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Happy Birthday

93 Sho, Happy Birthday. And on another note, if you happen to have any open slots for this fall festivities you might want to consider my space in Braselton for a venue.
Donald

Happy Birthday

93/696
Happy Birthday
Alobar

The Watchers Return Out of Time

Continued From Second Part


Night the Third Day


Or so he thought--- For despite his over whelming fatigue, Waite once again fell victim to disordered sleep. At first he had slipped almost immediately into dreams of plunging into limitless abysses of inexplicably colored twilight and bafflingly disordered sound. Fortunately or not his sleep was once again interrupted by the now familiar distant night sounds. The natural sounds of nature at night were bad enough, but this incessant drumming was starting to really get to him. Also his unwanted nightlife was becoming an insistent and almost unendurable cacophony of misery. Worse yet, now from deep down he was beginning to perceive terrifying impressions of other sounds. Sounds perhaps originating from regions beyond life. As he lay semi awake listening he thought that he detected a wide range of tones. One of which was a rhythmic confusion of faint musical pipings that welled up unbidden in the back of his mind. Also vaguely horrifying sounds of howling were now seeping through on the very brink of audibility. Pulling the pillow over his head Waite sort of drifted off again, as on the previous nights. He was conscious of the light disorienting dreams that proceeded somnambulism. He could not even begin to explain his sleepwalking. He had never before walked in his sleep but instead had always enjoyed normal restful sleep in the night. He did not walk in the sense of ordinary walking, yet he always experienced a mode of motion partly voluntary and partly involuntary. Always he found himself in the chamber below with the bizarre fixture wherein was mounted the eye. As Waite looked into the eye at first he was aware only of swirling murky lights. But the lights soon gave way to an odd displacement where he found himself looking down on the partially destroyed stone circle with it's twin black pillars atop Sentinel Hill. He could see the lights and hear the sounds of the motley crew of Indians or Gypsies drinking wine from a passed bottle around a campfire. But they were not alone.


Dunwich



As the pale moon came out from behind the clouds Waite thought he saw fluttering visions of gigantic bat winged creatures in the air above Sentinel Hill. Waite involuntarily shuddered all over at the otherworldly nightmare view in the eye. Then the scene in the eye shifted and Waite saw the now familiar veiled figures of the wizards sitting at a table with some very odd looking bookshelves in the background ? The first a kindly elderly gray grizzled wizard identified himself as Ye're Great Grand Sire Sirius Whately. 'I'twas me myself who all these long years gone bye first raised this house. It is I who first layed out ye secret place and know ye secrets of ye hidden chamber and of ye lines and ye curves that may be made to lead ye through the walls of space and time to other spaces and times beyond. To one who posses ye secret words of ye secret place, he may follow the lines and curves to ye secret midnight meetings frequented by ye wizards of the dark valley of the Miskatonic beyond Sentinel Hill. Look for ye strange angles in the rock hewn hidden chamber below. Find the keys and ye may unlock many mysteries.'
'Know ye that I am Simon Bishop said yet another in a harsh tittering voice, 'I am of ye're not so close relation. Be Ye Warned! Walpurgis Night soon will arrive. This is one night most sacred to Ye Ancient Old Ones, their minions, and their servitors. Walpurgis Night has always been a very bad time Dunwich. For it is on ye Walpurgis Night when all of hell's blackest evil would roam the earth and all the night creatures would be gathered together for nameless rites and deeds.'
Finally then a shade of particularly hideous malevolence and exultation threatened him in a croaking voice: 'I Jedediah Orne am also of ye're distant kith and kin. Ye must seek ye soon the Black Man and go with him to the throne of Azathoth at the center of ultimate chaos. Ye must cease your weak and futile resistance. Ye must go even unto those grinning caverns of earth's center where Nyarlathotep, the mad faceless god, howls blindly in the darkness. Then when ye hear the piping of ye two amorphous idiot flute--players to ye low muttering drum ye will sign ye're name in ye're own blood in the book of the Master. Know then that ye be utterly damned, damned, damned! To the heaven of ye lamb ye will turn no mure. But ye will be then well received into ye Brotherhood of Almonsin Metatron.
Waite then knew that this was an evil too horrible for description because had seen the names 'Azathoth and Nyarlathotep' in the Necronomicon. And he now knew in his inmost heart that he was already participating in evil past the point of turning back.
Slowly that scene dissolved until finally Waite saw himself hovering over the loose stone, the stairs and the long passage into hill again. Part stumbling and part floating into the passage Waite came once again to the hidden chamber strewn with ritual implements, old books, and bones. He studied the rough stone for traces of cryptic designs at every accessible spot until he finally noticed beyond the column like altar traces of cryptic designs leading to an odd angle in the wall which seemed to offer the vaguest of clues regarding it's purpose. Was it not through certain angles that the kindly shade had claimed led outside the boundaries of the world of space we know? Waite stood over the glyphs until he was almost within the odd angle but nothing happened. Something was missing. Hovering almost over his own shadowy form Waite then saw once again the eerie glow of the discarnate elderly shade who seemed to be pointing to a partially disturbed stone. Lifting a stone covered in strange designs Waite detected a slight declivity where the spirit had seemed to point. Waite began to delve into the sunken declivity where he found an ancient brass clasped chest partially buried under the trash and clutter of the ages. Opening the chest Waite found it to be filled with old barely legible letters. Grabbing up the topmost bundle of letters and papers Waite then closed the chest and mounted the stairs to return up stairs to bed.
The rest of the night Waite slept as one who was dead until with the first light of dawn he slowly roused himself groggily, shabby and tattered from his night delvings. To his dismay he found that not only was he once again covered in dust and cobwebs but on the night table beside the bedstead were a pile of mouldering old letters. What could his ration now devise to cover up the painful realization that somewhat unexpected and highly irrational lay within his grasp. For there were three mouldering ancient parchment letters, a sullen witness to the truth that he found so hard to accept. Something was happening that he could not control and now starkly revealed in the soft light filtered through his curtains was the evidence. Clutching the odious letters to his breast Waite staggered down the steps, found a place at his table lit his lamp and began to read.

To Him Who is to Come after



It is first to be understood that it is written in Ye Necronomicon of the Other Gods from Outside who come from distant parts of space where time and form do not exist as we normally know it. Many and legion are the malformed, dark and slant-eyed folk who are agents of the darker powers. Slightly less than human are they who move amongst men. Men who once reared uncouth stone stone circles and crude monoliths on the unhallowed summits of the mountains and made strange sacrifices until their abominations reached even unto the ears of the distant Elder gods. The Other Gods and they who served them Outside were cursed and banished to black caverns, below the moon-mountains. As well as to dark Yugoth and other starry places in the vast abysses of space. These are the servants of those Ancient Old Ones. It is they who are ever eager to return and still vainly await the advent of the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep avatar of the Black Anti Christ.
Testy and capricious, are they who provide strange protection to the mindless Other Gods from Outside. Amongst them are shapeless black things that lurk, caper and flounder all through the aether. Leering and grinning are the nameless larvae who though blind and without mind, are possessed of singular thirsts as they hungrily gnaw in the dark. They work the will of their hideous soul and master, the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep, who is sent as messenger from the central void by the daemon sultan Azathoth. Know that the Great Ones are very dangerous to seek out, and that the Other Gods have strange ways of protecting the mindless guardians of the Great Abyss whom even the Great Elder Ones fear.
Dim legends tell of the evil presences of the noxious Shantak, vast hippocephalic birds who fly screaming from their black burrows high up on the gaunt gray peaks surrounding Kadath and the hateful plateau of Leng in the cold waste. In the hush of the dusk and the cold, these fearsome denizens with bat-wings, curving horns, and barbed tails, silently flit about to clutch capture and kill the thrice ill fated unlucky creatures whom they deem to be their sacrifice. The Shantak also sometimes act as steeds for the men who serve the Outer Gods. If called from the air with the right words and propitious sacrifice in the right season they will answer in a hateful guttural language of tittering tones that rasp like the scratching of ground glass. Once they are propitiated with the bloody sacrifice that they demand, they will then fly to do the evil bidding of those as posses the key of their calling. But be ye ever wary for ye Shantak are ever hunger for sacrifice. Once called they will not return until they have sated their hunger upon the flesh of men.
Also the Shantak are always followed by an even worse horror, the immense and invisible monster worms called Dholes. They come lured by the smell of blood and of sacrifice for these are awful feeders. Them you may know by an awful carnal house foetor and a glutinous slime that marks where they have been. If you ever hear the titter of the Shantak as they wing overhead or smell a gut wrenching stench and feel the slight earth temblors then beware because the invisible Dholes are nigh.
Dream legends also tell of an abhorrent frozen desert plateau, a haunted place of evil and mystery, where healthy folk never visit. There rugged and alone towers unknown Kadath in the cold waste of Leng. A hopeless labyrinth of stone and gaunt gray peaks lies to the north of Kadath, in the dark betwixt the Vale of Pnath and the passes to the outer world. It is there in that place where other unknown and nameless sentinels guard the terrible valleys of the Other Gods. And it is there upon wind-swept table-land at the very roof of a blasted and tenantless world, where fly the Shantak and crawl the enormous loathsome and overfed Dholes who burrow and creep nastily in the dark amongst mountains of bones. Awful and sinister they crawl in the haunted and sunless eternal depths of subterrene horror litten only by the pale death-fire. When ye call unto the Outer Gods ye must first say a prayer before the faces of the Great Ones of Unknown Kadath. And then when the hellish flutes begin to whine, accompanied by shrill droning of pipes and a nauseous rattle of castanets, then ye will know them nigh. Offer up prayers and sacrifice there lest thou become the victim of the blasphemies from the dread monstrous Nyarlathotep, for madness and the void's wild vengeance are Nyarlathotep's only gifts. Yet be ye ever ready to serve and ye will be rewarded beyond all measure when Nyarlathotep comes to sweep the earth clean. For then shall we rule, who have served.
yr's in Almonsin Metatron
Simon Bishop.


Waite shuddered, and slowly took a drink of his coffee and then began to read a second letter

To Call up Ye Shantak


Hail Brother Simon,
Look not for ye dreaded foul Shantak in ye ground, for to call out to sech as are of the air in such a place would be near fatal. But rather call out from a high place in a loud clear voice Ph'n'glui---Hei! Aa-shanta 'nygh! in ye clear moonlit aire at ye season of Mars in favorable alignment with Saturn. But be ye ready with the required sacrifice. Four footed kind of beast will do but ye best is that of the human kinde. Having sated it's greed and lust for blood ye noxious flyer will have conversation with ye in a horrible voice that will chill your blood and Ye Shantak will answer to your request. Be that even to carry ye through the air or whatev'r. In that great and terrible place thou must be most wary. Also, be ye yet cautious for with ye Shantak maye come invisibly other foul larvae of the pit. Ye invisible Dholes, oft follow ye great and hideous bird. Also ye dreaded larvae and all others such as may breed in ye outer spheres, may come unbidden to y'r call. Such may throng towards ye from below ever seeking ye carrion leavings. Think not to make over long ye gentle conversation with such like as ye Shantak because of these others, ye Dhole who but blindly grope and bring about destruction beyond limit upon all so unlucky as to encounter them. They most monstrously flop blindly about and bring great terror from below.
In Ye Bonds of Almonsin Metatron Ye're Brother
Jedediah Orne


Waite was stunned! How had he ever fallen into such a pit of unreason. He shuddered again and again at the miasma of claptrap and moronic hornswaggle. But he was caught like a deer in the headlight. But he could not flee and as events would prove he would never get free. Waite finally opened up the third mouldering document that he had retrieved from below. It was written on a leathery parchment in a crabbed and archaic style Ye Liber VII of ye Necronomicon. Waite was stunned at his apparent blind luck for this last appeared to be that most mysterious, most sought after last lost key to the mystical Necronomicon. The key which would break open the prison of the wise Elder Gods and unleash upon the little earth the unholy hordes of alien gods from beyond space and beyond time. This was the lost and long sought key to open the gate of Yog Sothoth to summon Nyarlathotep and all of the eager waiting hordes of the Ancient Old Ones back to sweep clean the earth. Wearily Waite picked up the fatal parchment and began to read.

Preliminary Damnatus Evocation


Ye Old Ones were, Ye Old Ones are and Ye Old Ones shall be. They came from the dark stars ere man was born, unseen and loathsome They descended to primal earth. Beneath the oceans They brooded while ages past, till seas gave up the land, whereupon They swarmed forth in Their multitudes and darkness ruled the Earth. At the frozen Poles They raised mighty cities, and upon high places they built temples to those whome nature owns not and the Gods have cursed. They have walked amidst the stars and they have walked the Earth. The City of Irem in the great desert has known them. Leng in the Cold Waste has seen their passing. The timeless citadel upon the cloud-veiled heights of unknown Kadath beareth their mark. Wantonly the Old Ones trod the ways of darkness and their blasphemies are great upon the Earth. All creation hath bowed beneath their might and knew them for their wickedness.
And the Elder Lords opened their eyes and beheld the abominations of those that ravaged the Earth. In their wrath they set their hand against the Old Ones, staying them in the midst of their iniquity by casting them forth from the Earth to the prison of the void beyond the planes, where chaos reigns and form abideth not. And the Elder Lords set their seal upon the prison and the power of the Old Ones prevailest not against its might. Within the prison of the Elder Lords dwell now the Old Ones; not in the spaces known unto men but in the angles betwixt them. It is there in the prison outside Earth's plane, where time and form are strange, they linger and ever awaite the time of their return. For the Earth has known them and the Earth shall know them again in that time yet to come.
When the stars align aright with the Sun in the fifth house and Saturn is in trine with Mars the old ones will know the time has come, and the curse will be broken. Then with the mad beating of drums, and the piping of hideous flutes, accompanied by the cacaphony of kakodaemonic howlings the Old Ones will break forth from under. In that strange and awful day Nyarlathotep the herald of Yog-sothoth shall beckon unto the Old Ones that the time of their long bondage is past and the time of their coming forth is at hand. That terrible event is marked in the stars; for Yog-sothoth is the Gate through which those of the Void will re-enter our earth stream. Yog-sothoth knowest the mazes of time, for all time is one unto Him. He knowest where the Old Ones came forth in time long, long past and He knowest where they shall come forth again when the cycle returneth. After day cometh night. Man's day is passing, and they shall rule once again where they once ruled before. As an abominable foulness, a stench unbearable unto the nose ye shall know them and their accursedness shall once again stain the Earth. Mark ye well the seasons and times in which the spheres do intersect and the influences flow from the void, at that time when the Sun is in the Fifth House with Saturn in trine Mars, at the hour when the Moon be just past full if thou would'st, break the ancient seal that has been set upon the prison of the Elder Gods. Firste call forth Yog-Sothoth.

There was much more written on the decayed parchment but it was written in the crabbed and archaic hand that made it hard to read. It was what appeared to be complex formula of some importance, but he merely glanced at the title, Ye VII Booke of Ye Necronomicon Ye Evocation Yr and the Nhhngr. He just could not read any further, so he carefully concealed this last parchment and put it away for later. Little did Waite know that this last was the last, rarest, and single most sought after Magickal fragment of the lost Necronomicon Liber Damnatus. The key that Wilbur Whateley had sought when he lost his life in that last bungled raid upon the Miskatonic library. It was not a copy, but an actual rare original in the veritable hand of Doctor Dee. But Waite was too weary. His brain could not hold another revelation, for now. Waite lit the stove to heat water, to bathe and to shave, but before could do ought else, he turned weak and unsteady, blew out his light and staggered back up the steps to gather his few needful things and prepare for another day in Dunwich. But instead of going forth into the morning light Waite collapsed on the edge of his bed and fell like a rock tossed from heaven into a short but deep and dreamless sleep.

Morning comes to Dunwich the Fourth Day


All Waite could do was shake and wipe the sweat from his feverish brow. How long had he been sitting dreaming on the edge of his bed, he did not know, but at some point his troubled mind registered that it must be past mid morning and he must get up and get going, if he was to do anything at all on what was otherwise a perfectly balmy spring day. Flowers were just starting to bloom and the sun was shining. He was strangely not hungry but he must needs clean up and don fresh clothes. His fire had gone out and the water had again chilled so it was nearly another hour later when after finally bathing and shaving Waite got into his car and left determined to visit the taciturn storekeeper and to find directions to his nearest living relatives. Waite finally found the warm spring sun to be enervating after driving some small distance from the dark trees and his home. After all birds were singing and trees were blossoming. It was such a pristine day in early spring that he soon put away his troubling dreams. As he sauntered into the tumble down country store with the broken and decaying steeple, Waite realized that he was ravenous so he purchased juice and a pastry which he wolfed down. Waite then put down his short grocery list and took up the local edition of the Arkahm Advertiser and began to read. Emblazoned across the headlines were the words:

Report of more strange doings in Dunwich
Special Report from the Arkahm Advertiser


The family of a Dunwich native have reported the unexplained disappearance of sixteen year old cattle herd Bud Fry. Returning from his daily labors with the herd on the slopes of Sentinel Hill near Cold Spring Hollow last night about sunset he was set upon and carried off by unknown assailants who scattered and mutilated much of the herd. The recent reports of strange disappearances as well as Cattle mutilations are not new to the area, where over the years a number of such strange events have inexplicably occurred. In fact quiet has only just briefly returned to the Dunwich area after a lapse of seven years since the strange events of '28. As reported before by this reporter to this paper, Dunwich is a backward much dreaded rural area of constantly repeated strange disturbances. The region located west of Arkahm and to the north of Springfield has in fact been the reported scene of strange disturbances going back to before colonial times. Nothing further is known at this time but anyone having further information about the whereabouts of Mr. Fry or his assailants are asked to please contact the Dunwich sheriff's office.

