Shadows of Carcosa: Tales of Cosmic Horror by Lovecraft, Chambers, Machen, Poe, and Other Masters of the Weird

by H. P. Lovecraft

  He was looking almost nonchalantly at the ceiling at the moment, when I saw his face change, saw his eyes suddenly drop like shot birds and fix themselves on the cranny of the door he had just left ajar. Even from where I sat I could see his colour change; he went greenish. He crouched without stirring, simply fixed. And I, scarcely daring to breathe, sat with creeping skin, simply watching him. His hands relaxed, and he gave a kind of sigh.

  “Was that one?” I whispered, with a timid show of jauntiness. He looked round, opened his mouth, and nodded. “What?” I said. He jerked his thumb with meaningful eyes, and I knew that he meant that his aunt had been there listening at our door cranny.

  “Look here, Seaton,” I said once more, wriggling to my feet. “You may think I’m a jolly noodle; just as you please. But your aunt has been civil to me and all that, and I don’t believe a word you say about her, that’s all, and never did. Every fellow’s a bit off his pluck at night, and you may think it a fine sport to try your rubbish on me. I heard your aunt come upstairs before I fell asleep. And I’ll bet you a level tanner she’s in bed now. What’s more, you can keep your blessed ghosts to yourself. It’s a guilty conscience, I should think.”

  Seaton looked at me curiously, without answering for a moment. “I’m not a liar, Withers; but I’m not going to quarrel either. You’re the only chap I care a button for; or, at any rate, you’re the only chap that’s ever come here; and it’s something to tell a fellow what you feel. I don’t care a fig for fifty thousand ghosts, although I swear on my solemn oath that I know they’re here. But she”—he turned deliberately—“you laid a tanner she’s in bed, Withers; well, I know different. She’s never in bed much of the night, and I’ll prove it, too, just to show you I’m not such a nolly as you think I am. Come on!”

  “Come on where?”

  “Why to see.”

  I hesitated. He opened a large cupboard and took out a small dark dressing-gown and a kind of shawl-jacket. He threw the jacket on the bed and put on the gown. His dusky face was colourless, and I could see by the way he fumbled at the sleeves he was shivering. But it was no good showing the white feather now. So I threw the tasselled shawl over my shoulders and, leaving our candle brightly burning on the chair, we went out together and stood in the corridor.

  “Now then, listen!” Seaton whispered.

  We stood leaning over the staircase. It was like leaning over a well, so still and chill the air was all around us. But presently, as I suppose happens in most old houses, began to echo and answer in my ears a medley of small stirrings and whisperings. Now out of the distance an old timber would relax its fibres, or a scurry die away behind the perishing wainscot. But amid and behind such sounds as these I seemed to begin to be conscious, as it were, of the lightest of footfalls, sounds as faint as the vanishing remembrance of voices in a dream. Seaton was all in obscurity except his face; out of that his eyes gleamed darkly, watching me.

  “You’d hear, too, in time, my fine soldier,” he muttered. “Come on!”

  He descended the stairs, slipping his lean fingers lightly along the balusters. He turned to the right at the loop, and I followed him barefooted along a thickly-carpeted corridor. At the end stood a door ajar. And from here we very stealthily and in complete blackness ascended five narrow stairs. Seaton, with immense caution, slowly pushed open a door, and we stood together looking into a great pool of duskiness, out of which, lit by the feeble clearness of a night-light, rose a vast bed. A heap of clothes lay on the floor; beside them two slippers dozed, with noses each to each, two yards apart. Somewhere a little clock ticked huskily. There was a rather close smell of lavender and eau de cologne, mingled with the fragrance of ancient sachets, soaps, and drugs. Yet it was a scent even more peculiarly commingled than that.

  And the bed! I stared warily in; it was mounded gigantically, and it was empty.

  Seaton turned a vague pale face, all shadows. “What did I say?” he muttered. “Who’s—who’s the fool now, I say? How are we going to get back without meeting her, I say? Answer me that! Oh, I wish to goodness you hadn’t come here, Withers.”

