The Dreams in the Witch House By H. P. Lovecraft

Whether the dreams brought on the fever or the fever brought on the dreams Walter
Gilman did not know. Behind everything crouched the brooding, festering horror of the
ancient town, and of the mouldy, unhallowed garret gable where he wrote and studied and
wrestled with figures and formulae when he was not tossing on the meagre iron bed. His
ears were growing sensitive to a preternatural and intolerable degree, and he had long ago
stopped the cheap mantel clock whose ticking had come to seem like a thunder of artillery.
At night the subtle stirring of the black city outside, the sinister scurrying of rats in the
wormy partitions, and the creaking of hidden timbers in the centuried house, were enough
to give him a sense of strident pandemonium. The darkness always teemed with
unexplained sound—and yet he sometimes shook with fear lest the noises he heard should
subside and allow him to hear certain other, fainter, noises which he suspected were lurking
behind them.

He was in the changeless, legend-haunted city of Arkham, with its clustering gambrel roofs
that sway and sag over attics where witches hid from the King’s men in the dark, olden days
of the Province. Nor was any spot in that city more steeped in macabre memory than the
gable room which harboured him—for it was this house and this room which had likewise
harboured old Keziah Mason, whose flight from Salem Gaol at the last no one was ever
able to explain. That was in 1692—the gaoler had gone mad and babbled of a small, white-
fanged furry thing which scuttled out of Keziah’s cell, and not even Cotton Mather could
explain the curves and angles smeared on the grey stone walls with some red, sticky fluid.

Possibly Gilman ought not to have studied so hard. Non-Euclidean calculus and quantum
physics are enough to stretch any brain; and when one mixes them with folklore, and tries
to trace a strange background of multi-dimensional reality behind the ghoulish hints of the
Gothic tales and the wild whispers of the chimney-corner, one can hardly expect to be
wholly free from mental tension. Gilman came from Haverhill, but it was only after he had
entered college in Arkham that he began to connect his mathematics with the fantastic
legends of elder magic. Something in the air of the hoary town worked obscurely on his

The professors at Miskatonic had urged him to slacken up, and had voluntarily cut down his
course at several points. Moreover, they had stopped him from consulting the dubious old
books on forbidden secrets that were kept under lock and key in a vault at the university
library. But all these precautions came late in the day, so that Gilman had some terrible
hints from the dreaded Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred, the fragmentary Book of Eibon,
and the suppressed Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Junzt to correlate with his abstract
formulae on the properties of space and the linkage of dimensions known and unknown.

He knew his room was in the old Witch House—that, indeed, was why he had taken it.
There was much in the Essex County records about Keziah Mason’s trial, and what she had
admitted under pressure to the Court of Oyer and Terminer had fascinated Gilman beyond
all reason. She had told Judge Hathorne of lines and curves that could be made to point
out directions leading through the walls of space to other spaces beyond, and had implied
that such lines and curves were frequently used at certain midnight meetings in the dark
valley of the white stone beyond Meadow Hill and on the unpeopled island in the river. She
had spoken also of the Black Man, of her oath, and of her new secret name of Nahab. Then
she had drawn those devices on the walls of her cell and vanished.

Gilman believed strange things about Keziah, and had felt a queer thrill on learning that her
dwelling was still standing after more than 235 years. When he heard the hushed Arkham
whispers about Keziah’s persistent presence in the old house and the narrow streets, about
the irregular human tooth-marks left on certain sleepers in that and other houses, about
the childish cries heard near May-Eve, and Hallowmass, about the stench often noted in the
old house’s attic just after those dreaded seasons, and about the small, furry, sharp-
toothed thing which haunted the mouldering structure and the town and nuzzled people
curiously in the black hours before dawn, he resolved to live in the place at any cost. A
room was easy to secure; for the house was unpopular, hard to rent, and long given over to
cheap lodgings. Gilman could not have told what he expected to find there, but he knew he
wanted to be in the building where some circumstance had more or less suddenly given a
mediocre old woman of the seventeenth century an insight into mathematical depths
perhaps beyond the utmost modern delvings of Planck, Heisenberg, Einstein, and de Sitter.

He studied the timber and plaster walls for traces of cryptic designs at every accessible
spot where the paper had peeled, and within a week managed to get the eastern attic room
where Keziah was held to have practiced her spells. It had been vacant from the first—for
no one had ever been willing to stay there long—but the Polish landlord had grown wary
about renting it. Yet nothing whatever happened to Gilman till about the time of the fever.
No ghostly Keziah flitted through the sombre halls and chambers, no small furry thing crept
into his dismal eyrie to nuzzle him, and no record of the witch’s incantations rewarded his
constant search.

Sometimes he would take walks through shadowy tangles of unpaved musty-smelling lanes
where eldritch brown houses of unknown age leaned and tottered and leered mockingly
through narrow, small-paned windows. Here he knew strange things had happened once,
and there was a faint suggestion behind the surface that everything of that monstrous past
might not—at least in the darkest, narrowest, and most intricately crooked alleys—have
utterly perished. He also rowed out twice to the ill-regarded island in the river, and made a
sketch of the singular angles described by the moss-grown rows of grey standing stones
whose origin was so obscure and immemorial.

Gilman’s room was of good size but queerly irregular shape; the north wall slanting
perceptibly inward from the outer to the inner end, while the low ceiling slanted gently
downward in the same direction. Aside from an obvious rat-hole and the signs of other
stopped-up ones, there was no access—nor any appearance of a former avenue of
access—to the space which must have existed between the slanting wall and the straight
outer wall on the house’s north side, though a view from the exterior shewed where a
window had been boarded up at a very remote date. The loft above the ceiling—which must
have had a slanting floor—was likewise inaccessible. When Gilman climbed up a ladder to
the cobwebbed level loft above the rest of the attic he found vestiges of a bygone aperture
tightly and heavily covered with ancient planking and secured by the stout wooden pegs
common in colonial carpentry. No amount of persuasion, however, could induce the stolid
landlord to let him investigate either of these two closed spaces.

As time wore along, his absorption in the irregular wall and ceiling of his room increased; for
he began to read into the odd angles a mathematical significance which seemed to offer
vague clues regarding their purpose. Old Keziah, he reflected, might have had excellent
reasons for living in a room with peculiar angles; for was it not through certain angles that
she claimed to have gone outside the boundaries of the world of space we know? His
interest gradually veered away from the unplumbed voids beyond the slanting surfaces,
since it now appeared that the purpose of those surfaces concerned the side he was
already on.

The touch of brain-fever and the dreams began early in February. For some time,
apparently, the curious angles of Gilman’s room had been having a strange, almost
hypnotic effect on him; and as the bleak winter advanced he had found himself staring
more and more intently at the corner where the down-slanting ceiling met the inward-
slanting wall. About this period his inability to concentrate on his formal studies worried him
considerably, his apprehensions about the mid-year examinations being very acute. But the
exaggerated sense of hearing was scarcely less annoying. Life had become an insistent
and almost unendurable cacophony, and there was that constant, terrifying impression of
other sounds—perhaps from regions beyond life—trembling on the very brink of audibility.
So far as concrete noises went, the rats in the ancient partitions were the worst. Sometimes
their scratching seemed not only furtive but deliberate. When it came from beyond the
slanting north wall it was mixed with a sort of dry rattling—and when it came from the
century-closed loft above the slanting ceiling Gilman always braced himself as if expecting
some horror which only bided its time before descending to engulf him utterly.

The dreams were wholly beyond the pale of sanity, and Gilman felt that they must be a
result, jointly, of his studies in mathematics and in folklore. He had been thinking too much
about the vague regions which his formulae told him must lie beyond the three dimensions
we know, and about the possibility that old Keziah Mason—guided by some influence past
all conjecture—had actually found the gate to those regions. The yellowed county records
containing her testimony and that of her accusers were so damnably suggestive of things
beyond human experience—and the descriptions of the darting little furry object which
served as her familiar were so painfully realistic despite their incredible details.

That object—no larger than a good-sized rat and quaintly called by the townspeople “Brown
Jenkin”—seemed to have been the fruit of a remarkable case of sympathetic herd-delusion,
for in 1692 no less than eleven persons had testified to glimpsing it. There were recent
rumours, too, with a baffling and disconcerting amount of agreement. Witnesses said it had
long hair and the shape of a rat, but that its sharp-toothed, bearded face was evilly human
while its paws were like tiny human hands. It took messages betwixt old Keziah and the
devil, and was nursed on the witch’s blood—which it sucked like a vampire. Its voice was a
kind of loathsome titter, and it could speak all languages. Of all the bizarre monstrosities in
Gilman’s dreams, nothing filled him with greater panic and nausea than this blasphemous
and diminutive hybrid, whose image flitted across his vision in a form a thousandfold more
hateful than anything his waking mind had deduced from the ancient records and the
modern whispers.

