Letters to Lovecraft

by Jesse Bullington

  “Well… uh, it’s…I have a government job.” As he said this the man pointed to a three-pointed insignia attached to the lapel of his business suit. In the center of the isosceles triangle was the image of an eyeball. The youth recognized the symbol. It was a Freemason’s mark. His Grandfather Whipple, who had died five years prior, had frequently shown it to him, when he was a young boy.

  “A Boston Mason then?” the youth pondered as he gazed at the man’s swarthy visage.

  Before long the waiter returned and placed the ice cream in front of Tiny, who picked up the silver bowl with both hands. He opened his mouth wide, as though to swallow it whole.

  “Excuse me, but… you don’t use a spoon?”

  “Huh?” Dabbing ice cream from around the perimeter of his mouth, the man raised his face.

  “A spoon, a spoon,” said the youth, showing the man his small piece of silverware. “Use this!”

  “Huh? Ooooh, yes. Of course.” Tiny clumsily grasped the spoon and, restlessly turning his head to survey his surroundings, began downing his ice cream. As he watched Tiny, the youth developed a steadily swelling sense of anxiety, a feeling as though he were being slowly but steadily crushed. The man was somehow abnormal. Somehow… mad.

  Mad.

  You’re too ugly to go out in public! From somewhere his mother’s voice resonated. Howard! What a face! With your twisted nose and flattened chin…

  Mad!

  A sick feeling arose in the youth’s breast, and he grew nauseated, though the sensation was not merely a response to the memory of his mother.

  Tiny had moved toward him now, and a terrible, sulfurous stench poured from his mouth as he spoke. “Incidentally, that invention — the flying machine constructed by that Worcester inventor — haven’t you seen it?”

  “Right… the flying machine. No, I haven’t. But if I’m not mistaken, there’s an article about it in today’s issue of the Journal.” Saying this, young Howard pulled a copy of the paper from beneath the seat next to him and handed it to Tiny. The large man opened his eyes wide and began reading voraciously. His queer expression prompted Howard to avert his eyes, and he looked out through the café window at the expansive winter sky on the other side. It was covered in greyish-white snow-laden clouds, and it seemed as though at any time snowflakes would begin to dust the ground.

  “A flying machine…” Howard muttered to himself. An enormous flying machine piloted by a Worcester, Massachusetts, inventor had recently become the talk of the town and, indeed, the entirety of the East Coast.

  It had begun on September 8th, in the open sea surrounding Long Island. That night members of a sea-rescue crew reported having heard a thunderous engine reverberating high in the black sky overhead. The account of a rescue worker named William Leech appeared in the Long Island and New York papers. On the same day, an amateur scientist in Worcester proclaimed to reporters that this was the invention of the century.

  The inventor in question was the executive vice-president of Worcester’s Sure Seal Manufacturing Company, Wallace E. Tillinghast. He claimed to have invented a flying machine with the power to transport three individuals, weighing up to two hundred pounds each, a distance of three hundred miles, at an average speed of one hundred twenty miles per hour, without replenishing the fuel. Moreover, Tillinghast reported that, on the 8th of September, he had taken his machine on a test flight, circling around the Statue of Liberty, venturing as far as Boston, and returning to New York, all without landing.

  “They say Mr. Tillinghast’s flying machine is a monoplane,” said Tiny, “with a seventy-two-foot wingspan and a 120-horsepower engine. In all, it weighs 1,550 pounds. And it can even take off from an area just under seventy-five feet and travel at two miles per minute… if this is true, what an amazing invention!”

  Young Howard’s pupils glittered behind his rimless spectacles. Like most youths of the early twentieth century, he embraced the hope that the practical uses of scientific technology had no bounds. “It seems this sort of technology interests you greatly.”

  Tiny folded up the copy of The Providence Daily Journal and placed it at the corner of the table. “I like science. Astronomy above all else. Do newspapers and magazines also run astronomy columns?”

