The Horror Megapack

by H. P. Lovecraft

  Nobody seemed to have anything to answer, and the psychoanalyst turned to the little doctor.

  “You know this, Royce,” he asserted, a bit defiantly.

  “I don’t pretend to follow you new-era chaps as closely as I ought; but I recall an incident in my early practice that is not explicable in the present-day stage of your science, as I understand it.”

  Bliven grunted.

  “Well—shoot!” he said, “Of course, we can’t check up your facts, but if you were an accurate observer, we may be able to offer a plausible theory, at least.”

  Royce flushed at his brusque way of putting it, but took no offence. Everyone makes allowances for Bliven, who is a good fellow, but crudely sure of himself, and a slave to his hobby.

  * * * *

  “It happened a long, long time ago,” began Royce, “when I was an intern in a London hospital. If you know anything about our hospitals, you will understand that they are about the last places on earth for anything bizarre to occur in. Everything is frightfully ethical, and prosy, and red-tapey—far more so than in institutions over here, better as these are in many ways.

  “But almost anything can happen in London, and does. You love to point to New York as the typical Cosmopolis—because it has a larger Italian population than has Rome, a larger German than Berlin, a Jewish than Jerusalem, and so forth. Well, London has all this, and more. It has nuclei of Afghans, and Turkomans, and Arabs; it has neighborhoods where conversation is carried on in no known tongue. It even has a Synagogue of Black Jews—dating certainly from the Plantagenet dynasty, and probably earlier.

  “Myriads spend all their lives in London, and die knowing nothing about it. Sir Walter Besant devoted twenty years to the collecting of data for his history of the city, and confessed that he had only a smattering of his subject. Men learn some one of its hundred phases passing well; Scotland Yard agents, buyers of old pewter or black-letter books, tea importers, hotel keepers, solicitors, clubmen; but outside of their own little broods the eternal fog, hiding the real London in its sticky, yellow embrace. I was born there, attended its University, practiced for a couple of years in Whitechapel, and migrated to the fashionable Westminster district; but I visit the city as a stranger.

  “So, if anything mysterious were to happen anywhere, it might well be in London; although as I have said, one would hardly look for it in one of our solid, dull, intensely prosaic hospitals.

  “Watts-Bedloe was the big man in my day. You will find his works in your medical libraries, Bliven; though I dare say he has been thrust aside by the onmarch of science. Osteopathy owes a deal to him, I think; and I know that Doctor Lorenz, the great orthopedist of today, freely acknowledges his own debt.

  “There was brought to us one day a peculiarly distressing case; the only child of Sir William Hutchinson, a widower, whose hopes had almost idolatrously centered in this boy, who was a cripple. You would have to be British to understand just how Sir William felt. He was a keen sportsman; played all outdoor games superlatively well, rode to hounds over his own fields, shot tigers from an elephant’s back in India, and on foot in Africa, rented a salmon stream in Norway, captained the All-English polo team for years, sailed his own yacht, bred his own hunters, had climbed all the more difficult Swiss peaks, and was the first amateur to operate a biplane.

  “So that to natural parental grief was added the bitter downfall of all the plans he had for this boy; instructing him in the fine art of fly-casting, straight shooting, hard riding, and all that sort of thing. Instead of a companion who could take up the life of his advancing years were forcing him to relinquish, in a measure, he had a hopeless cripple to carry on, and end his line.

  “He was a dear, patient little lad, with the most beautiful head, and great, intelligent eyes; but his wretched little body was enough to wring your heart. Twisted, warped, shriveled—and far beyond the skill of Watts-Bedloe himself, who had been Sir William’s last resort. When he sadly confessed that there was nothing he could do, that science and skillful nursing might add a few years to the mere existence of the little martyr, you will understand that his father came to that pass which you, Bliven, have illustrated in citing the case of the pharmacist. He was, in short, ready to try anything: to turn to quacks, necromancers, to Satan himself, if his son might be made whole!

  “Oh, naturally he had sought the aid of religion. Noted clergy of his own faith had anointed the brave eyes, the patient lips, the crooked limbs, and prayed that God might work a miracle. But none was vouchsafed. I haven’t the least idea who it was that suggested the to Luciferians to Sir William.”

