HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

84 H . P . L O V E C R A F T ’S M A G A Z IN E O F H O R R O R
!JLCF XNBo %P?HCHAo I have decided to keep some
form of journal. My delicate nervous system has suffered from
the recent inexplicable occurrence. I thought a minor regulation
of the daily round might serve to restore my equilibrium.
Meanwhile, I am applying myself to my latest commission.
“My dearest Louise”—
This is to be handled with care, deferential but not unctuous,
amorous but not too familiar. The lady to whom I am
plighting my surrogate troth is filthy rich and her suitor an idiot.
This letter is going to cost him plenty, I thought as I laid down
my pen. Even with the whole house still—no distractions of
any shape—it was difficult to get going with my usual fluency.
I took a turn around the room. In an oblong mirror I
regarded myself; no longer young, but trim of figure. I have
looked after my health. I have been told I resemble Gielgud in
his prime or, and here I was certainly flattered, an older version
of the divine Ivor Novello.
When younger, I lived for a time in Paris. I remember
someone who for a decade or more confounded people with
his stage hypnosis act, for it went beyond the usual circus show.
He called himself Professor Lightguard, but I always found him
more a thing of the dark. He made one believe the unbelievable.
Young girls especially were in thrall to him, to his advantage
and their sometime ruin, and for a time I held power over
him to the tune of a few million francs. He came to mind today
because I recalled he was an illusionist.
Early in our acquaintance, while I still had his trust, I
allowed him to “put me under” and I saw monsters and marvels.
Now: was my momentary disorientation apropos the
rooms merely some hallucinogenic flashback (similar to a
mescal hangover) from that time?
Ah. Things went on in Paris. I do not speak of the revels
of those silly faux Bohemians with their cocaine-and-champers
games. No. I witnessed acts in the privacy of shadows that
none should see, things I have told no living soul and never
could.
“My dearest Louise,”
“They say that amor vincit omnia—love conquers all” (in
case the dear virgin needed educating). “When I saw you at the
Gala premiere I envied the flowers at your breast; whiter than
the swan, your beauty dimmed those roses; I would gladly fade
as they will, for one touch . . . ”
Wrong. Too intimate. Young Louise must not feel threatened.
I needed a stimulant for my flagging poetry.
I had selected some vermouth when, rising from below, a
sound alerted me. Music. Not a tune I recognised, in fact unlike
anything I had ever heard and would not choose to even if I
had the equipment on which to play it—I listened, bottle
unopened in my hand. Hideous music, soft with an insidious
cunning throb underlying the beastly melody if one could call it
such. Really, I thought, that person below. He continues to pollute
my space. It is insupportable.
The sounds raised my neck-hairs.
!JLCF \NBo ,;N? ;@N?LHIIHo I am continuing this
record in case it could be used in evidence, but of what? Not
K
exactly a Noisy Neighbour offence—but of one human disturbing
the inner peace of another?
The night before last I think he had a woman in his apartment
for I heard faint voices—one light and high—and after a
time silence. I suppose I cannot object to his entertainments.
And yet! how I wish he had never arrived!
And last night I had difficulty sleeping. My nerves are like
hot wires and I found myself obsessed by the “apparition” of
the room. Can I believe what I think I saw? As it happened I
had an unexpected opportunity to verify or cancel my doubts
for, going out to mail the Louise letter, I noticed the person’s
door was slightly open, and heard him below, talking to the
concierge. Trembling, I pushed the door wider and peered in. I
saw a dim shabby place, broken down armchair, faded “Stag at
Bay” print on the wall, a carpet-bag open on the floor, an
empty half-bottle of whisky . . .
I turned and hastened back upstairs. All was well in my
room, too, no massive furniture, no “altar”, no hairy something,
no painting of Madame . . .
How come Madame Recamier had changed into the Stag
at Bay?
When I went out later, I looked again at the nameplates by
the door. My own—Grolere—and his. I could read it now—
Yolsuar. A foreigner.
!JLCF U^NBo 6?LS F;N?o I do not know how late it
is. A day has passed. I only know that my neighbour is not a
nice man. I am up out of my bed, sleep impossible because of
the soft drumming that tugs at my nerves and now there is a
new sound rising above the ghastly non-music that woke me
earlier. Laughter—inhuman—almost the laughter of the insane
. . . God knows.
And this laughter reawakens memory, for it is of the same
odious timbre as heard in that upper room in Paris, where a
thing brayed and scratched and yowled to come through . . . and
oh, mon pauvre! if only I could have stopped it—but I did no
such thing. It was impossible, so I ran away, and I must put off