‘The Watchers Return is a Posthumous Collaboration with spirit of HP Lovecraft.
© Donald Correll 2009 All Rights Reserved.
Table of Contents
List of Illustrations
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My Story: About My Vision of Lovecraft with Poe
was studying at my desk late one night, dare I say 'weak and weary' when I had a severe asthma attack. I managed to stand up, as I was struggling to breathe. Almost as soon as I got upright, I fell over and hit my head on the desk. I was knocked out. I must have lost consciousness briefly, maybe a couple of seconds. When I blacked out I was in another time and space. Suddenly, outlined in darkness, Lovecraft and Poe were talking with me. They told me that I could write horror stories but I would have to pay the price. I would have to learn to think the way that they did. To do that I must take a trip to the dark side.
All of my life I have been a scientific materialist. I never saw things, not boggle nor haunt, neither angel nor demon. That was before I had my dark side vision. Now I wake up in the dark and sleep write. A line or two, sometimes several paragraphs at a time. Then I go back to sleep until the next paragraph comes along. Finally when I wake up I try to interpret my dream notes. At least one third of my story ‘The Watchers Return’ has come this way. The rest has been written in the darkest hours of the night.
Some of it I am proud to say is so scary that I even scare myself. I hope that you enjoy reading as much as I have enjoyed writing this story.
I have tried very hard to capture the look and feel of a Lovecraft story. I have mined many of the colorful words from the works of Lovecraft. Works such as ‘The Dunwich Horror’, ‘The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath,’ ‘The Lurking Fear,’ and ‘Dreams in the Witch House.’ I got the original idea from an unfinished fragment but the plot, characters, and climax are my own work. This is my first foray into the realm of Posthumous Collaboration. I hope that it will not be my last.
So come along with me and take a trip to the Dark side, back to Dunwich where it all began---
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About the The Watchers Out of Time
‘The Watchers Out of Time and Others’
is an anthology of stories said to be 'inspired' by unpublished Lovecraft story notes. It was unfinished at the time of August Derleth's death in 1971. Although the 'posthumous collaboration' was labeled ‘by HP Lovecraft,’ it was actually written by August Derleth. To many 'Mythos' purists this was heresy. These stories remain controversial to this very day. In spite of the ethical question Derleth and Arkham House did much to preserve the Lovecraft legacy. The uncompleted fragment is too good of a Mythos story to let it languish forever.
No copyright information is given for this work. It is difficult to determine which parts Lovecraft wrote. Some parts of the story, such as the descriptions of Dunwich are clearly from the ‘Dunwich Horror.’ Additional story elements seem to have been borrowed from ‘Dreams in the Witch House.’ The final lines written by Derleth, subsequent to his death were: 'There was no signature, but the writing was crabbed and uncertain.-' Subsequently throughout the rest of the story all plot points and characters are my own invention. In 'The Watchers Return' I have reconstructed the unfinished fragment with a worthwhile Mythos conclusion.
In his own time HP Lovecraft loved to share with his circle of friends and collaborators. Lovecraft wrote voluminous correspondence encouraging others to write and participate in the creation of his Mythos. Since the time of Lovecraft and Derleth, many other writers like Clark Ashton Smith, Robert Bloch, Frank Belknap Long, Henry Kuttner and Manly Wade Wellman have participated in the creation of the Necronomicon and the Mythos tradition. That tradition of sharing and creation has given birth to a cottage industry that has sprung up around the writing of Lovecraft. Cinematic Films, Online Games, and Heavy Metal Music have all followed after the literary triumphs of HP Lovecraft. It was in that Mythos tradition that I wrote ‘The Watchers Return.’ My purpose in writing is the creation and preservation of a part of the Lovecraft Mythos. ‘The Watchers Return,' is my first contribution to the growing Lovecraft Mythos tradition. Numerous plot details have been inspired by my research from diverse sources on the Internet. Other points have been inspired by the works of HP Lovecraft and his ever-expanding circle of admirers. Despite the controversy over collaboration it is my intent to return to Dunwich and resume with loving respect the Mythos tradition. It remains to be determined how well this work will be accepted. It is a Horror fantasy of dark fiction set in the mythical past of ‘Lovecraft Country.’ All persons, myths and traditions referred to are entirely fiction made up in my imagination. Finally I thank my friend Matt Lepley for proof reading my work. I also wish to express my especial gratitude to J.M Von Kotterhausen for his beautiful artwork.
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Nor is it to be thought that man is either the oldest or the last of earth's masters, or that the common bulk of life and substance walks alone. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them, they walk serene and primal, undimensional and to us unseen. Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They had trod earth's fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them as They tread. By Their smell can men sometimes know Them near, but of Their semblance can no man know, saving only in the features of those They have begotten on mankind; and of those are there many sorts, differing in likeness from man's truest eidolon to that shape without sight or substance which is Them. They walk unseen and foul in lonely places where the Words have been spoken and the Rites howled through at their Seasons. The wind gibbers with Their voices, and the earth mutters with Their consciousness. They bend the forest and crush the city, yet may not forest or city behold the hand that smites. Kadath in the cold waste hath known Them, and what man knows Kadath? The ice desert of the South and the sunken isles of Ocean hold stones whereon Their seal is engraved, but who hath seen the deep frozen city or the sealed tower long garlanded with seaweed and barnacles? Great Cthulhu is Their cousin, yet can he spy Them only dimly. Iä! Shub-Niggurath! As a foulness shall ye know Them. Their hand is at your throats, yet ye see Them not; and Their habitation is even one with your guarded threshold. Yog-Sothoth is the key to the gate, whereby the spheres meet. Man rules now where They ruled once; They shall soon rule where man rules now. After summer is winter, after winter summer. They wait patient and potent, for here shall They reign again.
From The Dunwich Horror’ by HP Lovecraft-
ver since the trouble of 1928 Dunwich has been quiet. Not much in Dunwich has changed. Not much in Dunwich ever changes. The township is still dilapidated and falling down. Whippoorwills and frogs still call in the night. Dunwich is a decadent backwater, and strange sounds still emanate from the heights. A new generation has come to inherit property in Dunwich. A generation disconnected from the Dunwich of the horror of 1928. While the world has gone by, the forgotten Whateley family remains hidden and unknown to all but themselves. In a haunted farmhouse, hard against Sentinel Hill a certain small group of the undecayed Whateleys has been watching and waiting for the stars to come round right. Secretly and unimpeded by the disaster these 'Watchers' continue the work of Wizard Whateley. What fiendish new plot is set to erupt upon an unsuspecting world? Though shunned and hidden the Whateley Cabal knows. Unimaginably rich from Alchemical plunder and Necromantic commerce these Whateley Watchers hold trust with aliens from beyond Yuggoth. Known as the Outer Gods these Aliens are intent upon opening a door to all time and space. When Saturn and Mars favorably align the stars will come right. Then those from outside will return to blow earth's dust away.
The Watchers Return
A Posthumous Collaboration
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The summit of Sentinel Hill
arly in the spring of 1935 a strange parcel arrived at the home of Walter Waite, of Bolinas, California. When Waite opened the parcel it proved to be an Inquiry delving into his identity, as well as his ancestral lineage. It was accompanied by a complicated Legal Notice from the law firm of Stephen Doyle, of Doyle, Moylan, Presley & Lowe. It was addressed to his deceased father, Charles Waite, now seven years dead. Reference was made to an ‘inherited acreage’ in Massachusetts. The property, consisted of a Colonial house and fifty acres of overgrown pasturage, orchard, and woodlot as well as various outbuildings. It was located in the Township of Dunwich, in North Central Massachusetts, near Springfield. The House and land had remained untenanted for some years now.
Walter Waite did not remember his father ever discussing property. All Waite really knew was the rugged coast of California. In fact all that remained to Waite was a vague memory of a distant land from which his family had migrated after some trouble, back east. All of his adult life Waite had lived in the sleepy fishing village of Bolinas, north of San Francisco. Mr. Waite Senior had been an exceedingly tight lipped man who never mentioned the past. He was habitually aloof, standoffish and unapproachable. His father, the elder Waite had been solitary and saturnine. A strangely troubled man whose wife’s passing had caused an increasing withdrawal and depression. Waite remembered his father brooding over his features as with some dread premonition. It was as if there was something in his physical form that he did not like. During his terminal years he had developed the disturbing habit of constantly shaking his head forbiddingly in the presence of his son. Although he loved his son, he did not like anything about his features. Certainly it was not the sculpted nose or the wide floppy lips so much as the nearly lobe-less ears. Waite also possessed protuberant fishy eyes that seemed to bulge out of his sockets. His neck was so strangely wattled that it reminded one of gills. It was as if some haunting characteristics of genetic taint reminded the elder Waite of something that he did not care to remember.
Because of Walter’s isolated and insular way of life his favorite pastime was reading. He also kept a diary and was an avid photographer. He found the notion of returning to his native state of Massachusetts, to be very romantic. It was not that he loathed the cold fog shrouded coast or the constant loud roaring boomers of the North Pacific swell. Nor was it, so much the long journey overland to any nearby civilization. After his isolated and neglected upbringing any change seemed good. He had pondered for two days, who had given him what? But his initial befuddlement soon gave place to a more intense wonderment. Finally his initial disinclination dissipated. As he pondered the change to a distant state, an odd anticipation rose in him. Inherited New England property now seemed attractive in a recondite haze.
In due course he booked a flight to Boston. Within a week he presented himself at the law offices located at 93 Basin Street in Arkham, Massachusetts. At his first meeting with the lawyer Doyle, Waite was impressed by a person physically aged but not infirm. While Stephen Doyle was very professional and courteous, at the same time he remained somewhat distant, almost cold. Doyle’s dour Yankee personality type was strange to Waite. He was more accustomed to the boisterous open natives of the golden state. Despite this initial difficulty in Waite’s perception, Stephen Doyle was all business when it came to the topic of the real estate in question. Though initially reluctant the lawyer had been forced to admit that the property was allowed to languish by a relative. The former senior partner had overlooked it as an unsettled estate. When the senior partner retired in ill health, the hidden papers had been left behind. Doyle readily admitted that due to the lapse, the matter of the estate, must now be expedited. Unfortunately because of the demise of this former partner very little had been known about the ownership of the house. The identity of the missing heir had languished with the death of his cousin. It was during an internal audit of the assets of the law firm, that the papers relating to the property had been discovered in a neglected bin. Doyle had at that time committed all of his resources to finding the missing heir. Once the mistake was discovered. All due haste had been exercised in settling the inheritance.
'The house and property had originally been inherited from a distant cousin, Sirius Whateley. Following the death of Waite’s father it had belonged to a stepbrother. Abner Whateley had inhabited the house and property until his own death. Because the notation, of the will was written in miniscule with an uncertain hand in a cramped style, it could not be satisfactorily read. A paragraph written in atrocious Latin referred to a modification in the family name and a relocation, but whose name and what location had not been altogether clear. Then there had been that trouble in 1928, and a lot of things had changed. Luckily the Sirius Whateley line was otherwise well documented in the records of the state of Massachusetts. Despite the continual decline in the stock of old armigerous families, in the now blighted area of Dunwich, the Whateleys were a prominent family of some note. Some research amongst old letters and court documents had finally led to the discovery that his father was born a Whateley. After 1928 he had changed his name to Waite and migrated to California under a veil of secrecy. Contact was cut off. He had subsequently become lost until recently he had been found.
It was on this property located near the tiny village of Dunwich, known as the old Sirius Whateley plantation, that his father’s sibling, the late Abner Whateley, had spent his declining days. To Walter Waite the confusing similarity of names meant naught. His mother had told him that he had been two years old when his family had reached California. His father never mentioned any relatives on this side of the continent. He also had little exchange of letters with anyone except in the final year of his life. There had been some enigma that he meant to dispel. Unfortunately he had suffered a stroke which had taken away from him all movement and vocalization. After the stroke it was only with extreme difficulty that he could use his eyes to indicate that he had wanted to speak. He died without ever regaining any of his abilities. Because of his disability he could not commit anything to words. When the audit turned up the delinquency, Stephen Doyle had promptly ordered the ‘discovery of the missing heirs.’ When research indicating that Walter Waite of Bolinas, California was the missing heir the Doyle firm had been forthright in coming to the decision. The same Walter Waite was solely entitled to the inheritance.
'The second part of the problem was with the country surrounding Dunwich. As I wrote in my letter, that area in north central Massachusetts was an unpopular backwoods hinterland. Even by local standards Dunwich was decayed, and despised. In Aylesbury they called it ‘Whateley country.’ Because so many of mailboxes show the occupancy of that formerly great family. Many of the old farms are now abandoned, especially since the trouble in 1928. The area was always considered obscure decaying and degenerate. Once it had been a secret retreat for those fleeing from the persecutions of the Salem witchcraft. It is located in the heart of desolate mountains in the old tribal region of the now extinct Pocumtuck Indian tribe. Your antique estate in Dunwich still stands, in surprisingly good shape, despite Abner Whateley having been dead seven years and a confederate three. Someone should have corresponded at once on Whateley’s death. Unfortunately my cousin, the former senior partner, was in precarious health for several years before his demise. I suppose it was for that reason that he neglected his duty. I take it you have your own vehicle?'
'I bought a late model Plymouth in Boston, to see the Eastern States. I am particularly interested in visiting the historic areas of Boston Commons, Bunker Hill and the northern interior all the way to Walden Pond. It cannot be too far to inspect the property as I travel along my route.'
'What do you plan to do with the estate? If you don’t mind my asking.'
'I will have to come to a decision after I inspect it. I might return to California. So far I have not found New England to be particularly appealing. I have no hope of selling the real property at a fraction of it’s true value. Worse if as you report the region, is a repugnant backwater, reported to be disreputable, I may have trouble turning enough profit to even pay the taxes. Could the outlandish fables about Dunwich, as you seem to indicate, be any more uncanny than the legends told of other obscure folk lands of the world?'
Doyle then admitted that 'the reports and stories were probably very much embellished, by local prejudice. Much malice has been directed towards the Whateley family in general, after the trouble of 1928.'
Waite sensed that the tight mouthed Doyle was not disposed to recapitulate any particular account, assuming that he knew any of the rigmarole. ‘How do I get to Dunwich, if it is so far off the well worn trail?’
'That part is easy. You will find artists and summer tourists everywhere along the road out of Arkham. Go south then west to Walden Pond. Later you can rejoin the Aylesbury Pike near Concord. Then take the long northern loop through Springfield, continue on the Aylesbury Pike toward Rowley, then west to Dean’s Corners. Turn left at the junction and continue clear to Dunwich. You will have to pay attention to the turns because all of the signboards pointing towards Dunwich have been taken down. On the way you must pass through a hilly sylvan terrain of picturesque dairy farms before you encounter the truly backward country. You will be detouring into bygone history of days long gone. Dunwich is located quite off the beaten path at the end of a particularly bad road. '
Waite turned away with keys and map and took the short route to Walden pond. Looking out over the placid waters he reflected briefly upon the romantic past of Emerson and Thoreau. He then returned to the Aylesbury Pike and resumed traveling north, into central Massachusetts. Shunning the seductive snares of numerous roadside attractions Waite continued along Aylesbury Pike past Springfield and through Rowley. By the time that he reached the fork just beyond Dean’s Corners only the mystery of his inheritance kept him going along the road through the lonely and curious country. As the environs got higher Waite began to travel past rising thorn verged rock walls. As he drove onward he was forced to dodge ruts in the dusty curving road. Flag and Cobble sized stones from the broken walls were scattered everywhere. As the road wound round, further into the hills, he began to pass the giant boles of old trees that were too large for the accustomed woods of the settled lands. He increasingly discovered a sporadically inhabited country of wild weeds, brambles and brier covered fences. The occasional farms he drove past wore a disturbing aspect of age, and dreary desolation. A miasma of abnormal luxuriance was exuded by the surrounding fallow fields and deserted pastures. The few barren and sparsely scattered houses he did find bore a surprisingly uniform facade of age, squalor, and dilapidation.
Waite was especially displeased because his special interest in taking snapshots of the old buildings was increasingly thwarted by the disappointing decay. His antiquarian interest were of a colonial New England that he had left far behind. Somehow in his search for his inherited property he had missed most of the antiquarian architecture of the older parts. As he progressed he began to notice that most of the ramshackle farms close to the road were decked with curious motifs. He had come to a wild and strange country where hex signs covered the gables and the gambrel roofs of the old barns. Some were merely decorative designs. Others were bizarrely cabalistic. No matter which direction he looked, wherever he traveled, homestead, coop, stall, pen, shed, and crib had all fallen together in desolate ruins among the abandoned farms. Waite found only few and far in between the strange outposts of scattered prosperous barns occupied by sleek cattle nestled amongst corn fields. The few close mown pastures were terminated by rocky swards. He wanted to stop and ask directions but not knowing why he hesitated to stop his journey. He found a growing repugnance, to the solitary figures he briefly glimpsed. He passed a few of a particularly hideous and gnarled cast on the crumbling doorsteps of a small farmhouse that he did not care to meet. In fact everywhere he looked his imagination was overly stimulated by the silent and furtive population. Waite began to intensely dislike the retiring and repulsive figures he confronted in the shadows. He saw them as forbidden things in a place of throwbacks and troglodytes. He had nothing in common to share with any of them.
As Waite continued to drive, he topped a rise in the road which brought mountains into view above deep woods. Irrationally his strange uneasiness increased. The summits were too rounded and symmetrical. Instead of the sense of comfort or naturalness he found a skyline of silhouettes where sane normal people never go. The ridges which his sight revealed were clearly crowned with queer circles and tall stone pillars. Waite was vaguely reminded of the archaic monuments on the moors of fabled old places far removed in time. Along his way the deep intersecting gorges of the ravines were crossed by crude wooden bridges of dubious safety. Finally his road dipped as he began to progress past stretches of marshland. He was surprised by this odd fascination of mood. It was as though he was in an unwonted atmosphere of dejavu. To Waite it seemed as if some ancestral memory had risen up. A memory made dubious because a remembrance of his first two years was not possible. Yet the views had a disturbing familiarity. It was not just the rounded hills brooding over the valleys. Dark woods crowded with trees where no ax or saw had ever been did not trouble him. It was the strange circles of tall stone pillars on the summits of the hills that piqued his discomfort. Somehow these were different yet alike the distant cromlech and mystical standing stone circles of druid haunted England. Finally as he passed the hills and deep gorges, he came to a wooden bridge and his first glimpse of the mighty Miskatonic. The great river which rises northwest of Dunwich to wind serpentinely through the hills and valleys far beyond to the seat of Arkham and on to the sea. As he drove he crossed many lesser branches and creeks that came from springs in the hills to empty into the Miskatonic. Once deep in the dark hills the white column of a waterfall was seen plunging down towards the high marshland and meadows. Traveling onwards he now discovered himself in a landscape of forbidding, enclosed hills, beyond which loomed pillared summits of even higher ridges. At least this was a sharp complement to the dreary, deserted farms of the lower lands below. Waite’s overall impression was one of a disquieting displacement. He felt a heightened difference in time and place between this area and the more settled Aylesbury Pike country beyond. Waite newly come into the area of the Dunwich settlement now realized that he was separated by far more than just time and distance from the area around Arkham. The regional mood pervaded oddly. He was unexplainibly both drawn to the country, and repelled by it. Somehow he had been here before. That disharmonious thought made a curious, impression on Waite, who held the normal feelings of human kind. Only the low lives, the credulous and the gullible read anything meaningful into the impenetrable metaphysical mystery of the paranormal or the occult. He instinctively disliked the psychic world of unnatural spectral phantoms. Unreasoning fears arose within him as the evening air was disturbed by fireflies flashing in abnormal profusion amidst the shrieking of unseen whippoorwills. That hideous chorus was soon joined by strident piping as the voices of thousands of batrachia rose in the raucous, creepily insistent rhythm of the croaking bull frogs.
Another turn brought the small village of Dunwich, huddled beyond the stream at the base of Round Mountain, into view. The architecture of Dunwich bespoke an even earlier period than that of the immediately neighboring region. Unfortunately it was not reassuring to see that the sole broken steepled church of the hamlet now harbored a tacky mercantile establishment. Waite dreaded to trust the tenebrous tunnel of the bridge but there was no way to avoid it. Once across, he found it hard to prevent his nostrils from choking. So finally at length Waite tested the long rickety covered bridge across the Miskatonic. There was a reeking musky odor of the massed mold and decay of centuries about the village street. At first he had been delighted to see the village come into view. But on a closer view he perceived that most of the houses were deserted and falling to ruin. Waite slowly began to wonder what had tempted him to come so far to claim property in the squalid cluster of rotting gables set in the gambrel roofs called Dunwich. He now realized that he had come to a place of somber desolation where the scant few folk seen on the streets were gnarled and aged by more than the passage of time. He was beginning to find it hard to suppress the thought that it would be a relief to get clear of the place. Part of him desperately wanted to follow the narrow road around the base of the hills and across the marshes back to the level country where he could rejoin the Aylesbury pike and eventually return to civilization and his beloved California. Despite the mounting dread Waite determined to continue on until he crossed the threshold of the broken steepled church. The sign proclaimed general store, so he entered intent on inquiring of the gaunt-faced storekeeper for directions to his inherited New England property.
'Walcum to Osbourne Gen’ral Mercantile stranger, wall it be mine naow since I bought it, I’m Tobit Whateley. Who might ye be?'
‘Sir, I am the heir, of the late Abner Whateley, would you be so kind as to direct me to his home.’
‘Abner Whateley!’ the scarecrow storekeeper repeated, staring, as his wide-lipped mouth flapped as it worked. ‘Ar’ ye kinfolk? ‘Ar’ ye kin to Whateley's?'
'My name is Walter Waite. I’ve come from California, to take possession of family property that I have inherited near here.'
The gaunt storekeeper studied Waite, awhile before expostulating, 'Wal ye do hev the Whateley look! – Never heard no kin o’ mine speak thet name, Waite afore.'
‘About the Whateley place,’ Waite curtly reminded him.
'Might be me'be twenty uh thuty sumthin places heah'bouts. If it’s Abner’s place, it’s shet up.'
‘I have the Key,’ expostulated Waite with some annoyance at the storekeeper’s angular and sneering smile.
'Weel if ye go back crost the bridge, turn right, mebbe half a mile. Ye’ll see it, stone wall ta one side 'round the o'chard an’ the medder, down t'a the river, dense wood all round t'other side.'
'Twant Abner’s, ‘twas Old Sirius, the canny one, the larned one.’ The storekeeper spat out with scorn, 'Ye’ll be larned, too, Ye're decked out like it.'
‘University of California Berkeley,’ said Waite.
'Weel, I ain’t ne’er heerd uv it, I’m Tobit Whateley. Ye're most like kin folk. Tek' a thought ta bein' out there. Ain’t a soul livin’ ar well---, ne’er you mind. Ain’t a soul as has set foot in or around thet house, no un, not since cuz’n Abner’s man, but ch'ou best tek real good keer jes' the same.'
Sirius Whateley House
Such dread, set ill with Waite. Mythology was not part of his breeding. He left the store with a pained edge of uneasiness, got in his car and drove off.
The property did not prove hard to discover, despite Tobit Whateley’s quaintly spoken description. As he approached for the first time Waite easily picked out the prominent old house set against the wooded hill with the many barns and other outbuildings to one side while a bit more in the back was a stone spring house where a freshet was seen to run out from under it across the fields toward the Miskatonic. Along the side of the house, was what what had once been an access road. It was so long abandoned that overgrown trees now blocked it. Waite could drive no farther on the potholed drive than just in from the road. So he parked and walked in. Shortly he was standing in the meadow gate staring at an antique house that was evidently farther along in years than the time of Abner or possibly even of Sirius Whateley. It was dignified by a surrounding of trees thick with Hemlock, Maple, and Laurel. That somber stand strode uphill and merged into the deep woods on all sides, but the left front. The construction of the house itself might have been before the early nineteenth century. Possibly it was even pre-revolutionary. Waite was astounded to encounter such a well preserved piece of Georgian architecture in such an unexpected place. His new home was most unlike the dilapidated and worn houses of the village and the farms he had seen along the road in from the Aylesbury Pike. The neat wooden structure, rose from a low base of layered sandstone into a solid, secure, shingled, gambrel roofed house. It rose a story and a half in height in a central section that was markedly higher than the wings. The house had a certain hard to place look about it. One might have expected to see a house that had been weathered and without paint for so many decades. Obviously many, many years had passed since the property had been maintained. Despite it’s obvious age the faded paint was not cracked or peeling. The house must have been under some sort of glamor because it suggested a trim white for Waite. In his bewitched vision the brown fly specked exterior appeared to be shining white.
There was surprisingly only a very small landing and no porch around the side mounted heavy oaken door. Around the fanlight on the top was a trim consisting of a few elaborate mystical sculptings, of some exotic cast. They were set into the header in rather odd contradiction to the austerity of the rest of the exterior wall. The key Doyle had given him fitted smoothly into the brass lock on the front door. But not so unexpectedly the door stuck a little. It had not been opened since the death of the last tenant, his cousin’s mysterious attendant. By the bright early evening light, Waite espied that the door opened into an ell as far as interior oak double-doors. These, too, were locked but Waite found another of the keys given him by the lawyer fit it as well. Within the doors, it was framed in a style reminiscent of English Baroque. The high central section was terminated by a balcony wrapped around the stairs. While long abandoned in a desolate wilderness he could not find a single pane of broken glass, or any other sign of the ravaging ruin one might normally expect. The House being so remote from the Aylesbury Pike probably accounted for some of the lack of mischief but not a single cracked or shattered glass was hard to believe. Other than some dust it was in immaculate condition. Waite should have found it quite odd that such a remote house standing alone in the decadent, decayed and deserted countryside should have escaped the mayhem and plunder common to all forsaken buildings. But greed and cupidity had clouded his mind and gotten the better of him.
More astounding was the richness of the antique and period furnishings. The furniture alone was worth far more than what was shown in the most expensive Back Bay boutiques. Everything centered about this tall central space where the ceiling was nearly twelve feet from the floor. At the far wall stood a massive stone fireplace enclosed in Walnut paneling. To the right Waite found concealed in an alcove a hidden escritoire. The flue was notably crowned by an intricately graven talisman. Towards the midpoint of the fetish was set a curious lens half a foot diameter. The lens was not glass but some obscure crystalline material. Surrounding the ornament was a three sided border whose apex peaked high up the wall. Waite had the fleeting notion of an eye set in a triangle.
The rest of the room was a library area where bookshelves surrounded the room. These shelves were stacked with 'many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-'. The old books of great value with curved spines and uncut pages were printed on fine parchment paper. Waite was very impressed to find nothing penned after a Huysman. Amongst the leather-bound tomes in Latin and other languages were to be found many others of rare value. Here was a Trithemius’ Poligraphia. And there was Giambattista Porta’s De Furtivis Literarum Notis. Also found were De Vigenere’s Traite des Chiffres, and Falconer’s Cryptomenysis Patefacta. He was amazed to find such rare delights as a Davy and Thicknesse eighteenth-century treatise, as well as the mysterious Novem Portis de Umbrarum Regni of Aristide de Torchia.
Crowning a book case was a large and old fashioned brass bound telescope. Here and there were many small ornaments. Amongst the even rows of books and carvings, were a number of small brass statuary of the well known Olympian Gods of classical antiquity. There were also what appeared to be other archaic relics and ancient artifacts in some unknown metal possibly electrum or some other amalgam of gold. They too, were obviously survivals of an unknown possibly pre pagan origin. On the massive table that occupied the middle of the room lay a large and dusty old ledger amidst papers, pen and ink. Several smaller ledgers and a day book, as well as account books were lying about. It was almost as if they were recently left there, waiting to be pressed into service again. Waite found it hard to resist gratifying his imagination as to what sort of records might have been kept by the former inhabitants of the house. So he furtively pulled a chair up to the desk and opened the largest of the ledgers. Surprisingly there were no numbers or accounts. It’s many pages were filled with a cramped but fine script phrased in such terms as might have been expected in a common diary. Bending over Waite read:
'Taken the boy and left, leaving no warning;
but it is not important where he has gone.
