The Xothic Legend Cycle

1. Statement of Charles Winslow Curtis, M.D.

QUITE early in the spring of 1949 I was fortunate enough to secure an appointment to the staff of the Dunhill Sanitarium in Santiago, California, as a psychiatric counselor working under the renowned Harrington J. Colby. The appointment was exciting and promising in the extreme, for it is seldom that a doctor as young as myself—the ink, as it were, hardly dry on his diploma—has the opportunity to work under so distinguished a member of the psychiatric profession as Dr. Colby.

Motoring up by taxi from Santiago, I enjoyed the glorious sunshine of Southern California and admired the almost tropical profusion of flowering shrubs and trees. I soon discovered the sanitarium to be a handsome group of buildings in the Spanish hacienda style, surrounded by spacious, well planted grounds. Gardens and tennis courts and even golf links were therefor the recreation of the patients; there was, as well, a large lake behind the property from which at night the croaking of bullfrogs could be heard. The sanitarium was one of the finest, I had been given to understand, in this part of the state, and I looked forward eagerly to working under such excellent conditions.

Dr. Colby himself, spry and keen-eyed for all his silver hair, greeted me affably.

"I trust you will enjoy working with us here at Dunhill, my dear Curtis." he said while escorting me to my new office. "Your professors back at Miskatonic speak highly of you; I am given to understand that your primary interest in abnormal psychology is the several forms of acute paranoia. In that area, you will find one of your new patients, a fellow named Horby, singularly intriguing.”

"I’m sure I will, doctor," I murmured politely. “What is the nature of his problem?”

"There is something in the moonlight that he abhors," Colby said. "He cannot tolerate moonlight, and the drapes in his room must always be closely drawn. Nor only that, but he sleeps with all lights burning, so that nor one ray of moonlight could enter his room."

"That seems harmless enough," I said thoughtfully. “There are several cases on record of—”

“There's more. He is afraid of lizards,” said Colby succinctly.

I shrugged. "Well, sir, phobic reactions to various reptiles are certainly common enough—"

"Not Horby’s," he said dryly.

Then in utter seriousness, and without even the slightest trace of comment by inflection or expression, he made the most extraordinary statement.

"The lizard Mr. Horby fears happens to inhabit the moon."

* * *

BEFORE very long I had met the rest of the staff, become acquainted with the layout of the sanatarium and familiar with its routine, and found myself "settling in" comfortably. For the most part, those patients to whom I was assigned were suffering from conditions depressingly common and ordinary. A lone exception was Uriah Horby: Even as my superior had predicted on the day of my arrival, Horby’s case was singular and curious.

Paranoia, of course, is a mental disorder characterized by systematized delusions and the projection of inner conflicts, which are ascribed to the supposed hostility of others. Such, at least, is the textbook definition: I have found such cases more richly various and less simple of explanation.

Sometimes, paranoid patients believe themselves hounded by imaginary enemies (which can be anything from foreign spies to the Jesuits or some secret brotherhood of mystics). They believe themselves followed wherever they go and that they are spied upon continuously, and they assign to the malignancy of these shadowy foes every accident or mishap that chances to befall them.

The outward symptoms of paranoia are remarkably easy to discern: a tendency toward careless, disorderly dress, a neglect of personal cleanliness, rapid and disconnected patterns of speech, eyes that wander to and fro fearfully searching the shadowy corners of the room, and a furtive lowering of the voice so that hidden ears cannot overhear what is being said.

It is particularly in the eyes that paranoia can be detected, even by the layman. The gaze of a paranoid is either dim, glazed, unfocused, the attention being turned within to ruminating over one's endless and pitiful persecution—or it is afire with the febrile gleam of the fanatic.

When I first entered the room assigned to Uriah Horby, I felt the shock of surprise. He was a small man in his mid-fifties, lean of build and going bald, clean-shaven and seemingly in good health. He was seated at a small folding desk studying sheafs of notepaper written (I noticed) in a clear, tight, legible hand ... very unlike the hysteric scrawl of most cases of acute paranoia I have studied.

