The Lovecraft Code

by Levenda, Peter;

  Cults. A concept difficult to describe or identify. Lovecraft went through all the usual sources for an understanding of this term, going back to the vicious attacks of Leo Taxil on Freemasonry to the slightly more reserved approaches of Arthur Edward Waite as well as the ravings of the French cleric Eliphas Levi. It would seem that, for all their apparent diversity, these groups shared a common origin, the same as the Surrealists, the fons et origo of psychic phenomena, artistic genius, and every sort of diseased invention: the unconscious mind.

  This, this thing, this Cthulhu—“High Priest of the Old Ones”—existed in some kind of real relationship to the unconscious minds of human beings and was able to communicate with them. Perhaps the word “Cthulhu” was just a literary or scientific convenience, a term of art to describe the mechanisms of the process, a word culled from some obscure volume on mental hygiene perhaps. Yet, in addition, there was a demonstrable connection between the messages being sent and physical phenomena taking place on the planet, such as earthquakes and other natural disasters that seemed to be epiphenomena of these unconscious contacts.

  The implication of this was not lost on Lovecraft. Had his mother been in contact with this loathsome creature? Had her rantings been nothing less than the actual speech of Cthulhu, straining to be heard and understood through the poor woman's own weakened vocal chords? Had his mother been a medium for this evil Being?

  And who was to say that he, Lovecraft himself, was not just such a medium? Had he not also an unconscious mind, subject to the same forces and machinations as his mother's? As those Surrealists in Paris? As the masses of colonized people who were every day revolting against European civilization and their white masters, threatening to destabilize the world order?

  How does one protect oneself against the possibility that one could be just such a medium for evil? An unconscious tool in the hands of sinister forces lurking behind every random thought, every unsettling dream, every uncontrolled emotion?

  He had to know if there were others in the world who were tracking the same events, seeing the contours of an invisible threat beneath the surface dimensions of cult, religious fanaticism, political revolt, and artistic transgression. He had to know that he was not alone in this realization, and he had to know if others had developed any strategies for counteracting its effects. Most of all, he had to know if he was going down the same dark path as his mother and father, both of whom were driven insane. Was this the reason? Was manipulation by some heretofore undiscovered phenomenon of matter, some unseen physical force, some power that operated through the nervous systems of human beings which were—after all—like transmitters and receivers in a radio set, was this manipulation recognized, suspected, or even understood by other researchers in the field? Perhaps researchers who were afraid to publish in the peer-reviewed literature for fear of being ostracized or ridiculed?

  And did this phenomenon have a name?

  And was it Cthulhu?

  So he published. As quickly as he could. He wrote down all of it—all that he could remember—and it became his most celebrated effort. “The Call of Cthulhu” was his plea to others to contact him, to validate his research and that of poor murdered Professor Angell. It was his notice to those who worked in the shadows that he was one of them, and that he was afraid. Not only for his own life and sanity, but for civilization itself.

  In Key West, Lovecraft was silent. This was the first time that another human being had decoded his story and recognized it for what it was. There was no longer any profit in maintaining his skeptical façade. This man, this unlikely German count, had seen right through his pretense.

  “What do you want?” Lovecraft asked.

  “I want to know what you know. And in return, I will tell you what I know.”

  Lovecraft looked around at the restaurant. The bull of a man with the thick black mustache and the slight, dark-haired woman with him—Hemingway and his wife, Pauline—had already left, but Lovecraft was still a little uncomfortable being out in the open and discussing forbidden topics.

  “Let's find somewhere else to talk.”

  Tanzler was reluctant to go back to his place until he was sure he left enough time for his colleague to enter his home and search Lovecraft's suitcase. So he decided to lead his guest on a circuitous walk around Key West which would eventually take him to his shack.

  They wound up on Whitehead Street, which seemed to amuse the taciturn writer from Rhode Island.

  “Was geht?”

  “Oh, it's just that I was visiting with a Reverend Whitehead before I came here. I merely noticed the coincidence.”

  “This was the voodoo expert, ja?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “Was he able to assist you in your, ah, researches?”

  “What is it you really want, Count von Cosel? Why am I here?”

  They stopped at an intersection of two sleepy streets. The beach was close by, and there was a growth of ferns and palm trees that suggested the savage jungle of primitive tribes, the womb that gave birth to all humanity, was not really all that far away. The two men glared at each other for a heartbeat, and then the Count decided on the direct approach.

  “Ach, so. You have written about the Cthulhu cult, and you have mentioned the existence of the Cthulhu File. No, don't deny that it exists! We both know it does. My question to you is, where is the file now?”

  “Why does this matter to you? What could you possibly gain from the file?”

  “That is my business, Herr Lovecraft.”

  The evening was pleasant enough. The moon was in its dark phase, so the sky was lit with stars. With the palm trees in the background and the sound of the ocean within walking distance, it seemed as if they were two actors on a stage with a magnificent backdrop. How often is the setting at odds with the set!

  “I no longer have the file.”

  “Then, who does?”

  “I have no earthly idea.”

  “Then how did you write the story?”

  “From memory.”

  “Do you have perfect recall?”