Gilman’s dreams consisted largely in plunges through limitless abysses of inexplicably
coloured twilight and bafflingly disordered sound; abysses whose material and gravitational
properties, and whose relation to his own entity, he could not even begin to explain. He did
not walk or climb, fly or swim, crawl or wriggle; yet always experienced a mode of motion
partly voluntary and partly involuntary. Of his own condition he could not well judge, for
sight of his arms, legs, and torso seemed always cut off by some odd disarrangement of
perspective; but he felt that his physical organisation and faculties were somehow
marvellously transmuted and obliquely projected—though not without a certain grotesque
relationship to his normal proportions and properties.

The abysses were by no means vacant, being crowded with indescribably angled masses of
alien-hued substance, some of which appeared to be organic while others seemed
inorganic. A few of the organic objects tended to awake vague memories in the back of his
mind, though he could form no conscious idea of what they mockingly resembled or
suggested. In the later dreams he began to distinguish separate categories into which the
organic objects appeared to be divided, and which seemed to involve in each case a
radically different species of conduct-pattern and basic motivation. Of these categories one
seemed to him to include objects slightly less illogical and irrelevant in their motions than
the members of the other categories.

All the objects—organic and inorganic alike—were totally beyond description or even
comprehension. Gilman sometimes compared the inorganic masses to prisms, labyrinths,
clusters of cubes and planes, and Cyclopean buildings; and the organic things struck him
variously as groups of bubbles, octopi, centipedes, living Hindoo idols, and intricate
Arabesques roused into a kind of ophidian animation. Everything he saw was unspeakably
menacing and horrible; and whenever one of the organic entities appeared by its motions
to be noticing him, he felt a stark, hideous fright which generally jolted him awake. Of how
the organic entities moved, he could tell no more than of how he moved himself. In time he
observed a further mystery—the tendency of certain entities to appear suddenly out of
empty space, or to disappear totally with equal suddenness. The shrieking, roaring
confusion of sound which permeated the abysses was past all analysis as to pitch, timbre,
or rhythm; but seemed to be synchronous with vague visual changes in all the indefinite
objects, organic and inorganic alike. Gilman had a constant sense of dread that it might rise
to some unbearable degree of intensity during one or another of its obscure, relentlessly
inevitable fluctuations.

But it was not in these vortices of complete alienage that he saw Brown Jenkin. That
shocking little horror was reserved for certain lighter, sharper dreams which assailed him
just before he dropped into the fullest depths of sleep. He would be lying in the dark fighting
to keep awake when a faint lambent glow would seem to shimmer around the centuried
room, shewing in a violet mist the convergence of angled planes which had seized his brain
so insidiously. The horror would appear to pop out of the rat-hole in the corner and patter
toward him over the sagging, wide-planked floor with evil expectancy in its tiny, bearded
human face—but mercifully, this dream always melted away before the object got close
enough to nuzzle him. It had hellishly long, sharp, canine teeth. Gilman tried to stop up the
rat-hole every day, but each night the real tenants of the partitions would gnaw away the
obstruction, whatever it might be. Once he had the landlord nail tin over it, but the next
night the rats gnawed a fresh hole—in making which they pushed or dragged out into the
room a curious little fragment of bone.

Gilman did not report his fever to the doctor, for he knew he could not pass the
examinations if ordered to the college infirmary when every moment was needed for
cramming. As it was, he failed in Calculus D and Advanced General Psychology, though not
without hope of making up lost ground before the end of the term. It was in March when the
fresh element entered his lighter preliminary dreaming, and the nightmare shape of Brown
Jenkin began to be companioned by the nebulous blur which grew more and more to
resemble a bent old woman. This addition disturbed him more than he could account for,
but finally he decided that it was like an ancient crone whom he had twice actually
encountered in the dark tangle of lanes near the abandoned wharves. On those occasions
the evil, sardonic, and seemingly unmotivated stare of the beldame had set him almost
shivering—especially the first time, when an overgrown rat darting across the shadowed
mouth of a neighbouring alley had made him think irrationally of Brown Jenkin. Now, he
reflected, those nervous fears were being mirrored in his disordered dreams.

That the influence of the old house was unwholesome, he could not deny; but traces of his
early morbid interest still held him there. He argued that the fever alone was responsible for
his nightly phantasies, and that when the touch abated he would be free from the
monstrous visions. Those visions, however, were of abhorrent vividness and
convincingness, and whenever he awaked he retained a vague sense of having undergone
much more than he remembered. He was hideously sure that in unrecalled dreams he had
talked with both Brown Jenkin and the old woman, and that they had been urging him to go
somewhere with them and to meet a third being of greater potency.

Toward the end of March he began to pick up in his mathematics, though other studies
bothered him increasingly. He was getting an intuitive knack for solving Riemannian
equations, and astonished Professor Upham by his comprehension of fourth-dimensional
and other problems which had floored all the rest of the class. One afternoon there was a
discussion of possible freakish curvatures in space, and of theoretical points of approach
or even contact between our part of the cosmos and various other regions as distant as the
farthest stars or the trans-galactic gulfs themselves—or even as fabulously remote as the
tentatively conceivable cosmic units beyond the whole Einsteinian space-time continuum.
Gilman’s handling of this theme filled everyone with admiration, even though some of his
hypothetical illustrations caused an increase in the always plentiful gossip about his
nervous and solitary eccentricity. What made the students shake their heads was his sober
theory that a man might—given mathematical knowledge admittedly beyond all likelihood of
human acquirement—step deliberately from the earth to any other celestial body which
might lie at one of an infinity of specific points in the cosmic pattern.

Such a step, he said, would require only two stages; first, a passage out of the three-
dimensional sphere we know, and second, a passage back to the three-dimensional sphere
at another point, perhaps one of infinite remoteness. That this could be accomplished
without loss of life was in many cases conceivable. Any being from any part of three-
dimensional space could probably survive in the fourth dimension; and its survival of the
second stage would depend upon what alien part of three-dimensional space it might select
for its re-entry. Denizens of some planets might be able to live on certain others—even
planets belonging to other galaxies, or to similar-dimensional phases of other space-time
continua—though of course there must be vast numbers of mutually uninhabitable even
though mathematically juxtaposed bodies or zones of space.

It was also possible that the inhabitants of a given dimensional realm could survive entry to
many unknown and incomprehensible realms of additional or indefinitely multiplied
dimensions—be they within or outside the given space-time continuum—and that the
converse would be likewise true. This was a matter for speculation, though one could be
fairly certain that the type of mutation involved in a passage from any given dimensional
plane to the next higher plane would not be destructive of biological integrity as we
understand it. Gilman could not be very clear about his reasons for this last assumption,
but his haziness here was more than overbalanced by his clearness on other complex
points. Professor Upham especially liked his demonstration of the kinship of higher
mathematics to certain phases of magical lore transmitted down the ages from an ineffable
antiquity—human or pre-human—whose knowledge of the cosmos and its laws was greater
than ours.

Around the first of April Gilman worried considerably because his slow fever did not abate.
He was also troubled by what some of his fellow-lodgers said about his sleep-walking. It
seemed that he was often absent from his bed, and that the creaking of his floor at certain
hours of the night was remarked by the man in the room below. This fellow also spoke of
hearing the tread of shod feet in the night; but Gilman was sure he must have been
mistaken in this, since shoes as well as other apparel were always precisely in place in the
morning. One could develop all sorts of aural delusions in this morbid old house—for did
not Gilman himself, even in daylight, now feel certain that noises other than rat-scratchings
came from the black voids beyond the slanting wall and above the slanting ceiling? His
pathologically sensitive ears began to listen for faint footfalls in the immemorially sealed loft
overhead, and sometimes the illusion of such things was agonisingly realistic.

However, he knew that he had actually become a somnambulist; for twice at night his room
had been found vacant, though with all his clothing in place. Of this he had been assured
by Frank Elwood, the one fellow-student whose poverty forced him to room in this squalid
and unpopular house. Elwood had been studying in the small hours and had come up for
help on a differential equation, only to find Gilman absent. It had been rather presumptuous
of him to open the unlocked door after knocking had failed to rouse a response, but he had
needed the help very badly and thought that his host would not mind a gentle prodding
awake. On neither occasion, though, had Gilman been there—and when told of the matter
he wondered where he could have been wandering, barefoot and with only his night-clothes
on. He resolved to investigate the matter if reports of his sleep-walking continued, and
thought of sprinkling flour on the floor of the corridor to see where his footsteps might lead.
The door was the only conceivable egress, for there was no possible foothold outside the
narrow window.

