This is my first story for the Cthulhu Mythos (though I prefer Yog-Sothothery, since that's what Lovecraft himself called it). This was actually written for my English class. I was supposed to write a story that told a moral lesson. I...think I got a bit carried away; you can still try to guess what my moral lesson is. If that's what you do with your spare time (and I sincerely hope it isn't, because that would mean you're just as much of a loser as I am).
Those were the dark days. The days of madness, evil, and constant terror. I suppose you're wondering what could bring about such abhorrent circumstances—and in such a short time, no less than half a year or so—but really, you've asked the wrong question. The question you really ought to have asked was, "What went so horribly right?" Well, it is a long and terrible story, but hopefully one that is strange enough to capture your interest.
It all started in the year 1883. I was a young man, having just reached my second decade of life, when I began to take interest in a most peculiar field. Brand new it was; few men had ever dared to study such things, but I was swimming in the brash, naïve optimism of youth. Future consequences were distant and hazy, hidden by a fog that could only be lifted by time and experience. Of course, I had neither. Having always considered myself a man of science, I saw no other option than to follow this unholy path where it led, though I would surely come to regret this decision later.
I had recently begun my studies at University—a most becoming environment to a man of my temperament. The discussion was sometimes lively and witty, sometimes heated and controversial, sometimes even macabre and morose, but it was always stimulating, and more ideas passed from mouth to mouth there than in any place I'd been previously. Every proposal, no matter how eccentric it seemed on the surface, was thoroughly analyzed and played with until no man could make hind or tail of it; and then we would all return to our personal studies, only for someone to ask a question and start the process all over again.
Though I took interest in a variety of subjects, I found psychology to be quite singular. There are few things more fascinating or worthy of study than man himself. He is a splendid creature, a creature of contradictions. He is virtuous and shameless, beautiful and repulsive, capable of genius and remarkable stupidity. Behind a man's every action is a mind, I reasoned, and it was this mind that I eventually became so adamant about understanding.
My obsession didn't start out as anything unusual; in fact, I was something of a pioneer. In the early days of my interest I scoured every local library for information not only on psychology, but also astrology, spirituality and a variety of other relevant topics, hoping to gain clues about the workings of man. Alas, my search came up short, and my dissatisfaction led me on another path—one consisting of research of my own design.
Now in addition to being a man of science, I also liked to fancy myself a man of God. I did not subscribe to any specific religion, per say, but I was notably more spiritual than my colleagues at the university, believing in the existence of something—or Someone—which was present outside of the realm of sensual perception. I firmly believed that a man was composed of two distinct yet melded entities: his physical body, which requires sustenance such as food and drink; and his spirit or soul, which is his immortal essence of personality. Until I devised my experiments there was no way to test this theory (known to the greater academic world as "dualism"); however, my research promised to reveal more about the mind than we are perhaps meant to know.
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I began my project with enthusiasm comparable to that of Alexander the Great himself, but rather than wishing to conquer a nation, my goal was to accomplish something that no man had ever done before: unraveling the mysteries of the human mind. I even dropped many of my classes at University to pursue this path. Initially, progress was slow, given that the soul I so vehemently searched for was incorporeal and therefore impossible—or rather, almost impossible—to test scientifically. Many a man had attempted such a feat before, and none had yet succeeded, but I was absolutely convinced that I would be the one to solve this mystery once and for all.
Finding a solution was obviously extremely difficult. I searched pages and pages of information, hoping that someone, somewhere, had made progress in this particular area, and after about a month and a half of intensive research I came across a peculiar text with an even more peculiar name: the Necronomicon.
When I first opened the intimidating tome, about a half dozen loose pieces of paper fell out, each with an almost-unintelligible note scribbled on it. I picked up each one and deciphered them as carefully as I could, hoping to discover clues about this strange and ancient volume. However, all the notes seemed to contain were frantic warnings; they insisted that the pages of the book held maddening revelations and ghastly spells never meant to be understood or used by humans. But I, with my young, clouded mind, only saw this as an opportunity and perhaps another piece of the tantalizing puzzle I so very much wanted to solve. So I went ahead and delved deep into its pages with no fear of repercussions.
In all, I spent roughly a week or so with my nose buried in the Necronomicon, and before long I was sure I had enough information to be able to go through with my new and uncertain study. So, with less hesitation than I should have had, I began my work. In order to study anything, one of course needs subjects. Due to my line of research, it proved to be very difficult to procure the subjects I sought. Ideally I would have a variety of healthy, normal humans without complications to muddy the procedure. What with the mind being so delicate, and the action itself so precarious, I couldn't risk any abnormalities that might hinder the experiments' progress or negatively impact their results.
