The Picture in the House
Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places. For them are the catacombsof Ptolemais, and the carven mausolea of the nightmare countries. They climb tothe moonlit towers of ruined Rhine castles, and falter down black cobwebbedsteps beneath the scattered stones of forgotten cities in Asia. The haunted woodand the desolate mountain are their shrines, and they linger around the sinistermonoliths on uninhabited islands. But the true epicure in the terrible, to whoma new thrill of unutterable ghastliness is the chief end and justification ofexistence, esteems most of all the ancient, lonely farmhouses of backwoods NewEngland; for there the dark elements of strength, solitude, grotesqueness andignorance combine to form the perfection of the hideous.Most horrible of all sights are the little unpainted wooden houses remotefrom travelled ways, usually squatted upon some damp grassy slope or leaningagainst some gigantic outcropping of rock. Two hundred years and more they haveleaned or squatted there, while the vines have crawled and the trees haveswelled and spread. They are almost hidden now in lawless luxuriances of greenand guardian shrouds of shadow; but the small-paned windows still stareshockingly, as if blinking through a lethal stupor which wards off madness bydulling the memory of unutterable things.In such houses have dwelt generations of strange people, whose like theworld has never seen. Seized with a gloomy and fanatical belief which exiledthem from their kind, their ancestors sought the wilderness for freedom. Therethe scions of a conquering race indeed flourished free from the restrictions oftheir fellows, but cowered in an appalling slavery to the dismal phantasms oftheir own minds. Divorced from the enlightenment of civilization, the strengthof these Puritans turned into singular channels; and in their isolation, morbidself-repression, and struggle for life with relentless Nature, there came tothem dark furtive traits from the prehistoric depths of their cold Northernheritage. By necessity practical and by philosophy stern, these folks were notbeautiful in their sins. Erring as all mortals must, they were forced by theirrigid code to seek concealment above all else; so that they came to use less andless taste in what they concealed. Only the silent, sleepy, staring houses inthe backwoods can tell all that has lain hidden since the early days, and theyare not communicative, being loath to shake off the drowsiness which helps themforget. Sometimes one feels that it would be merciful to tear down these houses,for they must often dream.It was to a time-battered edifice of this description that I was driven oneafternoon in November, 1896, by a rain of such chilling copiousness that anyshelter was preferable to exposure. I had been travelling for some time amongstthe people of the Miskatonic Valley in quest of certain genealogical data; andfrom the remote, devious, and problematical nature of my course, had deemed itconvenient to employ a bicycle despite the lateness of the season. Now I foundmyself upon an apparently abandoned road which I had chosen as the shortest cutto Arkham, overtaken by the storm at a point far from any town, and confrontedwith no refuge save the antique and repellent wooden building which blinked withbleared windows from between two huge leafless elms near the foot of a rockyhill. Distant though it is from the remnant of a road, this house none the lessimpressed me unfavorably the very moment I espied it. Honest, wholesomestructures do not stare at travellers so slyly and hauntingly, and in mygenealogical researches I had encountered legends of a century before whichbiased me against places of this kind. Yet the force of the elements was such asto overcome my scruples, and I did not hesitate to wheel my machine up the weedyrise to the closed door which seemed at once so suggestive and secretive.I had somehow taken it for granted that the house was abandoned, yet as Iapproached it I was not so sure, for though the walks were indeed overgrown withweeds, they seemed to retain their nature a little tco well to argue completedesertion. Therefore instead of trying the dcor I knocked, feeling as I did so atrepidation I could scarcely explain. As I waited on the rough, mossy rock whichserved as a dcor-step, I glanced at the neighboring windows and the panes of thetransom above me, and noticed that although old, rattling, and almost opaquewith dirt, they were not broken. The building, then, must still be inhabited,despite its isolation and general neglect. However, my rapping evoked noresponse, so after repeating the summons I tried the rusty latch and found