The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack (40 Modern and Classic Lovecraftian Tales) (17 page)

Perhaps the best way to tell it is by setting down portions of the journal I kept this summer. Not every entry, of course. Mere excerpts. Just enough to make this affidavit comprehensible to anyone unfamiliar with the incidents at Poroth Farm.

The journal was the only writing I did all summer; my primary reason for keeping it was to record the books I’d read each day, as well as to examine my reactions to relative solitude over an extended period. All the rest of my energies (as you will no doubt gather from the notes below) were spent reading, in preparation for a course I plan to teach at Trenton State this fall. Or
planned
, I should say, because I don’t expect to be anywhere around here come fall.

Where will I be? Perhaps that depends on what’s beneath those rose-tinted spectacles.

The course was to cover the gothic tradition from Shakespeare to Faulkner, from
Hamlet
to
Absalom, Absalom!
(And why not view the former as gothic, with its ghost on the battlements and concern for lost inheritance?) To make the move to Gilead, I’d rented a car for a few days and had stuffed it full of books—only a few of which I ever got to read. But then, I couldn’t have known…

How pleasant things were, at the beginning.

June 4

Unpacking day. Spent all morning putting up screens, and a good thing I did. Night now, and a million moths tapping at the windows. One of them as big as a small bird—white—largest I’ve ever seen. What kind of caterpillar must it have been? I hope the damned things don’t push through the screens.

Had to kill literally hundreds of spiders before moving my stuff in. The Poroths supposedly renovated this building only a couple of months ago, and already it’s infested.
Arachnidae
—hate the bastards. Why? We’ll take that one up with Sigmund someday. Daydreams of Revenge of the Spiders, writhing body covered with a frenzy of hairy brown legs. “Egad, man, that face! That bloody, torn face! And the missing eyes! It looks like—no! Jeremy!” Killing spiders is supposed to bring bad luck. (Insidious Sierra Club propaganda masquerading as folk myth?) But can’t sleep if there’s anything crawling around…so it’s swat or stamp on whatever I can.

Supper with the Poroths. Began to eat, then heard Sarr saying grace. Apologies—but things like that don’t embarrass me as much as they used to. Is that because I’m nearing thirty?

Chatted about crops, insects, humidity. (Very damp area—band of purplish mildew already around bottom of walls out here.) Sarr told of plans to someday build a larger house when Deborah has a baby, three or four years from now. Intends to build it out of stone. Then he shut up, and I had to keep the conversation going. (Hate eating in silence—animal sounds of mastication, bubbling stomachs.) Deborah joked about cats being her surrogate children. All seven of them hanging around my legs, rubbing against ankles. My nose began running and my eyes itched. Goddamned allergy. Must remember to start treatments this fall, when I get to Trenton. Deborah sympathetic, Sarr merely watching; she told me my eyes were bloodshot, offered antihistamine. Told them I was glad they at least believe in modern medicine—I’d been afraid she’d offer herbs or mud or something. Sarr said some of the locals still use “snake oil.” Asked him how snakes were killed, quoting line from
Vathek
: “The oil of the serpents I have pinched to death will be a pretty present.” We discussed wisdom of pinching snakes. Apparently there’s a copperhead out back, near the brook…

The meal was good—lamb and noodles. Not bad for twenty dollars a week, since I detest cooking. Spice cake for dessert, home-made, of course. Deborah is a good cook. Handsome woman, too.

Still light when I left their kitchen. Fireflies already on the lawn—I’ve never seen so many. Knelt and watched them a while, listening to the crickets. Think I’ll like it here.

Took nearly an hour to arrange my books the way I wanted them. Alphabetical order by authors? No, chronological… But anthologies mess that system up, so back to authors. Why am I so neurotic about my books?

Anyway, they look nice there on the shelves.

Sat up tonight finishing
The Mysteries of Udolpho
. Figure it’s best to get the long ones out of the way first. Radcliffe has unfortunate penchant for explaining away all her ghosts and apparitions—really a mistake and a bore. All in all, not exactly the most fascinating reading, though a good study in Romanticism. Montoni the typical Byronic hero/villain. But can’t demand students read
Udolpho
—too long. In fact, had to keep reminding myself to slow down, have patience with the book. Tried to put myself in frame of mind of 1794 reader with plenty of time on his hands.

