HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

86 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
always been there. The dark made that darker, too, that was all.
He’s done something, I thought. He’s brought something
out of—somewhere—into here. How’s he done it? Oh, I’ve
seen them try, in various parts of the world—black magic—in
the past, what they did never worked. It’s blood. He’s offered
blood, spilled it for this—thing, whatever it is—that guy
upstairs, the goddamned bastard.
Once the filthy rotten noises stopped, I got up and went
into the bathroom. I was cold and sick, but I was no longer
ready to stand aside. I was angry, and I know too I’ve been in
situations where, however insane it is to run out with the cannons
blazing, you’d better bloody do it because it’s the only
answer.
I’ve taken a bath, and shaved with extra care. I’ve put on
the one suit I own, which is shit-hot, some prince gave it me,
had his own tailors do it for me. You can tell from the sleeves,
good as Savile Row—better maybe. It fits me like a glove, a big
glove. I said, I’m not a little guy. After that I wrote all this
down.
I’ve had a tot more of the whisky too, just enough, I know
at these times how to pace myself.
The sun’s well up now. Milk-floats and kids have been
along the street below, and shoppers are out there now, idling
towards the mall. Everything ordinary and fine.
There is a new stain up there on the ceiling, all over the
first stain. It’s red and wet. And there are marks around it, as
though something has hung there by means of something
sharp, licking at it.
Yes, I could move out. But I get this feeling—this dirty, icy
feeling, whatever it is that he—that bastard—has introduced
into our human spaces, has latched on to me. I’m—one of its
despairors. So that’s why, in five more minutes, at the nice
civilised hour of ten o’clock, I’m going up to the flat above. I’ll
knock, and then I’ll knock again. And if I have to, I’ll break the
fucking door down.
)am not sure of anything any more. I am recording these
current moments desperate to engineer some order into
this confusion and black fear. Fear! In my time I have
sailed close to the wind, escaping retribution by a whisker. Yet
at no time have I known fear of this magnitude.
I have slept for only a few minutes; I succumbed at dawn
having up until then been too terrified to close my eyes. I
thought of consuming the bottle of brandy but then—my God!
to keep my wits about me was paramount.
I am afraid I am insane. None of Professor Lightguard’s
magics could have reduced me thus.
For an eternity I stared at the motionless carpet, stared and
looked away, stared and looked away. Eventually I decided: I
would roll up the carpet, open my door and cast the thing out
down the stairs. Terror loaned me strength. I grasped the carpet’s
edge, and found—around its entire perimeter—it was
stoutly nailed to the floor!
I must rest, or I shall swoon.
. . . begin again, for now I realise what he is doing to me.
Him! down below, in his slender guise of black hat and jaunty
stride and silver cane . . . —that modish gentleman ha! a mis-
nomer if ever there was—that creature come to wreak my
ruin—he has followed me. And if not him, one of his hellish
agents, for they are legion . . . because I broke the chain, failed
the moment . . . after all this time has found me out and will
chastise me. I have felt his power again, heard it, even smelled
it—on the stairs one day there was a curious whiff of blood and
burning and corpse-odours from the mire of death.
Yes, I am going mad. In my brain again comes that high
cracked voice as the first ceremony I ever attended rises to
a climax . . .
“viens, viens-toi, maitre, voici le sang! Voici les Puissants . . . !”
And then the squalling and panting and the drip of blood
and the woman cackling in pain or glee under the hairy haunches
. . . longing for the Horned One . . . and that was the reminder
flashed before me when I saw through the keyhole . . . I have
only just realised it.
My God! Someone is coming up. A hard decisive tread,
coming here. I am trembling all over. This could at best be
someone who owes me ill-will—who has found me out in
some chicanery—or worse! I stand staring at the door. I have
locked it, but if this is no human agency, if it is, God forbid I
cannot name him and no lock ever kept him out . . . now the
door shakes under a fist. I might as well open.
THE second thing I noticed about the man who stood there
was his suit. Even in that split moment I saw its beauty of fabric
and cut. But as for the first thing . . . !
The man was on fire. Completely enveloped in flame. Lit
up like a martyr at the stake and seeming quite oblivious of it.
It was I who uttered a great alarmed cry and, following an
instinct, lunged forward to try to extinguish the visitor. I tore
off my jacket and whirled it over his head, smacking my hands
about his ears. In return he shot out a large fist and felled me
with an expert blow. Before I hit the floor I managed to register
one more startling fact: the flames were cold.
When I opened my eyes he was no longer alight, nor even
singed. Bending over me, his face was close to mine. An angry,
tanned face, with a lock of yellow hair dangling, and hard blue
eyes blazing at me. When he saw I was conscious again he
hauled me upright most ungently.
I staggered and fell against him. By rights I should have
smelled the recent fire on him, but there was only the faint
silken aroma of fine cloth, and the tang of whisky.
He was built like a young bull. His hands were merciless,
grasping my upper arms. We stood there close and tense; I
muttered something (I think) as we stared into one another’s
faces. What mine revealed was unknown, but I saw on his first
savage anger then puzzlement as if he were suddenly presented
with an alien.
I realised then that I in turn had hold of him, my fingers
gripping both his wrists in a weak effort to make him unhand
me. And as we stood haphazardly joined in this uncomprehending
instant, the room went dark. As if a massive thundercloud
had covered it, the window lost all light, leaving my companion
and myself as obscure as shadows in the gloom. A peculiar
blackness swept the room in rolling waves, like those seen
on the point of fainting.