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| St. Bean came over to this part of Scotland and, finding standing stones not far away, began to preach the Gospel in order to eradicate some of the dark pagan practices associated with the stones. What kind of building existed here before this 13th century building was erected is not known, but in the course of restoration in 1927, the Pictish Symbol Stone . . . was discovered embedded in the wall. |
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| —From A Guide to Fowlis Wester Kirk, 1988 |
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have heard that madness reigns when absurdity becomes conviction and uncertainty is a lost companion. I hope this is true, for I am plagued by uncertainty.
My current circumstances are not unpleasant, at least not my immediate surroundings. I am an inmate at Broadmoor, the oldest hospital for the criminally insane in Great Britain. I am not a citizen, though, and for some time I believed that I might be transferred eventually to an institution in the United States, possibly even to a location near my home in Arkham, Massachusetts. The doctors and staff here are a pleasant enough group, and have given me a great deal of freedom in my daily activities, most of which now consists of writing. They tell me I suffer from paranoid schizophrenia, a severe mental illness characterized by delusions and auditory hallucinations. In my case, they are referring to the bizarre reports I have made about entities beyond their knowledge or experience, and the voices that come to me unpredictably, but usually at night. They say I suffered a psychotic episode and have prescribed the standard tranquilizers to calm the strange ideas and muffle the voices. But this has not happened, for I am not a paranoid schizophrenic, and thus the medications cannot alleviate my suffering. I know this because I am too uncertain about much of what happened to me, while also quite certain that the voices I hear are real, albeit from another dimension. Instead, I have stopped telling them what occupies my consciousness every waking moment. I dutifully take the tranquilizers so as to maintain their good will and the simple indulgences of the limited freedoms they give me, and I keep what I know to myself and my writing tablet. The pills have not slowed my thoughts, nor sapped my will to chronicle everything I can remember, for I am driven by the knowledge that it will be the only way to preserve the remaining sanity I do have, and allow me the possibility of a cathartic release from the horrors that bind me to the past. |
Perhaps it is best to begin with my acceptance of the position of assistant professor in the Department of Antiquities at Miskatonic University. Being fresh out of graduate school, I probably would not have been awarded the position save for my somewhat esoteric studies of the work of Dr. Charles Dexter Ward, a professor in the same department who mysteriously disappeared just before WWII, and my dissertation entitled “The Standing Stones of Scotland: A Theory of Origin.” When I arrived at the university, I was thrilled to discover that I had been assigned the same office that had been used by Prof. Ward himself! As he opened the office to me for the first time, the chairman related that it had been used irregularly and only for short periods of time since Ward had disappeared, and that the same furnishings had remained essentially intact. Several of the previous occupants had complained that the office was weird or unnerving, or otherwise not suitable for vague reasons they had trouble describing, and had consequently never spent enough time there to re-furnish. I, to the contrary, found the space to be entirely suitable in all respects, as I would be sitting and working exactly where the man whose ideas inspired me had created his finest efforts.
I settled into the university routine fairly quickly, and admittedly thought little of Prof. Ward as I conducted my classes and continued my research activities through the first semester. Since I was not romantically involved and had little interest in the social scene, I spent a great deal of time in my office pursuing a variety of investigative subjects that I felt might be productive. During the break between semesters, I was working late, reading an article that reviewed some of the recent excavations of the Antonine Wall in Scotland. As I reached for the cold cup of coffee I had been sipping, I bumped the edge with my hand, knocking it and its contents onto the desk. I jumped up and grabbed some tissue to mop up and, as I was doing this, noticed that some of the coffee was leaking into a small crack near the desk’s corner. It was then necessary for me to pull out the desk drawer in order to clean inside. I reached into the deepest part of the now empty space where the drawer had been, and began dabbing with the tissue at what I thought would be the wall of the drawer enclosure. Instead, I felt what seemed to be some type of cloth or at least something that did not have the texture of wood. Becoming curious, I lit a paper match, moved it toward the back of the drawer space, and saw lettering! A couple of matches more, and through vigorous tugging and scraping, I pulled out a dust-covered notebook that possessed just the right dimensions to be shoved tightly into the back of the drawer space. I turned the cover of the notebook up to the light. It bore the name of Charles Dexter Ward.
I slowly rose from where I had been kneeling and tried to gather my thoughts. I held in my hands a notebook approximately one-half inch thick, bound in cracked leather, and tied once with a simple piece of cord. I slowly moved into my chair and pulled the cord away. I opened the book randomly in the center and beheld what initially appeared to be all but incomprehensible scribblings, mainly in the form of arcane symbols, strange language, and cryptic notations made in a firm, masculine hand. There was no sense to make of it. As I studied this strange discovery, I felt an inexplicable wave of dread move through my body that I sensed only minimally as my intense curiosity dominated all other awareness. This must be the work of Prof. Ward, but to what purpose, to what end? Was this the product of a deranged mind? There had been talk about Prof. Ward’s sanity at the time of his disappearance, but this had been nothing more than vague rumors, and the quality of his work eventually overrode any suspicions about this. I could not accept the idea that this man was writing nonsense, but none of the research he had published, all of which I had studied, could offer a clue or direction that might help in deciphering what I was seeing. I turned page after page, and only saw more of the same. I then turned to the first page, and saw for the first time a name I recognized with amazement and disbelief—Necronomicon.
