by Rachel Gray
IT RUNS IN THE FAMILY
Underneath the priory, the team discovered a subterranean grotto filled with Roman ruins, and an unimaginable heap of bones. The scientists determined the bones were human—or near human. The creatures had been kept in pens, like cattle, eventually devolving into quadrupedal beings. They were farmed, and eaten, by the residents above, until hungry hordes of rats finished off the wretched critters.
To his horror, Delapore found a seal ring in one of the buildings, with the de la Poer coat-of-arms. Suddenly, Delapore understood why Walter de la Poer had killed his cannibalistic family (seems pretty obvious when you put it that way).
Not surprisingly, all of this was too much for Delapore to handle. He suffered a fit, and screaming wildly, he scurried off into the tunnels’ depths. The scientists went looking for Delapore. Eventually, they discovered him in the darkness, snacking on the half-eaten remains of Edward Norrys—Norrys was a good friend, and tasty. The scientific team quickly determined that Delapore took after the wrong side of the family. And once again, it comes down to a person’s anscestors. If Delapore had studied his family tree, he might have avoided a great deal of embarrassment, and maintained a friendship with Norrys.
THE BOG MUST GO
If the last tale didn’t put you off the idea of buying and/or renovating a newly-discovered ancestral manor in the Great Britain countryside, the story of “The Moon Bog” might. When Denys Barrys decided to settle into his ancestral home in Kilderry, Ireland, he set about renovating the old castle. He just wanted to relax, enjoy the pastoral countryside, and spend the wealth he’d accumulated over the years. Oh, and maybe drain the stinky old bog, wasting perfectly good space on his land. (If Barrys knew more about the Cthulhu Mythos, like you, dear reader, he’d know that draining the bog at his ancestral home was a bad idea.)
MYTHOS SURVIVAL TIP:
ANCESTRAL FAMILY HOMES
In general, it’s not a good idea to renovate the ancestral family home in Great Britain and move into it. This is all the more true if you have a shady family history. Instead, consider a condo or an apartment in a large urban setting that is not on the East Coast of the United States.
For some reason—ahem—the bog-draining idea didn’t sit well with the locals. They believed a curse rested upon the bog, and the curse extended to anyone who attempted to drain its murky waters. Allegedly, a guardian spirit kept watch from an islet over the bog. Tales had it that the ruins of a great, stone city lay beneath its surface. Therefore, the bog, and the city beneath, was not to be disturbed.
But Barrys didn’t give in to such superstition—he was a modern, educated man. Undaunted, he continued with his plan to drain the bog—even as the local peasants fled for less cursed pastures. Unperturbed, he hired new servants and laborers from the north. The kind of people who were unfamiliar with ancient bog-cities or crazy curses.
WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU ENCOUNTER A CURSE
During your adventures, you’ll likely stumble across a curse or two. Perhaps it will be related to an ancient artifact, a forgotten tome. Or an entire moon-bog. Curses are easy to avoid, as long as you are careful:
If you discover an item, or location, rumored to be cursed, odds are good it is cursed. Err on the side of caution. Leave it alone.
Do your homework! Research the item, location, or spooky tome. Ensure it’s not cursed prior to using, visiting or reading it.
Strange lights, dancing creatures, or the word “DOOM” scrawled upon anything likely means the item, or place, is cursed in some fashion. In this case, refer to tip #1.
Remember the primary key to Mythos survival: reliable friends. If you think a book is cursed, have your friend read it first.
Okay, let’s say you find a cryptogram hidden in a book titled Necronomicon. Sure, the cryptogram might not be cursed, but the rest probably is. Keep your eyes on the big picture. If you need to solve a puzzle, give the local newspaper’s crossword a shot.
If you relocate for work and find yourself in a town where all of the residents say you resemble a dead tyrant or sorcerer, assume you’re probably related to the person. Do not start excavating beneath your house in hopes of finding some treasure or long lost relative. Just move. In the end, things will turn out for the better.
You say it’s not cursed. The locals say it is. Go with the locals.
Curses can be difficult to detect. “Am I cursed? Am I not cursed?” The answer doesn’t always come easily. Don’t bother with fortune tellers or local gypsies. If you’re cursed, they probably had something to do with it. It’s best to buddy-up with someone and wait for the curse to reveal itself. If you’re clever, you’ll finagle a way to transfer the curse to your friend, and then split town.
You’ve probably heard not all curses are bad. This isn’t true. Sure, at first being cursed with immortality sounds great. But there’s always a catch. It’s a curse! Even if the curse sounds good, don’t try to make the best of it. You’ll only end up dead—usually through some horrid, painful process. The best action is to find a cure.
On occasion, you may find yourself in the position of being able to curse someone. Don’t do it. Most likely the intended victim has read these tips and probably has made you his or her best friend. Trying to pull off cursing someone almost always results in it backfiring.