Well if Waite had felt good in the sunshine, all of his bravado rapidly evaporated as he hastily folded the paper under his arm and addressed the storekeeper, Tobit Whateley as to who was his nearest living kin, and how could he find them?
'Wall ye huv nigh unto a dozen near cousins heah 'bouts none o' them are the eddicated ones, but yer best luck will be to ast' the widow Bishop. Most of them cuzzins 'ud rather bail hay then to cross your path but the old Missus is spry, chipper, and alwus glad to say howdah. From the store ye go back out over the bridge but 'stead o' turning home, go left, t' other way to the first dirt road on the left. The Wider's house will be the fifth one back from the junction at the foot o' Round Mountain. It is a big rundown ramshackle place one of the oldest in the Dunwich community, ye can't miss it.'
Waite gathered his groceries, paid the merchant a few dollars, stuffed the newspaper in his bag and went out to his car. In the brilliant light of the resilient early spring the show of a few blossoming trees belied the dark mood within Waite's mind. But he was determined to meet at least one neighbor and see if he could succeed in wheedling some information out of the recalcitrant Dunwichers. Surely he thought someone could tell him somewhat more of his family. He was especially interested in shedding light on the mumbo jumbo that he had come to expect from the dour and leering shopkeeper.
Making the turn and returning to the shade he progressed counting houses until he came to an eldritch brown house of unknown age which leaned and tottered with narrow, small-paned windows that must at one time must have been a fine old Georgian mansion, now sadly in need of more than just a coat of paint. On the porch was a grisly haired vacant eyed man of about fifty or sixty who flashed a quick sign with his right hand as fingers extended like horns, then when Waite failed to respond he switched hands to the reflex of the sign, before making a quick shambling disappearance back inside wailing, 'Maw, Maw, we got company.'
Waite was at once struck with the eeriest of feelings, feelings of darkness, and inbred madness mixed with a malignancy of a repulsive sort. But hitching up his drawers and stepping out of his car Waite reminded himself of his desire. So he stepped up to the once finely molded door and gave a sharp rap, calling out, 'Anyone Home? It is your new neighbor come to call.' Waite was not long in waiting as a woman who was though somewhat shabby, grim, gray and greatly bent by age, hailed him through the open door. 'Come on in.' Despite her obvious advanced age the woman who came to greet him, who stood in the inner hall gave him a benevolent look as she welcomed him in.
'Ah Mr. Waite,' she said almost coquettishly in an unexpectedly friendly greeting. 'We heah been 'spectin' you to come calling since Mista Tobit o'er tuh the stoah said ye was come to take over your propity. I 'spect we iz kinfolks, as I was born a Whateley. I been heah a long while, an spect tuh remain awhile longer. My time heah on airth won't be long. I am an old woman now but I have seen many a spring and autumn heah in the shadduh o' Round Mountain. Comin, comin, Whut kin I do fer you? Nevah mind, pay no heed to my boy, Marsh, he iz jes' skeered thet ye be a haunt as ye fair nigh resemble somewhat a cousin that has been passed on awhile now. Comin. Would ye like some tea or some'at else?'
Waite could hardly believe his good fortune after the first reception and strange greetings of the apparent son of the widow. That he had come to expect less and less from the strangely recalcitrant folks of Dunwich, was an understatement. Walking through the open door into a close darkness warmed by a fire on the grate he extended his hand to the smiling widow and her mentally disturbed son hiding behind her skirts.
'Walt Waite, is my name, and I am a stranger here. Yes I have come to take up my inheritance and I was eager to make the acquaintance of some of my Whateley kin folks. I was born here but have lived most of my life in California. I was particularly interested in finding out more about my house and my relations here in Dunwich.'
Aye ye hev' the look o' the Whateleys, I kin see thet noaw. 'I see ye h'ain't got the sign yet so ye may be may not. D'jou have not been too long in that house, but ye must know by now that some'at strange is a goin' on.'
'I Know that the nightly noise of birds, and frogs, and , er drumming noises keep me from sleeping, and when I do I have such strange dreams as to be --- well fantastic and to be honest, unbelievable. What can you tell me of this strange sign, and the hidden knowledge everyone assumes me to have?'
'Why son, that is the sign of Almonsin Metatron and the Whateley Cabal. Ev'ryone expects yuh to have some knowledge, else why have ye returned heah.' If ye dun't know nothing and are having such bad dreams, why are ye still heah. I 'spect with the Moon gettin' full and the evil Walpurgis night so neah that ye will not get much sleep, and may soon have cause to regret what sleep ye do get. Things is stirring and signs are bein' seen, and no longer will theah be peace nor quiet for anyone in thet house. Especially not as those as apeahs to be born to the fambly. Things as ought not to be, hev always happened around thet house. But things has been quiet since Cuzin Abner passed on, er well they say he passed on, then there was the trouble o' '28' And yer comin heah is most like a bad sign things are comin' to fruition.'
'Yez strange things are flying at night, they already are reports of things as should not be, again. And now young Bud Fry is gone. That family wuz nearly wiped out by what the Wizzud Whateley callup back in '28' They say as how they iz wus a breeding outside jes bustin to git in and gawd what 'ev yuh been doin' I 'spect you started out by a lookin' in the eye. Thut eye sees all things, in all time and all space, if yuh looked in the eye, then they what hus never left thut house kin see you and give yuh dream thought commands to do aught that they send yuh forth to do. For those as be as dead may not be completely dead but dreamin' awaiting fer a sign a 'he who comes after, when the stars come round right. Yez them wizzuds have been watchin' and waitin' fer him to come who will look back into the olden times and come and work theya will and tuh unlock the gates of time and space. An' ta be theya eyes 'n eahs 'n hands in the world. Ia Yog Sothothe! Ye needn't act so surprised, all thet is writtin down in the book, too. Ye be kerful! They is a lot more folks watchin' you than you think. Dunn'ich is old and the Whateleys have long been in Dun'ich. They iz much that is knowed and feared that has cum through the Whateleys, such as has got folks real skeert. So bad skeert that they might take the law into their own hands, if things get wus. Above all listen to the birds 'n frogs.'
'They is yore watch 'n ward. They kin see 'n feel things thet you don't understand. If they go to skeechin wus 'n wus, wus'n before those as is supposed to be outside may be nigh gettin' in. And nigh, very nigh. Ye know the sign, here take this (she handed him a small gray stone curiously carved into a five pointed star) It wunt help much against the Great Ones but the lesser ones is powerful afeared a thut stone un will try to git away if it is shown. They will jus' know even if it is jus in your pocket. I shouldn't normally hev heped you, but yuh hav the look and are probably kin. Maybe a gran nevew on my father's side. Yuh tuk ker and remember that the best advice thut I kin give ye is to get out naow. Yes jus walk away und get out now. Git out naow while yuh still can. Time is comin soon 'n ye wunt be able ta git out no way!'
'Hev' ye got the Book? No need to sit and look squirly wi' me. I seen things and heard more 'n I care to r'collec' heah 'bouts lately an time is nigh at hand. They is outside now but thet wun't last long, an when they do bust loose it will be the di'ell to pay.'
With that she made the queer sign with her right hand and smiled benignly. 'Learn thuh sign and don't you read in thet book!'
Waite then knew that his interview was up. So he took one last sip of tea, thanked the widow and stood up to move towards the door.
The widow then added as she too got up. 'If ye find the book, and read 'n theah, Gawd help us all if ye mistake the signs.'
Waite got in his car and now more heavily troubled than when he arrived, and started back down the road. He was not all sure what to think or much less to do, next. So he got back in his car and drove over the road past the rickety covered bridge and turned into his rutted lane where he saw a visitor waiting outside his door.
It was a gaunt deputy sheriff who greeted him courteously. 'Hello Sir, I am Special Deputy Phillip Howard and you are?'
'My name is Waite, Walter Waite previously of Bolinas, California. I am here in Dunwich to take possession of inherited ancestral property, this is my home, what can I do for you?'
After determining his name and welcoming him to the Dunwich community the sheriff's deputy launched without further preamble into the nature of his business. ' I am here to investigate the disappearance of your young neighbor Bud Fry, as well as the mutilation of his herd. Nothing is definitely known about young Fry's whereabouts and his folks are deeply concerned. Mr.Waite have you seen or heard anything that might help in the ongoing investigation?'
Waite scratched his head. 'Yes I met someone who said that he was Bud Fry when I was out hiking the bounds of my new property up to the summit of Sentinel Hill on my first full day in Dunwich. I am very deeply sorry to hear that any misfortune might have come to the young man because he was friendly and seemed a likely lad. We only briefly met but he did mention having the strong need to get his herd down to the barn before sunset. Oh and he also pointed out to me the unsightly mob camped out on the backside of Sentinel Hill.' 'We only met briefly, and just the one time. Since my arrival in the Dunwich area I have been mostly busy trying to get acquainted with my new home and the community of Dunwich. Now that I have answered your questions, I have a few I would like to ask you. Since I arrived here I have been meaning to contact your department with some questions of my own. Pardon me but have any of the neighbors called up to complain of night noise, night noise so loud as to scare even a bootleg whiskey drinker. Since my encounter with Mr. Fry I have encountered a number of undesirable Indians or Gypsies or? Well I don't know but they are camping out on the far side of the hill.'
The sheriff then informed him that they were remnants of the Pocumtucks tribe of lost Mahicans who drifted down from Canada to revisit the tribal holy places and to look for work.' The deputy then gave gave Waite a long hard shrewd look before continuing. 'I agree that some of them present a motley ill flavored look. But all in all they are not a bad breed. They generally cause little or no trouble other than their nightly gatherings. As long as they keep it to themselves my department is not going to interfere. There is little work available but despite hard times some of them have found jobs on the neighboring farms and at the dairy or down at the saw mill on the Miskatonic. A few more have become summer tourist and hunter guides. Prohibition has come and gone but times are still hard. Some get relief, some work on the CCC. We try to look the other way, when we are able.'
'But we have had a number of mysterious disturbances as well as unsolved mysteries to investigate here in the Dunwich area thank you for your information. You try to have a good day. If you hear or see anything more please contact us over at the station just past the Round Mountain Road on the Aylesbury Pike.'
After that officer got into his patrol car and drove away Waite then entered his house and made his way back to his kitchen. The afternoon was well spent and he was dog tired. Waite thought that maybe he might go over his notes as the savor of the soup that he was cooking wafted into his nostrils. But after slicing cheese and dishing up the soup it was all that he could do not to nod off in his chair. So after his frugal dinner he washed, cleaned up and turned to the stairs and went up to bed.

Eve at Home the Fourth Day


Well the bed was certainly soft enough and the young night air was still. So before the nocturnal life brought him back to consciousness, Waite fell out. Maybe he was learning to tune out some of the night sounds. And some very light sleep came but such sleep as it was came was feverishly. Waite rolled and pitched about until finally he got up long enough to pour some water and sponge his burning brow. But no matter how he lay he just could not get the deep sleep and rest his body so desperately needed. Waite even tried sitting up and lighting a candle to read until he became drowsy enough to sleep. But all was in vain. The hours slowly crept past and the evening star was replaced by the moon, now well past a half moon rising. Waite most uncharacteristically just could not sleep. Or if he nodded off it was a brief interval before some trifling thing brought him back to consciousness. Worse now he could distinctly hear the nasty nightly chorus quite distinctly. It was as if every whippoorwill vied with every bullfrog to outshout the distant drummers. In desperation he pulled the pillows over his head, but all that did was to accentuate the feverish discomfort that he felt. Slowly even the pale moon slid westward and finally went down beyond the surrounding trees. It must have been well past midnight and even the drumming was starting to fade before
Waite finally drifted off to a vague dreamscape of other worlds and gigantic bat like shapes flickering against the low moonlight. Worse something monstrous but undefinable seemed to lurk just beyond even his troubled dreamscape. Waite could not tell, he just felt somehow misplaced in time and space. As if he was perched somehow on the rim of the known solar system, on some cold rocky moon or planetoid facing the deep places where the black stars rolled and the infinite beyond beckoned.
Perhaps the dreams brought on the fever or the constant night sounds of Whippoorwills and frogs brought on the fever. Walter Waite did not know. Behind everything crouched the brooding, festering horror of the ancient Dunwich, and of the unhallowed house with it's garret behind the gable where he wrestled without sleep. Night was again accompanied by the distant pounding of drums. When he was not tossing on the meager iron bed, he was turning. His ears were grown sensitive but other senses had also sharpened to a preternatural and intolerable degree. He had long ago stopped his ears to the strange clock under the eye below, whose ticking floated up the stairs on the air like a thunder of artillery. But he could not shut out the swirling colors and distant vistas from his mind's eye. Also all night every night the unsubtle stirring of the black overgrown woods and the creaking timbers in the centuried house, were more than enough to give him a sense of strident pandemonium. The darkness always teemed with unexplained sound, and sometimes he shook with fear lest the noises he heard outside should subside and allow him to hear other fainter voices calling him as of someone he did not really want to know were lurking behind them.
Possibly Waite ought not to have studied so hard in the old books of mystical lore. Antiquarian research and old family records served up in a box at the library are enough to stretch any brain. But when he mixed them with folklore, and ended up at the Necronomicon, he should have seen trouble coming. Waite had then tried to trace a strange family background and had ended up with a bizarre multi-dimensional reality. He just felt that somewhere behind the ghoulish hints of the old written accounts was a reality worthy of a Gothic tale. But what he found far surpassed the wild whispers of even the Dunwich country. Any sympathetic person viewing all this could hardly expect him to be wholly free from mental tension. Endless sleepless nights were starting to take a toll.
But tonight Waite awoke again in a fever of suppressed excitement and wished to be somewhere else. He had been here in his inherited property now for less than a week and the longer he stayed the worse he felt. He could not sleep, for the night noises and when he did sleep it was to horrible dreams of delving, and secret rooms filled with bones and skulls and mouldering books and letters. Only to awaken again covered in dust and cobwebs. With strange trophies grasped in his hands. Almost as bad was the now appearing, now dissapearing ledger and the ghostly presences he could sense more than see peering at him and sending him secret messages. But most disconcerting of all was the eye. The eye with it's fleeting visions of other time and space where collosal entities fought to invade the earth.
Waite now realized that he was suffering not only from feverish sleep, but somnambulism as well, and the illusion of sounds. He now reflected those nervous fears were being mirrored in his wild disordered dreams. That the influence of the old house was unwholesome he could not deny, but traces of his early morbid interest still held him there. He argued that the fever alone was responsible for his nightly fantasies. Waite was in fact surprised to find his temperature was not as high as he had feared but his low fever did not abate. What was he so deeply troubled by? A few shadows in an old mirror, well maybe a bit more than just a mirror. He knew that he had actually become a somnambulist. Maybe that was it? He somehow feared waking up in that dread secret place. As the night had advanced, Waite's fever-sharpened vision was disturbed by the first light of false dawn. He now knew that for one more night he had failed to get any rest. Then suddenly, not so subtly, he fell out and slept deeply. He also dreamed. The dreams were wholly beyond the pale of sanity. He dreamed of vivid colors and unearthly sounds. Next came a drumming but of a different pitch and timber from the hill sounds. Something strange was piping. And suddenly the ululant piping was broken by the now shrill and strident sounds of every whippoorwill and frog gone franticly wild.
Waite dreamed of abysses whose material and gravitational properties bore no relation to his own earthbound entity. The abysses were by no means vacant however, they were crowded with rounded iridescent bubble entities and indescribably angled masses. There was some odd disarrangement of perspective. The abysses filled with strange objects tended to awake vague memories in the back of his mind. He could form no conscious idea of what they mockingly resembled or suggested. All the objects were totally beyond description or even comprehension. Labyrinths of clusters of cubes and planes, all shadowed by Cyclopean buildings; where clustered groups of sentient bubbles. There also were to be found winged octopoidal entities and living idols. All roused in him a kind of ophidian animation. Everything he saw was unspeakably menacing and horrible. One of the most threatening of the dream entities appeared to be not just noticing him but paying especial attention to his every movement. He felt a stark, hideous fright which jolted him awake. But he did not awake, not to normal waking consciousness, he awoke to a dream within a dream. All of these objects which had seemed to him to be slightly illogical and irrelevant suddenly paled. Now he was seeing a hideous giant black man who was beckoning him, deeper and deeper into his dream within a dream. And what was that faint suggestion of sound which trickled through the confusion of irritating shrieks and howl of the identifiable night sounds. What was that faint drumming and eerie piping that he heard? Waite apprehended a hint of vast leaping shadows, and then came a monstrous drumming, counterpointed by acoustic pulsing, and a thin monotonous piping with the hint of an unseen flute. But that was not all. There was now a strident ululating chant in some unknown and vaguely unearthly tongue. Waite feared that it corresponded to the vague shrieking or roaring heard of the old and repeated in the old news reports that he had read in the library at Springfield. The ululant chant was worse than a soul being tormented in some hell of an alien daemonic abyss, the sounds now raised the hackles of his neck. Waite tried to turn but his week knees folded and the crashing, shrieking unearthly chorus commanded his fullest attention.
It was not just this hideous dream, but somehow he was involuntarily participating in some sort of ritualized dance. And in this dance he was molting into some half awaken atavistic throwback. The skin about his neck grew mottled and folded as though he now possesd gills. Through the disordered light of the abyss he saw himself dancing and chanting to the tune of a thin monotonous piping. And he was not alone in his phantasmagoric vision. Many, many others like himself paraded down through time and space with him. All of the semi sentient forms appeared in the various stages of transformation from human to the reptilian or amphibian. Some hopped, while some flopped but all of the disorderly route within his mind ran in a re curving line back to the wrong of the beginning.
He was hearing a rhythm which did not correspond to anything on earth, except perhaps some unmentionable Sabbat chant of time immemorial. Already Waite had a growing feeling deep within that somebody was constantly attempting to persuading him to do something terrible which he could not do. How else could he explain his new found love of the occult and the somnambulism? Worse where did he sometimes go in the night? Was all this perilous sense of nightmare phantasm coming from the dreaded bits and pieces of Necronomicon formula that he kept finding? Waite was already badly shaken when suddenly out of the violet mist came a convergence of bubble congeries and angled planes which seized his brain in a violent paroxysm of fear and loathing. He just suddenly was pulled in and immediately Waite found himself back in the dreaded underground space with it's books of every degree of antiquity and disintegration, and of so many small skulls and other objects of unknown shape and nature. In the center stood a figure he had never seen before, a tall, lean man of dead black coloration. Not a pure black but a black as if dusted in a chalky gray. The black man was wholly devoid of either hair or beard, and was wearing as his only garment a shapeless robe of some heavy black fabric. The man did not speak, and bore no trace of expression on his irregular face. He merely pointed to a book of prodigious size which lay open on the pillar altar. Was this a part of what he had read in the Necronomicon about the mindless entity Azathoth, which rules all time and space from a black throne at the center of Chaos? Was this the avatar and messenger of Azathoth, Nyarlathotep?
The old legends were hazy and ambiguous, about crossing forbidden gaps in the time space continuum, yet here in his dream space was the messenger from outside. The immemorial figure of the deputy of hidden and terrible powers, the Black Man of the witch-cult, and the avatar of the Black Anti Christ, Nyarlathotep of the Necronomicon. Nyarlathotep the hideous dread messenger. Who knew what? Waite did not want to know! Here in Dunwich was come the monstrous burst of Walpurgis Night fever which welcomed the spring energy every year. That May Eve night in whose cosmic timbre was concentrated all the primal, ultimate continuum conjunctions which lie behind all space and all time. The yearly matter of shared madness was about to break forth in witch haunted Dunwich again all too soon. The bale fires of ultimate witchery must be lit, and the dance must be danced. How could he keep himself from going to the center of infinity to meet Azathoth.
One last time Waite's formerly iron clad rationality tried to reassert control as his mind broke. What was it that had enmeshed him? Was it the old family lore, the Necronomicon, or the house? If he could not sell or live in the house he must abandon it and return---
And there once again right in front of him was the gigantic figure pointing and watching and waiting. Waiting for Waite to sign the Book, the Book of the Damned. The black man commanded him he must soon sign his own name, and in his own blood, in the book. He must sign now and be damned forever in the life in death shadow play that was his inheritance. Waite now remembered that at this Sabbat-time of the year the dread messenger Nyarlathotep often called and reached out through the unnameable voids to the little world, our world to summon and to initiate his chosen few to the nameless rites of the Sabbat. In his dream-delirium Waite had at last heard the hellish alien-rhythmed chant of the Sabbat coming not from an infinite distance but right in his head. He now understood the black tide of rhythm. And Waite could no longer resist the irresistible tide of the Walpurgis rhythm. Walpurgis was vibrating through all time and space and Waite could no longer deny. He now knew that he must submit to the will of the black man. Nyarlathotep must not be denied. Now he could detect the irresistible monstrous urge which had been partially suspected all along. At last Waite must answer that hitherto veiled cosmic calling which he so mortally dreaded. This was an urge that could no longer be denied. He must sign the Book of the Damned and join with the eternal dead but undead in the life beyond the life of the merely mortal.
Slowly tentatively Waite stretched forth his arm and felt a sudden thrust as the Black Man extended his black talon and stabbed him in the fleshy part of his hand. He then became aware of the slow but steady drip of the bright red life force of his blood, as he took up the preferred quill, dipped it into the fresh wound, and signed.
Weak and shaking first to last, Waite tried to steady himself. Only to partially crumble to his knees as he saw the red letters turn a somber brown, then black as the name Walter Waite did a slow fade to be replaced by Walter Whateley. He rubbed his eyes again but as the letters had formed and rearranged Waite now also saw appended to his name Hoc qui Venit. He who comes. Waite now knew that he was revealed as the true heir of the wizards of the Whateley cabal, Almonsin Metatron. He was the one who was to come after.