I sat immobilized for several moments, my head spinning with the realization that Prof. Ward was referencing one of the most infamous and reviled books contained in the Miskatonic University collection of rarities, a work that I knew only by reputation and the myths that surrounded it—that it was thought by those who had studied it to be completely without credibility, but so rare a specimen that it was not destroyed, that it was written by an insane Arab, that it was bound in human skin, that it talked of demon gods and gates to other dimensions, and that it had been mentioned in the writings (since lost) of Prof. Ward shortly before his disappearance. Was he actually using this bizarre literature for some purpose? Was it part of his unpublished research? Could the book have some meaning or value that others would not fathom? At this point I could only sit, perplexed and confused with a thousand questions.
The remainder of the page contained nothing recognizable, only more of the arcane symbols and strange references that were totally unfamiliar, but which began to create a subliminal sense of foreboding, as if something were creeping into my consciousness that I did not want there. I turned to the next page and saw for the first time a paragraph in what no doubt was his handwriting: |
| Following my return from the horrible confrontation in the black pit, I became convinced that my experience could be repeated, but that it would have to be done in a way that afforded more protection and control than the unexpected first encounter, and which almost destroyed my mind. My suspicions have been confirmed about the Necronomicon being the key to reaching my goals. The symbols on the standing stones, together with the other resources I have located in the library’s occult antiquities vaults, especially the blasphemous and equally reviled Unaussprechlichen Kulten of Von Junzt, as well as portions of the Pnakotic Manuscripts, have allowed me to decipher much of the book’s contents. I have discovered that the symbols and spells it contains, together with the words that others consider nonsense actually comprise a primitive but effective code that prevents full understanding without the joining of several crucial elements which have recently become available to me. Apparently, there are four ‘gates’ to other dimensions which are spread over the earth at locations considered optimal for their purposes by an extremely ancient race of beings who have imprisoned for eternity those with whom they fought a battle beyond what we know as time, and whom they eventually defeated. Those who lost could not be destroyed as we know it, and were placed in some sort of ‘time-prison’ from which they could not escape, but from where their incredible powers can still be used in certain ways and for limited purposes. For reasons he never explains, the author came under the influence of one or more of these beings, and began attempts to recruit followers to assist him in freeing them from their prisons. He was able to discover the location of the gates and the means to travel through them to contact or perhaps even worship the demon-gods in their imprisoned state. Once he was able to do this, he intended to find the means to release them. The book ends before he is able to show that he actually accomplished this, but I know not why. I do know that Alhazred himself died horribly in 732 A.D., allegedly being set upon by a demon and devoured in broad daylight. Nevertheless, he does seem to reveal the means of locating and opening the gates, and I have been able to begin the discovery of how this was done. I am certain that the stones that will soon arrive will allow me to return to the pit of the demon-god, Azag-Thoth. Armed with this new information, I should be able to confront him in a protected fashion. In the meantime, I will begin the task of recording what I decipher, but will keep my journal a secret until I can present what I have in a form that is scientifically acceptable. Of course, if I am able to discover how the gates are opened, one further step has to be taken to ensure I am not labeled a madman as Alhazred was—I must return to the pit. |
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I stayed at the desk for hours, thumbing slowly through the notebook randomly, and without direction or understanding, but with a sense that this was most certainly the last work he had done, and that it was somehow related to his disappearance. I must have drifted to sleep at some point, for I recall fitful, troubled dreams filled with bizarre images and flashes of alien scenery. I was awakened by the sunlight striking my face and the noises of an awakening campus. The notebook was still open on the floor where I had dropped it. I picked it up and placed it back in the drawer space, resolving at that moment to pursue this mystery to its conclusion, discover what Prof. Ward had found, and unlock the revelations the notebook had to offer.
All other work stopped. I was slowly drawn into an obsession with deciphering the notebook and discovering all that Prof. Ward had revealed in it. I rarely left the office and spent all of my waking time between there and the library, handling the essential life necessities and minimal academic responsibilities only when I was forced to. How many days passed I can no longer remember, for time and what occurred around me had no meaning. I do know that my first move was to familiarize myself as much as possible with the Necronomicon and its contents. Fortunately, being a faculty member, I had no trouble gaining access to it, though such an action did generate strange looks from the librarian. I was able to determine that the book had a dark history that has only been revealed in parts, and that it has been subject to several translations. In times past the book has also been referred to as Al Azif, a word that the Arabs use to denote the howling of demons. Apparently all but a few copies of the book have been lost or destroyed, one surviving 12th century Latin translation of Olaus Wormius, a monk who was burned at the stake together with all the known copies he printed, and several 17th century translations, one of which is now in our library antiquities vault. Prof. Ward had discovered that it was not only a grimoire, or sorcerer’s spell book, as believed by those who have wanted to eradicate it, but also a history and accounting of information that linked one to other resources, each of which provided an interlocking element of the code it contained. When sufficient information was gathered and utilized properly, the secrets of the Necronomicon could be revealed.
