Dewart carried a pot of coffee which he had been brewing into the study, and, sipping coffee, he laid the instructions out before him and began to read.
The paper was undated, but the script, written in a firm, clear hand, was legible and easy to read.
“In regard to the American property in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I adjure all who come after me that this said property is better and wiser kept in the family for reasons it is better not to know.
Though I consider it unlikely that anyone should set sail again for the American shore, if it so be, I adjure him who treads upon that property to observe certain rules, the sense of which shall be found within such books as have been left in the house known as Billington’s house in the wood known as Billington’s, the said rules being, to wit: “He is not to cause the water to cease flowing about the island of the tower, nor to molest the tower in any way, nor to entreat of the stones.
“He is not to open the door which leads to strange time and place,
nor to invite Him Who lurks at the threshold, nor to call out to the hills.
“He is not to disturb the frogs, particularly the bullfrogs of the
marshland between the tower and the house, nor the fireflies, nor the
birds known as whippoor-wills, lest he abandon his locks and his guards.
“He is not to touch upon the window, seeking to change it in any way.
“He is not to sell or otherwise make disposition of the property
without inserting a clause to hold that the island and the tower are in nowise
disturbed nor the window be alter’d except it be destroy’d.”
The signature, completely copied out, was “Alijah Phineas Billington.”
In the light of what he had turned up, fragmentary as it was, this comparatively brief paper was of far more than passing interest. Dewart was at a considerable loss to account for his great-great-grandfather’s concern about the tower—which must beyond question be the tower he had seen and investigated—, about the bog or marshy area, and about the window—which, likewise, must be that window in the study.
Dewart looked up at it curiously. What was there about it that should demand such care? Certainly the pattern was interesting; it was one of concentric circles with rays traveling outward from the center, and the multi-colored glass which framed the round central piece made it especially bright now in late afternoon, when the sunlight hit it squarely. As he looked at it, he was conscious of an exceedingly curious reaction; the leaded circles seemed to move, to spin around; the rayed lines to tremble and writhe; and something like a depiction of a portrait or a scene seemed to begin forming among the panes.
Dewart immediately closed his eyes tightly and shook his head; then he ventured a quick glance at the window. There was nothing whatever odd about it, save its being there. Yet the momentary impression had been so vivid that Dewart could not help but feel that he had either been working too hard and had had a dizzy spell, or had been drinking too much coffee—possibly a combination of both; for Dewart was one of those not unusual people who can begin on a pot of coffee and by slow stages consume it, preferably black, but with plenty of sugar.
He put the document down, and removed the coffee-pot to the kitchen.
Returning, he gazed at the leaded window once more. The study was now growing dim with twilight, for the sun was slipping behind the wall of trees to westward, and, as a result, the leaded window was illuminated by a fine blaze of golden and copper light. It was quite possible, reflected Dewart, that he had been tricked into fancying something by the ever-fluid light of the sun at this hour. He lowered his gaze and went calmly about his business, which consisted of returning the set of instructions to the manila envelope, and, having filed the envelope away, he went on about the arranging of the boxes and cases of letters and other papers which remained to be put away. In this manner he passed the hour of twilight.
Having completed his somewhat tiresome task, he put out the lamp he had lit, and instead lit a small bracket lamp in the kitchen. He intended to go outside for a short walk, for the evening was mild and mellow, hazy with smoke from burning grass or brush somewhere near Arkham, and a waxing moon hung low in the west; but, in setting out, he walked the length of his house to go out the front door, and, happening to pass the study, his eye was caught by the leaded window. What he saw there brought him to an immediate halt. By some trick or arrangement of moonlight on the leaded panes, the window gave the unmistakable appearance of a grotesquely malformed head. Dewart stared in fascination; he could discern eyes or pits of eyes, and what must certainly be a mouth of a kind, together with a vast dome-like forehead—but there semblance to anything human ceased, and the nebulous outline trailed off in a hideous representation of what seemed to be tentacles. This time blinking his eyes did Dewart no good whatever; the horrible grotesque was apparently fixed. First the sun, and now the moon, thought Dewart, and in a few moments reasoned that his great-great-grandfather had had the window designed for this purpose.
