Fast forward to present day and I find myself watering tomato plants before work each morning.  Mom had two extra in the greenhouse that she didn’t have space near the house to plant.  I’ve always liked pulling weeds from flowerbeds — it reminds me of grinding in an MMORPG, another pointless repetitive task you have to keep on top of every day or else you fall behind the curve — but growing a crop, even something as easy as tomatoes, is incredibly fun for me.  Every day, I get to see them grow, tend them, and water them.  In exchange, they provide me with food in a couple months.  I enjoy our tacit agreement, care for fruit.

There’s no such agreement between the lawn and I, the lawn pretty much sits there and says “Hey, mow me.”  I hate mowing the lawn.  It’s not a matter of laziness, I’ll gladly jump at the chance at overtime, or weeding a flowerbed (see above), or any number of other tedious repetitive tasks.  It’s the principle of the thing.  I’m not a cow.  Why should I tend grass?  That and I could swear the lawn is talking shit about me.

“Yeah, mow me,” I hear it say.

“That’s right, I’m getting a little long again, time for a trim.  Chop chop.”  It’s so smug about it too, like I’m obligated.  My face fur is less smug.

But anyways, the tomatoes.  At first I was afraid that I wouldn’t take care of them properly, but I soon discovered that tomato plant greens have an addictive smell.  That’s right.  A smell that comes off on your hands and smells kind of pungent, kind of earthy, kind of… green.  Imaginative description, I know.  But the smell is amazing.  I look forward to going out and watering them each morning, and adjusting them in their little metal guides, simply so that I can smell my hands afterwards.

The smaller tomato bush has had two tomatoes for a while, and just today the bigger of the two just got its second fruit.  Both are loaded with little yellow blossoms that promise me even more fruit if I only tend it.  Growing tomatoes is highly rewarding, and the vine-ripened fruit is well worth it, at least what I’ve gotten from living at my parents’ farm… and I doubt they’re keeping secret growth tips from me.  The ease is what makes it particularly enjoyable though, since tomatoes are hardy and grow in a variety of soils.  A simple list of what’s needed is as follows:

1) A sunny patch of flowerbed, preferably in the backyard, so your neighbors won’t think you’re a nutjob.
2) A couple tomato plants, or seeds for the same.  (Inquiring at farmer’s markets about tomato plants might get you some decently started ones, starts can be troublesome for beginners like me.)
3) Some liquid fertilizer to prime the soil. (Or if you’re a hippy, go without and have less fruit.)
4) A gallon jug to water them with.
5) Oh, and some wire supports, easily gotten at a farm store (I think)

What to do:

1) Make really sure that the spot you think is sunny actually is.  I felt really stupid when I planted them where I thought it was sunny and it was actually shady most of the day.  Take a Saturday to watch the spot and really see how the sun hits it, just peek out every 30m or so and note the sun.
2) Plant the tomato plants (consult a real expert if you go with the seeds) and put those silly wire supports around them.
3) Water the tomato plants.  I do a quarter gallon of water on each plant, or about a liter if these tomatoes are destined to grow on metric soil.
4) Use some of the liquid fertilizer (cut with water as per the friendly instructions that they should have), about half as much as the water you feed the plants, until you’ve put about a half gallon on per plant.
5) Watch them grow, and continually try to move the shoots up to support on a higher ring of the support wires.

The best time to start them is as early as possible in the year without risking a freeze.  Heaven help you if your tomatoes freeze, because I won’t risk it.  This is what it looked like last time my mom’s tomatoes froze:

But then again, my mom’s fruit has always been just a little bit… evil.

Warning, major spoilers up ahead because this story made me cranky.

Doooooooooooooom!

I know that it was cool in the first half of the 20th century for authors to use the word DOOM, but to modern eyes it’s unbelievably cheesy.  When I read the above quote, I snapped my fingers and said, “Oh no he didn’t!”.

Firstly, an antiquarian like Lovecraft ought to know that DOOM simply means fate, and for all his professed hatred of what he calls “debased language”, you’d think he’d know that.  Traditionally, you could say “His doom was to become a great scientist” as a perfectly non-ominous sentence.   The problem is that DOOM just sounds ominous, making it an absolutely perfect target for what Lovecraft called “debasement” and I called “Evolution” of English.

Oh right, I’m reviewing fiction, not writing a linguistics paper.  My bad.

