The Call of Cthulhu

The Call of Cthulhu

by

H. P. Lovecraft

Written in 1926

The Call of Cthulhu

Of

such

great

powers

or

beings

there

may

be

conceivably

a

survival...

a

survival

of

a

hugely

remote

period

when...

consciousness

was

manifested,

perhaps,

in

shapes

and

forms

long

since

withdrawn before the tide of advancing humanity... forms of which poetry and legend alone have

caught a flying memory and called them gods, monsters, mythical beings of all sorts and kinds...

- Algernon Blackwood

I. The Horror In Clay

The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its

contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was

not

meant

that

we

should

voyage

far.

The

sciences,

each

straining

in

its

own

direction,

have

hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up

such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad

from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.

Theosophists have guessed at the awesome grandeur of the cosmic cycle wherein our world and

human race form transient incidents. They have hinted at strange survivals in terms which would

freeze the blood if not masked by a bland optimism. But it is not from them that there came the

single

glimpse

of

forbidden

eons

which

chills

me

when

I

think

of

it

and

maddens

me

when

I

dream of it. That glimpse, like all dread glimpses of truth, flashed out from an accidental piecing

together of separated things - in this case an old newspaper item and the notes of a dead professor.

I hope that no one else will accomplish this piecing out; certainly, if I live, I shall never knowingly

supply a link in so hideous a chain. I think that the professor, too intented to keep silent regarding

the part he knew, and that he would have destroyed his notes had not sudden death seized him.

My

knowledge

of

the

thing

began

in

the

winter

of

1926-27

with

the

death

of

my

great-uncle,

George

Gammell

Angell,

Professor

Emeritus

of

Semitic

Languages

in

Brown

University,

Providence,

Rhode

Island.

Professor

Angell

was

widely

known

as

an

authority

on

ancient

inscriptions, and had frequently been resorted to by the heads of prominent museums; so that his

passing at the age of ninety- two may be recalled by many. Locally, interest was intensified by the

obscurity of the cause of death. The professor had been stricken whilst returning from the Newport

boat;

falling

suddenly;

as

witnesses

said,

after

having

been

jostled

by

a

nautical-looking

negro

who had come from one of the queer dark courts on the precipitous hillside which formed a short

cut from the waterfront to the deceased's home in Williams Street. Physicians were unable to find

any visible disorder, but concluded after perplexed debate that some obscure lesion of the heart,

induced by the brisk ascent of so steep a hill by so elderly a man, was responsible for the end. At

the time I saw no reason to dissent from this dictum, but latterly I am inclined to wonder - and

more than wonder.

As my great-uncle's heir and executor, for he died a childless widower, I was expected to go over

his papers with some thoroughness; and for that purpose moved his entire set of files and boxes to

my

quarters

in

Boston.

Much

of

the

material

which

I

correlated

will

be

later

published

by

the

American Archaeological Society, but there was one box which I found exceedingly puzzling, and

which I felt much averse from showing to other eyes. It had been locked and I did not find the key

till it occurred to me to examine the personal ring which the professor carried in his pocket. Then,

indeed, I succeeded in opening it, but when I did so seemed only to be confronted by a greater and

more closely locked barrier. For what could be the meaning of the queer clay bas-relief and the

disjointed

jottings,

ramblings,

and

cuttings

which

I

found?

Had

my

uncle,

in

his

latter

years

become

credulous

of

the

most

superficial

impostures?

I

resolved

to

search

out

the

eccentric

sculptor responsible for this apparent disturbance of an old man's peace of mind.

The bas-relief was a rough rectangle less than an inch thick and about five by six inches in area;

obviously

of

modern

origin.

Its

designs,

however,

were

far

from

modern

in

atmosphere

and

suggestion; for, although the vagaries of cubism and futurism are many and wild, they do not often

reproduce that cryptic regularity which lurks in prehistoric writing. And writing of some kind the

bulk of these designs seemed certainly to be; though my

memory, despite

much the papers and

collections of

my uncle, failed in any way

to identify this particular species, or even hint at its

remotest affiliations.

