Telling ghost stories in dark and lonely places is
an honored tradition. As a rule such tales, recited from memory, are not the
type that make for literature - they are terse, grim, and usually described as
true occurrences. The works of the "greats" of modern fantasy - save
perhaps for Ambrose Bierce - are not easily adapted to such recitation; they
are too complex or too esoteric. But here is an H. P. Lovecraft tale that lends
itself to recitation. Not word for word, but the plot idea is one to be worked
into a midnight tale. Your editor has related it several times - usually on
deserted rural roads - with marked effect.
I repeat to you
gentlemen, that your inquisition is fruitless. Detain me here for ever if you
will; confine or execute me if you must have a victim to propitiate the
illusion you call justice; but I can say no more than I have said already.
Everything that I can remember, I have told with perfect candor. Nothing has
been distorted or concealed, and if anything remains vague, it is only because
of the dark cloud which has come over my mind - that cloud and the nebulous
nature of the horrors which brought it upon me.
Again I say, I do
not know what has become of Harley Warren, though I think - almost hope - that
he is in peaceful oblivion, if there be anywhere so blessed a thing. It is true
that I have for five years been his closest friend, and a partial sharer of his
terrible researches into the unknown. I will not deny, though my memory is
uncertain and indistinct, that this witness of yours may have seen us together
as he says, on the Gainsville pike, walking toward Big Cypress Swamp, at half
past eleven on that awful night. That we bore electric lanterns, spades, and a
curious coil of wire with attached instruments, I will even affirm; for these
things all played a part in the single hideous scene which remains burned into
my shaken recollection. But of what followed, and of the reason I was found
alone and dazed on the edge of the swamp next morning, I must insist that I
know nothing save what I have told you over and over again. You say to me that
there is nothing in the swamp or near it which could form the setting of that
frightful episode. I reply that I knew nothing beyond what I saw. Vision or
nightmare it may have been - vision or nightmare I fervently hope it was - yet
it is all that my mind retains of what took place in those shocking hours after
we left the sight of men. And why Harley Warren did not return, he or his shade
- or some nameless thing I cannot describe - alone can tell.
As I have said
before, the weird studies of Harley Warren were well known to me, and to some
extent shared by me. Of his vast collection of strange, rare books on forbidden
subjects I have read all that are written in the languages of which I am
master; but these are few as compared with those in languages I cannot
understand. Most, I believe, are in Arabic; and the fiend-inspired book which
brought on the end - the book which he carried in his pocket out of the world -
was written in characters whose like I never saw elsewhere. Warren would never
tell me just what was in that book. As to the nature of our studies - must I
say again that I no longer retain full comprehension? It seems to me rather
merciful that I do not, for they were terrible studies, which I pursued more
through reluctant fascination than through actual inclination. Warren always
dominated me, and sometimes I feared him. I remember how I shuddered at his
facial expression on the night before the awful happening, when he talked so
incessantly of his theory, why certain corpses never decay, but rest firm and
fat in their tombs for a thousand years. But I do not fear him now, for I
suspect that he has known horrors beyond my ken. Now I fear for him.
Once more I say
that I have no clear idea of our object on that night. Certainly, it had much
to do with something in the book which Warren carried with him - that ancient
book in undecipherable characters which had come to him from India a month
before - but I swear I do not know what it was that we expected to find. Your
witness says he saw us at half past eleven on the Gainsville pike, headed for
Big Cypress Swamp. This is probably true, but I have no distinct memory of it.
The picture seared into my soul is of one scene only, and the hour must have
been long after midnight; for a waning crescent moon was high in the vaporous
heavens.
The place was an
ancient cemetery; so ancient that I trembled at the manifold signs of
immemorial years. It was in a deep, damp hollow, overgrown with rank grass,
moss, and curious creeping weeds, and filled with a vague stench which my idle
fancy associated absurdly with rotting stone. On every hand were the signs of
neglect and decrepitude, and I seemed haunted by the notion that Warren and I
were the first living creatures to invade a lethal silence of centuries. Over
the valley's rim a wan, waning crescent moon peered through the noisome vapors
that seemed to emanate from unheard of catacombs, and by its feeble, wavering
beams I could distinguish a repellent array of antique slabs, urns, cenotaphs,
and mausoleum facades; all crumbling, moss-grown, and moisture-stained, and
partly concealed by the gross luxuriance of the unhealthy vegetation.
