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At
eleven
Jones
found
Rogers
waiting
by
the
basement
door
in
Southwark
Street
.
Their
words
were
few
,
but
each
seemed
taut
with
a
menacing
tension
.
They
agreed
that
the
vaulted
exhibition
room
alone
should
form
the
scene
of
the
vigil
,
and
Rogers
did
not
insist
that
the
watcher
sit
in
the
special
adult
alcove
of
supreme
horrors
.
The
showman
,
having
extinguished
all
the
lights
with
switches
in
the
workroom
,
locked
the
door
of
that
crypt
with
one
of
the
keys
on
his
crowded
ring
.
Without
shaking
hands
he
passed
out
the
street
door
,
locked
it
after
him
,
and
stamped
up
the
worn
steps
to
the
sidewalk
outside
.
As
his
tread
receded
,
Jones
realised
that
the
long
,
tedious
vigil
had
commenced
.
Later
,
in
the
utter
blackness
of
the
great
arched
cellar
,
Jones
cursed
the
childish
naiveté
which
had
brought
him
there
.
For
the
first
half-hour
he
had
kept
flashing
on
his
pocket-light
at
intervals
,
but
now
just
sitting
in
the
dark
on
one
of
the
visitors
'
benches
had
become
a
more
nerve-racking
thing
.
Every
time
the
beam
shot
out
it
lighted
up
some
morbid
,
grotesque
object
--
a
guillotine
,
a
nameless
hybrid
monster
,
a
pasty-bearded
face
crafty
with
evil
,
a
body
with
red
torrents
streaming
from
a
severed
throat
.
Jones
knew
that
no
sinister
reality
was
attached
to
these
things
,
but
after
that
first
half-hour
he
preferred
not
to
see
them.Why
he
had
bothered
to
humour
that
madman
he
could
scarcely
imagine
.
It
would
have
been
much
simpler
merely
to
have
let
him
alone
,
or
to
have
called
in
a
mental
specialist
.
Probably
,
he
reflected
,
it
was
the
fellow-feeling
of
one
artist
for
another
.
There
was
so
much
genius
in
Rogers
that
he
deserved
every
possible
chance
to
be
helped
quietly
out
of
his
growing
mania
.
Any
man
who
could
imagine
and
construct
the
incredibly
life-like
things
that
he
had
produced
was
surely
not
far
from
actual
greatness
.
He
had
the
fancy
of
a
Sime
or
a
Doré
joined
to
the
minute
,
scientific
craftsmanship
of
a
Blatschka
.
Indeed
,
he
had
done
for
the
world
of
nightmare
what
the
Blatschkas
with
their
marvellously
accurate
plant
models
of
finely
wrought
and
coloured
glass
had
done
for
the
world
of
botany.At
midnight
the
strokes
of
a
distant
clock
filtered
through
the
darkness
,
and
Jones
felt
cheered
by
the
message
from
a
still-surviving
outside
world
.
The
vaulted
museum
chamber
was
like
a
tomb
--
ghastly
in
its
utter
solitude
.
Even
a
mouse
would
be
cheering
company
;
yet
Rogers
had
once
boasted
that
--
for
"
certain
reasons
"
,
as
he
said
--
no
mice
or
even
insects
ever
came
near
the
place
.
That
was
very
curious
,
yet
it
seemed
to
be
true
.
The
deadness
and
silence
were
virtually
complete
.
If
only
something
would
make
a
sound
!
He
shuffled
his
feet
,
and
the
echoes
came
spectrally
out
of
the
absolute
stillness
.
He
coughed
,
but
there
was
something
mocking
in
the
staccato
reverberations
.
He
could
not
,
he
vowed
,
begin
talking
to
himself
.
That
meant
nervous
disintegration
.
Time
seemed
to
pass
with
abnormal
and
disconcerting
slowness
.
He
could
have
sworn
that
hours
had
elapsed
since
he
last
flashed
the
light
on
his
watch
,
yet
here
was
only
the
stroke
of
midnight.He
wished
that
his
senses
were
not
so
preternaturally
keen
.
Something
in
the
darkness
and
stillness
seemed
to
have
sharpened
them
,
so
that
they
responded
to
faint
intimations
hardly
strong
enough
to
be
called
true
impressions
.
His
ears
seemed
at
times
to
catch
a
faint
,
elusive
susurrus
which
could
not
quite
be
identified
with
the
nocturnal
hum
of
the
squalid
streets
outside
,
and
he
thought
of
vague
,
irrelevant
things
like
the
music
of
the
spheres
and
the
unknown
,
inaccessible
life
of
alien
dimensions
pressing
on
our
own
.