As April advanced Gilman’s fever-sharpened ears were disturbed by the whining prayers of
a superstitious loomfixer named Joe Mazurewicz, who had a room on the ground floor.
Mazurewicz had told long, rambling stories about the ghost of old Keziah and the furry,
sharp-fanged, nuzzling thing, and had said he was so badly haunted at times that only his
silver crucifix—given him for the purpose by Father Iwanicki of St. Stanislaus’ Church—
could bring him relief. Now he was praying because the Witches’ Sabbath was drawing
near. May-Eve was Walpurgis-Night, when hell’s blackest evil roamed the earth and all the
slaves of Satan gathered for nameless rites and deeds. It was always a very bad time in
Arkham, even though the fine folks up in Miskatonic Avenue and High and Saltonstall
Streets pretended to know nothing about it. There would be bad doings—and a child or two
would probably be missing. Joe knew about such things, for his grandmother in the old
country had heard tales from her grandmother. It was wise to pray and count one’s beads
at this season. For three months Keziah and Brown Jenkin had not been near Joe’s room,
nor near Paul Choynski’s room, nor anywhere else—and it meant no good when they held
off like that. They must be up to something.

Gilman dropped in at a doctor’s office on the 16th of the month, and was surprised to find
his temperature was not as high as he had feared. The physician questioned him sharply,
and advised him to see a nerve specialist. On reflection, he was glad he had not consulted
the still more inquisitive college doctor. Old Waldron, who had curtailed his activities before,
would have made him take a rest—an impossible thing now that he was so close to great
results in his equations. He was certainly near the boundary between the known universe
and the fourth dimension, and who could say how much farther he might go?

But even as these thoughts came to him he wondered at the source of his strange
confidence. Did all of this perilous sense of imminence come from the formulae on the
sheets he covered day by day? The soft, stealthy, imaginary footsteps in the sealed loft
above were unnerving. And now, too, there was a growing feeling that somebody was
constantly persuading him to do something terrible which he could not do. How about the
somnambulism? Where did he go sometimes in the night? And what was that faint
suggestion of sound which once in a while seemed to trickle through the maddening
confusion of identifiable sounds even in broad daylight and full wakefulness? Its rhythm did
not correspond to anything on earth, unless perhaps to the cadence of one or two
unmentionable Sabbat-chants, and sometimes he feared it corresponded to certain
attributes of the vague shrieking or roaring in those wholly alien abysses of dream.

The dreams were meanwhile getting to be atrocious. In the lighter preliminary phase the evil
old woman was now of fiendish distinctness, and Gilman knew she was the one who had
frightened him in the slums. Her bent back, long nose, and shrivelled chin were
unmistakable, and her shapeless brown garments were like those he remembered. The
expression on her face was one of hideous malevolence and exultation, and when he
awaked he could recall a croaking voice that persuaded and threatened. He must meet the
Black Man, and go with them all to the throne of Azathoth at the centre of ultimate Chaos.
That was what she said. He must sign in his own blood the book of Azathoth and take a new
secret name now that his independent delvings had gone so far. What kept him from going
with her and Brown Jenkin and the other to the throne of Chaos where the thin flutes pipe
mindlessly was the fact that he had seen the name “Azathoth” in the Necronomicon, and
knew it stood for a primal evil too horrible for description.

The old woman always appeared out of thin air near the corner where the downward slant
met the inward slant. She seemed to crystallise at a point closer to the ceiling than to the
floor, and every night she was a little nearer and more distinct before the dream shifted.
Brown Jenkin, too, was always a little nearer at the last, and its yellowish-white fangs
glistened shockingly in that unearthly violet phosphorescence. Its shrill loathsome tittering
stuck more and more in Gilman’s head, and he could remember in the morning how it had
pronounced the words “Azathoth” and “Nyarlathotep”.

In the deeper dreams everything was likewise more distinct, and Gilman felt that the twilight
abysses around him were those of the fourth dimension. Those organic entities whose
motions seemed least flagrantly irrelevant and unmotivated were probably projections of life-
forms from our own planet, including human beings. What the others were in their own
dimensional sphere or spheres he dared not try to think. Two of the less irrelevantly moving
things—a rather large congeries of iridescent, prolately spheroidal bubbles and a very
much smaller polyhedron of unknown colours and rapidly shifting surface angles—seemed
to take notice of him and follow him about or float ahead as he changed position among the
titan prisms, labyrinths, cube-and-plane clusters, and quasi-buildings; and all the while the
vague shrieking and roaring waxed louder and louder, as if approaching some monstrous
climax of utterly unendurable intensity.

During the night of April 19–20 the new development occurred. Gilman was half-
involuntarily moving about in the twilight abysses with the bubble-mass and the small
polyhedron floating ahead, when he noticed the peculiarly regular angles formed by the
edges of some gigantic neighbouring prism-clusters. In another second he was out of the
abyss and standing tremulously on a rocky hillside bathed in intense, diffused green light.
He was barefooted and in his night-clothes, and when he tried to walk discovered that he
could scarcely lift his feet. A swirling vapour hid everything but the immediate sloping terrain
from sight, and he shrank from the thought of the sounds that might surge out of that

Then he saw the two shapes laboriously crawling toward him—the old woman and the little
furry thing. The crone strained up to her knees and managed to cross her arms in a
singular fashion, while Brown Jenkin pointed in a certain direction with a horribly anthropoid
fore paw which it raised with evident difficulty. Spurred by an impulse he did not originate,
Gilman dragged himself forward along a course determined by the angle of the old woman’s
arms and the direction of the small monstrosity’s paw, and before he had shuffled three
steps he was back in the twilight abysses. Geometrical shapes seethed around him, and he
fell dizzily and interminably. At last he woke in his bed in the crazily angled garret of the
eldritch old house.
He was good for nothing that morning, and stayed away from all his classes. Some
unknown attraction was pulling his eyes in a seemingly irrelevant direction, for he could not
help staring at a certain vacant spot on the floor. As the day advanced the focus of his
unseeing eyes changed position, and by noon he had conquered the impulse to stare at
vacancy. About two o’clock he went out for lunch, and as he threaded the narrow lanes of
the city he found himself turning always to the southeast. Only an effort halted him at a
cafeteria in Church Street, and after the meal he felt the unknown pull still more strongly.

He would have to consult a nerve specialist after all—perhaps there was a connexion with
his somnambulism—but meanwhile he might at least try to break the morbid spell himself.
Undoubtedly he could still manage to walk away from the pull; so with great resolution he
headed against it and dragged himself deliberately north along Garrison Street. By the time
he had reached the bridge over the Miskatonic he was in a cold perspiration, and he
clutched at the iron railing as he gazed upstream at the ill-regarded island whose regular
lines of ancient standing stones brooded sullenly in the afternoon sunlight.

Then he gave a start. For there was a clearly visible living figure on that desolate island,
and a second glance told him it was certainly the strange old woman whose sinister aspect
had worked itself so disastrously into his dreams. The tall grass near her was moving, too,
as if some other living thing were crawling close to the ground. When the old woman began
to turn toward him he fled precipitately off the bridge and into the shelter of the town’s
labyrinthine waterfront alleys. Distant though the island was, he felt that a monstrous and
invincible evil could flow from the sardonic stare of that bent, ancient figure in brown.

The southeastward pull still held, and only with tremendous resolution could Gilman drag
himself into the old house and up the rickety stairs. For hours he sat silent and aimless,
with his eyes shifting gradually westward. About six o’clock his sharpened ears caught the
whining prayers of Joe Mazurewicz two floors below, and in desperation he seized his hat
and walked out into the sunset-golden streets, letting the now directly southward pull carry
him where it might. An hour later darkness found him in the open fields beyond Hangman’s
Brook, with the glimmering spring stars shining ahead. The urge to walk was gradually
changing to an urge to leap mystically into space, and suddenly he realised just where the
source of the pull lay.

It was in the sky. A definite point among the stars had a claim on him and was calling him.
Apparently it was a point somewhere between Hydra and Argo Navis, and he knew that he
had been urged toward it ever since he had awaked soon after dawn. In the morning it had
been underfoot; afternoon found it rising in the southeast, and now it was roughly south but
wheeling toward the west. What was the meaning of this new thing? Was he going mad?
How long would it last? Again mustering his resolution, Gilman turned and dragged himself
back to the sinister old house.

Mazurewicz was waiting for him at the door, and seemed both anxious and reluctant to
whisper some fresh bit of superstition. It was about the witch light. Joe had been out
celebrating the night before—it was Patriots’ Day in Massachusetts—and had come home
after midnight. Looking up at the house from outside, he had thought at first that Gilman’s
window was dark; but then he had seen the faint violet glow within. He wanted to warn the
gentleman about that glow, for everybody in Arkham knew it was Keziah’s witch light which
played near Brown Jenkin and the ghost of the old crone herself. He had not mentioned this
before, but now he must tell about it because it meant that Keziah and her long-toothed
familiar were haunting the young gentleman. Sometimes he and Paul Choynski and
Landlord Dombrowski thought they saw that light seeping out of cracks in the sealed loft
above the young gentleman’s room, but they had all agreed not to talk about that. However,
it would be better for the gentleman to take another room and get a crucifix from some good
priest like Father Iwanicki.

