by James Wade
“You must pardon me while I converse with Mr. Peterson in my native language. It is tiring for me to constantly formulate my thoughts into the English.”
They immediately began talking in some foreign dialect. Listening idly, I could not trace any Romance language or Greek or even Slavic in what they said; it seemed a kind of guttural Oriental tongue, but as 1 sat listening to it, mile after mile in that stuffy’ car, I could take no pleasure in the beauties of the wooded hills, or of the forest-cradled Miskatonic River, now tinted a flaming orange by the rays of the descending sun.
Much further than 1 had expected we drove. The sun was hidden behind the tall pines of the mountains ahead when we turned from the main road. The eastern sky was dusky behind us as the car jogged along a narrow, rough dirt trail. Several times it branched off again on bypaths leading through quiet forest glades of the greatest sylvan beauty. The trail became barely wide enough to permit passage to the sedan. Few were the farms we passed, and these few were always in a deplorably run-down condition. It was a poor district, ruled by Nature and not Man.
Long after losing sight of the last farmhouse among the thickening trees, Peterson brought the auto to a lurching halt.
“This is as far as we can go by the car,” said Renaunt, opening the door.
Within a few minutes we were plunging through thick undergrowth among the huge boles of an amazing cluster of trees. This, I thought, must be one of the few out-of-the-way virgin forests in the state. Another thought occurred to me and 1 asked Renaunt, “Why were these ruins not discovered before? They are reasonably near human habitation.”
“The natives around here fear these woods,” answered my guide cryptically, “and few others have occasion to visit them.”
In silence we covered the distance of perhaps a mile. The ground gradually became damp and spongy until it was apparent that we were nearing a swamp.
“The ruins are on a kind of island in the midst of a marshy crescent lake near the Miskatonic,” explained Renaunt in response to my query.
A deep dusk, enhanced by the somber shade of the forest, had now indeed fallen.
“How can we see when we arrive? We have started too late,” I commented.
I received no reply, save the pulsing croak of frogs which now reached us from somewhere ahead in the leafy labyrinth.
Little by little the trees thinned and 1 saw stretched before me, surrounded by woods like those from which we were emerging, a low, open, marshy spot in the shape of a giant crescent moon. Reeds and rushes grew at the margin, while near the middle the water was clear and deep, albeit rather stagnant. Near the center of the lake rose a small island, almost covered with the sprawling ruin of a strange, irregular grey stone platform surrounded by a crumbling parapet, much in need of repair. Low stone columns rose at intervals from it. The last reflected rays of the setting sun shone behind it, outlining the skeletal remains of a once-great and still imposing structure. I was astounded to find such a complex piece of architecture in apparently unexplored wilds.
“The lake of Y’ha-nthlei,” breathed Peterson, “la! Cthulhu!”
“What did you say?” I exclaimed, “I—”
But Renaunt interrupted me with a terse command to Peterson.
“Now is the time!” he snapped. “Concentrate!”—and I felt all suddenly go black around me. My last conscious impression was one of the two grasping my arms to keep from falling as I slipped into the black trough of insensibility.
***
When I awoke, the deepest night had fallen. My first sensation was of lying uncomfortably on a very hard substance; my second was of bewilderment; I could not realize the significance of the bonds around my wrists and ankles. I knew now that I was a prisoner. Then, suddenly, the meaning of my situation came back to me. I remembered the strange trek through the shadowy woods with my queer companions; the marsh lake, the ruins. I remembered too my faint (for such I then deemed it) at the edge of the woods. Then I began to struggle for, gazing around, I discovered that I was lying on the rough stone flags comprising the floor of the island ruin. My companions must have brought me here, I thought; but why bound?
The extent of Renaunt’s treachery was soon to be made clear to me, however. 1 heard voices approaching and soon, from behind a pile of crumbling stones, two robed figures appeared. They were Renaunt and Peterson, hooded and encased in black garments. With a shudder of unbelievable terror, I realized that they planned to stage a ceremony, of which 1 might be a part. That was why I had been enticed on this devilish trip!
Renaunt approached me, more than human wrath and contempt glowing in his eyes.