They will know’
And then further down he read:
'No question but she and the boy are gone,
I must send a note to ask Wilbur.
He will know and tell.'
And still further he read:
'The fires have been seen atop Sentinel Hill,
the whippoorwills are loud all night long
even as on the night Wizard Whateley passed on.
The infernal birds tried hard to get his soul,
but they did not get him
I must consult with the shades and
prepare for He Who is to Come.'
All the dates of the journal or diary were vague and barely to be made out. To Waite some seemed to be penned early 1928, possibly before the apocryphal but frequently mentioned troubles that had so badly upset the region.
Turning slowly Waite closed the book and turned away. Momentarily he became aware of a low ticking sound that had been subdued but present all along. He recognized it as the ticking of a clock! He was astonished. Searching about he discovered in a secluded niche a strange hand carved grandfather clock. Someone must have entered the house. Yet no one living had been here as far as anyone knew for three years. Someone must have set it, but who? What a clock! It was filled with strange and cryptic symbols. Some were those of the planets as well as other familiar symbols used by astronomers. He observed that several days had slid past the
indicating that the Lunar phase was several days aged beyond the new moon. Another set of symbols vaguely troubled him showing
was due in about a week on Walpurgis Night. Well he understood that for Walpurgis was meant May eve but what did, The Stars have Come Round Right, Open the Gate portend? What sort of a clock was this? The clock itself was covered in a strangely coiling tentacled design of the Biblical Leviathan or some other pre cataclysmic creature. It vaguely resembled something, possibly belonging to the cephalopod order, but with wings as of an utterly alien squid dragon from the long night before the era of man. Suddenly stifling memories flooded him with terror of a shrouded recollection from the remotest recesses of his mind. It was a disturbing nightmare of his lost childhood. He vaguely remembered knowing of a fantastic chronometer that was intended to tell more than just time. The numerals and symbols on its face clearly pertained to much more than just the vulgar reckoning of man told in minutes and hours. Perhaps it refered to days or even longer! Also present were a number of other signs with a hidden meaning. Also visible were sigils of a baffling origin.
Pulling away from the unusual clock he left the atrium intent on unearthing anything else which held the odd allure of the improbable. There was more of the house to examine, but if he hoped to uncover anything less than temporal he was let down. The rest of the building was sparsely appointed, and completely mundane. On the ground floor were two guest chambers, as well as a kitchen nook and larder. Up the stairs under the gambrel he found several cramped storage rooms as well as a master bedchamber. The room under the gable was well appointed but none too spacious. The second story of the house was interrupted by the angle of the ceiling. His architectural interest was piqued for there was a sort of unique garret casement whose design conformed to the shape of the gable.
Waite decided that he wished to add pictures of the house to his capacious portfolio of construction styles. The long shadows of the dark woods already were pressing hard upon his small yard. Although little good light remained before the sunset, there was no better time than the present to take a set of photographs. Descending he went back down the stairs and out to his vehicle. He dug out his camera and other photographic equipment. Next he set up his darkroom and started with the outside by taking shots of the building from every angle and view. He took several pictures of the unusual garret casements set in the gambrel faces. Moving to the interior, Waite continued with a set of the atrium, paying especial interest to the strange clock face. Next Waite paused to snap a few more pictures of the 'eye in the triangle in it’s carved setting above the fireplace. Last of all, to complete his photographic record, Waite finished with the collection of familiar classical glass ornaments. When he finally paused the light was nearly gone.
By this time the faint daylight had turned to the fairy gloaming that precedes night. He had to decide whether he should stay or try to drive to a motel in a nearby town to find lodging, for the night. Just thinking about that rough ride in the approaching darkness was not encouraging. That thought soon faded. It seemed foolish to drive the untold miles to go anywhere else to spend the night. In view of the surprising, almost unnatural tidiness of the house, he chose to stay here for now. Instead he made his plans to sleep, in the comfortable upstairs bedchamber. He went down to his car and lugged his bags to the head of the stairs. It was only then that he realized that he must go out again because he needed something to eat as well as essential supplies. He reasoned that because his appetite was light no extensive preparation was necessary. He could make do with fundamental nourishment. Better yet if he could find some fresh fruit, and whatever farm cheese was available that would suffice for now. He also would need fuel for the empty oil lamps in the pantry. Also possibly he might pick up a few candles. He needed staples even if the dour storekeeper’s raspy voice rubbed him raw. He felt it unfortunate that he would need to recross the rickety bridge to the village. At the same instant he admitted to a near panic, dire urgency to go and to return before total blackness descended upon the alien landscape. So he bolted the door, got back into his vehicle, and drove off immediately.
As Waite mounted the steps to the store he became a bit discomfited again. On entering the converted steeple store he was once greeted again by the same gaunt faced merchant who had evidently been expecting him. Thus mystified Waite began spelling out his need for edibles and other supplies such as lamp oil. While greedy for his money, Tobit Whateley struggled hard to hide his mocking visage. He had been expecting his return visit, but he had not expected him to stay. Knowing that he was lucky to have a rich flatland customer in this decrepit hamlet of repulsive inhabitants, Whateley was quick to recover. He knew from long experience that trade in Dunwich must be more credit than cash. This remote rural area had little need for a lunch counter. It could not even support a restaurant, much less an Inn.
Without giving Whateley an opportunity to reply, Waite rattled off his list of needful things. He wanted; a pound of what was that cheddar? And a pint of milk, preferably not goats milk and a box of dry oatmeal. Oh and yes whatever tinned crackers and biscuits were available. Waite passed over the none too fresh looking bread and finally he asked after some apples from the barrel.
Still Whateley stood unmoving, staring at Waite in a speculative manner.
‘Yew ain’t aiming to stay air’ yew?' he finally asked, in a harsh tone dripping with disbelief.
‘Tonight at least,’ Waite said. 'Mayhap awhile longer. My stay will be prolonged in order to come to some sort of decision as to the proper disposal of my new property.'
‘What is there to decide?’ Whateley stuttered in manifest astonishment!
Waite calmly stated ‘I plan put it on the market.’
Whateley choked back a sneer, choked a bit more, then gave him a baffling look before spiting out. 'T’ain’t even a Whateley’d buy it. Much less stay in it! Cain't you see it has a hanted look to it! None o’ the larned Whateleys 'ed want a thing to do with it an, the others --- wal t’others ‘re hitched to their own places. Chary Dunnich’ locals have hearts like flint. They is land rich and cash poor. Mostly empta’ pockets unlike to even afford the back taxes, much less pay a mortgage, or to sign a lease agreement.' He then spit out as if the possibility were too unlikely to contemplate. ‘Ye’d hef to git in an a outsider, a furiner!’
Waite, responded curtly, ‘I am as you so quaintly put it a foreigner, I am from outside.’
'Ye kin tell it! Ye’ll not be stayin’ long, I reck’n. Ye kin sell it from Springfield or Arkham or Bosting on spec’lation, ye will ne’er find any to buy in these heah pahts.'
Waite was stunned, 'Mr. Whateley, That house is in immaculate shape.'
Tobit, continued to give Waite a piercing scowl as he replied, 'Cousin ain't ye been aksin' yerself who kep' it up fer ye? Nary a soul has been in that house since Septimius died. Nothin' livin, nye on three years naow. Cousin, I couldn't git a soul from heah ‘bouts to so much as set foot on the propity, much less deliver your victuals to ye up thar.’
Waite, responded 'Shut up as tight as it was, how could the property deteriorate. It hasn't been that long. Abner Whateley's been dead these seven years, who was Septimius?'
'Septimius Bowen, was a companion. I dun't know who he was or even what he was. Nobudy ever know'd naught, maybe the devil,' As Tobit spoke he continued to give Waite a hard, provocative stare. 'No 'un as knowed who he wuz, ner whar he come from. He just belonged to Abner. 'One day he was thar, he was allus thar! Septimius follered Abner like he wuz his dog. So they say that Abner owned him. An' then one day he warn't thar No mur! So they just said he died.'
‘Who claimed his body, then?’
'T'waren't nothing to claim,' said Whateley brusquely. No body, if there wur a body, no one to claim it.
As the storekeeper continued to regarded him with disdain, Waite became aware that he was missing somewhat. There was some essential, information that he ought to have. Waite, found this rather galling. Whateley was an unmistakable bumpkin whose education was notably lacking. He could count and write a receipt but his education was obviously left behind at the grammar school level. How could such a cretin harbor such ill concealed scorn! This wiser than thou, fool of a storekeeper was irritating Waite close to the breaking point.
It was not just that the storekeeper's attitude was that of a rustic boor. Waite found it repugnant that so ill bred a being was contemptuous of him! He was a man of letters. In his heart he knew that was to be expected. But that he could not break through the hostility even by offering to spend hard cash, that was humiliating. How could he Waite, a stranger new come to Dunwich know what was otherwise common knowledge. Or what should be common knowledge to an educated cousin of the Whateleys of Dunwich. As his irritation grew his perplexity also grew in proportion. What did Tobit mean by the house had a ‘hanted look?’ What was it that this country man saw, that so eluded him?
Tobit Whateley continued making strange half leering stares as he talked to Waite. His words were filled with innuendo and insinuation. As he talked he kept glancing at Waite almost hopefully as if to catch some sign of understanding. Waite must know something that he was otherwise unwilling to reveal. As the storekeeper put Waite's order together he volunteered that Abner Whateley was abhorred by the ‘larned Whateleys’. And that he was condemned by the decayed branch of the family. Septimius Bowen was scorned as abominable. Bowen had always remained a darkesome figure. His description in Whateley's monologue was as ‘gaunt, dark of skin, black of eyes, and skeletal.’ He had never seen him take food, and he never come to the store after Abner died for groceries, or aught else for that matter. ‘Whal thar was al'uz a hen or two and twict a pig and onct a caow gone.’ People also said ‘malicious hateful things that they could not prove.’ Septimius Bowen was as despised as he was detested. He was dreaded, even shunned as a figure of terror. Not that there was ever much to take alarm over him.
It was Waite's conclusion that the inbred Dunwich person's intolerance toward Bowen; was considerably more than the usual prejudice of the times. While outspoken racial bigotry was rare in Massachusetts, dislike for darkies was normal. Even more normal was the hatred ignorant country people always harbored towards outsiders in their midst. What was it that Whateley sought in his randomly sly, then quite blunt glances at Waite's eyes. Was that some sort of sign that he gave? Did Whateley mistake him for a Mason? What reaction was he looking for? Whateley gave Waite a profoundly uneasy conviction that he was expected to react in a certain way. He had received some unrecognized sign but he was unable to respond with the required manner. That sign and counter sign was a mystery to Waite. His uneasiness did not abate when he left the country store and drove out of Dunwich. Uncharacteristically he drove too rapidly. Frustrated and angry Waite drove back unsafely. He was startled when he came to an abrupt stop at his house in the woods. He still had not resolved the problem.
After his frugal supper, he strolled out into the soft glow of twilight, thinking what should he do. He thought that it was foolish to listen to the storekeeper. For all he knew Tobit Whateley had his own secret motives? Was he in on some local secret like a bootleg whiskey still? Perhaps he might advertise the property in the Boston papers. Because of the distance over bad roads even Arkham might be out of the question. Dunwich certainly had little to offer a prospective investor from any civilized place he could think of. Dunwich was just too distant from any city past Springfield. He started to wonder what had inspired folks to come in the first place? Whateley did not know or had forgotten that Dunwich was early on a chosen haven for those who had escaped the witch persecution and terror of another long ago day. Yes, He thought that he might advertise it for sale in Springfield. Dunwich was a reasonably short drive from that city! However the thought was dawning in his mind that the unsavory, repugnant report of Dunwich had long ago become a scandal even in Springfield. Without resolution he revolved the problem in his mind. No matter how dismal the local reputation of Dunwich, would that dampen potential buyers if the price were right?
Besides he was not certain about being in such a hurry to sell out so abruptly. The house was in rare condition. It's well preserved antiquity outweighed any nasty reputation it had accrued. He was interested, even on the borderline of fascination by the odd phrases of innuendo that at first had been dropped subtly by the lawyer. Insinuations that were now, not so deviously dangled by Tobit Whateley. No obstinate local with a hidden agenda was going to rob Waite of his inheritance. Such thoughts were beginning to persuade him to demur awhile longer. Did he need to so precipitously dump the place on the market? However much part of him wanted to be off to California, he had determined that there was much more to learn about the house before he offered it for sale.
He paced up and down turning the problem over in his mind as dusk deepened toward night. Now the stars began to shine. The Milky Way lay level with the horizon as the brilliant orange Arcturus rose in Boötes, the Herdsman, above Virgo and Corvus. Next were Denebola and Regulus in Leo like a sickle. Finally he saw Castor and Pollux in Gemini were sinking in the west. Waite thought to himself how lovely the stars were tonight. The brilliance of all these stars reminded him somehow of the puzzling odd reference he found on the clock:
‘the stars come round right?’
The evening was aromatic with the redolent perfume of the spring flowering of the woods, but there was also a tumaceous scent wafting from the slough flowing slowly into the Miskatonic. The sounds of nature were welling up all around him, to echo from the surrounding thicket, to the outlying crest above the hills. It was that halcyon hour of the purple sunset. This night was such a contrast with his beloved coastal California. Neither the Gull nor the Tern were heard to lament here. In the New England night could be heard the wailing hoot of the loon. Also present were some majestic species of nighthawks that gave voice in a keening ololuge as they soared far above them, only to swoop down, and to ascend again. And of course there were the batrachian voices rising, from the river and the adjacent marsh in an ululant chorus.
Stray thoughts intruded on him now as he recalled how as a young student at the university he had made a rare trip to the Knowland Zoo in Oakland. There he had taken pictures in a careful study of all of the animals on display. At the time he had been fascinated by the range of auditory impressions that he had received ranging from stentorian howls of the Lynx, to the throaty bellowing of the Musk Ox. This was not to mention the croaking caw of the Raven. Nor was it the throaty growl of the tiger, or the majestic trumpeting of the elephant. As he walked he recalled the shrieking peal in the voices of the myriad beasts from near and far. All had made a strong and lasting impression on him then. Now as he gave ear he became cognizant of other more unusual sounds. What was that? Was he now picking up a high pitched whistling? He quit moving and stopped. He thought that he surely heard other eerie sounds. He was now picking up human voices clamoring, singing, chanting from on high at some great distance away. Beyond the massive round hills above the village there now appeared a glow in the dark heavens of bonfires that were just beginning to burn there now. He also heard faintly from some hollow beyond the hilltops far away the sound of low drumming carried on the gentle wind. Also as if in answer came other worrisome noises but not from any known natural source. He was now picking up stentorian howlings that he had not apprehended before. Waite slowly perceived a strange, wholly weird vibration that chilled him to his very soul with provocative macabre premonition. Now and then the sound rose to a strident climax of shrieking as of no known earthly origin. Also present was a clacking click clack accompanied a piping fluting that merged into a high pitched whistling. A sound which eventually crested and fell back again into the expected earthly standard. All this never-ending crying of night birds from the dismal thicket, mixed with the discordant squawking of amphibians from the swamps to make make a disturbing dissonance.
He finally decided that Doyle's off the cuff remark on to the weird outreness of Dunwich might not have been in vain. It actually pertained to an undeniable, quaint, and outlandish habits of the locals. Whatever deviltry was going on in the wilds that evening could be one such local custom. He did not wish to spend the rest of the night in this uncertain fashion. So he shook it off thinking of perhaps enjoying some of the fine brandy in his bag. Then he opened the door and returned to his kitchen where he took out his photographic chemicals in order to develop his film. Earlier he had brought in his materials. The house was darker by far than the starlit woods outside. He designated his kitchen for a dark room and began to process his film. The hand pump was convenient to supply the needed well water. All that he lacked was electric light. As the first of his prints emerged from the developing solution he peered intently at the results. He was not satisfied with the views of the exterior. The poor light must be the cause of the faded shade of brown. Though the views of the interior of the house were a bit dark, he would have to be satisfied for now. Later he could take more shots when there was more light. Somehow he was vaguely disturbed when he examined the decoration on the wall above the fireplace. Was that his imagination or was the glass eye now cloudy where it had seemed clear before? He would have to return to his provisional dark-room to find the negative of the fireplace wall. He wanted to enlarge the section with the ornament in the center. When he peered closely at the result he now saw perceptible within the ‘clouding’ was the unmistakable outline in the foreground of three or more human faces. One was a bearded bespectacled old man, who looked directly at him from the glass. The other who seemed a bit younger was shadowed by some smaller wight who seemed to possess a lean brown, leathery, parchment like face free of any hair. The skin was drawn tight over the bones. This spooky pecka was looking out deferentially from slightly behind the first. Waite could also just make out beyond the older man other vague and shadowy forms.
What was this? An optical illusion? Photography told no tales. The outlines could not be brushed off as an illusion. Waite found it so very curious that he had not seen these outlines before when he had examined the ornament. Perhaps he had been overly hasty? Probably the light reflected from the glass in such a way that it blurred the outlines beyond recognition. He was rational and materialist enough that he was certain that he could find some scientific reason for what he saw in the photos. But what? That was not something so easy to determine.
He returned to the central room, carrying one of the kerosene lanterns advancing stealthily through the room. The aperture was now visible as a disturbing view as a glimmer of light in the room. He had not left a lantern there, yet it was as if a lamp was glowing. He had not been in the room at all! How could a lamp be lit? As he stood, rigidly staring he realized the source of the glint was not any earthly lamp at all. It was the unknown crystalline eye in the triangle that was set into the mantel above the fireplace. Now it was occluded, then it was pearly, as it smoldered, then flared with color. Then it rippled and writhed with movement, reflecting a soft light throughout the room. Some vortex of life within it reached out to make itself felt. Somehow while the eye was milky as a moonstone, it also flashed opalescent with hidden colors. Now roseate, then pale green, now misty blue, and finally it morphed to an angry red flake striated with a bright gamboge. Some other shades were also present that hinted of colors beyond the natural spectrum of the rainbow.
As he stood and watched the swirling colors, abruptly changed back to the seething clouds in the glass eye. He turned abruptly and went back to where he had put down the lamp. Light in hand, he now advanced confidently into the room. Its glow instead of brightening became subdued. He also seemed to detect a diminishing effect on the glimmer of the eye on the wall. The swirling clouds now settled, and grew still. The light faded and the flashing colors became still. He waited upon it, but all motion had ceased. All was now at rest.
In one recess were nestled steps reaching the top ledge of the bookshelves surrounding the walls. Waite pushed them over against the fireplace wall. Then he caught up the lantern and climbed the steps light in hand, until he stood almost abreast of the unusual jewel. First he examined the mysterious eye itself. Though he was no expert he felt reasonably certain that it was not any common material. Whatever it was it was not glass. In fact, he could not be sure what it was. Maybe it was rock crystal. Were it not for its large size, it might have been a fire opal.
But it was not that, either. Quite bewildering as well was the carving which framed it. The exterior was a simple carved triangle which when viewed superficially seemed to be a Hellenic depiction. But when he brought the light up for a better look at it he observed that it was no prosaic terrene scene. Rather he now perceived it to be some strange abhorrent Cephalopod. For in the lantern light was revealed some incipient cosmic horror crept up from the pit of darkest night. The surrounding carved figure bore the frightening appearance of a colossal winged squid dragon. Whatever, it was utterly unbearable to human sight. Now revealed in the center of that octopoidal relief was a hemispheric lens in the form of an angry open eye. The ocular orb emanated an uncanny ruddy fluorescence that flamed with an ethereal glow. Paradoxically that alternated even as he watched from a chroma of intense hue to an unearthly light of eerie mystery.
Next he hooded his light to await the coming of Nyx. At first all was black. So Stygian was that darkness that it was impossible to distinguish even the walls. In a scant few moments within it's murky depths a dull dusky twilight began to pulse again. That weak glow faded briefly then shifted to an agitated lurid shining as with the glare of fire through a haze. It was as if the gloomy Erebus was caught in the grip of a vast, violent typhonian hell wind. Where at first it had appeared blurred to sight the colors now became much more brilliant. Waite was left grasping to find some explanation of this miraculous orb and it's extraordinary properties. A compulsion impelled him to gaze at it. He was as a bird caught in the eye of a snake, lost in some insidious, ill defined immensity of dimensionless cosmic spaces beyond the commons of earth. As he stared into the eye he was drawn into the vortex of dream speculation of another world and of the strange and terrible inhabitants as of a Bosche painting. His attention to the eye in the wall was not voluntary, something outside himself compelled him to gaze at it. He stared until he became absolutely absorbed by some malignant influence he could not define. Waite was shocked into the realization of being precipitated into an abyssal chasm. He almost became drunk with the sensation of being projected beyond terra firma. Several minutes elapsed before he could return to the light.
Abruptly the glimmer of the weird lens disappeared once again. Impossibly the room become normal. Whatever had troubled him had flown from the light. He wiped his brow where he had begun to sweat. His experience had been so ultra mundane that he sat down abruptly as he attempted to regain his equilibrium. But his composure would not return quite so soon. How? why? what? The lens was clearly far more than just a fixture of the furniture. Examining it with a close look in the light of his lantern he could not find any mark to indicate its origin. Also there was nothing to reveal its age. Staring intently at it he could not discern one single detail of its manufacture. Surly it had been installed at the time the house had been erected. Yet by what unknown technique could so outre a vision have been produced? It surely was some lost relic or some unknown creation. He must learn something about it. Whatever it was it might antedate the oldest living denizen dwelling in Dunwich. He would have to search somewhere else, they would not tell. Somehow it was incumbent upon him to bring to light everything that he could ascertain about the previous tenants who had resided in his house. Whoever they were, had they experienced such sudden shocking transcendent views within the orb of the eye in the carving? The apprehension that the visions of others might be superior to his own filled him with dread. Conversely he also felt a coincident emotion of revelation at the thought of unearthing such a dramatic discovery. Obviously to accomplish this necessary goal he must put off any other plans. He must find a library to research his strange experience. To accomplish that he must prolong his incumbency at the Sirius Whateley plantation. Any return to sunny California climes would have to be put off far longer than he had ever intended.
Completely sobered, he descended the ladder again and resolutely put the extraordinary eye in the wall out of his thoughts. He then climbed the stairs to the comfortable master bedroom where he had chosen to sleep. But to do that he must walk past the bizarre astrological clock. What a strange place was his new home. But he must put off further untangling of mysteries until later. After all it was now past his normal bedtime and he was tired. He opened the window to find all outside was as before. He registered the raucous whippoorwills and frogs as well as the abnormal wailing clamor from the pitch-black summit above him. Facing towards the seemingly sleeping village of Dunwich he looked out and saw that the fire on Sentinel Hill behind him had died down, but had not gone out. The answering fire from Round Mountain was burning low. He could still distinctly hear the distant drumming. Also some oddly disturbing discordant chanting had arose accompanied by pandæmonic, howling that was rising with kakodæmonic fury. This new development in nocturnal sounds severely disturbed his already frayed and nearly shattered equanimity.
He undressed, put on his pajamas and got into his chosen bed. Tired though he was, he could not yet go to sleep. Too many thoughts churned in his mind, especially the accompanying irregular night sounds from the hills and woods. The leering storekeeper might have some words of explanation, that is if he would tell him. What he really needed to find was one of the ‘larned’ Whateleys. Waite was clinging hopefully to learn something scientific. What he needed was more fact and less fable. He did not need anymore legendary myth and folk stories. He especially could do without the sneering disdain and vague snooty remarks. Waite further reasoned, the public library in Springfield might hold some clues to the construction of the Sirius Whateley house. Perhaps other details of his genealogy as well as other memoirs of Whateley ancestry could be found there. Surely much history must be extant of the amerigous Whateley family tree. They were obviously very important locally in the shunned and backward Dunwich country.
Lying still he slowly became aware of the aura of the house as somehow, an alien presence that tolerated him illy as a visitor. Something was recognizant, dynamic and watchful. The heart of a beast was surely in that central chamber underneath his garret parlor. Perhaps some ghostly residue from some evil unhallowed past was present to give the house its irrational being. Some animate force was vitally sentient. Something was so strong that he had to exert all of his will to prevent himself from leaving his cozy nook and his warm bed to go down the stairs to peer into the eye and look at the clock again. He found it unbelievable to find himself the victim of irrational panic. Yet such primal awe was drawing him with dire trepidation, nay nightmare terror. He strongly felt for the first time ever, preternatural fear and a species of extra sensory perception. It was as if he lay on the threshold of some epochal revelation. He hung upon the moment for some fateful realization that would bring him to undying fame.
Finally as the witching hour rolled round he finally slumbered undisturbed for now. Even the insistent whippoorwills had ceased their raucous cries and all was silent. Well something still vibrated vaguely. The frogs still chorused low. Finally way past midnight the night was dead still. Even the sounds from the encircling heights had come to an end. But his slumber was disturbed by bizarre dreams of a terrible grandfather that he knew only in that vista of remote childhood. He had been so young when his family had moved to the distant west that he had but a veiled recollection of his grand sire. Then that dream of forgotten childhood faded to be replaced by a phantasm of cyclopean masonry, ultramontane vistas, and the void of the starry wilderness. Be stirring between dreams within dreams he became acclimated to the ceaseless rhythm of deep pulsation within the foundation of his dwelling.
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First Morning in Dunwich
espite sleep troubled by dreams early morning found Waite refreshed and ready for the drive into Springfield. It was one of those lovely spring morning when every flower was bursting into bloom. After an early lunch in an unpretentious French restaurant on the outskirts of town, he found the public library. There he made his acquaintance with the person in charge of the reference section of the library. Saul Clifton was a balding middle-aged gentleman whose name was proclaimed by a brass plaque found on the counter beside his Rolodex. Waite briefly made his inquiry after Whateley family data to him.
'Well Mr. Waite, you have found a good place to start your search.' said Saul. 'We do have some documents in the main repository for that house, as well as a dossier specific to that family. The Whateleys were amongst the earliest colonists to our shore. They are as you know an old armigerous family. In England The Whateleys were originally armor bearing esquires with their own unique armorial devices. Today the family has become debased with some branches who for lack of a better description might be described as decadent. Your interest is not so much with the present but rather with the not too distant past.'
Saul then conducted Waite to the reading-room, where he was presented with a massive volume of county history as well as with other files. First he opened the volume of history. It was one of those weighty reference publications filled with biographical records by diverse authors. It had been made chiefly for the members of the families described in the catalog. It was obviously published for profit. Most of these materials were presumably factual, banal, boring, sanitized and commonplace records. They consisted primarily in a constant theme of cousin marrying cousin and of son succeeding father in an unbroken chain. Then he found a photographic record. It was rather badly preserved news media which had been reproduced from a daguerreotype of Sirius Whateley. That photo awoke the patently absurd realization that it bore a dubious reflection of someone vaguely familiar. Someone he had seen somewhere, sometime, long ago. The account of the life of his deceased ancestor Sirius Whateley was unfortunately brief.
Sirius Whateley had acquired his home near Dunwich from one Dudely Miles Hatter, a legatee of Sir Edward Orme. Hatter had built the present mansion on it in 1702. After he acquired it, Sirius Whateley had spent twenty years living, some said hiding in Europe, before he vanished. So much for the origin of the house. And of Sirius Whateley there was even less. He had sojourned in Europe before migrating to the Massachusetts Bay colony, married twice, and fathered two sons, one from each of his wives. One son had inherited the house while the other had joined the army as a young man and had presumably been lost in war. Nothing was set down about Sirius Whateley's vocation other than that he was a land owner who had invested on speculation. While there were no references to Abner Whateley there was a host of material on the family. There were almost too many articles to track. Commencing with a forthright report from the time of the arrival of the first family members into Arkham in circa 1699, until the printing of the Historical Gazetteer in 1919 much had been recorded. The most important being a Family Tree that included Abner and his lost brother Charles.