The Doom That Came to Sarnath is about the rise and fall of a great city (guess what its name is?).  The story begins with primitive humans and a pre-human race of squishy nasty things that worship a squishy nasty God.  Fortunately though, the human tribes that found Sarnath have a very pre-1940s xenophobia, and lay down some unholy smite.  Then they decide to build a big city near the place those nasty evil things were.  Great idea.  That won’t come back to haunt you at all.

1,000 years later, Sarnath is the regional superpower and on the 1,000th year anniversary, as the citizens and dignitaries from everywhere around are celebrating, Sarnath is destroyed, and no one ever comes back to the city, despite the mineral wealth of the nearby hills.

My first problem with this story is that Lovecraft CAPITALIZES DOOM FOR EMPHASIS.  I’m not sure about the conventions of his time, but this comes across as loud even if the word he used wasn’t DOOM.  Fully capitalized words are completely jarring.  That’s why we hate it when people type in all caps, and it’s shorthand for online shouting.  Also… seriously?  You’re a professional writer CAPITALIZING FOR EMPHASIS?  I thought that the prose’s style and diction was supposed to provide that.  I mean, every time I see the word doom in text, it’s pretty much already capitalized.  The word sticks out on its own.

Now there are times where all capital letters cane be done well.  I’m referring to when Death speaks in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld, or the encounter between Barrick Eddon and a demigod in the Shadowmarch series by Tad Williams.  Both cases use capital letters to emphasize the peculiar manner in which the characters speak.  This is what tvtropes.org calls Painting The Fourth Wall.  However, using capital letter in descriptive prose is NOT COOL and serves only as a cheap method of emphasis.

The dark fairy-tale feel of  the story is great though, and despite my ranting, other than overusing DOOM, this one isn’t a bad read.  The pacing is good, the narrative structure solid.  The characterization is lackluster, but of course, it’s kind of hard to cover 1,000 years of a city’s history through one character without bending longevity laws, which would completely shift the thematic emphasis of the story to “wow, this immortal guy watched it all.”  We’d be focused on him being immortal, not the doom of a mighty city.

Altogether, I’d say there are better Lovecraft stories to read first, but if you absolutely love his writing, this is a fairly short, pretty good read.

Also, this is a rare Lovecraft story without a singular occurrence of the word singular.  Bravo.

The mattress’s straw stuffing didn’t cushion him from the hard wood underneath. Tonight, Father had hit him again. Wil had rolled with each blow, but he still stung.

The old drunk’s snores reminded Wil of ripping burlap.

He tried to curl against the cold but went limp as his aches worsened. His hands clutched a normal looking tooth strung onto a necklace. In his mind, the tooth seemed to shine through his fingers, but his eyes knew that it did not.

It was no larger than one of Wil’s teeth and had the same yellow hue. It wasn’t sharp either, less sharp than an alley mongrel’s fangs.

He smiled. The man who had given him this necklace had torn the tooth from a wild jalt’s mouth. No one else in Oakbrook had anything like it.

Father snorted. His breathing changed, and Wil guessed he’d be awake soon. Wil had come home too late that evening. He had stayed after Clem let him off, suds and grease on his arms, listening wide-eyed to Eisen the jalt-slayer’s tales. He’d risked this twice a week for a fortnight, but only tonight had Father struck him.

Wil’s ears perked at the clanks of pot shards and his breath caught in his throat. His father was up. The old man shuffled around in the dark, and Wil’s sore body tensed from fear of further abuse.

But Wil’s fears were unfounded. Father only relieved himself out the window, and returned to the mead-soaked rug the old man slept on.

Wil relaxed.

This had gone on far too long. Tomorrow, Wil would wake before sunrise and never return.

He cradled the jalt’s tooth until he found sleep.

* * *

When he woke, purple bruises painted his bony torso. He hid the worst of it under his best breeches and tunic, and then glanced at his other pair. No sense leaving them. As he picked them up, his eyes strayed towards an ale pot near his father. That pot held the coppers Father stole from him every payday. Wil licked his lips. He needed that coin.

He crept across the room, and plucked the coppers out, cushioning them in his spare clothes. His father snorted, and Wil froze. The old man’s breathing still held sleep’s ease, but Wil counted breaths until he lost track before scooping up the last three coins, and fleeing through the ale pot shards and into the hallway.

