by Anthology
But I have learned the cause of the danger he believes himself to be in. His nameless enemy, the force behind the demon Bokrug, supposedly became aware of his existence when he rashly published a small monograph, speculating on Sarnath and its doom. The town, by the way, seems purely legendary for I cannot find anything about it in history or archaeology.
At any rate, Horby’s brochure discussed a means of employing another demon called “Cthugha” against the “dragon in the moon.” According to Horby, Cthugha is a fire elemental and is, by his very nature, in direct opposition to such water elementals as the devil-god of whom Bokrug and the Ib-things are only the minions and servitors.
Horby explained to me that all of these ancient gods have secret cults of human worshippers lingering in remote backwoods and far places. His monograph came to the attention of the cult which worships the force behind Bokrug, which is why they and their god are “after” him.
Somehow, there is something irresistibly plausible about his fixation. I find myself unable to refute either it or his logic. He is a most extraordinary man…
6. Extract from the Notes of Uriah Horby
Mon., the 28th. It is horribly close now to the Time when the power of the moon waxeth to its height, and That which resides therein will be at the peak of His strength. Not even Cthugha and the Flame Creatures can aid me then: Curtis is my only hope.
The material from Eibon proved worthless; I believe that the information I so desperately need were most probably to be found in Eibon’s third book, “Papyrus of the Dark Wisdom,” which Von Junzt only paraphrases. But it is too late now to write to my Parisian friend…
The D’horna-ahn Energies will no longer protect me when the fatal night arrives. Through the use of the Ritual of the Silver Key I have been in communion with the fungoid intelligences of Nzoorl, and obtained precious glimpses of S’glhuo and Ymar. But nothing avails me… They on Ktynga warn that I will not be able to call upon their strength when the time comes, but this I already know. Mighty Yhtill could stand between me and It, but I have never been to Carcosa or taken the Vow before the Elder Throne.
It is written: there are forty-eight Aklo unveilings known to mortal men, and a forty-ninth, whereof men knoweth naught, nor shall they know, until such time as Glaaki taketh them. If I could travel through the reversed angles of Tagh-Glatur, or employ the enormous energies of the Pnakotic Pentagram, I might survive. But there is little hope left to me, unless that procrastinating fool Curtis comes through…
7. From the Statement of Charles Winslow Curtis
Thompson at Miskatonic sent me a long letter today, including with it the material which Horby has asked me to help him obtain. I have read it through and see nothing in it that could conceivably be harmful—merely the ravings of a deranged and superstitious demonologist. Just for the sake of completeness, I shall copy it out for my notes on the case.
The passage occurs in Book III, Chapter xvii of the Necronomicon, and is quoted from the Elizabethan translation of Dr. John Dee, the notorious occultist. It reads as follows:
“But of the Great Old Ones begotten by Azathoth in the Prime, not all came down to this Earth, for Him Who Is Not To Be Named lurketh ever on that dark world near Aldebaran in the Hyades, and it was His Sons who descended hither in His stead. Likewise, Cthugha chose for His abode the star Fomalhaut, and the Fire-Vampires that serve Him; but, as for Aphoom Zhah, He descended to this Earth and dwelleth yet in His frozen lair. And terrible Vulthoom, that be brother to Black Tsathoggua, He descended upon dying Mars, which world He chose for His dominion; and He slumbers yet in the deep of Ravormos ’neath aeon-crumbled Ignarh-Vath; and it is written that a day or a night to Vulthoom is as a thousand years to mortal men. And, as for great Mnomquah, He took for the place of His abiding those cavernous spaces which yawn beneath the Moon’s crust; and there He abideth yet, wallowing amidst the slimy waves of the Black Lake of Ubboth in the Stygian darknesses of Nug-yaa; and it was them that serve Him, even the Thunn’haa whose leader is Bokrug, that came hither to this world and dwelt betimes in the grey stone city Ib in the land of Mnar.”
That was all the passage Thompson quoted; the further piece Horby had wished to see—something called “the Zoan chant” from Book VII—he failed to include in his letter, saying the pages are utterly illegible.
