The removal of the slab revealed a black aperture, from which rushed an effluence of miasmal gases so nauseous that we started back in horror. After an interval, however, we approached the pit again, and found the exhalations less unbearable. Our lanterns disclosed the top of a flight of stone steps, dripping with some detestable ichor of the inner earth, and bordered by moist walls encrusted with nitre.[20] And now for the first time my memory records verbal discourse, Warren addressing me at length in his mellow tenor voice; a voice singularly unperturbed by our awesome surroundings.
“I’m sorry to have to ask you to stay on the surface,” he said, “but it would be a crime to let anyone with your frail nerves go down there. You can’t imagine, even from what you have read and from what I’ve told you, the things I shall have to see and do. It’s fiendish work, Carter, and I doubt if any man without ironclad sensibilities could ever see it through and come up alive and sane. I don’t wish to offend you, and heaven[21] knows I’d be glad enough to have you with me; but the responsibility is in a certain sense mine, and I couldn’t drag a bundle of nerves like you down to probable death or madness. I tell you, you can’t imagine what the thing is really like! But I promise to keep you informed over the telephone of every move—you see I’ve enough wire here to reach to the centre[22] of the earth and back!”
I can still hear, in memory, those coolly spoken words; and I can still remember my remonstrances. I seemed desperately anxious to accompany my friend into those sepulchral depths, yet he proved inflexibly obdurate. At one time he threatened to abandon the expedition if I remained insistent; a threat which proved effective, since he alone held the key to the thing.[23] All this I can still remember, though I no longer know what manner of thing [24] we sought. After he had secured[25] my reluctant acquiescence in his design, Warren picked up the reel of wire and adjusted the instruments. At his nod I took one of the latter and seated myself upon an aged, discoloured[26] gravestone close by the newly uncovered aperture. Then he shook my hand, shouldered the coil of wire, and[27] disappeared within that indescribable ossuary.[28] For a moment[29] I kept sight of the glow of [30] his lantern, and heard the rustle of the wire as he laid it down after him; but the glow soon disappeared abruptly, as if a turn in the stone staircase had been encountered, and the sound died away almost as quickly. I was alone, yet bound to the unknown depths by those magic strands whose insulated surface lay green beneath the struggling beams of that waning crescent moon.
In the lone silence of that hoary and deserted city of the dead, my mind conceived the most ghastly phantasies[31] and illusions; and the grotesque shrines and monoliths seemed to assume a hideous personality—a half-sentience. Amorphous shadows seemed to lurk in the darker recesses of the weed-choked hollow and to flit as in some blasphemous ceremonial procession past the portals of the mouldering[32] tombs in the hillside; shadows which could not have been cast by that pallid, peering crescent moon.[33] I constantly consulted my watch by the light of my electric lantern, and listened with feverish anxiety at the receiver of the telephone; but for more than a quarter of an hour heard nothing. Then a faint clicking came from the instrument, and I called down to my friend in a tense voice. Apprehensive as I was, I was nevertheless unprepared for the words which came up from that uncanny vault in accents more alarmed and quivering than any I had heard before from Harley Warren. He who had so calmly left me a little while previously, now called from below in a shaky whisper more portentous[34] than the loudest shriek:
“God! If you could see what I am seeing!” [35]
I could not answer. Speechless, I could only wait. Then came the frenzied tones again:
“Carter, it’s terrible—monstrous [36]—unbelievable!” [37]
This time my voice did not fail me, and I poured into the transmitter a flood of excited questions. Terrified, I continued to repeat, “Warren, what is it? What is it?”