His person was scrupulously neat and so was his room. The narrow bed was neatly made, the small bookcase tidy, and the personal effects on his dresser and washstand effectively organized. When he raised his eyes to meet mine I was in for another shock of surprise.

For Uriah Horby had the clearest, most candid gaze of any man I have ever met. His eyes were shrewd and thoughtful, but their innocence and candor were those of a small child.

Before the tranquil sanity in his eyes, I felt myself amazed. To cover my lack of composure, I hurried to introduce myself. He smiled politely.

"How do you do, Dr. Curtis? Pardon me if I do nor rise: To do so would disarrange these notes, and I have a passion for organization and deplore messiness. I have known you were about to join our little social circle here at Dunhill for some time, of course. I trust you have found your welcome adequate? As Menander said, 'The gentleman is at home in every circumstance,' but a madhouse is somewhat lacking in the amenities."

This was the man who went in mortal fear of lizards? A man whose chief and most deadly enemy lived in the moon? A paranoid who had been confined to Dunhill for over six years, and was believed incurable?

I could hardly believe it, yet it was indeed so ....

AT Dunhill, as I soon discovered, meetings between doctor and patient are informal and leisurely conversations, more like what my contemporaries call "rap sessions" than the usual clinical interrogations to which I had become accustomed. Uriah Horby was a deft and interesting conversationalist. His speech was coherent, his mind seemingly rational, his demeanor quiet and controlled.

He was an exceptionally intelligent man of obvious breeding and had enjoyed an excellent education. The son of a local merchant, he had studied abroad and traveled widely before settling in Santiago. He was of scholarly interests, learned in several abstruse fields, and, although absorbed by the nature of his peculiar fixation, able to converse easily upon a variety of subjects.

I conceived an intense curiosity concerning the man for several reasons, one of them being that he displayed in his manner and deportment and appearance none of the haunted, harried traits I had so often observed in other victims of paranoia. And his delusions of persecution were certainly novel.

"Why is it that you fear lizards. Mr. Horby?" I inquired bluntly on one of our first meetings. He considered his folded hands, lips pursed judiciously, as if carefully choosing his words.

“They ruled the earth before the earliest of our mammalian ancestors arose,” he replied soberly. “In time, our kind replaced theirs, and they hate us for it. As well, they are utterly alien to our species—vicious and coldblooded predators, devoid of emotion. That the highest order of sentience should reside in such loathsome reptiles is more than abhorrent, it is unholy."

Consistent with a formal, even pedantic, diction, as can be seen above, his speech was completely unemotional and lucid. Whatever fears tormented the man were obviously buried deeply within him.

"My understanding has always been that reptiles possess very little of what we should call intelligence, and operate on rudimentary instinct alone," I remarked. It is sometimes unwise to argue or to disagree with a mental patient, of course, but I meant to draw our man out, if possible.

He smiled dryly. “I gather. Dr. Curtis, that you have never encountered the Necronomicon in the range of your studies,” he said, changing the subject, or so I thought. I shook my head.

"I don't believe I have," I admitted frankly. "A Greek work, I assume? Theological?"

“Translated into Greek from the original Arabic." he answered. “Also into Latin and Elizabethan English. The author, a Yemenite poet of the eighth century of the Christian era, was named Alhazred; his work has been dismissed by your colleagues in the formal sciences as the ravings of a diseased intelligence. Had there been asylums for the insane in Alhazred’s day, as there are, unfortunately, in my own, I have no doubt he would have been locked up in one.”

“I gather that this Alhazred discusses the intelligence of reptiles?”

“To complete my reply to your first query, it is a work of demonology rather than of theology," he said somberly. "It presents a theory, drawn from documents and sources of the most fabulous antiquity, that this planet was first inhabited by entities from other worlds and galaxies and planes of existence, countless ages before the evolution of man. The nature of these beings is such that they would seem like gods or demons to lesser creatures like ourselves: Immortal, indestructible, not constructed from matter as we know it, they are incomprehensible intelligences of pure, devouring evil— older than the world, and desirous of possessing it ....”

