 Elfwater by Norman Douglas. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Louise J. Bell. Elfwater by Norman Douglas. 1. Far away among desolate peaks, in that voiceless wilderness of stone and ice, where the clouds linger, a horde of rivulets bursting from patches of eternal snow joined their waters and sped away. And the stream leapt downwards through groves of bearded fur or glided in a smiling flood over smooth meads of foxglove and tiger lily and marigolds, perressing their roots with its eddies. To the country folk who lived in the valley below, it was a living and a spiteful thing. They called it Elfwater. Its waves were dull, bluish, insipid to the taste, and fraught with unhealthy chills from the snows above. None cared to drink of them, and its shores were encrusted with fanciful stone shapes of grass and moss. Elves work, like the ice crystals on the windowpains in December, and none cared to build houses near the water or to own the fields on either side. For sometimes, in the bluest days of midsummer, the stream suddenly swelled to a furious torrent and overleapt its flowery banks, drowning the lush meadows far and near. The elves, the old folks would then whisper, shaking their heads. They knew its elvish and wayward tricks, and some of them may be still believed in such creatures. And the young men would come out to view the mischief and gaze into the sunny sky and up at the hills and talk together and look wise, secretly wondering. Only one man could foretell the floods. He had lived on the Elfwater all his life, but he is dead long ago. His cottage is deserted, the roof has fallen in, the wooden beams are decayed, and green moss sprouts between the planks of his floor. He used to look up at the hills and see a small, vapory cloud anchored against one snowy peak and say nothing. Whenever they asked him to explain, he merely smiled, as if the Elfwater kept no secrets from him. Meanwhile, the fair meadows were flooded, and the crops buried, till only a few bright green tips showed above the seething foam. And up in the forest, where all should be still, the shriek of the torrent could be heard from afar. It thundered among the ravines and roared for freedom in its narrow prison, churning the boulders with hideous din and tumbling the tall pines, whose painted bowls loosened at the root, shivered and rocked like the limbs of some convulsed giant. The pale woodflowers nodded helplessly in the tawny spray. It was unearthly in its rage, and then, with as little show of reason, its elfin wrath melted to a smile, and it shrunk back into a silvery thread of water, hushed and clear. It was ashamed of its freak and weary, but the harm was done, and only this one man's meadows were spared, for they lay out of reach of the wildest floods. They were remote from the valley by a many hours' climb. Damp, sloping meads, fringed by dark furs, on the shady side of the stream that rushed in a deep strid below the cottage. The folks called them elf meadows. Perhaps because, in times of flood, two or three tall columns of spray could be seen rising up from the gulf below, and bearing some fancied resemblance to white elves or fairies, the man had often watched these misty pillars swaying gracefully. He loved the elf water. He had learned to identify himself with all its moods. The ripple of its grey wavelets was the voice of an old friend, a friend of his boyhood, the sound that met his ears in the earliest morning, and that charmed him to sleep at night. And he often thought of the days when, as a child, he used to hang over the dim forest pools and watch the bubbles, and hearken to rare music streaming upwards from the depths. It was the pebbles dancing in the current. But, to his childish ears, it sounded like the faint songs of the water fairies, disporting themselves on the crystal floor, and if by chance he dropped anything into the stream, the elves were sure to bring it to the surface again. Everyone indeed was agreed upon that point. Size and axes and sickles that had fallen into the deep pools were always churned up again and found lying on the banks, sharper than before, the folks said. And once a heavy cart loaded with hay was overtaken by a sudden flood and borne away. Next day, wonderful to relate, they found it standing upright and unharmed on the bank. If there are no elves who had done it? Even the man's old mother was sometimes amazed at these things, although she generally scoffed at the mountaineer's beliefs. For she came from the green plains, far beyond the hills, where the folks are quite different. She laughed at the dull peasants and their ways. She was no dreamer. She knew about everything and believed in nothing. They feared her, but she feared none. She was calm and upright and even tempered and prodigiously old, ninety years maybe, or even a hundred. But she was lithe and strong, and her back was straight as a lance. Her husband had died long ago. She had lived in that lonely cottage with her son, all his life. Two, will she live forever? He often wondered. He hoped she would die, and that soon. For they hated one another. And yet, strangely enough, both were just and honest and even kind, according to their lights. And they lived together, both thinking that they were performing a duty towards each other. In that low-ceilinged room, with its wooden wainscoting stained and blackened by age, they often sat and looked at one another for many hours, without speaking a word. You are your father's child. She would at last say, regretfully, never reproached him with ought else, for he was a good son. And he never dreamed of vexing her, for she was his mother. And then she would look at him again, and he would look back, and say nothing. What should he say? It was true enough. He was like his father in all things. Short and heavy-chested, indifferent to cold and heat, with dark eyes and crafty features that reflected in their harshness the crags and chasms of his home. Slow to laugh, slow to speak, slow to decide. Superstitious, gentle, but pitiless in resolve, a peculiar compound of strength and weakness she would have wished to herself another son, tall, gay, ambitious, instead of this contented and crooked creature of the mountains. And perhaps she thought of her own home in the rich plains, with their white-domed cities and laughing merchant folk. Did she regret having exchanged them for a hard life among the mountains? Doubtless, but she was never heard to complain of her lot. And much as they disliked her, none could find an evil word to say of her. She had a sense of duty and an unbending will, such as would have driven her in other times and places to seek a martyr's death rather than yield in her conviction. She had served her husband faithfully up to the day of his death. And although she exacted blind obedience from the child, she never treated him with harshness. But from his earliest youth he had never understood his mother. And after his father's death he smiled seldom. He soon learned to close the channels of his heart, to retire within himself, wondering and dismayed, and leaving unspoken many thoughts. Even in the olden days it had been a strange love that they bore to one another. There was little charity in that house. The old woman, accustomed to have her own way, treated him like a child long after he was grown to manhood. And such was his piety that he seldom dared to cross her wishes. Her mind was stronger than his, but he was warmer of heart. Why then do you not leave me and return to your own home? He would sometimes ask. He longed for her to take him at his word, but she never left him. She evidently thought this a passing whim on his part. Indeed, what vexed him most of all, she seldom entered seriously into any of his ideas. Regarding him rather as an idle visionary whose fancies must be humored, or if mischievous, repressed. Leave you. Leave you, my son. And why leave you? My folks are all dead. And what would befall you without me? She seemed to doubt whether the man of fifty could provide for himself. And yet she was not wholly insincere. There was something of pity mingled with her contempt. He was her son, her weak son. How else could he suggest such a thing? You drove her away. He once dared