  He stood visibly shivering in his skimpy gown, and could hardly speak for his teeth chattering. And very distinctly, in the hush that followed his whisper, I heard approaching a faint unhurried voluminous rustle. Seaton clutched my arm, dragged me to the right across the room to a large cupboard, and drew the door close to on us. And, presently, as with bursting lungs I peeped out into the long, low, curtained bedroom, waddled in that wonderful great head and body. I can see her now, all patched and lined with shadow, her tied-up hair (she must have had enormous quantities of it for so old a woman), her heavy lids above those flat, slow, vigilant eyes. She just passed across my ken in the vague dusk; but the bed was out of sight.

  We waited on and on, listening to the clock’s muffled ticking. Not the ghost of a sound rose up from the great bed. Either she lay archly listening or slept a sleep serener than an infant’s. And when, it seemed, we had been hours in hiding and were cramped, chilled, and half suffocated, we crept out on all fours, with terror knocking at our ribs, and so down the five narrow stairs and back to the little candle-lit blue-and-gold bedroom.

  Once there, Seaton gave in. He sat livid on a chair with closed eyes.

  “Here,” I said, shaking his arm, “I’m going to bed; I’ve had enough of this foolery; I’m going to bed.” His lips quivered, but he made no answer. I poured out some water into my basin and, with that cold pictured azure eye fixed on us, bespattered Seaton’s sallow face and forehead and dabbled his hair. He presently sighed and opened fish-like eyes.

  “Come on!” I said. “Don’t get shamming, there’s a good chap. Get on my back, if you like, and I’ll carry you into your bedroom.”

  He waved me away and stood up. So, with my candle in one hand, I took him under the arm and walked him along according to his direction down the corridor. His was a much dingier room than mine, and littered with boxes, paper, cages, and clothes. I huddled him into bed and turned to go. And suddenly, I can hardly explain it now, a kind of cold and deadly terror swept over me. I almost ran out of the room, with eyes fixed rigidly in front of me, blew out my candle, and buried my head under the bedclothes.

  When I awoke, roused not by a gong, but by a long-continued tapping at my door, sunlight was raying in on cornice and bedpost, and birds were singing in the garden. I got up, ashamed of the night’s folly, dressed quickly, and went downstairs. The breakfast room was sweet with flowers and fruit and honey. Seaton’s aunt was standing in the garden beside the open French window, feeding a great flutter of birds. I watched her for a moment, unseen. Her face was set in a deep reverie beneath the shadow of a big loose sunhat. It was deeply lined, crooked, and, in a way I can’t describe, fixedly vacant and strange. I coughed, and she turned at once with a prodigious smile to enquire how I had slept. And in that mysterious way by which we learn each other’s secret thoughts without a sentence spoken I knew that she had followed every word and movement of the night before, and was triumphing over my affected innocence and ridiculing my friendly and too easy advances.

  We returned to school, Seaton and I, lavishly laden, and by rail all the way. I made no reference to the obscure talk we had had, and resolutely refused to meet his eyes or to take up the hints he let fall. I was relieved—and yet I was sorry—to be going back, and strode on as fast as I could from the station, with Seaton almost trotting at my heels. But he insisted on buying more fruits and sweets—my share of which I accepted with a very bad grace. It was uncomfortably like a bribe; and, after all, I had no quarrel with his rum old aunt, and hadn’t really believed half the stuff he had told me.

  I saw as little of him as I could after that. He never referred to our visit or resumed his confidences, though in class I would sometimes catch his eye fixed on mine, full of a mute understanding, which I easily affected not to understand. He left Gummidge’s, as I have said, rather abruptly, though I never heard of anything to his discredit.
And I did not see him or have any news of him again till by chance we met one summer afternoon in the Strand.

  He was dressed rather oddly in a coat too large for him and a bright silky tie. But we instantly recognized one another under the awning of a cheap jeweller’s shop. He immediately attached himself to me and dragged me off, not too cheerfully, to lunch with him at an Italian restaurant near by. He chattered about our old school, which he remembered only with dislike and disgust; told me cold-bloodedly of the disastrous fate of one or two of the old fellows who had been among his chief tormentors; insisted on an expensive wine and the whole gamut of the foreign menu; and finally informed me, with a good deal of niggling, that he had come up to town to buy an engagement-ring.