BUT THE BOG-WRAITHS SAY NO
A night or two before the impending bog-drainage enterprise commenced, a great light-show appeared over the water’s surface. It was quite dazzling, and both unexpected and unexplainable. But here’s where it gets good. Accompanying the eerie lights was the sound of reedy, piping flutes and pounding drums (you were warned about this type of stuff). Then, seemingly out of nowhere, strange creatures—bog-wraiths, clad all in white—appeared, dancing and waving their translucent arms about.
Totally entranced (but not in the good way), the servants stumbled out of the house, following the bog-wraiths. The laborers did as well. Everyone trailed the bog-creatures in an apparent drunken stupor. When the bog-wraiths descended beneath the water, the column of humans blithely followed.
Of course, being a man of substance, Denys Barrys did not join the cavorting throng into the marshy depths. Well, actually, no one saw Barrys ever again. But if the screams heard from the castle were any indication, he would have fared better with a boggy demise.
As for the bog, it seems as though it might be a great place for a water park—fireworks, music, dancers. Sometimes one can make lemonade out of lemons. And sometimes one can’t.
The Art
Of the
Mythos
Any magazine-cover hack can splash paint around wildly and call it a nightmare or a Witches’ Sabbath or a portrait of the devil, but only a great painter can make such a thing really scare or ring true. That’s because only a real artist knows the actual anatomy of the terrible or the physiology of fear—the exact sort of lines and proportions that connect up with latent instincts or hereditary memories of fright, and the proper colour contrasts and lighting effects to stir the dormant sense of strangeness.
—H.P. Lovecraft, “Pickman’s Model”
Long before Richard Dreyfuss was sculpting his potatoes in the film Close Encounters of the Third Kind, the Great Cthulhu was sharing dreams with humans. Perhaps the dream sharing wasn’t intentional, but regardless, Cthulhu’s dreams influenced those who were sensitive—particularly artists. In fact, in the popular Lovecraft tale, “The Call of Cthulhu,” it caused the artist Henry Anthony Wilcox to sculpt a miniature version of the sleeping Great One—just like the potatoes were used in the aforementioned film. We might say that Cthulhu is a fan of the arts—in a manner of speaking.
And of course, most every form of art plays an important role in the Cthulhu Mythos, whether it be painting, writing, sculpting, or music. It might be that many artists unwittingly find their muse in the turbulent dreams of great Mythos deities. And sometimes, the arts are utilized for good—or for great evil.
BOSTON GHOUL PARTY
Okay, maybe not. But many cults and sorcerers think as much.
In 1926, H.P. Lovecraft penned a tale titled “Pickman’s Model.” And from the first reading to the present, it has been a favorite among Mythos fans. For the most part, the story is about an artist named Pickman, and of course his close friend Thurber—can’t leave the friend out. One day, Thurber noticed his other painter-friend types steered clear of the peculiar Pickman. Maybe they had their reasons, but it didn’t stop Thurber—he’d always thought of himself as an open-minded guy. So it follows that he didn’t mind Pickman’s eccentric and nightmarish paintings of ghastly, canine-humanoid creatures, which were sometimes depicted gnawing on human bones. After all, true art pushes boundaries. Nor was Thurber bothered when Pickman brought him to his creepy Newbury Street studio. Pickman created his finest (and most nightmarish) work there. The studio was located in the cellar, because any artist knows that there’s no better place to produce works of great art than in a poorly-lit, dank, dusty, stinky cellar of a two hundred year old building. I mean, who was Thurber to judge the source of Pickman’s gruesome inspiration?
CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE CTHULHU KIND
It is said that the Great Old One, Cthulhu, communicates with humanity through dreams. Since these dreams of strange, alien landscapes are often difficult to interpret, they often inspire painters and musicians to create fabulous works. The Great Cthulhu often shares (probably unintentionally) powerful visions with people susceptible to his influence—or maybe they have highly sensitive pineal glands which are attuned to Cthulhu’s dream frequency. In any case, artists are often compelled to repeatedly paint alien vistas that haunt their dreams. Or score musical compositions, playing ceaselessly inside the composer’s mind.
For good or bad, the visions imparted by Cthulhu tend to be anything but mundane. Cthulhu won’t have you making mountains out of mashed potatoes. Instead, you’ll feel compelled to chant rhythmically, while painting a picture—using the fresh blood of a recently-sacrificed goat. Or human. It seems much of it depends upon Cthulhu’s mood.
Luckily, if you’re not an artistic type, you’re probably not susceptible to Cthulhu’s unearthly influence. But for those who are, seldom can they resist the mighty call of Cthulhu. Unfortunately, there is no way to turn off Cthulhu’s dream-time broadcasts, so if you happen to see one in your dreams, then, just go with the flow. Maybe find a friend to bring along for the ride. There is a good chance your eldritch art will bring you fame—followed by death shortly thereafter. Such is the price for great art.
As might be expected, or not, the walls were splattered with more pictures of the strange dog-like creatures. Eventually, even the un-spookable Thurber started feeling a little uncomfortable. Just when Thurber was about to reconsider just how open minded he should be, Pickman suddenly dashed from the room—with a revolver in hand. Right after this unexpected vanishing act, the report of six shots followed.