As the man rambled on Gilman felt a nameless panic clutch at his throat. He knew that Joe
must have been half drunk when he came home the night before, yet this mention of a
violet light in the garret window was of frightful import. It was a lambent glow of this sort
which always played about the old woman and the small furry thing in those lighter, sharper
dreams which prefaced his plunge into unknown abysses, and the thought that a wakeful
second person could see the dream-luminance was utterly beyond sane harbourage. Yet
where had the fellow got such an odd notion? Had he himself talked as well as walked
around the house in his sleep? No, Joe said, he had not—but he must check up on this.
Perhaps Frank Elwood could tell him something, though he hated to ask.

Fever—wild dreams—somnambulism—illusions of sounds—a pull toward a point in the
sky—and now a suspicion of insane sleep-talking! He must stop studying, see a nerve
specialist, and take himself in hand. When he climbed to the second story he paused at
Elwood’s door but saw that the other youth was out. Reluctantly he continued up to his
garret room and sat down in the dark. His gaze was still pulled to the southwest, but he also
found himself listening intently for some sound in the closed loft above, and half imagining
that an evil violet light seeped down through an infinitesimal crack in the low, slanting ceiling.

That night as Gilman slept the violet light broke upon him with heightened intensity, and the
old witch and small furry thing—getting closer than ever before—mocked him with inhuman
squeals and devilish gestures. He was glad to sink into the vaguely roaring twilight abysses,
though the pursuit of that iridescent bubble-congeries and that kaleidoscopic little
polyhedron was menacing and irritating. Then came the shift as vast converging planes of
a slippery-looking substance loomed above and below him—a shift which ended in a flash
of delirium and a blaze of unknown, alien light in which yellow, carmine, and indigo were
madly and inextricably blended.

He was half lying on a high, fantastically balustraded terrace above a boundless jungle of
outlandish, incredible peaks, balanced planes, domes, minarets, horizontal discs poised on
pinnacles, and numberless forms of still greater wildness—some of stone and some of
metal—which glittered gorgeously in the mixed, almost blistering glare from a polychromatic
sky. Looking upward he saw three stupendous discs of flame, each of a different hue, and
at a different height above an infinitely distant curving horizon of low mountains. Behind him
tiers of higher terraces towered aloft as far as he could see. The city below stretched away
to the limits of vision, and he hoped that no sound would well up from it.

The pavement from which he easily raised himself was of a veined, polished stone beyond
his power to identify, and the tiles were cut in bizarre-angled shapes which struck him as
less asymmetrical than based on some unearthly symmetry whose laws he could not
comprehend. The balustrade was chest-high, delicate, and fantastically wrought, while
along the rail were ranged at short intervals little figures of grotesque design and exquisite
workmanship. They, like the whole balustrade, seemed to be made of some sort of shining
metal whose colour could not be guessed in this chaos of mixed effulgences; and their
nature utterly defied conjecture. They represented some ridged, barrel-shaped object with
thin horizontal arms radiating spoke-like from a central ring, and with vertical knobs or bulbs
projecting from the head and base of the barrel. Each of these knobs was the hub of a
system of five long, flat, triangularly tapering arms arranged around it like the arms of a
starfish—nearly horizontal, but curving slightly away from the central barrel. The base of
the bottom knob was fused to the long railing with so delicate a point of contact that several
figures had been broken off and were missing. The figures were about four and a half
inches in height, while the spiky arms gave them a maximum diameter of about two and a
half inches.

When Gilman stood up the tiles felt hot to his bare feet. He was wholly alone, and his first
act was to walk to the balustrade and look dizzily down at the endless, Cyclopean city
almost two thousand feet below. As he listened he thought a rhythmic confusion of faint
musical pipings covering a wide tonal range welled up from the narrow streets beneath, and
he wished he might discern the denizens of the place. The sight turned him giddy after a
while, so that he would have fallen to the pavement had he not clutched instinctively at the
lustrous balustrade. His right hand fell on one of the projecting figures, the touch seeming
to steady him slightly. It was too much, however, for the exotic delicacy of the metal-work,
and the spiky figure snapped off under his grasp. Still half-dazed, he continued to clutch it
as his other hand seized a vacant space on the smooth railing.

But now his oversensitive ears caught something behind him, and he looked back across
the level terrace. Approaching him softly though without apparent furtiveness were five
figures, two of which were the sinister old woman and the fanged, furry little animal. The
other three were what sent him unconscious—for they were living entities about eight feet
high, shaped precisely like the spiky images on the balustrade, and propelling themselves
by a spider-like wriggling of their lower set of starfish-arms.

Gilman awakened in his bed, drenched by a cold perspiration and with a smarting sensation
in his face, hands, and feet. Springing to the floor, he washed and dressed in frantic haste,
as if it were necessary for him to get out of the house as quickly as possible. He did not
know where he wished to go, but felt that once more he would have to sacrifice his classes.
The odd pull toward that spot in the sky between Hydra and Argo had abated, but another
of even greater strength had taken its place. Now he felt that he must go north—infinitely
north. He dreaded to cross the bridge that gave a view of the desolate island in the
Miskatonic, so went over the Peabody Avenue bridge. Very often he stumbled, for his eyes
and ears were chained to an extremely lofty point in the blank blue sky.

After about an hour he got himself under better control, and saw that he was far from the
city. All around him stretched the bleak emptiness of salt marshes, while the narrow road
ahead led to Innsmouth—that ancient, half-deserted town which Arkham people were so
curiously unwilling to visit. Though the northward pull had not diminished, he resisted it as
he had resisted the other pull, and finally found that he could almost balance the one
against the other. Plodding back to town and getting some coffee at a soda fountain, he
dragged himself into the public library and browsed aimlessly among the lighter magazines.
Once he met some friends who remarked how oddly sunburned he looked, but he did not
tell them of his walk. At three o’clock he took some lunch at a restaurant, noting meanwhile
that the pull had either lessened or divided itself. After that he killed the time at a cheap
cinema show, seeing the inane performance over and over again without paying any
attention to it.

About nine at night he drifted homeward and stumbled into the ancient house. Joe
Mazurewicz was whining unintelligible prayers, and Gilman hastened up to his own garret
chamber without pausing to see if Elwood was in. It was when he turned on the feeble
electric light that the shock came. At once he saw there was something on the table which
did not belong there, and a second look left no room for doubt. Lying on its side—for it
could not stand up alone—was the exotic spiky figure which in his monstrous dream he had
broken off the fantastic balustrade. No detail was missing. The ridged, barrel-shaped
centre, the thin, radiating arms, the knobs at each end, and the flat, slightly outward-
curving starfish-arms spreading from those knobs—all were there. In the electric light the
colour seemed to be a kind of iridescent grey veined with green, and Gilman could see
amidst his horror and bewilderment that one of the knobs ended in a jagged break
corresponding to its former point of attachment to the dream-railing.

Only his tendency toward a dazed stupor prevented him from screaming aloud. This fusion
of dream and reality was too much to bear. Still dazed, he clutched at the spiky thing and
staggered downstairs to Landlord Dombrowski’s quarters. The whining prayers of the
superstitious loomfixer were still sounding through the mouldy halls, but Gilman did not mind
them now. The landlord was in, and greeted him pleasantly. No, he had not seen that thing
before and did not know anything about it. But his wife had said she found a funny tin thing
in one of the beds when she fixed the rooms at noon, and maybe that was it. Dombrowski
called her, and she waddled in. Yes, that was the thing. She had found it in the young
gentleman’s bed—on the side next the wall. It had looked very queer to her, but of course
the young gentleman had lots of queer things in his room—books and curios and pictures
and markings on paper. She certainly knew nothing about it.

So Gilman climbed upstairs again in a mental turmoil, convinced that he was either still
dreaming or that his somnambulism had run to incredible extremes and led him to
depredations in unknown places. Where had he got this outré thing? He did not recall
seeing it in any museum in Arkham. It must have been somewhere, though; and the sight of
it as he snatched it in his sleep must have caused the odd dream-picture of the balustraded
terrace. Next day he would make some very guarded inquiries—and perhaps see the nerve

Meanwhile he would try to keep track of his somnambulism. As he went upstairs and across
the garret hall he sprinkled about some flour which he had borrowed—with a frank
admission as to its purpose—from the landlord. He had stopped at Elwood’s door on the
way, but had found all dark within. Entering his room, he placed the spiky thing on the table,
and lay down in complete mental and physical exhaustion without pausing to undress. From
the closed loft above the slanting ceiling he thought he heard a faint scratching and
padding, but he was too disorganised even to mind it. That cryptical pull from the north was
getting very strong again, though it seemed now to come from a lower place in the sky.

In the dazzling violet light of dream the old woman and the fanged, furry thing came again
and with a greater distinctness than on any former occasion. This time they actually
reached him, and he felt the crone’s withered claws clutching at him. He was pulled out of
bed and into empty space, and for a moment he heard a rhythmic roaring and saw the
twilight amorphousness of the vague abysses seething around him. But that moment was
very brief, for presently he was in a crude, windowless little space with rough beams and
planks rising to a peak just above his head, and with a curious slanting floor underfoot.
Propped level on that floor were low cases full of books of every degree of antiquity and
disintegration, and in the centre were a table and bench, both apparently fastened in place.
Small objects of unknown shape and nature were ranged on the tops of the cases, and in
the flaming violet light Gilman thought he saw a counterpart of the spiky image which had
puzzled him so horribly. On the left the floor fell abruptly away, leaving a black triangular
gulf out of which, after a second’s dry rattling, there presently climbed the hateful little furry
thing with the yellow fangs and bearded human face.

