a few years ago, i wrote this “lost fragment” of a story supposedly written by Randolph Carter, a character invented H.P. Lovecraft
it was a Kris Kringle gift for one of my kids, who had re-introduced me to HPL as an adult – the whole thing is a joke designed around the final terrifying reveal – a humble animal that she personally finds unnerving … although others call it ‘cute’
i asked and she has graciously given me permission to share this bit of silliness with a world UNPREPARED FOR THE HORRORS IT CONTAINS! – enjoy!
An introduction by Robert Harrison Blake
The unfinished and incomplete story detailed below, was found amongst Carter’s papers some four years after his disappearance in 1928. Since then, there has been some debate as to whether or not Carter was the actual author of the tale, as its setting, a lonely colonial outpost in South America, was far removed from his usual oeuvre of clammy, New England church yards and fantastical, other-worldly dimensions.
The fact that the fragments of manuscript were typewritten and contained no handwritten annotations, further placed Carter’s authorship in doubt. In addition to these concerns, scholars point to the cumbersome prose, far removed from the lyricism Carter was known for. Others argue that the change in style is to be expected, given Carter’s (at the time) recent experiences, and the fact that the pages were found amongst his other works, many seemingly produced on the same typewriter, is enough for many to put an end to the matter.
Given that the pages are not numbered and that a number of sheets have obviously gone missing, it is difficult to calculate if this was to be a self-contained short story, or form a part of a larger piece. Either way, as a devotee of Carter’s work, we are grateful that even this small portion survived and hope that you too, dear reader, will appreciate this one last opportunity to immerse oneself in Carter’s imagination.
– R.H.B. 1939
THE SLOW WRATH
by Randolph Carter
Sammerson had always disliked the Jungle. Sensible and disciplined, the second son of a dour Suffolk landholder, he found the Jungle unpleasant in the extreme. It was not, or more specifically, not only the near constant threat of death, be it from predators, diseases or even the local tribes, who could transition from wide-smiling, easy-going cordiality to screaming, maniacal blood lust in a matter of moments – often without the least discernible rationale for their change of aspect.
No, these dangers and more are well catalogued and were to be expected when one entered the shifting green shadows of the Bolivian Jungle. What Sammerson had not expected was what he perceived to be the obscene chaos of this arboreal Bedlam. He would, of course, argue against the use of the word Bedlam in this context and, I grant you, he would be correct by his own reckoning. You see, what Sammerson objected to was not mere insanity, not some accidental confusion or dysfunction of nature, in fact it was quite the opposite. He believed that the Jungle’s deranged wildness was no accident, but intentional.
The Jungle was not simply boisterously and maliciously wanton and profligate; the Jungle *desired* it. The wild abandon in which the Jungle pursued its orgiastic cause knew no limitations. Trees sprouted on trees and were then festooned by other growths and vines, writhing and squirming as they clawed at each other for a sliver of sunlight. And those that failed, died where they stood to be consumed and devoured by legions of invertebrates in all manner of shapes and sizes. Fungi grew over these standing corpses, competing with each other in colour and form – some going so far as to mock the light-starved plants around them by glowing in the dark. Even the birds in with their cacophony of colours and the endless variations in their harsh, chittering calls and lyrical whoops were, to Sammerson, further evidence of the Jungle’s narcissistic contrivances. So repelled was he by this seemingly unending parade of novelty and strange invention that the sight of a heretofore previously unseen variety of butterfly could cause him to become physically ill.
All this changed, however, when MacArthur shot and killed the Hermit.
Sammerson noted the incident in the Unit Diary, admitting full responsibility for the incident, confessing it was his failure as commander that lead to MacArthur shooting the Hermit. That the corporal was considered, by the other officers and a great many of the men, to be a wastrel, a bully and unfit to hold the rank he had, despite its humble order – carried no weight with Sammerson. He was the commander and so the actions, no matter how foolhardy or insubordinate, were, in the final estimation, his responsibility. The fact that the hermit had been, from his very first contact with the fort, a vexatious nuisance, was of even less import in Sammerson’s mind.
