The Book of Iod

by Henry Kuttner

  Grayness first, like a pearly, opalescent dawn; then yellowish fingers of sunlight, and finally the hot blaze of a summer afternoon! From the bell-tower I could see the street below, where men and women stared up unbelievingly at the blue sky. At my feet was the clapper from one of the bells.

  Denton was swaying drunkenly, his white face splotched with blood, his clothing torn and smeared with dust. “That did it,” he whispered. “Only one combination of sounds could summon — the Thing. When I silenced one bell—”

  He was silent, staring down. At our feet lay Todd, his clothing dishevelled, his face scratched and bleeding. As we watched, he got weakly to his feet, a look of monstrous horror growing in his eyes. Involuntarily I shrank back, my hands going up protectingly.

  * * *

  He flinched. “Ross,” he whispered through white lips. “My God, Ross — I — I couldn’t help it! I couldn’t help it, I tell you! Something kept telling me to put out your eyes — and Denton’s too — and then to gouge out my own! A voice — in my head—”

  And abruptly I understood, remembering that horrible whisper within my brain while I struggled with poor Todd. That malignant horror — he whom the Book of Iod called Zushakon and whom the Mutsunes knew as Zu-che-quon — had sent his evil, potent command into our brains — commanding us to blind ourselves. And we had nearly obeyed that voiceless, dreadful command!

  But all was well now. Or was it?

  I had hoped to close the doors of my memory forever on the entire horrible affair, for it is best not to dwell too closely upon such things. And, despite the storm of adverse criticism and curiosity that was aroused by the smashing of the bells the next day, with the full permission of Father Bernard of the Mission. I had fully determined never to reveal the truth of the matter.

  It was my hope that only three men — Denton, Todd, and myself — might hold the key to the horror, and that it would die with us. Yet something has occurred which forces me to break my silence and place before the world the facts of the case. Denton agrees with me that perhaps thus mystics and occultists, who have knowledge of such things, may be enabled to utilize their knowledge more effectually if what we fear ever comes to pass.

  Two months after the affair at San Xavier an eclipse of the sun occurred. At that time I was at my home in Los Angeles, Denton was at the headquarters of the Historical Society in San Francisco, and Arthur Todd was occupying his apartment in Hollywood.

  The eclipse began at 2:17 p.m., and within a few moments of the beginning of the obscuration I felt a strange sensation creeping over me. A dreadfully familiar itching manifested itself in my eys, and I began to rub them fiercely. Then, remembering, I jerked down my hands and thrust them hastily into my pockets. But the burning sensation persisted.

  The telephone rang. Greateful for the distraction, I went to it hurriedly. It was Todd.

  He gave me no chance to speak. “Ross! Ross — it’s back!” he cried into the transmitter. “Ever since the eclipse began I’ve been fighting. Its power was strongest over me, you know. It wants me to— help me, Ross! I can’t keep—” Then silence!

  “Todd!” I cried. “Wait — hold on, just for a few moments! I’ll be there!”

  No answer. I hesitated, then hung up and raced out to my car. It was a normal twenty-minute drive to Todd’s apartment, but I covered it in seven, with my lights glowing through the gloom of the eclipse and mad thoughts crawling horribly in my brain. A motorcycle officer overtook me at my destination, but a few hurried words brought him into the apartment house at my side. Todd’s door was locked. After a few fruitless shouts, we burst it open. The electric lights were blazing.

  What cosmic abominations may be summoned to dreadful life by age-old spells — and sounds — is a question I dare not contemplate, for I have a horrible feeling that when the lost bells of San Xavier were rung, an unearthly and terrible chain of consequences was set in motion; and I believe, too, that the summoning of those evil bells was more effective than we then realized.

  Ancient evils when roused to life may not easily return to their brooding sleep, and I have a curious horror of what may happen at the next eclipse of the sun. Somehow the words of the hellish Book of Iod keep recurring to me — “Yet can He be called to earth’s surface before His time,” “He bringeth darkness,” “All life, all sound, all movement passeth away at His coming” — and, worst of all, that horribly significant phrase, “He cometh sometimes within the eclipse.”

