The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack: Anthology Part 11

Me. You brought me to this point. It is only logical that I should go.

After I struck you, I stood over you, and though you lay in a puddle of your own blood, I was not convinced that I had killed you.

I say that you will rise again, awaken out of your long dream and find me gone. But, being as I am such a normal fellow, a paragon of business-like efficiency, I conveniently have in my pocket a palmtop computer, into which I type this account, this imagining, for your benefit. I leave it here on the tabletop, for you to read when you've sufficiently recovered.

Because we were friends once. Because I want you to understand.

Now an absurd image comes: the stars are swirling like the water down a bathtub drain; no, like a vast cyclone stretching over lightyears of s.p.a.ce and aeons of time, and the great numbers of the winged ones are like gnats, like mayflies, swarming into that brilliant abyss, into the mouth of eternity, which shall swallow up the bearer and the stone together; and I shall dwell without pain in the Gardens of Ynath amid my companions, until the ending of time, when the Crawling Chaos takes shape and walks like a man. Then shall I fall down at his feet and wors.h.i.+p, and, like an animal, reach up to lick his outstretched hands.

That's what you wanted in the end, isn't it?

DRAWN FROM LIFE.

by John Glasby.

Never had I thought I should have to write of the hideous affair of Antonio Valliecchi and the terrible happenings in the house in Mewson Street, for there are shocking events which occur on the very rim of human consciousness which are best kept hidden and unmentioned. The horrendous truth behind his death is something no one will believe. I am only writing this record now because I have heard vague rumours the authorities are considering pulling down those old houses and I dread what they might find in the one at the very end, standing alone on the hill.

This is the one where Valliecchi lived when he came to London in the autumn of 1975. It is an early-Georgian building standing in its own grounds. Very few outsiders know this area of London, right on the outskirts, well off the beaten track. I must confess I had no idea it existed until that night. Yet it was there I discovered that there are shadows in this world of which few are aware; and yet of which all should be afraid.

I lived in a little Mews off Chelsea at the time and was busy with my book dealing with the lesser-known contemporary artists and had taken to frequenting the older and lesser-known bookshops and art studios searching for material during the mornings, writing up whatever I had gathered in the afternoons and evenings.

I had only vaguely heard of Valliecchi apart from the fact that he gave a violin concert at the Albert Hall and there were billboards all over the place and rave notices in the papers the following day.

One morning, I came across a little shop in one of the narrow streets that form a maze in the middle of Chelsea. I do not even recall seeing the name of the street. There was a decaying church at the corner of a tiny square and innumerable alleys leading off the place in all directions. It was a backwater that not even the summer tourists ever visit.

The shop was so small I almost pa.s.sed it by without noticing it. In the window was the usual layout of painting on small wooden easels. There was certainly nothing inspiring and no items of any interest to me. In retrospect it seems certain that the sequence of fearful events that were to follow, culminating in that final cataclysm of horror, would never have occurred had not some imp of perversity prompted me to go inside and browse around.

It was dark and dingy inside and I had never been able to get the proper feel of a painting unless I could examine it under the correct lighting conditions. There were a few more paintings hanging around the walls but these I dismissed at once. I was on the point of leaving when I noticed a stack of canva.s.ses in one corner, standing on edge, one against the other. It was as if the owner had discarded them, considering them to be of little value.

I suppose it must have been perverse curiosity more than anything that made me go through them for I wasn't expecting to find anything exciting. There were a few abstracts, a couple of mediocre still-life pictures; not much to stir any kind of emotion in me.

Then I came across it, tucked away at the back as if it had been there, forgotten, for a very long time.

Merciful G.o.d in Heaven, would that I had tossed it back into the pile and walked out without unrolling it and looking at that h.e.l.lish painting! My first thought was that I had stumbled across an unknown Goya. But when I took it across to the window for a better look I knew that not even Goya could have painted anything like that. It was sheer, undiluted horror!

