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HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

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I tried to speak. At that moment the darkness partially<br />

cleared and gave way to an aureole <strong>of</strong> luminescence that flamed<br />

round us, lighting our faces as suddenly as a struck match<br />

blazes in its primary instant. In that hellish, unnatural light we<br />

saw one another clearly, and had I been able I would have<br />

shrieked out loud.<br />

The light did not fade; it shivered and danced. It illuminated<br />

the countenance <strong>of</strong> the man who still gripped my arms, and<br />

whose strong wrists I held. His face had altered. I gazed into<br />

the hideous, pallid blue-white face <strong>of</strong> a corpse drowned yet living;<br />

the face <strong>of</strong> a demon in which white eyes rolled and glared<br />

and its mouth opened on long jagged fangs foaming venom,<br />

and from this malevolent mouth issued deep gibberish more<br />

terrifying than the one who uttered it . . .<br />

“We are Oorl! oorl, oorl, oorl . . . !”<br />

I shook with terror. The vice on my biceps tightened.<br />

Desperate, I tried to pull away. To my horror, I found that I<br />

myself could not let go <strong>of</strong> the creature’s wrists. We were joined<br />

as if glued together, and then <strong>of</strong> their own volition sounds<br />

issued suddenly from my own lips:<br />

“Oorl, oorl, oorl! Despair, all!”<br />

Yet in that same moment I saw the wild white eyes change,<br />

become glazed with fear. And the face <strong>of</strong> the man regained its<br />

humanity, the blue eyes aghast, and, as I tasted a thin ripple <strong>of</strong><br />

blood crawling from my bitten tongue, I knew that my face too<br />

had changed, into something capable <strong>of</strong> turning men sick . . .<br />

I felt the skin <strong>of</strong> my face tighten, and my features shrinking<br />

into something wizened and vile. I had become monstrous.<br />

I knew whose face masked mine. He had come into me, had<br />

been brought from Paris, invading me for my punishment. And<br />

I knew, as I had always known, that anyone touched by the<br />

occult, even in the smallest way, will be contaminated forever,<br />

in a secret incurable malady <strong>of</strong> the soul . . .<br />

All the time the man was struggling to break our dual grip.<br />

With a mighty effort he suddenly wrenched himself away. I was<br />

free too, just as the hellish light around us shrank leaving us in<br />

the dark. “Jesus!” I heard him say violently. I think I let out a<br />

wail rather than a word. Then the floor beneath us began to<br />

shake. Like the fatal tremor miners feel before a cave-in—it<br />

shuddered and bounded and plunged under our feet . . . and<br />

we reeled and floundered crying aloud as a roaring vibration<br />

cast us into the vortex and we descended into hell.<br />

(e wasn’t the man I’d seen up in the window that first<br />

time, nor the one on the stairs. That’s what I was<br />

thinking when he first opened his door. He was sort <strong>of</strong><br />

that type—slim, elegant, handsome enough to make certain<br />

women turn round in the street—though I got a kind <strong>of</strong><br />

impression that wouldn’t do much for him, a woman doing that<br />

. . . The thing was he had dark hair, with a bit <strong>of</strong>—not grey, silver—in<br />

it, and he was taller than that other chap too—altogether,<br />

just different. I suppose, they could have looked like half<br />

brothers—or close friends who’ve gone around together so<br />

long, they end up like a married couple’s said to, and start to<br />

look alike. Anyhow, all this took about one quarter second to<br />

register, and then he goes bloody mad. Tries to attack me. Well,<br />

I stopped that pretty quick.<br />

When he came round, the first thing he murmured—probably<br />

didn’t know he did it—was: “So glad the fire didn’t spoil<br />

your suit.”<br />

I dragged him upright. “Don’t try to get funny with me.”<br />

And then —<br />

Well, I’d grabbed him by the arms to keep him still,<br />

because if he started again I’d really have to hurt him, and he<br />

looked like he wouldn’t be able to take much <strong>of</strong> that. I’m not<br />

keen on murdering civilians, even if they appear to be devilworshipping<br />

scum.<br />

About as soon as I had hold <strong>of</strong> him, it started going dark<br />

in that room. I thought it was the sun going in, but when I<br />

glanced at the window, the window was the only bright thing I<br />

could see—except it gave no light. It was as if something just<br />

sucked the daylight up <strong>of</strong>f it before it could enter the room.<br />

I could still see his face though. My night-vision’s good.<br />

He was going nuts, staring at me and mouthing as if he wanted<br />

to scream.<br />

He could see something where I was, that was obviously it.<br />

What?<br />

Then my own mouth opened. I’d been going to ask him<br />

what the hell—but instead the voice came out <strong>of</strong> me—not<br />

mine. It was made <strong>of</strong> gravel. It said We are oorl.<br />

I tried to let go <strong>of</strong> him. I reckoned he was making this happen.<br />

My hands seemed to have grown into his arms, I never felt<br />

anything like this before.<br />

It wasn’t him any more.<br />

What I held was a green rotting corpse. It was alive only<br />

with crawling maggots.<br />

I knew who it was. It was my mate, Lon. Lon Clitheroe, black<br />

as they come. I couldn’t have done anything that time. I know<br />

that. They had me, and they had him, those bastards. They made<br />

each <strong>of</strong> us watch what they did to the other. Then they’d say,<br />

“Three more day and TV come, we show you at your people, you<br />

tell them we right and they wrong.” And Lon and me, we kept saying,<br />

sure, sure, whatever you want. But they still kept doing the<br />

other stuff to us. In the end, the TV crew didn’t arrive, and our<br />

captors got all irritated, and shot Lon in the guts. He died slowly.<br />

They made sure I watched. Then I had to stand, tied under that<br />

banana tree, and watch as he decayed. It was hot there. The decaying<br />

happened quicker than the dying had. One night after that I<br />

got away, running on a broken leg. I don’t know how I did that. I<br />

only killed one <strong>of</strong> them. Sorry about that. Sorry, Lon—just sorry.<br />

I managed to break my grip on him then, Christ knows<br />

how. Oh I mean I knew it wasn’t Lon Clitheroe. I knew I was<br />

just being made to see Lon Clitheroe by the guy upstairs.<br />

Next everything went dead black, and we fell apart.<br />

What had he just yelled? Something about despair—but<br />

it had been the voice again—not his voice, cultured and<br />

actorly—but this Oorl that presumably he’d conjured up and<br />

now couldn’t control —<br />

Then the floor —<br />

It was like the earthquake, the big one that time, in Asia.<br />

We both went over. It was worse than that. We fell on the floor<br />

and the floor wasn’t there.<br />

As we fell through and down and on—even in blackness,<br />

I could see he wasn’t being made to look like Lon any more.<br />

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 | 87

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