... Despite the richness and variety of their folklore, however, they have nothing akin to the Malay shugoran, a kind of bogey-man used to frighten naughty children. The traveller hears many conflicting descriptions of it, some bordering on the obscene. (Oran, of course, is Malay for "man,"
while shug, which here connotes "sniffing" or "questing," means literally, "elephant's trunk.") I well recall the hide which hung over the bar at the Traders' Club in Singapore, and which, according to tradition, represented the infant of this fabulous creature; its wings were black, like the skin of a Hottentot. Shortly after the War a regimental surgeon was passing through on his way back to Gibraltar and, after due examination, pronounced it the dried-out skin of a rather large catfish. He was never asked back.
I kept my light on until I was ready to fall asleep, listening to the wind rattle the palm leaves and whine up and down the row of terraces. As I switched off the light I half expected to see a shadowy shape at the window, but I saw, as the poet says, nothing but the night.
The next morning ! packed my bag and left, aware that my stay in the hotel had proved fruitless. I returned to my sister's house to find her in agitated conversation with the druggist from upstairs; she was in a terrible state and said she'd been trying to reach me all morning. She had awakened to find the flower box by her bedroom window overturned and the shrubbery beneath it trampled. Down the side of the house ran two immense slash marks several yards apart, starting at the roof and continuing straight to the ground.
My gawd, how the years fly. Stolidly middle-aged - when only yesterday I was young and eager and awed by the mystery of an unfolding world. – H.P LOVECRAFT, 8/20/1926
There is little more to report. Here the tale degenerates into an unsifted collection of items which may or may not be related: pieces of a puzzle for those who fancy themselves puzzle fans, a random swarm of dots, and in the centre, a wide unwinking eye.
Of course, my sister left the house on Indian Creek that very day and took rooms for herself in a downtown Miami hotel. Subsequently she moved inland to live with a friend in a green stucco bungalow several miles from the Everglades, third in a row of nine just off the main highway. I am seated in its den as I write this. After the friend died my sister lived on here alone, making the forty-mile bus trip to Miami only on special occasions: theatre with a group of friends, one or two shopping trips a year. She had everything else she needed right here in town.
I returned to New York, caught a chill, and finished out the winter in a hospital bed, visited rather less often than I might have wished by my niece and her boy. Of course, the drive in from Brooklyn is nothing to scoff at.
One recovers far more slowly when one has reached my age; it's a painful truth we all learn if we live long enough. Howard's life was short, but in the end I think he understood. At thirty-five he could deride as madness a friend's 'hankering after youth,' yet ten years later he'd learned to mourn the loss of his own. 'The years tell on one!' he'd written. 'You young fellows don't know how lucky you are!'
Age is indeed the great mystery. How else could Terry have emblazoned his grandmother's sundial with that saccharine nonsense?
Grow old along with me; The best is yet to be.
True, the motto is traditional to sundials - but that young fool hadn't even kept to the rhyme. With diabolical imprecision he had written, 'The best is yet to come' - a line to make me gnash my teeth, if I had any left to gnash.
! spent most of the spring indoors cooking myself wretched little meals and working ineffectually on a literary project that had occupied my thoughts. It was discouraging to find that I wrote so slowly now, and changed so much. My sister only reinforced the mood when, sending me a rather salacious story she'd found in the Enquirer - about the 'thing like a vacuum cleaner' 'that snaked through a Swedish sailor's porthole and 'made his face all purple' - she wrote at the top, 'See? Right out of Lovecraft.'
It was not long after this that I received, to my surprise, a letter from Mrs Zimmerman, bearing profuse apologies for having misplaced my enquiry until it turned up again during 'spring cleaning.'
(It is hard to imagine any sort of cleaning at the Barkleigh Hotella, spring or otherwise, but even this late reply was welcome.) 'I am sorry that the minister who disappeared was a friend of yours,'
she wrote. 'I'm sure he must have been a fine gentleman.
'You asked me for "the particulars," but from your note you seem to know the whole story. There is really nothing I can tell you that I did not tell the police, though I do not think they ever released all of it to the papers. Our records show that our guest Mr Djaktu arrived here nearly a year ago, at the end of June, and ]eft the last week of August owing me a week's rent plus various damages which I no longer have much hope of recovering, though I have written the Malaysian Embassy about it.
'In other respects he was a proper boarder, paid regularly, and in fact hardly ever left his room except to walk in the back yard from time to time, or stop at the grocer's. (We have found it impossible to discourage eating in rooms.) My only complaint is that in the middle of the summer he may have had a small coloured child living with him without our knowledge, until one of the maids heard him singing to it as she passed his room. She did not recognize the language, but said she thought it might be Hebrew. (The poor woman, now sadly taken from us, was barely able to read.) When she next made up the room, she told me that Dr Djaktu claimed the child was '~is," and that she left because she caught a glimpse of it watching her from the bathroom. She said it was naked. I did not speak of this at the time, as I do not feel it is my place to pass judgement on the morals of my guests. Anyway, we never saw the child again, and we made sure the room was completely sanitary for our next guests. Believe me, we have received nothing but good comments on our facilities. We think they are excellent and hope you agree, and I also hope you will be our guest again the next time you come to Florida.'
Unfortunately, the next time I came to Florida was for my sister's funeral late that winter. I know now, as I did not know then, that she had been in ill health for most of the previous year, but I cannot help thinking that the so-called 'incidents' - the senseless acts of vandalism directed against lone women in the South Florida area, culminating in several reported attacks by an unidentified prowler - may have hastened her death.
When I arrived here with Ellen to take care of my sister's affairs and arrange for the funeral, I intended to remain a week or two at most, seeing to the transfer of the property. Yet somehow I lingered, long after Ellen had gone. Perhaps it was the thought of that New York winter, grown harsher with each passing year; I just couldn't find the strength to go back. Nor, in the end, could I bring myself to sell this house; if I am trapped here, it's a trap I'm resigned to. Besides, moving has never much agreed with me; when I grow tired of this little room - and I do - I can think of nowhere else to go. I've seen all the world I want to see. This simple place is now my home - and I feel certain it will be my last. The calender on the wall tells me it's been almost three months since I moved in. I know that somewhere in its remaining pages you will find the date of my death.
The past week has seen a new outbreak of the 'incidents.' Last night's was the most dramatic by far. I can recite it almost word for word from the morning news. Shortly before midnight Mrs Florence Cavanaugh, a housewife living at 24 Alyssum Terrace, South Princeten, was about to close the curtains in her front room when she saw, peering through the window at her, what she described as 'a large Negro man wearing a gas mask or scuba outfit.' Mrs Cavanaugh, who was dressed only in her nightgown, fell back from the window and screamed for her husband, asleep in the next room, but by the time he arrived the Negro had made good his escape.