thedoor unfastened. Inside was a little vestibule with walls from which the plasterwas falling, and through the doorway came a faint but peculiarly hateful odor. Ientered, carrying my bicycle, and closed the door behind me. Ahead rose a narrowstaircase, flanked by a small door probably leading to the cellar, while to theleft and right were closed doors leading to rooms on the ground floor.Leaning my cycle against the wall I opened the door at the left, and crossedinto a small low-ceiled chamber but dimly lighted by its two dusty windows andfurnished in the barest and most primitive possible way. It appeared to be akind of sitting-room, for it had a table and several chairs, and an immensefireplace above which ticked an antique clock on a mantel. Books and papers werevery few, and in the prevailing gloom I could not readily discern the titles.What interested me was the uniform air of archaism as displayed in every visibledetail. Most of the houses in this region I had found rich in relics of thepast, but here the antiquity was curiously complete; for in all the room I couldnot discover a single article of definitely post-revolutionary date. Had thefurnishings been less humble, the place would have been a collector's paradise.As I surveyed this quaint apartment, I felt an increase in that aversionfirst excited by the bleak exterior of the house. Just what it was that I fearedor loathed, I could by no means define; but something in the whole atmosphereseemed redolent of unhallowed age, of unpleasant crudeness, and of secrets whichshould be forgotten. I felt disinclined to sit down, and wandered aboutexamining the various articles which I had noticed. The first object of mycuriosity was a book of medium size lying upon the table and presenting such anantediluvian aspect that I marvelled at beholding it outside a museum orlibrary. It was bound in leather with metal fittings, and was in an excellentstate of preservation; being altogether an unusual sort of volume to encounterin an abode so lowly. When I opened it to the title page my wonder grew evengreater, for it proved to be nothing less rare than Pigafetta's account of theCongo region, written in Latin from the notes of the sailor Lopex and printed atFrankfurt in 1598. I had often heard of this work, with its curiousillustrations by the brothers De Bry, hence for a moment forgot my uneasiness inmy desire to turn the pages before me. The engravings were indeed interesting,drawn wholly from imagination and careless descriptions, and represented negroeswith white skins and Caucasian features; nor would I soon have closed the bookhad not an exceedingly trivial circumstance upset my tired nerves and revived mysensation of disquiet. What annoyed me was merely the persistent way in whichthe volume tended to fall open of itself at Plate XII, which represented ingruesome detail a butcher's shop of the cannibal Anziques. I experienced someshame at my susceptibility to so slight a thing, but the drawing neverthelessdisturbed me, especially in connection with some adjacent passages descriptiveof Anzique gastronomy.I had turned to a neighboring shelf and was examining its meagre literarycontents - an eighteenth century Bible, a "Pilgrim's Progress" of like period,illustrated with grotesque woodcuts and printed by the almanack-maker IsaiahThomas, the rotting bulk of Cotton Mather's "Magnalia Christi Americana," and afew other books of evidently equal age - when my attention was aroused by theunmistakable sound of walking in the room overhead. At first astonished andstartled, considering the lack of response to my recent knocking at the door, Iimmediately afterward concluded that the walker had just awakened from a soundsleep, and listened with less surprise as the footsteps sounded on the creakingstairs. The tread was heavy, yet seemed to contain a curious quality ofcautiousness; a quality which I disliked the more because the tread was heavy.When I had entered the room I had shut the door behind me. Now, after a momentof silence during which the walker may have been inspecting my bicycle in thehall, I heard a fumbling at the latch and saw the paneled portal swing openagain.In the doorway stood a person of such singular appearance that I should haveexclaimed aloud but for the restraints of good breeding. Old, white-bearded, andragged, my host possessed a countenance and physique which inspired equal wonderand respect. His height could not have been less than six feet, and despite ageneral air of age and poverty he was stout and powerful in proportion. Hisface, almost hidden by a long beard which grew high on the cheeks, seemedabnormally ruddy and less wrinkled than one might expect; while