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The Whisperer in Darkness

By H. P. Lovecraft

I.

Bear in mind closely that I did not see any actual visual horror at the end. To say that a mental shock
was the cause of what I inferred—that last straw which sent me racing out of the lonely Akeley
farmhouse and through the wild domed hills of Vermont in a commandeered motor at night—is to
ignore the plainest facts of my final experience. Notwithstanding the deep extent to which I shared
the information and speculations of Henry Akeley, the things I saw and heard, and the admitted
vividness of the impression produced on me by these things, I cannot prove even now whether I was
right or wrong in my hideous inference. For after all, Akeley’s disappearance establishes nothing.
People found nothing amiss in his house despite the bullet-marks on the outside and inside. It was
just as though he had walked out casually for a ramble in the hills and failed to return. There was not
even a sign that a guest had been there, or that those horrible cylinders and machines had been
stored in the study. That he had mortally feared the crowded green hills and endless trickle of brooks
among which he had been born and reared, means nothing at all, either; for thousands are subject to
just such morbid fears. Eccentricity, moreover, could easily account for his strange acts and
apprehensions toward the last.
The whole matter began, so far as I am concerned, with the historic and unprecedented Vermont
floods of November 3, 1927. I was then, as now, an instructor of literature at Miskatonic University in
Arkham, Massachusetts, and an enthusiastic amateur student of New England folklore. Shortly after
the flood, amidst the varied reports of hardship, suffering, and organised relief which filled the press,
there appeared certain odd stories of things found floating in some of the swollen rivers; so that many
of my friends embarked on curious discussions and appealed to me to shed what light I could on the
subject. I felt flattered at having my folklore study taken so seriously, and did what I could to belittle
the wild, vague tales which seemed so clearly an outgrowth of old rustic superstitions. It amused me
to find several persons of education who insisted that some stratum of obscure, distorted fact might
underlie the rumours.
The tales thus brought to my notice came mostly through newspaper cuttings; though one yarn
had an oral source and was repeated to a friend of mine in a letter from his mother in Hardwick,
Vermont. The type of thing described was essentially the same in all cases, though there seemed to
be three separate instances involved—one connected with the Winooski River near Montpelier,
another attached to the West River in Windham County beyond Newfane, and a third centring in the
Passumpsic in Caledonia County above Lyndonville. Of course many of the stray items mentioned
other instances, but on analysis they all seemed to boil down to these three. In each case country
folk reported seeing one or more very bizarre and disturbing objects in the surging waters that
poured down from the unfrequented hills, and there was a widespread tendency to connect these
sights with a primitive, half-forgotten cycle of whispered legend which old people resurrected for the
occasion.
What people thought they saw were organic shapes not quite like any they had ever seen
before. Naturally, there were many human bodies washed along by the streams in that tragic period;
but those who described these strange shapes felt quite sure that they were not human, despite
some superficial resemblances in size and general outline. Nor, said the witnesses, could they have
been any kind of animal known to Vermont. They were pinkish things about five feet long; with
crustaceous bodies bearing vast pairs of dorsal fins or membraneous wings and several sets of
articulated limbs, and with a sort of convoluted ellipsoid, covered with multitudes of very short
antennae, where a head would ordinarily be. It was really remarkable how closely the reports from
different sources tended to coincide; though the wonder was lessened by the fact that the old
legends, shared at one time throughout the hill country, furnished a morbidly vivid picture which might
well have coloured the imaginations of all the witnesses concerned. It was my conclusion that such
witnesses—in every case naive and simple backwoods folk—had glimpsed the battered and bloated
bodies of human beings or farm animals in the whirling currents; and had allowed the half-
remembered folklore to invest these pitiful objects with fantastic attributes.
The ancient folklore, while cloudy, evasive, and largely forgotten by the present generation, was
of a highly singular character, and obviously reflected the influence of still earlier Indian tales. I knew
it well, though I had never been in Vermont, through the exceedingly rare monograph of Eli
Davenport, which embraces material orally obtained prior to 1839 among the oldest people of the
state. This material, moreover, closely coincided with tales which I had personally heard from elderly
rustics in the mountains of New Hampshire. Briefly summarised, it hinted at a hidden race of
monstrous beings which lurked somewhere among the remoter hills—in the deep woods of the
highest peaks, and the dark valleys where streams trickle from unknown sources. These beings were
seldom glimpsed, but evidences of their presence were reported by those who had ventured farther
than usual up the slopes of certain mountains or into certain deep, steep-sided gorges that even the
wolves shunned.
There were queer footprints or claw-prints in the mud of brook-margins and barren patches, and
curious circles of stones, with the grass around them worn away, which did not seem to have been
placed or entirely shaped by Nature. There were, too, certain caves of problematical depth in the
sides of the hills; with mouths closed by boulders in a manner scarcely accidental, and with more
than an average quota of the queer prints leading both toward and away from them—if indeed the
direction of these prints could be justly estimated. And worst of all, there were the things which
adventurous people had seen very rarely in the twilight of the remotest valleys and the dense
perpendicular woods above the limits of normal hill-climbing.
It would have been less uncomfortable if the stray accounts of these things had not agreed so
well. As it was, nearly all the rumours had several points in common; averring that the creatures were
a sort of huge, light-red crab with many pairs of legs and with two great bat-like wings in the middle of
the back. They sometimes walked on all their legs, and sometimes on the hindmost pair only, using
the others to convey large objects of indeterminate nature. On one occasion they were spied in
considerable numbers, a detachment of them wading along a shallow woodland watercourse three
abreast in evidently disciplined formation. Once a specimen was seen flying—launching itself from
the top of a bald, lonely hill at night and vanishing in the sky after its great flapping wings had been
silhouetted an instant against the full moon.
These things seemed content, on the whole, to let mankind alone; though they were at times
held responsible for the disappearance of venturesome individuals—especially persons who 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, the feeling persisting long after the cause was forgotten. People
would look up at some of the neighbouring mountain-precipices with a shudder, even when not
recalling how many settlers had been lost, and how many farmhouses burnt to ashes, on the lower
slopes of those grim, green sentinels.
But while according to the earliest legends the creatures would appear to have harmed only
those trespassing on their privacy; there were later accounts of their curiosity respecting men, and of
their attempts to establish secret outposts in the human world. There were tales of the queer claw-
prints seen around farmhouse windows in the morning, and of occasional disappearances in regions
outside the obviously haunted areas. Tales, besides, of buzzing voices in imitation of human speech
which made surprising offers to lone travellers on roads and cart-paths in the deep woods, and of
children frightened out of their wits by things seen or heard where the primal forest pressed close
upon their dooryards. In the final layer of legends—the layer just preceding the decline of superstition
and the abandonment of close contact with the dreaded places—there are shocked references to
hermits and remote farmers who at some period of life appeared to have undergone a repellent
mental change, and who were shunned and whispered about as mortals who had sold themselves to
the strange beings. In one of the northeastern counties 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. Perhaps the
bulk of the Puritan settlers set them down bluntly as familiars of the devil, and made them a basis of
awed theological speculation. Those with Celtic legendry in their heritage—mainly the Scotch-Irish
element of New Hampshire, and their kindred who had settled in Vermont on Governor Wentworth’s
colonial grants—linked them vaguely with the malign fairies and “little people” of the bogs and raths,
and protected themselves with scraps of incantation handed down through many generations. But
the Indians had the most fantastic theories of all. While different tribal legends differed, there was a
marked consensus of belief in certain vital particulars; it being unanimously agreed that the creatures
were not native to this earth.
The Pennacook myths, which were the most consistent and picturesque, taught that the Winged
Ones came from the Great Bear in the sky, and had mines in our earthly hills whence they took a
kind of stone they could not get on any other world. They did not live here, said the myths, but merely
maintained outposts and flew back with vast cargoes of stone to their own stars in the north. They
harmed only those earth-people who got too near them or spied upon them. Animals shunned them
through instinctive hatred, not because of being hunted. They could not eat the things and animals of
earth, but brought their own food from the stars. It was bad to get near them, and sometimes young
hunters who went into their hills never came back. It was not good, either, to listen to what they
whispered at night in the forest with voices like a bee’s that tried to be like the voices of men. They
knew the speech of all kinds of men—Pennacooks, Hurons, men of the Five Nations—but did not
seem to have or need any speech of their own. They talked with their heads, which changed colour
in different ways to mean different things.
All the legendry, of course, white and Indian alike, died down during the nineteenth century,
except for occasional atavistical flareups. The ways of the Vermonters became settled; and once
their habitual paths and dwellings were established according to a certain fixed plan, they
remembered less and less what fears and avoidances had determined that plan, and even that there
had been any fears or 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 ruts of custom and economic interest
became so deeply cut in approved places that there was no longer any reason for going outside
them, and the haunted hills were left deserted by accident rather than by design. Save during
infrequent local scares, only wonder-loving grandmothers and retrospective nonagenarians ever
whispered of beings dwelling in those hills; and even such whisperers admitted that there was not
much to fear from those things now that they were used to the presence of houses and settlements,
and now that human beings let their chosen territory severely alone.
All this I had known from my reading, and from certain folk-tales picked up in New Hampshire;
hence when the flood-time rumours began to appear, I could easily guess what imaginative
background had evolved them. I took great pains to explain this to my friends, and was
correspondingly amused when several contentious souls continued to insist on a possible element of
truth in the reports. Such persons tried to point out that the early legends had a significant
persistence and uniformity, and that the virtually unexplored nature of the Vermont hills made it
unwise to be dogmatic about what might or might not dwell among them; nor could they be silenced
by my assurance that all the myths were of a well-known pattern common to most of mankind and
determined by early phases of imaginative experience which always produced the same type of
delusion.
It was of no use to demonstrate to such opponents that the Vermont myths differed but little in
essence from those universal legends of natural personification which filled the ancient world with
fauns and dryads and satyrs, suggested the kallikanzari of modern Greece, and gave to wild Wales
and Ireland their dark hints of strange, small, and terrible hidden races of troglodytes and burrowers.
No use, either, to point out the even more startlingly similar belief of the Nepalese hill tribes in the
dreaded Mi-Go or “Abominable Snow-Men” who lurk hideously amidst the ice and rock pinnacles of
the Himalayan summits. When I brought up this evidence, my opponents turned it against me by
claiming that it must imply some actual historicity for the ancient tales; that it must argue the real
existence of some queer elder earth-race, driven to hiding after the advent and dominance of
mankind, which might very conceivably have survived in reduced numbers to relatively recent
times—or even to the present.
The more I laughed at such theories, the more these stubborn friends asseverated them; adding
that even without the heritage of legend the recent reports were too clear, consistent, detailed, and
sanely prosaic in manner of telling, to be completely ignored. Two or three fanatical extremists went
so far as to hint at possible meanings in the ancient Indian tales which gave the hidden beings a non-
terrestrial origin; citing the extravagant books of Charles Fort with their claims that voyagers from
other worlds and outer space have often visited earth. Most of my foes, however, were merely
romanticists who insisted on trying to transfer to real life the fantastic lore of lurking “little people”
made popular by the magnificent horror-fiction of Arthur Machen.

II.

As was only natural under the circumstances, this piquant debating finally got into print in the form of
letters to the Arkham Advertiser; some of which were copied in the press of those Vermont regions
whence the flood-stories came. The Rutland Herald gave half a page of extracts from the letters on
both sides, while the Brattleboro Reformer reprinted one of my long historical and mythological
summaries in full, with some accompanying comments in “The Pendrifter’s” thoughtful column which
supported and applauded my sceptical conclusions. By the spring of 1928 I was almost a well-known
figure in Vermont, notwithstanding the fact that I had never set foot in the state. Then came the
challenging letters from Henry Akeley which impressed me so profoundly, and which took me for the
first and last time to that fascinating realm of crowded green precipices and muttering forest streams.
Most of what I now know of Henry Wentworth Akeley was gathered by correspondence with his
neighbours, and with his only son in California, after my experience in his lonely farmhouse. He was,
I discovered, the last representative on his home soil of a long, locally distinguished line of jurists,
administrators, and gentlemen-agriculturists. In him, however, the family mentally had veered away
from practical affairs to pure scholarship; so that he had been a notable student of mathematics,
astronomy, biology, anthropology, and folklore at the University of Vermont. I had never previously
heard of him, and he did not give many autobiographical details in his communications; but from the
first I saw he was a man of character, education, and intelligence, albeit a recluse with very little
worldly sophistication.
Despite the incredible nature of what he claimed, I could not help at once taking Akeley more
seriously than I had taken any of the other challengers of my views. For one thing, he was really
close to the actual phenomena—visible and tangible—that he speculated so grotesquely about; and
for another thing, he was amazingly willing to leave his conclusions in a tentative state like a true
man of science. He had no personal preferences to advance, and was always guided by what he
took to be solid evidence. Of course I began by considering him mistaken, but gave him credit for
being intelligently mistaken; and at no time did I emulate some of his friends in attributing his ideas,
and his fear of the lonely green hills, to insanity. I could see that there was a great deal to the man,
and knew that what he reported must surely come from strange circumstances deserving
investigation, however little it might have to do with the fantastic causes he assigned. Later on I
received from him certain material proofs which placed the matter on a somewhat different and
bewilderingly bizarre basis.
I cannot do better than transcribe in full, so far as is possible, the long letter in which Akeley
introduced himself, and which formed such an important landmark in my own intellectual history. It is
no longer in my possession, but my memory holds almost every word of its portentous message; and
again I affirm my confidence in the sanity of the man who wrote it. Here is the text—a text which
reached me in the cramped, archaic-looking scrawl of one who had obviously not mingled much with
the world during his sedate, scholarly life.

