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Medusa's Coil
Lovecraft, Howard Phillips
Published:
1939
Type(s):
Short Fiction, Horror
Source:
http://en.wikisource.org
1
About Lovecraft:
Howard Phillips Lovecraft was an American author of fantasy, horror
and science fiction. He is notable for blending elements of science fiction
and horror; and for popularizing "cosmic horror": the notion that some
concepts, entities or experiences are barely comprehensible to human
minds, and those who delve into such risk their sanity. Lovecraft has be-
come a cult figure in the horror genre and is noted as creator of the
"Cthulhu Mythos," a series of loosely interconnected fictions featuring a
"pantheon" of nonhuman creatures, as well as the famed Necronomicon,
a grimoire of magical rites and forbidden lore. His works typically had a
tone of "cosmic pessimism," regarding mankind as insignificant and
powerless in the universe. Lovecraft's readership was limited during his
life, and his works, particularly early in his career, have been criticized as
occasionally ponderous, and for their uneven quality. Nevertheless,
Lovecraft’s reputation has grown tremendously over the decades, and he
is now commonly regarded as one of the most important horror writers
of the 20th Century, exerting an influence that is widespread, though of-
ten indirect. Source: Wikipedia
Also available on Feedbooks for Lovecraft:
•
(1926)
•
(1931)
•
(1928)
•
(1926)
•
(1916)
•
(1934)
•
(1927)
•
(1931)
•
(1930)
•
(1936)
Copyright:
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Chapter
1
The drive toward Cape Girardeau had been through unfamiliar country;
and as the late afternoon light grew golden and half-dreamlike I realized
that I must have directions if I expected to reach the town before night. I
did not care to be wandering about these bleak southern Missouri low-
lands after dark, for roads were poor and the November cold rather for-
midable in an open roadster. Black clouds, too, were massing on the ho-
rizon; so I looked about among the long, grey and blue shadows that
streaked the flat, brownish fields, hoping to glimpse some house where I
might get the needed information.
It was a lonely and deserted country, but at last I spied a roof among a
clump of trees near the small river on my right; perhaps a full half-mile
from the road, and probably reachable by some path or drive which I
would presently come upon. In the absence of any nearer dwelling, I re-
solved to try my luck there; and was glad when the bushes by the road-
side revealed the ruin of a carved stone gateway, covered with dry, dead
vines and choked with undergrowth which explained why I had not
been able to trace the path across the fields in my first distant view. I saw
that I could not drive the car in, so I parked it very carefully near the gate
- where a thick evergreen would shield it in case of rain - and got out for
the long walk to the house.
Traversing that brush-growth path in the gathering twilight I was con-
scious of a distinct sense of foreboding, probably induced by the air of
sinister decay hovering about the gate and the former driveway. From
the carvings on the old stone pillars I inferred that this place was once an
estate of manorial dignity; and I could clearly see that the driveway had
originally boasted guardian lines of linden trees, some of which had
died, while others had lost their special identity among the wild scrub
growths of the region.
As I ploughed onward, cockleburs and stickers clung to my clothes,
and I began to wonder whether the place could be inhabited after all.
Was I tramping on a vain errand? For a moment I was tempted to go
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back and try some farm farther along the road, when a view of the house
ahead aroused my curiosity and stimulated my venturesome spirit.
There was something provocatively fascinating in the tree-girt, decrep-
it pile before me, for it spoke of the graces and spaciousness of a bygone
era and a far more southerly environment. It was a typical wooden
plantation house of the classic, early nineteenth-century pattern, with
two and a half stories and a great Ionic portico whose pillars reached up
as far as the attic and supported a triangular pediment. Its state of decay
was extreme and obvious; one of the vast columns having rotted and
fallen to the ground, while the upper piazza or balcony had sagged dan-
gerously low. Other buildings, I judged, had formerly stood near it.
As I mounted the broad stone steps to the low porch and the carved
and fanlighted doorway I felt distinctly nervous, and started to light a ci-
garette - desisting when I saw how dry and inflammable everything
about me was. Though now convinced that the house was deserted, I
nevertheless hesitated to violate its dignity without knocking; so tugged
at the rusty iron knocker until I could get it to move, and finally set up a
cautious rapping which seemed to make the whole place shake and
rattle. There was no response, yet once more I plied the cumbrous, creak-
ing device - as much to dispel the sense of unholy silence and solitude as
to arouse any possible occupant of the ruin.
Somewhere near the river I heard the mournful not of a dove, and it
seemed as if the coursing water itself were faintly audible. Half in a
dream, I seized and rattled the ancient latch, and finally gave the great
sixpanelled door a frank trying. It was unlocked, as I could see in a mo-
ment; and though it stuck and grated on its hinges I began to push it
open, stepping through it into a vast shadowy hall as I did so.
But the moment I took this step I regretted it. It was not that a legion of
specters confronted me in that dim and dusty hall with the ghostly Em-
pire furniture; but that I knew all at once that the place was not deserted
at all. There was a creaking on the great curved staircase, and the sound
of faltering footsteps slowly descending. Then I saw a tall, bent figure sil-
houetted for an instant against the great Palladian window on the
landing.
My first start of terror was soon over, and as the figure descended the
final flight I was ready to greet the householder whose privacy I had in-
vaded. In the semi-darkness I could see him reach in his pocket for a
match. There came a flare as he lighted a small kerosene lamp which
stood on a rickety console table near the foot of the stairs. In the feeble
4
glow was revealed the stooping figure of a very tall, emaciated old man;
disordered as to dress and unshaved as to face, yet for all that with the
bearing and expression of a gentleman.
I did not wait for him to speak, but at once began to explain my
presence.
"You'll pardon my coming in like this, but when my knocking didn't
raise anybody I concluded that no one lived here. What I wanted origin-
ally was to know the right road to Cape Girardeau - the shortest road,
that is. I wanted to get there before dark, but now, of course - "
As I paused, the man spoke; in exactly the cultivated tone I had expec-
ted, and with a mellow accent as unmistakably Southern as the house he
inhabited.
"Rather, you must pardon me for not answering your knock more
promptly. I live in a very retired way, and am not usually expecting vis-
itors. At first I thought you were a mere curiosity-seeker. Then when you
knocked again I started to answer, but I am not well and have to move
very slowly. Spinal neuritis - very troublesome case.
"But as for your getting to town before dark - it's plain you can't do
that. The road you are on - for I suppose you came from the gate - isn't
the best or shortest way. What you must do is to take your first left after
you leave the gate - that is, the first real road to your left. There are three
or four cart paths you can ignore, but you can't mistake the real road be-
cause of the extra large willow tree on the right just opposite it. Then
when you've turned, keep on past two roads and turn to the right along
the third. After that - "
"Please wait a moment! How can I follow all these clues in pitch dark-
ness, without ever having been near here before, and with only an indif-
ferent pair of headlights to tell me what is and what isn't a road? Besides,
I think it's going to storm pretty soon, and my car is an open one. It looks
as if I were in a bad fix if I want to get to Cape Girardeau tonight. The
fact is, I don't think I'd better try to make it. I don't like to impose bur-
dens, or anything like that - but in view of the circumstances, do you
suppose you could put me up for the night? I won't be any trouble - no
meals or anything. Just let me have a corner to sleep in till daylight, and
I'm all right. I can leave the car in the road where it is - a bit of wet
weather won't hurt it if worst comes to worst."
As I made my sudden request I could see the old man's face lose its
former expression of quiet resignation and take on an odd, surprised
look.
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