To Be Continued

The Watchers Return Out of Time

Morning Breaks, the Third Day


Standing in the golden glow breaking through an oriole of the magnificent Georgian Door Waite was utterly perplexed. How had he left his bed, and how had he stumbled into what he now saw was an old unused cellar. Harder still to explain was his once again filthy appearance. But hardest of all was the small leather pouch that he still clutched in his hand. That pouch and it's small horde of strange golden coins that he now held in his hand was inexplicable. He could not explain it at all, but it was solid and it was real.
Waite hardly could stand erect yet after regaining his composure he hastened to return again to the library at Springfield. He was badly shaven and without even a crumb for breakfast, but he was greeted by the librarian Saul Clifton who informed him that by special arrangement Dr. Armitage of the Miskatonic library in Arkham had faxed over a portion of the dreaded Dee Necronomicon fragment. It was not the VII Book of Abdool Al Hazzred previously requested by Waite, that could not be permitted. The parts alluded to in the Orne Bishop correspondence were deemed to be too dangerous for public release. Dr. Armitage was unusually forthright in his language repeated to Waite, by the librarian---

'that VII Book could not be permitted. Yes it was truely a fragmentary portion of the Necronomicon that had been retrieved from the Whateley farm house after the trouble of '28', yes part of the book to was 'community property' and would be safe to release in part so to speak.'

The librarian continued to explain to Waite,

Dr Armitage had been very generous in faxing over that part of the Dee manuscript, which he, speculated might be a part of the Whateley heritage, but he had carefully expurgated the more objectionable parts especially the VII th Book of Al Hazzred.'
'Those parts which Dr. Armitage considered to be 'too dangerous' would have to remain under seal in the locked Special Collections section of Miskatonic University. Certain contents, though were deemed safe enough for limited scholarly distribution and had been sent over.'

Waite was then ushered to a table where he bent over and began to read the preamble entitled;

Ars Necronomica


It is it to be understood that man is neither the oldest nor the wisest or even the last of earth's masters. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but in between the space that we know, they walk serene and primal, undimensioned and unseen, coterminous with all time and all space. Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. For Yog-Sothoth is the gate and the key that unlocks the gate. For Yog-Sothoth is the guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all time are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows the spaces where the Old Ones broke through in times of old, and where They shall break through again, and again. He knows the fields of earth where They have trod, for again they still tread earth's fields. No one can behold Them as They tread. But sometimes by their smell men can sometimes know Them near. But no man may know Their semblance. They have begotten spawn on mankind; and only in the features of those may man even guess their true form, for they are many sorts, differing in likeness from man's truest eidolon. Without shape, without substance ye shall know Them, As a foulness when thou shalt feel Their hand at your throat, yet ye see Them not. Not now and thankfully not ever shall they be seen yet Their habitation is even one with your guarded threshold. Yog-Sothoth is the key to the gate, whereby the spheres meet. Man now rules where They ruled once; They shall soon rule again when man is no more. After summer is winter, after winter summer. They wait patient and potent, for They shall reign again. And then shall They clean off the earth and remove it we know not where. They walk unseen and foul in the lonely places when the Words are spoken. They await the bloody sacrifice to be performed at the Rites when they will howl through the all in their Season. The wind gibbers with Their voices, and the earth vibrates with Their step. Their consciousness will then drive mad the seers with the unseen. They will bend the forest and crush the city, but none not in the forest or in the city will behold the hand that smites. Kadath in the cold waste hath known Them, and what man knows Kadath? Their cousin Shub-Niggurath has made fertile the earth Iä! Iä! Iä! The ice desert of the South and the sunken isles of Ocean hold stones whereon Their mighty seal is engraven in the fabled stone of Mnar. But who may see the deep frozen city at the poles or the sunken and sealed tower beneath the waves where He waits. Their dead but dreaming seaweed garlanded and barnacle encrusted Great Cthulhu waits for the stars to come round right and then he will be freed from his watery prison. Deem ye not to catch to overly eager at the promises. Cling not, but be ye ever ready to serve.

So much could Waite see but being impatient he flipped pages at random till he saw; at the top of he page

The art of controlling the spirits of fire, the air and the dead is an extension of Ars Pyronomica, an obscure spiritual alchemical process which is necessary to controlling the astral body in order to make contact with the intermediary spirits at the Sabbat.

This somehow irked the impatient Waite as he thumbed through the lengthy fax.
'In another dark passage, Dee alluded to the philosophers' mercury and its replacement by the Gold of the Sun.

Ye must know that this operation is the final stage in the transmutation of metals which can no longer be performed in the present age, as it was in the past performed by some great experts, unless indeed one let the work be governed by a certain soul which has been severed from its body violently but restored by the art of Necromancy, a work very difficult and fraught with dangers because of the fiery and sulphurous fumes, not to mention the fierce and intractable spirits who must be called by the use of human blood and effluvia. Chief most of these terrible spirits is the demon Sultan, Azathoth the Blind Idiot God who sits upon the throne of Chaos, there in unlighted chambers beyond time amidst the muffled, maddening beating of vile drums and the thin, monotonous whine of accursed flutes; to which detestable pounding and piping dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic Ultimate gods, the blind, voiceless, tenebrous, mindless Other gods whose soul and messenger is the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep. It is Azathoth who swallows everything, and when in the end he finds the world is nought, he eats himself. Poorly represented in myth as a 'serpent who eats his tail. Who is ever accompanied by his avatar Nyarlathotep.
This demon is falsely mentioned as a sole companion of the 'Evil One'. For Azathoth is also Brother of Yog Sothoth, the Gate. Nyarlathotep, is he who is the Black Antichrist, and is the 'black man at the Sabat of the witches. as well as all evil flyers who seek to enter the gate with the Great Old ones and seize the the life of a man. It is Nyarlathotep's hand that strikes a man with lethargy so that he is incapable in the hour of his need. He casts his hand on the sick one who is in fever, or when he lurks in his eyes as he drives away the life, and they call it death, yet it is but a living death before the second death cast by the demon of the malignant eye who spoils everything which men see, unless they be quick to say 'in the name of Yog-Sothoth.' Azathoth is also brother of Great Cthulhu but they abide apart.
Cthulhu currently lies bound but will eventually break free and lay waste to the earth, as it is written elsewhere in the Necronomicon.
With every one of them are many sub demons and fiends subordinate, who are the winged furies of the air, present when called at the Sabbat and who are invisible yet in very numerous in ever great multitudes as it is said until they are compelled to visibility by certain secret drugs and human blood. These are the demons of ruin, pain, and decrepitude, who are the producers of vexation and bile, revivers of grief, the progeny of gloom, and bringers of stench, decay, and vileness, who are many , and very notorious; and a portion of all of them is mingled with the bodies of the evil men, and their characteristics are glaring in the deformed children begaten upon mankind. For it is said that in the features of man one may know their semblance.
The malignancy increases, until once the fetters have been removed and if the apostate remains in his impetuosity the Spawn of Azathoth swallows him down the on the spot, and rushing into the world to perpetrate evil, he commits innumerable grievous sins; he swallows down not just the sons of mankind, but as well cattle, and sheep, and commits grievous devastation even upon the vegetation. At that time when there was the coming of the planetary star of Mars into planetary conjunction with Saturn, and the moon and planets were in trine. I issued from the intensely noxious effect of the drug as amidst tears of sweat and blood, as I raised my eyes, I saw the world as when it was dark as night; and on the whole earth were snakes, scorpions, lizards , and other noxious creatures of many kinds; and so the other demons of the night stood among the reptiles; and every approach of the whole earth was as though not as much as a needle's point of light remained, in which there was no rush of noxious creatures. 'Lastly, he the Evil One came forth with many dark forms to the fire, and there mingled darkness and smoke with the face of Azathoth who then called out to the wicked spirits and suffered them to punish the company of man with certain alien beings; with whom I was amazed at .' This demon Nyarlathotep is mentioned as a sole companion of the 'Evil One' as through fear of the likeness of the body, as he who remains even after other evil spirits have been conquered, he remains at large, then the Evil One the Spawn of Azathoth shouts and creates a cacophony of noise because, Azathoth stands up before him.

Wearily and confused Waite closed the faxed pages of the book and silently shivered before he prepared to go home in the remaining twilight. So much had happened in so short of a time. His research progressed yet he still was no closer to the answer, what was the mysterious sign that he lacked. He seemed to be possessed of much of the mystery of the 'edicated Whateleys' of Dunwich. But there was also something that was missing, something that he could not put his finger on. All had appeared so much clearer earlier today in the Springfield sunlight, but with dusk hastening, Waite hurried back to his car and returned to his Dunwich home.
Brusquely Waite strode in. Closed the door and mounted the stairs. He was tired and cared little for plumbing anymore fresh mysteries. All he wanted was long deep sleep, the kind that seemed to elude him since his return to his native state. Well it was still pleasantly chill he thought as he checked to make sure that the windows were shut. Distantly, faintly, though he could still make out the commencement of the nightly chorus of birds and frogs. The first baleful glow of a distant fire also caught his eye in that instant where he sunk weak with denial onto his bed barely able to remove his shirt and socks he fell rather than lay onto his bed. Closed his eyes and swiftly drifted off to blessed blissful slumber.
Or so he thought---

The Watchers Return Out of Time

The Third Day


Waite awakened barely rested, to find his clothes dirty as well as muddy tracks, seemingly leading to a blank wall. Groggy and slow he wondered what was the mystery now fading. And how could he have come to such a state of filth. He was covered in spiderwebs and dust and his tracks were muddy prints. Stiff all over Waite realized with some distaste, the whippoorwills and frogs were still in chorus! Their loud shrill notes now burst into a kind of pandaemoniac cachinnation which set him on edge. No wonder the eerie serenade filled all the countryside with eerie dread, and it was still not dawn. Would they ever finally quiet down? Worse the damnable drumming had never ceased. If it continued to near dawn, every night, how could anything sleep. The hill noises too sounded louder than ever, yet the fire now at last burned low on Sentinel Hill.
Bleakly arising slumped over in his chair Waite just shuddered, he had never even made it to his comfortable chamber above yet he looked like he had been in a cave. How could he be covered in sweat and dust and cobwebs? Waite surmised that the nightly noises were starting to get to him. He certainly never before had sleep walked. Then it hit him, just where had he walked? Somehow just beyond his waking consciousness lurked more mystery. Somewhere in his mind he saw the eye and --- what was that in the shade, just beyond? Finally he just scratched his head as he started the water to boil and searched for the soap to wash off the night spoor and stain. Later rummaging through his clean clothes Waite felt his hunger and realized that he had not even eaten the night before. Well time to munch at what was left of his cereal and the meager fruit and cheese. He must remember to stop on his way home later, better fare surely could be had in Springfield than that available at the dilapidated, rundown steeple store of Tobit Whateley in the Dunwich village. Besides there would be time to dine in a real restaurant after he reached Springfield. It was his third day in his new domicile and he was determined to go back to library to find other books and references related to the Horror of 1928. Maybe he might be able to trace whatever remained of his closer family tree to find, perhaps others, than the 'eddicated Whateleys' who might be still living in the area.
After a short drive and a quick breakfast of eggs, toast, and a well earned rasher of bacon, at a snug but comforting restaurant, Waite found his way back to the close but comforting confines of the library. As Waite stood before the Reference Desk he realized that his first priority was to review his previous research before moving on. Once again he had mixed feelings about his reception, but the librarian quickly ducked away after showing him to a deserted nook where once again Waite spread out the folders of several aged manuscripts as well as the heavy old volumes of family lore before him. Searching through the hoary stack Waite decided to make it his first priority to review what had been known before his time of the disturbing nocturnal assault of cacaphony and strange noises. He quickly re found the memorable old sermon in the file on the close presence of Satan and his imps. Reading down to 'where the dread and cursed Voices of Azazel and Buzrael, of Beelzebub and Belial made a rattling and rolling, groaning, screeching, and hissing, as no such Things of this Earth could raise up.' He then remembered his own experience with noisy night birds and a swamp filled with raucous batrachia. Which in turn recalled Waite to his brief conversation with the loquacious Frye who had warned him of more than just cattle upon the mountain. Next reflecting upon his own dreams and his disheveled appearance upon awakening as he conceded that perhaps there might be some truth to what he had read and heard about 'under ground caves of black Magick unlocked by the Divell.' Waite felt that somewhat must be leading him to the conclusion that somehow something had survived, and that all was as it had been before. Displeased with his unaccustomed turn towards acceptance of the irrational Waite stopped and let the papers drop to the desk before him.
Waite then paused before resuming. Turning over the first of the leather bound tomes he found something new to read. Somewhat more interesting, in the form of a withered old Natural History text on the region, that caught his interest. Amongst the numerous odd references he found was an exceedingly rare monograph of an anthropologist named Dave Laporte, which embraced material orally obtained prior to 1839 among the oldest people of the state, wherein were written of the legends of the lost local Pocumtuck Indian tribes. These tales which had been repeated as heard from elderly rustics in the mountains of Southern New England hinted at a hidden race of monstrous beings which predated the native tribes and somehow had survived. Who or what it was said to lurk somewhere among the remoter hills. Somewhere in the deep woods of the highest peaks, and the dark valleys where streams trickle down from unknown sources on certain mountains to plunge down precipitously to deep, steep-sided gorges. These beings were seldom glimpsed, but evidences of their presence were reported by those who had ventured farther than usual up the slopes amongst the great rings of rough-hewn stone columns on the hilltops. Though these stories are more generally attributed to the firside remembrance of the Pocumtuck Indians, some echo still remained amongst the settlers. Who starting as early as the sixteen hundreds had reported deposits of strange skulls and bones, that had been found within these circles. Especially around the higher peaks like the sizeable table-like rock on Sentinel Hill, were still found remains suficient to sustain the popular belief that such spots were not only once the burial-places of the Pocumtucks, but for others as well. For it was in these time forgotten places that the local indian shamans had performed their unhallowed rites amidst conclaves where they called the forbidden shapes of shadow, out of the great rounded hills.
For it was by wild orgiastic prayers directed to such as the spirit giant Hoblomok that the Pocumtucks had looked for protection. Amidst loud drummings and persistent howlings had the elder shamans sought amongst the tribal spirits for protection from the malignant shades. Hobomok then had come amidst the loud crackings and rumblings from the ground. Despite the archaic nature of the reports of the earliest settlers of outre rites and cthonic remains many ethnologists still disregarded the evidence as an absurd improbability and persist in believing the remains Caucasian. Whatever they were if not a hidden race of monstrous beings they things generally seemed content, to let mankind alone. They were held by others as responsible for the disappearance of venturesome individuals who had built houses too close to certain valleys or too high up on certain mountains. Many localities came to be known as inadvisable to settle in. Long after the Pocumtuck tribe was forgotten, people would look up at the neighbouring mountain precipices with a shudder, recalling how in the old times settlers had been lost, and farmhouses had burnt to ashes, on the slopes of those grim rocky sentinels. In the northcentral counties around Dunwich it seemed to be a fashion about 1800 to accuse eccentric and unpopular recluses of being allies or representatives of the abhorred things.
As to what the things were, explanations naturally varied. The common name applied to them was "those ones," or "the old ones," though other terms had a local and transient use. The Puritan settlers harshly condemned them as familiars of the devil, and made them a basis of awed theological speculation. Other settlers linked them vaguely with the malign fairies and 'little people' of the bogs and raths of their native Scotland and Ireland and protected themselves with scraps of incantation handed down through many generations.
But the native Pocumtuck Indians had the most fantastic theories of all. Tribal legends insisted on belief that the creatures were not native to this earth. The Pocumtuck myths, taught that the Winged Old Ones came from the Aldebaran and the Hyades in the sky. And that they could only be sent back by the might of the spirit of the mountain, the giant, Hoblomok the tribal protector. It was bad to get near them, and sometimes young hunters who went into their hills never came back. It was considered especially bad, to listen to what they whispered at night to lonesome travelers in the vast forest, with voices like a bird that tried to be like the voices of men. Also they knew the speech of all kinds of men not just the settlers but Pocumtuck, Squawkheag and the Norwottuck, and all the Mohicans. All the legendry, of course, white and Indian alike, died down during the nineteenth century, except for occasional flareups. The ways became settled, habitual paths and dwellings were established, people remembered less and less of the fears and avoidances. Most people simply knew that certain hilly regions were considered as highly unhealthy, unprofitable, and generally unlucky to live in, and that the farther one kept from them the better off one usually was. In time the haunted hills were left deserted. Except by accident only during the infrequent local scares, and then only by the degenerate and uneducated was ever anything whispered of beings dwelling in those hills; and now most humans let the haunted territory about Dunwich severely alone.
Waite resisted the urge to accede some actual historicity for the ancient tales; he could not argue the real existence of some queer tales of an elder earth-race after having seen first hand the decayed degeneracy of the Dunwich country, but survival in relatively recent times - or even to the present! Well that just seemed to be absurd, so he closed the document. How would he ever sell such property. Waite was interested in the thought of building tacky summer homes for city folks, not such a plethora of legendary trash.
So Waite slowly folded and put away the monograph before next selecting an old collection of odd correspondence to peruse, amongst which were an old letter from one Jonathon Orne of Near Newe Dun'ich to a cousin, Silas Bishop of Olde Arkham.