At the bottom of the stairs, their landlady pulled bread pans from the oven to cool. Her morning patrons gossiped over her steaming rolls and sausages from the neighboring butcher. Wil smiled. He would never return here.

He started for the door, but the landlady’s mitted hand caught his bruised shoulder.

“Where are you off so early?” Mistress Taveera asked.

“Out,” Wil managed, wishing his voice wasn’t so nasal and reedy.

“Out? That’ll wait.” She slammed the oven shut. “You’re behind on rent three months. The only reason I haven’t called the constable is for your departed mother’s sake. But I can’t have this forever…”

Wil felt his hands curl into fists as she said “constable”. She’d brought up rent now, before the patrons, to cause a spectacle. Some of the nearer ones turned to watch. His skin tingled as their eyes roosted on him.

He forced his hand open and exhaled slowly.

Any gossip would die if he paid her, and if his conscience didn’t stop him, he might pinch this much at the market in several good afternoons. But he had to meet Eisen at noon. He needed these coins.

His hand rested on his bundle as he thought.

“What’s that?” she asked, reaching towards the folded clothes.

“N-Nothing.” He hoped no one else saw the coins, but he bet she had.

She tugged the folded tunic and sent a coin flying.

Wil’s hand snapped out and caught it. “My potboy wages,” he said.

“My rent money,” she snarled so loudly that every head turned.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

“Come, boy. If you don’t, your poor father…”

His poor father. That sickened him. Grief was poor reason to bully and rob your son. Wil’s hand sought the jalt’s tooth for guidance.

“Kick him out if he won’t pay,” Wil said, the jalt’s tooth seeming hot in his hand. “I’m leaving, and you won’t see me again.”

His words echoed amongst the staring patrons. They would speak of this for days, but he didn’t care.

“Wil–,” she began, but he cut her off.

“That’s enough.”

She tried to grab him, but he slipped out and strode towards the door. She cursed at him, but didn’t chase. The slamming door silenced her, and Wil smiled. He took a bite from a warm roll he’d swiped from her pan. He had been hungry, and she’d deserved it.

* * *

He ducked into the crumbling façade of the Wailing Wench and greeted its balding innkeeper. Clem sat with mug in hand and fresh ale stains on his apron. He’d already had too much, judging from the ale-sweat at his pits.

“Why’re you in so early?” Clem slurred, and Wil wondered, yet again, how this man ran such a successful inn.

“Good morning, Master Clem, how’s the ale?” Wil asked. He wouldn’t miss this place either.

“Tastes like a mucky stable.” Clem spat onto the sawdust floor. “Gets you drunk though. What’s this I heard about you stiffing Taveera for rent?”

Wil stuttered to explain himself, never wondering how the news had outpaced him. “Well, ah, Father takes me coin, and—,”

Clem’s belch cut him short. “Father takes your coin? At your age? Take a club and break his hands when he sleeps, unless he guards your balls for you too.”

Wil’s fists clenched again, and it took real effort to unclench them. “I’m sick of Taveera,” he said, forcibly relaxing his voice. “I’m sick of Father, and I’m sick of you. I’m leaving.”

Clem guffawed. “What, with Eisen?”

Wil hadn’t realized Clem had overheard them. “Yes. I’m going to have adventures.”

Clem’s laughter splashed ale on his apron. “That’s rich. You’ll be back within the month. That life’s not for a rabbit like you.”

Wil hadn’t come for prophecies, just to resign, and now he regretted giving Clem even that courtesy. “Don’t save your pots for me,” he said, scowling as he fled outside.

* * *

Wil found Eisen in town square, leaning against a dusky stallion. The tall blond saw him in the crowds and waved.

What did Clem know, anyway?

Crystal-blue eyes followed Wil from above a thrice-broken nose. Wil had never feared the mercenary, though he thought he should.

Eisen’s drawl filled the square. “Nice bruises. What, forget to pay yer wench?”

“Yeah,” Wil mumbled, “something like that.”

Eisen’s brow furrowed and when he spoke again, his words were sharp. “That damned drunk beat you, didn’t he?”

“It’s not–,” Wil protested.

Eisen growled, “I’ll destroy him.” His hand already blanched on the two-hander’s hilt.

A woman’s tenor voice rang behind Wil. “Yeah. Hack apart a helpless drunk. Valiant. The bards shall sing your praise.”