Above

these

apparent

hieroglyphics

was

a

figure

of

evident

pictorial

intent,

though

its

impressionistic execution forbade a very clear idea of its nature. It seemed to be a sort of monster,

or symbol representing a monster, of a form which only a diseased fancy could conceive. If I say

that my somewhat extravagant imagination yielded simultaneous pictures of an octopus, a dragon,

and a human caricature, I shall not be unfaithful to the spirit of the thing. A pulpy, tentacled head

surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings; but it was the general outline of

the whole which made it most shockingly frightful. Behind the figure was a vague suggestions of

a Cyclopean architectural background.

The

writing

accompanying

this

oddity

was,

aside

from

a

stack

of

press

cuttings,

in

Professor

Angell's

most recent hand; and made no pretense to literary style. What seemed to be the main

document

was

headed

CULT

in

characters

painstakingly

printed

to

avoid

the

erroneous

reading

of

a

word

so

unheard- of.

This

manuscript

was

divided

into

two

sections,

the

first

of

which

was

headed

-

Dream

and

Dream

Work

of

H.A.

Wilcox,

7

Thomas

St.,

Providence, R. I.

New

Orleans,

La.,

at

1908

A.

A.

S.

Mtg.

-

Notes

on

Same,

&

Prof.

Webb's

Acct.

The

other

manuscript

papers

were

brief

notes,

some

of

them

accounts

of

the

queer

dreams

of

different

persons, some of them citations from theosophical books and magazines (notably W. Scott-Elliot's

Atlantis

and

the

Lost

Lemuria),

and

the

rest

comments

on

long- surviving

secret

societies

and

hidden cults, with references to passages in such mythological and anthropological source-books

as Frazer's Golden Bough and Miss Murray's Witch-Cult in Western Europe. The cuttings largely

alluded to outr? mental illness and outbreaks of group folly or mania in the spring of 1925.

The first half of the principal manuscript told a very particular tale. It appears that on March 1st,

1925,

a

thin,

dark

young

man

of

neurotic

and

excited

aspect

had

called

upon

Professor

Angell

bearing the singular clay bas-relief, which was then exceedingly damp and fresh. His card bore the

name

of

Henry

Anthony

Wilcox,

and

my

uncle

had

recognized

him

as

the

youngest

son

of

an

excellent

family

slightly

known

to

him,

who

had

latterly

been

studying

sculpture

at

the

Rhode

Island School of Design and living alone at the Fleur-de-Lys Building near that institution. Wilcox

was

a

precocious

youth

of known

genius

but

great

eccentricity,

and

had

from

chidhood excited

attention

through

the

strange

stories

and

odd

dreams

he

was

in

the

habit

of

relating.

He

called

himself

him as merely

visibility,

and

was

now

known

only

to

a

small

group

of

esthetes

from

other

towns.

Even

the

Providence Art Club, anxious to preserve its conservatism, had found him quite hopeless.

On

the

ocassion

of

the

visit,

ran

the

professor's

manuscript,

the

sculptor

abruptly

asked

for

the

benefit of his host's archeological knowledge in identifying the hieroglyphics of the bas-relief. He

spoke in a dreamy, stilted manner which suggested pose and alienated sympathy;

and my uncle

showed some sharpness in replying, for the conspicuous freshness of the tablet implied kinship

with

anything

but

archeology.

Young

Wilcox's

rejoinder,

which

impressed

my

uncle

enough

to

make him recall and record it verbatim, was of a fantastically poetic cast which must have typified

his whole conversation, and which I have since found highly characteristic of him. He said,

new,

indeed,

for

I

made

it

last

night

in

a

dream

of

strange

cities;

and

dreams

are

older

than

brooding Tyre, or the contemplative Sphinx, or garden-girdled Babylon.

It was then that he began that rambling tale which suddenly played upon a sleeping memory and

won the fevered interest of my uncle. There had been a slight earthquake tremor the night before,

the

most

considerable

felt

in

New

England

for

some

years;

and

Wilcox's

imagination

had

been

keenly affected. Upon retiring, he had had an unprecedented dream of great Cyclopean cities of

Titan blocks and sky-flung monoliths, all dripping with green ooze and sinister with latent horror.