to reply, trembling with rage. If she were here, there would be no need for you. Since that day I have suffered. He spoke of his lifelong grief and wondered at his own boldness in thus reproaching his mother. These are foolish words, my son. She looked bravely into his eye. Foolish words. But she feared inwardly, for he spoke the truth. The matter of the man's wife was the only one she dreaded to discuss with him. The old woman knew that she had made a mistake. But it was against her nature ever to acknowledge a fault. And she therefore affected to ignore his grief. And in truth she could not easily bring herself to comprehend such an enduring affection. Twenty years have passed since then, she mused. Why does he not forget? No son of hers would think so long of one and the same woman. In this one thing the man had thwarted his mother, and brought home a bride who was not to her liking. But the victory had sapped his energy, and he was too weak, or maybe too pious, a common enough story, to profit by it, and bid the old woman be gone. There followed a few short years during which the mother regained her power over her son, and tormented in a thousand ways the young wife, who finally fled in despair. Never to return. The cottage remained the same, with its cool meadows and dark belt of forest. But the light of love was gone out, and an undying hatred kindled, that terrible morning when he found himself deserted. The elf water was in flood, convulsed in its deep bed, and howling in the hollow caverns that it had torn itself into the mountain's side. He climbed up to a certain little knoll. There were the earth slopes away, in a steep ledge above the thundering cataract, and where he had often sat with her, who was now departed. The current below this point was so fast, that it might well have carried away the strongest man. Had she perished in the water? Surely not. It was his friend. It restored to him all that he ever lost. He looked down the stream. There was sunshine and peace in the valley below. But here all was grey desolation and loneliness. The torn clouds stuck among the pines. And ever and anon a ghost-like pillar of spray rose up from the noisy depths, and drenched the meadows with its dew. Sometimes one remained upright, swaying in the wind, like a shrouded human form. She cannot be dead, he thought. She will return. In the course of time, disquieting rumors of her, the absent one, had reached the valley. The folks said that she well deserved all that she may have suffered, since she deserted a good husband for no cause. But the man cared nothing for evil reports. He knew the truth, and that it was all his mother's work. He thought of the picture as he had seen it, and each time he looked upon his mother's face a hundred times daily, he was reminded of that other one who had suffered through her. But the old woman always knew the direction of his thoughts, and stared back at him fearlessly, though without unkindness. She knew her power over him, and exerted it freely, returning his look so steadfastly that he often felt the strength oozing out of his bones, as after a long illness, often they sat thus in that dark room, confronting one another. They stared for long, long hours, striving for the mastery, and never a word was spoken. He longed for her to yield, to confess with her eyes at least. But she never admitted any fault, and there was nothing to be read out of her eyes. They were pale blue, cold and lively as the ripples of a mountain river, and fringed with bristly white lashes. Her long curls drooped over them, for her oval forehead was overhung down to the nose with thick locks, white as driven snow, and stiff hairs curled over her lips and out of her nostrils. She had a strange, deep voice, gruff as a cracked bell, and a complexion clearer than a child's. Under its transparent skin could be seen the veins, wandering about like little red rivers, and even in her old age she was taller than her son. Likely enough, she had been comely in her youth, but now she was grown monstrous, she used to say, Look you, what could you do without me? I must care for you like a little child. Do not I work for you? Make your food and clothing? It was true enough, like everything that she said. He had grown idle and listless in latter years, but he thought, How different it might have been. How happy I was, and how little would have contented me. Then he would sigh to himself, grief laden, and the customary look of reproach, which she was awaiting, did not come, for he left the room silently with bowed head. And as often as he returned, he found her sitting upright on her bench beside the stove, with her long fingers working at her wall, ever ready to take up the mute challenge. To the man, thus peering into her glassy eyes, they seemed to swell till they dominated his whole being. He clenched his fists and looked away. Sometimes after such a struggle, a strange feeling of rage and power entered into him. It made his whole body tremble. He thought it was an evil spirit tempting him. It used to whisper in his ear, but he could not understand the words. And as the years went on, they spoke less with one another. Silence and hatred lay heavy upon that home. The man's black, curly hair was already streaked with gray. As for the woman, she grew old. Old. But she never changed. Three. Will she live forever? He wondered. I. We are a long-lived race. She said aloud. For even when he was yet a child, she always guessed his thoughts as correctly as if he had spoken them aloud. I am old. I have lost count of the time. But I shall live yet many years and work for you. Be thankful. We are a strong race. Our blood is good. We live long. Too long, he thought, and would have said it aloud. But the impious words stuck in his throat and choked him. The old woman, meanwhile, fixed her eyes upon him, knowing his thoughts. Surely, she said, trying to sweeten the gruff tones of her voice into persuasive pleading. Surely, you would not drive her mother out in her old age to die by the roadside. Surely not, he replied, moved by a return of his natural piety. But how different it might have been. As he stepped out of the doorway, he found, lying upon the threshold, a log of wood with some blood stains upon it, a bunch of gaudy feathers. He recognized the feathers. They were those of a J. Doubtless, the old familiar bird that visited the cottage at times. His mother must have killed it after waiting for her opportunity all these many years. She hated it on account of its history. For it was the young woman, the absent one, who had caught and tamed it during her short life at the Elf Meadow. The man, although generally callous to the sufferings of the wild things of nature, was strangely affected in his present exasperation by the sight of these poor remains. His mother had chosen an evil moment. He carried in the feathers and held them before her eyes. Look! I see. Why have you killed it? Because it was thievish. And because I disliked it, she added truthfully. She was never so sure of her ascendancy over him. But he was enraged at the hard words. He thought of the absent one. It was as if a link between himself and her had been cruelly severed. He said fiercely, You killed it! Even as you killed her. This cannot endure. All this is foolish talk. Will you never be reasonable? Even as you killed her. He repeated hoarsely. There was a tingling in his ears and the veins in his forehead suddenly swelled. Then the evil spirit came. It had come often of late and spoke to him. He understood what it said. It said, Now you killed her. This cannot endure. One of us too shall die. Even as you killed her. Do you understand? Do you confess? You killed her. And I will kill you. And for the first time in his life he seized her in a grip of steel and shook her till the white curls danced over her face. A rain of fiery sparks was falling before his eyes and his neck on, regardless of her shrieks, how light she was. She reeled under his arm and he would assuredly have shaken the last breath out of her old body. But that something in the touch of her cold dry skin brought him abruptly to his senses again. Go! She growled as boldly as she could gasping with rage and breathlessness. Would you