All that aside, now (or then) at the age of twenty-nine, I began to write for Derleth at Arkham House, and of course I did so very much in the mode of Lovecraft; those early stories were steeped in the fantastical, fictional lore of the Cthulhu Mythos. So, that is where most of the stories in this book had their beginnings. I should point out, however, that not all of my Mythos stories read like HPL; they’re not all slavish pastiches, such as Derleth’s own supposedly Lovecraft “collaborations.” For despite that it narrates Lovecraftian themes, still my voice is my own.
My work in this vein has two distinct forms: novellas and short (or shorter) stories. The book you hold in your hands is from the first of two companion volumes; it contains the novellas. Volume Two will have most of my Mythos short stories that in my opinion are worthy of this sort of hardcover collection. The stories here presented are not in chronological order, but for readers who are curious about such matters I have included, as a preface to each novella, brief details of the when, where, and the why of its writing.
But there, enough from me; now I’ll let the Cthulhu Mythos more properly explain itself…
—Brian Lumley
The Horror at Oakdeene
My first stories were published by August Derleth in 1968, so I was still a relative beginner in the first half of 1970 when I sent him this novella. I was also still in the British Army: a recruiting sergeant, of all things, in the city of Leicester. The story was published (eventually) by Derleth’s Arkham House, but I had to wait all of seven years to see it in print in the hardcover collection of the same name, a book which is now long out of print. The Horror at Oakdeene—quite obviously the work of a beginner and very heavily influenced by Lovecraft—is one of a quite small handful of stories that has not been reprinted until now…
In the summer of 1935 Martin Spellman went to work as a trainee mental nurse at Oakdeene Sanatorium. He was twenty-four years old and already dedicated—but not to nursing. Spellman’s one ambition since his early teens had been to be an author; and since a rather odd and macabre turn of mind had dictated for his first projected work a compilation of rare or outstanding mental cases, he had decided that the best way to gain a first-hand insight on his subject—the feel, as it were, of asylums—would be to work in such an institute.
Of course, Spellman’s real intention in applying for training was kept well hidden, but that did not mean that he was not going to try his best in the job to which he was committing himself. The minimum contract period was one year, with a further year of full-time nursing, and Martin cheerfully agreed to these terms in the furtherance of his project.
His colleagues and superior officers alike were quite astonished at the unaccustomed zeal with which young Spellman threw himself into his work, and every night that he was not on duty saw the light in his room burning well into the early hours. Martin had allotted his time off-duty in the following manner: for three hours he would study the theory of mental nursing, for five hours he would work on his book. This would leave him at least six hours for sleeping in any given twenty-four hour period. At those times when night-duty came around—once or twice each week—he would alter his schedule so as to spend the same amount of time in these aforementioned tasks.
Often Martin’s immediate superior and tutor, Dr. Welford, caught him in the late summer and early autumn of the year working on his manuscripts; but who could complain about a student mental nurse writing a series of “theses” or correlations on the stranger, more complex cases of his calling? If anything Martin was to be congratulated on his studious attention to all details of his sanatorium routine.
In fact Spellman soon discovered that he did not like his work at the institute; his night-duties were an especial abomination, when on occasion he had of necessity to wander those lower corridors of Oakdeene wherein the worst patients were held resident. His harder, more stoic colleagues called the basement ward “Hell,” and Martin Spellman would not have contested this seemingly harsh appellation. It was hell down there, with the corridor lights starkly illuminating the heavy doors with their little barred spy-holes and their labels bearing brief, typed case histories of the occupants of the cells. Behind those doors, separated from Martin by only the thickness of the oak panels and battens and the rubbery warm panels within, many of Britain’s most terrible lunatics dwelt in the perpetual horror of their own madness, and Martin Spellman made sure when on night-duty that his hourly tours of Hell were undertaken with a thoroughly efficient but speedy dispatch.
One of Spellman’s so-called “colleagues” at the sanatorium, Alan Barstowe (an ugly, squat-bodied, fully-trained nurse of some thirty-five years), was able on occasion to help the trainee out with his dread of the ward known as Hell. Barstowe, it seemed, had no fear of that part of night-duty whatever; indeed, in the eerie atmosphere of the nighted asylum, he appeared to welcome the hourly visits to the lower ward. He would often exchange duties with Spellman, saying that he did not mind working nights—that in fact he preferred such duties to those of the daylight hours. Every man to his own tastes!
Spellman’s room at the institute was on the ground floor—one of four bed-living-room combinations—separated from the two mental wards on the same floor by reinforced, soundproofed walls. With the recruiting of nurses at Oakdeene going badly, two of the four “living-in” rooms were empty. The other occupied room belonged to one Harold Moody, a fully-trained, middle-aged mental nurse whose partial deafness was certainly no handicap in living directly above Hell; the flooring of the ground-floor quarters was definitely not soundproof! Not that the sounds from below bothered Spellman often, but he did notice that Hell’s inmates were always exceptionally vociferous whenever Alan Barstowe was on night-duty; and at those times the screams, moans, and gibberings from the basement ward seemed to penetrate the stone floor beneath his bed with an insistence that bothered him inwardly as well as keeping him physically awake often until four and five in the morning.
Eventually there came a time when the student and Barstowe were detailed for night-duty together, and frankly the younger man was not at all happy with the arrangement. For all Barstowe’s apparent amicability, and quite apart from the contours of his face and body, there was something ugly about the man. And yet the evening shift started quite normally at 9:00 P.M., with nothing in Barstowe’s manner to substantiate Spellman’s feelings or cause him any untoward concern.
The orders for night-duty included the stipulation that each ward would be visited—each cell, room, and occupant checked and, as far as possible, inspected once every hour. Martin Spellman had been detailed for duty in the lower wards and Hell, while Barstowe had the upper wards and the rooms of the quieter, less permanent inmates. At 11:00 P.M., when the student nurse was about to descend for the second time to the dreaded basement ward with its padding-muted gibberings, curses and moans, he was hailed from above as he stood at the top of the stone steps.
“Young Spellman! Hold on a minute,” the guttural voice of the froggish Barstowe came down to him. Looking up towards the first-floor landing, the trainee saw the squat man making his way quickly down the stairs. In his hand Barstowe carried what looked like a black stick, about eighteen inches long and with a silver tip.
As he descended, the nurse saw Spellman staring at his weapon and held it closer to his body, concealing it as best he could. “Come prepared, I always say,” he muttered with a strained grin as he came to a halt beside the trainee. “Look, Martin,” he quickly changed the subject, “I know you don’t care much for the lower wards and Hell—so if you fancy I’ll stay down here and you can carry on upstairs. I was just about to do Ward Four—so if you’d care to—”