The Second Cthulhu Mythos MEGAPACK®

by Lovecraft, H. P.

“Can you recall what the phrase was?”

  The young woman shuddered. “I certainly can! It made a frightful impression on me at the time. Three sounds, repeated over and over…‘Zoo, Chee, Khan…Zoo, Chee, Khan…’”

  Zarnak made a notation, then rose and pulled a bellcord.

  “I will visit you and your Uncle tomorrow morning. It might be better for you not to address me as ‘doctor,’ since Don Sebastian seems adverse to such; while I have a doctorate in psychology, I am not a practicing analyst. Best, however, not to arouse his emotions. Introduce me merely as an antiquarian and amateur collector of antiquities; you have seen my small collection and it will be no lie. My Rajput servant, Ram Singh, will call you a cab. Good evening.”

  Once the young woman had left, Zarnak studied his notes with a thoughtful expression on his sallow visage.

  Under the name she had repeated which he had written down in phonetics, he added a brief notation.

  Zulchequon?

  CHAPTER 3

  The Black Tablet

  Despite the darkness, for night fell early during these seasons of the year, it was not too late for Zarnak to make a few phone calls. From an anthropologist friend who was an expert in American Indian cultures, he learned that the Mutsune tribe were related to the Zuni Indians, and that their culture was obscure. Little was known of their beliefs, as they were extinct in California, but they were known to have feared a demon whom they called Zu-che-quon; even less was known of this dark demon, but another call to an old friend who was on the staff of the library of Miskatonic University in Massachusetts recommended that Zarnak consult, if at all possible, the Book of Iod for information on this demonic entity. The text itself was fabulously rare: only one copy was known to exist, and it was in the translation by one Johann Negus, from which the translator had rigorously excised many fearful matters of which he deemed it better that mankind remain mercifully unaware.

  A work of such rarity was not in Zarnak’s private collection, although many other obscure and suppressed volumes were. However, Zarnak took down a lengthy manuscript indited by several different hands over many generations, bound in snakeskin. The book consisted of excerpts copied from many little-known texts, and one of these was the Book of Iod. The quotations had been copied from the only extant copy of the book, preserved in the locked shelves of the Huntington Library of California, and the copyist had been a man named Denton, whom Zarnak had known many years before. He read:

  The Dark Silent One dwelleth deep beneath the earth on the shore of the Western Ocean.

  Not one of those potent Old Ones from hidden worlds and other stars is He, for in earth’s hidden blackness He hath always dwelt. No other name hath He, for He is the ultimate doom and the undying emptiness and Silence of Old Night…

  There was more in this vein; Zarnak read on, skipping quickly, until a passage near the very end of the excerpt arrested his attention with a sudden chill of menace:

  …He bringeth darkness within the day, and blackness within the light; all life, all sound, all movement passeth away at His coming. He cometh sometimes within the eclipse, and although He hath no name, the brown ones know Him as Zyshakon.

  They knew him anciently in elder Mu, and in Xinian under the earth’s crust, they worshipped Him in strange ways by the ringing of certain small, terrible bells, as Eibon telleth. He feareth nothing more than the light of day, which He abhors, but even artificial light is enough to drive Him down whence He came. He is the Bringer of Darkness, the Hater of Day, and Ubbo-Sathla was His Sire. As a crawling clot of darkness, and as a writhing of clotted shadows shall ye know Him.

  A note in Denton’s hand explained that the last eighty-nine words of this excerpt were deleted from the expurgated copy of the Huntington Library, and had been found in a citation by Von Junzt, who had obviously enjoyed access to the uncensored text.

  Zarnak closed the manuscript volume and replaced it on the shelf, brows furrowed in deepest thought.

  * * * *

  The next morning. Doctor Anton Zarnak travelled by taxi uptown, to the residence of Don Sebastian de Rivera and his niece. The cab drew up before a handsome building on a quiet street lined with old beech trees. When a butler, apparently of Hispanic descent, answered the bell, Zarnak identified himself and was ushered into a sunlit parlor where Dona Teresa awaited him.

  “My Uncle will be down to breakfast at any moment,” the girl said. “Surely you will join us?”