As I began to understand and grasp its true meaning, the book began to lead me to other ancient writings as described by Ward in his notes. Over time, I was able to incorporate material from a number of sources, many of which were considered repugnant rantings of madmen, blasphemous grimoires, or even simply nonsense. However, I quickly found that they all provided crucial links to a knowledge that had been lost even to the ancients, and which had only been preserved in the most arcane forms to be spread across the earth and disappear beneath the consciousness of humankind. With the help of my university credentials, I was able to quickly locate and obtain those sources not contained in our own rare book vaults. In addition to what Prof. Ward had already referenced in his notes, I extracted invaluable material from the Cultes des Goules, the De Vermiis Mysteriis, the Occaburi Revelations, the G’harne Fragments, and the R’lyeh Text.
Slowly, but with growing amazement, the secrets of the Necronomicon and the notebook became known to me. But, as more clarity emerged about their direction and purpose, I also began to realize that my quest might be coming to an abrupt and unrequited end. Although it might be possible to use my new knowledge to open the gates, I no longer had access to the gates themselves. The standing stones used by Prof. Ward had been returned to Scotland, and no inquiry on my part could trace them. I was at a point where I would either have to abandon my quest or find another way, a path that would be forged with new efforts and original work that would be in a totally unique and as yet undiscovered direction from that of Prof. Ward. My only guide now would be the ancient texts and my own wits. My considerations about this dilemma did not last long, if they lasted at all, as my obsession gave no quarter. I was consumed by a vision that was like a hypnotic march. Ahead of me lay a precipice beyond which my future swirled in a dense fog. |
The breakthrough came in late spring, the result of a combination of my dogged pursuit of details and translation of arcane, ancient symbols contained in books that had all been abandoned as unworthy of scholarly attention by a modern world ruled by the physical sciences, and a fortunate encounter with a graduate student. I was walking across the campus one afternoon in my usual state of self-absorption, when I was stopped by one of our department’s student instructors with a request for assistance. I reluctantly allowed him to fall into step beside me as he told me of his need to translate some strange and extremely old symbols that had been found on a pre-Roman stone unearthed at an excavation of a medieval church in Scotland which he desired to use for a dissertation thesis. He believed that the symbols were possibly used by the Picts, early inhabitants of Scotland of which relatively little is known save for their reputation for ferocity and barbarism. As I was known to have some familiarity with this ancient warrior culture and its language, perhaps I could view the rubbing that had been sent from Edinburgh University and help decipher what was on the stone. Not wanting to reveal my impatience to return to my own obsession, and because his office was in my building, I agreed to do what I could.
The rubbing turned out to be quite large, covering both sides of a stone ten feet in height with a width that varied from one foot at the top to two feet at the bottom, with a large circular opening in the center surrounded by symbols. The notes sent with the stone revealed it had been unearthed during the repair of a wall in Fowlis Wester Kirk, a 13th century edifice that was built on an even more ancient structure of unknown origin. The University of Edinburgh was seeking any assistance from our department that could be provided to determine the source of the stone and its creators. As I studied the rubbing spread out before me, I was drawn to the central area just below the circular opening where a grotesque scene was carved that seemed to depict a person being eaten by a large slug or worm-like creature. Below this was what I immediately recognized as Pict language symbols from the 8th or 9th century AD, but which I would not be able to translate without additional research and reference. I informed the student about my impressions, and agreed to translate the symbols as best I could because, as I must admit, I was pulled out of my own thoughts momentarily by a growing curiosity about the strange scene depicted and the challenge of a newly discovered relic.
Using the resources already gathered over several years of research, I was able to translate the message of the stones in a few days. What appeared was a saying or some sort of primitive poem which initially defied understanding, but which seemed to be some kind of warning to those reading it. Roughly, it translated as: |
When the Shaft of Calgacus rests upon the seven stones
The worm beckons and devours all who look upon it,
Lying undead eternal beyond the dark opening.
The madman does not fear the worm and is eaten.
Protect us, Black Brotherhood. |
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I gave the translation to the graduate student, knowing that it probably did little to help him with his endeavors other than to confirm the stone carvings were indeed made by the Picts, and wished him well. I did not share with him my nagging discomfort about what I had uncovered. There was a certain connection or perhaps synchronicity about the words on the Pict stone that continued to resonate with my thoughts and intrude into my consciousness with such insistence that I could not return with full concentration to my previous efforts. The sayings referred to a “worm” that beckons and devours, that is eternally undead, that is to be feared as all powerful or god-like, and evoked protection from a “black brotherhood.” I was aware that the church where the stone was found was built on another structure which the stone now suggested was Pict in origin. I also knew that the Picts mysteriously disappeared as a people around 900 A.D., a puzzling event to historians since they had successfully cowed a powerful Roman army and held them at bay for over two hundred years. I further knew that they worshiped a number of pagan gods, among which a worm-god was considered to be one of the most powerful. It was their worship of these primitive gods that prompted St. Bean to locate in the area and preach Christianity to them in the 8th century. In the following centuries almost all remnants of the Picts’ religious practices disappeared. Only the standing stones have remained, an enigma as to their purpose and meaning until the discoveries of Prof. Ward which were never made known to the world, a knowledge that I alone now possessed. As I continued to reflect on the vague feelings of connection between the bits and pieces I had gathered, I began to ask myself if the disappearance of the Picts, who created the standing stones, and the disappearance of Prof. Ward, who discovered their purpose, might be related in some fashion. Could the beast imprisoned in the black pit to which his notes alluded be somehow related to the worm-god lying “beyond the dark opening,” and accessed through a dimensional gate similar to that opened by Ward shortly before he disappeared? Since the stone was created a short time after his death, was the “madman” actually Abdul Alhazred, and does the scene carved on the stone refer to him? How would the savage Picts know about the death of an insane Arab who lived on the other side of the world? Were the “seven stones” another gate, and . . . my head swam at the possibility . . . where were they located?
