The Other Gods And More Unearthly Tales Read online

  The necessity of rethinking humanity’s place in the larger scheme of things is at the heart of the stories most commonly associated with Lovecraft—what have come to be called his Cthulhu Mythos (a name never used by Lovecraft himself), his collection of stories depicting alien civilizations and powerful extraterrestrial monsters referred to as “gods.” These stories, which vividly develop Lovecraft’s signature form of cosmic horror, foreground what critic David E. Schultz has referred to as Lovecraft’s “anti-mythology,” a “pseudomythology brutally show[ing] that man is not the center of the universe, that the ‘gods’ care nothing for him, and that the earth and all its inhabitants are but a momentary incident in the unending cyclical chaos of the universe.”6 To an even greater extent than Lovecraft’s Poe- and Dunsany-inspired stories, his Cthulhu Mythos represent human beings as arrogant dupes of our own egotism—we think we’re the top of the food chain when, in reality, we’re on the same order of krill to intergalactic leviathans.

  The stories in this volume develop this theme in three characteristically Lovecraftian ways which I will call the “lost civilization” approach, the “degeneration” approach, and the “monsters among us” approach. Lovecraft’s lost-civilization stories feature protagonists who uncover evidence of older civilizations—often alien civilizations having achieved social and scientific heights only aspired to by mankind—that either were destroyed entirely or still exist somewhere in debased form, generally below the surface of the earth. This theme is the premise of one of Lovecraft’s greatest works, his novella At the Mountains of Madness, and it is developed here in several stories, including “The Temple,” “The Doom that Came to Sarnath,” and “The Nameless City.” These stories, clearly influenced by Oswald Spengler’s pessimistic thesis in The Decline of the West (1918) that all civilizations eventually decline, seem to predict humanity’s own future fate (which is certainly the case in “He”). The sands of time are destined to sweep over our achievements as surely as they have those of Lovecraft’s lost civilizations.

  Although decay and death are the inevitable fate of even the most advanced races in Lovecraft’s stories of lost civilizations, his tales of human degeneration take an inverted approach. These stories suggest that all humanity’s future achievements ultimately will be buried and forgotten, instead emphasize that, for all our pretensions to superiority, our civilized façade masks an underlying barbarity and we always have one foot on the slippery slope of evolutionary atavism and reversion. To put it another way, stories such as Lovecraft’s famous “The Rats in the Walls” or, featured here, “The Lurking Fear,” insist that human beings are only slightly removed from being animals and are always on the verge of regressing to an animalistic state. We carry our primitive past with us in our genes and we are, Lovecraft’s stories suggest, just as likely to go backward as forward.

  While Lovecraft’s lost civilization and degeneration stories respectively point to an apocalyptic future and animalistic past, most unsettling of all are his monsters among us stories that depict the universe as a hostile place filled with all manner of horrific alien entities. In these stories, such as Lovecraft’s famous “The Call of Cthulhu” and “The Whisperer in Darkness,” human protagonists discover mankind’s vulnerable state and go mad as a result. While “The Call of Cthulhu” is the most notorious illustration of this theme, there is perhaps no better representation of this typically Lovecraftian concept than in “From Beyond,” featured in this volume. In this disquieting story, scientist and occult researcher Crawford Tillinghast invents a machine that extends human sensory perception beyond its normal limitations, revealing the loathsome monstrosities that surround us and that, should they become aware of us, possess the potential to destroy us.

  Again and again in Lovecraft’s fiction, human beings in various ways catch glimpses of an expanded reality. His writing demands, as in his famous formulation in his treatise on horror fiction, Supernatural Horror in Literature, that we “tremble at the thought of the hidden and fathomless worlds of strange life which may pulsate in the gulfs beyond the stars, or press hideously upon our own globe in unholy dimensions which only the dead and the moonstruck can glimpse.”7 From the distant past to an apocalyptic future by way of an uncertain present, the stories collected here showcase Lovecraft’s cosmic horror, his literary meditation on mankind’s necessary but perilous self-delusion. The stellar winds that blow through Lovecraft’s fiction, bringing with them intimations of a beyond teeming with monstrous life, are chilling indeed.

  Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock is professor of American literature and culture at Central Michigan University. He is the editor of H. P. Lovecraft’s The Call of Cthulhu and Other Dark Tales and At the Mountains of Madness and Other Weird Tales for Barnes & Noble and has written extensively on uncanny fiction, cult film, and popular culture.

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  The commentary opening each chapter has been provided by S. T. Joshi.

  THE TOMB

  The first story written upon his resumption of fiction writing in the summer of 1917, “The Tomb” is one of Lovecraft’s most Poe-esque tales. He noted that the inspiration of the tale was a walk through a Providence cemetery, where he saw an old tombstone dating to 1711 (a date actually used in the story) and wondered, “Why could I not talk with him, and enter more intimately into the life of my chosen age?” The poem included in the story was written at an earlier date. The existing manuscript bears the title “Gaudeamus” (“Let us delight”) and is a surprising instance of a drinking song written by a teetotaler. The story first appeared in the Vagrant (March 1922).

  “Sedibus ut saltem placidis in morte quiescam.”

  —VIRGIL

  IN RELATING THE CIRCUMSTANCES WHICH HAVE LED TO MY CONFINEMENT within this refuge for the demented, I am aware that my present position will create a natural doubt of the authenticity of my narrative. It is an unfortunate fact that the bulk of humanity is too limited in its mental vision to weigh with patience and intelligence those isolated phenomena, seen and felt only by a psychologically sensitive few, which lie outside its common experience. Men of broader intellect know that there is no sharp distinction betwixt the real and the unreal; that all things appear as they do only by virtue of the delicate individual physical and mental media through which we are made conscious of them; but the prosaic materialism of the majority condemns as madness the flashes of super-sight which penetrate the common veil of obvious empiricism.

  My name is Jervas Dudley, and from earliest childhood I have been a dreamer and a visionary. Wealthy beyond the necessity of a commercial life, and temperamentally unfitted for the formal studies and social recreations of my acquaintances, I have dwelt ever in realms apart from the visible world; spending my youth and adolescence in ancient and little-known books, and in roaming the fields and groves of the region near my ancestral home. I do not think that what I read in these books or saw in these fields and groves was exactly what other boys read and saw there; but of this I must say little, since detailed speech would but confirm those cruel slanders upon my intellect which I sometimes overhear from the whispers of the stealthy attendants around me. It is sufficient for me to relate events without analysing causes.

  I have said that I dwelt apart from the visible world, but I have not said that I dwelt alone. This no human creature may do; for lacking the fellowship of the living, he inevitably draws upon the companionship of things that are not, or are no longer, living. Close by my home there lies a singular wooded hollow, in whose twilight deeps I spent most of my time; reading, thinking, and dreaming. Down its moss-covered slopes my first steps of infancy were taken, and around its grotesquely gnarled oak trees my first fancies of boyhood were woven. Well did I come to know the presiding dryads of those trees, and often have I watched their wild dances in the struggling beams of waning moon—but of these things I must not now speak. I will tell only of the lone tomb in the darkest of the hillside thickets; the deserted tomb of the Hydes, an old and exalted family wh
ose last direct descendant had been laid within its black recesses many decades before my birth.

  The vault to which I refer is of ancient granite, weathered and discoloured by the mists and dampness of generations. Excavated back into the hillside, the structure is visible only at the entrance. The door, a ponderous and forbidding slab of stone, hangs upon rusted iron hinges, and is fastened ajar in a queerly sinister way by means of heavy iron chains and padlocks, according to a gruesome fashion of half a century ago. The abode of the race whose scions are here inurned had once crowned the declivity which holds the tomb, but had long since fallen victim to the flames which sprang up from a disastrous stroke of lighting. Of the midnight storm which destroyed this gloomy mansion, the older inhabitants of the region sometimes speak in hushed and uneasy voices; alluding to what they call “divine wrath” in a manner that in later years vaguely increased the always strong fascination which I felt for the forest-darkened sepulchre. One man only had perished in the fire. When the last of the Hydes was buried in this place of shade and stillness, the sad urnful of ashes had come from a distant land; to which the family had repaired when the mansion burned down. No one remains to lay flowers before the granite portal, and few care to brave the depressing shadows which seem to linger strangely about the water-worn stones.