It works, too—I do have plenty of time out here, and already I can feel myself beginning to unwind. What New York does to people…

It’s almost two A.M. now, and I’m about ready to turn in. Too bad there’s no bathroom in this building—I hate pissing outside at night. God knows what’s crawling up your ankles… But it’s hardly worth stumbling through the darkness to the farmhouse and maybe waking up Sarr and Deborah. The nights out here are really pitch-black.

* * * *

…Felt vulnerable, standing there against the night. But what made me even uneasier was the view I got of this building. The lamp on the desk casts the only light for miles, and as I stood outside looking into this room, I could see dozens of flying shapes making right for the screens. When you’re inside here, it’s as if you’re in a display case—the whole night can see you, but all you can see is darkness. I wish this room didn’t have windows on three of the walls—though that does let in the breeze. And I wish the woods weren’t so close to the windows by the bed. I suppose privacy is what I wanted—but feel a little unprotected out here.

Those moths are still batting themselves against the screens, but as far as I can see the only things that have gotten in are a few gnats flying around this lamp. The crickets sound good—you sure don’t hear them in the city. Frogs are croaking in the brook.

My nose is only now beginning to clear up. Those goddamned cats. I’ll walk to town tomorrow; must remember to buy some Contac. Even though the cats are all outside during the day, that farmhouse is full of their scent. But I don’t expect to be spending that much time inside the house anyway; this allergy will keep me away from the TV and out here with the books.

Just saw an unpleasantly large spider scurry across the floor near the foot of my bed. Vanished behind the footlocker. Must remember to buy some insect spray.

June 11

Hot today, but at night comes a chill. The dampness of this place seems to magnify temperature. Sat outside most of the day finishing the Maturin book,
Melmoth the Wanderer,
and feeling vaguely guilty each time I heard Sarr or Deborah working out there in the field. Well, I’ve paid for my reading time, so I guess I’m entitled to enjoy it. Though some of these old gothics are a bit hard to enjoy. The trouble with
Melmoth
is that it wants you to hate. You’re especially supposed to hate the Catholics. No doubt its picture of the Inquisition is accurate, but all a book like this can do is put you in an unconstructive rage. Those vicious characters have been dead for centuries, and there’s no way to punish them. Still, it’s a nice, cynical book for those who like atrocity scenes—starving prisoners forced to eat their girlfriends, etc. And narratives within narratives within narratives within narratives. I may assign some sections to my class.

Just before dinner, in need of a break, read a story by Arthur Machen. Welsh writer, turn of century, though think the story’s set somewhere in England: old house in the hills, dark woods with secret paths and hidden streams. God, what an experience! I was a little confused by the framing device and all its high-flown talk of “cosmic evil,” but the sections from the young girl’s notebook were…staggering. That air of paganism, the malevolent little faces peeping from the shadows, and those rites she can’t dare talk about… It’s called “The White People,” and it must be the most persuasive horror tale ever written.

Afterward, strolling toward the house, I was moved to climb the old tree in the side yard—the Poroths had already gone in to get dinner ready—and stood upright on a great heavy branch near the middle, making strange gestures and faces that no one could see. Can’t say exactly what it was I did, or why. It was getting dark—fireflies below me and a mist rising off the field. I must have looked like a madman’s shadow as I made signs to the woods and the moon.

Lamb tonight, and damned good. I may find myself getting fat. Offered, again, to wash the dishes, but apparently Deborah feels that’s her role, and I don’t care to dissuade her. So talked a while with Sarr about his cats—the usual subject of conversation, especially because, now that summer’s coming, they’re bringing in dead things every night. Field mice, moles, shrews, birds, even a little garter snake. They don’t eat them, just lay them out on the porch for the Poroths to see—sort of an offering, I guess. Sarr tosses the bodies in the garbage can, which, as a result, smells indescribably foul. Deborah wants to put bells around their necks; she hates mice but feels sorry for the birds. When she finished the dishes, she and Sarr sat down to watch one of their godawful TV programs, so I came out here to read.

