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Authors: Brian Lumley
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eggs - or that the container I found them in was an incubator? I can’t blame myself for not knowing it; I even tried to have the spheres X-rayed once, damn them, but they reflected the rays! And the shells were so thick! Yet at the time of hatching those same shells just splintered into tiny fragments. The creatures inside were no bigger than walnuts. Taking into account the sheer size of an adult they must have a fantastic growth rate. Not that those two will ever grow! I shrivelled them with a cigar … and you should have heard the mental screams from those beneath!
If only I could have known earlier, definitely, that it was not madness, then there might have been a way to escape this horror. But no use now. My notes -look into them, Paul, and do what I ought to have done. Complete a detailed dossier and present it to the authorities. Wilmarth may help, and perhaps Spencer of Quebec University. Haven’t much time now. Cracks in ceiling.
That last shock - ceiling coming away in chunks - the floor -coming up! Heaven help me, they’re coming up. I can feel them groping inside my mind as they come -
Sir, Reference this manuscript found in the ruins of 17 Anwick Street, Marske, Yorkshire, following the earth tremors of September this year and believed to be a ‘fantasy’ which the writer, Paul Wendy-Smith, had completed for publication. It is more than possible that the so-called disappearance of both Sir Amery Wendy-Smith and his nephew, the writer, were nothing more than promotion stunts for this story: it is well-known that Sir Amery is/was interested in seismography and perhaps some prior intimation of the two quakes supplied the inspiration for his nephew’s tale. Investigations continuing.
Sgt J. Williams
Yorks County Constabulary
2nd October 1933
Cursed the Ground
(From de Marigny’s Notebooks)
It soon became obvious that the occultist, despite his denials, was far more tired than he admitted, for he did in fact doze, closing his eyes and drowsing, breathing deep and rhythmically where he sat in his chair, while I read the letters and the - fantasy? - of Paul Wendy-Smith.
I admit quite frankly that when I was finished with that document my mind was in something of a whirl! There had been so many factual references in the supposed ‘fiction’, and why had the author deliberately chosen to give his characters his own, his uncle’s, and many another once-living person’s names?
Considering the letters I had read prior to this disturbing document, the conviction was rapidly growing in me that Crow’s assertions - so far at least
- stood proven. For while my friend had not directly said so, nevertheless I could guess that he believed the Wendy-Smith manuscript to be nothing less than a statement of fantastic fact!
When I had properly done with my reading, and while I checked over again the contents of certain of the letters, Crow still nodded in his chair. I rustled the papers noisily as I put them down on his desk and coughed politely. These sudden sounds brought my friend back in an instant to full consciousness.
There were many things for which I would have liked explanations; however, I made no immediate comment but remained intently alert and thoughtful as Crow stirred himself to pass me the box containing … what?
I believed I already knew.
I carefully removed the cardboard lid, noting that my guess had been correct, and lifted out one of the four beautifully lustrous spheres the box contained.
‘The spawn of Shudde-M’ell,’ I quietly commented, placing the box back on the desk and examining the sphere in my hand. ‘The eggs of one of the lesser known deities of the Cthulhu Cycle of myth. Bentham did send them to you, then, as you requested?’
He nodded an affirmative. ‘But there was no letter with the box, and it seemed pretty hastily or clumsily wrapped to me. I believe I must have frightened Bentham pretty badly … or at least, something did!’
Frowning, I shook my head,
If only I could have known earlier, definitely, that it was not madness, then there might have been a way to escape this horror. But no use now. My notes -look into them, Paul, and do what I ought to have done. Complete a detailed dossier and present it to the authorities. Wilmarth may help, and perhaps Spencer of Quebec University. Haven’t much time now. Cracks in ceiling.
That last shock - ceiling coming away in chunks - the floor -coming up! Heaven help me, they’re coming up. I can feel them groping inside my mind as they come -
Sir, Reference this manuscript found in the ruins of 17 Anwick Street, Marske, Yorkshire, following the earth tremors of September this year and believed to be a ‘fantasy’ which the writer, Paul Wendy-Smith, had completed for publication. It is more than possible that the so-called disappearance of both Sir Amery Wendy-Smith and his nephew, the writer, were nothing more than promotion stunts for this story: it is well-known that Sir Amery is/was interested in seismography and perhaps some prior intimation of the two quakes supplied the inspiration for his nephew’s tale. Investigations continuing.
Sgt J. Williams
Yorks County Constabulary
2nd October 1933
Cursed the Ground
(From de Marigny’s Notebooks)
It soon became obvious that the occultist, despite his denials, was far more tired than he admitted, for he did in fact doze, closing his eyes and drowsing, breathing deep and rhythmically where he sat in his chair, while I read the letters and the - fantasy? - of Paul Wendy-Smith.
I admit quite frankly that when I was finished with that document my mind was in something of a whirl! There had been so many factual references in the supposed ‘fiction’, and why had the author deliberately chosen to give his characters his own, his uncle’s, and many another once-living person’s names?
Considering the letters I had read prior to this disturbing document, the conviction was rapidly growing in me that Crow’s assertions - so far at least
- stood proven. For while my friend had not directly said so, nevertheless I could guess that he believed the Wendy-Smith manuscript to be nothing less than a statement of fantastic fact!
When I had properly done with my reading, and while I checked over again the contents of certain of the letters, Crow still nodded in his chair. I rustled the papers noisily as I put them down on his desk and coughed politely. These sudden sounds brought my friend back in an instant to full consciousness.
There were many things for which I would have liked explanations; however, I made no immediate comment but remained intently alert and thoughtful as Crow stirred himself to pass me the box containing … what?
I believed I already knew.
I carefully removed the cardboard lid, noting that my guess had been correct, and lifted out one of the four beautifully lustrous spheres the box contained.
‘The spawn of Shudde-M’ell,’ I quietly commented, placing the box back on the desk and examining the sphere in my hand. ‘The eggs of one of the lesser known deities of the Cthulhu Cycle of myth. Bentham did send them to you, then, as you requested?’
He nodded an affirmative. ‘But there was no letter with the box, and it seemed pretty hastily or clumsily wrapped to me. I believe I must have frightened Bentham pretty badly … or at least, something did!’
Frowning, I shook my head,
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