The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack (40 Modern and Classic Lovecraftian Tales) (90 page)

“I gather that the Great Old Ones are the demonic or godlike alien intelligences Alhazred theorizes were the original inhabitants of our earth,” I said.

He smiled. “That is precisely correct, Dr. Curtis.”

Just at this interesting juncture, and most unfortunately, a male nurse interrupted our conversation, for one of my other patients was having a seizure, and I was forced to bid a hasty adieu to Uriah Horby, postponing the remainder of our talk until some later time.

Interestingly enough, while I was striving to draw the man out with leading questions, I was not entirely ignorant of the matters which occupied him. For I remembered that I had indeed heard of this
Necronomicon
he quoted from and mentioned so frequently: when I had been an undergraduate at Miskatonic University there had been quite a bit written up about the ancient book in the local papers in connection with some bizarre murder or suicide. I forget the details of the case, but it seemed that my old alma mater had a copy of the incredibly rare book under lock and key, and were one of the few institutions of higher learning in this country to possess a copy. Odd that the title of the Arabic book had slipped my mind.

* * * *

Later that afternoon, while recording my notes of the talk with Horby, I remembered what he had said about my checking his data. And within twenty minutes I found a capsule biography of the German scholar he had mentioned, whose pretensions to scholarship seemed authentic enough from the list of degrees recorded after his name in the entry.

Horby, it appeared, was not making it all up. He had stumbled upon some obscure, horrible mythology and had been drawn into it by his scholarly fascination in the ancient world, until at last it occupied the center of his interests.

The case was growing more intriguing all the time.

4. Extract from the Notes of Uriah Horby

Friday, the 21st.
Last night, meditating on the Sign of Koth, I obtained a vision of Deep Dendo. It is unfortunate that Those who reside there either cannot or will not assist me in my search.

The Chian Pentagram has proved useless to my purposes, as have the Xao games. My correspondent in Paris has transcribed certain material from Eibon which he thought might have considerable bearing upon the situation, and I am translating the old Norman-French—a slow and laborious job. And, I suspect, one ultimately futile. Lacking the relevant passage from the
Necronomicon
I feel frustratingly helpless. My knowledge of the Elder Lore is so dreadfully incomplete…
I do not even know the
name
of the Entity to whom I am opposed, nor the place where He abideth.
Lacking these vital terms, I am without adequate means of defense: with them, I might be able to hurl the Zoan chant against Him, or to erect barriers of mental force in the manner taught me by the Nug-Soth.

Later:
I used the Sign of Koth again, receiving transient glimpses of the inner city at the two magnetic poles, but to no avail. Have asked—entreated!—young Doctor Curtis to help me obtain the passages I need from Alhazred. The amiable fool thinks me mad, but may take pity on me and have the material copied. Mad, am I? When
They
come down again to reconquer Their ancient empire—when the Earth is cleared off and the Eternal Reign begins—“madmen” like me will be mightier than emperors!

5. From the Statement of Charles Winslow Curtis

Horby has asked me to help him with his work by securing the text of certain key passages from Alhazred to which he has not been able to gain access. Seems like a smart thing to do, gain his confidence by harmless favors such as this. I have sent a telegram to one of my professors back at Miskatonic; expect he will be able to get the material to me.

Horby has not been sleeping well of late. He complains about “the frogs,” and it’s true that in this marshy area behind the sanatorium they have been raising a hellish chorus during the night. I declined to prescribe sleeping pills or tranquilizers for him, however, on Dr. Colby’s advice. Horby’s increasing agitation seems due to his conviction that some crucial time period is almost here when the “defenses” he has built up against his dreaded lunar enemy will fall. Exactly what he fears will happen then I cannot say, nor will he tell me.

But I have learned the cause of the danger he believes himself to be in. His nameless enemy, the force behind the demon Bokrug, supposedly became aware of his existence when he rashly published a small monograph, speculating on Sarnath and its doom. The town, by the way, seems purely legendary for I cannot find anything about it in history or archaeology.

