Gothic Lovecraft

by Lynne Jamneck

But the memory will not pass. I saw something more in that dream. That man in the bed—it was you, De Quincey—sleeping, doubtless in an opiated slumber. I am afraid that was an omen. He comes for you next!

  And what of me? He said, Verily, I can count on you— to come to me.

  Who is he I wonder? Who in actuality is Al-Azizi? The messenger told me the true name of the “Egyptian”—and I have verified it, of late, as I pore through certain tomes so old they fall apart at my touch.

  He is Nyarlathotep. He appears in many guises, as a man. But he is not of humanity, De Quincey.

  It is a man’s mind he wants, you see. He feeds on madness; he profits by the madness he induces in men. A man he drives mad becomes his slave—his inwardly gibbering servant—and eventually what remains is fed to the thing I saw residing, for now, within that unknown planet on the far edge of our solar system.

  And we give him a doorway to our minds, De Quincey, when we surrender fully to opium. In opiated dreams we go to his realm, you see. And once you have entered his realm, he knows forever where you are.

  He has gone to ground, now that I have discovered him. But, in due course, he will find us both—in the astral realm. For we have journeyed there, like children wandering in a forest, often enough. If you do not suffer the pangs of setting opium aside—a terrible tribulation, I know—you will enter his world a step, and two steps, and then three, and he will send his messenger to bring you the rest of the way.

  If you and I do not turn aside from the drug, then that predatory enormity, the black, beakless bird, will come to each of us crying its master’s name. Nyarlathotep!

  He has marked you, De Quincey. And if you do not turn away from the drug, as I struggle to do once more—he will claim you.

  Every day I try not to take the infernal concoction—in moments of weakness I take a drop or two, but so little I am scarcely affected. This regimen cannot last, I fear. Even now I feel laudanum calling.

  There is now no locating Al-Azizi—I have hired men to find him, along with Carter and Bethesda, and the searchers have failed utterly. It cannot be done.

  But I know that Nyarlathotep will find me again, when I open the door of my mind to him.

  I pray I die before I go to his realm … for there is another, far better realm waiting for me, if only I have the strength to get there.

  Your Devoted Servant,

  Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  A Yuletide Carol

  Mollie L. Burleson

  Stave I

  The Beginning of It

  Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt about that. Scrooge signed the register of his burial but was not so cut up by the event that he failed to be an excellent man of business the day of the funeral. There was no doubt of Marley’s passing. Everyone has to be convinced of that occurrence or this tale could never be told.

  Scrooge had left the sign to the shop as it had been for years; the name Marley still appeared on it. For some strange reason, Scrooge was unable to paint it out. Something prevented him from doing so.

  Old Ebenezer Scrooge had never changed. He was tight-fisted as ever and grew more so as the years passed, caring nothing for people’s opinion of him. He tried to follow in Marley’s path and exceeded his fondest wish—to make even more money.

  This one night, Christmas Eve to be exact, found Scrooge shut up in his business chambers, squeezing out yet more money from his debtors. The night was cold and dank, fog enveloped the court, and Scrooge could barely see the shadowy forms passing back and forth.

  Cratchit, his clerk, sat at his desk, fingers cold and barely able to write. He longed for more coal to put upon the fire, but knew that his employer would not countenance the deed, so he bundled up as best he could, shivered, and picked up his pen.

  Scrooge’s nephew Fred dropped by to wish him greetings of the season, but the old miser made short work of him and of the do-gooders who came to collect money for the poor. These refusals of charity and goodwill gave Scrooge a better opinion of himself, and he set about his work in a more agreeable humor.

  The hour arrived that Scrooge had designated for closing up the shop, and he grudgingly agreed that Cratchit would have the next day off. After his clerk left, Scrooge blew out the candles, locked the door, and set off to eat his lonesome dinner as was his wont.

  The night was cold and dark and raw with a hint of the sea in the air. Snow lay upon the ground and crackled as Scrooge’s footsteps turned toward his dwelling-place and bed.