With that in mind I began my search. In the beginning, I was careful about the issue and wished only to use volunteers, if only to avoid rubbing my conscience the wrong way. I had no wish to violate the very creature I was so enamored with. I put up ads around town and spoke with my colleagues, describing the experiment as a "potential scientific breakthrough that would revolutionize our knowledge of man". However, I was acutely conservative about revealing the details of my study, for fear saying too much might garner unwanted attention. The study was surely controversial, what with the current religious and political climate, and I wasn't about to let well-meaning yet misguided public officials put a stop to my quest.
But the more I shared and conversed with an ever-increasing amount of people, the more I began to realize that others weren't as willing to take such risks as me. At first I could not fathom why anyone would turn down an opportunity to participate; surely, if someone had requested that I participate in such a study, I would be the first to enlist (and, in fact, I was disappointed that there didn't seem to be a way for me to use myself as a subject). Even so, my search was as fruitless as a withered vine. Before long every time someone declined my offer or gave me a quizzical look at my suggestion, I would feel a flicker of desperation deep in the pits of my abdomen. This flicker grew until it was a constant, heavy sense of anxiety. Every man I saw would remind me of my failure and the gaping hole in human knowledge I was determined to fill. After I time I could scarcely look at another human without being overcome with the desire to drag him back to my facility to proceed with my study, regardless of his choice in the matter. I resorted to shamelessly walking from door to door and begging my colleagues like a filthy canine, but to no avail.
Not only were my days long and rife with stress and worry, my nights carried with them a burden of their own. My dreams left me restless with a feeling of impending doom. As I slept my mind was whisked away to alien worlds with nonsensical landscapes and inhabitants whose very existence proved unsettling to the most clear-minded of men. All the while I never fully left the Necronomicon alone; it beckoned me, invited me to separate its covers each night and fill my weakening mind with more and more of its twisted chants, songs, and rites. On nights I was unable to sleep (and there were quite a few), I would read the Necronomicon until the sun began to rise over the crest of the horizon, and then I would resume my search for even a single research subject.
Days stretched into weeks and my anxiety was unrelenting. I slept little and drank much, scarcely thinking of anything besides my project—which I was now fearing would be swallowed up in my own madness and disappear into obscurity.
What happened then. . . well, trying to recall the exact details in my memory would be extremely difficult. I was consumed by anger and frustration and, yes, fear; and in the midst of my midnight reading of the Necronomicon, I heard a strange voice urging me to act. There was a heavy pressure on my mind, a dark curtain threatening to descend if I did not do as the voice said. I stood, and flipped pages of the ancient tome until I had reached the section which had aided me so much in my research. Strange words rolled off of my tongue; my voice was not my own. I felt my consciousness lift and soar off to the strange worlds I had visited in my feverish nightmares. The world spun, a blur of colors I had never conceived of before, and the strange voice of the void once again filled my ears. It whispered strange, wet-sounding words that sent chills down my spine and caused my body to tremble. I opened my mouth and spoke again:
Fteilngnath id'gwirrlsa! Iä, iä, Azathoth!
At that moment, I felt something inside myself split. I was two and the same; divided, and yet still a single conscious entity. The next thing I can remember is awakening on the floor in my study, the Necronomicon open beside me and the harsh sunlight streaming in through the windows above my desk. Other than a small pool of blood near one of my bare forearms, there was no sign that anything unusual had transpired, and I wondered if the happenings of the night before had been nothing more than a particularly vivid nightmare.
As I pulled myself off the floor, mind swimming and body aching, I resolved to do the very thing I had once promised myself I would not: I was going to find subjects, willing or not. The events of the previous night, whether real or imagined, seemed to have unlocked a gate between this realm and another—a realm separated from the immediate, material reality. My goal was not only attainable, but also reasonably within reach, and I lusted after an answer.
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That night I stepped out into the dark streets of town, armed with a cane and concoction of herbs and chemicals that would keep a man sleeping for as long as I needed him to. It was at this time of night that the wicked were most active, and it was one of them I was hoping to snatch. Before long I was dragging a thief unconscious through the street, hidden by a cloak of darkness. At the time I was unable to see the irony of my situation. Now I realize that it must have been another warning from Heaven, but of course I was too focused on my goals to heed the omens.
I returned to my facility and tied the unconscious man to a table; and while I waited for him to awaken, I opened the Necronomicon once again, trying to recall the strange occurrence of last night. The first time I had read the passage, I had interpreted it to mean that a certain ritual coupled with the reciting of listed chants would separate an individual's soul from his body and allow him to connect with realms beyond. In my trance I must have recited the words, but failed to perform the ritual, so my soul had not been free of my body long enough to do a satisfactory amount of investigation (or anything else, for that matter). Only by sending another person through could I ensure that the soul remained separate long enough to discover anything of value.
