The Madness from the Sea

If heaven ever wishes to grant me a boon, it will be a total effacing of the results of a mere chance which fixed my eye on a certain stray piece of shelf-paper. It was nothing on which I would naturally have stumbled in the course of my daily round, for it was an old number of an Australian journal, Sydney Bulletin for April 18, 1925. It had escaped even the cutting bureau which had at the time of its issuance been avidly collecting material for my uncle's research.

If heaven ever grants me a favor, it will be to erase completely the consequences of a chance discovery. Pure chance drew my eye to a stray piece of paper used to line a shelf. I would not naturally have come across it in my daily routine. It was an old issue of an Australian journal, Sydney Bulletin for April 18, 1925. Even the press-clipping service had missed it, though the service was eagerly gathering material for my uncle's research when it appeared.

I had largely given over my inquiries into what Professor Angell called the "Cthulhu Cult," and was visiting a learned friend of Paterson, New Jersey, the curator of a local museum and a mineralogist of note. Examining one day the reserve specimens roughly set on the storage shelves in a rear room of the museum, my eye was caught by an odd picture in one of the old papers spread beneath the stones. It was the Sydney Bulletin I have mentioned, for my friend has wide affiliations in all conceivable foreign parts; and the picture was a half-tone cut of a hideous stone image almost identical with that which Legrasse had found in the swamp.

I had largely given up my inquiries into what Professor Angell called the "Cthulhu Cult." I was visiting a scholarly friend in Paterson, New Jersey, a local museum curator and a noted mineralogist. One day, I was examining spare specimens placed roughly on storage shelves in a back room of the museum. An odd picture caught my eye in one of the old newspapers spread beneath the stones. The paper was the Sydney Bulletin I mentioned earlier, for my friend had connections in every imaginable foreign place. The picture was a halftone print of a hideous stone image, almost identical to the one Legrasse had found in the swamp.

Eagerly clearing the sheet of its precious contents, I scanned the item in detail; and was disappointed to find it of only moderate length. What it suggested, however, was of portentous significance to my flagging quest; and I carefully tore it out for immediate action. It read as follows:

I eagerly cleared the sheet of its precious contents and read the article closely. I was disappointed to find it was only moderately long. But what the article suggested had ominous importance for my faltering search. I carefully tore it out so I could act on it immediately. It read as follows:

This was all, together with the picture of the hellish image; but what a train of ideas it started in my mind! Here were new treasuries of data on the Cthulhu Cult, and evidence that it had strange interests at sea as well as on land. What motive prompted the hybrid crew to order back the Emma as they sailed about with their hideous idol? What was the unknown island on which six of the Emma's crew had died, and about which the mate Johansen was so secretive? What had the vice-admiralty's investigation brought out, and what was known of the noxious cult in Dunedin? And most marvelous of all, what deep and more than natural linkage of dates was this which gave a malign and now undeniable significance to the various turns of events so carefully noted by my uncle?

That was all, along with the picture of the hellish image. But what a flood of ideas it set off in my mind! Here was a wealth of new information about the Cthulhu Cult. There was also evidence that the cult had strange interests at sea as well as on land. Why had the mixed-race crew ordered the Emma to turn back while sailing around with their hideous idol? What was the unknown island where six of the Emma's crew had died? And why was the mate Johansen so secretive about the island? What had the vice-admiralty's investigation uncovered, and what was known about the vile cult in Dunedin? Most astonishing of all, what was the deep, supernatural connection between the dates? How did that connection give the events my uncle had so carefully recorded a sinister significance that was now undeniable?

March 1st—our February 28th according to the International Date Line—the earthquake and storm had come. From Dunedin the Alert and her noisome crew had darted eagerly forth as if imperiously summoned, and on the other side of the earth poets and artists had begun to dream of a strange, dank Cyclopean city whilst a young sculptor had molded in his sleep the form of the dreaded Cthulhu. March 23rd the crew of the Emma landed on an unknown island and left six men dead; and on that date the dreams of sensitive men assumed a heightened vividness and darkened with dread of a giant monster's malign pursuit, whilst an architect had gone mad and a sculptor had lapsed suddenly into delirium! And what of this storm of April 2nd—the date on which all dreams of the dank city ceased, and Wilcox emerged unharmed from the bondage of strange fever? What of all this—and of those hints of old Castro about the sunken, star-born Old Ones and their coming reign; their faithful cult and their mastery of dreams? Was I tottering on the brink of cosmic horrors beyond man's power to bear? If so, they must be horrors of the mind alone, for in some way the second of April had put a stop to whatever monstrous menace had begun its siege of mankind's soul.