Nevertheless, this ready explanation did not satisfy him. He moved a chair over to the row of shelves beneath the window, mounted from the chair to the top of the stout bookcasing, and so stood squarely before the window, his intention being to examine every pane as well as the whole. But he had hardly got into position to do so, when the entire window seemed to become animated, as if the moonlight had turned to witchfire, as if the outline, spectral as it was, had come to malign life.
As quickly as it had begun, the illusion ceased. He was left somewhat shaken, but sound, standing before the central circle of the window, which, fortunately, appeared to be of clear glass, and there, looking in upon him was the moon, and between the glass and the moon, the eerie whiteness of the tower rising out of the ravine with the trees tall and dark all around, and the tower visible only through this opening, gleaming dully in the wan light of the moon.
He stared outward. Surely his eyes were badly in need of attention, or did he see something flapping darkly around the tower—not at the base, for that was not visible, but at the conical roof? Dewart shook his head; doubtless the moonlight, and perhaps vapors rising from the marsh beyond the house at this elevation made unfamiliar patterns.
Yet he was upset. He got down from the bookcase and walked over to the threshold of the study. He looked back. The window showed a faint glow— nothing more; even as he gazed at it, the glow faded perceptibly. This was consistent with the withdrawing light of the moon, and Dewart was conscious of feeling some relief. Admittedly, the mounting events of the evening had given him some reason to be upset, but he reasoned that his great-great-grandfather’s inexplicable instructions had served to put him into the mood to misconstrue things heard and seen.
He went out for his walk, as he had planned; but, because of the darkness which now fell with the vanishing of the moon, he did not strike off into the woods, but instead walked along the roadway which led down to the Aylesbury Pike. Such was his state of mind, however, that he constantly had the conviction that he was not alone, that he was being followed, and he looked furtively from time to time among the close-pressing trees for sight of any animal, or the gleaming eyes which might betray the presence of an animal. But he saw nothing. Overhead the stars shone with increasing brightness, now that the moon had gone down.
He came out to the Aylesbury Pike. Strangely, the sight and sound of cars speeding along the highway was reassuring. He reflected that he was too much alone, and that some day soon he must ask his cousin, Stephen Bates, to come down and spent a fortnight with him. As he stood there, he was conscious of a faint orange glow on the horizon rising in the direction of Dunwich, and he thought he heard sounds that might have been voices raised in fright. He thought that perhaps one of the ramshackle old buildings in the Dunwich country had caught fire, and watched until the glow seemed to recede. Then he turned and went back the way he had come.
In the night he awoke, overpoweringly conscious of being watched, but with
a sense of the benign about it. He slept restlessly, and when he woke, he woke very tired still, and restless, as if he had not slept at all, but had been on his feet much of the night. The clothes he had folded carefully over a chair were in disorder, though he could not remember having got up in the night and disarranging them.
Despite the lack of electricity in his home, Dewart had a small battery radio which he used sparingly—very rarely for a musical program, but rather consistently for news-broadcasts, particularly a morning re-broadcast of news from the British Empire, which encouraged a dormant nostalgia, for it was regularly introduced by the strokes of Big Ben, which brought London back to him, London with all its yellow fogs, its ancient buildings, its quaint byways and colorful passages. This re-broadcast was preceded by a flash of current national and state news from the Boston station, and this morning, when Dewart turned on the radio for his regular news from London, the state news was still coming over the air. He had cut in in the middle of a paragraph about a crime, evidently, and he listened casually and a little impatiently.
“... the time of the discovery of the body was an hour ago. No identification had been made up to the time we began broadcasting, but the body appears to be that of a countryman. No autopsy has yet been performed, but the body is so badly mangled and torn that it would seem as if the waves had beaten it up along rocks for a long time. However, since the body was found well up shore, beyond the line of the waves, and was not wet, the crime was apparently of land origin.
The body has the appearance of having been thrown or dropped, as if from a passing aeroplane. One of the medical examiners has pointed out certain similarities to a series of crimes committed over a century ago in this region.”