These words, spoken in quiet, sober tones, sent a chill through the warm afternoon sunlight. Despite myself, I could not suppress a shudder: The nature of Horby’s paranoid delusions were, then, religious.

"In one section, during the first few chapters of Book IV," he continued, "Alhazred relates the history of a prehistoric town or settlement called 'Sarnath' which early men built in ominous proximity to ‘the grey stone city Ib’, where dwelt a race of aquatic nonhumans who worshiped the demon Bokrug in the form of a gigantic water lizard. Although Alhazred does not employ the term in the passages of which I speak, the aquatic beings are known as the Thunn'ha: They are green-skinned, batrachian, speechless. They worshiped their reptilian divinity with abominable rites—”

Recalling Dr. Colby’s words, I hazarded aloud the guess that this devilgod of Ib resided in the moon. Disconcertingly, Uriah Horby paled and bit his lip.

"Not he ... not he," he whispered hoarsely. "But That which he serves ..."

His voice shook a little on these words, as if struggling to suppress some powerful emotion. Sensing my patient's perturbation, I changed the subject at this point and began to question him about his childhood experiences, seeking a possible trauma.

Our interview terminated not long thereafter.

2. Extract from the Notes of Uriah Horby

Thues, the 17th. Young Doctor Curtis is a likable fellow and keen enough on his work, but a blind, stubbornly ignorant fool nonetheless. As they all are. When my book is published, perhaps then the scientific community will recognize the value of my discovery and the dimensions of the enormous peril awaiting mankind in the near future.

Summer will soon be upon us, and the frogs will begin their hellish nightly serenade; I must strive to organize my notes, for the Hour Appointed cometh nigh and time is running out for me ... perhaps young Curtis will prove useful in at least one sense: he seems fascinated by my "case" and exhibits a pitiful eagerness to gain my confidence. Possibly I can persuade him to assist me in locating the complete text of the Zoan chant; if it is not to be found in Prinn or in von Junzt, perhaps it is in the CuItes des Goules, although Diedrich swears it is not. If only my father's Necronomicon had been complete! Well, I have long ago tried all of the nine formulae between the Ngg and the Hnnrr, and the Zhooric sign is obviously of no avail against them. What remains, but the Chian Pentagram and the Xao games? And if they fail, I have yet to employ the thirteen formulae between the Yaa and the Ghhgg ....

But time is running out for me, as the end of the Cycle nears. Running out for me?—it is running out for all mankind!

3. From the Statement of Charles Winslow Curtis

IT was not long before I learned that Uriah Horby was an enthusiastic lifelong student of archaeology and quite a talented, though an amateur, scholar in that field. It was this fascination which the ancient past held for him, it seemed, that had some connection to his present condition.

“I found my first clue in Alhazred, of course,” he remarked during the course of one of our early conversations together. "In chapter iii of Book IV ... I am quoting from memory, of course, but my memory is most precise on certain subjects ... ‘In the fullness of time a prophet arose among the men of Sarnarh, by name Kish: even that one we remember as the Elder Prophet, for that They Who Reign From Betelgeuse made revelation unto him, saying, Beware the Ib-folk, O men of Sarnath! for that they were come down to this earth from certain cavernous places in the Moon, ere man rose out of the slime, and the Water-thing they worship in foul ways is Other than ye think, and the name Bokrug is but a mask, behind the which there lurketh an Elder Horror' ... now, following this clue, I delved into the pages of von Junzt—"

“Von Junzt?” I interposed. He brushed my query aside with a prim yet brusque gesture.

“Friedrich-Wilhelm von Junzt, the German occultist, author of the Unaussprechlichen Kulten,” he said a trifle impatiently. "You should be able to find him in most of the standard biographical reference works. If you ever bother to check up on any of the things I tell you, Dr. Curtis, you will discover that I am inventing nothing: All of these data are valid and authentic, and may be found in print.”

