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The Virtual Library - Free online ebooks in pdf, epub, kindle and other formats. Free ebooks in The Call of Cthulhu. English H. P. Lovecraft (18 books). Project Gutenberg · 59, free ebooks · 3 by H. P. Lovecraft. The Dunwich Horror by H. P. Lovecraft. Book Cover. Download; Bibrec. H.P. Lovecraft. This web edition published by [email protected] Last updated Wednesday, December 17, at To the best of our knowledge, the text .


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Download THE CALL OF CTHULHU free in PDF & EPUB format. Download H P Lovecraft's THE CALL OF CTHULHU for your kindle, tablet. File:Lovecraft HP Breccia Alberto Los mitos de anesi.info anesi.info (file size: MB, . Download the Necronomicon in different versions and the complete works of H. P. Lovecraft as free Public Domain PDFs.

There was something very disturbing about the nauseous sketches and half-finished monstrosities that leered round from every side of the room, and when Pickman suddenly unveiled a huge canvas on the side away from the light I could not for my life keep back a loud scream — the second I had emitted that night. Never a competent navigator, I could only guess vaguely by the sun and stars that I was somewhat south of the equator. This web edition published by: And no sooner had I wondered what he made of their own young as left with mankind in the form of changelings, than my eye caught a picture embodying that very thought. It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity — that hideous extremity of human outrage, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Contact Donate.

Sime has it. Angarola of Chicago has it.

The Cthuhlu Mythos

And Pickman had it as no man ever had it before or — I hope to Heaven-ever will again. Well, I should say that the really weird artist has a kind of vision which makes models, or summons up what amounts to actual scenes from the spectral world he lives in.

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If I had ever seen what Pickman saw — but no! And before Goya you have to go back to the mediaeval chaps who did the gargoyles and chimaeras on Notre Dame and Mont Saint—Michel. They believed all sorts of things — and maybe they saw all sorts of things, too, for the Middle Ages had some curious phases I remember your asking Pickman yourself once, the year before you went away, wherever in thunder he got such ideas and visions.

It was partly because of that laugh that Reid dropped him. He had a lot of talk about diet, and said Pickman must be abnormal and eccentric to the last degree. I know I told him that myself — then. Now his father has it in Salem — you know Pickman comes of old Salem stock, and had a witch ancestor hanged in I got into the habit of calling on Pickman quite often, especially after I began making notes for a monograph on weird art.

Probably it was his work which put the idea into my head, and anyhow, I found him a mine of data and suggestions when I came to develop it.

Supernatural Horror in Literature

He showed me all the paintings and drawings he had about; including some pen-and-ink sketches that would, I verily believe, have got him kicked out of the club if many of the members had seen them.

Before long I was pretty nearly a devotee, and would listen for hours like a schoolboy to art theories and philosophic speculations wild enough to qualify him for the Danvers asylum. My hero-worship, coupled with the fact that people generally were commencing to have less and less to do with him, made him get very confidential with me; and one evening he hinted that if I were fairly close-mouthed and none too squeamish, he might show me something rather unusual — something a bit stronger than anything he had in the house.

God, man!

The Call of Cthulhu

I can show you houses that have stood two centuries and a half and more; houses that have witnessed what would make a modern house crumble into powder.

What do moderns know of life and the forces behind it? They hanged her on Gallows Hill, with Cotton Mather looking sanctimoniously on. Mather, damn him, was afraid somebody might succeed in kicking free of this accursed cage of monotony — I wish someone had laid a spell on him or sucked his blood in the night!

There were witches and what their spells summoned; pirates and what they brought in from the sea; smugglers; privateers-and I tell you, people knew how to live, and how to enlarge the bounds of life, in the old time!

And to think of today in contrast, with such pale-pink brains that even a club of supposed artists gets shudders and convulsions if a picture goes beyond the feelings of a Beacon Street tea-table! What do maps and records and guide-books really tell of the North End?

