Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos

by H. P. Lovecraft; Various

  Later he trudged to the supermarket. From several front gardens came the teeth-grinding scrape of spades clearing snow; these faded and were answered by the crushed squeak of snow engulfing boots. When he emerged from the supermarket clutching an armful of cans, a snowball whipped by his face to thud against the window, a translucent beard spreading down the pane like the fluid from the noses of those boys who felt Strutt’s wrath most often, for he was determined to beat this ugliness, this revoltingness, out of them. Strutt glared about him for the marksman—a seven-year-old, boarding his tricycle for a quick retreat; Strutt moved involuntarily as if to pull the boy across his knee. But the street was not deserted; even now the child’s mother, in slacks and curlers peeking from beneath a headscarf, was slapping her son’s hand: “I’ve told you, don’t do that. —Sorry,” she called to Strutt. “Yes, I’m sure,” he snarled, and tramped back to his flat. His heart pumped uncontrollably. He wished fervently that he could talk to someone as he had talked to the bookseller on the edge of Goatswood who had shared his urges; when the man had died earlier that year Strutt had felt abandoned in a tacitly conspiring, hostile world. Perhaps the new shop’s owner might prove similarly sympathetic? Strutt hoped that the man who had conducted him there yesterday would not be in attendance, but if he was, surely he could be got rid of—a bookseller dealing with Ultimate Press must be a man after Strutt’s own heart, who would be as opposed as he to that other’s presence while they were talking frankly. As well as this discussion, Strutt needed books to read over Christmas, and Squeers would not last him long; the shop would scarcely be closed on Christmas Eve. Thus reassured, he unloaded the cans on the kitchen table and ran downstairs.

  Strutt stepped from the bus in silence; the engine’s throb was quickly muffled among the laden houses. The piled snow waited for some sound. He splashed through the tracks of cars to the pavement, its dull coat depressed by countless overlapping footprints. The road twisted slyly; as soon as the main road was out of sight the side street revealed its real character. The snow laid over the house-fronts became threadbare; rusty protrusions poked through. One or two windows showed Christmas trees, their ageing needles falling out, their branches tipped with luridly sputtering lights. Strutt, however, had no eye for this but kept his gaze on the pavement, seeking to avoid stains circled by dogs’ pawmarks. Once he met the gaze of an old woman staring down at a point below her window which was perhaps the extent of her outside world. Momentarily chilled, he hurried on, pursued by a woman who, on the evidence within her pram, had given birth to a litter of newspapers, and halted before the shop.

  Though the orange sky could scarcely have illuminated the interior, no electric gleam was visible through the magazines, and the torn notice hanging behind the grime might read CLOSED. Slowly Strutt descended the steps. The pram squealed by, the latest flakes spreading across the newspapers. Strutt stared at its inquisitive proprietor, turned and almost fell into sudden darkness. The door had opened and a figure blocked the doorway.

  “You’re not shut, surely?” Strutt’s tongue tangled.

  “Perhaps not. Can I help you?”

  “I was here yesterday. Ultimate Press book,” Strutt replied to the face level with his own and uncomfortably close.

  “Of course you were, yes, I recall.” The other swayed incessantly like an athlete limbering up, and his voice wavered constantly from bass to falsetto, dismaying Strutt. “Well, come in before the snow gets to you,” the other said and slammed the door behind them, evoking a note from the ghost of the bell’s tongue.

  The bookseller—this was he, Strutt presumed—loomed behind him, a head taller; down in the half-light, among the vague vindictive corners of the tables, Strutt felt an obscure compulsion to assert himself somehow, and remarked: “I hope you found the money for the book. Your man didn’t seem to want me to pay. Some people would have taken him at his word.”