“Ah, my so curious young friend, you will not let well enough alone, and now see what it has got you!”
“Let me go!” I stormed, with more courage in my voice than in my heart. “What is the meaning of this?”
“It means you shall be a living sacrifice to Those Who Wait!”
“Madman! You plan—to sacrifice me in some idiotic ritual? Are you going to kill me?”
“Our hands will be clean, I assure you—you will leave this island alive.”
“Then you—?”
“But you will never be seen so again!”
“Nonsense!”
“You will see!” he cried in a fit of anger. “We are come from the Supreme One of Irem to open the Gate for the Great Old Ones! The stars are almost right again! Tonight, we will tell Great Cthulhu so He may prepare. Soon shall They do battle with Those of Betelgeuze, and—!—But light the torches, Monog!”
The one I knew as Peterson, with a long flambeau, fired masses of dry wood atop the pillars of the parapet. “You,” said Renaunt, “will be the bait to draw Great Cthulhu here, as is written in the Old Books.”
Peterson, or Monog, had by then completed his task, and he and Renaunt lifted my bound body, tossing me roughly upon a high pile of crumbling stones.
The ceaseless piping of frogs, which all the while had formed a weird background to the words of my captor, now seemed to increase in intensity and to fill the night air. Beneath me, Renaunt and Peterson were stooping to chalk diagrams drawn from papers they held (doubtlessly copies from the Necronomicon and the other books) on the stone flags. Renaunt then began a weird chant, while Peterson cowered beneath an outcropping of stone. What would these lunatics do, I wondered, when they realized that their mad activities brought no result? Then all speculation was swept away and I abandoned my soul to terror!
For something was happening—not only below me but all around; on the lake, on the rampart—as the meaningless mouthing continued. The landscape seemed to change subtly under the pale rap of the dying moon; a blur dimmed the horizon; angles shifted and solid stone swayed formlessly. The waters of the lake were wildly stirring, though there was no wind. From all sides, great waves broke over the low parapet, threatening to douse the frantically flickering fires. A stench as of all the dead and rotting water life of the world nauseated me. A strange wind now stirred, moaning, through the tumbled stones, and above the chorus of frogs, Renaunt’s voice was lifted in a primal incantation:
“la! la! N’gah-hah! N’yah ahahah! Cthulhu flitaghnl Phn’glui vul-gmtn R’lyeh! Ai! N’gaii! Ithaqua vulgmm! N’gaaga—aaa-fhtaghn! la! Cthulhu!”
The leaping flames of the great torches now revealed to my horror-stricken eyes a thin, wavering line across the sky. More appeared, traversing the space above my head. A low, thunderous roar competed with the truly cacophonous chant of the frogs and the incantation shouted by Renaunt, while greenish flashes from over the horizon lit the scene fitfully. A great blast of cold air swept over the lake, followed immediately by a foetid warm draft, as with a hideous stench, and an uncouth bubbling sound, a giant shape sprang seemingly from the lake itself and hovered over us without visible means of levitation! Mercifully, I fainted.
When I regained my senses (it must have been but a moment later) the Thing was still there. It is beyond the power of any pen to hint adequately at the aspect of It. An
alien, undimensioned entity from beyond the known Universe, It seemed by turns to be a great, green, monstrous tentacled squid; a boiling, changing, flowing mass of protoplasm, constantly altering yet ever the same, having malevolent red eyes opening from every part of its non-terrestrial body, and a swollen, empurpled maw from which issued an idiotic, frantic, bubbling ululation, so low in timbre that it struck one as a physical vibration rather than a true sound.
Great Cthulhu! High Priest of the Old Ones! Carried from His crypt in sunken R’lyeh by Ithaqua the Wind-Walker, summoned by the evil man in whose hands I was prisoner! Great God! I believed; I saw! But I could not die; I could not even faint again. Even now my hand trembles when 1 think of my hideous captivity as the helpless prey of that hellish daemon!
