The Lovecraft Code

by Levenda, Peter;

  So, in late May of 1931, Lovecraft embarked on this fateful trip to Florida. He had no idea that this visit would generate repercussions for decades to come.

  His visit with Whitehead from May 21 to June 10 was very helpful. The 49-year old Anglican minister cleared up a great many mysteries concerning the weird rites of the African and Caribbean religions and did so from an educated point of view, which Lovecraft approved. Whitehead had lived in St Croix, in the Virgin Islands, in the 1920s and had observed first hand the hideous incantations of the notorious voodoo worshippers. He began publishing stories about what he saw in Weird Tales, the same publication Lovecraft graced with his own prose, and the two became friends, eventually including another writer, Robert H. Barlow, in their circle. To make matters more interesting, Whitehead was also a personal friend of the soon-to-be President of the United States, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and had photos of himself and Roosevelt in his comfortable home. Lovecraft was interested in this strange connection between an Anglican minister who was also a specialist in voodoo—as well as an author of horror stories—and the American president. It was not the sort of relationship that would occur to most people.

  Whitehead, however, was sick from a variety of illnesses, no doubt contracted during his lengthy sojourn in the Caribbean. He was not the dry, dignified sort of clergyman but a rather more outgoing type who reveled in the company of young boys that he would take on camping trips to the Adirondacks. He availed of Lovecraft's visit to convince the author to do a dramatic reading of one of his stories to just such a group of boys. And in that manner Lovecraft passed almost two enjoyable weeks in Dunedin.

  His visit to Key West, however, was rather more intense.

  Count Karl Tanzler von Cosel met Lovecraft at the Florida East Coast Railway station, and the two men walked along the streets for awhile as they approached Tanzler's dilapidated residence, Tanzler apologizing for the lack of transport by telling Lovecraft that his car had recently been stolen. The Count had a brief moment of déjà vu as he realized it was on a similar train platform that George Viereck had taken from him the bizarre manuscript he had stolen from the man he murdered, Professor George Angell: a man known to his guest.

  For his part Lovecraft was amused at Tanzler's weird appearance: the gaunt figure with the jutting beard, bald head and heavy spectacles. The old German's accent was also amusing to Lovecraft, who did not like foreigners generally but who found Tanzler's intensity fascinating. The “residence” however, was another story. A ramshackle building with no running water or other conveniences, it looked more like mechanic's workshop than a home. Lovecraft knew he could not stay there, but did not have the heart to tell his host just yet.

  Tanzler introduced himself as a nobleman from Dresden. A former soldier in the Kaiser's army, he was now practicing as a medical man in Key West and an expert in radiology. There was a frisson of something that passed between the two men as Lovecraft mentally connected his old creation, Herbert West, with Key West and radiology with the strange and forbidden experimentation of Herbert West in the reanimation of the dead. Key West, after all, is the Anglicization of the Spanish Cayo Hueso, or “bone cay,” an island that was littered with the bones of the ancient people who originally inhabited the site. This idea appealed to Lovecraft, even as the presence of so many Cubans on the streets appalled him.

  Tanzler put Lovecraft's suitcase in a corner of his home, and the two men went in search of refreshments. Neither was very wealthy; in fact, both were counting pennies, so Tanzler suggested an open air café where they could eat simply and cheaply and plan the next few days in pleasant surroundings. Before they left, Lovecraft noted the unusual medical apparatus everywhere, including what looked like a Tesla coil and other, very heavy, electrical equipment for purposes he could only guess, including a rather massive organ with a moldy stack of sheet music. Had he actually met a mad scientist?

  The pleasantries completed, the two were sitting at a small table on Duval Street drinking iced tea. It was hot, even for June, and they welcomed the arrival of their drinks with pleasure and anticipation. Tanzler liked his extremely sweet, a fact Lovecraft noted with some distaste. He watched the condensation form on his own glass as he took moderate sips, letting the bitterness and the cold adjust his mental processes to something approaching normal. He wondered if he could catch a ferry to Havana.

