That picture had been painted in 1926—before Lovecraft had written openly of the Cthulhu Cult, and before any member of today’s counter-culture had been born.
Another possibility occurred. In letters and conversations, Lovecraft had often spoken of finding the plots for his stories in dreams. All his life he was subject to vivid nightmares, beyond the wall of sleep.
What really lay behind that wall? Did HPL wander there in other dimensions, a parallel universe? Could he have traveled through time and space in his dreams, traveled to witness visions of the past few days? Had he seen what happened and merely translated it into his fiction, changing the characters and settings?
It was a fantastic hypothesis, and yet if Keith rejected it he faced a final and still more frightening alternative.
Once he’d compared himself to Lovecraft. But suppose there was another comparison? Suppose Keith was like one of the typical characters in Lovecraft’s stories?
He recalled the narrators of such tales: introverted, imaginative, highly neurotic. Often they doubted the validity of their own experiences—admitted that they might be hallucinating, or actually insane.
Was that the real answer? Was all this a product of his own paranoid misinterpretation of normal happenings? How much of what Keith remembered had actually occurred?
There’d been an earthquake, no doubt about that, and he’d sustained a blow on the head while visiting Waverly’s home. But maybe he was suffering from a concussion—in which case he might still be disoriented and imagining past events.
It wasn’t a pleasant theory, but at least it was medically possible—and, if true, there’d be medical help for his condition. Far better that than facing a world of monster-gods and a black brotherhood dedicated to bringing them back to life. In a curious way the conclusion offered comfort, a sense of potential security.
Then Keith’s hand found its way into his jacket pocket, and when he withdrew it all comfort and security vanished.
For here was proof that last night had not been fantasy: he was holding Lovecraft’s crumpled map of the—
“South Pacific—”
The phrase was barely audible as it issued from the mouth of the newscaster on the television screen. Quickly Keith turned up the volume and listened.
“—where latest bulletins indicate earthquake activity equal to or greater than our own disaster last night. Although the shock was felt in Australia and New Zealand, little or no damage has been reported. Seismographs indicate that undersea volcanic eruptions centered in an ocean area south of Pitcairn Island and southeast of Tahiti, approximately near the junction of south latitude 45 and west longitude 125—”
Keith glanced down again, scanning the margins of the map where numerals indicated latitudinal and longitudinal degrees. Then his eyes sought the point where the marked lines intersected.
Even before he found it he knew what he would see. Beneath the crude cross marking the spot, Lovecraft had scrawled a single word— R’lyeh.
Wealth offers certain advantages, particularly in times of stress. Despite the disruption of normal business routine in the quake’s aftermath, it took Keith less than thirty-six hours to set his affairs in order and board the Air France jet for Tahiti.
He’d left the house immediately, packing what he thought he might require and taking refuge in the Bel-Air Hotel. Here he felt safe against intrusion while he made the necessary arrangements with a travel agency and the passport people. His bank sent over the drafts he requested, and through its recommendations he engaged a property-management firm to close the house and maintain its upkeep during his absence. By the time he left, Keith was reasonably certain of security.
Apparently the recent disaster had caused cancellations of many vacation plans, and once airborne, Keith found himself occupying the first-class section of the flight with only a
Another possibility occurred. In letters and conversations, Lovecraft had often spoken of finding the plots for his stories in dreams. All his life he was subject to vivid nightmares, beyond the wall of sleep.
What really lay behind that wall? Did HPL wander there in other dimensions, a parallel universe? Could he have traveled through time and space in his dreams, traveled to witness visions of the past few days? Had he seen what happened and merely translated it into his fiction, changing the characters and settings?
It was a fantastic hypothesis, and yet if Keith rejected it he faced a final and still more frightening alternative.
Once he’d compared himself to Lovecraft. But suppose there was another comparison? Suppose Keith was like one of the typical characters in Lovecraft’s stories?
He recalled the narrators of such tales: introverted, imaginative, highly neurotic. Often they doubted the validity of their own experiences—admitted that they might be hallucinating, or actually insane.
Was that the real answer? Was all this a product of his own paranoid misinterpretation of normal happenings? How much of what Keith remembered had actually occurred?
There’d been an earthquake, no doubt about that, and he’d sustained a blow on the head while visiting Waverly’s home. But maybe he was suffering from a concussion—in which case he might still be disoriented and imagining past events.
It wasn’t a pleasant theory, but at least it was medically possible—and, if true, there’d be medical help for his condition. Far better that than facing a world of monster-gods and a black brotherhood dedicated to bringing them back to life. In a curious way the conclusion offered comfort, a sense of potential security.
Then Keith’s hand found its way into his jacket pocket, and when he withdrew it all comfort and security vanished.
For here was proof that last night had not been fantasy: he was holding Lovecraft’s crumpled map of the—
“South Pacific—”
The phrase was barely audible as it issued from the mouth of the newscaster on the television screen. Quickly Keith turned up the volume and listened.
“—where latest bulletins indicate earthquake activity equal to or greater than our own disaster last night. Although the shock was felt in Australia and New Zealand, little or no damage has been reported. Seismographs indicate that undersea volcanic eruptions centered in an ocean area south of Pitcairn Island and southeast of Tahiti, approximately near the junction of south latitude 45 and west longitude 125—”
Keith glanced down again, scanning the margins of the map where numerals indicated latitudinal and longitudinal degrees. Then his eyes sought the point where the marked lines intersected.
Even before he found it he knew what he would see. Beneath the crude cross marking the spot, Lovecraft had scrawled a single word— R’lyeh.
Wealth offers certain advantages, particularly in times of stress. Despite the disruption of normal business routine in the quake’s aftermath, it took Keith less than thirty-six hours to set his affairs in order and board the Air France jet for Tahiti.
He’d left the house immediately, packing what he thought he might require and taking refuge in the Bel-Air Hotel. Here he felt safe against intrusion while he made the necessary arrangements with a travel agency and the passport people. His bank sent over the drafts he requested, and through its recommendations he engaged a property-management firm to close the house and maintain its upkeep during his absence. By the time he left, Keith was reasonably certain of security.
Apparently the recent disaster had caused cancellations of many vacation plans, and once airborne, Keith found himself occupying the first-class section of the flight with only a
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