The fort was placed on high alert after the shooting. Watches were doubled at night and during the day, patrols scored the Jungle for signs of hostile activity. The fact that the local tribes had a deep and vibrant hatred of the Hermit was of no comfort to Sammerson and his men.
Previous incidents clearly illustrated the strange position the Hermit occupied within the milieu of the local tribes. It was well known that the Hermit was loathed and abhorred by them, but he was also protected by the most stringent of taboos. Not three months earlier, a child from one of the tribes had, in what one can only imagine was a fit of madness, hurled a stone at the Hermit, striking him on the shoulder. It was not a large projectile and may not even have left a mark, but the child’s fate was sealed.
As a group, the tribe grabbed up the insolent boy and carried him to the river, where they knew the piranha to gather in large numbers, and threw him in. The child tried to regain the bank, but he was pushed back by spears. He pleaded for mercy, but no one heard him, not even his mother. The blood from the spear jabs soon drove the piranha into a frenzy and the child was consumed before the entire tribe. No one wept. When questioned about the horrific proceedings the tribe would not answer.
Some weeks after the shooting, the Papist missionary, Father Piccolo, arrived at the fort. He had learned of the death of the Hermit when a sudden influx of tribes people appeared at his mission, fleeing from the vicinity of the fort. Fearing an outbreak of plague or yet another eruption of hostilities that seemed to be a feature of the region, he had asked the fleeing tribesmen what it was they were running from. Few spoke to him, and those that did were excessively circumspect in their answers. It was only after interviewing a dozen or so tribesmen that the Father was able to ascertain that the Hermit was dead.
As un-Christian as it was, the Father’s first reaction, he admitted when meeting with Sammerson, was one of relief, if not joy, on hearing of the Hermit’s demise. That the wretched soul would no doubt be condemned to Hell was a tragedy, to be sure, but one could not but thank the Blessed Trinity that such a malign influence had, at last, been removed from the lives of the tribes people. That said, the Priest claimed that he had prayed for the deceased Hermit, imploring upon the Trinity that they take pity upon the ignorant fellow who had not been blessed in his early life by the teachings of the Holy Church.
Sammerson replied that as far as he was concerned, the Devil was welcome to the Hermit and suggested that the Father’s time would be better spent on the living. The Father agreed and stated it was for that very reason that he travelled to the fort. Sammerson frowned at this. Early in their acquaintanceship, the Father had attempted to procure the use of the Fort to minister to what he called, “his flock”, going so far as to engage the few Catholic infantrymen stationed there, to petition Sammerson on behalf of his cause. Sammerson was justifiably angered by this foreign civilian meddling in the functioning of the Fort and made his position clear to the Father, and disciplined the infantrymen.
That, he had thought, was the end of the matter, but now it appeared it had not. When confronted with this, Father Piccolo hasted to reassure Sammerson that this was not the case, and that he only wished to pass on some intelligence that he had gained from one of his parishioners.
The fellow, an elder of the tribe whose lands bordered that of the Mission had become afflicted by a series of ulcers on his leg. These in turn had become gangrenous and the Elder, knowing that his time was short, had sought out the Father to seek absolution and to be baptised in to the Holy Roman Church. The Priest was overcome with thanks that such an important personage would seek the comfort of the Church, and readily agreed.
It was only later, when the terrified Elder finally confessed his true motivations, that the Priest learned that he was not running to the Church, but fleeing from something outside the realms of Christian civilisation. At first the Priest was saddened that the Elder was not fully committed to his conversion, but consoled himself that the Elder’s actions would still encourage other, less recalcitrant tribes people to seek out the Church. However, the Elder insisted that he was sincere and that he, and all those around him, required the intervention of “all the gods” if the world was to be saved.