Rogers
often
speculated
about
such
things.The
floating
specks
of
light
in
his
blackness-drowned
eyes
seemed
inclined
to
take
on
curious
symmetries
of
pattern
and
motion
.
He
had
often
wondered
about
those
strange
rays
from
the
unplumbed
abyss
which
scintillate
before
us
in
the
absence
of
all
earthly
illumination
,
but
he
had
never
known
any
that
behaved
just
as
these
were
behaving
.
They
lacked
the
restful
aimlessness
of
ordinary
light-specks
--
suggesting
some
will
and
purpose
remote
from
any
terrestrial
conception.Then
there
was
that
suggestion
of
odd
stirrings
.
Nothing
was
open
,
yet
in
spite
of
the
general
draughtlessness
Jones
felt
that
the
air
was
not
uniformly
quiet
.
There
were
intangible
variations
in
pressure
--
not
quite
decided
enough
to
suggest
the
loathsome
pawings
of
unseen
elementals
.
It
was
abnormally
chilly
,
too
.
He
did
not
like
any
of
this
.
The
air
tasted
salty
,
as
if
it
were
mixed
with
the
brine
of
dark
subterrene
waters
,
and
there
was
a
bare
hint
of
some
odour
of
ineffable
mustiness
.
In
the
daytime
he
had
never
noticed
that
the
waxen
figures
had
an
odour
.
Even
now
that
half-received
hint
was
not
the
way
wax
figures
ought
to
smell
.
It
was
more
like
the
faint
smell
of
specimens
in
a
natural-history
museum
.
Curious
,
in
view
of
Rogers
'
claims
that
his
figures
were
not
all
artificial
--
indeed
,
it
was
probably
that
claim
which
made
one
's
imagination
conjure
up
the
olfactory
suspicion
.
One
must
guard
against
excesses
of
the
imagination
--
had
not
such
things
driven
poor
Rogers
mad?But
the
utter
loneliness
of
this
place
was
frightful
.
Even
the
distant
chimes
seemed
to
come
from
across
cosmic
gulfs
.
It
made
Jones
think
of
that
insane
picture
which
Rogers
had
shewed
him
--
the
wildly
carved
chamber
with
the
cryptic
throne
which
the
fellow
had
claimed
was
part
of
a
three-million-year-old
ruin
in
the
shunned
and
inaccessible
solitudes
of
the
Arctic
.
Perhaps
Rogers
had
been
to
Alaska
,
but
that
picture
was
certainly
nothing
but
stage
scenery
.
It
could
n't
normally
be
otherwise
,
with
all
that
carving
and
those
terrible
symbols
.
And
that
monstrous
shape
supposed
to
have
been
found
on
that
throne
--
what
a
flight
of
diseased
fancy
!
Jones
wondered
just
how
far
he
actually
was
from
the
insane
masterpiece
in
wax
--
probably
it
was
kept
behind
that
heavy
,
padlocked
plank
door
leading
somewhere
out
of
the
workroom
.
But
it
would
never
do
to
brood
about
a
waxen
image
.
Was
not
the
present
room
full
of
such
things
,
some
of
them
scarcely
less
horrible
than
the
dreadful
"
IT
"
?
And
beyond
a
thin
canvas
screen
on
the
left
was
the
"
Adults
only
"
alcove
with
its
nameless
phantoms
of
delirium.The
proximity
of
the
numberless
waxen
shapes
began
to
get
on
Jones
's
nerves
more
and
more
as
the
quarter-hours
wore
on
.
He
knew
the
museum
so
well
that
he
could
not
get
rid
of
their
usual
images
even
in
the
total
darkness
.
Indeed
,
the
darkness
had
the
effect
of
adding
to
the
remembered
images
certain
very
disturbing
imaginative
overtones
.
The
guillotine
seemed
to
creak
,
and
the
bearded
face
of
Landru
--
slayer
of
his
fifty
wives
--
twisted
itself
into
expressions
of
monstrous
menace
.
From
the
severed
throat
of
Madame
Demers
a
hideous
bubbling
sound
seemed
to
emanate
,
while
the
headless
,
legless
victim
of
a
trunk
murder
tried
to
edge
closer
and
closer
on
its
gory
stumps
.
Jones
began
shutting
his
eyes
to
see
if
that
would
dim
the
images
,
but
found
it
was
useless
.
Besides
,
when
he
shut
his
eyes
the
strange
,
purposeful
patterns
of
light-specks
became
more
disturbingly
pronounced.Then
suddenly
he
began
trying
to
keep
the
hideous
images
he
had
formerly
been
trying
to
banish
.
He
tried
to
keep
them
because
they
were
giving
place
to
still
more
hideous
ones
.