raise your hand against your mother? You are no man. But he was inwardly glad for the spell he thought was broken. He used to fear her but now he had seen her weakness. She is only a woman. Only a weak woman. Nevertheless his energy soon melted away and like after his marriage he lacked courage to bid her be gone. He had felt his strength but he feared to use it. And the woman had felt her weakness but she sought to hide it. She would show no signs of defeat. Yet whenever she spoke to him she was sensible of a strange twitching in her jaw and a new tone in her voice. The sound of fear which she tried to conceal but could not. Therefore she wisely ceased to speak altogether. And the man likewise preferred silence since he foresaw that he could no longer reckon upon his self-control in the event of a dispute. Thus neither trusting themselves to speak to the other many days and many months would pass without a word being said. Although they looked at one another from time to time in a way that left little to be misinterpreted in his dumb contests with those relentless eyes the man was worsted. The old woman without a word gradually cowed him into submission and re-established her empire. And the man now only clung with luxurious self-torture to the bittersweet remembrance of other days. The absent one at that distance of time had become invested with a sacred and well-nigh supernatural character. He would not believe in her death. She will return to me. His superstitious mind would have deemed it little of a miracle to have encountered her in saintly guise during his wanderings in the forest or on the banks of the stream where they had often lingered together. She was no longer a human creature but a shadowy being crowned with a halo of immortality. As for the old woman she lived on for many years. Will she live forever? Aye, she was clearly fated to live forever and he no longer cherished any hope. He would repeat, This cannot endure. One of us too must die. But it endured. You are no man. It was true enough like everything that she said. You are no man. He laughed at his own weakness, a bitter laugh. Would he kill her? He shuddered at the idea. Besides, he dared not. Once indeed after an unhappy day and many hours of sleepless torments the evil spirit came again and spoke to him in the same manner as before and he crept up to where she slept hardly knowing what he was about to do. It was midnight. She lay with folded palms, half reclining in her accustomed attitude on the bench beside the stove. She breathed softly. But her eyes were not shut. They were open and glowed like lamps in the dark. The man stepped back, awe-stricken, I see you. She said calmly without moving so much as a finger. Hated words and wanted him ever afterwards. She was satisfied with her triumph and said nothing. But the man's last spark of courage was crushed out of him. Thenceforth he walked with downcast head and averted look. Never again would he raise his hand and his voice against her. At times to escape from his care he descended into the valley and drank fiercely. But more often he wandered through the lonely forests loudly praying for forgiveness, for guidance and for release from those awful eyes that vampire-like sucked out the strength of his body. His soul was humbled to the dust. The trees, the rocks and the wild waters were witnesses of his heartfelt supplications. He prayed thus for many years and in the end his prayer was heard for for the old woman grew blind. The blue fire faded out of her eyes. They became milky as it were, two white opals, though the flames still burned dimly within. For a long time she hid it from her son. But he found out in the end and thanked the great being who had heard his prayer. You wax-blind mother your eyes are filmy. Nay, you mistake. I see well. She answered, looking boldly towards him for she knew that he was watching her steadfastly. She struggled on with an iron will. Whenever his glance fell upon her she must have felt it for she at once stared back into his face and so steadily that he often wondered whether he was indeed not mistaken. But her task became harder every day and she began to fear mightily. For although her old body was healthy and tough as an oak she foresaw that with the darkening of her sight her power over him would wane. The film grows upon you, mother. I think not. I see my wool. She croaked back but slowly the crystal of her eye clouded to dull horn. Again he insisted. You see me less plainly than before. Strangling as best he could the joy that quivered in his voice. I see you well enough. But she saw him not at all. She was stone blind and when she spoke with her son there resounded a horrible note of triumph and menace in his voice. She thought he will kill me if he discovers the truth. For thus she interpreted his crooked peasant nature. Yet she still contrived to hide her fear even as he hid his joy casting about meanwhile for some new device to over all him. At last she hit upon a cunning and bold deceit worthy of her fearless mind. I am not blind. I see you. I see every hair on your head and I look into your eyes. I pierce them through. He turned aside from her fixed stare. Is it possible? He wondered. I see. This film of which you speak is in your own eyes. I can see into your very heart and read your evil thoughts and wishes. Are you not ashamed? Such words she often repeated and each time the man heard them it was as though a lash had struck him and he looked at her endeavoring to read the truth out of her calm face and his superstitious mind grew afraid. I see you. She repeated and she dissembled so well that he began to believe. His blood curdled with fear. Was it possible? He took to prowling stealthily as a lynx hoping to avoid her glance and by taking her unawares to satisfy himself of her blindness. But she was too quick for him. Her pearly eyes always discovered his whereabouts and her words sunk into his heart. I see you. I see everything. She growled with well simulated joy. She had duped him but a nameless dread fell upon the man. He went out of the door and passed through the forest and never returned for many weeks. Five. One sunless morning in the early spring he staggered home from the village. His gate was unsteady but there sat a steady purpose in his heart. The old woman lay in her accustomed attitude on the broad bench beside the stove. She never moved. She slept. She slept much in these latter days. The man crept nearer craving to look into her face. She slept on and her sharp ears never heard his approach for the elf water was in flood, writhing and screeching in its narrow channel till the cottage trembled with the fury of the water. As he bent down to look at her the door was burst open by a sudden gust of wind but she slept on. He turned back to shut it and as he did so he looked out upon the landscape. There was sunshine and peace in the valley below but here all was grey desolation and loneliness. The torn clouds stuck among the pines and ever and on a ghost-like pillar of spray rose up from the noisy depths and drenched the meadows with its dew. It was on such a morning he remembered how long he had waited. Surely she, the absent one, would come soon and he returned to look down upon the old woman the cause of all. She slept on. Then the evil spirit drew near and spoke to him. It said now and already his teeth were set to the work but at that moment she awoke of her own accord and opened her eyes. They were like discs of polished lead and when she had done so and never so much as took notice of him he knew the truth. She was blind, blind as a stone. He stepped back apace breathing heavily with the weight of unexpected joy and then an immense wave of love and compassion swept over him submerging every other thought or feeling. He pitied her misfortune and would feign have forgiven her all. He would love her doubly. He would humble himself in ministering to all the wants of her old age. But the woman soon felt the human presence and in mingled fear and defiance shrieked aloud little dreaming what effect the words would have. I see you. I see everything. Hated words that turned his love to very madness for immediately it was as if a crimson flame leapt up before him