The Lurker at the Threshold: Posthumous Collaborations

by August Derleth

  “That was two of the county officials,” he explained. “They are looking into the deaths which have occurred—the disappearances, rather—near Dunwich.

  That is an awful thing, I understand; if they are all to be found as the first one was, it will be something none in these parts will be likely to forget.”

  I pointed out that Dunwich was notoriously decadent. “But what was it they came to see you about, Ambrose?”

  “It seems there are reports of noises—screams, he said—heard by some of the residents, and, since we are not too far from that region from which Osborn vanished, he thought I might have heard something.”

  “But, of course, you didn’t.”

  “No, certainly not.”

  The sinister similarities of the patterns of past and present did not seem to occur to him, or, if they did so, he gave no sign of it. I did not see fit to draw his attention to them, and changed the subject. I told him I had put the papers away, and suggested that we take a walk before luncheon, maintaining that the fresh air would do him good. To this he assented readily enough.

  Accordingly, we set out. A brisk wind had sprung up, filled with intimations that the winter season was not far away; leaves fell in some quantity from the ancient trees, looking at which I was reminded uneasily of the reverence in which the ancient Druids had held trees. But this was a passing impression undoubtedly brought about by my preoccupation with the circle of stones in the vicinity of the round tower—for my proposed “walk” was nothing more or less than a roundabout way of getting myself to the tower in my cousin’s company, lest he think that I desired to visit it, as certainly I would ultimately have done, alone, had I not done so in his company.

  Rather deliberately, I chose a circuitous way, avoiding the marshy area which lay between the tower and the house, and going around to come upon the tower from the south, along the dried-up bed of that onetime tributary to the Miskatonic. My cousin commented from time to time upon the ancientness of the trees, and repeatedly observed that there was nowhere even so much as a stump which bore the mark of an ax or saw; I could not determine whether the note in his voice was one of pride or of dubiety. I mentioned that the old oaks were akin to Druids’ trees, and he looked sharply at me. What did I know of Druids? he wanted to know. I replied that I knew comparatively little. Did I ever think that there might be some basic connection among many ancient religions or religious beliefs, such as the Druidic? It had not occurred to me, and I said so.

  Myth-patterns, of course, were fundamentally similar; all grew out of a fear of or curiosity about the unknown, and the myth-makers we had always with us; but one must differentiate between mere myth-patterns and religious beliefs, as between superstitions and legends on the one hand and credos and principles of ethics and morals on the other. To all this he said nothing.

  We walked for some time in silence, and then a most curious incident took place. It happened just as we came to the dried-up bed of that tributary.

  “Ah,” he said in a rather coarse voice unlike his natural tones, “here we are at the Misquamacus.”

  “The what?” I asked, looking at him in what must have been astonishment.

  He looked at me in return, and his eyes seemed visibly to refocus. He stammered. “W-what? W-w-what was that, Stephen?”

  “What did you say the name of this stream was?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “But you just named it.”

  “Why, that is impossible. I don’t know that it ever had a name.”

  He seemed genuinely surprised, and a little angry. Seeing this, I did not press the point; I said that perhaps I had not heard rightly, or perhaps my imagination had begun to play pranks on me; but he had just the same given a name to the onetime stream which had flowed there. And the name he had given it sounded in every particular like the name of that “antient Wonder-Worker” among the Wampanaugs, that old “Wizard” who had supposedly at last vanquished and locked away the “Thing” which had plagued Richard Billington!

  The incident affected me very unpleasantly. I had already had some hint that the difficulty in which my cousin was involved was of far graver nature than he, or I for that matter, had apprehended. The nature of this apparently casual revelation increased that apprehension toward conviction. But I was shortly to experience even more striking confirmation of my suspicions.

