ​with​ ​the​ ​merest​ ​touch​ ​of​ ​a​ ​finger. 
The​ ​ancient​ ​folklore,​ ​while​ ​cloudy,​ ​evasive,​ ​and​ ​largely​ ​forgotten​ ​by​ ​the​ ​present​ ​generation, 
was​ ​of​ ​a​ ​highly​ ​singular​ ​character,​ ​and​ ​obviously​ ​reflected​ ​the​ ​influence​ ​of​ ​still​ ​earlier​ ​Indian 
tales.​ ​I​ ​knew​ ​it​ ​well,​ ​though​ ​I​ ​had​ ​never​ ​been​ ​in​ ​Vermont,​ ​through​ ​the​ ​exceedingly​ ​rare 
monograph​ ​of​ ​Eli​ ​Davenport,​ ​which​ ​embraces​ ​material​ ​orally​ ​obtained​ ​prior​ ​to​ ​1839​ ​among 
the​ ​oldest​ ​people​ ​of​ ​the​ ​state.​ ​This​ ​material,​ ​moreover,​ ​closely​ ​coincided​ ​with​ ​tales​ ​which​ ​I 
had​ ​personally​ ​heard​ ​from​ ​elderly​ ​rustics​ ​in​ ​the​ ​mountains​ ​of​ ​New​ ​Hampshire.​ ​Briefly 
summarised,​ ​it​ ​hinted​ ​at​ ​a​ ​hidden​ ​race​ ​of​ ​monstrous​ ​beings​ ​which​ ​lurked​ ​somewhere 
among​ ​the​ ​remoter​ ​hills—in​ ​the​ ​deep​ ​woods​ ​of​ ​the​ ​highest​ ​peaks,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​dark​ ​valleys 
where​ ​streams​ ​trickle​ ​from​ ​unknown​ ​sources.​ ​These​ ​beings​ ​were​ ​seldom​ ​glimpsed,​ ​but 
evidences​ ​of​ ​their​ ​presence​ ​were​ ​reported​ ​by​ ​those​ ​who​ ​had​ ​ventured​ ​farther​ ​than​ ​usual​ ​up 
the​ ​slopes​ ​of​ ​certain​ ​mountains​ ​or​ ​into​ ​certain​ ​deep,​ ​steep-sided​ ​gorges​ ​that​ ​even​ ​the 
wolves​ ​shunned. 
 
Around​ ​the​ ​dreaded​ ​house​ ​a​ ​straggling​ ​village​ ​arose,​ ​populated​ ​by​ ​Indians​ ​and​ ​later​ ​by 
renegades​ ​from​ ​the​ ​surrounding​ ​country,​ ​which​ ​bore​ ​the​ ​dubious​ ​name​ ​of​ ​Chorazin.​ ​Of​ ​the 
singular​ ​hereditary​ ​strains​ ​which​ ​afterward​ ​appeared​ ​in​ ​the​ ​mixed​ ​Chorazin​ ​villagers,​ ​several 
monographs​ ​have​ ​been​ ​written​ ​by​ ​ethnologists.​ ​Just​ ​behind​ ​the​ ​village,​ ​and​ ​in​ ​sight​ ​of​ ​the 
van​ ​der​ ​Heyl​ ​house,​ ​is​ ​a​ ​steep​ ​hill​ ​crowned​ ​with​ ​a​ ​peculiar​ ​ring​ ​of​ ​ancient​ ​standing​ ​stones 
which​ ​the​ ​Iroquois​ ​always​ ​regarded​ ​with​ ​fear​ ​and​ ​loathing.​ ​The​ ​origin​ ​and​ ​nature​ ​of​ ​the 
stones,​ ​whose​ ​date,​ ​according​ ​to​ ​archaeological​ ​and​ ​climatological​ ​evidence,​ ​must​ ​be 
fabulously​ ​early,​ ​is​ ​a​ ​problem​ ​still​ ​unsolved. 
 
As​ ​the​ ​newspapers​ ​told,​ ​we​ ​sailed​ ​from​ ​Boston​ ​Harbour​ ​on​ ​September​ ​2,​ ​1930;​ ​taking​ ​a 
leisurely​ ​course​ ​down​ ​the​ ​coast​ ​and​ ​through​ ​the​ ​Panama​ ​Canal,​ ​and​ ​stopping​ ​at​ ​Samoa​ ​and 
Hobart,​ ​Tasmania,​ ​at​ ​which​ ​latter​ ​place​ ​we​ ​took​ ​on​ ​final​ ​supplies.​ ​None​ ​of​ ​our​ ​exploring 
party​ ​had​ ​ever​ ​been​ ​in​ ​the​ ​polar​ ​regions​ ​before,​ ​hence​ ​we​ ​all​ ​relied​ ​greatly​ ​on​ ​our​ ​ship 
captains—J.​ ​B.​ ​Douglas,​ ​commanding​ ​the​ ​brig​ A ​ rkham,​ ​and​ ​serving​ ​as​ ​commander​ ​of​ ​the 
sea​ ​party,​ ​and​ ​Georg​ ​Thorfinnssen,​ ​commanding​ ​the​ ​barque​ ​Miskatonic​—both​ ​veteran 
whalers​ ​in​ ​antarctic​ ​waters.​ ​As​ ​we​ ​left​ ​the​ ​inhabited​ ​world​ ​behind​ ​the​ ​sun​ ​sank​ ​lower​ ​and 
lower​ ​in​ ​the​ ​north,​ ​and​ ​stayed​ ​longer​ ​and​ ​longer​ ​above​ ​the​ ​horizon​ ​each​ ​day.​ ​At​ ​about​ ​62° 
South​ ​Latitude​ ​we​ ​sighted​ ​our​ ​first​ ​icebergs—table-like​ ​objects​ ​with​ ​vertical​ ​sides—and​ ​just 
before​ ​reaching​ ​the​ ​Antarctic​ ​Circle,​ ​which​ ​we​ ​crossed​ ​on​ ​October​ ​20​ ​with​ ​appropriately 
quaint​ ​ceremonies,​ ​we​ ​were​ ​considerably​ ​troubled​ ​with​ ​field​ ​ice.​ ​The​ ​falling​ ​temperature 
bothered​ ​me​ ​considerably​ ​after​ ​our​ ​long​ ​voyage​ ​through​ ​the​ ​tropics,​ ​but​ ​I​ ​tried​ ​to​ ​brace​ ​up 
for​ ​the​ ​worse​ ​rigours​ ​to​ ​come.​ ​On​ ​many​ ​occasions​ ​the​ ​curious​ ​atmospheric​ ​effects 
enchanted​ ​me​ ​vastly;​ ​these​ ​including​ ​a​ ​strikingly​ ​vivid​ ​mirage—the​ ​first​ ​I​ ​had​ ​ever​ ​seen—in 
which​ ​distant​ ​bergs​ ​became​ ​the​ ​battlements​ ​of​ ​unimaginable​ ​cosmic​ ​castles. 
 
At​ ​sunset​ ​he​ ​would​ ​often​ ​sit​ ​at​ ​his​ ​desk​ ​and​ ​gaze​ ​dreamily​ ​off​ ​at​ ​the​ ​outspread​ ​west—the 
dark​ ​towers​ ​of​ ​Memorial​ ​Hall​ ​just​ ​below,​ ​the​ ​Georgian​ ​court-house​ ​belfry,​ ​the​ ​lofty 
pinnacles​ ​of​ ​the​ ​downtown​ ​section,​ ​and​ ​that​ ​shimmering,​ ​spire-crowned​ ​mound​ ​in​ ​the 
distance​ ​whose​ ​unknown​ ​streets​ ​and​ ​labyrinthine​ ​gables​ ​so​ ​potently​ ​provoked​ ​his​ ​fancy. 
From​ ​his​ ​few​ ​local​ ​acquaintances​ ​he​ ​learned​ ​that​ ​the​ ​far-off​ ​slope​ ​was​ ​a​ ​vast​ ​Italian​ ​quarter, 
though​ ​most​ ​of​ ​the​ ​houses​ ​were​ ​remnants​ ​of​ ​older​ ​Yankee​ ​and​ ​Irish​ ​days.​ ​Now​ ​and​ ​then​ ​he 
would​ ​train​ ​his​ ​field-glasses​ ​on​ ​that​ ​spectral,​ ​unreachable​ ​world​ ​beyond​ ​the​ ​curling​ ​smoke; 
picking​ ​out​ ​individual​ ​roofs​ ​and​ ​chimneys​ ​and​ ​steeples,​ ​and​ ​speculating​ ​upon​ ​the​ ​bizarre 
and​ ​curious​ ​mysteries​ ​they​ ​might​ ​house.​ ​Even​ ​with​ ​optical​ ​aid​ ​Federal​ ​Hill​ ​seemed 
somehow​ ​alien,​ ​half​ ​fabulous,​ ​and​ ​linked​ ​to​ ​the​ ​unreal,​ ​intangible​ ​marvels​ ​of​ ​Blake’s​ ​own 
tales​ ​and​ ​pictures.​ ​The​ ​feeling​ ​would​ ​persist​ ​long​ ​after​ ​the​ ​hill​ ​had​ ​faded​ ​into​ ​the​ ​violet, 
lamp-starred​ ​twilight,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​court-house​ ​floodlights​ ​and​ ​the​ ​red​ ​Industrial​ ​Trust​ ​beacon 
had​ ​blazed​ ​up​ ​to​ ​make​ ​the​ ​night​ ​grotesque. 
 
Even​ ​my​ ​speech​ ​seemed​ ​awkward​ ​and​ ​foreign.​ ​I​ ​used​ ​my​ ​vocal​ ​organs​ ​clumsily​ ​and 
gropingly,​ ​and​ ​my​ ​diction​ ​had​ ​a​ ​curiously​ ​stilted​ ​quality,​ ​as​ ​if​ ​I​ ​had​ ​laboriously​ ​learned​ ​the 
English​ ​language​ ​from​ ​books.​ ​The​ ​pronunciation​ ​was​ ​barbarously​ ​alien,​ ​whilst​ ​the​ ​idiom 
seemed​ ​to​ ​include​ ​both​ ​scraps​ ​of​ ​curious​ ​archaism​ ​and​ ​expressions​ ​of​ ​a​ ​wholly 
incomprehensible​ ​cast.​ ​Of​ ​the​ ​latter​ ​one​ ​in​ ​particular​ ​was​ ​very​ ​potently—even 
terrifiedly—recalled​ ​by​ ​the​ ​youngest​ ​of​ ​the​ ​physicians​ ​twenty​ ​years​ ​afterward.​ ​For​ ​at​ ​that 
late​ ​period​ ​such​ ​a​ ​phrase​ ​began​ ​to​ ​have​ ​an​ ​actual​ ​currency—first​ ​in​ ​England​ ​and​ ​then​ ​in​ ​the 
United​ ​States—and​ ​though​ ​of​ ​much​ ​complexity​ ​and​ ​indisputable​ ​newness,​ ​it​ ​reproduced​ ​in 
every​ ​least​ ​particular​ ​the​ ​mystifying​ ​words​ ​of​ ​the​ ​strange​ ​Arkham​ ​patient​ ​of​ ​1908. 
 
 
“Slumber,​ ​watcher,​ ​till​ ​the​ ​spheres 
Six​ ​and​ ​twenty​ ​thousand​ ​years 
Have​ ​revolv’d,​ ​and​ ​I​ ​return 
To​ ​the​ ​spot​ ​where​ ​now​ ​I​ ​burn. 
Other​ ​stars​ ​anon​ ​shall​ ​rise 
To​ ​the​ ​axis​ ​of​ ​the​ ​skies; 
Stars​ ​that​ ​soothe​ ​and​ ​stars​ ​that​ ​bless 
With​ ​a​ ​sweet​ ​forgetfulness: 
Only​ ​when​ ​my​ ​round​ ​is​ ​o’er 
Shall​ ​the​ ​past​ ​disturb​ ​thy​ ​door.”