burning away the remembrance of all that is or had been. And he held her gently and said his words sounded like a lesson learned beforehand. Enough. Come. Be gone, fool. Will you raise your hand against your mother? Leave me. But he only drew her nearer to him. Then the truth flashed upon her and her voice broke from its troubled depths to a scream that drowned the howl of the wild waters. Out upon you, monster. You wish to kill me, but I wish to live. Are you not satisfied with my blindness? She thought by this confession to appease his wrath. But it was too late and her words were lost. Perhaps he would have obeyed if he had heard for his piety was fervent. But he saw and heard nothing. There was a din in his ears as of crashing thunders and a mighty curtain of blood swayed heavily to and fro before his eyes. He merely uttered that one word. Come. It sounded dreamlike and distant as though another man, not himself, were speaking. The woman, undeceived as to his intent, struck out bravely with her arms, fighting like a mountain cat. But he gathered energy from her resistance and picked her up as he would a child. For though tall, she was thin and light and carried her out of the cottage and across the damp meadow. Her white locks were driven by the wind about his face. The elf water shouted for gladness. He returned alone and sat still a while, pondering painfully. It cost an effort to collect his thoughts for he was still drunken and dazed with the shock of the last hour. Slowly, reluctantly, one by one, the memories crept back, building themselves up into the hideous fabric of his crime. Ah, he remembered it all. But a pallid fear shook him. What if she had not died and if the elf water yielded her up again even as it yielded up all else? God, if she were still alive, she was strong and active. His teeth chattered and his eyes remained fixed upon the half-open door, for he dreaded every minute to see her return with dripping garments to the accustomed seat and then turning to confront him with that leaden stare. But as she never returned, he finally crept across the meadows to the water's edge, peering into the misty depths below. Then he looked down the stream. There was nothing in sight. Puffs of wet breath came up at times from the torrent and cooled his heated head. And then, suddenly, he saw, or thought he saw, a pale gray shape moving in the water far away. Soon it reached the shore and disengaged itself from among the boulders. It stood upright. How tall it was! Its garments were long and clinging and lined slowly towards him, stumbling often among the stones. Slowly it wound itself aloft. It seemed to be weak, for it paused at times to gather strength or to rethink itself. Was it a specter? Surely not. Surely it was his mother, who escaped alive from the whirlpools of the elf water. The man raised his hand to his head where the moist perspiration had gathered. He was unnerved with fear. But the shape had reached the narrow path and, after resting a while, suddenly stretched out its arms as though feeling the way and seemed to drift straight towards him at a rapid pace. It had evidently made up its mind. It came nearer. He waited no longer. He was seized with a blind, unreasoning panic and fled upwards past the cottage into the deepest shades of the dripping forest and never so much as stopped to look behind him, for he felt that it was pressing upon his heels. And there, sheltered under a huge fur, he remained many hours terror-stricken. Evening closed in upon him. But at last he reasoned away his fear and turned his steps homewards in a quieter frame of mind. And yet he could not rid himself of the notion that the horror was somewhere near at hand, lurking in the darkling shades. He would gladly have shouted to reassure himself, but he dreaded, lest the sound of his voice might start it up before his very face. And as he silently walked on, his alarms grew a pace. Like a startled child, he dared not turn his head, but walked faster and faster through the dark trees, till, on the meadows, his pace increased to a run, a horrible, breathless race. He entered his home and looked around him, fearful of some unspeakable calamity the shape had arrived before him. It sat upright and stern, on the accustomed bench, and its eyes, those awful eyes, stared at him with fixed determination across the darkened room. They seemed to say, One of us too shall die. He felt his hair raise itself under his thick fur cap. He would have fled, but his feet refused to move, and there began a strange throbbing in his head. He was constrained to stand still and gaze, Aye, it was his own corporeal mother. Her clothes were dripping, and a little pool of water had collected on the floor. She remained immovable as a rock, to save for an occasional spasm of shivering. She had apparently not yet heard him. There was a line of human suffering about the mouth, as of one who would weep, but cannot. And the man saw a small stream of blood oozing from a wound on her head. It trickled slowly, and stained her white locks with crimson drops. At that sight, there fled across his disordered mind a shadow, a fleeting mockery of the former feeling of love and contrition. But the old woman made a slight movement. She must have become aware of the human presence, and she deliberately opened her mouth to speak, no doubt, the hated words. Her spirit was unbroken. Then the man, by a last effort of will, tottered forth, vanquished. His temples ached fiercely. Bereft of reason, he strayed into the gray twilight, to the water's edge, and low, not far away from a certain little knoll. There, where the earth slopes away in a steep ledge above the thundering cataract, another frail white shape floated lovingly towards him. It came nearer delicately, and enveloped him in its dewy shroud. At last the spray fell in showers upon his burning head, but his arms sought the yielding form, and he fell, prone, into the void, meeting its chill caresses with a responsive kiss. End of Elf Water, Recording by Louise J. Bell Sebastopol, California Herbert West, Reanimator, Part 1, From the Dark by H. P. Lovecraft This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Francesca Remick Of Herbert West, who was my friend in college, and in afterlife, I can speak only with extreme terror. This terror is not due altogether to the sinister manner of his recent disappearance, but was engendered by the whole nature of his life work, and first gained its acute form more than 17 years ago, when we were in the third year of our course at the Miskatonic University Medical School in Arkham. While he was with me, the wonder and diabolism of his experiments fascinated me utterly, and I was his closest companion. Now that he has gone, and the spell is broken, the actual fear is greater. Memories and possibilities are ever more hideous than realities. The first horrible incident of our acquaintance was the greatest shock I ever experienced, and it is only with reluctance that I repeat it. As I have said, it happened when we were in the medical school, where West had already made himself notorious through his wild theories on the nature of death. And the possibility of overcoming it artificially. His views, which were widely ridiculed by the faculty and by his fellow students, hinged on the essentially mechanistic nature of life, and concerned means for operating the organic machinery of mankind by calculated chemical action after the failure of natural processes. In his experiments with various animating solutions, he had killed and treated immense numbers of rabbits, guinea pigs, cats, dogs and monkeys, till he had become the prime nuisance of the college. Several times he had actually obtained signs of life in animals supposedly dead, in many cases, violent signs, but he soon saw that the perfection of his process, if indeed possible, would necessarily involve a lifetime of research. It likewise became clear that since the same solution never worked alike on different organic species, he would require human subjects for further and more specialized progress. It was here that he first came into conflict with the college authorities and was debarred from future experiments by no lesser dignitary than the dean of the medical