  Instead of discussing the tourist attractions of Key West, however, Tanzler brought the subject around almost at once to the theme that obsessed him.

  “My dear Lovecraft,” he began. “I have read your stories with fascination and appreciation. As a man of science, with a specialty in the field of the electrical stimulation of the life processes, I wonder if you are aware that there are those who are working on precisely the type of resurrection techniques hinted at in your work.”

  Lovecraft looked up at Tanzler, not quite sure what he was getting at.

  “Forgive me, but my little stories are works of fiction and the imagination. The resurrection—or, should I say, reanimation—of dead matter is something horrible, of which no sane man would consider himself guilty.”

  “Nein, mein Lieber Freund. There are those even now who, on a pleasantly sunny day such as we enjoy, are concentrating intently on this very goal.”

  “But my dear Count, that is not possible. Once the body dies it begins to decompose very quickly. Its internal systems collapse. The brain, deprived of blood and therefore of oxygen, shuts down and with it all consciousness disappears. There is nothing left to reanimate, I assure you. In fact, I understand that Tibetan monks, in that savage and inaccessible part of the Himalayan wasteland, carve up corpses with laughter and glee and quite sharp cleavers as they do not believe the dead body has any relationship any longer to the soul that inhabited it. They throw the severed cadavers on the snowy mountain tops like the detritus of a squalid restaurant and let the vultures consume them.” A strange gleam flicked briefly across the writer's eyes at the thought.

  “I would have to disagree, good sir. The ancients tell us of the portability of the mind, that it can travel out of the body and even, under certain circumstances, inhabit or possess another body. The phenomenon of possession and exorcism surely suggests as much?”

  “Nonsense, Karl. May I call you Karl? Thank you. It is nonsense to believe in any of this superstitious claptrap about spirits and ghosts and demons and such. There is simply no scientific basis for any of it. Religion is a curse upon humanity, Karl. It distorts reality at the hands of vain and venal men who wish to use fantasies to control the masses. It is way to lie without seeming to lie; in fact, it is a way to lie that demands no proof that the lie is, in fact, the truth. In that, it is the perfect lie!”

  The German spy and occultist waited a moment before responding. His mind went to his beloved Elena, even now in the last few months of her life, and the cruelty with which Lovecraft denied all possibility of post-mortem existence was depressing him.

  Then he thought of a way to bring the conversation around to the subject with which his superior was most interested.

  “Would you be surprised if I told you that, even now, there are those among us who not only believe in the existence of ghosts, gods and demons but who actively seek to make contact with them?”

  Lovecraft was a little startled at the intensity in the German's gaze. What had he gotten himself into?

  “The foolishness of humanity is no surprise to me, my good Count.”

  “Do you, then, deny the value of psychology and psychotherapy in the treatment of mental disorders?”

  This was a bolt that struck home as surely as if it had been fired by William Tell himself.

  “Are mental disorders then to be considered spiritual disorders? Is this what civilization has come to, applying scientific-sounding terms to superstitious beliefs?”

  “Ah, then you do not believe that mental disorders exist?”

  “Oh, but I do. I am surrounded in this world by morons, idiots, and the crimin
ally insane. One only has to read a newspaper, or visit Congress, to be assured of that!”

  It was a slick reply, one that Lovecraft had made before in other contexts, but the tone and direction of this conversation was cutting a little too close to home.

  “Agreed, mein Freund. Aber consider the populations of our asylums. These are individuals who would have been cured of their disorders in the old days by the ritual of exorcism. But since we now live in a scientific world, exorcism is no longer employed as a remedy and thus the poor individuals must live the rest of their lives untreated and undiagnosed. A diagnosis of demonic possession would relieve one of their medical license, nicht war?”

  “What you are characterizing as either a spiritual or a mental disorder may be nothing more than an organic condition, treatable by medicines and other appropriate methodologies. It is to the body we must look for both the cause and the cure of disease, not to the invisible and intangible spirit!”

