“Ahrrh!… It be’ee, zur? Again?”
Then they all turned and fled frantically. All, that is, but one. When the crowd was gone I saw the grave-bearded man who had brought me to this place—standing alone with a lantern. He was gazing at me gaspingly and fascinatedly, but did not seem afraid. Then he began to ascend the stairs, and joined me in the attic. He spoke:
“So you didn’t let it alone! I’m sorry. I know what has happened. It happened once before, but the man got frightened and shot himself. You ought not to have made him come back. You know what he wants. But you mustn’t get frightened like the other man he got. Something very strange and terrible has happened to you, but it didn’t get far enough to hurt your mind and personality. If you’ll keep cool, and accept the need for making certain radical readjustments in your life, you can keep right on enjoying the world, and the fruits of your scholarship. But you can’t live here—and I don’t think you’ll wish to go back to London. I’d advise America.
“You mustn’t try anything more than that—thing. Nothing can be put back now. It would only make matters worse to do—or summon—anything. You are not as badly off as you might be—but you must get out of here at once and stay away. You’d better thank Heaven it didn’t go further.…
“I’m going to prepare you as bluntly as I can. There’s been a certain change—in your personal appearance. He always causes that. But in a new country you can get used to it. There’s a mirror up at the other end of the room, and I’m going to take you to it. You’ll get a shock—though you will see nothing repulsive.”
I was now shaking with a deadly fear, and the bearded man almost had to hold me up as he walked me across the room to the mirror, the faint lamp (i.e., that formerly on the table, not the still fainter lantern he had brought) in his free hand. This is what I saw in the glass:
A thin, dark man of medium stature attired in the clerical garb of the Anglican church, apparently about thirty, and with rimless, steel-bowed glasses glistening beneath a sallow, olive forehead of abnormal height.
It was the silent first-comer who had burned his books.
For all the rest of my life, in outward form, I was to be that man!
The H.P. Lovecraft editions
from Del Rey Books
The Best of H. P. Lovecraft:
BLOODCURDLING TALES OF HORROR AND THE MACABRE
The Dream Cycle of H. P. Lovecraft:
DREAMS OF TERROR AND DEATH
The Transition of H. P. Lovecraft:
THE ROAD TO MADNESS
At the Mountains of Madness
AND OTHER TALES OF TERROR
The Tomb
AND OTHER TALES
The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath
The Doom that Came to Sarnath
AND OTHER STORIES
About the Artist
John Jude Palencar
Born in 1957, John spent his early childhood in Cleveland’s near west side. The smoky, industrial neighborhood provided the inspiration for his later illustrations through vivid memories of dark and ornate Gothic churches encrusted with gargoyles and angels.
John received scholarships to the Columbus College of Art and Design in Columbus, Ohio, and the Illustrators Workshop in Paris, France. He has won dozens of awards, including a Silver Medal from the Society of Illustrators. His work is also represented in numerous private and corporate collections.
He continues to illustrate as well as develop his personal work. John resides in Howard, Ohio, with his wife Lee and sons Ian and Christian.
H. P. Lovecraft, The Road to Madness
(Series: # )
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