The Cry of Cthulhu: Formerly: The Alchemist's Notebook

by Byron Craft

  I left quickly, walking faster than when I came, harboring a childish fear of the dark. Half way out of the thicket I picked up the pace and ran. I didn’t stop until the lights of the house were in plain view. I didn’t see or hear anything beyond what I have described. The overall aspect of that glade wasn’t for one person to experience alone, at night, even under a full moon. I didn’t feel ashamed of my actions until well within the comfort of my own living room.

  I practically threw the books at VonTassell when he came downstairs. The point was well taken. He stared long and hard at the stack of elementary school books. He relaxed into a nearby chair. His expression was apologetic and the fingers of his left hand tapped nervously upon the table.

  “The stories are true then,” I said, but received no reply. I pressed him further saying that he must have known that my great Uncle had been buried in the glade.

  “I never examined the body and I never saw a death certificate”, he spoke hurriedly, and I imagined that he even looked frightened. “The funeral arrangements were made by a private organization unknown to me at the time.”

  “The Order of Dagon,” I declared. He nodded yes and sensing that I had the upper hand I leaned closer and with voice raised I said: “One thing Doctor that has troubled me since we met, you have remarked that my uncle and you were friends, although he never made any mention of you in his journal. How do you explain that?”

  As if reverting back to my original unanswered question he replied, after a long pause, “there is some basis in truth in what Heinrich Todesfall wrote about but only in the physical sense. His military career, the last battle close to his ancestral home and his reclusive activities afterwards are all I can vouch for, the rest with the possible exception of a few intervening occurrences were the fabric of a deranged mind. My involvement with your uncle was a little more than clinical. I tried being a friend in hopes of convincing him to commit himself. As to the lack of any reference on my part in Heinrich’s journal I can only speculate. Not wanting to admit to his own insanity I am sure that he was probably embarrassed to acknowledge our relationship. I, of course, realized my failure when his body was discovered in the cellar.”

  “The cellar!” I almost shouted. “We were led to believe that he had died while tending his garden.” I realized the absurdity of the statement the moment after I had said it. What garden? I knew well by then that there was none and what my uncle had tended was a cemetery.

  Maybe Janet had sensed there was something wrong all along with the cellar. She was more intuitive than me. Possibly something lingered there, a psychic residue perhaps that kept her from going downstairs.

  The Doctor, relieved to get a great weight off his conscious continued. He told me of a workshop and study that Todesfall had down there, and of a secret room. The workshop was of no surprise to me. I had cleaned up the mess left by my uncle’s tinkering weeks before but a secret study chamber, my curiosity ran high.

  “It was where he carried on his studies and dark worships,” said the Doctor with a solemn face.

  I led the conversation and the Doctor to the cellar steps eager for the hunt, and as we descended the wooden stairs, he gave a rational account of my uncle’s behavior. “Heinrich Todesfall believed that although most wars are eventually left to the gristmill of government propaganda and the media, two of the bloodiest conflicts of the 20th century were born from this country. Not due to the disillusionment of man but rather the cause of it. An influence dark in nature and as old as the very earth itself. A force normally at rest is able at certain times to manipulate the darker side of man. He acquired his ideas from an ancient almost forgotten religion. The head deity of which was known in most cultures as Cthulhu.”

  Some minor similarities in the legend and my dream struck me. It brought to mind the vision I was presented in that dream and was about to tell the Doctor of it but decided not to mention it fearing I would be next to have my sanity questioned.

  We went over the area where the body was reported to have been found next to the walled-up archway. It didn’t take me long to fit the pieces together. Heinrich Todesfall in his last few minutes on earth must have concealed his notes within a crack in the stones where it stayed until I discovered it. And almost at the same moment with the chill of discovery clamoring up my spine I realized that what we had taken as a fortification of the old masonry could have been used to conceal another room. There were signs to that effect. The walls of the old cellar were comprised of irregularly cut black granite that had the appearance of being chiseled from larger blocks and large stones probably quarried from the surrounding area. While the rocks used to brick up the arch were of sandstone colored to match the rest of the wall. They had been squared off to precision and if tied together properly could be light enough to swing freely admitting passage.