  As they were arguing, one of Tanzler's agents—a German spy on his way to the shipyards in Virginia—went into Tanzler's home and found Lovecraft's suitcase. He opened it easily and rummaged through everything he could find. There was the usual collection of clothing and toiletries, and a notebook.

  Thinking this might be the Cthulhu File, the agent opened it and flipped through its pages. Sadly, it turned out to be nothing but descriptions of places visited, snippets of conversation, and other ordinary scribblings. There was nothing about the Cthulhu Cult in the file, no references to arcane events or satanic conspiracies.

  With a sigh, the agent put everything back in its place and quietly left the house. On the doorjamb he scratched a single line with a piece of chalk, indicating to Tanzler that the file was not there.

  After having had two large glasses of iced tea each, the two men paid and got up from their table, still talking. Tanzler had a restaurant in mind for their dinner, one that would certainly cheer up his guest and perhaps make him more amenable to discussion about the things that mattered most to him: the Cthulhu File, of course, and the process of reanimation.

  They walked down Duval Street to a restaurant that specialized in fresh seafood as well as more pedestrian fare. Tanzler had no idea what his guest would eat, so he chose a place that would have a little of everything. If Lovecraft was not a picky eater, he would order some Caribbean seafood delicacies. He felt certain that the New Englander would not turn down a conch chowder, for instance. It was still Prohibition so finding a bar was out of the question.

  Lovecraft pronounced the place acceptable, and he and Tanzler took a table in a corner away from the noise of the other diners. The checkered tablecloth and the candles in wine bottles seemed a little too ... romantic ... for Tanzler's taste but his guest had no apparent objections to either the décor or the menu.

  At another table on the far side of the room, Ernest Hemingway and his wife, Pauline, relative newcomers to Key West, were dining on swordfish and salads. They had just bought a house only a few blocks away and were planning to settle there for the foreseeable future. Neither Tanzler nor Lovecraft were even aware of Hemingway at the time, and so would not have been star-struck at the proximity.

  Having made a little small talk over the menu and the restaurant itself, Tanzler returned to business.

  “You are familiar with some of the Latin traditions in this part of the world?” he asked Lovecraft.

  “You are referring to the Cubans, who so seem to proliferate here?”

  “Yes. The Cubans and some of the people from the other islands.”

  “Well, I am familiar with voodoo. Perhaps more than most. I have just come from a very interesting visit with a man who is an expert on voodoo. We had many an enjoyable conversation on the subject. He, too, is an author of stories of the imagination and horror, and his time among the savages of St. Croix has afforded him much material for his work.”

  “Ach, that is indeed interesting! You have many interesting friends, Herr Lovecraft. Perhaps he has told you about one such cult, one that has been operating in this part of the world for more than a century, at least. A cult that is as evil and degenerated as anything a civilized man could imagine.”

  “Surely you mean voodoo, or some version of it?”

  “Not at all. This cult is to voodoo what the Black Mass is to the Catholic Church. It is ancient, and widespread. It has been underground, in all meanings of that word, for centuries now. Perhaps millennia. But now it is threatening to reemerge and threatens us all with its depravity.”

  “Communism?”

  Lovecraft could not help himself. He was making jokes because the content of the conversation was now circling around his own life and making him very nervous. Tanzler was an odd duck; virtually everything he said in the past few hours had something to do with Lovecraft's own concerns and the dark mysteries he had been keeping within himself. It was as if Tanzler was reading his mind and rummaging through the contents like a matron at a jumble sale.

  “You may joke, Herr Lovecraft, but this is serious business.”

  “Perhaps too serious for this delightful chowder?”

  Their dishes had arrived and both men, who each spent their lives in an almost continuous state of hunger, dug in.

  The conch chowder was excellent. It was creamy, with an orange tinge of paprika. Not too heavily spiced, which would have bothered Lovecraft's delicate constitution, but nevertheless flavorful.

  The two men were silent awhile as they enjoyed their meal.