On March 1st, the earthquake and storm had struck. By the International Date Line, that was our February 28th. The Alert and her foul crew had rushed eagerly out of Dunedin, as if answering an urgent command. On the other side of the earth, poets and artists had begun dreaming of a strange, damp city of gigantic buildings. Meanwhile, a young sculptor had shaped the dreaded Cthulhu in his sleep. On March 23rd, the crew of the Emma landed on an unknown island and left six men dead. On that date, the dreams of sensitive people grew more vivid. Their dreams darkened with the dread of being pursued by a giant, evil monster. Meanwhile, an architect had gone mad, and a sculptor had suddenly fallen into delirium! And what of the storm on April 2nd? That was the date when all dreams of the damp city stopped. Wilcox had emerged unharmed from the grip of his strange fever. What of all these events, and old Castro's hints about the sunken, star-born Old Ones and their coming reign? What of their faithful cult and their control over dreams? Was I on the brink of cosmic horrors beyond what any human could bear? If so, those horrors must exist in the mind alone. Somehow, April 2nd had ended whatever monstrous threat had begun its siege of humanity's soul.

That evening, after a day of hurried cabling and arranging, I bade my host adieu and took a train for San Francisco. In less than a month I was in Dunedin; where, however, I found that little was known of the strange cult-members who had lingered in the old sea taverns. Waterfront scum was far too common for special mention; though there was vague talk about one inland trip these mongrels had made, during which faint drumming and red flame were noted on the distant hills.

That evening, after a day of hurried telegrams and preparations, I said goodbye to my host. I took a train to San Francisco. In less than a month I was in Dunedin. There, however, I found that little was known about the strange cult members who had lingered in the old waterfront taverns. Waterfront scum was far too common to attract special notice. There was, though, vague talk of a trip these mongrels had made inland. During that trip, faint drumming had been heard and red flames seen in the distant hills.

In Auckland I learned that Johansen had returned with yellow hair turned white after a perfunctory and inconclusive questioning at Sydney, and had thereafter sold his cottage in West Street and sailed with his wife to his old home in Oslo. Of his stirring experience he would tell his friends no more than he had told the admiralty officials, and all they could do was to give me his Oslo address.

In Auckland I learned that Johansen had returned with his yellow hair turned white. He had faced only brief, halfhearted questioning in Sydney, which led to no conclusions. Afterward, he sold his cottage in West Street and sailed with his wife to his old home in Oslo. He would tell his friends no more about his harrowing experience than he had told the admiralty officials. All his friends could do was give me his Oslo address.

After that I went to Sydney and talked profitlessly with seamen and members of the vice-admiralty court. I saw the Alert, now sold and in commercial use, at Circular Quay in Sydney Cove, but gained nothing from its non-committal bulk. The crouching image with its cuttlefish head, dragon body, scaly wings, and hieroglyphed pedestal, was preserved in the Museum at Hyde Park; and I studied it long and well, finding it a thing of balefully exquisite workmanship, and with the same utter mystery, terrible antiquity, and unearthly strangeness of material which I had noted in Legrasse's smaller specimen. Geologists, the curator told me, had found it a monstrous puzzle; for they vowed that the world held no rock like it. Then I thought with a shudder of what old Castro had told Legrasse about the primal Great Ones: "They had come from the stars, and had brought Their images with Them."