Hieroglyphics

had

covered

the

walls

and

pillars,

and

from

some

undetermined

point

below had

come

a

voice

that

was

not

a

voice;

a

chaotic

sensation

which

only

fancy

could

transmute

into

sound,

but

which

he

attempted

to

render

by

the

almost

unpronounceable

jumble

of

letters:

This verbal jumble was the key to the recollection which excited and disturbed Professor Angell.

He

questioned

the

sculptor

with

scientific

minuteness;

and

studied

with

frantic

intensity

the

bas-relief on which the youth had found himself working, chilled and clad only in his night clothes,

when waking had stolen bewilderingly over him. My uncle blamed his old age, Wilcox afterwards

said,

for

his

slowness

in

recognizing

both

hieroglyphics

and

pictorial

design.

Many

of

his

questions

seemed

highly

out

of

place

to

his

visitor,

especially

those

which

tried

to

connect

the

latter with strange cults or societies; and Wilcox could not understand the repeated promises of

silence which he was offered in exchange for an admission of membership in some widespread

mystical

or

paganly

religious

body.

When Professor Angell

became

convinced

that the

sculptor

was indeed ignorant of any cult or system of cryptic lore, he besieged his visitor with demands for

future reports of dreams. This bore regular fruit, for after the first interview the manuscript records

daily calls of the young man, during which he related startling fragments of nocturnal imaginery

whose

burden

was

always

some

terrible

Cyclopean

vista

of

dark

and

dripping

stone,

with

a

subterrene

voice

or

intelligence

shouting

monotonously

in

enigmatical

sense-impacts

uninscribable

save

as

gibberish.

The

two

sounds

frequently

repeated

are

those

rendered

by

the

letters

On

March

23,

the

manuscript

continued,

Wilcox

failed

to

appear;

and

inquiries

at

his

quarters

revealed

that

he

had

been

stricken

with

an

obscure

sort

of

fever

and

taken

to

the

home

of

his

family

in

Waterman

Street.

He

had

cried

out

in

the

night,

arousing

several

other

artists

in

the

building,

and had

manifested

since

then

only

alternations

of

unconsciousness and delirium.

My

uncle

at

once

telephoned

the

family,

and

from

that

time

forward

kept

close

watch

of

the

case;

calling

often

at

the

Thayer

Street

office

of

Dr.

Tobey,

whom

he

learned

to

be

in

charge.

The

youth's febrile mind, apparently, was dwelling on strange things; and the doctor shuddered now

and

then

as

he

spoke

of

them.

They

included

not

only

a

repetition

of

what

he

had

formerly

dreamed, but touched wildly on a gigantic thing

He at no time fully described this object but occasional frantic words, as repeated by Dr. Tobey,

convinced the professor that it must be identical with the nameless monstrosity he had sought to

depict in his dream-sculpture. Reference to this object, the doctor added, was invariably a prelude

to

the

young

man's

subsidence

into

lethargy.

His

temperature,

oddly

enough,

was

not

greatly

above

normal;

but

the

whole

condition

was

otherwise

such

as

to

suggest

true

fever

rather

than

mental disorder.

On April 2 at about 3 P.M. every trace of Wilcox's malady suddenly ceased. He sat upright in bed,

astonished

to

find

himself

at

home

and

completely

ignorant

of

what

had

happened in

dream

or

reality since the night of March 22. Pronounced well by his physician, he returned to his quarters

in

three

days;

but

to

Professor

Angell

he

was

of

no

further

assistance.

All

traces

of

strange

dreaming had vanished with his recovery, and my uncle kept no record of his night-thoughts after

a week of pointless and irrelevant accounts of thoroughly usual visions.