Well, perhaps it’s not too late to bring this material to Horby. True, evening has fallen and the moon is rising, but I doubt if he is yet to bed.
8. Extract from the Notes of Uriah Horby
Wed., the 30th. I am doomed. I am lost. The time has come—is less than an hour away—and all my barriers are fading. My spirit shall be raped from my shuddering flesh, in ways I cringe to think upon, and I shall wander upon the black winds that blow between the stars forever, a nameless wraith lost in the wailing multitudes of the Million Favored Ones…
It is Curtis at the door! Perhaps all is not lost; I shall end this entry here and admit him. Shall I ever write another word of this journal?
9. From the Statement of Charles Winslow Curtis
It is now my painful duty to record a sequence of events which I do not understand, and I write the following if only in the vain hope that somehow I will be able to sort these matters out to my own satisfaction.
On the night of the thirtieth, some time past moonrise, I brought the passages copied from the Necronomicon to Horby, who met me at the door and virtually snatched the paper from me. He was in the worst state of agitation I have yet seen him in, his face flushed, eyes bloodshot and feverishly bright, trembling like a leaf.
He scanned the quotation swiftly, then threw back his head and voiced a shrill cry of triumph.
“It is Mnomquah! Of course—how could I not have known? And the place of his imprisonment by the Elder Gods is the Black Lake of Ubboth, in the gulf of Nug-yaa, at the moon’s heart! Ah, all becomes plain to me now…those cryptic references I have tracked down in the old books—”
Suddenly he broke off short, turning the paper from side to side in shaking hands, his flushed features paling to a sickly pallor.
“But there is more? Please, God, Curtis, there must be more! Where is the Zoan chant, you fool? How can I direct the energies against the Black Lake without the chant—?”
“I…I’m sorry,” I stammered apologetically. “My old professor back at Miskatonic was unable to copy out the ritual you wanted, because the pages were not legible at that point in the book—”
He stared with unbelieving horror into my eyes. Never have I seen a look more piteous: it would have wrung the heart of a stone thing. Then his face crumpled, his shoulders sagged. The page from Thompson’s letter fell from listless fingers to drift into a corner. He turned from me to face the window, and, absurdly, I felt myself dismissed. Tactfully, I withdrew, feeling he wished to be alone with his thoughts.
Would to God I had stayed.
* * * *
Later that night, just as I was undressing and making ready to retire, one of the attendants called me to say that Horby was loudly chanting or praying, and that he feared it might disturb the other patients.
“If they can even hear him, with that hellish frog-chorus booming from the marsh,” I remarked wryly.
“Yes, doctor. But may I give him a sleeping pill?”
“Oh, I think so. A good night’s sleep will do him a world of good. He is more distraught than usual. Ring me back if he proves uncooperative,” I said. The male nurse agreed and hung up the phone.
Feeling some obscure premonition, perhaps, or merely restless, I went over to the window. The frogs were roaring away at full voice and the moon was high, glaring down at we frail, puny mortals like a gigantic eye of cold white fire. By its illumination, you could see the pools of the marsh behind the building, flashing like mirrors they were.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something moving out of the waters and through the reeds, up onto the rear lawn. Something black and huge and wet, moving in the moonlight with a strange
, splay-footed, hopping gait. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and it was gone. Probably a dog from one of the neighboring farms, I thought. But the lawn glittered from a slick deposit! It was like the slime-track left by a garden slug…
Moments later I was jolted by a horrible, despairing cry—a shriek of unutterable terror, the sort of sound that the damned must make in the abysm of Hell.
I went out into the hall, which was suddenly full of people running. I followed them without words. The shrieking went on and on.
But the frogs had ceased their croaking song upon the instant Horby shrieked.
Yes, it was Horby. We burst into the room to view a scene of absolute chaos. The drapes were torn from the window, and the glass of the panes lay in a thousand icy shards upon the carpet, which was soaked with slime and water. Moonlight poured coldly, triumphantly, through the open window.