Also included were numerous individual biographies, mainly in the form of obituary notices extracted from the Springfield Republican, the Arkham Advertiser and the Aylesbury Transcript. Also included were a number of loose unclassified clippings which Waite chose to read last. Immediately he was struck by the fact that some more imaginative soul had taken a lot of care that they too were included. Waite found most interesting the provincial folklore and rustic legends associated with the Whateleys. One account from the Springfield Republican bore reference to a fiery sermon by Reverend Abadon Headley, from pulpit of the Congregational Church at Dunwich in 1737:
A Sermon Against the Power of Darkness
'Tis said of a certain family in these parts that they do consort with the devil to raise up monsters, by magic means as
well as by other iniquitous sins of the flesh. It must be allowed, that these blasphemies be of an infernal train of dæmons and are matters here to fore of common knowledge not to be denied. Many have frequently heard the cursed voices of the damned. Those voices of those lost in perdition were first heard from under ground. Now they are heard from the air above by a score of credible living witnesses. Not but a fortnight gone did I catch a very plain discourse of evil powers in the hill behind my house. Such an infernal, diabolical rattling, rolling, groaning, cursing, screeching, and hissing issued from those hidden caves of black magick. No one can discover such as was raised up. Only the Diuell alone can unlock such things so unnatural to this earth.'
Following that account came a short clipping from the Arkham Advertiser:
Reverend Headley vanished a month after delivering his fervent and ill advised sermon against the power of darkness.
Also found in the Arkham Advertiser was another account of forty years later to that by a predecessor. The Reverend
Jethro Hogge visiting from the Arkham Congregational Church had recently preached on the subject of consorting with the devil to raise up monsters.
From the Pulpit
Be Warned Against the Voices of Souls in Torment!
'I too, have heard noxious noises in the hills as though the lost in perdition spoke in the cursed voices of the damned. I heard a loud,
raucous caterwauling kakodæmonic howling not natural to our earth. Be warned against such a colloquy of the voices of souls in
torment! You know of whom I speak!'
And then another clipping from the Arkham Advertiser was:
The Shutting of the Congregational Church
'In an account of the shutting of the Congregational Church, many here allege a lack of prudence by the Pastor in allowing so provocative a sermon by a visiting minister has resulted in his unexplained absence. The majority of the congregation lay the blame on a recent fiery speech by the Reverend Jethro Hogge from the Arkham Congregational Church. In his sermon the preacher had made reference to the cursed voices of the damned. Inexplicably the Reverend Hogge has followed his colleague Reverend Headley, four decades previously, into some limbo of the lost.'
Waite also found the thick manila folder contained various other whimsical excerpts of a more or less serious nature. The first being a yellowed clipping from the Springfield Republican about:
Outlandish Events Return to Dunwich
Various reports of Outlandish Events have returned to Dunwich. In the often repeated cycle of events that chart a history of a vague folkloric nature, strange customs, mysterious disappearances, cattle mutilations, mob violence and other bizarre chapters of pseudo historic proportions, the quaint hamlet of Dunwich has returned to center stage of the long running Mystery Circus of the North Central State. Although nothing definite has ever been proven--- story continued on Op -Ed Page---
Waite nearly choked with laughter, for a moment before replacing the faded newsprint with another where one headline from the Aylesbury Transcript announced ‘Accounts of Monsters.’ It was followed by a somewhat terse article about how some vague monstrosity had been conjured into some kind of illusory life by the bootleg-whiskey drinkers of Dunwich.'
Accounts of Monsters
Old Accounts tell of unexplained disappearances in the Dunwhich neighborhood are an oft repeated wive's tale going back to pre revolutionary times. One such story is told in the North Country of the Wind Walker or the Wendigo. Another tale is told of a black demon known in other places as the Mothman. Obscure tails come down to us of random encounters with bat winged monstrosities who spoke in a harsh voice to their human victims before dragging them off to purgatory. Needless to say the nature of such reports is the scourge of the bootleg whiskey business, which has inspired most if not all of these stories of disappearance and derangement.
Waite chortled a bit, he could not escape the notion that something had taken place at Dunwich. Something associated with the events following the death of one Wilbur Whateley, so out of the ordinary, that Miskatonic University had not been entirely successful in keeping it out of the papers. Instead it had been relegated to the merely apocryphal by association with the dissolute and licentious swillers of the filthy demon rum. Events which did not occur in Dunwich at all. Events that originated on the campus of Miskatonic University in Arkham!
The body of Wilbur Whateley, an alleged bootlegger, late of Dunwich was discovered in the library of Miskatonic University last night, under strange circumstances. No further details are available at this time.
Some additional clippings from the Aylesbury Transcript were less amusing, but attempted likewise to conceal
the strange occurrences at Dunwich in that summer of 1928, culminating in September of that year, seven long years gone by.
Special Report to the Aylesbury Transcript
It has been reported this morning that a strange disturbance has destroyed the farm house and several outbuildings belonging to the late Wilbur Whateley. This report caps a week of strange disappearances and destruction in the Dunwich area. Citizens are advised to avoid the area until confirmation has been made of the restoration of law and order in this often troubled region.
There also had been made mention by Dr. Henry Armitage, the librarian of Miskatonic University, connecting events in Dunwich with the definite fact of the mutilation and death of a large number of cattle and livestock. Also mentioned ominously were the disappearances of several of the country people, but the names were garbled and altered. None were Whateleys, although a distant
Bishop cousin was mentioned.
Follow Up Report
Recent Alarming Events
Dr. Henry Armitage, the librarian of Miskatonic University has confirmed in a brief interview that a freak disturbance has occurred in Dunwich involving the disappearances and deaths of several prominent local citizens, as well as large numbers of cattle and livestock. Significant property damage has occurred but law and order has now been restored. Dr. Armitage would neither confirm nor deny any further reports. He was quoted as being unable to release any of the details pending notification of members of the families that were involved.
Waite made a note to check into the possibility that Dr. Armitage might still be alive and willing to grant another interview, if he needed to go that far in his unearthing of Whateley family history. There certainly was nothing concrete to remark in the various tales of the ‘Recent Alarming Events.’
The Whateley family tree was laden with names like Bishop, Hogge, and Marsh. Waite had the strong suspicion
that in fact the Reverend Hogge who had so indiscreetly made the accusation of ‘Unholy Doings’ at Dunwich was a distant Whateley cousin. He contemplated the family tree more carefully. He sought for but did not find the Reverend Jethro Hogge there. Though there were a round dozen Hogges listed. Plainly, too, there was considerable intermarriage within the family. In fact it was painfully obvious that there had occurred frequent almost incestuous intermarriages of inbred family cousins. Whateley cousins had repeatedly married Bishop, Hogge, and Marsh first cousins. An Elizabeth Bishop had consummated her union to Abner Whateley. Lavinia Whateley had married Ralso Marsh. Blessed Bishop has wedded Edward Marsh. Waite was unpleasantly shocked to note just how decayed and degenerate inbreeding had increased the decadence in the family. Ample evidence was found where inbreeding had occurred between both branches. Not just the ‘larned ones’ had participated!
Waite was unsatisfied by what he had read. The more he thought about it the less he liked it. When he sat back to contemplate he was more than a trifle willing to dismiss what he could. Waite had of course already learned as much or more from the lawyer, Doyle. Much though could not be denied. Dunwich was a forgotten backwater. The multiple branches of the Whateley family were despised and decadent. The odd tales emanating from Dunwich may very well have been exaggerated by superstitious neighbors. Everywhere such degraded insular stock were derided by those who considered themselves free of the taint of inbreeding. That alone coupled with outlandish and superstitious beliefs seems to have justified the pandering. The document revealed the population of Dunwich to be an ill educated, outlandish population of churlish, troglodytes living in a low life neighborhood.
Sickened and disgusted Waite did not want to undertake any further reading. The pervasive dark undercurrent in
the reading went far beyond his ken or understanding. He could not take any more time now to read further. Day was nearly done.
Waite closed the file and brought it back to the reference librarian.
'I hope it has been of some value to your study, Mr. Waite,' said Saul Clifton.
'Yes, indeed it has. I thank you. I may come back to examine it a bit more as time allows.'
‘Certainly you are welcome, sir.’ He then demurred before asking, ‘Am I to understand that you are connected to the Whateleys?’
'I have been bequeathed a house and some acreage there, that is all. I am not aware of any close kinship. Of course, there may be some distant connection the Whateley family tree is quite extensive.'
‘Forgive me,’ said the librarian. I thought I knew some of the Whateley people. Some of your features bear a
strong cursory likeness.'
Waite shuddered before replying, ---‘I was not informed as to why my late father came into the property!’
‘May I inquire which estate it is?’
‘They call it the old Sirius Whateley house.’
Mr. Saul's face clouded. 'That Mr. Whateley was ---'
Waite interjected with a smirk. 'I already am aware the Dunwich locals would have called him
one of the 'larned' Whateleys.'
‘I should say so,’ rejoined the librarian.' 'But ---'
Waite interrupted 'And I can see that that puts a wholly peculiar perspective on the hypothetical lineage. Mr. Saul. You can't refute that.'
' I can't – er I won't. There really are some horrendous scandals and terrible stories associated with the other branch of the Whateley clan. If you will, you may find somewhat more than casual in some events that those news clippings treat so humorously. There is in fact some veracity in them. I am persuaded that there are very abominable and ghastly events that have transpired in Dunwich.'
'There are dreadful and gruesome things in many remote backwaters of the world. Dunwich is only one of them.'
He exited the library confused and upset. The chance of a hidden kinship to the Whateley clan could not
be easily shrugged off. He was not happy at all to embrace such scandal. His father had said little or nothing concerning his family background. He had kept secret the family's New England origin. He had also moved just about as far as was possible. Somewhat perversely he had also changed his name. That thought was quite disgusting. He was not yet ready to buy into that unhappy history. On the other hand he was not conscious of anything but an irregular distorted memory of an imaginative tradition. He felt simultaneously both deeply involved and sullenly withdrawn. This newly discovered ambivalence of attitude should have troubled him. Finally Waite arrived back at his house in the woods with its curious alienation from the surrounding world. He admitted to himself that the Dunwich country held an indefinable wildness and dark attraction to his eyes. California now seemed more remote than he would have thought possible. Waite did not know it yet but he pressed hastily and madly forward towards some looming collision with some shrouded and lurking goal.
When he went in his house it, seemed to be lying in wait for him, as if it were expecting his return. The central room had been setup for a meeting. A seat was pulled up to the desk where he found the account books lying there exposed for inspection again. He sauntered over and pulled up a chair. He had not yet inspected the day book. So he opened that one first. He saw before him a parchment letter. Across the face was penned:
'For Him Who Will come.
Hoc Qui Venit,
He Who Comes After.
Read that you may know,
that you are chosen.
Prepare for those who wait outside.
Open the Gate for that which is meant to be.'
No signature was attached but the writing was scratched in miniscule.
He was too tired to read further. So he resolved to read the rest in the bright morning sun of another
Back to Contents
Nightfall, the Second Night
n spite of his fatigue Waite still needed to eat before bed. He rummaged through the remaining stores of fruit, cookies and cheese that he had bought at the Whateley store. He found a tinned can of soup, to eat. He was not very hungry. It would be a meager meal. He then lit a fire in the old fashioned wood-burning stove to heat his dinner, as well as for creature comfort on such a cold spring night. Besides soup he was contented to dine mostly on cheese and bread. He pumped water and heated it on the stove. Finally he washed the dishes and trundled up the stairs to his cozy bed chamber.
Waite was bone tired but despite his fatigue he did not immediately succumb to slumber. Rather sleepily he
pitched, tossed and recounted the events that had occurred since his arrival in Dunwich. As he slowly revolved his thoughts in his mind he wondered over his odd fortune. Here he was a stranger in an even stranger place. The odd looks and off the wall references of the gaunt storekeeper had not lent him any comfort. He had not expected to be so poorly received, even if he was the new person, recently returned to the closed community of Dunwich. Waite was an educated person, with a degree in philosophy. He had expected to be accepted as such by the ignorant population of Dunwich. The librarian in Springfield, was a person from his own familiar universe. To be so strangely received by a person of some learning, puzzled him deeply. Saul Clifton had clearly left as much or more unsaid as he
had revealed. As he lay silently puzzling over the strange events of the day he finally drifted off to a troubled sort of slumber.
Once again Waite was not to be left alone to sleep in quiet peace. As he lay snoring he was soon accompanied by a rising chorus of night birds and amphibians from the nearby woods and waters. As he slipped into vague dreams he was suddenly awakened again. From the pale illumination on the wall he could see that the waxing moon had risen. He also noted with some distaste the disturbing resumption of distant drumming. It was with some nostalgia that he remembered the peace of his far off California home. While Bolinas was a place of roaring breakers, the occasional California fisher folk were such a contrast with his new and noisy neighbors.
Arousing himself briefly he pulled his shutters and closed his windows. Resuming his bed he was finally able to
return to a sort of slumber. It was to be a troubled sleep. While his dreams were not nightmares they were unsettling. It was as if
he had been disturbed by a summons to some secret conclave. In his dream he once again found himself peering into the odd eye lens. There he dimly perceived a group of veiled figures in conference. Once again he saw the older man. He was accompanied by several other dark and robed figures. As Waite gazed into the eye the old man pointed directly towards him. He began to address Waite in no uncertain terms of the importance of his message.
'You are the One who comes after. Hoc Qui Venit.
It is to you that the Whateley heritage has been
left. You have inherited much to comfort the worldly nature of man, but it is a heritage with an obligation. You must read your task in the journal--- wherein will be revealed to you all of the secrets of the house in due time. Watch for messages on the clock. Ye will know when the time is right. Also a secret room awaits which has been prepared for you. Seek ye the passage hidden behind the Eye.' Discover the work of the Whateleys. All has been arranged but you must seek that which has been hidden. Also there is another job that must be completed before all will go well. Seek for the stones that are fallen upon the top of Sentinel Hill. Set them aright. Then ye may entreat of the stones, and behold the gate. For him unto you call is ever a gate. Seek ye the key to that gate and enter ye in.'
Waite did not know what this could mean so he settled back to rest. And there Waite began to see forming in his mind’s eye a sliding panel hidden in the ornate wall behind the Eye. By moving a certain loose stone the panel parted to reveal a concealed, dank, dark passage down stone flags into the belly of the house and beyond. It was as if a tunnel had opened up into the heart of the very hillock upon which the foundation had been raised. Irresistibly lured forward Waite began to grope in the dark. What was that he touched? As he fumbled in the stygian gloom, Waite felt more than saw the stone being moved as by an invisible hand. Then something silently slid open, something a tenebrous shade beyond the already pitch black. Something that seemed to open on nothingness. As Waite stepped forward he fell, stumbled or was pushed further into the velvety night. It was as if in his semi dream state he took a plunge into the belly of darkness. His brief and momentary fall was suddenly broken by what? Steps? He could not tell as he struggled backwards, up towards the dimmest of lights and the known.
As he tottered there on the precipice, his returning consciousness, found him half in this world and half in some alien vortex of emptiness. Waite just shook as he clung for stability. There on the verge, he slowly awoke. As Waite threw off slumber he found himself in a soaking sweat of terror. Momentarily displaced he now discovered himself to be groping in darkness around the chamber of the eye again. Stumbling and shaking he again climbed the stairs to his chamber where he again mounted his bed and at last Waite fell into a deep and dreamless slumber.
Back to Contents
Morning, the Third Day
He Crosses Cold Spring Glen
s dawn came Waite awoke weak, weary and bleary eyed once again within his chamber. He
slipped out of bed and opened his shuttered windows hastily gasping for fresh air. A brilliant morning was now revealed by the rising
sun. Waite vaguely remembered seeing something hazy, as in a dream. It was a secret passage. At the end of which was the mysterious
chamber he had seen in his dream. He also found dust and cobwebs all over himself. Feeling about he realized with terror that his nightclothes were soiled. He had gone to bed in clean nightclothes, but that was not how he arose. Waite lay there and succumbed to a fit of terror. How could this be? Slowly as he lay there he calmed down and shook it off. He must get a grip upon himself. There would be time for mysteries later. He must heat water to bathe and find fresh clothes. No more reliving night visions for now. The sun was up and he was hungry. Soon it would be time for him to go out in the sunshine and get some fresh air. He needed to walk his property lines.
After a light breakfast of stewed dried fruit, oatmeal and milk, Waite decided that it would be a good idea to read the journal again. Mysteriously it was nowhere to be found. It just was not there. Whatever he had seen or thought that he saw was now hidden again. Feeling along the wall Waite began to search for the sliding panel. He was befuddled. His search for the secret chamber of his dream had yielded nothing. Baffled, rebuffed and confused Waite twisted and turned. Finally he decided to get some air to clear away the disturbing visions and portents of night. He needed sunshine to clear the fog from his brain.
It was a clear cool day with more than the slightest hint of springs returning warmth and freshness in the air. With a
jaunty stride Waite turned and re pointed himself out of doors and into the surrounding woods. He headed uphill in the direction of that stark place known locally as the Devil’s Hopyard. The stony imminence at the head of Cold Spring Glen was the midpoint of his climb to the top of Sentinel Hill. Something had disturbed the quiet of his late evenings, and it seemed to emanate from that peak. Just making it out of his own yard surrounding his quaint house in the Dunwich woods was a struggle. First he crossed the overgrown pasture. Then he passed a stretch of marshy ground before he struck the trail into the woods. After painfully slow progress across the wet ground he reached what was left of the path. Not only was it lined by overgrown giant trees, it was also covered in masses of brambles and brushy thickets. Now sweating and torn Waite labored to ascend the overgrown trail that led up the steep hill slope. As Waite pressed onwards and upwards, he felt that he was on the trail to discover at least one of the lesser mysteries of Dunwich. Finally as if animated by evil sentient consciousness the trailing vines and tangling briars just pulled him down to an uneasy landing on the rocky path. Waite staggered back up with but one thought--- conquering the trail. Judging by the constant nightly drumming that had assailed his ears before retiring, others too had recently made the climb. Waite was determined to discover how.
s Waite continued his climb he remarked to himself, he had 'never seen such big ugly stones
before. They just came out of the earth like gigantic teeth.' Somehow the rocks looked as if they had been rolled to where they were.
That went on and on as far as his eye could see, a long, long way. Still slowly climbing Waite looked out from them and saw the
strange country for the first time. Up here it was still winter time. There were even a few piles of partially melted snow and ice amongst
the terrible black woods hanging from the hills all round. It was all so still and silent. The sky was heavy, gray, and sad. Not one squirrel
or even a Robin could he see. In a wicked daydream Waite staggered onward. There were hundreds and hundreds of the dreadful rocks.
Some were like horrid grinning trolls and imps of men. He could see their faces as if they would jump out of the stone, catch hold and
drag him with them back into the rock. And there were other rocks that were like creeping, horrible animals. Others were like dead
people lying on the sparse grass. So Waite went on and on through the rocks till he came to a colossal round bald stone. It was higher than a mound, almost a small monadonock in the middle of the rocky slope. At it's center was a great basin turned upside down. All was smooth, round and green. One stone, was like a post, in the center, sticking up and pointing towards the top. As Waite continued to struggle to climb up the side of the basin he had to stop. His head was spinning and his breath was short. After grabbing at his breath he sucked it in and started back up. The path continued ever so steep that had to stop again. If he had not rested, he might have stumbled and rolled all the way down again. He realized that not only could he be knocked about but perhaps he might even be killed.
As his breath returned he looked up and saw great big rings of rocks, getting bigger and bigger. Waite stared so long
that he got quite dizzy and disoriented in the head. To him it felt as if the rocks were moving and turning, in a slowly revolving great
wheel with him in the middle. Everything once so clear in the crystalline air had begun to be hazy and perplexing. Waite had never experienced vertigo before. The stones looked like they were going round and round and round. It was as if they were springing up to dance. At last he came to the edge of a great flat bald spot on the hill where there were no more rocks. Thus he made his way through the Devil's Hopyard up to the Cold Spring Hollow. As he continued it seemed that as fast as the rocks had yielded twisted, tangled stunted growth had taken it's place. He went on his way again, but now he was traveling through a dark thicket, in a hollow that was just as bad as the jungle he had encountered earlier not so far below. He later learned that it was named Cold Spring Hollow by the locals for the babbling rill that burst from the rocks to tumble down the hill to the Devil's Hopyard. Torn by vines and clinging things he went on climbing up, out of the thicket of the closed glen. He felt like it was a secret dark passage that nobody knew of. It was so narrow and deep. The woods were so thick round it. Struggling up a steep bank with trees hanging over it, Waite finally came to the top of Sentinel Hill.
As he struggled to catch his breath he thought aloud to himself ‘that hill was more of a mountain!’ It had taken such
a struggle. Then quite amazingly he discovered that he was far from the first to make the climb. At the summit were the remains of a
stone circle partially demolished by dynamite. Yet within the razed circle someone had been hard at work. He found a partially
restored inner circle of the native stone. Dead center of the circle laying side by side on the ground Waite found two black pillars each almost seven feet long that had been thrown down. Each massive pillar or menhir was crudely wrought of some peculiar bluish black basalt. Each was covered with half worn away, unknown, undecipherable hieroglyphics. Someone had tried unsuccessfully to obliterate the hieroglyphics. Each pillar bore the obvious mark of fire and chisel. Kneeling down by hand he was able to laboriously clean out the original slots cut into the rock. By exerting all of his strength he painfully raised first one stone, then another. Each pillar slid into the grooved hollow as with the click of a key in the lock. Standing back to admire his work he realized subconsciously that he had restored something not unlike a gate. Certainly the standing stones of the twin monolith resembled a gate. But what sort of gate was this? If it was a gate, where did it lead? All was now made ready for something but he knew not what. He could not understand his irrational impulse to restore the gate. He just knew somehow on some deep level that replacing the stones had been something that he needed to do.
Hard by the gate were what appeared to be an altar stone and fire pit. On the altar stone were cut deep runnels with dark stains. All along the side of the crudely dug fire pit were the remains of a recent revel. In the fire pit he even found the still smoldering ash of a recent fire. He also found amongst the litter, a number of wine and liquor bottles, burning garbage and the left over remains of a feast. Someone must have found a better path to the summit than he. Searching all around it did not take him long to find the path that led circuitously back around the high rocky place and into a bit of a hidden swale. This other path led somewhat more gently downwards back into Cold Spring Hollow, but at a different spot. That path was less rocky and wooded. It promised easier future access to his picturesque inherited home, if he could just strike the Dunwich road on the way down and not the swamp.
Waite was beginning to grow to love the quaint house of his ancestors swathed in the rugged woods and rocky
uplands. He was proud to have completed his first arduous crossing of the Devil's Hopyard. Far below it promised warmth and rest. Waite was tired. As Waite broke into a lope down the gentle slope, he wiped away the sweat and thought how oddly devoid of the normal wild life was this lonesome place. There was none of the normally expected wildlife in this strange place. There were no songbirds. Not even a rabbit had bolted in front of him on the trail up from his strange new home. That is if you did not consider the Whippoorwills and the frogs! And whoever were the trespassers desecrating his land? That thought did not last long. Recrossing the glen he was startled to come around a bend in the trail and meet with a local farm lad leading his cattle from pasture half way down the hollow.
As Waite turned suddenly, on impulse, to catch up, he shouted out to the stranger. 'Hello, my name is Waite, Walter Waite. I am your new neighbor.'
Surprisingly for the first time in Dunwich the stranger turned with a friendly face and replied:
'Er halo, I had heard that someone had moved into the old Sirius Whateley place, my name is Bud Frye. Good to see you. You sure took me by surprise, no one from heah would set foot anywhere neah your place. How do you sleep in they 're. They's dev'ltry loose in thet house and afoot in these Woods. Has been bout' nigh as long as any one recolecs. Then they wuz thet business in '28. We lost cabin, barn, cattle, kith and kin thet time. But we ain't lost no caows heah lately. Not since thum Injun Gypsy breeds started comin doawn from Canady ‘n took to campin’ in at the Ten-Acre Meadow foot o' the Glenn. They raise a lot of noise, drumming and chanting enuff' to keep a body awake late o' nights but the killins have stopt, fer noaw. Just the same a body ought to walk ker'ful up heah aftuh sundown, 'They is so many folks as wuz lost heah'bouts but specially because uv what that Wizard Whateley called up back in the time o' the trouble. It were sent back to wharev'r it cum from. What evur it wuz it et up fourteen caows and then squished the barn. It wuz awfully ghastly the way it just tore 'em up and suck'd em dry, Gawd awfully oh Lord it might return or worse still be lurking ‘round the gate’. Some o' us tried to tear it all down but they iz a lot uv devil's wuks up heah, an the trouble ain't ne'er quite went away, Now wif sa many strangers comin' round ‘specially with Walpurgis Eve’ which is a comin. Be kerful too as the Moon will soon be neah full, an things as shouldn't be still are seen and worse iz heard winging on the night. Gawd awful things they are that skritch and howl so horribly a' night. Some 'as teeth and 'll chew your head off eef yew be not kerful, and be safe in a doors when the time comes. Ye kin allus tell becuz they let loose wi' a howlin' sumpin' turrible. If ye heah the ‘hippoorwills and the bullfrogs start to skrichin’ somepin' hurrible and then jes' quit, they iz terrible bad a comin', run 'n dun't look back becuz if they call ye by your name, weel you may not be able to come back at all none ta' soon. They has frightful powers and been knowed to take a body, Lord knows weah. They jus' kep 'im up in the air and kip him. Some say you kin still heah them on the night winds about the deep hollers. They jus kip a poor devil flyin' till he iz jes about a corpse. Jes flyin' way up in the air. Ye kin heah them as has been grabbed screamin' an cullin' out, no one knows weah ur when, but they jus drops' em deader like they ‘us jes’ used up!'
‘In fac’ if I am not mistaken I kin see 'um Injun Gyp crew starting to come out noaw. They use my pasture 'n'
the monster swathe cut up ta otha side to reach Sentinel Hill. They been comin since Wizard Whateley's sending back in the trouble. Dang if I hain't been yammerin' --- spec' my Pap 'ul wail the tar out a me. I better get along with the cattle, it's getting on nigh too late to be way up heah, anyway what with all of thet steep slope through the dark woods. We gotta git along, Ho Bossy head ‘em up!’
He give the lead animal a deft flick with the long switch that he carried and away down the hill he started trotting.
Well there at last was at least one local who had dared to speak to him. Waite was not so surprised at much of the talk. He had expected as much. That was quite a fable the young man had told. It was well worthy of the boot leg whiskey legends of Dunwich that he had read in the old Arkham papers. Bud may have been uneducated, but he was the only person that he had greeted since the gaunt storekeeper Tobit Whateley. So what part of this was the mystery? Perhaps some secret society had once flourished in Dunwich after fleeing persecution. There must have been some sort of cover story that had been told to scare off the idle. Whatever it was, something staggering had occurred. As he ambled on his way he could see a great wasteland. Some giant had been let loose to blast a jagged gash this side of Sentinel Hill. The desolation was so clear that he could make out the ruins of Wizard Whateley's plantation far below. Also plainly visible along the well worn path were many party goers beginning to trail raggedly up the slope from a makeshift camp far down the glen. As he rounded a bend in the trail he came to the outskirts of the encampment consisting of an odd assortment of gypsy caravans as well as the raggedest of tent cities. Squalid encampments were not unknown to Waite. Times were hard everywhere. Waite just did not expect to come face to face with such primitive squalor here on this desolate side of his new backwater home.
Continuing to stroll faster he was almost caught up to the leading edge of the odd pilgrimage. Slowly advancing Waite tried not to press against anyone in that ragged mob. As he passed the line kept forming as people laden with various festival gear including drums and other paraphernalia struggled to form a straggling line. Waite noticed that as the sun went down people were still slowly snaking up the hill in nightly procession. Waite pressed forward through the rather strangely repellent crowd forming up
for their trek. Now amongst the shambling party goers were mixed many of the sadly over pressed native peoples who had once
populated these mountains. Waite wondered what could be the attraction of this motley horde. Who or what were these slightly
repugnant peoples bearing some strange totem, from some obscure, unsung tribe. Waite remembered the cleanly lines of the Northern
Pacific Coast Native Americans. These were different, somehow, of a vaguely mixed or slightly ‘slanty eyed breed.’ Waite was unaware
of any insensitivity in the harshness of his condemnation. He was a product of his times. The people slowly filing by were what he
regarded as having a slight taint, some vaguely inhuman physical characteristic. As he passed through the throng, instead of a friendly
greeting, the mingling strangers pulled oddly back. Then they flashed him an obscure sign. When he failed to respond, they made a different even stranger sign. It was a sign of aversion and protection mixed with deep throaty grunting, in a barbaric language. Waite could not tell for sure but it sounded like; Ooh wah oaoh Hobomok?