Here the first part of the manuscript ended, but references to certain of the scattered notes gave me

much material for thought - so much, in fact, that only the ingrained skepticism then forming my

philosophy can account for my continued distrust of the artist. The notes in question were those

descriptive

of

the

dreams

of

various

persons

covering

the

same

period

as

that

in

which

young

Wilcox had had his strange visitations. My uncle, it seems, had quickly instituted a prodigiously

far-flung

body

of

inquires

amongst

nearly

all

the

friends

whom

he

could

question

without

impertinence, asking for nightly reports of their dreams, and the dates of any notable visions for

some time past. The reception of his request seems to have varied; but he must, at the very least,

have received more responses than any ordinary man could have handled without a secretary. This

original correspondence was not preserved, but his notes formed a thorough and really significant

digest.

Average

people

in

society

and

business

-

New

England's

traditional

of

the

earth

-

gave

an

almost

completely

negative

result,

though

scattered

cases

of

uneasy

but

formless

nocturnal

impressions

appear

here

and

there,

always

between

March

23

and

and

April

2

-

the

period of young Wilcox's delirium. Scientific men were little more affected, though four cases of

vague

description

suggest

fugitive

glimpses

of

strange

landscapes,

and

in

one

case

there

is

mentioned a dread of something abnormal.

It was from

the artists and poets that the pertinent answers came, and

I know that panic would

have broken loose had they been able to compare notes. As it was, lacking their original letters, I

half

suspected

the

compiler

of

having

asked

leading

questions,

or

of

having

edited

the

correspondence in corroboration of what he had latently resolved to see. That is why I continued

to feel that Wilcox, somehow cognizant of the old data which my uncle had possessed, had been

imposing

on

the

veteran

scientist.

These

responses

from

esthetes

told

disturbing

tale.

From

February 28 to April 2 a large proportion of them had dreamed very bizarre things, the intensity of

the dreams being immeasurably the stronger during the period of the sculptor's delirium. Over a

fourth

of

those

who

reported

anything,

reported

scenes

and

half- sounds

not

unlike

those

which

Wilcox

had

described;

and some

of

the

dreamers

confessed

acute

fear

of

the

gigantic

nameless

thing visible toward the last. One case, which the note describes with emphasis, was very sad. The

subject, a widely known architect with leanings toward theosophy and occultism, went violently

insane

on

the

date

of

young

Wilcox's

seizure,

and

expired

several

months

later

after

incessant

screamings to be saved from some escaped denizen of hell. Had my uncle referred to these cases

by name instead of merely by number, I should have attempted some corroboration and personal

investigation; but as it was, I succeeded in tracing down only a few. All of these, however, bore

out the notes in full. I have often wondered if all the the objects of the professor's questioning felt

as puzzled as did this fraction. It is well that no explanation shall ever reach them.

The press cuttings, as I have intimated, touched on cases of panic, mania, and eccentricity during

the

given

period.

Professor

Angell

must

have

employed

a

cutting

bureau,

for

the

number

of

extracts

was

tremendous,

and

the

sources

scattered

throughout

the

globe.

Here

was

a

nocturnal

suicide

in

London,

where

a

lone

sleeper

had

leaped

from

a

window

after

a

shocking

cry.

Here

likewise a rambling letter to the editor of a paper in South America, where a fanatic deduces a dire

future

from

visions

he

has

seen.

A

dispatch

from

California

describes

a

theosophist

colony

as

donning

white

robes

en

masse

for

some

fulfiment

which

never

arrives,

whilst

items

from India speak guardedly of serious native unrest toward the end of March 22-23.

The

west

of

Ireland,

too,

is

full

of

wild

rumour

and

legendry,

and

a

fantastic

painter

named

Ardois-Bonnot hangs a blasphemous Dream Landscape in the Paris spring salon of 1926. And so

numerous are the recorded troubles in insane asylums that only a

miracle can have stopped the

medical fraternity from noting strange parallelisms and

drawing mystified conclusions. A weird

bunch

of cuttings,

all

told; and

I

can

at

this date

scarcely

envisage

the

callous

rationalism

with

which

I

set

them

aside.

But

I

was

then

convinced

that

young

Wilcox

had

known

of

the

older

matters mentioned by the professor.