Delirious with pain and fever, the Elder claimed that the death of the Hermit was a calamity of the greatest proportions. When the Priest argued that the Hermit’s death, while unfortunate, was not to be grieved as he was a wicked man, the Elder only too readily agreed. The Hermit was, the Elder proclaimed, indeed a very terrible and wicked man, but he had served purpose. He had been a barrier, a wall between our world and something unnameable that existed beyond. This was a being of pure hatred that despised life in all its forms, from the crawling worm to the soaring eagle, and in particular, it loathed mankind. And now, that the Hermit was dead and the barrier dissolved, this unnameable *thing* was free to
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native staff had fled soon after the Priest was found dead, adding further annoyances to Sammerson and his men. In quieter moments, Sammerson admitted to himself that it was indeed petulant to grumble about the flightiness of the local tribes and lack of servants, and unbecoming of an officer to lay their current inconveniences at the feet of the Priest who had suffered and died so horrifically while under his protection.
It was perhaps the lack of the constant sounds that accompany the daily maintenance of the Fort that first made Sammerson aware of how the Jungle had changed. Gone was the chatter of animals, the call of the birds and the incessant hum of insect life. Even the air refused to move, so that there was no rustling of leaves or the patter of falling seeds.
However the lack of sound, to Sammerson at least, did not translate into silence. Instead there was a deep, resonant tone, both almost imperceptible to the ear and excruciating in its never-ending presence. As Sammerson struggled to sleep at night, he imagined it was the end note of a massive bell that had just rung out the beginning of the Apocalypse, and he cursed the dead Priest for filling his head with such superstitious terrors.
As the days progressed, Sammerson fancied he saw in the eyes of his officers, and even in the infantrymen, an awareness of this “death knell” as he had inadvertently come to refer to it in his mind. But none dared broach the subject, at least, no one did with Sammerson.
It was around this time that Sammerson became aware of the Moths. Working at his desk, he noted that his ledger was coated in a fine layer of grey, opalescent dust. He brushed at it with his fingers and was repelled by the extreme dryness of the substance. Seeking the source of this new irritation, he looked up at the ceiling. At first he saw nothing amongst the shadowed rafters and then something moved. It was a small moth, no longer than half an inch, and narrow. Its pale grey wings had a slightly greenish tinge and it waddled as it picked its way along a beam. Sammerson stared at it for sometime before realising that, aside from the animals the Fort kept for food and their cats, this was the first creature he’d seen in weeks.
He stared at it, wishing that one of those insolent geckos that used to festoon his walls, would dash out and devour the new interloper, but nothing moved but the moth. Sammerson called for his valet, Aleshire, and told him to fetch a long-handled broom. On his return, Sammerson stood on the desk and sort to crush the moth, or at least bring it down where he could deal with it directly. His first attempt connected with nothing, but the second swipe struck the beam where the moth rested with a satisfying thump.
Sammerson did not see what had become of the moth, as the instant the broom stuck, the recesses of the ceiling shimmered with the wings of thousands
***
of knowing how far the blight spread. The last patrol, a squad of five men under the command of Jacoby had departed the week before and had not returned. Whether they had perished, or simply fled was not known.
The Jungle, once a riot of colour and texture, was now fading to become a uniform grey. That the trees and other vegetation were all dead, could, perhaps, be understood. That they continued to stand, despite the rain and heat, without rotting or showing any signs of putrefaction was another matter entirely.
As Sammerson noted in his diary, it seemed as if the very processes of death had themselves died. This was further evidenced when, within the space of a week, all the animals within the Fort – two pigs, four goats and dozen or more chickens – all died. The cats had long since fled.
These new setbacks were duly reported to Sammerson who noted them in the Unit Diary. He went to the Quartermaster’s Store to ascertain the amount and the condition of the dried and preserved victuals, and was relieved to learn that there was adequate supplies and that they appeared to be unaffected by the blight. However, the Quartermaster did confide that there had been complaints from some quarters that the food, and even the rum, had lost its flavour and that it failed to alleviate ones’ hunger.
Later, in his diary, Sammerson noted that he too, had recently found the food to be lacking in something, but had attributed this to the general feeling of melancholia that appeared to be infecting the garrison. He also noted that, on returning from his inspection of food stores, he happened past the pig sty to see the two animals lying dead in the mud. His first reaction was anger and dismay that the animals had not been removed and disposed off, but on closer inspection his mood changed to a ghastly horror.