  “No. The file was stolen from me. Immediately I sat down and wrote all that I remembered. Then I turned it into a story.”

  Lovecraft sighed, and looked around for somewhere to sit, but there was nothing. Instead, he started walking again and Tanzler followed.

  “I wanted to talk to Professor Angell about it. I wanted more information. But before I could convince him to talk to me he was murdered.”

  “Was he? Murdered?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Curious, that you would say he was murdered when a search through the records of Providence, Rhode Island for the month in question reveals that no murders took place at all during that time.”

  “You must be joking! It was common knowledge ...”

  “Common knowledge and truth are not always the same thing, are they?”

  “Spoken like a man who practices deceit on a regular basis.”

  “And why did you suggest that it was a ‘nautical-looking Negro’ who committed this alleged murder? What proof was there of that?”

  Lovecraft was fuming. What did this irritating immigrant from a vanquished country know about his personal life, his motivations? How does he challenge the story Lovecraft wrote and published in all sincerity?

  Tanzler grabbed his arm.

  “Do you know why there was no reported murder of Professor Angell? Because there was no evidence of murder. He had a heart attack, as you wrote, which is a natural cause. Or, perhaps, unnatural, as the case may be.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “A heart attack is an easy thing to arrange, once you know the science. I predict that heart attacks will become the assassination method of the future. Not so obvious and messy as poisoning. Certainly not as immediately suspicious as a gunshot or a stabbing.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Consider, Herr Lovecraft. You know your own country. Would Pr
ofessor Angell have allowed a Negro to come close enough to him to kill him? And what motive would he have?”

  “I don't like where this is going.”

  “Scheisse, man! Open your eyes! He was killed for the briefcase he was carrying.”

  “Briefcase ...”

  “And for the document in the briefcase. The one that was never discovered. The one entrusted to him by a group of colleagues at a secret meeting in Newport that day.”

  “What secret meeting? And how do you know so much about this?”

  “I have been following your work for a number of years now. You have to know that you are not alone in this. That there are others, many others, influential people, who are aware of the activities of this Cult of Cthulhu. Professor Angell only became aware of it through a series of accidents. When it became known that he had stumbled upon the truth, he was taken into confidence by others. He perhaps knew more about it than was good for him. That is why I need to locate that file.”

  “I told you. It was stolen from me.”

  “By whom?”

  “How should I know? A thief in the night. Arabs, maybe.”

  “Arabs?”

  “Whoever it was had a key to my rooms. The tenants were all Arabs. I don't know. The police never ...”

  “You brought the authorities into this?” Tanzler was shocked.

  “No, no. To the theft of my clothes, only. I never mentioned the file.”

  “And how did you become the owner of the file? I thought it was part of Angell's estate?”

  “That part was made up. Invented. I couldn't say that I had the physical file, and be dragged into a possible lawsuit by the Angell family. They are very powerful in Providence. No. I wanted to throw the authorities off, but still get my message to the right people.”

  Tanzler patted the distraught man on the arm.

  “And so you have, Herr Lovecraft. So you have.”

  By this time they had reached the shack where Tanzler lived. He noticed the chalked note on the side of the door, and knew that his agent had gone through Lovecraft's suitcase. There was no electricity in the wooden structure so Tanzler lit a few candles and an old hurricane lantern. Lovecraft simply stood there while the Count moved some papers off of a chair and bade him sit.

  Lovecraft was by no means willing to spend more than a few moments in that hideous edifice, but he needed to know what Tanzler knew.

  “You still have not told me how you came into possession of the Cthulhu file.”

  “I don't feel the need to go into details on this with you, regardless of what you already know. Let us simply agree that my possession of it was not entirely legal. And that it was taken from me in a manner that was also not legal.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “In 1925. In May.”

  Tanzler did some quick calculations. He had not murdered Angell until fully eighteen months later. And Angell had only been involved in the case beginning the spring of 1925. Wilcox was still seeing him in March and April of that year, yet Lovecraft was saying he had the file in his possession in May.

  “And ‘The Call of Cthulhu’ ...?”

  “Written sometime in the summer of 1926. August, maybe.”

  “When Professor Angell was still alive.”

  “Yes, precisely. I went to visit him earlier that year, to see if I could discover more about the cult.”

  “And ...?”

  “My dear Count, you are asking all the questions and allowing me none.”

  “In time, mein Lieber Freund. Tea?”

  One look at the crapped cups and filthy teapot decided that question for him.

  “No, thank you, Count. Now, what was your question?”

  “I was asking about your visit to Professor Angell.”

  “Ah, yes. The Professor was most kind and generous with his time, but he really had little to add to what I already knew. He did mention a group of what he called ‘devil worshippers’ who held rituals of a completely blasphemous nature in the land south of Baghdad, near the ancient city of Gudua. He mentioned also a tribe known as the Yezidis. I think he intended me to know that they were one and the same.”

  “Ach, the Yezidis. Nasty business, I understand.” Tanzler was paying extreme attention to everything his guest was saying. There were some missing pieces in his understanding of the cult and now Lovecraft was supplying them. What he said next, however, indicated that the lantern-jawed New Englander was on the same page as Tanzler himself, and his superiors.