  Without any further passage of words between us, we made our way with ease up the dried bed of that tributary and presently broke out of the surrounding underbrush to the place of the tower, an island of gravel and sand, save for the rocks which jutted out around the tower in a crude circle. My cousin had spoken of these stones as “Druidic,” but this I saw at a glance they did not seem to be, for these had none of the appearance of design so manifest in the Stonehenge survivals, for instance. Yet this circle of stones, now much broken, or encompassed by the accretion of years, some of it oddly barren alluvial deposit, bore the unmistakable signs of having been the handiwork of man; it had the aspect of purpose, rather than of design, and looked as if it might have been intended solely as a frame for the round tower, which, upon examination, I found all that I had been led to expect it would be in the light of the notes and documents I had read.

  Now, I had seen and scrutinized this tower quite often before, but I had no sooner entered within the circle of broken stones than it was as if this were indeed my initial visit to the site. This I laid in part to my illuminating reading of the data Ambrose had put together; but in part it was caused also by a certain change in atmosphere. I was conscious of this at once; whereas heretofore the tower had impressed me as a forlorn old relic of an age lost in the dim past, I now had the instant conviction that it was something which was quite apart from time. Possibly this arose from the very knowledge of its age which had previously given rise to its aura of age, but quite possibly it did not, for the stone tower, which had often seemed a sunlit reminder of ages past, seemed now a squat, almost fearsome structure which had about it an aura of malign imperviousness to time, and accompanied by the faint suggestion of a disturbingly charnel odor.

  Nevertheless, I advanced upon it as if it were new—and indeed, it required no imagination to believe that it was a new experience for me. I knew the aspect of the stones very well, but I wished to stand within and examine the carvings along the stone stair, as well as that figure or design cut into the large, newer stone which my cousin had dislodged from the roof. It was immediately apparent that the design carved along the stairs was in miniature the precise design of the leaded window in the study of my cousin’s house. On the other hand, the design on the dislodged stone was curiously antipodal—a star as opposed to a circle, a lozenge and a pillar of flame or some such representation, as opposed to rayed lines. I was about to remark on the similarity of the repetitive design, when my cousin appeared in the doorway and something in his voice warned me to be still.

  “Have you found anything?”

  It was not only indifference in his voice; it was hostility. I divined instantly that my cousin was once more the man who had met me at the station in Arkham and had so manifestly wished me back in Boston. I could not avoid the question which immediately came to mind—to what degree had his proximity to the tower influenced his mood? But I said nothing, neither of what I thought, nor of what I had discovered; I observed only that the tower seemed to be very old and the designs very primitive, but “without meaning”; and, though his eyes brooded upon me for a few moments, darkly and sombrely, he seemed to be satisfied, and retired from the threshold saying gruffly that it was time we returned to the house, it would soon be luncheon time, and he did not want to be too long in preparing it.

  I responded to his mood, and came along quite readily, chatting cheerfully on the subject of his culinary talents, suggesting all the while that he should obtain the services of a good cook and relieve himself of a task which, however pleasant as a diversion, must inevitably become depressingly tiresome, and ultimat
ely, as we came within sight of the house, urging that we forego lunch and make a trip into Arkham to have lunch instead at one of the restaurants there.

  To this he assented agreeably enough, though I had not thought he would, and in a short time we were driving along the Aylesbury Pike in the direction of that ancient, haunted town, where I now hoped for some opportunity to leave my cousin long enough to have a look in at the library of Miskatonic University and discover for myself, if possible, to what degree of truth my cousin’s notes had followed the accounts of Alijah Billington’s activities in the columns of the Arkham newspapers.

  That opportunity came sooner than I expected, for we had hardly finished lunch before Ambrose remembered several errands that he ought to do. He invited me to accompany him, but I declined, saying that I wished to stop in at the library and pay my respects to Dr. Armitage Harper, whom I had met a year ago at a scientific gathering in Boston, and, ascertaining that Ambrose would be gone for an hour, arranged to meet him at the College Street entrance to the Quadrangle at the expiration of that time.

