Haggopian and Other Stories

by Brian Lumley

  expert pot-holers have given unanimous opinions that the stream, where it springs from the cliffs at Sarby, is totally untraversable.”

  The next day, during the flight, I slept for an hour or so and again, in my dreams, I saw my parents. As before they appeared to me in a mist—but their beckonings were stronger than in that previous dream and in the blanketing vapours around them were strange figures, bowed in seeming obeisance, while a chant of teasing familiarity rang from hidden and nameless throats…

  • • •

  I had wired my housekeeper from Cairo, informing her of my returning, and when I arrived at my house in Marske found a solicitor waiting for me. This gentleman introduced himself as being Mr. Harvey, of the Radcar firm of Harvey, Johnson and Harvey, and presented me with a large, sealed envelope. It was addressed to me, in my father’s hand, and Mr. Harvey informed me his instructions had been to deliver the envelope into my hands on the attainment of my twenty-first birthday. Unfortunately I had been out of the country at the time, almost a year earlier, but the firm had kept in touch with my housekeeper so that on my return the agreement made nearly seven years earlier between my father and Mr. Harvey’s firm might be kept. After Mr. Harvey left I dismissed my woman and opened the envelope. The manuscript within was not in any script I had ever learned at school. This was the language I had seen written on that aeon-old pillar in ancient Ib; nonetheless I knew instinctively that it had been my father’s hand which had written the thing. And of course, I could read it as easily as if it were in English. The many and diverse contents of the letter made it, as I have said, more akin to a manuscript in its length and it is not my purpose to completely reproduce it. That would take too long and the speed with which The First Change is taking place does not permit it. I will merely set down the specially significant points which the letter brought to my attention.

  In disbelief I read the first paragraph—but, as I read on, that disbelief soon became a weird amazement which in turn became a savage joy at the fantastic disclosures revealed by those timeless hieroglyphs of Ib. My parents were not dead! They had merely gone away, gone home…

  That time nearly seven years ago, when I had returned home from a school reduced to ruins by the bombing, our London home had been purposely sabotaged by my father. A powerful explosive had been rigged, primed to be set off by the first air-raid siren, and then my parents had gone off in secrecy back to the moors. They had not known, I realised, that I was on my way home from the ruined school where I boarded. Even now they were unaware that I had arrived at the house just as the radar defences of England’s military services had picked out those hostile dots in the sky. That plan which had been so carefully laid to fool men into believing that my parents were dead had worked well; but it had also nearly destroyed me. And all this time I, too, had believed them killed. But why had they gone to such extremes? What was that secret which it was so necessary to hide from our fellow men—and where were my parents now? I read on…

  Slowly all was revealed. We were not indigenous to England, my parents and I, and they had brought me here as an infant from our homeland, a land quite near yet paradoxically far away. The letter went on to explain how all the children of our race are brought here as infants, for the atmosphere of our home-land is not conducive to health in the young and unformed. The difference in my case had been that my mother was unable to part with me. That was the awful thing! Though all the children of our race must wax and grow up away from their homeland, the elders can only rarely depart from their native clime. This fact is determined by their physical appearance throughout the greater period of their life-spans. For they are not, for the better part of their lives, either the physical or mental counterparts of ordinary men.

  This means that children have to be left on doorsteps, at the entrances of orphanages, in churches and in other places where they will be found and cared for; for in extreme youth there is little difference between my race and the race of men. As I read I was reminded of those tales of fantasy I had once loved; of ghouls and fairies and other creatures who left their young to be reared by human beings and who stole human children to be brought up in their own likenesses.

  Was that, then, my destiny? Was I to be a ghoul? I read on. I learned that the people of my race can only leave our native country twice in their lives; once in youth—when, as I have explained, they are brought here of necessity to be left until they attain the approximate age of twenty-one years—and once in later life, when changes in their appearances make them compatible to outside conditions. My parents had just reached this latter stage of their—development—when I was born. Because of my mother’s devotion they had forsaken their duties in our own land and had brought me personally to England where, ignoring The Laws, they stayed with me. My father had brought certain treasures with him to ensure an easy life for himself and my mother until that time should come when they would be forced to leave me, the Time of the Second Change, when to stay would be to alert mankind of our existence.

  That time had eventually arrived and they had covered up their departure back to our own, secret land by blowing up our London home; letting the authorities and I, (though it must have broken my mother’s heart), believe them dead of a German bomb raid.

  And how could they have done otherwise? They dared not take the chance of telling me what I really was; for who can say what effect such a disclosure would have had on me, I who had barely begun to show my differences? They had to hope I would discover the secret myself, or at least the greater part of it, which I had done! But to be doubly sure my father left his letter.