school himself, the learned and benevolent Dr Alan Halsey, whose work on behalf of the stricken is recalled by every old resident of Arkham. I had always been exceptionally tolerant of West's pursuits and we frequently discussed his theories, whose ramifications and corollaries were almost infinite, holding with Hey Cal that all life is a chemical and physical process and that the so-called soul is a myth. My friend believed that artificial reanimation of the dead can depend only on the condition of the tissues and that unless actual decomposition has set in, a corpse fully equipped with organs may with suitable measures be set going again in the peculiar fashion known as life. That the psychic or intellectual life might be impaired by the slight deterioration of sensitive brain cells which even a short period of death would be apt to cause, West fully realized. It had at first been his hope to find a reagent which would restore vitality before the actual advent of death and only repeated failures on animals had shown him that the natural and artificial life motions were incompatible. He then sought extreme freshness in his specimens, injecting his solutions into the blood immediately after the extinction of life. It was this circumstance which made the professors so carelessly skeptical for they felt that true death had not occurred in any case. They did not stop to view the matter closely and reasoningly. It was not long after the faculty had interdicted his work that West confided to me his resolution to get fresh human bodies in some manner and continue in secret the experiments he could no longer perform openly. To hear him discussing ways and means was rather ghastly for at the college we had never procured anatomical specimens ourselves. Whenever the morgue proved inadequate two local negroes attended to this matter and they were seldom questioned. West was then a small, slender, spectacled youth with delicate features, yellow hair, pale blue eyes and a soft voice. And it was uncanny to hear him dwelling on the relative merits of Christchurch cemetery and the Pottersfield. We finally decided on the Pottersfield because practically everybody in Christchurch was embalmed a thing of course ruinous to West's researchers. I was by this time his active and enthralled assistant and helped him make all his decisions not only concerning the source of bodies but concerning a suitable place for our loathsome work. It was I who thought of the deserted Chapman farmhouse beyond Meadow Hill where we fitted up on the ground floor an operating room and a laboratory each with dark curtains to conceal our midnight doings. The place was far from any road and in sight of no other house yet precautions were nonetheless necessary since rumours of strange lights started by chance nocturnal romers would soon bring disaster on our enterprise. It was agreed to call the whole thing a chemical laboratory if discovery should occur. Gradually we equipped our sinister haunt of science with materials either purchased in Boston or quietly borrowed from the college. Materials carefully made unrecognisable save to expert eyes and provided spades and picks for the many burials we should have to make in the cellar. At the college we used an incinerator but the apparatus was too costly for our unauthorised laboratory. Bodies were always a nuisance even the small guinea pig bodies from the slight clandestine experiments in West's room at the boarding house. We followed the local death notices like ghouls for our specimens demanded particular qualities. What we wanted were corpses interred soon after death and without artificial preservation preferably free from malforming disease and certainly with all organs present. Accident victims were our best hope. Not for many weeks did we hear of anything suitable though we talked with morgue and hospital authorities ostensibly in the college's interest as often as we could without exciting suspicion. We found that the college had first choice in every case so that it might be necessary to remain in Arkham during the summer when only the limited summer school classes were held. In the end though luck favoured us. For one day we heard of an almost ideal case in the Pottersfield a brawny young workman drowned only the morning before in summer's pond and buried at the town's expense without delay or embalming. That afternoon we found the new grave and determined to begin work soon after midnight. It was a repulsive task that we undertook in the black small hours even though we lacked at that time the special horror of graveyards which later experiences brought to us. We carried spades and oiled dark lanterns for although electric torches were then manufactured they were not as satisfactory as the tungsten contrivances of today the process of an earthing was slow and sordid it might have been gruesomely poetical if we had been artists instead of scientists and we were glad when our spades struck wood. When the pine box was fully uncovered West scrambled down and removed the lid dragging out and propping up the contents I reached down and hauled the contents out of the grave and then both toiled hard to restore the spot to its former appearance the affair made us rather nervous especially the stiff form and vacant face of our first trophy but we managed to remove all traces of our visit when we had patted down the last shovelfuls of earth we put the specimen in a canvas sack set out for the old Chapman Place beyond Meadow Hill on an improvised dissecting table in the old farmhouse by the light of a powerful acetylene lamp the specimen was not very spectral looking it had been a sturdy and apparently unimaginative youth of wholesome plebian type large framed, grey eyed and brown haired a sound animal without psychological subtleties and probably having vital processes of the simplest and healthiest sort now with the eyes closed it looked more asleep than dead though the expert test of my friend soon left no doubt on that score we had at last what West had always longed for a real dead man of the ideal kind ready for the solution as prepared according to the most careful calculations and theories for human use the tension on our part became very great we knew that there was scarcely a chance for anything like complete success and could not avoid hideous fears at the possible grotesque results of partial animation especially we were apprehensive concerning the mind and impulses of the creature since in the space following death some of the more delicate cerebral cells might well have suffered deterioration I myself still held some curious notions about the traditional soul of man and felt an awe at the secrets that might be told by one returning from the dead I wondered what sights this placid youth might have seen in inaccessible spheres and what he could relate if fully restored to life but my wonder was not overwhelming since for the most part I shared the materialism of my friend he was calmer than I as he forced a large quantity of his fluid into a vein of the body's arm immediately binding the incision securely the waiting was gruesome but West never faltered every now and then he applied his stethoscope to the specimen and bore the negative results philosophically after about three quarters of an hour without the least sign of life he disappointedly pronounced the solution inadequate but determined to make the most of his opportunity and try one change in the formula before disposing of his ghastly prize we had that afternoon dug a grave in the cellar and would have to fill it by dawn for although we had a fixed lock on the house we wished to shun even the remotest risk of a ghoulish discovery besides the body would not be even approximately fresh the next night so taking the solitary acetylene lamp into the adjacent laboratory we left our silent guest on the slab in the dark and bent every energy to the mixing of a new solution the weighing and measuring supervised by West with an almost fanatical care the awful event was very sudden and wholly unexpected I was pouring something from one test tube to another and West was busy over the alcohol blast lamp which had to answer for a Bunsen burner in this gasless edifice when from the pitch