  As their waitress cleared the plates and offered them tea or coffee, Tanzler returned to the subject at hand.

  “Herr Lovecraft ...”

  “Please. Call me Howard.”

  “As you wish. Howard, have you heard of a cult named after its leader, a high priest called ... how does one pronounce it ... Cahthu-lu?”

  And there it was. It had dropped on the table between them like a vile imprecation. There was no going back from this now.

  “Count von Cosel, you know very well that I have. I published a story with that name.”

  “Yes, of course. But you did not take the contents of that story seriously. You published it in a magazine devoted to the most vulgar form of literature.”

  “How else should I have treated such an outrageous theme? Monsters, strange idols, orgiastic rites in the bayou ...”

  “Let us be frank, please. We both know the cult exists. We also know where you derived your information about it.”

  Lovecraft leaned back in his chair, as if to put as much distance between himself and his memories—incarnated in this horrible little man—as possible.

  “You named your source. You revealed all the basic contours of this cult. You were quite specific as to dates and places. You held nothing back, not one detail no matter how insignificant. This was not the work of a fantasist, Mister Lovecraft. Howard. It was not a short story, a horror tale or a fantasy.

  “It was an intelligence report.”

  After the theft of the Cthulhu Cult file from his apartment in Brooklyn, Lovecraft wrote down as much as he could remember from the file. He included the information about George Angell but did not mention his visit to the old professor or, of course, his own theft of the Cthulhu File from the professor's desk.

  What he read in the file had amazed him. He was not given to conspiracy theory or wild speculations about international cabals of Satanists, but the news clippings and other data in the file provided a rare glimpse into a world of underground rites, exotic locations, and bizarre people. He realized that the file was selective in its inclusion of data and that there might be other ways of interpreting the same facts, ways that were not so terrifying or suggestive of supernatural causes. Yet, he could not deny the multiplication of coincidences that seemed to accrue around the events of the spring of 1925 that led the professor to some unsettling conclusions.

  Lovecraft remembered that there had been a serious earthquake around that time in the region of the St. Lawrence River in Canada. The effect o
f the earthquake was severe enough that it caused buildings to rotate. In fact, it caused the monuments in cemeteries to rotate. Lovecraft spent time researching the event and came upon an article in The Journal of the Royal Astronomical Society of Canada entitled “The Rotation Effects of the St. Lawrence Earthquake of February 28, 1925” by Ernest A. Hodgson that attested to this fact and noted its peculiarity. This rotation would seem to indicate a re-orientation of the affected tombs, as if the monuments over them were keys being turned in a series of locks. The implication of this fact unnerved Lovecraft, and he tried to push it out of his mind.

  Then he came upon a notice from April 2, 1925 and thus only a month after the earthquake and two weeks after the psychological crisis suffered by young Henry Wilcox on the vernal equinox that year. This was a meeting of the French Surrealists that took place on that day in which they struggled with the direction of their movement: Surrealism or revolution. The first point, as reported in their Memorandum, was:

  Before any Surrealist or revolutionary preoccupation, that which dominates their minds is a certain state of fury.

  This state of fury was partially attributable to their support of a revolt in Morocco against the French colonial authority. Mad Arabs.

  Lovecraft researched the Surrealists because artistic movements were expressly mentioned and documented in the Cthulhu File as being somehow linked to the massive, subterranean tensions that were rising as a response to the “call” of the impossible, or at least improbable, Cthulhu. He found that the Surrealists traced the origins of their movement and their art to the unconscious mind; that is, they considered themselves mediums (in all senses of that word) for the eruptions of unconscious material that were splayed across their canvases and their texts: the ejecta of psychosis, neurosis, nightmares and forbidden fantasies, and all the impedimenta of the new science of psychology. This was exactly what Professor Angell had been tracking, and how this being—this construct of demented vision—called Cthulhu communicated with its followers on the Earth. The artists were the first to feel the effects, and they were followed in turn by the cults.