R.F.D. #2,
Townshend, Windham Co.,
Vermont
May 5, 1928.
Albert N. Wilmarth, Esq.,
118 Saltonstall St.,
Arkham, Mass.,

My dear Sir:—
I have read with great interest the Brattleboro Reformer’s reprint (Apr. 23, ’28) of
your letter on the recent stories of strange bodies seen floating in our flooded streams
last fall, and on the curious folklore they so well agree with. It is easy to see why an
outlander would take the position you take, and even why “Pendrifter” agrees with you.
That is the attitude generally taken by educated persons both in and out of Vermont,
and was my own attitude as a young man (I am now 57) before my studies, both
general and in Davenport’s book, led me to do some exploring in parts of the hills
hereabouts not usually visited.
I was directed toward such studies by the queer old tales I used to hear from
elderly farmers of the more ignorant sort, but now I wish I had let the whole matter
alone. I might say, with all proper modesty, that the subject of anthropology and folklore
is by no means strange to me. I took a good deal of it at college, and am familiar with
most of the standard authorities such as Tylor, Lubbock, Frazer, Quatrefages, Murray,
Osborn, Keith, Boule, G. Elliot Smith, and so on. It is no news to me that tales of
hidden races are as old as all mankind. I have seen the reprints of letters from you, and
those arguing with you, in the Rutland Herald, and guess I know about where your
controversy stands at the present time.
What I desire to say now is, that I am afraid your adversaries are nearer right than
yourself, even though all reason seems to be on your side. They are nearer right than
they realise themselves—for of course they go only by theory, and cannot know what I
know. If I knew as little of the matter as they, I would not feel justified in believing as
they do. I would be wholly on your side.
You can see that I am having a hard time getting to the point, probably because I
really dread getting to the point; but the upshot of the matter is that I have certain
evidence that monstrous things do indeed live in the woods on the high hills which
nobody visits. I have not seen any of the things floating in the rivers, as reported, but I
have seen things like them under circumstances I dread to repeat. I have seen
footprints, and of late have seen them nearer my own home (I live in the old Akeley
place south of Townshend Village, on the side of Dark Mountain) than I dare tell you
now. And I have overheard voices in the woods at certain points that I will not even
begin to describe on paper.
At one place I heard them so much that I took a phonograph there—with a
dictaphone attachment and wax blank—and I shall try to arrange to have you hear the
record I got. I have run it on the machine for some of the old people up here, and one
of the voices had nearly scared them paralysed by reason of its likeness to a certain
voice (that buzzing voice in the woods which Davenport mentions) that their
grandmothers have told about and mimicked for them. I know what most people think
of a man who tells about “hearing voices”—but before you draw conclusions just listen
to this record and ask some of the older backwoods people what they think of it. If you
can account for it normally, very well; but there must be something behind it. Ex nihilo
nihil fit, you know.
Now my object in writing you is not to start an argument, but to give you
information which I think a man of your tastes will find deeply interesting. This is
private. Publicly I am on your side, for certain things shew me that it does not do for
people to know too much about these matters. My own studies are now wholly private,
and I would not think of saying anything to attract people’s attention and cause them to
visit the places I have explored. It is true—terribly true—that there are non-human
creatures watching us all the time; with spies among us gathering information. It is from
a wretched man who, if he was sane (as I think he was), was one of those spies, that I
got a large part of my clues to the matter. He later killed himself, but I have reason to
think there are others now.
The things come from another planet, being able to live in interstellar space and fly
through it on clumsy, powerful wings which have a way of resisting the ether but which
are too poor at steering to be of much use in helping them about on earth. I will tell you
about this later if you do not dismiss me at once as a madman. They come here to get
metals from mines that go deep under the hills, and I think I know where they come
from. They will not hurt us if we let them alone, but no one can say what will happen if
we get too curious about them. Of course a good army of men could wipe out their
mining colony. That is what they are afraid of. But if that happened, more would come
from outside—any number of them. They could easily conquer the earth, but have not
tried so far because they have not needed to. They would rather leave things as they
are to save bother.
I think they mean to get rid of me because of what I have discovered. There is a
great black stone with unknown hieroglyphics half worn away which I found in the
woods on Round Hill, east of here; and after I took it home everything became
different. If they think I suspect too much they will either kill me or take me off the earth
to where they come from. They like to take away men of learning once in a while, to
keep informed on the state of things in the human world.
This leads me to my secondary purpose in addressing you—namely, to urge you to
hush up the present debate rather than give it more publicity. People must be kept
away from these hills, and in order to effect this, their curiosity ought not to be aroused
any further. Heaven knows there is peril enough anyway, with promoters and real
estate men flooding Vermont with herds of summer people to overrun the wild places
and cover the hills with cheap bungalows.
I shall welcome further communication with you, and shall try to send you that
phonograph record and black stone (which is so worn that photographs don’t shew
much) by express if you are willing. I say “try” because I think those creatures have a
way of tampering with things around here. There is a sullen, furtive fellow named
Brown, on a farm near the village, who I think is their spy. Little by little they are trying
to cut me off from our world because I know too much about their world.
They have the most amazing way of finding out what I do. You may not even get
this letter. I think I shall have to leave this part of the country and go to live with my son
in San Diego, Cal., if things get any worse, but it is not easy to give up the place you
were born in, and where your family has lived for six generations. Also, I would hardly
dare sell this house to anybody now that the creatures have taken notice of it. They
seem to be trying to get the black stone back and destroy the phonograph record, but I
 shall not let them if I can help it. My great police dogs always hold them back, for there
are very few here as yet, and they are clumsy in getting about. As I have said, their
wings are not much use for short flights on earth. I am on the very brink of deciphering
that stone—in a very terrible way—and with your knowledge of folklore you may be
able to supply missing links enough to help me. I suppose you know all about the
fearful myths antedating the coming of man to the earth—the Yog-Sothoth and Cthulhu
cycles—which are hinted at in the Necronomicon. I had access to a copy of that once,
and hear that you have one in your college library under lock and key.
To conclude, Mr. Wilmarth, I think that with our respective studies we can be very
useful to each other. I don’t wish to put you in any peril, and suppose I ought to warn
you that possession of the stone and the record won’t be very safe; but I think you will
find any risks worth running for the sake of knowledge. I will drive down to Newfane or
Brattleboro to send whatever you authorise me to send, for the express offices there
are more to be trusted. I might say that I live quite alone now, since I can’t keep hired
help any more. They won’t stay because of the things that try to get near the house at
night, and that keep the dogs barking continually. I am glad I didn’t get as deep as this
into the business while my wife was alive, for it would have driven her mad.
Hoping that I am not bothering you unduly, and that you will decide to get in touch
with me rather than throw this letter into the waste basket as a madman’s raving, I am
Yrs. very truly,
HENRY W. AKELEY
P.S. I am making some extra prints of certain photographs taken by me, which I think
will help to prove a number of the points I have touched on. The old people think they
are monstrously true. I shall send you these very soon if you are interested. H.W.A.

It would be difficult to describe my sentiments upon reading this strange document for the first
time. By all ordinary rules, I ought to have laughed more loudly at these extravagances than at the
far milder theories which had previously moved me to mirth; yet something in the tone of the letter
made me take it with paradoxical seriousness. Not that I believed for a moment in the hidden race
from the stars which my correspondent spoke of; but that, after some grave preliminary doubts, I
grew to feel oddly sure of his sanity and sincerity, and of his confrontation by some genuine though
singular and abnormal phenomenon which he could not explain except in this imaginative way. It
could not be as he thought it, I reflected, yet on the other hand it could not be otherwise than worthy
of investigation. The man seemed unduly excited and alarmed about something, but it was hard to
think that all cause was lacking. He was so specific and logical in certain ways—and after all, his
yarn did fit in so perplexingly well with some of the old myths—even the wildest Indian legends.
That he had really overheard disturbing voices in the hills, and had really found the black stone
he spoke about, was wholly possible despite the crazy inferences he had made—inferences probably
suggested by the man who had claimed to be a spy of the outer beings and had later killed himself. It
was easy to deduce that this man must have been wholly insane, but that he probably had a streak
of perverse outward logic which made the naive Akeley—already prepared for such things by his
folklore studies—believe his tale. As for the latest developments—it appeared from his inability to
keep hired help that Akeley’s humbler rustic neighbours were as convinced as he that his house was
besieged by uncanny things at night. The dogs really barked, too.
And then the matter of that phonograph record, which I could not but believe he had obtained in
the way he said. It must mean something; whether animal noises deceptively like human speech, or
the speech of some hidden, night-haunting human being decayed to a state not much above that of
lower animals. From this my thoughts went back to the black hieroglyphed stone, and to speculations
upon what it might mean. Then, too, what of the photographs which Akeley said he was about to
send, and which the old people had found so convincingly terrible?
As I re-read the cramped handwriting I felt as never before that my credulous opponents might
have more on their side than I had conceded. After all, there might be some queer and perhaps
hereditarily misshapen outcasts in those shunned hills, even though no such race of star-born
monsters as folklore claimed. And if there were, then the presence of strange bodies in the flooded
streams would not be wholly beyond belief. Was it too presumptuous to suppose that both the old
legends and the recent reports had this much of reality behind them? But even as I harboured these
doubts I felt ashamed that so fantastic a piece of bizarrerie as Henry Akeley’s wild letter had brought
them up.
In the end I answered Akeley’s letter, adopting a tone of friendly interest and soliciting further
particulars. His reply came almost by return mail; and contained, true to promise, a number of kodak
views of scenes and objects illustrating what he had to tell. Glancing at these pictures as I took them
from the envelope, I felt a curious sense of fright and nearness to forbidden things; for in spite of the
vagueness of most of them, they had a damnably suggestive power which was intensified by the fact
of their being genuine photographs—actual optical links with what they portrayed, and the product of
an impersonal transmitting process without prejudice, fallibility, or mendacity.
The more I looked at them, the more I saw that my serious estimate of Akeley and his story had
not been unjustified. Certainly, these pictures carried conclusive evidence of something in the
Vermont hills which was at least vastly outside the radius of our common knowledge and belief. The
worst thing of all was the footprint—a view taken where the sun shone on a mud patch somewhere in
a deserted upland. This was no cheaply counterfeited thing, I could see at a glance; for the sharply
defined pebbles and grass-blades in the field of vision gave a clear index of scale and left no
possibility of a tricky double exposure. I have called the thing a “footprint”, but “claw-print” would be a
better term. Even now I can scarcely describe it save to say that it was hideously crab-like, and that
there seemed to be some ambiguity about its direction. It was not a very deep or fresh print, but
seemed to be about the size of an average man’s foot. From a central pad, pairs of saw-toothed
nippers projected in opposite directions—quite baffling as to function, if indeed the whole object were
exclusively an organ of locomotion.
Another photograph—evidently a time-exposure taken in deep shadow—was of the mouth of a
woodland cave, with a boulder of rounded regularity choking the aperture. On the bare ground in
front of it one could just discern a dense network of curious tracks, and when I studied the picture
with a magnifier I felt uneasily sure that the tracks were like the one in the other view. A third picture
shewed a druid-like circle of standing stones on the summit of a wild hill. Around the cryptic circle the
grass was very much beaten down and worn away, though I could not detect any footprints even with
the glass. The extreme remoteness of the place was apparent from the veritable sea of tenantless
mountains which formed the background and stretched away toward a misty horizon.
But if the most disturbing of all the views was that of the footprint, the most curiously suggestive
was that of the great black stone found in the Round Hill woods. Akeley had photographed it on what
was evidently his study table, for I could see rows of books and a bust of Milton in the background.
The thing, as nearly as one might guess, had faced the camera vertically with a somewhat irregularly
curved surface of one by two feet; but to say anything definite about that surface, or about the
general shape of the whole mass, almost defies the power of language. What outlandish geometrical
principles had guided its cutting—for artificially cut it surely was—I could not even begin to guess;
and never before had I seen anything which struck me as so strangely and unmistakably alien to this
world. Of the hieroglyphics on the surface I could discern very few, but one or two that I did see gave
me rather a shock. Of course they might be fraudulent, for others besides myself had read the
monstrous and abhorred Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; but it nevertheless made
me shiver to recognise certain ideographs which study had taught me to link with the most blood-
curdling and blasphemous whispers of things that had had a kind of mad half-existence before the
earth and the other inner worlds of the solar system were made.
Of the five remaining pictures, three were of swamp and hill scenes which seemed to bear traces
of hidden and unwholesome tenancy. Another was of a queer mark in the ground very near Akeley’s
house, which he said he had photographed the morning after a night on which the dogs had barked
more violently than usual. It was very blurred, and one could really draw no certain conclusions from
it; but it did seem fiendishly like that other mark or claw-print photographed on the deserted upland.
The final picture was of the Akeley place itself; a trim white house of two stories and attic, about a
century and a quarter old, and with a well-kept lawn and stone-bordered path leading up to a
tastefully carved Georgian doorway. There were several huge police dogs on the lawn, squatting
near a pleasant-faced man with a close-cropped grey beard whom I took to be Akeley himself—his
own photographer, one might infer from the tube-connected bulb in his right hand.
From the pictures I turned to the bulky, closely written letter itself; and for the next three hours
was immersed in a gulf of unutterable horror. Where Akeley had given only outlines before, he now
entered into minute details; presenting long transcripts of words overheard in the woods at night, long
accounts of monstrous pinkish forms spied in thickets at twilight on the hills, and a terrible cosmic
narrative derived from the application of profound and varied scholarship to the endless bygone
discourses of the mad self-styled spy who had killed himself. I found myself faced by names and
terms that I had heard elsewhere in the most hideous of connexions—Yuggoth, Great Cthulhu,
Tsathoggua, Yog-Sothoth, R’lyeh, Nyarlathotep, Azathoth, Hastur, Yian, Leng, the Lake of Hali,
Bethmoora, the Yellow Sign, L’mur-Kathulos, Bran, and the Magnum Innominandum—and was
drawn back through nameless aeons and inconceivable dimensions to worlds of elder, outer entity at
which the crazed author of the Necronomicon had only guessed in the vaguest way. I was told of the
pits of primal life, and of the streams that had trickled down therefrom; and finally, of the tiny rivulet
from one of those streams which had become entangled with the destinies of our own earth.
My brain whirled; and where before I had attempted to explain things away, I now began to
believe in the most abnormal and incredible wonders. The array of vital evidence was damnably vast
and overwhelming; and the cool, scientific attitude of Akeley—an attitude removed as far as
imaginable from the demented, the fanatical, the hysterical, or even the extravagantly speculative—
had a tremendous effect on my thought and judgment. By the time I laid the frightful letter aside I
could understand the fears he had come to entertain, and was ready to do anything in my power to
keep people away from those wild, haunted hills. Even now, when time has dulled the impression
and made me half question my own experience and horrible doubts, there are things in that letter of
Akeley’s which I would not quote, or even form into words on paper. I am almost glad that the letter
and record and photographs are gone now—and I wish, for reasons I shall soon make clear, that the
new planet beyond Neptune had not been discovered.
With the reading of that letter my public debating about the Vermont horror permanently ended.
Arguments from opponents remained unanswered or put off with promises, and eventually the
controversy petered out into oblivion. During late May and June I was in constant correspondence
with Akeley; though once in a while a letter would be lost, so that we would have to retrace our
ground and perform considerable laborious copying. What we were trying to do, as a whole, was to
compare notes in matters of obscure mythological scholarship and arrive at a clearer correlation of
the Vermont horrors with the general body of primitive world legend.
For one thing, we virtually decided that these morbidities and the hellish Himalayan Mi-Go were
one and the same order of incarnated nightmare. There were also absorbing zoölogical conjectures,
which I would have referred to Professor Dexter in my own college but for Akeley’s imperative
command to tell no one of the matter before us. If I seem to disobey that command now, it is only
because I think that at this stage a warning about those farther Vermont hills—and about those
Himalayan peaks which bold explorers are more and more determined to ascend—is more
conducive to public safety than silence would be. One specific thing we were leading up to was a
deciphering of the hieroglyphics on that infamous black stone—a deciphering which might well place
us in possession of secrets deeper and more dizzying than any formerly known to man.

III.