II. The Tale of Inspector Legrasse.

The older matters which had made the sculptor's dream and bas-relief so significant to my uncle

formed the subject of the second half of his long manuscript. Once before, it appears, Professor

Angell

had

seen

the

hellish

outlines

of

the

nameless

monstrosity,

puzzled

over

the

unknown

hieroglyphics, and heard the ominous syllables which can be rendered only as

this in so stirring and horrible a connexion that it is small wonder he pursued young Wilcox with

queries and demands for data.

This

earlier

experience

had

come

in

1908,

seventeen

years

before,

when

the

American

Archaeological Society held its annual meeting in St. Louis. Professor Angell, as befitted one of

his authority and attainments, had had a prominent part in all the deliberations; and was one of the

first

to

be

approached

by

the

several

outsiders

who

took

advantage

of

the

convocation

to

offer

questions for correct answering and problems for expert solution.

The chief of these outsiders, and in a short time the focus of interest for the entire meeting, was a

commonplace-looking

middle-aged

man

who

had

travelled

all

the

way

from

New

Orleans

for

certain

special

information

unobtainable

from

any

local

source.

His

name

was

John

Raymond

Legrasse, and he was by profession an Inspector of Police. With him he bore the subject of his

visit, a grotesque, repulsive, and apparently very ancient stone statuette whose origin he was at a

loss

to

determine.

It

must

not

be

fancied

that

Inspector

Legrasse

had

the

least

interest

in

archaeology.

On

the

contrary,

his

wish

for

enlightenment

was

prompted

by

purely

professional

considerations.

The

statuette,

idol,

fetish,

or

whatever

it

was,

had

been

captured

some

months

before in the wooded swamps south of New Orleans during a raid on a supposed voodoo meeting;

and so singular and hideous were the rites connected with it, that the police could not but realise

that they had stumbled on a dark cult totally unknown to them, and infinitely more diabolic than

even

the

blackest

of

the

African

voodoo

circles.

Of

its

origin,

apart

from

the

erratic

and

unbelievable tales extorted from the captured members, absolutely nothing was to be discovered;

hence

the

anxiety

of

the

police

for

any

antiquarian

lore

which

might

help

them

to

place

the

frightful symbol, and through it track down the cult to its fountain- head.

Inspector Legrasse was scarcely prepared for the sensation which his offering created. One sight

of

the

thing

had

been

enough

to

throw

the

assembled

men

of

science

into

a

state

of

tense

excitement, and they lost no time in crowding around him to gaze at the diminutive figure whose

utter

strangeness

and

air

of

genuinely

abysmal

antiquity

hinted

so

potently

at

unopened

and

archaic vistas. No recognised school of sculpture had animated this terrible object, yet centuries

and even thousands of years seemed recorded in its dim and greenish surface of unplaceable stone.

The figure, which was finally passed slowly from

man

to man for close and careful study, was

between seven and eight inches in height, and of exquisitely artistic workmanship. It represented a

monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose face was a mass of

feelers, a scaly, rubbery- looking body, prodigious claws on hind and fore feet, and long, narrow

wings behind. This thing, which seemed instinct with a fearsome and unnatural malignancy, was

of a somewhat bloated corpulence, and squatted evilly on a rectangular block or pedestal covered

with undecipherable characters. The tips of the wings touched the back edge of the block, the seat

occupied the centre, whilst the long, curved claws of the doubled-up, crouching hind legs gripped

the front edge and extended a quarter of the way clown toward the bottom of the pedestal. The

cephalopod head was bent forward, so that the ends of the facial feelers brushed the backs of huge

fore paws which clasped the croucher's elevated knees. The aspect of the whole was abnormally

life-like, and the more subtly fearful because its source was so totally unknown. Its vast, awesome,

and incalculable age was unmistakable; yet not one link did it shew with any known type of art

belonging to civilisation's youth - or indeed to any other time. Totally separate and apart, its very

material was a mystery; for the soapy, greenish-black stone with its golden or iridescent flecks and

striations

resembled

nothing

familiar

to

geology

or

mineralogy.