I knew from my studies of the Pict culture that the “Shaft of Calgacus” was the constellation we now call the Belt of Orion, a grouping of bright stars that has been used by many ancient cultures for both religious and navigational purposes. It was evident that the first line of the translation referred to some type of alignment of standing stones and the stars in the constellation of Orion, so they would almost certainly comprise another portal. Because many groupings of standing stones are still present in their original locations all over Scotland, I knew there was a possibility that the grouping to which the translation referred might actually still exist and that I might be able to gain access to it. When I realized this, my obsession began to burn anew as I experienced the addictive mixture of hope and dread I had come to regard as an unshakable companion. This must be another gate! I knew that my next travel would be to Scotland. |
The discovery of the message on the Pictish Symbol Stone coincided perfectly with the summer academic break, leaving me with ample time to make travel arrangements and fly to Scotland on the pretense of furthering my own studies without having to account for my actions to my colleagues. I would also arrive well before the summer solstice, an event important to many ancient societies and to the Picts specifically, and which I thought might possibly be the time of the alignment mentioned in the translation. As my excitement grew, I reminded myself that my plans must not get ahead of themselves, however, for the time of the alignment would be irrelevant if the standing stones could not be located.
My first destination was the church at Fowlis Wester where the Pictish Symbol Stone had first been unearthed, and where I hoped I would find additional helpful information about its source and purpose. Fowlis Wester is a tiny village located in the “Borders,” the area of Scotland between England and the highlands known for its rich and bloody history that is now a popular weekend destination for the Scots and other tourists wanting something more than the usual mass attractions. I arrived at the church in the late afternoon and was able to find the caretaker fairly quickly as he came to lock the grounds for the night. As with so many of the Scottish people, he was a lively, friendly chap who liked Americans, so I was able to engage him quickly. I told him of my interest in the Pictish Symbol Stone and my work in translating its message, but couched my comments in a manner that conveyed the impression that the translation was yet to be done, which seemed to put him strangely at ease. As I walked along with him while he closed and locked the windows and doors of the small ancient building, we came to a small window to the side of the altar area that appeared to be somewhat slit-like in appearance, and which seemed to have no function as a window or anything else. I inquired as to its purpose and he informed me that it was known as a “lepers’ squint,” an opening through which the priest could serve the sacraments to the lepers, who were never allowed to associate with the non-afflicted villagers, but who were permitted to gather outside.
At this point I was puzzled, and told him so, since I knew of no leper colony in that area at the time the church was active, even though I had researched its history extensively as part of my preparation for the trip. He remained quiet for a few moments, then stated that the “leper” story was actually created “for the tourists,” and that the villagers had passed down for many generations other stories about the people who came to the “squint” for salvation, the people they called “the dark ones.” If these legends were told, however, they would be so disturbing that the tourism would be destroyed, so they could not be shared. I pleaded for him to continue and, with considerable reluctance, he revealed what he knew.
According to him, the window was built by St. Bean himself as a means of bringing into his flock the most despised and depraved of those who had engaged in the dark rituals and pagan practices he was trying to eradicate. These were people whose rumored contacts with the supernatural and the unspeakable had produced generations of deformed and mutated creatures who were still members of the human race, but so horrible to look upon that they were never allowed the company of normal men. Some even said that they were the spawn of obscene couplings between those who were once human, possibly Picts, and beasts from another world, or something even worse. Although St. Bean was able to save a number of these unfortunate beings, it was said that there were many more who never came, or who came so infrequently that they never left their worship of the other gods. And there were some to whom even the work of a saint could make no difference, for they were so horrible and grotesque that they could not move about except in the darkest of nights before the moon rose, and who could only be viewed by those of their own kind without causing madness. The stone found in the church wall was thought by the villagers to have been used by these dark ones in some part of their worship, so they happily relinquished it for the historians to study as they considered it unholy. This was what the villagers could not tell, but believed to be true, of the ones who gathered at the “lepers’ squint.”