The pigs had been dead for over a week and lain exposed to the heat and rain in all that time, but there was no sign decomposition. That there were no flies or maggots was now to be expected, if not understood. But the corpses showed no signs of bloating, or any of the other gruesome processes that usually accompany the dissolution of a once living creature.
Let it be understood that no one, on seeing the pigs, would mistake them for being alive, sleeping in the heat of the day. That they were dead was clear. Dead and deteriorating, but in a way far removed from the processes of living things.
The colour of their hair, eyes, gums, teeth and their skin was transitioning to that same dull grey which now tainted the dead Jungle. Their skin hung loose and was cracked in places, exposing the grey flesh beneath. In fact the carcasses as a whole had a crumpled, *disassembled* look to them, as if in the internal structures of bone and sinew had all come apart.
Unnerved, Sammerson took up shovel and gingerly placed it against the shoulder of the nearest pig. Aware that he was being watched, he steeled himself and then gave the corpse a sharp prod. His cry of alarm combined with those of the onlookers as the entire carcass slumped and fell in on itself, looking like nothing more than
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whether any other members of the garrison remained at the Fort, aside from MacArthur whose screams from his cell could occasionally be heard when the rain lessened its downpour. And yet Sammerson could not dispel the feeling that there was something outside his door, waiting for him. That it was the Nylho’atex, the so-called “slow wrath” as described to him by the long dead Piccolo, he didn’t believe. Despite all he had seen, the idea of an entity that existed in complete opposition to the entire natural world, to life itself, and sought only the extinction of all existence seemed like the ravings of fearful and ignorant man in the fits of a violent fever. And yet, and yet.
The rain ceased falling, leaving only the sounds of the drips and rivulets as the last of water found its way down into the lifeless mud. And soon, too soon, even those sounds faded. Sammerson stood, not daring to move, his service revolver cocked and ready.
After a time, he noticed that MacArthur too, had fallen silent. Now, the only sound was the imperceptible toll of the “death knell” booming in the preternatural silence. Whether MacArthur was quiet of his own volition or if he’d been silenced, Sammerson did not know. He tried to think back to when he last heard MacArthur, but he couldn’t recall. The “death knell” rang in his head, muddying his mind.
A creak. Soft, furtive, but Sammerson was sure he’d heard it. It had come from the other side of the door. He didn’t deny that it could be the sound of timbers shifting, repositioning themselves after the onslaught of the rain and the cooling night, but deep in his soul he knew that this wasn’t so. There was something out there, and if not Nylho’atex, then what?
One of the garrison? Then why didn’t they knock, or speak? A tribesmen? But they had all fled months ago. Perhaps one had returned. A brave shaman perhaps, returned to slay the last of the White interlopers and perhaps assuage Nylho’atex and so reinstate the Jungle to its former state. Or a jaguar, attracted by the scent of corruption, but there were no scents, of corruption or otherwise, and there were no jaguars.
Sammerson never thought he’d miss the sickly-rich stink of the foetid Jungle. He realised there were a lot of things about the Jungle he missed, now that everything was dead.
Two creaks, separate and distinct, as if someone were shifting their feet. Sammerson, no longer able to remain silent, called out. “You there, state your business.” There was no reply.
Unable to stand motionless an instant longer, Sammerson snatched open the door and shot! The sound of the blast cracked open the night and was immediately swallowed up.
Nothing stood before him, and yet he saw two eyes staring at him from out of the bleak darkness!
Two eyes, black, hard and cold, as if all the lightless depths of the cosmos had been coiled up and concentrated into two obsidian spheres.
The eyes continue to stare, malignant, cruel and pitiless. A small grey moth fluttered and landed beside one of the eyes. Shaken from his paralysis, Sammerson saw that the terrible eyes were glaring out from a face of indescribable horror, covered in matted grey fur the same colour as the death shrouded Jungle.
The head, defying nature, was inverted and mounted on a loathsome body that hung from the rafters outside his door. Shaking, Sammerson tried to raise his revolver but the inconceivable horror was too much, and oblivion overtook him.
Unmoved, the entity glared down at where Sammerson fell. Nylho’atex, the “slow wrath”, incarnated in to its most detestable form, *the abhorrent manifestation of a sloth!*
***