The Second Cthulhu Mythos MEGAPACK®

by Lovecraft, H. P.

  “Is this,” exclaimed Imbert reproachfully, “a proper occasion for a discussion of theology?”

  “It isn’t,” Little acknowledged. “But I thought it desirable to outline certain—possibilities. I don’t want you to imagine that I regard the intrusion of Chaugnar Faugn into our world as a scientifically explicable occurrence in a facilely dogmatic sense.”

  “I don’t care how you regard it,” affirmed Algernon, “so long as you succeed in destroying it utterly. I am a profound agnostic as far as religious concepts are concerned. But the universe is mysterious enough to justify divergent speculations on the part of intelligent men as to the ultimate nature of reality.”

  “I quite agree,” Little said. “I was merely pointing out that modern science alone has very definite limitations.”

  “And yet you propose to combat this…this horror with science,” exclaimed Imbert.

  “With a concrete embodiment of the concepts of transcendental mathematics,” corrected Little. “And such concepts are merely empirically scientific. I am aware that science may be loosely defined as a systematized accumulation of tendencies and principles, but classically speaking, its prime function is to convey some idea of the nature of reality by means of an inductive logic. Yet our mathematical physicist has turned his face from induction as resolutely as did the mediaeval scholastics in the days of the Troubadours. He insists that we must start from the universal assumption that we can never know positively the real nature of anything, and that whatever ‘truth’ we may deduce from empirical generalities will be chiefly valuable as a kind of mystical guidepost, at best merely roughly indicative of the direction in which we are travelling; but withal, something of a sacrament and therefore superior to the dogmatic ‘knowledge’ of Nineteenth Century science. The speculations of mathematical physicists today are more like poems and psalms than anything else. They embody concepts wilder and more fantastic than anything in Poe or Hawthorne or Blake.”

  He stepped forward and seized the entropy-reversing machine by its globular neck. “Two men can carry it very easily,” he said, as he lifted it a foot from the floor by way of experiment. “We can train it on Chaugnar Faugn from a car.”

  “If it keeps to the open streets,” interjected Algernon. “We can’t follow it up a fire-escape or into the woods in a car.”

  “I’d thought of that. It could hide itself for days in Central Park or Inwood or Van Cortland Park or the wider stretches of woodland a little further to the north but still close to the city. But we won’t cross that bridge until we come to it.” His expression was tense, but he spoke with quiet deliberation. “We could dispense with the car in an emergency,” he said. “Two men could advance fairly rapidly with the machine on a smooth expanse.”

  “We must make haste,” he continued, after a moment “It’s my chauffeur’s day off, but I’ll take a taxi down to the garage and get the car myself.” He turned to Algernon. “If you want to help, locate Chaugnar Faugn.”

  Algernon stared. “But how…” he gasped.

  “It shouldn’t be difficult. Get in touch with the police—Assistance and Ambulance Division. Ask if they’ve received any unusually urgent calls, anything of a sensational nature. If Chaugnar has slain again they’ll know about it.”

  He pointed urgently toward a phone in the corner and strode from the laboratory.

  Chapter 7

  A Cure for Skepticism

  When Algernon had completed his phone call he lit a cigarette very calmly and deliberately and crossed to where Doctor Imbert was standing. Only the trembling of his lower lip betrayed the agitation he was having difficulty in controlling. “There have been five emergency calls,” he said, “all from the midtown section—between Thirty-fifth and Forty-eighth Streets.”

  Imbert grew pale. “And—and deaths?”

  Algernon nodded. “And deaths. Two of the ambulances have just returned.”

  “How many were killed?”

  “They don’t know yet. There were five bodies in the first ambulance—three men, a woman and a little girl—a negress. All horribly mutilated. They’ve gone wild over there. The chap who spoke to me wanted to know what I knew, why I had phoned—he shouted at me, broke down and sobbed.”

  “God!”

  “There’s nothing we can do till Little gets back,” Algernon said.