  When he reached his home and was beginning to unlock the door, Scrooge saw in the knocker… not a knocker but Marley’s face! The face had a dismal light about it like a rotten codfish behind a fishmonger’s.

  It was Marley’s face, and yet there was something different about it. Something that was not Marley.

  But the vision faded and everything was as it should be. Scrooge made his way up the cavernous stairs, trimming his candle as he went.

  He checked the apartment. Everything was as usual. No one under the bed, no one in the closet. Scrooge was content with his search. All was quite normal except for the feeling of foreboding as he gazed at the dark corners, which seemed to be darker and more encompassing than they ought to be.

  He sat down in his chair, eating some leftover gruel that was keeping warm near the very low fire. Nothing on such a night, this fire. He saw the fireplace’s tiles reflected in the glow, but not the ones that were always there of biblical images—now in every one was an image of Marley’s face. And was it a trick of the eye, or did they all show Marley’s face weirdly luminescent? All were of Marley, but Scrooge saw other images in the background. Shadowy and not completely erect.

  “Humbug,” said Scrooge, and walked across the room. After a few turns, he sat down again. And all at once, a bell somewhere in his dark and dismal rooms rang out loud and clear. And then another and another, rising in a cacophonous melody too horrible to hear.

  The bells ceased all at once, and from the cellar a clanking noise arose, as if heavy chains were being dragged up the stairs one step at a time.

  “It’s humbug still,” Scrooge cried. “I won’t believe it.” The sounds grew nearer, bringing Marley with them through the door. The flames leapt up as though they cried Marley’s ghost!

  It was Marley. Same clothing, same pigtail, the cloth wrapped around his lower face mysteriously astir as if blown by a great wind. He was tied all ‘round with chains and locks and iron safes.

  Scrooge still didn’t believe the vision before him was really Marley, though the spirit fixed upon him its death-cold eyes. But it was Marley! Yet how could it be, when Marley was dead?

  “Why do you haunt me?” Scrooge uttered. “Why plague me?”

  “It is required of every spirit to walk the earth seeking out the one who was closest to him when he was alive. I have chosen you, Ebenezer Scrooge, to benefit from my experience so that you can escape my fate. I do this for you. I wish I had followed my true nature instead of doing what you are now doing—employed in the worship of money and gain. There are more important things in this world to worship than money. I knew about these, but chose to ignore them. How could I have passed over the Old Lore, the power and the glory that the ancient magic could have brought me? And now I am doomed never to know what knowledge they could have given me. And what joy! It is too late for me, but there is still time for you to change before you too shuffle off your mortal coil and join me in my journeyings. Therefore, you will be visited by three spirits who will explain the wonders that await you.”

  Scrooge shuddered at the thought.

  Marley turned around and walked to the window, flew out of it, and joined the countless beings who floated here and there, making a din of a noise that raised the hair on Scrooge’s neck.

  Stave II

  Revelations

  Scrooge dropped into bed, shivering all the while, contemplating the meaning of Marley’s words. He finally fell into a deep sleep, but awoke with the tolling of the bell in a neig
hboring tower. With the last reverberation of the bell’s tolling one, Scrooge thought to himself that the whole thing was just indigestion from something he ate. Not so.

  The curtains of the bed were drawn apart, and Scrooge found himself face to face with a supernal figure: small, like a child, but also like an old man, with white hair and long arms. The being was clad in archaic clothing and appeared to scintillate and change its appearance with each moment. He had in his hand a glass vial filled with what the label claimed were “essential Saltes.”

  What in the world were these? Scrooge thought. What could their presence possibly mean to him? But he seemed to recall something like that in his past. He wracked his brain trying to remember.

  The ghost said, “Rise and walk with me. Touch my robe.” Scrooge did as he was bidden, touching the spirit’s robe as directed, and instantly they were on a country road. It was a snow-covered vista that Scrooge now saw, and he wondered mightily what next was in store.

