checking for possible damage.
A few glasses had broken in the kitchen cupboards but the refrigerator’s contents were intact. The electric stove worked, and the faucet in the sink operated normally. Only the jagged crack in the wall above it gave evidence of the quake’s impact here.
In the den, figurines had toppled inside their cabinet; Keith didn’t bother to inspect them. Several of the tribal carvings hung askew on the wall, and the shrunken head no longer dangled.
As it grinned up at him from the floor with sightless, slitted eyes and mocking mouth, another image suddenly superimposed itself upon his vision—the flabby, hideous mask of human flesh that was the face of Simon Waverly.
Then numbness gave way to panic. Turning, Keith opened the liquor cabinet and groped amongst the unbroken contents until he found a brandy bottle.
He carried it into the bedroom, switching on the light to assure himself no harm had been done here. Kicking off his shoes, Keith sank down upon the bed, twisted the seal from the bottle and, for the first time in his life, drank himself into merciful oblivion.
It must have been close to noon when he awoke with a pounding head and a consuming thirst. Aspirin and water helped ease physical distress, but the feeling of panic remained.
Emerging from the bathroom, he went to the nightstand and picked up the phone. He’d already started dialing the police number before he realized the line was dead. Apparently the quake had knocked out service in the area.
Keith moved into the living room and turned on the television set. It functioned, and after a moment of warm-up the welcome image of a commentator filled the screen. He congratulated himself on finding a news broadcast so quickly, then decided that every local channel must be carrying continuous reports of last night’s disaster.
During the next hour he learned enough to piece together a coherent account of the tragedy, which struck the city with 7.1 force on the Richter scale.
The major effects were felt in the downtown area, where great shards of window glass had razored down from tall buildings and shattered storefronts. Luckily the inner city was practically deserted at the time, and few were killed or injured in the streets. But panic prevailed in theaters as fixtures and chandeliers fell; scores had been trampled in the rush to escape. Several hospitals were scenes of calamity, and the destruction in private homes was severe. Fire damage was considerable, although no widespread conflagration was reported. Los Angeles County had been officially declared a disaster area and the National Guard was assisting in the search for victims amidst the hazards of escaping gas and fallen power lines.
Keith turned the volume down and went into the kitchen to make coffee. His head was hurting again, but this was probably due to last night’s blow from falling rubble.
The realization brought with it what he had thus far succeeded in forestalling—a full recollection of the happenings at Waverly’s house.
And with recollection came recognition.
Those final moments in Waverly’s study paralleled Lovecraft’s story. The Whisperer in Darkness.
Even the situation had its similarities. Lovecraft’s narrator became involved with Henry Akeley, a scholar who believed that winged creatures from another planet were hiding in the lonely Vermont hills near his home. Confiding his fears in correspondence, he invited the narrator to visit him and bring along the photographic and recorded evidence he’d sent as proof. When the narrator arrived he was met by a stranger claiming to be Akeley’s friend, and taken to the house where the presumably ill scholar awaited him to whisper reassurances in darkness. Realizing at last that Akeley’s supposed friend was a human ally of the winged creatures who lured him here to get hold of the evidence, the narrator managed to escape. But before leaving, he too made the shocking discovery of a human face and
A few glasses had broken in the kitchen cupboards but the refrigerator’s contents were intact. The electric stove worked, and the faucet in the sink operated normally. Only the jagged crack in the wall above it gave evidence of the quake’s impact here.
In the den, figurines had toppled inside their cabinet; Keith didn’t bother to inspect them. Several of the tribal carvings hung askew on the wall, and the shrunken head no longer dangled.
As it grinned up at him from the floor with sightless, slitted eyes and mocking mouth, another image suddenly superimposed itself upon his vision—the flabby, hideous mask of human flesh that was the face of Simon Waverly.
Then numbness gave way to panic. Turning, Keith opened the liquor cabinet and groped amongst the unbroken contents until he found a brandy bottle.
He carried it into the bedroom, switching on the light to assure himself no harm had been done here. Kicking off his shoes, Keith sank down upon the bed, twisted the seal from the bottle and, for the first time in his life, drank himself into merciful oblivion.
It must have been close to noon when he awoke with a pounding head and a consuming thirst. Aspirin and water helped ease physical distress, but the feeling of panic remained.
Emerging from the bathroom, he went to the nightstand and picked up the phone. He’d already started dialing the police number before he realized the line was dead. Apparently the quake had knocked out service in the area.
Keith moved into the living room and turned on the television set. It functioned, and after a moment of warm-up the welcome image of a commentator filled the screen. He congratulated himself on finding a news broadcast so quickly, then decided that every local channel must be carrying continuous reports of last night’s disaster.
During the next hour he learned enough to piece together a coherent account of the tragedy, which struck the city with 7.1 force on the Richter scale.
The major effects were felt in the downtown area, where great shards of window glass had razored down from tall buildings and shattered storefronts. Luckily the inner city was practically deserted at the time, and few were killed or injured in the streets. But panic prevailed in theaters as fixtures and chandeliers fell; scores had been trampled in the rush to escape. Several hospitals were scenes of calamity, and the destruction in private homes was severe. Fire damage was considerable, although no widespread conflagration was reported. Los Angeles County had been officially declared a disaster area and the National Guard was assisting in the search for victims amidst the hazards of escaping gas and fallen power lines.
Keith turned the volume down and went into the kitchen to make coffee. His head was hurting again, but this was probably due to last night’s blow from falling rubble.
The realization brought with it what he had thus far succeeded in forestalling—a full recollection of the happenings at Waverly’s house.
And with recollection came recognition.
Those final moments in Waverly’s study paralleled Lovecraft’s story. The Whisperer in Darkness.
Even the situation had its similarities. Lovecraft’s narrator became involved with Henry Akeley, a scholar who believed that winged creatures from another planet were hiding in the lonely Vermont hills near his home. Confiding his fears in correspondence, he invited the narrator to visit him and bring along the photographic and recorded evidence he’d sent as proof. When the narrator arrived he was met by a stranger claiming to be Akeley’s friend, and taken to the house where the presumably ill scholar awaited him to whisper reassurances in darkness. Realizing at last that Akeley’s supposed friend was a human ally of the winged creatures who lured him here to get hold of the evidence, the narrator managed to escape. But before leaving, he too made the shocking discovery of a human face and
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