over a highforehead fell a shock of white hair little thinned by the years. His blue eyes,though a trifle bloodshot, seemed inexplicably keen and burning. But for hishorrible unkemptness the man would have been as distinguished-looking as he wasimpressive. This unkemptness, however, made him offensive despite his face andfigure. Of what his clothing consisted I could hardly tell, for it seemed to meno more than a mass of tatters surmounting a pair of high, heavy boots; and hislack of cleanliness surpassed description.The appearance of this man, and the instinctive fear he inspired, preparedme for something like enmity; so that I almost shuddered through surprise and asense of uncanny incongruity when he motioned me to a chair and addressed me ina thin, weak voice full of fawning respect and ingratiating hospitality. Hisspeech was very curious, an extreme form of Yankee dialect I had thought longextinct; and I studied it closely as he sat down opposite me for conversation."Ketched in the rain, be ye?" he greeted. "Glad ye was nigh the haouse en'hed the sense ta come right in. I calc'late I was alseep, else I'd a heerd ye-Iain't as young as I uster be, an' I need a paowerful sight o' naps naowadays.Trav'lin fur? I hain't seed many folks 'long this rud sence they tuk off theArkham stage."I replied that I was going to Arkham, and apologized for my rude entry intohis domicile, whereupon he continued."Glad ta see ye, young Sir - new faces is scurce arount here, an' I hain'tgot much ta cheer me up these days. Guess yew hail from Bosting, don't ye? Inever ben thar, but I kin tell a taown man when I see 'im - we hed one ferdeestrick schoolmaster in 'eighty-four, but he quit suddent an' no one neverheerd on 'im sence - " here the old man lapsed into a kind of chuckle, and madeno explanation when I questioned him. He seemed to be in an aboundingly goodhumor, yet to possess those eccentricities which one might guess from hisgrooming. For some time he rambled on with an almost feverish geniality, when itstruck me to ask him how he came by so rare a book as Pigafetta's "RegnumCongo." The effect of this volume had not left me, and I felt a certainhesitancy in speaking of it, but curiosity overmastered all the vague fearswhich had steadily accumulated since my first glimpse of the house. To myrelief, the question did not seem an awkward one, for the old man answeredfreely and volubly."Oh, that Afriky book? Cap'n Ebenezer Holt traded me thet in 'sixty-eight -him as was kilt in the war." Something about the name of Ebenezer Holt caused meto look up sharply. I had encountered it in my genealogical work, but not in anyrecord since the Revolution. I wondered if my host could help me in the task atwhich I was laboring, and resolved to ask him about it later on. He continued."Ebenezer was on a Salem merchantman for years, an' picked up a sight o'queer stuff in every port. He got this in London, I guess - he uster like terbuy things at the shops. I was up ta his haouse onct, on the hill, tradin'hosses, when I see this book. I relished the picters, so he give it in on aswap. 'Tis a queer book - here, leave me git on my spectacles-" The old manfumbled among his rags, producing a pair of dirty and amazingly antique glasseswith small octagonal lenses and steel bows. Donning these, he reached for thevolume on the table and turned the pages lovingly."Ebenezer cud read a leetle o' this-'tis Latin - but I can't. I had two erthree schoolmasters read me a bit, and Passon Clark, him they say got draowndedin the pond - kin yew make anything outen it?" I told him that I could, andtranslated for his benefit a paragraph near the beginning. If I erred, he wasnot scholar enough to correct me; for he seemed childishly pleased at my Englishversion. His proximity was becoming rather obnoxious, yet I saw no way to escapewithout offending him. I was amused at the childish fondness of this ignorantold man for the pictures in a book he could not read, and wondered how muchbetter he could read the few books in English which adorned the room. Thisrevelation of simplicity removed much of the ill-defined apprehension I hadfelt, and I smiled as my host rambled on:"Queer haow picters kin set a body thinkin'. Take this un here near thefront. Hey yew ever seed trees like thet, with big leaves a floppin' over an'daown? And them men - them can't be niggers - they dew beat all. Kinder likeInjuns, I guess, even ef they be in Afriky. Some o' these here critters lookslike monkeys, or half monkeys an' half men, but I never heerd o' nothin' likethis un." Here he pointed to a fabulous creature of the artist, which one mightdescribe as a sort of dragon with the head of an alligator."But