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object:1f.lovecraft - Two Black Bottles
author class:H P Lovecraft
subject class:Fiction
genre class:Horror
class:chapter

By Wilfred Blanch Talman
with H. P. Lovecraft
Not all of the few remaining inhabitants of Daalbergen, that dismal
little village in the Ramapo Mountains, believe that my uncle, old
Dominie Vanderhoof, is really dead. Some of them believe he is
suspended somewhere between heaven and hell because of the old sextons
curse. If it had not been for that old magician, he might still be
preaching in the little damp church across the moor.
After what has happened to me in Daalbergen, I can almost share the
opinion of the villagers. I am not sure that my uncle is dead, but I am
very sure that he is not alive upon this earth. There is no doubt that
the old sexton buried him once, but he is not in that grave now. I can
almost feel him behind me as I write, impelling me to tell the truth
about those strange happenings in Daalbergen so many years ago.
It was the fourth day of October when I arrived at Daalbergen in answer
to a summons. The letter was from a former member of my uncles
congregation, who wrote that the old man had passed away and that there
should be some small estate which I, as his only living relative, might
inherit. Having reached the secluded little hamlet by a wearying series
of changes on branch railways, I found my way to the grocery store of
Mark Haines, writer of the letter, and he, leading me into a stuffy
back room, told me a peculiar tale concerning Dominie Vanderhoofs
death.
Y should be careful, Hoffman, Haines told me, when y meet that old
sexton, Abel Foster. Hes in league with the devil, sures youre
alive. Twant two weeks ago Sam Pryor, when he passed the old
graveyard, heared him mumblin t the dead there. Twant right he
should talk that wayan Sam does vow that there was a voice answered
hima kind o half-voice, hollow and muffled-like, as though it come
out o th ground. Theres others, too, as could tell y about seein
him standin afore old Dominie Slotts gravethat one right agin the
church walla-wringin his hands an a-talkin t th moss on th
tombstone as though it was the old Dominie himself.
Old Foster, Haines said, had come to Daalbergen about ten years before,
and had been immediately engaged by Vanderhoof to take care of the damp
stone church at which most of the villagers worshipped. No one but
Vanderhoof seemed to like him, for his presence brought a suggestion
almost of the uncanny. He would sometimes stand by the door when the
people came to church, and the men would coldly return his servile bow
while the women brushed past in haste, holding their skirts aside to
avoid touching him. He could be seen on week days cutting the grass in
the cemetery and tending the flowers around the graves, now and then
crooning and muttering to himself. And few failed to notice the
particular attention he paid to the grave of the Reverend Guilliam
Slott, first pastor of the church in 1701.
It was not long after Fosters establishment as a village fixture that
disaster began to lower. First came the failure of the mountain mine
where most of the men worked. The vein of iron had given out, and many
of the people moved away to better localities, while those who had
large holdings of land in the vicinity took to farming and managed to
wrest a meager living from the rocky hillsides. Then came the
disturbances in the church. It was whispered about that the Reverend
Johannes Vanderhoof had made a compact with the devil, and was
preaching his word in the house of God. His sermons had become weird
and grotesqueredolent with sinister things which the ignorant people
of Daalbergen did not understand. He transported them back over ages of
fear and superstition to regions of hideous, unseen spirits, and
peopled their fancy with night-haunting ghouls. One by one the
congregation dwindled, while the elders and deacons vainly pleaded with
Vanderhoof to change the subject of his sermons. Though the old man
continually promised to comply, he seemed to be enthralled by some
higher power which forced him to do its will.
A giant in stature, Johannes Vanderhoof was known to be weak and timid
at heart, yet even when threatened with expulsion he continued his
eerie sermons, until scarcely a handful of people remained to listen to
him on Sunday morning. Because of weak finances, it was found
impossible to call a new pastor, and before long not one of the
villagers dared venture near the church or the parsonage which adjoined
it. Everywhere there was fear of those spectral wraiths with whom
Vanderhoof was apparently in league.