  They walked further, into a schoolhouse. Scrooge exclaimed, “I was a boy here!” They entered the building and into a decrepit laboratory. The place was filled with beakers and jars and all manner of vials and tubing and other equipment. There at a worn table they found Scrooge as a young boy of about seventeen years, bent upon some experiment. He was intent on pouring something from a carboy onto a substance not unlike powdered bones. From these elements arose some sparks, and from the charnel mess in front of them something moved. Something that might have been part of a head with bulging, rolling eyes. Something that, as they watched, turned into a living thing. Something that had been dead. The thing was humanlike but not quite right. Young Scrooge must have used imperfect Saltes. But how did old Scrooge know that? As they continued to observe, Scrooge began to feel that all his life up to this point had been a lie. That he had always been someone else, not the money-grubbing Scrooge but someone different.

  “This cannot have happened,” Scrooge cried. “If it did, then why don’t I remember?”

  “You might remember if your main concerns were not the making of money and the pursuit of gain,” the ghost replied. It looked upon Scrooge and pointed its finger at what lay upon the table and then at old Scrooge standing at its side.

  Scrooge awoke in a start and saw that the spirit was gone. He flopped back upon the bed, exhausted, and fell asleep on the instant.

  Stave III

  The Instructions

  Scrooge awoke from a raucous snore and heard the bell again strike one. Nothing happened at first but then he found himself in a glow of ruddy light that streamed out from the adjoining room. A high piping voice rang out and bade him enter. Scrooge did as he was told, and as he came into the room, he saw a goatish-looking boy in shepherd’s clothing, a boy with oddly shaped feet. These were clad in huge black shoes, hinting at their grotesque size and strange shape. The boy was grinning like a loon, and sharp teeth gleamed in the glow of the fire. The room was bedecked in green and the fire leapt up as if in joy.

  “And who are you?” Scrooge asked.

  “Do you not recognize me? You should, for I was with you in your growing years, at your side always.”

  Scrooge paled at this and drew his robe closer about him. “I do not recall you at all, strange apparition.”

  “Then come with me and I’ll instruct you in matters occult and weird.”

  The room disappeared, fire, greens and all, and Scrooge found himself upon a rocky shore.

  “Where are we?”

  “Are you not familiar with this place?” the goat-boy asked.

  “I may have seen it once, in a dream,” Scrooge answered hesitatingly.

  “But you have chosen not to remember,” the spirit replied. “The pursuit of gold meant more to you than what your real self desired.”

  Scrooge continued, “But where are we?”

  “We are in the town of Dunwich at a spot called Sentinel Hill.”

  Scrooge looked about him, taking in the surroundings, not recalling the place. Yet there was something about it that seemed to waken old memories. The creature led Scrooge up the hill, between huge boulders and massive pines.

  “This was where your ancestors sprang from, where your relatives danced and sacrificed. It is all hidden in the past. The life you lead now, scraping and eking out your existence, has nothing to do with the real you. I show you this to prepare you the way.”

  As these words were spoken, the creature faded and the night grew darker and more ominous.

  Stave IV

  The End of It

  Scrooge found himself in a churchyard overgrown by grass and weeds, the growth of vegetation's death, not life, choked up with too much burying, fat with sated appetite. A worthy place. A cat was tearing at the gate, and rats gnawed at the gravestones. Why they haunted this place of death, Scrooge did not want to ponder.

  And then he saw it. Saw the foreboding shape crawling along through the stones like a black mist, a shape that, when it neared Scrooge, appeared to grow taller. Its hood fell back, revealing spectral, glowing eyes, and something else. Something that had been hidden in the hood and was now filling the sleeves and bottom of the gown. Something black and ropy and viscous.

  The thing turned toward Scrooge and fastened something like eyes upon him. Scrooge trembled. The being lifted what should have been an arm and beckoned. Scrooge stood upon shaky legs, and the spirit paused a moment as if to give Scrooge time to recover. This consideration of the phantom frightened Scrooge even more because he knew those piercing eyes were intently fixed upon him, watching him.

  “Spirit of the Future,” he cried, “I fear you more than any specter I have seen. But I know your purpose is to do me good, and I hope to be a different man from what I am. Lead on; I am prepared to follow you.”