It takes more than mere imagination and inspired brushwork to turn out paintings like Valliecchi, for that was the name at the bottom of the canvas. Any dauber can churn out covers for horror magazines, which are intended to convey fear and scare the reader into buying the book. Pictures like that just make me want to smile at the naivety of those who buy such magazines. But it takes a rare kind of genius to depict real horror; the kind that makes one s.h.i.+ver just to look at it. The kind that makes you believe that not only can such things exist; but that they do exist!

In general terms, the picture was a landscape; but it was like none I had ever seen, even in my wildest nightmares. It is difficult even to begin to describe it. There was a rocky plateau piled high with drifts of green sand. Normally that would have put me off completely. Yet in that painting, it looked right. I got the impression that, taking the landscape as a whole, any other color would have been utterly out of place.

There was a sheer cliff on one side dotted with cave openings in which there were glimpses of eldritch things. Mere words cannot describe them in any other way for they did not even remotely resemble anything in real life as I know it. Valliecchi had given only vague suggestions of outline; but that was more than enough. They looked positively frightening.

It was a little while before the peculiarity about the name on the painting struck me. Antonio Valliecchi. It seemed highly unlikely that he and the concert violinist were the same man. And yet, I thought, why not? It was unlikely that two men of the same name were undoubted geniuses in similar creative fields of art.

I knew I had to have the painting. Curiously, I did not have to haggle with the owner over the price. He let me have it for a ridiculously low sum. Possibly it had lain there for so long, gathering dust, he was glad to rid of it. It was, he said, the only one by Valliecchi he had and as to whether the painter and violinist were one and the same man, he did not know. To my inquiry as to whether he had come across any other work by Valliecchi, he replied that he had never seen any himself but had heard that there were one or two others in circulation. He affirmed that there was not much call for such bizarre work.

I was convinced that Valliecchi must have possessed a terrific imagination to have painted anything like that landscape. At least, I was certain at that time. Now, however, I know differently.

Everything was so real, so lifelike. This was far removed from the usual run of still-life pictures and landscapes that pa.s.sed for art. There was a quality about it, which made it stand out from anything I had ever seen. Every little detail seemed to leap out of the canvas as if the viewer were standing on the edge of that h.e.l.lish plateau and looking at it in real life.

And those creatures, whatever they were, seemed on the point of creeping out of the black cavern mouths right out of the picture.

Somehow, Valliecchi had captured all the color, all of the depths, of that scene. He had given it a three-dimensional quality that was positively uncanny. Every tiny detail was so sharp and clear it took my breath away. Once I got it home, I kept gazing at it in utter fascination, scarcely able to tear my gaze away.

I spent the following five months hunting all over London trying to pick up further examples of his work. I went first to the National Art Gallery, reckoning that if Valliecchi was such an acclaimed genius as a violinist, he was sufficiently well known for at least one of his paintings to be there. But there was nothing. The curator had heard of him. They had even seen an example of his work but had declined it. They did not hang that sort of work there, he told me, even with a name like Antonio Valliecchi on it. That particular form of art was too bizarre and out-of-this-world for the taste of the general public.

He suggested I try some of the collectors on the fringe of the art world. At first, my inquiries were met with blank stares and polite shakes of the head. I began to despair of ever obtaining another Valliecchi canvas.

Then, one evening, shortly after sunset, I entered an area of London I had never visited before. I had been wandering aimlessly through a tangle of narrow streets and alleys, taking little notice of my surroundings, so that when I eventually regained my concentration, and took stock of my whereabouts, I realized I was lost.

I was at the top of a low hill. Below me, the small houses and shops were dark and deserted. The sky was darkening rapidly and I scanned the distant horizon, searching for some landmark that would guide me back towards familiar surroundings. Fortunately, I made out the dome of St. Paul's over to my left and set off hurriedly down the hill into the deepening dusk.

