The Dunwich Horror

Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimaeras - dire stories of Celaeno and the Harpies -
may reproduce themselves in the brain of superstition - but they were there
before. They are transcripts, types - the archtypes are in us, and eternal.
How else should the recital of that which we know in a waking sense to be
false come to affect us all? Is it that we naturally conceive terror from such
objects, considered in their capacity of being able to inflict upon us bodily
injury? O, least of all! These terrors are of older standing. They date beyond
body - or without the body, they would have been the same... That the kind of
fear here treated is purely spiritual - that it is strong in proportion as it
is objectless on earth, that it predominates in the period of our sinless
infancy - are difficulties the solution of which might afford some probable
insight into our ante-mundane condition, and a peep at least into the
shadowland of pre-existence.
- Charles Lamb: Witches and Other Night-Fears
I.
When a traveller in north central Massachusetts takes the wrong fork at the
junction of Aylesbury pike just beyond Dean's Corners he comes upon a lonely and
curious country.
The ground gets higher, and the brier-bordered stone walls press closer and
closer against the ruts of the dusty, curving road. The trees of the frequent
forest belts seem too large, and the wild weeds, brambles and grasses attain a
luxuriance not often found in settled regions. At the same time the planted
fields appear singularly few and barren; while the sparsely scattered houses
wear a surprisingly uniform aspect of age, squalor, and dilapidation.
Without knowing why, one hesitates to ask directions from the gnarled solitary
figures spied now and then on crumbling doorsteps or on the sloping, rock-strewn
meadows.Those figures are so silent and furtive that one feels somehow
confronted by forbidden things, with which it would be better to have nothing to
do. When a rise in the road brings the mountains in view above the deep woods,
the feeling of strange uneasiness is increased. The summits are too rounded and
symmetrical to give a sense of comfort and naturalness, and sometimes the sky
silhouettes with especial clearness the queer circles of tall stone pillars with
which most of them are crowned.
Gorges and ravines of problematical depth intersect the way, and the crude
wooden bridges always seem of dubious safety. When the road dips again there are
stretches of marshland that one instinctively dislikes, and indeed almost fears
at evening when unseen whippoorwills chatter and the fireflies come out in
abnormal profusion to dance to the raucous, creepily insistent rhythms of
stridently piping bull-frogs. The thin, shining line of the Miskatonic's upper
reaches has an oddly serpent-like suggestion as it winds close to the feet of
the domed hills among which it rises.
As the hills draw nearer, one heeds their wooded sides more than their
stone-crowned tops. Those sides loom up so darkly and precipitously that one
wishes they would keep their distance, but there is no road by which to escape
them. Across a covered bridge one sees a small village huddled between the
stream and the vertical slope of Round Mountain, and wonders at the cluster of
rotting gambrel roofs bespeaking an earlier architectural period than that of
the neighbouring region. It is not reassuring to see, on a closer glance, that
most of the houses are deserted and falling to ruin, and that the
broken-steepled church now harbours the one slovenly mercantile establishment of
the hamlet. One dreads to trust the tenebrous tunnel of the bridge, yet there is
no way to avoid it. Once across, it is hard to prevent the impression of a
faint, malign odour about the village street, as of the massed mould and decay
of centuries. It is always a relief to get clear of the place, and to follow the
narrow road around the base of the hips and across the level country beyond till
it rejoins the Aylesbury pike. Afterwards one sometimes learns that one has been
through Dunwich.


Outsiders visit Dunwich as seldom as possible, and since a certain season of
horror all the signboards pointing towards it have been taken down. The scenery,
judged by an ordinary aesthetic canon, is more than commonly beautiful; yet
there is no influx of artists or summer tourists. Two centuries ago, when talk
of witch-blood, Satan-worship, and strange forest presences was not laughed at,
it was the custom to give reasons for avoiding the locality. In our sensible age
- since the Dunwich horror of 1928 was hushed up by those who had the town's and
the world's welfare at heart - people shun it without knowing exactly why.
Perhaps one reason - though it cannot apply to uninformed strangers - is that
the natives are now repellently decadent, having gone far along that path of
retrogression so common in many New England backwaters. They have come to form a
race by themselves, with the well-defined mental and physical stigmata of
degeneracy and inbreeding. The average of their intelligence is woefully low,
whilst their annals reek of overt viciousness and of half-hidden murders,
incests, and deeds of almost unnameable violence and perversity. The old gentry,
representing the two or three armigerous families which came from Salem in 1692,
have kept somewhat above the general level of decay; though many branches are
sunk into the sordid populace so deeply that only their names remain as a key to
the origin they disgrace. Some of the Whateleys and Bishops still send their
eldest sons to Harvard and Miskatonic, though those sons seldom return to the
mouldering gambrel roofs under which they and their ancestors were born.
No one, even those who have the facts concerning the recent horror, can say just
what is the matter with Dunwich; though old legends speak of unhallowed rites
and conclaves of the Indians, amidst which they called forbidden shapes of
shadow out of the great rounded hills, and made wild orgiastic prayers that were
answered by loud crackings and rumblings from the ground below. In 1747 the
Reverend Abijah Hoadley, newly come to the Congregational Church at Dunwich
Village, preached a memorable sermon on the close presence of Satan and his
imps; in which he said:
"It must be allow'd, that these Blasphemies of an infernall Train of Daemons
are Matters of too common Knowledge to be deny'd; the cursed Voices of Azazel
and Buzrael, of Beelzebub and Belial, being heard now from under Ground by
above a Score of credible Witnesses now living. I myself did not more than a
Fortnight ago catch a very plain Discourse of evill Powers in the Hill behind
my House; wherein there were a Rattling and Rolling, Groaning, Screeching, and
Hissing, such as no Things of this Earth could raise up, and which must needs
have come from those Caves that only black Magick can discover, and only the
Divell unlock".
Mr. Hoadley disappeared soon after delivering this sermon, but the text, printed
in Springfield, is still extant. Noises in the hills continued to be reported
from year to year, and still form a puzzle to geologists and physiographers.
Other traditions tell of foul odours near the hill-crowning circles of stone
pillars, and of rushing airy presences to be heard faintly at certain hours from
stated points at the bottom of the great ravines; while still others try to
explain the Devil's Hop Yard - a bleak, blasted hillside where no tree, shrub,
or grass-blade will grow. Then, too, the natives are mortally afraid of the
numerous whippoorwills which grow vocal on warm nights. It is vowed that the
birds are psychopomps lying in wait for the souls of the dying, and that they
time their eerie cries in unison with the sufferer's struggling breath. If they
can catch the fleeing soul when it leaves the body, they instantly flutter away
chittering in daemoniac laughter; but if they fail, they subside gradually into
a disappointed silence.
These tales, of course, are obsolete and ridiculous; because they come down from
very old times. Dunwich is indeed ridiculously old - older by far than any of
the communities within thirty miles of it. South of the village one may still
spy the cellar walls and chimney of the ancient Bishop house, which was built
before 1700; whilst the ruins of the mill at the falls, built in 1806, form the
most modern piece of architecture to be seen. Industry did not flourish here,
and the nineteenth-century factory movement proved short-lived. Oldest of all
are the great rings of rough-hewn stone columns on the hilltops, but these are


more generally attributed to the Indians than to the settlers. Deposits of
skulls and bones, found within these circles and around the sizeable table-like
rock on Sentinel Hill, sustain the popular belief that such spots were once the
burial-places of the Pocumtucks; even though many ethnologists, disregarding the
absurd improbability of such a theory, persist in believing the remains
Caucasian.
II.
It was in the township of Dunwich, in a large and partly inhabited farmhouse set
against a hillside four miles from the village and a mile and a half from any
other dwelling, that Wilbur Whateley was born at 5 a.m. on Sunday, the second of
February, 1913. This date was recalled because it was Candlemas, which people in
Dunwich curiously observe under another name; and because the noises in the
hills had sounded, and all the dogs of the countryside had barked persistently,
throughout the night before. Less worthy of notice was the fact that the mother
was one of the decadent Whateleys, a somewhat deformed, unattractive albino
woman of thirty-five , living with an aged and half-insane father about whom the
most frightful tales of wizardry had been whispered in his youth. Lavinia
Whateley had no known husband, but according to the custom of the region made no
attempt to disavow the child; concerning the other side of whose ancestry the
country folk might - and did - speculate as widely as they chose. On the
contrary, she seemed strangely proud of the dark, goatish-looking infant who
formed such a contrast to her own sickly and pink-eyed albinism, and was heard
to mutter many curious prophecies about its unusual powers and tremendous
future.
Lavinia was one who would be apt to mutter such things, for she was a lone
creature given to wandering amidst thunderstorms in the hills and trying to read
the great odorous books which her father had inherited through two centuries of
Whateleys, and which were fast falling to pieces with age and wormholes. She had
never been to school, but was filled with disjointed scraps of ancient lore that
Old Whateley had taught her. The remote farmhouse had always been feared because
of Old Whateley's reputation for black magic, and the unexplained death by
violence of Mrs Whateley when Lavinia was twelve years old had not helped to
make the place popular. Isolated among strange influences, Lavinia was fond of
wild and grandiose day-dreams and singular occupations; nor was her leisure much
taken up by household cares in a home from which all standards of order and
cleanliness had long since disappeared.
There was a hideous screaming which echoed above even the hill noises and the
dogs' barking on the night Wilbur was bom, but no known doctor or midwife
presided at his coming. Neighbours knew nothing of him till a week afterward,
when Old Wateley drove his sleigh through the snow into Dunwich Village and
discoursed incoherently to the group of loungers at Osborne's general store.
There seemed to be a change in the old man - an added element of furtiveness in
the clouded brain which subtly transformed him from an object to a subject of
fear - though he was not one to be perturbed by any common family event. Amidst
it all he showed some trace of the pride later noticed in his daughter, and what
he said of the child's paternity was remembered by many of his hearers years
afterward.
'I dun't keer what folks think - ef Lavinny's boy looked like his pa, he
wouldn't look like nothin' ye expeck. Ye needn't think the only folks is the
folks hereabouts. Lavinny's read some, an' has seed some things the most o' ye
only tell abaout. I calc'late her man is as good a husban' as ye kin find this
side of Aylesbury; an' ef ye knowed as much abaout the hills as I dew, ye
wouldn't ast no better church weddin' nor her'n. Let me tell ye suthin - some
day yew folks'll hear a child o' Lavinny's a-callin' its father's name on the
top o' Sentinel Hill!'
