IRC-Galleria

No laitetaanpa tännekin vähän Lovecraft-eskiä fiktiota.

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I assume you are curious about the circumstances surrounding the death of Professor Gregory Matheson. I find it my responsibility, as his long-time colleague at the Miskatonic University as well as the last person to see him alive, to relate to you my experiences leading to that tragic event, and perhaps that would allow some peace of mind to myself.

It all transpired during the course of one evening two months ago, as you might well be aware of, more or less in detail. I had arrived in the town of Dunwich, as we were to conduct a study on witchcraft in said town, histories of which date back to as early as the 17th century and span a time frame of nearly three centuries. We had leased an old farmstead for lodgings, a sturdy house along the Miskatonic. A kitchen and a large sitting room in the first floor and a bedchamber in the small second floor. We had, at first, tried to procure a lease on the fabled Whateley farm, but soon found out it had been torn down some twenty years ago, after the incident the villagers call "the Dunwich Horror"; a tremendous pity, since the Whateley family were presumably a pivotal force in the birth of the Dunwich witchcraft lore.

So, in this house, other than our first choice, the Whateley farm, I awaited the arrival of my colleague, Professor Matheson, whose departure from Arkham had been delayed somewhat. Meanwhile, I'd done grocery shopping and learned that the shopkeeper was, in fact, related to the very same Whateleys considered to be witches. He'd said his father was a cousin of one Wilbur Whateley, a child prodigy, who was eventually found dead at the Miskatonic University library shortly before "the Dunwich Horror" transpired. More, he would not say, and turned agitated and exceedingly furtive as I pressed on with my questions. Realizing that this was the only place we could acquire supplies, I gave up with the questions fairly quickly, so as not to enrage the man. This errand completed, I settled in the house, lit up the fireplace and waited.

Shortly before midnight, Professor Matheson arrived. He was seemingly upset as he rushed in the door and slammed it shut behind him. He was white-faced and sweating profusely. I tried to ask him what the matter was, but he kept telling me to be quiet and peeking outside between the curtains. It took him close to half an hour to calm down enough to tell me what had happened to him on his way.

There had been a fog and though he had driven cautiously, he had hit something with his car. He got out to see what it was, only to find a cat lying there, on the road. This all seemed very common to me, we were, after all, in the countryside, but he insisted that the impact had felt as though it had been something larger. But that wasn't what had frightened him. As he had stood there, gazing at the dead cat, he started to hear noises from the woods by the road. Twigs cracking, foliage moving, like something was approaching. And that's when the real fright began. A roar, a yowl from the lungs of hell, perhaps from a legion of lungs, sounded from the woods. Professor Matheson promptly rushed back inside his car and sped away at full speed. How he managed to navigate those dark, winding roads at that speed without crashing, especially in a fog, I cannot tell. I was, however, glad to see him alive and well, if a bit frightened, and therefore didn't think much of it. I was just about to fetch my colleague a glass of water, when we heard a rustling outside the windows.

"Quick, lock the door and block the windows! It's after me!" screamed Professor Matheson. With the eerie feeling I had gotten while he told me his story, I did not hesitate to act, but did as he told. I locked the door and we moved tables and cupboards in front of the windows, and not a moment too early, for nearly as soon as all the blocks were in place, we could hear the sound of breaking glass. After that, a furious rustling, as if dozens of beasts were scratching and gnawing on the hardwood of the antiquated rustic furniture. At this point, I had reached the end of my nerves and simply sat down on a couch and whimpered, as my friend spun frantically around in the center of the room. Then, a roar, such as my companion had described, sounded from outside and I was effectively petrified, even as I heard the sound of something clambering up on the roof and the windows to the bedchamber breaking. I remained petrified as my friend pulled out a revolver and raced up the stairs.

What happened next is somewhat cloudy, even in my memory. I seem to recall a single gunshot, then more of the same roaring, and screams, undoubtedly emitted by poor Professor Matheson. These noises persisted for some time, after which a clambering and rustling sounded from the roof, as if some dozens of beasts were pouring out of the bedchamber windows and running down along the shingles. Through all this, I remained petrified in my seat. I dared not move even when the sounds stopped altogether. I dared not move when a single cat appeared in my sight, climbing down the stairs and coming to a halt at my feet. I dared not move when the cat jumped in my lap and purred. I don't know how long it sat there, but I dared not move until it left. As I watched it disappear up the stairs, I quickly got up from the couch, unlocked the door and slipped outside.

It was a moonlit night and I could discern no living things anywhere around as I made my way to my car as quietly as possible. Having reached my car, I drove away as fast as I could, arriving back in Arkham by the first rays of light. I called the police, telling them that my friend and colleague had possibly succumbed to an assault by an unknown perpetrator, after which I simply slumped into my bed, falling asleep almost instantly, with my clothes still on.

I woke up to a phone call from the police. They had found the remains of Professor Matheson, but had promptly ruled out foul play. The Professor, they told me, appeared to have been mauled to death by cats, albeit a great many cats. To corroborate this story, they had also found the body of one cat, shot to death; the one gunshot I had heard. It wasn't until this that I made the connection in my head. I had read many a curious tome of forgotten lore at the Miskatonic University library, and I'd heard mention of the ancient law: "in the land of Ulthar, no man may kill a cat", a decree not wholly unlike, save for in severity of its consequences, to the Hindu proscription to kill a cow. What I had not imagined, was that Ulthar could, in fact, be a place on the face of the earth, a place known to Americans as Dunwich.