  “Ah… astronomy. Well, it’s a young science but a promising one. So, what kind of column?” For a brief moment Tiny’s eyes emitted a bewitching light, but Howard didn’t notice. Howard brought together his hands and, with a dreamy expression, continued, citing the most mainstream journal he could think of. “For example, a column in Scientific American asserts that because of the high likelihood that a ninth planet exists beyond Neptune, astronomers ought to combine their intellect and endeavor immediately to discover unknown planets.”

  Just as Howard said the words “ninth planet,” Tiny produced a sputtering, violent cough. He removed a pristine handkerchief from the pocket of his business suit and covered his mouth. “I see, I see. Sounds like an interesting column… A ninth planet, eh? Hmm. Indeed, quite so. So that’s what the astronomers have been up to. They ought to discover Pluto sometime soon, then.”

  “What was that?”

  “That is, the ninth planet! Pluto is…”

  “Pluto?” Howard gazed questioningly at Tiny’s upturned eyes.

  As though he had made some error, Tiny screwed up his lips and hurried to correct himself. “Oh! Err… well… it just struck me. Being the next planet after Neptune, it seems Pluto would…” Then, as if to change the subject, Tiny returned to the topic of the flying machine. “Nevertheless, well, to be sure, the biplane took flight in Paris in 1906, and only three years later a monoplane… that’s progress in the true sense of the word, and this is a marvelous affair for us Americans in particular.”

  Howard nodded.

  “They say Mr. Tillinghast is creating new models one after the other! On the 20th, at a wharf in Boston, a bright light was seen flying by at an incredible speed, but this must have been one of Mr. Tillinghast’s new models, right? I saw the same thing in Boston — wow, it was terribly bright! I hear that in Little Rock, Arkansas, some sort of shining cylinder was also seen on the 20th, around one o’ clock in the morning. This must have been Tillinghast’s invention, too, eh?”

  Howard knit his brows. The flying machine in Boston had been witnessed on the 20th at one in the morning. Considering the distance between Little Rock and Boston, even a model that boasted a speed of one hundred twenty miles per hour couldn’t have made it there and back in such a short span of time.

  “Umm… it seems that it was spotted in Rhode Island, as well. If I’m not mistaken, in a place called Pawtentas or something like that.”

  “Pawtucket,” Howard corrected him.

  “Ah. New York’s Tribune reported that in Pawtucket, on the 21st, just after one in the morning, a red light was seen advancing southward. All of the witnesses identified the outline of a flying machine against the background of the starry sky.”

  On the evening of December 22nd, the flying machine had made an appearance in Marlboro, Massachusetts. Shining a searchlight toward the sky, it proceeded from Marlboro to Worcester, where it danced for a few moments in the sky — and then disappeared. Two hours later the flying machine reappeared, its high-powered searchlight licking across the streets of Worcester as it circled four times, high up in the sky.

  As a matter of course, reporters had intruded upon the mansion of Tillinghast, who had been performing test runs of this marvelous flying machine. But in the great inventor’s absence, his wife had greeted the journalists in the foyer to speak on his behalf: “My husband understands the mission he must carry out. When the time comes, he will discuss the matter.”

  It seems Tillinghast was more interested in showing off his great invention before the general public than he was in holding a press conference. On December 23rd this strange, luminous body was witnessed throughout New England. Starting in Boston, the flying machine soared through the sky to Marlboro, and from there trave
led through South Framingham, Natick, Ashland, Grafton, North Grafton, Upton, Hopedale, and Northborough. On the following day, December 24, 1909, Providence’s Daily Journal recounted the incident: Observers reported that the light was generally fixed, but sometimes it emitted glimmers, and once or twice flickered out completely.

  “But can it be true?” Howard said. On the table sat four bowls of ice cream.

  “True… meaning…?”

  “‘The test flight on the 23rd had nothing to do with me.’ Mr. Tillinghast said this in his comment in yesterday’s Journal.” Though Howard had interrupted him, Tiny resumed listening without any indication of annoyance. “He wasn’t in Worcester that night — we can’t say where he went. Maybe he was flying through the sky above the town, but that’s also impossible to say. And that being the case, perhaps someone other than the Worcester inventor is operating these machines. Nevertheless, that amazing invention — here and there and all over New England — must be easy to build and fly, eh? Personally, I wonder if Tillinghast might be using a hot-air balloon or something to perpetrate a hoax.”

