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 superst.i.tious demonologist. Just for the sake of completeness, I shall copy it out for my notes on the case.

The pa.s.sage 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 s.p.a.ces 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 pa.s.sage 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 mult.i.tudes 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 pa.s.sages copied from the Necronomicon to Horby, who met me at the door and virtually s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 G.o.ds 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, G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 h.e.l.lish 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 d.a.m.ned must make in the abysm of h.e.l.l.

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 gla.s.s 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 ma.n.u.script and journals. They were trampled and torn and smeared with some odd greenish slime that rotted the paper like diluted acid.

"What has happened here?" demanded Dr. Colby, shaking the male nurse by the shoulder. The fellow peered at him vaguely from a white, wet, working face. Spittle smeared his lips and dribbled down his chin.

"...There was something in the moonlight, hopping across the lawn," he giggled, babbled in a feeble voice. "It...climbed the wall and broke through the window... It jumped on Mr. Horby.... It was like...it was like..."

Then he began that hideous giggling again. Colby stared at me, shaken. I stared back.

"G.o.d, what a stench-that smell!" someone muttered, gagging. It was quite true. The whole room reeked of salt sea water gone stagnant and sc.u.mmed with filth. It was indescribable.

"What do you think, Curtis?" Colby asked me in low tones, out in the hall again.

"I don't know what to think," I said numbly.

"Nor do I," he sighed. "But this was the night Horby feared, the night his private demon was in full strength. I believe there was something to his story, after all."

"I don't know, sir," I said. But I lied. Because I knew. Mnomquah had been revenged...

Ever since then I've found myself avoiding the moonlight, too. It makes me feel uneasy. And I've been reading the Necronomicon. Looking for the Zoan chant, perhaps. I don't know.

Poor Horby...we thought he was mad, but he was saner than we are.

THE SALEM HORROR.

by Henry Kuttner.

When Carson first noticed the sounds in his cellar, he ascribed them to the rats. Later he began to hear the tales which were whispered by the superst.i.tious Polish mill workers in Derby Street regarding the first occupant of the ancient house, Abigail Prinn. There was none living today who could remember the diabolical old hag, but the morbid legends which thrive in the "witch district" of Salem like rank weeds on a neglected grave gave disturbing particulars of her activities, and were unpleasantly explicit regarding the detestable sacrifices she was known to have made to a worm-eaten, crescent-horned image of dubious origin. The oldsters still muttered of Abbie Prinn and her monstrous boasts that she was high priestess of a fearfully potent G.o.d which dwelt deep in the hills. Indeed, it was the old witch's reckless boasting which had led to her abrupt and mysterious death in 1692, about the time of the famous hangings on Gallows Hill. No one liked to talk about it, but occasionally a toothless crone would mumble fearfully that the flames could not burn her, for her whole body had taken on the peculiar anesthesia of her witch-mark.

Abbie Prinn and her anomalous statue had long since vanished, but it was still difficult to find tenants for her decrepit, gabled house, with its overhanging second story and curious diamond-paned cas.e.m.e.nt windows. The house's evil notoriety had spread throughout Salem. Nothing had actually happened there of recent years which might give rise to the inexplicable tales, but those who rented the house had a habit of moving out hastily, generally with vague and unsatisfactory explanations connected with the rats.

And it was a rat which led Carson to the Witch Room. The squealing and m.u.f.fled pattering within the rotting walls had disturbed Carson more than once during the nights of his first week in the house, which he had rented to obtain the solitude that would enable him to complete a novel for which his publishers had been asking-another light romance to add to Carson's long string of popular successes. But it was not until sometime later that he began to entertain certain wildly fantastic surmises regarding the intelligence of the rat that scurried from under his feet in the dark hallway one evening.

The house had been wired for electricity, but the bulb in the hall was small and gave a dim light. The rat was a misshapen, black shadow as it darted a few feet away and paused, apparently watching him.

At another time Carson might have dismissed the animal with a threatening gesture and returned to his work. But the traffic on Derby Street had been unusually noisy, and he had found it difficult to concentrate upon his novel. His nerves, for no apparent reason, were taut; and somehow it seemed that the rat, watching just beyond his reach, was eyeing him with sardonic amus.e.m.e.nt.

Smiling at the conceit, he took a few steps toward the rat, and it rushed away to the cellar door, which he saw with surprise was ajar. He must have neglected to close it the last time he had been in the cellar, although he generally took care to keep the doors shut, for the ancient house was drafty. The rat waited in the doorway.

Unreasonably annoyed, Carson hurried forward, sending the rat scurrying down the stairway. He switched on the cellar light and observed the rat in a corner. It watched him keenly out of glittering little eyes.