As he walked with me back to my car, I thanked the caretaker for his candor and wished him well, promising not to tell his story and protect the trickle of income the small shrine and its manufactured tale of the tiny window produced for the village and its few remaining inhabitants. As I was about to turn the key in the ignition, I had a sudden thought and beckoned for him to return and answer one more question. Did he have any idea of the location of a grouping of seven standing stones in the area that might have some type of organized arrangement? He paused for a moment, rubbing his chin as his eyes closed in concentrated thought. He then placed his hand on my arm and looked at me with what seemed both alarm and sadness. He had spoken more than he should, he said, and I should not pursue this path further. However, it would not be right to shut a door he had helped to open. The only group of stones fitting this description has been known to the villagers for as long as the legends about them have existed. They have always been called the “Circle of the Worm,” and are never mentioned except when the village elders pass on the history of the dark ones to those who must never forget. Once they know of my interest, the welcome will not be particularly warm from those who live there, but the stones about which I asked would be found in the maze of Traquair House. |
I could not believe my continuing good fortune. My quest was moving rapidly and with an ease that seemed surreal, as if I were being moved along by unseen forces that could not be explained. How could I have known that the information from the caretaker would come so quickly and be so much more than I had expected in my most ambitious fantasies? To quicken my pulse even further, I found that the stones I had been seeking were waiting no more than two hours’ drive from where I made my first inquiries. My knowledge of Traquair House was limited to what I had picked up indirectly in my studies of Scottish antiquities—namely, that it was the oldest castle in Scotland that was still occupied. It was kept open to tourism by its owners who used the admission fees and bed and breakfast rental income to defray the considerable maintenance expenses for the castle and elaborate grounds, including a large maze that was several hundred years old. Knowing that I would be wise to be armed with as much background as possible, I decided to take a detour to the nearby Innerpeffray Library, which I knew would contain many of the resources I needed. Founded in the late 15th century, it was the oldest lending library in Scotland, and contained a number of rare and ancient manuscripts that I believed could serve my purposes well, including one of the few existing copies of De Vermiis Mysteriis by Ludwig Von Prinn, a reference used by Prof. Ward to which I had originally gained access through the university, but which I could not bring with me. Having gained my new knowledge from the caretaker, I was anxious to review its contents once again, especially the section in which the author refers to the “invocation of the worm.” The library had no other visitors that day, so I was able to work undisturbed and with unrestrained access to any materials I needed until closing. As I returned the books and manuscripts to the curator, a sweet, blonde woman with an American accent, I saw her shiver involuntarily as she noticed what I had been using.
I had arranged my stay in the bed and breakfast wing of Traquair House in advance and, calling once again upon my extraordinary run of luck and university credentials, successfully obtained an interview with the current owner who had arrived only a few days before and who was now in residence. The present castle is a rectangular, five story structure with enclosed turrets on the corners of the top floor and six foot thick walls that creates an impression more like that of a large manor house than a typical medieval castle. Its current configuration is the result of many renovations and restorations conducted over the hundreds of years of its existence. According to my research at the Innerpeffray Library the day before, written records of its history begin about 950 A.D., but it is known to have been a substantial structure even by then. Its darkest period seems to have occurred some time prior to this, and is described in the records only from legends and other forms of oral history. It was this oral tradition that it had once been a place of worship or ceremony for peoples whose origin and culture long ago vanished, but who were thought to be outcasts even among the primitives who lived in the area at that time. Some unknown cataclysmic event occurred that destroyed the reviled members of this society and any remnants of their culture, so that nothing was left except the legends. At least this was true until the discovery of the stones.
In the mid-1630’s, the 1st Earl of Traquair, who was also the Lord High Treasurer for Charles the 1st, began the formidable task of diverting the River Tweed away from the house in order to extend the formal gardens already there. During this task, the ring of stones was uncovered and excavated, then surrounded by a large, complex maze. The historical records indicate that the decision to build the maze was sudden and unplanned, but occurred following the discovery of the stones. The maze was designed and constructed in a short, feverish flurry of activity that has never been explained. It was clear, however, that, once built, the maze was exceedingly complex and lengthy to traverse successfully, and thus seemed to act mainly as a barrier or elaborate means of excluding, or at least discouraging, anyone from venturing into the center where the ring of stones was located. The stones are described as seven in number and as remarkably well-preserved. As with the other standing stones of Scotland, their exact origins are still unknown, although many scholars believe they are Pictish, or perhaps had been found and used by this primitive people for their own purposes. As I reviewed the pictures provided in the catalogue, I could tell that at least some of the symbols on the stones were definitely Pictish, but who originally moved and carved the stones themselves no one can tell. The maze and the stones were clearly visible from the window of my room, so I set about observing and carefully constructing a drawing of the entire maze complex, completing it just as the shadows of early evening no longer afforded sufficient detail to continue. As I finished, I noticed that the center seemed darker than its surroundings, as if the light from its periphery was being pulled into a void. My review of the maze drawing revealed that the path to the center where the stones are still located was quite circuitous, requiring those who enter to travel between the high hedges to all four corners before being able to enter the center. Once there, the same path must be used to return. According to my estimates, the path to the center was three miles long, and would take even those who knew it intimately almost two hours to cover.
Shortly after I had completed my map of the maze, I was summoned by the housekeeper to a large sitting room on the third floor of the castle which contained the family’s quarters. Already waiting for me was Catherine Maxwell Stuart, the 21st Lady of Traquair and granddaughter of the 19th Laird of Traquair. She was a petite, attractive woman with striking silver-grey hair in her mid 50s whose English accent had no trace of the brogue, a characteristic typical of the upper classes of Scotland. I accepted the tea offered and explained my interest in Traquair House, initially in general terms so as to ascertain if she were receptive to inquiries such as mine, and to develop as much rapport as possible before breaching what might be more difficult subjects. She politely listened, then answered my questions with as much detail as she could, modestly pointing out that her interests were more focused on familial and genealogical concerns than scholarly research.