  Just what had happened in Todd’s apartment I do not know. The telephone received was dangling from the wall, and a gun was lying beside my friend’s prostrate form. But it was not the scarlet stain on the left breast of his dressing-gown that riveted my horror-blasted stare — it was the hollow, empty eye-sockets that glared up sightlessly from the contorted face — that, and the crimson-stained thumbs of Arthur Todd!

  The Hunt

  by Henry Kuttner

  There is an obvious but insignificant similarity between this tale and Lovecraft’s “The Terrible Old Man” This time the sorcerer cannot save himself, but the crook unwittingly summons a terrible doom on himself.

  The story is thickly clustered with Kuttner Mythos props such as the setting in the ill-rumored village of Monk’s Hollow, the use of the Chhaya Ritual, the blasphemous Elder Key, Mysteries of the Worm, and the Book of Kamak. What is surprising is the absence of the premier Kuttner grimoire, the Book of Iod. This is all the stranger since the monstrous entity who appears in the story is Iod itself! It is as if Kuttner had only now come to view Iod as an entity, and that when he did, he substituted this identification for the previous one. Otherwise we might expect him to mention the Book of Iod as the chief source of information about the entity Iod. Now there is a Great Old One named lod, but no Book of Iod. Thus there is no real warrant for supposing that earlier references to the Book had anything to do with an Old One of the same name.

  Other occult accoutrements mentioned in this story include La Tres Sainte Trinosophie, actually a treatise on alchemy attributed to the long-lived Comte de Saint Germain, and “the monstrous Ishakshar”, the carven artifact in Arthur Mac hen’s “The Novel of the Black Seal.”

  One more thing: One can hardly read this story without imagining it illustrated, as for some lost issue of Creepy, by Steve Ditko. It cries out for Ditko! It actually reads like a script intended for his realization. And who else could do it justice?

  First publication: Strange Stories, June 1939.

  * * *

  Alvin Doyle came into the Wizard’s House with a flat, snub-nosed automatic in his pocket and murder in his heart.

  Luck favored him in that he had been able to trace down his cousin, Will Benson, before the executors of old Andreas Benson’s estate had found the trail. Now fortune was still on his side. Benson’s cabin was in a little canyon two miles from the village of Monk’s Hollow, and the superstitions of the villagers would not allow them to go near there by night.

  Will Benson was next of kin to the dead Andreas Benson. If Will died, Doyle would be the inheriting legatee. Consequently, Doyle had come to Monk’s Hollow, and, with a gun in his pocket, had casually inquired about his cousin, taking pains to arouse no suspicion.

  Will Benson was a recluse—and worse, men told Doyle over their beer. They whispered wild tales of what he did at night in his cabin, where drawn blinds hid unknown terrors from the eyes of the hardy prowler, and of ominous sounds that heralded a menace unknown.

  But there were no more prowlers now, not since Ed Durkin, the saloon keeper, had come home one night talking about a smoky black horror that he said had squatted on the roof of Benson’s cabin, watching him with flaming eyes until he had ignominiously fled.

  Doyle chuckled to himself, realizing that fantastic tales often grow up about a recluse. His task would be easier now, for there would be little danger of a chance that some passerby might hear the gunshot. He had taken the precaution of hiring a black roadster of a common make for his night’s journey, and his dark
face was impassive as he steered the car along the rutted dirt road in the dusk.

  Doyle’s face seldom betrayed his emotions, save by a slight tightening of his thin lips and a peculiar glazing of the cold gray eyes. He smiled, however, when the door of the cabin opened in response to his knock and a man stepped out on the porch. But it was not a pleasant smile.

  Doyle recognized Will Benson from his photographs, although they had been taken nearly twenty years before. There was the same broad, high forehead, the same level stare of brooding dark eyes. The parenthetical lines about the mouth had grown deeper, and Benson’s thick eyebrows were drawn together in a puzzled frown; there were silver flecks about the temples. All at once his eyes lighted.

  “Why—Al!” His voice was hesitant. “It’s Al, isn’t it? I didn’t know you at first.”

