The Collected Short Fiction

by Thomas Ligotti

  Hans Hoffmann, a prodigy in comparative anatomy at the University of Ingolstadt, is conducting a series of experiments in his apartment. He has assembled, and is quite sure he can vivfy, a human being from various body parts he has bought or stolen. To consummate his project, which to his knowledge has never been attempted and would certainly make him famous, he still needs a human brain. He has heard that the body of a former student at the university at Ingolstadt is preserved in the morgue of the medical school. He has heard that the man was a brilliant student. This would be the perfect brain, thinks Hans Hoffmann. Late one night he breaks into the morgue and helps himself.

  "Well," says Hans Hoffmann on the spectacular evening when the creature first opens its eyes, "aren't you a beauty!" This is intended ironically, of course; the creature is quite hideous. What Hans Hoffmann now notices is that the creature is gazing around the room, as if expecting to see someone who, for the moment, is absent.

  "Oh ho," says the scientist, "I can see I'm going to have trouble with you. You'll be begging me one of these days to make you a companion, someone of your own kind. Well, look here," says Hans Hoffmann holding a handful of entrails and part of a woman's face. "I've already tried to do it, perhaps a little halfheartedly, I admit. It's not the same, making a woman, and I don't have much use for them anyway."

  Hans Hoffmann cannot tell whether or not the creature has understood these words. Nevertheless, it has an extremely desolate expression on its face (just possibly due to a few collapsed muscles). Now the creature is staggering around Hans Hoffmann's apartment, inadvertently breaking a number of objects. Finally, it stumbles out the door and into the streets of Ingolstadt. ("Good riddance!" shouts Hans Hoffmann).

  But as the creature wanders into the darkness, searching for a face it remembers from long ago, it is unaware that the only being in the entire universe who could possibly offer him any comfort has already incinerated himself on a furious pyre deep in the icy wasteland of the North Pole.

  The Blasphemous Enlightenment of Prof. Francis Wayland Thurston of Boston, Providence, and the Human Race (1985)

  First published in Fantasy And Terror 5, 1985.

  Also published in Crypt Of Cthulhu #68 (as part of 'Selections Of Lovecraft'), The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales.

  This version taken from: The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, which differs only slightly from the Crypt Of Cthulhu version in that the line 'He grieves for his lost dream of life,' omits the final two words; a comma replaces the ellipsis in the line 'Then, on the last night of the honeymoon... everything is resolved'; an m-dash replaces the colon in the line 'Outside the window of the bedroom it sounds as though the whole town is in an ambivalent uproar: hysterical voices blending festival and catastrophe'.

  In the late 1920s Prof. Thurston is putting a few final touches to a manuscript he intends no other person ever to lay eyes on, so that no one else will have to suffer unnecessarily in the way he has this past year or so. When it's all done with, he just sits in silence for a few moments in the library of his Boston home (summer sunlight wandering over the oak walls), and then he breaks down and weeps like a lost soul for the better part of the day, letting up later that night.

  Prof. Thurston is the nephew of George Gammell Angell, also a professor (at Brown U., Providence, PJ), whose archaeological and anthropological unearthings led him, and after his death led his nephew, to some disturbing conclusions concerning the nature and fate of human life, with implications universal even in their least astounding aspects.

  They discovered, positively, that throughout the world there exist savage cults which practice strange rites: degenerate Eskimos in the Arctic, degenerate Caucasians in New England seaport towns, and degenerate Indians and mulattoes in the Louisiana swamps not far from Tulane University, New Orleans. The two professors also discovered that the primary aim of these cults is to await and welcome the return of ante-prehistoric monstrosities which will unseat the human race, overrun the earth, and generally have their way with our world.

  These beings are as detestably inhuman as humanly imaginable, though no more so. From the common individual's viewpoint their nature is one of supreme evil and insanity, notwithstanding that the creatures themselves are indifferent to, if not totally unaware of, such mundane categories of value.

