Letters to Lovecraft

by Jesse Bullington

  “Sorry. I fell and banged my head, and…” He held a hand to his face and felt the bruise starting to form. The blood was already drying in his nose. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologise to me,” the old man said. “You’re lucky! I’m just about to lock up, you could have been in here all night.” He looked around and actually shivered. “Not something I’d like to go through.”

  “Something’s happened!” Guy said. “Outside, something… have you been out? Have you seen?”

  The man smiled and shook his head. “This is my place. I sit here from three till six, then lock up a little while after we close to the public. Nope. Not been outside. Though I hear it’s getting cold.”

  “Have you seen Marie?” Guy asked. There was something about the security guard. Or perhaps it was merely Guy’s own mystery reflected in the old man’s eyes.

  “No, no Marie,” the man said. He turned and started walking, and Guy found himself compelled to follow. They reached a small side door set beside the circular entrance door, now motionless.

  “But something happened.”

  The man turned and smiled.

  “What are you smiling at?” Guy asked.

  “You. Your face. Lots of people have stuff happen to them here, good and… not so good.” He mused, looking over Guy’s shoulder into the deep spaces beyond. “First time one of them’s talked to me about it, though.”

  Guy frowned, trying to recall what he’d seen. Maybe the bang on the head was mixing things up.

  “But there was something…” he said.

  The man shrugged and opened the door, inviting Guy to step through. “Just one of those things,” he said.

  ♦

  Outside, London roared.

  The streets around St Paul’s were buzzing with taxis, cars, motorcycles, buses, and cyclists braving the darkness with little more than flashing lights for protection. Horns blared. Tyres squealed, and someone shouted. Pedestrians weaved around each other on the pavements, some chatting and laughing, others focussed on getting home from work as quickly as possible. Shops around the cathedral were closed or closing, security grilles splitting the subdued lighting from inside. Restaurants and pubs spilled laughter and music across the streets. Streetlights glared, several flickering in their death throes. The smell of London was heavy and rich — cooking food, exhaust fumes, and an occasional waft of sewage beneath it all.

  There was no singing, other than a drunk man leaning against a wall with his hat upturned on the floor. There was no dancing. There were no raised hands and joyful chants, no fires melting the city’s distant shadows, and no impossibly tall flames licking at the underside of clouds. London was the place he had always known, loved, and hated.

  But perhaps it was a very different world.

  Guy had yet to decide.

  Help Me

  Cameron Pierce

  “Therefore we must judge a weird tale not by the author’s intent, or by the mere mechanics of the plot; but by the emotional level which it attains at its least mundane point.”

  The spectrum of emotion on display in Lovecraft is stunted at best, a consequence of his personal life and its effect on his concept of literature. But here, after drawing lines in the sand distinguishing his ideal weird tale from all other types of weird stories out there, he concludes that, above all, a weird tale must be judged by the emotional resonance in its peak of strangeness and otherworldliness. It’s not about authorial intent, plot construction, or how painstakingly one mimics classic weird tales. It’s about the emotions evoked by the weird.

  The fishing town of Innsmouth is my favorite of all Lovecraftian locales, but having grown up on the West Coast, Innsmouth evokes in me memories of fishing with my father in San Simeon, California, a permanently cold and grey highway beach town known only for William Randolph Hearst’s mansion and the zebras that still roam the former newspaper mogul’s estate. When I think of San Simeon, my own private Innsmouth, I imagine my father, fishing alone in the cold surf, unaware of the unspeakable things lurking just beyond the breakers.

  ♦

  The fish struck hard, and Jim Mulligan was nearly pulled off his feet, into the surf that crashed around his waist. A halibut, or perhaps a small shark. Whatever tugged at his line was certainly larger than the rainbow perch he’d caught all morning. He loosened his drag and let the fish peel off line. Ten, twenty, thirty yards… then seventy, eighty, ninety. Within seconds, the fish nearly stripped his spool bare. It showed no sign of slowing.