  I shall never forget the afternoon when first I stumbled upon the half-hidden house of death. It was in midsummer, when the alchemy of Nature transmutes the sylvan landscape to one vivid and almost homogeneous mass of green; when the senses are well-nigh intoxicated with the surging seas of moist verdure and the subtly indefinable odours of the soil and the vegetation. In such surroundings the mind loses its perspective; time and space become trivial and unreal, and echoes of a forgotten prehistoric past beat insistently upon the enthralled consciousness. All day I had been wandering through the mystic groves of the hollow; thinking thoughts I need not discuss, and conversing with things I need not name. In years a child of ten, I had seen and heard many wonders unknown to the throng; and was oddly aged in certain respects. When, upon forcing my way between two savage clumps of briers, I suddenly encountered the entrance of the vault, I had no knowledge of what I had discovered. The dark blocks of granite, the door so curiously ajar, and the funereal carvings above the arch, aroused in me no associations of mournful or terrible character. Of graves and tombs I knew and imagined much, but had on account of my peculiar temperament been kept from all personal contact with churchyards and cemeteries. The strange stone house on the woodland slope was to me only a source of interest and speculation; and its cold, damp interior, into which I vainly peered through the aperture so tantalisingly left, contained for me no hint of death or decay. But in that instant of curiosity was born the madly unreasoning desire which has brought me to this hell of confinement. Spurred on by a voice which must have come from the hideous soul of the forest, I resolved to enter the beckoning gloom in spite of the ponderous chains which barred my passage. In the waning light of day I alternately rattled the rusty impediments with a view to throwing wide the stone door, and essayed to squeeze my slight form through the space already provided; but neither plan met with success. At first curious, I was not frantic; and when in the thickening twilight I returned to my home, I had sworn to the hundred gods of the grove that at any cost I would some day force an entrance to the black, chilly depths that seemed calling out to me. The physician with the iron-grey beard who comes each day to my room once told a visitor that this decision marked the beginning of a pitiful monomania; but I will leave final judgement to my readers when they shall have learnt all.

  The months following my discovery were spent in futile attempts to force the complicated padlock of the slightly open vault, and in carefully guarded inquiries regarding the nature and history of the structure. With the traditionally receptive ears of the small boy, I learned much; though an habitual secretiveness caused me to tell no one of my information or my resolve. It is perhaps worth mentioning that I was not at all surprised or terrified on learning of the nature of the vault. My rather original ideas regarding life and death had caused me to associate the cold clay with the breathing body in a vague fashion; and I felt that the great and sinister family of the burned-down mansion was in some way represented within the stone space I sought to explore. Mumbled tales of the weird rites and godless revels of bygone years in the ancient hall gave to me a new and potent interest in the tomb, before whose door I would sit for hours at a time each day. Once I thrust a candle within the nearly closed entrance, but could see nothing save a flight of damp stone steps leading downward. The odour of the place repelled yet bewitched me. I felt I had known it before, in a past remote beyond all recollection; beyond even my tenancy of the body I now possess.

  The year after I first beheld the tomb, I stumbled upon a worm-eaten translation of Plutarch’s Lives in the book-filled attic of my home. Reading the life of Theseus, I was much impressed by that passage telling of the great stone beneath which the boyish hero was to find his tokens of destiny whenever he should become old enough to lift its enormous weight. This legend had the effect of dispelling my keenest impatience to enter the vault, for it made me feel that the time was not yet ripe. Later, I told myself, I should grow to a strength and ingenuity which might enable me to unfasten the heavily chained door with ease; but until then I would do better by conforming to what seemed the will of Fate.