This was apparently the final news item on the local broadcast, for immediately thereafter, an announcer prepared the way for the re-broadcast from London, which, no doubt, was in the form of a transcription out of New York.
The news of this local crime, however, affected Dewart most singularly; he was not by nature prone to influence of this kind, though he had a secondary interest in criminological matters; but he had a most uneasy conviction amounting almost to foreboding that this crime was destined to have its imitations in the manner of the Jack the Ripper crimes in London or the Troppmann murders. He hardly listened to the re-broadcast from London; he was, in fact, busy reflecting that he had become far more sensitive to moods, to atmospheres, to events, since he had come to make his home in America; and he was curious to know by what means he had lost that former aloofness which had been so much a part of his existence in England.
He had meant, this morning, to look at his great-great-grandfather’s instructions once more, and, breakfast over, he got out the manila envelope and set to work in an effort to wrest some meaning from what had been written. He turned specifically to the “rules” or “directives,” and began to ponder them. He could not “cause the water to cease flowing” because water had not flowed for some time around the tower island; as to molesting the tower, he supposed that by removing the inset stone he had already after a fashion molested it. But what under heaven did Alijah mean by adjuring him “not to entreat of the stones?”
What stones? Dewart could think of no other stones save those remnants which had reminded him of Stonehenge. If these were the stones to which Alijah referred, how then did he expect anyone to “entreat of” them as if they had intelligence? He could not fathom it; perhaps Cousin Stephen Bates might know, if he remembered to show him when Bates came up.
He went on.
To what “door” did his great-great-grandfather have reference? As a matter of fact, the whole adjuration was a complete puzzle. “He is not to open the door which leads to strange time and place, nor to invite Him Who lurks at the threshold, nor to call out to the hills.” Could anything be more inexplicable! In a manner of speaking, this time, the present, would be strange to Alijah, thought Dewart. Could Alijah then have meant that he, being in his time, should not seek to learn anything of Alijah’s time? That was a manifest possibility, but, if one accepted it, one must consider that Alijah must have meant something quite different by his “strange place.” There was a sinister sound about that “Him Who lurks at the threshold”; Dewart could not deny it—it had a sinister, ominous sound, and he thought quite soberly that it ought to be accompanied by a clash of cymbals and a deep-throated rumbling of thunder. What threshold?
And what Him? And finally, what in heaven’s name did Alijah mean by adjuring his heir not “to call out to the hills”? Dewart had a vision of himself or any other standing in the woods and calling out to the hills. It was not facetious imagination, but wore an aspect of the ludicrous. This, too, must be shown to Cousin Stephen.
He continued to the third adjuration. He had no desire and no inclination whatever to disturb the frogs, the fireflies, or the whippoorwills; so there was not likely to be any conflict with the instructions on that score. But—“lest he abandon his locks and guards”—great Heaven! was ever anything more frustrating, more inconclusive, more ambiguous? What locks? What guards?
Clearly his great-great-grandfather wrote in riddles. Did he then wish his heir to seek the explanation of those riddles? And how, if so, was one to go about that?
By disobeying the adjurations and waiting for something to happen? That did not seem either wise or efficient.
He put away the paper again, in mounting disgust. He had a growing sense of frustration; each and every way he turned, he encountered increasing knowledge and increasing bafflement; it was impossible to draw conclusions from such data as he had gathered, save that crusty old Alijah was manifestly engaged in some kind of activity which was not looked upon with favor by the natives. Secretly, Dewart thought that it was smuggling—probably up the Miskatonic and its tributary to the tower.
For the greater part of the day that remained, Dewart occupied himself with matters pertaining to the shipment he had unpacked on the previous day. There were forms to fill out, bills to be paid, and all the checking to be done. As he went down the list in his mother’s hand, a list of her belongings into which he had never looked, he came upon an item marked “Pkt. Bishop Lrs. to A. P. B.”
The name “Bishop” brought back to his immediate consciousness the old beldame he had interviewed in the Dunwich country. The packet was at hand, and he took it up. It was marked “Bishop Lrs.” in a hand not familiar to him, a crabbed script which was scarcely legible, and yet had about it a singular directness.