It was as I turned the corner at the bottom of the hill that I glimpsed the yellow light still burning in a small square window on the opposite side of the street. I might have pa.s.sed it by without a second glance but something made me cross over and look inside.

And there, hanging against a black backcloth were two more paintings I knew instinctively were by Valliecchi. Trying the door, I was surprised to find it open. To the owner, I explained that I found the two canva.s.ses in the window extremely interesting and asked if they were, by any chance, the work of Antonio Valliecchi. For a moment, he looked extremely surprised and I was subjected to a close scrutiny before he eventually replied.

"Indeed they are," he said. "But I must confess surprise at finding anyone who would recognize them."

"Are they for sale?" I inquired.

He intimated they were and after settling on the price he took them from the window and rolled them carefully before handing them across the counter.

Before I left, I asked him how he had obtained them. He stood in contemplative silence for several moments, seemingly reluctant to answer, then he admitted he had bought them off Valliecchi himself.

Apparently it had been three years before. He had met Valliecchi in Italy and considered him to be more than just eccentric. In his own words, Valliecchi was haunted. It was a funny sort of expression to use at the time and I wasn't sure what he meant. It was not until some time later I was to find out just how close to the truth he was. Valliecchi, he maintained, was a very frightened man in spite of his outward show of nonchalance and his polished performances on the concert platform.

An hour later, after almost losing my way again, I reached home and took the paintings into the small parlor, switching on all of the lights in order that I might examine them in minute detail. I soon discovered they were even more disconcerting than the first. One was of a huge subterranean cavern and the way Valliiecchi had painted it, it seemed to stretched back into infinity. It was absolute genius but not the sort of thing anyone would wish to hang in their drawing room. There was some kind of ceremony going on in the center of the picture and all of the figures were hooded and robed. But I needed only one glance to realize those figures were not even remotely human-and the monstrous idol they were wors.h.i.+pping was hideous beyond all belief. Yet all was so realistic. I had the unshakable conviction that such a scene had been enacted somewhere, at some time, and it was not simply a product of the artist's imagination.

Somehow, he had mastered the technique of painting in three dimensions. And when I unrolled the other canvas I found it to be the most horrific of the three. It was also the only one Valliecchi had t.i.tled.

At the bottom, he had painted the words 'Void Before Creation'. Much of it was little more than a blank, black emptiness with what appeared to be suns and planets beginning to form around the edges and on one side, men were evolving from beasts.

It was only when I looked at it really closely I realized there was something in the middle of it all; something just a shade darker than the rest, amorphous and tentacled, sprawled across the center of the painting, touching everything which was being created out of midnight nothingness.

I had the feeling his intention was to show that everything had been originally formed out of utter evil and chaos and would remain tainted with it until the end of time. Like the one I had come across in Chelsea, I burned those two monstrous canva.s.ses after the hideous affair of Valliecchi's death.

A week later, I learned that Valliecchi had been invited to play at an exclusive club of which I was a member. By now, I was so intrigued by his work I knew I had to go along to hear him and, if possible, seek him out and ask about this other side of his creative genius with which few people seemed to be acquainted.

On the evening in question, I was in my seat half an hour before Valliecchi was due to arrive. Every seat was taken. When the lights went down, everything was quiet as the curtains opened and I saw the lone figure on the stage. I must confess I had not known quite what to expect.

What I saw was a frail little man in his early sixties with a neat goatee beard and pure white hair ruffled about his temples. He seemed quite ordinary at first glance. It was only when I looked at his eyes that I knew what the old shopkeeper had meant about him being haunted. There was no doubt about it. He was a man who went through life continually looking over his shoulder at something fearful that walked close behind him, d.o.g.g.i.ng his footsteps. Something unseen and yet terrifying.

Then he started to play. And he made his violin do everything but speak. And the music! It rose and fell in wild, tormented shrieks and cadences as if the instrument had a soul of its own which was in mortal danger of being lost for ever in the fires of h.e.l.l.

