Like the gnarled fingers of Hastur, the three spires had gazed down on that eerie place for countless millennia, groping ever skyward as though to pull the moon out of its orbit. The freezing fog that drifted across the swamp known as the King’s Fish Pond, hid all kinds of hideous life forms, from the lidless eyes of the Dagon to the greasy matted fur of the Shoggoth. This boil on the face of our otherwise beautiful country had no hidden charm but only morbid sentimentality of greater age when the Great Old Ones held the universe in thrall with their Black Magick. Yes, I speak of Lichfield, the moribund city whose very name conjures up images of the dead, the field of the dead, as it is known in the language of the Angle and the Saxon. It is of no consequence how I found myself wandering the crumbling facades and rustic gables of that foul place, it is only enough to know I was there. There in that bleak, black edifice of cruelty. It is here that my story begins, nay, it is here that my story ends, for it is a saga that should remain untold, but to you, dear diary, I feel I must commit the entire blasphemous tale that unfolded before my very eyes. I am on the edge of madness having stayed too long in that ghoulish place.
As I have already decreed, the reasons for my locale in that town are unnecessary, but I found myself ensconced in the Nyarlathotep guest house, a name I was uneasy with, but it being the only lodgings in the town (the other had ‘closed their doors’ after the infamous Parson Stranger had tripled their land rent overnight in mysterious circumstances). I was placed by the owner, a woman of a certain age, whom we shall call ‘Pauline’, for that was her name, in the attic room with views over the afore mentioned spires of the black cathedral on the hill. This, I was informed, was a ‘selling point’ and I wasn’t to worry about the smell that permeated the dank walls. Many would give their eye teeth for these views, especially on Walpurgisnacht when the surrounding hills would be lit with the demonic fires set by blood thirsty pagan wildmen, living in the forests at the edge of the unnatural city. Yes this ghastly ceremony passed as ‘entertainment’ in this borough, this ungodly display of heathen impiety. I knew my time was short passing through this pessimistic place and so was prepared to bear any burden that would ease my journey. I paid for the room in golden coinage, paper money was widely suspected as some foreign element in this municipal. As I did so, Pauline eyed my purse with lust and I felt I saw excitement in her eye at the prospect of so many riches.
The first night I slept fitfully, plagued by feverish dreams, I saw Great Satan devour his son and screaming faces haunted my sleep. But other than this the first night passed without incident. As break-fast was included in my deal (a deal with the Devil, some may say), I stumbled blearily down-stairs to the break-fast parlour. The table was already laid with cutlery and plates for my arrival. The crockery had a greasy sheen and the watercolour pictures on them depicted scenes of horror to which I was not accustomed. One vignette showed a bent creature sitting upon what looked like the wall of a cemetery, in its claw was held a bone and it gnawed feverishly on the end. I looked away in disgust, pulling a face at the very moment Pauline entered the room. ‘Don’t like the plates ay?’ she bellowed, for her composition dictated that she speak as loudly as possible in any given situation ‘Not many outsiders do, but here in Lichfield, we see the beauty in them!’ she spoke in that strange tongue of the West Midlands, the accent that makes one sound like a mentally challenged simpleton, chained up in a lunatic asylum, eating beetles and worms for sustenance. ‘Yes, I have had many folk through my doors, some from far away places like Europe.’ She stopped talking and pondered a moment ‘What do you think about Europe?’ the question was bellowed so loud I was almost knocked off my chair. Without waiting for an answer she turned and returned to the scullery, where the unwholesome banging of pots and pans began, a cacophony that was to accompany the rest of the break-fast meal.