Dear Brother Simon
'I delight that you continue in ye getting at Olde Matters in your Way, and doe not think better was done at Mr. Hutchinson's in Salem-Village. Certainly, there was Noth'g butt ye liveliest Awfulness in that which Hutchinson rais'd upp from what we cou'd gather onlie a part of. What you sente did not Worke, whether because Any Thing miss'g, or because ye Wordes were not Righte from my Speak'g or yr copy'g. Alone am at a Loss. I have not ye Chymicall art to followe Borellus, and owne my Self confounded by ye VII. Booke of ye Necronomicon as well as by fragments from the learned Doctor Dee's Arabik Booke.'
'Also be ye yet wary and ever ready to fly as it was on account of what was sworn in the July 1692 sessions of the Court of Oyer and Terminen that I left ye Salem Village. Where Hepzibah Lawson swore unto Judge Hathorne that fortie witches and the Blacke Man were wont to meet in the woodes behind Mr. Hutchinson's house, and one Amity Howe declared at a later session of August the eighth, after that to Judge Gedney that Mr. George Bouroughs on that nighte had putt ye Divell his marke upon Bridget Hogge, Jonathon Orne, Simon Bishop, Deliverance Whateley, Joseph Curwin, and Susan Pillips, as well as Mehitable Marsh, and Deborah Howard. All whose names who appear on that list are placed in imminent peril. In such uncertain times ye must be ever ready to fly even to the arms of the gentile savages to avoid the wrath of pestilential bigoted pilgrim peasantry, who have so recently flooded into our Massachusetts Bay colony seeking shelter from persecution in ye olde England, suche as have yet perpetrated an even worse persecution and martyrdom upon all here with whom they disagree, it being an especial flaw in them to cry witchcraft even in civil cases so simple as a boundary dispute.'
'It was on this account that I have already flown to a secret domicile hard in the mountains by the source of the great Miskatonic river. It is largely inhabited by a sullen yet somewhat agreeable specie of the Mahican tribe called the Pocumtuck, and has much available land in both woods and pasturage between the mountains and the river.'
Fraternally Yours Brother in Almonsin Metatron
Jedediah


Setting that aside Waite next began to read a Letter once again written in a vaguely familiar hand that was crabbed and uncertain, by a Simon Bishop olde Arkham in reply to his Brother Jedediah Orne of of Newe Dun'ich:

Dear Brother Jedediah
'I have succeeded in obtaining at a faire price an incomplete copy of Ye Dee Necronomicon that you recommende. Wherein it is written: Nyarlathotep enacts the will of the Outer Gods, and is their messenger, heart and soul; Nyarlathotep is the servant of Azathoth, whose wishes cause madness, misery and death. Nyarlathotep will destroy the human race and clear off the earth as well. But I wou'd have ye Observe what was told to us aboute tak'g Care of Whom to calle up, for ye are Sensible what Mr. Mather writ in ye Marginalia of ------, and can judge how truly that Horrendous thing is reported. I say to you againe, doe not call upp Any that you can not put downe; by the Which I meane, Any that can in Turne call up somewhat against you, whereby your Powerfullest Devices may not be of use. As of the Lesser, lest the greater shall not wish to Answer, and shall commande more than you. I was frighted when I read of your know'g what Hutchinson hadde in his Ebony Boxe, for I was conscious who must have tolde you. And againe, I ask to remind ye that you maye write me, Jedediah but Simon Orne may too soon no longer be of this Community. As I may have need to avail you on your recommendation of a change of scenery from this community to one beyond the mountains. Still I am desirous ye will Acquaint me with what ye Blacke Man learnt in ye Vault, under ye Salem Villager wall, and will be oblig'd for ye Lend'g of ye other manuscript that ye have spoken of. Ye year advances and we must plot the starry conjunction of Mars and Saturn and prepare and read for ye great day coming, when the old ones will return to rule. And that they who have served will become as satraps of the new earth to come.'
Fraternally Yours Brother in Almonsin Metatron
Simon Orne


And then Waite found another letter with no signature.

Providence,
1 May

Brother Jedediah
My honour'd Antient friende, due respects and earnest Wishes to him who serve for yr eternall Power. I am just come upon that which thou ought to knowe, concern'g the matter of the Laste Extremities and what to doe regard'g yt. I am not disposs'd to followe you in go'g Away on acct. of my yeares, for Providence hath not yet sharpeness of ye Bay in hunt'g oute uncommon Things and bringinge to Tryall. I am ty'd up in Shippes and Goudes, and cou'd not doe as you did, besides the whiche my farme hath under it That you Knowe, that wou'd not waite for my com'g Backe.
But I am not unreadie for harde fortunes, as I have tolde you, and have long work'd upon ye way of get'g Backe after ye Lost. I laste nighte strucke on ye Wordes that bringe up YOGGE-SOTHOTHE and sawe for ye firste Time that face spoke of by Ibn Schacabac in ye - --. And it said, that Ye III Psalme in ye Liber Damnatus holdes ye Clavicle. With Sunne in V House, Saturne in Trine, drawe ye Pentagram of Fire, and saye ninth Verse thrice. This Verse repeate eache Roodemas and Hallow's Eve and ye thing will breede in ye Outside Spheres.
And of ye Seede of Olde shall be borne who shall looke Backe, tho' know'g not what he seekes. Yet will this awaite Nothing if their be no Heir, I am foll'g oute what Borellus saith, and hath Helpe in Abdool Al-Hazred his VII. Booke. Whatever I gette, you shall have. And in ye meane while, do not neglect to make use of ye Wordes I have here given. I have them Righte, but if you Desire to see Him, imploy Writinge on ye Piece of - , that I am putt'g in this packet. Saye ye Verses every day, and if yr Line runn not out, one shall come to bee in yeares to come that shall looke backe and answer the call.
Y're Servt. in Almonsin-Metatron


There were a few other relics but mostly of the sort as bills of lading, and the usual pile of notices of birth, death, and marriage, and who survived whom,--- Waite stifled a yawn as he became aware that he was hungry and restless. Then he chuckled as he put the book and papers away, talk about bootleg whiskey drinking, it seemed to Waite that everybody in Dunwich past and present were escaped from some mental health facility. Time to put this one aside and get some lunch. A nice tidy cafe appealed to him now so putting his reference materials out of mind he retired for a brief interval.
After Lunch would be plenty of time for him to make inquires after the rare books room and the dreaded Necronomicon. When Waite approached the librarian, Saul Clifton semi acquiesced and admitted that he might find a rare gift by behest of the Daemonolatreia of Remigius as well as Trithemius' Poligraphia, but as for the Dee Necronomicon or the fragment of 'My Arabik Booke', the catalog was wrong, it had not been updated since that book had gone back to the library of Miskatonic University in Arkham from a loan, and even then could only be seen but by special permission. He might then be allowed, but only under careful supervision.
But for now he was welcome to seek other books and references. Shrugging aside the librarian's snide references as to the reading on his list being somehow unhealthy Waite was put off. Besides he was discovering a foreign element of desire in his new attraction to the occult. While never before had he even been remotely curious about things hidden and dark he was aware that the repeated recent nights of poor sleep and dream had somehow influenced his thinking. Bad enough to be interrupted in sleep by the raucous celebrants on the nearby hilltops, but the all night chorus of nasty night birds and swamp batrachia bellowing in repeated chorus was positively unnerving. Waite's too was turning to what so far he had failed to notice but was become a troublesome thought. He did not normally do things upon impulse, he typically methodically plotted his courses. After all he had a fine education and was accustomed to doing his own thinking. So how had he become subject to thoughts that seemed to arrive fully developed from some hitherto hidden source, thoughts of an if not alien source were certainly of an obscure nature. He had never before been overly immersed in dreams, much less sleep walking. And he never responded to commands that did not originate within his own mind. Why had he recently developed such an obsession with occult matters. It was like his brain was awakening to half remembered things not just to obscure books, cults, and authors but a burgeoning willingness to participate with alien forces emanating from some other dimensions of time and space. In his heart Waite realized that more and more he found himself actively participating with forces from beyond that no one sane would eagerly admit to emulating. Particularly disturbing to Waite was his new found love affair with uncovering the esoteric artes. But most instinctively frightening to Waite, was that he progressed and participated knowingly and willingly. Most frightening of all though was the thought that he was 'the chosen one'. This severely clashed with his sentimentality because he had never before been the chosen anything. Especially so, the one who was to come.
Fortunately it was a slow day and Waite had gotten an impressive amount done on his second trip into the library. He could wait longer as he had no immediate need to find the Necronomicon. Did he in fact ever need such a book with a name so harsh as the mythology that it seemed to embrace.
His returns to Dunwich was uneventful. Because he had eaten so well he thought that he could settle for perishables one more day. Besides he had several tricky questions for Tobit Whateley. One quick stop for milk and he had made it back as the evening shadows were just starting to grow longer under his eaves. As he had planned he ate another frugal dinner mostly of cereal and milk, hoping that maybe his sleep would be uninterrupted by unwonted dream as well as the not too distant sounds. Waite ascended, undressed and almost immediately as his head hit the pillow he fell asleep. But Waite once again subsided into light Dreams where he once again sleepwalked to look into the eye. Slowly as the swirling murky lights give way Waite was assailed by night visions of bat winged creatures flying about, swirling atop Sentinel Hill. Accompanied once again by a horrible cacophony of Kakodaemonic sounds that pierced his ears and forced him to notice that something lurked just beyond the circle of great stones. Some unknown horrible presence watched him and waited just beyond the dimly seen hill of his visions. And then between him and the Milky Way he thought he saw a very terrible outline of something noxiously thin and horned and tailed and bat-winged. Other things, too, had begun to blot out patches of stars west of him, as if a flock of vague entities were flapping thickly and silently out of that inaccessible cave in the face of the precipice.
As the light in the great eye rapidly shifted Waite was once again aware of the vaguely familiar veiled figures watching him. They seemed to be pointing to him accusingly and again towards the silent sentient stones of Sentinel Hill as if they had some fearsome task for him to perform. Slowly then the scene dissolved and the light once again faded and he saw himself with his hand on the movable stone. Finally he saw once again the long passage into hill again. Helplessly frozen in the piercing light of the eye Waite saw himself stumble into the secret passage to once again encounter the collapsed section. Struggling without tools he feverishly worked to uncover the secret of the hidden chamber. Finally by more stumbling than pushing he removed the obstruction and climbed over the remaining rubble, and pushed open the door to reveal that which had been hidden.
In the dull ambient light cast from the eye above he saw a room strewn with ritual implements, old bones, and a still older pediment covered in more of the unknown hieroglyphs. Adding to the greater mystery was the the crabbed, archaic writing found on a wide range of papers whose conditions and watermarks suggested an age of at least two hundred years. Besides papers Waite also found many strange old books. All, without exception, appeared to deal with black magic in its most advanced and horrible forms. Wherein was one particularly large volume along whose spine in golden letters was printed My Arabik Booke. The parchment pages were in what might be human skin. He also found a small leather pouch stuffed with some unknown gold like coins bearing an evil octopoidal image, not unlike the image found surrounding the Eye. Fumbling with the pouch Waite could see the strange gold coins bore obscure hieroglyphs on the obverse. Waite thought to himself, who could possibly have minted such an unimaginable coin.
But then Waite awoke as from one dream into another before he could see or go any further. He found to his utter horror and amazement that he was not in his pleasant bed, but instead he found himself stumbling up crude stone stairs, his clothes again in tatters. He went back past the room of the eye, as dawn broke, climbed the stairs, and lay down in complete mental and physical exhaustion without pausing to undress. When Waite finally awoke to the pristine spring sunshine, he was drenched by a cold perspiration. He was also covered in cobwebs and dust, he also had a raw smarting sensation in hands where the raw stone had worn a blister. Springing to the floor, he dashed down the stairs, washed and dressed in frantic haste, as if it were necessary for him to get out of the house as quickly as possible. He did not know where he wished to go, but go he must.

The Watchers Return Out of Time

Continued From First Part


Nightfall, the First Day


Despite his fatigue Waite needed some dinner before bed so he rummaged through the stores of fruit, cookies and cheese that he had bought from the Whateley store until he found a tin can of soup, and prepared another frugal supper. Behind in a dusty alcove off the kitchen he found kindling and fuel for the old fashioned wood burning stove. He then lit a fire, to heat his soup not to mention creature comfort on such a chill spring night. Besides soup he was contented to dine mostly on cheese and bread. Satisfied he pumped more water to heat on the wood stove, washed up and finally trundled up the stairs to his cozy chamber and bed.
Waite was bone tired but despite his fatigue he did not immediately succumb to slumber, but rather sleepily he pitched, tossed and recounted the days events. As he slowly revolved his thoughts in his mind he wondered over his odd fortune. Here he was a stranger in an even stranger place. He had not expected to be so poorly received. The odd looks and off the wall references of Tobit Whateley the gaunt storekeeper while not particularly surprising did not lend him any comfort either. After all he was the new person recently returned to the closed community of Dunwich, that was to be expected.
However because Waite was an educated person, a person with a degree he had expected to be accepted as such by the ignorant population of Dunwich. But to be so strangely received by the librarian in Springfield, a person of some learning, puzzled him deeply. The librarian, was a person from his own familiar universe of learning. Saul Clifton had clearly left as much or more unsaid as he had revealed. As he lay silently puzzling over the strange events of the day he finally drifted off to a troubled sort of slumber.
But Waite was not to be left alone to sleep in quiet peace, once again he was accompanied by the rising chorus of night birds and amphibians from the nearby woods and waters. As he almost slipped into vague dreams he was suddenly awakened. From the pale illumination it must have been nearly Full Moon rise. He also noted with some disturbance the resumption of the distant drumming. It was with some nostalgia that he remembered the peace of his far off California home. A place of where the roaring of the breakers and the occasional fisher folk was such a contrast with his new and noisy neighbors.
Arousing himself briefly he pulled his shutters shut and closed his windows. Resuming his bed he was finally able to return to a sort of sleep, but that was troubled by some dreams that while not of nightmare quality were unsettling. It was as if he had been summoned to some secret conclave. In his dream he once again found himself peering into the odd eye lens where he dimly perceived a group of veiled figures as in conclave. Once again he saw the older man but this time he was accompanied by several other dark and robed figures. As Waite gazed into the eye the old man pointed directly towards Waite as he began to address him in no uncertain terms of the importance of his message.
'You are the One who comes after. It is to you that the Whateley heritage has been left. You have inherited much to comfort the worldly nature but it is a heritage with a task. You must read in the journal---' wherein will be revealed to you all of the secrets of the house in due time. A secret room awaits which has been prepared for you. Seek ye the passage hidden behind the Eye.' Discover the task of the Whateley's. All has been arranged but you must seek that which has been hidden. Also there is another task that must be completed before all will go well. Seek for the stones that are fallen upon the top of Sentinel Hill. Set them aright, and then behold the gate. Waite knew not what this could mean so he settled back to rest.
And there Waite began to see forming in his mind's eye a sliding panel hidden in the ornate wall behind the Eye. By moving a certain loose flagstone the panel parted to reveal a concealed and dark dank passage down stone flags into the belly of the house and beyond as if into the heart of the very hillock upon which the foundation had been raised.-- Irresistibly lured forward Waite began to grope in darkness. What was that he touched? As he fumbled in stygian darkness Waite felt more than saw the stone being moved as by an invisible hand, then something silently slid open, something a shade of darkness beyond the already pitch black, something that seemed to open on nothingness. As Waite stepped forward he fell, stumbled or was pushed further into the velvety darkness. It was as if in his semi dream state that he took a plunge into the belly of darkness. His brief and momentary fall was suddenly broken by what? Steps? He could not tell as he struggled backwards, up towards the dimmest of lights and the known.
As he tottered there on the precipice, it was as though returning consciousness had found him half in this world and half in some alien vortex of emptiness. Waite just shook as he clung for stability, there on the verge, as he slowly awoke. As Waite shook off slumber he found himself in a soaking sweat of terror. Momentarily displaced he now discovered himself to be groping in darkness around the chamber of the eye again. Stumbling and shaking he again climbed the stairs to his chamber where he again mounted his bed and at last Waite fell into a deep and dreamless slumber.