This strange group were apparently the source of last nights interruptions of his sleep. They were the
disturbers of his quiet night. To Waite the only question in his mind was why did such a rabble congregate to drum and trouble his peace, as if straining to wake the dead? Waite was in an unquiet mood as he passed the line and continued to plod downhill towards the Dunwich Road. At the trail head Waite turned back to avoid the swamp. Then he switched back towards his own house, snug up against the now darkening deep woods. Already the chorus of Whippoorwills and bull frogs were commencing another ullulant chorus to greet the gloom of the night. Word had obviously traveled fast of his arrival amongst the degenerate community of Dunwich. Waite apparently had never considered that they would give him such a cold suspicious homecoming. Who were they to shun him. Such an odd lot of celebrants coming from who knows where to squat on Whateley land. They probably were the "bootleg whiskey guzzlers" of whom he had heard. Waite thought that he must inquire of the dour storekeeper afterward about how to contact the Township Police.
Returning home, he strode into the room in a bit of a huff. Then to his considerable consternation, Waite found the journal again! He could clearly see a chair drawn up to the same antique table as yesterday. The strange ledger, that he had searched for in vain that morning, was lying there again. Across the opened ledger was scrawled
'The promise to
Hoc Qui Venit,
he who has returned.
Ye should know that the house of Whateley is an old house. To the eldest son is the reward of the house. Failing of a son then the inheritance must pass to the eldest surviving male issue. He who takes up ye task of serving ye old ones will be rewarded beyond all measure. Unlock the hidden chamber to find gold. Seek ye for the secret of the house and all will be revealed unto you.
Such Gothic drivel thought Waite as he slumped in his chair. He was so tired let himself go down into a short dream. Slowly he drowsed in sweet bliss. After a bit he aroused from sleep long enough to observe the pale lunar light lending ambience to the room. He peeped out half open eyes to watch the waxing moon rising through the cold dark air. Then he noticed the whippoorwills, and the frogs were still making noise. The damned pestilential drumming was not yet fading. At times it got loud, again. It would likely continue to near dawn! Somehow he resisted fully awakening. Part of him was still wrapped in exhaustion. He rolled back over weak with ennui and dozed. How long he slept it was hard to tell. As he slept the moon slowly reached a peak and started to set.
Then he awoke with a start in his dream. The mystic eye had opened again. Waite was startled awake bathed in a striated red light. Someone vaguely remembered spoke to him.
Follow for the revelation of the secret chamber. Find ye the loose stone in ye high back wall. When ye find that stone which is slightly raised, grip it and give a slight twist and push. Ye will then hear a sound of stone grating upon stone When ye jarring noise ceases look behind ye. The hidden door will be revealed unto ye.
Still in thrall to the dream spirit, Waite could perceive the dimly glowing outline of a long passage into the hill. He had not but begun to descend the steps when suddenly progress was blocked. Another larger stone had slipped and fallen impeding his further passage. After that the dream became murky again.
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The Fourth Day
aite finally awakened to the faint glow of the false dawn. He was stiff from the hard chair and barely rested. His clothes were dirty again. He also found muddy tracks, seemingly leading to a blank wall. He wondered what was the mystery now fading from his mind? How could he have come to such a state of filth. Not only was he covered in spider webs and dust but his tracks were muddy prints. Stiff and filthy all over Waite realized with great distaste that the whippoorwills and frogs were still in chorus! Their loud shrill notes now burst into another wild uproar of unrestrained disorder that set him on edge. No wonder he was so groggy. That nightly serenade filled all the countryside with eerie dread. It must be nearly dawn. Would they ever finally quiet down? Worse the damnable drumming had never ceased. If it continued to near dawn, every night, how could anyone sleep. Slowly the hill noises grew softer and faded away just before the sun rose. One last last fire remained smoking on Sentinel Hill.
Bleakly arising slumped over in his chair, Waite shuddered in the morning chill. He had never even made it to his comfortable chamber above. How could he be covered in sweat and dust and cobwebs? He looked like he had been crawling in a cave. Waite realized that the nightly noises were starting to get to him. He certainly had never sleep walked before he had come here. Then it hit him. Just where had he walked? Somehow just beyond his waking consciousness lurked mystery. Somewhere in his mind he saw the eye and --- what was that in the shade, just beyond? Finally he just scratched his head in surrender to the enigma. He broke up a few sticks and poked the fire to life in his stove. Next he started the water to boil and searched for the soap to wash off the night spoor and stain. Rummaging through his clean clothes, Waite felt his hunger, and realized that he had not even eaten the night before. Well time to munch at what was left of his cereal. He had exhausted his meager stock of fruit and cheese. He must remember to stop on his way home later. Surely better fare could be had in Springfield than that available at the dilapidated steeple store of Tobit Whateley in the Dunwich village. Besides there would be time to dine in a real restaurant after he reached his destination. Three mystery filled days had passed since he had arrived in the area. He was determined to go back to library to find other books and references related to the Horror of 1928. Maybe he might be able to trace someone who remained of his closer family tree. Perhaps even a ‘larned’ Whateley who still resided in this area.
After a bumpy ride he found a small restaurant where he ate a breakfast of eggs, toast, and a well-earned rasher of bacon. After his meal he found his way back to the close but comforting confines of the library. As he stood before the reference desk he realized that his first priority was to review his previous research before moving on. Once again he had mixed feelings about his reception. The librarian had quickly ducked away after showing him to a deserted nook. There once again he spread out before him the aged manuscripts as well as the heavy old volumes of family lore. Searching through the hoary stack Waite decided to make it his first priority to review what had been known before his time. He was most interested in seeing how many others had been assaulted by a disturbing cacophony of nocturnal noises. Once again he quickly found the file containing the memorable old sermon on the close presence of Satan and his imps. He read down to ‘the dread and cursed Voices of Azazel and Buzrael, of Beelzebub and Belial.’ He thought on the distress of the good reverend. He felt certain that his own discomfort was caused by things this earth had raised up. However ‘a rattling, rolling, groaning, screeching, and hissing’ was not far off the mark. He remembered all to well his own recent experiences with noisy night birds and a swamp filled with raucous batrachians. This in turn recalled Waite to his brief conversation with the loquacious Frye, who had warned him that there were ‘more than just cattle upon the mountain.’
Now that he thought about his own dreams as well as his own condition upon awakening he conceded that perhaps there might be some truth to what he was reading about ‘caves of black Magick unlocked by the Divell.’ Waite felt that somehow something unusual had survived. Which in turn lead him to the conclusion that history was happening again. Waite stopped and let the papers drop to the desk before him. Well that certainly seemed to be the conclusion of everyone that he had met since he had first come to Massachusetts. If he was displeased with his feeling of seeing things already seen before, he was not going to show it. While it would be irrational for Waite to accept déjàvu. Waite was feeling sure that he had experienced certain people and situations in his new life previously. After briefly pausing, to contemplate, Waite resumed. Greed over weighed any remaining rational concerns. He must delve deeper if he was to find the answers to his questions.
Turning over first one then another of the leather bound volumes he found a well weathered old Natural History text that caught his eye. Amongst the numerous odd references was an exceedingly rare monograph on the legends of the local native tribes of the region. It was written by an anthropologist named David Laporte, who had collected it from oral material prior to 1839. It was titled:
The Lost Pocumtuck.
Elderly rustics in the mountains of Southern New England tell a tale of atavistic survival inherited from local Indian tribes. The archaic story has been retold often among the oldest people of the state. These legends hint at a hidden race of monstrous beings that predate the native tribes. Whoever or whatever, it is said to lurk somewhere on the highest peaks down to the darkest valleys. In the remoter hills something hideous and unnatural hides where streams trickle from unknown sources in the deep woods to plunge precipitously down steep-sided gorges. Those who had ventured farther than usual in the wilderness reported these beings were seldom glimpsed near the settled areas. Evidence of their presence was found amongst the great rings of rough hewn stone columns on the hilltops. These stories were attributed to the fireside remembrance of the Pocumtuck Indians. Some echo had still remained amongst the settlers. Starting as early as the sixteen hundreds they had reported deposits of strange skulls and crossed bones found within these circles. The oldest people of the state found Pocumtuck remains in the burial-places on the sizable table rock of Sentinel Hill. Locals memories also sustain popular beliefs that such spots were sepulcher monuments for others as well.
It was in these time forgotten places that the elder shamans had performed their unhallowed rites at great festive conclaves. Amidst loud drumming and persistent howling they called the forbidden shapes of shadow out of the great rounded hills. It was in the seasonal feasts that the Pocumtuck had by wild orgiastic prayers appealed for protection from the malignant shades. These primitive priests called Sachems sought aid from the spirit giant Hobomok against evil spirits. When the ceremony climaxed Hobomok came amidst loud cracklings and rumblings from the ground. Evidence of archaic peoples, outré rites and chthonic remains were regarded by ethnologists as an absurd unnatural improbability. Most of the experts persist in believing the remains Caucasian despite the reports of the earliest settlers. Whatever they were the hidden race of monstrous beings generally seemed content to let mankind alone. It was also most unwise to build houses too close to certain valleys. Others versions held them responsible for the disappearance of individuals who had ventured too high on certain mountains. Many localities came to be known as inadvisable to settle in. Long after the Pocumtuck tribe was forgotten, people would look up at the neighboring mountain precipices and shudder. Fireside tales often were told recalling how in the old times settlers had been lost, and farmhouses had burnt to ashes, on the slopes of those grim rocky sentinels. In the north central counties around Dunwich it seemed to be a fashion about 1800 to accuse eccentric and unpopular recluses of being allies or representatives of the abhorred things.
As to what the things were, explanations naturally varied. The common name applied to them was “those ones,” or “the old ones.” Other terms had a transient local use. The Puritan settlers harshly condemned them as familiars of the devil. They made them a basis of awed theological speculation. Other settlers linked them vaguely with the pooka. The malign ‘fairies and little people’ of the bogs and raths of their native lands. They protected themselves with scraps of incantation handed down through many generations.
The native Pocumtuck Indians had the most fantastic theories of all. Tribal legends insisted on belief that the creatures were not native to this earth. The Pocumtuck myths, taught that the Star Headed Old Ones came down upon wings from Aldebaran and Hyades in the sky. They also taught that the Old Ones could only be sent back by the might of the spirit of the mountain, the tribal protector, the giant, Hobomok. It was bad to get near them. Sometimes young hunters who went into their hills never came back. It was considered especially bad, to listen to what they whispered at night to lonesome travelers in the vast forest. Black winged things with harsh voices like a bird imitating the voice of man were said to lure the unwary. Also they knew the speech of all kinds of men, not just the settlers, but Pocumtuck, Squawkheag, Norwottuck, and Mahicans. All the legendry, of course, white and Indian alike, died down during the nineteenth century, except for occasional flare-ups. The ways became settled. Habitual paths and dwellings were established. People remembered less and less of the fears and avoidance. Most people simply knew that certain hilly regions were considered as highly unhealthy, unprofitable, and generally unlucky to live in. The farther one kept from them the better off one usually was. In time the haunted hills were left deserted, except by accident or during the infrequent local scares. Then only by the degenerate and uneducated was ever anything whispered of beings dwelling in those hills. Now most normal humans let the haunted territory about Dunwich entirely alone.
Waite put the volume down, and closed the document. This was not the sort of factual information that he was seeking. Waite resisted the urge to accede some actual historicity to the ancient tales. True he could not argue the real existence of some queer tales of an elder earth race. After having seen first hand the decay and degeneracy of the Dunwich country it was hard to argue. But survival in relatively recent times – or even to the present! Well that just seemed to be absurd. How could he ever sell such property? Waite was only interested in the thought of building tacky summer homes for city folks. He did not have a material interest in a plethora of legendary trash.
So Waite slowly folded and put away the monograph before next selecting an old collection of odd correspondences to peruse. The first was an old letter from one Jedediah Orne to a cousin, Silas Bishop of Olde Arkham.
Near Newe Dun’ichDear Cousin Silas,
'I delight that you continue in ye getting at Olde Ways, and doe not think better was done in Salem Village. Certainly, Noth’g butt ye liveliest Awfulness that was rais’d upp when we danced the spiral in the woodes under the light of the Full Moon. What wordes you sente of ye VII. Booke did not Worke. Whether because Any Thing was miss’g, or because ye Wordes were not Righte from my Speak’g or yr copy’g. Alone I am at a Loss. I have not ye Al Chymicall Arte to followe and owne my Self confounded by ye VII. Booke of ye Necronomicon as well as by other fragments from the learned Doctor Dee’s Arabik Booke.'
'Also be ye yet wary and ever ready to fly to shelter in ye woodes. As it was on account of what was sworn in the July 1692 sessions of the Court of Oyer and Terminen that I left ye Olde Salem Village. It was sworn in ye Court before Judge Hathorne that fortie witches and the Blacke Man were wont to meet in the woodes behind that house. Later in the August session it was declared before the judge, that on that nighte ye Divell had putt his marke upon Bridget Hogge, Jonathon Orne, Silas Bishop, Deliverance Whateley, Joseph Curwin, and Susan Philips, as well as Mehitable Marsh, and Deborah Howard. All whose names, which appeared on that list were placed in imminent peril. In such uncertain times ye must be ever ready to fly even to the arms of the gentile savages to avoid the wrath of pestilential bigoted pilgrim peasantry, who have so recently flooded into our Massachusetts Bay colony seeking shelter from righteous persecution in ye olde England. Suche have perpetrated an even worse persecution and martyrdom upon all here with whom they disagree. It being an especial flaw in them to cry witchcraft even in civil cases so simple as a boundary dispute.'
'It was on this account that I have already flown to a secret domicile hard by the mountains near the source of the great Miskatonic river. A place largely inhabited by a sullen yet somewhat agreeable species of the Mahican tribes called Pocumtuck. Squawkheag and the Norwottuck also have much available land in both woods and pasturage between the mountains and the river.'
Fraternally Yours Brother in Almonsin Metatron
Setting that aside Waite next began to read a Letter once again written in a vaguely familiar hand of crabbed miniscules by a Silas Bishop in reply to his Cousin Jedediah Orne.
Dear Cousin Jedediah,
'I have succeeded in obtaining at a faire price an incomplete copy of Ye Dee Necronomicon that you recommende. Wherein it is written: Nyarlathotep enacts the will of the Outer Gods, and is their messenger, heart and soul. Nyarlathotep is the servant of Azathoth, whose wishes cause madness, misery and death. Nyarlathotep will destroy the human race and then clear off the earth. Also of whom it is written that he will reward as Princes of the Worlde those who will aide him in that cause. But I wou’d also have ye Observe eminently what was told to us aboute tak’g Care of Whom to calle up, for ye are Sensible what was writ in ye Marginalia of ye VII. Booke, and can judge how truly that Horrendous thing is reported of what occ’red when most unwisely such an unfettered dæmon was call’d up. I say to you againe, doe not call upp Any that you can not put downe; by the Which I meane, Any that can in Turne call up somewhat against you, whereby your Powerfullest Devices may not be of use. Ask of the lesser, lest the greater shall not wish to Answer, and shall commande more than you. I was frighted when I read of your know’g what H. hadde in his Ebony Boxe, for I was conscious who must have tolde you. And againe, I ask to remind ye that you maye write me, Jedediah, but Silas Bishop may too soone, be no longer of this Community. Ye People aboute have become curious, but I can stande them off. I am fearful, Ye Gentry, they are worse that the Populace, be’g more belieu’d in what they tell. No Thing soe far is Dangerous. Yet I may have need to avail myself of your recommendation of a change of scenery from this community, to one beyond the mountains. Still I am desirous ye will Acquaint me with what ye learned from the Blacke Man in ye Vault, under ye Olde Salem Village, and will be oblig’d for ye Lend’g of ye other manuscript that ye have spoken of. Ye year advances and we must plot the starry conjunction of Mars and Saturn and prepare to make ready for ye great day coming, when the old ones will return to rule. And that they who have served them well will become as satraps of the new earth to come.'
Fraternally Yours Brother in Almonsin Metatron
And then Waite found another letter with no signature.
My honour’d Antient friende, with all due respects and earnest Wishes to him who ye serve for yr eternal Power. Iä! Nyarlathotep! I am not so easily disposs’d for to followe you in go’g away, on acct. of my advanc’d yeares. I may remain in Providence where they hath not yet ye vile sharpeness in hunt’g oute uncommon Things as they of ye Bay doe, and bringinge not to Tryall. Besides be’ng ty’d up in Shippes and Goudes, I cou’d not doe as you did. I am just come upon that which thou ought to knowe, concern’g the matter of Him Who is to Come, and what to doe regard’g yt. I have laste night strucke on ye Wordes that bringe up Yogge-Sothothe who promiseth ye way of get’g backe after ye Last. When ye Sunne aproacheth Ye V. House, there will come a time when Saturne will trine Mars. In that time will be found one who is borne of ye Seede of Olde who shall looke Backe, tho’ know’g not what he seekes. It is he who will set free those from Outside. But it will be strangely so. And in ye meane while, do not neglect to make use of ye Wordes I have given ye. Ye III. Psalme in ye Liber Damnatus holdes ye Clavicle. Imploy ye the Writinge. I have put ye wordes arighte. As ye desire to see Him Who is to Come in the Eye that seeth all, Saye ye Verses every day, and if yr Line runn not out, one shall come to bee in yeares to come that shall looke backe and awaken to make answer to the call.
Y’re Servt. in Almonsin-Metatron
There were a few other relics but mostly of the sort as bills of lading, and the usual pile of notices of birth, death, and marriage, and who survived whom. Waite stifled a yawn as he became aware that he was hungry and restless. Then he chuckled as he put the book and papers away. Talk about inbred bootleg guzzlers, it seemed to Waite that everybody in Dunwich past and present were escaped from some mental health facility. Waite realized suddenly by a pang in his stomach that it was time to put this mornings work to one aside and get some lunch. A nice tidy cafe appealed to him now so putting his reference materials out of mind he retired for a brief interval. After Lunch he would have plenty of time to make inquires after the rare books room and the dreaded Necronomicon.
It was not much of a lunch. After such a sumptuous breakfast all he needed was a candy bar or two from a machine off the side of the main library lobby. Then turn and head back to the sacred precincts of the Reference Room. When he approached the librarian, Saul Clifton semi acquiesced. He admitted that he might find a rare copy of the Dæmonolatreia of Remigius as well as Trithemius’ Poligraphia. As for the Dee Necronomicon or the fragment of ‘My Arabik Booke’, the catalog was wrong. It had not been updated since that book had gone back, after a loan, to the library of Miskatonic University in Arkham. Even so they could only be seen by special permission. The Necronomicon was kept under lock and key. If he wished to read ‘forbidden’ books he would have to apply to the Librarian of Miskatonic University. Then and only then he might be allowed to read books from the restricted section, but only under careful supervision. Until he received permission he was welcome to seek other books and references. Waite was put off by the librarian’s snide references as to the reading on his list being somehow dangerous or unhealthy. For the time though all he could do was to say thank you and to shrug it off. Besides he was discovering a new attraction to study the occult.
Never before had he been even remotely curious in arcane things hidden and dark. Somehow he was not aware how much the recent repeated nights of poor sleep and dream had influenced his thinking. It was bad enough to be interrupted in sleep by the raucous celebrants on the nearby hilltops, but the repetitive all night chorus of shrieking night birds and bellowing swamp creatures was positively unnerving. Waite was not quite picking up what should have become a troublesome thought. He had failed to notice that he did not normally do things upon impulse. He typically plotted his courses methodically. After all he had a fine education and was accustomed to doing his own thinking. So how had he become subject to thoughts that seemed to arrive fully developed from some hitherto hidden source. Receiving thought commands from an alien source certainly was obscure to his nature. He had never before been overly immersed in dreams, much less sleepwalking. He had never been subject to responses that did not originate within his own mind. Why had he recently developed such an obsession with occult matters? It was like his brain was awakening to half remembered things. Not just to obscure books, cults, and authors, but a burgeoning willingness to participate with alien forces emanating from some other dimension of time and space. In his heart Waite realized that more and more he was actively in participating with forces from beyond. Forces that no sane person would admit to emulating. Waite was unwilling to admit to his new found love affair with the esoteric artes. Waite should have been put on notice that he was participating knowingly and willingly. He should have been frightened to be ‘the chosen one’. This should have set off warning bells. This severely clashed with his self image. He had never before been the chosen anything, especially, Hoc Qui Venit
, the one who was to come. Fortunately it was a slow day and Waite had gotten an impressive amount done on his second trip into the library. He could wait longer. He had no immediate need to find the Necronomicon. Did he in fact even need such a book? Had he ever needed such a book with a name as harsh to the tongue as the mythology that it seemed to embrace?
His return to Dunwich was uneventful. He had eaten well enough. He thought that he could settle for making due with a light snack of his remaining perishables. Besides he had several tricky questions for Tobit Whateley that could wait till morning. Then He changed his mind and made one quick stop for cold cuts, bread and milk at a small market on his way out of Springfield. He then pushed his car over the rough road to make it back just as the evening shadows were starting to grow long under his eaves. He ate his sandwich and was glad that it was not another frugal dinner, as he had originally planned. He could save the rest of his cereal and milk for breakfast. Then he climbed the stairs to bed hoping that maybe his sleep would be not be interrupted by unwonted dream. There was nothing that he could do about the not too distant sounds. When he returned to his cozy chamber he undressed and almost immediately as his head hit the pillow he fell asleep. Unfortunately he only subsided into light dreams. Once again he walked in his sleep! He was drawn as if by a magnet to look into the eye. Slowly as the swirling murky lights give way his vision was assailed by night terror vistas with bat winged creatures flying about. Hideous creatures that swirled around the top of Sentinel Hill accompanied by a horribly discordant cacophony. Kakodæmonic sounds pierced his ears forcing him to notice that something lurked just beyond the circle of great stones. Some unknown horrible presence watched and waited just beyond the dimly seen hill of his vision. Then between him and the Milky Way he thought he saw a terrible outline of some collosal noxious horned, tailed and bat winged shadow. Other things, too, had begun to blot out patches of stars west of him. A flock of vague entities were flapping thickly and silently out of an inaccessible cave on the face of the precipice.
As the light of the great eye shifted rapidly he once again became aware of the vaguely familiar veiled figures watching him. They were pointing to him accusingly. They then shifted to focus on the silent sentient stones of Sentinel Hill. He knew in his heart that they had some fearsome task for him to perform. Slowly the scene dissolved, the light once again faded and he saw himself with his hand on the movable stone. As that scene faded he saw himself trodding the long passage down. Helplessly frozen in the piercing light of the eye Waite saw himself stumble into the secret passage where he encountered the collapsed section. Struggling without tools he feverishly worked with his naked hands to uncover the stones blocking his access to the hidden chamber. Finally more by stumbling, than by pushing he removed the last of the obstruction. At last he climbed over the remaining rubble, and pushed open the door to reveal that which had been hidden.
In the Eye
In the dull ambient light cast from the eye he saw a room strewn with ritual implements, old bones, and a still older pedestal covered in more of the unknown hieroglyphs. Adding to the greater mystery was a large number of parchment manuscripts. Hundreds of rolled up scrolls were written in the crabbed style of archaic writing. The majority of what he found was in a wide range of condition that suggested an age of up to at least two hundred years. Besides manuscripts he also found many strange old books. All, without exception, appeared to deal with black magic in its most advanced and horrible forms. Wherein was one particularly large volume along whose spine in golden letters was printed My Arabik Booke
. The parchment pages were in what appeared to be human skin. He also found a small leather pouch stuffed with a large number of gold coins. The unknown minting bore an evil octopoidal image. The horrid bestial creature was not unlike the image found surrounding the Eye. Fumbling with the pouch Waite could see the strange gold coins bore obscure hieroglyphs on the obverse. He thought to himself, who could possibly have minted such an outrageously foreign coin.
Abruptly he awoke as from one dream into another. Before he could see or go any further he found to his utter horror and amazement that he was not in his pleasant bed. Instead he found himself stumbling up crude stone stairs. His clothes once again were in tatters. As he shambled back past the room of the eye, dawn broke. It was all he could do to climb the stairs, and collapse in complete mental and physical exhaustion without pausing to undress. When Waite finally awoke to the pristine spring sunshine of late morning, he was drenched by a cold perspiration. He was also covered in cobwebs and dust. He drew himself up sharply. His hands were bloody and raw with a smarting sensation where the rough stones of the secret passage had worn blisters. Springing to the floor, he dashed down the stairs, washed and dressed in frantic haste. It was necessary for him to get out of the house as quickly as possible. He did not know where he wished to go, but he must go!
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Late Morning, the Fifth Day
tanding in the golden glow breaking through an oriole above the magnificent Georgian Door, Waite paused. He was utterly perplexed. How had he sleep walked from his bed? How had he stumbled into what he now saw was an old unused cellar? It was hard enough to rationalize his filthy appearance. But it was impossible to explain the small leather pouch and its small horde of strange golden coins that he now held in his hand. He could not explain it at all, but it was solid and it was real. He could hardly stand erect. He had to slow down and take it all in. Momentarily, after regaining his composure he hastened to return to the Springfield library again. He was badly shaven and without even a crumb for breakfast when he was greeted by the librarian. Saul Clifton informed him that by special arrangement Dr. Armitage, the librarian of Miskatonic University in Arkham had faxed over a portion of the dreaded Dee Necronomicon fragment. It was not the VII. Book of Abdool Al Hazzred as previously requested by Waite. That could not be permitted even if he was a scholar doing research. The parts alluded to in the Orne Bishop correspondence were deemed to be too dangerous for public release. Dr. Armitage was unusually forthright in his language repeated to Waite, by the librarian. 'That VII. Book could not be permitted. No not that fragmentary part of the Necronomicon had not been retrieved from the Whateley farmhouse after the trouble of ‘28’. That portion was part of a separate collection. Yes much of the material recovered from the Wizzard Whatelely would be safe to release. The book that was ‘ancestral Whateley intellectual property’ so it was included in the body of the fax. He had been forced by concerns for public safety to carefully expurgate the more objectionable parts, especially the VII. Book of Al Hazzred.' The librarian continued to explain to Waite; 'Dr Armitage had been uncharacteristicly generous, very generous in faxing over even a portion of the Dee manuscript. Those parts which Dr. Armitage considered to be ‘too dangerous’ would have to remain under seal in the locked Special Collections section of Miskatonic University. Certain contents, though were deemed safe enough for limited scholarly distribution and had been sent over.'
Waite was then ushered to a table where he bent over and began to read the preamble entitled;
It is it to be understood that man is neither the oldest nor the wisest or even the last of earth’s masters. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but in between the space that we know. They walk serene and primal, undimensioned and unseen, coterminous with all time and all space. Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. For Yog-Sothoth is the gate, and the key that unlocks the gate. For Yog-Sothoth is the guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all time are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows the spaces where the Old Ones broke through in times of old, and he knows where They shall break through again, and again. He knows the fields of earth where They have trod, for again They still tread earth’s fields. No one can behold Them as They tread. But sometimes by their smell men may know Them near. But no man may know Their semblance. They have begotten spawn on mankind; and only in the features of those may man even guess their true form. For they are many sorts, differing in likeness from man’s truest eidolon. Without shape, without substance ye shall know Them, as a foulness when thou shalt feel Their hand at your throat, yet ye see Them not. Not now and thankfully not ever shall they be seen yet Their habitation is even one with your guarded threshold. Yog-Sothoth is the key to the gate, whereby the spheres meet. Man now rules where They ruled once. They shall soon rule again when man is no more. After summer is winter, after winter summer. They wait patient and potent, for They shall reign again. And then shall They clean off the earth and remove it, we know not where. They walk unseen and foul in the lonely places when the Words are spoken. They await the bloody sacrifice to be performed at the Rites when They will howl through the all in their Season. The wind gibbers with Their voices, and the earth vibrates with Their step. Their consciousness will then drive mad the seers with the unseen. They will bend the forest and crush the city, but none not in the forest or in the city will behold the hand that smites. Kadath in the cold waste hath known Them, and what man knows Kadath? Their cousin Shub-Niggurath has made fertile the earth Iä! Iä! Iä! The ice desert of the South and the sunken isles of Ocean hold stones whereon Their mighty seal is engraven in the fabled stone of Mnar. But who may see the deep frozen city at the poles or the sunken and sealed tower beneath the waves where, He waits. There dead but dreaming, seaweed garlanded and barnacle encrusted Great Cthulhu waits for the stars to come round right and then He will be freed from his watery prison. Deem ye not to catch at the promises, neither be ye too overly eager in your pursuit. Cling not, but be ye ever ready to serve.