The only person who saw Wilbur during the first month of his life were old
Zechariah Whateley, of the undecayed Whateleys, and Earl Sawyer's common-law
wife, Mamie Bishop. Mamie's visit was frankly one of curiosity, and her
subsequent tales did justice to her observations; but Zechariah came to lead a
pair of Alderney cows which Old Whateley had bought of his son Curtis. This
marked the beginning of a course of cattle-buying on the part of small Wilbur's
family which ended only in 1928, when the Dunwich horror came and went; yet at
no time did the ramshackle Wateley team seem overcrowded with livestock. There
came a period when people were curious enough to steal up and count the herd
that grazed precariously on the steep hillside above the old farm-house, and
they could never find more than ten or twelve anaemic, bloodless-looking
specimens. Evidently some blight or distemper, perhaps sprung from the
unwholesome pasturage or the diseased fungi and timbers of the filthy barn,
caused a heavy mortality amongst the Whateley animals. Odd wounds or sores,
having something of the aspect of incisions, seemed to afflict the visible
cattle; and once or twice during the earlier months certain callers fancied they
could discern similar sores about the throats of the grey, unshaven old man and
his slattemly, crinkly-haired albino daughter.
In the spring after Wilbur's birth Lavinia resumed her customary rambles in the
hills, bearing in her misproportioned arms the swarthy child. Public interest in
the Whateley's subsided after most of the country folk had seen the baby, and no
one bothered to comment on the swift development which that newcomer seemed
every day to exhibit. Wilbur's growth was indeed phenomenal, for within three
months of his birth he had attained a size and muscular power not usually found
in infants under a full year of age. His motions and even his vocal sounds
showed a restraint and deliberateness highly peculiar in an infant, and no one
was really unprepared when, at seven months, he began to walk unassisted, with
falterings which another month was sufficient to remove.
It was somewhat after this time - on Hallowe'en - that a great blaze was seen at
midnight on the top of Sentinel Hill where the old table-like stone stands
amidst its tumulus of ancient bones. Considerable talk was started when Silas
Bishop - of the undecayed Bishops - mentioned having seen the boy running
sturdily up that hill ahead of his mother about an hour before the blaze was
remarked. Silas was rounding up a stray heifer, but he nearly forgot his mission
when he fleetingly spied the two figures in the dim light of his lantern. They
darted almost noiselessly through the underbrush, and the astonished watcher
seemed to think they were entirely unclothed. Afterwards he could not be sure
about the boy, who may have had some kind of a fringed belt and a pair of dark
trunks or trousers on. Wilbur was never subsequently seen alive and conscious
without complete and tightly buttoned attire, the disarrangement or threatened
disarrangement of which always seemed to fill him with anger and alarm. His
contrast with his squalid mother and grandfather in this respect was thought
very notable until the horror of 1928 suggested the most valid of reasons.
The next January gossips were mildly interested in the fact that 'Lavinny's
black brat' had commenced to talk, and at the age of only eleven months. His
speech was somewhat remarkable both because of in difference from the ordinary
accents of the region, and because it displayed a freedom from infantile lisping
of which many children of three or four might well be proud. The boy was not
talkative, yet when he spoke he seemed to reflect some elusive element wholly
unpossessed by Dunwich and its denizens. The strangeness did not reside in what
he said, or even in the simple idioms he used; but seemed vaguely linked with
his intonation or with the internal organs that produced the spoken sounds. His
facial aspect, too, was remarkable for its maturity; for though he shared his
mother's and grandfather's chinlessness, his firm and precociously shaped nose
united with the expression of his large, dark, almost Latin eyes to give him an
air of quasi-adulthood and well-nigh preternatural intelligence. He was,
however, exceedingly ugly despite his appearance of brilliancy; there being
something almost goatish or animalistic about his thick lips, large-pored,
yellowish skin, coarse crinkly hair, and oddly elongated ears. He was soon
disliked even more decidedly than his mother and grandsire, and all conjectures
about him were spiced with references to the bygone magic of Old Whateley, and
how the hills once shook when he shrieked the dreadful name of Yog-Sothoth in
the midst of a circle of stones with a great book open in his arms before him.
Dogs abhorred the boy, and he was always obliged to take various defensive
measures against their barking menace.
III.


Meanwhile Old Whateley continued to buy cattle without measurably increasing the
size of his herd. He also cut timber and began to repair the unused parts of his
house - a spacious, peak-roofed affair whose rear end was buried entirely in the
rocky hillside, and whose three least-ruined ground-floor rooms had always been
sufficient for himself and his daughter.
There must have been prodigious reserves of strength in the old man to enable
him to accomplish so much hard labour; and though he still babbled dementedly at
times, his carpentry seemed to show the effects of sound calculation. It had
already begun as soon as Wilbur was born,when one of the many tool sheds had
been put suddenly in order, clapboarded, and fitted with a stout fresh lock.
Now, in restoring the abandoned upper storey of the house, he was a no less
thorough craftsman. His mania showed itself only in his tight boarding-up of all
the windows in the reclaimed section - though many declared that it was a crazy
thing to bother with the reclamation at all.
Less inexplicable was his fitting up of another downstairs room for his new
grandson - a room which several callers saw, though no one was ever admitted to
the closely-boarded upper storey. This chamber he lined with tall, firm
shelving, along which he began gradually to arrange, in apparently careful
order, all the rotting ancient books and parts of books which during his own day
had been heaped promiscuously in odd corners of the various rooms.
'I made some use of 'em,' he would say as he tried to mend a torn black-letter
page with paste prepared on the rusty kitchen stove, 'but the boy's fitten to
make better use of 'em. He'd orter hev 'em as well so as he kin, for they're
goin' to be all of his larnin'.'
When Wilbur was a year and seven months old - in September of 1914 - his size
and accomplishments were almost alarming. He had grown as large as a child of
four, and was a fluent and incredibly intelligent talker. He ran freely about
the fields and hills, and accompanied his mother on all her wanderings. At home
he would pore dilligently over the queer pictures and charts in his
grandfather's books, while Old Whateley would instruct and catechize him through
long, hushed afternoons. By this time the restoration of the house was finished,
and those who watched it wondered why one of the upper windows had been made
into a solid plank door. It was a window in the rear of the east gable end,
close against the hill; and no one could imagine why a cleated wooden runway was
built up to it from the ground. About the period of this work's completion
people noticed that the old tool-house, tightly locked and windowlessly
clapboarded since Wilbur's birth, had been abandoned again. The door swung
listlessly open, and when Earl Sawyer once stepped within after a cattle-selling
call on Old Whateley he was quite discomposed by the singular odour he
encountered - such a stench, he averred, as he had never before smelt in all his
life except near the Indian circles on the hills, and which could not come from
anything sane or of this earth. But then, the homes and sheds of Dunwich folk
have never been remarkable for olfactory immaculateness.
The following months were void of visible events, save that everyone swore to a
slow but steady increase in the mysterious hill noises. On May Eve of 1915 there
were tremors which even the Aylesbury people felt, whilst the following
Hallowe'en produced an underground rumbling queerly synchronized with bursts of
flame - 'them witch Whateleys' doin's' - from the summit of Sentinel Hill.
Wilbur was growing up uncannily, so that he looked like a boy of ten as he
entered his fourth year. He read avidly by himself now; but talked much less
than formerly. A settled taciturnity was absorbing him, and for the first time
people began to speak specifically of the dawning look of evil in his goatish
face. He would sometimes mutter an unfamiliar jargon, and chant in bizarre
rhythms which chilled the listener with a sense of unexplainable terror. The
aversion displayed towards him by dogs had now become a matter of wide remark,
and he was obliged to carry a pistol in order to traverse the countryside in
safety. His occasional use of the weapon did not enhance his popularity amongst
the owners of canine guardians.
The few callers at the house would often find Lavinia alone on the ground floor,
while odd cries and footsteps resounded in the boarded-up second storey. She
would never tell what her father and the boy were doing up there, though once

she turned pale and displayed an abnormal degree of fear was a jocose
fish-pedlar tried the locked door leading to the stairway. That pedlar told the
store loungers at Dunwich Village that he thought he heard a horse stamping on
that floor above. The loungers reflected, thinking of the door and runway, and
of the cattle that so swiftly disappeared. Then they shuddered as they recalled
tales of Old Whateley's youth, and of the strange things that are called out of
the earth when a bullock is sacrificed at the proper time to certain heathen
gods. It had for some time been noticed that dogs had begun to hate and fear the
whole Whateley place as violently as they hated and feared young Wilbur
personally.
In 1917 the war came, and Squire Sawyer Whateley, as chairman of the local draft
board, had hard work finding a quota of young Dunwich men fit even to be sent to
development camp. The government, alarmed at such signs of wholesale regional
decadence, sent several officers and medical experts to investigate; conducting
a survey which New England newspaper readers may still recall. It was the
publicity attending this investigation which set reporters on the track of the
Whateleys, and caused the Boston Globe and Arkham Advertiser to print flamboyant
Sunday stories of young Wilbur's precociousness, Old Whateley's black magic, and
the shelves of strange books, the sealed second storey of the ancient farmhouse,
and the weirdness of the whole region and its hill noises. Wilbur was four and a
half then, and looked like a lad of fifteen. His lips and cheeks were fuzzy with
a coarse dark down, and his voice had begun to break.
Earl Sawyer went out to the Whateley place with both sets of reporters and
camera men, and called their attention to the queer stench which now seemed to
trickle down from the sealed upper spaces. It was, he said, exactly like a smell
he had found in the toolshed abandoned when the house was finally repaired; and
like the hint odours which he sometimes thought he caught near the stone circle
on the mountains. Dunwich folk read the stories when they appeared, and grinned
over the obvious mistakes. They wondered, too, why the writers made so much of
the fact that Old Whateley always paid for his cattle in gold pieces of
extremely ancient date. The Whateleys had received their visitors with
ill-concealed distaste, though they did not dare court further publicity by a
violent resistance or refusal to talk.
IV.
For a decade the annals of the Whateleys sink indistinguishably into the general
life of a morbid community used to their queer ways and hardened to their May
Eve and All-Hallows orgies. Twice a year they would light fires on the top of
Sentinel Hill, at which times the mountain rumblings would recur with greater
and greater violence; while at all seasons there were strange and portentous
doings at the lonely farm-house. In the course of time callers professed to hear
sounds in the sealed upper storey even when all the family were downstairs, and
they wondered how swiftly or how lingeringly a cow or bullock was usually
sacrificed. There was tally of a complaint to the Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Animals but nothing ever came of it, since Dunwich folk are never
anxious to call the outside world's attention to themselves.