My first vivid
impression of my own presence in this terrible necropolis concerns the act of
pausing with Warren before a certain half-obliterated sepulcher and of throwing
down some burdens which we seemed to have been carrying. I now observed that I
had with me an electric lantern and two spades, whilst my companion was
supplied with a similar lantern and a portable telephone outfit. No word was
uttered, for the spot and the task seemed known to us; and without delay we
seized our spades and commenced to clear away the grass, weeds, and drifted
earth from the flat, archaic mortuary. After uncovering the entire surface,
which consisted of three immense granite slabs, we stepped back some distance
to survey the charnel scene; and Warren appeared to make some mental
calculations. Then he returned to the sepulcher, and using his spade as a
lever, sought to pry up the slab lying nearest to a stony ruin which may have
been a monument in its day. He did not succeed, and motioned to me to come to
his assistance. Finally our combined strength loosened the stone, which we
raised and tipped to one side.
The removal of
the slab revealed a black aperture, from which rushed an effluence of miasmal
gases so nauseous that we started back in horror. After an interval, however,
we approached the pit again, and found the exhalations less unbearable. Our
lanterns disclosed the top of a flight of stone steps, dripping with some
detestable ichor of the inner earth, and bordered by moist walls encrusted with
niter. And now for the first time my memory records verbal discourse, Warren
addressing me at length in his mellow tenor voice; a voice singularly
unperturbed by our awesome surroundings.
"I'm sorry
to have to ask you to stay on the surface," he said, "but it would be
a crime to let anyone with your frail nerves go down there. You can't imagine,
even from what you have read and from what I've told you, the things I shall
have to see and do. It's fiendish work, Carter, and I doubt if any man without
ironclad sensibilities could ever see it through and come up alive and sane. I
don't wish to offend you, and Heaven knows I'd be glad enough to have you with
me; but the responsibility is in a certain sense mine, and I couldn't drag a
bundle of nerves like you down to probable death or madness. I tell you, you
can't imagine what the thing is really like! But I promise to keep you informed
over the telephone of every move - you see I've enough wire here to reach to
the center of the earth and back!"
I can still hear,
in memory, those coolly spoken words; and I can still remember my
remonstrances. I seemed desperately anxious to accompany my friend into those
sepulchral depths, yet he proved inflexibly obdurate. At one time he threatened
to abandon the expedition if I remained insistent; a threat which proved
effective, since he alone held the key to the thing. All this I can still
remember, though I no longer know what manner of thing we sought. After he had
obtained my reluctant acquiescence in his design, Warren picked up the reel of
wire and adjusted the instruments. At his nod I took one of the latter and
seated myself upon an aged, discolored gravestone close by the newly uncovered
aperture. Then he shook my hand, shouldered the coil of wire, and disappeared
within that indescribable ossuary.
For a minute I
kept sight of the glow of his lantern, and heard the rustle of the wire as he
laid it down after him; but the glow soon disappeared abruptly, as if a turn in
the stone staircase had been encountered, and the sound died away almost as
quickly. I was alone, yet bound to the unknown depths by those magic strands
whose insulated surface lay green beneath the struggling beams of that waning
crescent moon.
In the lone
silence of that hoary and deserted city of the dead, my mind conceived the most
ghastly fantasies and illusions; and the grotesque shrines and monoliths seemed
to assume a hideous personality - a half-sentience. Amorphous shadows seemed to
lurk in the darker recesses of the weed-choked hollow and to flit as in some
blasphemous ceremonial procession past the portals of the mouldering tombs in
the hillside; shadows which could not have been cast by that pallid, peering
crescent moon.