So much Waite could see but being impatient he flipped pages at random till he saw; at the top of the page
The art of controlling the spirits of fire, the air and the dead is an extension of ‘Ars Pyronomic’, an obscure spiritual alchemical process which is necessary for controlling the astral body in order to make contact with the intermediary spirits at the Sabbat.
This somehow irked the impatient Waite as he thumbed through the lengthy fax. In the marginalia he read:
Ye must know that this operation is the final stage in the transmutation of metals which can no longer be performed in the present age, as it was in the past performed by some great experts, unless indeed one let the work be governed by a certain soul which has been severed from its body violently but restored by the art of Necromancy, a work very difficult and fraught with dangers because of the fiery and sulphurous fumes, not to mention the fierce and intractable spirits who must be called by the use of human blood and effluvia. Chief most of these terrible spirits is the dæmon Sultan, Azathoth, the Blind Idiot God who sits upon the throne of Chaos. There in unlighted chambers beyond time amidst the muffled, maddening beating of vile drums and the thin, monotonous whine of accursed flutes; to which detestable pounding and piping dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic Ultimate Gods. The blind, voiceless, tenebrous, mindless Other Gods whose soul and messenger is the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep. It is Azathoth who swallows everything, and when in the end he finds the world is naught, he eats himself. Poorly represented in myth as a 'serpent who eats his tail’ or ‘Worm Ouroboros’. It is the same Azathoth who is ever accompanied by his avatar Nyarlathotep.
In another dark passage, Dee alludes to the ‘Philosophical Mercury’ and its replacement by the ‘Gold of the Sun’.
This demon is falsely mentioned as a sole companion of the ‘Evil One’. For Azathoth is also Brother of Yog Sothoth, the Gate. Nyarlathotep, is also he who is known as the Black Antichrist, and is the 'black man at the Sabat of the witches’, as well as all evil flyers who seek to enter the gate with the Great Old Ones and seize the the life of a man. It is Nyarlathotep’s hand that strikes a man with lethargy so that he is incapable in the hour of his need. He casts his hand on the sick one who is in fever, or when he lurks in his eyes as he drives away the life, and they call it death, yet it is but a living death before the second death cast by the demon sultan of the malignant eye who spoils everything which men see, unless they be quick to say ‘in the name of Yog-Sothoth’. Azathoth is also brother of Great Cthulhu but they abide apart.
Cthulhu currently lies bound but will eventually break free and lay waste to the earth, as it is written elsewhere in the Necronomicon.
With every one of them are many sub demons and fiends subordinate, who are the winged furies of the air, present when called at the Sabbat and who are invisible yet very numerous and ever greater multitudes, (as it is said) until they are compelled to visibility by certain secret drugs and human blood. These are the demons of ruin, pain, and decrepitude, who are the producers of vexation and bile, revivers of grief, the progeny of gloom, and bringers of stench, decay, and vileness, who are many, and very notorious; and a portion of all of them is mingled with the bodies of the evil men, and their characteristics are glaring in the deformed children begotten upon mankind. For it is said that in the features of man one may know their semblance.
The malignancy increases, until once the fetters have been removed and if the apostate remains in his impetuosity the Spawn of Azathoth swallows him down on the spot, and rushing into the world to perpetrate evil, he commits innumerable grievous sins; he swallows down not just the sons of mankind, but also cattle, sheep, and he commits grievous devastation even upon the vegetation. At that time there was the coming of the planetary star of Mars into planetary conjunction with Saturn, and the moon and planets were in trine, it issued from the intensely noxious effect of the drug as amidst tears of sweat and blood, as I raised my eyes, I saw the world as when it was dark as night; and on the whole earth were snakes, scorpions, lizards, and other baneful creatures of many kinds; and so the other demons of the night stood among the reptiles; and every approach of the whole earth was as though not as much as a needle’s point of light remained, in which there was no rush of noxious creatures. ‘Lastly, he the Evil One came forth with many dark forms to the fire, and there mingled darkness and smoke with the face of Azathoth, who then called out to the wicked spirits and suffered them to punish the company of man with certain alien beings; whom I was amazed at .’ This demon Nyarlathotep is mentioned as a sole companion of the ‘Evil One’. Through fear of the likeness of the body, he remains even after other evil spirits have been conquered. He remains at large. Then the Evil One the Spawn of Azathoth shouts and creates a cacophony of noise. Azathoth stands up before him.
Weary and confused Waite closed the faxed pages of the Necronomicon and silently shivered before he prepared to go home. So much had happened in so short of a time. His research progressed yet he still was no closer to the answer. What was the mysterious sign that he lacked? He seemed to be possessed of much of the mystery of the ‘larned’ Whateleys of Dunwich. But there was also something that was missing, something that he could not put his finger on. All had appeared so much clearer earlier today in the Springfield sunlight. Now with late afternoon shadows hastening, he was far from sure. Waite hurried back to his car and returned to his Dunwich home, bumping all the way on the rough road.
Brusquely he strode in, closed the door and mounted the stairs. He was tired and cared little for plumbing anymore fresh mysteries. He certainly had no desire to eat. All he wanted was long deep sleep. The kind that seemed to elude him since his return to his native state. Well, it was not unpleasantly chill, but he checked to make sure that the windows were shut. Distantly at first, then less faintly, he could make out the commencement of the nightly chorus of birds and frogs. The first baleful glow of a distant fire also caught his eye in that instant. He sunk weak with denial onto his bed. He was barely able to remove his shirt and socks. So instead he fell rather than lay onto his bed. Then he closed his eyes and swiftly drifted off to blessed blissful slumber.
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The Fifth Night
r so he thought. Despite his overwhelming fatigue, he once again fell victim to disordered sleep. Almost immediately he slipped into dreams of plunging limitless abysses of inexplicably colored twilight bathed in baffling disordered sound. Fortunately for him this sleep was once again interrupted by the familiar distant sounds borne to him on the wings of night. The
sounds of nature in the Dunwich night were as on previous nights abnormally loud enough. This incessant drumming though was starting to really get to him. Surely this was reason enough for his own heightened sensitivity. The unwanted nightlife had become an insistent, unendurable misery. Worse from deep down, he was beginning to perceive terrifying impressions of other sights and sounds. Perceptions possibly originating from regions beyond life. As he lay semi awake listening he thought that he detected a wide range of tones. One of which was a rhythmic confusion of faint musical pipings that welled up unbidden from the back of his mind. Also vaguely horrifying sounds of howling were now seeping through on the very brink of audibility. Pulling the pillow over his head, he sort of drifted off again, as on the previous nights. He was conscious of the light disorienting dreams that proceeded somnambulism. That knowledge did not help him. He felt helpless. He could not explain his sleepwalking. He had never walked in his sleep before. He had always enjoyed normal restful sleep in the night. He did not walk in the sense of ordinary walking. Instead he always experienced a mode of motion that was involuntary. Part of him would be lying still. Then as if drawn out attached by a silver thread he would rise in a body double. He always found himself in the chamber below. He would just fly or float to the bizarre fixture wherein was mounted the eye. When he gazed into the eye he would be aware of swirling murky lights. Soon the lights would give way to an odd displacement. This time he found himself looking down on the partially destroyed stone circle with its twin black pillars atop Sentinel Hill. He could see the lights and hear the sounds of a guitar made by someone in the motley crew who were drinking wine from a bottle passed around a campfire. They were not alone. Soon they were joined by others.
Night Comes to Dunwich
As the pale moon came out from behind the clouds Waite thought he saw fluttering visions of gigantic bat winged creatures in the air above Sentinel Hill. He involuntarily shuddered all over at the otherworldly nightmare view in the eye. Then the scene in the eye shifted and he saw the now familiar veiled figures. The wizards were sitting at a table with some very odd looking bookshelves in the background. The first a kindly white haired elder wizard identified himself.
‘I am your Great Grand Sire Sirius Whateley.’ I’twas me myself, who all these long years gone bye, first raised this house. It is I who first laid out ye secret place and know ye secrets of ye hidden chamber. It is I who discovered ye lines and ye curves that may be made to lead ye through the walls of space and time to other spaces and times beyond. Aye it is through the angle that is wrong that ye must seek. Follow ye angle which should not be there through the masonry. It is an acute angle that behaves as if it is obtuse. One leg exists in ye normal rational plane. Ye other exists not, yet it lies in an irrational place. Hence we say that ye angle is wrong. To one who posses ye secret words of ye secret place, he may follow the lines and curves to ye other secret places. Go ye thus to the midnight meetings frequented by the wizards of ye dark valley of Miskatonic beyond Sentinel Hill. Look for ye strange angles in the rock hewn hidden chamber below. Find the keys and ye may unlock many mysteries.'
Next a gray grizzled gentleman attired in the style of a long bygone day addressed him. 'Know ye that I am your Grand Uncle Silas Bishop said he, in a harsh tittering voice. 'I am of your not so close relations, a distant cousin, as it wer. Be Ye Warned! Walpurgis Night soon will arrive. This is one night most sacred to Ye Ancient Old Ones, their minions, and their servitors. Walpurgis Eve has always been a dreadful bad time for ye weak little men of Dunwich. For it is on Walpurgis Night when all of hell’s blackest evil would roam the earth. All ye night creatures will gather together then for nameless rites and deeds.'
Finally a shade of particularly hideous malevolence and exultation threatened him in a croaking voice: 'I Jedediah Orne am also of your distant kith and kin. Ye must soon seek the Black Man. Go with him to the throne of Azathoth at the center of ultimate chaos. Ye must cease to whine. Your will is weak and resistance is futile. Ye must go even unto those grinning caverns of earth’s center where Nyarlathotep, the mad faceless god, howls blindly in the darkness. Then when ye hear the piping of two amorphous idiot flute players to ye low muttering drum ye will sign your name, in your own blood, in the book of the Master. Know then that ye be utterly damned, damned, damned! To the heaven of ye lamb ye will turn no more. But ye will then be well received into ye Brotherhood of Almonsin Metatron. That communion shall compensate ye beyond y’re furthest imaginings.
Waite then knew that this was an evil too horrible for description. He had seen the names ‘Azathoth and Nyarlathotep’ in the Necronomicon. Now he knew in his inmost heart that he was already participating in evil past the point of turning back.
Slowly that scene dissolved until finally Waite saw himself hovering over the loose stone. As before the stairs and the long passage into the hill loomed large before him. Part stumbling and part floating into the passage he came once again to the hidden chamber strewn with ritual implements, old books, and bones. He studied the rough stone for traces of cryptic designs at every accessible spot. Finally he noticed beyond the altar pediment traces of lines cut into the stone floor of the crypt. One was a design of an odd angle that somehow seemed wrong. It just disappeared into infinity. It offered no clue whatsoever regarding it’s purpose. Was it not certain odd angles that the kindly shade had claimed led outside the boundaries of the world of space we know? Waite stood over the glyphs until he was almost within the odd angle but nothing happened. Something was missing. Now he perceived the eerie glow cast by the shade of his discarnate elder hovering almost over his own shadowy form. He seemed to be pointing to a certain stone covered in a strange design that was set in the floor at the base of the altar pediment. Lifting the stone Waite detected a slight declivity. By delving into the sunken hole he found an ancient brass bound chest partially buried under the trash and clutter of the ages. Forcing open the clasps Waite found the chest to be filled with old barely legible letters wrapped in silk. Grabbing up the silken bundle he closed the chest and replaced it in the declivity. Waite then floated away. He then mounted the stairs and returned to bed.
The rest of the night Waite slept as one who was dead. With the first light of dawn he slowly roused himself groggily. As on the former occasion he found himself to be shabby and tattered from a night delving. To his utter dismay he discovered that he was covered in dust and cobwebs once again. On the night table beside the bedstead were a pile of moldering old letters wrapped in silk. What could his mind devise to cover up the painful realization that something unexpected and highly irrational had occurred. The awful truth lay within his grasp. For in his hand he held three ancient parchment letters, a sullen witness to truth that he found so hard to accept. Now starkly revealed in the soft light filtered through his curtains was hard evidence of something that he could not control. Clutching the odious letters to his breast he staggered down the steps. Now shaking uncontrollably he started the coffeepot to boiling. after a pause to stare wildly about he found a place at his table, lit his lamp and began to read.
To Him Who is to Come after
It is first to be understood that it is written in Ye Necronomicon of the Other Gods. Those from Outside who come from distant parts of space where time and form do not exist as we normally know it. Many and legion are the malformed, dark and slant-eyed folk who are agents of the darker powers. Slightly less than human are they who now move without a shadow amongst men. They were the men who once reared uncouth stone circles and crude monoliths on the unhallowed summits of mountains. There they made strange sacrifices until their abominations reached even unto the ears of the distant Elder Gods. The Other Gods and they who served them of Outside were cursed and banished to black caverns below the moon mountains. There they crawl in the dust and await the coming of the great day. When the Ancient Evil ones shall return from dark Yuggoth and distant Shaggai as well as other starry places in the vast abysses of space. These worms of the earth are the servants of those Ancient Old Ones. It is they who are ever eager to await that return. And vainly still, they await the advent of the crawling chaos, Azathoth and his minister Nyarlathotep, the avatar of the Black Anti Christ.
Testy and capricious, are they who provide strange protection to the mindless Other Gods from Outside. Amongst them are shapeless black things that lurk, caper and flounder all through the æther. Leering and grinning are the nameless larvae who though blind and without mind, are possessed of singular thirsts as they hungrily gnaw in the dark. They work the will of their hideous soul and master, the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep, who is sent as a messenger from the central void by the dæmon sultan Azathoth. Know ye first and foremost that the Great Ones are very dangerous to seek out. These Other Gods have strange ways of protecting the mindless guardians of the Great Abyss. Even the Great Elder Ones fear them.
Dim legends tell of the evil presences of the noxious Shantak. Vast hippo cephalic birds who fly screaming from their black burrows high up on the gaunt gray peaks surrounding Kadath and the hateful plateau of Leng in the cold waste. In the hush of the dusk and the cold of night these fearsome denizens with bat-wings, curving horns, and barbed tails, silently flit about. Ever they seek to clutch, capture, and kill the thrice ill fated unlucky creatures whom they deem to be their sacrifice. The Shantak sometimes act as steeds for the men who serve the Outer Gods. If called from the air with the right words and propitious sacrifice, in the right season, they will answer in a hateful guttural language of tittering tones that rasp like the scratching of ground glass. Once they are propitiated with the bloody sacrifice that they demand, they will then fly to do thy evil bidding. Ye must possess the key of their calling. But be ye ever wary for ye Shantak are ever hungry for sacrifice. Once called they will not return until they have sated their hunger upon the flesh of men.
Also be ye warned that the Shantak are always followed by an even worse horror. The immense and invisible monster worms called Dhôles come lured by the smell of blood and of sacrifice. These are awful feeders. Them you may know nigh by an awful carnal house fœtor. A glutinous slime marks where they have been. If you ever hear the titter of the Shantak as they wing overhead or smell a gut wrenching stench and feel the slight earth temblors then beware because the invisible Dhôles are at hand.
Dream legends also tell of an abhorrent frozen desert plateau. A haunted place of evil and mystery. A place where healthy folk never visit. There you will find the rugged and lonely towers of unknown Kadath in the cold waste of Leng. A hopeless labyrinth of stone and gaunt gray peaks lies to the north of Kadath, in the dark betwixt the Vale of Pnath and the passes to the outer world. It is there in that place that other unknown and nameless sentinels guard the terrible valleys of the Other Gods. And it is there upon wind-swept tableland at the very roof of a blasted and tenantless world, where fly the Shantak. Ever beneath them crawl the enormous, loathsome, and overfed Dhôles. It is they who burrow and creep nastily in the dark amongst mountains of bones. Awful and sinister they crawl in the haunted and sunless eternal depths of sub terrene horror litten only by the pale death fire. When ye call unto the Outer Gods ye must first say a prayer before the faces of the Great Ones of Unknown Kadath. And then when the hellish flutes begin to whine, accompanied by shrill droning of pipes and a nauseous rattle of tuneless cymbals, ye will know them nigh. Offer up prayers and sacrifice there lest thou become the victim of blasphemies from the minions of dread monstrous Nyarlathotep. For madness and the void’s wild vengeance are Nyarlathotep’s only gifts. Yet be ye ever ready to serve and ye will be rewarded beyond all measure. When Nyarlathotep comes to sweep the earth clean, then we shall rule, who have served.
yr’s in Almonsin Metatron
Waite shuddered, slowly took a drink of his coffee, then began to read a second letter.
To Call up Ye Shantak
Hail Brother Silas,
Look not for ye dreaded foul Shantak on ye ground. For to call out to them as are of the air in such a place would be near fatal. Rather ye should call out to them from a high place in a loud clear voice 'Ph'n'glui---Hei! Aa-shanta 'nygh!' Call ye in the clear moonlit aire at ye season when Mars lies in favorable alignment with Saturn. Also be ye ready with the required sacrifice. Four-footed kind of beast will do but ye best are that of the human kinde. Having sated it's greed and lust for blood ye noxious flyer will have conversation with ye in a horrible voice that will chill your blood. Ye Shantak will answer to your request. Be that even to carry ye through the air or whatev'r. In that great and terrible place thou must be most wary. Also, be ye yet cautious for with ye Shantak may come invisibly foul larvae of the pit. Ye invisible Dhôles, oft follow ye great and hideous bird. Also ye dreaded larvae and all others such as may breed in ye outer spheres, may come unbidden to y'r call. Such may throng towards ye from below ever seeking ye carrion leavings. Think not to make over long ye gentle conversation with such like as ye Shantak because of these others. Ye Dhôles who but blindly grope bring about destruction beyond limit upon all so unlucky as to encounter them. They most monstrously flop blindly about and bring great terror from below.
In Ye Bonds of Almonsin Metatron Your Brother
Waite was stunned! How had he ever fallen into such a pit of unreason? He shuddered again and again at the miasma of claptrap and moronic hornswoggle. But he was caught like a deer in the headlight. He could not flee. Struggle as he might he was trapped in a device not of his own making. Waite finally opened up the third moldering document that he had retrieved from below. Written on a leathery parchment in the crabbed and archaic style he found Ye Liber VII. of ye Necronomicon. Waite was stunned at his apparent blind luck. This last appeared to be that part of the Necronomicon, that the rude librarian had denied him. Could this really be that most mysterious, most sought after lost mystical Necronomicon? Was this the key, which would break open the prison, placed upon the Great Old Gods by the wise Elder Gods? Was this the forbidden volume that would unleash upon our little earth the unholy hordes of Outer Gods from beyond space and beyond time? When he read this parchment would it free all of the eager hordes of the Ancient Old Ones? Were they truly waiting to come back and sweep the earth clean? If this really was the lost and long sought key to open the gate of Yog Sothoth to summon Nyarlathotep then he was the one who is to come. Wearily Waite picked up the fatal parchment and began to read.
Preliminary Damnatus Evocation
Ye Old Ones were. Ye Old Ones are and Ye Old Ones shall be. They came from the dark stars ere man was born. Unseen and loathsome They descended to primal earth. Beneath the oceans They brooded while ages past. Till seas gave up the land, and They swarmed forth in Their multitudes and darkness ruled the Earth. At the frozen Poles They raised mighty cities, and upon high places They built temples to those whome nature owns not and the Gods have cursed. They have walked amidst the stars and They have walked the Earth. The City of Irem in the great desert has known Them. Leng in the Cold Waste has seen Their passing. The timeless citadel upon the cloud-veiled heights of unknown Kadath beareth Their mark. Wantonly the Old Ones trod the ways of darkness and Their blasphemies are great upon the Earth. All creation hath bowed beneath Their might and knew Them for Their wickedness.
And the Elder Lords opened their eyes and beheld the abominations of those that ravaged the Earth. In their wrath they set their hand against the Old Ones, staying them in the midst of their iniquity by casting them forth from the Earth to the prison of the void beyond the planes. There where chaos reigns and form abideth not. And the Elder Lords set their seal upon the prison and the power of the Old Ones prevailest not against its might. Within the prison of the Elder Lords dwell now the Old Ones. Not in the spaces known unto men but in the angles betwixt them. It is there in the prison outside Earth’s plane, where time and form are strange, that they linger and ever awaite the time of their return. For the Earth has known them and the Earth shall know them again in that time yet to come.
When the stars align aright with the Sun in the fifth house and Saturn is in trine with Mars the Old Ones will know that the time has come, and the curse will be broken. Then with the mad beating of drums, and the piping of hideous flutes, accompanied by the cacophony of kakodæmonic howling the Old Ones will break forth from under. In that strange and awful day Nyarlathotep the herald of Yog-Sothoth shall beckon unto the Old Ones that the time of their long bondage is past. Then will the time of their coming forth be at hand. That terrible event is marked in the stars. Yog-sothoth is the Gate through which those of the Void will re-enter our earth stream. Yog-Sothoth knowest the mazes of time, for all time is one unto Him. He knowest where the Old Ones came forth in time long, long past. He knowest where they shall come forth again when the cycle returneth. After day cometh night. Man’s day is passing, and they shall rule once again where they ruled once before. As an abominable foulness, a stench unbearable unto the nose ye shall know them. Their accursedness shall once again stain the Earth. Mark ye well the seasons and times in which the spheres do intersect and the influences flow from the void. At that time when the Sun is in the Fifth House with Saturn in trine with Mars, at the hour when the Moon will be just past full if thou wouldst, break the ancient seal that has been set upon the prison of the Elder Gods. Firste call forth Yog-Sothoth.
There was much more written on the decayed parchment. It was in hand that was hard to read because it was written in a crabbed and archaic miniscule. Like a light being turned on, Waite suddenly realized that it appeared to be complex formula of some importance. He merely glanced at the words in stunned silence. Waite then began to read.
Ye VII Booke of Ye Necronomicon
Ye Evocation Yr and the Nhhngr in the Dho-Hna formula.
To learn all the angles of the planes and all the formulas between.
With Saturn trine Mars in the fifth house
Circumambulate thrice widdershins and standing by the Watchtower of the South turn thy face towards the Twin Pillars that are the Gate. Make the sign of the head of the Great Dragon Caput Draconis
. Entreat of the stone as you chant the conjurations that openeth the Gate
Yai ng’ng ah Yog-Sothoth-hee lgeb fai-throdog
'N’gai, n’Ghanaian, bugg-shoggog, y’hah: Yog-Sothoth, Yog-Sothoth
Make the Voorish sign as those from outside appear in the air.
Then make ye the Elder Sign
O Thou that dwelleth in the darkness of the Outer Void,
come forth I invoke thee.
O Thou who abideth beyond the Spheres of Time,
I exalt thee.
O Thou who art the Gate come forth, come forth,
I invoke thy presence.
Yog-Sothoth! come forth! come forth!
The words that break thy Bonds are spoken.
Thy seal is shown forth,
O thou who art the Gate, enter the World!
Next drawe ye Pentagram of Fire
, and saye ye ninth Verse thrice.
Per Adonai Eloim, Adonai Jehova,
Adonai Saboath, Metraton Ou Agla Methon,
verbum pythonicum, mysterium salamandræ,
cenventus sylvorum, antra gnomorum,
dæmonia Coeli God, Almonsin, Gibor,
Jehosua, Evam, Sariathnatmik, Veni, veni, veni.
Yai ng’ng ah Yog-Sothoth-hee lgeb fai-throdog
Uaa ah Ogthorod Ai’f Gebl Eeh
Yog-Sothoth Ng ah ng Ai’y Zhro
Yog-Sothoth Ng ah ng Ai’y Zhro
Ygnaii Yog Sothoth open thy gate.
Send forth Nyarlathotep!
Make ye again the Elder Sign by putting Your hands to the side of the head with the thumbs extended as of horns
Iä! Nyarlathotep, Iä! Iä! Iä!
Iä! Nyarlathotep, Iä! Iä! Iä!
Yai ng’ng ah Yog-Sothoth-hee lgeb fai-throdog
'N’gai, n’gha’ghaa, bugg-shoggog, y’hah: Yog-Sothoth, Yog-Sothoth
Talubsi! Adula! Ulu! Baachur!
Come forth Yog-Sothoth! come forth!
When Yog-Sothoth appears with his Congeries of Bubbles,
make the sign of the Tail of the great Dragon Cauda Draconis
Finally he put down the manuscript. He just could not read any further. So he carefully concealed this last parchment to read later. Little did Waite know that this manuscript was the rarest most sought after Magickal fragment of the lost Necronomicon. This was the forbidden VII Booke Necronomicon. Wilbur Whateley had sought this secret key when he lost his life in the bungled raid upon the Miskatonic library. It was not a copy. It was the actual original, in the veritable hand of Doctor Dee. This last thought alone should have set his mind on alert, but he was too weary. His brain could not hold another revelation. Not now, so he lit the stove to heat bath water. Before he could do ought else exhaustion blew out his light. He turned weak and unsteady only, to just stagger up the steps. He had meant to gather his few needful things and prepare for another day in Dunwich. But instead of going forth into the morning light, he collapsed on the edge of his bed. He fell like a rock tossed from heaven into a short, deep, and dreamless sleep.
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Morning comes to Dunwich the Sixth Day
ll Waite could do was shake and wipe the sweat from his feverish brow. How long had he been sitting dreaming on the edge of his bed? He did not know. At some point his troubled mind registered that it must be past mid morning. He must get up and get going. If he was to do anything at all on what was otherwise a perfectly balmy spring day. Flowers were just starting to bloom and the sun was shining. He was strangely not hungry but he must needs clean up and don fresh clothes. His fire had gone out and the water had chilled again. So it was nearly another hour later. After finally bathing and shaving Waite dressed and left. He got into his car and drove to Dunwich. He was determined to get directions to find his nearest living relatives from the taciturn storekeeper. After driving some small distance from the dark tree shade of his home Waite found the warm spring sun to be invigorating. After all, birds were singing and trees were blossoming. It was such a pristine day in the early spring that he soon put away his troubling dreams. He sauntered into the tumble down country store with the broken and decaying steeple. Waite realized that he was thirsty so he purchased a soft drink and a doughnut. He was still ravenous but it took him a bit longer to swallow the sole remaining stale pastry. He then put down his short grocery list and took up the local edition of the Arkham Advertiser and began to read. Emblazoned across the headlines were the words:
Special Report to the Arkham AdvertiserMore Strange Doings at Dunwich
The family of a Dunwich native have reported the unexplained disappearance of sixteen year old cattle herd Bud Frye. Young Frye was last seen performing from his daily labors with the family livestock near Cold Spring Hollow, on the slopes of Sentinel Hill . Last night returning from pasture, he was set upon and carried off about sunset. Apparently his unknown assailants attacked and scattered much of the herd. The recent accounts of disappearances, as well as cattle mutilations are not new to the area. Over the years a number of such strange events have inexplicably occurred. In fact quiet has only just briefly returned to the Dunwich area after a lapse of seven years since the strange events of '28. As was disclosed previously by this paper, Dunwich is a backward, much dreaded rural area of constantly repeated tales of mutilations and other abnormal occurrences. The region located west of Arkham and to the north of Springfield has in fact been the scene of strange disturbances going back to before colonial times. Nothing further is known at this time but anyone having further information about the whereabouts of Mr. Frye or his assailants are asked to please contact the Dunwich Township Police Department.
Well if Waite had felt good in the sunshine, all of his bravado rapidly evaporated. He hastily folded the paper under his arm and addressed the storekeeper.
'Mr. Whateley who is my nearest living kin, and how can I find them?'