Once more came the voice of my friend, still hoarse with fear, and now apparently tinged with despair:
“I can’t tell you, Carter! It’s too utterly beyond thought—I dare not tell you—no man could know it and live—Great God! I never dreamed of THIS!” [38] Stillness again, save for my now incoherent torrent of shuddering inquiry. Then the voice of Warren in a pitch of wilder consternation:
“Carter! for the love of God, put back the slab and get out of this if you can! Quick!—leave everything else and make for the outside—it’s your only chance! Do as I say, and don’t ask me to explain!” [39]
I heard, yet was able only to repeat my frantic questions. Around me were the tombs and the darkness and the shadows; below me, some peril beyond the radius of the human imagination. But my friend was in greater danger than I, and through my fear I felt a vague resentment that he should deem me capable of deserting him under such circumstances. More clicking, and after a pause a piteous cry from Warren:
“Beat it! For God’s sake,[40] put back the slab and beat it, Carter!” [41]
Something in the boyish slang of my evidently stricken companion unleashed my faculties. I formed and shouted a resolution,[42] “Warren, brace up! I’m coming down!” But at this offer the tone of my auditor changed to a scream of utter despair:
“Don’t! You can’t understand! It’s too late—and my own fault. Put back the slab and run—there’s nothing else you or anyone can do now!” [43] The tone changed again, this time acquiring a softer quality, as of hopeless resignation. Yet[44] it remained tense through anxiety for me.
“Quick—before it’s too late!” [45] I tried not to heed him; tried to break through the paralysis which held me, and to fulfil my vow to rush down to his aid. But his next whisper found me still held inert in the chains of stark horror.[46]
“Carter—hurry! It’s no use—you must go—better one than two—the slab—” [47] A pause,[48] more clicking, then the faint voice of Warren:
“Nearly over now—don’t make it harder—cover up those damned steps and run for your life—you’re losing time— So long, Carter—won’t see you again.” [49] Here Warren’s whisper swelled into a cry; a cry that gradually rose to a shriek fraught with all the horror of the ages—
“Curse these hellish things—legions— My God! Beat it! Beat it! Beat it!” [50]
After that was silence. I know not how many interminable aeons[51] I sat stupefied; whispering, muttering, calling, screaming into that telephone. Over and over again through those aeons[52] I whispered and muttered, called, shouted, and screamed, “Warren! Warren! Answer me—are you there?”
And then there came to me the crowning horror of all—the unbelievable, unthinkable, almost unmentionable thing. I have said that aeons[53] seemed to elapse after Warren shrieked forth his last despairing warning, and that only my own cries now broke the hideous silence. But after a while there was a further clicking in the receiver, and I strained my ears to listen. Again I called down, “Warren, are you there?”,[54] and in answer heard the thing [55] which has brought this cloud over my mind. I do not try, gentlemen, to account for that thing [56]—that voice—nor can I venture to describe it in detail, since the first words took away my consciousness and created a mental blank which reaches to the time of my awakening in the hospital. Shall I say that the voice was deep; hollow; gelatinous; remote; unearthly; inhuman; disembodied? What shall I say? It was the end of my experience, and is the end of my story. I heard it, and knew no more. Heard[57] it as I sat petrified in that unknown cemetery in the hollow, amidst the crumbling stones and the falling tombs, the[58] rank vegetation and the miasmal vapours. Heard[59] it well up from the innermost depths of that damnable open sepulchre[60] as I watched amorphous, necrophagous shadows dance beneath an accursed waning moon.[61] And this is what it said:
“YOU FOOL, WARREN IS DEAD!” [62]
Notes
Editor’s Note: An A.Ms. (a fair copy) exists, but it must date before the existing T.Ms., as the latter appears to incorporate some revisions from that text. The first published appearance in the Vagrant (May
1920), edited by W. Paul Cook, follows the T.Ms. This T.Ms. (single-spaced) was sent to Weird Tales in mid-1923. It is possible that some of the divergences between it and the Weird Tales (February 1925) appearance—especially in the matter of the italicisation of Harley Warren’s utterances—are the result of revisions that HPL made when preparing a double-spaced T.Ms.; but I regard that possibility as too remote to justify overturning the readings of the existing A.Ms. and T.Ms. The Arkham House editions followed the first Weird Tales text; the second Weird Tales text (August 1937) is of no relevance to the tale’s textual history.
Texts: A = A.Ms. (private hands), published by R. Alain Everts (Madison, WI: Strange Co., 1976); B = T.Ms. (JHL); C = Vagrant No. 13 (May 1920): 41–48; D = Weird Tales 5, No. 2 (February 1925): 149–53; E = At the Mountains of Madness and Other Novels (Arkham House, 1964), 284–89. Copy-text: B.