  “And then? What do you suppose we can do then?”

  “The machine…” Algernon began and stopped. He couldn’t endure putting the way he felt about Little’s machine, and the doubts he had entertained concerning it into words. It was necessary to believe in the machine, to have confidence in Little’s sagacity—supreme confidence. It would have been disastrous to doubt in such a moment that a blow would eventually be struck, that Little and his machine together would dispose, forever, of the ghastly menace of Chaugnar Faugn. But to defend such a faith rationally, to speak boldly and with confidence of a mere intuitive conviction was another matter.

  “You know perfectly well that Little’s mentally unbalanced,” affirmed Imbert, “that it would be madness to credit his assertions.” He gestured toward the machine. “That thing is merely a mechanical hypnotizer. Ingenious, I concede—it can induce twilight sleep with a rapidity I wouldn’t have thought possible—but it is quite definitely three-dimensional. It brings the subconscious to the fore, the subconscious that believes everything it is told, induces temporary somnolence while Little whispers: ‘You are gazing on a fourth-dimensional figure. You are gazing on a fourth-dimensional figure.’ Such deceptions aren’t difficult to implant when the mind is in a dreamlike state.”

  “I’d rather not discuss it,” murmured Algernon. “I can’t believe the figure we saw was wholly a deception. It was too ghastly and unbelievable. And remember that we both saw the same figure. I was watching you at the time—you looked positively ill. And mass hypnotism is virtually an impossibility. You ought to know that. No two men will respond to suggestion in the same way. We both saw a four-dimensional figure—an outrageous figure.”

  “But how do you know we both saw the same figure? We may easily have responded differently to Little’s suggestion. Group hypnotism is possible in that sense. I saw something decidedly disturbing and so did you, but that doesn’t prove that we weren’t hypnotized.”

  “I’ll convince you that we weren’t,” exclaimed Algernon. “A time-space machine of this nature isn’t theoretically inconceivable, for physicists have speculated on the possibility of reversing entropy in isolated portions of matter for years. Watch now!”

  Deliberately he walked to the machine and shot the lever upward.

  Chapter 8

  What Happened in the Laboratory

  Algernon raised himself on his elbow and stared in horror at the gaping hole in the wall before him. It was a great circular hole with jagged edges and through it the skyline of lower Manhattan glimmered nebulously, like an etching under glass. His temples throbbed painfully; his tongue was dry and swollen and adhered to the roof of his mouth.

  Some one was standing above him. Not Imbert, for Imbert wore spectacles. And this man’s face was destitute of glitter, a blurred oval faultlessly white. Confusedly Algernon recalled that Little did not wear spectacles. This, then, was Little. Little, not Imbert. It was coming back now. He had sought to convince Imbert that the machine wasn’t a mechanical hypnotizer. He had turned it on and then—Good God! What had happened then? Something neither of them had anticipated. An explosion! But first for an instant they had seen the figure. And the light. And he and Imbert had been too frightened—too frightened to turn it off. How very clear it was all becoming. They had stood for an instant facing the wall, too utterly bewildered to turn off the light. And then Little had entered the room, and had shouted a warning—a frenzied warning.

  “Help me, please,” exclaimed Algernon weakly.

 
Little bent and gripped him by the shoulders. “Steady, now,” he commanded, as he guided him toward a chair. “You’re not hurt. You’ll be all right in a moment. Imbert, too, is all right. A piece of plaster struck him in the temple, gave him a nasty cut, but he’ll be quite all right.”

  “But—what happened?” Algernon gestured helplessly toward the hole in the wall. “I remember that there was an explosion and that—you shouted at me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I shouted for you to get back into the room. You were standing too close to the wall. Another instant and the floor would have crumbled too and you’d have had a nasty tumble—a tumble from which you wouldn’t have recovered.”

  He smiled grimly and patted Algernon on the shoulder. “Just try to calm down a bit. I’ll get you a whiskey and soda.”