After that I went to Sydney and spoke with seamen and members of the vice-admiralty court, but learned nothing. I saw the Alert at Circular Quay in Sydney Cove. The ship had been sold and was now in commercial use, but its silent bulk told me nothing. The crouching image was kept in the Museum at Hyde Park. It had a cuttlefish head, a dragon’s body, scaly wings, and a pedestal covered in hieroglyphs. I studied the image long and carefully, finding its craftsmanship exquisitely beautiful yet sinister. It had the same absolute mystery, terrible age, and unearthly material I had noted in Legrasse’s smaller specimen. The curator told me that geologists had found the image a baffling puzzle. They insisted that no rock like its material existed anywhere in the world. Then I shuddered as I remembered what old Castro had told Legrasse about the original Great Ones: "They had come from the stars, and had brought Their images with Them."

Shaken with such a mental revolution as I had never before known, I now resolved to visit Mate Johansen in Oslo. Sailing for London, I re-embarked at once for the Norwegian capital; and one autumn day landed at the trim wharves in the shadow of the Egeberg.

My thinking had been shaken and transformed as never before. I now decided to visit Mate Johansen in Oslo. I sailed to London, then immediately boarded another ship for the Norwegian capital. One autumn day, I landed at the neat docks in the shadow of the Egeberg.

Johansen's address, I discovered, lay in the Old Town of King Harold Haardrada, which kept alive the name of Oslo during all the centuries that the greater city masqueraded as "Christiania." I made the brief trip by taxicab, and knocked with palpitant heart at the door of a neat and ancient building with plastered front. A sad-faced woman in black answered my summons, and I was stung with disappointment when she told me in halting English that Gustaf Johansen was no more.

I discovered that Johansen's address was in the Old Town of King Harold Haardrada. The Old Town had kept the name Oslo alive through all the centuries when the greater city called itself "Christiania." I took the short trip by taxi. My heart pounding, I knocked at the door of a neat old building with a plastered front. A sad-faced woman dressed in black answered the door. I felt a sharp disappointment when she told me in halting English that Gustaf Johansen had died.

He had not long survived his return, said his wife, for the doings at sea in 1925 had broken him. He had told her no more than he had told the public, but had left a long manuscript—of "technical matters" as he said—written in English, evidently in order to safeguard her from the peril of casual perusal. During a walk through a narrow lane near the Gothenburg dock, a bundle of papers falling from an attic window had knocked him down. Two Lascar sailors at once helped him to his feet, but before the ambulance could reach him he was dead. Physicians found no adequate cause for the end, and laid it to heart trouble and a weakened constitution.

His wife said he had not lived long after his return, because the events at sea in 1925 had broken him. He had told her no more than he had told the public. But he had left a long manuscript about "technical matters", as he called them. He had written it in English, evidently to protect her from the danger of reading it by chance. While he was walking through a narrow lane near the Gothenburg dock, a bundle of papers fell from an attic window. The bundle knocked him down. Two Lascar sailors immediately helped him to his feet, but he died before the ambulance could reach him. Doctors found no adequate cause of death and attributed his death to heart trouble and weakened health.

I now felt gnawing at my vitals that dark terror which will never leave me till I, too, am at rest; "accidentally" or otherwise. Persuading the widow that my connection with her husband's "technical matters" was sufficient to entitle me to his manuscript, I bore the document away and began to read it on the London boat.

I now felt that dark terror gnawing inside me. It will never leave me until I, too, rest in death, "accidentally" or otherwise. I convinced the widow that my connection to her husband's "technical matters" gave me a right to his manuscript. I took the document away and began reading it on the boat to London.

It was a simple, rambling thing—a naive sailor's effort at a post-facto diary—and strove to recall day by day that last awful voyage. I can not attempt to transcribe it verbatim in all its cloudiness and redundance, but I will tell its gist enough to show why the sound of the water against the vessel's sides became so unendurable to me that I stopped my ears with cotton.

It was a simple, rambling account, a naive sailor’s attempt to write a diary after the events. He tried to recall that last awful voyage day by day. I cannot copy the account word for word, with all its confusion and repetition. But I will give enough of its main points to explain why the water’s sound against the ship became unbearable. The sound distressed me so much that I plugged my ears with cotton.