Face down in the wreckage lay Uriah Horby, stone dead. The expression upon his face was one of such intolerable fear that I hope never to see a similar expression upon a human visage.
There was not a mark on his body.
In the corner of the room crouched the attendant who had gone to sedate him. The man had suffered a ghastly shock. He was incoherent, his broken speech interspersed with fits of idiotic, horrible giggling. He was chewing and spitting out the pages from Horby’s manuscript and journals. They were trampled and torn and smeared with some odd greenish slime that rotted the paper like diluted acid.
“What has happened here?” demanded Dr. Colby, shaking the male nurse by the shoulder. The fellow peered at him vaguely from a white, wet, working face. Spittle smeared his lips and dribbled down his chin.
“…There was something in the moonlight, hopping across the lawn,” he giggled, babbled in a feeble voice. “It…climbed the wall and broke through the window… It jumped on Mr. Horby.… It was like…it was like…”
Then he began that hideous giggling again. Colby stared at me, shaken. I stared back.
“God, what a stench—that smell!” someone muttered, gagging. It was quite true. The whole room reeked of salt sea water gone stagnant and scummed with filth. It was indescribable.
“What do you think, Curtis?” Colby asked me in low tones, out in the hall again.
“I don’t know what to think,” I said numbly.
“Nor do I,” he sighed. “But this was the night Horby feared, the night his private demon was in full strength. I believe there was something to his story, after all.”
“I don’t know, sir,” I said. But I lied. Because I knew. Mnomquah had been revenged…
* * * *
Ever since then I’ve found myself avoiding the moonlight, too. It makes me feel uneasy. And I’ve been reading the Necronomicon. Looking for the Zoan chant, perhaps. I don’t know.
Poor Horby…we thought he was mad, but he was saner than we are.
THE SALEM HORROR, by Henry Kuttner
When Carson first noticed the sounds in his cellar, he ascribed them to the rats. Later he began to hear the tales which were whispered by the superstitious Polish mill workers in Derby Street regarding the first occupant of the ancient house, Abigail Prinn. There was none living today who could remember the diabolical old hag, but the morbid legends which thrive in the “witch district” of Salem like rank weeds on a neglected grave gave disturbing particulars of her activities, and were unpleasantly explicit regarding the detestable sacrifices she was known to have made to a worm-eaten, crescent-horned image of dubious origin. The oldsters still muttered of Abbie Prinn and her monstrous boasts that she was high priestess of a fearfully potent god which dwelt deep in the hills. Indeed, it was the old witch’s reckless boasting which had led to her abrupt and mysterious death in 1692, about the time of the famous hangings on Gallows Hill. No one liked to talk about it, but occasionally a toothless crone would mumble fearfully that the flames could not burn her, for her whole body had taken on the peculiar anesthesia of her witch-mark.
Abbie Prinn and her anomalous statue had long since vanished, but it was still difficult to find tenants for her decrepit, gabled house, with its overhanging second story and curious diamond-paned casement windows. The house’s evil notoriety had spread throughout Salem. Nothing had actually happened there of recent years which might give rise to the inexplicable tales, but those who rented the house had a habit of moving out hastily, generally with vague and unsatisfactory explanations connected with the rats.
And it was a rat which led Carson to the Witch Room. The squealing and muffled pattering within the rotting walls had disturbed Carson more than once during the nights of his first week in the house, which he had rented to obtain the solitude that would enable him to complete a novel for which his publishers had been asking—another light romance to add to Carson’s long string of popular successes. But it was not until sometime later that he began to entertain certain wildly fantastic surmises regarding the intelligence of the rat that scurried from under his feet in the dark hallway one evening.
The house had been wired for electricity, but the bulb in the hall was small and gave a dim light. The rat was a misshapen, black shadow as it darted a few feet away and paused, apparently watching him.