  “But what, precisely happened?” persisted Algernon.

  “The light decreased the wall’s randomness, sent it back through time. I warned you that the wall would crumble if the light rested on it for more than an instant. But you had to experiment.”

  “I’m sorry,” muttered Algernon shamefacedly. “I fear I’ve ruined your apartment.”

  “Not important, really. It’s eerie, of course, having all one’s secrets open to the sky, but my landlord will rectify that.” He gazed at Algernon curiously. “Why did you do it?” he asked.

  “To convince Imbert. He said the machine was merely a mechanical hypnotizer.”

  “I see, Imbert thought I was rather pathetically ‘touched.’”

  “Not exactly. I think he wanted to believe you…

  “But couldn’t. Well, I can’t blame him. Five years ago I would have doubted too—laughed all this to scorn. I approve of skeptics. They’re dependable—when you’ve succeeded in convincing them that unthinkable and outrageous things occasionally have at least a pragmatic potency. I doubt if even now Imbert would concede that this is an entropy-reversing machine, but you may be sure his respect for it has grown. He’ll follow my instructions now without hesitation. And I want you to. We must act in unison, or we’ll be defeated before we start.”

  Algernon began suddenly to tremble. “We haven’t an instant to lose,” he exclaimed. “I got in touch with the police just before you came back—they’re sending out ambulance calls from all over the city. Chaugnar has begun to slay—” Algernon had risen and was striding toward the door.

  “Wait!” Little’s voice held a note of command. “We’ve got to wait for Imbert. He’s downstairs in the bathroom dressing his wound.”

  Reluctantly Algernon returned into the room.

  “A few minutes’ delay won’t matter,” continued Little, his voice surprisingly calm. “We’ve such a hideous ordeal before us that we should be grateful for this respite.”

  “But Chaugnar is killing now,” protested Algernon. “And we are sitting here letting more lives…”

  “Be snuffed out? Perhaps. But at the same instant all over the world other lives are being snuffed out by diseases which men could prevent if they energetically bestirred themselves.” He drew a deep breath. “We’re doing the best we can, man. This respite is necessary for our nerves’ sake. Try to view the situation sanely. If we are going to eradicate the malignancy which is Chaugnar Faugn we’ll need a surgeon’s calm. We’ve got to steel our wills, extrude from our minds all hysterical considerations, and all sentiment.”

  “But it will kill thousands,” protested Algernon. “In the crowded streets…”

  “No,” Little shook his head. “It’s no longer in the streets. It has left the city.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There has been a massacre on the Jersey coast—near Asbury Park. I stopped for an instant in the Brooklyn Standard office on my way up from the garage. The night staff’s in turmoil. They’re rushing through a sensational morning extra. I found out something else. There’s been a similar massacre in Spain! If we hadn’t been talking here we’d have known. All the papers ran columns about it—hours ago. They’re correlating the dispatches now and by tomorrow every one will know of the menace. What I fear is mass hysteria.”

  “Mass hysteria?”

  “Yes, they’ll go mad in the city tomorrow—there’ll be a stampede. Unreasoning superstition and blind terror always culminate in acts of violence. Hundreds of people will run amuck, pillage, destroy. There’ll be more lives lost than Chaugnar destroyed tonight.”

  “But we can do something. We must.”

  “I said that we were merely waiting for Doctor Imbert.” Little crossed to the eastern window and stared for a moment into the lightening sky. Then he returned to where Algernon was standing. “Do you feel better?” he asked. “Have you pulled yourself together?”

  “Yes,” muttered Algernon. “I’m quite all right.”

  “Good.”

  The door opened and Imbert came in. His face was distraught and of a deathly pallor, but a look of relief came into his eyes when they rested on Algernon. “I feared you were seriously hurt,” he cried. “We were quite mad to experiment with—with that thing.”

  “We must experiment again, I fear.”