  The phantom moved on ahead. Scrooge followed. It took him to a part of the city with which Scrooge was familiar. It had been his old office, and Scrooge looked in the window. It was his office still, for sitting in the chair was an older Scrooge, ledgers piled atop tables, a single candle burning and the fire low, just one coal. Money was everywhere, and mortgages and deeds, far exceeding what Scrooge had used to possess. So the future had not found him changed! He was worse than ever.

  “O Spirit, have I not heeded the warnings put forth by Marley and the other ghosts? Must I die alone and find myself fettered by chains and boxes and safes? From what I have heard from the spirits there are marvelous things I could have done. I could have brought back long dead geniuses and philosophers and wizards. At my fingertips I could have resurrected Voltaire and Charles Dickens. I could have done anything. To be fettered to those chains and not be able to become the real me is too horrible to contemplate!” Scrooge screamed and fainted dead away.

  And woke up in his bed. All that the spirits had shown him had stayed with him and had begun to unfold in his brain. The making of money and the griping cares had left him. And with their disappearance, he now knew what the spirits had tried to tell him.

  He recalled the goat-boy and his words on the mountaintop with the waves crashing below. A vision of strangely formed ancestors with their bulging eyes and weird slits on their necks, mouths gaping, came to him. They were his family. He remembered at last. And exulted.

  “Oh, Jacob Marley, the Old Ones, and the real Yuletide be praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob, on my knees! The spirits, all three, shall strive within me.”

  For Scrooge now remembered his real past, remembered with fondness his ropy-legged grandmother, the tentacled gods, the shoggoths in their bubbled-formed visages. His real family.

  He knew just why he had been visited by the spirits, why Marley had come to him telling him he chose Scrooge because he was closest to him when he was alive. No more money-grubbing for Scrooge. He must be about his real business, the work that had been ordained for him from the beginning of time. With some help from the “Saltes,” and a visit to the burying ground and Marley’s grave, he would soon have the companionship he desired. And
a willing assistant.

  He had come home at last. Alleluia! Cthulhu fhtagn!

  Curse of the House of Usher

  Donald Tyson

  1

  I read Roderick Usher’s letter in the sitting room of my Boston flat with conflicted emotions. We had been close friends during our student days at Miskatonic University, or perhaps allies would be a more accurate descriptive. We were both outsiders in a philosophical as well as a geographical sense, so it was natural that when we found ourselves roommates we should spend much of our time together, shut out as we were from the unwelcoming social circles of the local Arkham youths.

  In part this shunning by the locals was due to rumours of our occult rituals. Usher and I were alike in so many ways, both tall and athletic in body, both reserved in speech, but our greatest consonance lay in our mutual passion for the unseen. We experimented, as young men will, and earned the reputation of necromancers among the students of Miskatonic. Spiritualism was then at its height of interest, and the Theosophy of Madame Blavatsky was the subject of common discourse. We embraced this fad for the occult with uncritical enthusiasm. All our nights were spent summoning the dead and conversing with them, nor did we fail to achieve significant successes in these endeavours.

  Yet after we left the bell jar atmosphere of academia for the seemingly unlimited horizons of the greater world, we seldom sought the other's company. I established myself outwardly as a writer of strange tales while pursuing my esoteric studies in the privacy of my own dreams. I became an explorer of the dreamlands and gained a reputation there as a great dreamer. From time to time I would hear word of Usher's decadent extravagances in the fleshpots of Berlin and Prague. The last mention of his exploits, which I chanced to overhear several years ago spoken in casual conversation by a school acquaintance, placed him in a gaming house in Morocco, running up astronomical gambling debts while intoxicated on the lethal combination of opium and absinthe.

  The letter requested that I visit his ancestral estate, which Usher had inherited following the death of his uncle. The tone of the letter was strangely mixed, part forced jocularity in which Usher asserted that I must need a vacation in the country after the assaults of the Bostonian bluestockings following the celebrity of my last published collection of stories, and part a touchingly sincere plea that we renew our old comradeship after so long a hiatus.