  Dr. Harper, who had retired from more active duty, had an office to himself on the second floor of the building which housed the Miskatonic Library, and was there available to bibliophiles and fellow-experts in Massachusetts history, on which he was an authority. He was a distinguished old gentleman, by no means betraying his seventy-odd years in the trim cut of his iron-grey moustache and Van Dyke and the alertness of his dark eyes. Despite having spoken to me on but two occasions, the last of which was almost a year ago, he recognized me after but a momentary hesitation, and seemed quite pleased to see me, explaining that he had been investigating a book by a Middle-Westerner whose work had been recommended to him, but that he found it diffuse, if fascinating.

  “A far cry from Thoreau,” he said, smiling genially, and permitting me to see that the book he now laid aside was Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio.

  “What brings you to Arkham, Mr. Bates?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

  I replied that I was visiting my cousin, Ambrose Dewart, but, since I saw that the name meant nothing to him, I added the explanation that my cousin was the heir of the Billington property, and that it was in connection with my visit there that I had now taken the liberty of consulting him.

  “Billington is an old name in this area of Massachusetts,” said Dr. Harper dryly.

  I answered that I had gathered as much, but that none seemed willing to say what kind of an old name, and, as far as I could ascertain, it was certainly not one held up to lasting respect.

  “Armigerous, I believe,” he said. “I have the coat of arms somewhere in the files here.” Undoubtedly armigerous, I knew. But what in plain fact could Dr, Harper tell me of Richard Billington or, for that matter, of Alijah Billington?

  The old man smiled, his eyes crinkling. “We have some references to Richard in certain books—not very complimentary, I fear; and all that is known of Alijah appears to be chronicled in the files of the weekly papers of his own day.”

  This was unsatisfactory, and my expression must have told him so.

  “But you will know that,” he continued.

  I agreed that I knew what was in print. I added that I had been impressed by the similarity between the accounts pertaining to Richard Billington and those referring to Alijah. Both, it would appear, had been engaged in practises which, if not proved illegal, were yet highly suspect.

  Dr. Harper grew grave. He was silent for a few moments with that silence which indicates a struggle within, as to whether to speak or not. But presently he began to speak, with the air of measuring what he said. Yes, he had known of the legends about the Billingtons and about Billington’s Wood for many years; they were, in fact, a rather essential part of Massachusetts lore—something almost in the nature of a holdover from the days of the witchcraft excitement, though, in point of chronology, some of the stories antedated the time of the trials. There was apparently some basis for the legends in actual circumstances, though it was impossible to tell from this perspective what degree of truth served to lend credence to the grotesque legends handed down many years ago, and at one time easily believed, however much they were forgotten now. It was, however, a fact that Richard Billington was at one time looked upon as a wizard or warlock, and that Alijah Billington had earned for himself the reputation of doing dark deeds in his woods at night. One must expect that stories could not be prevented from accumulating on bases like these; such stories had promptly made their appearance and, in making the rounds, had subsequently added a great many facets which soon lifted the original stories out of the realms of the strange and fearsome into that of the grotesque and incredible. In such fashion the original grain of truth was anything but manifest.

  It did seem fairly certain, however, he admitted, that both the Billingtons were up to “something.” Looking back upon it now, a century and more away from it, the practises of the Billingtons may or may not have been related to witchcraft; they may also or may not have been related to certain other rites, of which he, Harper, had had intimations from time to time, rites common in the backwoods country, the Dunwich and Innsmouth regions, for instance, rites which belonged properly, by their nature, to an ancient and alien race, for nothing in them suggested anything which could be said to have had its origin with man—unless one were to except some of the Druidic rites, in which worship of invisible beings in trees and the like was a commonplace.

  Did he mean to imply that the Billingtons had worshipped dryads or some such similar mythological figure? I asked.

  No, he did not have dryads in mind. There were certain strange and horrible survivals of religions or cults far more ancient than anything known to man.

  These were so minor, comparatively speaking, that scientists and other investigators usually failed to disturb them, with the result that it was left to lesser scholars to document as much as was possible to know of the ancient religions and beliefs of the more primitive peoples of the earth.

  In his opinion, then, my ancestors practised some strange, primitive type of religion?

