Tales of the Lovecraft Mythos

seemed to settle down over me, like a chill shroud of dank fog. For in that eldritch legend Hayward had written, there were certain disturbing hints of things that made my mind shudder away from their frightfulness, even while I recognized them.

The manuscript read:

I dwelt in an archaic world. A world that had been long forgotten when Atlantis and Cimmeria flourished, a world so incredibly ancient that none of its records have ever come down through the ages.

The first human race dwelt in primal Mu, worshiping strange, forgotten gods — mountain-tall Cthulhu of the Watery Abyss, the Serpent Yig, Iod the Shining Hunter, Vorvadoss of the Gray Gulf of Yarnak.

And in those days there came to Earth certain beings form another dimension of space, inhuman, monstrous creatures which desired to wipe out all life from the planet. These beings planned to leave their own dying world to colonize Earth, building their titanic cities on this younger, more fruitful planet.

With their coming a tremendous conflict sprang into being, in which the gods friendly to mankind were arrayed against the hostile invaders.

Foremost in that cyclopean battle, mightiest of Earth’s gods, was the Flaming One, Vorvadoss of Bel-Yarnak, and I, high priest of his cult, kindled

There the manuscript ended.

Hayward had been watching me. “That was my — dream, Gene, when I last took the time-drug. It wasn’t quite as clear as most of them — there are always blind spots, odd gaps where my memory somehow doesn’t work. But the drug showed me what had happened in that prehistoric lifetime of mine, so many incarnations ago. We won — or rather our gods won. The invaders — those things — ”

He broke off as a mewing cry sounded, very near, and then resumed in an unsteady voice. “They were driven back into their own world, their own dimension — and the gateway was closed, so they could not return. It’s remained closed through all these eons.

“It would still be closed,” he went on bitterly. “If I hadn’t opened it with my experiments, or had taken the precautions the Mysteries of the Worm gave. Now they've got Mason — and that’s all they need. I know that, somehow. A sacrifice to open the gate between this world and their own frightful dimension, so that their hordes can come pouring upon Earth —

“That’s how they got in before. By a human sacrifice — ”

“Listen!' I held up my hand urgently. The mewing cries had died, but there was another sound — a faint high-pitched moaning coming from outside the cottage. Hayward didn’t move.

“It may be Mason,” I jerked out as I went to the door. Momentarily I hesitated, and then swung it open, stepped out on the sand. The moaning grew louder. Hayward slowly came up by my side. His eyes were sharper than mine, for as he peered into the fog banks he gave a startled exclamation.

“Good God!” He flung out his arm, pointing. “Look at that!'

Then I, too, saw it, and I stood there glaring at the thing, unable to move.

There on that Pacific beach, with the yellow light from the open door pouring out into the fog, something was dragging itself painfully over the sand toward us — something distorted, misshapen, uttering little whimpering cries as it pulled itself along. It came into the beam of light and we saw it distinctly.

Beside me, Hayward was swaying back and forth, making hoarse sounds as though he were trying to scream and couldn’t. I stumbled back, flinging up my arm to shield my horrified eyes, croaking, “Keep away! For God’s sake, stay back — you — you — you’re not Bill Mason — damn you, stay back!”

But the thing kept on crawling toward us. The black, sightless hollows where its eyes had been were grim shadows in the dim light. It had been flayed alive, and its hands left red marks on the sand as it crept. A patch of bare white skull shone like a frightful tonsure on the crimsoned head.

Nor was that all — but I cannot bring myself to describe the dreadful and loathsomely abnormal changes that had taken place in the body of the thing that had been Bill Mason. And even as it crawled it was — changing!

A dreadful metamorphosis was overtaking it. It seemed to be losing its outline, to sprawl down until it wriggled rather than crawled along the sand. Then I knew! In the space of seconds it was reversing the entire evolutionary upsurge of the human species! It squirmed there like a snake, losing its resemblance to anything human as I watched, sick and shuddering. It melted and shrank and shriveled until there was nothing left but a loathsome foul ichor that was spreading in a black puddle of odious black slime. I heard myself gasping hysterical, unintelligible prayers. And suddenly a piercing shock of cold went through me. High in the fog I heard a mewing, shrill call.

Hayward clutched at my arm, his eyes blazing. “It's come,” he whispered. “It’s the sacrifice — they’re breaking through!”

I swung about, leaped for the open door of the cottage. The icy, unnatural chill was numbing my body, slowing my movements. “Come on,” I shouted to Hayward. “You fool, don’t stay out there! There has been one sacrifice already! Must there be others?”

He flung himself into the house and I slammed and locked the door.

Shrill, unearthly cries were coming from all directions now, as though the things were calling and answering one another. I thought I sensed a new note in the cries — a note of expectation, of triumph.

The window shade rolled up with a rattle and a snap, and the fog began to move past the pane, coiling and twisting fantastically. At a sudden gust the window shook in its casing. Hayward said under his breath, “Atmospheric disturbances — oh, my God! Poor Mason — watch the door, Gene!” His voice was strangled.

For a moment I saw nothing. Then the door bulged inward as though frightful pressure had been applied from without. A panel cracked with a rending sound, and I caught my breath. Then — it was gone.

The metal doorknob had a white rime of frost on it. “This — this isn’t real,” I said madly, although I was shuddering in the icy cold.

“Real enough. They’re breaking through — ”

Then Hayward said something so strange that it brought me around sharply, staring at him. Gazing vacantly at me, like a man in a hypnagogic state, he muttered in a queer gutteral voice, “The fires burn on Nergu-K’nyan and the Watchers scan the night skies for the Enemies — ny’ghan tharanak grit — ”

“Hayward!” I seized his shoulders, shook him. Life came back into his eyes.

“Blind spot,” he muttered. “I remembered something — now it’s gone — ”

He flinched as a new outburst of the mewing cries came from above the house.

But a strange, an incredible surmise, had burst upon my brain. There was a way out, a key of deliverance from evil — Hayward had it and did not know it!

“Think,” I said breathlessly. “Think hard! What was it — that memory?”

“Does that matter now? This — ” He saw the expression on my face, its meaning flashed across to him and he answered, not quickly, not slowly, but dreamily: “I seemed to be on a mountain peak, standing before the altar of Vorvadoss, with a great fire flaming up into the darkness. Around me there were priests in white robes — Watchers — ”

“Hayward,” I cried. “Vorvadoss — look here!” I snatched up the half-page of the manuscript, read from it hastily. 'The gods friendly to man were arrayed against the invaders — ”

“I see what you mean!” Hayward cried. “We triumphed — then. But now — ”

“Hayward!” I persisted desperately. “Your flash of memory just now! You were standing on a mountain while the Watchers scanned the night skies for the Enemies, you said. The Enemies must have been those creatures. Suppose the Watchers saw them?'

Suddenly the house shook under an impact that was not the work of the screaming wind. God! Would my efforts bear fruit too late? I heard an outburst of the shrill cries, and the door creaked and splintered. It was dreadfully cold. We were flung against the wall, and I staggered, almost losing my balance.

Again the house rocked under another battering-ram impact. My teeth were chattering, and I could hardly speak. A black dizziness was creeping up to overwhelm me, and my hands and feet had lost all feeling. Out of a whirling sea of darkness I saw Hayward’s white face.

“It’s a chance,” I gasped, fighting back the blackness. “Wouldn’t there — have been some way of summoning the gods, the friendly gods — if the Watchers saw the Enemies? You — you were high priest — in that former life.