  Jim tightened the drag and began to reel. At first the fish resisted, but, after several cranks, it turned tail and swam in toward the furthest breakers, toward shore.

  Jim’s heart thundered in his chest. His legs had gone numb from many hours taking a beating in the waves. Despite the perpetual grey of the sky, he had still managed to catch a sunburn. The dozen perch he’d landed would make a fine meal or two for himself, Jen, and their four-year-old boy, Jason, but to yield something bigger — that would make this whole vacation one to remember. A trophy lingcod. He licked his lips at the thought of the sweet, buttery meat.

  The fish came in easily now. Maybe it wasn’t as big as he first judged. Even though he loved nothing more than the feel of a fish on the other end of the line, disappointment rose within him as he considered the possibility that it was just another perch. Not that he’d complain. He came out to the beach, ditching his family’s planned visit to Hearst Castle, in order to catch perch. Faced with the prospect of something better, though, he couldn’t help feeling cheated. By who or what, he did not know. He’d felt a similar sensation of being cheated when they learned last year that Jason was autistic. The guilt of entitlement wore heavy on him, and for the moment he felt sorry for this fish, which had made a hell of a run and should be appreciated for what it was, not for what it might have been.

  A black dorsal fin spotted red slashed through the waves breaking closest to Jim. The sight turned his blood cold. No fish he’d ever seen pictures of, let alone caught, possessed a fin like that.

  He focused on the angle of his rod to the water, the buzzing of the spool sending his heart into his throat every time the fish held ground or fought to earn an extra few feet of line. Even though it feigned struggle, he knew it was gassed. The biggest risks now were it coming unhooked or a seal or shark swooping in for an easy meal.

  He held his breath and prayed to the god all fishermen pray to.

  Then a tail cut through a white-capped wave.

  Holy fish gods in heaven — from the fork of the tail, Jim guessed the whole fish to be at least three feet long. Quite possibly four or five.

  Some exotic type of giant rock bass? He did not have long to find out. The fight was almost finished.

  He stepped backwards, then took another step, careful not to slip on any submerged rocks as he eased out of the sea and back to shore. To lose this fish now, especially after glimpsing that it was indeed something rare and wonderful, would be nothing less than tragic.

  In spite of his cautiousness, his knees turned wobbly, and he collapsed to the sand when he saw the thing.

  He was not sure what hideous detail he took in first:

  The fish’s humanoid arms and legs, clawing helplessly at the sand.

  The razor-filled frown that ran like a knife gash across its cantaloupe-sized head.

  The leathery, mottled skin, like that of a moray eel.

  The dorsal fin that flitted open like a sail then shut again, timed to the hoarse breathing of the creature.

  Its eyes, the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, that gazed at him with such despair.

  Or perhaps before taking in any of the innumerable awful details of the creature before him, he registered that it spoke.

  “Help me,” the fish croaked. “Help me.”

  Pity for the creature swept over him, replacing the horror he initially felt. He fumbled about for his pliers and then set to removing the barbed hook from the creature’s jaw. The poor thing whimpered as h
e ripped out the hook.

  “I’m sorry,” Jim said.

  “Help me,” said the fish.

  “Do you want me to drag you back into the water?”

  The fish shook its head sadly.

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Help me,” it said.

  “Help you how?”

  “Take me home.”

  “But you live in the ocean, and I live in a town two hours from here. I’m on vacation with my family. I can’t take you home.”

  “Take me with you.”

  “I’m out here catching dinner, not finding new pets. We already have a dog. And a cat. What am I supposed to do with you?”

  “Eat me if you must.”

  “I’m not going to eat you.” Jim shuddered at the thought. “Just tell me what you want.”

  “Help me.”

  “Look, I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know that I can help you.”

  “Let’s be friends.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  The creature stared at Jim with its blue eyes, and he tried in vain to ward off that nagging sense of pity. Blood trickled from the hook wound in the creature’s lip.