  “He’s not with us today.” The bookseller switched on the light inside his office. As his lined pouched face was lit up it seemed to grow; the eyes were sunk in sagging stars of wrinkles; the cheeks and forehead bulged from furrows; the head floated like a half-inflated balloon above the stuffed tweed suit. Beneath the unshaded bulb the walls pressed close, surrounding a battered desk from which overflowed fingerprinted copies of The Bookseller thrust aside by a black typewriter clogged with dirt, beside which lay a stub of sealing-wax and an open box of matches. Two chairs faced each other across the desk, and behind it was a closed door. Strutt seated himself before the desk, brushing dust to the floor. The bookseller paced round him and suddenly, as if struck by the question, demanded: “Tell me, why d’you read these books?”

  This was a question often aimed at Strutt by the English master in the staffroom until he had ceased to read his novels in the breaks. Its sudden reappearance caught him off guard, and he could only call on his old riposte: “How d’you mean, why? Why not?”

  “I wasn’t being critical,” the other hurried on, moving restlessly around the desk. “I’m genuinely interested. I was going to make the point that don’t you want what you read about to happen, in a sense?”

  “Well, maybe.” Strutt was suspicious of the trend of this discussion, and wished that he could dominate; his words seemed to plunge into the snow-cloaked silence inside the dusty walls to vanish immediately, leaving no impression.

  “I mean this: when you read a book don’t you make it happen before you, in your mind? Particularly if you consciously attempt to visualize, but that’s not essential. You might cast the book away from you, of course. I knew a bookseller who worked on this theory; you don’t get much time to be yourself in this sort of area, but when he could he worked on it, though he never quite formulated— Wait a minute, I’ll show you something.”

  He leapt away from the desk and into the shop. Strutt wondered what was beyond the door behind the desk. He half-rose but, peering back, saw the bookseller already returning through the drifting shadows with a volume extracted from among the Lovecrafts and Derleths.

  “This ties in with your Ultimate Press books, really,” the other said, banging the office door to as he entered. “They’re publishing a book by Johannes Henricus Pott next year, so we hear, and that’s concerned with forbidden lore as well, like this one; you’ll no doubt be amazed to hear that they think they may have to leave some of Pott in the original Latin. This here should interest you, though; the only copy. You probably won’t know the Revelations of Glaaki; it’s a sort of Bible written under supernatural guidance. There were only eleven volumes—but this is the twelfth, written by a man at the top of Mercy Hill guided through his dreams.” His voice grew unsteadier as he continued. “I don’t know how it got out; I suppose the man’s family may have found it in some attic after his death and thought it worth a few coppers, who knows? My bookseller—well, he knew of the Revelations, and he realized this was priceless; but he didn’t want the seller to realize he had a find and perhaps take it to the library or the University, so he took it off his hands as part of a job lot and said he might use it for scribbling. When he read it— Well, there was one passage that for testing his theory looked like a godsend. Look.”

  The bookseller circled Strutt again and placed the book in his lap, his arms resting on Strutt’s shoulders. Strutt compressed his lips and glanced up at the other’s face; but some strength weakened, refusing to support his disapproval, and he opened the book. It was an old ledger, its hinges cracking, its yellowed pages covered by irregular lines of scrawny handwriting. Throughout the introductory monologue Strutt had been baffled; now the book was before him, it vaguely recalled those bundles of duplicated typewritten sheets which had been passed around the toilets in his adolescence. “Revelations” suggested the forbidden. Thus intrigued, he read at random. Up here in Lower Brichester the bare bulb defined each scrap of flaking paint on the door opposite, and hands moved on his shoulders, but somewhere down below he would be pursued through darkness by vast soft footsteps; when he turned to look,
a swollen glowing figure was upon him— What was all this about? A hand gripped his left shoulder and the right hand turned pages; finally one finger underlined a phrase:

  Beyond a gulf in the subterranean night a passage leads to a wall of massive bricks, and beyond the wall rises Y’golonac to be served by the tattered eyeless figures of the dark. Long has he slept beyond the wall, and those which crawl over the bricks scuttle across his body never knowing it to be Y’golonac; but when his name is spoken or read he comes forth to be worshipped or to feed and take on the shape and soul of those he feeds upon. For those who read of evil and search for its form within their minds call forth evil, and so may Y’golonac return to walk among men and await that time when the earth is cleared off and Cthulhu rises from his tomb among the weeds, Glaaki thrusts open the crystal trapdoor, the brood of Eihort are born into daylight, Shub-Niggurath strides forth to smash the moon-lens, Byatis bursts forth from his prison, Daoloth tears away illusion to expose the reality concealed behind.