About 1923, when Wilbur was a boy of ten whose mind, voice, stature, and bearded
face gave all the impressions of maturity, a second great siege of carpentry
went on at the old house. It was all inside the sealed upper part, and from bits
of discarded lumber people concluded that the youth and his grandfather had
knocked out all the partitions and even removed the attic floor, leaving only
one vast open void between the ground storey and the peaked roof. They had torn
down the great central chimney, too, and fitted the rusty range with a flimsy
outside tin stove-pipe.
In the spring after this event Old Whateley noticed the growing number of
whippoorwills that would come out of Cold Spring Glen to chirp under his window
at night. He seemed to regard the circumstance as one of great significance, and
told the loungers at Osborn's that he thought his time had almost come.
'They whistle jest in tune with my breathin' naow,' he said, 'an' I guess
they're gittin' ready to ketch my soul. They know it's a-goin' aout, an' dun't
calc'late to miss it. Yew'll know, boys, arter I'm gone, whether they git me er
not. Ef they dew, they'll keep up a-singin' an' lapin' till break o' day. Ef
they dun't they'll kinder quiet daown like. I expeck them an' the souls they
hunts fer hev some pretty tough tussles sometimes.'
On Larnmas Night, 1924, Dr Houghton of Aylesbury was hastily summoned by Wilbur
Whateley, who had lashed his one remaining horse through the darkness and
telephoned from Osborn's in the village. He found Old Whateley in a very grave
state, with a cardiac action and stertorous breathing that told of an end not
far off. The shapeless albino daughter and oddly bearded grandson stood by the
bedside, whilst from the vacant abyss overhead there came a disquieting
suggestion of rhythmical surging or lapping, as of the waves on some level
beach. The doctor, though, was chiefly disturbed by the chattering night birds
outside; a seemingly limitless legion of whippoorwills that cried their endless
message in repetitions timed diabolically to the wheezing gasps of the dying
man. It was uncanny and unnatural - too much, thought Dr Houghton, like the
whole of the region he had entered so reluctantly in response to the urgent
call.
Towards one o'clock Old Whateley gained consciousness, and interrupted his
wheezing to choke out a few words to his grandson.
'More space, Willy, more space soon. Yew grows- an' that grows faster. It'll be
ready to serve ye soon, boy. Open up the gates to Yog-Sothoth with the long
chant that ye'll find on page 751 of the complete edition, an then put a match
to the prison. Fire from airth can't burn it nohaow.'
He was obviously quite mad. After a pause, during which the flock of
whippoorwills outside adjusted their cries to the altered tempo while some
indications of the strange hill noises came from afar off, he added another
sentence or two.
'Feed it reg'lar, Willy, an' mind the quantity; but dun't let it grow too fast
fer the place, fer ef it busts quarters or gits aout afore ye opens to
Yog-Sothoth, it's all over an' no use. Only them from beyont kin make it
multiply an' work... Only them, the old uns as wants to come back...'
But speech gave place to gasps again, and Lavinia screamed at the way the
whippoorwills followed the change. It was the same for more than an hour, when
the final throaty rattle came. Dr Houghton drew shrunken lids over the glazing
grey eyes as the tumult of birds faded imperceptibly to silence. Lavinia sobbed,
but Wilbur only chuckled whilst the hill noises rumbled faintly.
'They didn't git him,' he muttered in his heavy bass voice.
Wilbur was by this time a scholar of really tremendous erudition in his
one-sided way, and was quietly known by correspondence to many librarians in
distant places where rare and forbidden books of old days are kept. He was more
and more hated and dreaded around Dunwich because of certain youthful
disappearances which suspicion laid vaguely at his door; but was always able to
silence inquiry through fear or through use of that fund of old-time gold which
still, as in his grandfather's time, went forth regularly and increasingly for
cattle-buying. He was now tremendously mature of aspect, and his height, having
reached the normal adult limit, seemed inclined to wax beyond that figure. In
1925, when a scholarly correspondent from Miskatonic University called upon him
one day and departed pale and puzzled, he was fully six and three-quarters feet
tall.
Through all the years Wilbur had treated his half-deformed albino mother with a
growing contempt, finally forbidding her to go to the hills with him on May Eve
and Hallowmass; and in 1926 the poor creature complained to Mamie Bishop of
being afraid of him.
'They's more abaout him as I knows than I kin tell ye, Mamie,' she said, 'an'
naowadays they's more nor what I know myself. I vaow afur Gawd, I dun't know
what he wants nor what he's a-tryin' to dew.'
That Hallowe'en the hill noises sounded louder than ever, and fire burned on
Sentinel Hill as usual; but people paid more attention to the rhythmical
screaming of vast flocks of unnaturally belated whippoorwills which seemed to be
assembled near the unlighted Whateley farmhouse. After midnight their shrill
notes burst into a kind of pandemoniac cachinnation which filled all the
countryside, and not until dawn did they finally quiet down. Then they vanished,
hurrying southward where they were fully a month overdue. What this meant, no
one could quite be certain till later. None of the countryfolk seemed to have
died - but poor Lavinia Whateley, the twisted albino, was never seen again.
In the summer of 1927 Wilbur repaired two sheds in the farmyard and began moving
his books and effects out to them. Soon afterwards Earl Sawyer told the loungers
at Osborn's that more carpentry was going on in the Whateley farmhouse. Wilbur
was closing all the doors and windows on the ground floor, and seemed to be
taking out partitions as he and his grandfather had done upstairs four years
before. He was living in one of the sheds, and Sawyer thought he seemed
unusually worried and tremulous. People generally suspected him of knowing
something about his mother disappearance, and very few ever approached his
neighbourhood now. His height had increased to more than seven feet, and showed
no signs of ceasing its development.
V.
The following winter brought an event no less strange than Wilbur's first trip
outside the Dunwich region. Correspondence with the Widener Library at Harvard,
the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, the British Museum, the University of
Buenos Ayres, and the Library of Miskatonic University at Arkham had failed to
get him the loan of a book he desperately wanted; so at length he set out in
person, shabby, dirty, bearded, and uncouth of dialect, to consult the copy at
Miskatonic, which was the nearest to him geographically. Almost eight feet tall,
and carrying a cheap new valise from Osborne's general store, this dark and
goatish gargoyle appeared one day in Arkham in quest of the dreaded volume kept
under lock and key at the college library - the hideous Necronomicon of the mad
Arab Abdul Alhazred in Olaus Wormius' Latin version, as printed in Spain in the
seventeenth century. He had never seen a city before, but had no thought save to
find his way to the university grounds; where indeed, he passed heedlessly by
the great white-fanged watchdog that barked with unnatural fury and enmity, and
tugged frantically at its stout chaim.
Wilbur had with him the priceless but imperfect copy of Dr Dee's English version
which his grandfather had bequeathed him, and upon receiving access to the Latin
copy he at once began to collate the two texts with the aim of discovering a
certain passage which would have come on the 751st page of his own defective
volume. This much he could not civilly refrain from telling the librarian - the
same erudite Henry Armitage (A.M. Miskatonic, Ph.D. Princeton, Litt.D. Johns
Hopkins) who had once called at the farm, and who now politely plied him with
questions. He was looking, he had to admit, for a kind of formula or incantation
containing the frightful name Yog-Sothoth, and it puzzled him to find
discrepancies, duplications, and ambiguities which made the matter of
determination far from easy. As he copied the formula he finally chose, Dr
Armitage looked involuntarily over his shoulder at the open pages; the left-hand
one of which, in the Latin version, contained such monstrous threats to the
peace and sanity of the world.
Nor is it to be thought (ran the text as Armitage mentally translated it) 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, undimensioned 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 engraver, but who bath 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.
Dr. Annitage, associating what he was reading with what he had heard of Dunwich
and its brooding presences, and of Wilbur Whateley and his dim, hideous aura
that stretched from a dubious birth to a cloud of probable matricide, felt a
wave of fright as tangible as a draught of the tomb's cold clamminess. The bent,
goatish giant before him seemed like the spawn of another planet or dimension;
like something only partly of mankind, and linked to black gulfs of essence and
entity that stretch like titan phantasms beyond all spheres of force and matter,
space and time. Presently Wilbur raised his head and began speaking in that
strange, resonant fashion which hinted at sound-producing organs unlike the run
of mankind's.
'Mr Armitage,' he said, 'I calc'late I've got to take that book home. They's
things in it I've got to try under sarten conditions that I can't git here, en'
it 'ud be a mortal sin to let a red-tape rule hold me up. Let me take it along,
Sir, an' I'll swar they wun't nobody know the difference. I dun't need to tell
ye I'll take good keer of it. It wan't me that put this Dee copy in the shape it
is...'
He stopped as he saw firm denial on the librarian's face, and his own goatish
features grew crafty. Armitage, half-ready to tell him he might make a copy of
what parts he needed, thought suddenly of the possible consequences and checked
himself. There was too much responsibility in giving such a being the key to
such blasphemous outer spheres. Whateley saw how things stood, and tried to
answer lightly.
'Wal, all right, ef ye feel that way abaout it. Maybe Harvard won't be so fussy
as yew be.' And without saying more he rose and strode out of the building,
stooping at each doorway.
Armitage heard the savage yelping of the great watchdog, and studied Whateley's
gorilla-like lope as he crossed the bit of campus visible from the window. He
thought of the wild tales he had heard, and recalled the old Sunday stories in
the Advertiser; these things, and the lore he had picked up from Dunwich rustics
and villagers during his one visit there. Unseen things not of earth - or at
least not of tridimensional earth - rushed foetid and horrible through New
England's glens, and brooded obscenely on the mountain tops. Of this he had long
fat certain. Now he seemed to sense the close presence of some terrible part of
the intruding horror, and to glimpse a hellish advance in the black dominion of
the ancient and once passive nightmare. He locked away the Necronomicon with a
shudder of disgust, but the room still reeked with an unholy and unidentifiable
stench. 'As a foulness shall ye know them,' he quoted. Yes - the odour was the
same as that which had sickened him at the Whateley farmhouse less than three
years before. He thought of Wilbur, goatish and ominous, once again, and laughed
mockingly at the village rumours of his parentage.
'Inbreeding?' Armitage muttered half-aloud to himself. 'Great God, what
simpletons! Show them Arthur Machen's Great God Pan and they'll think it a
common Dunwich scandal! But what thing - what cursed shapeless influence on or
off this three-dimensional earth - was Wilbur Whateley's father? Born on
Candlemas - nine months after May Eve of 1912, when the talk about the queer
earth noises reached clear to Arkham - what walked on the mountains that May
night? What Roodmas horror fastened itself on the world in half-human flesh and
blood?'
