Read Online The Other Gods and More Unearthly Tales by H.P. Lovecraft - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: H.P. Lovecraft
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discussing the strange death of the Mexican as he lay asleep; a death seemingly connected in some way with the terrible bolt of lightning which had struck and shaken the mountain. No direct
cause was evident, and an autopsy failed to shew any reason why Romero should not be living. Snatches of conversation indicated beyond a doubt that neither Romero nor I had left the bunkhouse
during the night; that neither had been awake during the frightful storm which had passed over the Cactus range. That storm, said men who had ventured down the mine shaft, had caused extensive
caving in, and had completely closed the deep abyss which had created so much apprehension the day before. When I asked the watchman what sounds he had heard prior to the mighty thunderbolt, he
mentioned a coyote, a dog, and the snarling mountain wind—nothing more. Nor do I doubt his word.
Upon the resumption of work Superintendent Arthur called on some especially dependable men to make a few investigations around the spot where the gulf had appeared. Though hardly eager, they
obeyed; and a deep boring was made. Results were very curious. The roof of the void, as seen whilst it was open, was not by any means thick; yet now the drills of the investigators met what
appeared to be a limitless extent of solid rock. Finding nothing else, not even gold, the Superintendent abandoned his attempts; but a perplexed look occasionally steals over his countenance as he
sits thinking at his desk.
One other thing is curious. Shortly after waking on that morning after the storm, I noticed the unaccountable absence of my Hindoo ring from my finger. I had prized it greatly, yet nevertheless
felt a sensation of relief at its disappearance. If one of my fellow-miners appropriated it, he must have been quite clever in disposing of his booty, for despite advertisements and a police search
the ring was never seen again. Somehow I doubt if it was stolen by mortal hands, for many strange things were taught me in India.
My opinion of my whole experience varies from time to time. In broad daylight, and at most seasons I am apt to think the greater part of it a mere dream; but sometimes in the autumn, about two
in the morning when winds and animals howl dismally, there comes from inconceivable depths below a damnable suggestion of rhythmical throbbing . . . and I feel that the transition of Juan Romero
was a terrible one indeed.
T HE W HITE S HIP
This story was written in November 1919, shortly after Lovecraft attended a lecture by Lord Dunsany in Boston (October 20) and read several of Dunsany’s early
volumes of tales. In a letter Lovecraft wrote: “As you infer, ‘The White Ship’ is in part influenced by my new Dunsanian studies.” It is superficially similar to
Dunsany’s “Idle Days on the Yann” (in A Dreamer’s Tales, 1910) in its depiction of a sea voyage where many different lands are visited, but Lovecraft’s
story has a powerful allegorical element lacking in Dunsany’s tale. It was first published in the United Amateur (November 1919).
I AM B ASIL E LTON, KEEPER OF THE NORTH POINT LIGHT THAT MY FATHER and grandfather kept before me. Far
from the shore stands the grey lighthouse, above sunken slimy rocks that are seen when the tide is low, but unseen when the tide is high. Past that beacon for a century have swept the majestic
barques of the seven seas. In the days of my grandfather there were many; in the days of my father not so many; and now there are so few that I sometimes feel strangely alone, as though I were the
last man on our planet.
From far shores came those white-sailed argosies of old; from far Eastern shores where warm suns shine and sweet odours linger about strange gardens and gay temples. The old captains of the sea
came often to my grandfather and told him of these things, which in turn he told to my father, and my father told to me in the long autumn evenings when the wind howled eerily from the East. And I
have
cause was evident, and an autopsy failed to shew any reason why Romero should not be living. Snatches of conversation indicated beyond a doubt that neither Romero nor I had left the bunkhouse
during the night; that neither had been awake during the frightful storm which had passed over the Cactus range. That storm, said men who had ventured down the mine shaft, had caused extensive
caving in, and had completely closed the deep abyss which had created so much apprehension the day before. When I asked the watchman what sounds he had heard prior to the mighty thunderbolt, he
mentioned a coyote, a dog, and the snarling mountain wind—nothing more. Nor do I doubt his word.
Upon the resumption of work Superintendent Arthur called on some especially dependable men to make a few investigations around the spot where the gulf had appeared. Though hardly eager, they
obeyed; and a deep boring was made. Results were very curious. The roof of the void, as seen whilst it was open, was not by any means thick; yet now the drills of the investigators met what
appeared to be a limitless extent of solid rock. Finding nothing else, not even gold, the Superintendent abandoned his attempts; but a perplexed look occasionally steals over his countenance as he
sits thinking at his desk.
One other thing is curious. Shortly after waking on that morning after the storm, I noticed the unaccountable absence of my Hindoo ring from my finger. I had prized it greatly, yet nevertheless
felt a sensation of relief at its disappearance. If one of my fellow-miners appropriated it, he must have been quite clever in disposing of his booty, for despite advertisements and a police search
the ring was never seen again. Somehow I doubt if it was stolen by mortal hands, for many strange things were taught me in India.
My opinion of my whole experience varies from time to time. In broad daylight, and at most seasons I am apt to think the greater part of it a mere dream; but sometimes in the autumn, about two
in the morning when winds and animals howl dismally, there comes from inconceivable depths below a damnable suggestion of rhythmical throbbing . . . and I feel that the transition of Juan Romero
was a terrible one indeed.
T HE W HITE S HIP
This story was written in November 1919, shortly after Lovecraft attended a lecture by Lord Dunsany in Boston (October 20) and read several of Dunsany’s early
volumes of tales. In a letter Lovecraft wrote: “As you infer, ‘The White Ship’ is in part influenced by my new Dunsanian studies.” It is superficially similar to
Dunsany’s “Idle Days on the Yann” (in A Dreamer’s Tales, 1910) in its depiction of a sea voyage where many different lands are visited, but Lovecraft’s
story has a powerful allegorical element lacking in Dunsany’s tale. It was first published in the United Amateur (November 1919).
I AM B ASIL E LTON, KEEPER OF THE NORTH POINT LIGHT THAT MY FATHER and grandfather kept before me. Far
from the shore stands the grey lighthouse, above sunken slimy rocks that are seen when the tide is low, but unseen when the tide is high. Past that beacon for a century have swept the majestic
barques of the seven seas. In the days of my grandfather there were many; in the days of my father not so many; and now there are so few that I sometimes feel strangely alone, as though I were the
last man on our planet.
From far shores came those white-sailed argosies of old; from far Eastern shores where warm suns shine and sweet odours linger about strange gardens and gay temples. The old captains of the sea
came often to my grandfather and told him of these things, which in turn he told to my father, and my father told to me in the long autumn evenings when the wind howled eerily from the East. And I
have
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