  “For coffee only,” Zarnak smiled. “I have already eaten. I prefer my coffee black, with no sugar, please.”

  A pretty Mexican maid named Carmelita served them both. Silver dishes on the sideboard held steaming bacon, sausages, scrambled eggs, toasted muffins. A frosted decanter held freshly-squeezed orange juice. The coffee was a superb blend of Columbian beans.

  When Don Sebastian appeared, Zarnak found his host in shocking condition. Despite his relatively youthful age, the man was shrunken, wasted, his gaunt shoulders bowed as if beneath some intolerable weight, his features pasty, prematurely lined with age, the eyes shifty and red-rimmed.

  Don Sebastian accepted without comment the information that Zarnak was an antiquarian, interested in ancient artifacts. During the meal they conversed on American Indian artifacts. Zarnak’s host seemed almost pathetically pleased by his visitor, as if normal human contacts were somehow denied him, except for his niece and the servants.

  After breakfast, Zarnak was shown Don Sebastian’s private collection of rarities. There were some fine examples of Zuni silver, set with polished but uncut turquoises, miniature totem poles from the tribes of the Pacific Northwest, and examples of beadwork that would have been the pride of any museum. Zarnak innocently mentioned the mound-builders of the southwest, and was, however reluctantly, shown the artifacts he had come uptown to examine.

  For the most part, the artifacts were innocuous: as Dona Teresa had said, they consisted of clay pots of withered corn, broken shards, beadwork belts and bracelets. Certain motifs in the bead-work held a sinister connotation for Zarnak, who had been up much of the night consulting reference works on American Indian anthropology. The mummy in the mound had been given to the worship of dark subterranean forces, it became evident.

  The black tablet was not in view. Eventually, Zarnak was forced to inquire of the obsidian pendent, saying (quite truthfully) that he had heard of it as unique and curious. With obvious reluctance, his host displayed the peculiar object.

  It was irregular in shape and the volcanic glass from which it had been carved was oddly heavy in the hand, unnaturally so. Holding the black pendent to the light, Zarnak discovered it hewn with an odd design, resembling a hooded man-shaped figure surrounded by fawning, groveling shadowy shapes, curiously repellent. Strange characters in a tongue unknown to human science ringed the emblem about. The object was unique to Zarnak’s experience, but he recalled to mind another passage from the Book of Iod that might prove of relevance: “Power and peril lurk in those images. They brought down from the stars when the Earth was newly-formed…”

  Dr. Zarnak engaged his host in conversation, as he strolled about, examining the superb small collection. While the gaunt, wasted man seemed distraught, even feeble, his speech was coherent and his knowledge of scientific matters extraordinary, for an amateur. It was apparent that his intellectual faculties remained unimpaired. And Zarnak’s keen knowledge of medicine led him to the conclusion that whatever had so deeply troubled Don Sebastian was of a mental and not of a physical nature. There were no obvious symptoms of disease.

  Zarnak asked for, and received, permission from his host to take a rubbing of the carvings on the black tablet. Later, having returned to his residence at Number Thirteen China Alley, he studied the cryptic characters with bafflement, consulting text after text from his extensive library. The writing was in neither the Tsath-yo language of elder Hyperborea nor the Naaca
l of primal Mu, nor was it R’lyehian. The faint possibility that it might be in the queer characters of the Aklo tongue led Doctor Zarnak to peruse certain texts of fabulous rarity.

  This study led him eventually to a copy of Otto Dostmann’s book, Remnants of Lost Empires, published in Berlin in 1809 by the Drachenhaus Press. Therein he found the notorious “Aklo Tables” and compared the curious hooked and looped characters to those in the rubbing he had taken from the tablet from the mound: they were the same.

  In translation they read: Keep me from the Light, for Night is my friend and Day my foe, lest Zulchequon consume thee utterly. He then studied those parts of the Livre d’Ivonis wherein the Lord of Darkness is described and came to a sudden realization of the extremity of peril in which Don Sebastian de Rivera had lived daily, since the excavation of the burial mound of the Mutsune shaman.