Morning, the Second Day


As dawn came Waite awoke weak, weary and bleary eyed once again within his chamber. He slipped out of bed and opened his shutters and windows hastily gasping for the fresh air of a brilliant morning now revealed by the rising sun. Waite vaguely remembered seeing something vague, a secret passage at the end of which was the mysterious chamber as he saw it in his dream. He also saw dust and cobwebs all around him, as he felt about himself he realized with terror that his nightclothes were soiled. He had gone to bed clean but that was not how he arose. Waite lay there and succumbed to a fit of terror. How could this be? Finally he just shook it off as he left his sleep chamber to find water and his fresh clothes. There would be time for mysteries later. No more night visions for now the sun was up and he was hungry.
After another light repast of cereal and milk, Waite decided that he needed to read the journal again. But it was not there. Whatever he had seen or thought that he saw was now hidden again. Feeling along the wall Waite began to search for the sliding panel. At first he was baffled, his search for the secret chamber of his dream yielded nothing. Baffled, rebuffed and confused Waite turned, he decided to get some air instead. He needed something to clear the fog from his brain and from the disturbing visions and portents of night.
It was a clear cool day with more than the slightest hint of springs returning warmth and freshness in the air so with a jaunty stride Waite turned and re pointed himself out of doors and into the surrounding woods and headed uphill towards the direction of that stark place that he was to come to know was locally called the Devil's Hopyard and the stony imminence of Sentinel Hill beyond. Waite was determined to climb to the top of Sentinel Hill. Something had disturbed the quiet of his late evenings, and it seemed to emanate from that peak. Just making it out of his own yard in his quaint house in the Dunwich woods was a struggle. First he must cross the overgrown pasture, then a stretch of marshy ground before he struck the trail into the woods. After painfully slow progress across the wet ground he reached the path, but not only was it lined by overgrown giant trees, it was also covered in masses of briars and vines. Now sweating and torn Waite labored to ascend the trail that led up the steep hill slope. As Waite pressed onwards and upwards, he felt that he had found the trail to discover at least one of the mysteries that had surrounded his return to Dunwich. Finally as if animated by evil sentient consciousness the trailing vines and tangling briars just pulled him down to an uneasy landing on the rocky path. Waite staggered back up with but one thought, judging by the constant nightly drumming that had assailed his ears before retiring, others had recently made the climb and Waite was determined to discover how.

Crosses Cold Spring Glen



Devil's Hopyard


As Waite continued his climb he remarked to himself. 'I have never seen such big ugly stones before. They just come out of the earth like gigantic teeth.' Somehow the rocks looked as if they had been rolled to where they were, and that went on and on as far as his eye could see, a long, long way. Still slowly climbing Waite looked out from them and saw the strange country as for the first time. Up here it was still winter time, there were even a few piles of partially melted show ice amongst the terrible black woods hanging from the hills all round. It was all so still and silent, and the sky was heavy, gray, and sad. Not one squirrel or even a Robin could he see. In a wicked daydream Waite staggered onward. There were hundreds and hundreds of the dreadful rocks. Some were like horrid grinning trolls and imps of men. He could see their faces as if they would jump out of the stone, catch hold and drag him with them back into the rock. And there were other rocks that were like creeping, horrible animals, and others were like dead people lying on the sparse grass. So Waite went on and on through the rocks till he came to a collasal round monadonock in the middle of them. It was higher than a mound, and it was like a great basin turned upside down, all smooth and round and green, with one stone, like a post, sticking up and pointing towards the top. As Waite continued to struggle to climb up the side of the basin he had to stop for breath. The path continued ever so steep that had he had to stop he might have stumbled and rolled all the way down again. He realized that not only could he be knocked about but perhaps he might even be killed.
As his breath returned he looked up and saw great big rings of rocks, getting bigger and bigger. Waite stared so long that he got quite dizzy and disoriented in the head. To him it felt as if the rocks were moving and turning, in a slowly revolving great wheel with him in the middle. Everything once so clear in the crystalline air had begun to be hazy and unclear. The stones looked if they were going round and round and round, as if they were springing up to dance. At last he came to the edge of a great flat bald spot on the hill where there were no more rocks, and then he went on his way again through a dark thicket in a hollow that was just as bad as the jungle he had encountered earlier far below. He later learned that it was named Cold Spring Hollow by the locals. Torn by vines and clinging things he went on climbing up, out of the thicket of the closed glen which felt was like a secret dark passage that nobody knows of, because it was so narrow and deep and the woods were so thick round it. Struggling up a steep bank with trees hanging over it, Waite finally came to the top of Sentinel Hill.
As he struggled to catch his breath he thought aloud to himself that hill was more of a mountain! It had taken such a struggle but not to amazingly he discovered that he was far from the first to make the climb. At the summit were the remains of stone circle partially demolished by dynamite. Yet within the demolished circle someone had been hard at work. He found a partially restored inner circle of the native stone. Dead center laying side by side Waite found two black pillars wrought of some peculiar bluish basalt like stone, possessed with unknown, undecipherable hieroglyphics, half worn away. Pillars bearing the obvious mark of fire and other marks as if someone had tried unsuccesfully to use a chisel to obliterate the hieroglyphics had been thrown down. Kneeling down he was able by hand to laboriously clean out the original groove or hollow cut into the rock. Now exerting all of his strength he painfully raised first one stone and then the other which slid into the grooved hollow spot as with the click of a key in the lock. Standing back to admire his work he realized subconsciously he had restored something not unlike a gate. But gate to what? All was ready for he knew not what. He did not fully understand his irrational impulse to restore, he just felt that replacing the stones was something that he needed to do.
Hard by the gate was what appeared to be an altar stone and a fire pit, where he found the remains of a recent revel. Besides the smoldering ash of a recent fire he found a litter of wine and other liquor bottles as well as the partially burned garbage and the left over remains of a feast. Someone must have found a better path to the summit than he. Searching all around it did not take him long to see the path that led circuitously back around the high rocky place and into a bit of a hidden swale leading somewhat more gently downwards back into Cold Spring Hollow, but at a different spot. A path less rocky and wooded that promised easier future access, if he could just strike the Dunwich road and not a swamp somewhat near his picturesque inherited home.
Waite was beginning to grow to love the quaint house of his ancestors swathed in the rugged woods and rocky uplands that he had surmounted on his arduous first crossing of the Devil's Hopyard. Far below it promised warmth and rest and Waite was tired. As Waite broke into a lope down the gentle lope, he wiped away the sweat and thought how oddly devoid of the normal wild life was this lonesome place. There were no songbirds or even a rabbit in this strange new home of his. That is if you did not consider the Whippoorwills and the frogs! But that thought did not last long, recrossing the glen he was startled to come around a bend and meet with a local farm lad leading his cattle from pasture half way down the hollow.
As Waite suddenly on impulse turned to catch up, he shouted out to the stranger. Hello, my name is Waite, Walter Waite. I am your new neighbor.
Surprisingly for the first time in Dunwich the stranger turned with a friendly face and replied: 'Er halo, I had heard that someone had moved into the old Sirius Whateley place, my name is Bud Fry. Good to see you. You sure took me by surprise, no one from heah would set foot anywhere near that place. How do you sleep in that place. They's dev'ltry aloose in that house and these Woods, has been nigh 'bout as long as any one recolecs. Then they wuz that trouble in '28. We lost cabin, barn,cattle, kith and kin thet time. But we ain't lost no caows heah lately since that Gypsy Injun breed started comin doawn from Canady 'n took to campin' in at the Ten-Acre Meadow foot o' the Glenn. They raise a lot of noise, drumming and chanting enuff' to keep a body awake late o' nights but the killins have stopt, fer noaw. Just the same a body ought to walk ker'ful up heah aftuh sundown, 'specially because we uz lost sum uv ar; folks to somewhat that Wizard Whateley called up back in the time o' the trouble o' ''28' What evur it ware it et up fourteen caows and then squished the barn. It wuz awfully ghastly the way it just tore 'em up and suck'd em dry, Gawd awfully oh Lord it might return or worse still be lurking 'round the gate'. Some o' us Dunwichers tried to tear it down but the trouble ne'er quite went away, Now wif sa many strangers comin' round 'specially with Walpurgis Eve' which is a comin. Be kerful too as the Moon 's neah full, an things as shouldn't be still are seen and worse heard winging on the night. Gawd awfull things they are that skritch and howl so horribly a' night. Some 'as teeth and 'll chew your head off eef yew be not kerful, and be safe in a doors when the time comes. Ye kin allus tell becuz they let loose wi' a turrible howlin' sumpin' hurrible. If ye heah the 'hippoorwills and the bullfrogs start to skrichin' somepin' hurrible and then jes' quit, sumpin; terrible bad iz a comin', run 'n dun't look back becuz if they call ye by your name, weel you may not come back ta' soon. They has frightfull powers and been knowed to take a body, Lord knows weah. They jus' kep 'im up in the air and kip him. Some say you kin still heah them on the night winds about the deep hollers. They jus kip a poor devil flyin' till he iz jes about a corpse. Jes flyin' way up in the air. Ye kin heah them as has been grabbed screamin' an cullin' out, no one knows weah ur when, but they jus drops' em deader like they 'us jes' used up!'
'In fac' if I am not mistaken I kin see 'um Injun Gypsy crew starting to come out noaw. They use my pasture 'n' the monster swathe cut up the side to reach Sentinel Hill. They been comin since Wizard Whateley's sending back in the trouble. Dang if I hain't been yammerin' spec' my Pap 'ul wail the tar out a me. I better get along with the cattle, it's getting on nigh too late to be way up heah, anyway what with all of that steep slope through the dark woods. We gotta git along, Ho Bossy head 'em up!'
Well there at last was at least one local who dared to speak. Waite was not so surprised at much of the talk. He had expected as much. Quite a fable, somewhat that may have come from the boot leg whiskey drinkers of Dunwich he had heard mentioned in the Arkham Advertiser papers that he had read at the library. Still even if he had been greeted by an uneducated local it was a first since the gaunt storekeeper Tobit Whateley. So what part of this was the mystery? Perhaps some secret society had once flourished in Dunwich after fleeing persecution. Whatever it was, and something staggering had occurred. As he ambled on his way he could see a great wasteland as if some giant had let loose because a jagged gash had blasted this side of Sentinel Hill. So clear was the desolation that he could almost make out the ruins of Wizard Whateley's plantation far below. Also now plainly visible along the well worn path were the party goers beginning to trail raggedly up the slope from a makeshift camp far down the glen. As he rounded a bend in the trail he came to the outskirts of the encampment consisting of an odd assortment of the gypsy caravan as well as the raggedest of tent cities. Not that squalid encampments were unknown to Waite, times had been hard everywhere,--- it was just coming face to face with squalor here in this otherwise a rural backwater.
Continuing to stroll faster he was almost caught up to the leading edge of an odd old time pilgrimage. Slowly advancing Waite tried not to press against anyone in that ragged mob. And as he passed the line kept forming as people laden with various festival gear including drums and other paraphernalia struggled to form a straggling line. Waite noticed that as the sun went down people were still slowly snaking up the hill in nightly procession. Waite pressed forward through the rather strangely repellent crowd forming up for their nightly trek. Now amongst the shambling party goers were mixed many of the sadly over pressed native peoples who had once populated these mountains. Waite wondered what could be the attraction of this motley horde. Who or what were these slightly repugnant peoples bearing some unsung totem from some obscure tribe. Waite remembered the cleanly lines of the Northern Pacific Coast Native Americans, but these were somehow of a vaguely mixed or slightly 'slanty eyed breed.' Waite was unaware of any insensitivity in the harshness of his condemnation. The people slowly filing by were what he regarded as of a slight taint, some vaguely inhuman physical characteristic. As he passed through the throng instead of a friendly greeting, the mingling strangers oddly pulled back from him making a strange sign, and when he failed to respond, were making another strange sign a sign of aversion and protection mixed with deep throaty grunting, in a strange language. Ooh wah oaoh Hobomok? Waite could not tell.
To Waite the only question in his mind was why did such a rabble congregate to drum and trouble the night as if straining to wake the dead? This strange group were apparently the source of the last nights interruptions of sleep and the disturbers of his peaceful quiet night.
And Waite was in an unquiet mood as he passed the line and continued to plod downhill and towards the Dunwich Road. At the trail head Waite turned back to avoid the swamp then switched back towards his own house, so snug up against the now darkening deep woods. Already chorus of Whippoorwills and bull frogs were commencing another ullulant chorus to greet the gloom of the night. Word had obviously traveled fast of his arrival amongst the degenerate community of Dunwich. Waite apparently had never considered such a cold suspicious homecoming. Who were they to shun him. Such an odd lot of celebrants coming from who knows where to squat on Whateley land. They probably were the 'bootleg whiskey guzzling Dunwichers' of whom he had read. Waite thought that he must inquire of the dour storekeeper afterwards about how to contact the county sheriff.
Returning home Waite found the journal again. As he strode in, in a bit of a huff, he could clearly see a chair again drawn up to the table. The same antique table as yesterday was now once again showing strange ledgers lying there again. Across the opened ledger was scrawled 'The promise to he who has returned. That ye should know the Whateley house is an old house. For he who takes up the task to serve the old ones will be rewarded with gold from the hidden secret chamber.
Such Gothic drivel thought Waite as he slumped in his chair and let go to a gentle dream of bliss. Slowly arousing from sleep and dreams Waite remarked to himself about the light of the moon in the cold dark air, and the whippoorwills and the damned pestilential drumming was likely to continue to near dawn, again! Waite resisted fully awakening as if he was wrapped in a gentle ennui, he rolled back over and dozed. How long he slept it was hard to tell but as he slept the moon slowly reached a peak and started to set.
Then he awoke startled in his dream, it was as if the mystic eye of the house had opened again. Bathed in the striated red light Waite was startled awake, someone vaguely remembered had spoken to him. He was to follow, for the revelation of a secret chamber. With a slight twist and turn of a loose stone a sound creaked and a hidden door was revealed. Dimly below him Waite as if thrall to the dream spirit could see vaguely limed the outlines of a long passage and steps as if into the hill. But suddenly progress was blocked. Another stone had slipped blocking the passage.

The Watchers Return Out of Time

Despite sleep troubled by dreams early morning found him refreshed and ready for the drive into Springfield. After lunch in a non too pretentious French restaurant in that city, he made his way to the public library where he introduced himself to the reference librarian, a balding middle-aged gentleman whose name Saul Clifton was proclaimed by a brass plaque that rested on his desk. To him Waite briefly explained the nature of his quest.
'Well! you have come to the right place, Mr. Waite,' said Saul. 'We do have some material on file of the house to which you refer, and on the Whateley family in general. The Whateleys are as you know an old armigerous family. They were amongst the earliest colonists to our shore. The Whateleys in England were originally Armour bearing esquires with their own unique armorial devices. Today the family has become sadly decadent. Our interest, though, is primarily with the not too distant past, not so much with the present.'
Saul then conducted Waite to the reading-room, where he was presented with a county history as well as with voluminous files. First he tackled the county history. As it was one of those heavy tomes, filled with biographical accounts by various hands, mostly members of the family, obviously published for profit. It had obviously been made chiefly for the members of the family mentioned within its pages. Most of this material was presumably factual yet hopelessly prosaic. A constant theme of cousin marrying cousin and of son succeeding father in an unbroken chain. The he found a photograph, rather poorly reproduced from an even poorer tintype, of Sirius Whateley. That photo awoke the patently absurd realization that it bore a disquietingly familiar resemblance to someone he had seen somewhere, sometime, long ago. The account of the life of his deceased ancestor Sirius Whateley was disappointingly brief. Sirius Whateley had acquired his home near Dunwich from one Dude Miles Hatter, a legatee of Sir Edward Orme, who had it built it in 1703, twenty years before he disappeared. After many years spent in Europe, Hatter had sold the house. So much for the origin of the house. And of Sirius Whateley there was little more; he too had traveled, married twice, and fathered two sons, one from each of his wives. One son had inherited the house while the other had left home as a young man and had been seen no more. Nothing was set down about Sirius Whateley's occupation other than that he was a landowner who had speculated in land. There was no independent entry on Abner Whateley, the son of Sirius who had inherited his property. The file on the Whateley family, was another matter, the various pieces were almost too numerous to track. It all began with a straightforward account of the Whateley family in Dunwich from the time of their coming into north central Massachusetts in 1699 from Arkham down to the publication of the county history in 1920. Much had evidently been assembled for inclusion in that volume. Foremost was an extensive family tree which included Abner and his lost brother, Charles.
There were many individual biographies, mainly in the form of obituary notices clipped from the Springfield Republican or the Arkham Advertiser. But there were also unclassified clippings which Waite chose to read with more care than the formal obituaries. Clearly some more imaginative soul than the average reference librarian had taken care that they too be included. These entries dealt mostly with country lore involving the Whateleys. One account bore reference to a fiery sermon by Reverend Abadon Headley, from pulpit of the Congregational Church at Dunwich in 1737:

'Tis said of a certain family in these parts that they do consort with the devil to raise up monsters, by magic means as well as by other iniquitous sins of the flesh. It must be allowed, that these blasphemies be of an infernal train of daemons and are matters here of too common knowledge to be denied. Many have frequently heard the cursed voices of the damned and also of those lost in perdition, first from under ground and now heard now from the air above by a score of credible witnesses now living. Not but a fortnight gone did I catch a very plain discourse of evil powers in the hill behind my house. Such an infernal and diabolical rattling and rolling, groaning, cursing, screeching, and hissing, such as no things natural to this earth cou'd raise up, have issued from those hidden caves, black magick alone can discover, where only the Diuell can unlock.'

Following that account came the notice:

Reverend Headley had vanished a month after delivering his fervent and ill advised sermon against the power of darkness.

Also found was another account of forty years later to that by a predecessor, Reverend Jethro Hogge, from the Arkham Methodist Church who had preached on the same subject:

'I too, have heard these noises in the hills, a loud and raucous caterwauling cacophony, not natural to our earth, of kakodaemonic howling, as of souls in torment. Be warned! You know of whom I speak!'

And in another notice was:

'An the account of the closing of the Methodist Church, by majority of the congregation, who have alleged a lack of prudence by the Reverend Jethro Hogge as well as through his unexplained absence.'