Toward the end of June the phonograph record came—shipped from Brattleboro, since Akeley was
unwilling to trust conditions on the branch line north of there. He had begun to feel an increased
sense of espionage, aggravated by the loss of some of our letters; and said much about the insidious
deeds of certain men whom he considered tools and agents of the hidden beings. Most of all he
suspected the surly farmer Walter Brown, who lived alone on a run-down hillside place near the deep
woods, and who was often seen loafing around corners in Brattleboro, Bellows Falls, Newfane, and
South Londonderry in the most inexplicable and seemingly unmotivated way. Brown’s voice, he felt
convinced, was one of those he had overheard on a certain occasion in a very terrible conversation;
and he had once found a footprint or claw-print near Brown’s house which might possess the most
ominous significance. It had been curiously near some of Brown’s own footprints—footprints that
faced toward it.
So the record was shipped from Brattleboro, whither Akeley drove in his Ford car along the
lonely Vermont back roads. He confessed in an accompanying note that he was beginning to be
afraid of those roads, and that he would not even go into Townshend for supplies now except in
broad daylight. It did not pay, he repeated again and again, to know too much unless one were very
remote from those silent and problematical hills. He would be going to California pretty soon to live
with his son, though it was hard to leave a place where all one’s memories and ancestral feelings
centred.
Before trying the record on the commercial machine which I borrowed from the college
administration building I carefully went over all the explanatory matter in Akeley’s various letters. This
record, he had said, was obtained about 1 a.m. on the first of May, 1915, near the closed mouth of a
cave where the wooded west slope of Dark Mountain rises out of Lee’s Swamp. The place had
always been unusually plagued with strange voices, this being the reason he had brought the
phonograph, dictaphone, and blank in expectation of results. Former experience had told him that
May-Eve—the hideous Sabbat-night of underground European legend—would probably be more
fruitful than any other date, and he was not disappointed. It was noteworthy, though, that he never
again heard voices at that particular spot.
Unlike most of the overheard forest voices, the substance of the record was quasi-ritualistic, and
included one palpably human voice which Akeley had never been able to place. It was not Brown’s,
but seemed to be that of a man of greater cultivation. The second voice, however, was the real crux
of the thing—for this was the accursed buzzing which had no likeness to humanity despite the human
words which it uttered in good English grammar and a scholarly accent.
The recording phonograph and dictaphone had not worked uniformly well, and had of course
been at a great disadvantage because of the remote and muffled nature of the overheard ritual; so
that the actual speech secured was very fragmentary. Akeley had given me a transcript of what he
believed the spoken words to be, and I glanced through this again as I prepared the machine for
action. The text was darkly mysterious rather than openly horrible, though a knowledge of its origin
and manner of gathering gave it all the associative horror which any words could well possess. I will
present it here in full as I remember it—and I am fairly confident that I know it correctly by heart, not
only from reading the transcript, but from playing the record itself over and over again. It is not a thing
which one might readily forget!

(INDISTINGUISHABLE SOUNDS)

(A CULTIVATED MALE HUMAN VOICE)

. . . is the Lord of the Woods, even to . . . and the gifts of the men of Leng . . . so
from the wells of night to the gulfs of space, and from the gulfs of space to the wells of
night, ever the praises of Great Cthulhu, of Tsathoggua, and of Him Who is not to be
Named. Ever Their praises, and abundance to the Black Goat of the Woods. Iä! Shub-
Niggurath! The Goat with a Thousand Young!

(A BUZZING IMITATION OF HUMAN SPEECH)

Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!

(HUMAN VOICE)

And it has come to pass that the Lord of the Woods, being . . . seven and nine,
down the onyx steps . . . (tri)butes to Him in the Gulf, Azathoth, He of Whom Thou hast
taught us marv(els) . . . on the wings of night out beyond space, out beyond th . . . to
That whereof Yuggoth is the youngest child, rolling alone in black aether at the rim. . . .

(BUZZING VOICE)

. . . go out among men and find the ways thereof, that He in the Gulf may know. To
Nyarlathotep, Mighty Messenger, must all things be told. And He shall put on the
semblance of men, the waxen mask and the robe that hides, and come down from the
world of Seven Suns to mock. . . .

(HUMAN VOICE)

. . . (Nyarl)athotep, Great Messenger, bringer of strange joy to Yuggoth through the

void, Father of the Million Favoured Ones, Stalker among. . . .

(SPEECH CUT OFF BY END OF RECORD)

Such were the words for which I was to listen when I started the phonograph. It was with a trace
of genuine dread and reluctance that I pressed the lever and heard the preliminary scratching of the
sapphire point, and I was glad that the first faint, fragmentary words were in a human voice—a
mellow, educated voice which seemed vaguely Bostonian in accent, and which was certainly not that
of any native of the Vermont hills. As I listened to the tantalisingly feeble rendering, I seemed to find
the speech identical with Akeley’s carefully prepared transcript. On it chanted, in that mellow
Bostonian voice . . . “Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Goat with a Thousand Young! . . .”
And then I heard the other voice. To this hour I shudder retrospectively when I think of how it
struck me, prepared though I was by Akeley’s accounts. Those to whom I have since described the
record profess to find nothing but cheap imposture or madness in it; but could they have heard the
accursed thing itself, or read the bulk of Akeley’s correspondence (especially that terrible and
encyclopaedic second letter), I know they would think differently. It is, after all, a tremendous pity that
I did not disobey Akeley and play the record for others—a tremendous pity, too, that all of his letters
were lost. To me, with my first-hand impression of the actual sounds, and with my knowledge of the
background and surrounding circumstances, the voice was a monstrous thing. It swiftly followed the
human voice in ritualistic response, but in my imagination it was a morbid echo winging its way
across unimaginable abysses from unimaginable outer hells. It is more than two years now since I
last ran off that blasphemous waxen cylinder; but at this moment, and at all other moments, I can still
hear that feeble, fiendish buzzing as it reached me for the first time.
“Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!”
But though that voice is always in my ears, I have not even yet been able to analyse it well
enough for a graphic description. It was like the drone of some loathsome, gigantic insect
ponderously shaped into the articulate speech of an alien species, and I am perfectly certain that the
organs producing it can have no resemblance to the vocal organs of man, or indeed to those of any
of the mammalia. There were singularities in timbre, range, and overtones which placed this
phenomenon wholly outside the sphere of humanity and earth-life. Its sudden advent that first time
almost stunned me, and I heard the rest of the record through in a sort of abstracted daze. When the
longer passage of buzzing came, there was a sharp intensification of that feeling of blasphemous
infinity which had struck me during the shorter and earlier passage. At last the record ended abruptly,
during an unusually clear speech of the human and Bostonian voice; but I sat stupidly staring long
after the machine had automatically stopped.
I hardly need say that I gave that shocking record many another playing, and that I made
exhaustive attempts at analysis and comment in comparing notes with Akeley. It would be both
useless and disturbing to repeat here all that we concluded; but I may hint that we agreed in
believing we had secured a clue to the source of some of the most repulsive primordial customs in
the cryptic elder religions of mankind. It seemed plain to us, also, that there were ancient and
elaborate alliances between the hidden outer creatures and certain members of the human race.
How extensive these alliances were, and how their state today might compare with their state in
earlier ages, we had no means of guessing; yet at best there was room for a limitless amount of
horrified speculation. There seemed to be an awful, immemorial linkage in several definite stages
betwixt man and nameless infinity. The blasphemies which appeared on earth, it was hinted, came
from the dark planet Yuggoth, at the rim of the solar system; but this was itself merely the populous
outpost of a frightful interstellar race whose ultimate source must lie far outside even the Einsteinian
space-time continuum or greatest known cosmos.
Meanwhile we continued to discuss the black stone and the best way of getting it to Arkham
—Akeley deeming it inadvisable to have me visit him at the scene of his nightmare studies. For some
reason or other, Akeley was afraid to trust the thing to any ordinary or expected transportation route.
His final idea was to take it across county to Bellows Falls and ship it on the Boston and Maine
system through Keene and Winchendon and Fitchburg, even though this would necessitate his
driving along somewhat lonelier and more forest-traversing hill roads than the main highway to
Brattleboro. He said he had noticed a man around the express office at Brattleboro when he had sent
the phonograph record, whose actions and expression had been far from reassuring. This man had
seemed too anxious to talk with the clerks, and had taken the train on which the record was shipped.
Akeley confessed that he had not felt strictly at ease about that record until he heard from me of its
safe receipt.
About this time—the second week in July—another letter of mine went astray, as I learned
through an anxious communication from Akeley. After that he told me to address him no more at
Townshend, but to send all mail in care of the General Delivery at Brattleboro; whither he would
make frequent trips either in his car or on the motor-coach line which had lately replaced passenger
service on the lagging branch railway. I could see that he was getting more and more anxious, for he
went into much detail about the increased barking of the dogs on moonless nights, and about the
fresh claw-prints he sometimes found in the road and in the mud at the back of his farmyard when
morning came. Once he told about a veritable army of prints drawn up in a line facing an equally
thick and resolute line of dog-tracks, and sent a loathsomely disturbing kodak picture to prove it. That
was after a night on which the dogs had outdone themselves in barking and howling.
On the morning of Wednesday, July 18, I received a telegram from Bellows Falls, in which
Akeley said he was expressing the black stone over the B. & M. on Train No. 5508, leaving Bellows
Falls at 12:15 p.m., standard time, and due at the North Station in Boston at 4:12 p.m. It ought, I
calculated, to get up to Arkham at least by the next noon; and accordingly I stayed in all Thursday
morning to receive it. But noon came and went without its advent, and when I telephoned down to
the express office I was informed that no shipment for me had arrived. My next act, performed amidst
a growing alarm, was to give a long-distance call to the express agent at the Boston North Station;
and I was scarcely surprised to learn that my consignment had not appeared. Train No. 5508 had
pulled in only 35 minutes late on the day before, but had contained no box addressed to me. The
agent promised, however, to institute a searching inquiry; and I ended the day by sending Akeley a
night-letter outlining the situation.
With commendable promptness a report came from the Boston office on the following afternoon,
the agent telephoning as soon as he learned the facts. It seemed that the railway express clerk on
No. 5508 had been able to recall an incident which might have much bearing on my loss—an
argument with a very curious-voiced man, lean, sandy, and rustic-looking, when the train was waiting
at Keene, N.H., shortly after one o’clock standard time.
The man, he said, was greatly excited about a heavy box which he claimed to expect, but which
was neither on the train nor entered on the company’s books. He had given the name of Stanley
Adams, and had had such a queerly thick droning voice, that it made the clerk abnormally dizzy and
sleepy to listen to him. The clerk could not remember quite how the conversation had ended, but
recalled starting into a fuller awakeness when the train began to move. The Boston agent added that
this clerk was a young man of wholly unquestioned veracity and reliability, of known antecedents and
long with the company.
That evening I went to Boston to interview the clerk in person, having obtained his name and
address from the office. He was a frank, prepossessing fellow, but I saw that he could add nothing to
his original account. Oddly, he was scarcely sure that he could even recognise the strange inquirer
again. Realising that he had no more to tell, I returned to Arkham and sat up till morning writing
letters to Akeley, to the express company, and to the police department and station agent in Keene. I
felt that the strange-voiced man who had so queerly affected the clerk must have a pivotal place in
the ominous business, and hoped that Keene station employees and telegraph-office records might
tell something about him and about how he happened to make his inquiry when and where he did.
I must admit, however, that all my investigations came to nothing. The queer-voiced man had
indeed been noticed around the Keene station in the early afternoon of July 18, and one lounger
seemed to couple him vaguely with a heavy box; but he was altogether unknown, and had not been
seen before or since. He had not visited the telegraph office or received any message so far as could
be learned, nor had any message which might justly be considered a notice of the black stone’s
presence on No. 5508 come through the office for anyone. Naturally Akeley joined with me in
conducting these inquiries, and even made a personal trip to Keene to question the people around
the station; but his attitude toward the matter was more fatalistic than mine. He seemed to find the
loss of the box a portentous and menacing fulfilment of inevitable tendencies, and had no real hope
at all of its recovery. He spoke of the undoubted telepathic and hypnotic powers of the hill creatures
and their agents, and in one letter hinted that he did not believe the stone was on this earth any
longer. For my part, I was duly enraged, for I had felt there was at least a chance of learning
profound and astonishing things from the old, blurred hieroglyphs. The matter would have rankled
bitterly in my mind had not Akeley’s immediate subsequent letters brought up a new phase of the
whole horrible hill problem which at once seized all my attention.

IV.

The unknown things, Akeley wrote in a script grown pitifully tremulous, had begun to close in on him
with a wholly new degree of determination. The nocturnal barking of the dogs whenever the moon
was dim or absent was hideous now, and there had been attempts to molest him on the lonely roads
he had to traverse by day. On the second of August, while bound for the village in his car, he had
found a tree-trunk laid in his path at a point where the highway ran through a deep patch of woods;
while the savage barking of the two great dogs he had with him told all too well of the things which
must have been lurking near. What would have happened had the dogs not been there, he did not
dare guess—but he never went out now without at least two of his faithful and powerful pack. Other
road experiences had occurred on August 5th and 6th; a shot grazing his car on one occasion, and
the barking of the dogs telling of unholy woodland presences on the other.
On August 15th I received a frantic letter which disturbed me greatly, and which made me wish
Akeley could put aside his lonely reticence and call in the aid of the law. There had been frightful
happenings on the night of the 12-13th, bullets flying outside the farmhouse, and three of the twelve
great dogs being found shot dead in the morning. There were myriads of claw-prints in the road, with
the human prints of Walter Brown among them. Akeley had started to telephone to Brattleboro for
more dogs, but the wire had gone dead before he had a chance to say much. Later he went to
Brattleboro in his car, and learned there that linemen had found the main telephone cable neatly cut
at a point where it ran through the deserted hills north of Newfane. But he was about to start home
with four fine new dogs, and several cases of ammunition for his big-game repeating rifle. The letter
was written at the post office in Brattleboro, and came through to me without delay.
My attitude toward the matter was by this time quickly slipping from a scientific to an alarmedly
personal one. I was afraid for Akeley in his remote, lonely farmhouse, and half afraid for myself
because of my now definite connexion with the strange hill problem. The thing was reaching out so.
Would it suck me in and engulf me? In replying to his letter I urged him to seek help, and hinted that I
might take action myself if he did not. I spoke of visiting Vermont in person in spite of his wishes, and
of helping him explain the situation to the proper authorities. In return, however, I received only a
telegram from Bellows Falls which read thus:
 APPRECIATE YOUR POSITION BUT CAN DO NOTHING. TAKE NO ACTION
YOURSELF FOR IT COULD ONLY HARM BOTH. WAIT FOR EXPLANATION.
HENRY AKELY