  Light—even artificial light—held the Dark One at bay and helpless to visit His wrath on mortals. Only during the hours of darkness could He strike and slay, to avenge Himself upon the disturber of ancient relics never meant to be exposed to the luminance of day. Whatever perversity of greed had caused Don Sebastian to cling to the black obsidian tablet had placed him in perpetual peril all these years; and this was the season of the year in which the overuse of electricity, together with sudden electrical storms, frequently caused power failures…

  Disturbed by these discoveries, which seemed ominous, Zarnak telephoned the townhouse of Don Sebastian and his niece. Some sort of trouble on the line had rendered their residence temporarily beyond the reach of telephonic communication. Zarnak went to the window and drew aside the heavy drapes: night had fallen, and the sky was a sullen and sulphurous hue, wherein lightning flickered. The radio warned of sudden and unexpected electrical storms, which might paralyze portions of the city with the brief loss of electrical power to certain areas.

  Zarnak doffed his robe, donned his coat and took up a slender black case that was seldom far from his side by night or by day. He then rang his tall Rajput servant and ordered a taxi.

  CHAPTER 4

  Thing of Darkness

  The cab seemed to take forever to forge its way through streams of heavy traffic uptown, and all the while the sulphurous sky, turgid with thunderclouds, lowered threateningly and tongues of lightning flickered in their dark masses. At any moment one such bolt might strike a power line, causing a brief but fatal—fatal to Don Sebastian, that is—cessation of electricity.

  At length the cab pulled up before the imposing facade of the de Rivera residence on that quiet, tree-lined street off Park Avenue, and Zarnak emerged, hastily tossing a bill to the driver. His repeated ringing of the bell eventually elicited a response, in the lissome form of Dona Teresa. Her lustrous eyes widened at the unexpected sight of Doctor Zarnak; she opened the door swiftly.

  “Is all well?” he demanded harshly. She nodded mutely, then explained that radio warnings of temporary power blackouts had driven her Uncle into a frenzy of fear, and that he had the servants lighting scores of candles in his rooms against the possibility.

  “Take me to your Uncle at once, I implore you! I must take the black tablet with me, to neutralize it as best I can—”

  They ascended the stairs and entered the rooms where Don Sebastian lived. Every tabletop held silver candelabra filled with lit tapers, and all electric lights were blazingly alit. The room fairly teemed with luminance, to such an extent that even the shadows in far corners were dispelled. Don Sebastian himself was in a frightful condition, hands shaking, spittle dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He seemed scarcely aware of Zarnak’s presence, such was his agitation.

  Carmelita and the other servants departed to seek additional candles in some storage space in the cellar, when Zarnak implored Don Sebastian to let him borrow the obsidian pectoral overnight; so distraught was the stooped older man, that he seemed scarcely to hear the words of his guest, and paid them little heed.

  And then it was that it happened.

  Suddenly, the electric lights waned and died. Don Sebastian screeched like a doomed soul and cowered in a corner. Dona Teresa ran to comfort him, while Zarnak sprang to the windows and tore asunder the heavy curtains to peer out. All up and down the street the lights in windows were dying, and the street lights faded into gloom. The threatened power blackout had occurred.

  A great gust of icy, fetid air burst through the parted curtains, curiously subarctic in this sweltering temperature.

  The candles blew out, all at once, as if simultaneously extinguished by a giant’s breath!

  Zarnak sprang to his black case and snapped it open. He withdrew therefrom a curious object, like a magician’s wand. The handpiece was a tube of copper with a core of magnetized iron, and the rod was tipped with a curious talisman of gray-green stone, shapen like a five-pointed star. As the light died to densest gloom, a faint halo of greenish luminance flickered and shone about the star-shaped stone.

  In one corner of the room, shadows swirled, clotted, thickened.

  Cold perspiration bedewed Zarnak’s ascetic features. He brandished the star-tipped wand, whose luminance brightened but when he thrust the wand towards the cloud of gathering shadows, the darkness drank the dim light and failed to disperse. Don Sebastian shrieked!

  Zarnak looked desperately towards the open, undraped window. Fomalhaut leered like a dim eye above the horizon, barely visible through the sulphurous murk. He tried a last resort:

  Iä! Iä! Cthugha!

  Ph’nglui mglw’nafh

  Cthugha Fomalhaut

  Ngha-ghaa naf’l thagn

  Iä! Cthugha!