1. for ever] forever A, C, D, E
2. told] told you E
3. candour.] candor. D, E
4. Warren,] Warren; A
5. eleven] 11 D, E
6. know] knew D, E
7. thing ] thing E
8. why . . . years.] why . . . years. D, E
9. for ] for E
10. eleven] 11 D, E
11. vapours] vapors D, E
12. unheard-of] unheard of E
13. mausolean] mausoleum E
14. facades;] façades; D
15. vegetation.] vegetation. ¶ D, E
16. half-obliterated] om. A
17. sepulchre,] sepulcher, D; sepulcher E
18. sepulchre,] sepulcher, D, E
19. lever,] [A seems to indicate an underscore (and is so read by Everts), but it appears to be a stray mark.]
20. nitre.] niter. D, E
21. sane . . . heaven] sane. Heaven A; sane . . . Heaven B, C, D, E
22. centre] center D, E
23. thing.] thing. E
24. thing ] thing E
25. secured] obtained D, E
26. aged, discoloured] aged discoloured B, C; aged, discolored D, E
27. and ] and silently A
28. ossuary.] ossuary. ¶ D, E
29. moment] minute D, E
30. of ] from A
31. phantasies] fantasies A, C, D; om. E [see below]
32. mouldering] moldering D; om. E [see below]
33. In . . . moon.] In . . . moon. ¶ D; om. E
34. portentous] portentious A, B, C
35. “God! . . . seeing!” ] “God! . . . seeing!” D, E
36. monstrous ] monstruous C, E
37. “Carter, . . . unbelievable!” ] “Carter, . . . unbelievable!” D, E
38. “I can’t . . . THIS!” ] “I can’t . . . this!” ¶ D; “I can’t . . . this!” ¶ E
39. “Carter! . . . explain!” ] “Carter! . . . explain!” D, E
40. sake,] sake A
41. “Beat . . . Carter!” ] “Beat . . . Carter!” D, E
42. resolution,] resolution: A
43. “Don’t! . . . now!” ] “Don’t! . . . now!” ¶ D, E
44. resignation. Yet] resignation, yet A
45. “Quick . . . late!” ] “Quick . . . late!” ¶ D, E
46. horror.] horror: A
47. “Carter . . . slab—” ] “Carter . . . slab—” ¶ D, E
48. pause,] pause; A
49. “Nearly . . . So . . . again.” ] “Nearly . . . so . . . again.” ¶ D, E
50. “Curse . . . Beat it! Beat it! Beat it!” ] “Curse . . . Beat it! Beat it! BEAT IT!” D; “Curse . . . Beat it! Beat it! BEAT IT!” E
51. aeons] eons D, E
52. aeons] eons D, E
53. aeons] eons D, E
54. there?”,] there?” D, E
55. thing ] thing E
56. thing ] thing E
57. more. Heard] more—heard D, E
58. tombs, the] tombs and the A
59. vapours. Heard] vapors—heard D, E
60. sepulchre] sepulcher D, E
61. moon.] moon. ¶ D, E
62. “YOU . . . DEAD!” ] “You fool, Warren is DEAD!” D; “You fool, Warren is DEAD!” E
The Terrible Old Man
It was the design of Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva to call on the Terrible Old Man. This old man dwells all alone in a very ancient house in[1] Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be both exceedingly rich and exceedingly[2] feeble; which forms a situation very attractive to men of the profession of Messrs.[3] Ricci, Czanek,[4] and Silva,[5] for that profession was nothing less dignified than[6] robbery.