Inexplicably the Reverend Hogge had followed his colleague of four decades previously into some limbo of the lost.
Waite also found a thick manila folder contained various facetious clippings of a more or less none too serious nature about 'Odd Happenings Return to Dunwich,' One headline from the Arkham Advertiser announced

'Accounts of monsters' and was followed by a somewhat terse article about how some vague monstrosity had been conjured into some kind of illusory life by the bootleg-whiskey drinkers of Dunwich.'

Waite could not escape the notion that something had taken place at Dunwich, something so out of the ordinary, that though Miskatonic University had not entirely succeeded in keeping it out of the Advertiser, it had nevertheless been relegated to the merely apocryphal by association with the dissolute and licentious swillers of the filthy demon rum. It was associated with the events at Dunwich following the death of one Wilbur Whateley. Events which originated not in Dunwich at all, but within the grounds of Miskatonic University in Arkham! Some additional clippings from the Aylesbury Transcript were no less amusing, but attempted likewise to conceal the strange occurrences at Dunwich in that summer of 1928, culminating in September of that year, seven long years gone by.
There also had been mention by Dr. Henry Armitage, the librarian of Miskatonic University, connecting events in Dunwich with the definite fact of the mutilation and death of large number of cattle and livestock. Ominously also mentioned were the disappearances of several of the country people, but the names were garbled and altered. None were Whateleys, although a distant Bishop cousin was mentioned. Waite made a note to check into the possibility that Dr. Armitage might still be alive and willing to grant an interview, if he needed to go that far in his unearthing of Whateley family history. There certainly was nothing concrete to remark in the tales of the 'Goings on in the Dunwich country.'
The Whateley family tree was laden with names like Bishop, Hogge, and Marsh, so Waite had the strong suspicion that in fact the Reverend Hogge who had so unwisely leveled the charge of 'Unholy Doings' at Dunwich was a distant Whateley cousin. He scrutinized the family tree more attentively. As he sought for but did not find the Reverend Jethro Hogge there, though there were a round dozen of Hogges listed. Plainly, too, there was considerable intermarriage within the family. In fact it was painfully obvious of the frequent almost incestuous intermarriages between inbred family cousins, and of cousins marrying cousins. An Elizabeth Bishop had consummated her union to Abner Whateley, while Lavinia Whateley had married Ralso Marsh, and Blessed Bishop has wedded Edward Marsh. Waite was unpleasantly shocked to note just how decayed and degenerate inbreeding had increased the decadence in the family, an inbreeding where both branches not just the 'eddicated ones' had participated.
Waite was unsatisfied by what he had read, and when he sat back to contemplate it he was more than a trifle willing to dismiss what he could. Waite had of course already learned as much or more from the lawyer, Doyle. Much though could not be denied, Dunwich was a forgotten backwater and the multiple branches of the Whateley family were despised and decadent. The odd tales emanating from Dunwich may very well have been exaggerated by superstitious neighbors. Everywhere such degraded insular stock were much derided by those who considered themselves free of the taint of inbreeding. That alone coupled with outlandish and superstitious beliefs seemed to have justified the pandering to an ill educated and outlandish population of churlish and troglodyte, low life neighbors..
Sickened and disgusted Waite did not want to undertake any further reading which boiled down to the same oft repeated variations on the same theme of he said, she said--- Still that pervasive dark undercurrent had not only irresistibly bound him to what he had read but it went far beyond his ken or understanding.
Still he could not now take any more time to read further--- day was nearly done. So Waite closed the file and brought it back to the reference librarian.
'I trust it has been of some use to you, Mr. Waite,' said Saul Clifton.
'Yes, indeed it has. I thank you. I may return to study it a little further as time permits.'
'Certainly by all means, sir.' He then hesitated before asking, 'Do I take it you are related to the Whateleys?'
'I have inherited some property there, that is all' said Waite. 'I am not aware of any relationship. Of course, there may be some distant connection the family tree is quite extensive.'
'Forgive me,' said the librarian but I thought I knew some of the Whateley people. Some of your features bear a strong if superficial resemblance.'
Waite shuddered before replying, ---'I was not informed as to why my late father came into the property!'
'May I ask which property it is?'
'They call it the old Sirius Whateley place.'
Mr. Saul's face clouded. 'That Mr. Whateley was ---'
Waite interrupted, smiling. 'Don't tell me. I already am aware that the natives of Dunwich would have called him one of the eddicated' Whateleys.'
'I should say so, " rejoined the librarian.' 'But ---'
Waite interrupted 'And I can see that that puts a wholly different face on the presumed relationship, Mr. Saul. You needn't deny it.'
' I can't - er I won't. There really are some horribly terrible stories about the other Whateley branch. If you will, you may uncover some that those clippings you have examined treat very lightly, but there is a grain of truth in them. I am convinced that there are very strange and hideous things that have happened in Dunwich.'
'There are strange and hideous things in many remote backwater areas of the world,' said Waite. 'Dunwich is only one of them.'
He left the library with mixed emotions. While the possibility of a hidden relationship to the Whateley clan could not be easily dismissed, he was not happy at all to embrace such scandal. His father had said little about his family background, though he had not concealed the family's New England origin. He had also abruptly and somewhat perversely migrated just about as far as was possible and changed his name. That thought was not particularly pleasing but on the other hand he was not conscious of any particular antipathetic unhappy history, either. This newly discovered ambivalence of attitude troubled him. He felt simultaneously both deeply involved and sullenly withdrawn.
Returning to his house in the woods, California now seemed more remote than he would have thought possible. While the Dunwich country held an indefinable attraction he was not yet ready to buy into any tradition of such a highly irregular and distorted memory. It was not alone the wildness that held such a dark attractiveness to his eyes and to his imagination, but it was as well, its curious alienation from the surrounding world. As Waite pressed hastily and madly forward towards some looming collision with his lurking goal he was reminded that man's ever-increasing pace must be utterly destructive to all humanity, even civilization as we knew it.
When he reached the house it, seemed to anticipate him, as if it were waiting upon his return. The central room had been arranged for company and a chair was drawn up to the table where he found the ledgers again lying there. He crossed over and sat down to the table. He had not yet looked into the ledgers, so he lifted the cover of the top one, and saw before him a thin envelope. Across the face was scrawled:
'For Him Who Will come.' For Charles,' he read, 'Or the son of Charles, or the grandson of Charles, or he who comes After, Read that you may know, that you may prepare to wait for Those Who Watch, and fulfill that which is meant to be.'
No signature was attached but the writing was crabbed and uncertain.
He was too tired to read further but resolved to read the rest in the bright morning sun of another day.

To Be Continued

The Watchers Return Out of Time

Dunwich



Finally at length Waite spied a covered bridge across the Miskatonic where he could see a small village huddled between the stream and the vertical slope of Round Mountain,. At first delighted by the view Waite slowly began to wonder at the cluster of rotting gables an gambrel roofs bespeaking an earlier architectural period than that of the immediately neighboring region. Unfortunately it was not reassuring to see. On a closer glance he perceived that most of the houses were deserted and falling to ruin, and the sole broken steepled church now harbored the one slovenly mercantile establishment of the hamlet. Waite dreaded to trust the tenebrous tunnel of the bridge, yet there was no way to avoid it. Once across, Waite found it hard to prevent his nostrils from reeling before the impression of a faint, malign musky odor about the village street, as of the massed mold and decay of centuries. He had come to a place of somber desolation where the few men or women seen on the streets were gnarled and aged by more than the passage of time. Waite found it hard to suppress the thought that it would be a relief to get clear of the place, and to follow the narrow road around the base of the hills and cross the marshes back to the level country beyond where he could rejoin the Aylesbury pike and eventually return to civilization and his beloved California. Despite the mounting dread Waite determined to continue on until he crossed the threshold of the broken steepled church,and entered the general store, where he intended to inquire of the gaunt-faced storekeeper for directions to his inherited New England property.

'Abner Whateley!' the scarecrow storekeeper repeated, staring, as his wide-lipped mouth worked, 'Ye kin? Kin to Whateley's?'
'My name is Waite. I've come from California, to take possession of the family property that I have inherited near here.'
The gaunt storekeeper studied Waite, awhile before expostulating, 'Ye hev the Whateley look.' - Never heard none o' name o' Waite afore.'
'About the Whateley place, ' Waite curtly reminded him.
'Might be twenty such places heah'bouts. If it's Abner's place, it's shet up. '
'I have the Key,' expostulated Waite with ill-concealed irritation at the storekeeper's crooked, malign and mocking smile.
'Weel if ye go back crost the bridge, turn right, mebbe half a mile. Ye'll see it, stone fence in front medder, to'ards the river, dense wood t'other t'ree sides.'
'Twant Abner's-'twas Old Sirius Whateley, the smart one, the eddicated one.' The storekeeper spat out with a sneer, ' Ye'1l be eddicated, too,Ye dress like it.'
'Cal Berkeley,' said Waite.
'Weel, I ain't ne'er heerd uv it,' I'm Tobit Whateley. Ye're likely kin. Tek' keer out there. Ain't nobody, nobody livin', in thet house, but ch'ou tek keer jest the same.'