  From the beginning of time they have held a certain attraction for persons interested in pursuing an existence of utter chaos and mayhem; that is, one of complete liberation at all conceivable levels.

  After learning the designs these beings have on our planet, Prof. Thurston just assumes he will be murdered to keep him quiet on the subject, as his uncle and others have been. (And to think that at one point in his investigation he was planning to publish his findings in the journal of the American Archaelogical Society!) All he can do now is wait.

  For some reason, however, the followers of the Great Old Ones (as the extraterrestrial entities are referred to) never follow through, and Prof. Thurston appears to escape assassination, at least for an indefinite period of time. But this is of little comfort, because knowing what he knows, Prof. Thurston is the most miserable being on earth. He grieves for his lost dream of life, and even the skies of spring and flowers of summer are a horror to his eyes. It goes without saying that he now finds even the simplest daily task a joyless requisite for survival and no more.

  After months of boredom and a personal devastation far worse than any worldwide apocalypse could possibly be, he decides to return to his old job at the university. Not that he believes any longer in the hollow conclusions of his once beloved anthropology, but at least it would give him a way to occupy himself, to lose himself. Still, he continues to be profoundly despondent and his looks degenerate beyond polite comment.

  "What's wrong, Prof. Thurston?" a student asks him one day after class. The professor glances up at the girl. After only the briefest gaze into her eyes he can see that she really cares. "Amazing," he thinks. Of course there is no way he could tell her what is really wrong, but they do talk for a while and later take a walk across the campus on a clear autumn afternoon. They begin to see each other secretly off campus, and with graduation day behind them they finally get married, their ceremony solemn and discreet.

  The couple honeymoons at a picturesque little town on the seacost of Massachusetts. To all appearances, several sublime days pass without one ripple of grief. One day, as he and his bride watch the sun descend into a perfectly unwrinkled ocean, Prof. Thurston almost manages to rationalize into nonexistence his dreadful knowledge. After all, he tells himself, there still exist precious human feeling and human beauty (e.g. the quaint little town) created by human hands. These things have been perennially threatened by disorder and oblivion. Anyway, all of it was bound to end somehow, at sometime. What difference did it make when the world was lost, or to whom?

  But Prof. Thurston cannot sustain these consoling thoughts for long. All during their honeymoon he snaps pictures of his smiling wife. He loves her dearly, but her innocence is tearing him apart. How long can he conceal the terrible things he knows about himself, about her, and about the world? Even after he takes a picture, this wonderful girl just keeps smiling at him! How long can he live with this new pain?

  The problem continues to obsess him (to the future detriment, he fears, of his marriage). Then, on the last night of the honeymoon, everything is resolved.

  He awakens in darkness from a strange dream he cannot recall. Outside the window of the bedroom it sounds as though the whole town is in an ambivalent uproar—hysterical voices blending festival and catastrophe. And there are weirdly colored lights quivering upon the bedroom wall. Prof. Thurston's wife is also awake, and she says to her husband: "The new masters have come in the night to their chosen city. Have you dreamed of them?" There passes a moment of silence. Then, at last, Prof. Thurston answers his wife with the long, abandoned howl of a madman or a beast, for he too has dreamed the new
dream and, without his conscious knowledge or consent, has embraced the new world.

  And now nothing can hurt him as he has been so cruelly hurt in the past. Nothing will ever again cause him that pain he suffered so long, an intolerable anguish from which he could never have found release in any other way.

  The Eternal Devotion of the Governess to the Residents of BIy (1985)

  First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994

  The Governess is writing an account of her experiences at Bly, where she had charge of two parentless children by the names of Flora and Miles. She was hired for the job by the children's uncle, who had an office in Harley Street and with whom the governess fell hopelessly in love during the course of a very brief interview.

  The governess writes of her arrival at Bly, of her amazement at the two beautiful children, and of her resolve to devote herself body and soul to the upbringing in hopes that someday her devotion would be reciprocated by the man in Harley Street.