During the ensuing weeks Dr Armitage set about to collect all possible data on
Wilbur Whateley and the formless presences around Dunwich. He got in
communication with Dr Houghton of Aylesbury, who had attended Old Whateley in
his last illness, and found much to ponder over in the grandfatter's last words
as quoted by the physician. A visit to Dunwich Village failed to bring out much
that was new; but a close survey of the Necronomicon, in those parts which
Wilbur had sought so avidly, seemed to supply new and terrible clues to the
nature, methods, and desires of the strange evil so vaguely threatening this
planet. Talks with several students of archaic lore in Boston, and letters to
many others elsewhere, gave him a growing amazement which passed slowly through
varied degrees of alarm to a state of really acute spiritual fear. As the summer
drew on he felt dimly that something ought to be done about the lurking terrors
of the upper Miskatonic valley, and about the monstrous being known to the human
world as Wilbur Whateley.
VI.
The Dunwich horror itself came between Lammas and the equinox in 1928, and Dr
Armitage was among those who witnessed its monstrous prologue. He had heard,
meanwhile, of Whateley's grotesque trip to Cambridge, and of his frantic efforts
to borrow or copy from the Necronomicon at the Widener Library. Those efforts
had been in vain, since Armitage had issued warnings of the keenest intensity to
all librarians having charge of the dreaded volume. Wilbur had been shockingly
nervous at Cambridge; anxious for the book, yet almost equally anxious to get
home again, as if he feared the results of being away long.
Early in August the half-expected outcome developed, and in the small hours of
the third Dr Armitage was awakened suddenly by the wild, fierce cries of the
savage watchdog on the college campus. Deep and terrible, the snarling, half-mad
growls and barks continued; always in mounting volume, but with hideously
significant pauses. Then there rang out a scream from a wholly different throat
- such a scream as roused half the sleepers of Arkham and haunted their dreams
ever afterwards - such a scream as could come from no being born of earth, or
wholly of earth.
Armitage, hastening into some clothing and rushing across the street and lawn to
the college buildings, saw that others were ahead of him; and heard the echoes
of a burglar-alarm still shrilling from the library. An open window showed black
and gaping in the moonlight. What had come had indeed completed its entrance;
for the barking and the screaming, now fast fading into a mixed low growling and
moaning, proceeded unmistakably from within. Some instinct warned Armitage that
what was taking place was not a thing for unfortified eyes to see, so he brushed
back the crowd with authority as he unlocked the vestibule door. Among the
others he saw Professor Warren Rice and Dr Francis Morgan, men to whom he had
told some of his conjectures and misgivings; and these two he motioned to
accompany him inside. The inward sounds, except for a watchful, droning whine
from the dog, had by this time quite subsided; but Armitage now perceived with a
sudden start that a loud chorus of whippoorwills among the shrubbery had
commenced a damnably rhythmical piping, as if in unison with the last breaths of
a dying man.
The building was full of a frightful stench which Dr Armitage knew too well, and
the three men rushed across the hall to the small genealogical reading-room
whence the low whining came. For a second nobody dared to turn on the light,
then Armitage summoned up his courage and snapped the switch. One of the three -
it is not certain which - shrieked aloud at what sprawled before them among
disordered tables and overturned chairs. Professor Rice declares that he wholly
lost consciousness for an instant, though he did not stumble or fall.
The thing that lay half-bent on its side in a foetid pool of greenish-yellow
ichor and tarry stickiness was almost nine feet tall, and the dog had torn off
all the clothing and some of the slain. It was not quite dead, but twitched
silently and spasmodically while its chest heaved in monstrous unison with the
mad piping of the expectant whippoorwills outside. Bits of shoe-leather and
fragments of apparel were scattered about the room, and just inside the window
an empty canvas sack lay where it had evidently been thrown. Near the central
desk a revolver had fallen, a dented but undischarged cartridge later explaining
why it had not been fired. The thing itself, however, crowded out all other
images at the time. It would be trite and not wholly accurate to say that no
human pen could describe it, but one may properly say that it could not be
vividly visualized by anyone whose ideas of aspect and contour are too closely
bound up with the common life-forms of this planet and of the three known
dimensions. It was partly human, beyond a doubt, with very manlike hands and
head, and the goatish, chinless face had the stamp of the Whateley's upon it.
But the torso and lower parts of the body were teratologically fabulous, so that
only generous clothing could ever have enabled it to walk on earth unchallenged
or uneradicated.
Above the waist it was semi-anthropomorphic; though its chest, where the dog's
rending paws still rested watchfully, had the leathery, reticulated hide of a
crocodile or alligator. The back was piebald with yellow and black, and dimly
suggested the squamous covering of certain snakes.Below the waist, though, it
was the worst; for here all human resemblance left off and sheer phantasy began.
The skin was thickly covered with coarse black fur, and from the abdomen a score
of long greenish-grey tentacles with red sucking mouths protruded limply.
Their arrangement was odd, and seemed to follow the symmetries of some cosmic
geometry unknown to earth or the solar system. On each of the hips, deep set in
a kind of pinkish, ciliated orbit, was what seemed to be a rudimentary eye;
whilst in lieu of a tail there depended a kind of trunk or feeler with purple
annular markings, and with many evidences of being an undeveloped mouth or
throat. The limbs, save for their black fur, roughly resembled the hind legs of
prehistoric earth's giant saurians, and terminated in ridgy-veined pads that
were neither hooves nor claws. When the thing breathed, its tail and tentacles
rhythmically changed colour, as if from some circulatory cause normal to the
non-human greenish tinge, whilst in the tail it was manifest as a yellowish
appearance which alternated with a sickly grayish-white in the spaces between
the purple rings. Of genuine blood there was none; only the foetid
greenish-yellow ichor which trickled along the painted floor beyond the radius
of the stickiness, and left a curious discoloration behind it.
As the presence of the three men seemed to rouse the dying thing, it began to
mumble without turning or raising its head. Dr Armitage made no written record
of its mouthings, but asserts confidently that nothing in English was uttered.
At first the syllables defied all correlation with any speech of earth, but
towards the last there came some disjointed fragments evidently taken from the
Necronomicon, that monstrous blasphemy in quest of which the thing had perished.
These fragments, as Armitage recalls them, ran something like 'N'gai,
n'gha'ghaa, bugg-shoggog, y'hah: Yog-Sothoth, Yog-Sothoth ...' They trailed off
into nothingness as the whippoorwills shrieked in rhythmical crescendos of
unholy anticipation.
Then came a halt in the gasping, and the dog raised its head in a long,
lugubrious howl. A change came over the yellow, goatish face of the prostrate
thing, and the great black eyes fell in appallingly. Outside the window the
shrilling of the whippoorwills had suddenly ceased, and above the murmurs of the
gathering crowd there came the sound of a panic-struck whirring and fluttering.
Against the moon vast clouds of feathery watchers rose and raced from sight,
frantic at that which they had sought for prey.
All at once the dog started up abruptly, gave a frightened bark, and leaped
nervously out of the window by which it had entered. A cry rose from the crowd,
and Dr Armitage shouted to the men outside that no one must be admitted till the
police or medical examiner came. He was thankful that the windows were just too
high to permit of peering in, and drew the dark curtains carefully down over
each one. By this time two policemen had arrived; and Dr Morgan, meeting them in
the vestibule, was urging them for their own sakes to postpone entrance to the
stench-filled reading-room till the examiner came and the prostrate thing could
be covered up.
Meanwhile frightful changes were taking place on the floor. One need not
describe the kind and rate of shrinkage and disintegration that occurred before
the eyes of Dr Armitage and Professor Rice; but it is permissible to say that,
aside from the external appearance of face and hands, the really human element
in Wilbur Whateley must have been very small. When the medical examiner came,
there was only a sticky whitish mass on the painted boards, and the monstrous
odour had nearly disappeared. Apparently Whateley had had no skull or bony
skeleton; at least, in any true or stable sense. He had taken somewhat after his
unknown father.
VII.
Yet all this was only the prologue of the actual Dunwich horror. Formalities
were gone through by bewildered officials, abnormal details were duly kept from
press and public, and men were sent to Dunwich and Aylesbury to look up property
and notify any who might be heirs of the late Wilbur Whateley. They found the
countryside in great agitation, both because of the growing rumblings beneath
the domed hills, and because of the unwonted stench and the surging, lapping
sounds which came increasingly from the great empty shell formed by Whateley's
boarded-up farmhouse. Earl Sawyer, who tended the horse and cattle during
Wilbur's absence, had developed a woefully acute case of nerves. The officials
devised excuses not to enter the noisome boarded place; and were glad to confine
their survey of the deceased's living quarters, the newly mended sheds, to a
single visit. They filed a ponderous report at the courthouse in Aylesbury, and
litigations concerning heirship are said to be still in progress amongst the
innumerable Whateleys, decayed and undecayed, of the upper Miskatonic valley.
An almost interminable manuscript in strange characters, written in a huge
ledger and adjudged a sort of diary because of the spacing and the variations in
ink and penmanship, presented a baffling puzzle to those who found it on the old
bureau which served as its owner's desk. After a week of debate it was sent to
Miskatonic University, together with the deceased's collection of strange books,
for study and possible translation; but even the best linguists soon saw that it
was not likely to be unriddled with ease. No trace of the ancient gold with
which Wilbur and Old Whateley had always paid their debts has yet been
discovered.
It was in the dark of September ninth that the horror broke loose. The hill
noises had been very pronounced during the evening, and dogs barked frantically
all night. Early risers on the tenth noticed a peculiar stench in the air. About
seven o'clock Luther Brown, the hired boy at George Corey's, between Cold Spring
Glen and the village, rushed frenziedly back from his morning trip to Ten-Acre
Meadow with the cows. He was almost convulsed with fright as he stumbled into
the kitchen; and in the yard outside the no less frightened herd were pawing and
lowing pitifully, having followed the boy back in the panic they shared with
him. Between gasps Luther tried to stammer out his tale to Mrs Corey.
'Up thar in the rud beyont the glen, Mis' Corey - they's suthin' ben thar! It
smells like thunder, an' all the bushes an' little trees is pushed back from the
red like they'd a haouse ben moved along of it. An' that ain't the wust, nuther.
