Acolytes of Cthulhu

THROUGH THE ALIEN ANGLE

BY ELWIN G. POWERS

“I’M SORRY, BUT THAT’S ALL THE BOOKS THE LIBRARY HAS ON that subject.” I started to protest to the librarian, but knew at once it would do no good. I should have realized the folly of venturing out on a stormy night to try to get some information from this mausoleum of knowledge, and would have done better to go directly to the University. And with the time the girl had spent in vain searching for my material, the University Library had certainly closed. My final paper on the prehistory of man, due in class tomorrow, was in a sadly incomplete state.

I turned away, wondering whether I dared attempt to find a bookstore which might have remained open this late. But it was unlikely that any ordinary bookstore would have the books I needed. As I stood there, I felt a touch on my arm.

I turned, and looked at an old man who stood there. He came barely to my shoulder, and his white hair and beard made me think that he was a teacher from some local school. But his eyes were what arrested my attention. They were deep-set and dark, and seemed to hold in their depths some hint of dark and forbidden knowledge. I was tempted to rebuff him, but he smiled at me disarmingly.

“They are hopelessly materialistic here,” he said, in a quiet voice. “I heard you asking about certain books. I may be able to help you, and my own small collection is at your disposal if you wish.”

I thanked him. Scorn not the gifts that the gods provide, and I remembered that uncompleted class paper.

“I live a little way from here,” he said, as I nodded my assent. “Is it still raining, as it was? Yes? Well, we will take a cab.”

Almost before I could protest, he had hustled me from the library and into a taxi. He muttered something to the driver, and we whirled away into the dark.

I was almost inclined to withdraw from this singular venture, but I was confident of my ability to take care of myself, and so relaxed, and spent the time watching my companion as the cab sped along.

He seemed to have an indefinable air of antiquity about him, and I observed that he wore a cape—this incongruous garment had previously escaped my notice.

I grew more and more uncomfortable as the minutes passed. But suddenly the cab pulled up before a row of old brownstone houses, and the caped man paid the driver and we alighted.

That part of town was unfamiliar to me, and I stared at the residence with misgivings. But I suddenly caught sight of a police prowl car under a distant street light, and, reassured that help was near if I should need it, I mounted the steps behind my companion.

The room into which we stepped made me gasp, for it was luxuriously furnished, in contrast with the plain exterior of the house. In every corner stood relics, antiques from every corner of the globe. There was a saturnine statuette from Easter Island, a gorgeous Egyptian mummy-case, carved jade figurines, miniature Indian totems, Mayan tablets—and many others.

“Interesting, aren’t they?” the old man said, breaking his silence. I wish I could give his name, but for some reason it never occurred to me to ask it. And I have never been able to find that house again, though I have combed the city several times, looking for it.

The antiquarian in me aroused, I examined several pieces more closely. They were undoubtedly genuine, and worth a small fortune.

“Collected every one myself,” he said. “But come. In the library is what you wish to know.”

He ushered me into another room, and here my astonishment was redoubled. For the walls were lined with books—books of every nature and description. But in spite of my enthusiasm, I could not help feeling that there was something amiss. And after a searching look around, I discovered what it was.

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.