  The governess now writes of the horrors at Bly: how the ghosts of two former retainers, Miss Jessel and Peter Quint, are trying to possess the souls of the children and through them perpetuate the unholy romantic alliance that this notorious twosome carried in life.

  The governess sees these horrible fiends outside windows, in the shadows at the foot of a stairway, and across the serene waters of a pond. But she conquers her terror; at all costs she must protect the children!

  The governess thinks she has prevailed over the evil spirits. The children are to leave Bly, and it only remains to pack up Miles in the coach where his sister now waits for him. The dead, however, are very tenacious and do not easily give up the pleasure of unexpectedly appearing at windows.

  Inside the house Miles is standing fixed with fear when the governess comes to collect him. Staring at him through the paned windows of a pair of French doors is the face of Quint, while hovering over him is the face of the governess, and each is making a bid for the boy's soul. But Miles' soul is already shattered beyond repair, wrecked. Tragically the ensuing struggle causes his heart to stop beating. He lies dead in the arms of the governess.

  With a great feeling of pain and loss the governess finishes her memoir of that dreadful episode at Bly. Despite the catastrophic outcome of her first position as a governess she will manage to secure employment at other houses. And she will live, in good health, to a ripe old age.

  But the man from Harley Street never comes, handsome little Miles is dead, and the governess will not see Bly again... as long as she lives.

  The Ever-Vigilant Guardians of Secluded Estates (1985)

  First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994

  A young man with a sparse mustache is sitting in a large chair in the innermost chamber of his large house, where all his life he has lived well in solitude off the fortunes made by his ancestors. For him, simply drifting among rooms of dreamy half-lights kills the better part of any given day.

  Tonight, however, he is disturbed by certain mental images he is not used to experiencing: brightly lit places, crowds of people, and soft laughter. "Well, what do you think of that?" he thinks, or perhaps even says out loud.

  Now an old servant walks into the room, and the young man watches him as he sets down a drink in a glass of finely carved crystal. The young man hasn't asked for this refreshment but he takes a few sips anyway, just out of pure courtesy to the thoughtful old domestic. The servant stands by, and the young man keeps an eye on him. When the servant bends down to collect the empty glass, the young man detects a slightly sour odor and seems to be viewing the servant's gaunt face for the very first time. For some reason he is horrified by the sight.

  "I think I'll go out tonight," says the young man as he makes a deliberately impulsive bound to his feet. "Where will you go?" asks the servant in a quiet voice. "That's no business of yours, now is it?" answers the young man. "Where will you go?" the servant repeats, a total lack of expression on his old servant's face.

  "Insolent old fool," thinks the young man as he steps into the next room. But the next room is exactly like the one he has just left. And seated in a chair before him is a young man with a sparse mustache.

  At this rate neither of us will ever make it out the front door, he thinks. And it was too late anyway. Long ago it was already too late, sighs the old servant as he drifts through his hell of dreamy half-lights on his way to fetch the new master a drink he did not ask for.

  The Excruciating Final Days of Dr. Henry Jekyll, Englishman (1985)

  First published in The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994

  Dr. Henry Jekyll has been locked in his laboratory off a busy London bystreet for almost a week now, trying to find the formula that would destroy the insatiable Edward Hyde forever, or at least dissolve him into a few chemicals harmlessly suspended in one's system. Late Sunday morning Dr. Jekyll awakens on the floor and discovers, to his amazement, the shrunken form of Hyde stirring half-consciously beside him.

  They are both a little groggy, and Dr. Jekyll is the first to make it to his feet. For a moment they just stare at each other. Dr. Jekyll can see that Hyde's ferocious being has been rendered innocuous and tame, the lingering effects, no doubt, of his debauched life.

  "I have just the thing," says Dr. Jekyll, cradling Hyde's head with one arm and forcing a beaker of bubbling fluid to his lips. Then Dr. Jekyll backs away and watches Hyde being overtaken by wrenching convulsions from the poison he has unwittingly ingested.