  “Luciferians? Devil worshipers?” interrupted Holmes. “Were there any of them in your time?”

  “There are plenty of them today; but it is the most secret sect in the world. Huysmand in La-Bas has told us as much as has anyone; and you know perfectly well, or should, that all priests who believe in the Real Presence, take the utmost care that the sacred wafer does not pass into irresponsible hands. Many will not even place it on the communicant’s palm; but only in his mouth. For the stolen Host is essential to the celebration of the infamous Black Mass which forms the chief ceremony of the Luciferian ritual. And every year a number of thefts, or attempted thefts, from the tabernaculum, are reported in the press.

  “Now the theory of this strange sect is not without a certain distorted rationality. They argue that Lucifer’s Star of the Morning was cast out of Heaven after a great battle, in which he was defected to be sure, but not destroyed, nor even crippled. Today, after centuries of missionary zeal, Christianity has gathered only a tithe of the people into its fold; the great majority is, and always has been, outside. The wicked flourish, often the righteous stumble; and at the last great battle of Armageddon, the Luciferians believe that their champion will finally triumph.

  “Meanwhile, and in almost impenetrable secrecy, they practice their infamous rites and serve the devil, foregathering preferably in some abandoned church, which has an altar, and above it a crucifix, which they reverse. It is believed that they number hundreds of thousands, and flourish in every quarter of the world; and it is presumed that they employ grips and passwords. But amid so much that is conjecture, this fact stands clear: the cult of Lucifer does exist, and has from time immemorial.

  “I never had the least idea who suggested them to Sir William. May have been some friend who was a secret devotee, and wished to make a proselyte. May have been an idle word overheard in a club—or penny bus. The point is, he did hear, discovered that an occult power was claimed by their unholy priests, was ready to mortgage his estate or sell his soul for this little chap, and somehow got in touch with them.

  “The fact that he managed it, that he browbeat Watts-Bedloe into permitting one of the fraternity to enter the hospital at all, is the best example I can give of his despairing persistence. At that, the physician agreed only upon certain seemingly prohibitive conditions. The fellow was not to touch the little patient, nor even to draw near his bed. He was not to speak to him, or seek to hold his gaze. No phony hypnotism, or anything like that.

  “Watts-Bedloe, I think, framed the conditions in the confident hope that they would end negotiations; and he was profoundly disgusted when he learned that the Luciferian, though apathetic, was not in the least deterred by the hardness of the terms. It appeared that he had not been at all willing to come under any circumstances; that he tried persistently to learn how Sir William had heard of him, and his address, and that he had refused remuneration of any sort. Altogether, a new breed of fakir, you see!

  “There were five of us in the room at the time appointed, besides the little patient, who was sleeping peacefully. Fact is, Watts-Bedloe had taken the precaution of administering a sleeping draught, in order that the quack might not in any possible way work upon his nervous system. Watts-Bedloe was standing by the cot, his sandy hair rumpled, his stiff moustache bristling, for all the world like an Airdale terrier on guard. The father was there, of course; and the head nurse
, and a powerful and taciturn orderly. You can see that there wasn’t much chance of the devil-man pulling off anything untoward!

  “When, precisely on the moment, the door opened and he stood before us, I suffered as great a shock of surprise as ever in my life; and a rapid glance at my companions’ faces showed me that their amazement equaled mine. I don’t know just what type we had visualized—whether a white-bearded mystic clad in a long cloak with a peaked hat bearing cabalistic symbols, or a pale, sinister and debonair man of the world, such as George Arliss has given us, or what not; but certainly not the utterly insignificant creature who bowed awkwardly, and stood twirling a bowler hat in his hands as the door closed behind him.

  “He was a little, plump, bald man of middle age, looking for all the world like an unsuccessful greengrocer, or a dealer in butter and cheese in a small way. Although the day was cool, with a damp yellow fog swirling over the city, he perspired freely, and continually wiped his brow with a cheap bandana. He seemed at once ill at ease, yet perfectly confident, if you know what I mean. I realize that it sounds like silly rot; but that is the only way I can describe him. Utterly certain that he could do that for which he had come, but very much wishing that he were anywhere else. I heard Watts-Bedloe mutter ‘my word!’ And I believe he would have spat disgustedly—were such an act thinkable of a physician in a London hospital!