But the affair was steadily deepening. Upon my replying to the telegram I received a shaky note
from Akeley with the astonishing news that he had not only never sent the wire, but had not received
the letter from me to which it was an obvious reply. Hasty inquiries by him at Bellows Falls had
brought out that the message was deposited by a strange sandy-haired man with a curiously thick,
droning voice, though more than this he could not learn. The clerk shewed him the original text as
scrawled in pencil by the sender, but the handwriting was wholly unfamiliar. It was noticeable that the
signature was misspelled—A-K-E-L-Y, without the second “E”. Certain conjectures were inevitable,
but amidst the obvious crisis he did not stop to elaborate upon them.
He spoke of the death of more dogs and the purchase of still others, and of the exchange of
gunfire which had become a settled feature each moonless night. Brown’s prints, and the prints of at
least one or two more shod human figures, were now found regularly among the claw-prints in the
road, and at the back of the farmyard. It was, Akeley admitted, a pretty bad business; and before
long he would probably have to go to live with his California son whether or not he could sell the old
place. But it was not easy to leave the only spot one could really think of as home. He must try to
hang on a little longer; perhaps he could scare off the intruders—especially if he openly gave up all
further attempts to penetrate their secrets.
Writing Akeley at once, I renewed my offers of aid, and spoke again of visiting him and helping
him convince the authorities of his dire peril. In his reply he seemed less set against that plan than
his past attitude would have led one to predict, but said he would like to hold off a little while longer—
long enough to get his things in order and reconcile himself to the idea of leaving an almost morbidly
cherished birthplace. People looked askance at his studies and speculations, and it would be better
to get quietly off without setting the countryside in a turmoil and creating widespread doubts of his
own sanity. He had had enough, he admitted, but he wanted to make a dignified exit if he could.
This letter reached me on the twenty-eighth of August, and I prepared and mailed as
encouraging a reply as I could. Apparently the encouragement had effect, for Akeley had fewer
terrors to report when he acknowledged my note. He was not very optimistic, though, and expressed
the belief that it was only the full moon season which was holding the creatures off. He hoped there
would not be many densely cloudy nights, and talked vaguely of boarding in Brattleboro when the
moon waned. Again I wrote him encouragingly, but on September 5th there came a fresh
communication which had obviously crossed my letter in the mails; and to this I could not give any
such hopeful response. In view of its importance I believe I had better give it in full—as best I can do
from memory of the shaky script. It ran substantially as follows:

Monday.
Dear Wilmarth—
A rather discouraging P.S. to my last. Last night was thickly cloudy—though no
rain—and not a bit of moonlight got through. Things were pretty bad, and I think the
end is getting near, in spite of all we have hoped. After midnight something landed on
the roof of the house, and the dogs all rushed up to see what it was. I could hear them
snapping and tearing around, and then one managed to get on the roof by jumping
from the low ell. There was a terrible fight up there, and I heard a frightful buzzing
which I’ll never forget. And then there was a shocking smell. About the same time
bullets came through the window and nearly grazed me. I think the main line of the hill
creatures had got close to the house when the dogs divided because of the roof
business. What was up there I don’t know yet, but I’m afraid the creatures are learning
to steer better with their space wings. I put out the light and used the windows for
loopholes, and raked all around the house with rifle fire aimed just high enough not to
hit the dogs. That seemed to end the business, but in the morning I found great pools
of blood in the yard, beside pools of a green sticky stuff that had the worst odour I have
ever smelled. I climbed up on the roof and found more of the sticky stuff there. Five of
the dogs were killed—I’m afraid I hit one by aiming too low, for he was shot in the back.
Now I am setting the panes the shots broke, and am going to Brattleboro for more
dogs. I guess the men at the kennels think I am crazy. Will drop another note later.
Suppose I’ll be ready for moving in a week or two, though it nearly kills me to think of it.
Hastily—
AKELEY

But this was not the only letter from Akeley to cross mine. On the next morning—September
6th—still another came; this time a frantic scrawl which utterly unnerved me and put me at a loss
what to say or do next. Again I cannot do better than quote the text as faithfully as memory will let
me.

Tuesday.
Clouds didn’t break, so no moon again—and going into the wane anyhow. I’d have
the house wired for electricity and put in a searchlight if I didn’t know they’d cut the
cables as fast as they could be mended.
I think I am going crazy. It may be that all I have ever written you is a dream or
madness. It was bad enough before, but this time it is too much. They talked to me last
night—talked in that cursed buzzing voice and told me things that I dare not repeat to
you. I heard them plainly over the barking of the dogs, and once when they were
drowned out a human voice helped them. Keep out of this, Wilmarth—it is worse than
either you or I ever suspected. They don’t mean to let me get to California now—they
want to take me off alive, or what theoretically and mentally amounts to alive—not only
to Yuggoth, but beyond that—away outside the galaxy and possibly beyond the last
curved rim of space. I told them I wouldn’t go where they wish, or in the terrible way
they propose to take me, but I’m afraid it will be no use. My place is so far out that they
may come by day as well as by night before long. Six more dogs killed, and I felt
presences all along the wooded parts of the road when I drove to Brattleboro today.
It was a mistake for me to try to send you that phonograph record and black stone.
Better smash the record before it’s too late. Will drop you another line tomorrow if I’m
still here. Wish I could arrange to get my books and things to Brattleboro and board
there. I would run off without anything if I could, but something inside my mind holds
me back. I can slip out to Brattleboro, where I ought to be safe, but I feel just as much
a prisoner there as at the house. And I seem to know that I couldn’t get much farther
even if I dropped everything and tried. It is horrible—don’t get mixed up in this.
Yrs—AKELEY

I did not sleep at all the night after receiving this terrible thing, and was utterly baffled as to
Akeley’s remaining degree of sanity. The substance of the note was wholly insane, yet the manner of
expression—in view of all that had gone before—had a grimly potent quality of convincingness. I
made no attempt to answer it, thinking it better to wait until Akeley might have time to reply to my
latest communication. Such a reply indeed came on the following day, though the fresh material in it
quite overshadowed any of the points brought up by the letter it nominally answered. Here is what I
recall of the text, scrawled and blotted as it was in the course of a plainly frantic and hurried
composition.

Wednesday.
W—
Yr letter came, but it’s no use to discuss anything any more. I am fully resigned.
Wonder that I have even enough will power left to fight them off. Can’t escape even if I
were willing to give up everything and run. They’ll get me.
Had a letter from them yesterday—R.F.D. man brought it while I was at
Brattleboro. Typed and postmarked Bellows Falls. Tells what they want to do with
me—I can’t repeat it. Look out for yourself, too! Smash that record. Cloudy nights keep
up, and moon waning all the time. Wish I dared to get help—it might brace up my will
power—but everyone who would dare to come at all would call me crazy unless there
happened to be some proof. Couldn’t ask people to come for no reason at all—am all
out of touch with everybody and have been for years.
But I haven’t told you the worst, Wilmarth. Brace up to read this, for it will give you
a shock. I am telling the truth, though. It is this—I have seen and touched one of the
things, or part of one of the things. God, man, but it’s awful! It was dead, of course.
One of the dogs had it, and I found it near the kennel this morning. I tried to save it in
the woodshed to convince people of the whole thing, but it all evaporated in a few
hours. Nothing left. You know, all those things in the rivers were seen only on the first
morning after the flood. And here’s the worst. I tried to photograph it for you, but when I
developed the film there wasn’t anything visible except the woodshed. What can the
thing have been made of? I saw it and felt it, and they all leave footprints. It was surely
made of matter—but what kind of matter? The shape can’t be described. It was a great
crab with a lot of pyramided fleshy rings or knots of thick, ropy stuff covered with
feelers where a man’s head would be. That green sticky stuff is its blood or juice. And
there are more of them due on earth any minute.
Walter Brown is missing—hasn’t been seen loafing around any of his usual
 corners in the villages hereabouts. I must have got him with one of my shots, though
the creatures always seem to try to take their dead and wounded away.
Got into town this afternoon without any trouble, but am afraid they’re beginning to
hold off because they’re sure of me. Am writing this in Brattleboro P.O. This may be
goodbye—if it is, write my son George Goodenough Akeley, 176 Pleasant St., San
Diego, Cal., but don’t come up here. Write the boy if you don’t hear from me in a week,
and watch the papers for news.
I’m going to play my last two cards now—if I have the will power left. First to try
poison gas on the things (I’ve got the right chemicals and have fixed up masks for
myself and the dogs) and then if that doesn’t work, tell the sheriff. They can lock me in
a madhouse if they want to—it’ll be better than what the other creatures would do.
Perhaps I can get them to pay attention to the prints around the house—they are faint,
but I can find them every morning. Suppose, though, police would say I faked them
somehow; for they all think I’m a queer character.
Must try to have a state policeman spend a night here and see for himself—though
it would be just like the creatures to learn about it and hold off that night. They cut my
wires whenever I try to telephone in the night—the linemen think it is very queer, and
may testify for me if they don’t go and imagine I cut them myself. I haven’t tried to keep
them repaired for over a week now.
I could get some of the ignorant people to testify for me about the reality of the
horrors, but everybody laughs at what they say, and anyway, they have shunned my
place for so long that they don’t know any of the new events. You couldn’t get one of
those run-down farmers to come within a mile of my house for love or money. The mail-
carrier hears what they say and jokes me about it—God! If I only dared tell him how
real it is! I think I’ll try to get him to notice the prints, but he comes in the afternoon and
they’re usually about gone by that time. If I kept one by setting a box or pan over it,
he’d think surely it was a fake or joke.
Wish I hadn’t gotten to be such a hermit, so folks don’t drop around as they used
to. I’ve never dared shew the black stone or the kodak pictures, or play that record, to
anybody but the ignorant people. The others would say I faked the whole business and
do nothing but laugh. But I may yet try shewing the pictures. They give those claw-
prints clearly, even if the things that made them can’t be photographed. What a shame
nobody else saw that thing this morning before it went to nothing!
But I don’t know as I care. After what I’ve been through, a madhouse is as good a
place as any. The doctors can help me make up my mind to get away from this house,
and that is all that will save me.
Write my son George if you don’t hear soon. Goodbye, smash that record, and
don’t mix up in this.
Yrs—AKELEY

The letter frankly plunged me into the blackest of terror. I did not know what to say in answer, but
scratched off some incoherent words of advice and encouragement and sent them by registered
mail. I recall urging Akeley to move to Brattleboro at once, and place himself under the protection of
the authorities; adding that I would come to that town with the phonograph record and help convince
the courts of his sanity. It was time, too, I think I wrote, to alarm the people generally against this
thing in their midst. It will be observed that at this moment of stress my own belief in all Akeley had
told and claimed was virtually complete, though I did think his failure to get a picture of the dead
monster was due not to any freak of Nature but to some excited slip of his own.

V.

Then, apparently crossing my incoherent note and reaching me Saturday afternoon, September 8th,
came that curiously different and calming letter neatly typed on a new machine; that strange letter of
reassurance and invitation which must have marked so prodigious a transition in the whole nightmare
drama of the lonely hills. Again I will quote from memory—seeking for special reasons to preserve as
much of the flavour of the style as I can. It was postmarked Bellows Falls, and the signature as well
as the body of the letter was typed—as is frequent with beginners in typing. The text, though, was
marvellously accurate for a tyro’s work; and I concluded that Akeley must have used a machine at
some previous period—perhaps in college. To say that the letter relieved me would be only fair, yet
beneath my relief lay a substratum of uneasiness. If Akeley had been sane in his terror, was he now
sane in his deliverance? And the sort of “improved rapport” mentioned . . . what was it? The entire
thing implied such a diametrical reversal of Akeley’s previous attitude! But here is the substance of
the text, carefully transcribed from a memory in which I take some pride.

Townshend, Vermont,
Thursday, Sept. 6, 1928.
My dear Wilmarth:—
It gives me great pleasure to be able to set you at rest regarding all the silly things
I’ve been writing you. I say “silly”, although by that I mean my frightened attitude rather
than my descriptions of certain phenomena. Those phenomena are real and important
enough; my mistake had been in establishing an anomalous attitude toward them.
I think I mentioned that my strange visitors were beginning to communicate with
me, and to attempt such communication. Last night this exchange of speech became
actual. In response to certain signals I admitted to the house a messenger from those
outside—a fellow-human, let me hasten to say. He told me much that neither you nor I
had even begun to guess, and shewed clearly how totally we had misjudged and
misinterpreted the purpose of the Outer Ones in maintaining their secret colony on this
planet.
It seems that the evil legends about what they have offered to men, and what they
wish in connexion with the earth, are wholly the result of an ignorant misconception of
allegorical speech—speech, of course, moulded by cultural backgrounds and thought-
habits vastly different from anything we dream of. My own conjectures, I freely own,
shot as widely past the mark as any of the guesses of illiterate farmers and savage
Indians. What I had thought morbid and shameful and ignominious is in reality
awesome and mind-expanding and even glorious—my previous estimate being merely
a phase of man’s eternal tendency to hate and fear and shrink from the utterly different.
Now I regret the harm I have inflicted upon these alien and incredible beings in the
course of our nightly skirmishes. If only I had consented to talk peacefully and
reasonably with them in the first place! But they bear me no grudge, their emotions
being organised very differently from ours. It is their misfortune to have had as their
human agents in Vermont some very inferior specimens—the late Walter Brown, for
example. He prejudiced me vastly against them. Actually, they have never knowingly
harmed men, but have often been cruelly wronged and spied upon by our species.
There is a whole secret cult of evil men (a man of your mystical erudition will
understand me when I link them with Hastur and the Yellow Sign) devoted to the
purpose of tracking them down and injuring them on behalf of monstrous powers from
other dimensions. It is against these aggressors—not against normal humanity—that
the drastic precautions of the Outer Ones are directed. Incidentally, I learned that many
of our lost letters were stolen not by the Outer Ones but by the emissaries of this
malign cult.
All that the Outer Ones wish of man is peace and non-molestation and an
increasing intellectual rapport. This latter is absolutely necessary now that our
inventions and devices are expanding our knowledge and motions, and making it more
and more impossible for the Outer Ones’ necessary outposts to exist secretly on this
planet. The alien beings desire to know mankind more fully, and to have a few of
mankind’s philosophic and scientific leaders know more about them. With such an
exchange of knowledge all perils will pass, and a satisfactory modus vivendi be
established. The very idea of any attempt to enslave or degrade mankind is ridiculous.
As a beginning of this improved rapport, the Outer Ones have naturally chosen
me—whose knowledge of them is already so considerable—as their primary interpreter
on earth. Much was told me last night—facts of the most stupendous and vista-opening
nature—and more will be subsequently communicated to me both orally and in writing.
I shall not be called upon to make any trip outside just yet, though I shall probably wish
to do so later on—employing special means and transcending everything which we
have hitherto been accustomed to regard as human experience. My house will be
besieged no longer. Everything has reverted to normal, and the dogs will have no
further occupation. In place of terror I have been given a rich boon of knowledge and
intellectual adventure which few other mortals have ever shared.
The Outer Beings are perhaps the most marvellous organic things in or beyond all
space and time—members of a cosmos-wide race of which all other life-forms are
merely degenerate variants. They are more vegetable than animal, if these terms can
be applied to the sort of matter composing them, and have a somewhat fungoid
structure; though the presence of a chlorophyll-like substance and a very singular
nutritive system differentiate them altogether from true cormophytic fungi. Indeed, the
type is composed of a form of matter totally alien to our part of space—with electrons
having a wholly different vibration-rate. That is why the beings cannot be photographed
on the ordinary camera films and plates of our known universe, even though our eyes
can see them. With proper knowledge, however, any good chemist could make a
photographic emulsion which would record their images.
The genus is unique in its ability to traverse the heatless and airless interstellar
void in full corporeal form, and some of its variants cannot do this without mechanical
aid or curious surgical transpositions. Only a few species have the ether-resisting
wings characteristic of the Vermont variety. Those inhabiting certain remote peaks in
the Old World were brought in other ways. Their external resemblance to animal life,
and to the sort of structure we understand as material, is a matter of parallel evolution
rather than of close kinship. Their brain-capacity exceeds that of any other surviving
life-form, although the winged types of our hill country are by no means the most highly
developed. Telepathy is their usual means of discourse, though they have rudimentary
vocal organs which, after a slight operation (for surgery is an incredibly expert and
every-day thing among them), can roughly duplicate the speech of such types of
organism as still use speech.
Their main immediate abode is a still undiscovered and almost lightless planet at
the very edge of our solar system—beyond Neptune, and the ninth in distance from the
sun. It is, as we have inferred, the object mystically hinted at as “Yuggoth” in certain
ancient and forbidden writings; and it will soon be the scene of a strange focussing of
thought upon our world in an effort to facilitate mental rapport. I would not be surprised
if astronomers became sufficiently sensitive to these thought-currents to discover
Yuggoth when the Outer Ones wish them to do so. But Yuggoth, of course, is only the
stepping-stone. The main body of the beings inhabits strangely organised abysses
wholly beyond the utmost reach of any human imagination. The space-time globule
which we recognise as the totality of all cosmic entity is only an atom in the genuine
infinity which is theirs. And as much of this infinity as any human brain can hold is
eventually to be opened up to me, as it has been to not more than fifty other men since
the human race has existed.
You will probably call this raving at first, Wilmarth, but in time you will appreciate
the titanic opportunity I have stumbled upon. I want you to share as much of it as is
possible, and to that end must tell you thousands of things that won’t go on paper. In
the past I have warned you not to come to see me. Now that all is safe, I take pleasure
in rescinding that warning and inviting you.
Can’t you make a trip up here before your college term opens? It would be
marvellously delightful if you could. Bring along the phonograph record and all my
letters to you as consultative data—we shall need them in piecing together the whole
tremendous story. You might bring the kodak prints, too, since I seem to have mislaid
the negatives and my own prints in all this recent excitement. But what a wealth of
facts I have to add to all this groping and tentative material—and what a stupendous
device I have to supplement my additions!
Don’t hesitate—I am free from espionage now, and you will not meet anything
unnatural or disturbing. Just come along and let my car meet you at the Brattleboro
station—prepare to stay as long as you can, and expect many an evening of
discussion of things beyond all human conjecture. Don’t tell anyone about it, of
course—for this matter must not get to the promiscuous public.
The train service to Brattleboro is not bad—you can get a time-table in Boston.
Take the B. & M. to Greenfield, and then change for the brief remainder of the way. I
suggest your taking the convenient 4:10 p.m.—standard—from Boston. This gets into
Greenfield at 7:35, and at 9:19 a train leaves there which reaches Brattleboro at 10:01.
That is week-days. Let me know the date and I’ll have my car on hand at the station.
Pardon this typed letter, but my handwriting has grown shaky of late, as you know,
and I don’t feel equal to long stretches of script. I got this new Corona in Brattleboro
yesterday—it seems to work very well.
Awaiting word, and hoping to see you shortly with the phonograph record and all
my letters—and the kodak prints—
I am
Yours in anticipation,
HENRY W. AKELEY.
To Albert N. Wilmarth, Esq.,
Miskatonic University,
 Arkham, Mass.