naow I'll show ye the best un - over here nigh the middle - "The oldman's speech grew a trifle thicker and his eyes assumed a brighter glow; but hisfumbling hands, though seemingly clumsier than before, were entirely adequate totheir mission. The book fell open, almost of its own accord and as if fromfrequent consultation at this place, to the repellent twelfth plate showing abutcher's shop amongst the Anzique cannibals. My sense of restlessness returned,though I did not exhibit it. The especially bizarre thing was that the artisthad made his Africans look like white men - the limbs and quarters hanging aboutthe walls of the shop were ghastly, while the butcher with his axe was hideouslyincongruous. But my host seemed to relish the view as much as I disliked it."What d'ye think o' this - ain't never see the like hereabouts, eh? When Isee this I telled Eb Holt, 'That's suthin' ta stir ye up an' make yer bloodtickle.' When I read in Scripter about slayin' - like them Midianites was slew -I kinder think things, but I ain't got no picter of it. Here a body kin see allthey is to it - I s'pose 'tis sinful, but ain't we all born an' livin' in sin? -Thet feller bein' chopped up gives me a tickle every time I look at 'im - I heyta keep lookin' at 'im - see whar the butcher cut off his feet? Thar's his headon thet bench, with one arm side of it, an' t'other arm's on the other side o'the meat block."As the man mumbled on in his shocking ecstasy the expression on his hairy,spectacled face became indescribable, but his voice sank rather than mounted. Myown sensations can scarcely be recorded. All the terror I had dimly felt beforerushed upon me actively and vividly, and I knew that I loathed the ancient andabhorrent creature so near me with an infinite intensity. His madness, or atleast his partial perversion, seemed beyond dispute. He was almost whisperingnow, with a huskiness more terrible than a scream, and I trembled as I listened."As I says, 'tis queer haow picters sets ye thinkin'. D'ye know, young Sir,I'm right sot on this un here. Arter I got the book off Eb I uster look at it alot, especial when I'd heerd Passon Clark rant o' Sundays in his big wig. Onct Itried suthin' funny - here, young Sir, don't git skeert - all I done was terlook at the picter afore I kilt the sheep for market - killin' sheep was kindermore fun arter lookin' at it - " The tone of the old man now sank very low,sometimes becoming so faint that his words were hardly audible. I listened tothe rain, and to the rattling of the bleared, small-paned windows, and marked arumbling of approaching thunder quite unusual for the season. Once a terrificflash and peal shook the frail house to its foundations, but the whispererseemed not to notice it."Killin' sheep was kinder more fun - but d'ye know, 'twan't quitesatisfyin'. Queer haow a cravin' gits a holt on ye - As ye love the Almighty,young man, don't tell nobody, but I swar ter Gawd thet picter begun to make mehungry fer victuals I couldn't raise nor buy - here, set still, what's ailin'ye? - I didn't do nothin', only I wondered haow 'twud be ef I did - They saymeat makes blood an' flesh, an' gives ye new life, so I wondered ef 'twudn'tmake a man live longer an' longer ef 'twas more the same - " But the whisperernever continued. The interruption was not produced by my fright, nor by therapidly increasing storm amidst whose fury I was presently to open my eyes on asmoky solitude of blackened ruins. It was produced by a very simple thoughsomewhat unusual happening.The open book lay flat between us, with the picture staring repulsivelyupward. As the old man whispered the words "more the same" a tiny splatteringimpact was heard, and something showed on the yellowed paper of the upturnedvolume. I thought of the rain and of a leaky roof, but rain is not red. On thebutcher's shop of the Anzique cannibals a small red spattering glistenedpicturesquely, lending vividness to the horror of the engraving. The old man sawit, and stopped whispering even before my expression of horror made itnecessary; saw it and glanced quickly toward the floor of the room he had leftan hour before. I followed his glance, and beheld just above us on the looseplaster of the ancient ceiling a large irregular spot of wet crimson whichseemed to spread even as I viewed it. I did not shriek or move, but merely shutmy eyes. A moment later came the titanic thunderbolt of thunderbolts; blastingthat accursed house of unutterable secrets and bringing the oblivion which alonesaved my mind.
The Picture in the House was featured as
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Mon, Oct 27, 2014
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