At any rate, Horby’s brochure discussed a means of employing another demon called “Cthugha” against the “dragon in the moon.” According to Horby, Cthugha is a fire elemental and is, by his very nature, in direct opposition to such water elementals as the devil-god of whom Bokrug and the Ib-things are only the minions and servitors.

Horby explained to me that all of these ancient gods have secret cults of human worshippers lingering in remote backwoods and far places. His monograph came to the attention of the cult which worships the force behind Bokrug, which is why they and their god are “after” him.

Somehow, there is something
irresistibly plausible
about his fixation. I find myself unable to refute either it or his logic. He is a most extraordinary man…

6. Extract from the Notes of Uriah Horby

Mon., the 28th.
It is horribly close now to the Time when the power of the moon waxeth to its height, and That which resides therein will be at the peak of His strength. Not even Cthugha and the Flame Creatures can aid me then: Curtis is my only hope.

The material from Eibon proved worthless; I believe that the information I so desperately need were most probably to be found in Eibon’s third book, “Papyrus of the Dark Wisdom,” which Von Junzt only paraphrases. But it is too late now to write to my Parisian friend…

The D’horna-ahn Energies will no longer protect me when the fatal night arrives. Through the use of the Ritual of the Silver Key I have been in communion with the fungoid intelligences of Nzoorl, and obtained precious glimpses of S’glhuo and Ymar. But nothing avails me… They on Ktynga warn that I will not be able to call upon their strength when the time comes, but this I already know. Mighty Yhtill could stand between me and It, but I have never been to Carcosa or taken the Vow before the Elder Throne.

It is written: there are forty-eight Aklo unveilings known to mortal men, and a forty-ninth, whereof men knoweth naught, nor shall they know, until such time as Glaaki taketh them. If I could travel through the reversed angles of Tagh-Glatur, or employ the enormous energies of the Pnakotic Pentagram, I might survive. But there is little hope left to me, unless that procrastinating fool Curtis comes through…

7. From the Statement of Charles Winslow Curtis

Thompson at Miskatonic sent me a long letter today, including with it the material which Horby has asked me to help him obtain. I have read it through and see nothing in it that could conceivably be harmful—merely the ravings of a deranged and superstitious demonologist. Just for the sake of completeness, I shall copy it out for my notes on the case.

The passage occurs in Book III, Chapter xvii of the
Necronomicon
, and is quoted from the Elizabethan translation of Dr. John Dee, the notorious occultist. It reads as follows:

“But of the Great Old Ones begotten by
Azathoth
in the Prime, not all came down to this Earth, for Him Who Is Not To Be Named lurketh ever on that dark world near Aldebaran in the Hyades, and it was His Sons who descended hither in His stead. Likewise,
Cthugha
chose for His abode the star Fomalhaut, and the Fire-Vampires that serve Him; but, as for
Aphoom Zhah
, He descended to this Earth and dwelleth yet in His frozen lair. And terrible
Vulthoom
, that be brother to
Black Tsathoggua
, He descended upon dying Mars, which world He chose for His dominion; and He slumbers yet in the deep of Ravormos ’neath aeon-crumbled Ignarh-Vath; and it is written that a day or a night to
Vulthoom
is as a thousand years to mortal men. And, as for great
Mnomquah
, He took for the place of His abiding those cavernous spaces which yawn beneath the Moon’s crust; and there He abideth yet, wallowing amidst the slimy waves of the Black Lake of Ubboth in the Stygian darknesses of Nug-yaa; and it was them that serve Him, even the Thunn’haa whose leader is Bokrug, that came hither to this world and dwelt betimes in the grey stone city Ib in the land of Mnar.”

That was all the passage Thompson quoted; the further piece Horby had wished to see—something called “the Zoan chant” from Book VII—he failed to include in his letter, saying the pages are utterly illegible.

Well, perhaps it’s not too late to bring this material to Horby. True, evening has fallen and the moon is rising, but I doubt if he is yet to bed.

8. Extract from the Notes of Uriah Horby

Wed., the 30th.
I am doomed. I am lost. The time has come—is less than an hour away—and all my barriers are fading. My spirit shall be raped from my shuddering flesh, in ways I cringe to think upon, and I shall wander upon the black winds that blow between the stars forever, a nameless wraith lost in the wailing multitudes of the Million Favored Ones…

It is Curtis at the door!
Perhaps all is not lost; I shall end this entry here and admit him. Shall I ever write another word of this journal?