I forced a laugh. “It’s just that these ancient mythologies seem to have little, if any, relevance to our own time!"

Uriah Horby fixed me with a clear, piercing gaze. His voice was firm and reasonable as he spoke.

“Things happened here on earth long ago. They are still happening ... why did the federal government destroy blocks of seemingly abandoned tenements in Innsmouth, Massachusetts during the winter of 1927-’28? Why did a naval submarine discharge torpedoes into Devil’s Reef in the harbor? What really happened in the old Tuttle house on the Aylesbury Road near the Innsmouth Turnpike? What events actually took place at Navissa Camp in Manitoba in late 1931 ... or, for that matter, what is the real story of what happened at Rick’s Lake in north central Wisconsin in 1940? Why has the explorer Marsh never disclosed what happened to the ill-fated Hawks Expedition on the Sung Plateau region of mountainous Burma, after they reached the ruins of Alaozar?”

I looked at him nonplused; there was nothing that I could say. Some of the mysterious events he referred to hail been noised abroad in the newspapers, and even I had hazy recollections of the matters to which he made reference.

With a slight shrug of his shoulders he moved on.

"But, to continue: Quoting from the Cylinders of Kadatheron and the Ilarnek Papyrus, which were Alhazred’s principle sources for the Sarnarh legend, von Junzt speculates most intriguingly on the lunar origin of Bokrug and of the creatures he commands, which are the Thunn’ha. It seems that when Alhazred transcribed from these very ancient sources, he was working from an apparently incomplete copy of the texts. Expanding on the hint given in the passage from the Necronomicon which I have already quoted to you, von Junzt postulates an extragalactic origin for Bokrug and his minions. In brief, he suggests that they came hither with the Great Old Ones through the star-spaces, or the dimensions which lie between them. But none of the ancient scriptures at our disposal mention Bokrug in the context of the Old Ones, which is odd, although the books which I have consulted are sadly fragmentary and are lacking many pages and even entire sections."

“I gather that these Great Old Ones are the demonic or godlike alien intelligences which Alhazred theorizes were the original inhabitants of our planet," I said. He smiled.

“That is precisely correct. Dr. Curtis."

Just at this interesting juncture, and most unfortunately, a male nurse interrupted our conversation, for one of my other patients was having a seizure. I was forced to bid a hasty adieu to Uriah Horby, postponing the remainder of our talk until some later time.

Interestingly enough, while I was striving to draw the man out with leading questions, I was not entirely ignorant of the matters which occupied him. For I remembered that I had indeed heard of this Necronomicon he quoted from and mentioned so frequently: When I had been an undergraduate at Miskatonic University there had been quite a bit written up about the ancient book in the local papers in connection with some bizarre murder or suicide. I forget the details of the case, but it seemed that my old alma mater had a copy of the incredibly rare book under lock and key, and was one of the few institutions of higher learning in this country to possess a copy. Odd that the title of the Arabic book had slipped my mind.

Later that afternoon, while recording my notes of the talk with Horby, I remembered what he had said about my checking his data. Within twenty minutes I found a capsule biography of the German scholar he had mentioned, whose pretensions to scholarship seemed authentic enough from the list of degrees recorded after his name in the entry.

Horby, it appeared, was not making it all up. He had stumbled upon some obscure, horrible mythology and had been drawn into it by his scholarly fascination with the ancient world, until at last it occupied the center of his interests.

The case was growing more intriguing all the time.

4. Extract from the Notes of Uriah Horby

Fri., the 21st. Last night, meditating on the Sign of Koth, I obtained a vision of Deep Dendo. It is unfortunate that Those who reside there either cannot or will not assist me in my search.