  Accordingly my watches by the dank portal became less persistent, and much of my time was spent in other though equally strange pursuits. I would sometimes rise very quietly in the night, stealing out to walk in those churchyards and places of burial from which I had been kept by my parents. What I did there I may not say, for I am not now sure of the reality of certain things; but I know that on the day after such a nocturnal ramble I would often astonish those about me with my knowledge of topics almost forgotten for many generations. It was after a night like this that I shocked the community with a queer conceit about the burial of the rich and celebrated Squire Brewster, a maker of local history who was interred in 1711, and whose slate headstone, bearing a graven skull and crossbones, was slowly crumbling to power. In a moment of childish imagination I vowed not only that the undertaker, Goodman Simpson, had stolen the silver-buckled shoes, silken hose, and satin small-clothes of the deceased before burial; but that the Squire himself, not fully inanimate, had turned twice in his mound-covered coffin on the day after interment.

  But the idea of entering the tomb never left my thoughts; being indeed stimulated by the unexpected genealogical discover that my own maternal ancestry possessed at least a slight link with the supposedly extinct family of the Hydes. Last of my paternal race, I was likewise the last of this older and more mysterious line. I began to feel that the tomb was mine, and to look forward with hot eagerness to the time when I might pass within that stone door and down those slimy stone steps in the dark. I now formed the habit of listening very intently at the slightly open portal, choosing my favourite hours of midnight stillness for the odd vigil. By the time I came of age, I had made a small clearing in the thicket before the mould-stained facade of the hillside, allowing the surrounding vegetation to encircle and overhang the space like the walls and roof of a sylvan bower. This bower was my temple, the fastened door my shrine, and here I would lie outstretched on the mossy ground, thinking strange thoughts and dreaming strange dreams.

  The night of the first revelation was a sultry one. I must have fallen asleep from fatigue, for it was with a distinct sense of awakening that I heard the voices. Of those tones and accents I hesitate to speak; of their quality I will not speak; but I may say that they presented certain uncanny differences in vocabulary, pronunciation, and mode of utterance. Every shade of New England dialect, from the uncouth syllables of the Puritan colonists to the precise rhetoric of fifty years ago, seemed represented in that shadowy colloquy, though it was only later that I noticed the fact. At the time, indeed, my attention was distracted from this matter by another phenomeno
n; a phenomenon so fleeting that I could not take oath upon its reality. I barely fancied that as I awoke, a light had been hurriedly extinguished within the sunken sepulchre. I do not think I was either astounded or panic-stricken, but I know that I was greatly and permanently changed that night. Upon returning home I went with much directness to a rotting chest in the attic, wherein I found the key which next day unlocked with ease the barrier I had so long stormed in vain.

  It was in the soft glow of late afternoon that I first entered the vault on the abandoned slope. A spell was upon me, and my heart leaped with an exultation I can but ill describe. As I closed the door behind me and descended the dripping steps by the light of my lone candle, I seemed to know the way; and though the candle sputtered with the stifling reek of the place, I felt singularly at home in the musty, charnel-house air. Looking about me, I beheld many marble slabs bearing coffins, or the remains of coffins. Some of these were sealed and intact, but others had nearly vanished, leaving the silver handles and plates isolated amidst certain curious heaps of whitish dust. Upon one plate I read the name of Sir Geoffrey Hyde, who had come from Sussex in 1640 and died here a few years later. In a conspicuous alcove was one fairly well-preserved and untenanted casket, adorned with a single name which brought to me both a smile and a shudder. An odd impulse caused me to climb upon the broad slab, extinguish my candle, and lie down within the vacant box.

  In the grey light of dawn I staggered from the vault and locked the chain of the door behind me. I was no longer a young man, though but twenty-one winters had chilled my bodily frame. Early rising villagers who observed my homeward progress looked at me strangely, and marvelled at the signs of ribald revelry which they saw in one whose life was known to be sober and solitary. I did not appear before my parents till after a long and refreshing sleep.