  In a manner of speaking, yes. He added that there was quite obviously—if I had read the records—a very strong possibility that the religious rites practised by Richard and Alijah Billington involved human sacrifice, but nothing had ever been proved. Yet both Richard and Alijah disappeared—Richard no one knew where, Alijah to England, where he had died. All legends and old wives’ tales of Richard’s survival were nonsense, he affirmed; such tales rose too easily, and were disseminated by the credulous. Richard survived and Alijah survived only insofar as the line was carried on in Ambrose Dewart, and, for that matter, myself; contrary accounts had their origin in such scriveners who sought to shock and dismay the reading public by greatly-colored accounts of trivial incidents which had set flame to their imagination. However, he conceded, there was another type of survival—something known as psychic residue, the lingering of evil in places where evil had flourished.

  “Or of good?” I asked.

  “Let us just say of ‘force,’” he replied, smiling again. “It is quite possible that force or violence of some kind lingers at Billington’s house. Come, Mr. Bates—perhaps you yourself have felt it.”

  “I have.”

  He was astonished, and not agreeably so. He started a little, and then once more essayed a short smile. “n that case, I need tell you nothing about it.”

  “On the contrary, go ahead and let me at least hear your explanation of it. I have felt an all-consuming evil in that old house, and I do not know what to make of it.”

  “Then it would seem that evil had been done there—perhaps the evil which became the primary basis for the stories later told of Richard and Alijah Billington. Of what nature, Mr. Bates?”

  I could not easily explain, for putting my experience into words removed the fear and horror from it—reactions I had not at first known, but which came back in retrospect. Yet Dr. Harper listened gravely and did not interrupt, and,
at the end of my brief account, he sat for a few moments in brooding thought.

  “And how does Mr. Dewart react to all this?” he asked finally.

  “That, more than anything else, is what brings me here.” Thereupon I launched into a somewhat guarded account of the apparent dual personality of my cousin, omitting as many details as I could, so that I might not keep Ambrose waiting.

  Dr. Harper listened with close attention, and when I had finished he sat again in contemplative silence before he ventured the opinion that, manifestly, the house and the wood had a “bad effect” on my cousin. It might indeed be well if he were to be removed from the house for a while—“Let us say, for the winter.”—so that the effect of such removal might be gauged on him. Where could he go?

  I said promptly that he might come to my home in Boston, but admitted that I had hoped to take the opportunity to study among some of the ancient books in the library of my cousin’s house—the Billington books. With my cousin’s consent, these might well be taken along. But I doubted very much that Ambrose would agree to spend the winter in Boston, unless I caught him in the proper mood, and I said as much to Dr. Harper, who countered immediately with the strongest urging that Ambrose be convinced that it would be for his own good to change his residence for a short time, particularly in view of the Dunwich events, which boded no good for the vicinity and its residents.

  I bade Dr. Harper farewell and went outside to stand in the autumn sunlight waiting for Ambrose, who came shortly past the hour. He was morose and moody, as I could plainly see, and made no conversational opening for some distance out of the city, and then only asked curtly whether I had seen Dr. Harper. He did not ask me to elaborate on my admission that I had, nor would I have done so, for he would have been offended if he had thought that we had discussed him in any way—offended, and perhaps something more than that.

  Thus we drove all the way back to the house in silence.

  It was now late afternoon, and my cousin immediately set about getting the evening meal, while I busied myself in the library. I did not know where to begin to make the selections from among the books for those I hoped to persuade Ambrose to let me take along with him, but I looked into one after another, in search of any mention whatever of those key words which had been repeated in the papers and documents to such a consistent degree that they might be said to afford clues to the problem my cousin faced. Many of the books on the shelves proved to be chronicles of some historical and genealogical value concerning the region and its families; but in the main these appeared to be the orthodox accounts, doubtless subsidized by individuals, family groups, or organizations of some kind, and offered nothing of interest to anyone save the student of genealogy, filled as they were with quaint illustrations of family trees.