  The hands on his shoulders shifted constantly, slackening and tightening. The voice fluctuated: “What did you think of that?”

  Strutt thought it was rubbish, but somewhere his courage had slipped; he replied unevenly: “Well, it’s—not the sort of thing you see on sale.”

  “You found it interesting?” The voice was deepening; now it was an overwhelming bass. The other swung round behind the desk; he seemed taller—his head struck the bulb, setting shadows peering from the corners and withdrawing, and peering again. “You’re interested?” His expression was intense, as far as it could be made out; for the light moved darkness in the hollows of his face, as if the bone structure were melting visibly.

  In the murk in Strutt’s mind appeared a suspicion; had he not heard from his dear dead friend the Goatswood bookseller that a black magic cult existed in Brichester, a circle of young men dominated by somebody Franklin or Franklyn? Was he being interviewed for this? “I wouldn’t say that,” he countered.

  “Listen. There was a bookseller who read this, and I told him you may be the high priest of Y’golonac. You will call down the shapes of night to worship him at the times of year; you will prostrate yourself before him and in return you will survive when the earth is cleared off for the Great Old Ones; you will go beyond the rim to what stirs out of the light …”

  Before he could consider Strutt blurted: “Are you talking about me?” He had realized he was alone in a room with a madman.

  “No, no, I meant the bookseller. But the offer now is for you.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, I’ve got other things to do.” Strutt prepared to stand up.

  “He refused also.” The timbre of the voice grated in Strutt’s ears. “I had to kill him.”

  Strutt froze. How did one treat the insane? Pacify them. “Now, now, hold on a minute.…”

  “How can it benefit you to doubt? I have more proof at my disposal than you could bear. You will be my high priest, or you will never leave this room.”

  For the first time in his life, as the shadows between the harsh oppressive walls moved slower as if anticipating, Strutt battled to control an emotion; he subdued his mingled fear and ire with calm. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got to meet somebody.”

  “Not when your fulfillment lies here between these walls.” The voice was thickening. “You know I killed the bookseller—it was in your papers. He fled into the ruined church, but I caught him with my hands.… Then I left the book in the shop to be read, but the only one who picked it up by mistake was the man who brought you here.… Fool! He went mad and cowered in the corner when he saw the mouths! I kept him because I thought he might bring some of his friends who wallow in physical taboos and lose the true experiences, those places forbidden to the spirit. But he only contacted you and brought you here while I was feeding. There is food occasionally; young boys who come here for books in secret; they make sure nobody knows what they read!—and can be persuaded to look at the Revelations. Imbecile! He can no longer betray me with his fumbling—but I knew you would return. Now you will be mine.”

  Strutt’s teeth ground together silently until he thought his jaws would break; he stood up, nodding, and handed the volume of the Revelations toward the figure; he was poised, and when the hand closed on the ledger he would dart for the office door.

  “You can’t get out, you know; it’s locked.” The bookseller rocked on his feet, but did not start toward him; the shadows now were mercilessly clear and dust hung in the silence. “You’re not afraid—you look too calculating. Is it possible that you still do not believe? All right—” he laid his hands on the doorknob behind the desk: “—do you want to see what is left of my food?”

  A door opened in Strutt’s mind, and he recoiled from what might lie beyond. “No! No!” he shrieked. Fury followed his involuntary display of fear; he wished he had a cane to subjugate the figure taunting him. Judging by the face, he thought, the bulges filling the tweed suit must be of fat; if they should struggle, Strutt would win. “Let’s get this clear,” he shouted, “we’ve played games long enough! You’ll let me out of here or I—” but he found himself glaring about for a weapon. Suddenly he thought of the book still in his hand. He snatched the matchbox from the desk, behind which the figure watched, ominously impassive. Strutt struck a match, then pinched the boards between finger and thumb and shook out the pages. “I’ll burn this book!” he threatened.