black room we had left there burst the most appalling and demonic succession of cries that either of us had ever heard not more unutterable could have been the chaos of hellish sound if the pit itself had opened to release the agony of the damned for in one inconceivable cacophony was centred all the supernal terror and unnatural despair of animate nature human it could not have been it is not in man to make such sounds and without a thought of our late employment or its possible discovery both West and I leaped to the nearest window like stricken animals overturning tubes lamp and retorts and vaulting madly into the stardubis of the rural night I think we screamed ourselves as we stumbled frantically toward the town though as we reached the outskirts we put on a semblance of restraint just enough to seem like belated revelers staggering home from a debauch we did not separate but managed to get to West's room where we whispered with the gas up until dawn by then we had calmed ourselves a little with rational theories and plans for investigation so that we could sleep through the day classes being disregarded but that evening two items in the paper wholly unrelated made it again impossible for us to sleep the old deserted Chapman house had inexplicably burned to an amorphous heap of ashes that we could understand because of the upset lamp also an attempt had been made to disturb a new grave in the potter's field as if by futile and spadeless clawing at the earth that we could not understand for we had patted down the mound very carefully and for seventeen years after that West would look frequently over his shoulder and complain of fancied footsteps behind him now he has disappeared End of Herbert West Reanimator Part 1 from the Dark Recording by Francesca Remick, Guernsey Herbert West Reanimator Part 2 The Plague Demon by H.P. Lovecraft This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Francesca Remick I shall never forget that hideous summer sixteen years ago when, like a noxious affright from the halls of Iblis typhoid stalked leeringly through Arkham it is by that satanic scourge that most recall the year for truly terror brooded with bat wings over the piles of coffins in the tombs of Christchurch cemetery yet for me there is a greater horror in that time a horror known to me alone now that Herbert West has disappeared West and I were doing postgraduate work in summer classes at the medical school of Miskatonic University and my friend had attained a wide notoriety because of his experiments leading toward the revivification of the dead After the scientific slaughter of uncounted small animals the freakish work had ostensibly stopped by order of our sceptical dean, Dr. Alan Halsey Dr. West had continued to perform certain secret tests in his dingy boarding-house room and had on one terrible and unforgettable occasion taken a human body from its grave in the potter's field to a deserted farmhouse beyond Meadow Hill I was with him on that odious occasion and saw him inject into the still veins the elixir which he thought would to some extent restore life's chemical and physical processes it had ended horribly in a delirium of fear which we gradually came to attribute to our own overwrought nerves and West had never afterward been able to shake off a maddening sensation of being haunted and hunted the body had not been quite fresh enough it is obvious that to restore normal mental attributes a body must be very fresh indeed and the burning of the old house had prevented us from burying the thing it would have been better if we could have known it was underground After that experience West had dropped his researches for some time but as the zeal of the born scientist slowly returned he again became importunate with the college faculty pleading for the use of the dissecting room and a fresh human specimens for the work he regarded as so overwhelmingly important his pleas however were wholly in vain for the decision of Dr. Halsey was inflexible and the other professors all endorsed the verdict of their leader in the radical theory of reanimation they saw nothing but the immature vagaries of a youthful enthusiast whose slight form, yellow hair, spectacled blue eyes and soft voice gave no hint of the supernormal almost diabolical power of the cold brain within I can see him now as he was then and I shiver he grew sterner of face but never elderly and now Sefton Asylum has had the mishap and West has vanished West clashed disagreeably with Dr. Halsey near the end of our last undergraduate term in a wordy dispute that did less credit to him than to the kindly dean in point of courtesy he felt that he was needlessly and irrationally retarded in a supremely great work a work which he could of course conduct a suit himself in later years but which he wished to begin while still possessed of the exceptional facilities of the university that the tradition bound elders should ignore his singular results on animals and persist in their denial of the possibility of reanimation was expressly disgusting and almost incomprehensible to a youth of West's logical temperament only greater maturity could help him understand the chronic mental limitations of the professor doctor type the product of generations of pathetic puritanism kindly conscientious and sometimes gentle and amiable yet always narrow intolerant custom-ridden and lacking in perspective age has more charity for these incomplete yet high-sold characters whose worst real vice is timidity and who are ultimately punished by a general ridicule for their intellectual sins sins like telemaism, Calvinism, anti-Darwinism, anti-Nichieism and every sort of Sabaterianism and sumptuary legislation West, young despite his marvellous scientific acquirements had scant patience with good Dr. Halsey and his erudite colleagues and nursed an increasing resentment coupled with a desire to prove his theories to these obtuse worthy in some striking and dramatic fashion like most youths he indulged in elaborate daydreams of revenge, triumph and final magnanimous forgiveness and then had come the scourge, grinning and lethal from the nightmare caverns of Tartarus West and I had graduated about the time of its beginning but had remained for additional work at the summer school so that we were in Arkham when it broke with full demonic fury upon the town though not as yet licensed physicians we now had our degrees and were pressed frantically into public service as the numbers of the stricken grew the situation was almost past management and deaths ensued too frequently for the local undertakers fully to handle burials without embalming were made in rapid succession and even the Christchurch cemetery receiving tomb was crammed with coffins of the unembalmed dead this circumstance was not without effect on West who thought often of the irony of the situation so many fresh specimens yet none for his persecuted researches we were frightfully overworked and the terrific mental and nervous strain made my friend brood morbidly but West's gentle enemies were no less harassed with prostrating duties college had all but closed and every doctor of the medical faculty was helping to fight the typhoid plague Dr. Halsey in particular had distinguished himself in sacrificing service applying his extreme skill with wholehearted energy to cases which many others shunned because of danger or apparent hopelessness before a month was over the fearless dean had become a popular hero though he seemed unconscious of his fame as he struggled to keep from collapsing with physical fatigue and nervous exhaustion West could not withhold admiration for the fortitude of his foe but because of this was even more determined to prove him the truth of his amazing doctrines taking advantage of the disorganization of both college work and municipal health regulations he managed to get a recently deceased body smuggled into the university dissecting room one night and in my presence injected a new modification of his solution the thing actually opened its eyes but only stared at the ceiling with a look of soul petrifying horror before collapsing into an inertness from which nothing could rouse it West said it was not fresh enough the hot summer air does not