  And of course: “How is your aunt?” I enquired at last.

  He seemed to have been awaiting the question. It fell like a stone into a deep pool, so many expressions flitted across his long un-English face.

  “She’s aged a good deal,” he said softly, and broke off.

  “She’s been very decent,” he continued presently after, and paused again. “In a way.” He eyed me fleetingly. “I dare say you heard that—she—that is, that we—had lost a good deal of money.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Oh, yes!” said Seaton, and paused again.

  And somehow, poor fellow, I knew, in the clink and clatter of glass and voices that he had lied to me; that he did not possess, and never had possessed, a penny beyond what his aunt had squandered on his too ample allowance of pocket-money.

  “And the ghosts?” I enquired quizzically.

  He grew instantly solemn, and, though it may have been my fancy, slightly yellowed. But “You are making game of me. Withers,” was all he said.

  He asked for my address, and I rather reluctantly gave him my card.

  “Look here, Withers,” he said, as we stood together in the sunlight on the kerb, saying good-bye, “here I am, and—and it’s all very well. I’m not perhaps as fanciful as I was. But you are practically the only friend I have on earth—except Alice. . . . And there—to make a clean breast of it, I’m not sure that my aunt cares much about my getting married. She doesn’t say so, of course. You know her well enough for that.” He looked sidelong at the rattling gaudy traffic.

  “What I was going to say is this: Would you mind coming down? You needn’t stay the night unless you please, though, of course, you know you would be awfully welcome. But I should like you to meet my—to meet Alice; and then, perhaps, you might tell me your honest opinion of—of the other too.”

  I vaguely demurred. He pressed me. And we parted with a half promise that I would come. He waved his ball-topped cane at me and ran off in his long jacket after a bus.

  A letter arrived soon after, in his small weak handwriting, giving me full particulars regarding route and trains. And without the least curiosity, even, perhaps with some little annoyance that chance should have thrown us together again, I accepted his invitation and arrived one hazy midday at his out-of-the-way station to find him sitting on a low seat under a clump of double hollyhocks, awaiting me.

  His face looked absent and singularly listless; but he seemed, none the less, pleased to see me.

  We walked up the village street, past the little dingy apothecary’s and the empty forge, and, as on my first visit, skirted the house together, and, instead of entering by the front door, made our way down the green path into the garden at the back. A pale haze of cloud muffled the sun; the garden lay in a grey shimmer—its old trees, its snap-dragoned faintly glittering walls. But now on them was an air of slovenliness where before all had been neat and methodical. In a patch of shallowly-dug soil stood a worndown spade leaning against a tree. There was an old broken wheelbarrow. The roses had run to leaf and briar; the fruit-trees were unpruned. The goddess of neglect brooded in secret.

  “You ain’t much of a gardener, Seaton,” I said, with a sigh of ease.

  “I think, do you know, I like it best like this,” said Seaton. “We haven’t any man now, of course. Can’t afford it.” He stood staring at his little dark square of freshly-turned earth. “And it always seems to me,” he went on ruminatingly, “that, after all, we are nothing better than interlopers on the earth, disfiguring and staining wherever we go. I know it’s shocking blasphemy to say so, but then it’s different here, you see. We are farther away.”

  “To tell you the truth, Seaton, I don’t quite see,” I said; “but it isn’t a new philosophy, is it? Anyhow, it’s a precious beastly one.”

  “It’s only what I think,” he replied, with all his odd old stubborn meekness.

  We wandered on together, talking little, and still with that expression of uneasy vigilance on Seaton’s face. He pulled out his watch as we stood gazing idly over the green meadows and the dark motionless bulrushes.

  “I think, perhaps, it’s nearly time for lunch,” he said. “Would you like to come in?”

  We turned and walked slowly towards the house, across whose windows I confess my own eyes, too, went restlessly wandering in search of its rather disconcerting inmate. There was a pathetic look of draggledness, of want of means and care, rust and overgrowth and faded paint. Seaton’s aunt, a little to my relief, did not share our meal. Seaton carved the cold meat, and dispatched a heaped-up plate by an elderly servant for his aunt’s private consumption. We talked little and in half-suppressed tones, and sipped a bottle of Madeira which Seaton had rather heedfully fetched out of the great mahogany sideboard.

