
From Beyond
From Beyond
by H. P. Lovecraft
Written 1920
Published June 1934 in The Fantasy Fan, 1, No. 10, 147-51, 160.
Horrible beyond conception was the change which had taken place in my best friend,
Crawford Tillinghast. I had not seen him since that day, two months and a half before,
when he told me toward what goal his physical and metaphysical researches were
leading; when he had answered my awed and almost frightened remonstrances by driving
me from his laboratory and his house in a burst of fanatical rage. I had known that he
now remained mostly shut in the attic laboratory with that accursed electrical machine,
eating little and excluding even the servants, but I had not thought that a brief period of
ten weeks could so alter and disfigure any human creature. It is not pleasant to see a stout
man suddenly grown thin, and it is even worse when the baggy skin becomes yellowed or
grayed, the eyes sunken, circled, and uncannily glowing, the forehead veined and
corrugated, and the hands tremulous and twitching. And if added to this there be a
repellent unkemptness, a wild disorder of dress, a bushiness of dark hair white at the
roots, and an unchecked growth of white beard on a face once clean-shaven, the
cumulative effect is quite shocking. But such was the aspect of Crawford Tilllinghast on
the night his half coherent message brought me to his door after my weeks of exile; such
was the specter that trembled as it admitted me, candle in hand, and glanced furtively
over its shoulder as if fearful of unseen things in the ancient, lonely house set back from
Benevolent Street.
That Crawford Tilinghast should ever have studied science and philosophy was a
mistake. These things should be left to the frigid and impersonal investigator for they
offer two equally tragic alternatives to the man of feeling and action; despair, if he fail in
his quest, and terrors unutterable and unimaginable if he succeed. Tillinghast had once
been the prey of failure, solitary and melancholy; but now I knew, with nauseating fears
of my own, that he was the prey of success. I had indeed warned him ten weeks before,
when he burst forth with his tale of what he felt himself about to discover. He had been
flushed and excited then, talking in a high and unnatural, though always pedantic, voice.
"What do we know," he had said, "of the world and the universe about us? Our means of
receiving impressions are absurdly few, and our notions of surrounding objects infinitely
narrow. We see things only as we are constructed to see them, and can gain no idea of
their absolute nature. With five feeble senses we pretend to comprehend the boundlessly
complex cosmos, yet other beings with wider, stronger, or different range of senses might
not only see very differently the things we see, but might see and study whole worlds of
matter, energy, and life which lie close at hand yet can never be detected with the senses
we have. I have always believed that such strange, inaccessible worlds exist at our very
elbows, and now I believe I have found a way to break dawn the barriers. I am not
joking. Within twenty-four hours that machine near the table will generate waves acting