favor corpses that time we were almost caught before we incinerated the thing and West doubted the advisability of repeating his daring misuse of the college laboratory the peak of the epidemic was reached in August West and I were almost dead and Dr. Housey did die on the 14th the students all attended the hasty funeral on the 15th and bought an impressive wreath though the latter was quite overshadowed by the tribute sent by wealthy Arkham citizens and by the municipality itself it was almost a public affair for the dean had surely been a public benefactor after the entombment we were all somewhat depressed and spent the afternoon at the bar of the commercial house where West, though shaken by the death of his chief opponent chilled the rest of us with references to his notorious theories most of the students went home or to various duties as the evening advanced but West persuaded me to aid him in making a night of it West's landlady saw us arrive at his room about two in the morning with a third man between us and told her husband that we had all evidently dined and whined rather well apparently this assiduous matron was right for about three a.m. the whole house was aroused by cries coming from West's room where when they broke down the door they found the two of us unconscious on the blood-stained carpet beaten, scratched and mauled and with the broken remnants of West's bottles and instruments around us only an open window told what had become of our salient and many wondered how he himself had fared after the terrific leap from the second story to the lawn which he must have made there were some strange garments in the room but West, upon regaining consciousness said they did not belong to the stranger but were specimens collected for bacteriological analysis in the course of investigations on the transmission of germ diseases he ordered them burnt as soon as possible in the capacious fireplace to the police we both declared ignorance of our late companion's identity he was, West nervously said a congenial stranger whom we had met at some downtown bar of uncertain location we had all been rather jovial and West and I did not wish to have our pugnacious companion hunted down that same night saw the beginning of the second Arkham horror the horror that to me eclipsed the plague itself Christchurch cemetery was the scene of a terrible killing a watchman having been clawed to death in a manner not only too hideous for description but raising a doubt as to the human agency of the deed the victim had been seen alive considerably after midnight the dawn revealed the unutterable thing the manager of a circus at the neighboring town of Bolton was questioned but he swore that no beast had at any time escaped from its cage those who found the body noted a trail of blood leading to the receiving tomb where a small pool of red lay on the concrete just outside the gate a fainter trail led away toward the woods but it soon gave out the next night devils danced on the roofs of Arkham and unnatural madness howled in the wind through the fevered town had crept a curse which some said was greater than the plague and which some whispered was the embodied demon soul of the plague itself eight houses were entered by a nameless thing which strewed red death in its wake in all seventeen maimed and shapeless remnants of bodies were left behind by the voiceless sadistic monster that crept abroad a few persons had half seen it in the dark and said it was white and like a malformed ape or anthropomorphic fiend it had not left behind quite all that it had attacked for sometimes it had been hungry the number it had killed was fourteen three of the bodies had been in stricken homes and had not been alive on the third night frantic bands of searchers led by the police captured it in a house on Crane Street near the Miskatonic campus they had organised the quest with care keeping in touch by means of volunteer telephone stations and when someone in the college district had reported hearing a scratching at a shuttered window the net was quickly spread on account of the general alarm and precautions there were only two more victims and the capture was affected without major casualties the thing was finally stopped by a bullet though not a fatal one and was rushed to the local hospital amidst universal excitement and loathing for it had been a man this much was clear despite the nauseous eyes the voiceless simianism and the demonic savagery they dressed its wound and carted it to the asylum at Sefton where it beat its head against the walls of a padded cell for sixteen years until the recent mishap where it escaped under circumstances that few like to mention what had most disgusted the searchers of Arkham was the thing they noticed when the monster's face was cleaned the mocking unbelievable resemblance to a learned and self-sacrificing martyr who had been entombed but three days before the late Dr. Alan Halsey public benefactor and dean of the medical school of Miss Katonic University to the vanished Herbert West and to me the disgust and horror were supreme I shudder tonight as I think of it shudder even more than I did that morning when West muttered through his bandages damn it it wasn't quite fresh enough End of Herbert West Reanimator Part 2 The Plague Demon Recording by Francesca Remick Guernsey Herbert West Reanimator Part 4 The Scream of the Dead by H. P. Lovecraft This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Francesca Remick The Scream of a Dead Man gave to me that acute and added horror of Dr. Herbert West which harassed the later years of our companionship It is natural that such a thing as a dead man's scream should give horror for it is obviously not a pleasing or ordinary occurrence but I was used to similar experiences hence suffered on this occasion only because of a particular circumstance and as I have implied it was not of the dead man himself that I became afraid Herbert West, whose associate and assistant I was possessed scientific interests far beyond the usual routine of a village physician that was why when establishing his practice in Bolton he had chosen an isolated house near the Pottersfield Briefly and brutally stated West's sole absorbing interest was a secret study of the phenomena of life and its cessation leading toward the reanimation of the dead through injections of an accident solution For this ghastly experimenting it was necessary to have a constant supply of very fresh human bodies very fresh because even the least decay hopelessly damaged the brain structure and human because we found that the solution had to be compounded differently for different types of organisms scores of rabbits and guinea pigs had been killed and treated but their trail was a blind one West had never fully succeeded because he had never been able to secure a corpse sufficiently fresh what he wanted were bodies from which vitality had only just departed bodies with every cell intact and capable of receiving again the impulse toward that mode of motion called life there was hope that this second and artificial life might be made perpetual by repetitions of the injection but we had learned that an ordinary natural life would not respond to the action to establish the artificial motion natural life must be extinct the specimens must be very fresh but genuinely dead the awesome quest had begun when West and I were students at the Miskatonic University Medical School in Arkham vividly conscious for the first time of the thoroughly mechanical nature of life that was seven years before but West looks scarcely a day older now he was small, blond, clean shaven, soft-voiced and spectacled with only an occasional flash of a cold blue eye to tell of the hardening and growing fanaticism of his character under the pressure of his terrible investigations our experiences had often been hideous in the extreme the results of defective reanimation where lumps of graveyard clay had been galvanized into morbid unnatural and brainless motion by various modifications of the vital solution one thing had uttered a nerve-shattering scream another had risen violently beaten us both to unconsciousness and run amuck in a shocking way before it could be placed behind asylum bars