  “There were enough of them in New York City when I lived there. Arabs, anyway. But Yezidis, I think, are Kurds? Well, it matters not to me. New York is a cesspool of non-Aryan types, including a population of Jews that will certainly bring this country to destruction. There is no possibility of assimilating people into our civilization who have a culture and a belief system so wholly antagonistic to our own. If you want to see devil worshippers, I suggest you consult your nearest synagogue.”

  The vehemence with which Lovecraft uttered these infamous lines surprised even Tanzler, no stranger to anti-Semitism and theories of eugenics and race science. Lovecraft was obviously tired and a little uncomfortable in Tanzler's humble lodgings, but that did not explain the articulation of a worldview so parallel to his own.

  “Are there many Americans who feel the way you do?”

  “Some of our greatest leaders feel this way. Henry Ford, Charles Lindbergh ... but we were talking about Professor Angell.”

  “Are you sure you don't want any tea?”

  “Quite sure, thank you, Count,” he said, without a tinge of sarcasm.

  “Then, you were saying ...”

  “The Professor intimated to me that the cult was in possession of a document, a text of some kind. A book. And that this book contained all their rituals and their methods for contacting alien forces.”

  “The Yezidis have a mysterious book that no one has seen. It is called the Black Book.”

  “I am not certain it is the same document, or the professor would have mentioned it. He was something of an expert on Middle Eastern religions, and this ... cult was something new to him.”

  “I see. What was the book called?”

  “According to him, he heard of it while consulting on a case of satanic ritual murder in Louisiana. The informer told him it was called Necronomicon.”

  “My knowledge of Greek is rusty, but I believe that word means ‘names of the dead’ or something like that.”

  “It refers to their High Priest, Cthulhu, who is dead but dreaming. He communicates in dreams to his ... devotees.”

  “Dead, but dreaming ...” Tanzler's voice trailed off as he thought of his beloved Elena, so close to death herself.

  “So I am afraid I can't help you. I don't have the Cthulhu file, and I don't know more about it than what I published in my story.”

  “And the book?”

  “The Necronomicon? I have no idea.”

  A few months earlier Tanzler's boss, Heinrich Himmler, had risen to prominence in the Nazi Party by crushing a revolt against Adolf Hitler by the SA, the Sturmabteilung or “Storm Troopers.” His SS had become the de facto elite military arm of the Party. At the time Tanzler and Lovecraft were talking in Key West, Himmler was creating the Sicherheitsdienst or Security Service, the SD. Hitler would not become Chancellor of Germany until January of 1933, but the machinery of what would become the Third Reich was already in motion.

  And on the last day of 1931—six months after Tanzler and Lovecraft's meeting—Himmler would create the Race and Settlement Office of the SS, which was concerned with racial purity and the requirement of potential SS recruits to prove their pure Aryan blood as well as that of any potential mate.

  All during 1931, however, Himmler's orders were sent on a regular basis to Tanzler. Most of the memoranda concerned local intelligence operations, the running of Tanzler's network based in Key West and extending towards Havana in the south and up to the Carolinas in the north. Tanzler was performing bas
ic housekeeping duties for the network and was not distinguishing himself in the process, but there was one function in particular that Himmler was paying for and for which failure was not an option: obtaining the Cthulhu File.

  There was a very specific reason for this, and Tanzler was unaware of its significance. Quite simply, Himmler needed the File in order to make sense of a very important—albeit almost incomprehensible—manuscript in his possession, the one delivered to him by Viereck in New York.

  The Necronomicon.

  The document stayed on Himmler's desk until the creation of the SS-Ahnenerbe, the “ancestral heritage” research foundation that numbered many crank anthropologists and fringe academics in its ranks. Himmler also recruited the fascist philosopher and mystic Julius Evola, and put him to work researching material in the SS archives on secret societies, occult manuscripts, and the like, with a special view to finding out anything he could about the mysterious Necronomicon and its incantations that were not in any known language. Subhas Chandra Bose, the pro-Nazi, anti-British leader from India, was summoned to assist as well, in Himmler's belief that the book had an Indian or perhaps Tibetan component. It was Bose who had once seen the manuscript first-hand, during a visit to the Hadrahmut in 1919 when it was in the possession of a merchant of ancient manuscripts, who told him it was obtained from Jeremiah Shamir, a well-known purveyor of antique texts from Mosul. Shamir was the one who actually composed what became known as the Yezidi scriptures: clever forgeries that were sold as authentic to those Orientalist Europeans of the fin de siècle who sought genuine Yezidi texts. This conflation of the Yezidi “Black Book” with the Necronomicon would bedevil researchers for decades and confound efforts to locate either one. It was Bose who alerted the future Reichsführer-SS of the existence of the manuscript; and it was Himmler whose contact with German archaeologists had resulted in the discovery of the obscene statuette from Gudua (Kutha). He understood that the Book, the Cult, and the Idol were all part of the same underground movement, one that threatened the hegemony of the colonial powers over Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. Himmler knew he could exploit this cult to his advantage in the coming war.