Wil turned. A brown-robed old man and a stocky woman in tunic and breeches had crept behind him during Eisen’s speech. With horses no less.

“Great to see you too, Almitsel,” Eisen retorted without looking, but his hand left the hilt. “Break your fast on curdled milk as usual?”

“It was as delicious as your company,” she replied. “Have you fulfilled your morning quota of mindless threats yet?”

“No. I’ve still some left for you.”

The old man cut off their bickering. “Cease your imbecile natter. We ought not behave so here. Or anywhere. Are you prepared, Sir Eisen?”

Sir Eisen? Eisen was a knight?

Eisen’s voice had lightened to a drawl again. “I’m prepared, Ranpa, as always. This young man is Wil, he’ll come with us.”

Ranpa’s eyes widened. “Is that so?”

“Yes Sir,” Wil said.

“I’m no Sir, I… no, spare me my titles.” His attention returned to Eisen. “You’ve not invited anyone along before.”

Eisen grinned. “I must have good reason, then.”

Ranpa nodded and said, “I shall trust your judgment.”

“And I shall not.” Almitsel mimicked Ranpa’s speech perfectly. Her brown hair looked like long spines, sharp like the arrows in her quiver. “Have you both gone blind? What muscles he has are toned, but he’s beaten to a pulp, and rangy as a starving wolf.”

Ranpa inspected Wil closely and said at last, “He has good bones, and his sinews are sound. We want a hungry fox anyways, not an ox, or a wolf. We have those already.” He glanced at Almitsel. “Forgive me, you’re clearly a badger. Think, with you guarding Wil’s back, what ill could happen?”

Almitsel rolled her eyes. “Few of us live to your age. He’ll die young if he comes with us.”

Death. Wil’s daydreams hadn’t included that, but if it happened, he’d be with Mother again.

“Well, boy,” Ranpa said, leaning forward. This close, his pointed ears, creased face, and crooked teeth loomed in grimy detail. “Have you the grit? Can you sleep cold and damp, eating hardtack or not at all, with only the call of adventure feeding your heart and driving your feet?”

Wil bit his lip. Even an obscure death sounded better than grey old age in wretched Oakbrook.

“Is it bad like scrubbing pots?” Wil asked.

The adventurers laughed, and the tension broke.

“Oh, that’s rich,” Almitsel said through her laughter. “I recant. He’s got wit, which might make up for its lack in you two.” In mirth, the stocky woman reminded Wil of his mother.

Eisen jumped into his saddle. “Glad that’s settled. Let’s be off.”

* * *

As Wil mounted the brown and white gelding, he felt awe that those grubby coins could buy such wonder. When Eisen paid the remainder, Wil protested, but the knight laughed him off.

“What will you name it?” Almitsel asked him, as she patted the gelding’s flank from her perch on a gray mare.

Wil touched the tooth around his neck. “Jalt.”

He wasn’t sure if his new friends were approving or amused.

* * *

From horseback, he felt distant from the drab crowds. As the group left Oakbrook’s stacked wood walls, Ranpa and Eisen discussed things Wil hardly understood, while Almitsel remained quiet. Wil marked their progress in relative tranquility.

Oakbrook soon became a gray speck among golden fields. Farmers waved and shouted for news as they passed, and Eisen smiled as he replied.

The farmers’ wheat might someday find Mistress Taveera’s bakery or the Wailing Wench’s larders. The connection was comforting, but Ranpa’s exotic tales intrigued him more. His mention of Alchemy spurred Wil to interrupt.

“You’re a sorcerer?” he asked. The question brought less worry than he’d thought it would.

Ranpa clearly enjoyed Wil’s fascination, though his eyes rolled. “The term philosopher suits me better. My craft is no magic to those who understand.”

If Eisen was a knight and Ranpa a sorcerer, what was Almitsel, Wil wondered, and what was his own role?

He pondered this until they neared the softwood forest. He felt worry at the sight of it. Oakbrook, despite its name, had no proper trees. Once they left the fields, his real adventures would begin.

He swallowed hard.

* * *

“Where are we stopping tonight?” Almitsel asked once they’d made the forest.

Not any place that could be called home, Wil knew.

“The townsfolk mentioned an inn near a crossroads,” Eisen said. “Sound better than a bush?”