The complexity of my emotions upon reading, re-reading, and pondering over this strange and
unlooked-for letter is past adequate description. I have said that I was at once relieved and made
uneasy, but this expresses only crudely the overtones of diverse and largely subconscious feelings
which comprised both the relief and the uneasiness. To begin with, the thing was so antipodally at
variance with the whole chain of horrors preceding it—the change of mood from stark terror to cool
complacency and even exultation was so unheralded, lightning-like, and complete! I could scarcely
believe that a single day could so alter the psychological perspective of one who had written that final
frenzied bulletin of Wednesday, no matter what relieving disclosures that day might have brought. At
certain moments a sense of conflicting unrealities made me wonder whether this whole distantly
reported drama of fantastic forces were not a kind of half-illusory dream created largely within my
own mind. Then I thought of the phonograph record and gave way to still greater bewilderment.
The letter seemed so unlike anything which could have been expected! As I analysed my
impression, I saw that it consisted of two distinct phases. First, granting that Akeley had been sane
before and was still sane, the indicated change in the situation itself was so swift and unthinkable.
And secondly, the change in Akeley’s own manner, attitude, and language was so vastly beyond the
normal or the predictable. The man’s whole personality seemed to have undergone an insidious
mutation—a mutation so deep that one could scarcely reconcile his two aspects with the supposition
that both represented equal sanity. Word-choice, spelling—all were subtly different. And with my
academic sensitiveness to prose style, I could trace profound divergences in his commonest
reactions and rhythm-responses. Certainly, the emotional cataclysm or revelation which could
produce so radical an overturn must be an extreme one indeed! Yet in another way the letter seemed
quite characteristic of Akeley. The same old passion for infinity—the same old scholarly
inquisitiveness. I could not a moment—or more than a moment—credit the idea of spuriousness or
malign substitution. Did not the invitation—the willingness to have me test the truth of the letter in
person—prove its genuineness?
I did not retire Saturday night, but sat up thinking of the shadows and marvels behind the letter I
had received. My mind, aching from the quick succession of monstrous conceptions it had been
forced to confront during the last four months, worked upon this startling new material in a cycle of
doubt and acceptance which repeated most of the steps experienced in facing the earlier wonders;
till long before dawn a burning interest and curiosity had begun to replace the original storm of
perplexity and uneasiness. Mad or sane, metamorphosed or merely relieved, the chances were that
Akeley had actually encountered some stupendous change of perspective in his hazardous research;
some change at once diminishing his danger—real or fancied—and opening dizzy new vistas of
cosmic and superhuman knowledge. My own zeal for the unknown flared up to meet his, and I felt
myself touched by the contagion of the morbid barrier-breaking. To shake off the maddening and
wearying limitations of time and space and natural law—to be linked with the vast outside—to come
close to the nighted and abysmal secrets of the infinite and the ultimate—surely such a thing was
worth the risk of one’s life, soul, and sanity! And Akeley had said there was no longer any peril—he
had invited me to visit him instead of warning me away as before. I tingled at the thought of what he
might now have to tell me—there was an almost paralysing fascination in the thought of sitting in that
lonely and lately beleaguered farmhouse with a man who had talked with actual emissaries from
outer space; sitting there with the terrible record and the pile of letters in which Akeley had
summarised his earlier conclusions.
So late Sunday morning I telegraphed Akeley that I would meet him in Brattleboro on the
following Wednesday—September 12th—if that date were convenient for him. In only one respect did
I depart from his suggestions, and that concerned the choice of a train. Frankly, I did not feel like
arriving in that haunted Vermont region late at night; so instead of accepting the train he chose I
telephoned the station and devised another arrangement. By rising early and taking the 8:07 a.m.
(standard) into Boston, I could catch the 9:25 for Greenfield; arriving there at 12:22 noon. This
connected exactly with a train reaching Brattleboro at 1:08 p.m.—a much more comfortable hour
than 10:01 for meeting Akeley and riding with him into the close-packed, secret-guarding hills.
I mentioned this choice in my telegram, and was glad to learn in the reply which came toward
evening that it had met with my prospective host’s endorsement. His wire ran thus:

ARRANGEMENT SATISFACTORY. WILL MEET 1:08 TRAIN WEDNESDAY. DON’T

FORGET RECORD AND LETTERS AND PRINTS. KEEP DESTINATION QUIET.
EXPECT GREAT REVELATIONS.
AKELEY.

Receipt of this message in direct response to one sent to Akeley—and necessarily delivered to
his house from the Townshend station either by official messenger or by a restored telephone service
—removed any lingering subconscious doubts I may have had about the authorship of the perplexing
letter. My relief was marked—indeed, it was greater than I could account for at that time; since all
such doubts had been rather deeply buried. But I slept soundly and long that night, and was eagerly
busy with preparations during the ensuing two days.

VI.

