Lovecraft, H P - The Hound

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The Hound

by H. P. Lovecraft

Written Sep 1922

Published February 1924 in Weird Tales, Vol. 3, No. 2, p. 50-52, 78.

In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and a

faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound. It is not dream - it is not, I fear, even

madness - for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and such is my knowledge that I am

about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the same way. Down unlit and

illimitable corridors of eldrith phantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives

me to self-annihilation.

May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate!

Wearied with the commonplaces of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and

adventure soon grow stale, St John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic

and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. The

enigmas of the symbolists and the ecstasies of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their

time, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its diverting novelty and appeal.

Only the somber philosophy of the decadents could help us, and this we found potent

only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. Baudelaire and

Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more

direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. It was this frightful

emotional need which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my

present fear I mention with shame and timidity - that hideous extremity of human

outrage, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

I cannot reveal the details of our shocking expeditions, or catalogue even partly the worst

of the trophies adorning the nameless museum we prepared in the great stone house

where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Our museum was a blasphemous,

unthinkable place, where with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled an

universe of terror and decay to excite our jaded sensibilities. It was a secret room, far, far,

underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide

grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into

kaleidoscopic dances of death the lines of red charnel things hand in hand woven in

voluminous black hangings. Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most

craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of

imagined Eastern shrines of the kingly dead, and sometimes - how I shudder to recall it! -

the frightful, soul-upheaving stenches of the uncovered-grave.

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