The Chian Pentagram has proved useless to my purposes, as have the Xao games. My correspondent in Paris has transcribed certain material from Eibon which he thought might have considerable bearing upon the situation, and I am translating the old Norman French—a slow and laborious job. And, I suspect, one ultimately futile. Lacking the relevant passage from the Necronomicon I feel frustratingly helpless. My knowledge of tile Elder Lore is so dreadfully incomplete ... I do not even know the name of the Entity to whom I am opposed, nor the place where He abideth. Lacking these vital terms, I am without adequate means of defense: With them, I might be able to hurl the Zoan chant against Him, or to erect barriers of mental force in the manner taught me by the Nug-Soth.

Later: I used the Sign of Koth again, receiving transient glimpses of the inner city at the two magnetic poles, but to no avail. Have asked—entreated!—young Doctor Curtis to help me obtain the passages I need from Alhazred. The amiable fool thinks me mad, but may take pity on me and have the material copied. Mad, am I? When They come down again to reconquer Their ancient empire—when the earth is cleared off and the Eternal Reign begins—"madmen” like me will be mightier than emperors!

5. From the Statement of Charles Winslow Curtis

HORBY has asked me to help him with his work by securing the text of certain key passages from Alhazred to which he has not been able to gain access. Seems like a smart thing to do, gain his confidence by harmless favors such as this. I have sent a telegram to one of my professors back at Miskatonic: expect he will be able to get the material to me.

Horby has not been sleeping well of late. He complains about "the frogs", and it's true that in this marshy area behind the sanitarium they have been raising a hellish chorus of night. I declined to prescribe sleeping pills or tranquilizers for him, however, on Dr. Colby’s advice. Horby’s increasing agitation seems due to his conviction that some crucial time period is almost here when the "defenses" he has built up against his dreaded lunar enemy will fall. Exactly what he fears will happen then I cannot say, nor will he tell me.

I have learned the cause of the danger he believes himself to be in. His nameless enemy, the force behind the demon Bokrug, supposedly became aware of his existence when he rashly published as a scholarly monograph his conjectural translation of the Ilarnek Papyrus to which he has often referred, and therein speculated on Sarnarh and its legendary doom. The town, by the way, seems completely mythical, for I can find nothing about it in history or in archaeology. But the cult to whom these matters are sacred—and, to his way of thinking, the dark divinities behind that cult—took sinister umbrage at the publication of the ancient text, which seems to have revealed more about their religion than they wished made part of public record.

At any rate, Horby’s monograph discussed a means of employing another demon called “Cthugha” against the "dragon in the moon." According to his account, this Cthugha is a fire elemental and is, by his essential nature, in direct opposition to such water elementals as the devilgod of whom Bokrug and the Ib things are merely the minions and servitors. The Alhazredic demonology, I infer, argues that the Old Ones are divided into four groups of elementals, all opposed to one another.

Horby also explained to me that all of these ancient and evil gods have their secret cults of quasi-human or nonhuman worshipers which linger yet in certain remote backwoods and far places. His monograph came to the attention of the cult which worships the force behind Bokrug, which is why they and their god are "after" him.

Somehow, there is something irresistibly plausible about his fixation. I find myself unable to refute either it or his logic. He is a most extraordinary man.

6. Extract from the Notes of Uriah Horby

Mon., the 28th. It is horribly close now to the Time when the power of the moon waxeth to its height, and That which resides therein will beat the peak of His strength. Not even Cthugha and the Flame Creatures can aid me then: Curtis is my only hope.

The material from Eibon proved worthless; I believe that the information I so desperately need was most probably to be found in Eibon's third book, "Papyrus of the Dark Wisdom", which von Junzt only paraphrases. But it is too late now to write to my Parisian friend ...

The D’horna-ahn Energies will no longer protect me when the fatal night arrives. Through the use of the Ritual of the Silver Key I have been in communion with the fungoid intelligences of Nzoorl and obtained precious glimpses of S'glhuo and Ymar, But nothing avails me ... They on Ktynga warn that I will not be able co call upon their strength when the time comes, but this I already know. Mighty Yhtill could stand between me and It, but I have never been to Carcosa or taken the Vow before the Elder Throne.