Moments passed. Had he been thinking clearly, Thurber probably would have left. But then, Pickman returned, offering a feeble excuse about a rat problem. Clearly, a serious rat problem. If anything, Pickman was decisive. Of course, the situation was a bit awkward. Friend or not, if a rodent problem is so bad you need to use six revolver shots, it’s time to consider departing. And that’s just what Thurber did. But after he’d left, Thurber realized he’d accidentally pocketed a photograph from Pickman’s studio—obviously the commotion caused him to forget. When he examined the photograph, Thurber was surprised to see that the fearsome, ghoulish creatures were not products of Pickman’s imagination after all. The monsters—one of which was depicted in the photograph—were real.
The more he gazed at the horrifying photograph, the more likely he understood why the rest of the cliquey artist circle had dumped Pickman.
APRIL IN PARIS
As any good college student knows, when traveling, it’s best to find the cheapest lodging available. Even if that lodging is the strangest, most distant lodging you encounter. In “The Music of Erich Zann,” a metaphysics student does just that. He secures lodging so distant and so seemingly bizarre that he permanently loses track of where it was located (there goes his security deposit).
When the student found a cheap room on the Rue d’Aueseil, he didn’t think twice about the peculiar abode offered to him. Without a care in the world, he quickly moved in. Even though he was kept up all night by the incessant, unearthly music from the apartment upstairs, he didn’t complain. A great deal is a great deal. The music was a mere minor hindrance, and a bit uncanny.
As it turned out, a man named Erich Zann occupied the top flat of the building. He was a German viola player who had intentionally taken the top floor so that he could play his strange nightly concerts without bothering anyone. And he was incapable of speaking as he was dumb—although his hearing was remarkable.
In time, the student gained a liking for the haunting music. In fact, he became so infatuated with it that one day he crept up to Zann’s flat and asked the musician to play a composition. Reluctantly, Zann agreed, but he didn’t play any of the strange music which normally drifted downstairs in the wee hours of the morning. Hearing mudane music didn’t satisfy the student. To satisfy his thirst for the unusual, the student requested one of the unordinary tunes. This request agitated Zann.
While maintaining his calm, Zann explained by penning a quick note that the music was not meant to be heard—in fact, Zann indicated that he’d appreciate it if the student kept his ears to himself, and restricted his listening to Zann-approved tunes only. To ensure compliance, Zann had the student moved to a lower flat—and it was a bit nicer (Zann generously covered the extra expenses).This thrilled the student. His swanky new pad would be great for parties. Plus, he could always sneak upstairs and listen to Zann’s bizarre musical tunes whenever he liked.
A CRAZED CONCERT
It seems that even a hip apartment isn’t enough to get friends to visit if it is in a weird part of town. With little hope of tossing a roaring party, the student resorted to sneaking upstairs and listening at Zann’s door. He was very hard-up for entertainment. Then, just as he’d settled in, the student heard a strange commotion, accompanied by extremely loud and frantic viol-playing. As the noise bolstered inside Zann’s flat, the student banged on the door. In moments, Zann opened the door and eagerly admitted the student.
With frequent, frightened glances toward the window, Zann sat down at his tiny desk, and began writing. Apparently, it was time to share the secret behind his haunting music. But as the student awaited enlightenment, Zann dropped his pencil mid-story. He snatched his viol, and began playing with alarming intensity. The wind banged tumultuously against the window-shutters while Zann’s music grew to a feverish pitch. And as luck would have it, the sheaf of papers explaining everything (this is why a copy of this book should always be handy) swirled about in a gust of wind, flying out the widow before the student could snatch them out of the air.
Upon second glance, it was clear the window was no ordinary window. With great horror, the student realized the window did not look out upon a serene cityscape with twinkling lights. Rather, before him was a strange, black abyss. And still Zann frantically played his viol, using magic music only he knew, attempting to force something, outside in the abyss, to remain outside (in restropect, maybe we should cut Nero some slack for “fiddling while Rome burned”).
MYTHOS SURVIVAL TIP:
STAY OUT OF TUNE
It’s likely you’ve received a chill feeling running up your spine at some point in your life, hearing a haunting strain of music, or eerily addictive tune. Don’t believe it when
people tell you the shivers come from the music’s inherent beauty. More likely, the music is dangerous. It can lull you into a trance. It can brainwash you. The best action is to clamp those ears shut, and get out of hearing range, as quickly as possible. If possible, run from the room screaming to clearly demonstrate the danger of the music.
The student begged Zann to leave the room, and abandon the viol. But his pleas went unheard, or ignored. Finally, after considering his options, the student ran from the house. And he didn’t stop until he was miles from the low cost flat, Zann, and even the Rue d’Aueseil itself. Sometimes running is the best option. Of course, later, when the student wanted to gather-up his belongings, he was unable to find the apartment, or even the Rue d’Aueseil. In fact, everyone he spoke to claimed they’d never even heard of such a place. Very strange. Next time, he’ll probably go for a slightly higher costing dorm room on campus. At least the parties would be better.