The evilly grinning beldame still clutched him, and beyond the table stood a figure he had
never seen before—a tall, lean man of dead black colouration but without the slightest sign
of negroid features; wholly devoid of either hair or beard, and wearing as his only garment
a shapeless robe of some heavy black fabric. His feet were indistinguishable because of
the table and bench, but he must have been shod, since there was a clicking whenever he
changed position. The man did not speak, and bore no trace of expression on his small,
regular features. He merely pointed to a book of prodigious size which lay open on the
table, while the beldame thrust a huge grey quill into Gilman’s right hand. Over everything
was a pall of intensely maddening fear, and the climax was reached when the furry thing
ran up the dreamer’s clothing to his shoulders and then down his left arm, finally biting him
sharply in the wrist just below his cuff. As the blood spurted from this wound Gilman lapsed
into a faint.

He awaked on the morning of the 22nd with a pain in his left wrist, and saw that his cuff was
brown with dried blood. His recollections were very confused, but the scene with the black
man in the unknown space stood out vividly. The rats must have bitten him as he slept,
giving rise to the climax of that frightful dream. Opening the door, he saw that the flour on
the corridor floor was undisturbed except for the huge prints of the loutish fellow who
roomed at the other end of the garret. So he had not been sleep-walking this time. But
something would have to be done about those rats. He would speak to the landlord about
them. Again he tried to stop up the hole at the base of the slanting wall, wedging in a
candlestick which seemed of about the right size. His ears were ringing horribly, as if with
the residual echoes of some horrible noise heard in dreams.

As he bathed and changed clothes he tried to recall what he had dreamed after the scene
in the violet-litten space, but nothing definite would crystallise in his mind. That scene itself
must have corresponded to the sealed loft overhead, which had begun to attack his
imagination so violently, but later impressions were faint and hazy. There were suggestions
of the vague, twilight abysses, and of still vaster, blacker abysses beyond them—abysses
in which all fixed suggestions of form were absent. He had been taken there by the bubble-
congeries and the little polyhedron which always dogged him; but they, like himself, had
changed to wisps of milky, barely luminous mist in this farther void of ultimate blackness.
Something else had gone on ahead—a larger wisp which now and then condensed into
nameless approximations of form—and he thought that their progress had not been in a
straight line, but rather along the alien curves and spirals of some ethereal vortex which
obeyed laws unknown to the physics and mathematics of any conceivable cosmos.
Eventually there had been a hint of vast, leaping shadows, of a monstrous, half-acoustic
pulsing, and of the thin, monotonous piping of an unseen flute—but that was all. Gilman
decided he had picked up that last conception from what he had read in the Necronomicon
about the mindless entity Azathoth, which rules all time and space from a curiously
environed black throne at the centre of Chaos.

When the blood was washed away the wrist wound proved very slight, and Gilman puzzled
over the location of the two tiny punctures. It occurred to him that there was no blood on the
bedspread where he had lain—which was very curious in view of the amount on his skin
and cuff. Had he been sleep-walking within his room, and had the rat bitten him as he sat in
some chair or paused in some less rational position? He looked in every corner for
brownish drops or stains, but did not find any. He had better, he thought, sprinkle flour
within the room as well as outside the door—though after all no further proof of his sleep-
walking was needed. He knew he did walk—and the thing to do now was to stop it. He must
ask Frank Elwood for help. This morning the strange pulls from space seemed lessened,
though they were replaced by another sensation even more inexplicable. It was a vague,
insistent impulse to fly away from his present situation, but held not a hint of the specific
direction in which he wished to fly. As he picked up the strange spiky image on the table he
thought the older northward pull grew a trifle stronger; but even so, it was wholly overruled
by the newer and more bewildering urge.

He took the spiky image down to Elwood’s room, steeling himself against the whines of the
loomfixer which welled up from the ground floor. Elwood was in, thank heaven, and
appeared to be stirring about. There was time for a little conversation before leaving for
breakfast and college, so Gilman hurriedly poured forth an account of his recent dreams
and fears. His host was very sympathetic, and agreed that something ought to be done. He
was shocked by his guest’s drawn, haggard aspect, and noticed the queer, abnormal-
looking sunburn which others had remarked during the past week. There was not much,
though, that he could say. He had not seen Gilman on any sleep-walking expedition, and
had no idea what the curious image could be. He had, though, heard the French-Canadian
who lodged just under Gilman talking to Mazurewicz one evening. They were telling each
other how badly they dreaded the coming of Walpurgis-Night, now only a few days off; and
were exchanging pitying comments about the poor, doomed young gentleman. Desrochers,
the fellow under Gilman’s room, had spoken of nocturnal footsteps both shod and unshod,
and of the violet light he saw one night when he had stolen fearfully up to peer through
Gilman’s keyhole. He had not dared to peer, he told Mazurewicz, after he had glimpsed that
light through the cracks around the door. There had been soft talking, too—and as he
began to describe it his voice had sunk to an inaudible whisper.

Elwood could not imagine what had set these superstitious creatures gossiping, but
supposed their imaginations had been roused by Gilman’s late hours and somnolent
walking and talking on the one hand, and by the nearness of traditionally feared May-Eve
on the other hand. That Gilman talked in his sleep was plain, and it was obviously from
Desrochers’ keyhole-listenings that the delusive notion of the violet dream-light had got
abroad. These simple people were quick to imagine they had seen any odd thing they had
heard about. As for a plan of action—Gilman had better move down to Elwood’s room and
avoid sleeping alone. Elwood would, if awake, rouse him whenever he began to talk or rise
in his sleep. Very soon, too, he must see the specialist. Meanwhile they would take the
spiky image around to the various museums and to certain professors; seeking
identification and stating that it had been found in a public rubbish-can. Also, Dombrowski
must attend to the poisoning of those rats in the walls.

Braced up by Elwood’s companionship, Gilman attended classes that day. Strange urges
still tugged at him, but he could sidetrack them with considerable success. During a free
period he shewed the queer image to several professors, all of whom were intensely
interested, though none of them could shed any light upon its nature or origin. That night
he slept on a couch which Elwood had had the landlord bring to the second-story room,
and for the first time in weeks was wholly free from disquieting dreams. But the feverishness
still hung on, and the whines of the loomfixer were an unnerving influence.

During the next few days Gilman enjoyed an almost perfect immunity from morbid
manifestations. He had, Elwood said, shewed no tendency to talk or rise in his sleep; and
meanwhile the landlord was putting rat-poison everywhere. The only disturbing element was
the talk among the superstitious foreigners, whose imaginations had become highly excited.
Mazurewicz was always trying to make him get a crucifix, and finally forced one upon him
which he said had been blessed by the good Father Iwanicki. Desrochers, too, had
something to say—in fact, he insisted that cautious steps had sounded in the now vacant
room above him on the first and second nights of Gilman’s absence from it. Paul Choynski
thought he heard sounds in the halls and on the stairs at night, and claimed that his door
had been softly tried, while Mrs. Dombrowski vowed she had seen Brown Jenkin for the first
time since All-Hallows. But such naive reports could mean very little, and Gilman let the
cheap metal crucifix hang idly from a knob on his host’s dresser.

For three days Gilman and Elwood canvassed the local museums in an effort to identify the
strange spiky image, but always without success. In every quarter, however, interest was
intense; for the utter alienage of the thing was a tremendous challenge to scientific
curiosity. One of the small radiating arms was broken off and subjected to chemical
analysis, and the result is still talked about in college circles. Professor Ellery found
platinum, iron, and tellurium in the strange alloy; but mixed with these were at least three
other apparent elements of high atomic weight which chemistry was absolutely powerless to
classify. Not only did they fail to correspond with any known element, but they did not even
fit the vacant places reserved for probable elements in the periodic system. The mystery
remains unsolved to this day, though the image is on exhibition at the museum of
Miskatonic University.