My uncle, Mark Haines told me, had continued to live in the parsonage
because there was no one with sufficient courage to tell him to move
out of it. No one ever saw him again, but lights were visible in the
parsonage at night, and were even glimpsed in the church from time to
time. It was whispered about the town that Vanderhoof preached
regularly in the church every Sunday morning, unaware that his
congregation was no longer there to listen. He had only the old sexton,
who lived in the basement of the church, to take care of him, and
Foster made a weekly visit to what remained of the business section of
the village to buy provisions. He no longer bowed servilely to everyone
he met, but instead seemed to harbor a demoniac and ill-concealed
hatred. He spoke to no one except as was necessary to make his
purchases, and glanced from left to right out of evil-filled eyes as he
walked the street with his cane tapping the uneven pavements. Bent and
shriveled with extreme age, his presence could actually be felt by
anyone near him, so powerful was that personality which, said the
townspeople, had made Vanderhoof accept the devil as his master. No
person in Daalbergen doubted that Abel Foster was at the bottom of all
the towns ill luck, but not a one dared lift a finger against him, or
could even approach him without a tremor of fear. His name, as well as
Vanderhoofs, was never mentioned aloud. Whenever the matter of the
church across the moor was discussed, it was in whispers; and if the
conversation chanced to be nocturnal, the whisperers would keep
glancing over their shoulders to make sure that nothing shapeless or
sinister crept out of the darkness to bear witness to their words.
The churchyard continued to be kept just as green and beautiful as when
the church was in use, and the flowers near the graves in the cemetery
were tended just as carefully as in times gone by. The old sexton could
occasionally be seen working there, as if still being paid for his
services, and those who dared venture near said that he maintained a
continual conversation with the devil and with those spirits which
lurked within the graveyard walls.
One morning, Haines went on to say, Foster was seen digging a grave
where the steeple of the church throws its shadow in the afternoon,
before the sun goes down behind the mountain and puts the entire
village in semi-twilight. Later, the church bell, silent for months,
tolled solemnly for a half-hour. And at sundown those who were watching
from a distance saw Foster bring a coffin from the parsonage on a
wheelbarrow, dump it into the grave with slender ceremony, and replace
the earth in the hole.
The sexton came to the village the next morning, ahead of his usual
weekly schedule, and in much better spirits than was customary. He
seemed willing to talk, remarking that Vanderhoof had died the day
before, and that he had buried his body beside that of Dominie Slott
near the church wall. He smiled from time to time, and rubbed his hands
in an untimely and unaccountable glee. It was apparent that he took a
perverse and diabolic delight in Vanderhoofs death. The villagers were
conscious of an added uncanniness in his presence, and avoided him as
much as they could. With Vanderhoof gone they felt more insecure than
ever, for the old sexton was now free to cast his worst spells over the
town from the church across the moor. Muttering something in a tongue
which no one understood, Foster made his way back along the road over
the swamp.
It was then, it seems, that Mark Haines remembered having heard Dominie
Vanderhoof speak of me as his nephew. Haines accordingly sent for me,
in the hope that I might know something which would clear up the
mystery of my uncles last years. I assured my summoner, however, that
I knew nothing about my uncle or his past, except that my mother had
mentioned him as a man of gigantic physique but with little courage or
power of will.
Having heard all that Haines had to tell me, I lowered the front legs
of my chair to the floor and looked at my watch. It was late afternoon.
How far is it out to the church? I inquired. Think I can make it
before sunset?
Sure, lad, y aint goin out there tnight! Not t that place! The
old man trembled noticeably in every limb and half rose from his chair,
stretching out a lean, detaining hand. Why, its plumb foolishness!
he exclaimed.
I laughed aside his fears and informed him that, come what may, I was
determined to see the old sexton that evening and get the whole matter
over as soon as possible. I did not intend to accept the superstitions
of ignorant country folk as truth, for I was convinced that all I had
just heard was merely a chain of events which the over-imaginative
people of Daalbergen had happened to link with their ill-luck. I felt
no sense of fear or horror whatever.
Seeing that I was determined to reach my uncles house before
nightfall, Haines ushered me out of his office and reluctantly gave me
the few required directions, pleading from time to time that I change
my mind. He shook my hand when I left, as though he never expected to
see me again.
Take keer that old devil, Foster, dont git ye! he warned, again and
again. I wouldnt go near him after dark fer love nr money. No
siree! He re-entered his store, solemnly shaking his head, while I set
out along a road leading to the outskirts of the town.
I had walked barely two minutes before I sighted the moor of which
Haines had spoken. The road, flanked by a whitewashed fence, passed
over the great swamp, which was overgrown with clumps of underbrush
dipping down into the dank, slimy ooze. An odor of deadness and decay
filled the air, and even in the sunlit afternoon little wisps of vapor
could be seen rising from the unhealthful spot.
On the opposite side of the moor I turned sharply to the left, as I had
been directed, branching from the main road. There were several houses
in the vicinity, I noticed; houses which were scarcely more than huts,
reflecting the extreme poverty of their owners. The road here passed
under the drooping branches of enormous willows which almost completely
shut out the rays of the sun. The miasmal odor of the swamp was still
in my nostrils, and the air was damp and chilly. I hurried my pace to
get out of that dismal tunnel as soon as possible.