  Doctor VonTassell confirmed that he had come to the same conclusion several months before but was unable to budge the stones and soon decided that the notion of a secret room was just another one of my Uncle’s delusions. Even a combined effort on both our parts had no effect. About five feet up the sandstone, a little below eye level were a set of hand prints. Human palms and finger impressions that were spaced about three feet apart, each fanning over areas where two blocks had been eliminated and filled in with cement. The signature of the mason must have been impressed into the fresh cement before it had a chance to dry.

  Before giving up, I was struck by the idea that the two marks could also signify the position of a fulcrum. The area on which a lever rests, or which it turns when moving a weight. I applied all my strength to the two spots fitting my hands into the impressions repeatedly throwing the weight of my body against the wall. Nothing happened at first, not until I relaxed momentarily leaving my hands still in position while gathering the strength sufficient for another try. I remember quite clearly what I did next. I was staring just above my hands, catching my breath and the word “open” formed in my thoughts. As if by my mental command and to both our surprise the sandstone wall blocking the arch slid inward a few feet.

  The section of wall was a good foot thick leaving us an opening of only a couple of feet to squeeze through. I started in first, but was stopped when VonTassell took hold of my shoulder and in a guarded tone spoke of spells cast by my uncle to ward off intruders. Whether they are to be believed or not, great Uncle Heinrich felt that they could only be broken by him or one of his bloodline.

  Shrugging off the nonsense I entered the partially opened door and VonTassell followed. Inside, cloaked in gloom, a narrow corridor stretched out before us. The floor was littered with rubble and fallen masonry, the ceiling was interlaced with a thousand cobwebs. At the end of the corridor a second door barred our passage, this one was wood though. I pushed it open and by the light of the open door and my flashlight we stood swaying on the sill staring inward. Beyond was a small room, barely ten feet square, with a low raftered ceiling. Knowing the floor plan of the house above quite well by then I immediately realized that the room served as a foundation for the tower above.

  The chamber was masked in shadow which until several candles could be found and lit was severely exaggerated by the harsh edges cut by the beam of my flashlight. The walls were covered with a thick layer of mildew and fungus while beads of moisture slowly trickled between the remaining exposed joints. The few blocks still left uncovered by the encroachment of algae were larger than those used in the rest of the cellar. They were made from the same dark granite that the smaller stones had been chiseled from and fitted together with convex and concave joints. This led me to believe that the room and possibly the tower were part of the oldest construction of the schloss.

  We saw in the center of the floor a design, not the conventional magic circle drawn in chalk of the horror films, but a geometric shape. A shape of five angular lines converging at regular points and closing in an area. Again, everything in fives. I was reminded once again of the five-sided drawing made by the old medicine man and of the
many times it had appeared in my dream in the form of archways, doors and architectural structures. Even my good luck piece was of the same design. My left hand was in my pocket and I had been unconsciously rubbing the stone charm between my thumb and forefinger for several seconds before I realized what I was doing.

  When the candles were lit we were able to get a clearer view of the room and the pentagon inscribed in black upon the cobblestones. At first we assumed that it had been drawn with coal as the medium, but after rummaging through some of the implements of alchemy on a back shelf, produced a large segment of animal bone, the femur I believe, charred on one end – the artist’s pencil.

  The design was about six feet across leaving only a two foot walkway around it. Below four of the lines within the pentagon itself letters or symbols were written. If they were letters they were of a language I had never seen before. I have reproduced them on paper and will enclose them along with the recordings and other papers.

  Editor’s Note:

  According to Mr. Church here is what had been set down. The first and nearest to the east:

  The next, south going clockwise:

  The third:

  And, on the west side:

  Beneath the fifth and the northern most line of the crude magic shape drawn on the stone Todesfall had scrawled two words: YATH NOTEP.