  I played him a dull and effortless game of chess, yawning between the moves he himself made almost at haphazard, and with attention elsewhere engaged. About five o’clock came the sound of a distant ring, and Seaton jumped up, overturning the board, and so ending a game that else might have fatuously continued to this day. He effusively excused himself, and after some little while returned with a slim, dark, rather sallow girl of about nineteen, in a white gown and hat, to whom I was presented with some little nervousness as his “dear old friend and schoolfellow.”

  We talked on in the pale afternoon light, still, as it seemed to me, and even in spite of a real effort to be clear and gay, in a half-suppressed, lack-lustre fashion. We all seemed, if it were not my fancy, to be expectant, to be rather anxiously awaiting an arrival, the appearance of someone who all but filled our collective consciousness. Seaton talked least of all, and in a restless interjectory way, as he continually fidgeted from chair to chair. At last he proposed a stroll in the garden before the sun should have quite gone down.

  Alice walked between us. Her hair and eyes were conspicuously dark against the whiteness of her gown. She carried herself not ungracefully, and yet without the least movement of her arms and body, and answered us both without turning her head. There was a curious provocative reserve in that impassive and rather long face, a half-unconscious strength of character.

  And yet somehow I knew—I believe we all knew—that this walk, this discussion of their future plans was a futility. I had nothing to base such a cynicism on, except only a vague sense of oppression, the foreboding remembrance of the inert invincible power in the background, to whom optimistic plans and love-making and youth are as chaff and thistledown. We came back, silent, in the last light. Seaton’s aunt was there—under an old brass lamp. Her hair was as barbarously massed and curled as ever. Her eyelids, I think, hung even a little heavier in age over their slow-moving inscrutable pupils. We filed in softly out of the evening, and I made my bow.

  “In this short interval, Mr. Withers,” she remarked amiably, “you have put off youth, put on the man. Dear me, how sad it is to see the young days vanishing! Sit down. My nephew tells me you met by chance—or act of Providence, shall we call it?—and in my beloved Strand! You, I understand, are to be best man—yes, best man, or am I divulging secrets?” She surveyed Arthur and Alice with overwhelming graciousness. They sat apart on two low chairs and smiled in return.

  “And Arthur—how do you think Arthur is looking?”

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p; “I think he looks very much in need of a change,” I said deliberately.

  “A change! Indeed?” She all but shut her eyes at me and with an exaggerated sentimentality shook her head. “My dear Mr. Withers! Are we not all in need of a change in this fleeting, fleeting world?” She mused over the remark like a connoisseur. “And you,” she continued, turning abruptly to Alice, “I hope you pointed out to Mr. Withers all my pretty bits?”

  “We walked round the garden,” said Alice, looking out of the window. “It’s a very beautiful evening.”

  “Is it?” said the old lady, starting up violently. “Then on this very beautiful evening we will go in to supper. Mr. Withers, your arm; Arthur, bring your bride.”

  I can scarcely describe with what curious ruminations I led the way into the faded, heavy-aired dining-room, with this indefinable old creature leaning weightily on my arm—the large flat bracelet on the yellow-laced wrist. She fumed a little, breathed rather heavily, as if with an effort of mind rather than of body; for she had grown much stouter and yet little more proportionate. And to talk into the great white face, so close to mine, was a queer experience in the dim light of the corridor, and even in the twinkling crystal of the candles. She was naïve—appallingly naïve; she was sudden and superficial; she was even arch; and all these in the brief, rather puffy passage from one room to the other, with these two tongue-tied children bringing up the rear. The meal was tremendous. I have never seen such a monstrous salad. But the dishes were greasy and over-spiced, and were indifferently cooked. One thing only was quite unchanged—my hostess’s appetite was as Gargantuan as ever. The old solid candelabra that lighted us stood before her high-backed chair. Seaton sat a little removed, with his plate almost in darkness.