In
spite
of
himself
his
memory
began
reconstructing
the
utterly
non-human
blasphemies
that
lurked
in
the
obscurer
corners
,
and
these
lumpish
hybrid
growths
oozed
and
wriggled
toward
him
as
though
hunting
him
down
in
a
circle
.
Black
Tsathoggua
moulded
itself
from
a
toad-like
gargoyle
to
a
long
,
sinuous
line
with
hundreds
of
rudimentary
feet
,
and
a
lean
,
rubbery
night-gaunt
spread
its
wings
as
if
to
advance
and
smother
the
watcher
.
Jones
braced
himself
to
keep
from
screaming
.
He
knew
he
was
reverting
to
the
traditional
terrors
of
his
childhood
,
and
resolved
to
use
his
adult
reason
to
keep
the
phantoms
at
bay
.
It
helped
a
bit
,
he
found
,
to
flash
the
light
again
.
Frightful
as
were
the
images
it
shewed
,
these
were
not
as
bad
as
what
his
fancy
called
out
of
the
utter
blackness.But
there
were
drawbacks
.
Even
in
the
light
of
his
torch
he
could
not
help
suspecting
a
slight
,
furtive
trembling
on
the
part
of
the
canvas
partition
screening
off
the
terrible
"
Adults
only
"
alcove
.
He
knew
what
lay
beyond
,
and
shivered
.
Imagination
called
up
the
shocking
form
of
fabulous
Yog-Sothoth
--
only
a
congeries
of
iridescent
globes
,
yet
stupendous
in
its
malign
suggestiveness
.
What
was
this
accursed
mass
slowly
floating
toward
him
and
bumping
on
the
partition
that
stood
in
the
way
?
A
small
bulge
in
the
canvas
far
to
the
right
suggested
the
sharp
horn
of
Gnoph-keh
,
the
hairy
myth-thing
of
the
Greenland
ice
,
that
walked
sometimes
on
two
legs
,
sometimes
on
four
,
and
sometimes
on
six
.
To
get
this
stuff
out
of
his
head
Jones
walked
boldly
toward
the
hellish
alcove
with
torch
burning
steadily
.
Of
course
,
none
of
his
fears
was
true
.
Yet
were
not
the
long
,
facial
tentacles
of
great
Cthulhu
actually
swaying
,
slowly
and
insidiously
?
He
knew
they
were
flexible
,
but
he
had
not
realised
that
the
draught
caused
by
his
advance
was
enough
to
set
them
in
motion.Returning
to
his
former
seat
outside
the
alcove
,
he
shut
his
eyes
and
let
the
symmetrical
light-specks
do
their
worst
.
The
distant
clock
boomed
a
single
stroke
.
Could
it
be
only
one
?
He
flashed
the
light
on
his
watch
and
saw
that
it
was
precisely
that
hour
.
It
would
be
hard
indeed
waiting
for
morning
.
Rogers
would
be
down
at
about
eight
o'clock
,
ahead
of
even
Orabona
.
It
would
be
light
outside
in
the
main
basement
long
before
that
,
but
none
of
it
could
penetrate
here
.
All
the
windows
in
this
basement
had
been
bricked
up
but
the
three
small
ones
facing
the
court
.
A
pretty
bad
wait
,
all
told
.
His
ears
were
getting
most
of
the
hallucinations
now
--
for
he
could
swear
he
heard
stealthy
,
plodding
footsteps
in
the
workroom
beyond
the
closed
and
locked
door
.
He
had
no
business
thinking
of
that
unexhibited
horror
which
Rogers
called
"
It
"
.
The
thing
was
a
contamination
--
it
had
driven
its
maker
mad
,
and
now
even
its
picture
was
calling
up
imaginative
terrors
.
It
could
not
be
in
the
workroom
--
it
was
very
obviously
beyond
that
padlocked
door
of
heavy
planking
.
Those
steps
were
certainly
pure
imagination.Then
he
thought
he
heard
the
key
turn
in
the
workroom
door
.
Flashing
on
his
torch
,
he
saw
nothing
but
the
ancient
six-panelled
portal
in
its
proper
position
.
Again
he
tried
darkness
and
closed
eyes
,
but
there
followed
a
harrowing
illusion
of
creaking
--
not
the
guillotine
this
time
,
but
the
slow
,
furtive
opening
of
the
workroom
door
.
He
would
not
scream
.
Once
he
screamed
,
he
would
be
lost
.
There
was
a
sort
of
padding
or
shuffling
audible
now
,
and
it
was
slowly
advancing
toward
him
.
He
must
retain
command
of
himself
.
Had
he
not
done
so
when
the
nameless
brain-shapes
tried
to
close
in
on
him
?