still another, alovesome African monstrosity had clawed out of its shallow grave and done a deed West had had to shoot that object we could not get bodies fresh enough to show any trace of reason when reanimated so had Perforce created nameless horrors it was disturbing to think that one, perhaps two of our monsters still lived that thought haunted us shadowingly till finally West disappeared under frightful circumstances but at the time of the scream in the cellar laboratory of the isolated Bolton Cottage our fears were subordinate to our anxiety for extremely fresh specimens West was more avid than I so that it almost seemed to me that he looked half covetously at any very healthy living physique it was in July 1910 that the bad luck regarding specimens began to turn I had been on a long visit to my parents in Illinois and upon my return found West in a state of singular elation he had, he told me excitedly, in all likelihood solved the problem of freshness through an approach from an entirely new angle that of artificial preservation I had known that he was working on a new and highly unusual embalming compound and was not surprised that it had turned out well until he explained the details I was rather puzzled as to how such a compound could help in our work since the objectionable staleness of the specimens was largely due to delay occurring before we secured them this I now saw West had clearly recognized creating his embalming compound for future rather than immediate use and trusting to fate to supply again some very recent and unburied corpse that had years before when we obtained the Negro killed in the Bolton Prize Fight at last fate had been kind so that on this occasion there lay in the secret cellar laboratory a corpse whose decay could not by any possibility have begun what would happen on reanimation and whether we could hope for a revival of mind and reason West did not venture to predict the experiment would be a landmark in our studies and he had saved the new body for my return so that both might share the spectacle in a customed fashion West told me how he had obtained the specimen it had been a vigorous man a well-dressed stranger just off the train on his way to transact some business with the Bolton Warsted Mills the walk through the town had been long and by the time the traveller paused at our cottage to ask the way to the factories his heart had become greatly overtaxed he had refused a stimulant and had suddenly dropped dead only a moment later the body as might be expected seemed to West a heaven-sent gift in his brief conversation the stranger had made it clear that he was unknown in Bolton and a search of his pockets subsequently revealed him to be one Robert Levitt of St. Louis apparently without a family to make instant inquiries about his disappearance if this man could not be restored to life no one would know of our experiment we buried our materials in a dense strip of woods between the house and the potter's field if on the other hand he could be restored our fame would be brilliantly and perpetually established so without delay West had injected into the body's wrist the compound which would hold it fresh for use after my arrival the matter of the presumably weak heart which to my mind imperiled the success of our experiment did not appear to trouble West extensively he hoped at last to obtain what he had never obtained before a rekindled spark of reason and perhaps a normal living creature so on the night of July the 18th 1910 Herbert West and I stood in the cellar laboratory and gazed at a white silent figure beneath the dazzling arc light the embalming compound had worked uncannily well for as I stared fascinatedly at the sturdy frame which had lain two weeks without stiffening I was moved to seek West's assurance that the thing was really dead this assurance he gave readily enough reminding me that the reanimating solution was never used without careful tests as to life since it could have no effect if any of the original vitality were present as West proceeded to take preliminary steps I was impressed by the vast intricacy of the new experiment an intricacy so vast that he could trust no hand less delicate than his own forbidding me to touch the body he first injected a drug in the wrist just beside the place his needle had punctured when injecting the embalming compound this he said was to neutralize the compound and release the system to a normal relaxation so that the reanimating solution might freely work when injected slightly later when a change and a gentle tremor seemed to affect the dead limbs West stuffed a pillow-like object violently over the twitching face not withdrawing it until the corpse appeared quiet and ready for our attempt at reanimation the pale enthusiast now applied some last perfunctory tests for absolute lifelessness withdrew satisfied and finally injected into the left arm an accurately measured amount of the vital elixir prepared during the afternoon with a greater care than we had used since college days when our feats were new and groping I cannot express the wild breathless suspense with which we waited for results on this first really fresh specimen the first we could reasonably expect to open its lips in rational speech perhaps to tell of what it had seen beyond the unfathomable abyss West was a materialist believing in no soul and attributing all the working of consciousness to bodily phenomena consequently he looked for no revelation of hideous secrets from gulfs and caverns beyond death's barrier I did not wholly disagree with him theoretically yet held vague instinctive remnants of the primitive faith of my forefathers so that I could not help eyeing the corpse with a certain amount of awe and terrible expectation besides I could not extract from my memory that hideous inhuman shriek we heard on the night we tried our first experiment in the deserted farmhouse at Arkham very little time had elapsed before I saw the attempt was not to be a total failure a touch of colour came to the cheeks hitherto chalk white and spread out under the curiously ample stubble of sandy beard West who had his hand on the pulse of the left wrist suddenly nodded significantly and almost simultaneously a mist appeared on the mirror inclined above the body's mouth there followed a few spasmodic muscular motions and then an audible breathing and visible motion of the chest I looked at the closed eyelids and thought I detected a quivering the lids opened showing eyes which were grey calm and alive but still unintelligent and not even curious in a moment of fantastic whim I whispered questions to the reddening ears questions of other worlds of which the memory might still be present subsequent terror drove them from my mind but I think the last one which I repeated was where have you been I do not yet know whether I was answered or not for no sound came from the well-shaped mouth but I do know that at that moment I firmly thought the thin lips moved silently forming syllables which I would have vocalised as only now if that phrase had possessed any sense or relevancy at that moment as I say I was elated with the conviction that the one great goal had been attained and that for the first time a reanimated corpse had uttered distinct words impelled by actual reason in the next moment there was no doubt about the triumph no doubt that the solution had truly accomplished at least temporarily its full mission of restoring rational and articulate life to the dead but in that triumph there came to me the greatest of all horrors not horror of the thing that spoke but of the deed that I had witnessed and of the man with whom my professional fortunes were joined for that very fresh body at last writhing into full and terrifying consciousness with eyes dilated at the memory of its last scene on earth throughout its frantic hands in a life and death struggle with the air and suddenly collapsing into a second and final dissolution from which there could be no return screamed out the cry that will ring eternally in my aching brain help keep off you cursed little toehead fiend keep that damn needle away from me End of Herbert West Reanimator Part 4 The Scream of the Dead Recording by Francesca Remick Guernsey