Johansen, thank God, did not know quite all, even though he saw the city and the Thing, but I shall never sleep calmly again when I think of the horrors that lurk ceaselessly behind life in time and in space, and of those unhallowed blasphemies from elder stars which dream beneath the sea, known and favored by a nightmare cult ready and eager to loose them on the world whenever another earthquake shall heave their monstrous stone city again to the sun and air.

Thank God, Johansen did not know quite everything, even though he saw the city and the Thing. But I shall never sleep peacefully again when I think of the horrors lurking endlessly behind life in time and space. I think, too, of those unholy abominations from ancient stars that dream beneath the sea. A nightmarish cult knows and worships them, ready and eager to unleash them on the world. The cult waits for another earthquake to lift their monstrous stone city back into the sunlight and air.

Johansen's voyage had begun just as he told it to the vice-admiralty. The Emma, in ballast, had cleared Auckland on February 20th, and had felt the full force of that earthquake-born tempest which must have heaved up from the sea-bottom the horrors that filled men's dreams. Once more under control, the ship was making good progress when held up by the Alert on March 22nd, and I could feel the mate's regret as he wrote of her bombardment and sinking. Of the swarthy cult-fiends on the Alert he speaks with significant horror. There was some peculiarly abominable quality about them which made their destruction seem almost a duty, and Johansen shows ingenuous wonder at the charge of ruthlessness brought against his party during the proceedings of the court of inquiry. Then, driven ahead by curiosity in their captured yacht under Johansen's command, the men sight a great stone pillar sticking out of the sea, and in S. Latitude 47° 9', W. Longitude 126° 43' come upon a coastline of mingled mud, ooze, and weedy Cyclopean masonry which can be nothing less than the tangible substance of earth's supreme terror—the nightmare corpse-city of R'lyeh, that was built in measureless eons behind history by the vast, loathsome shapes that seeped down from the dark stars. There lay great Cthulhu and his hordes, hidden in green slimy vaults and sending out at last, after cycles incalculable, the thoughts that spread fear to the dreams of the sensitive and called imperiously to the faithful to come on a pilgrimage of liberation and restoration. All this Johansen did not suspect, but God knows he soon saw enough!

Johansen's voyage had begun just as he had told the vice-admiralty. The Emma, carrying only ballast, had left Auckland on February 20th. She had felt the full force of the storm caused by the earthquake. That storm must have raised from the seabed the horrors that filled men's dreams. Once back under control, the ship made good progress until the Alert stopped her on March 22nd. I could feel the mate's regret as he described the bombardment and sinking of the Emma. He writes with telling horror about the swarthy cult-fiends aboard the Alert. There was something so especially vile about them that destroying them seemed almost a duty. Johansen expresses genuine bewilderment at the accusation that his party had acted ruthlessly, made during the court of inquiry. Then, driven onward by curiosity, the men sail their captured yacht under Johansen's command. They spot a great stone pillar rising from the sea. At S. Latitude 47° 9', W. Longitude 126° 43', they come upon a coastline of mud, ooze, and weed-covered Cyclopean stonework. This can be nothing less than the physical form of earth's greatest terror: the nightmare corpse-city of R'lyeh. Vast, loathsome shapes that seeped down from the dark stars built the city countless ages before recorded history. There lay great Cthulhu and his hordes, hidden in green, slimy vaults. At last, after countless cycles, they were sending out thoughts that brought fear into the dreams of sensitive people. Those thoughts also commanded the faithful to make a pilgrimage to free and restore Cthulhu and his hordes. Johansen suspected none of this, but God knows he soon saw enough!

I suppose that only a single mountain-top, the hideous monolith-crowned citadel whereon great Cthulhu was buried, actually emerged from the waters. When I think of the extent of all that may be brooding down there I almost wish to kill myself forthwith. Johansen and his men were awed by the cosmic majesty of this dripping Babylon of elder demons, and must have guessed without guidance that it was nothing of this or of any sane planet. Awe at the unbelievable size of the greenish stone blocks, at the dizzying height of the great carven monolith, and at the stupefying identity of the colossal statues and bas-reliefs with the queer image found in the shrine on the Alert, is poignantly visible in every line of the mate's frightened description.