The

characters

along

the

base

were equally baffling; and no member present, despite a representation of half the world's expert

learning in this field, could form the least notion of even their remotest linguistic kinship. They,

like the subject and material, belonged to something horribly remote and distinct from mankind as

we know it. something frightfully suggestive of old and unhallowed cycles of life in which our

world and our conceptions have no part.

And

yet,

as

the

members

severally

shook

their

heads

and

confessed

defeat

at

the

Inspector's

problem, there was one man in that gathering who suspected a touch of bizarre familiarity in the

monstrous

shape

and

writing,

and

who

presently

told

with

some

diffidence

of

the

odd

trifle

he

knew. This person was the late William Channing Webb, Professor of Anthropology in Princeton

University, and an explorer of no slight note. Professor Webb had been engaged, forty-eight years

before, in a tour of Greenland and Iceland in search of some Runic inscriptions which he failed to

unearth; and whilst high up on the West Greenland coast had encountered a singular tribe or cult

of

degenerate

Esquimaux

whose

religion,

a

curious

form

of

devil-worship,

chilled

him

with

its

deliberate bloodthirstiness and repulsiveness. It was a faith of which other Esquimaux knew little,

and which they mentioned only with shudders, saying that it had come down from horribly ancient

aeons before ever the world was made. Besides nameless rites and human sacrifices there were

certain

queer

hereditary

rituals

addressed

to

a

supreme

elder

devil

or

tornasuk;

and

of

this

Professor

Webb

had

taken

a

careful

phonetic

copy

from

an

aged

angekok

or

wizard-priest,

expressing the sounds in Roman letters as best he knew how. But just now of prime significance

was

the

fetish

which

this

cult

had

cherished,

and

around

which

they

danced

when

the

aurora

leaped

high

over

the

ice

cliffs.

It

was,

the

professor

stated,

a

very

crude

bas-relief

of

stone,

comprising a hideous picture and some cryptic writing. And so far as he could tell, it was a rough

parallel in all essential features of the bestial thing now lying before the meeting.

This

data,

received

with

suspense

and

astonishment

by

the

assembled

members,

proved

doubly

exciting to Inspector Legrasse; and he began at once to ply his informant with questions. Having

noted

and

copied

an

oral

ritual

among

the

swamp

cult- worshippers

his

men

had

arrested,

he

besought

the

professor

to

remember

as

best

he

might

the

syllables

taken

down

amongst

the

diabolist Esquimaux. There then followed an exhaustive comparison of details, and a moment of

really awed silence when both detective and scientist agreed on the virtual identity of the phrase

common

to

two

hellish

rituals

so

many

worlds

of

distance

apart.

What,

in

substance,

both

the

Esquimaux

wizards

and

the

Louisiana

swamp-priests

had

chanted

to

their

kindred

idols

was

something very like this: the word- divisions being guessed at from traditional breaks in the phrase

as chanted aloud:

Legrasse had one point in advance of Professor Webb, for several among his mongrel prisoners

had repeated to him what older celebrants had told them the words meant. This text, as given, ran

something like this:

And

now,

in

response

to

a

general

and

urgent

demand,

Inspector

Legrasse

related

as

fully

as

possible his experience with the swamp worshippers; telling a story to which I could see my uncle

attached profound significance. It savoured of the wildest dreams of myth-maker and theosophist,

and disclosed an astonishing degree of cosmic imagination among such half-castes and pariahs as

might be least expected to possess it.

On November 1st, 1907, there had come to the New Orleans police a frantic summons from the

swamp and lagoon country

to the south. The squatters there, mostly primitive but good-natured

descendants of Lafitte's men, were in the grip of stark terror from an unknown thing which had

stolen upon them in the night. It was voodoo, apparently, but voodoo of a more terrible sort than

they had ever known; and some of their women and children had disappeared since the malevolent

tom- tom

had

begun

its

incessant

beating

far

within

the

black

haunted

woods

where

no

dweller

ventured.

There

were

insane

shouts

and

harrowing

screams,

soul-chilling

chants

and

dancing

devil-flames; and, the frightened messenger added, the people could stand it no more.