Sirius Whateley House


Such foreboding, set ill with Waite. Superstition was not part of his education. He left the store with a pained edge of apprehension, got in his car and drove off.
The house was not difficult to find, despite Tobit Whateley's quaintly spoken directions. Shortly he was standing in the meadow across from the rutted drive staring at an antique house that was evidently far older than the time of Abner or even of Sirius Whateley. It was dignified if somber and was surrounded by Hemlock, Cedar, Rhododendron and Laurel that merged into the thick woods on all sides but the front. The architecture of the house itself was not later than early eighteenth century, certainly it was pre-revolutionary. The lines were classic and most unlike the dilapidated and worn houses of the village and the farms seen from along the road and from the Aylesbury Pike. It was a trim wooden structure, rising from a base of brown sandstone rocks, thick-walled. A story and a half in height, with a central section that rose markedly taller than the wings. It was graced with a broad and spacious veranda crossing the front. The central section, framed a Queen Anne door with a large and ornate brass knocker. Around the door and fanlight were elaborate mystical carvings, of some exotic cast. An ornamentation in odd contrast to the severity of the thick paneled oaken door. Obviously the house had at one time been painted white, but many, many years had passed since last a coat of paint had been applied to it. Now its general appearance suggested brown rather than white, but the house had a certain hard to place look about it. Despite the age the faded paint was not cracked or peeling as one might have expected from a house that had been weathered and without paint for so many decades.
As was to be expected he found many out buildings to the rear of the house. Most prominent was a spring house of fieldstone, where a freshet ran out from under it toward the Miskatonic beyond the meadow. Along the left side of the house, but some two yards removed from it ran a lane that had once been a driveway, leading from the road toward the outbuildings. A driveway, so long unused that sizable trees now grew in it. Waite could drive no farther than just in from the road. The key Doyle had given him fitted smoothly into the brass lock on the front door. But not so surprisingly the door stuck a little, since it had not been opened since the death of the last resident, cousin Abner's mysterious companion. By the bright early evening light Waite espied that the door opened into a hallway that ran the length of the front of the house. As far as Waite could determine at a glance, it faced upon a pair of handsome mahogany double-doors. These, too, were locked, but in the smaller ring of keys, also given him by Doyle, Waite found the key to it as well.
The House despite being remote from a well traveled highway surprised Waite at the lack of vandalism. Not a cracked or shattered glass was anywhere to be seen. But he was if anything even more astonished to find the room fully furnished, and in excellent condition, save for minimal dust and lint. Obviously, nothing had been disturbed here. Waite found it quite odd that such a remote house standing alone in the decadent, decayed and deserted countryside should have escaped the vandalism common to all abandoned buildings. More astounding was the richness of the period architecture and of it's antique furniture. Furniture of far greater value than was ordinarily found even in the most expensive shops specializing in such furniture.
This central room accounted for the tallness of the central section. The ceiling was ten feet from the floor. At the far wall stood a massive stone fireplace framed in Walnut woodwork, and exquisitely paneled. To the right Waite found masked in an alcove a hidden pullout desk with a cabinet above it. The chimney wall was notably crowned by an intricately carved ornament, towards the center of which was set a curious convex lens within a circle half a foot diameter. The lens was not glass but some obscure crystalline material. Surrounding the ornament was triangular frame with it's apex reaching almost to the ceiling. Waite had the fleeting notion of an eye set in a triangle.
From the fireplace area bookshelves encircled the room otherwise only broken only by the doors. These shelves were laden with very many old books. Old books of probably great value with curved spines and uncut pages, printed on a fine old parchment paper. Finding nothing more recent than a Dickens, Waite was very impressed by the plethora of leather-bound tomes in Latin and other languages. Amongst which were to be found many others of rare value. Here was a Trithemius' Poligraphia. And there was Giambattista Porta's De Furtivis Literarum Notis. Also found were De Vigenere's Traite des Chiffres, and Falconer's Cryptomenysis Patefacta. He was amazed to find such rare delights as Davys' and Thicknesse's eighteenth-century treatises as well as the mysterious Novem Portis de Umbrarum Regni of Aristide Torchia.
Crowning the book case was a large and old fashioned brass bound telescope; while here and there were many small ornaments. Amongst the even rows of books and carvings, were a number of small brass statuary of the well known Gods of classical antiquity, and also what appeared to be other ancient artifacts in some unknown metal possibly an amalgam of gold obviously of unknown pre pagan origin. On the massive table that occupied the middle of the room lay a large and dusty old ledger amidst papers, pen and ink, and several other smaller ledgers possibly day books as well as accounts, lying about as if but recently left there, and waiting to be put to use again. Waite found it hard to imagine what manner of accounts might have been kept by the previous occupant of the house so he furtively crossed to the table and opened the largest of the ledgers. Although there were no numbers or accounts it's many pages were filled with a cramped but fine script phrased in such terms as might have been expected in a common diary or day book. Bending over Waite read:
'Taken the boy and gone, leaving no word; but it will not matter; They will know where he has gone.'
And then further down he read:
'No question but he is gone, I must make a note to ask Wilbur to tell if he will.'
And still further he read:
'The fires have been set on Sentinel Hill, and the whippoorwills are screeching all night long even as on the night the Old Man, Wizard Whateley passed on.'
All the dates of the ledger, journal or diary were vague and barely to be made out but to Waite some seemed to be in early 1928, possibly before the apocryphal but frequently mentioned troubles had so badly upset the region.
Turning slowly Waite closed the book and turned away. Momentarily he became aware of a small sound that had been subdued but present in the house all along, he recognized it, it was like the ticking of a clock. A clock! He was astonished. Looking around he saw an alcove close to the door with a curious, hand carved clock almost three feet tall. Someone must have entered the house to set it. Yet no one living had been here as far as anyone knew for three years. Someone must have set it, but who? The clock itself was covered with strange serpentine coil designs of primitive creatures belonging possibly to the cephalopods but of some utterly alien prehuman era. Suddenly stifling memories flooded him with terror of a vague, misty reality in the murky remotest corner of memory, like a disturbing, shocking, familiar terror of some , lost recollection of his childhood. He vaguely remembered knowing the fantastic clock that was intended to tell more than just time, for the numerals and lettering on its face clearly pertained to much more than minutes and hours, perhaps days or even longer! Also present were a number of signs and sigils of an unknown origin or meaning.
Pulling away from the clock he withdrew from the room intent on discovering if anything else in the old building held the odd fascination of its central room. If he had hoped to discover anything else less temporal he was temporarily disappointed. While There was more of the house to examine and to be seen, the remainder of the house was sparely furnished, and completely ordinary. On the ground floor were two master bedrooms, as well as a dining-room, kitchen with pantry and storeroom. Upstairs under the gables he found three cramped storage rooms as well as a third additional bedroom. The cramped gable room was intimate and cozy, but none too commodious as the second story of the house was interrupted by the slope of the roof. His architectural interest was piqued for there were a sort of unique dormer windows designed to repeat the shape of the gables.
Waite decided that if he wished to add photographs of the house to his extensive collection of architectural details there was no time like the present to take a sequence of pictures, while the light remained before the sun slipped down the western rim of the heavens. Already long shadows of the dark woods pressed hard upon the building. Descending he went back down the narrow stairway and out to his car, got out his camera and other paraphernalia, and made it ready to begin with the exteriors by taking pictures of the house from every direction particularly the elevated dormered gables set in the gambrel arches. Moving inside, Waite continued the set with a close-up of the clock and its strange face. Last of all, Waite paused to snap a few pictures of the 'eye in the triangle in it's carved setting above the fireplace to complete his photographic record for future reference. Waite passed for now on to the collection of familiar classical glass ornaments as the light was now nearly gone.
By this time with the faint daylight turning to the fairy gloaming that precedes night, he had to decide whether he would try to drive to a nearby town in search of a room for the night or whether he would stay here for now. In view of the surprising almost unnatural cleanliness of the house, it seemed foolish to drive the possibly untold miles to go anywhere else to spend the night. Instead he made his plans to sleep, in the cozy gable bedroom and brought in his luggage. It was only then that he realized that he must go out again because he needed some minimal supplies. He reasoned that because his appetite was light no extensive preparation was necessary. He could make do with cookies, crackers, cereal, milk, bread and butter. Better yet if he could find some fresh fruit, and whatever farm cheese was available. He also would need fuel for the empty kerosene lamps in the pantry. Possibly also a few candles. He felt it unfortunate that he would need to return to Dunwich and it's dour faced storekeeper for his supplies. But at the same instant he also admitted to a compulsion to get there and back before total darkness descended upon the alien countryside. So he locked the house and set out at once.
As Waite mounted the steps to the store disconcerted more than just a little, for on entering the converted steeple store he was again greeted by the gaunt faced shopkeeper who had evidently been expecting him. The mystified Waite explaining his return visit to the village for groceries and kerosene. While greedy for his money, Tobit Whateley struggled to hide his look of shock, for though he had been expecting his return visit, he had not expected him to stay. Whateley was quick to recover knowing that he was lucky to have a well heeled customer in this decrepit hamlet of reclusive rural inhabitants. He knew from long experience that this remote area had little or no need for even a lunch counter much less a restaurant or an Inn.
Without giving Whateley an opportunity to reply, Waite rattled off his list of the things he wanted. A pound of what was that cheddar? and a pint of milk preferably not goats milk and a box of dry oatmeal. Oh and yes whatever tinned crackers and biscuits were available. Waite passed over the non too fresh looking bread and finally he asked after some apples from the barrel.
Still Whateley stood unmoving, staring at Waite in a speculative manner.
'Yew aim to stay?' he finally asked, in a tone that dripped with disbelief.
'Overnight at least,' Waite said. 'Maybe a little bit longer. Long enough to make up my mind what to do with the property.'
'What to do?' Whateley stuttered in manifest astonishment!'
Waite calmly stated 'I may put it up for sale.'
Whateley choked back a sneer, gave him a startled then baffling look before choking out. 'T'ain't even a Whateley'd buy it. Much less stay in it! None o' the eddicated Whateleys 'ed want a thing to do with it an, the others --- wal t'others 're tied down to places all their own.' These chary locals with hearts like flint and empta' pockets were unlikely to even afford the back taxes much less pay a mortgage or to sign a lease agreement.' He then spit out as if the possibility were too unlikely to contemplate. 'Ye'd hef to git in an outsider.'
Waite, responded curtly, 'I am an outsider.'
'Ye kin tell it! Ye'll not be stayin' long, I reck'n. Ye kin sell it from Springfield or Arkham or Bosting on spec'lation, ye will nay find a buyer in these heah pahts.'
Waite was stunned, 'Mr. Whateley, That house is in perfect condition.'
Tobit, gave Waite a fierce, blazing stare as he replied, 'Ain't ye been aksin' yerself who kep' it thet way? Nobody's lived in that house since Increase died. Nobody's bin near it, three years naow. Cousin, I couldn't git a body around here to so much as bring ye yer groceries up thar.'
Waite, responded 'Locked up as tight as it was, it's not likely the house would be much run down. Three years isn't a long time--- Abner Whateley's been dead seven, but who was Increase?'
Tobit replied 'Increase Bowen, was a companion. I dun't know who he was or what he was. Nobudy ever know'd naught but maybe the devil,' As Tobit spoke he continued to give Waite a hard, challenging stare. 'No 'un as knowed who he wuz ner whar he come from. He just belonged to Abner. 'One day he was jist thar, he was allus thar! Increase follered Abner like a dog, So they say that Abner owned him. An' then one day he warn't thar No mur! So they just said he died.'
'Who claimed his body, then?'
'No body to claim,' said Whateley brusquely. No body and no one to claim it if there wur a body.
As Tobit,Whateley continued to regarded him with contempt, Waite became aware that he was missing some basic knowledge he ought to have. Waite, found this rather galling, that Whateley an unmistakable bumpkin whose education was notably lacking,--- that was probably left behind in the grades, could harbor such ill concealed scorn! The wiser than thou, fool of a storekeeper was irritating Waite close to the breaking point.
It was not just that the storekeeper's attitude was that of an ignorant yokel, Waite found it repugnant that so ill bred a being was antipathetic to him the educated man, but that was to be expected . But that he could not break through the hostility even by his offering to spend hard cash, that was humiliating. How could he Waite, a stranger new come to Dunwich know what was otherwise common knowledge. Or what should be common knowledge to an educated cousin of the Whateleys of Dunwich. As his irritation grew his perplexity also grew in proportion.
Tobit Whateley continued his talk to Waite filled with odd allusions, strange half leering stares and puzzling references. As he talked he kept glancing at Waite almost hopefully as if to catch some sign of comprehension, Waite might not otherwise be willing to betray. As the storekeeper put Waite's order together Tobit volunteered that while Abner Whateley was as shunned by the educated Whateleys as by the decayed branch of the family, Increase Bowen was feared and hated. Bowen had always remained a shadowy figure whose description in Whateley's monologue was as gaunt and brown of skin, black of eyes, and bony hands. He had never seen him eat, and he never come after Abner died for food, or aught else for that matter. 'Whal thar was all' us chickens and onct a hog and twict a caow gone.' People said 'dark hateful things. Increase Bowen was as hated as he was loathed and he was feared, even fearsomely avoided not that he was ever about all that much to be avoided.'
It was Waite's conclusion that the inbred Dunwicher's resentment toward Bowen; was considerably more than the prejudice of the times. Dislike for darkies was normal. Even more normal was the dislike ignorant country people always harbored towards outsiders in their midst. What was it that Whateley sought in his randomly unguarded, to sly, then quite frank glances at Waite's eyes. Was that some sort of sign that he gave? What reaction was he looking for? Whateley gave Waite a profoundly uneasy conviction that he was expected to react in a certain way. He had received some unrecognized sign but he was unable to respond with the required counter sign. What that sign and counter sign was to remain a mystery to Waite. Neither did his uneasiness abate when he left the country store and drove out of Dunwich. Frustrated and angry Waite drove back unsafely, uncharacteristically too rapidly. He was startled when he came to an abrupt stop at his house in the woods for he still had not resolved the problem.
After his frugal dinner, he walked outside in the softly glowing dusk, thinking what he should he do. He thought that it would be folly, to listen to the storekeeper. For all he knew Tobit Whateley had his own secret motives? Perhaps he might offer the property for sale as far away as Boston. Although even Arkham might be out of the question because of the distance over bad roads. Dunwich had nothing to attract a potential buyer from the coastal towns. Dunwich was in fact too far from any urban center. He started to wonder what had inspired folks to come in the first place, forgetting that Dunwich was early on the chosen haven for those who had escaped the witch persecution and terror of another long ago day. He thought that he might advertise it for sale in Springfield. Dunwich was not too far from that city, however the thought was dawning in his mind that the unsavory and repugnant reputation of Dunwich might have long ago reached Springfield. Without conviction he turned the problem over in his mind. No matter how bad the local reputation of Dunwich, would that deter investors?
Besides he was not certain about wanting to move so precipitously; the house was in rare condition. It's well preserved antiquity outweighed any nasty reputation it had accrued. He was interested, on the verge of obsession by the odd hints and suggestions first casually dropped by the lawyer, Doyle, now slyly thrown out by Tobit Whateley. No obstinate local with a hidden agenda was going to rob Waite of his inheritance. Such thoughts were beginning to persuade Waite to demur awhile longer. Did he need to make haste to dispose of it? However much part of him wanted to be off to California once more, he had determined that there was much more to learn about the house before he offered it for sale.
He paced up and down turning the problem over in his mind as dusk deepened toward night and the stars began to shine. Arcturus rose over the house then Spica, and Vega rose in the northeast, finally the last of the winter constellations Capella and the Heavenly Twins were followed by Taurus and great Orion with the Dogs under the western rim of the sky, low in the west. Waite thought to himself how lovely the stars were tonight.
After all the evening was fragrant with the exhalation of a herb-like musk from the woods. And besides the Miskatonic was near. Waite relished the fresh-water smell welling up from the nearby brook. Waite then first took notice of a rising tide of sound not only emanating from the near woods but distantly from the hilltops around Dunwich. He reflected upon the differences between night in the New England countryside and his native California where he had grown up. Neither the Gull nor the Tern was to be heard here in north central Massachusetts, but whippoorwills seemed to be vociferous indeed, as well as the harsh cries of of nighthawks which rang out from above now and then. They were accompanied by the booming sound of wind in their wings as they plummeted downward and vaulted up again. And then there were the batrachian voices! In a rising, ululant chorus they seemed to rise from the river and pond and every bog within range. But as he listened, he became aware of other sounds, stranger sounds that did not emanate from avian or even batrachian throats, piping fluting cries, certainly not frog or toad. He quit walking and stood to listen. He surely heard eerie distorted voices, voices even as of men chanting, crying out, and shouting from on high at some great distance away. Above the gentle wind was also heard faintly far away distant low drumming. He decided directly that they must come from some hollow beyond the hilltops. From the crests beyond the massive round hills above his house and from behind Dunwich there now appeared a glow in the dark heavens, as of a bonfire that was burning there. Also as if in answer came other oddly disturbing sounds not from any known animal but sounds never heard before. Waite was suddenly aware of an utterly alien sound filled with darkness and an hideous suggestiveness. Now and then the sound rose to a shrieking crescendo as of no known earthly origin. A sound which eventually fell back again into the expected normal pattern, blending with the voices of the dark woods and the marshes, and somehow making a troubling harmony with the incessant calling of the whippoorwills and the frogs.
He concluded finally that Doyle's casual references to the strangeness and remoteness of Dunwich might not have been a vain reference but actually pertained to certain quaint and outlandish local customs of the inhabitants. Whatever deviltry was going on in the hills that night might well be one. He did not wish to spend the rest of the evening in this uncertain fashion so he shrugged himself free of further concern, went into the house, intent upon developing the photographs he had taken. Earlier he had brought in his materials. With the hand pump in the kitchen for his source of water, any room in the house could serve as his dark room. The house was darker by far than the starlit woods outside but with the absence of electricity, it would take some doing. As the first of his prints emerged from the developing solution he peered intently at the results. He was not entirely satisfied with the Views he had taken of the interior of the house. After study he decided that the curious central room was the vortex around which the remainder of the house seemed to have been constructed but that hypothesis needed more work. Especially after he found the photograph of the decoration on the wall above the fireplace. It was uncommonly odd, even disturbing. The glass eye now seemed clouded where it had seemed clear before. As he studied it he became disquieted; he did not want to believe what he imagined he saw, and he distinctly disliked what he saw. So he returned to his provisional dark-room, found the negative of the fireplace wall, and set out enlarging the section with the ornament in the center. After this he peered closely at the result. Now perceptible within the 'clouding' he saw what was the unmistakable outline in the foreground of two human faces. One was a bearded old man, who looked directly out of the glass, while the other seemed to possess a lean brownish, leathery, parchment like face free of any hair, with the skin drawn tight over the bones looking out deferentially from slightly behind the first. Behind the older man there were other vague and shadowy forms.
What was this? An optical illusion, the photograph could not lie, and the outlines could not be dismissed off hand as an illusion. Waite found it so very odd that he had not seen these outlines before when he had looked at the ornament. Perhaps he had been overly hasty, perhaps the light had reflected from the glass in such a way as to blur the outlines beyond recognition. He was certain that he could find some scientific reason for what he saw in the photos.
As he returned to the study, carrying one of the lamps he had lit, he stealthily approached the open doors, where he was further upset to see light flickering in the room, as if a lamp was burning there, but he had not been in the room at all! How could a lamp be lit? As he stood, transfixed he realized the source of the glow was not any earthly lamp at all but the glass eye in the carved triangle above the fireplace. Now it was clouded, then it was opalescent and seethed with color and then it swirled with movement, reflecting a pale light across the rooms; as if some life within had reached out to make itself felt. Somehow while the eye was milky as a moonstone, it also flashed with hidden colors. Now opal-roseate, then pale green, misty blue, and finally an angry red flake striated with a bright yellow gamboge, as well as some other shades that hinted of colors beyond the normal spectrum of the rainbow.
As he stood and watched the swirling colors, abruptly change back to seething clouds in the glass eye; he turned abruptly and went back to where he had put down the lamp. Lamp in hand, he now advanced confidently into the room, but its light instead of brightening became subdued he also seemed to detect a diminishing effect on the glow of the eye in the wall. The swirling clouds now settled, and grew still. The light faded and the glinting colors became motionless. He waited upon it but nothing happened. All was now still.
In one corner of the room was a small stepladder for use in reaching the top shelves of the books cases surrounding the walls. Waite put it over against the fireplace wall, and caught up the lamp again. Next he climbed the ladder lamp in hand, until he stood almost abreast of the uncommon ornament. First he examined the mysterious eye itself. Though he was no expert he felt reasonably that it was not any common form of glass, in fact he could not be sure that it even was glass. Were it not for its uncommon size, it might have been an opal. But it was not that, either. Fully baffling as well was the carving which framed it. The eye appeared only in what was its optical center, while the outer frame was a carved triangular pediment. Paradoxically the carving which at first glance, had appeared to be classically conventional in design was now, seen to be no prosaic terrene scene but rather one of some strange and abhorrent Cepalopod like incipient cosmic horror crept up from the pit of darkest night. For in the light of the lamp was revealed a figure which bore a disquieting resemblance to a vast collosal winged octopoid being, utterly unearthly and unbearable to look upon. The convex circle of glass was now revealed as the huge angry open eye now opaque to sight, but still cloudy with a pale unearthly light that shifted oddly from a strong fascinating source of luminosity to an eerie mystery incapable of solution at this point in time.
Reluctantly Waite backed down the ladder until he stood below and looked back up at the carving engraved within the triangular frame. While undeniably octopoid, it was not a common octopi of that he was certain. But rather a winged and particularly hideous dragon like bestiality.
He then put out the light and waited upon the effect of darkness.
At first all was black, so Stygian was that darkness that it was impossible to distinguish even the walls. But in a few scant moments a wan iridescence began to pulse again and to emanate from the convex eye which morphed into an agitated cloudscape in the grip of a typhonian violent wind. The colors now were much more brilliant. Waite was left grasping to find some explanation of its extraordinary properties. A compulsion impelled him to gaze at it. He was as a bird caught by a snake in some insidious yet ambiguous, ill defined yet immense dimensions of cosmic spaces beyond the comfort of earth. As he stared into the eye he was drawn into the vortex of dream speculation of another world and of the strange and terrible inhabitants as of a Bosche painting. His attention to the eye in the wall was not voluntary, something outside himself compelled him to gaze at it and to stare until he became absolutely absorbed by some malignant influence he could not define. Waite was profoundly disturbed it was as if he was falling into a vast bottomless pit. Almost drunk with the ambiguous, ill-defined concept of vast dimensions and spaces beyond the terrestrial scene familiar to him. He took a few moments for his equilibrium to return before he relit the lamp.
Abruptly the glow of the convex eye vanished once again. Impossibly the room to become prosaic again. Whatever had troubled him had flown from the light. Consciously relieved, he wiped away a fine beading of sweat that had begun to form on his forehead. His experience had been so extraordinary that he sat down shakily and tried to think: how? why? what? The eye was obviously far more than ornamental, but who had put it there? Examining it with greater care in the lamplight he could find nothing to indicate its age. Surly it had been installed at the time the house had been built. Yet by what unknown technique could so outre a vision have come? It surely was some lost relic of some unknown creation. He must learn something about its construction; and as it was very probably older than any living inhabitant of Dunwich, but they would not tell, he would have to search somewhere else. He also must discover what he could about the previous inhabitants of the house. Whoever they were had the others experienced such sudden shocking transcendent views within the orb of the eye in the carving? The thought that the experiences of others might have transcended his filled him with dread and apprehension. Conversely he also felt a simultaneous sense of excitement and discovery. Obviously to accomplish this now dreaded but necessary goal, to research his strange experience he must put off any other plans. His must stay at Abner Whateley's house. Any return to sunny California climes would have to be put off far longer than he had ever intended.
Completely sobered, he descended the ladder again and resolutely put the extraordinary eye in the wall out of his thoughts. He then climbed the stairs to the gable room where he had chosen to sleep. After all it was now past mid evening and he was tired. He opened the window to find all outside was as before. He registered the raucous whippoorwills and frogs as well as the unusual cries and sounds from the dark hills. Facing towards the seemingly sleeping village of Dunwich he looked out and saw that the fire on Sentinel Hill behind him as well as the Round Mountain had gone out but another fire crowned a different hill across the valley on far side of the road that led to Aylesbury Pike. Also More sounds so unusual to his ears seemed to come from that direction. Not just the distant drumming but some oddly disturbing discordant chanting arose accompanied by somewhat vaguely pandaemonic, that was rising, now howling, to disturb his already frayed and nearly shattered equanimity.
He undressed and got into the chosen bed, but, tired though he was, he could not yet get ready for sleep. Too many thoughts churned in his mind, especially the obbligato of the irregular night sounds from the outside. The leering Tobit Whateley might have more to tell him, that is if he would tell him. But what he really needed was to find one of the 'eddicated' Whateleys. Waite was clinging hopefully to learn something scientific, more fact and less superstition. And he especially could do without the leering hints and scornful dark references. Waite reasoned, the public library in Springfield also might offer some data about the building of the house perhaps, the Whateley family history could be found there, surely much history must be extant of the amerigous Whateley family, who were obviously so prominent locally for far more than just several generations in the shunned and backward Dunwich country.
Lying still he slowly grew conscious of the presence of Abner Whateley's house as somehow an alien entity that suffered him illy as a guest. Something was somehow sentiently alive on its own terms, with a heart that was surely in the study below. Perhaps some ghostly residue from some evil unhallowed past was present to give the house its irrational being. Some animate force must be drawing all to itself. Something that was so strong that he had to exert all of his will to prevent himself from leaving his cozy nook and his warm bed to descend to that room once more. He found it extraordinary to find himself prey to irrational fear yet such as drew him with dread fascination, nay dire apprehension, even alarm. He strongly felt for the first time ever preternatural fear and a species of supernormal awareness, as if he lay on the threshold of some momentous discovery where he waited deluded turning upon the hour to bring him to the supreme knowledge that would confer upon him some dread immortality.
At last, past midnight, he finally slept. Undisturbed now, even the insistent whippoorwills had fallen silent yet the frogs still chorused and something still piped, low. Finally the night was still and way past and after midnight even the sounds from the surrounding hills ceased. But his sleep was troubled by many strange and bizarre dreams of a never before experienced remote childhood and of a terrible grandfather that he knew only in that dream. So young had he been when his family had removed to the distant west that he had but a vestigial memory of that old man, his father's father. Waking between dreams of vast, megalithic buildings, and of alien landscapes of cold spaces far out in the universe among the stars, he became slowly and deeply aware of a constant pulsing in the house, as if it had a secret heartbeat throbbing within its very walls.