On the morning of April 27 a fresh rat-hole appeared in the room where Gilman was a
guest, but Dombrowski tinned it up during the day. The poison was not having much effect,
for scratchings and scurryings in the walls were virtually undiminished. Elwood was out late
that night, and Gilman waited up for him. He did not wish to go to sleep in a room alone—
especially since he thought he had glimpsed in the evening twilight the repellent old woman
whose image had become so horribly transferred to his dreams. He wondered who she was,
and what had been near her rattling the tin can in a rubbish-heap at the mouth of a squalid
courtyard. The crone had seemed to notice him and leer evilly at him—though perhaps this
was merely his imagination.
The next day both youths felt very tired, and knew they would sleep like logs when night
came. In the evening they drowsily discussed the mathematical studies which had so
completely and perhaps harmfully engrossed Gilman, and speculated about the linkage
with ancient magic and folklore which seemed so darkly probable. They spoke of old Keziah
Mason, and Elwood agreed that Gilman had good scientific grounds for thinking she might
have stumbled on strange and significant information. The hidden cults to which these
witches belonged often guarded and handed down surprising secrets from elder, forgotten
aeons; and it was by no means impossible that Keziah had actually mastered the art of
passing through dimensional gates. Tradition emphasises the uselessness of material
barriers in halting a witch’s motions; and who can say what underlies the old tales of
broomstick rides through the night?

Whether a modern student could ever gain similar powers from mathematical research
alone, was still to be seen. Success, Gilman added, might lead to dangerous and
unthinkable situations; for who could foretell the conditions pervading an adjacent but
normally inaccessible dimension? On the other hand, the picturesque possibilities were
enormous. Time could not exist in certain belts of space, and by entering and remaining in
such a belt one might preserve one’s life and age indefinitely; never suffering organic
metabolism or deterioration except for slight amounts incurred during visits to one’s own or
similar planes. One might, for example, pass into a timeless dimension and emerge at some
remote period of the earth’s history as young as before.

Whether anybody had ever managed to do this, one could hardly conjecture with any
degree of authority. Old legends are hazy and ambiguous, and in historic times all attempts
at crossing forbidden gaps seem complicated by strange and terrible alliances with beings
and messengers from outside. There was the immemorial figure of the deputy or
messenger of hidden and terrible powers—the “Black Man” of the witch-cult, and the
“Nyarlathotep” of the Necronomicon. There was, too, the baffling problem of the lesser
messengers or intermediaries—the quasi-animals and queer hybrids which legend depicts
as witches’ familiars. As Gilman and Elwood retired, too sleepy to argue further, they heard
Joe Mazurewicz reel into the house half-drunk, and shuddered at the desperate wildness of
his whining prayers.

That night Gilman saw the violet light again. In his dream he had heard a scratching and
gnawing in the partitions, and thought that someone fumbled clumsily at the latch. Then he
saw the old woman and the small furry thing advancing toward him over the carpeted floor.
The beldame’s face was alight with inhuman exultation, and the little yellow-toothed
morbidity tittered mockingly as it pointed at the heavily sleeping form of Elwood on the other
couch across the room. A paralysis of fear stifled all attempts to cry out. As once before,
the hideous crone seized Gilman by the shoulders, yanking him out of bed and into empty
space. Again the infinitude of the shrieking twilight abysses flashed past him, but in another
second he thought he was in a dark, muddy, unknown alley of foetid odours, with the rotting
walls of ancient houses towering up on every hand.

Ahead was the robed black man he had seen in the peaked space in the other dream, while
from a lesser distance the old woman was beckoning and grimacing imperiously. Brown
Jenkin was rubbing itself with a kind of affectionate playfulness around the ankles of the
black man, which the deep mud largely concealed. There was a dark open doorway on the
right, to which the black man silently pointed. Into this the grimacing crone started, dragging
Gilman after her by his pajama sleeve. There were evil-smelling staircases which creaked
ominously, and on which the old woman seemed to radiate a faint violet light; and finally a
door leading off a landing. The crone fumbled with the latch and pushed the door open,
motioning to Gilman to wait and disappearing inside the black aperture.

The youth’s oversensitive ears caught a hideous strangled cry, and presently the beldame
came out of the room bearing a small, senseless form which she thrust at the dreamer as if
ordering him to carry it. The sight of this form, and the expression on its face, broke the
spell. Still too dazed to cry out, he plunged recklessly down the noisome staircase and into
the mud outside; halting only when seized and choked by the waiting black man. As
consciousness departed he heard the faint, shrill tittering of the fanged, rat-like abnormality.

On the morning of the 29th Gilman awaked into a maelstrom of horror. The instant he
opened his eyes he knew something was terribly wrong, for he was back in his old garret
room with the slanting wall and ceiling, sprawled on the now unmade bed. His throat was
aching inexplicably, and as he struggled to a sitting posture he saw with growing fright that
his feet and pajama-bottoms were brown with caked mud. For the moment his recollections
were hopelessly hazy, but he knew at least that he must have been sleep-walking. Elwood
had been lost too deeply in slumber to hear and stop him. On the floor were confused
muddy prints, but oddly enough they did not extend all the way to the door. The more
Gilman looked at them, the more peculiar they seemed; for in addition to those he could
recognise as his there were some smaller, almost round markings—such as the legs of a
large chair or table might make, except that most of them tended to be divided into halves.
There were also some curious muddy rat-tracks leading out of a fresh hole and back into it
again. Utter bewilderment and the fear of madness racked Gilman as he staggered to the
door and saw that there were no muddy prints outside. The more he remembered of his
hideous dream the more terrified he felt, and it added to his desperation to hear Joe
Mazurewicz chanting mournfully two floors below.

Descending to Elwood’s room he roused his still-sleeping host and began telling of how he
had found himself, but Elwood could form no idea of what might really have happened.
Where Gilman could have been, how he got back to his room without making tracks in the
hall, and how the muddy, furniture-like prints came to be mixed with his in the garret
chamber, were wholly beyond conjecture. Then there were those dark, livid marks on his
throat, as if he had tried to strangle himself. He put his hands up to them, but found that
they did not even approximately fit. While they were talking Desrochers dropped in to say
that he had heard a terrific clattering overhead in the dark small hours. No, there had been
no one on the stairs after midnight—though just before midnight he had heard faint footfalls
in the garret, and cautiously descending steps he did not like. It was, he added, a very bad
time of year for Arkham. The young gentleman had better be sure to wear the crucifix Joe
Mazurewicz had given him. Even the daytime was not safe, for after dawn there had been
strange sounds in the house—especially a thin, childish wail hastily choked off.

Gilman mechanically attended classes that morning, but was wholly unable to fix his mind
on his studies. A mood of hideous apprehension and expectancy had seized him, and he
seemed to be awaiting the fall of some annihilating blow. At noon he lunched at the
University Spa, picking up a paper from the next seat as he waited for dessert. But he never
ate that dessert; for an item on the paper’s first page left him limp, wild-eyed, and able only
to pay his check and stagger back to Elwood’s room.

There had been a strange kidnapping the night before in Orne’s Gangway, and the two-
year-old child of a clod-like laundry worker named Anastasia Wolejko had completely
vanished from sight. The mother, it appeared, had feared the event for some time; but the
reasons she assigned for her fear were so grotesque that no one took them seriously. She
had, she said, seen Brown Jenkin about the place now and then ever since early in March,
and knew from its grimaces and titterings that little Ladislas must be marked for sacrifice at
the awful Sabbat on Walpurgis-Night. She had asked her neighbour Mary Czanek to sleep
in the room and try to protect the child, but Mary had not dared. She could not tell the
police, for they never believed such things. Children had been taken that way every year
ever since she could remember. And her friend Pete Stowacki would not help because he
wanted the child out of the way anyhow.

But what threw Gilman into a cold perspiration was the report of a pair of revellers who had
been walking past the mouth of the gangway just after midnight. They admitted they had
been drunk, but both vowed they had seen a crazily dressed trio furtively entering the dark
passageway. There had, they said, been a huge robed negro, a little old woman in rags,
and a young white man in his night-clothes. The old woman had been dragging the youth,
while around the feet of the negro a tame rat was rubbing and weaving in the brown mud.

Gilman sat in a daze all the afternoon, and Elwood—who had meanwhile seen the papers
and formed terrible conjectures from them—found him thus when he came home. This time
neither could doubt but that something hideously serious was closing in around them.
Between the phantasms of nightmare and the realities of the objective world a monstrous
and unthinkable relationship was crystallising, and only stupendous vigilance could avert
still more direful developments. Gilman must see a specialist sooner or later, but not just
now, when all the papers were full of this kidnapping business.

Just what had really happened was maddeningly obscure, and for a moment both Gilman
and Elwood exchanged whispered theories of the wildest kind. Had Gilman unconsciously
succeeded better than he knew in his studies of space and its dimensions? Had he actually
slipped outside our sphere to points unguessed and unimaginable? Where—if anywhere—
had he been on those nights of daemoniac alienage? The roaring twilight abysses—the
green hillside—the blistering terrace—the pulls from the stars—the ultimate black vortex—
the black man—the muddy alley and the stairs—the old witch and the fanged, furry horror—
the bubble-congeries and the little polyhedron—the strange sunburn—the wrist wound—
the unexplained image—the muddy feet—the throat-marks—the tales and fears of the
superstitious foreigners—what did all this mean? To what extent could the laws of sanity
apply to such a case?