'Wall ye huv nigh unto a couple a dozen first cousins and nigh onta a hunnert near cousins heah 'bouts. None o’ them are the ‘larned’ ones, yer best luck will be ta ast’ the Wider, yer Auntie Bishop. Most of them cuzzins 'ud rather bail hay then to cross your path but the old lady is spry, chipper, and alwus glad to say howdah do. From the store ye go back out over the bridge but ‘stead o’ turning home, go left, t’ other way to the first dirt rud on the left. The Wider’s house will be the fifth house back from the junction at the foot o’ Round Mountain. It is a big old rundown ramshackle place, one of the oldest in the Dunwich community, ye can’t miss it.'
Waite gathered his groceries, paid the merchant a few folding dollars, stuffed the newspaper in his bag and went out to his car. In the brilliant light of the resilient spring, the show of a few blossoming trees belied the dark mood within Waite’s mind. But he was determined to meet at least one neighbor and see if he could succeed in wheedling some information out of the recalcitrant people of Dunwich. Surely he thought someone could tell him somewhat more of his family. He was especially interested in shedding light on the mumbo jumbo that he had come to expect from the dour and leering shopkeeper.
Making the turn into the shady lane he progressed counting houses until he came to an eldritch brown house which leaned and tottered. It was marked by the narrow, small-paned windows that signified that at one time it must have been a fine old Georgian mansion. Now it was sadly in need of far more than just a coat of paint. On the porch was a grisly vacant eyed man of about fifty or sixty. He flashed a quick sign with his right hand as fingers extended like horns. When Waite failed to respond he switched hands to the reflex of the sign. He then quickly made his shambling disappearance back inside wailing,
‘Maw, Maw, we got company. Sumbody who h'ain't agot the sign!’
Waite was at once struck with the eeriest feelings of darkness, and inbred madness mixed with a repulsive malignancy. Hitching up his drawers and stepping out of his car Waite reminded himself of his desire. So he gave a sharp rap to the once finely molded door and, called out.
'Anyone Home? It is your new neighbor, Walt Waite come to call.'
Waite was not long in waiting. A woman who was somewhat shabby, grim, gray and greatly bent by age, hailed him through the open door.
‘Come on in.’
Despite her obvious advanced age, the woman who greeted him, from her inner hall, gave him a benevolent look as she welcomed him in.
'Ah Mr. Waite,' she said almost coquettishly in an unexpectedly friendly greeting. 'We heah been 'spectin' you to come calling since Mista Tobit o'er tuh the stoah said ye was come to take over your propity. I 'spect we iz kinfolks, as I was born a Whateley. I be yer Great Aunt on yer father's side. I been heah a long while, an spect tuh remain jes a leetle while longer. My time heah on airth won’t be long. I am an old woman now but I have seen many a spring and autumn heah in the shadduh o’ Round Mountain. Comin, comin, Whut kin I do fer you? Nevah mind, pay no heed to my boy, Marsh, he ain't touched in the hed samuch as he iz jes’ skeered thet ye be a haunt. Ye fair nigh resemble somewhat a cousin that has been passed on awhile now. Comin. Would ye like some tea or some’at aught else?'
Waite could hardly believe his good fortune. After his first reception and strange greetings by the son of the widow woman he had been unsure. He had come to expect less and less from the strangely recalcitrant folks of Dunwich. He was almost afraid to admit relation to anyone. Walking through the open door into a close darkness warmed by a fire on the grate he extended his hand to the smiling widow and her mentally disturbed son hiding behind her skirts.
'Walt Waite, is my name, and I am a stranger here. I was not aware of any direct relations here. Yes I have come to take up my inheritance. I was eager to make the acquaintance of some of my distant Whateley kinfolks. I was born here but have lived most of my life in California. I was particularly interested in finding out how I have relations here in Dunwich and more about my house.'
‘Aye ye hev’ the look o' the Whateleys, I kin see thet noaw. Ye hev the ‘heritance, come from old Sirius Whateley o’ Arkham. But Ye'll also be descended by the old Bishop line come from Cap'n Obed Marsh out of Innsmouth and Ponape. Nay don't ye shrug so at me what iz yer own Aunt by the blood. I see ye h’ain’t got the sign yet. May be ye'll git hit, may be not.'
D’jou have not been too long in that house, but ye must know by now that some’at strange is a goin’ on.'
'I Know that the nightly noise of birds, and frogs, and, er drumming noises keep me from sleeping, and when I do fall out and slumber I have such strange dreams as to be --- well fantastic and to be honest, unbelievable. What else can you tell me of this strange sign, and the hidden knowledge everyone assumes me to have?'
'Why son, that is the sign of Almonsin Metatron and the Whateley Cabal. Ev’ryone expects yuh to have some knowledge, else why have ye returned heah.' If ye dun’t know nothing and are having such bad dreams, why are ye still heah? I ‘spect with the Moon gettin’ full and the evil Walpurgis night so neah that ye will not get much sleep, and may soon have cause to regret what sleep ye do get. Things is stirring and signs are bein’ seen, and no longer will theah be peace nor quiet for anyone in thet house. Especially not as those as apeahs to be born to the fambly. Things as ought not to be, hev always happened around thet house. But things has been quiet since Cuzin Abner passed on, er well they say he passed on, then there was the trouble o’ ‘28’ And yer comin heah is most like a bad sign a things a comin’ to fruition.'
'Yez strange things are flying at night, they already are reports of things as should not be. And now young Mr. Bud is gone. That poor family wuz nearly wiped out by what the Wizzud Whateley callup back in ‘28’ They alsa say as how they iz wus a breeding outside, an jes a bustin to git in!
Gawd what ‘ev yuh been doin’ I ‘spect you started out by a lookin’ in the eye. Dun't look at me sa funny. It is not nice ta tell stories to yer old Aunt. Thut eye sees all things, in all time and all space, if yuh looked in the eye, then they what hus never left thut house kin see you and give yuh dream thought commands to do aught that they send yuh forth to do. For those as be dead may not be completely dead but dreamin’ awaiting fer a sign a 'he who comes after. When the stars come round right. Yai ng’ng ah Yog-Sothoth! Iä! Nyarlathotep, Iä! Iä!
Yez them wizzuds have been watchin’ and waitin’ fer him to come who will look back into the olden times and come and work theya will and tuh unlock the gates of time and space. An’ ta be theya eyes 'n eahs 'n hands in the world. Iä Yog Sothothe! Ye needn’t act so surprised, all thet is writt down in the book, too. Ye be kerful! They is a lot more folks watchin’ you, than you think. Dunn’ich is old and the Whateleys have long been in Dun’ich. They iz much that is knowed and feared that has cum through the Whateleys, such as has got folks real skeert. As it iz who do you think started the fires on the hills. And then thought better 'n tried to teah it all down? They iz so bad skeert now that they might take the law into their own hands, if things get any wus.'
'Above all listen to the birds 'n frogs. They is yore watch 'n ward. They kin see 'n feel things thet you don’t understand. If they go to skeechin wus ‘n wus! Wus’n before, they as is supposed to be outside may be nigh ta gettin’ in. And they is nigh, very nigh. Ye know the sign, It wunt help much, but here take this.
She handed him a small gray stone curiously carved into a five pointed star. But he dropped it quick like it burned. (When she saw that she just shook her head and said to herself. Lordy things is wus then I wuz afeerd.) She bent her aged frame to reach over, pick up the stone and press it into Waite's pocket. Good Lord hep you, tek this fer protec'shun 'gainst them from Outside. Wun't help none against the Great Ones but the lesser ones is powerful afeared a thut stone un will try to git away if it is shown. They will jus’ know. Even if it is jus in your pocket it should hep you. Be kind to a old woman as hasn't got long to live this side. I shouldn’t normally hev heped you, but yuh hav the look and are most probably kin. Ye be a gran nevew on my father’s side. Yuh tuk ker and remember ta kep thet chahm neah and 'member thet the best advice thut I kin give ye is to get out naow! Yes jus walk away und get out now! Git out naow while yuh still can. Time is comin sa soon ‘n ye wunt be able ta git out no way!’
‘Hev’ ye got the Book? No need to sit and look squirly wi’ me. I seen things and heard more ‘n I care to r’collec’ heah 'bouts lately. Time is nigh at hand. They is outside now but thet wun’t last long, an when they do bust loose it will be the di’ell to pay.'
With that she made the queer sign with her right hand and smiled benignly.
‘Learn thuh sign and don’t you read in thet book!’
Waite then knew that his interview was up. So he took one last sip of tea, thanked the widow and stood up to move towards the door.
The widow then added as she too got up. 'If ye find the book, and read ‘n theah, Gawd help us all. Dun't ye mistake the sign.’
Unseen to the widow he quickly tossed the gray carved stone away. He then licked his fingers where the stone had burned him. After that Waite got in his car, more heavily troubled than when he arrived. He started back down the road. He was not all sure what to think or much less, to do. Consciously at least for now he was not going to buy into how scared the gray carved stone had made him. So he abruptly got back in his car and drove over the road past the rickety covered bridge and turned into his rutted lane. There he saw a visitor waiting outside his door.
It was a gaunt Township Police Sargent who greeted him courteously.
‘Hello Sir, I am Special Officer Phillip Howard. And who are you?’
'My name is Waite, Walter Waite previously of Bolinas, California. I am here in Dunwich to take possession of inherited ancestral property, this is my home, what can I do for you?'
After determining his name the Sargent welcomed him to the Dunwich community. Sargent Howard then launched without further preamble into the nature of his business.
' I am here to investigate the disappearance of your young neighbor, Bud Frye, as well as the mutilation of his herd. Nothing is definitely known about young Frye or whereabout he is and his folks are deeply concerned. They asked me to make inquiry of you. Mr. Waite have you seen or heard anything that might help in the ongoing investigation?'
Waite scratched his head. 'Yes, I met someone who said that he was Bud Frye. I met him when I was out hiking the bounds of my new property up to the summit of Sentinel Hill. It was my first full day in Dunwich. I am very deeply sorry to hear that any misfortune might have come to the young man. He was friendly and seemed a likely lad. We only briefly met but he did mention having the strong need to get his herd down to the barn before sunset. 'We only met briefly, just the one time. Since my arrival in the Dunwich area I have been mostly busy trying to get acquainted with my new home and the community of Dunwich. Oh and he also pointed out to me the unsightly mob camped out on the backside of Sentinel Hill.' Now that I have answered your questions, I have a few I would like to ask you. Since I arrived here I have been meaning to contact your department with some questions of my own. Pardon me but have any of the other neighbors called up to complain of night noise? Undesirable Indians or Gypsies are drumming and drinking all night just over the hill. Since my encounter with Mr. Frye I have encountered a number of -er? Well I don’t know who or what they are but they are camping out on the far side of the hill.'
Sargent Howard took down his statement. Then he informed him that they unfortunates camping were remnants of the Pocumtuck tribe of lost Mahicans. They had drifted down from Canada to revisit tribal holy places and to look for work.' The Sargent then gave Waite a long hard look before shrewdly continuing; 'I agree that some of them present a motley ill flavored look. But all in all they are not a bad breed. They work hard, seldom complain and generally cause little or no trouble, other than their nightly gatherings. As long as they keep it to themselves my department is not going to interfere. There is little or no work available but despite hard times many of them have found jobs. Some do day labor on neighboring farms. Some have got on cleaning at the dairy. Others buck logs down at the saw mill on the Miskatonic. A few more have become tourist and hunter guides. Prohibition has come and gone but times are still hard. A few get relief. When they first came a few had worked on the big CCC project over towards Rowley. We try to look the other way, when we are able.'
'What concerns us is that we have had a mysterious disturbance. We also have other unsolved mysteries to investigate here in the Dunwich area. Thank you for your information. If you hear or see anything more please contact us over at the Township Station just past the cutoff to the Round Mountain Road on the Aylesbury Pike. You try to have a good day now, you heah.'
After that officer got into his police car and drove away. Waite then entered his house and made his way unhappily back to his kitchen. The afternoon was well spent and he was dog-tired. Waite did not know what to think after today's local contacts. He had finally met and talked to a local person. The sought after meeting had not gone well at all from his perspective. He finally found a brief moment of peace just organizing his notes. It was all that he could do not to nod off in his chair. When the savor of cooking soup wafted into his nostrils he closed the notebook, sliced cheese and apples, dished up the soup and ate. After dinner he washed the dishes, turned up the stairs and went up to bed.
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Eve at Home the Sixth Day
ell the bed was certainly soft enough and the young night air was still. So before long Waite fell out. Maybe he was learning to tune out some the unwanted nocturnal distractions. Some very light sleep did come but such sleep as came was feverish. Waite pitched and rolled about an hour before something brought him back to consciousness. Finally he got up long enough to pour some water and sponge his burning brow. No matter how he lay he just could not get the deep sleep and rest his body so desperately needed. He even tried sitting up, lighting a candle and reading until he became drowsy enough to sleep. But all was in vain. The hours slowly crept past as the moon replaced the evening star in the eastern sky. As he gazed out his window he could see that it was now well past a half moon rising. Waite just could not sleep. Or if he nodded off it was a brief interval before some trifling thing brought him back to consciousness. Worse now he could hear the nightly disturbance quite distinctly. It was as if every whippoorwill vied with every bullfrog to drown out the distant drummers. In desperation he pulled the pillows over his head. All that did was to accentuate the feverish discomfort that he felt. Slowly even the pale moon slid westward and finally went down beyond the surrounding trees. It must have been well past midnight and even the drumming was starting to fade before Waite finally drifted off. Maybe it was the fever? Waite was in a vague dream scape of other worlds. Gigantic bat like shapes flickered against the low moonlight. Some indefinable monstrous thing seemed to lurk just beyond his troubled dream scape. Waite could not tell. He just felt misplaced in time and space. He was perched somehow on the rim of the known solar system. He looked out from some cold rocky moon or planetoid facing the deep places where the black stars rolled and the infinite beyond beckoned.
Perhaps the dreams brought on the fever? Or was it the constant night sounds of Whippoorwills and frogs brought on the dreams. Walter Waite did not know. Behind everything crouched the brooding, festering horror of ancient Dunwich. Beyond that was the unhallowed house with its garret where he wrestled without sleep. Once again his night was disrupted by the distant pounding of drums. When he was not tossing on the meager iron bed, he was turning. His ears were grown sensitive but other senses had also sharpened to an intolerable preternatural degree. He had long ago stopped his ears to the strange clock, whose ticking floated on the air like a thunder of artillery. He could not shut out the swirling colors and distant vistas of the ‘eye’ from his mind. All-night every night the stirring of the black overgrown woods and the creaking timbers in the centuries old house were more than enough to give him a sense of strident pandemonium. The darkness always teemed with unexplained sound. Sometimes he shook with fear lest the noises he heard outside should subside and allow him to hear other fainter voices calling. Something or someone lurked just beyond and he did not really want to know who, or what.
Possibly Waite ought not to have studied the old books of mystical lore so hard. Antiquarian research and old family records served up in a box at the library were enough to stretch any brain. When he mixed them with folklore, and ended up at the Necronomicon, he should have seen trouble coming. Waite had then tried to trace a strange family background and had ended up with a bizarre multi dimensional reality. He just felt that somewhere behind the ghoulish hints of the old written accounts was a reality worthy of a Gothic tale. But what he found far surpassed the wild whispers of even the Dunwich country. Any sympathetic person viewing all this could hardly expect him to be free from mental tension. Endless sleepless nights were starting to take a toll.
Tonight as he lay awake in a fever of suppressed excitement he wished to be somewhere other than here. He had been in his inherited property for less than a week. The longer he stayed here, the worse he felt. He could not sleep, for the night noises. When he did sleep he had horrible dreams of delving in secret rooms filled with skulls, bones, moldering books and old letters. When he awoke covered in sweat, dust, and cobwebs he had strange trophies grasped in his hands. Almost as bad was the now appearing, now disappearing ledger and the ghostly presences he could sense more than see. They were always peering at him and sending him secret messages. Most disconcerting of all was the eye. The eye with it’s fleeting visions of other time and space where colossal entities fought to invade the earth.
Waite now realized that beyond the feverish sleep he was suffering from hallucinations as well. The illusion of sounds, he reflected were part of those nervous fears being mirrored in his wild disordered dreams. That the influence of the old house was unwholesome he could not deny. Traces of his early morbid interest still held him here. He argued that the fever alone was responsible for his nightly fantasies. Waite was in fact surprised to find his temperature was not as high as he had feared. His low fever did not abate. What was he so deeply troubled by? A few shadows in an old mirror? Well maybe a bit more than just a mirror. He now knew that he had become a sleep walker, a somnambulist. Maybe that was it? He somehow feared waking up in that dread secret place. Finally night advanced and it became dawn. His fever sharpened vision was now disturbed by the first light of false dawn. He knew that for one more night he had failed to get any rest. Then suddenly, not so subtly, he fell out and slept deeply. He also dreamed. The dreams were wholly beyond the pale of sanity. He dreamed of vivid colors and unearthly sounds. Next came a drumming but of a different pitch and timber from the hill sounds. Something strange was piping. And suddenly the ululant piping was broken by the now shrill and strident sounds of every whippoorwill and frog gone franticly wild.
Waite dreamed of abysses whose material and gravitational properties bore no relation to his own earthbound entity. The abysses were by no means vacant. They were crowded with rounded iridescent bubble entities and indescribably angled masses. There was some odd disarrangement of perspective. The abysses were filled with strange objects tending to awake vague memories in the back of his mind. He could form no conscious idea of what they mockingly resembled or suggested. All the objects were totally beyond description or even comprehension. Labyrinths of cubes and planes were all shadowed by Cyclopean buildings, where clustered groups of sentient bubbles. There also were to be found winged octopoidal entities and living idols. All roused in him a kind of ophidian animation. Everything he saw was unspeakably menacing and horrible. One of the most threatening of the dream entities appeared to be not just noticing him but paying especial attention to his every movement. He felt a stark, hideous fright that jolted him awake. Then he awoke, not to normal waking consciousness but to a dream within a dream. All of these illogical and irrelevant objects suddenly paled before a new vision. Now he was seeing a hideous giant black man who was beckoning him, deeper and deeper into his dream within a dream. And what was that faint suggestion of sound which trickled through the confusion of irritating shrieks and howls of identifiable night sounds? What was that faint drumming and eerie piping that he heard? Waite apprehended a hint of vast leaping shadows. Then came a monstrous drumming. that was counter pointed by a pulsing acoustic drone, and a thin monotonous piping with the hint of an unseen flute. But that was not all. There was now a strident ululating chant in some unknown and vaguely unearthly tongue. Waite feared that it corresponded to the vague shrieking or roaring heard of the old in the repeated odd news reports that he had read in the library at Springfield. The ululant chant was worse than a soul being tormented in some hell of a dæmonic alien abyss. The sounds now raised the hackles of his neck. Waite tried to turn but his week knees folded. The crashing, shrieking unearthly chorus commanded his fullest attention.
It was not just this hideous dream? Somehow he was involuntarily participating in some sort of ritualized dance. In this dance he was molting into some half awaken atavistic throwback. The skin about his neck grew mottled and folded as though he was growing gills. Through the disordered light of the abyss he saw himself dancing and chanting to the tune of a monstrous orchestra. He was not alone in his phantasmagoria vision. Many, many others like himself paraded down through time and space with him. All of the semi sentient forms appeared in the various stages of transformation from human to the reptilian or amphibian. Some hopped, while some flopped but the entire disorderly route within his mind ran in a re curving line back to the wrong of the beginning.
He was hearing a rhythm which did not correspond to anything on earth, except perhaps some unmentionable Sabbat chant of time immemorial. Already Waite had a growing feeling deep within that somebody was constantly attempting to persuade him to do something terrible that he could not do. How else could he explain his new found love of the occult. Where did he sometimes go in the night? Was all this perilous sense of nightmare phantasm coming from the dreaded bits and pieces of Necronomicon formula that he kept finding? Waite was already badly shaken when suddenly out of the violet mist came a convergence of bubble congeries and angled planes that seized his brain in a violent paroxysm of fear and loathing. He just suddenly was pulled in and immediately he found himself back in the dreaded underground space with its books of every degree of antiquity and disintegration. Everywhere he gazed he saw many small skulls and other objects of unknown shape and nature. In the center stood a figure he had never seen before, a tall, lean man of dead black coloration. Not a pure black but a black as if dusted in a chalky gray clay. The black man was wholly devoid of either hair or beard. His only garment was a shapeless robe of some heavy black fabric. The man did not speak. He bore no trace of expression on his irregular face. It was almost as if he had no face. He merely pointed to a book of prodigious size that lay open on the pediment altar. Was this a part of what he had read in the Necronomicon about the mindless entity Azathoth, who rules all time and space from a black throne at the center of Chaos? Was this Nyarlathotep the avatar and messenger of Azathoth?
The old legends were hazy and ambiguous about crossing forbidden gaps in the time space continuum. Here in his dream space was the messenger from outside. Here was the immemorial figure, the deputy of hidden and terrible powers, the Black Man of the witch-cult, and the avatar of the Black Anti Christ. Here was Nyarlathotep of the Necronomicon. Nyarlathotep the hideous dread messenger who knew what? Waite did not want to know! Now in Dunwich the monstrous burst of Walpurgis Night fever which welcomed the spring energy every year had come. It was May Eve night in whose cosmic timbre was concentrated all the primal, ultimate continuum of conjunctions which lie behind all space and all time. The yearly matter of shared madness was about to break forth in witch haunted Dunwich, all too soon. The bale fires of ultimate witchery must be lit, and the dance must be danced. How could he keep himself from going to the center of infinity to meet Azathoth?
One last time Waite’s formerly iron clad rationality tried to reassert control over his broken mind. What was it that had enmeshed him? Was it the old family lore, the Necronomicon, or the house? If he could not sell or live in the house he must abandon it and return.
There once again right in front of him was the gigantic figure pointing and watching. The Black Man was waiting for Waite to sign the Book of the Damned. The black man commanded him! He must sign his own name, in his own blood, in the book. He must sign now and be damned forever to the life in death shadow play that was his inheritance. Waite now remembered that at this Sabbat time of the year the dread messenger Nyarlathotep reached out through the unnameable voids to our world, to summon and initiate his chosen few in the nameless rites of the Sabbat. In his dream delirium Waite had at last heard the hellish alien rhythmic chant of the Sabbat coming not from an infinite distance but right in his head. He now understood the black tide of rhythm. Waite could no longer resist the irresistible tide of the Walpurgis rhythm. Walpurgis was vibrating through all time and space. Waite could no longer deny. He now knew that he must submit to the will of the black man. Nyarlathotep must not be denied. Now he could detect the irresistible monstrous urge that had been partially suspected all along. At last Waite must answer that hitherto veiled cosmic calling which he so mortally dreaded. This was an urge that could no longer be put off. He must sign the Book of the Damned and join with the eternal not dead but undead and dreaming in the life beyond the life of the merely mortal.
Slowly tentatively Waite stretched forth his arm and felt a sudden thrust as the Black Man extended his black talon and stabbed him in the fleshy part of his hand. He then became aware of the slow but steady drip of the bright red blood. He took up the preferred quill, dipped it into the fresh wound, and signed.
Weak and shaking first to last, Waite tried to steady himself. Only to partially crumble to his knees as he saw the red letters turn a somber brown, then black as the name Walter Waite did a slow fade to be replaced by Walter Whateley. He rubbed his eyes again as the letters had formed and rearranged. Waite now saw appended to his name Hoc qui Venit.
He who comes. Waite now knew that he was revealed as the true heir of the wizards of the Whateley cabal, Almonsin Metatron. He was the one who was to come after.
At this point Waite passed mercifully from dream to deep sleep
When Waite or Whateley or Hoc Qui Venit
raised his head from the pillow it was well past dawn and his head ached. That had been quite a dream he mused to himself, but why was his hand hurting so bad? Then he remembered. He had signed Nyarlathotep’s Black Book in his own blood. Although he knew now that he was surely damned his rational mind tried one last defense. What his fate would be, he did not want to know. He felt that he was now nervously awaiting the coming of Nyarlathotep, the avatar of the crawling chaos. Perhaps with the daylight he might find someway to cancel that awful initiation into Night and Chaos. But his mind was wavering. Walter Waite was now on the wrong side of the threshold of darkness. He had but to await night and dream. Then he snapped his head around as if he were drowning. For in fact he was drowning. As he lay there he noticed his image in the mirror, almost for the first time. All of his life he had been vaguely aware of some strangeness. What was that he saw now? What new thing was suddenly so pronounced? What had become so well defined? As bad as he hated to admit it he now saw that he was molting into some half awaken atavistic throwback. Waite felt the leathery skin about his neck. It had grown mottled and folded around his new gills slits.
More disturbed than ever he decided to get out his camera. He wanted to take a picture of his new image. He also needed his notebook to write and record all of his changes. For that he must go down the stairs to the desk. So Waite struggled up from his bed and staggered down the stairs. The first thing he saw clearly was the clock had advanced. Where before he had seen a figure that represented a crescent moon he now saw that it was nearly full. Approaching it were the other three mystic sigils of Mars in Trine with Saturn in the Fifth House. He did not know how he knew but there was something different. Something else very special was indicated by the clock. Walpurgis Eve, One day till
indicating that the Lunar phase was nearly full. Another symbol set proclaimed
The Stars are Nearly Come Right. Time to Open the Gate Tomorrow. Waite was not quite ready for that but Whateley knew!
When he crossed near the eye a certain smoky swirling of the lights drew his attention. Out of the mist he perceived something moving in the shadows which now took on human shape and form. It was the three dead wizards. The eldest of the three greeted him. Hail Brother in Almonsin Metatron, you are one with us now. Waite staggered back, but the Whateley part of him returned the fraternal greeting. ‘Iä Nyarlathotep, Hail Brothers in Almonsin Metatron.’
With that greeting the Waite part of him was done. The metamorphosis was complete. The madness of Whateley had just begun. Through the rest of the day, (was it a dream?) Whateley staggered about as if in a dream. First he would stare into the Eye. Then he would take a longer look at the clock. He was just staring, almost like an idiot. For several minutes he would stare then a look of comprehension would steal across his visage. Then he would nod off briefly. Then in the dream he would return to the crowded abysses of iridescent bubble entities and indescribably angled masses. Abysses and labyrinths of clusters, cubes and planes were all to be found in the shadow of unknown cyclopean buildings. He then became aware of the drumming. The drumming was accompanied by a thin monotonous piping with the hint of an unseen flute.
Almost immediately out of the maze Nyarlathotep beckoned to Whateley. ‘Come, the initiation has just begun.’ Just as Nyarlathotep’s image appeared in his mind, Whateley awoke from dream into dream. Once again he found himself in a state of somnambulism. Like some mesmerized drone Whateley drifted more than walked down the stairs. He fumbled with the loose stone and staggered down the stairs into the darkness of the underground chamber. Whateley continued to stagger until he reached the central pediment altar. There in that place of darkness, the spirit of Nyarlathotep suddenly blazed forth in Ultra Violet, Purple, Black, Blue and a Blue flecked with Gold. It was a blackness of infinite stars in the ultimate darkness of night. Nyarlathotep then pointed to a crystal flask with a golden fluid inside the altar and commanded that Whateley consume the drugged content of the flask. Weak and without a will of his own Whateley slowly took the flask and sipped lightly.
When the first drop touched his lips it was surprisingly soothing. Little was he prepared for what would follow. Disarmed of any fear Whateley gulped the rest of the liquid and instantly he was consumed by a sudden fire in his throat as the golden liquid slid down his mouth. Suddenly the witch lights in the secret chamber flickered and flamed as if a thousand stars had burst into brilliance. He was poll axed by nausea and weakness in the knees. He fell head over heals and started to throw up. But instead of just retching he was seized by hallucination. Whateley fell down but in his trance vision it was as if he fell up. With each convulsion the hallucinatory effects grew stronger and stronger until in a burst of purple and ultra violet flame he could perceive the form of Nyarlathotep as the tall slim dark man of the witches. Nyarlathotep swiftly morphed into another thousand maddeningly horrific forms before returning to the form of the Black Man. Now he saw Nyarlathotep as a Pharaoh from shadowy Khem come back to rule the earth. Nyarlathotep continued to morph until he changed into a tentacled and winged figure from beyond space and time. Even then he kept morphing until he changed back to the form of the swarthy Pharaoh from ancient Khem. It was in this unstable constantly changing ultimate glory of form that Nyarlathotep now addressed him.