He played nonstop for three quarters of an hour. But it was not just his playing that scared me more than I cared to admit. There was something else. Sitting there in the dimness with just the spotlight s.h.i.+ning onto the stage, I had the uncomfortable feeling there were curious antiphonal echoes coming from somewhere out of the distance in answer to that strange music.

Not until later did I get an opportunity to speak to Valliecchi. His host had been called away to the telephone and the violinist was left seated at the main table. He was surprised when I took him by the arm and lowered myself into the chair beside him. And his expression of astonishment turned to something more akin to fear when I told him I had three of his paintings and wished to talk to him about them. He attempted to struggle from my grasp and muttered something under his breath about dabbling in things I did not understand.

Even when he saw I did not intend taking no for an answer, he denied he had ever painted any pictures claiming it must be someone else I was talking about. Then he saw his denials had no effect on me and he finally admitted he painted but only as a sideline, not to make any profit. It had obviously been a big mistake to allow any of his pictures to get onto the market.

However, when he realized I meant every word I said, he changed his att.i.tude dramatically. I had the impression he wanted desperately to talk with someone, to get something off his chest. At that moment, his host returned and I thought I had lost my chance. But before I released my grip on his arm Valliecchi muttered the number of an address in Mewson Street.

I let him go then. I had got what I wanted.

It was close on midnight before the meeting broke up. I looked around for Valliecchi but he had obviously left some time earlier. But I had his address so that did not worry me too much. I had no idea where Mewson Street was but I managed to hail a cab outside the club and told the driver to take me there.

It was a longer journey than I had antic.i.p.ated. We must have been driving for more than half an hour before we finally pulled up. It had begun to rain; a thin drizzling mist that penetrated everything. After the taxi had gone, I looked about me.

The only light visible was a dim street lamp some twenty yards away. The rest of the place was in almost total darkness. Clearly this was not an area of London where many people liked to live. There were long rows of houses on either side of the street in which I found myself but the majority were sadly in need of repair and not a single light showed in any of them.

I was obviously in a main street and there was a very narrow thoroughfare leading off it over to my left and the sign showed that this alley was Mewson Street. For some reason, the driver had dropped me off at the end of the street instead of taking me all the way to where Valliecchi lived.

There was clearly nothing for it but to walk the rest of the way. Nevertheless, it was not without a sense of trepidation that I turned off the main road and entered the dingy alley. It is difficult to believe that such places still exist in London. I soon discovered why the taxi driver had not taken me any further for it was like stepping back into another century. The marks of decay were everywhere; in the huge cobbles of the street, the low roofs of the decrepit houses on either side, the shattered windows of those places which had been abandoned.

Everything was in pitch-blackness and, at first sight all of the ancient dwellings seemed to be empty. It was as if everyone who had once lived there had just packed up their belongings and pulled out. Had it not been for my insatiable curiosity and weird obsession over the paintings I would have turned back in that instant and tried to pick up another taxi to take me home. In the light of what was to happen I only wish to G.o.d I had!

There was a low, humped bridge near the end of the alley and I could hear the gurgle of water close by telling me it must have crossed one of the many streams which run into the Thames on the city outskirts. Beyond it, the street was so narrow I doubted if the taxi could have squeezed between the buildings that overhung it on both sides.

Underfoot, the road degenerated into little more than a muddy track, cobbled with large, smooth stones and filled with deep puddles. Now I noticed gleams of yellow light behind tightly-shuttered windows and knew there was life of a kind in the gaunt, dark houses.

The street led upward through the darkness and I found the address Valliecchi had given me at the very end, on top of a hill. The city lights twinkled in the distance but all around me there seemed only darkness and utter silence.

I am not an over-imaginative person by any means. But just standing there I could sense evil all around me. In spite of my burning curiosity, it took a lot of nerve to walk along the dimly-seen path and knock on the large, ornate door.