  The letter also told how not many foundlings find their way back to their own land. Accidents claim some and others go mad. At this point I was reminded of something I had read somewhere of two inmates of Oakdeene Sanatorium near Glasgow who are so horribly mad and so unnatural in aspect that they are not even allowed to be seen and even their nurses cannot abide to stay near them for long. Yet others become hermits in wild and inaccessible places and, worst of all, still others suffer more hideous fates and I shuddered as I read what those fates were. But there were those few who did manage to get back. These were the lucky ones, those who returned to claim their rights; and while some of them were guided back—by adults of the race during second visits—others made it by instinct or luck. Yet horrible though this overall plan of existence seemed to be, the letter explained its logic. For my homeland could not support many of my kind and those perils of lunacy, brought on by inexplicable physical changes, and accidents and those other fates I have mentioned acted as a system of selection whereby only the fittest in mind and body returned to the land of their birth.

  But there; I have just finished reading the letter through a second time—and already I begin to feel a stiffening of my limbs… My father’s manuscript has arrived barely in time. I have long been worried by my growing differences. The webbing on my hands now extends almost to the small, first knuckles and my skin is fantastically thick, rough and ichthyic. The short tail which protrudes from the base of my spine is now not so much an oddity as an addition; an extra limb which, in the light of what I now know, is not an oddity at all but the most natural thing in my world! My hairlessness, with the discovery of my destiny, has also ceased to be an embarrassment to me. I am different from men, true, but is that not as it should be? For I am not a man…

  Ah, the lucky fates which caused me to pick up that newspaper in Cairo! Had I not seen that picture or read that article I might not have returned so soon to my moors and I shudder to think what might have become of me then. What would I have done after The First Change had altered me? Would I have hurried, disguised and wrapped in smothering clothes, to some distant land—there to live the life of a hermit? Perhaps I would have returned to Ib or the Nameless City, to dwell in ruins and solitude until my appearance was again capable of sustaining my existence among men. And what after that—after The Second Change?

  Perhaps I would have gone mad at such inexplica
ble alterations in my person. Who knows but there might have been another inmate at Oakdeene? On the other hand my fate might have been worse than all these; for I may have been drawn to dwell in the depths, to be one with the Deep Ones in the worship of Dagon and Great Cthulhu, as have others before me.

  But no! By good fortune, by the learning gained on my far journeys and by the help given me by my father’s document I have been spared all those terrors which others of my kind have known. I will return to Ib’s Sister City, to Lh-yib, in that land of my birth beneath these Yorkshire moors; that land from which was washed the green figurine which guided me back to these shores, that figurine which is the duplicate of the one I raised from beneath the pool at Sarnath. I will return to be worshipped by those whose ancestral brothers died at Ib on the spears of the men of Sarnath; those who are so aptly described on the Brick Cylinders of Kadatheron; these who chant voicelessly in the abyss. I will return to Lh-yib!

  For even now I hear my mother’s voice; calling me as she did when I was a child and used to wander these very moors. “Bob! Little Bo! Where are you?”

  Bo, she used to call me and would only laugh when I asked her why. But why not? Was Bo not a fitting name? Robert—Bob—Bo? What odds? Blind fool that I have been! I never really pondered the fact that my parents were never quite like other people; not even towards the end…Were not my ancestors worshipped in grey stone Ib before the coming of men, in the earliest days of Earth’s evolution? I should have guessed my identity when first I brought that figurine up out of the slime; for the features of the thing were as my own features will be after The First Change, and engraved upon its base in the ancient letters of Ib—letters I could read because they were part of my native language, the precursor of all languages—was my own name!

  Bokrug:

  Water-Lizard God of the people of Ib and Lh-yib, the Sister City!

  Note:

  Sir,

  Attached to this manuscript, “Annex ‘A’” to my report, was a brief note of explanation addressed to the NECB in Newcastle and reproduced as follows:

  Robert Krug,

  Marske,

  Yorks.,

  Evening—19 July ’52

  Secretary and Members,

  NECB, Newcastle-on-Tyne.

  Gentlemen of the North-East Coal-Board:

  My discovery whilst abroad, in the pages of a popular science magazine, of your Yorkshire Moors Project, scheduled to commence next summer, determined me, upon the culmination of some recent discoveries of mine, to write you this letter. You will see that my letter is a protest against your proposals to drill deep into the moors in order to set off underground explosions in the hope of creating pockets of gas to be tapped as part of the country’s natural resources. It is quite possible that the undertaking envisioned by your scientific advisors would mean the destruction of two ancient races of sentient life. The prevention of such destruction is that which causes me to break the laws of my race and thus announce the existence of them and their servitors. In order to explain my protest more fully I think it necessary that I tell my whole story. Perhaps upon reading the enclosed manuscript you will suspend indefinitely your projected operations.

  Robert Krug…

  POLICE REPORT M-Y-127/52

  Alleged Suicide

  Sir,

  I have to report that at Dilham, on the 20th July 1952, at about four-thirty PM, I was on duty at the Police Station when three children (statements attached at Annex ‘B’) reported to the Desk Sgt. that they had seen a “funny man” climb the fence at “Devil’s Pool,” ignoring the warning notices, and throw himself into the stream where it vanishes into the hillside. Accompanied by the eldest of the children I went to the scene of the alleged occurrence, about three-quarters of a mile over the moors from Dilham, where the spot that the “funny man” allegedly climbed the fence was pointed out to me. There were signs that someone had recently gone over the fence; trampled grass and grass-stains on the timbers. With slight difficulty I climbed the fence myself but was unable to decide whether or not the children had told the truth. There was no evidence in or around the pool to suggest that anyone had thrown himself in—but this is hardly surprising as at that point, where the stream enters the hillside, the water rushes steeply downwards into the earth. Once in the water only an extremely strong swimmer would be able to get back out. Three experienced pot-holers were lost at this same spot in August last year when they attempted a partial reconnoiter of the stream’s underground course.