There was no sleep for either of them that night, but next day they both cut classes and
drowsed. This was April 30th, and with the dusk would come the hellish Sabbat-time which
all the foreigners and the superstitious old folk feared. Mazurewicz came home at six o’clock
and said people at the mill were whispering that the Walpurgis-revels would be held in the
dark ravine beyond Meadow Hill where the old white stone stands in a place queerly void of
all plant-life. Some of them had even told the police and advised them to look there for the
missing Wolejko child, but they did not believe anything would be done. Joe insisted that
the poor young gentleman wear his nickel-chained crucifix, and Gilman put it on and
dropped it inside his shirt to humour the fellow.

Late at night the two youths sat drowsing in their chairs, lulled by the rhythmical praying of
the loomfixer on the floor below. Gilman listened as he nodded, his preternaturally
sharpened hearing seeming to strain for some subtle, dreaded murmur beyond the noises
in the ancient house. Unwholesome recollections of things in the Necronomicon and the
Black Book welled up, and he found himself swaying to infandous rhythms said to pertain to
the blackest ceremonies of the Sabbat and to have an origin outside the time and space we

Presently he realised what he was listening for—the hellish chant of the celebrants in the
distant black valley. How did he know so much about what they expected? How did he know
the time when Nahab and her acolyte were due to bear the brimming bowl which would
follow the black cock and the black goat? He saw that Elwood had dropped asleep, and
tried to call out and waken him. Something, however, closed his throat. He was not his own
master. Had he signed the black man’s book after all?

Then his fevered, abnormal hearing caught the distant, windborne notes. Over miles of hill
and field and alley they came, but he recognised them none the less. The fires must be lit,
and the dancers must be starting in. How could he keep himself from going? What was it
that had enmeshed him? Mathematics—folklore—the house—old Keziah—Brown Jenkin . . .
and now he saw that there was a fresh rat-hole in the wall near his couch. Above the distant
chanting and the nearer praying of Joe Mazurewicz came another sound—a stealthy,
determined scratching in the partitions. He hoped the electric lights would not go out. Then
he saw the fanged, bearded little face in the rat-hole—the accursed little face which he at
last realised bore such a shocking, mocking resemblance to old Keziah’s—and heard the
faint fumbling at the door.

The screaming twilight abysses flashed before him, and he felt himself helpless in the
formless grasp of the iridescent bubble-congeries. Ahead raced the small, kaleidoscopic
polyhedron, and all through the churning void there was a heightening and acceleration of
the vague tonal pattern which seemed to foreshadow some unutterable and unendurable
climax. He seemed to know what was coming—the monstrous burst of Walpurgis-rhythm in
whose cosmic timbre would be concentrated all the primal, ultimate space-time seethings
which lie behind the massed spheres of matter and sometimes break forth in measured
reverberations that penetrate faintly to every layer of entity and give hideous significance
throughout the worlds to certain dreaded periods.

But all this vanished in a second. He was again in the cramped, violet-litten peaked space
with the slanting floor, the low cases of ancient books, the bench and table, the queer
objects, and the triangular gulf at one side. On the table lay a small white figure—an infant
boy, unclothed and unconscious—while on the other side stood the monstrous, leering old
woman with a gleaming, grotesque-hafted knife in her right hand, and a queerly
proportioned pale metal bowl covered with curiously chased designs and having delicate
lateral handles in her left. She was intoning some croaking ritual in a language which
Gilman could not understand, but which seemed like something guardedly quoted in the

As the scene grew clear he saw the ancient crone bend forward and extend the empty bowl
across the table—and unable to control his own motions, he reached far forward and took it
in both hands, noticing as he did so its comparative lightness. At the same moment the
disgusting form of Brown Jenkin scrambled up over the brink of the triangular black gulf on
his left. The crone now motioned him to hold the bowl in a certain position while she raised
the huge, grotesque knife above the small white victim as high as her right hand could
reach. The fanged, furry thing began tittering a continuation of the unknown ritual, while the
witch croaked loathsome responses. Gilman felt a gnawing, poignant abhorrence shoot
through his mental and emotional paralysis, and the light metal bowl shook in his grasp. A
second later the downward motion of the knife broke the spell completely, and he dropped
the bowl with a resounding bell-like clangour while his hands darted out frantically to stop
the monstrous deed.
In an instant he had edged up the slanting floor around the end of the table and wrenched
the knife from the old woman’s claws; sending it clattering over the brink of the narrow
triangular gulf. In another instant, however, matters were reversed; for those murderous
claws had locked themselves tightly around his own throat, while the wrinkled face was
twisted with insane fury. He felt the chain of the cheap crucifix grinding into his neck, and in
his peril wondered how the sight of the object itself would affect the evil creature. Her
strength was altogether superhuman, but as she continued her choking he reached feebly
in his shirt and drew out the metal symbol, snapping the chain and pulling it free.

At sight of the device the witch seemed struck with panic, and her grip relaxed long enough
to give Gilman a chance to break it entirely. He pulled the steel-like claws from his neck,
and would have dragged the beldame over the edge of the gulf had not the claws received
a fresh access of strength and closed in again. This time he resolved to reply in kind, and
his own hands reached out for the creature’s throat. Before she saw what he was doing he
had the chain of the crucifix twisted about her neck, and a moment later he had tightened it
enough to cut off her breath. During her last struggle he felt something bite at his ankle,
and saw that Brown Jenkin had come to her aid. With one savage kick he sent the morbidity
over the edge of the gulf and heard it whimper on some level far below.

Whether he had killed the ancient crone he did not know, but he let her rest on the floor
where she had fallen. Then, as he turned away, he saw on the table a sight which nearly
snapped the last thread of his reason. Brown Jenkin, tough of sinew and with four tiny
hands of daemoniac dexterity, had been busy while the witch was throttling him, and his
efforts had been in vain. What he had prevented the knife from doing to the victim’s chest,
the yellow fangs of the furry blasphemy had done to a wrist—and the bowl so lately on the
floor stood full beside the small lifeless body.

In his dream-delirium Gilman heard the hellish, alien-rhythmed chant of the Sabbat coming
from an infinite distance, and knew the black man must be there. Confused memories mixed
themselves with his mathematics, and he believed his subconscious mind held the angles
which he needed to guide him back to the normal world—alone and unaided for the first
time. He felt sure he was in the immemorially sealed loft above his own room, but whether
he could ever escape through the slanting floor or the long-stopped egress he doubted
greatly. Besides, would not an escape from a dream-loft bring him merely into a dream-
house—an abnormal projection of the actual place he sought? He was wholly bewildered as
to the relation betwixt dream and reality in all his experiences.

The passage through the vague abysses would be frightful, for the Walpurgis-rhythm would
be vibrating, and at last he would have to hear that hitherto veiled cosmic pulsing which he
so mortally dreaded. Even now he could detect a low, monstrous shaking whose tempo he
suspected all too well. At Sabbat-time it always mounted and reached through to the worlds
to summon the initiate to nameless rites. Half the chants of the Sabbat were patterned on
this faintly overheard pulsing which no earthly ear could endure in its unveiled spatial
fulness. Gilman wondered, too, whether he could trust his instinct to take him back to the
right part of space. How could he be sure he would not land on that green-litten hillside of a
far planet, on the tessellated terrace above the city of tentacled monsters somewhere
beyond the galaxy, or in the spiral black vortices of that ultimate void of Chaos wherein
reigns the mindless daemon-sultan Azathoth?

Just before he made the plunge the violet light went out and left him in utter blackness. The
witch—old Keziah—Nahab—that must have meant her death. And mixed with the distant
chant of the Sabbat and the whimpers of Brown Jenkin in the gulf below he thought he
heard another and wilder whine from unknown depths. Joe Mazurewicz—the prayers
against the Crawling Chaos now turning to an inexplicably triumphant shriek—worlds of
sardonic actuality impinging on vortices of febrile dream—Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Goat
with a Thousand Young. . . .

They found Gilman on the floor of his queerly angled old garret room long before dawn, for
the terrible cry had brought Desrochers and Choynski and Dombrowski and Mazurewicz at
once, and had even wakened the soundly sleeping Elwood in his chair. He was alive, and
with open, staring eyes, but seemed largely unconscious. On his throat were the marks of
murderous hands, and on his left ankle was a distressing rat-bite. His clothing was badly
rumpled, and Joe’s crucifix was missing. Elwood trembled, afraid even to speculate on what
new form his friend’s sleep-walking had taken. Mazurewicz seemed half-dazed because of a
“sign” he said he had had in response to his prayers, and he crossed himself frantically
when the squealing and whimpering of a rat sounded from beyond the slanting partition.

When the dreamer was settled on his couch in Elwood’s room they sent for Dr. Malkowski—
a local practitioner who would repeat no tales where they might prove embarrassing—and
he gave Gilman two hypodermic injections which caused him to relax in something like
natural drowsiness. During the day the patient regained consciousness at times and
whispered his newest dream disjointedly to Elwood. It was a painful process, and at its very
start brought out a fresh and disconcerting fact.