The
shuffling
crept
nearer
,
and
his
resolution
failed
.
He
did
not
scream
but
merely
gulped
out
a
challenge
.
"
Who
goes
there
?
Who
are
you
?
What
do
you
want
?
"
There
was
no
answer
,
but
the
shuffling
kept
on
.
Jones
did
not
know
which
he
feared
most
to
do
--
turn
on
his
flashlight
or
stay
in
the
dark
while
the
thing
crept
upon
him
.
This
thing
was
different
,
he
felt
profoundly
,
from
the
other
terrors
of
the
evening
.
His
fingers
and
throat
worked
spasmodically
.
Silence
was
impossible
,
and
the
suspense
of
utter
blackness
was
beginning
to
be
the
most
intolerable
of
all
conditions
.
Again
he
cried
out
hysterically
--
"
Halt
!
Who
goes
there
?
"
--
as
he
switched
on
the
revealing
beams
of
his
torch
.
Then
,
paralysed
by
what
he
saw
,
he
dropped
the
flashlight
and
screamed
--
not
once
but
many
times.Shuffling
toward
him
in
the
darkness
was
the
gigantic
,
blasphemous
form
of
a
black
thing
not
wholly
ape
and
not
wholly
insect
.
Its
hide
hung
loosely
upon
its
frame
,
and
its
rugose
,
dead-eyed
rudiment
of
a
head
swayed
drunkenly
from
side
to
side
.
Its
fore
paws
were
extended
,
with
talons
spread
wide
,
and
its
whole
body
was
taut
with
murderous
malignity
despite
its
utter
lack
of
facial
expression
.
After
the
screams
and
the
final
coming
of
darkness
it
leaped
,
and
in
a
moment
had
Jones
pinned
to
the
floor
.
There
was
no
struggle
,
for
the
watcher
had
fainted.Jones
's
fainting
spell
could
not
have
lasted
more
than
a
moment
,
for
the
nameless
thing
was
apishly
dragging
him
through
the
darkness
when
he
began
recovering
consciousness
.
What
started
him
fully
awake
were
the
sounds
which
the
thing
was
making
--
or
rather
,
the
voice
with
which
it
was
making
them
.
That
voice
was
human
,
and
it
was
familiar
.
Only
one
living
being
could
be
behind
the
hoarse
,
feverish
accents
which
were
chanting
to
an
unknown
horror
.
"
Iä
!
Iä
!
"
it
was
howling
.
"
I
am
coming
,
O
Rhan-Tegoth
,
coming
with
the
nourishment
.
You
have
waited
long
and
fed
ill
,
but
now
you
shall
have
what
was
promised
.
That
and
more
,
for
instead
of
Orabona
it
will
be
one
of
high
degree
who
had
doubted
you
.
You
shall
crush
and
drain
him
,
with
all
his
doubts
,
and
grow
strong
thereby
.
And
ever
after
among
men
he
shall
be
shewn
as
a
monument
to
your
glory
.
Rhan-Tegoth
,
infinite
and
invincible
,
I
am
your
slave
and
high-priest
.
You
are
hungry
,
and
I
provide
.
I
read
the
sign
and
have
led
you
forth
.
I
shall
feed
you
with
blood
,
and
you
shall
feed
me
with
power
.
Iä
!
Shub-Niggurath
!
The
Goat
with
a
Thousand
Young
!
"
In
an
instant
all
the
terrors
of
the
night
dropped
from
Jones
like
a
discarded
cloak
.
He
was
again
master
of
his
mind
,
for
he
knew
the
very
earthly
and
material
peril
he
had
to
deal
with
.
This
was
no
monster
of
fable
,
but
a
dangerous
madman
.
It
was
Rogers
,
dressed
in
some
nightmare
covering
of
his
own
insane
designing
,
and
about
to
make
a
frightful
sacrifice
to
the
devil-god
he
had
fashioned
out
of
wax
.
Clearly
,
he
must
have
entered
the
workroom
from
the
rear
courtyard
,
donned
his
disguise
,
and
then
advanced
to
seize
his
neatly
trapped
and
fear-broken
victim
.
His
strength
was
prodigious
,
and
if
he
was
to
be
thwarted
,
one
must
act
quickly
.
Counting
on
the
madman
's
confidence
in
his
unconsciousness
he
determined
to
take
him
by
surprise
,
while
his
grasp
was
relatively
lax
.
The
feel
of
a
threshold
told
him
he
was
crossing
into
the
pitch-black
workroom.With
the
strength
of
mortal
fear
Jones
made
a
sudden
spring
from
the
half-recumbent
posture
in
which
he
was
being
dragged
.