The Watchers Return Out of Time

The Letter


Early in the spring of 1935 a strange parcel arrived at the home of Walter Waite, of Bolinas, California. on opening the parcel it proved to be a long communication from the law firm of Stephen Doyle, of Doyle, Moylan, Pressley & Lowe of 73 Basin Street, Arkham, Massachusetts addressed to his deceased father, Charles Waite, now seven years dead. In the communication reference was made to 'ancestral property' in Massachusetts. The property, consisting of a house and various outbuildings was located in North Central Massachusetts, near Springfield. Additionally attached to to the house were fifty acres partially in overgrown pasturage, orchard, and woodlot. It had remained untenanted for some time now.
Walter Waite had no memory of his father ever mentioning property. All Waite really knew was the rugged north coast of California with only a vague memory of a distant land from which his family had migrated to the sleepy fishing village of Bolinas, north of San Francisco after some trouble, back east. The elder Waite had been an exceedingly close-mouthed man who never mentioned or referred to the past, a strangely troubled man who after death of wife had grown increasingly more withdrawn and depressed. He was a recluse and a morose shut in with solitary introspections, who made little attempt to communicate with anyone. Father Waite' had one peculiar habit of studying Walter's features, with apprehension as if he saw something that he did not like. During his terminal years he had developed the disturbing habit of shaking his head forbiddingly in the presence of his son. Although he loved his son he did not like anything about his features. It was not the fine chiseled nose or the abnormally wide mouth so much as the nearly lobe less ears, and the slightly bulging protuberant pale watery blue eyes and his strangely folded and mottled neck skin. As if some haunting characteristic of genetic taint reminded the elder Waite of somewhat he did not care to remember.
Because of Walter Waite's isolated way of life his favorite pastime was reading. He found the notion of returning to his native state of Massachusetts, to be very romantic. Not that he loathed the often cold fog shrouded coast with the roaring boomers of the north Pacific swell, or the long journey to any nearby civilization, but after his neglected and insular upbringing any change seemed good. As he pondered for two days, his initial perplexity, as to who or what, gave place to a more intense curiosity until his reluctance thinned and dissipated. As he pondered the change to a distant coast, an odd anticipation rose in him. Inherited New England property seemed attractive in a hazy mysterious way.
In due course he booked a flight to Boston and within the week, presented himself at the offices of Doyle, Moylan, Pressley & Lowe at 73 Basin Street in Arkham. At his first meeting with the lawyer Doyle, Waite was impressed by a person physically aged but not infirm. While Stephen Doyle was very professional and courteous, he at the same time remained somewhat aloof and distant. A Yankee personality type strange to Waite who was more accustomed to the less tight lipped, and more open, even boisterous natives of the golden state. Despite this initial difficulty in perception Stephen Doyle was all business when it came to the topic of the real estate in question. Doyle though initially reluctant admitted that the property had been allowed to languish hidden because it had been overlooked by a relative and former senior partner as an unsettled estate. The papers had been left behind as the senior partner had retired in ill health. Most unfortunately to Doyle who must now admit to the lapse, the matter of the estate that had languished with his cousin, must now be expedited. Because of the unfortunate demise of this former partner very little was known of the matter of the ownership of the house or of the missing heir. During an internal audit of the assets of the law firm by the new senior partners, the papers relating to the property had been discovered in a neglected bin. Doyle had committed all of his resources to finding the missing heir and had exercised all due haste in settling the inheritance.
The house and property had originally been inherited from a distant cousin, Sirius Whately but it had belonged, following the death of Waite's father to a stepbrother, Abner Whateley who had inhabited the house and property until his own death. Unfortunately the notation, in the will was written in cramped style, as with a crabbed and uncertain hand and could not be satisfactorily read. Particularly so was a paragraph in execrably bad Latin referring to an alteration in name, and a family relocation, but whose name and what location had not been altogether clear. There had been that trouble in 1928, and a lot of things had changed. Luckily the Sirius Whately line was otherwise well documented in the records of the state of Massachusetts. Almost despite the continual decline in the stock of old armigerous families in the now blighted area of Dunwich, the Whateleys had at one time been a prominent family of some note. Some research amongst old letters and court documents had finally led to the discovery that his father was born a Whateley but had changed his name to Waite and migrated to California under a veil of secrecy. Because contact was cut off he had subsequently become lost until he had recently been found.
The property was located near the tiny village of Dunwich and was known as the old Sirius Whateley estate. It was here on this property that his father's stepbrother the late Abner Whateley had spent his declining days. To Walter Waite the confusing similarity of names meant nothing. His mother had told him that he had been two years old when his family had reached California. His father never mentioned any relatives on this side of the continent, and had little correspondence with anyone except in the last year of his life. There had been some mystery that he intended to dispel but he had been stricken by a stroke which had deprived him of all mobility and speech. After the stroke it was only with extreme difficulty that he could use his eyes to indicate that he had wanted to speak. Unfortunately he died without ever regaining any of his abilities. He could not set down anything in writing. 'After the discovery of the delinquency in locating the heirs the ever thoughtful and cautious Doyle firm had been forthright in coming to a decision in regard to the problem and had made inquiries indicating that Walter Waite of Bolinas, California was the missing heir and solely entitled to the inheritance.
Part of the problem was with the country surrounding Dunwich which was north central Massachusetts, and as I wrote, was a decayed, despised and unpopular backwater, even by local standards. In Aylesbury they called it 'Whateley country' because in that country so many of the old farms mailboxes show the former presence of that once great family. Many farms are now deserted, especially since the trouble in 1928. The area which was always considered obscure and decadent had been a secret retreat for those fleeing from the persecutions of Salem witchcraft. It was located in the heart of the desolate mountains in the old tribal region of the now extinct Pocumtuck Indians. In Dunwich the antique estate still stands, in remarkably good shape despite Abner Whateley having been dead seven years and a companion three. Someone should have written at once on Whateley's death, but my cousin the former senior partner had been in precarious health for several years before he died. I suppose it was for that reason that the matter slipped from mind. I take it you have your own means of transportation?'
'I bought a car in Boston to see the Eastern States. I am particularly interested in visiting the historic areas of Boston Commons, Bunker Hill and the northern interior all the way to Walden Pond. It cannot be too far to inspect the property as I travel along my route.'
'What do you plan to do with the property, ? If you don't mind my asking.'
'I will have to make up my mind after I see it. I might return to California as I do not find New England, very encouraging. Worse I have no hope of selling the property at a fraction of it's true value if as you report the country is as decayed and of an unsavory reputation as you seem to indicate. Could the strange tales about Dunwich, be any stranger than the tales told of other remote corners of the world? Doyle then admitted that 'the reports and stories were probably very much exaggerated, by local prejudice, not without some malice directed in general towards the Whateley family after the trouble of 1928.' Waite then sensed that the tight mouthed Doyle was not inclined to repeat any specific tales, even if he had ever heard any of them. 'How do I get to Dunwich, if it is so far off the beaten path?' 'From Arkham to Walden Pond is easy, go south then west, later you can rejoin the Aylesbury Pike near Concord and take the long northern loop from Springfield through to Dunwich. It is located at the end of particularly bad roads, quite off the beaten path. On the way one must pass through the heavily wooded mountainous terrain of picturesque dairy farms before one encounters somewhat more backward country. Past Springfield take the Aylesbury Pike toward Rowley, then west to Dean's Corners, turn left at the junction and continue. You will be turning into the American past, --the far past.'

Waite turned away with keys and map and took the short route to Walden pond where he reflected briefly upon Thoreau before returning to the Aylesbury Pike and the mystery of his inheritance. Traveling in north central Massachusetts once past Springfield and the fork at the junction of Aylesbury pike just beyond Dean's Corners, Waite quickly found himself in a lonely and curious country. As the terrain got higher Waite began to travel past rising brier bordered stone fences as he began to dodge the ruts in the dusty curving road. He noticed that the fences were broken down in places with field stones scattered along the walls as the road wound round and further into the hills. Waite also noticed as he frequently passed the too large great old trees of the forest belts, that the wild weeds, brambles and grasses attain a strange luxuriance not normally found in the settled regions. The bramble and brier covered fences surrounded the barren fields and empty pastures of a sparsely settled country where he found only a singularly few barren and sparsely scattered houses bearing a surprisingly uniform facade of age, squalor, and dilapidation. What occasional farms he passed wore a disturbing aspect of age, and depressing desertion.
This increasing wildness did not please Waite who was increasingly disappointed. He had had an especial interest in photographing old buildings of colonial New England. He had missed much of the gables and gambrel roofed architecture of the older parts that he had left far behind in search of his inheritance. Continuing into the wild and strange country Waite found squalid farms close to the road. Some were decked with curious decorative motifs, like old barns with hex signs and other cabalistic designs on the gables. These were unfortunately grouped together with the numerous outbuildings, sheds, cribs, and storage buildings that had fallen together in desolate ruin. Among the abandoned farms were a scant few well kept and still inhabited barns. Waite found them to be strange outposts where one found a few sleek cattle amongst the close cropped pastures nestled amongst corn and in the fields terminated by rocky meadows Not knowing why, he hesitated to stop his journey. He found a growing repugnance to brief glimpses of the few gnarled and solitary figures of a particularly hideous cast whom he passed. On the crumbling doorsteps of a small farmhouse hard by the sloping, rock-strewn meadows were few that Waite cared to meet. He wanted to stop and ask directions but everywhere he looked his imagination was overly stimulated by the silent and furtive population. Waite began to dislike the retiring and repulsive figures as throwbacks or troglodytes to be confronted in the shadows of forbidden things, where sane normal people never go as they have nothing in common to share.
As Waite continued to drive he topped a rise in the road which brought mountains into view above deep woods. Irrationally his strange uneasiness increased. The summits were too rounded and symmetrical, not in the sense of comfort or naturalness but instead he found a skyline of silhouettes which clearly revealed ridges crowned with queer circles and tall stone pillars, that vaguely reminded Waite of Stonehenge and the moors of fabled old places far removed in time. Continuing along his way he crossed intersecting gorges and ravines of problematical depth and crude wooden bridges of dubious safety. Finally his road dipped as stretches of marshland forced him to drive slowly in an odd fascination of mood as though in an unwonted atmosphere of dejavu. To Waite it seemed as if some ancestral memory had risen up. A memory made dubious because a memory of his first two years was not possible. Yet the views had a disturbing familiarity. It was not the rounded hills brooding over the valleys; where the woods were dark, and crowded with trees, no ax or saw had ever been wielded against, that troubled him. It was the strange circles of tall stone pillars on the summits of the hills like the distant and mystical standing stone circles of Stonehenge, Devon and Cornwall that piqued his discomfort. Finally as he passed the hills and deep gorges, he came to a wooden bridge and his first glimpse of the Miskatonic River. The mighty Miskatonic which rises northwest of Dunwich and wound serpentinely through the valleys far beyond to the seat of Arkham and on to the sea. Now he found and crossed many lesser streams, branches and creeks that came from springs in the hills to empty into the Miskatonic and once even the white column of a waterfall was seen cascading out of the dark hills, high marshland and meadows. Traveling onwards he now discovered himself in a landscape of forbidding, enclosing hills, beyond which loomed pillared summits of even higher ridges, a sharp complement to the dreary, deserted farms. Waite's overall impression was one of a disquieting displacement, a heightened difference in time and place between this area and the more settled Aylesbury Pike country beyond. Waite newly come into the area of the Dunwich settlement now realized that he was separated by far more than just time and distance from the area around Arkham. The regional mood pervaded oddly. He was unexplainibly both drawn to the country, and repelled by it. Somehow he had been here before. That disharmonious thought made a curious, impression on Waite, who held the normal feelings common to all mankind. Only the low lifes, the unlettered and superstitious read any meaningful mystery into any of the feelings which he so instinctively disliked. Unreasoning fears arose within him as the evening air was disturbed by fireflies flashing in abnormal profusion to the dance of unseen whippoorwills whose hideous chorus was joined by a host of croakings as of thousands of the smaller batrachia which rose to the raucous, creepily insistent rhythms of the strident piping of bull frogs.

The Watchers Return Out of Time

http://www.donaldcorrell.com/road/watchers.html

The Watchers Return Out of Time


Donald Correll



The Watchers Return Out of Time is a work in Progress.
The Watchers Out of Time Posthumous Collaboration is a serialization.


© Donald Correll 2009 All Rights Reserved.


Story About My Vision of Lovecraft and Poe


I was studying at my desk late one night, dare I say weak and weary when I had an attack, of some kind. As I struggled to breathe I managed to stand up partially but I almost immediately I fell over and hit my head on the desk. That lasted, what maybe a couple of seconds, but when I blacked out I was in another time and space. Suddenly Lovecraft and Poe and (others?) were in the room with me. Outlined in darkness, they told me that I could write horror stories but I would have to pay the price. I would have to learn to think the way that they did and to do that I must take a trip to the darkside.
All of my life I have been a scientific materialist and I never saw things, not boogle nor hant, angels or demons. That was before I had my darkside vision. Now I wake up in the dar and sleep write. A line or two, sometimes several paragraphs at a time. Then I go back to sleep until the next paragraph comes along. Finally when I wake up I try to interpret my dream notes. Not all that I write is suitable for my story, and some of it is not even legible, but two thirds of the outline for my story Watchers Return From Beyond Time has come this way. The rest has been written very in the darkest hours of the night. Some of it I am proud to say is so scary that I even scare myself. I hope that you enjoy reading as much as I have enjoyed writing.
I have tried very hard to capture the look and feel of a Lovecraft story. I have mined many of the colorful words from the works of Lovecraft. Works such as the Dunwich Horror and the DreamQuest of Unknown Kaddath. I got the original idea from a story fragment written by August Derleth but the plot, body, and climax are all my own work. This is my first foray into the realm of Posthumous Collaboration but I hope that it will not be my last.
So come along with me and take a trip to the Darkside, back to Dunwich where it all began---

The Watchers Out of Time was originally written as a posthumous collaboration from notes left by H. P. Lovecraft and his literary executor August Derleth, that was unfinished at the time of August Derleth's death, July 4, 1971. The Watchers Out of Time was number fifteen of an anthology of the same name that though labeled HP Lovecraft was actually written by August Derleth. Too many purists this was heresy. Almost in spite of the fact that Derleth and Arkham House publishing did much to preserve and enhance the Lovecraft legacy these stories remain controversial to this very day.
Despite the controversy of presenting the story as a collaborative work, The story The Watchers Out of Time is so shrouded in Necronomic mystery, that it seemed to me to be too good, to let it languish forever. Unfortunately little factual data remains, beyond the historical frame of reference for this work. No complete explanation of how this story was written and published, makes it difficult to fully appreciate which parts are Lovecraft and which parts are Derleth. Some of the descriptions of Dunwich are from the Dunwich Horror. Additional story elements have been borrowed from The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath, The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, and Dreams in the Witch House A few story elements are similar to some of the other 'Lovecraft -Derleth' collaborations, so called, published in The Watchers Out of Time anthology of stories by August Derleth. While H.P. Lovecraft certainly contributed notes and plot lines to the original story to some degree, The Watchers Out of Time, was substantially rewritten by August Derleth. It is my purpose to complete The Watchers Out of Time and to provide a worthwhile conclusion to a great story.
In his own time HP Lovecraft loved to share and encourage participation in the creation of his Mythos. Since the time of Lovecraft, Derleth, many other writers like Robert Bloch, Frank Belknap Long, Henry Kuttner and Manly Wade Wellman have participated and helped to create the Necronomicon tradition. Which in turn has given birth to a cottage industry that has sprung up around the writing of Lovecraft Mythos tributes. It was in that tradition that I wrote The Watchers Return, Out of Time. My purpose in writing a new version of the uncompleted and debatable Lovecraft -Derleth collaboration is to avoid infringement, while participating in the creation and preservation of the Lovecraft Mythos. Although fourteen of the stories are copyrighted, no copyright notice was given with this the concluding story in the anthology. Because of this lacunae in the knowledge of the authorship, some parts of this story are rewritten and recycled with similar plot points and a different set of characters.
The final lines written subsequent to the death of Derleth, were: "Read that you may know, that you may prepare to wait for Those Who Watch, and fulfill that which is meant to be". 'There was no signature, but the writing was crabbed and uncertain.-' Subsequently throughout the rest of the story all plot points and characters are my own invention. The Watchers Return, Out of Time, is my first contribution to the growing Lovecraft Mythos tradition. Numerous points have been inspired by my research, and derive from diverse sources on the Internet, as well as the works of HP Lovecraft and his ever expanding circle of admirers. Despite the controversy over style it is the intent of the current author to return with loving respect and to resume the Mythos tradition as much as possible. It remains to be determined how well this work will be accepted. It is a Horror fantasy of dark science fiction set in the mythical past of 'Lovecraft Country'. All persons, myths and or traditions referred to are entirely fictive and made up in my imagination.

Nor is it to be thought that man is either the oldest or the last of earth's masters, or that the common bulk of life and substance walks alone. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them, they walk serene and primal, unidimensional and to us unseen. Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They had trod earth's fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them as They tread. By Their smell can men sometimes know Them near, but of Their semblance can no man know, saving only in the features of those They have begotten on mankind; and of those are there many sorts, differing in likeness from man's truest eidolon to that shape without sight or substance which is Them. They walk unseen and foul in lonely places where the Words have been spoken and the Rites howled through at their Seasons. The wind gibbers with Their voices, and the earth mutters with Their consciousness. They bend the forest and crush the city, yet may not forest or city behold the hand that smites. Kadath in the cold waste hath known Them, and what man knows Kadath? The ice desert of the South and the sunken isles of Ocean hold stones whereon Their seal is engraver, but who bath seen the deep frozen city or the sealed tower long garlanded with seaweed and barnacles? Great Cthulhu is Their cousin, yet can he spy Them only dimly. Iä! Shub-Niggurath! As a foulness shall ye know Them. Their hand is at your throats, yet ye see Them not; and Their habitation is even one with your guarded threshold. Yog-Sothoth is the key to the gate, whereby the spheres meet. Man rules now where They ruled once; They shall soon rule where man rules now. After summer is winter, after winter summer. They wait patient and potent, for here shall They reign again. From The Dunwich Horror by HP Lovecraft-

Story Synopsis


Ever since the trouble of 1928 Dunwich had been quiet. Not much in Dunwich has changed. Dunwich is still a decadent backwater, and strange sounds still emanate from the heights. A new generation has inherited property in Dunwich, a generation disconnected from the Dunwich of the horror of 1928. While the world has gone by, a forgotten branch of the Whatelely family remains hidden and unknown to all but themselves. But in a forgotten farmhouse, hard against Sentinel Hill a certain small group of the undecayed Whateleys has been watching and waiting. These watchers' efforts were and are to continue the work of Wizard Whately, secretly and unimpeded by the disaster. What fiendish new plot is set to erupt upon an unsuspecting world? Though shunned and hidden the Whateley Cabal knows. Unimaginably rich from the Alchemical plunder of necromantic commerce with aliens from beyond Yuggoth, they are still intent upon opening a door to all time and space so that those from outside can return to reclaim their own and blow earth's dust away.