  Doyle’s smile widened, but mentally he cursed his cousin’s memory. He had not been sure; he had not known whether Benson would remember him. Well, it could not be helped now. He had planned two courses of action; one would have to be discarded now in favor of the alternative plan. He put out his hand and gripped Benson’s with hypocritical cordiality.

  “It’s Al, all right. Didn’t know whether you’d remember me. It’s been almost twenty years, hasn’t it? I was just a kid when I last saw you—aren’t you going to ask me to come in?”

  An odd hesitancy was apparent in Benson’s manner. He frowned, then glanced almost furtively over his shoulder, then stood aside.

  "Yes, of course. Come in.”

  Benson double-locked the door, Doyle noticed, as his glance swept the room. Amazement gripped him. He stood there staring. The villagers had been right in naming this the Wizard’s House!

  Dark hangings swathed the walls, their sable folds giving the chamber an elusive quality of spaciousness. Tables, chairs had been pushed back against the walls, and on the bare floor was traced an extraordinary design. Doyle searched his memory; then he recognized it—a pentagram, with its circles and six-pointed star, drawn in some substance that glowed with a faint greenish light.

  About the pentagram at intervals stood intricately engraved lamps of silver metal, and within the design was a chair, a table on which a huge iron-bound book lay open, and a censer suspended from a tripod. The room of a wizard, indeed! Through Doyle went a little surge of petulant anger. What would such a fool do with old Benson’s fortune—should he inherit it? Probably waste it on mummery of some sort!

  Another thought came to Doyle: Was the murder necessary? Would it not be easier to prove Benson insane? He put the unformulated thought from him. He dared not take risks. The gun was much the surer way.

  Benson was watching him oddly. “Surprised, eh? Well, I guess it does look rather unusual at first. I’ll explain later. First, sit down and tell me about yourself—how you happened to come.”

  He dragged a chair out from the wall. Doyle sank into it, drawing out his cigarette case.

  “It’s a long story,” he said. “You’ve been out of touch with everything, haven’t you? Your grandfather and I were talking about you just the other day.”

  He watched Benson keenly, but the man made no move. Apparently he had not yet learned of old Benson’s death.

  “It started me wondering how—”

  “Er—excuse me,” Benson broke in. “Would you mind not smoking?”

  “Eh?” Doyle stared at him, then returned the cigarette to its case. “Of course.”

  Apparently Benson felt the need of an explanation.

  “I have a rather delicate—ah, experiment I’m working on. Even small things may endanger its success. I—I’m afraid you’ll think me a poor host, Al, but you really came at an inopportune time.”

  He hesitated, and again came that curiously furtive glance over his shoulder.

  “Had you planned on staying here tonight?”

  Doyle was deliberately tactful. “Why, if you put it that way—I don’t want to intrude. I didn’t mean—”

  “No. No, nothing like that,” Benson said hastily. "Only, I’ve started this experiment now, and I’ve got to finish it. Even now it’s dangerous—”

  * * *

  Doyle thought quickly. The man was obviously mad. What kind of nonsense was this “experiment”, anyway? But Doyle could not leave yet. He winked, and nodded meaningfully. “Expecting some company, eh, Will?”

  Benson’s pale face flushed. “No,” he said. “You’re wrong there. It really is an experiment—and a dangerous one, believe me. Look here, Al. Can you go back to the village tonight—now— and come back tomorrow? I’m really awfully pleased to see you, but it’s—well, I can’t very well explain. These things always sound incredible at first. Think of it as a scientific experiment— with high explosives.”

  “Lord, I’m sorry,” Doyle said quickly. “I’d be glad to go back, but I can’t. Something’s wrong with my car. I just managed to make it up here, and I’m no mechanic. Can’t we phone the village for somebody to pick me up?”

  For a moment he held his breath. He did not believe Benson would have a telephone, but—

  “I haven’t a phone,” Benson replied, gnawing at his lip. “You’re here now, Doyle, and I’m responsible for you. I’ll—there’s no danger, really, if you do as I tell you.”

  “Of course. If you want me to, I’ll go in another room and read ‘til you’re finished. I—”

  He paused, astonished at the curious look that came into Benson’s face.

  “God, no! You stay with me! That’s the only place you’ll be safe. The—the—”

  He looked quickly over his shoulder. Doyle saw that a thick, bluish coil of smoke was ascending from the censer.

