Tales of the Lovecraft Mythos by H.P. Lovecraft

Author:H.P. Lovecraft
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780307416797
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2007-12-18T05:00:00+00:00

The Scourge of B’Moth

Bertram Russell

1

The first inkling that I had of the gigantic abomination that was soon to smother the world with its saprophytic obscenity in 192-, was obtained almost by accident.

My friend Dr. Prendergast, a gentleman eminent in his own particular branch of medicine, which included all sorts of brain specializations, operations, trephining, and so on, called me personally by telephone from his own residence late one night.

It struck me as surprising that he should not have had his secretary or nurse call me during office hours. I was not in error when I thought his mission an urgent one.

“Randall,” he said to me, “I’ve never seen the like of this in all my years of experience, and I am pretty sure you never did in yours either.”

“A mental case?” I asked with quickening interest.

“Yes. And more. It’s got me almost beaten to a standstill. I confess I’m pretty nearly stumped. I’ve gone over him thoroughly—X-rayed him and so on—but still I can’t find any evidence whatsoever of organic disturbance.”

“Well—can’t it be a functional neurosis?” I asked in some surprise.

“If it is, I never saw another like it. The fellow seems to be actually possessed. He acts without knowing why he does so. I’ve given him a rough psychoanalysis, but it reveals nothing more than the repressions and inhibitions that every average person has. His unconscious contents show absolute ignorance of the awful obsession by which his waking hours are beset.”

“There must be a reason for it,” I said. “If a man has an obsession, there are unconscious associations to exorcise it with. It can only be the symbol for something else....”

“The symbol for something else. You’re right there. But if I can’t find out what this something else really is, and pretty soon at that, this patient is going to join his Master before long.”

“His Master?” I queried, surprised at what I thought to be a Biblical allusion by Prendergast.

“Yes. Whoever that is. He talks about nothing else. This Master represents the thing that is dominating him, stretching out its tentacles from the darkest depths of unfathomable abysses to strangle the desire to live within him. He says now that he is eager to die, and you don’t need me to tell you what that means in the neurotic.”

“I’ll come over immediately,” I said.

“German-American Hospital, ward 3, psychiatric,” he said giving me the final instructions.

I hurriedly donned my clothes—I had been reading Goethe in a dressing-gown before retiring—and unlocking the garage I started the coupe. Soon I was on my way to the hospital where my friend had arranged to meet me.

The night was exceptionally dark, and a thin, clammy drizzle had commenced to fall—not a cold rain, but a viscid, penetrating darkness like the breath of some Stygian fury. The car was quite closed, yet I felt the clammy thrill of it inside. I even noticed that the instrument board was covered with drops of fluid and the wheel became wet and unruly under my touch. I almost allowed it to slip out of my hands as the car rounded a sharp curve.

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