  Imbert nodded. “I’m ready to join you. What do you want us to do?”

  “I want you and Harris to carry that machine downstairs and put it into my car. I’ll need a flashlight and a few other things. I won’t be long…”

  Chapter 9

  The Horror Moves

  “We must overtake it before it reaches the crossroads,” shouted Little.

  They were speeding by the sea, tearing at seventy miles on hour down a long, white road that twisted and turned between ramparts of sand. On both sides there towered dunes, enormous, majestic, morning stars a-glitter on the dark waters intermittently visible beyond their seaward walls. The horseshoe-shaped isthmus extended to six miles into the sea and then doubled back toward the Jersey coast. At the point where it changed its direction stood a crossroad, explicitly sign-posted with two pointing hands. One of these junctions led directly toward the mainland, the other into a dense, ocean-defiled waste, marshy and impregnable, a kind of morass where anything or any one might hide indefinitely.

  And toward this retreat Chaugnar fled. For hours Little’s car had pursued it along the tarred and macadamized roads that fringe the Jersey coast—over bridges and viaducts and across wastes of sand, in a straight line from Asbury Park to Atlantic City and then across country and back again to the coast, and now down a thin terrain lashed by Atlantic spray, deserted save for a few ramshackle huts of fishermen and a vast congregation of gulls.

  Chaugnar Faugn had moved with unbelievable rapidity, from the instant when they had first encountered it crouching somnolently in the shadows beneath a deserted bathhouse at Long Branch and had turned the light on it and watched it awake to the moment when it had gone shambling away through the darkness its every movement had been ominous with menace.

  Twice it had stopped in the road and waited for them to approach and once its great arm had raised itself against them in a gesture of malignant defiance. And on that occasion only the entropy machine had saved them. Its light Chaugnar could not bear, and when Little had turned the ray upon the creature’s flanks the great obscene body had heaved and shuddered and a ghastly screeching had issued from its bulbous lips. And then forward again it had forged, its thick, stumpy legs moving with the rapidity of pistons—carrying it over the ground so rapidly that the car could not keep pace.

  But always its tracks had remained visible, for a phosphorescence streamed from them, illuming its retreat. And always its hoarse bellowing could be heard in the distance, freighted with fury and a hatred incalculable. And by the stench, too, they trailed it, for all the air through which it passed was acridly defiled—pungent with an uncleanliness that evades description.

  “It is infinitely old,” cried Little as he maneuvere
d the car about the base of a sea-lashed dune. “As old as the earth’s crust. Otherwise it would have crumbled. You saw how the bathhouse crumbled—how the shells beneath its feet dissolved and vanished. It is only its age that saves it.”

  “You had the light on it for five minutes,” shouted Algernon. His voice was hoarse with excitement. “And it still lives. What can we do.?”

  “We must corner it—keep the light directed at it for—many minutes. To send it back we must decrease the random element in it by a billion years. It has remained substantially as it is now for at least that long. Perhaps longer.”

  “How many years of earth-time does the machine lop off a minute?” shouted Imbert.

  “Can’t tell exactly. It works differently with different objects. Metals, stone, wood all have a different entropy-rhythm. But roughly, it should reverse entropy throughout a billion years of earth-time in ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “There it is!” shouted Algernon. “It’s reached the crossroads. Look!”

  Against a windshield glazed with sea-mist Imbert laid his forehead, peering with bulging eyes at the form of Chaugnar, phosphorescently illumed a quarter-mile before them on the road, and even as he stared the distance between the car and the loathsome horror diminished by fifty yards.

  “It isn’t moving,” cried Little. He had half risen from his seat and was gripping the wheel as though it were a living thing. “It’s waiting for us. Turn on the light, sir. Quick! For God’s sake! We’re almost on top of it!” Algernon fell upon his knees in the dark and groped about for the switch. The engine’s roar increased as Little stepped furiously upon the accelerator. “The light, quick!” Little almost screamed the words.