They's prints in the rud, Mis' Corey - great raound prints as big as
barrel-heads, all sunk dawon deep like a elephant had ben along, only they's a
sight more nor four feet could make! I looked at one or two afore I run, an' I
see every one was covered with lines spreadin' aout from one place, like as if
big palm-leaf fans - twict or three times as big as any they is - hed of ben
paounded dawon into the rud. An' the smell was awful, like what it is around
Wizard Whateley's ol' haouse...'
Here he faltered, and seemed to shiver afresh with the fright that had sent him
flying home. Mrs Corey, unable to extract more information, began telephoning
the neighbours; thus starting on its rounds the overture of panic that heralded
the major terrors. When she got Sally Sawyer, housekeeper at Seth Bishop's, the
nearest place to Whateley's, it became her turn to listen instead of transmit;
for Sally's boy Chauncey, who slept poorly, had been up on the hill towards
Whateley's, and had dashed back in terror after one look at the place, and at
the pasturage where Mr Bishop's cows had been left out all night.
'Yes, Mis' Corey,' came Sally's tremulous voice over the party wire, 'Cha'ncey
he just come back a-postin', and couldn't half talk fer bein' scairt! He says
Ol' Whateley's house is all bowed up, with timbers scattered raound like they'd
ben dynamite inside; only the bottom floor ain't through, but is all covered
with a kind o' tar-like stuff that smells awful an' drips daown often the aidges
onto the graoun' whar the side timbers is browed away. An' they's awful kinder
marks in the yard, tew - great raound marks bigger raound than a hogshead, an'
all sticky with stuff like is on the browed-up haouse. Cha'ncey he says they
leads off into the medders, whar a great swath wider'n a barn is matted daown,
an' all the stun walls tumbled every whichway wherever it goes.
'An' he says, says he, Mis' Corey, as haow he sot to look fer Seth's caows,
frightened ez he was an' faound 'em in the upper pasture nigh the Devil's Hop
Yard in an awful shape. Half on 'em's clean gone, an' nigh haff o' them that's
left is sucked most dry o' blood, with sores on 'em like they's ben on Whateleys
cattle ever senct Lavinny's black brat was born. Seth hes gone aout naow to look
at 'em, though I'll vaow he won't keer ter git very nigh Wizard Whateley's!
Cha'ncey didn't look keerful ter see whar the big matted-daown swath led arter
it lef the pasturage, but he says he thinks it p'inted towards the glen rud to
the village.
'I tell ye, Mis' Corey, they's suthin' abroad as hadn't orter be abroad, an' I
for one think that black Wilbur Whateley, as come to the bad end he deserved, is
at the bottom of the breedin' of it. He wa'n't all human hisself, I allus says
to everybody; an' I think he an' Ol' Whateley must a raised suthin' in that
there nailed-up haouse as ain't even so human as he was. They's allus ben unseen
things araound Dunwich - livin' things -as ain't human an' ain't good fer human
folks.
'The graoun' was a-talkie' las' night, an' towards mornin' Cha'ncey he heered
the whippoorwills so laoud in Col' Spring Glen he couldn't sleep nun. Then he
thought he heered another faint-like saound over towards Wizard Whateley's - a
kinder rippin' or tearin' o' wood, like some big box er crate was bin' opened
fur off. What with this an' that, he didn't git to sleep at all till sunup, an'
no sooner was he up this mornin', but he's got to go over to Whateley's an' see
what's the matter. He see enough I tell ye, Mis' Corey! This dun't mean no good,
an' I think as all the men-folks ought to git up a party an' do suthin'. I know
suthin' awful's abaout, an' feel my time is nigh, though only Gawd knows jest
what it is.
'Did your Luther take accaount o' whar them big tracks led tew? No? Wal, Mis'
Corey, ef they was on the glen rud this side o' the glen, an' ain't got to your
haouse yet, I calc'late they must go into the glen itself. They would do that. I
allus says Col' Spring Glen ain't no healthy nor decent place. The whippoorwills
an' fireflies there never did act like they was creaters o' Gawd, an' they's
them as says ye kin hear strange things a-rushin' an' a-talkin' in the air dawon
thar ef ye stand in the right place, atween the rock falls an' Bear's Den.'
By that noon fully three-quarters of the men and boys of Dunwich were trooping
over the roads and meadows between the newmade Whateley ruins and Cold Spring
Glen, examining in horror the vast, monstrous prints, the maimed Bishop cattle,
the strange, noisome wreck of the farmhouse, and the Unused, matted vegetation
of the fields and roadside. Whatever had burst loose upon the world had
assuredly gone down into the great sinister ravine; for all the trees on the
banks were bent and broken, and a great avenue had been gouged in the precipice
- hanging underbrush. It was as though a house, launched by an avalanche, had
slid down through the tangled growths of the almost vertical slope. From below
no sound came, but only a distant, undefinable foetor; and it is not to be
wondered at that the men preferred to stay on the edge and argue, rather than
descend and beard the unknown Cyclopean horror in its lair. Three dogs that were
with the party had barked furiously at first, but seemed cowed and reluctant
when near the glen. Someone telephoned the news to the Aylesbury Transcript; but
the editor, accustomed to wild tales from Dunwich, did no more than concoct a
humorous paragraph about it; an item soon afterwards reproduced by the
Associated Press.
That night everyone went home, and every house and barn was barricaded as
stoutly as possible. Needless to say, no cattle were allowed to remain in open
pasturage. About two in the morning a frightful stench and the savage barking of
the dogs awakened the household at Elmer Frye's, on the eastern edge of Cold
Spring Glen, and all agreed that they could hear a sort of muffled swishing or
lapping sound from somewhere outside. Mrs Frye proposed telephoning the
neighbours, and Elmer was about to agree when the noise of splintering wood
burst in upon their deliberations. It came, apparently, from the barn; and was
quickly followed by a hideous screaming and stamping amongst the cattle. The
dogs slavered and crouched close to the feet of the fear-numbed family. Frye lit
a lantern through force of habit, but knew it would be death to go out into that
black farmyard. The children and the women-folk whimpered, kept from screaming
by some obscure, vestigial instinct of defence which told them their lives
depended on silence. At last the noise of the cattle subsided to a pitiful
moaning, and a great snapping, crashing, and crackling ensued. The Fryes,
huddled together in the sitting-room, did not dare to move until the last echoes
died away far down in Cold Spring Glen. Then, amidst the dismal moans from the
stable and the daemoniac piping of the late whippoorwills in the glen, Selina
Frye tottered to the telephone and spread what news she could of the second
phase of the horror.
The next day all the countryside was in a panic; and cowed, uncommunicative
groups came and went where the fiendish thing had occurred. Two titan swaths of
destruction stretched from the glen to the Frye farmyard, monstrous prints
covered the bare patches of ground, and one side of the old red barn had
completely caved in. Of the cattle, only a quarter could be found and
identified. Some of these were in curious fragments, and all that survived had
to be shot. Earl Sawyer suggested that help be asked from Aylesbury or Arkham,
but others maintained it would be of no use. Old Zebulon Whateley, of a branch
that hovered about halfway between soundness and decadence, made darkly wild
suggestions about rites that ought to be practiced on the hill-tops. He came of
a line where tradition ran strong, and his memories of chantings in the great
stone circles were not altogether connected with Wilbur and his grandfather.
Darkness fell upon a stricken countryside too passive to organize for real
defence. In a few cases closely related families would band together and watch
in the gloom under one roof; but in general there was only a repetition of the
barricading of the night before, and a futile, ineffective gesture of loading
muskets and setting pitchforks handily about. Nothing, however, occurred except
some hill noises; and when the day came there were many who hoped that the new
horror had gone as swiftly as it had come. There were even bold souls who
proposed an offensive expedition down in the glen, though they did not venture
to set an actual example to the still reluctant majority.
When night came again the barricading was repeated, though there was less
huddling together of families. In the morning both the Frye and the Seth Bishop
households reported excitement among the dogs and vague sounds and stenches from
afar, while early explorers noted with horror a fresh set of the monstrous
tracks in the road skirting Sentinel Hill. As before, the sides of the road
showed a bruising indicative of the blasphemously stupendous bulk of the horror;
whilst the conformation of the tracks seemed to argue a passage in two
directions, as if the moving mountain had come from Cold Spring Glen and
returned to it along the same path. At the base of the hill a thirty-foot swath
of crushed shrubbery saplings led steeply upwards, and the seekers gasped when
they saw that eves the most perpendicular places did not deflect the inexorable
trail. Whatever the horror was, it could scale a sheer stony cliff of almost
complete verticality; and as the investigators climbed round to the hill's
summit by safer routes they saw that the trail ended - or rather, reversed -
there.
It was here that the Whateleys used to build their hellish fires and chant their
hellish rituals by the table-like stone on May Eve and Hallowmass. Now that very
stone formed the centre of a vast space thrashed around by the mountainous
horror, whilst upon its slightly concave surface was a thick and foetid deposit
of the same tarry stickiness observed on the floor of the ruined Whateley
farmhouse when the horror escaped. Men looked at one another and muttered. Then
they looked down the hill. Apparently the horror had descended by a route much
the same as that of its ascent. To speculate was futile. Reason, logic, and
normal ideas of motivation stood confounded. Only old Zebulon, who was not with
the group, could have done justice to the situation or suggested a plausible
explanation.
Thursday night began much like the others, but it ended less happily. The
whippoorwills in the glen had screamed with such unusual persistence that many
could not sleep, and about 3 A.M. all the party telephones rang tremulously.
Those who took down their receivers heard a fright-mad voice shriek out, 'Help,
oh, my Gawd! ...' and some thought a crashing sound followed the breaking off of
the exclamation. There was nothing more. No one dared do anything, and no one
knew till morning whence the call came. Then those who had heard it called
everyone on the line, and found that only the Fryes did not reply. The truth
appeared an hour later, when a hastily assembled group of armed men trudged out
to the Frye place at the head of the glen. It was horrible, yet hardly a
surprise. There were more swaths and monstrous prints, but there was no longer
any house. It had caved in like an egg-shell, and amongst the ruins nothing
living or dead could be discovered. Only a stench and a tarry stickiness. The
Elmer Fryes had been erased from Dunwich.
VIII.
