Lovecraft, H P & Talman, Wilfred Blanch - Two Black Bottles

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Two Black Bottles

by H.P. Lovecraft and Wilfred Blanch Talman

Not all of the few remaining inhabitants of Daalbergen, that dismal little village in the

Ramapo Mountains, believe that my uncle, old Dominie Vanderhoof, is really dead.

Some of them believe he is suspended somewhere between heaven and hell because of

the old sexton's curse. If it had not been for that old magician, he might still be preaching

in the little damp church across the moor.

After what has happened to me in Daalbergen, I can almost share the opinion of the

villagers. I am not sure that my uncle is dead, but I am very sure that he is not alive upon

this earth. There is no doubt that the old sexton buried him once, but he is not in that

grave now. I can almost feel him behind me as I write, impelling me to tell the truth about

those strange happenings in Daalbergen so many years ago.

It was the fourth day of October when I arrived at Daalbergen in answer to a summons.

The letter was from a former member of my uncle's congregation, who wrote that the old

man had passed away and that there should be some small estate which I, as his only

living relative, might inherit. Having reached the secluded little hamlet by a wearying

series of changes on branch railways, I found my way to the grocery store of Mark

Haines, writer of the letter, and he, leading me into a stuffy back room, told me a peculiar

tale concerning Dominie Vanderhoof's death.

"Y' should be careful, Hoffman," Haines told me, "when y' meet that old sexton, Abel

Foster. He's in league with the devil, sure's you're alive 'Twa'n't two weeks ago Sam

Pryor, when he passed the old graveyard, heared him mumblin' t' the dead there. 'Twa'n't

right be should talk that way - an' Sam does vow that there was a voice answered him - a

kind o' half-voice, hollow and muffled-like, as though it come out o' th' ground. There's

others, too, as could tell y' about seein' him standin' afore old Dominie Slott's grave - that

one right agin' the church wall - a-wringin' his hands an' a-talkin' t' th' moss on th'

tombstone as though it was the old Dominie himself."

Old Foster, Haines said, had come to Daalbergen about ten years before, and had been

immediately engaged by Vanderhoof to take care of the damp stone church at which most

of the villagers worshipped. No one but Vanderhoof seemed to like him, for his presence

brought a suggestion almost of the uncanny. He would sometimes stand by the door when

the people came to church, and the men would coldly return his servile bow while the

women brushed past in haste, holding their skirts aside to avoid touching him. He could

be seen on week days cutting the grass in the cemetery and tending the flowers around

the graves, now and then crooning and muttering to himself. And few failed to notice the

particular attention he paid to the grave of the Reverend Guilliam Slott, first pastor of the

church in 1701.

It was not long after Foster's establishment as a village fixture that disaster began to

lower. First came the failure of the mountain mine where most of the men worked. The

Two Black Bottles

vein of iron had given out, and many of the people moved away to better localities, while

those who had large holdings of land in the vicinity took to farming and managed to

wrest a meager living from the rocky hillsides. Then came the disturbances in the church.

It was whispered about that the Reverend Johannes Vanderhoof had made a compact with

the devil, and was preaching his word in the house of God. His sermons had become

weird and grotesque - redolent with sinister things which the ignorant people of

Daalbergen did not understand. He transported them back over ages of fear and

superstition to regions of hideous, unseen spirits, and peopled their fancy with night-

haunting ghouls. One by one the congregation dwindled, while the elders and deacons

vainly pleaded with Vanderhoof to change the subject of his sermons. Though the old

man continually promised to comply, he seemed to be enthralled by some higher power

which forced him to do its will.

A giant in stature, Johannes Vanderhoof was known to be weak and timid at heart, yet

even when threatened with expulsion he continued his eerie sermons, until scarcely a

handful of people remained to listen to him on Sunday morning. Because of weak

finances, it was found impossible to call a new pastor, and before long not one of the

villagers dared venture near the church or the parsonage which adjoined it. Everywhere

there was fear of those spectral wraiths with whom Vanderhoof was apparently in league.

My uncle, Mark Haines told me, had continued to live in the parsonage because there was

no one with sufficient courage to tell him to move out of it. No one ever saw him again,

but lights were visible in the parsonage at night, and were even glimpsed in the church

from time to time. It was whispered about the town that Vanderhoof preached regularly

in the church every Sunday morning, unaware that his congregation was no longer there

to listen. He had only the old sexton, who lived in the basement of the church, to take

care of him, and Foster made a weekly visit to what remained of the business section of

the village to buy provisions. He no longer bowed servilely to everyone he met, but

instead seemed to harbor a demoniac and ill-concealed hatred. He spoke to no one except

as was necessary to make his purchases, and glanced from left to right out of evil-filled

eyes as he walked the street with his cane tapping the uneven pavements. Bent and

shriveled with extreme age, his presence could actually be felt by anyone near him, so

powerful was that personality which, said the townspeople, had made Vanderhoof accept

the devil as his master. No person in Daalbergen doubted that Abel Foster was at the

bottom of all the town's ill luck, but not a one dared lift a finger against him, or could

even approach him without a tremor of fear. His name, as well as Vanderhoof's, was

never mentioned aloud. Whenever the matter of the church across the moor was

discussed, it was in whispers; and if the conversation chanced to be nocturnal, the

whisperers would keep glancing over their shoulders to make sure that nothing shapeless

or sinister crept out of the darkness to bear witness to their words.

The churchyard continued to be kept just as green and beautiful as when the church was

in use, and the flowers near the graves in the cemetery were tended just as carefully as in

times gone by. The old sexton could occasionally be seen working there, as if still being

paid for his services, and those who dared venture near said that he maintained a

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摘要：

TwoBlackBottlesTwoBlackBottlesbyH.P.LovecraftandWilfredBlanchTalmanNotallofthefewremaininginhabitantsofDaalbergen,thatdismallittlevillageintheRamapoMountains,believethatmyuncle,oldDominieVanderhoof,isreallydead.Someofthembelieveheissuspendedsomewherebetweenheavenandhellbecauseoftheoldsexton'scurse.I...

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