'See the Shining Trapezohedron upon the altar. That which Man in his folly cast into the deeps, the Deep Ones have brought forth. Hold it in your hand and press it to your forehead. It is thus that we prepare to penetrate the mystical barrier of the Old Ones. I am known as the Shambler from the Stars. I am from another world and another galaxy beyond space and beyond time as ye know it. Yet I am also of all space as well as all time past, present, and future. Am I not Nyarlathotep? I am he who in antique and shadowy Khem took the form of a man. Am I not the Black Anti Christ? I am he, the Keeper of the Black Fane. I remember Yuggoth, distant Shaggai, and the ultimate void of the black planets. I look back on the long, winging flight through the void past the barrier of the light. I cannot stand the light. I am secretly and invisibly recreated in your thoughts, caught in the Shining Trapezohedron. I am come through the horrible abysses of radiance, for thee. It is only in the darkness of night, by the light of the black stars that I am truly come unto this place on a mission for my Master Azathoth. He who is the blind idiot God of Chaos wills to blow the Earth’s dust away. Take up the Shining Trapezohedron and press it between your eyes, deep into thy forehead. Let it be as a third eye unto thee oh mortal man.'
As Whateley took up the shining object from the altar that was not there before, he pressed it to his forehead. He could not see the light. Instead he could see the dark and the dark was the light. The ground was cleft, and mad auroras rolled. That which was far was now near and that which was near was now far. And throughout the universe burst the maddening beat of drums. Beating, pounding, driving drums were accompanied by a thin monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes. Also heard accompanying the pounding of the drums was a detestable piping. First slow, now fast, now slow again gigantic, tenebrous, ultimate Gods from unimaginable, unlighted chambers beyond time and space danced and played.
'Am I mad? Am I going mad? Yes I am mad. The thing is stirring and fumbling inside my brain. I am it and it is I. I must get out. I want out. I must unify the forces. Where am I? Who am I? I see in the dark. Oh the monstrous foulness of the odor. My senses are transfigured. Iä Iä ngai, ygg!
I see it is coming here. I am borne by a pair of titan wings upon the hell-wind. Oh the hideous blackness of the wings. They are blacker than darkest night. I see Yog Sothoth. Oh God, my god, his three lobed eye is opening. Oh the burning eye! Oh the eye is shining on me No it is within me. I am it and it is I. I am the eye! Iä Iä ngai ygg!
I am within it, and it is within me. Now it salutes me. All Hail Brother of Almonsin Metatron, All Hail.'
With that Whateley passed out momentarily. When he fell down on the hard rock hewn chamber floor, it was all he could do to just to lay there in the wicked blue, now black lambent glow of the eye. The dark that is light and light that is dark played all about him. Then he nodded off. Then he awoke. Was he awake, or was he in dream. Suddenly Nyarlathotep reappeared to lead Whateley by the hand into the corner. There the Black Man pointed to a series of strange figures that now flared in deep ultra violet, black, purple, blue then black again. It was a searing dark flame of a light higher than the eye can see. In that burning, brilliant yet invisible light the secret sigils of God Incarnate pierced his brain.
Whateley must have passed out because when he snapped his head back he saw the journal. Written in searing letters was ‘Remember ye Dho-Hna Strange Angles Formula.’
In time of direst duress you may escape through ye place of strange angles. Look ye unto the angle of this chamber that seems wrong. First trace ye the sign of a mobius about thy head and repeat ye words of ye formulæ thrice Xyweso, Uuecato, Xeoso, Zunewe Yog Sothoth Zhro.
See ye the Strange Angle opening as a door before ye. Visualize your intended destination strongly in your mind. Then step into ye door of ye strange angle and ye will be instantly transported by it through the nearest gate. Tonight go through that open door of ye strange angle to the Gate on ye mountaintop of Sentinel Hill. Go ye through the strange angles and call forth Ye Shantak in the words Ph’n’glui---Hei! Aa-shanta 'nygh!
. My servitors and many others of ye outer gods may readily answer to the call of the avatar of ultimate chaos. To return back to the place of the strange angles, once again make ye the sign of ye mobius about thy head and repeat ye formulæ backwards in ye words Ewenuz, Osoex, Otaceuu, Osewyx, Ewenuz, Osoex, Otaceuu, Osewyx, Ewenuz, Osoex, Otaceuu, Osewyx Orhz Yog Sothoth
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The Seventh Day
The Reign of Terror Begins
omehow Whateley managed to get back to his garret chamber because he fell into a coma after the initiation. He slept deeply all day. Finally at dark when he awoke, he was prepared to answer his Master Nyarlathotep’s command to prepare for the opening of the gate to all time and space. He could not exactly remember Nyarlathotep’s words, so he took out his journal to refresh his memory. It was a strange formula, but it saved him from having to hike. He was not overeager to clamber laboriously up hill to call up the Servitors of the Old Ones. Instead he went down past the eye, which was somehow tense, yet asleep. At the hidden stair he toggled the loose stone and went down to the secret chamber. Just in case he remembered to carry the journal. In the place of the strange angles he traced the figure of the mobius, caught his breath, then intoned loudly: Xyweso, Uuecato, Xeoso, Zunewe, Xyweso, Uuecato, Xeoso, Zunewe, Xyweso, Uuecato, Xeoso, Zunewe Yog Sothoth Zhro.
He then stepped into oddly shaped diagram chiseled into the stone. And for less than a tenth of a second, less than the blink of an eye, he stood still, and nothing happened. Suddenly a shining bubble congeries formed. With a blinding flash, he was sucked in and transported through the long funnel of swirling purple. He appeared mysteriously inside another bubble congeries on top of Sentinel Hill. While Whateley was utterly astounded by his rapid progress through the æthyr, his sudden appearance caused pandemonium amongst the assembled throng. When they saw his corporeal form appear suddenly, out of thin air, the dancers and drummers congregating about the hilltop scattered and ran immediately away down the hill shrieking.
Shakily at first after the rough passage through through void, Whateley calmed himself as though nothing had happened. He then shouted loudly into the night Ph’n’glui---Hei! Aa-shanta 'nygh!
As if being blasted through inner space had not been enough what followed nearly blew him away. Almost immediately a Shantak, a huge, scaly, bat like creature larger than an elephant with a head like a horse appeared. The Shantak was winged, slimy and possessed of two strong taloned appendages. Whateley knew from his readings in the Necronomicon that they must be the gigantic Shantak birds from the Cold Waste of Leng. They were the same birds of ill rumor that he had seen in dreams. Whateley did not have to wait long before other evil guardians and nameless sentinels began to appear. As more and more Shantak appeared amidst the air about the Gate he began to sense more than to see untold semi visible amorphous larvae. Suddenly he was shocked by a sharp earth trembler as an invisible Dhôle brushed against him. At this encounter Whateley nearly fainted as besotted, yet he had drunk no liquor. But he did not mercifully faint because the Shantak began to speak in a voice harsh and raspy as broken glass. 'Oh luckless human, Where is the accustomed human sacrifice? We Shantak demand blood when we appear. Know that were it not for my Lord Nyarlathotep I would bite your head off!'
With that the huge evil bird flapped off chasing the departing congregants. Most were running hard. Some were half way down Sentinel Hill. But they were far from safe as the flapping monstrosity rapidly gained upon them. Suddenly the oldest and largest of the Shantak flapped down to a landing clutching his prey, a helpless Mahican Indian. As Whateley watched in shock, the evil creature tore his victim limb from limb. Whateley’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head in shock. Below him the ground was festering with the nearly invisible gigantic Dhôles. Even as he looked, one reared up several hundred feet and leveled a bleached, viscous end at him. Whateley could only see the end of the Dhôle but he felt shock after shock as the earth groaned under the weight of the creatures.
Scared at what he had done Whateley plowed his way mindlessly back through the teeming noxious larvae and lesser spirits of the air. At the gate he stopped and glanced around as the terrible flock of Shantak disappeared down the hill chasing what remained of the ragtag fleeing drummers. It was time to go back through gate, to the secret place of angles. His assigned task having been completed Whateley decided to flee. He shouted Ewenuz, Osoex, Otaceuu, Osewyx, Ewenuz, Osoex, Otaceuu, Osewyx, Ewenuz, Osoex, Otaceuu, Osewyx Orhz Yog Sothoth
into the night. After a brief moment the shining bubble congeries reappeared surrounded once again by a long funnel of swirling purple. As before he was sucked in and in a flash he was transported through. Back to the engraved set of angles, that were somehow wrong. He had returned to the corner of his curious hidden basement in his Dunwich home. Whateley hastened to climb back up the stairs, past the eye and back to his cozy garret nook. But as he paused briefly in passage his eyes were caught by the sudden swirling in the Eye. Within it’s depths he could clearly see the spirits of the air swimming over Sentinel Hill in the light of the nearly full moon. He could also see the Shantak hunting and attacking human and other prey. He could not see but he heard the distant rumble of the earth as the Dhôles followed the Shantak to gorge on such of the prey as the Shantak let fall onto the earth. Deeply shocked at the horror that he had let loose Whateley stumbled up the stairs to his bed. Suddenly grown callous, he laid down oblivious to the increasing stridency of night birds and the croaking cries of various amphibians from the swamp. Whateley fell immediately into the inky velvet deep black place of his dreams.
After a week of poor sleep and disturbing dream visions one might assume that he would at last get some rest but that was not the case. It was not just the typical unendurable cacophony of the swamp creatures in the Dunwich night that came to disturb him. Whateley was now picking up other sound impressions on the brink of audibility from regions beyond life. Sounds that had the strange hypnotic effect of calling to him from vague regions beyond the normal three dimensions. Sounds like a hideous pounding whose incessant reverberations throbbed maddeningly in the seething vortex of mad sound and motion. It was a vortex that caused confused pictures and ill-defined apprehensions. He was irresistibly drawn into the strange region of alien worlds and unknown entities. The vortex of sound vibrations pulled Whateley out of his restful dream into an empty space of rhythmic roaring shrieking abysses. He had only just begun to hold on to what remained of his rational mind. He was determined to hold on as long as possible, but he was losing his fight for life and reason.
He could never quite shut out the detestable sound. It was as if he was about to dissolve or lose his solid form. As the velvet inkiness faded, then deepened again, fleeting visions flashed past his dream consciousness. Somewhere ahead was a patch of strange night sky filled with shining, revolving spheres. As he approached, the spheres receded then returned again. Finally he saw that it was a triple glowing sun, forming into a galaxy of settled shape. A shape that was a colossal distorted face. A face surrounded by dark purplish almost black waves framed in a soft yielding red. As Whateley plunged through the limitless abysses of colored twilight and disordered sound. He was slowly breaking down the barrier to worlds that no other living men have seen. Worlds that if they have seen they have not lived to tell. It was the world of a Plutonic gulf of horrible chaos. If they had found that world, it was by following a path that was not linear, but rather a path that followed curves and spirals. An alien vortex leading through space to other spaces and beyond through curious angles that go outside the boundaries of the space we know. Strange though the abysses might seem they were not vacant. Instead they were crowded with angled masses of alien hue. Strange forms drawn down by demons from beyond the bounds of infinity. They were hunter things that devour and dissolve their prey. An animal vegetable synthesis that resembled nothing that he had ever seen before now.
As Whateley floated in the no space, no time he encountered titan prisms, lost in labyrinths. In that no place were clusters and cubes with intersecting planes in loathsome profusion. Foremost among the non-living, not objects were monstrosities that flabbily quivered in a semi-fluid. Impossible as it may seem they were capable of passing through one another in ways that the brain can't picture. Also there were groups of iridescent spheroid bubbles mixed with polyhedrons of unknown colors. Polyhedrons with rapidly shifting surface angles. All that strange firmament shrieked in a sudden agony of mad reverberations that shook the trembling æther. The shrieking and roaring grew louder and louder until in a monstrous climax of utterly unendurable intensity winged octopoidal entities appeared suddenly out of empty space. They were briefly visible, only to disappear again with equal suddenness. The shrieking confusion of sound passed analysis of pitch, timbre rhythm or reason. Somehow in his dream state Whateley permeated vortices of total alienage. He was lost somewhere in the roaring twilight abysses near the boundary of curved space. It was here that he approached and contacted the fourth dimension. Here in a vortex of utter alienage, bathed in a faint lambent glow of violet mist, the angled planes converged with the wholly alien abyss of dream. Under the glare of a polychromatic sky lighted by the three stupendous disks of flame, he found an inconceivable gate beyond human experience. Beyond the space-time continuum known to man he stood in the trans galactic gulfs of the gate to the distant farthest stars. It was a portal to the ultimate black vortex where shadows stride from world to world, to sow death and madness. Whateley began to hear the amorphous idiot flute players. At first they were accompanied by a low mutter of chanting that rapidly expanded into monstrous drumming counter pointed by a weird pulsing. Also experienced were a thin monotonous piping, a piping with the hint of an unseen flute. But that was not all. There was now a strident ululating chant in some unknown, unearthly tongue. Whateley unknowing was somehow nigh to the chief most of these terrible spirits, the dæmon Sultan Azathoth, the blind idiot God who sits upon the throne of Chaos. He had passed inwards only to come out beyond the mindless void. He had passed the bright clusters of dimensioned space, to a place where there is neither time nor matter, a place of chaos without form. In that place where the Lord of darkness reigns surrounded by shapeless things, entities flopped and fluttered through the idiot vortices. There in that place the Outer Gods dance insanely to a high thin whining of aimless waves of sound. There in the unlighted chambers beyond time and without form they danced endlessly. It was a spheroid rapture of endless movement accompanied by the maddening beat of vile drums and the monotonous whine of accursed flutes. Slowly, awkwardly, the blind, voiceless, tenebrous, mindless gigantic Ultimate Gods sway to a detestable pounding and piping. There in the no space and not time they are forever accompanied by a monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes. There the Other Gods from the unimaginable, unlighted chambers beyond time dance and play before the black throne at the center of Chaos. There the mindless entity Azathoth, rules all time and all space from a blinding holocaust of smoke and fire, with deafening thunder amidst the cold stars, dying suns and pale mournful planets. In that no place, not time, Whateley received the charge of Azathoth his Lord and Master.
'The stars have come round right. The moon is nearly full. Saturn is in trine with Mars. It is time to open the gate. I order you now. Open the portal to my minions of darkness. The time has come to blow Earth’s dust away.'
At this point Whateley mercifully blacked out. It was not rest or slumber in the normal sense. Perhaps it was a near death coma akin to the deepest exhaustion. Whatever it was suddenly he became aware of sunlight through his window. He rolled over desperately trying to get one last catnap. Finding that was useless, he soddenly arose. Staggering to his feet he stumbled down the stairs and somehow lit the stove to prepare coffee and toast to eat with his oatmeal. Finally he washed up, put on his clothes, walked out, got in his car and left. A few minutes later he pulled into the oddly steepled Dunwich store where he found Tobit Whateley obsequious and agitated.
‘Whal, what kin I do ye for Master?’
‘Not much today Mister Tobit, I just wanted to pick up a paper and catch the news.’ He then snatched the Arkham paper off the rack and started to read, the surprisingly thicker than usual newspaper. First he read an account of the previous nights mysterious attack on the Native American’s drum circle.
Special Report from near Dunwich
Today the Dunwich Township Police Department has reported an inundation of hysterical calls late last night about some unspecified outbreak of violence. According to our regular informants chaos broke forth from atop Sentinel Hill. Known as one of the areas more spectacular monadnocks, it is central to a region reputed by legend to be haunted. Some mysterious creatures of a bizarre form are reputed to have descended from upon high on the peaceful gathering of seasonal migrant workers congregating about the peak shortly before midnight last night. Scores of victims of the strange violence have been transported to area hospitals. At this time no one is lending credence to reports of ‘terror on wings from the sky’ but numerous serious injuries and several deaths have been reported amongst the Native American and other nomadic workers who often congregate nightly on the heights. This area above Dunwich has been the seen of countless historic outbreaks of unexplained violence and disappearance, particularly at this season of the year, known in the quaint local lore as Walpurgis Eve. The authorities are still investigating and nothing definitive has yet been confirmed by our reporters.
Flipping through to the second page he now found an even more curious account of the finding of a body downstream in the Miskatonic.
Special Report from near Arkham
The official spokesman of the Dunwich Township Police Department has confirmed a report today that a headless and badly mutilated body was found today in the lower reaches of the Miskatonic River near Arkham. It was tentatively identified as that of a missing Dunwich native, sixteen year old cattle herd, Bud Frye. Mr. Fry was recently reported missing. To quote Township Police Major Edgar McAllen: 'The unexplained disappearance of the young Mr. Frye has now been confirmed to be foul play. An investigation is currently under way. Anyone knowing any details of the case are requested to contact the Township Police Department. No further details can be revealed at this time.' Funeral arrangements await a full autopsy, by State Forensic investigators. The only statement released thus far by the state authorities is that the funeral will be a closed casket affair.
In another unique and somewhat problematic vein Whateley next read the account of an alleged encounter by a Dunwich man on his way to work with some mysterious being which Whateley immediately recognized as a Dhôle.
Statement of Luke Bell
'Gawd alone knows what it wuz. I was driving out to my job at Wilson’s Dairy 'bout four am, when what e’er it wuz tore up the rud. It were in the fog where the road dips to crost the freshet hard by the Dunnich’ road when boom I hit sumptin’ what e’er it wer, it wer big, real big. Damn near tuk off my bumper. I don’t know what it wer an I didn’t see nothin’, it just left a bunch of slime all o’er my truk ‘n crashed off in the direction o’ the pike. Ye cun see the trail it left. Hit jes tore up the saplings an hit left a furrow a quatah mile long jus like a giant plow. I wus skeered, plumb skeered out oh my mind--- whud e’er it were it jes made a horrible sound und stunk real bad. It jes kinda squished like a kind a giant jelly roll. Then it jus run off a creshin’ and a thunderin.' Gawd it were jes plain arful. I picked it up right smart 'n run home the five miles 'n now I’m skeert out 'o my mind, the truks a wreck 'n ye kin smell the gawd awful stench in thum tracks a mile away! Wud ever it’were we ain’t seed nuthin’ like it since the trouble o’ 28 when whatever it was got loose from Wizud Whateley up Sentinel Hill. We dasn’t go out and we can’t stay in.'
Finally flipping the pages Whateley came to a most curious item indeed. Well it would have been curious but he already knew quite well what is was and what had caused it.
Earth Quake Report
In a report from the Central Massachusetts Observatory at Springfield, a sharp trembler occurred last night at half past twelve measuring 5.4 on the Richter Scale. An aftershock was measured again at one am measuring 5.3. It was followed by a number of minor tremblers of less than 3.0 to 2.5 on the Richter scale. After shock tremblers of lessened magnitude have continued throughout the night and into the day. Central Massachusetts Observatory scientists report that this fact should be no cause for alarm. At the present time, citizens are advised to take moderate precautions for falling rocks and other objects.
Strangely satisfied Whateley paid for his merchandise and departed with the paper under his arm. Outside the store he was accosted by a large group of agitated citizens who had congregated to threaten him. They were irrational and fearful for themselves, their families’ lives, their homes and property. Also present was a contingent of Township Police led by Major Edgar McAllen in person.
'Go home Bishop, I am so sorry for your loss Frye. I command you Sawyer, Rice, Morgan to cease and desist from acting in an unlawful manner. All of you go home immediately. Mr. Whateley get in your car and follow me to your home. Go peacefully or I will have to arrest you. I need you to be present when we arrive. I have a warrant to search your premises. In any case I do not need a warrant for your arrest. Your presence here is cause enough.'
Though seven years had passed since the horror in Dunwich, events were still fresh in the memory of all. The Township Police Major had not experienced any trouble in getting a warrant to search from the judge. Due to the previous history of horror, all that it had taken had been a call. The Judge had signed the warrant as soon as he heard that another Whateley was involved in the all too frequent mysterious events in Dunwich. The judge was especially aware of the extreme danger posed by an out of control mob. No one wanted a riot like the last time.
Whateley sullenly responded by getting in his car and following the Township Police home. The rest of the officers followed suit and departed rapidly. When they got to the Whateley home they noticed that several windows were broken. They also found a rock with a note attached. All it said was
Next commenced a thorough search of the lower chamber. When they came to his armoire they noticed that some of his papers appeared to be ransacked. But all that could be found of interest was Whateley’s diary, open on his desk in front of the Eye. Seizing his diary the Major began to read about a terrible elder race of beings from another dimension. After reading a few references Major McAllen had seen all he needed to convince him. Normally a fantastic plan for the extirpation of all human life from the earth, might have been considered madness. But this was Dunwich. Major McAllen was willing to believe that the diary was far more than just a madman’s raving. People there remembered other Whateley fanaticisms from before. That was enough. They continued to search for a while longer but the Necronomicon fragments were so carefully hidden that they were not found. At that point Major McAllen advised Whateley not to leave, gathered the diary as evidence, and left.
On any other day Whateley would have just shook it off. Having a warrant thrust under his nose was not the sort of way that he wanted to start his day. If he had been indifferent before he was now alarmed. It was not just that books and papers had been strewn from wall to wall and back. Nor even that his diary had been seized. He now had too many incriminating books and documents hidden. The police might come back. So after cleaning up he spent the day pondering his role in the events that he knew would occur with nightfall. It was anything but an uneventful day, it took him till mid afternoon to compose himself. He then laid down to take some rest in preparation the dreaded Walpurgis Night.
Throughout the morning the Township Police rode around Dunwich, questioning witnesses concerning all that had occurred. With rising pangs of horror they soon saw for themselves that something hideous was happening. Everywhere they looked they found dreary ruins. They also found foul smelling tracks with lingering traces of some unknown tarry stickiness. The tracks were found thickest in and around the remains of the dead and blasphemously mutilated cattle. Also enormous swaths of disturbed vegetation were to be found in abundance. More frightening were the torn limbs and uprooted trees leading down the trail from the top Sentinel Hill. They found the most sinister significance in the restored gate and bloodstained altar stone on the summit. The Township Police Major at this point sternly repeated his warnings to the crowd to disperse and to go home. Despite the Majors warning the mob, did not disperse and they did not go home. Everyone was buzzing about the similarity to the horrors of the past. Some were scared to go home for fear of what they might find. The rest of day was one of tense expectancy. At this point all concerned were proceeding rapidly to the conclusion that a massive search would be necessary. It was also at this point that the County Managers got involved and after a short conference, Major McAllen was forced to call in the State Police. The State Police had been monitoring the police band radio so they were quick to respond. By noon several units had been dispatched and were busy setting up roadblocks. Additionally two canine units were called in for crowd control.
At length it was ascertained that a party of early responders were missing. They had come from Aylesbury earlier that morning in response to the first reports of the discovery of renewed violence. Their mission had been to investigate the mutilated cattle as well as the dead and missing bodies. There had been five volunteers in the car which had been found mangled near the base of the Glen Road. No sign of the party could be found in any direction. A cold shudder ran through the deputies when the empty car was found. All were now presumed to be dead.
The whippoorwills began to pipe in a cacophonous chorus accompanied by thousands of bullfrogs. Once in a while a wind, sweeping up out of Cold Spring Glen, would bring a surge of choking fœtor to the heavy air. Many of the Dunwich natives remembered smelling such a fœtor once before and started to panic. Every ear seemed strained in a kind of instinctive, unconscious listening for what they knew not. The native Dunwichers who had talked with the missing policemen had been perplexed at first. Then old Sam Longfellow thought of something and turned pale. He nudged Fred Hutchins and pointed to the dank, deep hollow that yawned close by.
‘Gawd,’ he gasped, ‘I telled ‘em not ter go daown into the glen, an’ I never thought nobody’d dew it with them tracks an’ that smell an’ the whippoorwills a-screechin’ daown thar in the dark o’….'
It had been a gray, bleak day, with an intermittent drizzle of rain. Shortly before the noon hour heavier threatening clouds began to pile up beyond the hills. Suddenly to the northeast the winds howled, the skies opened up and the deluge poured down. There were constant rumblings of thunder as forked lightning broke forth in the hills. The weather had became a factor.
The State Policemen from Arkham were forced to join the Township Police in seeking shelter from the increasing rainfall beneath one of the few undestroyed outbuildings of the an old farm. There they debated the wisdom of waiting. The more aggressive were for taking the initiative despite the wind and rain. They urged going down into the glen immediately in quest of their fallen comrades despite the peril of the nameless, monstrous and unknown element. Although very brave the Dunwich Township Police were of mixed counsel. The newly arrived Massachusetts State Police Commander wanted to order the immediate formation of a plan of attack. In spite of his zeal, divided opinions forced caution to prevail. Some of the things involved, simply could not be believed. The incredible evidence of the terrified witnesses was balanced against the number of dead and missing bodies now piling up. The mangled police car and the missing officers strongly motivated the Commander. The panicked fear and near riot conditions amongst the terrified Dunwichers won the day.
When Major McAllen presented the diary to the State Police Captain, he mentioned that the trouble of seven years previously had been quelled by Dr. Henry Armitage, Head Librarian of Miskatonic University. All who remembered him praised his calm determination in the face of terror from the unknown. Others praised his successful leadership in the previous Dunwich trouble. So just after noon the hastily convened conference agreed to call in Dr Henry Armitage. Forthwith an emergency call was placed to Dr. Armitage at Miskatonic University. Although shocked he readily agreed to join in. Because of his projected late arrival in the village no time would remain for the whirlwind of preparation normally necessary for such an endeavor. He knew that he must marshal his forces and move with unaccustomed alacrity. It would not be long before he would be forced to meddle with the terrible powers placed before him. He also knew that he must deal with the divided opinions of both police and citizens. Dr. Armitage had gathered what little he could and determined to make his plans during the long ride. Before One in the afternoon a car had been dispatched to Arkham for Dr. Armitages’ transportation to the scene. Finally late in the day Dr. Armitage set out by motor for Dunwich. The conference then temporarily disbanded having developed a tentative plan.
When Dr Armitage arrived the first thing that he received was the seized accursed Whateley diary. The rest of the afternoon Dr Armitage spent comparing the notes he had compiled from the old trouble from before with the newly seized hellish diary. As Armitage, read the hideous diary he became painfully aware what kind of a manifestation to expect. He did not want to cause a panic adding to the fright of the Dunwich people by giving any hints or clues. The more he reflected on the hellish diaries, the more he was inclined to agree with the need for quick action. Any entity that a Whateley had let in must be forth with stamped out. Especially the earth threatening entities that had already manifested. His greatest concern was that the new entities were likely to burst through again in a few short hours to become the second memorable Dunwich horror in a decade. He knew the dangers involved and he must resolve himself to a plan. He put the manuscript down and took up his own notes. No further consultations of the diary would be necessary. He knew that a large amount of uncertainty would be unavoidable at the end but he had a definite plan and a line of action mapped out. He must boldly confront whatever ignorant meddling had already let in. He could not waste any time. Although he doubted the efficacy of the combined police forces to combat the unknown new malignity from the Outer Gods time was short and the danger was greater than ever before. Dr. Armitage also knew that he must conceal the horror and its monstrous work from an unprepared world. He hoped that what Whateley had called up might be conquered before the world became aware of the monstrous thing it had so narrowly escaped. Now that he had come against this new terror he trembled with the responsibility he felt to be his. Night would soon fall, and it was then that the monstrous blasphemy would lumber out of the mountainous upon its eldritch course of madness and mayhem. The old librarian rehearsed the old formula ‘Negotium perambuians in tenebris’ wondering if that would work again. He also racked his brain for a new alternative one.
As the shadows gathered, the natives were abuzz over the news that had been passed from mouth to mouth of the overheard party line call from Sairy Frye to Lawsy Bishop.