  Jim packed up his fishing gear and hoisted the bucket, heavy with perch and seawater. He turned his back on the fish-thing and marched up the beach to his truck.

  Then, sitting in his truck with his fishy hands clutching the steering wheel, he returned his gaze to the beach, where the sad creature still lay on the sand. Why did it not return to the sea? What the fuck was wrong with it?

  Help me.

  “Oh hell,” Jim said. He climbed out of the truck and marched down the beach. He took the fish in his arms and carried it back to the truck. He plopped it into the half-full bucket with the perch, because, even though it seemed to breathe air just fine, he figured it might need water. It was a futile gesture. Hardly a quarter of the creature fit inside the bucket. It clutched the sides of the bucket, staring down at the dead perch with a blank expression.

  As Jim pulled back onto the highway and drove toward the Motel 6 in town, it occurred to him that fear should have been his initial response to the creature. Why did he not fear it?

  Because it’s so pitiful, he thought. It’s just so damn pitiful. That’s why I don’t fear it.

  Back at the motel, upon lifting the hatch on the camper shell, Jim discovered that the creature had slunk out of the bucket and now cowered in the furthest corner of the truck bed, covering its blue eyes with its unsettlingly human hands.

  It feels shame, Jim thought.

  He turned his attention to the bucket and realized why. The perch were gone. The damned thing had eaten them.

  “You son of a bitch,” he said, and he dropped the tailgate and started to crawl into the back of the truck, prepared to beat the creature. But as he raised his left fist to pummel the thing, it whimpered and in a meek little voice said, “I’m sorry.”

  Jim lowered his fist and shook his head. “That was dinner.”

  “Eat me instead.”

  “No, I can’t do that. What would my wife think if she saw you? What would you even taste like? What are you, anyway?”

  “I’m a fish,” it said. “Like you.”

  “No,” Jim said. “I’m not a fish. I’m a man.”

  The creature uncovered its eyes as a crooked grin split across its face. A fleshy black tongue lolled out of its mouth and traced the peaks and valleys of its dagger teeth.

  “Well then, I must be mistaken,” it said.

  All at once, the pity Jim had felt for the thing was replaced by a sickening dread that weighed on his chest like a sack of stones.

  But it was too late for him. Too late for all of them. His wife, his son, the motel staff, the residents and vacationers in San Simeon, the state of California, the whole Pacific coast, the country, the continent, the world. They would all meet their doom trying to help this hideous thing from the sea. Jim realized this now, as if the thought were implanted in his mind by the thing itself.

  “W-what do you want with me?” Jim stammered.

  The creature lashed out, crossing the truck bed and locking its clawed hands around Jim’s skull in a lightning flash. It must have weighed less than fifty pounds, and yet it was stronger than him, and it dragged him into the back of the truck with ease.

  Darkness slid into the driver’s seat of his mind, and Jim felt his chest collapse beneath the stones that seemed to weigh on him. His body turned out to be disposable, but he was too far gone to care.

  He awoke some time later. The fading orange sunlight beamed through the windows of the truck. He felt cold anyhow. The creature knelt beside him. It smiled. He did not like that it smiled.

  “Since you helped me, I have helped you,” it said.

  “Helped me how?”

  “I have made you beautiful.”

  The creature held out the driver-side mirror for him to take. It must have crawled out of the truck and broken off the mirror. Jim wondered if anyone saw it. He guessed not. They would’ve shit themselves. No, he realized, they wouldn’t have. They would’ve helped it. Like I did.

  “I don’t want to look,” Jim said. Even as he said it, he was snatching up the mirror. He was still human. He was sure of it. He still felt human. Why should he not look human too?

  In the mirror, staring back at him, he saw the unnamable fish he’d pulled from the sea. The wretched creature he’d try to help, that now sat there grinning at him like a fucking dummy.

  “Help me,” he said. He said it again and again, louder and louder, until he was screaming and thrashing about in the back of the truck, throwing himself against the windows and floor and ceiling, hoping to crush his own skeleton or whatever it was inside that made him so hideous to look upon.

