Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time (31 page)

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Authors: Silvia Moreno-Garcia,Paula R. Stiles

Tags: #horror, #historical, #anthology, #Lovecraft

BOOK: Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time

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–
Monsieur
, I’m very sorry. In fact, we did possess a copy of this rarest of manuscripts, but unhappily, last week, someone stole the document from us. It is an inestimable loss and I sincerely hope that we will once again lay our hands on it. Hmm … hmm … it’s too bad ….”

This is the moment. I must attempt something, try to enter into contact. As Bob the Giant said, Lovecraft is my key.

– If you might permit me, sir, I say. Mr. Howard Phillips Lovecraft, isn’t it?

He turns his head toward me. A shiver goes through me.

– How do you know my name, lad? I don’t know you.

– I’m one of your biggest fans. I’ve read all of your works. I recognized you and ….

– What? What are you talking about?

– I … I … Listen. This manuscript, as bizarre as it may sound to you, I have it at my house … I know that may seem incredible, but right now, everything’s topsy-turvy … My Spanish grandfather left it to me ... more or less … Let’s say I discovered it one of his old trunks after his death … would you like to have a glance at it?

His black and piercing eyes fix me with insistence. I get the nauseating impression that he is visiting my mind and searching my soul … An urge to vomit mounts … I continue:

– So, what do you say?

– Very well, lad. When can we go there?

– Right now, if you wish. You have only to follow me. But first, I’d like to ask you a question.

– Say what you wish.

– All right … What happened to your leg that you walk like that?

– A souvenir of war. In 1917, I left for France to fight the Germans. I knew the hell of the trenches: the assaults, the bombardments, the death, the mustard gas, the mud, the rats. In July 1918, in Champagne, during an enemy offensive, I took a piece of shrapnel in the knee. A dirty wound. The war was finished for me. I was even decorated … a beautiful bullshit!

The world is collapsing around me. I have the distinct impression that I just dove into the abyss of time. Should I believe what I just heard? If this man is truly Lovecraft and if what he just told me is true, I must frankly be turning into a lunatic. I have to cling to something. Quick, Bob the Giant! I turn toward him. But he’s not there. Disappeared! Vanished! I look around me. The librarian has also disappeared. No one is there. Not even a cat. The library is deserted, dark. I’m alone. Alone with He who whispers in the shadows.

The object of our quest was close by the megalith. The mythical city was located not far from the banks of the river, but the luxuriant vegetation prevented anyone from seeing it from the water. Once upon a time, this city must have been rich and powerful. Its walls were composed of blocks of cyclopean stone, more impressive than those I had seen at Cuzco, the Incan capital. There had been there gigantic palaces, temples with colossal walls and even a battlement that supported an observatory for studying the course of the stars. In times past, this metropolis must have been the capital of a prosperous empire. Who had been able to erect these monumental constructs? Who had lived in them? However, these questions remained unanswered because, unhappily, this city appeared to have been abandoned for an eternity and nature had taken back its rights, invading the place anew. In discovering this sad spectacle, I confess that I almost cried in vexation. By the Most Holy Cross, we had accomplished all these efforts to fall on the steps of ruins! What an injustice! Mad with rage, Don Santiago ordered us to dig in every nook and cranny of every room, every palace, every temple. He screamed loudly that these accursed natives must have buried their treasure, or hidden it in a secret place. We searched with the energy of despair.

I must have been dreaming. If I ever tell anyone this story, it’ll be the psych hospital right then and there. Brace yourself! I’m there in my house in the company of Howard Phillips Lovecraft! My barracks, let’s say. It’s the only thing my parents left me. An old, dilapidated shack, located on the edge of the city park. The only good thing my parents owned before sinking into the shadow of madness … for good.

While I try to find my grandfather’s manuscript, the creator of the myth of Cthulhu, faithful to his reputation for erudition, is in the process of examining the books that line the dusty shelves of my library.

There it is, finally! I just put my hand on a piece of yellowing paper, lurking at the bottom of a drawer. I hesitate for a moment – is any of this real? I hand the object to my host, who automatically sits on my sofa and begins to scan the lines of the precious work. He speaks no word to me, captivated as he is by his reading. He seems jubilant before this bibliophile’s feast, but gradually, his features harden, shrivel. A glow of madness begins to agitate his look. Then he finally gets up, the manuscript in his hand, standing immobile in front of the window of my room. I call him, but he doesn’t answer me. Now, his face expresses dementia, eyes bulging, his face twisted into a rictus. And suddenly, the Mage of Providence begins to speak in a stentorian voice, ageless words, psalms that seem to go back to the beginning of time:

–
Hxulu it bakal puk ti joggot belem! Râamma het palixli toatl!

All at once, I plunge into a bottomless spiral.

Did I lose consciousness? Am I trapped in a dream? All is black, invisible.

I smell a pestilential odour that spreads around me, that envelops and sickens me. I still can’t see, but other senses guide me. All at once, the window of my room breaks into a million pieces and from the outside, a Siberian wind blasts into my house. The cold air stings me. I feel my body stiffen. Then I hear a beating of wings, heavy and massive, entering my house. Footsteps echo on the floor. This
thing
that has entered … suddenly, a human cry rends the air, strident, unbearable. It is the scream of someone who is about to die. A cry that freezes my blood. A terrible crash follows. They fight. They shred a body; they dismember it; they grind it savagely amid deafening groans … Whoever makes these sounds isn’t human. What follows only lasts a moment … and then no more. The thing returns to the window. I hear again the sound of wings taking flight … silence … and this time, I slide completely into the shadows ….

