The room was not square. Two walls, the floor, and the ceiling, seemed to come together at an angle—a puzzling angle. And it seemed as if a person could walk into that peculiar conjunction, and walk right on—into, or through, or beyond our normal plane of things. But my attention was diverted from this odd phenomenon by the books about me.
I was standing before a shelf which seemed to hold all the forbidden books about which I had heard strange and disquieting whispers. The De Vermis Mysteriis of Ludvig Prinn, the Nightbook of Jacques Mosquea, several volumes by von Junzt, Perre Ereville, and Dirkas. Others were labeled simply by name, and I saw the Song of Yste, the Book of Eibon, and many others I had never heard of before. And, set a little aside, were two black-bound tomes—one was the Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred, and the other was stamped simply Cthulhu—but that dread connotation sent chills down my spine.
“I think this will help you,” said my host, as he drew out a volume. “The Stanzas of Dzyan are reliable. Sit down, and I’ll read.”
For half an hour he read aloud, drawing me a vivid picture of a prehistoric world—of creation itself, of strange races that had inhabited the earth before the Aryan race. But it was information that I could not use for fear of being laughed out of class, and I told him so when he had finished.
“Hopeless materialists, all of them!” he snorted. “Well, you at least will know about it, anyway. Do you want to hear more?”
I assented, and he took down a volume, the name of which I could not see. “I would like to light some incense,” he said, and suited action to the words. “It may help you to listen.”
I doubted it, but agreed. He sat down and began to read again—this time in a language unknown to me, though I am somewhat of a linguist. And as he read, and the pungent incense wafted through the room, I became drowsy.
But I do remember rising, through no volition of my own, and walking—walking toward the angle of the room that had so intrigued me earlier. And to my horror—and amazement—I seemed to pass through the solid walls. There was a moment of blackness, of unbearable chill—and then I opened my eyes on a vista which I am sure no mortal man had ever seen before.
It was a city—but what a city! Great domes rose all about me. Graceful minarets sent their spires toward the sky. But all about me was a feeling of an alien presence. And my shadow—my shadow was two! I faced about—and two suns hung in a cold, brassy sky.
Terror gripped me, but I forced it aside. I was somewhere in a strange universe—but the main concern of returning to my own planet drove all other thoughts aside—even scientific interest in this monstrous place.
As I began to prowl through the deserted streets, I noticed many things. The city was undoubtedly of great antiquity, and had been deserted for many years—perhaps centuries, for the great columns and balustrades had crashed down in many places.
And then, as I approached one building more stately and imposing than the others, I saw—it.
I have since learned that the thing is a shoggoth—a globular mass of protoplasm, fifteen feet in diameter—able to take any form it desires—created as a servant of certain races of the universe—strong—tenacious—indestructible—and worst of all—intelligent!
It must have been a guardian of that building, untold eons ago. For as I stood in paralyzed horror, it rolled toward me—throwing out tentacles as it did so.
It was almost upon me, pseudopods lashing out, before I could move. And as I leaped back, turned and fled, it followed—and its speed was a match for my own.
Where I ran, and for how long, I do not know. Time lost all meaning as I dodged and hid in that accursed city—with the thing dogging my heels. And it was sheer luck that led me finally onto that street of ruins.
A building had collapsed, and strewn its skeleton to the winds. But some trick of fate had flung pillars and walls in an arrangement that made my heart leap—an angle, the angle that had thrust me into this bizarre world!
The shoggoth was close behind me, and I had to act. The angle might not be the same, but I was trapped anyway—so I charged blindly at it.
There was the blackness, the cold—and I struck ground with a thud. I rolled, picked myself up—and then—oh god!—the shoggoth came crashing through, not five yards from me!
I was on a road leading to the city, and I ran with all my strength toward the friendly lights, with the thing not far behind me. But as I came under the first streetlamp it slowed its pursuit, and then turned and withdrew.
But it will track me down. In that strange other world, it had a job to do—to protect a certain place. I invaded that place, and must die—and it will carry out its task, though in another universe. Even now, I know that it is lurking somewhere near—disguised by its amazing ability of mimicry, waiting for me. It will search me out, even on top of the building where I am writing this.
I am resigned to death. But—after I am slain, what then? The monster is here—here! It cannot return to its own world. What will it do? What terror will it spread? What inconceivable, awful horror faces mankind? I shall never know.
LEGACY IN CRYSTAL
BY JAMES CAUSEY
AGATHA SIMMONS LEANED FORWARD EXPECTANTLY.
“How long, Doctor?”
The man at the bedside looked up in brief distaste. He consulted his watch professionally.
“I really can’t say,” he whispered. “Perhaps another half hour. Perhaps ten more minutes—” He blinked at her and recommenced fumbling in his bag.
Agatha was silent. She looked at Jonathan’s closed eyes. His breathing was barely perceptible now. She smiled.
So long. She had waited so terribly long for her cousin’s estate. He must be well past eighty. In the past, she had been dimly afraid he would outlive her as he had all his other relatives.
But now—
“I must get some water.” The doctor’s voice intruded upon her thoughts. “For the solution—”
He went to the door, fumbling with his hypodermic needle.
Agatha did not hear him. She was gazing around the great gloomy bedroom. At the shades, drawn.
Behind the doctor, the door closed. The prone figure in the big four-poster bed stirred.
“Impatient, Agatha?”
She gave a little start. Jonathan Miles had raised himself on one elbow, with an effort.
He was staring at her, his thin, dark face mocking.
“Why—no, Jonathan. I was only hoping you’d get well soon.”
“Hah!” The old man cackled with laughter. “Me get well soon! You know, you remind me of a buzzard, Agatha. Waiting for me to die. A pity, too. That auto accident. Mashed ribs… complications. I bet I would have outlived you, too—”
He broke off, lips still moving. Agatha frowned, then as she noted his breathing become slower, more fluttery, she restrained a smile.
No one knew how Jonathan Miles had acquired his vast fortune. He had always been a scholar, delving into out of the way places in far-off lands. A dabbler in archaeology. Suddenly, in his middle years, he had struck it rich. Now, in the declining years of his life, he had lived all alone, a gloomy old recluse in a dark old house, spurning all efforts of his relatives to visit him.
Agatha’s gaze flicked avidly around the room. This old house—everything, would be hers soon.
She glanced at a ring on Jonathan’s finger. A rather big diamond, that. Jonathan Miles followed her avid gaze keenly. He chuckled.
“Ah, but you’re a greedy woman, Agatha.”