  There was no room for any furnishing, except for a small reading stand at the center of the drawing and on top of that rested a book. If I had known the events that were to follow, if I could only have looked into the future that evening, I swear I would have avoided that book like the plague, would have shunned that house and the very ground it stood on. Many times since then I have wished my eyes had never rested on that black cover. The writhing figures it contained would have been kept from me. The unrest, the terrors, the madness that would have been spared me!

  But, never dreaming of the secrets that had already been unleashed from these pages, I fondled it casually and remarked: “An unusual book. What is it?”

  The Doctor came around and peered over my shoulder. Across the cover were engraved the words “OLAUS WORMUS.”

  When I opened the yellowed pages I pulled back with involuntary revulsion at the odor which arose. An odor that was suggestive of physical decay, as if the book had lain among corpses in tomb and had taken on the smell of death.

  “It is the Necronomicon” the Doctor whispered. “A Latin version printed in Spain during the seventeenth century.”

  His manner was so exacting that I was startled by his knowledge. Noticing my amazement he continued in a more subdued tone.

  “It was believed to be only a fable. Your uncle spoke of it often. It’s original author was an Arab around the 8th century by the name of Abdul Alhazred who supposedly transcribed it from stone tablets from an unknown age. It’s possibly the rarest book in the world and only hand written translations were ever made, much like the legend of ...”

  “What is it about?” I interrupted.

  “It’s a ledger of spells, alchemic potions and geometric formulas the main theme of which is a plan for the extermination of all human and animal life from earth.” Then casually he turned and looked closer at the open pages. I was unable to read the dead language, and even though the Doctor appeared to read some of the hand written pages quietly to himself, I hesitated asking him to translate after noting two lines written in different hand upon the cover leaf of the book. They were in English and read:

  “When age falls upon the world and wonder goes out of the minds of men.”

  The handwriting was unknown to me but the second line although printed, was definitely that of my great Uncle Heinrich’s.

  “THE DEATH OF CREATIVITY = NOW!”

  I didn’t care to learn anymore and wanted to leave the room with the design on the floor. I began to feel certain vibrations within that black magic shape. My toes and fingers tingled and my thoughts careened through black gulfs of time and I envisioned huge mucous flowing masses reaching out towards me with thought commands. My mind filled with hideous whisperings, I was becoming abnormally sensitive to the vibrations, dangerously sensitive! I jerked back from the book catching the heal of my shoe on an unseen object and fell backwards landing against the damp algae covered stone wall.

  I was unharmed and VonTassell was by my side within a second. White splinters of refracted light glittered and danced across the Doctor’s face and hands. We both turned at the same moment and saw the origin of the reflected light. Beneath the reading stand in a hollow recess was a luminous object comprised mostly of brass or highly polished gold and glass. The source of illumination was my flashlight. It had rolled across the floor settling in a crack between the cobblestones where it rocked to and fro shining brightly against the object. It wasn’t very large, not more than a couple feet tall. We dragged it from the recess and sat on the cold stones examining the mechanism. Once out, and in plain view, I recognized it instantly. A weird arrangement of rods, wheels and mirrors constructed with clock-work precision. The rods were smooth and round as anything you can possibly imagine, and it was gold, solid gold, girdled with wide bands of silver. The central mirror was circular and convex while the rods, silver at their base, connected with long gold wands gradually tapering into needle-like spires pointing straight up. It was the same device used by that alien race in my dream and I was certain then it was the one my great uncle boasted of constructing.

  Up until this time I had rationalized the similarities of my nightmare. There were some resemblances between my drug induced hallucination in Vietnam and the dream a few weeks ago. Most of which can be accounted for. Hallucinogens can have renewed effects even years later and the re-occurrence of the five sided shape is easily explained. At first seen by me in the cave as a sand drawing and later the Indian charm. The design most likely was recreated by my subconscious in a dream state. Probably a common cabalistic symbol, the reason I witnessed its use here thousands of miles from that southeast Asian cave. The remainder was mere coincidence.