It is written: There are forty-eight Akio unveilings known to mortal men, and a forty-ninth, whereof men knoweth naught, nor shall they know, until such time as Glaaki taketh them. If l could travel through the reversed angles of Tagh-Clatur, or employ the enormous energies of the Pnakotic Pentagram, I might survive. But there is little hope left to me, unless that procrastinating fool Curtis comes through.

7. From the Statement of Charles Winslow Curtis

THOMPSON at Miskatonic sent me a long letter today, including with it the material which Horby has asked me to help him obtain. I have read it through and see nothing in it that could conceivably be harmful—merely the ravings of a deranged and superstitious demonologist. Just for the sake of completeness, I shall copy it out for my notes on the case.

The passage occurs in Book III, Chapter xvii of the Necronomicon, and is quoted from the Elizabethan translation of Dr. John Dee, the notorious occultist. It reads as follows:

But of the Great Old Ones begotten by Azathoth in the Prime, not all came down to this Earth, for Him Who is Not lo Be Named lurketh ever on that dark world near Aldebaran in the Hyades, and it was His Sons who descended hither in His stead. Likewise, Cthugha chose for His abode the star Fomalhaut, and the Fire-Vampires that serve Him, but, as for Aphum Zhah, He descended to this Earth and dwelled yet in His frozen lair. And terrible Vultboom, that be brother to Black Tsathoggua, He descended upon dying Mars, which world he chose for His dominion; and He slumbers yet in the Deep of Ravormos ‘neath aeon-crumbled Ignarh-Varh; and it is written that a day or a night to Vultboom is as a thousand years to mortal men. And, as for great Мnomquah, He took for the place of His abiding those cavernous spaces which yawn beneath the Moon's crust; and there He abideth yet, wallowing amidst the slimy waves of the Black Lake of Ubboth in the Stygian darknesses of Nug-yaa; and it was them that serve Him, even the Thunn’ha whose leader is that came hither to this world and dwelt betimes in the grey stone city Ib in the land of Mnar.

That was all the passage Thompson quoted; the further piece Horby had wished to see—something called "the Zoan chant" from Book VII—he failed to include in his letter, saying the pages are utterly illegible.

Well, perhaps it’s not too late to bring this material to Horby. True, evening has fallen and the moon is rising, but I doubt he is yet to bed.

8. Extract from the Notes of Uriah Horby

Wed., the 30th. I am doomed. I am lost. The time has come—is less than an hour away—and all my barriers are fading. My spirit shall be raped from my shuddering flesh, in ways I cringe to think upon, and I shall wander upon the black winds that blow between the stars forever, a nameless wraith lost in the wailing multitudes of the Million Favored Ones. ...

It is Curtis at the door! Perhaps all is not lost; I shall end this entry here and admit him. Shall I ever write another word of this journal?

9. From the Statement of Charles Winslow Curtis

IT is now my painful duty to record a sequence of events which I do not understand, and I write the following if only in the vain hope that somehow I will be able to sort these matters out to my own satisfaction.

On the night of the thirtieth, some time past moonrise, I brought the passages copied from the Necronomicon to Horby, who met me at the door and virtually snatched the paper from me. He was in the worst state of agitation I have yet seen him in, his face flushed, eyes bloodshot and feverishly bright, hands trembling like a leaf.

He scanned the quotation swiftly, then threw back his head and voiced a shrill cry of triumph.

"It is Mnomquah! Of course—how could I not have known? And the place of his imprisonment by the Elder Gods is the Black Lake of Ubboth, in the gulf of Nug-yaa, at the moon’s heart! Ah, all becomes plain to me now ... those cryptic references I have tracked down in the old books—" Suddenly he broke off short, turning the paper from side to side in shaking hands, his flushed features paling to a sickly pallor.

“But there is more? Please, God, Curtis, there must be more! Where is the Zoan chant, you fool? How can I direct the energies against the Black Lake without the chant—?”