I moved the conversation to the subject of the maze and its origins, then the discovery of the stones. She had little to add beyond what I already knew, except to report with surprising candor that her ancestor, the first earl, lost his position with the government and died in an insane asylum shortly after completing the construction of the maze. She also related that the family had passed down stories about the stones that could not be verified, and so were never part of the official history of the castle. She stated that their discovery had stirred and upset the local townspeople and that the laborers became uneasy around them, so that her ancestor had trouble keeping even those who had been loyal employees for years. It was told that the maze was built to keep the stones away from the world, but in a manner that would not announce to outsiders that something strange existed there. Animals would not venture into the maze and are still never seen in it. Even today, the groundskeepers will only go there in midday, and tourists who brave the complexity of the maze to find their way to the center report a strong odor of decay and a subliminal unease that always leads to their leaving quickly.
Finally, she told me about the “secret passage” from the fourth floor corner library shown on the tours for tourists and known as the “priest’s escape.” It contains a hidden stair by which the family could bring in a priest to practice forbidden Roman Catholic services during the Reformation. What was not commonly known, however, is that it was actually an extension of a longer passage that began in the center of the maze, but which was now closed beyond the perimeter of the house walls. I asked why it had been closed and she paused, then smiled enigmatically. It was closed, she replied, because it was haunted.
My startled reaction did not seem to affect her, and she continued her dialogue without interruption. It seems that the first earl, prior to his madness and death, constructed the passage from the center of the maze to the house after the standing stones were discovered. It was never clear exactly why he did this or what purpose it served, at least to those who came after, for no mention was made of it in the surviving construction documents regarding the maze itself. Following his death, the household servants began to avoid going into the passage even though attempts were made to use it for storage for a period of time. They complained that unusual noises and sounds seemed to come from the end of the passage leading toward the center of the maze, and strong odors of decay would assault their senses and create such an overwhelming sense of repulsion and fear that they were unable to enter even when given direct orders. It became common rumor that something unnatural or possibly supernatural dwelled at the end of the passage. Eventually, a gate was placed at the end closest to the house and no one entered any longer. As far she knew, the passage had not been used over the centuries since then, and might no longer be passable. She ended our conversation by offering to give me a tour into the center of the maze the next day. I thanked her for her hospitality and bade her good evening. Of course, I did not share with her my intentions regarding the remainder of the night.
The next several hours were spent in my room organizing my notes and preparing myself to carry out the plans which I had carefully constructed, while fighting to control my building excitement. Today was the summer equinox and, if the information I had gathered was correct, this night would witness the alignment of Orion with the standing stones in the maze. What might happen as a result of this, I had no clear idea, but I knew that any mysteries that could be answered would be revealed at that moment.
By the time the clock was striking midnight, the house was silent, and I was moving toward the floor below, carrying only a small knapsack and a flashlight. I moved quickly and quietly toward the room where the priest's secret stair was located, opened the cupboard door and crawled into a small, cramped stairwell. The stairs themselves were surprisingly sturdy and well constructed, but the passage down was slow and seemingly endless as I was required to stoop and hold tightly to the railing, following a twisting spiral and hearing only my breathing and the scuttling of unidentifiable small creatures in the dark.
I reached the bottom of the stairs without incident and found myself in a small, circular area similar to what might be at the base of a typical lighthouse. I estimated that I was at the basement level of the manor as I passed the beam of my flashlight across the empty walls. There was nothing there to see save the thousands of dust particles moving slowly through the stale air. Across from me was a door that appeared to be partly open. I moved toward it and only had to move it slightly to slip past and into a hallway that opened to both the left and right. The section to the left appeared to lead under the house, so I decided upon the opposite direction. The flashlight beam emptied into a curving darkness as I moved down the tunnel. After traveling a short distance, I came to a wrought iron gate closed with padlock and chain. The gate was covered with thick layers of cobwebs and dust which, together with the rusted chain and lock, suggested that it had not been disturbed for a very long time. From the direction I had been heading along the curved tunnel, I was certain this was leading toward the maze at the rear of the house and was the abandoned tunnel of which the lady had spoken. I removed my knapsack, took out a pair of small bolt cutters, and snapped the chain easily. I pushed open one side of the gate, which yielded with a groan, retrieved my possessions, and passed through.
I immediately noticed a change in temperature. It was several degrees colder on this side of the gate, as if I had moved into the depths of an underground cavern. But, my elevation was no different, and the surroundings were the same. Or were they? I moved the beam of my flashlight across the walls again as I cautiously moved forward. It came to me with a sudden chill that went beyond just the change in temperature. There were no cobwebs on the walls! Even though the gate behind me had been almost entirely covered with years of spidery efforts, this side had no signs of insect life at all. I moved the flashlight beam across the walls and floors further, looking for anything that might be a living creature, even those things that were scuttling by me earlier on the stairs. But, I found nothing. My steps became automatic as I looked over the space around me with increasing amazement, proceeding ahead, but losing track of the distance I actually traveled. I am not sure when I became aware of the sighing sounds and whispers. I do know that when the awareness came to me, it was sudden, and I experienced a stab of fear that penetrated me like a sword. I could not tell from where they were coming, not even if they were outside or inside my head. But there was no mistaking the malevolence and violation of something forbidden they conveyed, as well as the sense of vast distances over which they had traveled.