So, kid, you’ve got quite the hangover, eh? Your guts are on fire, right? As if they were eating you from within, as if a pernicious evil emptied you of your strength? That’s why you look like a skeleton, old friend. You’ve only got skin on your bones and, behind your eyes, one can see death dance … you’re not far from the end. I know something about it; you can well imagine! I know that’s me, too … ‘Cancer of the intestine,’ that’s what they say! No cure! It only remains to die slowly ….

Oh, no! Let’s change a little! Obviously, lad, you and the cats, that’s not joy! Vengeance is a plate that’s served cold. These charming animals will look after you. You know, they have a wisdom of many centuries. They were present at the Pharaohs’ sides when the last ones ruled over rich Egypt. Remember Ulthar! They will repast on your flesh! They will make a feast of your entrails. They will delight in your eyes. They will clean your bones until they are as white as ivory ….

Stop it! Change the scene! Lad, here you are now in a good old trench! Ah, listen! It’s the signal to attack! Fix bayonets! You must bring the hill to the enemy! Cannon thunder, balls whistle, shells burst in a marvelous cacophony. Gas alarm! You must put on this devilish mask that makes it difficult to breathe! You have just enough time to see that the sky is grey and as low as if in Hell! Your comrades fall like flies. Some call for their mothers; others hold their entrails in their hands. Are you afraid? You see the one there who is bawling like a baby? And yes! That’s good old Bob the Giant! He’s lost an arm. And wham! This time, it’s for you! Excruciating pain twists your leg. Unbearable, no? A piece of shrapnel tears into your knee.

Accompanied by one of the guides, with whom I has struck up a friendship, I entered a large room located in the cellar of one of the ruined temples. The place had been plunged into shadow and, in order for us to see, we had to burn torches. And there, we were surprised to see our shadows dance on a myriad of multicoloured frescoes! We observed them for a while and the things they represented terrified us. These frescoes evoked pagan scenes with winged monsters, resembling griffons or dragons. Obviously, these creatures of Satan came here to be offered human sacrifices. A diabolical rite of black magic, I don’t know what it was, but I was afraid and crossed myself, repeatedly kissing the crucifix that hung around my neck. In
observing attentively every detail of these paintings, my guide fell into a kind of prayer that had been burned several times in these walls. My companion informed me that he was able to decipher the sounds and began to recite the evil verses in a monotone. Evil took him; let God forgive him! I do not know what, exactly, these words triggered, but outside, a great evil befell our men. An odour sharp and mephitic then invaded the atmosphere outside and it seemed that a battle raged. Human cries mixed with the growls of infernal creatures.

The monsters. The monsters had been awakened and massacred my companions to the last man. Paralyzed, the guide and I hid in our hole, praying to escape the griffons and demons.

I lack the words to describe what I heard and even now, my old age does not give me any more courage. Even today, I am still terrified. Even though the inhuman uproar lasted only a few moments.

Many hours later, we made the decision to come out and we discovered that our companions, without exception, had been killed. Their bodies, atrociously mutilated, littered the ground in the middle of immense pools of blood. It was obvious: we were the only two left, the guide and I, in the middle of those accursed ruins. Therefore, we decided to leave that malefic place, to rejoin the civilized world and forget these events.

By the Grace of God, may He be praised, Him and His Most Blessed Mother, we came back to civilization. But being hunted by these baleful memories was not easy. That is why, sometime later, I resigned myself to return for good to our dear Spain. And is there, in my city of Cáceres, that I decided humbly to end my days. Without ever speaking to anyone about this singular adventure.

For my greater sorrow, the words of that satanic prayer remain engraved on my spirit, and I do not know by what witchcraft I could ever get rid of it. So, I have reproduced it verbatim at the bottom of this manuscript. A way to exorcize my anguish. I have never tried to verify if the formula was correct, but I invite those who read my work to greater prudence.

God help you!

My house is in a pitiable state. As if an orangutan had passed through here. Traces of blood maculate my floor. What happened? I find … I search my memories, but … I don’t remember anything … I go outside … There is a cat prowling … I walk straight ahead, without aim …

All is blurred inside my head ... A fog thicker than the London smog … the void … I remember almost nothing. Only images, of which others tell me nothing that helps. Scattered dots, with no lines between them.

It’s the interior chaos. I’m very afraid that I have a failing memory. Why am I in this bar and how could I have landed here?

Good God. I haven’t the faintest idea!

And these men who fix me with an evil eye … I must look awful to get such glances … What could have happened?

Wait … something’s coming back … his head tells me something … I have the impression that he knows me … and … and me him, also, apparently … he’s motioning to me with his hand … one could say that he’s inviting me to sit at his table ….

Meddy Ligner
was born in 1974 in Bressuire, a small town in the western part of France. He spent his first 18 years there. He goes back frequently to see his family and to play baseball with the famous Garocheurs. He studied history and afterwards, he taught French abroad in Finland, Russia and China. Since 2003, he has worked as a teacher of history and geography in Poitiers, France, where he lives with his wife, his daughter and his son. His website is: http://meddyligner.blogspot.com

The author speaks:
“I discovered Lovecraft late, thanks to one of my roommates during military service. According to him, it was very good. So, I followed his advice and I started with “The Call of Cthulhu”. I liked it and I read other stories. My favourite one is “The Case of Charles Dexter Ward”.
Lovecraft fascinated me through his stories, his mythology, his gods coming from the dawn of time. This whole cosmology is very thrilling. Furthermore, the personality of HPL is mysterious: a hermit living isolated, surrounded by books. He is a kind of accursed writer (Alive, he had no success) and a guru for several generations of authors.
I did not want to write a linear story. I am interested in narrative techniques and I tried to experiment with this text.

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Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time