On Wednesday I started as agreed, taking with me a valise full of simple necessities and scientific
data, including the hideous phonograph record, the kodak prints, and the entire file of Akeley’s
correspondence. As requested, I had told no one where I was going; for I could see that the matter
demanded utmost privacy, even allowing for its most favourable turns. The thought of actual mental
contact with alien, outside entities was stupefying enough to my trained and somewhat prepared
mind; and this being so, what might one think of its effect on the vast masses of uninformed laymen?
I do not know whether dread or adventurous expectancy was uppermost in me as I changed trains in
Boston and began the long westward run out of familiar regions into those I knew less thoroughly.
Waltham—Concord—Ayer—Fitchburg—Gardner—Athol—
My train reached Greenfield seven minutes late, but the northbound connecting express had
been held. Transferring in haste, I felt a curious breathlessness as the cars rumbled on through the
early afternoon sunlight into territories I had always read of but had never before visited. I knew I was
entering an altogether older-fashioned and more primitive New England than the mechanised,
urbanised coastal and southern areas where all my life had been spent; an unspoiled, ancestral New
England without the foreigners and factory-smoke, billboards and concrete roads, of the sections
which modernity has touched. There would be odd survivals of that continuous native life whose
deep roots make it the one authentic outgrowth of the landscape—the continuous native life which
keeps alive strange ancient memories, and fertilises the soil for shadowy, marvellous, and seldom-
mentioned beliefs.
Now and then I saw the blue Connecticut River gleaming in the sun, and after leaving Northfield
we crossed it. Ahead loomed green and cryptical hills, and when the conductor came around I
learned that I was at last in Vermont. He told me to set my watch back an hour, since the northern hill
country will have no dealings with new-fangled daylight time schemes. As I did so it seemed to me
that I was likewise turning the calendar back a century.
The train kept close to the river, and across in New Hampshire I could see the approaching slope
of steep Wantastiquet, about which singular old legends cluster. Then streets appeared on my left,
and a green island shewed in the stream on my right. People rose and filed to the door, and I
followed them. The car stopped, and I alighted beneath the long train-shed of the Brattleboro station.
Looking over the line of waiting motors I hesitated a moment to see which one might turn out to
be the Akeley Ford, but my identity was divined before I could take the initiative. And yet it was
clearly not Akeley himself who advanced to meet me with an outstretched hand and a mellowly
phrased query as to whether I was indeed Mr. Albert N. Wilmarth of Arkham. This man bore no
resemblance to the bearded, grizzled Akeley of the snapshot; but was a younger and more urban
person, fashionably dressed, and wearing only a small, dark moustache. His cultivated voice held an
odd and almost disturbing hint of vague familiarity, though I could not definitely place it in my
memory.
As I surveyed him I heard him explaining that he was a friend of my prospective host’s who had
come down from Townshend in his stead. Akeley, he declared, had suffered a sudden attack of some
asthmatic trouble, and did not feel equal to making a trip in the outdoor air. It was not serious,
however, and there was to be no change in plans regarding my visit. I could not make out just how
much this Mr. Noyes—as he announced himself—knew of Akeley’s researches and discoveries,
though it seemed to me that his casual manner stamped him as a comparative outsider.
Remembering what a hermit Akeley had been, I was a trifle surprised at the ready availability of such
a friend; but did not let my puzzlement deter me from entering the motor to which he gestured me. It
was not the small ancient car I had expected from Akeley’s descriptions, but a large and immaculate
specimen of recent pattern—apparently Noyes’s own, and bearing Massachusetts licence plates with
the amusing “sacred codfish” device of that year. My guide, I concluded, must be a summer transient
in the Townshend region.
Noyes climbed into the car beside me and started it at once. I was glad that he did not overflow
with conversation, for some peculiar atmospheric tensity made me feel disinclined to talk. The town
seemed very attractive in the afternoon sunlight as we swept up an incline and turned to the right into
the main street. It drowsed like the older New England cities which one remembers from boyhood,
and something in the collocation of roofs and steeples and chimneys and brick walls formed contours
touching deep viol-strings of ancestral emotion. I could tell that I was at the gateway of a region half-
bewitched through the piling-up of unbroken time-accumulations; a region where old, strange things
have had a chance to grow and linger because they have never been stirred up.
As we passed out of Brattleboro my sense of constraint and foreboding increased, for a vague
quality in the hill-crowded countryside with its towering, threatening, close-pressing green and granite
slopes hinted at obscure secrets and immemorial survivals which might or might not be hostile to
mankind. For a time our course followed a broad, shallow river which flowed down from unknown
hills in the north, and I shivered when my companion told me it was the West River. It was in this
stream, I recalled from newspaper items, that one of the morbid crab-like beings had been seen
floating after the floods.
Gradually the country around us grew wilder and more deserted. Archaic covered bridges
lingered fearsomely out of the past in pockets of the hills, and the half-abandoned railway track
paralleling the river seemed to exhale a nebulously visible air of desolation. There were awesome
sweeps of vivid valley where great cliffs rose, New England’s virgin granite shewing grey and austere
through the verdure that scaled the crests. There were gorges where untamed streams leaped,
bearing down toward the river the unimagined secrets of a thousand pathless peaks. Branching away
now and then were narrow, half-concealed roads that bored their way through solid, luxuriant masses
of forest among whose primal trees whole armies of elemental spirits might well lurk. As I saw these I
thought of how Akeley had been molested by unseen agencies on his drives along this very route,
and did not wonder that such things could be.
The quaint, sightly village of Newfane, reached in less than an hour, was our last link with that
world which man can definitely call his own by virtue of conquest and complete occupancy. After that
we cast off all allegiance to immediate, tangible, and time-touched things, and entered a fantastic
world of hushed unreality in which the narrow, ribbon-like road rose and fell and curved with an
almost sentient and purposeful caprice amidst the tenantless green peaks and half-deserted valleys.
Except for the sound of the motor, and the faint stir of the few lonely farms we passed at infrequent
intervals, the only thing that reached my ears was the gurgling, insidious trickle of strange waters
from numberless hidden fountains in the shadowy woods.
The nearness and intimacy of the dwarfed, domed hills now became veritably breath-taking.
Their steepness and abruptness were even greater than I had imagined from hearsay, and
suggested nothing in common with the prosaic objective world we know. The dense, unvisited woods
on those inaccessible slopes seemed to harbour alien and incredible things, and I felt that the very
outline of the hills themselves held some strange and aeon-forgotten meaning, as if they were vast
hieroglyphs left by a rumoured titan race whose glories live only in rare, deep dreams. All the legends
of the past, and all the stupefying imputations of Henry Akeley’s letters and exhibits, welled up in my
memory to heighten the atmosphere of tension and growing menace. The purpose of my visit, and
the frightful abnormalities it postulated, struck me all at once with a chill sensation that nearly
overbalanced my ardour for strange delvings.
My guide must have noticed my disturbed attitude; for as the road grew wilder and more
irregular, and our motion slower and more jolting, his occasional pleasant comments expanded into a
steadier flow of discourse. He spoke of the beauty and weirdness of the country, and revealed some
acquaintance with the folklore studies of my prospective host. From his polite questions it was
obvious that he knew I had come for a scientific purpose, and that I was bringing data of some
importance; but he gave no sign of appreciating the depth and awfulness of the knowledge which
Akeley had finally reached.
His manner was so cheerful, normal, and urbane that his remarks ought to have calmed and
reassured me; but oddly enough, I felt only the more disturbed as we bumped and veered onward
into the unknown wilderness of hills and woods. At times it seemed as if he were pumping me to see
what I knew of the monstrous secrets of the place, and with every fresh utterance that vague,
teasing, baffling familiarity in his voice increased. It was not an ordinary or healthy familiarity despite
the thoroughly wholesome and cultivated nature of the voice. I somehow linked it with forgotten
nightmares, and felt that I might go mad if I recognised it. If any good excuse had existed, I think I
would have turned back from my visit. As it was, I could not well do so—and it occurred to me that a
cool, scientific conversation with Akeley himself after my arrival would help greatly to pull me
together.
Besides, there was a strangely calming element of cosmic beauty in the hypnotic landscape
through which we climbed and plunged fantastically. Time had lost itself in the labyrinths behind, and
around us stretched only the flowering waves of faery and the recaptured loveliness of vanished
centuries—the hoary groves, the untainted pastures edged with gay autumnal blossoms, and at vast
intervals the small brown farmsteads nestling amidst huge trees beneath vertical precipices of
fragrant brier and meadow-grass. Even the sunlight assumed a supernal glamour, as if some special
atmosphere or exhalation mantled the whole region. I had seen nothing like it before save in the
magic vistas that sometimes form the backgrounds of Italian primitives. Sodoma and Leonardo
conceived such expanses, but only in the distance, and through the vaultings of Renaissance
arcades. We were now burrowing bodily through the midst of the picture, and I seemed to find in its
necromancy a thing I had innately known or inherited, and for which I had always been vainly
searching.
Suddenly, after rounding an obtuse angle at the top of a sharp ascent, the car came to a
standstill. On my left, across a well-kept lawn which stretched to the road and flaunted a border of
whitewashed stones, rose a white, two-and-a-half-story house of unusual size and elegance for the
region, with a congeries of contiguous or arcade-linked barns, sheds, and windmill behind and to the
right. I recognised it at once from the snapshot I had received, and was not surprised to see the
name of Henry Akeley on the galvanised-iron mail-box near the road. For some distance back of the
house a level stretch of marshy and sparsely wooded land extended, beyond which soared a steep,
thickly forested hillside ending in a jagged leafy crest. This latter, I knew, was the summit of Dark
Mountain, half way up which we must have climbed already.
Alighting from the car and taking my valise, Noyes asked me to wait while he went in and notified
Akeley of my advent. He himself, he added, had important business elsewhere, and could not stop
for more than a moment. As he briskly walked up the path to the house I climbed out of the car
myself, wishing to stretch my legs a little before settling down to a sedentary conversation. My feeling
of nervousness and tension had risen to a maximum again now that I was on the actual scene of the
morbid beleaguering described so hauntingly in Akeley’s letters, and I honestly dreaded the coming
discussions which were to link me with such alien and forbidden worlds.
Close contact with the utterly bizarre is often more terrifying than inspiring, and it did not cheer
me to think that this very bit of dusty road was the place where those monstrous tracks and that
foetid green ichor had been found after moonless nights of fear and death. Idly I noticed that none of
Akeley’s dogs seemed to be about. Had he sold them all as soon as the Outer Ones made peace
with him? Try as I might, I could not have the same confidence in the depth and sincerity of that
peace which appeared in Akeley’s final and queerly different letter. After all, he was a man of much
simplicity and with little worldly experience. Was there not, perhaps, some deep and sinister
undercurrent beneath the surface of the new alliance?
Led by my thoughts, my eyes turned downward to the powdery road surface which had held
such hideous testimonies. The last few days had been dry, and tracks of all sorts cluttered the rutted,
irregular highway despite the unfrequented nature of the district. With a vague curiosity I began to
trace the outline of some of the heterogeneous impressions, trying meanwhile to curb the flights of
macabre fancy which the place and its memories suggested. There was something menacing and
uncomfortable in the funereal stillness, in the muffled, subtle trickle of distant brooks, and in the
crowding green peaks and black-wooded precipices that choked the narrow horizon.
And then an image shot into my consciousness which made those vague menaces and flights of
fancy seem mild and insignificant indeed. I have said that I was scanning the miscellaneous prints in
the road with a kind of idle curiosity—but all at once that curiosity was shockingly snuffed out by a
sudden and paralysing gust of active terror. For though the dust tracks were in general confused and
overlapping, and unlikely to arrest any casual gaze, my restless vision had caught certain details
near the spot where the path to the house joined the highway; and had recognised beyond doubt or
hope the frightful significance of those details. It was not for nothing, alas, that I had pored for hours
over the kodak views of the Outer Ones’ claw-prints which Akeley had sent. Too well did I know the
marks of those loathsome nippers, and that hint of ambiguous direction which stamped the horrors
as no creatures of this planet. No chance had been left me for merciful mistake. Here, indeed, in
objective form before my own eyes, and surely made not many hours ago, were at least three marks
which stood out blasphemously among the surprising plethora of blurred footprints leading to and
from the Akeley farmhouse. They were the hellish tracks of the living fungi from Yuggoth.
I pulled myself together in time to stifle a scream. After all, what more was there than I might
have expected, assuming that I had really believed Akeley’s letters? He had spoken of making peace
with the things. Why, then, was it strange that some of them had visited his house? But the terror was
stronger than the reassurance. Could any man be expected to look unmoved for the first time upon
the claw-marks of animate beings from outer depths of space? Just then I saw Noyes emerge from
the door and approach with a brisk step. I must, I reflected, keep command of myself, for the
chances were this genial friend knew nothing of Akeley’s profoundest and most stupendous probings
into the forbidden.
Akeley, Noyes hastened to inform me, was glad and ready to see me; although his sudden
attack of asthma would prevent him from being a very competent host for a day or two. These spells
hit him hard when they came, and were always accompanied by a debilitating fever and general
weakness. He never was good for much while they lasted—had to talk in a whisper, and was very
clumsy and feeble in getting about. His feet and ankles swelled, too, so that he had to bandage them
like a gouty old beef-eater. Today he was in rather bad shape, so that I would have to attend very
largely to my own needs; but he was none the less eager for conversation. I would find him in the
study at the left of the front hall—the room where the blinds were shut. He had to keep the sunlight
out when he was ill, for his eyes were very sensitive.
As Noyes bade me adieu and rode off northward in his car I began to walk slowly toward the
house. The door had been left ajar for me; but before approaching and entering I cast a searching
glance around the whole place, trying to decide what had struck me as so intangibly queer about it.
The barns and sheds looked trimly prosaic enough, and I noticed Akeley’s battered Ford in its
capacious, unguarded shelter. Then the secret of the queerness reached me. It was the total silence.
Ordinarily a farm is at least moderately murmurous from its various kinds of livestock, but here all
signs of life were missing. What of the hens and the hogs? The cows, of which Akeley had said he
possessed several, might conceivably be out to pasture, and the dogs might possibly have been
sold; but the absence of any trace of cackling or grunting was truly singular.
I did not pause long on the path, but resolutely entered the open house door and closed it behind
me. It had cost me a distinct psychological effort to do so, and now that I was shut inside I had a
momentary longing for precipitate retreat. Not that the place was in the least sinister in visual
suggestion; on the contrary, I thought the graceful late-colonial hallway very tasteful and wholesome,
and admired the evident breeding of the man who had furnished it. What made me wish to flee was
something very attenuated and indefinable. Perhaps it was a certain odd odour which I thought I
noticed—though I well knew how common musty odours are in even the best of ancient farmhouses.

VII.