At some point I was able to gather my senses and stumble forward. After a short time, I came to a set of stone steps leading to another padlocked gate. I stepped forward gladly, hoping that I might be able to free myself of the pursuing unearthly sounds and think clearly once again. The bolt cutters did their work one more time and I pushed the gate outward to reveal another set of steps. Outside air blew across me and I ascended into a circular pit perhaps twenty feet in diameter. As my eyes became used to the light of a clear, starry night, I realized that I was indeed free of the sounds that had haunted me. Yet, a new sensation came to me, a dank, fetid smell of something old and decaying that was hovering in the pit like a blanket of fog. I was determined, however, that nothing would deter me now. I looked around and realized that I was in the middle of a circle of large standing stones.
I moved slowly around the area of the stones one by one, approaching each with a curiosity that was now greater than the fear that had gripped me just moments before. The seven stones were approximately ten feet high and positioned against the wall of the pit so that they were half in and half out. They were placed almost equidistant from one another except for the three stones at the south end which were almost touching. Perhaps it was elation, but some unexplainable emotion created a shiver that ran through me when I knew what I had encountered. Whatever had created terror in me was no longer in my thoughts as I moved my hands along the faces of the stones and felt the vague, worn outlines of carvings that were familiar only to me and few others in the world as we know it, living or dead. There was no longer any doubt. My quest had not been in vain. My luck was still holding. I had found the east portal, the Gate of the Worm. |
I turned toward the three southern stones, knowing what I would see. It was the night of the summer equinox and the skies were clear. I could see the three stars of Orion, perfectly positioned across the tops of the stones. I stood for a moment transfixed by the meaning of what I had found, yet barely able to consider the impact on humankind of the doors that were about to be opened. In spite of my shaking excitement, I kneeled before the middle stone and removed a small notebook from my knapsack, together with one of the flares I had brought. I lit the flare and began to read the incantations from the notebook I had discovered in Prof. Ward’s office and my own translation of the forbidden parts of De Vermis Mysteriis. Upon the first reading I noticed nothing. After the second, I began to feel a slight tingling along my arms, as if the air were being charged with static electricity, but nothing more. I read again. This time the stone in front of me seemed to darken. I stood up to examine it more closely, reached out to feel its surface, and toppled forward into a void. I must have lost consciousness, but before that happened, I heard the whispers and sounds from the tunnel swirling around me, and the smell of the pit began to crush my senses. . . .
Where I was exactly when I awakened I will never know. Perhaps I was still in the vicinity of Traquair House, perhaps I was in another dimension, perhaps I was in another galaxy. Based upon what happened to me there, it might have been the same place Prof. Ward had found, but his writings give no clarification about this. My immediate surroundings were strange enough, but offered no clue. I found myself lying on the floor of a large cavern-like room with walls that emitted an orange-hued light that allowed me to see to some degree, but with a sense of altered perception, as if I were using a slightly different spectrum. Along the sides were gigantic columns covered with symbols that appeared both alien and yet slightly familiar. In the center was something I cannot adequately describe, but what seemed to be an undulating, circular black hole through which no light entered or emerged. I was unable to view all of my surroundings because I quickly realized I was immobilized. I could feel my extremities and was not in pain, but I could not move anything but my eyes.
I had barely come to my senses when I became aware of others entering the room. They did not appear to be walking as expected, instead seeming to glide without sound across the floor, coming out of a door behind one of the columns in single file until they formed a circle around the black hole, and leaving an opening in the circle where my body lay. All of these beings appeared to be roughly human in shape but were clothed in loose-fitting, hooded black robes so that what they might have actually been could only be surmised.
After they all were gathered, the nearest figure turned toward me and kneeled, its hood pulled down to allow a small opening through which was revealed only empty blackness. I heard a whispering sound that was as familiar now as it was terrifying, and I could understand its meaning, although how I do not know. I wish I could not have comprehended, for perhaps my sanity would have been preserved, as what I learned drove me to whatever edge I had been skirting, and pushed me over into oblivion. The hooded figure told me that I had been chosen, that I was destined for an honor beyond understanding. I would be feeding the Great Worm, Yog-Sothoth, with my life energy so that He could continue the struggle for release from the time prison and renew the battle for supremacy against the Old Ones. There had been others before me, and the last one who was honored by feeding the worm had been depleted. A new life force was needed and I was chosen by the one who preceeded me as a suitable candidate.