Presently my solitude was broken by a gentleman in a cocked hat, he introduced himself and I detected from his accent that he was from the former colonies. He told me in that strange New World accent that he was from Innsmouth in Massachusetts. He had a curious gait and large bulbous eyes, not unlike a fish. As we chatted he pulled from his pocket, a box of metal and glass which filled his palm. He motioned to the device and asked me in an authoritarian tone if I knew what it was. I did, as it happened. The box was a rudimentary communication device. I had seen such in my travels in the Far East (another story, of which time here is not available). I had a basic working knowledge of the machines that allowed one man to speak to another across great distances. This American pressed me for information on the usage of this article. I spoke only what I knew and advised him as best of my knowledge. He seemed satisfied and lapsed into a silence as he ate. The American was not my only guest at break-fast that morning. Presently two young women joined myself and the colonist. They had the posture of the European, the attitude of the Old World and small cigarillo of the French. My travelled mind deduced they were from La Belle Francais. My presumption was proved correct when, within moments of them arriving Pauline re-entered the room and bellowed at the girls ‘Il mange, nes pas, dans la sac!’ The look of combined horror on their faces gave me the excuse to leave for my work.
My tribulations did not end there. At my vocational scene I met with the two labourers I was to supervise. One was a short dark looking man with piercing eyes, the other lean, tall and nimble in movement, but not thought. These ‘men’ were my charges for the duration of my time in that ominous city. I set them to work and they took to their various tasks with vigour and pith. My task was to oversee their work and this involved me sitting upon my carriage and making notes in a small black book. Their work was rhythmic and mesmerising and I fell into a stupor. This languor lasted until I suddenly became aware of a presence over my right shoulder. I turned with a start to see a ‘gentleman’ staring through the window of the carriage. His breathing has left greasy stains upon the glass and he only stopped when I moved to open the window. Upon his head was a coiffure, unlike any I had seen upon a mortal man. He resembled the famous American vaudeville performer who goes by the stage name of Elvis Presley. However he appeared to be four times the age of Presley. ‘Wha’cha’doin?’ he barked at me, fetid breath blowing on my face. I explained my mission involved the location of underground features, specifically the ancient town’s ditch. ‘Wha’maps,ya got?’ he demanded. I explained and demonstrated to him the cartographic sheets that I was using in the task. His face cracked in two, a grin spread across from ear to ear, revealing teeth that resembled a row of burnt fence posts. ‘Have ya got the 1485 map?’ He leered at me. I answered in the negative. He went on to explain to me that he had the aforementioned map, but it was drawn upon skin. I dare not ask where he acquired such an item, nor indeed whose skin it belonged to…
That night my dreams were again invaded by the faces of the denizens of this pit of villainy, but this was the least of my horrors that last evening I spent in the City of Death. I was awoken at three bells by a noise, an inhuman ghastly noise. I thought at first that my room was being broken into by Pauline. Quickly gaining consciousness, I realised the true horror what was confronted me. The basic human defence system overcame me and I bolted for the locked door. In the darkness I pounded upon the frame, screaming for freedom. The vision I had seen forced me from the room with alarming speed, so much so that I tumbled down the three flights of stairs below. I barely noticed that I had fallen, I was so quickly out of the front door and into the cold, black night. Pumping my legs I ran and ran as fast I could be carried. I came to three hours later, the woman that found me later told the psychiatrist that I had been gibbering and wailing like a banshee. Under deep hypnosis and cold water treatment, my mental situation was slowly cured. It was perhaps several years before I could revisit the horrors I saw in that attic room at the Nyarlathotep guest house. The memories came back in fits and starts and only now can I revisit the entire ghastly scene that faced me that night. When she first mentioned it, I thought Pauline was trying to frighten me, I thought she was playing games with my weak disposition, but when I saw that apparition, all doubt left me. I knew she spoke the truth. There in my room that night, sitting on the end of the bed was the spirit of dead cat. It stared into my eyes and deep into my soul, judging me. The fear of centuries lay heavy upon my heart and I bolted, as any reasonable human would. But how did I know this creature was an agent of the Mi-Go? What revealed it to be from the dark side of the Moon, a denizen of Ulthar? The figure of the feline was only half in existence! It was a half-a-cat. But this alone was not enough for the true magnitude of what I was witnessing was a spectre. No, what sealed the fact that this cat was a phantom was the fact THAT ITS TAIL WAS POINTING THE WRONG WAY!