As he descended the stairs he could not help feeling that he was acting like a fool. But his work had been tiring, and subconsciously he welcomed any interruption. He moved across the cellar to the rat, seeing with astonishment that the creature remained unmoving, staring at him. A strange feeling of uneasiness began to grow within him. The rat was acting abnormally, he felt; and the unwinking gaze of its cold shoe-b.u.t.ton eyes was somehow disturbing.

Then he laughed to himself, for the rat had suddenly whisked aside and disappeared into a little hole in the cellar wall. Idly he scratched a cross with his toe in the dirt before the burrow, deciding that he would set a trap there in the morning.

The rat's snout and ragged whiskers protruded cautiously. It moved forward and then hesitated, drew back. Then the animal began to act in a singular and unaccountable manner-almost as though it were dancing, Carson thought. It moved tentatively forward, retreated again. It would give a little dart forward and be brought up short, then leap back hastily, as though-the simile flashed into Carson's mind-a snake were coiled before the burrow, alert to prevent the rat's escape. But there was nothing there save the little cross Carson had scratched in the dust.

No doubt it was Carson himself who blocked the rat's escape, for he was standing within a few feet of the burrow. He moved forward, and the animal hurriedly retreated out of sight.

His interest piqued, Carson found a stick and poked it exploringly into the hole. As he did so his eye, close to the wall, detected something strange about the stone slab just above the rat burrow. A quick glance around its edge confirmed his suspicion. The slab was apparently movable.

Carson examined it closely, noticed a depression on its edge which would afford a handhold. His fingers fitted easily into the groove, and he pulled tentatively. The stone moved a trifle and stopped. He pulled harder, and with a sprinkling of dry earth the slab swung away from the wall as though on hinges.

A black rectangle, shoulder-high, gaped in the wall. From its depths a musty, unpleasant stench of dead air welled out, and involuntarily Carson retreated a step. Suddenly he remembered the monstrous tales of Abbie Prinn and the hideous secrets she was supposed to have kept hidden in her house. Had he stumbled upon some hidden retreat of the long-dead witch?

Before entering the dark gap he took the precaution of obtaining a flashlight from upstairs. Then he cautiously bent his head and stepped into the narrow, evil-smelling pa.s.sage, sending the flashlight's beam probing out before him.

He was in a narrow tunnel, scarcely higher than his head, and walled and paved with stone slabs. It ran straight ahead for perhaps fifteen feet, and then broadened out into a roomy chamber. As Carson stepped into the underground room-no doubt a hidden retreat of Abbie Prinn's, a hiding-place, he thought, which nevertheless could not save her on the day the fright-crazed mob had come raging along Derby Street-he caught "his breath in a gasp of amazement. The room was fantastic, astonishing.

It was the floor which held Carson's gaze. The dull gray of the circular wall gave place here to a mosaic of varicolored stone, in which blues and greens and purples predominated-indeed, there were none of the warmer colors. There must have been thousands of bits of colored stone making up that pattern, for none was larger than a walnut. And the mosaic seemed to follow some definite pattern, unfamiliar to Carson; there were curves of purple and violet mingled with angled lines of green and blue, intertwining in fantastic arabesques. There were circles, triangles, a pentagram, and other, less familiar, figures. Most of the lines and figures radiated from a definite point: the center of the chamber, where there was a circular disk of dead black stone perhaps two feet in diameter.

It was very silent. The sounds of the cars that occasionally went past overhead in Derby Street could not be heard. In a shallow alcove in the wall Carson caught a glimpse of markings on the walls, and he moved slowly in that direction, the beam of his light traveling up and down the walls of the niche.

The marks, whatever they were, had been daubed upon the stone long ago, for what was left of the cryptic symbols was indecipherable. Carson saw several partly effaced hieroglyphics which reminded him of Arabic, but he could not be sure. On the floor of the alcove was a corroded metal disk about eight feet in diameter, and Carson received the distinct impression that it was movable. But there seemed no way to lift it.

He became conscious that he was standing in the exact center of the chamber, in the circle of black stone where the odd design centered. Again he noticed the utter silence. On an impulse he clicked off the ray of his flashlight. Instantly he was in dead blackness.

At that moment a curious idea entered his mind. He pictured himself at the bottom of a pit, and from above a flood was descending, pouring down the shaft to engulf him. So strong was this impression that he actually fancied he could hear a m.u.f.fled thundering, the roar of the cataract. Then, oddly shaken, he clicked on the light, glanced around swiftly. The drumming, of course, was the pounding of his blood, made audible in the complete silence-a familiar phenomenon. But, if the place was so still- The thought leaped into his mind, as though suddenly thrust into his consciousness. This would be an ideal place to work. He could have the place wired for electricity, have a table and chair brought down, use an electric fan if necessary-although the musty odor he had first noticed seemed to have disappeared completely. He moved to the tunnel mouth, and as he stepped from the room he felt an inexplicable relaxation of his muscles, although he had not realized that they had been contracted. He ascribed it to nervousness, and went upstairs to brew black coffee and write to his landlord in Boston about his discovery.