In the meantime a quieter yet even more spiritually poignant phase of the horror
had been blackly unwinding itself behind the closed door of a shelf-lined room
in Arkham. The curious manuscript record or diary o Wilbur Whateley, delivered
to Miskatonic University for translation had caused much worry and bafflement
among the experts in language both ancient and modern; its very alphabet,
notwithstanding a general resemblance to the heavily-shaded Arabic used in
Mesopotamia, being absolutely unknown to any available authority. The final
conclusion of the linguists was that the text represented an artificial
alphabet, giving the effect of a cipher; though none of the usual methods of
cryptographic solution seemed to furnish any clue, even when applied on the
basis of every tongue the writer might conceivably have used. The ancient books
taken from Whateley's quarters, while absorbingly interesting and in several
cases promising to open up new and terrible lines of research among philosophers
and men of science, were of no assistance whatever in this matter. One of them,
a heavy tome with an iron clasp, was in another unknown alphabet - this one of a
very different cast, and resembling Sanskrit more than anything else. The old
ledger was at length given wholly into the charge of Dr Armitage, both because
of his peculiar interest in the Whateley matter, and because of his wide
linguistic learning and skill in the mystical formulae of antiquity and the
middle ages.
Armitage had an idea that the alphabet might be something esoterically used by
certain forbidden cults which have come down from old times, and which have
inherited many forms and traditions from the wizards of the Saracenic world.
That question, however, he did not deem vital; since it would be unnecessary to
know the origin of the symbols if, as he suspected, they were used as a cipher
in a modern language. It was his belief that, considering the great amount of
text involved, the writer would scarcely have wished the trouble of using
another speech than his own, save perhaps in certain special formulae and
incantations. Accordingly he attacked the manuscript with the preliminary
assumption that the bulk of it was in English.
Dr Armitage knew, from the repeated failures of his colleagues, that the riddle
was a deep and complex one; and that no simple mode of solution could merit even
a trial. All through late August he fortified himself with the mass lore of
cryptography; drawing upon the fullest resources of his own library, and wading
night after night amidst the arcane of Trithemius' Poligraphia, Giambattista
Porta's De Furtivis Literarum Notis, De Vigenere's Traite des Chores, Falconer's
Cryptomenysis Patefacta, Davys' and Thicknesse's eighteenth-century treatises,
and such fairly modern authorities as Blair, van Marten and Kluber's script
itself, and in time became convinced that he had to deal with one of those
subtlest and most ingenious of cryptograms, in which many separate lists of
corresponding letters are arranged like the multiplication table, and the
message built up with arbitrary key-words known only to the initiated. The older
authorities seemed rather more helpful than the newer ones, and Armitage
concluded that the code of the manuscript was one of great antiquity, no doubt
handed down through a long line of mystical experimenters. Several times he
seemed near daylight, only to be set back by some unforeseen obstacle. Then, as
September approached, the clouds began to clear. Certain letters, as used in
certain parts of the manuscript, emerged definitely and unmistakably; and it
became obvious that the text was indeed in English.
On the evening of September second the last major barrier gave way, and Dr
Armitage read for the first time a continuous passage of Wilbur Whateley's
annals. It was in truth a diary, as all had thought; and it was couched in a
style clearly showing the mixed occult erudition and general illiteracy of the
strange being who wrote it. Almost the first long passage that Armitage
deciphered, an entry dated November 26, 1916, proved highly startling and
disquieting. It was written,he remembered,by a child of three and a half who
looked like a lad of twelve or thirteen.
Today learned the Aklo for the Sabaoth (it ran), which did not like, it being
answerable from the hill and not from the air. That upstairs more ahead of me
than I had thought it would be, and is not like to have much earth brain. Shot
Elam Hutchins's collie Jack when he went to bite me, and Elam says he would
kill me if he dast. I guess he won't. Grandfather kept me saying the Dho
formula last night, and I think I saw the inner city at the 2 magnetic poles.
I shall go to those poles when the earth is cleared off, if I can't break
through with the Dho-Hna formula when I commit it. They from the air told me
at Sabbat that it will be years before I can clear off the earth, and I guess
grandfather will be dead then, so I shall have to learn all the angles of the
planes and all the formulas between the Yr and the Nhhngr. They from outside
will help, but they cannot take body without human blood. That upstairs looks
it will have the right cast. I can see it a little when I make the Voorish
sign or blow the powder of Ibn Ghazi at it, and it is near like them at May
Eve on the Hill. The other face may wear off some. I wonder how I shall look
when the earth is cleared and there are no earth beings on it. He that came
with the Aklo Sabaoth said I may be transfigured there being much of outside
to work on.
Morning found Dr Armitage in a cold sweat of terror and a frenzy of wakeful
concentration. He had not left the manuscript all night, but sat at his table
under the electric light turning page after page with shaking hands as fast as
he could decipher the cryptic text. He had nervously telephoned his wife he
would not be home, and when she brought him a breakfast from the house he could
scarcely dispose of a mouthful. All that day he read on, now and then halted
maddeningly as a reapplication of the complex key became necessary. Lunch and
dinner were brought him, but he ate only the smallest fraction of either. Toward
the middle of the next night he drowsed off in his chair, but soon woke out of a
tangle of nightmares almost as hideous as the truths and menaces to man's
existence that he had uncovered.
On the morning of September fourth Professor Rice and Dr Morgan insisted on
seeing him for a while, and departed trembling and ashen-grey. That evening he
went to bed, but slept only fitfully. Wednesday - the next day - he was back at
the manuscript, and began to take copious notes both from the current sections
and from those he had already deciphered. In the small hours of that night he
slept a little in a easy chair in his office, but was at the manuscript again
before dawn. Some time before noon his physician, Dr Hartwell, called to see him
and insisted that he cease work. He refused; intimating that it was of the most
vital importance for him to complete the reading of the diary and promising an
explanation in due course of time. That evening, just as twilight fell, he
finished his terrible perusal and sank back exhausted. His wife, bringing his
dinner, found him in a half-comatose state; but he was conscious enough to warn
her off with a sharp cry when he saw her eyes wander toward the notes he had
taken. Weakly rising, he gathered up the scribbled papers and sealed them all in
a great envelope, which he immediately placed in his inside coat pocket. He had
sufficient strength to get home, but was so clearly in need of medical aid that
Dr Hartwell was summoned at once. As the doctor put him to bed he could only
mutter over and over again, 'But what, in God's name, can we do?'
Dr Armitage slept, but was partly delirious the next day. He made no
explanations to Hartwell, but in his calmer moments spoke of the imperative need
of a long conference with Rice and Morgan. His wilder wanderings were very
startling indeed, including frantic appeals that something in a boarded-up
farmhouse be destroyed, and fantastic references to some plan for the
extirpation of the entire human race and all animal and vegetable life from the
earth by some terrible elder race of beings from another dimension. He would
shout that the world was in danger, since the Elder Things wished to strip it
and drag it away from the solar system and cosmos of matter into some other
plane or phase of entity from which it had once fallen, vigintillions of aeons
ago. At other times he would call for the dreaded Necronomicon and the
Daemonolatreia of Remigius, in which he seemed hopeful of finding some formula
to check the peril he conjured up.
'Stop them, stop theml' he would shout. 'Those Whateleys meant to let them in,
and the worst of all is left! Tell Rice and Morgan we must do something - it's a
blind business, but I know how to make the powder... It hasn't been fed since
the second of August, when Wilbur came here to his death, and at that rate...'
But Armitage had a sound physique despite his seventy-three years, and slept off
his disorder that night without developing any real fever. He woke late Friday,
clear of head, though sober with a gnawing fear and tremendous sense of
responsibility. Saturday afternoon he felt able to go over to the library and
summon Rice and Morgan for a conference, and the rest of that day and evening
the three men tortured their brains in the wildest speculation and the most
desperate debate. Strange and terrible books were drawn voluminously from the
stack shelves and from secure places of storage; and diagrams and formulae were
copied with feverish haste and in bewildering abundance. Of scepticism there was
none. All three had seen the body of Wilbur Whateley as it lay on the floor in a
room of that very building, and after that not one of them could feel even
slightly inclined to treat the diary as a madman's raving.
Opinions were divided as to notifying the Massachusetts State Police, and the
negative finally won. There were things involved which simply could not be
believed by those who had not seen a sample, as indeed was made dear during
certain subsequent investigations. Late at night the conference disbanded
without having developed a definite plan, but all day Sunday Armitage was busy
comparing formulae and mixing chemicals obtained from the college laboratory.
The more he reflected on the hellish diary, the more he was inclined to doubt
the efficacy of any material agent in stamping out the entity which Wilbur
Whateley had left behind him - the earth threatening entity which, unknown to
him, was to burst forth in a few hours and become the memorable Dunwich horror.
Monday was a repetition of Sunday with Dr Armitage, for the task in hand
required an infinity of research and experiment. Further consultations of the
monstrous diary brought about various changes of plan, and he knew that even in
the end a large amount of uncertainty must remain. By Tuesday he had a definite
line of action mapped out, and believed he would try a trip to Dunwich within a
week. Then, on Wednesday, the great shock came. Tucked obscurely away in a
corner of the Arkham Advertiser was a facetious little item from the Associated
Press, telling what a record-breaking monster the bootleg whisky of Dunwich had
raised up. Armitage, half stunned, could only telephone for Rice and Morgan. Far
into the night they discussed, and the next day was a whirlwind of preparation
on the part of them all. Armitage knew he would be meddling with terrible
powers, yet saw that there was no other way to annul the deeper and more malign
meddling which others had done before him.
IX.
Friday morning Armitage, Rice, and Morgan set out by motor for Dunwich, arriving
at the village about one in the afternoon. The day was pleasant, but even in the
brightest sunlight a kind of quiet dread and portent seemed to hover about the
strangely domed hills and the deep, shadowy ravines of the stricken region. Now
and then on some mountain top a gaunt circle of stones could be glimpsed against
the sky. From the air of hushed fright at Osborn's store they knew something
hideous had happened, and soon learned of the annihilation of the Elmer Frye
house and family. Throughout that afternoon they rode around Dunwich,
questioning the natives concerning all that had occurred, and seeing for
themselves with rising pangs of horror the drear Frye ruins with their lingering
traces of the tarry stickiness, the blasphemous tracks in the Frye yard, the
wounded Seth Bishop cattle, and the enormous swaths of disturbed vegetation in
various places. The trail up and down Sentinel Hill seemed to Armitage of almost
cataclysmic significance, and he looked long at the sinister altar-like stone on
the summit.
At length the visitors, apprised of a party of State Police which had come from
Aylesbury that morning in response to the first telephone reports of the Frye
tragedy, decided to seek out the officers and compare notes as far as
practicable. This, however, they found more easily planned than performed; since
no sign of the party could be found in any direction. There had been five of
them in a car, but now the car stood empty near the ruins in the Frye yard. The
natives, all of whom had talked with the policemen, seemed at first as perplexed
as Armitage and his companions. Then old Sam Hutchins thought of something and
turned pale, nudging Fred Farr and pointing 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' noonday...'