  Tiny flatly denied Howard’s suggestion. “The luminous body seen on the 21st flew against the wind — it couldn’t have been a balloon. Besides, did you know that Tillinghast has a hangar in the outskirts of Worcester?”

  “No.”

  “A United Press correspondent ascertained that a hangar has been constructed in the mansion garden of the president of a telephone company in West Boylston. This company president is named Paul B. Morgan, and he is a close friend of Tillinghast’s. The reporter seemed concerned that this flying machine is somehow unordinary — Morgan’s company employees had been engaged in secret operations in the hangar. It seems likely that Morgan is Tillinghast’s patron. Apparently the UP reporter who discovered all of this was arrested for trespassing and is being held on charges related to the violation of Morgan’s property… and the secrecy of this project. Perhaps the country is also banking on Tillinghast’s invention.”

  Howard stopped the hand that was conveying the ice cream toward his mouth. Might this Tiny Smith character not be a governmental agent deployed to observe Tillinghast’s invention? Just last night, on Christmas Eve, the flying machine was witnessed shining its searchlight throughout the Rhode Island, Connecticut, and Massachusetts regions. Unfortunately Howard had been feeling poorly, and from early evening onward had remained curled up in bed, leaving him unable to observe this marvelous invention.

  According to Howard’s mother, his aunt Lillian had witnessed it and, “in a state of excitement unbecoming of a doctor’s wife,” as she put it, had rushed out into the garden and bathed in the luminescence of the searchlight. Howard stretched his hand toward the copy of the Journal that sat before Tiny. He felt as though there was something portentous about Tiny’s way of speaking, about his terribly detailed understanding of the particulars surrounding Tillinghast.

  Portentous? Had Tiny misspoken when he had said “Pawtentas” instead of “Pawtucket”? Clearly he’d said “portentous.” How ominously sinisterly astonishingly strangely terrifyingly imposingly mad!

  Eventually you’ll go mad, as well. So mad that everything will cease to make sense. Bedridden. Just like me. Again his mother’s hysterical, piercing voice vibrated in Howard’s eardrums. At the same time, he was attacked by a chilling sensation, as though his abdomen were being caressed by a terrible hand.

  Like that of his father.

  As if to rid himself of the hallucination of his mother’s voice, Howard casually shook his head. Sarah grew quiet. He loosed a deep sigh and looked back at the open spread of the Journal.

  Tillinghast is still reticent. Since the enigmatic luminescent body was first witnessed, the infamy that has begun to dog him has placed both his work and home lives in jeopardy. He is not even permitted an hour of tranquility. Two or three people seeking information are constantly in his office. The doors of his workplace and his residence alike are closely guarded by mysterious men.

  “This says he’s closely guarded by mysterious men…” Howard turned his eyes up toward the black-suited man sitting before him. Tiny awkwardly scooped at the melting ice cream and continued to shovel it into his mouth. Shortly cropped, coarse black hair. Swarthy skin, like that of someone afflicted with a liver condition. Upturned eyes. A pointed chin. A seemingly brand-new business suit. An immaculately white collar. A perfectly knotted necktie. The devil was a black man. Howard recalled a passage from Cotton Mather’s The Wonders of the Invisible World, which had been in his grandfather’s library. During the Salem witch trials, an accused witch had made just such a declaration.

  This is absurd… I’m a materialist — I don’t believe in demons and the like! Were I some Pawtucket fisherman’s wife I might just take one look at Tiny and, wondering if he doesn’t possess cloven-hoofed feet, demand that he remove his shoes and show them to me!

  Cloven hooves — a sign of the devil, like being cursed with sulfurous breath… Sulfurous breath? That’s precisely how Tiny’s breath smelled.

  Mad.

  — Or a nightmare, perhaps? Howard was exasperated, but what did it matter? Night after night he was plagued by scream-inducing nightmares… ever since the old woman’s death this had been the way of things! Sarah’s voice echoed in his head, his brain vibrating with each reverberation. Nausea and vertigo simultaneously surged forth, and Howard let the newspaper fall from his hands. A parched voice assaulted him, frighteningly loud.