“I like bushes,” Almitsel replied. “Better question, should I scout ahead just in case?”

“This close to town?” Eisen asked. “The farmers would have said something.”

But Almitsel had already left.

Wil wondered about his own role was while his fingers caressed the tooth. Somehow the talisman soothed him.

* * *

As the trees engulfed them, Wil’s fears rekindled, and Almitsel’s continued absence had become cause for worry on its own. The forest’s chirps, buzzes, and howls unnerved him, and strange scents tickled his nostrils. The sun had disappeared, leaving only darkening grayness around them.

Back home, the Wailing Wench would be crowded. Even with his head in a pot, he would hear the clamor. With distant howls ringing in his ears, he missed the kitchen’s firelight. Hadn’t Ranpa said they slept outside most nights, without walls to protect them? Maybe…

No, he could never go back. He wanted this life, a life of adventure.

Almitsel returned, her horse’s sides were heaving, but her face was calm.

“Any trouble?” Eisen asked.

“None but the usual.”

The usual? What was usual in the forest? Wil struggled to phrase that question in a brave way.

“How far out are those wolves?” he asked.

She snorted. “Far enough. Normal wolves avoid men.”

Her words brought abnormal wolves to mind, upsetting enough behind wooden walls, and his sudden fear forced his real question from his mouth. “Why’d you bring me along?”

She glanced at Eisen.

The half-grinning knight asked, “You sure you want to know?”

Wil nodded.

Eisen feigned brief consideration. “You’re quick,” he said with a mercurial grin.

That was it? Wil had hoped for something grander, that he was a fallen throne’s heir or a great wizard reborn.

Eisen’s next words fully dispelled Wil’s fantasies. “I’ll show you what I know of lock picking, and I’ve no doubt you’ll quick surpass me.”

Wil bit his lip to bleeding. They wanted him to pick locks, like a professional thief? Idealism aside, this reality wasn’t wholly repulsive. He doubted they would ask him to rob people who didn’t deserve it. That his natural gifts made him a worthy addition should cheer him.

Shouldn’t it?

* * *

Dusk had fled long before they made the crossroads. Since Eisen’s words, the silence had grown overbearing. Initially, Wil had struggled with this new role, but now he felt strangely comfortable assuming this mantle. But something still made his hand twitch fearfully. That and the calls echoing in the trees mingled to make him feel like a scared rabbit might.

The inn emerged from around a turn in the road, a squatting beast with square yellow eyes. Wil’s stomach seized, but Eisen’s hand on his bruised shoulder reassured him.

* * *

At the stables, Eisen said, “I’ll take the horses in,” as they dismounted, and took each bridle in hand.

“Very well,” Ranpa said. “I’ll engage the innkeeper for a night’s food and board.”

“Wouldn’t mind ale myself,” Almitsel grumbled.

They all left, but Wil didn’t know who to follow. He stood at the crossroads, the necklace’s thread digging into his neck.

The world lay before him.

His fingers ran across the tooth and caught on a crack he’d never noticed. He removed the necklace and held it before him. It felt heavier than it should.

He breathed ragged, misty puffs and wondered distantly when it had grown cold. His eyes went to the warm inn, then the necklace, and then the Oakbrook road. He stumbled one step towards the inn.

No.

He took another jarring step, this time towards Oakbrook.

Never!

He forced himself back towards the inn, but he didn’t want to go there either. A sob caught in his throat and he clenched the tooth so hard it bloodied his palm. He wanted this. He wanted adventure.

No.

He lurched again, towards Oakbrook, and forced himself to stop. The jalt’s tooth burned as his mind wrestled numbly with a choice that would define his life forever.

He didn’t know why he struggled so. He knew his own dreams, but the fight didn’t last long. The jalt’s tooth snapped in his fist and he fled down the road.

The broken tooth lay abandoned in the crossroads dust.

* * *

Wil heard Eisen call him. He did not answer.

What is there, appears to be the introduction to a horror story, written in a style mildly different from Lovecraft’s norm but citing the Necronomicon of the Mad Arab Abdul Alhazred.

My biggest problem with this short story aside from its incompleteness is its utter lack of characterization, character arcs, or narrative tension.  What I’m reading must be a fragment of the whole thing, because it cuts off at the end of a paragraph that doesn’t resolve things at all.