Presently I found myself in the light again. The sun, now hanging like
a red ball upon the crest of the mountain, was beginning to dip low,
and there, some distance ahead of me, bathed in its bloody iridescence,
stood the lonely church. I began to sense that uncanniness which Haines
had mentioned; that feeling of dread which made all Daalbergen shun the
place. The squat, stone hulk of the church itself, with its blunt
steeple, seemed like an idol to which the tombstones that surrounded it
bowed down and worshipped, each with an arched top like the shoulders
of a kneeling person, while over the whole assemblage the dingy, gray
parsonage hovered like a wraith.
I had slowed my pace a trifle as I took in the scene. The sun was
disappearing behind the mountain very rapidly now, and the damp air
chilled me. Turning my coat collar up about my neck, I plodded on.
Something caught my eye as I glanced up again. In the shadow of the
church wall was something whitea thing which seemed to have no
definite shape. Straining my eyes as I came nearer, I saw that it was a
cross of new timber, surmounting a mound of freshly turned earth. The
discovery sent a new chill through me. I realized that this must be my
uncles grave, but something told me that it was not like the other
graves near it. It did not seem like a dead grave. In some intangible
way it appeared to be living, if a grave can be said to live. Very
close to it, I saw as I came nearer, was another grave; an old mound
with a crumbling stone about it. Dominie Slotts tomb, I thought,
remembering Hainess story.
There was no sign of life anywhere about the place. In the
semi-twilight I climbed the low knoll upon which the parsonage stood,
and hammered upon the door. There was no answer. I skirted the house
and peered into the windows. The whole place seemed deserted.
The lowering mountains had made night fall with disarming suddenness
the minute the sun was fully hidden. I realized that I could see
scarcely more than a few feet ahead of me. Feeling my way carefully, I
rounded a corner of the house and paused, wondering what to do next.
Everything was quiet. There was not a breath of wind, nor were there
even the usual noises made by animals in their nocturnal ramblings. All
dread had been forgotten for a time, but in the presence of that
sepulchral calm my apprehensions returned. I imagined the air peopled
with ghastly spirits that pressed around me, making the air almost
unbreathable. I wondered, for the hundredth time, where the old sexton
might be.
As I stood there, half expecting some sinister demon to creep from the
shadows, I noticed two lighted windows glaring from the belfry of the
church. I then remembered what Haines had told me about Fosters living
in the basement of the building. Advancing cautiously through the
blackness, I found a side door of the church ajar.
The interior had a musty and mildewed odor. Everything I touched was
covered with a cold, clammy moisture. I struck a match and began to
explore, to discover, if I could, how to get into the belfry. Suddenly
I stopped in my tracks.
A snatch of song, loud and obscene, sung in a voice that was guttural
and thick with drink, came from above me. The match burned my fingers,
and I dropped it. Two pin-points of light pierced the darkness of the
farther wall of the church, and below them, to one side, I could see a
door outlined where light filtered through its cracks. The song stopped
as abruptly as it had commenced, and there was absolute silence again.
My heart was thumping and blood racing through my temples. Had I not
been petrified with fear, I should have fled immediately.
Not caring to light another match, I felt my way among the pews until I
stood in front of the door. So deep was the feeling of depression which
had come over me that I felt as though I were acting in a dream. My
actions were almost involuntary.
The door was locked, as I found when I turned the knob. I hammered upon
it for some time, but there was no answer. The silence was as complete
as before. Feeling around the edge of the door, I found the hinges,
removed the pins from them, and allowed the door to fall toward me. Dim
light flooded down a steep flight of steps. There was a sickening odor
of whisky. I could now hear someone stirring in the belfry room above.
Venturing a low halloo, I thought I heard a groan in reply, and
cautiously climbed the stairs.
My first glance into that unhallowed place was indeed startling. Strewn
about the little room were old and dusty books and manuscriptsstrange
things that bespoke almost unbelievable age. On rows of shelves which
reached to the ceiling were horrible things in glass jars and
bottlessnakes and lizards and bats. Dust and mold and cobwebs
encrusted everything. In the center, behind a table upon which was a
lighted candle, a nearly empty bottle of whisky, and a glass, was a
motionless figure with a thin, scrawny, wrinkled face and wild eyes
that stared blankly through me. I recognized Abel Foster, the old
sexton, in an instant. He did not move or speak as I came slowly and
fearfully toward him.