Spent the usual ten minutes going over this room, spray can in hand, looking for spiders to kill. Found a couple of little ones, then spent some time spraying bugs that were hanging on the screens hoping to get in. Watched a lot of long-legged things curl up and die… Tended not to kill the moths, unless they were making too much of a racket banging against the screen; I can tolerate them okay, but it’s the fireflies I really like. I always feel a little sorry when I kill one by mistake and see it hold that cold glow too long. (That’s how you know they’re dead: the dead ones don’t wink. They just keep their light on till it fades away.)

The insecticide I’m using is made right here in New Jersey, by the Ortho Chemical Company. The label on the can says, “WARNING. For Outdoor Use Only.” That’s why I bought it—figured it’s the most powerful brand available.

Sat in bed reading Algernon Blackwood’s witch/cat story “Ancient Sorceries (nowhere near as good as Machen, or as his own tale “The Willows”), and it made me think of those seven cats. The Poroths have around a dozen names for each of them, which seems a little ridiculous, since the creatures barely respond to even one. Sasha, for example, the orange male, is also known as Butch, which comes from
bouche
, mouth. And that’s short for Eddie La Bouche, so he’s also called Ed or Eddie—which in turn come from some friend’s mispronunciation of the cat’s original name, Itty, short for Itty Bitty Kitty, as he was quite small when they got him. And Zoë, the cutest of the kittens, is also called Bozo and Bisbo. Let’s see, how many others can I remember? (I’m just learning to tell some of them apart.) Felix, or “Flixie,” was originally called Paleface, and Phaedra, his mother, is sometimes known as Phuddy, short for Phuddy Duddy.

Come to think of it, the only cat that hasn’t got multiple names is Bwada, Sarr’s cat. (All the others were acquired after he married Deborah, but Bwada was his pet years before.) She’s the oldest of the cats, and the meanest. Fat and sleek, with fine gray fur darker than silver gray, lighter than charcoal. She’s the only cat that’s ever bitten anyone—Deborah, as well as friends of the Poroths—and after seeing the way she snarls at the other cats when they get in her way, I decided to keep my distance. Fortunately she’s scared of me and retreats whenever I approach. I think being spayed is what’s messed her up and given her an evil disposition.

Sounds are drifting from the farmhouse. I can vaguely make out a psalm of some kind. It’s late, past eleven, and I guess the Poroths have turned off the TV and are singing their evening devotions…

And now all is silence. They’ve gone to bed. I’m not very tired yet, so I guess I’ll stay up a while and read some—

Something odd just happened. I’ve never heard anything like it. While writing for the past half hour I’ve been aware, if half-consciously, of the crickets. Their regular chirping can be pretty soothing, like the sound of a well-tuned machine. But just a few seconds ago they seemed to miss a beat. They’d been singing along steadily, ever since the moon came up, and all of a sudden they just
stopped
for a beat—and then they began again, only they were out of rhythm for a moment or two, as if a hand had jarred the record or there’d been some kind of momentary break in the natural flow…

They sound normal enough now, though. Think I’ll go back to
Otranto
and let that put me to sleep. It may be the foundation of the English gothics, but I can’t imagine anyone actually reading it for pleasure. I wonder how many pages I’ll be able to get through before I drop off…

June 12

Slept late this morning, and then, disinclined to read Walpole on such a sunny day, took a walk. Followed the little brook that runs past my building. There’s still a lot of that greenish scum clogging one part of it, and if we don’t have some rain soon I expect it will get worse. But the water clears up considerably when it runs past the cornfield and through the woods.

Passed Sarr out in the field—he yelled to watch out for the copperhead, which put a pall on my enthusiasm for exploration… But as it happened I never ran into any snakes, and have a fair idea I’d survive even if bitten. Walked around half a mile into the woods, branches snapping in my face. Made an effort to avoid walking into the little yellow caterpillars that hang from every tree. At one point I had to get my feet wet, because the trail that runs alongside the brook disappeared and the undergrowth was thick. Ducked under a low arch made by decaying branches and vines, my sneakers sloshing in the water. Found that as the brook runs west it forms a small circular pool with banks of wet sand, surrounded by tall oaks, their roots thrust into the water. Lots of animal tracks in the sand—deer, I believe, and what may be a fox or perhaps some farmer’s dog. Obviously a watering place. Waded into the center of the pool—it only came up a little past my ankles—but didn’t stand there long because it started looking like rain.