  If someone would just fucking help him.

  Hotel staff and guests began to gather in the parking lot, pointing at the truck. Surely they heard his screams and noticed his thrashing. Why did they not help?

  “Help me.”

  All the while, the firstborn, as he thought of it now, remained completely still beside him, its eyes closed and an atonal thrum emanating from its lips, as if it were meditating.

  “Help me!”

  Then he saw her.

  Julie.

  She said something to the crowd, and they shook their heads at her, refusing to help. Alone, carrying their son in her arms, she moved toward the truck. Julie, his sweet and tender wife, had come to help.

  As she lifted the hatch of the camper shell, Jim licked his razor-sharp teeth and opened his blue eyes wide, for best effect. “Help me,” he said to his wife.

  He was ready to return home.

  Glimmer in the Darkness

  Asamatsu Ken

  Translated by Raechel Dumas

  “For those who relish speculation regarding the future, the tale of supernatural horror provides an interesting field. Combated by a mounting wave of plodding realism, cynical flippancy, and sophisticated disillusionment, it is yet encouraged by a parallel tide of growing mysticism, as developed both through the fatigued reaction of “occultists” and religious fundamentalists against materialistic discovery and through the stimulation of wonder and fancy by such enlarged vistas and broken barriers as modern science has given us with its intra-atomic chemistry, advancing astrophysics, doctrines of relativity, and probings into biology and human thought.”

  Translator’s note: A careful balance of historical material and bizarre imagination, “Glimmer in the Darkness” offers a glimpse into the minds of early twentieth-century Americans, capturing the complex range of emotions experienced by those who lived through this period of rapid technological innovation. This piece also offers a unique perspective on H. P. Lovecraft, a writer whose oeuvre, it would seem, was informed as much by his personal demons as it was by his keen interest in the possibilities embodied by scientific inquiry. In addition to Lovecraft’s essay, Mr. Asamatsu would also like to acknowledge his debt to John A. Ke
el, whose Operation Trojan Horse: The Classic Breakthrough Study of UFOs served as a source text for this story. “For a time I questioned my own sanity,” Keel writes, describing his conversion from skeptic to conspiracy theorist. “I kept profusive notes — a daily journal which now reads like something from the pen of Edgar Allen [sic] Poe or H. P. Lovecraft.”

  ♦

  The man who entered the café was dressed in a brand new black suit and wore a shiny derby. Over his left hand hung a pristine coat — also black — constructed of thick cloth. Among the shop’s patrons, only two noticed him: the waiter and a young man of nineteen years of age, who sat in the corner, relishing a bowl of ice cream. It was December 25, 1909, Christmas afternoon.

  A swarthy Oriental — probably a Japanese, though possibly a Chinese — the man in black was of a sort clearly not permitted to enter a place like this. He wore a bewildered expression and glanced about restlessly, as though seeking someone’s assistance. The youth quietly raised his right hand and beckoned him over. Appearing as though he had been rescued, the man at last removed his derby and approached the youth’s table.

  “Er… I’m quite unaccustomed to shops like this.” The man seemed to be suffering from a respiratory illness, for he loosened his collar with a gasping wheeze. He asked the waiter, who had arrived to take his order, to bring him the same thing the youth was eating. Somehow or another, it appeared as though he didn’t know the term “ice cream.”

  “Are you an Oriental?” the youth asked. If he were Japanese, he would by all means listen to him. Ah, the beauty of a haiku’s meter and moment, the strange folklore of Lafcadio Hearn. Were the man Chinese, he hoped to learn something of Daoist magic. The youth was a poet.

  “Yes… no. I’m from Boston. Tiny Smith’s the name.”

  “Mister… Tiny Smith?” The youth raised his brows. Being so tall in stature, the man was anything but slight. And Smith? Perhaps he was of mixed blood, part-Oriental and part-English.