I suppose only a single mountaintop actually rose above the water. It was the hideous citadel crowned with a monolith, where great Cthulhu lay buried. When I think of the extent of all that may be brooding down there, I almost wish to kill myself immediately. Johansen and his men were awed by the cosmic grandeur of this dripping Babylon of ancient demons. They must have guessed, without being told, that the city belonged neither to this planet nor to any sane planet. Every line of the first mate's frightened description vividly reveals his awe at the unbelievable size of the greenish stone blocks. It also reveals his awe at the dizzying height of the great carved monolith. He was stunned that the colossal statues and relief carvings matched the strange image found in the shrine on the Alert.

Without knowing what futurism is like, Johansen achieved something very close to it when he spoke of the city; for instead of describing any definite structure or building, he dwells only on the broad impressions of vast angles and stone surfaces—surfaces too great to belong to anything right or proper for this earth, and impious with horrible images and hieroglyphs. I mention his talk about angles because it suggests something Wilcox had told me of his awful dreams. He had said that the geometry of the dream-place he saw was abnormal, non-Euclidean, and loathsomely redolent of spheres and dimensions apart from ours. Now an unlettered seaman felt the same thing whilst gazing at the terrible reality.

Without knowing what futurism was, Johansen came very close to it when he spoke of the city. For instead of describing any specific structure or building, he dwells only on broad impressions of vast angles and stone surfaces. These surfaces were too vast to belong to anything right or proper on this earth. They were covered in horrible, blasphemous images and hieroglyphs. I mention his talk about angles because it recalls something Wilcox had told me about his awful dreams. Wilcox had said that the geometry of the place in his dreams was abnormal and non-Euclidean. It suggested, in a revolting way, spheres and dimensions beyond our own. Now a sailor with little education felt the same thing while gazing at the terrible reality.

Johansen and his men landed at a sloping mud-bank on this monstrous Acropolis, and clambered slipperily up over titan oozy blocks which could have been no mortal staircase. The very sun of heaven seemed distorted when viewed through the polarizing miasma welling out from this sea-soaked perversion, and twisted menace and suspense lurked leeringly in those crazily elusive angles of carven rock where a second glance showed concavity after the first showed convexity.

Johansen and his men landed on a sloping mud bank at this monstrous Acropolis. They scrambled up huge, slime-covered blocks, slipping as they climbed. These blocks could not have been a staircase made by mortals. Even the sun in the sky seemed distorted through the light-bending fumes rising from this sea-soaked abomination. Twisted menace and suspense lurked mockingly in the carved rock’s bizarre angles, whose shapes were hard to grasp. Where the rock first appeared to curve outward, a second glance showed it curving inward.

Something very like fright had come over all the explorers before anything more definite than rock and ooze and weed was seen. Each would have fled had he not feared the scorn of the others, and it was only half-heartedly that they searched—vainly, as it proved—for some portable souvenir to bear away.

Something very much like fear had gripped all the explorers before they saw anything beyond rock, mud, and seaweed. Each would have fled if he had not feared the others’ scorn. So they searched half-heartedly for some souvenir they could carry away. Their search proved fruitless.

It was Rodriguez the Portuguese who climbed up the foot of the monolith and shouted of what he had found. The rest followed him, and looked curiously at the immense carved door with the now familiar squid-dragon bas-relief. It was, Johansen said, like a great barn-door; and they all felt that it was a door because of the ornate lintel, threshold, and jambs around it, though they could not decide whether it lay flat like a trap-door or slantwise like an outside cellar-door. As Wilcox would have said, the geometry of the place was all wrong. One could not be sure that the sea and the ground were horizontal, hence the relative position of everything else seemed fantasmally variable.

Rodriguez the Portuguese climbed onto the base of the monolith and shouted about what he had found. The others followed him and looked curiously at the enormous carved door with the now familiar squid-dragon relief. Johansen said the door was like a huge barn door. They all felt it was a door because of the ornate frame around it, with its lintel, threshold, and sideposts. But they could not tell whether it lay flat like a trapdoor or at an angle like an outside cellar door. As Wilcox would have said, the geometry of the place was all wrong. No one could be sure that the sea and the ground were level. So everything else seemed to shift eerily in relation to everything around it.