The visitor stared curiously about the hallway after Carson had opened the door, nodding to himself as though with satisfaction. He was a lean, tll figure of a man, with thick steel-gray eyebrows overhanging keen gray eyes. His face, although strongly marked and gaunt, was unwrinkled.

"About the Witch Room, I suppose?" Carson said ungraciously. His landlord had talked, and for the last week he had been unwillingly entertaining antiquaries and occultists anxious to glimpse the secret chamber in which Abbie Prinn had mumbled her spells. Carson's annoyance had grown, and he had considered moving to a quieter place; but his inherent stubbornness had made him stay on, determined to finish his novel in spite of interruptions. Now, eyeing his guest coldly, he said, "I'm sorry, but it's not on exhibition anymore."

The other looked startled, but almost immediately a gleam of comprehension came into his eyes. He extracted a card and offered it to Carson.

"Michael Leigh...occultist, eh?" Carson repeated. He drew a deep breath. The occultists, he had found, were the worst, with their dark hints of nameless things and their profound interest in the mosaic pattern on the floor of the Witch Room. "I'm sorry, Mr. Leigh, but-I'm really quite busy. You'll excuse me."

Ungraciously he turned back to the door.

"Just a moment," Leigh said swiftly.

Before Carson could protest he had caught the writer by the shoulders and was peering closely into his eyes. Startled, Carson drew back, but not before he had seen an extraordinary expression of mingled apprehension and satisfaction appear on Leigh's gaunt face. It was as though the occultist had seen something unpleasant-but not unexpected.

"What's the idea?" Carson asked harshly. "I'm not accustomed-"

"I'm very sorry," Leigh said. His voice was deep, pleasant. "I must apologize. I thought-well, again I apologize. I'm rather excited, I'm afraid. You see, I've come from San Francisco to see this Witch Room of yours. Would you really mind letting me see it? I should be glad to pay any sum-"

Carson made a deprecatory gesture.

"No," he said, feeling a perverse liking for this man growing within him-his well-modulated, pleasant voice, his powerful face, his magnetic personality. "No, I merely want a little peace-you have no idea how I've been bothered," he went on, vaguely surprised to find himself speaking apologetically. "It's a frightful nuisance. I almost wish I'd never found the room."

Leigh leaned forward anxiously. "May I see it? It means a great deal to me-I'm vitally interested in these things. I promise not to take up more than ten minutes of your time."

Carson hesitated, then a.s.sented. As he led his guest into the cellar he found himself telling the circ.u.mstances of his discovery of the Witch Room. Leigh listened intently, occasionally interrupting with questions.

"The rat-did you see what became of it?" he asked.

Carson looked bemused. "Why, no. I suppose it hid in its burrow. Why?"

"One never knows," Leigh said cryptically as they came into the Witch Room.

Carson switched on the light. He had had an electrical extension installed, and there were a few chairs and a table, but otherwise, the chamber was unchanged. Carson watched the occultist's face, and with surprise saw it become grim, almost angry.

Leigh strode to the center of the room, staring at the chair that stood on the black circle of stone.

"You work here?" he asked slowly.

"Yes. It's quiet-I found I couldn't work upstairs. Too noisy. But this is ideal-somehow I find it very easy to write here. My mind feels"-he hesitated-"free; that is, disa.s.sociated with other things. It's quite an unusual feeling."

Leigh nodded as though Carson's words had confirmed some idea in his own mind. He turned toward the alcove and the metal disk in the floor. Carson followed him. The occultist moved close to the wall, tracing out the faded symbols with a long forefinger. He muttered something under his breath-words that sounded like gibberish to Carson.

"Nyogtha...k'yarnak..."

He swung about, his face grim and pale. "I've seen enough," he said softly. "Shall we go?" Surprised, Carson nodded and led the way back into the cellar.

Upstairs Leigh hesitated, as though finding it difficult to broach his subject. At length he asked, "Mr. Carson-would you mind telling me if you have had any peculiar dreams lately."

Carson stared at him, mirth dancing in his eyes. "Dreams?" he repeated. "Oh-I see. Well, Mr. Leigh, I may as well tell you that you can't frighten me. Your compatriots-the other occultists I've entertained-have already tried it."

Leigh raised his thick eyebrows. "Yes? Did they ask you whether you'd dreamed?"

"Several did-yes."

"And you told them?"

"No." Then as Leigh leaned back in his chair, a puzzled expression on his face, Carson went on slowly, "Although, really, I'm not quite sure."

"You mean?"

"I think-I have a vague impression-that I have dreamed lately. But I can't be sure. I can't remember anything of the dream, you see. And-oh, very probably your brother occultists put the idea into my mind!"