  Someone is now knocking at the laboratory door (the one that leads into the house). "Dr. Jekyll, sir, there's a young lady here asking for Mr. Hyde. What should I tell her?"

  "Just a minute, Poole," answers Dr. Jekyll, smoothing out his crumpled cravat and preparing to deliver the regrettable news that Hyde died days ago in an unfortunate accident of science. The man would drink anything he could get his hands on, and he knew nothing of chemistry!

  But before seeing the young lady, Dr. Jekyll wants to examine the corpse of his evil twin. My God, this poor creature is practically immortal, he thinks as he drags the faintly gasping body of Edward Hyde toward the gaping and fiery incinerator.

  The Fabulous Alienation of the Outsider, being of no fixed Abode (1985)

  Also published in Crypt Of Cthulhu #68 (as part of 'Selections Of Lovecraft'), The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, 1994

  This version taken from: The Agonizing Resurrection Of Victor Frankenstein And Other Gothic Tales, which differs from the Crypt Of Cthulhu version by the two words square-bracketed here: 'Without the others he simply cannot go on being himself—[The Outsider—]for there is no longer anyone to be outside of.'

  The outsider lifts his shadow-wearied eyes and gazes about the moldy chamber where, to his knowledge, he has always lived. He has no recollection of who he is or how he came to dwell so far removed from others of his kind who, he reasons, must exist, perhaps in that world above which he vividly recalls, though he glimsed it only once and long ago.

  One night the outsider emerges from his underground domain and, guided solely by the glowing moon he has never really seen before, scrambles down a dark road, searching for friendly lights and, he hopes, friendly faces.

  Eventually he comes upon a large, festively illuminated house. At first he peeks shyly through the windows at the partiers inside; but soon his unbearable longing for the society of others, along with a barely evolved sense of etiquette, liberate him from all hesitancies. Locating an unlocked door, he crashes the affair.

  Inside the house—a structure of gorgeous, Georgian decor—everyone screams and flees at the first sight of the outsider. After only a few seconds of recognition and companionship, this recluse by default is once again left to keep his own company. That is to say, he has been abandoned to the company of that untimely horror which initially set those gay and fine-looking people so inde
corously on their heels. "What was it?" he asks himself, posing the question over and over with seemingly infinite repitition before finally collecting wits to squint a little to one side. "What was it?" he asks for the infinite time add one or two. "It was you," answers the mirror. "It was you."

  Now it is the outsider's turn to make his getaway from that hideous living corpse of unholy and unwholesome familiarity, that thing which had imperfectly decomposed in its subterranean resting place. He seeks refuge in a chaotic dreamworld where no one really notices the dead and no one even looks twice at the disgusting.

  Eventually, however, he tires of this deranged, though unhostile, dimension of alienage. His heart more pulverized than simply broken, he decides to return to the subhumous envelope from which he never should have strayed, there to reclaim his birthright of sloth, amnesia, and darkness. A period of time passes, indefinite for the outsider though decisive for the balance of the world's population.

  For reasons unknown, the outsider once more drags his bulky frame earthwards. Arriving exhaused in the superterranean realm, he finds himself standing, badly, in neither darkness nor daylight, but some morbid transitional phase between the two. A senile sun throbs with deadly dimness, and every living thing on the face of the land has been choked by desolation and by an equivocal gloom which has perhaps already lasted millenia, if not longer. The outsider, a thing of the dead, has managed to outlive all those others whom, either from madness or mere loss of memory, he would willingly seek out to escape a personal void that seems to have existed prior to astronomy.

  This possibility is now, of course, as defunct as the planet itself. With all biology in tatters, the outsider will never again hear the consoling gasps of those who shunned him and in whose eyes and hearts he achieved a certain tangible identity, however loathsome. Without the others he simply cannot go on being himself—for there is no longer anyone to be outside of. In no time at all he is overwhelmed by this atrocious paradox of fate.