Briden pushed at the stone in several places without result. Then Donovan felt over it delicately around the edge, pressing each point separately as he went. He climbed interminably along the grotesque stone molding—that is, one would call it climbing if the thing was not after all horizontal—and the men wondered how any door in the universe could be so vast. Then, very softly and slowly, the acre-great panel began to give inward at the top; and they saw that it was balanced.

Briden pushed at the stone in several places, but nothing happened. Then Donovan carefully felt around the edge, pressing each point separately as he went. He climbed along the grotesque stone molding for what seemed an eternity. That is, one would call it climbing if the molding were not, after all, horizontal. The men wondered how any door in the universe could be so vast. Then, very gently and slowly, the top of the acre-sized panel began to swing inward. They saw that the panel was balanced.

Donovan slid or somehow propelled himself down or along the jamb and rejoined his fellows, and everyone watched the queer recession of the monstrously carven portal. In this fantasy of prismatic distortion it moved anomalously in a diagonal way, so that all the rules of matter and perspective seemed upset.

Donovan slid or somehow pushed himself down or along the doorframe and rejoined the others. Everyone watched the strangely carved doorway recede in an odd way. In this dreamlike scene of prism-like distortion, the doorway moved diagonally in an unnatural way. Its movement made all the rules of matter and perspective seem overturned.

The aperture was black with a darkness almost material. That tenebrousness was indeed a positive quality; for it obscured such parts of the inner walls as ought to have been revealed, and actually burst forth like smoke from its eon-long imprisonment, visibly darkening the sun as it slunk away into the shrunken and gibbous sky on flapping membranous wings. The odor arising from the newly opened depths was intolerable, and at length the quick-eared Hawkins thought he heard a nasty, slopping sound down there. Everyone listened, and everyone was listening still when It lumbered slobberingly into sight and gropingly squeezed Its gelatinous green immensity through the black doorway into the tainted outside air of that poison city of madness.

The opening was black with a darkness that seemed almost solid. That darkness was indeed a positive quality. It hid parts of the inner walls that should have been visible. It even burst out like smoke after ages of imprisonment. The darkness visibly dimmed the sun as it slunk away into the shrunken, bulging sky on flapping, leathery wings. The stench rising from the newly opened depths was unbearable. At last, the sharp-eared Hawkins thought he heard a nasty, slopping sound down below. Everyone listened. They were all still listening when It lumbered into view, drooling. Feeling Its way, It squeezed Its immense, jellylike green bulk through the black doorway. It emerged into the foul outside air of that poisonous city of madness.

Poor Johansen's handwriting almost gave out when he wrote of this. Of the six men who never reached the ship, he thinks two perished of pure fright in that accursed instant. The Thing can not be described—there is no language for such abysms of shrieking and immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A mountain walked or stumbled. God! What wonder that across the earth a great architect went mad, and poor Wilcox raved with fever in that telepathic instant? The Thing of the idols, the green, sticky spawn of the stars, had awaked to claim his own. The stars were right again, and what an age-old cult had failed to do by design, a band of innocent sailors had done by accident. After vigintillions of years great Cthulhu was loose again, and ravening for delight.

Poor Johansen could barely keep writing as he described this. Of the six men who never reached the ship, he thinks two died of sheer terror in that cursed instant. The Thing cannot be described. No language can express such depths of shrieking, ancient madness, such unnatural violations of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A mountain walked or stumbled. God! Was it any wonder that a great architect across the world went mad? Or that poor Wilcox raved with fever in that instant of telepathic contact? The Thing depicted in the idols, the green, sticky spawn of the stars, had awakened to claim his own. The stars were right again. An ancient cult had failed to bring about this awakening deliberately, but a band of innocent sailors had done so accidentally. After vigintillions of years, great Cthulhu was loose again, ravenously hungry for delight.

Three men were swept up by the flabby claws before anybody turned. God rest them, if there be any rest in the universe. They were Donovan, Guerrera and Angstrom. Parker slipped as the other three were plunging frenziedly over endless vistas of green-crusted rock to the boat, and Johansen swears he was swallowed up by an angle of masonry which shouldn't have been there; an angle which was acute, but behaved as if it were obtuse. So only Briden and Johansen reached the boat, and pulled desperately for the Alert as the mountainous monstrosity flopped down the slimy stones and hesitated floundering at the edge of the water.