And what do those Dagoes know of their meaning? Yes, Thurber, I decided long ago that one must paint terror as well as beauty from life, so I did some exploring in places where I had reason to know terror lives. I took it because of the queer old brick well in the cellar — one of the sort I told you about. When we did turn, it was to climb through the deserted length of the oldest and dirtiest alley I ever saw in my life, with crumbling-looking gables, broken small-paned windows, and archaic chimneys that stood out half-disintegrated against the moonlit sky.

From that alley, which had a dim light, we turned to the left into an equally silent and still narrower alley with no light at all: Not long after this Pickman produced a flashlight and revealed an antediluvian ten-panelled door that looked damnably worm-eaten.

Unlocking it, he ushered me into a barren hallway with what was once splendid dark-oak panelling — simple, of course, but thrillingly suggestive of the times of Andros and Phipps and the Witchcraft. Then he took me through a door on the left, lighted an oil lamp, and told me to make myself at home. There was none of the exotic technique you see in Sidney Sime, none of the trans-Saturnian landscapes and lunar fungi that Clark Ashton Smith uses to freeze the blood.

The backgrounds were mostly old churchyards, deep woods, cliffs by the sea, brick tunnels, ancient panelled rooms, or simple vaults of masonry. These figures were seldom completely human, but often approached humanity in varying degree. Most of the bodies, while roughly bipedal, had a forward slumping, and a vaguely canine cast. The texture of the majority was a kind of unpleasant rubberiness. I can see them now! They were sometimes shown in groups in cemeteries or underground passages, and often appeared to be in battle over their prey — or rather, their treasure-trove.

And what damnable expressiveness Pickman sometimes gave the sightless faces of this charnel booty! Occasionally the things were shown leaping through open windows at night, or squatting on the chests of sleepers, worrying at their throats. One canvas showed a ring of them baying about a hanged witch on Gallows Hill, whose dead face held a close kinship to theirs. It was the faces, Eliot, those accursed faces, that leered and slavered out of the canvas with the very breath of life!

By God, man, I verily believe they were alive! That nauseous wizard had waked the fires of hell in pigment, and his brush had been a nightmare-spawning wand. Give me that decanter, Eliot! Dagon is a short story by H. Lovecraft, written in July , one of the first stories he wrote as an adult. It was first published in the November edition of The Vagrant.

The story is the testament of a tortured, morphine-addicted man who plans to commit suicide over an incident that occurred early on in World War I when he was a merchant marine officer.

The Shadow Out of Time H. The Haunter of the Dark H. The Beast in the Cave H. The Dunwich Horror H. I am writing this under an appreciable mental strain, since by tonight I shall be no more.

Penniless, and at the end of my supply of the drug which alone, makes life endurable, I can bear the torture no longer; and shall cast myself from this garret window into the squalid street below. Seizing the green jade object, we gave a last glance at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave as we found it. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and we could not be sure. So, too, as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we heard the faint distant baying of some gigantic hound in the background.

But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and we could not be sure. Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and without servants in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the knock of the visitor.

Now, however, we were troubled by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the night, not only around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon was shining against it, and another time we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our ears the faint far baying we thought we had heard in the Holland churchyard.

The jade amulet now reposed in a niche in our museum, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. On the night of September 24, 19 — I heard a knock at my chamber door.

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There was no one in the corridor. When I aroused St John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the event, and became as worried as I. It was the night that the faint, distant baying over the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality.

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Four days later, whilst we were both in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the single door which led to the secret library staircase. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the unknown, we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. Extinguishing all lights, we proceeded to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and heard, as if receding far away, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and articulate chatter.

Whether we were mad, dreaming, or in our senses, we did not try to determine. We only realized, with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the Dutch language. After that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Mostly we held to the theory that we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the victims of some creeping and appalling doom.

Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the presence of some malign being whose nature we could not guess, and every night that daemoniac baying rolled over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder. On October 29 we found in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. They were as baffling as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John, walking home after dark from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. His screams had reached the house, and I had hastened to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon.

My friend was dying when I spoke to him, and he could not answer coherently. I buried him the next midnight in one of our neglected gardens, and mumbled over his body one of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. And as I pronounced the last daemoniac sentence I heard afar on the moor the faint baying of some gigantic hound.

The moon was up, but I dared not look at it. And when I saw on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground.