The Complete Fiction of H. P. Lovecraft. H. P. Lovecraft
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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