As my terror blossomed and the grotesque message burned into my consciousness, I saw the hooded figures swaying to a throbbing subliminal calling, as if they were both supplicating and praising. Their voices became a roar inside my head, matched only by a silent scream from the depths of my soul. I knew I was descending into irreversible madness, but could only respond with awareness from a conscious mind trapped inside a frozen body. Just as I felt I would slip into merciful nothingness, two other hooded figures joined the one kneeling beside me. Together, they slowly removed the hoods covering their faces. The shock of what I saw must have generated a reaction within me that was greater than anything human, and the screams that erupted from my lungs gave notice that whatever had been binding me was overcome. The orange-hued light gave an eerie glow to the faces of those regarding me, and the altered perception made them appear distorted and shadowed. But, it was undeniable who they were. I saw the faces of those who had been so helpful, those whom I had luckily encountered, those who had provided the keys to my successful and doomed quest. They were the faces of the graduate student, the caretaker, and the lady of the manor.
While my screams continued uninterrupted, the figures seemed undeterred by my ability to once again move, and lifted my writhing body above their heads, moving me toward the black hole. I could not break their hold though I tore at their hands and kicked with every ounce of strength I had. Within the seemingly impenetrable blackness appeared a huge shape that slowly took form before my eyes, a shape so repugnant and evil that only someone who was already mad could confront it without losing all awareness. Although words cannot be effectively used to convey what it was, it had the appearance of a gigantic grey slug or maggot whose outer surface roiled and undulated in ripples of contorted mass. As I was moved closer, I noticed that the being was translucent and that its insides could be partially viewed somewhat like that of a jellyfish. Something was floating inside, and seemed to be coming toward the surface.
I could not avert my eyes, as if my horror was fueling an irresistible fascination with the scenario being played out in front of me. Something was there and was moving inside the gigantic maggot-worm. The smell of rot and death and unspeakable decay was overwhelming, but those moving me closer and closer took no notice. Finally, my head and face were pressed against the undulating rottenness and I could see the thing inside only inches from my eye. What I then saw and realized was the floating mass inside the grotesque beast was a human figure, a man! The figure appeared shriveled and distorted, but it was human, no doubt. As it reached out to me, I recognized who it was. It was the face of Prof. Charles Dexter Ward!
The hand of the figure moved closer and paused briefly at the edge of the creature’s outer skin, then suddenly pushed through in an explosion of slime and rotting putrescence. Emerging through the opening, it grabbed my shirt. I looked at the face of the doomed professor and saw a tormented scream frozen on his face, a final desperate plea to free him from his suspended agony. My reaction was equally desperate and violent. I bit the hand at the wrist with every ounce of strength I could muster, and was still biting and tearing when I slipped at last into sweet darkness. |
I have no memory for the next several weeks. But, I have been able to reconstruct some of the events of that time by patiently questioning the hospital staff and studying the few articles that appeared in the small local newspapers. Apparently, some effort was made to avoid any publicity about what took place, as the police reports and the subsequent articles referred mainly to a deranged person who was found in the center of the Traquair Maze, and who was transferred to Broadmoor Hospital for further evaluation and treatment after being found insane. It was necessary to involve the police because of the bizarre and hideous circumstances in which I was found. I have learned that I was discovered by one of the groundskeepers assigned to the maze. I was lying frozen in a catatonic position, drooling from the mouth and almost entirely covered by some type of repugnant slime, the nature of which could not be determined.
Even more horrible, however, was their discovery of a withered human hand that appeared to be gnawed off at the wrist clutching the front of my shirt with a grip that required considerable effort to remove. As I was still in possession of my own hands, the source of these grisly remains was a complete mystery, and it was never determined to whom it belonged as no body was found, no foul play reported, nor even any grave in the area disturbed.
After I was transferred to the hospital, my recovery was fairly rapid and my memory returned in bits and pieces, aided by the information I was able to glean from my various sources. When it became clear that my rambling utterances about other worlds and supernatural beings was considered nonsense, I decided to keep what I knew to myself. Of course, the hospital staff attempted to make occasional inquiries, and I have told them about my history and who I am. As to the events of the maze, however, I have only told them that I was a tourist and became lost. To them, the reasons for my deranged state remain a mystery.
I am nearing the end of my journal and it is none too soon. Today is the summer equinox, and marks exactly one year to the day my encounter with the horror beyond the standing stones. The voices have grown louder, more clear, and more insistent over the last several days, and I no longer experience the uncertainty about my circumstances and what will become my destiny that I had when I began this. The hope that I had somehow survived the encounter with the Great Worm and could put the events of that night behind me no longer exists. My madness had saved me then, but I am no longer mad. I know now that they are calling me to join them and complete the transition, to be the honored sacrifice that will sustain the beast, just as countless others chosen before me. I know nothing about those victims, or who or how many there were. But I do know about two of them. I know the fate of the mad Arab, and the fate of Prof. Charles Dexter Ward. I am now certain that my fate will be a similar one.
It is well into the night now, the sky is clear, and the Shaft of Calgacus is in the southern sky. Midnight came a short time ago and somewhere not too far away the gate has opened once again.
As I complete my chronicle, I am looking out my window across the Broadmoor grounds. I see the shadows move and dark figures emerge, gliding silently toward my last refuge. Death would be welcome, but I have no means. I am like a child that faces the incomprehensible. The lights have gone out, and I write these last words with only the moonlight to guide me. The dark is closing in. |
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