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered apologetically. “My old professor back at Miskatonic was unable to copy out the ritual you wanted, because the pages were not legible at that point in the book—”

He stared with unbelieving horror into my eyes. Never have I seen a look more piteous: It would have wrung the heart of a stone thing. Then his face crumbled, his shoulders sagged. The page from Thompson’s letter fell from listless lingers to drift into a corner. He turned from me to face the window, and, absurdly, I felt myself dismissed. Tactfully, I withdrew, feeling lie wished to he alone with his thoughts.

Would to God I had stayed.

LATER that night, just as I was undressing and making ready to retire, one of the attendants called me to say that Horby was loudly chanting or praying, and that he feared it might disturb the other patients.

"If they can even hear him, with that hellish frog-chorus booming from the marsh," I remarked wryly.

"Yes, doctor. Bur may I give him a sleeping pill?"

"Oh, I think so. A good night’s sleep will do him a world of good. He is more distraught than usual. Ring me back if he proves uncooperative," I said. The male nurse agreed and hung up the phone.

Feeling some obscure premonition, perhaps, or merely restless, I went over to the window. The frogs were roaring away at full voice and the moon was high, glaring down at us frail, puny mortals like a gigantic eye of cold white fire. By its illumination, you could see the pools of the marsh behind the building, flashing like the mirrors they were.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something moving out of the waters and through the reeds, up onto the rear lawn. Something black and huge and wet, moving in the moonlight with a strange, splayfooted, hopping gait. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and it was gone. Probably a dog from one of the neighboring farms, I thought. But the lawn glittered from a slick deposit! It was like the slime-track left by a garden slug ....

Moments later I was jolted by a horrible, despairing cry—a shriek of unutterable terror, the sort of sound that the damned must make in the abysm of Hell.

I went out into the hall, which was suddenly full of people running. I followed them without words. The shrieking went on and on.

But the frogs had ceased their croaking song upon the instant Horby shrieked.

Yes, it was Horby. We burst into the room to view a scene of absolute chaos. The drapes were torn from the window and the glass of the panes lay in a thousand icy shards upon the carpet, which was soaked with slime and water. Moonlight poured coldly, triumphantly, through the open window.

Face down in the wreckage lay Uriah Horby, stone dead. The expression frozen upon his face was one of such intolerable fear that I hope never to see a similar expression upon a human visage.

There was not a mark on his body.

In the corner of the room crouched the attendant who had gone to sedate him. The man had suffered a ghastly shock. He was incoherent, his broken speech interspersed with fits of idiotic, horrible giggling. He was chewing and spitting out the pages from Horby’s manuscript and journals. They were trampled and torn and smeared with some odd greenish slime that rotted the paper like diluted acid.

"What has happened here?" demanded Dr. Colby, shaking the male nurse by the shoulder. The fellow peered at him vaguely from a white, wet, working face. Spittle smeared his lips and dribbled down his chin.

“... There was something in the moonlight, hopping across the lawn,” he babbled in a feeble voice. “It ... climbed the wall and broke through the window. ... It jumped on Mr. Ilorby. ... It was like ... it was like ....“

Then he began that hideous giggling again. Colby stared at me, shaken. I stared back.

“God, what a stench—that smell!" someone muttered, gagging. It was quite true. The whole room reeked of salt seawater gone stagnant and scummed with filth. It was indescribable.

“What do you think, Curtis?" Colby asked me in low tones, out in the hall again.

"I don’t know what to think.” I said numbly.

“Nor do I,” he sighed. “But this was the night Horby feared, the night his private demon was in full strength. I believe there was something to his story, after all."

"I don’t know, sir." I said. But I lied. Because I knew. Mnomquah had been revenged ....

Ever since then I’ve found myself avoiding the moonlight, too. It makes me feel uneasy. And I’ve been reading the Necronomicon. Looking for the Zoan chant, perhaps, I don’t know.

Poor Horby ....