  “You dropped it,” Tiny said as he lifted his face from the bowl of ice cream. Those eyes stared intently at Howard.

  Just like the eyes of a hypnotist. Eyes that seemed as though they could render anyone who stared into them entirely open to suggestion.

  Howard peeled his eyes from Tiny’s face and leaned over to retrieve the paper. He picked up the copy of the Journal, and, as he lifted his head, Tiny’s legs struck his gaze. Thick green wires were coiled against the inner part of both legs, which peeked out from beneath his trouser cuffs. The wires originated in Tiny’s socks and had been concealed beneath his trousers. Now, it looked as though they were crawling into his body by way of the flesh around his calves.

  Howard held his breath and adjusted his spectacles. Pitch-black shoes, polished to a high shine. Short black socks. Green wires, hidden beneath trouser cuffs — this was mad! Tiny Smith was queer in the head. What else could have inspired such outrageous behavior as running wires into his body?

  Howard straightened back up in his seat. Tiny took out a small memo pad and made some notes. The page was filled to the brim with tiny letters that Howard had never before seen.

  “Well… before long I’ll have to start heading back.”

  Howard began to rise, but Tiny’s words reined him in. “Be that as it may, a little longer won’t hurt.” Tiny turned toward the waiter. “Hey! Bring us another round!”

  Howard timidly lowered himself back into the chair. Tiny crossed his unusually long, narrow fingers, placed them on the table, and spoke in a low whisper. “There are a great many things out there resembling Tillinghast’s flying machine, things from the cosmos — so it seems. What do you think of, say, the chances that something will arrive here from the ninth planet?”

  “Like a monoplane? Seems unlikely. Scientists claim that any human being who rides a vehicle whose velocity exceeds sixty miles per hour will disperse into particles! A little while ago, I asked if the Worcester inventor might not be a fake, and you asserted that he could fly at one hundred twenty miles per hour. Though I’m not entirely convinced, I admit it might be possible. But in the void of space, there isn’t any oxygen. It’s filled with ether. How could one operate an engine in that sort of environment?”

  “Well, say one were to implement a device that resists gravity or something of the sort…”

  “Isn’t that the plot of a Wells novel? Look! An anti-gravity metal, like Cavorite in The First Men in the Moon. Nothing like this actually exists. I’ll permit that Wells is a great author, bu
t he’s not a scientific type.”

  “I also enjoy Wells. Especially War of the Worlds… It’s interesting. And I think so-called Martians really exist.”

  “I’ll concede the possibility that Mars is home to a very few plants — things like mosses — along with lower-class insects. But intelligent life… absolutely not.”

  With an air of admiration for Howard’s coolheaded tone, Tiny began taking notes in his memo pad. “Your literature, too, is undoubtedly deeply scholarly. When writing novels and the like…”

  “No,” Howard said, shaking his head sadly. “I don’t write novels. I don’t have the talent. As a child I wrote a lot of things, but I burned and trashed all but two of those scribblings. Now, aside from penning the occasional poem, I’m detached from literature…”

  “You surely have the eye of a poet. You might just become a great bard, à la Longfellow!”

  “How’s that?” A dejected expression appeared on Howard’s face. Owing to his nervous disorder, he had left high school in the middle of the term, and, with his hopes of entering Brown University quashed, the possibility of becoming a renowned poet or the like seemed unlikely. “Well, if you’ll excuse me.” Howard stood up to leave.

  Tiny turned to face the tall, lanky man’s back. “Thank you for such a wonderful time!” he said. “Might I have your name and address? I’d like to write to you after I return to Boston.”

  Howard turned and, with a weak smile that betrayed his feelings on the matter, consented. “Angell Street, number 598, Providence. The name’s Howard Phillips Lovecraft.”

  Tiny jotted in his memo pad, whereupon an awkward smile — entirely like a clown’s mask — arose on his face. “I swear it — you’ll become a great poet or scientist. Goodbye. Stay well. Mister Lovecraft!”

  Howard bowed and pushed open the café door. He fell into a daze, as though he were viewing the street corner in the lingering evening through a veil of melted copper. He advanced slowly along the mud-slushed pavement.