'Lawsy early this mornin' wen I wuz gettin' breakfas they was hud a skwishin' lappin' saound, h'ain't been heard, since the Wizud Whateley,--- all on a suddent the trees along the rud begun ter git pushed flat over, an' they was a awful sompin' splashin' in the mud and movin' real heavy, as the trees bended an' broke. That suthin’ heavy struck the haouse, not lightnin’ nor nothin’, but suthin’ heavy again’ the front, that hed kep it up a agin an’ agin, though no one hed yet seen nothin’ aout the front winders. An’ then…. Gawd help us, the haouse was bout to cavin’…. Oh my gawd that awful stench, an --- they wuz a turrible crashin’ an’ a hull lot o’ screaming…. jus’ like afore only wuss, an’ --
Then the line had gone dead.
At this point many of the Dunwicher folks commenced to disperse homeward. All were scared near to death by their eminent peril. Some were nearly witless in their panic to bar themselves indoors. Some just hoped against hope, in spite of the evidence, that human locks and bolts were useless. What could be done against an invisible force that could bend trees and crush houses? Those that remained were glad to augment the thin police line that was planning to stand guard over the ruins near the head of the glen. As they shook off the fear and prepared to leave home and comfort, maybe sweet life itself, they cried out to cousin and police alike who they realized had little expectancy of ever seeing family or friends again.
Suddenly the storm raged and the downpour waxed heavy, and the not so distant peals of thunder now sounded from all of the horizons. Sheet lightning shimmered, and repeated forked bolts flashed near the accursed glen. The sky grew very dark and all abandoned hope that the storm would prove short. Then just as suddenly the storm blew by and the thunder was followed by the return of clear weather. It was not much over an hour later, a confused babel of voices sounded down the road. Another moment brought into view a frightened group of Indians. More than a dozen men were running, shouting, and whimpering hysterically. Someone in the lead began sobbing out the words, ‘Hail Dr Armitage old friend.’ Dr. Armitage trundled out to the waiting Indians where he met an old friend from a brief summer field trip of years gone bye. It was Sachem Pocumtuck, The chief of the all but vanished tribe once native to the hills beyond Arkham and Dunwich.
‘Hail Brother, Hail Sachem,’ I have been called in to consult over the recurrence of an old trouble in these parts. It seems that the Whateley problem has come back redoubled. It now once again threatens the peace of our community here in the shadow of your sacred mountains as well as rest of the world. I should have taken notice earlier when several odd requests came in through library channels. Unfortunately I did not recognize the seriousness at the time. Today I got a call from the State Police on behalf of the Dunwich Township Police Department. I understand that there have already been several casualties amongst your people. For that you have my heart felt sympathy and sincerest condolences.'
'Yes my Brother Henry, we are in grave peril once again from the ancient enemy, the Old Ones and their minions. This place is our Sacred Holy Mountain from ancient times. It is very bad what we suffer here, where our ancestors communed with the Great Spirit. Friend it is good that we take counsel together. Come back with me into our camp and take warmth by our fire. Our council of elders are preparing to smudge and pass the sacred pipe of peace. Many, many suns in the past, ere the wigwams of your tribe stood here, The Great Old Ones sported, and ravaged all the countryside. At last my fathers, fathers called upon wise Hobomok, the benevolent, a spirit giant, who watches over all, to relieve the distressed peoples. These evil, old ones from the outer places continued making depredations on the civilized peoples They had offended Hobomok, who at length determined to kill them all. Mighty Hobomok, became wroth with our foes. He vowed that the wicked ones should die. Then Hobomok came armed with the trunk of an enormous fallen oak. He chased the great evil one. He ran after him flinging great handfuls of dirt and rock until he threw a bunch of dirt so great upon the evil monster heads that it sank them in the middle of the lake. Hobomok then dispatched the rest of the monsters by blows with his club on the back of their necks. And there they lie to this day. The upturned heads are turned to the stone cliffs of Wequamps. The shoulders rise to Pocumtuck Rock where the backs, tapers off to the tails and the bodies form the northward range. The hollow between is where Hobomok’s cudgel smote down their necks. All this is still plainly to be seen in the hills that surround. Much war with the Mohawk and the Iroquois killed many of the civilized people until the tribes were nearly exterminated. Those who remained were dispersed. Today times are hard and the peoples have attempted to return to their original home. At first we were treated well and things were good but something has attacked us from the air and now many are dead. We have called our Pocumtuck council together to ask for the aid of Hobomok our great protector. I too, am so very glad to see you again old friend Dr. Armitage.' Sachem Pocumtuck then lit his pipe and much smoke arose carrying the prayers of the peoples to the great spirit Hobomok. After long counsel amongst the tribal elders it was agreed to meet Dr Armitage again shortly before Moon rise on the summit of Sentinel Hill. Each then went their separate ways for the time being in order to prepare for the coming of night and the confrontation of forces. Dr Armitage next went to confer again with the police along the road where he heard someone in the Dunwich group begin sobbing out:
‘Oh, my Gawd, my Gawd, It’s a-goin’ agin, an’ this time by day! It’s aout an’ a-movin’ this very minute, Lord knows when it’ll be on us all!'
Everyone went silent for a brief moment as if listening when another took up the conversation:
‘Nigh on a haour ago Zeb here heered that Mis’ Corey, from daown ta the junction sayed the hired boy was aout drivin’ in the caows from the storm, when he seed all the trees a-bendin’ opposite side ter this at the maouth o’ the glen ---'
At this point the first excited speaker was interrupted.
'An' he smelt the same arful smell like he smelt when he faound the big tracks this mawnin. It were a swishin’ lappin’ saound, an’ all on a suddent the trees along the rud begun ter git pushed one side, an’ they was a awful splashin’ in the mud. But mind he didn’t see nothin’ at all, only just the bendin’ trees an’ the gawd fersaken arfullest foul stench.'
The man paused, and another of the crowd spoke.
Then fur ahead where Bishop’s Brook goes under the rud he heerd a awful strainin’ like the saound o’ wood a-startin’ to crack an’ split. All the whiles he never seed a thing, only them trees a-bendin’. When the swishin’ saound got fur ‘nuf off – on the rud towards Wizud Whateley’s an’ Sentinel Hill he had the guts ter step up whar he’d heerd it fust an’ look at the graound. He seed the biggest tracks in the mud despite o’ the dark, an’ the rain.'
At this point the first speaker interrupted again.
‘We hud they was a call, everybody onta the line was a-listenin’ in when a nutha call come in, un she, Miz Bishop was carryin’ on fit to kill – she’d jest seed the trees a-bendin’ beside the rud, an’ says they was a kind o’ mushy saound, a puffin’ an’ treadin’, a-headin’ fer the haouse, an’ they wuz a fearful smell, jes like what we smelt down to the Whateley rewins this mornin’. An’ the dogs was barkin’ an’ a carryin on sumthin’ awful.'
And then the other interrupted again rather excitedly.
'An’ then she let aout a turrible yell, an’ says the shed daown the rud had jest caved in like the storm hed blowed it over, only the wind wuzn’t blowin’ thet strong enough to dew that.'
By then everybody including Dr. Armitage was listening, to the mixed up voices and the fear was growing! Though badly shaken Dr. Armitage prompted the speaker. 'An’ then….'
'She yelled aout, "O help, the haouse is a-cavin’ in…. an’ over the line we could hear a turrible crashin’ an’ a hull flock o’ screaming…. That’s all – not a saound nor squeak over the line arter that. We uz heared it 'rounded up as many able-bodied men-folks as we could git, an’ come up here ter see what wuz best ter dew. I think it’s the Lord’s jedgment fer our iniquities. O Lordy, Lord, Sweet Lord. Forgive us all our transgressions.'
Dr. Armitage now saw that the time for action had come. He spoke decisively yet reassuring as possible to the frightened rustics. 'I believe there’s a chance of putting it out of business. You men know that those old Whateleys were wizards – well, this too is a thing of wizardry, and must be put down by wizardly means. We must follow it, boys. I’ve seen the diary and this new Whateley read some of the same strange old books Wilbur Whateley used to read. I think I might know the right kind of spell to recite to make the thing go away. Of course, one can’t be sure, till one tries. We have to take a chance. You know it’s invisible. It’s a frightful thing, but it isn’t as bad yet as what Wilbur Whateley would have let in. We have to fight, it can do a lot of harm. We must rid the community of it. We must follow it. I think that the best way to begin is to go to the last place that has just been destroyed. Somebody lead the way – I don’t know the roads very well. There must be a short cut.'
Earl Rice pointed with a finger through the gathering haze. 'Quickest way is by cuttin’ across the lower medder here, wadin’ the brook at the low place, an’ climbin’ through to the timber lot beyont. That comes aout on the upper rud mighty nigh the foot o’ the Glenn mebe’ – a leetle t’other side o’ Sentinel Hill. We shud be able to pick up the trail. Thet way we wun’t have ter cross the Divels’ Hopyod. They iz a gud rud from there clear to the top.'
Dr. Armitage along with most of the police, led by the Dunwich natives started to walk in the indicated direction. Courage and confidence were mounting as the storm had passed and the dusk light filled the twilight air. Towards the end of the short cut among the huge boulders and ancient trees they had to scramble. At length they emerged on the muddy road to the summit with the setting sun coming out from the clouds preparatory to going down.
Unfortunately the bent trees and hideously unmistakable tracks now showed what had passed by. The party had to stop for a few moments to survey the ruins just round the bend. Nothing dead or alive was found in either of the collapsed shells, which had been an ancient house and barn. No one cared to remain very long amidst the stench, the tarry stickiness, and the line of horrible prints leading down from the altar-crowned slopes of Sentinel Hill. Something akin to a slow down became apparent in the lessened haste. All knew that they were now in the presence of something big enough to wreck a house, yet was invisible and had the vicious malevolence of a dæmon. Opposite the base of the hill the tracks left the road. Here was a fresh bending and matting visible all along a broad swath marking the monster’s route away from the summit.
Dr. Armitage produced a small telescope of considerable power and scanned the steep side of the hill. Unfortunately his tired old eyes could not quite focus so he passed the lens to a nearby police officer that once he had adjusted the focus cried out.
'Gawd almighty, the grass an’ bushes is a’movin’! It’s a-goin’ – slow-like – creepin’ -down this minute, heaven only knows what fur!'
Panic nearly seized the small crowd and only the discipline of the officers to avenge their fallen comrades bonded them now. It was one thing to hunt the nameless unknown entity but quite another to find it! Spells even from Dr. Armitage might not be enough. Some began questioning the doctor. No reply that he made, could quite satisfy the urge to become less close to something outside of sane experience. Something so utterly forbidden, that waited for them at the end of the trail.
In the end only the police and a very small handful of the Dunwich men ascended the final climb up the road and passed the glen to the summit of the mountain. It was hard going, and Dr. Armitage had to be helped most of the way. Somewhere near the summit Sachem Pocumtuck and his band of elders rejoined them. As the setting sun went down the beautiful moon was seen to be ascending. Under any other circumstances this would have been a glorious moment to savor in the memory. The air was clear as the storm had passed and the sweet smell of wood smoke began to come up faintly from somewhere below. Instead a tense expectancy filled the minds of all present. Unknown terror was near. And it was the dread eve of Walpurgis Night, the most dread night of the year. All that could be done now was to find a place by the fire on the summit and settle in to wait for whatever event was to occur.
It was not to be a short wait. The Full Moon traced a path of glory across the sky, reached a peak and slowly started to go down.
Meanwhile far below in his comfortable home under the dense cover of the trees Walter Whateley was beginning to stir. After trying to sleep, or to at least rest, he had decided, that he needed a long walk to clear his head. So now he slowly ascended Sentinel Hill in the clear night air. While he was walking the Pocumtuck elders had made a fire at the summit to keep warm. They were soon joined by Dr Armitage, the police, and those boldest of the Dunwich people still remaining. Arriving unseen at the summit, Whateley now had to lurk for a long time to make sure that the time felt right. For him it was to be a long vigil, as he furtively haunted the shadows. He had no way to tell the hours by the way that men knew time. The full Moon had risen and gone down into the darkness of the fatal Walpurgis Night when he finally moved. At last he just knew in some feral way that the time was finally come. The stars had at last come round right. No one there could know what the inscrutable Outer Gods knew. Perhaps they were whispering in Whateley’s ear. At some point the evil Saturn trine Mars in the fifth house
spread it’s the baleful influence. When he at long last stepped forth from the shadows with the Necronomicon in his hand, he was ready. The fateful die was cast. He must open the gate, now. Time had come for him to call forth those from beyond.
For those waiting by the fire, it had been an evening of tense expectancy seized in the grip of the fear of uncertainty. Dr. Armitage felt it unwise to reveal that when the doors were opened to other space-time, all hell would break loose. How could he prepare for the ultimate confrontation of good versus evil. Like a candle flickering in the breeze, the good Dr. was feeling his little light slip away before the swelling power of darkness. He alone knew that fulfillment of prophecy to release the Ancient Old Ones from the curse of the Elder Gods meant the end of time as we know it.
Great was the collective shock of the assembled people at seeing the Wizard’s entrance between the pillars. When he suddenly appeared out of the shadows nearly two thirds of those present tried to run off. Others just collapsed. The rest just stood stock still as if their legs were made of rubber. They could only whimper in fear as the shock froze them in time. The vision of the dreaded Wizard Whateley stepping out of thin air, held the people spellbound.
Whateley gave a contemptuous sneer in that general direction as he began to entreat of the stones. In the words of the Dho-Hna formula he began:
‘I have learned all the angles of the planes and all the formulas between the Yr and the Nhhngr.’
Then he began to circle around widershins or counter clockwise until on the third pass he turned towards the twin pillars of the gate and made the sign of the pentagram of fire
Yai ng'ng ah Yog-Sothoth-hee lgeb fai-throdog
'N'gai, n'gha'ghaa, bugg-shoggog, y'hah: Yog-Sothoth, Yog-Sothoth
At the first of Whateley's bizarre soliloquy one of the officers managed to get off one wild shot into the air. As he lifted his pistol a small partially visible gelatinous blob of acid land on his arm. Suddenly the man started screaming in shock. The rest just froze when they saw that something unseen had surgically removed his hand above the wrist. The gun just fell, clattering off the rocks to land several yards away. Unable to think or to act independently the rest of the officers became prisoners of terror, mesmerized by the forbidden unknown.. Temporarily deprived of reason they were held mutely captive, like deer in the headlights, or a tire suddenly punctured, they were completely incapable of moving, or of opposing the will of Wizard Whateley. They were as moths to the flaming will expressed in the Wizardly words of evocation.
Whateley then made the sign known as that of the Voor, a queer sort of pointing of the two outer fingers of the left hand while clenching the rest. It was the same sign that he had only just recently learned from the widow Bishop. The same puzzling sign that everyone had expected him to know. When he made the sign more than a dozen cognoscenti began to kowtow in fearful respect. For a moment Whateley became drunk on his new necromantic powers. As those from outside began to appear in the air he made the Elder Sign, by putting his hands to the side of his head with the thumbs extended as of horns. He then began to chant more earnestly.
O Thou that dwelleth in the darkness of the Outer Void,
come thou forth, I invoke thee.
O Thou who abideth beyond the Spheres of Time,
I exalt thee. O Thou who art the Gate,
come thou forth, yea come thou forth,
I invoke, I greet thy presence.
come thou forth!
The words that Break thy Bonds are spoken.
Thy signs are shown forth,
O thou who art the Gate of the Outer Gods,
enter the World!
He then made the sign of the Caput Draconis
, the head of the stooping dragon
And he chanted the ninth verse thrice:
Per Adonai Eloim, Adonai Jehova,
Adonai Saboath, Metraton Ou Agla Methon,
Verbum Pythonicum, Mysterium Salamandræ,
Cenventus Sylvorum, Antra Gnomorum,
Dæmonia Coeli God, Almonsin, Gibor,
Jehosua, Evam, Sariathnatmik, Veni, Veni, Veni.
Yai ng'ng ah Yog-Sothoth-hee Lgeb Fai-throdog
Uaa ah Ogthorod Ai'f Gebl Eeh
Yog-Sothoth Ng ah Ng Ai'y Zhro
Ygnaii Yog Sothoth open thy gate.
Send forth Nyarlathotep!
Whateley then made the Elder Sign again and he began to chant loudly:
Iä! Nyarlathotep, Iä! Iä! Iä!
Iä! Nyarlathotep, Iä! Iä! Iä!
Yai Ng'ng ah Yog-Sothoth-hee Lgeb Fai-throdog
'N'gai, N'gha'ghaa, Bugg-shoggog, Y'hah: Yog-Sothoth, Yog-Sothoth
Talubsi! Adula! Ulu! Baachur!
Come forth Yog-Sothoth! come forth!
And he made the sign of the Tail of the great Dragon Cauda Draconis
When he chanted: Come forth Nyarlathotep! come forth! The hellish flutes begun to whine. A procession of hybrid, half-amorphous blasphemies filled the air with a nauseating odor. As the mad beating of drums, began to accompany the piping of the hideous flutes, Yog-Sothoth appeared as a congeries of bubbles with Nyarlathotep in the midst. Then with a mad cacophony of kakodæmonic howling the Old Ones broke forth from under.
The Gate of Yog Sothoth
At last Whateley had succeeded where others had failed. In the instant of the opening of the gate of Yog Sothoth, Nyarlathotep messenger of the Ancient evil gods had appeared. Nyarlathotep stepped forth from the gate out of some alien dimension where the angles are wrong. All hell broke loose. The ancient evil prophecy of the stars had at last come right. The Black Antichrist from beyond space and time had come to blow earth's dust away. Nyarlathotep burst onto the summit of Sentinel Hill accompanied by all of that train of piping, ululating spawn of his master the dæmon sultan Azathoth. Nyarlathotep materialized in a blasting burst of kakodæmonic howling, and a choking fœtid stench. In his train came the whole host of the Outer Gods, the spawn of the nighted gulfs of trans-Yugothian space.
When at last Dr Armitage saw his moment to go into battle, he started to chant,
Negotium perambuians in tenebris
Bug sa ash
Yog Sothoth Zhro
Yog Sothoth hsa asgub
Yog Sothoth Orhz
Then something like a giant hand just swatted him. At eighty something the good doctor was feeling his age. When he went down, he could only partially rise up. Shortly he slid back down battered, bruised and bloody. When Dr Armitage was defeated almost before he had begun, something akin to utter terror gripped the assembled men.
But all was not lost. In that instant of horrible terror, unleashed from the pit of hell, beyond space and time Sachem Pocumtuck the bravest of the brave, came forth to the circle. When the Sachem began his preamble, ball lightning began to fall. amidst the fog and smoke which had begun to swirl all around. Though stunned by the sudden fall of his expected savior, the shaman summoned all of his courage.
Stepping into the circle Sachem Pocumtuck began by calling up the Native American Spirit of Hobomok. Stepping in a slow dance, he began to sing.
Great Hobomok to thee we sing.
Come forth and rescue your children.
We the ‘Civilized Peoples’ call thee now.
Oh Wa Oh Hob o mok oh a oh!
When the situation is dire
He comes, Yea, He comes
From the region beyond the stars.
Chant for peace. No more war.
Always love and protect the Mother.
Oh Wa Oh Hob o mok oh a oh!
Oh Wa Oh Hob o mok oh a oh!
When the situation is dire
He will come from the region beyond the stars.
Come oh great protector of thy people.
Come oh come Great Hobomok,
Oh thrice great spirit,
kill all the evil spirits.
We beseech thee
Oh Wa Oh Hob o mock oh a oh!
Then remembering the words that his fallen comrade Dr. Armitage, the good doctor had told him, Sachem Pocumtuck chanted the words that had worked in that other trouble of seven years past. He did not understand so much, he just took up the other worldly chant of his Brother, the Good Doctor.
Negotium perambuians in tenebris
Bu gsa ash
Yog Sothoth Zhro
Yog Sothoth hsa asgub Orhz.
At first low, then he bellowed the words forth again. Partly heartened by the Sachem's show of pluck and bravery Dr Armitage raised himself up weakly to join in:
Negotium perambuians in tenebris
Bu gsa ash
Yog Sothoth Zhro
Yog Sothoth hsa asgub Orhz .
Finally fading off, the Doctor and the Sachem shouted into the night one final time.
Negotium perambuians in tenebris
Bu gsa ash
Yog Sothoth Zhro
Yog Sothoth hsa asgub Orhz .
Oh Wa Oh Hob o mock oh a oh!
The ball lightning, fog and smoke thickened and intensified as the forces invading through the open gate slowed to a crawl and almost stopped. Perhaps it was because of his relative youth and manly vigor that the words had some effect. The Sachem began to chant rhythmically:
Oh Wa Oh Hob O Mock Oh a Oh!
This time several of the group of Elders joined in. Next the Sachem repeated his own Native chant:
Oh Wa Oh Hob O Mock Oh a Oh!
Over and over, louder and louder till in a sweating frenzy he too fell prostrate upon the rocky summit before the open gate.
The air of the clear night sky was now rent by repeated forks of great lightning. Where the bare rock was struck a mighty form awakened. Hobomok who was all smoke and lightning took a form much like a very large Black Bear. As he coalesced upon the great rock, from the smoke and the lightning, a titan hell wind of phantasmagoria blew through the embattled camp.
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Hobomok and Nyarlathotep
Defeat of Outer Gods by Hobomok
espite the surging chaotic mass of dæmonic spirits coming through at the call of the Wizard some of the congregated crowd held desperately onto sanity. Those remaining few, began to join in the chanting. Weakly at first, but slowly gaining momentum as renewed courage and vigor returned, they chanted:
Oh Wa Oh Hob O Mock Oh a Oh!
While others joined Dr. Armitage in his repeated dirge:
Negotium perambulans in tenebris
Bu gsa ash
Yog Sothoth Zhro
Yog Sothoth hsa asgub Orhz.
Several of the tribal elders began to sing feverishly:
Chant for peace, No more war
Always love and protect the mother.
The situation is dire a spirit will come!
Oh Great Hobomok Come oh Come
Come to guide your people.
Hobomok tribal protector of the ‘Civilized Peoples’ had come in power and glory. A mighty giant had come in answer to the heartfelt prayer of Sachem Pocumtuck, Chief and Shaman of the lost tribe of Pocumtuck. Hobomok who had once made these mountains his home took form amidst smoke and lightning. Hobomok had returned to lead his people. Out of the shadows of the surrounding darkness, the Sachem, Chief Pocumtuck rose up and strode forward to greet Great Hobomok. Now the surviving men, though withered, blasted and huddled about the gate broke forth in a frenzied greeting of drumming and chanting. Sachem Pocumtuck began to dance in and out of the people with smudge and rattle. In answer to his call, the tribal earth spirit, first born of the stars appeared mighty and strong. Hobomok the terrible, began to expand rapidly before the congregated witnesses. Hobomok who had come in answer to the chanted songs and prayers of the people, now appeared in a continuous pattern of lightning and swirling black smoke. In a mixed patern of light and shadow Hobomok, the defeater of the Giants from the Stars took form. Hobomok the cruel, who before the coming of the white man had been the protector of the ancient Pocumtuck, the Squawkheag and the Norwottuck, sprang up as if from the very rocks of the mountain. Great Hobomok constantly shifted the shape of his visible appearance. At first he appeared as a warrior spirit clothed in lightning. Then he seemed like a black mist or swirling smoke that was continuously expanding. Now coalescing, he shifted into the form of a gigantic Black Bear. The emerging star born, the earth giant continued to expand until he became the heart of the very mountain from which he had been called. The foe of foes and tribal enemies came forth with a shattering noise as cosmic forces colliding in a swelling crescendo of drumming. In that instant Hobomok resolved himself into a giant armed with the trunk of an enormous oak. Once again he shifted form until he appeared surrounded in coruscating colors of rainbow light. In the material form of a giant Black Bear Hobomok began to pummel his opponent Nyarlathotep. Hobomok struck Nyarlathotep with endlessly repeating blows from the massive oaken trunk. Each stroke was accompanied by strikes of lightning. Striding towards the open gate Hobomok struck Nyarlathotep with a great flash of blinding light. It was with a colossal stroke of lightning aimed at the black heart of darkness, that Hobomok annihilated Nyarlathotep. The Avatar of Primal Chaos, the evil Black Antichrist was blasted backwards into the gate. Slowly reforming, Nyarlathotep assumed the shape of an angry black Ifrit. But it was too late Hobomok delivered one final blow. Nyarlathotep that monstrous form of darkness, staggered back into the congeries of shining bubbles.
The Gate of Yog Sothoth, was litten by smoke and the flickering dark fire of blackest night. For it was only in that light of the darkness beyond eyesight that Nyarlathotep could manifest. But that darkness was now manifestly made light by the repeated lightning blasts of Hobomok. Nyarlathotep tried to advance against that light in a fearful form of stygian shadow. Next he morphed to a horned, tentacled, and winged demon from the pit of hell. Finally he shape shifted back to the dreaded evil Pharaoh returned to life from shades of Khem. No matter what his form, Nyarlathotep was a constantly changing ebon nightmare of darkness and madness.
In that moment of strife between constantly shape shifting giants, the open gate was riven as if overmastering darkness strove with blinding light. Though he momentarily advanced back through the gate to expand horribly, Nyarlathotep was finally forced back. Hobomok rained down multiple blows from his massive oaken war hammer. At last, Hobomok shattered Nyarlathotep as an electric flash of blinding light split the night. That resounding crash was followed immediately by another monstrous outbreak of overmastering fœtid stench. In that moment the shining bubble congeries faded into blackness as the open gate shut upon itself. The nightmare vision of Nyarlathotep was split into a mass of oily noxious bubbles that were slowly drawn back through the now broken gate into the void of blackest night.
But one final nightmare was to transpire. Out of that closing gate came a giant scaly jet black fist. That monstrous hand attached to a tentacle extended through the closing gate and seized Whateley. The Wizard Whateley was dragged back screaming through the closing gate. He was forcefully transported with his defeated master to strange dimensions of unknown time and space. Whateley went to an unknown doom and a fate blacker than the ultimate voids of night.
As the once massive gate throbbed and shrunk back on itself the mountaintop was rent with repeated flashes of lightning. Drenching squalls and gales of purifying rain followed the crackling of the repeated thunder. Dawn finally came over the storm tossed scene. A watery sun shown through and turned to crimson glory the blasted summit. Sentinel Hill was now washed clean. The mighty stones had once again been scattered and thrown down. Silence reigned.
Far below the empty and untenanted evil house was thrown mysteriously down. The haunt of the wizardly Whateley cabal was now revealed in it's true form. In the light of day it was seen as a dilapidated and decrepit ruin. Though haunted it somehow seemed sentient and alive with untold menace. The ruined house was to remain through many more seasons of storm, a ghostly silent moldering pile just watching and waiting for the next unwary soul to be lured in. Long was it to wait for the stars to come round right again in that unsavory place under that most unfavorable planetary alignment of Saturn and Mars. Late in the fall of another year after several decades had passed the mother of all storms destroyed what remained of the moldering pile. Yet to this very day, in the night of time and the mansions of the moon the dreaded Walpurgis Night returns. Then all the witches and devils come out as once before. On that night once again Dunwich grovels in fear before unhallowed rites as of old.
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Watchers Alternative Ending
obomock turned out to be one with the Outer Gods. When he was called he joined Nyarlathotep as an old friend. The gate opened and the demons poured through. The Wizard Whateley was supremely triumphant and all of Dunwich reeled before his might. The Pocumtuck got the heck out of the way. All the way back to Quebec where some say that they rejoined reservation life. Others say that they just faded away before the invading forces of outer darkness. When the Wizard Whateley succeeded in opening gate, the Outer Gods of blackest night poured in from beyond space and time. It was then that Nyarlathotep led the Outer Gods in obedience to the command of the blind Idiot Chaos. Azathoth then saw the earth stripped clean of all animal and vegetable life as we know it. They from outside who flooded in took body and form with fresh human blood in a wave of death and destruction.
An army of Shogoths were brought in for the extirpation of the entire human race from the earth. Other servants, the terrible elder race of beings from another dimension also begin to sweep the earth clean. When it was cleared and there were no more earth beings on it, they dragged the earth away, from the solar system and the cosmos of matter into some other plane or phase of entity from which they had once fallen, vigintillions of aeons ago.
Read: Watchers Return Sequel