Refusing to let these cloudy qualms overmaster me, I recalled Noyes’s instructions and pushed open
the six-panelled, brass-latched white door on my left. The room beyond was darkened, as I had
known before; and as I entered it I noticed that the queer odour was stronger there. There likewise
appeared to be some faint, half-imaginary rhythm or vibration in the air. For a moment the closed
blinds allowed me to see very little, but then a kind of apologetic hacking or whispering sound drew
my attention to a great easy-chair in the farther, darker corner of the room. Within its shadowy depths
I saw the white blur of a man’s face and hands; and in a moment I had crossed to greet the figure
who had tried to speak. Dim though the light was, I perceived that this was indeed my host. I had
studied the kodak picture repeatedly, and there could be no mistake about this firm, weather-beaten
face with the cropped, grizzled beard.
But as I looked again my recognition was mixed with sadness and anxiety; for certainly, this face
was that of a very sick man. I felt that there must be something more than asthma behind that
strained, rigid, immobile expression and unwinking glassy stare; and realised how terribly the strain
of his frightful experiences must have told on him. Was it not enough to break any human being—
even a younger man than this intrepid delver into the forbidden? The strange and sudden relief, I
feared, had come too late to save him from something like a general breakdown. There was a touch
of the pitiful in the limp, lifeless way his lean hands rested in his lap. He had on a loose dressing-
gown, and was swathed around the head and high around the neck with a vivid yellow scarf or hood.
And then I saw that he was trying to talk in the same hacking whisper with which he had greeted
me. It was a hard whisper to catch at first, since the grey moustache concealed all movements of the
lips, and something in its timbre disturbed me greatly; but by concentrating my attention I could soon
make out its purport surprisingly well. The accent was by no means a rustic one, and the language
was even more polished than correspondence had led me to expect.
“Mr. Wilmarth, I presume? You must pardon my not rising. I am quite ill, as Mr. Noyes must have
told you; but I could not resist having you come just the same. You know what I wrote in my last letter
—there is so much to tell you tomorrow when I shall feel better. I can’t say how glad I am to see you
in person after all our many letters. You have the file with you, of course? And the kodak prints and
record? Noyes put your valise in the hall—I suppose you saw it. For tonight I fear you’ll have to wait
on yourself to a great extent. Your room is upstairs—the one over this—and you’ll see the bathroom
door open at the head of the staircase. There’s a meal spread for you in the dining-room—right
through this door at your right—which you can take whenever you feel like it. I’ll be a better host
tomorrow—but just now weakness leaves me helpless.
“Make yourself at home—you might take out the letters and pictures and record and put them on
the table here before you go upstairs with your bag. It is here that we shall discuss them—you can
see my phonograph on that corner stand.
“No, thanks—there’s nothing you can do for me. I know these spells of old. Just come back for a
little quiet visiting before night, and then go to bed when you please. I’ll rest right here—perhaps
sleep here all night as I often do. In the morning I’ll be far better able to go into the things we must go
into. You realise, of course, the utterly stupendous nature of the matter before us. To us, as to only a
few men on this earth, there will be opened up gulfs of time and space and knowledge beyond
anything within the conception of human science and philosophy.
 “Do you know that Einstein is wrong, and that certain objects and forces can move with a
velocity greater than that of light? With proper aid I expect to go backward and forward in time, and
actually see and feel the earth of remote past and future epochs. You can’t imagine the degree to
which those beings have carried science. There is nothing they can’t do with the mind and body of
living organisms. I expect to visit other planets, and even other stars and galaxies. The first trip will
be to Yuggoth, the nearest world fully peopled by the beings. It is a strange dark orb at the very rim
of our solar system—unknown to earthly astronomers as yet. But I must have written you about this.
At the proper time, you know, the beings there will direct thought-currents toward us and cause it to
be discovered—or perhaps let one of their human allies give the scientists a hint.
“There are mighty cities on Yuggoth—great tiers of terraced towers built of black stone like the
specimen I tried to send you. That came from Yuggoth. The sun shines there no brighter than a star,
but the beings need no light. They have other, subtler senses, and put no windows in their great
houses and temples. Light even hurts and hampers and confuses them, for it does not exist at all in
the black cosmos outside time and space where they came from originally. To visit Yuggoth would
drive any weak man mad—yet I am going there. The black rivers of pitch that flow under those
mysterious Cyclopean bridges—things built by some elder race extinct and forgotten before the
things came to Yuggoth from the ultimate voids—ought to be enough to make any man a Dante or
Poe if he can keep sane long enough to tell what he has seen.
“But remember—that dark world of fungoid gardens and windowless cities isn’t really terrible. It
is only to us that it would seem so. Probably this world seemed just as terrible to the beings when
they first explored it in the primal age. You know they were here long before the fabulous epoch of
Cthulhu was over, and remember all about sunken R’lyeh when it was above the waters. They’ve
been inside the earth, too—there are openings which human beings know nothing of—some of them
in these very Vermont hills—and great worlds of unknown life down there; blue-litten K’n-yan, red-
litten Yoth, and black, lightless N’kai. It’s from N’kai that frightful Tsathoggua came—you know, the
amorphous, toad-like god-creature mentioned in the Pnakotic Manuscripts and the Necronomicon
and the Commoriom myth-cycle preserved by the Atlantean high-priest Klarkash-Ton.
“But we will talk of all this later on. It must be four or five o’clock by this time. Better bring the
stuff from your bag, take a bite, and then come back for a comfortable chat.”
Very slowly I turned and began to obey my host; fetching my valise, extracting and depositing
the desired articles, and finally ascending to the room designated as mine. With the memory of that
roadside claw-print fresh in my mind, Akeley’s whispered paragraphs had affected me queerly; and
the hints of familiarity with this unknown world of fungous life—forbidden Yuggoth—made my flesh
creep more than I cared to own. I was tremendously sorry about Akeley’s illness, but had to confess
that his hoarse whisper had a hateful as well as pitiful quality. If only he wouldn’t gloat so about
Yuggoth and its black secrets!
My room proved a very pleasant and well-furnished one, devoid alike of the musty odour and
disturbing sense of vibration; and after leaving my valise there I descended again to greet Akeley and
take the lunch he had set out for me. The dining-room was just beyond the study, and I saw that a
kitchen ell extended still farther in the same direction. On the dining-table an ample array of
sandwiches, cake, and cheese awaited me, and a Thermos-bottle beside a cup and saucer testified
that hot coffee had not been forgotten. After a well-relished meal I poured myself a liberal cup of
coffee, but found that the culinary standard had suffered a lapse in this one detail. My first spoonful
revealed a faintly unpleasant acrid taste, so that I did not take more. Throughout the lunch I thought
of Akeley sitting silently in the great chair in the darkened next room. Once I went in to beg him to
share the repast, but he whispered that he could eat nothing as yet. Later on, just before he slept, he
would take some malted milk—all he ought to have that day.
After lunch I insisted on clearing the dishes away and washing them in the kitchen sink—
incidentally emptying the coffee which I had not been able to appreciate. Then returning to the
darkened study I drew up a chair near my host’s corner and prepared for such conversation as he
might feel inclined to conduct. The letters, pictures, and record were still on the large centre-table,
but for the nonce we did not have to draw upon them. Before long I forgot even the bizarre odour and
curious suggestions of vibration.
I have said that there were things in some of Akeley’s letters—especially the second and most
voluminous one—which I would not dare to quote or even form into words on paper. This hesitancy
applies with still greater force to the things I heard whispered that evening in the darkened room
among the lonely haunted hills. Of the extent of the cosmic horrors unfolded by that raucous voice I
cannot even hint. He had known hideous things before, but what he had learned since making his
pact with the Outside Things was almost too much for sanity to bear. Even now I absolutely refuse to
believe what he implied about the constitution of ultimate infinity, the juxtaposition of dimensions, and
the frightful position of our known cosmos of space and time in the unending chain of linked cosmos-
atoms which makes up the immediate super-cosmos of curves, angles, and material and semi-
material electronic organisation.
Never was a sane man more dangerously close to the arcana of basic entity—never was an
organic brain nearer to utter annihilation in the chaos that transcends form and force and symmetry. I
learned whence Cthulhu first came, and why half the great temporary stars of history had flared forth.
I guessed—from hints which made even my informant pause timidly—the secret behind the
Magellanic Clouds and globular nebulae, and the black truth veiled by the immemorial allegory of
Tao. The nature of the Doels was plainly revealed, and I was told the essence (though not the
source) of the Hounds of Tindalos. The legend of Yig, Father of Serpents, remained figurative no
longer, and I started with loathing when told of the monstrous nuclear chaos beyond angled space
which the Necronomicon had mercifully cloaked under the name of Azathoth. It was shocking to have
the foulest nightmares of secret myth cleared up in concrete terms whose stark, morbid hatefulness
exceeded the boldest hints of ancient and mediaeval mystics. Ineluctably I was led to believe that the
first whisperers of these accursed tales must have had discourse with Akeley’s Outer Ones, and
perhaps have visited outer cosmic realms as Akeley now proposed visiting them.
I was told of the Black Stone and what it implied, and was glad that it had not reached me. My
guesses about those hieroglyphics had been all too correct! And yet Akeley now seemed reconciled
to the whole fiendish system he had stumbled upon; reconciled and eager to probe farther into the
monstrous abyss. I wondered what beings he had talked with since his last letter to me, and whether
many of them had been as human as that first emissary he had mentioned. The tension in my head
grew insufferable, and I built up all sorts of wild theories about the queer, persistent odour and those
insidious hints of vibration in the darkened room.
Night was falling now, and as I recalled what Akeley had written me about those earlier nights I
shuddered to think there would be no moon. Nor did I like the way the farmhouse nestled in the lee of
that colossal forested slope leading up to Dark Mountain’s unvisited crest. With Akeley’s permission I
lighted a small oil lamp, turned it low, and set it on a distant bookcase beside the ghostly bust of
Milton; but afterward I was sorry I had done so, for it made my host’s strained, immobile face and
listless hands look damnably abnormal and corpse-like. He seemed half-incapable of motion, though
I saw him nod stiffly once in a while.
After what he had told, I could scarcely imagine what profounder secrets he was saving for the
morrow; but at last it developed that his trip to Yuggoth and beyond—and my own possible
participation in it—was to be the next day’s topic. He must have been amused by the start of horror I
gave at hearing a cosmic voyage on my part proposed, for his head wabbled violently when I shewed
my fear. Subsequently he spoke very gently of how human beings might accomplish—and several
times had accomplished—the seemingly impossible flight across the interstellar void. It seemed that
complete human bodies did not indeed make the trip, but that the prodigious surgical, biological,
chemical, and mechanical skill of the Outer Ones had found a way to convey human brains without
their concomitant physical structure.
There was a harmless way to extract a brain, and a way to keep the organic residue alive during
its absence. The bare, compact cerebral matter was then immersed in an occasionally replenished
fluid within an ether-tight cylinder of a metal mined in Yuggoth, certain electrodes reaching through
and connecting at will with elaborate instruments capable of duplicating the three vital faculties of
sight, hearing, and speech. For the winged fungus-beings to carry the brain-cylinders intact through
space was an easy matter. Then, on every planet covered by their civilisation, they would find plenty
of adjustable faculty-instruments capable of being connected with the encased brains; so that after a
little fitting these travelling intelligences could be given a full sensory and articulate life—albeit a
bodiless and mechanical one—at each stage of their journeying through and beyond the space-time
continuum. It was as simple as carrying a phonograph record about and playing it wherever a
phonograph of the corresponding make exists. Of its success there could be no question. Akeley was
not afraid. Had it not been brilliantly accomplished again and again?
For the first time one of the inert, wasted hands raised itself and pointed to a high shelf on the
farther side of the room. There, in a neat row, stood more than a dozen cylinders of a metal I had
never seen before—cylinders about a foot high and somewhat less in diameter, with three curious
sockets set in an isosceles triangle over the front convex surface of each. One of them was linked at
two of the sockets to a pair of singular-looking machines that stood in the background. Of their
purport I did not need to be told, and I shivered as with ague. Then I saw the hand point to a much
nearer corner where some intricate instruments with attached cords and plugs, several of them much
like the two devices on the shelf behind the cylinders, were huddled together.
“There are four kinds of instruments here, Wilmarth,” whispered the voice. “Four kinds—three
faculties each—makes twelve pieces in all. You see there are four different sorts of beings presented
in those cylinders up there. Three humans, six fungoid beings who can’t navigate space corporeally,
two beings from Neptune (God! if you could see the body this type has on its own planet!), and the
rest entities from the central caverns of an especially interesting dark star beyond the galaxy. In the
principal outpost inside Round Hill you’ll now and then find more cylinders and machines—cylinders
of extra-cosmic brains with different senses from any we know—allies and explorers from the
uttermost Outside—and special machines for giving them impressions and expression in the several
ways suited at once to them and to the comprehensions of different types of listeners. Round Hill, like
most of the beings’ main outposts all through the various universes, is a very cosmopolitan place! Of
course, only the more common types have been lent to me for experiment.
“Here—take the three machines I point to and set them on the table. That tall one with the two
glass lenses in front—then the box with the vacuum tubes and sounding-board—and now the one
with the metal disc on top. Now for the cylinder with the label ‘B-67’ pasted on it. Just stand in that
Windsor chair to reach the shelf. Heavy? Never mind! Be sure of the number—B-67. Don’t bother
that fresh, shiny cylinder joined to the two testing instruments—the one with my name on it. Set B-67
on the table near where you’ve put the machines—and see that the dial switch on all three machines
is jammed over to the extreme left.
“Now connect the cord of the lens machine with the upper socket on the cylinder—there! Join the
tube machine to the lower left-hand socket, and the disc apparatus to the outer socket. Now move all
the dial switches on the machines over to the extreme right—first the lens one, then the disc one,
and then the tube one. That’s right. I might as well tell you that this is a human being—just like any of
us. I’ll give you a taste of some of the others tomorrow.”
To this day I do not know why I obeyed those whispers so slavishly, or whether I thought Akeley
was mad or sane. After what had gone before, I ought to have been prepared for anything; but this
mechanical mummery seemed so like the typical vagaries of crazed inventors and scientists that it
struck a chord of doubt which even the preceding discourse had not excited. What the whisperer
implied was beyond all human belief—yet were not the other things still farther beyond, and less
preposterous only because of their remoteness from tangible concrete proof?
As my mind reeled amidst this chaos, I became conscious of a mixed grating and whirring from
all three machines lately linked to the cylinder—a grating and whirring which soon subsided into a
virtual noiselessness. What was about to happen? Was I to hear a voice? And if so, what proof would
I have that it was not some cleverly concocted radio device talked into by a concealed but closely
watching speaker? Even now I am unwilling to swear just what I heard, or just what phenomenon
really took place before me. But something certainly seemed to take place.
To be brief and plain, the machine with the tubes and sound-box began to speak, and with a
point and intelligence which left no doubt that the speaker was actually present and observing us.
The voice was loud, metallic, lifeless, and plainly mechanical in every detail of its production. It was
incapable of inflection or expressiveness, but scraped and rattled on with a deadly precision and
deliberation.
“Mr. Wilmarth,” it said, “I hope I do not startle you. I am a human being like yourself, though my
body is now resting safely under proper vitalising treatment inside Round Hill, about a mile and a half
east of here. I myself am here with you—my brain is in that cylinder and I see, hear, and speak
through these electronic vibrators. In a week I am going across the void as I have been many times
before, and I expect to have the pleasure of Mr. Akeley’s company. I wish I might have yours as well;
for I know you by sight and reputation, and have kept close track of your correspondence with our
friend. I am, of course, one of the men who have become allied with the outside beings visiting our
planet. I met them first in the Himalayas, and have helped them in various ways. In return they have
given me experiences such as few men have ever had.
“Do you realise what it means when I say I have been on thirty-seven different celestial bodies
—planets, dark stars, and less definable objects—including eight outside our galaxy and two outside
the curved cosmos of space and time? All this has not harmed me in the least. My brain has been
removed from my body by fissions so adroit that it would be crude to call the operation surgery. The
visiting beings have methods which make these extractions easy and almost normal—and one’s
body never ages when the brain is out of it. The brain, I may add, is virtually immortal with its
mechanical faculties and a limited nourishment supplied by occasional changes of the preserving
fluid.
“Altogether, I hope most heartily that you will decide to come with Mr. Akeley and me. The
visitors are eager to know men of knowledge like yourself, and to shew them the great abysses that
most of us have had to dream about in fanciful ignorance. It may seem strange at first to meet them,
but I know you will be above minding that. I think Mr. Noyes will go along, too—the man who
doubtless brought you up here in his car. He has been one of us for years—I suppose you
recognised his voice as one of those on the record Mr. Akeley sent you.”
At my violent start the speaker paused a moment before concluding.
“So, Mr. Wilmarth, I will leave the matter to you; merely adding that a man with your love of
strangeness and folklore ought never to miss such a chance as this. There is nothing to fear. All
transitions are painless, and there is much to enjoy in a wholly mechanised state of sensation. When
the electrodes are disconnected, one merely drops off into a sleep of especially vivid and fantastic
dreams.
“And now, if you don’t mind, we might adjourn our session till tomorrow. Good night—just turn all
the switches back to the left; never mind the exact order, though you might let the lens machine be
last. Good night, Mr. Akeley—treat our guest well! Ready now with those switches?”
That was all. I obeyed mechanically and shut off all three switches, though dazed with doubt of
everything that had occurred. My head was still reeling as I heard Akeley’s whispering voice telling
me that I might leave all the apparatus on the table just as it was. He did not essay any comment on
what had happened, and indeed no comment could have conveyed much to my burdened faculties. I
heard him telling me I could take the lamp to use in my room, and deduced that he wished to rest
alone in the dark. It was surely time he rested, for his discourse of the afternoon and evening had
been such as to exhaust even a vigorous man. Still dazed, I bade my host good night and went
upstairs with the lamp, although I had an excellent pocket flashlight with me.
I was glad to be out of that downstairs study with the queer odour and vague suggestions of
vibration, yet could not of course escape a hideous sense of dread and peril and cosmic abnormality
as I thought of the place I was in and the forces I was meeting. The wild, lonely region, the black,
mysteriously forested slope towering so close behind the house, the footprints in the road, the sick,
motionless whisperer in the dark, the hellish cylinders and machines, and above all the invitations to
strange surgery and stranger voyagings—these things, all so new and in such sudden succession,
rushed in on me with a cumulative force which sapped my will and almost undermined my physical
strength.
To discover that my guide Noyes was the human celebrant in that monstrous bygone Sabbat-
ritual on the phonograph record was a particular shock, though I had previously sensed a dim,
repellent familiarity in his voice. Another special shock came from my own attitude toward my host
whenever I paused to analyse it; for much as I had instinctively liked Akeley as revealed in his
correspondence, I now found that he filled me with a distinct repulsion. His illness ought to have
excited my pity; but instead, it gave me a kind of shudder. He was so rigid and inert and corpse-like—
and that incessant whispering was so hateful and unhuman!
It occurred to me that this whispering was different from anything else of the kind I had ever
heard; that, despite the curious motionlessness of the speaker’s moustache-screened lips, it had a
latent strength and carrying-power remarkable for the wheezings of an asthmatic. I had been able to
understand the speaker when wholly across the room, and once or twice it had seemed to me that
the faint but penetrant sounds represented not so much weakness as deliberate repression—for
what reason I could not guess. From the first I had felt a disturbing quality in their timbre. Now, when
I tried to weigh the matter, I thought I could trace this impression to a kind of subconscious familiarity
like that which had made Noyes’s voice so hazily ominous. But when or where I had encountered the
thing it hinted at, was more than I could tell.
One thing was certain—I would not spend another night here. My scientific zeal had vanished
amidst fear and loathing, and I felt nothing now but a wish to escape from this net of morbidity and
unnatural revelation. I knew enough now. It must indeed be true that cosmic linkages do exist—but
such things are surely not meant for normal human beings to meddle with.
Blasphemous influences seemed to surround me and press chokingly upon my senses. Sleep, I
decided, would be out of the question; so I merely extinguished the lamp and threw myself on the
bed fully dressed. No doubt it was absurd, but I kept ready for some unknown emergency; gripping in
my right hand the revolver I had brought along, and holding the pocket flashlight in my left. Not a
sound came from below, and I could imagine how my host was sitting there with cadaverous stiffness
in the dark.
Somewhere I heard a clock ticking, and was vaguely grateful for the normality of the sound. It
reminded me, though, of another thing about the region which disturbed me—the total absence of
animal life. There were certainly no farm beasts about, and now I realised that even the accustomed
night-noises of wild living things were absent. Except for the sinister trickle of distant unseen waters,
that stillness was anomalous—interplanetary—and I wondered what star-spawned, intangible blight
could be hanging over the region. I recalled from old legends that dogs and other beasts had always
hated the Outer Ones, and thought of what those tracks in the road might mean.

VIII.