  When I further questioned the boy I had taken with me, I was told that a second man had been on the scene prior to the incident. This other man had been seen to limp as though he was hurt, into a nearby cave. This had occurred shortly before the “funny man”—described as being green and having a short, flexible tail—came out of the same cave, went over the fence and threw himself into the pool.

  On inspecting the said cave I found what appeared to be an animal-hide of some sort, split down the arms and legs and up the belly, in the manner of the trophies of big-game hunters. This object was rolled up neatly in one corner of the cave and is now in the found-property room at the Police Station in Dilham. Near this hide was a complete set of good-quality gent’s clothing, neatly folded and laid down. In the inside pocket of the jacket I found a wallet containing, along with fourteen pounds in one-pound notes, a card bearing the address of a house in Marske; namely, 11 Sunderland Crescent. These articles of clothing, plus the wallet, are also now in the found-property room.

  At about six-thirty PM I went to the above address in Marske, and interviewed the housekeeper, one Mrs. White, who provided me with a statement (attached at Annex ‘C’) in respect of her partial employer, Robert Krug. Mrs. White also gave me two envelopes, one of which contained the manuscript attached to this report at Annex ‘A’. Mrs. White had found this envelope, sealed, with a note asking her to deliver it, when she went to the house on the afternoon of the 20th about half an hour before I arrived. In view of the enquiries I was making and because of their nature, i.e.—an

  investigation into the possible suicide of Mr. Krug, Mrs. White thought it was best that the envelope be given to the police. Apart from this she was at a loss what to do with it because Krug had forgotten to address it. As there was the possibility of the envelope containing a suicide note or dying declaration I accepted it.

  The other envelope, which was unsealed, contained a manuscript in a foreign language and is now in the property room at Dilham.

  In the two weeks since the alleged suicide, despite all my efforts to trace Robert Krug, no evidence has come to light to support the hope that he may still be alive. This, plus the fact that the clothing found in the cave has since been identified by Mrs. White as being that which Krug was wearing the night before his disappearance, has determined me to request that my report be placed in the “unsolved” file and that Robert Krug be listed as missing.

  Sgt. J. T. Miller,

  Dilham,Yorks.

  7 August 1952

  Note:

  Sir,

  Do you wish me to send a copy of the manuscript at Annex ‘A’—as requested of Mrs. White by Krug—to the Secretary of the North-East Coal-Board?

  Inspector I. L. Ianson,

  Yorkshire County Constabulary,

  Radcar,Yorks.

  Dear Sgt. Miller,

  In answer to your note of the 7th. Take no further action on the Krug case. As you suggest, I have had the man posted as missing, believed a suicide. As for his document; well, the man was either mentally unbalanced or a monumental hoaxer; possibly a combination of both. Regardless of the fact that certain things in his story are matters of indisputable fact, the majority of the thing appears to be the product of a diseased mind.

  Meanwhile, I await your progress-report on that other case. I refer to the baby found in the church pews at Eely-on-the-Moor last June. How are you going about tracing the mother?

  What Dark God?

  According to August Derleth h
e had “a thing about trains,” which was one of the reasons he gave for paying me the fee of (wow!) thirty-five dollars for “What Dark God?”—which I seem to remember accepting in Arkham House books. (A nice move on my part, as I’ve stated elsewhere.) But I would have been happy with the payment anyway, mainly because the story was written in 1968, in the first few months of my newfound “skill” as an author. So in fact I was absolutely thrilled to be getting paid anything at all! The only drawback: Derleth could not guarantee a publication date and didn’t even have a title for the anthology in which the story would appear. But the man wasn’t well; three years later he was dead; “What Dark God?” had to wait until 1975 before seeing print in editor Jerry Page’s anthology, Nameless Places. Well, at least it was an Arkham House book.

  “…Summanus—whatever power he may be…”

  Ovid’s Fasti

  The Tuscan Rituals? Now where had I heard of such a book or books before? Certainly very rare… Copy in the British Museum? Perhaps! Then what on earth were these fellows doing with a copy? And such a strange bunch of blokes at that.

  Only a few minutes earlier I had boarded the train at Bengham. It was quite crowded for a night train and the boozy, garrulous, and vociferous “Jock” who had boarded it directly in front of me had been much upset by the fact that all the compartments seemed to be fully occupied.

  “Och, they bleddy British trains,” he had drunkenly grumbled, “either a’wiz emp’y or a’wiz fool. No orgynization whatsayever—ye no agree, ye sassenach?” He had elbowed me in the ribs as we swayed together down the dim corridor.