Mr. Foster? I asked, trembling with unaccountable fear when I heard
my voice echo within the close confines of the room. There was no
reply, and no movement from the figure behind the table. I wondered if
he had not drunk himself to insensibility, and went behind the table to
shake him.
At the mere touch of my arm upon his shoulder, the strange old man
started from his chair as though terrified. His eyes, still having in
them that same blank stare, were fixed upon me. Swinging his arms like
flails, he backed away.
Dont! he screamed. Dont touch me! Go backgo back!
I saw that he was both drunk and struck with some kind of a nameless
terror. Using a soothing tone, I told him who I was and why I had come.
He seemed to understand vaguely and sank back into his chair, sitting
limp and motionless.
I thought ye was him, he mumbled. I thought ye was him come back fer
it. Hes been a-tryin t get outa-tryin t get out sence I put him
in there. His voice again rose to a scream and he clutched his chair.
Maybe hes got out now! Maybe hes out!
I looked about, half expecting to see some spectral shape coming up the
stairs.
Maybe whos out? I inquired.
Vanderhoof! he shrieked. Th cross over his grave keeps fallin down
in th night! Every morning the earth is loose, and gets harder t pat
down. Hell come out an I wont be able t do nothin.
Forcing him back into the chair, I seated myself on a box near him. He
was trembling in mortal terror, with the saliva dripping from the
corners of his mouth. From time to time I felt that sense of horror
which Haines had described when he told me of the old sexton. Truly,
there was something uncanny about the man. His head had now sunk
forward upon his breast, and he seemed calmer, mumbling to himself.
I quietly arose and opened a window to let out the fumes of whisky and
the musty odor of dead things. Light from a dim moon, just risen, made
objects below barely visible. I could just see Dominie Vanderhoofs
grave from my position in the belfry, and blinked my eyes as I gazed at
it. That cross was tilted! I remembered that it had been vertical an
hour ago. Fear took possession of me again. I turned quickly. Foster
sat in his chair watching me. His glance was saner than before.
So yere Vanderhoofs nephew, he mumbled in a nasal tone. Waal, ye
mights well know it all. Hell be back arter me afore long, he
willjus as soon as he can get out o that there grave. Ye mights
well know all about it now.
His terror appeared to have left him. He seemed resigned to some
horrible fate which he expected any minute. His head dropped down upon
his chest again, and he went on muttering in that nasal monotone.
Ye see all them there books and papers? Waal, they was once Dominie
SlottsDominie Slott, who was here years ago. All them things is got
t do with magicblack magic that th old Dominie knew afore he come t
this country. They used t burn em an boil em in oil fer knowin
that over there, they did. But old Slott knew, and he didnt go fer t
tell nobody. No sir, old Slott used to preach here generations ago, an
he used to come up here an study them books, an use all them dead
things in jars, an pronounce magic curses an things, but he didnt
let nobody know it. No, nobody knowed it but Dominie Slott an me.
You? I ejaculated, leaning across the table toward him.
That is, me after I learned it. His face showed lines of trickery as
he answered me. I found all this stuff here when I come t be church
sexton, an I used t read it when I want at work. An I soon got t
know all about it.
The old man droned on, while I listened, spellbound. He told about
learning the difficult formulae of demonology, so that, by means of
incantations, he could cast spells over human beings. He had performed
horrible occult rites of his hellish creed, calling down anathema upon
the town and its inhabitants. Crazed by his desires, he tried to bring
the church under his spell, but the power of God was too strong.
Finding Johannes Vanderhoof very weak-willed, he bewitched him so that
he preached strange and mystic sermons which struck fear into the
simple hearts of the country folk. From his position in the belfry
room, he said, behind a painting of the temptation of Christ which
adorned the rear wall of the church, he would glare at Vanderhoof while
he was preaching, through holes which were the eyes of the Devil in the
picture. Terrified by the uncanny things which were happening in their
midst, the congregation left one by one, and Foster was able to do what
he pleased with the church and with Vanderhoof.
But what did you do with him? I asked in a hollow voice as the old
sexton paused in his confession. He burst into a cackle of laughter,
throwing back his head in drunken glee.
I took his soul! he howled in a tone that set me trembling. I took
his soul and put it in a bottlein a little black bottle! And I buried
him! But he aint got his soul, an he caint go neither t heaven nr
hell! But hes a-comin back after it. Hes a-trying t get out o his
grave now. I can hear him pushin his way up through the ground, hes
that strong!
As the old man had proceeded with his story, I had become more and more
convinced that he must be telling me the truth, and not merely
gibbering in drunkenness. Every detail fitted what Haines had told me.