Do not ask me how long my unexpected lapse into slumber lasted, or how much of what ensued was
sheer dream. If I tell you that I awaked at a certain time, and heard and saw certain things, you will
merely answer that I did not wake then; and that everything was a dream until the moment when I
rushed out of the house, stumbled to the shed where I had seen the old Ford, and seized that
ancient vehicle for a mad, aimless race over the haunted hills which at last landed me—after hours of
jolting and winding through forest-threatened labyrinths—in a village which turned out to be
Townshend.
You will also, of course, discount everything else in my report; and declare that all the pictures,
record-sounds, cylinder-and-machine sounds, and kindred evidences were bits of pure deception
practiced on me by the missing Henry Akeley. You will even hint that he conspired with other
eccentrics to carry out a silly and elaborate hoax—that he had the express shipment removed at
Keene, and that he had Noyes make that terrifying wax record. It is odd, though, that Noyes has not
even yet been identified; that he was unknown at any of the villages near Akeley’s place, though he
must have been frequently in the region. I wish I had stopped to memorise the licence-number of his
car—or perhaps it is better after all that I did not. For I, despite all you can say, and despite all I
sometimes try to say to myself, know that loathsome outside influences must be lurking there in the
half-unknown hills—and that those influences have spies and emissaries in the world of men. To
keep as far as possible from such influences and such emissaries is all that I ask of life in future.
When my frantic story sent a sheriff’s posse out to the farmhouse, Akeley was gone without
leaving a trace. His loose dressing-gown, yellow scarf, and foot-bandages lay on the study floor near
his corner easy-chair, and it could not be decided whether any of his other apparel had vanished with
him. The dogs and livestock were indeed missing, and there were some curious bullet-holes both on
the house’s exterior and on some of the walls within; but beyond this nothing unusual could be
detected. No cylinders or machines, none of the evidences I had brought in my valise, no queer
odour or vibration-sense, no footprints in the road, and none of the problematical things I glimpsed at
the very last.
I stayed a week in Brattleboro after my escape, making inquiries among people of every kind
who had known Akeley; and the results convince me that the matter is no figment of dream or
delusion. Akeley’s queer purchases of dogs and ammunition and chemicals, and the cutting of his
telephone wires, are matters of record; while all who knew him—including his son in California
—concede that his occasional remarks on strange studies had a certain consistency. Solid citizens
believe he was mad, and unhesitatingly pronounce all reported evidences mere hoaxes devised with
insane cunning and perhaps abetted by eccentric associates; but the lowlier country folk sustain his
statements in every detail. He had shewed some of these rustics his photographs and black stone,
and had played the hideous record for them; and they all said the footprints and buzzing voice were
like those described in ancestral legends.
They said, too, that suspicious sights and sounds had been noticed increasingly around Akeley’s
house after he found the black stone, and that the place was now avoided by everybody except the
mail man and other casual, tough-minded people. Dark Mountain and Round Hill were both
notoriously haunted spots, and I could find no one who had ever closely explored either. Occasional
disappearances of natives throughout the district’s history were well attested, and these now
included the semi-vagabond Walter Brown, whom Akeley’s letters had mentioned. I even came upon
one farmer who thought he had personally glimpsed one of the queer bodies at flood-time in the
swollen West River, but his tale was too confused to be really valuable.
When I left Brattleboro I resolved never to go back to Vermont, and I feel quite certain I shall
keep my resolution. Those wild hills are surely the outpost of a frightful cosmic race—as I doubt all
the less since reading that a new ninth planet has been glimpsed beyond Neptune, just as those
influences had said it would be glimpsed. Astronomers, with a hideous appropriateness they little
suspect, have named this thing “Pluto”. I feel, beyond question, that it is nothing less than nighted
Yuggoth—and I shiver when I try to figure out the real reason why its monstrous denizens wish it to
be known in this way at this especial time. I vainly try to assure myself that these daemoniac
creatures are not gradually leading up to some new policy hurtful to the earth and its normal
inhabitants.
But I have still to tell of the ending of that terrible night in the farmhouse. As I have said, I did
finally drop into a troubled doze; a doze filled with bits of dream which involved monstrous
landscape-glimpses. Just what awaked me I cannot yet say, but that I did indeed awake at this given
point I feel very certain. My first confused impression was of stealthily creaking floor-boards in the
hall outside my door, and of a clumsy, muffled fumbling at the latch. This, however, ceased almost at
once; so that my really clear impressions began with the voices heard from the study below. There
seemed to be several speakers, and I judged that they were controversially engaged.
By the time I had listened a few seconds I was broad awake, for the nature of the voices was
such as to make all thought of sleep ridiculous. The tones were curiously varied, and no one who had
listened to that accursed phonograph record could harbour any doubts about the nature of at least
two of them. Hideous though the idea was, I knew that I was under the same roof with nameless
things from abysmal space; for those two voices were unmistakably the blasphemous buzzings
which the Outside Beings used in their communication with men. The two were individually different
—different in pitch, accent, and tempo—but they were both of the same damnable general kind.
 A third voice was indubitably that of a mechanical utterance-machine connected with one of the
detached brains in the cylinders. There was as little doubt about that as about the buzzings; for the
loud, metallic, lifeless voice of the previous evening, with its inflectionless, expressionless scraping
and rattling, and its impersonal precision and deliberation, had been utterly unforgettable. For a time I
did not pause to question whether the intelligence behind the scraping was the identical one which
had formerly talked to me; but shortly afterward I reflected that any brain would emit vocal sounds of
the same quality if linked to the same mechanical speech-producer; the only possible differences
being in language, rhythm, speed, and pronunciation. To complete the eldritch colloquy there were
two actually human voices—one the crude speech of an unknown and evidently rustic man, and the
other the suave Bostonian tones of my erstwhile guide Noyes.
As I tried to catch the words which the stoutly fashioned floor so bafflingly intercepted, I was also
conscious of a great deal of stirring and scratching and shuffling in the room below; so that I could
not escape the impression that it was full of living beings—many more than the few whose speech I
could single out. The exact nature of this stirring is extremely hard to describe, for very few good
bases of comparison exist. Objects seemed now and then to move across the room like conscious
entities; the sound of their footfalls having something about it like a loose, hard-surfaced clattering—
as of the contact of ill-coördinated surfaces of horn or hard rubber. It was, to use a more concrete but
less accurate comparison, as if people with loose, splintery wooden shoes were shambling and
rattling about on the polished board floor. On the nature and appearance of those responsible for the
sounds, I did not care to speculate.
Before long I saw that it would be impossible to distinguish any connected discourse. Isolated
words—including the names of Akeley and myself—now and then floated up, especially when uttered
by the mechanical speech-producer; but their true significance was lost for want of continuous
context. Today I refuse to form any definite deductions from them, and even their frightful effect on
me was one of suggestion rather than of revelation. A terrible and abnormal conclave, I felt certain,
was assembled below me; but for what shocking deliberations I could not tell. It was curious how this
unquestioned sense of the malign and the blasphemous pervaded me despite Akeley’s assurances
of the Outsiders’ friendliness.
With patient listening I began to distinguish clearly between voices, even though I could not
grasp much of what any of the voices said. I seemed to catch certain typical emotions behind some
of the speakers. One of the buzzing voices, for example, held an unmistakable note of authority;
whilst the mechanical voice, notwithstanding its artificial loudness and regularity, seemed to be in a
position of subordination and pleading. Noyes’s tones exuded a kind of conciliatory atmosphere. The
others I could make no attempt to interpret. I did not hear the familiar whisper of Akeley, but well
knew that such a sound could never penetrate the solid flooring of my room.
I will try to set down some of the few disjointed words and other sounds I caught, labelling the
speakers of the words as best I know how. It was from the speech-machine that I first picked up a
few recognisable phrases.

(THE SPEECH-MACHINE)

“. . . brought it on myself . . . sent back the letters and the record . . . end on it . . .
taken in . . . seeing and hearing . . . damn you . . . impersonal force, after all . . . fresh,
shiny cylinder . . . great God. . . .”

(FIRST BUZZING VOICE)

“. . . time we stopped . . . small and human . . . Akeley . . . brain . . . saying . . .”

(SECOND BUZZING VOICE)

“. . . Nyarlathotep . . . Wilmarth . . . records and letters . . . cheap imposture. . . .”

(NOYES)

“. . . (an unpronounceable word or name, possibly N’gah-Kthun) . . . harmless . . .

peace . . . couple of weeks . . . theatrical . . . told you that before. . . .”

(FIRST BUZZING VOICE)

“. . . no reason . . . original plan . . . effects . . . Noyes can watch . . . Round Hill . . .

fresh cylinder . . . Noyes’s car. . . .”
 (NOYES)

“. . . well . . . all yours . . . down here . . . rest . . . place. . . .”

(SEVERAL VOICES AT ONCE IN INDISTINGUISHABLE SPEECH)

(MANY FOOTSTEPS, INCLUDING THE PECULIAR LOOSE STIRRING OR

CLATTERING)

(A CURIOUS SORT OF FLAPPING SOUND)

(THE SOUND OF AN AUTOMOBILE STARTING AND RECEDING)

(SILENCE)

That is the substance of what my ears brought me as I lay rigid upon that strange upstairs bed in
the haunted farmhouse among the daemoniac hills—lay there fully dressed, with a revolver clenched
in my right hand and a pocket flashlight gripped in my left. I became, as I have said, broad awake;
but a kind of obscure paralysis nevertheless kept me inert till long after the last echoes of the sounds
had died away. I heard the wooden, deliberate ticking of the ancient Connecticut clock somewhere
far below, and at last made out the irregular snoring of a sleeper. Akeley must have dozed off after
the strange session, and I could well believe that he needed to do so.
Just what to think or what to do was more than I could decide. After all, what had I heard beyond
things which previous information might have led me to expect? Had I not known that the nameless
Outsiders were now freely admitted to the farmhouse? No doubt Akeley had been surprised by an
unexpected visit from them. Yet something in that fragmentary discourse had chilled me
immeasurably, raised the most grotesque and horrible doubts, and made me wish fervently that I
might wake up and prove everything a dream. I think my subconscious mind must have caught
something which my consciousness has not yet recognised. But what of Akeley? Was he not my
friend, and would he not have protested if any harm were meant me? The peaceful snoring below
seemed to cast ridicule on all my suddenly intensified fears.
Was it possible that Akeley had been imposed upon and used as a lure to draw me into the hills
with the letters and pictures and phonograph record? Did those beings mean to engulf us both in a
common destruction because we had come to know too much? Again I thought of the abruptness
and unnaturalness of that change in the situation which must have occurred between Akeley’s
penultimate and final letters. Something, my instinct told me, was terribly wrong. All was not as it
seemed. That acrid coffee which I refused—had there not been an attempt by some hidden,
unknown entity to drug it? I must talk to Akeley at once, and restore his sense of proportion. They
had hypnotised him with their promises of cosmic revelations, but now he must listen to reason. We
must get out of this before it would be too late. If he lacked the will power to make the break for
liberty, I would supply it. Or if I could not persuade him to go, I could at least go myself. Surely he
would let me take his Ford and leave it in a garage at Brattleboro. I had noticed it in the shed—the
door being left unlocked and open now that peril was deemed past—and I believed there was a good
chance of its being ready for instant use. That momentary dislike of Akeley which I had felt during
and after the evening’s conversation was all gone now. He was in a position much like my own, and
we must stick together. Knowing his indisposed condition, I hated to wake him at this juncture, but I
knew that I must. I could not stay in this place till morning as matters stood.
At last I felt able to act, and stretched myself vigorously to regain command of my muscles.
Arising with a caution more impulsive than deliberate, I found and donned my hat, took my valise,
and started downstairs with the flashlight’s aid. In my nervousness I kept the revolver clutched in my
right hand, being able to take care of both valise and flashlight with my left. Why I exerted these
precautions I do not really know, since I was even then on my way to awaken the only other occupant
of the house.
As I half tiptoed down the creaking stairs to the lower hall I could hear the sleeper more plainly,
and noticed that he must be in the room on my left—the living-room I had not entered. On my right
was the gaping blackness of the study in which I had heard the voices. Pushing open the unlatched
door of the living-room I traced a path with the flashlight toward the source of the snoring, and finally
turned the beams on the sleeper’s face. But in the next second I hastily turned them away and
commenced a cat-like retreat to the hall, my caution this time springing from reason as well as from
instinct. For the sleeper on the couch was not Akeley at all, but my quondam guide Noyes.
Just what the real situation was, I could not guess; but common sense told me that the safest
thing was to find out as much as possible before arousing anybody. Regaining the hall, I silently
closed and latched the living-room door after me; thereby lessening the chances of awaking Noyes. I
now cautiously entered the dark study, where I expected to find Akeley, whether asleep or awake, in
the great corner chair which was evidently his favourite resting-place. As I advanced, the beams of
my flashlight caught the great centre-table, revealing one of the hellish cylinders with sight and
hearing machines attached, and with a speech-machine standing close by, ready to be connected at
any moment. This, I reflected, must be the encased brain I had heard talking during the frightful
conference; and for a second I had a perverse impulse to attach the speech-machine and see what it
would say.
It must, I thought, be conscious of my presence even now; since the sight and hearing
attachments could not fail to disclose the rays of my flashlight and the faint creaking of the floor
beneath my feet. But in the end I did not dare meddle with the thing. I idly saw that it was the fresh,
shiny cylinder with Akeley’s name on it, which I had noticed on the shelf earlier in the evening and
which my host had told me not to bother. Looking back at that moment, I can only regret my timidity
and wish that I had boldly caused the apparatus to speak. God knows what mysteries and horrible
doubts and questions of identity it might have cleared up! But then, it may be merciful that I let it
alone.
From the table I turned my flashlight to the corner where I thought Akeley was, but found to my
perplexity that the great easy-chair was empty of any human occupant asleep or awake. From the
seat to the floor there trailed voluminously the familiar old dressing-gown, and near it on the floor lay
the yellow scarf and the huge foot-bandages I had thought so odd. As I hesitated, striving to
conjecture where Akeley might be, and why he had so suddenly discarded his necessary sick-room
garments, I observed that the queer odour and sense of vibration were no longer in the room. What
had been their cause? Curiously it occurred to me that I had noticed them only in Akeley’s vicinity.
They had been strongest where he sat, and wholly absent except in the room with him or just outside
the doors of that room. I paused, letting the flashlight wander about the dark study and racking my
brain for explanations of the turn affairs had taken.
Would to heaven I had quietly left the place before allowing that light to rest again on the vacant
chair. As it turned out, I did not leave quietly; but with a muffled shriek which must have disturbed,
though it did not quite awake, the sleeping sentinel across the hall. That shriek, and Noyes’s still-
unbroken snore, are the last sounds I ever heard in that morbidity-choked farmhouse beneath the
black-wooded crest of a haunted mountain—that focus of trans-cosmic horror amidst the lonely
green hills and curse-muttering brooks of a spectral rustic land.
It is a wonder that I did not drop flashlight, valise, and revolver in my wild scramble, but
somehow I failed to lose any of these. I actually managed to get out of that room and that house
without making any further noise, to drag myself and my belongings safely into the old Ford in the
shed, and to set that archaic vehicle in motion toward some unknown point of safety in the black,
moonless night. The ride that followed was a piece of delirium out of Poe or Rimbaud or the drawings
of Doré, but finally I reached Townshend. That is all. If my sanity is still unshaken, I am lucky.
Sometimes I fear what the years will bring, especially since that new planet Pluto has been so
curiously discovered.
As I have implied, I let my flashlight return to the vacant easy-chair after its circuit of the room;
then noticing for the first time the presence of certain objects in the seat, made inconspicuous by the
adjacent loose folds of the empty dressing-gown. These are the objects, three in number, which the
investigators did not find when they came later on. As I said at the outset, there was nothing of actual
visual horror about them. The trouble was in what they led one to infer. Even now I have my
moments of half-doubt—moments in which I half accept the scepticism of those who attribute my
whole experience to dream and nerves and delusion.
The three things were damnably clever constructions of their kind, and were furnished with
ingenious metallic clamps to attach them to organic developments of which I dare not form any
conjecture. I hope—devoutly hope—that they were the waxen products of a master artist, despite
what my inmost fears tell me. Great God! That whisperer in darkness with its morbid odour and
vibrations! Sorcerer, emissary, changeling, outsider . . . that hideous repressed buzzing . . . and all
the time in that fresh, shiny cylinder on the shelf . . . poor devil . . . “prodigious surgical, biological,
chemical, and mechanical skill”. . .
For the things in the chair, perfect to the last, subtle detail of microscopic resemblance—or
identity—were the face and hands of Henry Wentworth Akeley.
 Return to “The Whisperer in Darkness” This page last revised 20 August 2009.
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