So

a

body

of

twenty

police,

filling

two

carriages

and

an

automobile,

had

set

out

in

the

late

afternoon with the shivering squatter as a guide. At the end of the passable road they alighted, and

for miles splashed on in silence through the terrible cypress woods where day never came. Ugly

roots and malignant hanging nooses of Spanish moss beset them, and now and then a pile of dank

stones or fragment of a rotting wall intensified by its hint of morbid habitation a depression which

every malformed tree and every fungous islet combined to create. At length the squatter settlement,

a

miserable

huddle

of

huts,

hove

in

sight;

and

hysterical

dwellers

ran

out

to

cluster

around

the

group of bobbing lanterns. The muffled beat of tom-toms was now faintly audible far, far ahead;

and

a

curdling

shriek

came

at

infrequent

intervals

when

the

wind

shifted.

A

reddish

glare,

too,

seemed to filter through pale undergrowth beyond the endless avenues of forest night. Reluctant

even

to

be

left

alone

again,

each

one

of

the

cowed

squatters

refused

point-blank

to

advance

another

inch

toward

the

scene

of

unholy

worship,

so

Inspector

Legrasse

and

his

nineteen

colleagues

plunged

on

unguided

into

black

arcades

of

horror

that

none

of

them

had

ever

trod

before.

The region now entered by the police was one of traditionally evil repute, substantially unknown

and untraversed by white men. There were legends of a hidden lake unglimpsed by mortal sight, in

which dwelt a huge, formless white polypous thing with luminous eyes; and squatters whispered

that bat-winged devils flew up out of caverns in inner earth to worship it at midnight. They said it

had

been

there

before

d'Iberville,

before

La

Salle,

before

the

Indians,

and

before

even

the

wholesome beasts and birds of the woods. It was nightmare itself, and to see it was to die. But it

made men dream, and so they knew enough to keep away. The present voodoo orgy was, indeed,

on the merest fringe of this abhorred area, but that location was bad enough; hence perhaps the

very place of the worship had terrified the squatters more than the shocking sounds and incidents.

Only poetry or madness could do justice to the noises heard by Legrasse's men as they ploughed

on through the black morass toward the red glare and muffled tom-toms. There are vocal qualities

peculiar to men, and vocal qualities peculiar to beasts; and it is terrible to hear the one when the

source

should

yield

the

other.

Animal

fury

and

orgiastic

license

here

whipped

themselves

to

daemoniac

heights

by

howls

and

squawking

ecstacies

that

tore

and

reverberated

through

those

nighted woods like pestilential tempests from the gulfs of hell. Now and then the less organized

ululation would cease, and from what seemed a well-drilled chorus of hoarse voices would rise in

sing-song chant that hideous phrase or ritual:

Then the men, having reached a spot where the trees were thinner, came suddenly in sight of the

spectacle itself. Four of them reeled, one fainted, and two were shaken into a frantic cry which the

mad cacophony of the orgy fortunately deadened. Legrasse dashed swamp water on the face of the

fainting man, and all stood trembling and nearly hypnotised with horror.

In a natural glade of the swamp stood a grassy island of perhaps an acre's extent, clear of trees and

tolerably dry. On this now leaped and twisted a more indescribable horde of human abnormality

than any but a Sime or an Angarola could paint. V

oid of clothing, this hybrid spawn were braying,

bellowing, and writhing about a monstrous ring-shaped bonfire; in the centre of which, revealed

by occasional rifts in the curtain of flame, stood a great granite monolith some eight feet in height;

on top of which, incongruous in its diminutiveness, rested the noxious carven statuette.

From a

wide circle of ten scaffolds set up at regular intervals with the flame-girt monolith as a centre hung,

head downward, the oddly marred bodies of the helpless squatters who had disappeared. It was

inside this circle that the ring of worshippers jumped and roared, the general direction of the mass

motion being from left to right in endless Bacchanal between the ring of bodies and the ring of

fire.

It may have been only imagination and it may have been only echoes which induced one of the

men, an excitable Spaniard, to fancy he heard antiphonal responses to the ritual from some far and

unillumined

spot

deeper

within

the

wood

of

ancient

legendry

and

horror.