Fear was growing upon me by degrees. With the old wizard now shouting
with demoniac laughter, I was tempted to bolt down the narrow stairway
and leave that accursed neighborhood. To calm myself, I rose and again
looked out of the window. My eyes nearly started from their sockets
when I saw that the cross above Vanderhoofs grave had fallen
perceptibly since I had last looked at it. It was now tilted to an
angle of forty-five degrees!
Cant we dig up Vanderhoof and restore his soul? I asked almost
breathlessly, feeling that something must be done in a hurry. The old
man rose from his chair in terror.
No, no, no! he screamed. Hed kill me! Ive fergot th formula, an
if he gets out hell be alive, without a soul. Hed kill us both!
Where is the bottle that contains his soul? I asked, advancing
threateningly toward him. I felt that some ghastly thing was about to
happen, which I must do all in my power to prevent.
I wont tell ye, ye young whelp! he snarled. I felt, rather than saw,
a queer light in his eyes as he backed into a corner. An dont ye
touch me, either, or yell wish ye hadnt!
I moved a step forward, noticing that on a low stool behind him there
were two black bottles. Foster muttered some peculiar words in a low
singsong voice. Everything began to turn gray before my eyes, and
something within me seemed to be dragged upward, trying to get out at
my throat. I felt my knees become weak.
Lurching forward, I caught the old sexton by the throat, and with my
free arm reached for the bottles on the stool. But the old man fell
backward, striking the stool with his foot, and one bottle fell to the
floor as I snatched the other. There was a flash of blue flame, and a
sulfurous smell filled the room. From the little heap of broken glass a
white vapor rose and followed the draft out the window.
Curse ye, ye rascal! sounded a voice that seemed faint and far away.
Foster, whom I had released when the bottle broke, was crouching
against the wall, looking smaller and more shriveled than before. His
face was slowly turning greenish-black.
Curse ye! said the voice again, hardly sounding as though it came
from his lips. Im done fer! That one in there was mine! Dominie Slott
took it out two hundred years ago!
He slid slowly toward the floor, gazing at me with hatred in eyes that
were rapidly dimming. His flesh changed from white to black, and then
to yellow. I saw with horror that his body seemed to be crumbling away
and his clothing falling into limp folds.
The bottle in my hand was growing warm. I glanced at it, fearfully. It
glowed with a faint phosphorescence. Stiff with fright, I set it upon
the table, but could not keep my eyes from it. There was an ominous
moment of silence as its glow became brighter, and then there came
distinctly to my ears the sound of sliding earth. Gasping for breath, I
looked out of the window. The moon was now well up in the sky, and by
its light I could see that the fresh cross above Vanderhoofs grave had
completely fallen. Once again there came the sound of trickling gravel,
and no longer able to control myself, I stumbled down the stairs and
found my way out of doors. Falling now and then as I raced over the
uneven ground, I ran on in abject terror. When I had reached the foot
of the knoll, at the entrance to that gloomy tunnel beneath the
willows, I heard a horrible roar behind me. Turning, I glanced back
toward the church. Its wall reflected the light of the moon, and
silhouetted against it was a gigantic, loathsome, black shadow climbing
from my uncles grave and floundering gruesomely toward the church.
I told my story to a group of villagers in Hainess store the next
morning. They looked from one to the other with little smiles during my
tale, I noticed, but when I suggested that they accompany me to the
spot, gave various excuses for not caring to go. Though there seemed to
be a limit to their credulity, they cared to run no risks. I informed
them that I would go alone, though I must confess that the project did
not appeal to me.
As I left the store, one old man with a long, white beard hurried after
me and caught my arm.
Ill go wi ye, lad, he said. It do seem that I once heared my
granpap tell o suthin o the sort concernin old Dominie Slott. A
queer old man Ive heared he were, but Vanderhoofs been worse.
Dominie Vanderhoofs grave was open and deserted when we arrived. Of
course it could have been grave-robbers, the two of us agreed, and
yet. . . . In the belfry the bottle which I had left upon the table was
gone, though the fragments of the broken one were found on the floor.
And upon the heap of yellow dust and crumpled clothing that had once
been Abel Foster were certain immense footprints.
After glancing at some of the books and papers strewn about the belfry
room, we carried them down the stairs and burned them, as something
unclean and unholy. With a spade which we found in the church basement
we filled in the grave of Johannes Vanderhoof, and, as an afterthought,
flung the fallen cross upon the flames.
Old wives say that now, when the moon is full, there walks about the
churchyard a gigantic and bewildered figure clutching a bottle and
seeking some unremembered goal.
Return to Two Black Bottles


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