I returned to the book and noted each step needed for the ritual, the details of which I refuse to include in this account should you, the reader, ever wish to imitate my actions. In total honesty, even if I did want to record them, it would be difficult for me to remember exactly what it was that was required. By the time the criminal awoke, I was ready to perform the ritual and send his soul to...somewhere else.
The man was terrified as I approached him. He struggled in his bonds and cursed me for all he was worth, but nothing he did could convince me that his will was more important than the advancement of science. Holding a large knife in the hand that wasn't grasping the Necronomicon, I gave his arm a long cut and let the blood trickle onto the floor. Then I opened the book again, and started to read the chants aloud.
The sounds felt strange on my tongue, but soon a familiar feeling overtook me and the words rolled out of my mouth as they had the previous night. My voice raised in volume and its quality changed from normal to something beyond human—it was the same voice I had used to speak these words before. As I continued to read, the man struggled more and more and began to cry out in terror as large tentacles sprouted from the walls. He called out in a strange language, seemingly the same one I had spoken in during the ritual of summoning. He gasped out the name "Azathoth" before giving a terrific scream, and a whitish, misty entity snaked out of his mouth and disappeared in the shadows. The tentacles retracted, and all was calm.
The man appeared dead. I slowly approached him and placed a hand on his neck, feeling for a pulse, then held it over his mouth in case he was still breathing. There was no sign of life.
Just as the sun was beginning to rise I retired once again to my bedchambers and recorded all of my data. After a few hours of fitful sleep, I headed back down to my facility to see that the man who was almost certainly dead last night was now fully awake. But he did not seem fully human. His eyes were wide and mad, and he kept repeating the same words over and over again. They were English but made little sense to me. He spoke again of Azathoth, the Great Blind Idiot God who resides at the Center of Ultimate Chaos.
"More souls," the man gasped. "He demands more souls. "
Those were the last words I heard him say. Following that he only spoke in snarls and growls, like a feral animal, and thrashed in his binds. And no wonder; his soul was gone, seemingly consumed by the darkness. In mercy I took a knife to his throat.
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The following night I was plagued by worse nightmares than before. I was haunted by that dark and strange entity, Azathoth, who declared himself center of the universe, the eternal chaos, who birthed darkness itself. He was pleased with my actions so far, but he was far from satisfied. Though his interaction with humans was limited the entity had gotten a taste of a human soul and was ravenous for more. I suddenly felt very small and vulnerable in comparison to this terrifying eldritch horror, and I realized that he could consume me at any moment. Any request he made was to be filled immediately, or else I knew I would suffer death—or worse.
In the proceeding nights I gathered more and more criminals off the streets to offer them as a sacrifice for Azathoth. In pleasing him I hoped that I would not only save my own life, but uncover the mysteries of the mind that had started me on this path of darkness. If only I could find that answer! All my work, the deaths of the criminals I brought to my facility, would be worth something for the future!
As I performed the sacrifices, more and more knowledge was revealed to me. I had an epiphany of sorts regarding the human mind that so fascinated me, but it was not what I expected. I thought myself a madman before this revelation, but it was nothing compared to what I became afterwards. It's almost as if a large piece of my memory was gone altogether, nothing but a blur of terror and blood and mad ramblings.
Time wore on, and in desperation I started to sacrifice people who were decidedly not criminals (though, in my defense, I was hardly in a mental state to fully comprehend it). Each night I sacrificed a couple more people, and Azathoth's presence grew with each soul he consumed. Strangely enough, no one seemed to notice how many from among themselves were disappearing, and I knew it had to be something related to the horrible entity residing in my facility.
But, and I tell you this with utmost regret, it was not enough. I was not enough. For all the people Azathoth killed, I could not save my research nor my own mind. The grand deity had stolen my sanity by time this story ends. I had become a murderer—a monster in my own right. The screams of all my victims still echo in my head, a sobering reminder of the cost of my own actions.
Azathoth himself has leveled my facility; no trace of it remains. For all I went through, I could not please him. I, a mere human, was never meant to please him, never meant to comprehend his existence. I have been allowed to live, but I fear that it is only for a short time. Though my mind has cleared since the destruction of my facility, the nightmares are again returning, threatening to drag me away from the sanity to which I so desperately cling.
I have destroyed my copy of the Necronomicon, along with all my papers and notes on any discoveries I made about the mind, humans, and Azathoth himself. May no other man follow my path to madness.
Now I must only await my death. I've nothing to look forward to, nothing except releasing this burden and retiring into eternal oblivion. I can only be hope that this will be my fate—oblivion. For I'm certain that if Azathoth wills, he will keep a man conscious and mad for all of eternity. And that is a fate worse than death.