In a little while, Howard’s voice called him out to the dining room, and Lovecraft carried his travel bag over and joined him at the oak table for sandwiches and more coffee.
“Bob, let me tell you now that if you had recounted this very same tale to me, I would at this very moment be doubting your sanity. I know that you are more inclined to believe in things mystical and supernatural, but I fear my behavior, even in that light, may seem highly irrational.”
“Show me the Kachina,” said Howard. “I’d say your tale seems a tad tall, but we Texicans can smell the real thing.”
Lovecraft opened the black-oilcloth satchel and produced the Kachina with the broken headpiece. Howard turned it back and forth, then upside down, in his hands, examining it from every angle before he put it down on its stand.
“Nothing remarkable about the handiwork,” he said. “I’ve seen dozens just like it in curio shops. But you’re right about the face, though it takes a little stretch to see your squid-faced Cthulhu in it.”
“You don’t seem inclined to believe me at this point.” Lovecraft’s tone held a hint of injury, although his face showed nothing. “Have you no confidence in me, even after our long correspondence?”
“I trust ya, HP. Now show me the Artifact. I think that’ll prove your point for sure if anything will.”
The act of reaching into his watch pocket sent a sudden jolt of pain through Lovecraft’s side. He winced and paused momentarily.
“What’s the matter?”
“No. Nothing to be alarmed about. It’s just a cramp.” Lovecraft first placed the Artifact flat on his left palm, then turned it so that they could both watch the object slowly mimic the slightly bluish color of his flesh. Then he put it on the tabletop, and Howard gasped as it seemed to vanish into the grain of the wood. Both men felt the hair rising on their arms.
“It’s like a damned chameleon!”
“Pick it up,” said Lovecraft.
Howard leaned forward, getting partially out of his chair to reach for the Artifact, but before he could close his hand over it the whole world seemed to vanish in an incredible blue-white flash, and in the deafening roar that followed a window exploded inward, showering them both with fragments of glass and wood.
Lovecraft thought he was blind at first, but through the purple afterimages that ringed his vision, he could make out the faint glow of the Artifact on the tabletop. The house was dark, the electricity out, and he could hear a weak voice calling for Howard.
“Stay where you are,” said Howard’s voice. “That was a damned close one. Hit the cedar by the porch. I’ll see to my mother and bring some light.”
“Bobby! Bobby!” Mrs. Howard’s voice called out again in the dark, and Lovecraft heard the burly man stumble off toward it.
But that was not all he heard. Lovecraft turned his head left and right to pinpoint the source of the other sound, but it did not vary. At first he thought it was simply a hallucination produced by the ringing in his ears after the thunderclap, but it was too irregular to be a ringing, and too low, too husky, like a whispered voice. He concentrated. He located the coffee cup in the dark and took a sip.
In a moment, as the shrill tone died down in his ears, he could almost make out the words—Cthulhu fhtagn Cthulhu fhtagn Cthulhu fhtagn. He had to laugh, even in his uneasiness-the words were from his own stories-it was clearly his overactive imagination unbridled by the stresses of the past several days. Cthulhu fhtagn Cthulhu fhtagn Cthulhu fhtagn. The demonic whisper was joined by another voice, then another, until their overlapping sounded like leaves rustling in the wind. Lovecraft pressed his palms flat over his ears, and still he could hear the murmuring. He looked around the room, or tried to in the pitch-blackness, but all he could see was the faint, greenish glow of the Artifact pulsing subtly brighter and brighter, growing more intense in unison with the sound. It was the source of the voices.
IN THE KITCHEN, Howard opened the utility drawer and picked out the flashlight by feel. When he switched it on nothing happened until he banged it once on the counter and jostled the batteries into place. The flashlight cast a distorted circle of dim light against the ceiling. Howard turned the beam to the floor and followed the patch of weak illumination into his mother’s room, where Hester Howard was alone, propped up in her bed by a mass of pillows and bolsters; her face was turned away, toward the window, and if it hadn’t been for the wheezing sound of her breathing, just barely audible over the rain, Howard would have thought her dead. With the flicker of distant lightning strobing constantly, Howard found he hardly needed the flashlight.
“Ma?” he said. “I’m here. Are ya all right?”
“Bobby, my baby,” Mrs. Howard said, still facing the window. “Did the lightning give you a fright?”
“I’m fine, Ma. I think it hit one of the trees outside. We just lost our lights is all.”
“Daddy says your good friend’s come…” Her voice grew thick and phlegmatic for a moment and then cleared again. “…for a visit.”
“Yes, Ma. It’s Howard Phillips Lovecraft. The Yankee writer from Providence. ”
“He seems like a nice boy.”
“He’s older than me, Ma.”
“Tell him I’m sorry I can’t be a proper hostess.”
“All right, Ma.”
“Make him something to eat. A sandwich.”
“I did, Ma.”
“Daddy’s got no sense about how to treat guests” she coughed. “so you got to do your best to show the proper hospitality.” Mrs. Howard turned her head, and the harsh, sporadic illumination of the lightning made the lines of her face seem deeper and darker, like fissures that cut all the way into her skull. “Don’t let Daddy hog all the talk, and tell him to watch his language.”
“I will, Ma.”
Mrs. Howard closed her eyes and seemed to lean farther back into the pillows. Her health had been deteriorating since the complications following her gallbladder surgery. Although the abscess along her incision had finally healed, even the trips out to Lubbock and to Amarillo for the dry Panhandle air hadn’t improved her lungs. In the damp of the storm, she was sounding more congested than ever.
“Where’s Father?” Howard asked, but in the next flash, he saw that his mother had fallen asleep. He listened to her troubled breathing for a moment before he tucked the blankets more securely around her and gave her a light kiss on the forehead.
As Howard turned to leave the room, another strobe of lightning illuminated the room, but this one cast an odd shadow across the far wall. He froze momentarily and waited until the next flash revealed the black silhouette of a man outside the window. Without hesitation, Howard ran into the bathroom, where he threw open the wall cabinet and picked up his .38 automatic, which he kept loaded for emergencies. Flashlight in one hand and the pistol in the other, he walked quickly out of the house, securing the door behind him so it would not blow open in the wind.
The tree by the porch had been blasted into black slivers by a direct strike. Portions were still smoldering, even in the heavy downpour, and he could smell the pleasant odor of burnt cedar. Howard carefully circled the porch, squinting to keep the rain out of his eyes. As he edged around each corner, he swiveled into a firing stance, scanning in front of him with the beam of the flashlight, which was almost useless. In the black gaps between the lightning flashes, he could see nothing at all.
Howard circled the house until he was sure no one was lurking outside, then he proceeded to the garage and directed the beam of the flashlight in through the loose door that creaked shrilly each time it swung back and forth. Something inside seemed to catch the light. He raised his pistol, taking aim at the patch of light. The next time the door swung open he saw them clearly-two glowing orbs at eye level, glaring out at him. Whatever it was let out a low, moaning sound and moved with surprising speed toward him. Howard stumbled backwards, his shout cut short by the dark figure that hurtled out at him. He pulled the trigger more out of instinct than intention, and the .38 coughed twice in his hand, the bullets tearing splinters through the weathered wood of the garage door. When he gathered his wits again he realized it must have been some trick of the light the door swung at him. Nothing had emerged from the blackness the garage.