Valliecchi must have been waiting for me for the door opened almost at once and he ushered me inside. Perhaps there was no electricity laid on to the house for all he seemed to have were long candles. These, and an ancient kerosene lamp, which he held high in his hand as he took me inside.

The hall looked ordinary enough, as did the parlour at the end of it. But when he led me into his studio at the side of the house and what I saw there gave me a shock. There must have been more than a dozen pictures on the walls. And there was another, still unfinished, on an easel in the middle of the room. I thought I had seen the ultimate in horror with those three paintings in my possession.

But these! Dear Lord in Heaven, they were canva.s.ses he would never have dared show outside that room. Even now I can scarcely bring myself to think about them. During my researches for my book I had come across several pictures Clark Ashton Smith had painted of other worlds in s.p.a.ce and they are horrifying enough if one gets at the hidden meaning behind them. But they are child's play compared with those in that studio.

I was aware that Valliecchi was watching me closely as I paused and examined them. He was obviously trying to a.s.sess my reactions.

"You know," he said, "you're the only person who's seen these paintings. I'm only allowing you to see them because I think you may understand and because I'm afraid something is going to happen to me very soon and it's important someone should know the shocking truth."

He smiled oddly at that.

Then he went on, "Some of you were strangely affected by my playing tonight. I could see it in your faces. Maybe you even wondered who the composer of that music was. Would it surprise you to know it was composed ages before Handel or Mozart or any of the other great composers you care to name?"

There was something about his look at that moment which convinced me I was in the presence of a madman. It is said that the dividing lines between genius and insanity is extremely thin and I was certain of it then. If only I had turned and left that place I would have been spared what was to come. But he suddenly caught my arm and pulled me forward, pointing to the heavy drapes across the window at the far side of the studio.

"I want you to see what I have seen," he hissed thinly. "See what that music can really do. Yes, my friend, I discovered that to my cost many years ago."

As he reached the wall he stretched out his free hand and pulled the cord sharply and I braced myself, physically and mentally, for what I might see. I had half imagined it might be some huge wall mural he had done, something even more horrifying than those ranged around the room. But when the curtains swished aside I was simply looking out of a window.

I had felt tensed and nervous ever since going into that house but this was the last straw. The old goat was merely stringing me along, deliberately building up the tension to this anticlimax. It was nothing more than one huge joke to him and he had simply been studying my reactions.

I turned on him furiously and made some harsh remark. But he was not laughing at my discomfiture. He was not even smiling. If anything, he looked more frightened than before. He stopped my outburst with a quick motion of his hand. Then he pointed to a chair and made me sit down.

I could not imagine what was coming next. I saw him hesitate for a moment. Then he walked across the room and picked up his Stradivarius before taking his stance in front of the window. It was then that what had been bugging me ever since Valliecchi had opened those heavy curtains really got to me.

It was dark outside, completely overcast. But the blackness beyond the window was absolute. There was not even a glimmer of the distant city lights that should have been visible from the top of the hill.

And even the faint gleam of yellow candlelight from inside the room was not reflected back from the gla.s.s. It was as if a great black oblong had been painted on the wall between the curtains. I started to rise from my chair to examine it more closely but at that moment Valliecchi waved me back, picked up his bow and started to play.

The music was similar to that I had heard earlier. Yet there was a difference. It was out of this world. A cacophonous clas.h.i.+ng of discords, a cadence that shrieked harshly in the stillness of the room. But in spite of the lack of harmony, this melody-if one could call it that-was oddly hypnotic. And once again I was acutely aware of those weird echoes coming from somewhere in the far distance.

My gaze had been momentarily fixed on Valliecchi as he stood rigidly at the end of the room. I could make out his face, white and strained, in the candlelight, eyes staring from his head. I was sure he had already forgotten my presence and was aware of nothing but the notes that came sobbing hysterically from his violin.

Then there came a strange vibration, a shuddering in the air, which could almost be seen rather than felt. Abruptly, that window was no longer dark and utterly featureless.