I have relatively few complaints about this short story. It is lean and muscular. He does use the word “singular” once, but for Lovecraft this is like eating only one potato chip. I admire his restraint.

I especially enjoy the ending, which finishes out the story in a way that’s completely realistic for a Lovecraft protagonist while still letting us in on his fears.

Dagon is about a thirty minute read, so it also doesn’t really have time to drag. Because of its short length, I strongly recommend it to anyone who wants a taste of Lovecraft without the hefty word count.

Thanks to Lauren Hambacher for the original concept and artwork shown here.

And thanks to Bill Dye for the mead-stained parchment looking desktop wallpaper based off of Lauren’s design. I guess that’s what I get for taking my monitor into a seedy dive.

Beautiful work, thank you both. Awesome birthday present. Once I figure out how, the concept is going up in the header as a logo. It’s times like this when I wish I didn’t suck at the internet.

Cool Air is a story about a hard-up magazine writer and a mysterious doctor, whose utter mastery of the medical craft astounds the writer. He becomes the doctor’s helper in doing various tasks, including maintaining the ammonia cooling system that keeps the doctor’s quarters frigid.

He notes a strange smell in the air early on, and notes that after one ominous day, whenever it’s cold, he feels horrified. This is because the doctor had died 18 years ago and the tissues were holding together as long as he kept his body cold, as revealed by the climax.

This is kind of an interesting idea, but like The Beast in the Cave before it, the climactic epiphany is about as strong as rotten sackcloth. That he was talking to a walking corpse that behaved completely like a normal human is hardly chilling worrisome… not like one that hungers for your brains. What’s so horrifying about a guy in a dead meatsuit if he’s completely beneficial to the living? There’s no tension there. The doctor wasn’t even that sinister, he had utter mastery of the healing arts, and gladly used his skill to save others. Why the big freak-out at the end?

I can only conclude that this guy, like some of Lovecraft’s other protagonists, have all the grit of a Disney movie. Comparing this protagonist to Willett from The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, I have to say that this protagonist’s weak, cowardly reaction towards something as simple as a friendly ghost is not deserving of any sympathy. In fact, the whole story, in that final moment, just seems silly. And not in a giant blind albino penguin way.

Surgeon General’s Warning: Certain Colours can drive you MAD. Most colors, however, are safe. Except Agent Orange, which can cause cancer.

Okay. So the story is framed by some guy from the hydroelectric company who’s talking to people around Arkham (a small town/municipality) about the troubles that happened several decades ago. The townspeople say not to go talk to Ammi, one of the old men still alive from that time, so of course he does, but only after seeing for himself the wasteland that people call the Blasted Heath. The new dam will drown that location, which is a good thing according to the narrator because the Heath is creepy and Ammi’s story makes it creepier.

The story inside the frame is more interesting, but unfortunately has the indefinite, rambling weakness that defines second-hand fictional accounts. A comet fell to earth near a farmer’s house. Its colour creeped people out.

So of course scientists from the nearby university come out to examine it, except the material is fading away even as they run tests, including the strange globules inside of it, which we find out later are seeds. Seeds of EVIL. The horror. After a year or two of unnatural events like crops being lush but inedible, vegetation blooming in eerie unnatural colors, trees that move without wind, livestock dying in grisly ways, the farmer’s family starts going nutcase too.

Ammi, the old man telling the story to the narrator, is the farmer’s friend and soon becomes that farm’s only visitor. He watches his friend and the family go slowly nuts and then die, and decides to gather a group to investigate. Bad idea. The thing that was driving the farmers nuts, poisoning the vegetation and sickening the livestock stalks them for a while before shooting off into space while they watch, helpless maddened by the very colour of the thing.

To top it off, we find out that the thing that left the planet was only one of multiple, and another yet slumbers in the abandoned heath, the taint it causes growing slowly every year.

Don’t misread my snark as disdain, this story is good, but the tension is utterly purged by having Ammi, a live person, tell the narrator about what happened. Reading a dead man’s journal is far more tense, or even a live man’s so long as we don’t see Ammi until after the story’s done. In that way, Ammi’s fate is up in the air throughout the climax. This is a similar, but even more glaring mistake to the Call of Cthulhu’s climactic chase, when we know beforehand that the sailor survived the chase. How am I supposed to be immersed when the text tells me what happened before I read what happened?