Three men were swept up by the flabby claws before anyone turned around. God rest them, if there is any rest in the universe. They were Donovan, Guerrera and Angstrom. Parker slipped as the other three scrambled frantically toward the boat over endless stretches of green-crusted rock. Johansen swears Parker was swallowed by an angle in the stonework that should not have been there. The angle was acute, but behaved as if it were obtuse. So only Briden and Johansen reached the boat and rowed desperately toward the Alert. Meanwhile, the mountainous monster flopped down the slimy stones and hesitated at the water's edge, floundering.

Steam had not been suffered to go down entirely, despite the departure of all hands for the shore; and it was the work of only a few moments of feverish rushing up and down between wheels and engines to get the Alert under way. Slowly, amidst the distorted horrors of that indescribable scene, she began to churn the lethal waters; whilst on the masonry of that charnel shore that was not of earth the titan Thing from the stars slavered and gibbered like Polypheme cursing the fleeing ship of Odysseus. Then, bolder than the storied Cyclops, great Cthulhu slid greasily into the water and began to pursue with vast wave-raising strokes of cosmic potency. Briden looked back and went mad, laughing shrilly as he kept on laughing at intervals till death found him one night in the cabin whilst Johansen was wandering deliriously.

Steam pressure had not been allowed to drop completely, even though the entire crew had gone ashore. Only a few moments of frantic rushing between the wheel and engines were needed to get the Alert moving. Slowly, amid the twisted horrors of that indescribable scene, the ship began to churn the deadly waters. Meanwhile, on the stonework of that death-filled, unearthly shore, the gigantic Thing from the stars drooled and babbled. It was like Polypheme cursing the fleeing ship of Odysseus. Then, bolder than the legendary Cyclops, great Cthulhu slid into the water with an oily motion and began the pursuit. Its immense strokes raised waves with cosmic power. Briden looked back and went mad, laughing shrilly. He kept laughing at intervals until he died one night in the cabin, while Johansen wandered in delirium.

But Johansen had not given out yet. Knowing that the Thing could surely overtake the Alert until steam was fully up, he resolved on a desperate chance; and, setting the engine for full speed, ran lightning-like on deck and reversed the wheel. There was a mighty eddying and foaming in the noisome brine, and as the steam mounted higher and higher the brave Norwegian drove his vessel head on against the pursuing jelly which rose above the unclean froth like the stern of a demon galleon. The awful squid-head with writhing feelers came nearly up to the bowsprit of the sturdy yacht, but Johansen drove on relentlessly.

But Johansen had not given up yet. He knew the Thing could surely overtake the Alert before the engine reached full steam. So he decided to take a desperate chance. He set the engine to full speed, raced onto the deck, and spun the wheel in the opposite direction. The foul seawater swirled and foamed violently. As the steam pressure rose higher and higher, the brave Norwegian drove his vessel straight at the pursuing, jellylike mass. The mass rose above the filthy foam like the stern of a demon galleon. The terrible squid-head with its writhing feelers nearly reached the sturdy yacht's bowsprit, but Johansen drove on relentlessly.

There was a bursting as of an exploding bladder, a slushy nastiness as of a cloven sunfish, a stench as of a thousand opened graves, and a sound that the chronicler would not put on paper. For an instant the ship was befouled by an acrid and blinding green cloud, and then there was only a venomous seething astern; where—God in heaven!—the scattered plasticity of that nameless sky-spawn was nebulously recombining in its hateful original form, whilst its distance widened every second as the Alert gained impetus from its mounting steam.

There was a burst like an exploding bladder, a slimy mess like a split-open sunfish. There was a stench like a thousand opened graves, and a sound the writer would not put on paper. For an instant, a harsh, blinding green cloud fouled the ship. Then only a poisonous churning remained behind the ship. God in heaven! There, the scattered, shapeless flesh of that nameless sky-spawn was hazily recombining into its hateful original form. Yet the distance between ship and creature widened every second as the Alert gathered speed from its rising steam pressure.