Gilman—whose ears had so lately possessed an abnormal sensitiveness—was now stone
deaf. Dr. Malkowski, summoned again in haste, told Elwood that both ear-drums were
ruptured, as if by the impact of some stupendous sound intense beyond all human
conception or endurance. How such a sound could have been heard in the last few hours
without arousing all the Miskatonic Valley was more than the honest physician could say.
Elwood wrote his part of the colloquy on paper, so that a fairly easy communication was
maintained. Neither knew what to make of the whole chaotic business, and decided it would
be better if they thought as little as possible about it. Both, though, agreed that they must
leave this ancient and accursed house as soon as it could be arranged. Evening papers
spoke of a police raid on some curious revellers in a ravine beyond Meadow Hill just before
dawn, and mentioned that the white stone there was an object of age-long superstitious
regard. Nobody had been caught, but among the scattering fugitives had been glimpsed a
huge negro. In another column it was stated that no trace of the missing child Ladislas
Wolejko had been found.

The crowning horror came that very night. Elwood will never forget it, and was forced to
stay out of college the rest of the term because of the resulting nervous breakdown. He had
thought he heard rats in the partitions all the evening, but paid little attention to them.
Then, long after both he and Gilman had retired, the atrocious shrieking began. Elwood
jumped up, turned on the lights, and rushed over to his guest’s couch. The occupant was
emitting sounds of veritably inhuman nature, as if racked by some torment beyond
description. He was writhing under the bedclothes, and a great red stain was beginning to
appear on the blankets.

Elwood scarcely dared to touch him, but gradually the screaming and writhing subsided. By
this time Dombrowski, Choynski, Desrochers, Mazurewicz, and the top-floor lodger were all
crowding into the doorway, and the landlord had sent his wife back to telephone for Dr.
Malkowski. Everybody shrieked when a large rat-like form suddenly jumped out from
beneath the ensanguined bedclothes and scuttled across the floor to a fresh, open hole
close by. When the doctor arrived and began to pull down those frightful covers Walter
Gilman was dead.

It would be barbarous to do more than suggest what had killed Gilman. There had been
virtually a tunnel through his body—something had eaten his heart out. Dombrowski, frantic
at the failure of his constant rat-poisoning efforts, cast aside all thought of his lease and
within a week had moved with all his older lodgers to a dingy but less ancient house in
Walnut Street. The worst thing for a while was keeping Joe Mazurewicz quiet; for the
brooding loomfixer would never stay sober, and was constantly whining and muttering about
spectral and terrible things.

It seems that on that last hideous night Joe had stooped to look at the crimson rat-tracks
which led from Gilman’s couch to the nearby hole. On the carpet they were very indistinct,
but a piece of open flooring intervened between the carpet’s edge and the base-board.
There Mazurewicz had found something monstrous—or thought he had, for no one else
could quite agree with him despite the undeniable queerness of the prints. The tracks on
the flooring were certainly vastly unlike the average prints of a rat, but even Choynski and
Desrochers would not admit that they were like the prints of four tiny human hands.

The house was never rented again. As soon as Dombrowski left it the pall of its final
desolation began to descend, for people shunned it both on account of its old reputation
and because of the new foetid odour. Perhaps the ex-landlord’s rat-poison had worked
after all, for not long after his departure the place became a neighbourhood nuisance.
Health officials traced the smell to the closed spaces above and beside the eastern garret
room, and agreed that the number of dead rats must be enormous. They decided,
however, that it was not worth their while to hew open and disinfect the long-sealed spaces;
for the foetor would soon be over, and the locality was not one which encouraged fastidious
standards. Indeed, there were always vague local tales of unexplained stenches upstairs in
the Witch House just after May-Eve and Hallowmass. The neighbours grumblingly
acquiesced in the inertia—but the foetor none the less formed an additional count against
the place. Toward the last the house was condemned as an habitation by the building

Gilman’s dreams and their attendant circumstances have never been explained. Elwood,
whose thoughts on the entire episode are sometimes almost maddening, came back to
college the next autumn and graduated in the following June. He found the spectral gossip
of the town much diminished, and it is indeed a fact that—notwithstanding certain reports of
a ghostly tittering in the deserted house which lasted almost as long as that edifice itself—
no fresh appearances either of old Keziah or of Brown Jenkin have been muttered of since
Gilman’s death. It is rather fortunate that Elwood was not in Arkham in that later year when
certain events abruptly renewed the local whispers about elder horrors. Of course he heard
about the matter afterward and suffered untold torments of black and bewildered
speculation; but even that was not as bad as actual nearness and several possible sights
would have been.

In March, 1931, a gale wrecked the roof and great chimney of the vacant Witch House, so
that a chaos of crumbling bricks, blackened, moss-grown shingles, and rotting planks and
timbers crashed down into the loft and broke through the floor beneath. The whole attic
story was choked with debris from above, but no one took the trouble to touch the mess
before the inevitable razing of the decrepit structure. That ultimate step came in the
following December, and it was when Gilman’s old room was cleared out by reluctant,
apprehensive workmen that the gossip began.

Among the rubbish which had crashed through the ancient slanting ceiling were several
things which made the workmen pause and call in the police. Later the police in turn called
in the coroner and several professors from the university. There were bones—badly
crushed and splintered, but clearly recognisable as human—whose manifestly modern date
conflicted puzzlingly with the remote period at which their only possible lurking-place, the
low, slant-floored loft overhead, had supposedly been sealed from all human access. The
coroner’s physician decided that some belonged to a small child, while certain others—
found mixed with shreds of rotten brownish cloth—belonged to a rather undersized, bent
female of advanced years. Careful sifting of debris also disclosed many tiny bones of rats
caught in the collapse, as well as older rat-bones gnawed by small fangs in a fashion now
and then highly productive of controversy and reflection.

Other objects found included the mingled fragments of many books and papers, together
with a yellowish dust left from the total disintegration of still older books and papers. All,
without exception, appeared to deal with black magic in its most advanced and horrible
forms; and the evidently recent date of certain items is still a mystery as unsolved as that of
the modern human bones. An even greater mystery is the absolute homogeneity of the
crabbed, archaic writing found on a wide range of papers whose conditions and watermarks
suggest age differences of at least 150 to 200 years. To some, though, the greatest
mystery of all is the variety of utterly inexplicable objects—objects whose shapes, materials,
types of workmanship, and purposes baffle all conjecture—found scattered amidst the
wreckage in evidently diverse states of injury. One of these things—which excited several
Miskatonic professors profoundly—is a badly damaged monstrosity plainly resembling the
strange image which Gilman gave to the college museum, save that it is larger, wrought of
some peculiar bluish stone instead of metal, and possessed of a singularly angled pedestal
with undecipherable hieroglyphics.

Archaeologists and anthropologists are still trying to explain the bizarre designs chased on
a crushed bowl of light metal whose inner side bore ominous brownish stains when found.
Foreigners and credulous grandmothers are equally garrulous about the modern nickel
crucifix with broken chain mixed in the rubbish and shiveringly identified by Joe Mazurewicz
as that which he had given poor Gilman many years before. Some believe this crucifix was
dragged up to the sealed loft by rats, while others think it must have been on the floor in
some corner of Gilman’s old room all the time. Still others, including Joe himself, have
theories too wild and fantastic for sober credence.

When the slanting wall of Gilman’s room was torn out, the once sealed triangular space
between that partition and the house’s north wall was found to contain much less structural
debris, even in proportion to its size, than the room itself; though it had a ghastly layer of
older materials which paralysed the wreckers with horror. In brief, the floor was a veritable
ossuary of the bones of small children—some fairly modern, but others extending back in
infinite gradations to a period so remote that crumbling was almost complete. On this deep
bony layer rested a knife of great size, obvious antiquity, and grotesque, ornate, and exotic
design—above which the debris was piled.

In the midst of this debris, wedged between a fallen plank and a cluster of cemented bricks
from the ruined chimney, was an object destined to cause more bafflement, veiled fright,
and openly superstitious talk in Arkham than anything else discovered in the haunted and
accursed building. This object was the partly crushed skeleton of a huge, diseased rat,
whose abnormalities of form are still a topic of debate and source of singular reticence
among the members of Miskatonic’s department of comparative anatomy. Very little
concerning this skeleton has leaked out, but the workmen who found it whisper in shocked
tones about the long, brownish hairs with which it was associated.

The bones of the tiny paws, it is rumoured, imply prehensile characteristics more typical of
a diminutive monkey than of a rat; while the small skull with its savage yellow fangs is of the
utmost anomalousness, appearing from certain angles like a miniature, monstrously
degraded parody of a human skull. The workmen crossed themselves in fright when they
came upon this blasphemy, but later burned candles of gratitude in St. Stanislaus’ Church
because of the shrill, ghostly tittering they felt they would never hear again.
Robert Burns

James Child
Traditional Ballad

Kate Finley

Thomas Hardy
Withered Arm

Robert Stephen Hawker
The Botathen Ghost

Washington Irving
The Legend of Sleepy Hallow