  But now this could not be accounted for. I had never witnessed anything like this in my life. The mechanism was alien, as alien as when it first appeared to me in my sleep. I couldn’t question the actuality of the fantasy, if I did I would have to start questioning reality itself. The Memory of its construction made me shiver, made from the gold dental fillings of my great uncle’s Nazi comrades.

  We sat there in silence fingering the delicate parts of the device. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that neither the Doctor nor I voiced any speculation as to its possible use. The only conclusion drawn about the device that evening was that some parts were missing. Two small holes close together in the top of the central mirror and a narrow slit a little more than an inch long was visible in the base. If it were a machine, there was no apparent means to activate it. Maybe, I thought, the missing pieces held the answer.

  Before leaving the damp chamber we took another look at the old book. Feeling squeamish about remaining within the pentagon symbol I moved it to the wall shelf. There was a marker in the center of the book. Many of the pages were worm-eaten and rotting by centuries of decay, so I had to take great care when turning them. The pages opened before us did not display any of the ancient Latin, instead they contained hieroglyphics much like the ones scrawled on the floor. Although some of the characters looked evil in design, they meant nothing to me. The piece of paper was a letter folded in half lengthwise and used as a book marker.

  It was written in English, in a hand identical to the one that wrote the first line on the cover leaf of the Necronomicon. The correspondent was unknown. He had only signed with his initials. It read:

  To H.T.;

  If you are right and an error does exist in previous translations, then Cthulhu and Yog-Sothoth know the gate but they are not the gate! Yath-Notep is the gate. Yath-Notep is the key and the guardian. Past, present, future, what has been, what is, what will be, all are one in Yog-Sothoth and Cthulhu.

  Bu
t if Yath-Notep is the earth elemental, the reigning servant of his master left behind, then Yath-Notep knows where the Old Ones, his masters, broke through of old, and where they shall break through in time to come when the cycle is completed.

  If you have found the key, the missing link in the age old quest to the other dimension, you have found it where others have failed. Glory and be praised to Yath-Notep. He will deliver us.

  The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in spaces known to us, but between them.

  Forever

  H.P.L.

  If there would have been some authority that I could have carried our discovery to, I am sure the evidence would have been overwhelming, but there is none in such cases. I had to let the matter drop for the rest of the evening. I thought for awhile that I would have to restrain Dr. VonTassell physically from removing the old book but he soon gave in and agreed to leave it where it had been found. He became very excited almost to the point of agitation when, after many repeated attempts to reseal the opening, failed. The secret of unlocking the masonry passage had been discovered but no matter how hard I tried, or what we did, we could not move it back to its former position.

  This irritated the Doctor even more. Assuring him that Janet never went down into the cellar and that I would bolt the door at the top of the stairs as soon as we left, appeared to have a settling effect on him.

  The knife came into my possession at that time. Making one more attempt at closing the sandstone door and hopefully waylay any of the Doctor’s anxieties, I searched amongst the stones of the wall for a lever or switch that might activate the stone door. A glint of steel caught by my light revealed what I thought was the answer. Wedging my fingers between the blocks I gave it a tug. It slid out easily. A second later I stood there dumbfounded holding a very beautifully crafted dagger. The blade shined like new steel but the intricate artwork on the handle spoke of extreme age. It was badly pitted although a bulbous eyed head was still visible. It had a slit for a mouth and worms for hair that coiled past the neck of the carving and around the remainder of the handle forming complex twists and spirals. The shapes flared out in an intertwined pattern where the handle met the blade creating a fierce looking hilt. Half way up the blade were notches like the cuttings on the edge of a key. The serrated edge made the weapon appear all the more gruesome as if it was made for tearing than slashing.