That was all. After that Johansen only brooded over the idol in the cabin and attended to a few matters of food for himself and the laughing maniac by his side. He did not try to navigate after the first bold flight, for the reaction had taken something out of his soul. Then came the storm of April 2nd, and a gathering of the clouds about his consciousness. There is a sense of spectral whirling through liquid gulfs of infinity, of dizzying rides through reeling universes on a comet's tail, and of hysterical plunges from the pit to the moon and from the moon back again to the pit, all livened by a cachinnating chorus of the distorted, hilarious elder gods and the green, bat-winged mocking imps of Tartarus.

That was all. After that, Johansen only brooded over the idol in the cabin. He also saw to a few needs for food for himself and the laughing madman beside him. He did not try to navigate after his first bold escape, because the aftermath had drained something from his soul. Then came the storm of April 2nd, and clouds began to gather over his consciousness. There is a sense of ghostly spinning through liquid depths of infinity. There are dizzying rides through spinning universes on a comet's tail. There are frantic plunges from the pit to the moon and from the moon back to the pit. All of this is enlivened by a wildly laughing chorus of twisted, gleeful elder gods. The green, bat-winged, mocking imps of Tartarus join in the chorus.

Out of that dream came rescue—the Vigilant, the vice-admiralty court, the streets of Dunedin, and the long voyage back home to the old house by the Egeberg. He could not tell—they would think him mad. He would write of what he knew before death came, but his wife must not guess. Death would be a boon if only it could blot out the memories.

Rescue came out of that dream: the Vigilant, the vice-admiralty court, and the streets of Dunedin. Then came the long voyage home to the old house by the Egeberg. He could not tell anyone. They would think he was mad. He would write down what he knew before death came, but his wife must not guess. Death would be a blessing if only it could erase the memories.

That was the document I read, and now I have placed it in the tin box beside the bas-relief and the papers of Professor Angell. With it shall go this record of mine—this test of my own sanity, wherein is pieced together that which I hope may never be pieced together again. I have looked upon all that the universe has to hold of horror, and even the skies of spring and the flowers of summer must ever afterward be poison to me. But I do not think my life will be long. As my uncle went, as poor Johansen went, so I shall go. I know too much, and the cult still lives.

That was the document I read. I have now placed it in the tin box beside the bas-relief and Professor Angell's papers. My own account will go with it, as a test of my sanity. In this account, I piece together what I hope may never be pieced together again. I have seen all the horror the universe holds. Even spring skies and summer flowers will be poison to me forever afterward. But I do not think I will live long. Just as my uncle died, and poor Johansen died, so will I. I know too much, and the cult still lives.

Cthulhu still lives, too, I suppose, again in that chasm of stone which has shielded him since the sun was young. His accursed city is sunken once more, for the Vigilant sailed over the spot after the April storm; but his ministers on earth still bellow and prance and slay around idol-capped monoliths in lonely places. He must have been trapped by the sinking whilst within his black abyss, or else the world would by now be screaming with fright and frenzy. Who knows the end? What has risen may sink, and what has sunk may rise. Loathsomeness waits and dreams in the deep, and decay spreads over the tottering cities of men. A time will come—but I must not and can not think! Let me pray that, if I do not survive this manuscript, my executors may put caution before audacity and see that it meets no other eye.

Cthulhu still lives too, I suppose, once again in that rocky chasm. It has sheltered him since the sun was young. His cursed city has sunk once more, for the Vigilant sailed over the spot after the April storm. But his servants on earth still roar and dance and kill around tall stone pillars topped with idols in lonely places. He must have been trapped in his black abyss when the city sank. Otherwise, the world would now be screaming in terror and madness. Who knows how it will end? What has risen may sink, and what has sunk may rise. Something loathsome waits and dreams in the depths, and decay spreads through humanity’s crumbling cities. A time will come. But I must not and cannot think about it! Let me pray that, if I do not live beyond writing this manuscript, those handling my estate choose caution over boldness. May they make sure no one else ever reads it.