He opened the packet and there lay disclosed four letters of the fashion of many decades ago. They were not stamped, but rather marked with the fee paid, and had been sealed, for the broken seals still remained. The same crabbed hand which had marked the outside of the packet had also numbered the letters so that they were in sequence. Very carefully, Dewart opened the first of them; none was in an envelope, but all were written on stout paper, and in very small script that was difficult to become accustomed to. He looked at each one briefly in turn, to establish the year; but none set it forth. Then he sat back to read them, taking them in order.
New Dunnich, 27 Aprill.
Esteem’d Friend,
Of matters concern’g which we have had certain converse, I have last night seen a Be’g which had ye appearance of such as we sought, with wings of dark substance and likewise as it were serpents running from Its body but attach’d to It. I call’d It to ye Hill, and contain’d It in ye circle, but onlie with ye greatest difficultie and hardship, so that twou’d but seem it is not likelie that ye circle is potent enough to contain such as These for long. I attempt’d converse with It, but did not well succeed, though from such as It did gibber, It came from Kadath in ye Cold Waste, which is nigh unto that Plateau of Leng mention’d in ye Booke. Divers Persons witness’d ye fire on ye Hill and spoke of it, and one among them is certain to make trouble, Wilbur Corey by name, he be’g of great opinion of himself and pry’g by nature. Woe to him shou’d he come to ye Hill when I am there, but I do not dou
bt, he will not come. I am eager and desirous of learn’g more of these matters of which ye Master was yr honour’d grandsire, Rich’d B., whose Name shall ever be graven upon ye stones for Yogge-Sothothe and all ye Great Olde Ones. I rejoice you are once more within reach, and hope to call upon you so soon I may recover ye use of my Stallion, for I wou’d fain ride no other. I heard this day week in ye night time a great cry’g and scream’g from yr Woode, and thought surelie you were back in ye House. I will shortlie call upon you if it suit yr convenience, and meanwhile, Sir, I am yr true Servt.
Jonathan B.
From the first, Dewart went on immediately to the second.
New Dunnich, 17 May.
Honour’d Friend,
Yr note come to hand. I am griev’d my poor efforts have brought difficultie to you and to us and all those who serve Him Who Is Not To Be Named, or ye G. O. Ones altogether, but it came about in this way, that ye pry’g Fool, Wilbur Corey, did come upon me by surprise at ye stones as I was in ye midst of my Do’g, whereupon he cri’d out that I was a Warlock and wou’d suffer at his Word, at which I, becom’g mightilie disturb’d, turn’d upon him That with which I held converse, and he was much torn and bloodied and taken from my sight back whence That had come, to what bourne I know not, onlie that he will no more be seen in these parts in fit state to say whereof he saw and heard.
I confesse I was sore affright’d by ye sight, and ye much more because I know not how Those Outside look upon us, and think often they are but pass’g grateful to us for afford’g them this open’g.
Moreover, I fear overmuch what Others may linger Out There, ly’g in wait, for I have reason hav’g one even’g recentlie made some alterations in ye words as in ye Booke, and for a short space see’g Something trulie horrible in ye accustom’d place, a great Thing with a Shape that seem’d ever changing in a manner terrible to see, this Thing be’g accompani’d by lesser Be’gs which play’d upon instruments resembl’g flutes music most strange and unlike to any which I had ever before heard, see’g which and hear’g which, I desist’d in confusion and so caus’d ye said apparition to vanish all in good time. What this might have been I know not, nor is there any word in ye Booke which wou’d set it forthe, unless it was some Daemon from Yr or beyond Nhhngr which lieth in far places on ye far side of Kadath in ye Cold Waste, and I entreate yr opinion on this matter, and yr advice, for I wou’d not that I be destroy’d in this quest ere it be finished. I hope I may see you not longe hence. I am, Sir, yr obt. Serv’t. by ye Sign of Kish.
The Lurker at the Threshold: Posthumous Collaborations Page 35