I constantly
consulted my watch by the light of my electric lantern, and listened with
feverish anxiety at the receiver of the telephone; but for more than a quarter
of an hour heard nothing. Then a faint clicking came from the instrument, and I
called down to my friend in a tense voice. Apprehensive as I was, I was
nevertheless unprepared for the words which came up from that uncanny vault in
accents more alarmed and quivering than any I had heard before from Harley
Warren. He who had so calmly left me a little while previously, now called from
below in a shaky whisper more portentous than the loudest shriek:
"God! If you
could see what I am seeing!"
I could not
answer. Speechless, I could only wait. Then came the frenzied tones again:
"Carter,
it's terrible – monstrous - unbelievable!"
This time my
voice did not fail me, and I poured into the transmitter a flood of excited
questions. Terrified, I continued to repeat, "Warren, what is it? What is
it?"
Once more came
the voice of my friend, still hoarse with fear, and now apparently tinged with
despair:
"I can't
tell you, Carter! It's too utterly beyond thought - I dare not tell you - no
man could know it and live - Great God! I never dreamed of this!"
Stillness again,
save for my now incoherent torrent of shuddering inquiry. Then the voice of
Warren in a pitch of wilder consternation:
"Carter! for
the love of God, put back the slab and get out of this if you can! Quick! - leave
everything else and make for the outside - it's your only chance! Do as I say,
and don't ask me to explain!"
I heard, yet was
able only to repeat my frantic questions. Around me were the tombs and the
darkness and the shadows; below me, some peril beyond the radius of the human
imagination. But my friend was in greater danger than I, and through my fear I
felt a vague resentment that he should deem me capable of deserting him under
such circumstances. More clicking, and after a pause a piteous cry from Warren:
"Beat it!
For God's sake, put back the slab and beat it, Carter!"
Something in the
boyish slang of my evidently stricken companion unleashed my faculties. I
formed and shouted a resolution, "Warren, brace up! I'm coming down!"
But at this offer the tone of my auditor changed to a scream of utter despair:
"Don't! You
can't understand! It's too late - and my own fault. Put back the slab and run -
there's nothing else you or anyone can do now!"
The tone changed
again, this time acquiring a softer quality, as of hopeless resignation. Yet it
remained tense through anxiety for me.
"Quick - before
it's too late!"
I tried not to
heed him; tried to break through the paralysis which held me, and to fulfil my
vow to rush down to his aid. But his next whisper found me still held inert in
the chains of stark horror.
"Carter - hurry!
It's no use - you must go - better one than two - the slab -"
A pause, more
clicking, then the faint voice of Warren:
"Nearly over
now - don't make it harder - cover up those damned steps and run for your life
- you're losing time - so long, Carter - won't see you again."
Here Warren's
whisper swelled into a cry; a cry that gradually rose to a shriek fraught with
all the horror of the ages:
"Curse these
hellish things – legions - My God! Beat it! Beat it! BEAT IT!"
After that was
silence. I know not how many interminable eons I sat stupefied; whispering,
muttering, calling, screaming into that telephone. Over and over again through
those eons I whispered and muttered, called, shouted, and screamed,
"Warren! Warren! Answer me - are you there?"
And then there
came to me the crowning horror of all - the unbelievable, unthinkable, almost
unmentionable thing. I have said that eons seemed to elapse after Warren
shrieked forth his last despairing warning, and that only my own cries now
broke the hideous silence. But after a while there was a further clicking in
the receiver, and I strained my ears to listen. Again I called down,
"Warren, are you there?" and in answer heard the thing which has
brought this cloud over my mind. I do not try, gentlemen, to account for that
thing - that voice - nor can I venture to describe it in detail, since the
first words took away my consciousness and created a mental blank which reaches
to the time of my awakening in the hospital. Shall I say that the voice was
deep; hollow; gelatinous; remote; unearthly; inhuman; disembodied? What shall I
say? It was the end of my experience, and is the end of my story. I heard it,
and knew no more - heard it as I sat petrified in that unknown cemetery in the
hollow, amidst the crumbling stones and the falling tombs, the rank vegetation
and the miasmal vapors - heard it well up from the innermost depths of that
damnable open sepulcher as I watched amorphous, necrophagous shadows dance
beneath an accursed waning moon.
And this is what
it said:
"You fool,
Warren is DEAD!"
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