This

man,

Joseph

D.

Galvez, I later met and questioned; and he proved distractingly imaginative. He indeed went so far

as to hint of the faint beating of great wings, and of a glimpse of shining eyes and a mountainous

white

bulk

beyond

the

remotest

trees

but

I

suppose

he

had

been

hearing

too

much

native

superstition.

Actually, the horrified pause of the men was of comparatively brief duration. Duty came first; and

although there must have been nearly a hundred mongrel celebrants in the throng, the police relied

on their firearms and plunged determinedly into the nauseous rout. For five minutes the resultant

din

and

chaos

were

beyond

description.

Wild

blows

were

struck,

shots

were

fired,

and

escapes

were made; but in the end Legrasse was able to count some forty- seven sullen prisoners, whom he

forced to dress in haste and fall into line between two rows of policemen. Five of the worshippers

lay

dead,

and

two

severely

wounded

ones

were

carried

away

on

improvised

stretchers

by

their

fellow- prisoners. The image on the monolith, of course, was carefully removed and carried back

by Legrasse.

Examined at headquarters after a trip of intense strain and weariness, the prisoners all proved to be

men

of

a

very

low,

mixed-blooded,

and

mentally

aberrant

type.

Most

were

seamen,

and

a

sprinkling

of

Negroes

and

mulattoes,

largely

West

Indians

or

Brava

Portuguese

from

the

Cape

Verde

Islands,

gave

a

colouring

of

voodooism

to

the

heterogeneous

cult.

But

before

many

questions

were

asked,

it

became

manifest

that

something

far

deeper

and

older

than

Negro

fetishism

was

involved.

Degraded

and

ignorant

as

they

were,

the creatures

held

with

surprising

consistency to the central idea of their loathsome faith.

They worshipped, so they said, the Great Old Ones who lived ages before there were any men, and

who came to the young world out of the sky. Those Old Ones were gone now, inside the earth and

under the sea; but their dead bodies had told their secrets in dreams to the first men, who formed a

cult

which

had

never

died. This

was

that

cult,

and

the prisoners

said

it

had

always

existed

and

always would exist, hidden in distant wastes and dark places all over the world until the time when

the great priest Cthulhu, from his dark house in the mighty city of R'lyeh under the waters, should

rise

and

bring

the

earth

again

beneath

his

sway.

Some

day

he

would

call,

when

the

stars

were

ready, and the secret cult would always be waiting to liberate him.

Meanwhile

no

more

must

be

told.

There

was

a

secret

which

even

torture

could

not

extract.

Mankind was not absolutely alone among the conscious things of earth, for shapes came out of the

dark to visit the faithful few. But these were not the Great Old Ones. No man had ever seen the

Old Ones. The carven idol was great Cthulhu, but none might say whether or not the others were

precisely like him. No one could read the old writing now, but things were told by word of mouth.

The chanted ritual was not the secret - that was never spoken aloud, only whispered. The chant

meant only this:

Only two of the prisoners were found sane enough to be hanged, and the rest were committed to

various institutions. All denied a part in the ritual murders, and averred that the killing had been

done by Black Winged Ones which had come to them from their immemorial meeting-place in the

haunted wood. But of those mysterious allies no coherent account could ever be gained. What the

police did extract, came mainly from the immensely aged mestizo named Castro, who claimed to

have sailed to strange ports and talked with undying leaders of the cult in the mountains of China.

Old

Castro

remembered

bits

of

hideous

legend

that

paled

the

speculations

of

theosophists

and

made

man

and

the

world

seem

recent

and

transient

indeed.

There

had

been

aeons

when

other

Things ruled on the earth, and They had had great cities. Remains of Them, he said the deathless

Chinamen had told him, were still be found as Cyclopean stones on islands in the Pacific. They all

died vast epochs of time before men came, but there were arts which could revive Them when the

stars had come round again to the right positions in the cycle of eternity. They had, indeed, come

themselves from the stars, and brought Their images with Them.

These Great Old Ones, Castro continued, were not composed altogether of flesh and blood. They