object:1f.lovecraft - The Terrible Old Man
author class:H P Lovecraft
subject class:Fiction
genre class:Horror
class:chapter
It was the design of Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva to
call on the Terrible Old Man. This old man dwells all alone in a very
ancient house on Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be both
exceedingly rich and exceedingly feeble; which forms a situation very
attractive to men of the profession of Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and
Silva, for that profession was nothing less dignified than robbery.
The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the
Terrible Old Man which generally keep him safe from the attention of
gentlemen like Mr. Ricci and his colleagues, despite the almost certain
fact that he hides a fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about
his musty and venerable abode. He is, in truth, a very strange person,
believed to have been a captain of East India clipper ships in his day;
so old that no one can remember when he was young, and so taciturn that
few know his real name. Among the gnarled trees in the front yard of
his aged and neglected place he maintains a strange collection of large
stones, oddly grouped and painted so that they resemble the idols in
some obscure Eastern temple. This collection frightens away most of the
small boys who love to taunt the Terrible Old Man about his long white
hair and beard, or to break the small-paned windows of his dwelling
with wicked missiles; but there are other things which frighten the
older and more curious folk who sometimes steal up to the house to peer
in through the dusty panes. These folk say that on a table in a bare
room on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles, in each a small
piece of lead suspended pendulum-wise from a string. And they say that
the Terrible Old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such
names as Jack, Scar-Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe, Peters, and Mate
Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle the little lead pendulum
within makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer. Those who
have watched the tall, lean, Terrible Old Man in these peculiar
conversations, do not watch him again. But Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek
and Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood; they were of that new and
heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charmed circle of New
England life and traditions, and they saw in the Terrible Old Man
merely a tottering, almost helpless greybeard, who could not walk
without the aid of his knotted cane, and whose thin, weak hands shook
pitifully. They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely,
unpopular old fellow, whom everybody shunned, and at whom all the dogs
barked singularly. But business is business, and to a robber whose soul
is in his profession, there is a lure and a challenge about a very old
and very feeble man who has no account at the bank, and who pays for
his few necessities at the village store with Spanish gold and silver
minted two centuries ago.
Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva selected the night of April 11th for
their call. Mr. Ricci and Mr. Silva were to interview the poor old
gentleman, whilst Mr. Czanek waited for them and their presumable
metallic burden with a covered motor-car in Ship Street, by the gate in
the tall rear wall of their host’s grounds. Desire to avoid needless
explanations in case of unexpected police intrusions prompted these
plans for a quiet and unostentatious departure.
As prearranged, the three adventurers started out separately in order
to prevent any evil-minded suspicions afterward. Messrs. Ricci and
Silva met in Water Street by the old man’s front gate, and although
they did not like the way the moon shone down upon the painted stones
through the budding branches of the gnarled trees, they had more
important things to think about than mere idle superstition. They
feared it might be unpleasant work making the Terrible Old Man
loquacious concerning his hoarded gold and silver, for aged
sea-captains are notably stubborn and perverse. Still, he was very old
and very feeble, and there were two visitors. Messrs. Ricci and Silva
were experienced in the art of making unwilling persons voluble, and
the screams of a weak and exceptionally venerable man can be easily
muffled. So they moved up to the one lighted window and heard the
Terrible Old Man talking childishly to his bottles with pendulums. Then
they donned masks and knocked politely at the weather-stained oaken
door.
Waiting seemed very long to Mr. Czanek as he fidgeted restlessly in the
covered motor-car by the Terrible Old Man’s back gate in Ship Street.
He was more than ordinarily tender-hearted, and he did not like the
hideous screams he had heard in the ancient house just after the hour
appointed for the deed. Had he not told his colleagues to be as gentle
as possible with the pathetic old sea-captain? Very nervously he
watched that narrow oaken gate in the high and ivy-clad stone wall.
Frequently he consulted his watch, and wondered at the delay. Had the
old man died before revealing where his treasure was hidden, and had a
thorough search become necessary? Mr. Czanek did not like to wait so
long in the dark in such a place. Then he sensed a soft tread or
tapping on the walk inside the gate, heard a gentle fumbling at the
rusty latch, and saw the narrow, heavy door swing inward. And in the
pallid glow of the single dim street-lamp he strained his eyes to see
what his colleagues had brought out of that sinister house which loomed
so close behind. But when he looked, he did not see what he had
expected; for his colleagues were not there at all, but only the
Terrible Old Man leaning quietly on his knotted cane and smiling
hideously. Mr. Czanek had never before noticed the colour of that man’s
eyes; now he saw that they were yellow.
Little things make considerable excitement in little towns, which is
the reason that Kingsport people talked all that spring and summer
about the three unidentifiable bodies, horribly slashed as with many
cutlasses, and horribly mangled as by the tread of many cruel
boot-heels, which the tide washed in. And some people even spoke of
things as trivial as the deserted motor-car found in Ship Street, or
certain especially inhuman cries, probably of a stray animal or
migratory bird, heard in the night by wakeful citizens. But in this
idle village gossip the Terrible Old Man took no interest at all. He
was by nature reserved, and when one is aged and feeble one’s reserve
is doubly strong. Besides, so ancient a sea-captain must have witnessed
scores of things much more stirring in the far-off days of his
unremembered youth.
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