What I saw there was beyond all comprehension and belief. And the crowning horror of it all was that I recognized the scene outside. I knew it intimately from the very first painting I had bought in Chelsea. The plateau was exactly the same with the green sand and those hideous cave mouths looming in the rocky cliff face. And those things that lurked within the dark shadows were moving, coming out into the light.

I must have been paralyzed for an instant and for the life of me I could not keep back a loud scream. I still did not know how much was real and how much was due to my fevered fancy.

Just where that place was-or is-where it has its terrible presence, I do not know. Nor have I any wish to find out. That it was no dream, no product of my overwrought imagination, I was absolutely certain.

Somehow, I succeeded in getting out of the chair. But when I reached the door I found it locked and it stubbornly resisted all of my frantic efforts to open it. All I could do was crouch down and watch the horrifying scene that unfolded before my unbelieving eyes.

What h.e.l.lish outer world had sp.a.w.ned those ghastly creatures was beyond my knowledge. It was almost impossible to judge their true size for there were only the cavern mouths with which to make any comparison. Though there was an impression of hugeness about them as they emerged. Their outline was a fiendish travesty of everything sane and familiar. Long and sinuous like gigantic worms, they had heads like the mythological demons with gaping fangs and hooded eyes behind which lay a malign intelligence.

Then, without warning, the tone and tempo of the music changed. Valliecchi had introduced a subtle variation into the underlying theme. Beyond the window, the scene also changed in response to the shrieking violin. Words are a poor medium to describe what I saw but it is important I should put down everything if only to preserve my own sanity.

It was night. In the foreground was a row of broken stone columns outlines against the pale wash of yellow moonlight and on top of one of them squatted something that was vaguely humanoid in shape, but dog-headed, baying at the moon.

And there were others even more indescribable. Animal-headed creatures that walked upright with glaring red eyes and holding objects that squirmed and twisted and dripped blood onto those unhallowed stones. I crouched there, shaking, speechless with horror and loathing. Desperately, I clutched at the wall for support.

All this time, Valliecchi had been twisting and swaying like a man possessed-as indeed he must have been-drawing those weird, fantastic notes from that accursed violin.

Above the whining music, I suddenly heard him shout, "Don't you see now? Or are you just as blind as all the others who can't see beyond the ends of their noses? This is what the priests of Ancient Egypt saw when this music was, even then, older than memory. This is the reality behind the G.o.ds they painted on their temple walls. These are the real devils and demons out of Sumer and Babylon. These are the G.o.ds who walked the Earth before the lands of Mu and Lemuria rose from the waves."

I scarcely heard him. Because in that instant, with a swift change in the tempo and the high-pitched key of the melody, those mind-shattering creatures were gone. More scenes followed in rapid succession as Valliecchi continued to play. Some I recognized from the paintings on the walls. Others were unknown to me but equally revolting and ghastly.

Then everything was gone. In their place was utter blackness. I could feel the perspiration dripping into my eyes but I could no more wipe it away than I could fly.

Valliecchi was still playing and the music was, if anything, wilder and more hysterical than before. But for an instant I thought it was all finished. That outside the window there was only the night and the drizzling rain. And somewhere in the mist were the lights and houses of London.

Then the full weight of cosmic horror descended upon me. I saw there was something there; something blacker than the night. May Heaven take pity on me that I ever saw it! There are those who will say that I am mad, and others will be more sympathetic and maintain I simply imagined it all, that I had become so obsessed with those bizarre paintings that it had affected my mind causing me to believe I saw something which was not really there. But I was there-and I know what I saw! And it is an indisputable fact that Valliecchi's body was never found.

It was something out of a nightmare. Amorphous. A shape taken from horror that changed continuously. Valliecchi had seen it too. Possibly he knew it of old, knew what it was, because I think he tried to change that h.e.l.lish melody. But the thing stayed there, coming nearer, a creature of blackness and evil.