  “Come on!” Benson said urgently and Doyle rose, watched his cousin carry a chair within the pentagram. Slowly he followed.

  From somewhere, Benson produced a candle, set it in a candlestick on the table. He extinguished the oil lamp that had illuminated the room, so that the only light came from the candle and the six silver lamps. Shadows crept in. Outside the pentagram a wall of darkness seemed to press forward, and the black hangings lent a disturbing air of measureless distances to the blackness. It was utterly silent.

  “I’d already started this,” Benson explained. "And it’s something that can’t be stopped. It’s got to run its course. Sit down; you’ve got a long wait.”

  He bent over the great iron-bound book on the table, turned a yellowed page. The volume was in Latin, Doyle saw, but he knew little of the language. The pale face of Benson, brooding over the book, reminded Doyle of some medieval magician working his sorcery. Sorcery! Well, the gun in his pocket was a stronger magic than the mumbo-jumbo of half-cracked fools. Still, he would have to humor Benson. The man had an awkward habit of glancing up quickly, and Doyle had no relish for a physical conflict. The first shot must be fatal.

  Benson threw some powder into the censer, and the smoke rose more thickly. Gradually a faint haze was beginning to pervade the atmosphere. Doyle quickly repressed a tight smile as Benson glanced at him.

  “You think I’m mad, don’t you?” asked Benson.

  “No,” Doyle said, and was silent. He had gauged his opponent too well to start a stream of protestations which would inevitably ring false.

  Benson, smiling, leaned back, facing his cousin. From his pocket, he drew a battered pipe, eyed it longingly, and thrust it back.

  “This is the worst of it,” he said irrelevantly, and chuckled. Abruptly he grew serious.

  “They may have told you in the village that I’m mad. But they don’t think so. They fear me, Al—God knows why, for I’ve never harmed them. All I’m after is knowledge, and they wouldn’t understand that. But I don’t mind, for it keeps them away from here, and I need solitude for my research. Besides, it keeps them from blundering in where ordinary people shouldn’t be.”

  “They call this the ‘Wizard’s House,”’ Doyle said, anxious to agree.

  “Yes, I suppose so. Well, after all, they may be right. Long ago men who sou
ght after hidden knowledge were called wizards. But it’s all science, Al, although a science of which the ordinary man— even your conventional scientist—knows nothing. The scientist is wiser, though, for he realizes that beyond his three-dimensional world of sight and hearing and tasting and smelling there are other worlds, with another kind of life on them.

  “What I’m going to tell you may seem unbelievable, I know— but I must tell you, for the sake of your sanity. You must be prepared for what you’re going to see tonight. Another cosmos—.” He pondered, glancing down at the book. “It’s hard. I’ve gone so far, and you know so little.”

  Doyle shifted uneasily. His hand went into his pocket, and remained there as Benson looked up at him. He knew better than to jerk it out with betraying haste.

  “Put it this way,” Benson went on. “Man isn’t the only type of intelligent life. Science admits that. But it does not admit that there is a super-science which enables man to get in contact with these ultra-human entities. There has always been a hidden, necessarily furtive lore, persecuted by the mob, which delves deeply into this secret wisdom. Many of the so-called wizards of ancient times were charlatans, like Cagliostro. Others, like Albertus Magnus and Ludwig Prinn, were not. Man must indeed be blind to refuse to see the unmistakable evidences of these hidden things!”

  * * *

  There was a flush creeping into Benson’s cheeks as he talked, and he stabbed a slender forefinger down upon the book that lay open before him.

  “It’s here, in the Book of Karnak—and in the other books, La Tres Sainte Trinosophie, the Chhaya Ritual, the Dictionnaire Infernal of de Plancy. But man won’t believe, because he doesn’t want to believe.

  He has forced belief from his mind. From ancient times the only memory that has come down is fear—fear of those ultra-human entities which once walked the Earth. Well, dynamite is dangerous, but it can be useful too.

  “My God!” Benson exclaimed, a strange fire burning in his somber eyes. “If I had only been alive then, when the old gods walked the Earth! What might I not have learned!”