  “The Luciferian priest turned to Sir William. When he spoke, it seemed entirely in keeping with his appearance that he should take liberties with his aspirates. ‘I’m ’ere, m’lord. And h’at your service.’

  “Watts-Bedloe spoke sharply, ‘Look here, my man!’ he said. ‘Do you pretend to say that you can make this crippled child whole?’

  “The strange man turned his moist, pasty face, livid in the fog murk, toward the specialist. ’E that I serves can, and will. I’m a middleman, in a manner of speaking. A transmitter. H’its easy enough for ’im, but I don’t advise it, and I warns you I’m not to be ’eld responsible for ’ow ’E does it.’

  “Watts-Bedloe turned to Sir William. ‘Let’s have an end to the sickening farce,’ he said curtly. ‘I need fresh air!’

  “Sir William nodded to the little man, who mopped his brow with his bandana, and pointed to the cot. ‘Draw back the coverlet!’ he commanded.

  “The nurse obeyed, after a questioning glance at Watts-Bedloe. ‘Tyke off ’is night gown,’ continued the visitor.

  “Watts-Bedloe’s lips parted in a snarl at this, but Sir William arrested him with a gesture, stepped to his son’s side, and with infinite gentleness took off the tiny gown, leaving the sleeping child naked in his bed.

  “Again, as always, I felt a surge of pity sweep through me. The noble head, the pigeon breast, rising and falling softly now, the crooked spine, the little gnarled, twisted limbs! But my attention was quickly drawn back to the strange man.

  “Barely glancing at the child, he fumbled at his greasy waistcoat, Watts-Bedloe watching him meanwhile like a lynx, as he took out a crumb of chalk and, squatting down, drew a rude circle on the floor about him; a circle of possibly four feet in diameter. And within this circle he began laboriously to write certain works and figures.”

  “Hold on there!” spoke Bliven. “Certain words and figures? Just what symbols, please?”

  “There was a swastika emblem,” Royce promptly replied, “and others familiar to some of the older secret orders, and sometimes found on Aztec ruins and Babylonian brick tablets; the open eye, for instance, and a rude fist with thumb extended. Also he scrawled the sequence 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-9, the ‘8’ omitted, you notice, which he multiplied by 18, and again by 27, and by 36; you can amuse yourselves working it out. The result is curious. Lastly, he wrote the sentence, ‘Sigma te, sigma, temere me tangis et angis.’ A palindrome, you observe; that is, it reads equally well—or ill, backward or forward.”

  “Hocus pocus! Old stuff!” snorted Bliven.

  Royce gazed mildly at him.

  “Old stuff, as you say, professor. Older than recorded history. Having done this, a matter of five minutes, perhaps, with Watts-Bedloe becoming more and more restless, and evidently holding himself in with difficulty, the fellow rose stiffly from his squatting position, carefully replaced the fragment of chalk in his pocket, mopped his brow for the twentieth time, and gestured toward the cot with a moist palm. ‘Now, cover ’im h’up!’ he ordered. ‘All h’up; ’ead and all.’

  “The nurse gently drew the sheet over the little form. We could see it rise and fall with the regular respiration of slumber. Suddenly, eyes wide open and staring at the floor, the fellow began to pray, in Latin. And whatever his English, his Latin was beautiful to listen to, and virgin pure! It was too voluble for me to follow verbatim—I made as good a transcript as I could a bit later, and will be glad to show it to you, Bliven—but, anyhow, it was a prayer to Lucifer, at once an adoration and a petition, that he would vouchsafe before these Christian unbelievers a proof of his dominion over fire, earth, air and water. He ceased abruptly as he had begun, and nodded toward the cot. ‘H’it is done!’ he sighed, and once again mopped his forehead.

  “‘You infernal charlatan!’ snarled Watts-Bedloe, unable longer to contain himself. ‘You’ve got the effrontery to stand there and tell us anything has been wrought upon that child by your slobbering drivel?’

  “The man looked at him with lusterless eyes. ‘Look for yerself, guv’ner.’ he answered.