9. From the Statement of Charles Winslow Curtis

It is now my painful duty to record a sequence of events which I do not understand, and I write the following if only in the vain hope that somehow I will be able to sort these matters out to my own satisfaction.

On the night of the thirtieth, some time past moonrise, I brought the passages copied from the
Necronomicon
to Horby, who met me at the door and virtually snatched the paper from me. He was in the worst state of agitation I have yet seen him in, his face flushed, eyes bloodshot and feverishly bright, trembling like a leaf.

He scanned the quotation swiftly, then threw back his head and voiced a shrill cry of triumph.

“It is Mnomquah! Of course—how could I not have known? And the place of his imprisonment by the Elder Gods is the Black Lake of Ubboth, in the gulf of Nug-yaa, at the moon’s heart! Ah, all becomes plain to me now…those cryptic references I have tracked down in the old books—”

Suddenly he broke off short, turning the paper from side to side in shaking hands, his flushed features paling to a sickly pallor.

“But there is more? Please, God, Curtis, there must be
more
!
Where is the Zoan chant, you fool?
How can I direct the energies against the Black Lake without the chant—?”

“I…I’m sorry,” I stammered apologetically. “My old professor back at Miskatonic was unable to copy out the ritual you wanted, because the pages were not legible at that point in the book—”

He stared with unbelieving horror into my eyes. Never have I seen a look more piteous: it would have wrung the heart of a stone thing. Then his face crumpled, his shoulders sagged. The page from Thompson’s letter fell from listless fingers to drift into a corner. He turned from me to face the window, and, absurdly, I felt myself dismissed. Tactfully, I withdrew, feeling he wished to be alone with his thoughts.

Would to God I had stayed.

* * * *

Later that night, just as I was undressing and making ready to retire, one of the attendants called me to say that Horby was loudly chanting or praying, and that he feared it might disturb the other patients.

“If they can even hear him, with that hellish frog-chorus booming from the marsh,” I remarked wryly.

“Yes, doctor. But may I give him a sleeping pill?”

“Oh, I think so. A good night’s sleep will do him a world of good. He is more distraught than usual. Ring me back if he proves uncooperative,” I said. The male nurse agreed and hung up the phone.

Feeling some obscure premonition, perhaps, or merely restless, I went over to the window. The frogs were roaring away at full voice and the moon was high, glaring down at we frail, puny mortals like a gigantic eye of cold white fire. By its illumination, you could see the pools of the marsh behind the building, flashing like mirrors they were.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something moving out of the waters and through the reeds, up onto the rear lawn. Something black and huge and wet, moving in the moonlight with a strange, splay-footed,
hopping
gait. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and it was gone. Probably a dog from one of the neighboring farms, I thought. But the lawn
glittered
from a slick deposit! It was like the slime-track left by a garden slug…

Moments later I was jolted by a horrible, despairing cry—a shriek of unutterable terror, the sort of sound that the damned must make in the abysm of Hell.

I went out into the hall, which was suddenly full of people running. I followed them without words. The shrieking went on and on.

But the frogs had ceased their croaking song upon the instant Horby shrieked.

Yes, it was Horby. We burst into the room to view a scene of absolute chaos. The drapes were torn from the window, and the glass of the panes lay in a thousand icy shards upon the carpet, which was soaked with slime and water. Moonlight poured coldly, triumphantly, through the open window.

Face down in the wreckage lay Uriah Horby, stone dead. The expression upon his face was one of such intolerable fear that I hope never to see a similar expression upon a human visage.

There was not a mark on his body.

In the corner of the room crouched the attendant who had gone to sedate him. The man had suffered a ghastly shock. He was incoherent, his broken speech interspersed with fits of idiotic, horrible giggling. He was chewing and spitting out the pages from Horby’s manuscript and journals. They were trampled and torn and smeared with some odd greenish slime that rotted the paper like diluted acid.