  The figure tensed, and Strutt went cold with fear of his next move. He touched the flame to paper, and the pages curled and were consumed so swiftly that Strutt had only the impression of bright fire and shadows growing unsteadily massive on the walls before he was shaking ashes to the floor. For a moment they faced each other, immobile. After the flames a darkness had rushed into Strutt’s eyes. Through it he saw the tweed tear loudly as the figure expanded.

  Strutt threw himself against the office door, which resisted. He drew back his fist, and watched with an odd timeless detachment as it shattered the frosted glass; the act seemed to isolate him, as if suspending all action outside himself. Through the knives of glass, on which gleamed drops of blood, he saw the snowflakes settle through the amber light, infinitely far; too far to call for help. A horror filled him of being overpowered from behind. From the back of the office came a sound; Strutt spun and as he did so closed his eyes, terrified to face the source of such a sound—but when he opened them he saw why the shadow on the frosted pane yesterday had been headless, and he screamed. As the desk was thrust aside by the towering naked figure, on whose surface still hung rags of the tweed suit, Strutt’s last thought was an unbelieving conviction that this was happening because he had read the Revelations; somewhere, someone had wanted this to happen to him. It wasn’t playing fair, he hadn’t done anything to deserve this—but before he could scream out his protest his breath was cut off, as the hands descended on his face and the wet red mouths opened in their palms.

  * Originally published in Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos, 1969.

  The Return of the Lloigor*

  COLIN WILSON

  My name is Paul Dunbar Lang, and in three weeks’ time I shall be seventy-two years old. My health is excellent, but since one can never know how many more years lie ahead, I shall set down this story on paper, and perhaps even publish it, if the fit takes me. In my youth, I was a confirmed believer in the Baconian authorship of Shakespeare’s plays, but I took care never to mention my views in print, out of fear of my academic colleagues. But age has one advantage; it teaches one that the opinions of other people are not really very important; death is so much more real. So if I publish this, it will not be out of desire to convince anyone of its truth; but only because I don’t care whether it is believed or not.

  Although I was born in England—in Bristol—I have lived in America since I was twelve years old. And for nearly forty years, I have taught English literature at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. My Life of Chatterton is still the standard work on its subject, and for the past
fifteen years I have been the editor of Poe Studies.

  Two years ago in Moscow, I had the pleasure of meeting the Russian writer Irakli Andronikov, who is known mainly for his “literary research stories,” a genre he may be said to have created. It was Andronikov who asked me if I had ever met W. Romaine Newbold, whose name is involved with the Voynich manuscript. Not only had I never met Professor Newbold, who died in 1926, but I had never heard of the manuscript. Andronikov outlined the story. I was fascinated. When I returned to the States, I hastened to read Newbold’s The Cipher of Roger Bacon (Philadelphia, 1928), and Professor Manly’s two articles on the subject.

  The story of the Voynich manuscript is briefly this. It was found in an old chest in an Italian castle by a rare book dealer, Wilfred M. Voynich, and brought to the United States in 1912. With the manuscript, Voynich also found a letter that asserted that it had been the property of two famous scholars of the seventeenth century, and that it had been written by Roger Bacon, the Franciscan monk who died about 1294. The manuscript was 116 pages long, and was apparently written in cipher. It was clearly some kind of scientific or magical document, since it contained drawings of roots or plants. On the other hand, it also contained sketches that looked amazingly like illustrations from some modern biological textbook of minute cells and organisms—for example, of spermatozoons. There were also astronomical diagrams.

  For nine years, professors, historians, and cryptographers tried to break the code. Then, in 1921, Newbold announced to the American Philosophical Society in Philadelphia that he had been able to decipher certain passages. The excitement was immense; it was regarded as a supreme feat of American scholarship. But the excitement increased when Newbold disclosed the contents of the manuscript. For it seemed that Bacon must have been many centuries ahead of his time. He had apparently invented the microscope some four hundred years before Leeuwenhoek, and had shown a scientific acumen that surpassed even that of his namesake Francis Bacon in the sixteenth century.