The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the Terrible Old Man which generally keep[7] him safe from the attentions[8] of gentlemen like Mr. Ricci and his colleagues, despite the almost certain fact that he hides a fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about his musty and venerable abode. He is, in truth, a very strange person, believed to have been a captain of East India clipper ships in his day; so old that no one can remember when he was young, and so taciturn that few know his real name. Among the gnarled trees in the front yard of his aged and neglected place he maintains a strange collection of large stones, oddly grouped and painted so that they resemble the idols in some obscure Eastern temple. This collection frightens away most of the small boys who love to taunt the Terrible Old Man about his long white hair and beard, or to break the small-paned windows of his dwelling with wicked missiles; but there are other things which frighten[9] the older and more curious folk who sometimes steal up to the house to peer in through the dusty panes. These folk say that on a table in a bare room on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles, in each a small piece of lead suspended pendulum-wise from a string. And they say that the Terrible Old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack, Scar-Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe, Peters,[10] and Mate Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle the little lead pendulum within makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer. Those who have watched the tall, lean, Terrible Old Man in these peculiar conversations[11] do not watch him again. But Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood; they were of that new and heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charmed circle of New-England[12] life and traditions,[13] and they saw in the Terrible Old Man merely a tottering, almost helpless greybeard,[14] who could not walk without the aid of his knotted cane,[15] and whose thin,[16] weak hands shook pitifully. They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely,[17] unpopular old fellow, whom everybody shunned, and at whom all the dogs barked singularly. But business is business, and to a[18] robber whose soul is in his profession, there is a lure and a challenge about a very old and very feeble man who has no account at the bank, and who pays for his few necessities at the village store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago.
Messrs.[19] Ricci, Czanek, and Silva selected the night of April 11th[20] for their call. Mr. Ricci and Mr. Silva were to interview the poor old gentleman, whilst Mr. Czanek waited for them[21] and their presumable[22] metallic burden with a covered motor-car [23] in Ship Street, by the gate in the tall rear wall of their host’s grounds. Desire to avoid needless explanations in[24] case of unexpected police intrusions prompted these plans for a quiet and unostentatious departure.
As prearranged, the three adventurers started out separately in order to prevent any evil-minded suspicions afterward.[25] Messrs.[26] Ricci and Silva met in Water Street by the old man’s front gate, and although they did not like the way the moon shone down upon the painted stones through the budding branches of the gnarled trees, they had more important things to think about than mere idle superstition. They feared it might be unpleasant work making the Terrible Old Man loquacious concerning his hoarded gold and silver, for aged sea-captains are notably stubborn and perverse. Still, he was very old and very feeble, and there were two visitors. Messrs.[27] Ricci and Silva were experienced in the art of making unwilling persons voluble, and the screams of a weak and exceptionally venerable man can be easily muffled. So th
ey moved up to the one lighted window and heard the Terrible Old Man talking childishly to his bottles with pendulums. Then they donned masks and knocked politely at the weather-stained oaken door.[28]
Waiting seemed very long to Mr. Czanek[29] as he fidgeted restlessly in the covered motor-car[30] by the Terrible Old Man’s back gate in Ship Street. He was more than ordinarily tender-hearted,[31] and he did not like the hideous screams he had heard in the ancient house just after the hour appointed for the deed. Had he not told his colleagues to be as gentle[32] as possible with the pathetic old sea-captain? Very nervously he watched that narrow oaken gate in the high and ivy-clad stone wall. Frequently he consulted his watch, and wondered at the delay. Had the old man died before revealing where his treasure was hidden, and had a thorough search become necessary? Mr. Czanek did not like to wait so long in the dark in such a place.[33] Then he sensed a soft tread or tapping on the walk inside the gate,[34] heard a gentle fumbling at the rusty latch, and saw the narrow, heavy door swing inward. And in the pallid glow of the single dim street-lamp[35] he strained his eyes to see what his colleagues had brought out of that[36] sinister house which loomed so close behind. But when he looked,[37] he did not see what he had expected; for his[38] colleagues were not there at all, but only the Terrible Old Man leaning quietly on his knotted cane and smiling hideously. Mr. Czanek had never before noticed the colour[39] of that man’s eyes; now[40] he saw that they were yellow.
Little things make considerable excitement in little towns, which is the reason that Kingsport people talked all that spring and summer about the three unidentifiable bodies, horribly slashed as with many cutlasses, and horribly mangled as by the tread of many cruel boot-heels, which the tide washed in. And some people even spoke of things as trivial as the deserted motor-car[41] found in Ship Street, or certain especially[42] inhuman cries, probably of a stray animal or migratory bird, heard in the night by wakeful citizens.[43] But in this idle village gossip the Terrible Old Man took no interest at all. He was by nature reserved, and when one is aged and feeble one’s reserve is doubly strong. Besides, so ancient a sea-captain must have witnessed scores of things much more stirring in the far-off days of his unremembered youth.