Gripes aside, the visuals are strong, gruesome, eerie and powerful. While not as sound from a narrative standpoint as The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, this story is still enjoyable for those who like vivid description. The pseudo-folksiness of Ammi’s stories really pull on my rural-born-and-raised heartstrings too. While reading this, it’s probably best to focus on the pretty pictures and the mystery, rather than on tension and climax, both of which are comparatively weak.

This still gets a “Recommended Read” for me.

Thanks for the word-salad, Lovecraft. In all seriousness, read that aloud, in a dark room, it’s wholly chilling.

This was a very long, but very rewarding read. Here’s your obligatory spoiler warning:

Now that that’s out of the way:

Characters. The characters in Charles Dexter Ward are very well done, from the titular character, to the man I consider the actual protagonist, Marinus Willett (voted #1 most unlikely name for a badass), to the antagonist, Joseph Curwen.

The characterization is incredible. He introduces Charles Ward, and eases the reader into the mystical by route of Ward’s antiquarian proclivities and growing interest in the occult. The details of the town are absolutely astounding, and it’s easy to see that Lovecraft has either done his research or crafted an absolutely incredible fictional history of this town. By the time that anything definable as magic is introduced, my suspension of disbelief had been utterly lulled into complacence.

The story builds through Ward’s descent into madness, after which Willett becomes the story’s torch-bearer. He explores the hidden stygian crypt where Ward, and Curwen before him, performed dread experiments. Through abject terror and a fluke of memory, Willett learns the key to later victory.

At the climax, the whole mystery untangles in a climactic battle between Willett and Ward’s ancestor, Curwen, which Willett wins by using the quote at the top of this entry, which apparently owns the hell out of multicentennial wizards. Of all the Lovecraft that I’ve read, the climax of this story was by far the most definite and satisfying.

I do object to Lovecraft’s constant use of the word Singular. It is singularly annoying how often he uses this singular word as an adjective when he hasn’t a singular clue what other word to use. (Is my point made yet? Can I move on?) Seriously. This adjective doesn’t add anything, it just beefs up the word count. Stop it.

Oh dear, I’m lecturing a dead author again, aren’t I?

Anyways, although it took several hours, it was a great read. If you like a good, immersive, tense story: read this. It is excellent structurally and represents a perfect balance of Lovecraft’s beloved themes of creeping madness, victory at a terrible cost, or inevitable defeat, and a definite and wholly satisfying though short term victory.

Seriously. Read it. It’s intellectual commons, you can run a search for it online and it’ll come up for free. You won’t regret it (unless your tastes are completely different from mine).

The Call of Cthulhu, perhaps the most iconic and recognizable of H.P. Lovecraft’s Cosmic Horror stories, is also at once a let down and a wonder of literature.

It is a wonder because there are so many beautiful turns of phrases and poetic terms interspersed into the prose, but at the same time, despite the tense and ominous prose, H.P. Lovecraft made certain narrative choices that I would consider poor.

The protagonist is never in the center of the action, for example.  He hears all of his stories secondhand, first from his uncle’s notes, then from other men.  While this works very very well as a hook for the story, it had unfortunate consequences when the climax of the story, a possibly terrifying flight from the titular Elder God, is read from the manuscript of a Norwegian Sailor, rather than experienced by the narrator.  This distancing, while certainly easier on the protagonist, utterly ruins the sense of suspense at that point in the narrative.  I did not care for the Norwegian Sailor, even after he is introduced, quite as I did the nameless narrator, however bigoted and stuffy he is.  This narrative flaw is enough alone for me to gripe about.

But worse still is the fact that other than carvings, the protagonist has no association whatsoever to anyone researching or experiencing the Cthulhu Cult’s activities.  The vague implications that the Cult may find him, and kill him too, are hardly a terrifying idea, since it seems difficult to imagine how any of them would know of his involvement.  As I’ve said, the protagonist-narrator is hardly involved in the action at all.

Complaints aside, the imagery and description is chilling, if excessively intellectualized, and Lovecraft’s typically lengthy sentences seem almost light in this story, at the least I did not find myself tripping over them and his extensive vocabulary in this work, as opposed to other works of his I have read recently.  The opening paragraph has to be the most chilling and epic opening to any short story I can recall reading as well.

I think that I have seen better works from him, but for horror fans looking to connect to their intellectual tradition, I still think that this story is a decent read.