  Three times he recited the uncouth vocables of this strange incantation, and all the while the dark thing thickened and grew ever more substantial in the far corner of the room, until it was veritably palpable.

  Minute sparks of golden fire flickered into being, like a whirling cloud of fireflies. Their luminance did little to lighten the impenetrable gloom, but they warmed the air. There came a rustling as of gigantic, unseen wings—

  Then the lights came on, dazzling, blinding!

  The blackout had been very temporary, blessedly. The whirling cloud of pale golden sparks faded as Zarnak dismissed them. The heavy clot of darkness in the corner shrank; Zarnak advanced upon it, brandishing the star-stone rod. The massed darkness that was Zulchequon faded from view, leaving only icy fetid air behind.

  Zarnak composed himself, turned to see Dona Teresa where she knelt in the opposite corner of the room, cradling her Uncle’s still form in her arms, weeping. His face was white as milk, features distorted in a hideous grimace of sheer terror. Zarnak crossed the room in swift strides, knelt, examined the wasted form swiftly. No breath, no pulse, no heartbeat; the old man was dead…

  The police came with an ambulance and a medical examiner. Zarnak took it upon himself to explain, in brief terms, that Don Sebastian had suffered from a neurotic fear of darkness. There were no signs of foul play. The medical examiner diagnosed the cause of death as a massive heart seizure. The police were satisfied. Ambulance workers in long white coats placed the corpse on a stretcher.

  Observing the horrible expression of pure terror graven on the dead man’s features, the doctor murmured: “Looks like I should write up this one as ‘dead of fright.’”

  Zarnak, who stood with his arm around the shaking, sobbing form of Dona Teresa, permitted himself a small, grim jest:

  “No, doctor. I would say ‘dead of night,’” he muttered.

  DEATH OF A DAMNED GOOD MAN, by Avram Davidson

  First published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, January, 1991.

  Steuart had a poor memory for names. Lawson collected bugs and lizards and things. Hughes couldn’t jump. There you have it all.

  Lawson’s broad old house had its single floor high off the ground on posts in order
to catch the breeze in hot summers and avoid extra-high tides or storm-driven waves; and like other such houses the underneath had eventually been boarded up to “protect” (as it might be) such items as a couple of old dories or dinghies or skiffs, lots of broken traps and eel-pots, a couple of failed generators, a chancy heater, a kerosene refrigerator or two, several automobile engines, and God knows what else; I never looked. If this cut off some of the cool breezes it also cut off some of the cold winds, and if it didn’t, there was probably a pile of coal, and a cord of wood. And various flotsam and jetsam.

  A visit to Lawson’s house was a visit to an antique state of amateur science, and the smells of kerosene, old lamps, old newspapers, old books, old socks, old birds, and other things musty and musky and presumably also old. A vast brass microscope held down a heap of yellow and dirty Smithsonian Reports. Skins of things moldered on the wall next to ancient calendars. Out of a small hole in a wooden box, once, poured a thing with a head like a bat, body like a cat, and hands like a bird-eating spider; it had orange fur: I forget what Lawson said it was. He spoke baby-talk to it, fed it bits of banana, and told me it could have cuddled up in a tea-cup when he first got it. “I’m a widely traveled man,” he assured me. “I have a great interest in native dialects and customs and odd corners of the world. Look at this ceremonial mask,” he invited in a hortatory voice which implied that you had better look; “I got that in Celebes; Sulawasi they call it now. Look at the wing-span on those butterflies. I fit twenty of its cocoons into a common matchbox.” Something went bump underneath the house and Lawson banged on the floor with his foot and the noises stopped.

  So might the house of John Bartram or Louis Agassiz have seemed, I thought; though minus of course the kerosene; did any living man or woman still know what whale-oil lamps smelled like? “For Christ’s sake feed it,” the old lady said, speaking for the first time, the holy name suddenly shocking from that sagging flowing old face. “All right, Aggie Brown,” Lawson said, not bothered or in haste. I suppose the huge wooden ice-box had come once upon a time from an old restaurant, and when Lawson opened it a wave of cold and corruption came rolling out. I was tempted to use again Aggie’s word of emphasis, but—