Below, Renaunt was conversing with It, in the same unholy dialect with which he had summoned It (the same, indeed, in which he had talked with Peterson in the car), mentioning such names as Azathoth, Betelgeuze, R’lyeh, the Hyades, as well as the names of the other weird monsters. As his monologue progressed, Cthulhu became greatly excited, quivering in agitation as His great body overshadowed the entire lake, and later uttering a few ghastly mouthing sounds which thrilled my soul with a new fear when I had thought I had reached the extremity of terror.
Abruptly, the awful communication ended. Renaunt fell on his knees below the Thing and extended his hand toward the pile of debris on which I lay bound. It flowed toward me, extending from Its plastic self a tentacle or trunk which groped downward at me. Directly above me, the savage opening of what It used as a mouth yawned wide, disclosing a hollow body cavity striated with red bands. In another moment I would have known a thing far worse than merciful death; but at that instant, something intervened to save me.
Bill Tracy—what tributes are due his courage!—appeared at the top of the sacrificial mound, approaching from the side opposite that of Renaunt. Sickening horror showed in ever)’ line of his face, but he nevertheless sprang to my side and slashed my bonds with a ready knife. As I leapt up, he extended his right hand towards the excrescence of Cthulhu, which had almost reached us. It recoiled, and the massive bulk overhead lumbered away.
“Run!” shouted Tracy. “Swim the lake! Get to the car!”
We were off, racing madly over the shattered flags and plunging into the stagnant lake. Behind us, Renaunt was imploring Cthulhu, and as we swam frantically for shore, we heard him racing in pursuit.
He and Peterson dragged a small rowboat to the margin of the lake and pulled after us. Overhead, the great bulk of the monstrous entity Cthulhu flowed along, lashing the affrighted air with thousands of loathsome tentacles. Fortunately, Tracy and I were both good swimmers, and the surprise instituted by Tracy’s daring move gave us a head start
Upon reaching the shore, we plunged into the pitch-dark forest. The sounds of frantic shouts and the ululant mouthings of Cthulhu (who had evidently joined the chase) goaded us to frenzied exertions.
“We must separate,” gasped Bill. “They know these woods. I’ll go this way, but if I don’t get through, remember don’t go to the police. It won’t do any good. Go to Professor Stems.”
Thus saying, he plunged off to the left, attempting to cross a clearing whose edge I was skirting. As he reached its center, Renaunt and Peterson broke from the woods on the opposite side. Behind them, over the tops of the trees, Cthulhu rapidly neared. Renaunt, with amazing speed, sought to grapple with Tracy, but again extending his right arm, on which I saw something gleam, my deliverer caused my former captor to fall. In doing so, he clutched Tracy’s knees. The latter, after a desperate struggle to retain his balance, plunged heavily to the ground. As they rolled free, Renaunt half-rose, extending one arm toward Tracy, the other toward the blasphemous monstrosity hovering overhead. He shrieked a flaming command, and immediately the Thing put forth dozens of squamous tentacles which entangled the struggling body of my rescuer. He was lifted, screaming hideously toward the frothing maw of the monster.
Cold with icy terror, I ran on through the clutching undergrowth of those haunted woods. After what seemed an almost interminable interval, the trees thinned and I emerged on the highway less than a quarter of a mile from the cars. Tracy’s vehicle was parked near Renaunt’s. He had obviously suspiciously trailed us, perhaps becoming lost in the forest, and arriving only in time to save my life at the cost of his own.
With a prayer of thanks, 1 saw that the keys were still in the ignition. Moments later, 1 was speeding recklessly over the deserted highways, caring only to get far from that awful spot. Through the blackest hours of the night I was lost, but at dawn I found myself approaching Arkham. What had poor Bill said? “See Professor Sterns.” A short consultation with the telephone directory in a small confectionery told me his address. As 1 was leaving the store, I shuddered to see blatant headlines on a cheap astrology periodical proclaiming, “Portentous Events in the Stars—Something Unprecedented!”
***
I drove slowly along pleasant, tree-lined residential streets, hazy in the early morning sunlight, and stopped at a decaying mid-Victorian mansion bearing the number 1 had memorized. And so, shaken in body, mind and spirit, with an indelible memory fomenting in my consciousness and a gnawing fear tormenting me, I lifted the knocker beside the ancient nameplate with the legend, “Professor Arlin Sterns, Ph.D.”