  “It was Sir William who snatched back the sheet from his son; and till my dying day I shall remember the unearthly beauty of what our astounded eyes beheld. Lying there, smile upon his lips, like a perfect form fresh from the hand of his Creator, his little limbs straight and delicately rounded, a picture of almost awesome loveliness, lay the child we had but five minutes before seen as a wrecked and broken travesty of humanity.”

  Again Bliven interrupted explosively:

  “Oh, I say now, Royce! I’ll admit you tell a ripping story, as such; you had even me hanging breathless on your climax. But this is too much! As man to man, you can’t sit there and tell us this child was cured!”

  “I didn’t say that; for he was dead.”

  Bliven was speechless, for once; but Holmes spoke up in remonstrance:

  “It seems strange to me that such a queer story should not have been repeated, and discussed!”

  “It isn’t strange, if you happen to know anything about London hospitals,” Royce explained patiently. “Who would repeat it? Would Watts-Bedloe permit it to be known that by his permission some charlatan was admitted, and that during his devilish incantations his patient died? Would the stricken father mention the subject, even to us? Or the head nurse and orderly, cogs in an inexorable machine?

  “All this took place nearly forty years ago; and it is the first time I have spoken of it. Watts-Bedloe died years back; and Sir William’s line is extinct. I can’t verify a detail; but it all happened exactly as I have stated. As for the Luciferians, none of us, I think, saw him depart. He simply stole out in to the slimy yellow fog, back to whatever private hell it was he came from, somewhere in London, the city nobody knows, and where anything may happen!”

  PENNIES FROM HELL, by Darrell Schweitzer

  I met Jim Bowen for the first time in over ten years in a Fifties Revival bar in Philadelphia. It was the sort of place with posters of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and Elvis on the walls, the waiters in regulation Duck’s Ass hairdos, an interior decorating style which can only be described as Art Tacko, and of course, inevitably, a dance-floor. The sign over the entrance said: BOP TILL YOU DROP.

  It wasn’t Jimbo’s style, but there he was. I called him over to my table. He looked up, didn’t seem to recognize me at first, and then slid off his bar stool, glass in hand, not stumble-down drunk, but walking, ah, carefully. That, too, wasn’t his style.

  “You’ve changed,” I said.

  “Well, I’m forty-three, Chuckie-boy. I can still call you that, I hope, for all you’re a big-time Novelist now. For me the down
hill slide into senility has already begun. Not much longer and I’ll be decrepit enough to get a job as an extra in Night of the Return of the Revenge of the Living Dead, Part II.”

  I could tell that he was, as we literary types phrase it, in his cups.

  “This isn’t like you.”

  “At least it’s a grown-up obsession.” He nodded toward his glass.

  I glanced at the picture of Roy Rogers and Trigger on the wall behind him.

  “So why are you worried about being grown-up all of a sudden?”

  “You remember what I used to say, Chuckie-boy? In American society we remain adolescents until they issue us bifocals. Well, I wear contacts, but the time has come, as inevitably it must. I think that’s why I come here.” He lifted his glass and pointed one finger at Jimmy Dean, then at Elvis. “This place is a mausoleum of lost youth. It reminds us that time is passing.”

  “Awfully morbid of you, Jimbo, old buddy.”

  “Well, Goddamit, I have every right to be morbid. Sometimes I get to thinking about Joe Eisenberg—”

  “The cartoonist…who died?”

  “Yeah. He was after your time. You’d gone off to commit literature by then.”

  “I met him in your office once,” I said. “Besides, after I stopped writing for underground comics, I still read them, at least the ones you published. I loved Eisenberg’s stuff. As far out as S. Clay Wilson, only he could draw. I particularly remember the upside-down face series, this guy with his nose pointing up, and corks with little crucifixes stuck in his nostrils, and the caption: Damned uncomfortable, but it sure keeps the snot vampires away. Great stuff, elegant, tasteful—”

  “But he never grew up, and it was a childish obsession that killed him.”

  “I never knew exactly how he died.”

  Jim went back to the bar for another drink. I had a hunch I was going to need an excuse to linger for some time yet, so I called a waitress over and ordered a Brown Cow and a Wangadangburger.