At another time Carson might have dismissed the animal with a threatening gesture and returned to his work. But the traffic on Derby Street had been unusually noisy, and he had found it difficult to concentrate upon his novel. His nerves, for no apparent reason, were taut; and somehow it seemed that the rat, watching just beyond his reach, was eyeing him with sardonic amusement.
Smiling at the conceit, he took a few steps toward the rat, and it rushed away to the cellar door, which he saw with surprise was ajar. He must have neglected to close it the last time he had been in the cellar, although he generally took care to keep the doors shut, for the ancient house was drafty. The rat waited in the doorway.
Unreasonably annoyed, Carson hurried forward, sending the rat scurrying down the stairway. He switched on the cellar light and observed the rat in a corner. It watched him keenly out of glittering little eyes.
As he descended the stairs he could not help feeling that he was acting like a fool. But his work had been tiring, and subconsciously he welcomed any interruption. He moved across the cellar to the rat, seeing with astonishment that the creature remained unmoving, staring at him. A strange feeling of uneasiness began to grow within him. The rat was acting abnormally, he felt; and the unwinking gaze of its cold shoe-button eyes was somehow disturbing.
Then he laughed to himself, for the rat had suddenly whisked aside and disappeared into a little hole in the cellar wall. Idly he scratched a cross with his toe in the dirt before the burrow, deciding that he would set a trap there in the morning.
The rat’s snout and ragged whiskers protruded cautiously. It moved forward and then hesitated, drew back. Then the animal began to act in a singular and unaccountable manner—almost as though it were dancing, Carson thought. It moved tentatively forward, retreated again. It would give a little dart forward and be brought up short, then leap back hastily, as though—the simile flashed into Carson’s mind—a snake were coiled before the burrow, alert to prevent the rat’s escape. But there was nothing there save the little cross Carson had scratched in the dust.
No doubt it was Carson himself who blocked the rat’s escape, for he was standing within a few feet of the burrow. He moved forward, and the animal hurriedly retreated out of sight.
His interest piqued, Carson found a stick and poked it exploringly into the hole. As he did so his eye, close to the wall, detected something strange about the stone slab just above the rat burrow. A quick glance around its edge confirmed his suspicion. The slab was apparently movable.
Carson examined it closely, noticed a depression on its edge which would afford a handhold. His fingers fitted easily into the groove, and he pulled tentatively. The stone moved a trifle and stopped. He pulled harder, and with a sprinkling of dry earth the slab swung away from the wall as though on hinges.
A black rectangle, shoulder-high, gaped in the wall. From its depths a musty, unpleasant stench of dead air welled out, and involuntarily Carson retreated a step. Suddenly he remembered the monstrous tales of Abbie Prinn and the hideous secrets she was supposed to have kept hidden in her house. Had he stumbled upon some hidden retreat of the long-dead witch?
Before entering the dark gap he took the precaution of obtaining a flashlight from upstairs. Then he cautiously bent his head and stepped into the narrow, evil-smelling passage, sending the flashlight’s beam probing out before him.
He was in a narrow tunnel, scarcely higher than his head, and walled and paved with stone slabs. It ran straight ahead for perhaps fifteen feet, and then broadened out into a roomy chamber. As Carson stepped into the underground room—no doubt a hidden retreat of Abbie Prinn’s, a hiding-place, he thought, which nevertheless could not save her on the day the fright-crazed mob had come raging along Derby Street—he caught “his breath in a gasp of amazement. The room was fantastic, astonishing.
It was the floor which held Carson’s gaze. The dull gray of the circular wall gave place here to a mosaic of varicolored stone, in which blues and greens and purples predominated—indeed, there were none of the warmer colors. There must have been thousands of bits of colored stone making up that pattern, for none was larger than a walnut. And the mosaic seemed to follow some definite pattern, unfamiliar to Carson; there were curves of purple and violet mingled with angled lines of green and blue, intertwining in fantastic arabesques. There were circles, triangles, a pentagram, and other, less familiar, figures. Most of the lines and figures radiated from a definite point: the center of the chamber, where there was a circular disk of dead black stone perhaps two feet in diameter.