A cold shudder ran through natives and visitors alike, and every ear seemed
strained in a kind of instinctive, unconscious listening. Armitage, now that he
had actually come upon the horror and its monstrous work, trembled with the
responsibility he felt to be his. Night would soon fall, and it was then that
the mountainous blasphemy lumbered upon its eldritch course. Negotium
perambuians in tenebris... The old librarian rehearsed the formulae he had
memorized, and clutched the paper containing the alternative one he had not
memorized. He saw that his electric flashlight was in working order. Rice,
beside him, took from a valise a metal sprayer of the sort used in combating
insects; whilst Morgan uncased the big-game rifle on which he relied despite his
colleague's warnings that no material weapon would be of help.
Armitage, having read the hideous diary, knew painfully well what kind of a
manifestation to expect; but he did not add to the fright of the Dunwich people
by giving any hints or clues. He hoped that it might be conquered without any
revelation to the world of the monstrous thing it had escaped. As the shadows
gathered, the natives commenced to disperse homeward, anxious to bar themselves
indoors despite the present evidence that all human locks and bolts were useless
before a force that could bend trees and crush houses when it chose. They shook
their heads at the visitors' plan to stand guard at the Frye ruins near the
glen; and, as they left, had little expectancy of ever seeing the watchers
again.
There were rumblings under the hills that night, and the whippoorwills piped
threateningly. Once in a while a wind, sweeping up out of Cold Spring Glen,
would bring a touch of ineffable foetor to the heavy night air; such a foetor as
all three of the watchers had smelled once before, when they stood above a dying
thing that had passed for fifteen years and a half as a human being. But the
looked-for terror did not appear. Whatever was down there in the glen was biding
its time, and Armitage told his colleagues it would be suicidal to try to attack
it in the dark.
Morning came wanly, and the night-sounds ceased. It was a grey, bleak day, with
now and then a drizzle of rain; and heavier and heavier clouds seemed to be
piling themselves up beyond the hills to the north-west. The men from Arkham
were undecided what to do. Seeking shelter from the increasing rainfall beneath
one of the few undestroyed Frye outbuildings, they debated the wisdom of
waiting, or of taking the aggressive and going down into the glen in quest of
their nameless, monstrous quarry. The downpour waxed in heaviness, and distant
peals of thunder sounded from far horizons. Sheet lightning shimmered, and then
a forky bolt flashed near at hand, as if descending into the accursed glen
itself. The sky grew very dark, and the watchers hoped that the storm would
prove a short, sharp one followed by clear weather.
It was still gruesomely dark when, not much over an hour later, a confused babel
of voices sounded down the road. Another moment brought to view a frightened
group of more than a dozen men, running, shouting, and even whimpering
hysterically. Someone in the lead began sobbing out words, and the Arkham men
started violently when those words developed a coherent form.
'Oh, my Gawd, my Gawd,' the voice choked out. 'It's a-goin' agin, an' this time
by day! It's aout - it's aout an' a-movin' this very minute, an' only the Lord
knows when it'll be on us all !'
The speaker panted into silence, but another took up his message.
'Nigh on a haour ago Zeb Whateley here heered the 'phone a-ringin', an' it was
Mis' Corey, George's wife, that lives daown by the junction. She says the hired
boy Luther was aout drivin' in the caows from the storm arter the big bolt, when
he see all the trees a-bendin' at the maouth o' the glen - opposite side ter
this - an' smelt the same awful smell like he smelt when he faound the big
tracks las' Monday mornin'. An' she says he says they was a swishin' lappin'
saound, more nor what the bendin' trees an' bushes could make, an' all on a
suddent the trees along the rod begun ter git pushed one side, an' they was a
awful stompin' an' splashin' in the mud. But mind ye, Luther he didn't see
nothin' at all, only just the bendin' trees en' underbrush.
'Then fur ahead where Bishop's Brook goes under the rud he heerd a awful
creakin' an' strainin' on the bridge, an' says he could tell the saound o' wood
a-startin' to crack an' split. An' all the whiles he never see a thing, only
them trees an' bushes a-bendin'. An' when the swishin' saound got very fur off -
on the rud towards Wizard Whateley's an' Sentinel Hill - Luther he had the guts
ter step up whar he'd heerd it fust an' look at the graound. It was all mud an'
water, an' the sky was dark, an' the rain was wipin' aout all tracks abaout as
fast as could be; but beginnin' at the glen maouth, whar the trees hed moved,
they was still some o' them awful prints big as bar'ls like he seen Monday.'
At this point the first excited speaker interrupted.
'But that ain't the trouble naow - that was only the start. Zeb here was callin'
folks up an' everybody was a-listenin' in when a call from Seth Bishop's cut in.
His haousekeeper Sally 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, like a
elephant puffin' an' treadin', a-headin' fer the haouse. Then she up an' spoke
suddent of a fearful smell, an' says her boy Cha'ncey was a-screamin' as haow it
was jest like what he smelt up to the Whateley rewins Monday mornin'. An' the
dogs was barkin' en' whinin' awful.
'An 'then she let aout a turrible yell, an' says the shed daown the red had jest
caved in like the storm bed browed it over, only he wind w'an't strong enough to
dew that. Everybody was a-listenin', an' we could hear lots o' folks on the wire
a-gaspin'. All to onct Sally she yelled again, an' says the front yard picket
fence bed just crumbled up, though they wa'n't no sign o' what done it. Then
everybody on the line could hear Cha'ncey an' old Seth Bishop a-yellin' few, an'
Sally was shriekin' aout that suthin' heavy hed struck the haouse - not
lightnin' nor nothin', but suthin' heavy again the front, that kep' a-launchin'
itself agin an' agin, though ye couldn't see nothin' aout the front winders. An'
then... an' then...'
Lines of fright deepened on every face; and Armitage, shaken as he was, had
barely poise enough to prompt the speaker.
'An' then.... Sally she yelled aout, "O help, the haouse is a-cavin' in... an'
on the wire we could hear a turrible crashin' an' a hull flock o' screaming...
jes like when Elmer Frye's place was took, only wuss...'
The man paused, and another of the crowd spoke.
'That's all - not a saound nor squeak over the 'phone arter that. Jest
still-like. We that heerd it got aout Fords an' wagons an' rounded up as many
able-bodied men-folks as we could git, at Corey's place, an' come up here ter
see what yew thought best ter dew. Not but what I think it's the Lord's jedgment
fer our iniquities, that no mortal kin ever set aside.'
Armitage saw that the time for positive action had come, and spoke decisively to
the faltering group of frightened rustics.
'We must follow it, boys.' He made his voice as reassuring as possible. 'I
believe there's a chance of putting it out of business. You men know that those
Whateleys were wizards - well, this thing is a thing of wizardry, and must be
put down by the same means. I've seen Wilbur Whateley's diary and read some of
the strange old books he used to read; and I think I know the right kind of
spell to recite to make the thing fade away. Of course, one can't be sure, but
we can always take a chance. It's invisible - I knew it would be - but there's
powder in this long-distance sprayer that might make it show up for a second.
Later on we'll try it. It's a frightful thing to have alive, but it isn't as bad
as what Wilbur would have let in if he'd lived longer. You'll never know what
the world escaped. Now we've only this one thing to fight, and it can't
multiply. It can, though, do a lot of harm; so we mustn't hesitate to rid the
community of it.
'We must follow it - and the way to begin is to go to the place that has just
been wrecked. Let somebody lead the way - I don't know your roads very well, but
I've an idea there might be a shorter cut across lots. How about it?"
The men shuffled about a moment, and then Earl Sawyer spoke softly, pointing
with a grimy finger through the steadily lessening rain.
'I guess ye kin git to Seth Bishop's quickest by cuttin' across the lower medder
here, wadin' the brook at the low place, an' climbin' through Carrier's mowin'
an' the timber-lot beyont. That comes aout on the upper rud mighty nigh Seth's -
a leetle t'other side.'
Armitage, with Rice and Morgan, started to walk in the direction indicated; and
most of the natives followed slowly. The sky was growing lighter, and there were
signs that the storm had worn itself away. When Armitage inadvertently took a
wrong direction, Joe Osbom warned him and walked ahead to show the right one.
Courage and confidence were mounting, though the twilight of the almost
perpendicular wooded hill which lay towards the end of their short cut, and
among whose fantastic ancient trees they had to scramble as if up a ladder, put
these qualities to a severe test.
At length they emerged on a muddy road to find the sun coming out. They were a
little beyond the Seth Bishop place, but bent trees and hideously unmistakable
tracks showed what had passed by. Only a few moments were consumed in surveying
the ruins just round the bend. It was the Frye incident all over again, and
nothing dead or living was found in either of the collapsed shells which had
been the Bishop house and team. No one cared to remain there amidst the stench
and tarry stickiness, but all fumed instinctively to the line of horrible prints
leading on towards the wrecked Whateley farmhouse and the altar-crowned slopes
of Sentinel Hill.
As the men passed the site of Wilbur Whateley's abode they shuddered visibly,
and seemed again to mix hesitancy with their zeal. It was no joke tracking down
something as big as a house that one could not see, but that had all the vicious
malevolence of a daemon. Opposite the base of Sentinel Hill the tracks left the
road, and there was a fresh bending and matting visible along the broad swath
marking the monster's former route to and from the summit.
Armitage produced a pocket telescope of considerable power and scanned the steep
green side of the hill. Then he handed the instrument to Morgan, whose sight was
keener. After a moment of gazing Morgan cried out sharply, passing the glass to
Earl Sawyer and indicating a certain spot on the slope with his finger. Sawyer,
as clumsy as most non-users of optical devices are, fumbled a while; but
eventually focused the lenses with Armitage's aid. When he did so his cry was
less restrained than Morgan's had been.
'Gawd almighty, the grass an' bushes is a'movin'! It's a-goin' up - slow-like -
creepin' - up ter the top this minute, heaven only knows what fur!'
Then the germ of panic seemed to spread among the seekers. It was one thing to
chase the nameless entity, but quite another to find it. Spells might be all
right - but suppose they weren't? Voices began questioning Armitage about what
he knew of the thing, and no reply seemed quite to satisfy. Everyone seemed to
feel himself in close proximity to phases of Nature and of being utterly
forbidden and wholly outside the sane experience of mankind.
X.