A mellow-faced, white-bearded elderly man opened the door and in response to my agitated query introduced himself as Professor Sterns. Upon learning my name, he grew pale, but civilly invited me in.
“How much do you know,” I began hurriedly, “of Bill Tracy and me and what goes on in that—”
“I know,” he said laboredly, “that a young man came to me this morning and told me of two college students he believed to be engaged in very nasty business. He expressed fear that you, his friend, might be drawn into it. I advised him to keep a watch on you, and I gave him a certain bracelet which I felt would give him protection. What has happened?”
I thereupon told him my full story, ending on an almost hysterical note as I recounted my mad flight through the forest and the endless race along tree-lined highways. As I spoke, the savant stroked his stubby goatee, but when I told of Bill Tracy’s gruesome fate, he stopped abruptly and muttered, “I told him the grey stone from Mnar wouldn’t stop the Old Ones Themselves.”
“Do you believe what I say?” I asked. “I can hardly believe it myself!”
“Unfortunately, yes” replied Professor Stems. “Before my retirement as Professor of Anthropology at Miskatonic, I had occasion to be convinced in a most horrible manner. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is,”—his face showed worried lines—“the world, the whole universe as we know it, is in danger of being obliterated in a terrible way in a coming battle between extra-dimensional entities whose nature we cannot even begin to grasp. That is the purpose and purport, veiled, garbled and cloaked in mysticism, of all religions and cults, and, more directly, of the evil books now found in only a few scattered libraries and manuscript fragments in private possession.” He turned. “But I must not keep you waiting out here. Please come into my study.”
He led the way through a dark, narrow hall into a large room, lined with bookcases and strewn with the odds and ends of a long and varied career. With a serious demeanor he unlocked one of the lower drawers of his desk, and drew forth a folio of manuscript. After bidding me seat myself on a chair near the desk, he addressed me in this fashion:
“These are the extracts I copied from the Necronomicon and other books while I was at Miskatonic. Allow me to point out to you some pertinent passages.” He passed over to me one of the sheets. I took it and read.
Nor is it to be thought that Man is either the oldest or last of the Masters of Earth; nay, nor that the greater part of Life and Substance walks alone. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces known to us, but between them. They walk calm and primal, of no dimensions, and to its unseen… They walk foul in l
onely places where the Words have been spoken and the Rites howled through at their Seasons… The winds gibber with Their voices; the Earth mutters with Their consciousness. They bend the forest. They raise up the wave; They crush the city—yet not forest nor ocean nor city beholds the hand that smites. They ruled; soon shall They rule again where man rules now. After Summer is Winter and after Winter is Summer. They wait patient and potent for here shall They reign again, and at Their coming again, none shall dispute them. Those who know of the Gates shall be impelled to open the way for Them and shall serve Them as They desire, but those who open the way unwitting shall know but a brief while thereafter.
“Now this,” said the professor, handing me another sheet.
I read,
Then shall They return and on this great returning shall Great Cthulhu [—I shuddered at the name—] be freed from R’lyeh beneath the sea, and Him Who Is Not To Be Named shall come from His City, which Carcosa near the Lake of Hali, and Shub-Niggurath shall come forth and multiply in His hideousness, and Nyarlathotep shall carry the word to all the Great Old Ones and Their minions, and Cthugha shall lay his hand on all that oppose Him and Destroy, and the blind Idiot, the noxious Azathoth, shall rise from the Middle of the World where all is Chaos and destruction, where he hath bubbled and blasphemed at the Centre which is of All Things, which is to say, Infinity, and Yog-Sothoth who is the All-in-One and the One-in-All shall bring His globes and Ithaqua shall walk again, and from the black-litten caverns within the Earth shall come Tsathoggua and together shall take possession of Earth and all things that live upon it and shall prepare to do battle with the Elder Cods. When the Lord of the Great Abyss is apprised of Their returning, He shall come forth with His Brothers to disperse the Evil.
“You mean,” I exclaimed, “that this book—written a thousand years ago—actually foretells what is happening now?”