In the end the three men from Arkham - old, white-bearded Dr Armitage, stocky,
iron-grey Professor Rice, and lean, youngish Dr Morgan, ascended the mountain
alone. After much patient instruction regarding its focusing and use, they left
the telescope with the frightened group that remained in the road; and as they
climbed they were watched closely by those among whom the glass was passed
round. It was hard going, and Armitage had to be helped more than once. High
above the toiling group the great swath trembled as its hellish maker repassed
with snail-like deliberateness Then it was obvious that the pursuers were
gaining
Curtis Whateley - of the undecayed branch - was holding the telescope when the
Arkham party detoured radically from the swath. He told the crowd that the men
were evidently trying to get to a subordinate peak which overlooked the swath at
a point considerably ahead of where the shrubbery was now bending. This, indeed,
proved to be true; and the party were seen to gain the minor elevation only a
short time after the invisible blasphemy had passed it.
Then Wesley Corey, who had taken the glass, cried out that Armitage was
adjusting the sprayer which Rice held, and that something must be about to
happen. The crowd stirred uneasily, recalling that his sprayer was expected to
give the unseen horror a moment of visibility. Two or three men shut their eyes,
but Curtis Whateley snatched back the telescope and strained his vision to the
utmost. He saw that Rice, from the party's point of advantage above and behind
the entity, had an excellent chance of spreading the potent powder with
marvellous effect.
Those without the telescope saw only an instant's flash of grey cloud - a cloud
about the size of a moderately large building - near the top of the mountain.
Curtis, who held the instrument, dropped it with a piercing shriek into the
ankle-deep mud of the road. He reeled, and would have crumbled to the ground had
not two or three others seized and steadied him. All he could do was moan
half-inaudibly.
'Oh, oh, great Gawd... that... that...'
There was a pandemonium of questioning, and only Henry Wheeler thought to rescue
the fallen telescope and wipe it clean of mud. Curtis was past all coherence,
and even isolated replies were almost too much for him.
'Bigger'n a barn... all made o' squirmin' ropes... hull thing sort o' shaped
like a hen's egg bigger'n anything with dozens o' legs like hogs-heads that haff
shut up when they step... nothin' solid abaout it - all like jelly, an' made o'
sep'rit wrigglin' ropes pushed cost together... great bulgin' eyes all over
it... ten or twenty maouths or trunks a-stickin' aout all along the sides, big
as stove-pipes an ad a-tossin' an openin' an' shuttin'... all grey, with kinder
blue or purple rings... an Gawd nit Heaven - that haff face on top...'
This final memory, whatever it was, proved too much for poor Curtis; and he
collapsed completely before he could say more. Fred Farr and Will Hutchins
carried him to the roadside and laid him on the damp grass. Henry Wheeler,
trembling, turned the rescued telescope on the mountain to see what he might.
Through the lenses were discernible three tiny figures, apparently running
towards the summit as fast as the steep incline allowed. Only these - nothing
more. Then everyone noticed a strangely unseasonable noise in the deep valley
behind, and even in the underbrush of Sentinel Hill itself. It was the piping of
unnumbered whippoorwills, and in their shrill chorus there seemed to lurk a note
of tense and evil expectancy.
Earl Sawyer now took the telescope and reported the three figures as standing on
the topmost ridge, virtually level with the altar-stone but at a considerable
distance from it. One figure, he said, seemed to be raising its hands above its
head at rhythmic intervals; and as Sawyer mentioned the circumstance the crowd
seemed to hear a faint, half-musical sound from the distance, as if a loud chant
were accompanying the gestures. The weird silhouette on that remote peak must
have been a spectacle of infinite grotesqueness and impressiveness, but no
observer was in a mood for aesthetic appreciation. 'I guess he's sayin' the
spell,' whispered Wheeler as he snatched back the telescope. The whippoorwills
were piping wildly, and in a singularly curious irregular rhythm quite unlike
that of the visible ritual.
Suddenly the sunshine seemed to lessen without the intervention of any
discernible cloud. It was a very peculiar phenomenon, and was plainly marked by
all. A rumbling sound seemed brewing beneath the hills, mixed strangely with a
concordant rumbling which dearly came from the sky. Lightning flashed aloft, and
the wondering crowd looked in vain for the portents of storm. The chanting of
the men from Arkham now became unmistakable, and Wheeler saw through the glass
that they were all raising their arms in the rhythmic incantation. From some
farmhouse far away came the frantic barking of dogs.
The change in the quality of the daylight increased, and the crowd gazed about
the horizon in wonder. A purplish darkness, born of nothing more than a spectral
deepening of the sky's blue, pressed down upon the rumbling hills. Then the
lightning flashed again, somewhat brighter than before, and the crowd fancied
that it had showed a certain mistiness around the altar-stone on the distant
height. No one, however, had been using the telescope at that instant. The
whippoorwills continued their irregular pulsation, and the men of Dunwich braced
themselves tensely against some imponderable menace with which the atmosphere
seemed surcharged.
Without warning came those deep, cracked, raucous vocal sounds which will never
leave the memory of the stricken group who heard them. Not from any human throat
were they born, for the organs of man can yield no such acoustic perversions.
Rather would one have said they came from the pit itself, had not their source
been so unmistakably the altar-stone on the peak. It is almost erroneous to call
them sounds at all, since so much of their ghastly, infra-bass timbre spoke to
dim seats of consciousness and terror far subtler than the ear; yet one must do
so, since their form was indisputably though vaguely that of half-articulate
words. They were loud - loud as the rumblings and the thunder above which they
echoed - yet did they come from no visible being. And because imagination might
suggest a conjectural source in the world of non-visible beings, the huddled
crowd at the mountain's base huddled still closer, and winced as if in
expectation of a blow.
'Ygnailh... ygnaiih... thflthkh'ngha.... Yog-Sothoth ...' rang the hideous
croaking out of space. 'Y'bthnk... h'ehye - n'grkdl'lh...'
The speaking impulse seemed to falter here, as if some frightful psychic
struggle were going on. Henry Wheeler strained his eye at the telescope, but saw
only the three grotesquely silhouetted human figures on the peak, all moving
their arms furiously in strange gestures as their incantation drew near its
culmination. From what black wells of Acherontic fear or feeling, from what
unplumbed gulfs of extra-cosmic consciousness or obscure, long-latent heredity,
were those half-articulate thunder-croakings drawn? Presently they began to
gather renewed force and coherence as they grew in stark, utter, ultimate frenzy
'Eh-y-ya-ya-yahaah - e'yayayaaaa... ngh'aaaaa... ngh'aaa... h'yuh... h'yuh...
HELP! HELP! ...ff - ff - ff - FATHER! FATHER! YOG-SOTHOTH!...'
But that was all. The pallid group in the road, still reeling at the
indisputably English syllables that had poured thickly and thunderously down
from the frantic vacancy beside that shocking altar-stone, were never to hear
such syllables again. Instead, they jumped violently at the terrific report
which seemed to rend the hills; the deafening, cataclysmic peal whose source, be
it inner earth or sky, no hearer was ever able to place. A single lightning bolt
shot from the purple zenith to the altar-stone, and a great tidal wave of
viewless force and indescribable stench swept down from the hill to all the
countryside. Trees, grass, and under-brush were whipped into a fury; and the
frightened crowd at the mountain's base, weakened by the lethal foetor that
seemed about to asphyxiate them, were almost hurled off their feet. Dogs howled
from the distance, green grass and foliage wilted to a curious, sickly
yellow-grey, and over field and forest were scattered the bodies of dead
whippoorwills.
The stench left quickly, but the vegetation never came right again. To this day
there is something queer and unholy about the growths on and around that
fearsome hilt Curtis Whateley was only just regaining consciousness when the
Arkham men came slowly down the mountain in the beams of a sunlight once more
brilliant and untainted. They were grave and quiet, and seemed shaken by
memories and reflections even more terrible than those which had reduced the
group of natives to a state of cowed quivering. In reply to a jumble of
questions they only shook their heads and reaffirmed one vital fact.
'The thing has gone for ever,' Armitage said. 'It has been split up into what it
was originally made of, and can never exist again. It was an impossibility in a
normal world. Only the least fraction was really matter in any sense we know. It
was like its father - and most of it has gone back to him in some vague realm or
dimension outside our material universe; some vague abyss out of which only the
most accursed rites of human blasphemy could ever have called him for a moment
on the hills.'
There was a brief silence, and in that pause the scattered senses of poor Curtis
Whateley began to knit back into a sort of continuity; so that he put his hands
to his head with a moan. Memory seemed to pick itself up where it had left off,
and the horror of the sight that had prostrated him burst in upon him again.
'Oh, oh, my Gawd, that haff face - that haff face on top of it... that face with
the red eyes an' crinkly albino hair, an' no chin, like the Whateleys... It was
a octopus, centipede, spider kind o' thin, but they was a haff-shaped man's face
on top of it, an' it looked like Wizard Whateley's, only it was yards an' yards
acrost....'
He paused exhausted, as the whole group of natives stared in a bewilderment not
quite crystallized into fresh terror. Only old Zebulon Whateley, who wanderingly
remembered ancient things but who had been silent heretofore, spoke aloud.
'Fifteen year' gone,' he rambled, 'I heered Ol' Whateley say as haow some day
we'd hear a child o' Lavinny's a-callin' its father's name on the top o'
Sentinel Hill...'
But Joe Osborn interrupted him to question the Arkham men anew.
'What was it, anyhaow, en' haowever did young Wizard Whateley call it aout o'
the air it come from?'
Armitage chose his words very carefully.
'It was - well, it was mostly a kind of force that doesn't belong in our part of
space; a kind of force that acts and grows and shapes itself by other laws than
those of our sort of Nature. We have no business calling in such things from
outside, and only very wicked people and very wicked cults ever try to. There
was some of it in Wilbur Whateley himself - enough to make a devil and a
precocious monster of him, and to make his passing out a pretty terrible sight.
I'm going to burn his accursed diary, and if you men are wise you'll dynamite
that altar-stone up there, and pull down all the rings of standing stones on the
other hills. Things like that brought down the beings those Whateleys were so
fond of - the beings they were going to let in tangibly to wipe out the human
race and drag the earth off to some nameless place for some nameless purpose.
'But as to this thing we've just sent back - the Whateleys raised it for a
terrible part in the doings that were to come. It grew fast and big from the
same reason that Wilbur grew fast and big - but it beat him because it had a
greater share of the outsideness in it. You needn't ask how Wilbur called it out
of the air. He didn't call it out. It was his twin brother, but it looked more
like the father than he did.'