Faint Baying from Afar
An Epistolary Trail after H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Hound”
27th November 1922
D
arling Mother,
I pen this letter with a heavy heart. I am afraid that the awful news, in which we have both been seeking some discrepancy that might prove the ordeal false, is unfortunately true. I arrived in Rotterdam this morning and received confirmation from the local authorities.
Patrick, beloved brother to me and your cherished younger son, has perished.
How I wish I could be there to offer what comfort I may in this, your time of grieving. Know that I too ache, and am at a loss as to the nature of Patrick’s demise. The police admit they have not ruled out foul play but assure me that his death was very likely by his own hand.
I blush, Mother. I cringe at having to put such a theory in your imaginings.
Of course
I shall remain here for as long it takes to clear this fog that taints my poor brother’s memory, and indeed our family name.
I have been allowed to keep the sole possession that Patrick had on his person at the time his body was discovered here at this inn—a journal bound in tawdry, battered leather. Once I have read its contents I will expedite it to you, as I am sure you will wish to make it a keepsake.
I must close this letter as I am hoping to engage a room of my own here in order to continue my investigation. Take solace, Mother: this too shall pass, I assure you. Let us rely on one another in this, our direst hour.
Your ever-loving son,
Hugh
***
29th November 1922
Dearest Mother,
The sun has not yet risen, and though my body is weary, my mind refuses to cease reeling. My thoughts are quite troubled.
I have read as much of Patrick’s diary as I could stomach. It is distressing, Mother, distressing and more than a little frightening. My original plan of hastening it along to you so that you might examine its entries for yourself must, I think, be repressed for now. I wish to spare your thoughts the troubling stains that Patrick’s confessional may impress upon them.
While I think it best to exclude a good number of his exploits at this time, I will not punish you by withholding all that I was able to glean. Consider the following a concentrated, sanitized account:
After failing out of Trinity College, Dublin—a fact I’m sure would have driven dear Father to his grave from shame had he not already been occupying it these past five years—it seems that Patrick adopted the life of a vagabond; drifting from city to city, country to country, often by smuggling himself onto cargo trains or the so-called “tramp steamers.”
There is little to speak of in those early entries. Patrick took to imbibing, though (assuming he was not being self-deceitful in his entries, of course) not to excess, and late last autumn Patrick’s wanderings swayed him to London, where he became enchanted by the city’s infamous “bohemian” crowd: poets, artists, and eaters of hashish.
From this group Patrick seemed to latch most strongly on to an individual whom he refers to only as St. John. The two of them shared an unhealthy predilection for the grotesque. Naturally I remember how Patrick used to relish the fairy tales you used to enchant us with when we were boys, tales of the Banshee and so forth, but I was not aware of just how deep this macabre vein ran in his soul.
The pair of them grew unnaturally close and, within a few weeks of meeting him, Patrick had followed St. John out of bustling London to live in a “secluded house” somewhere in the English countryside. I can only assume that St. John owned this property, as Patrick wrote often of his penury.
The entries grow rather sporadic for several weeks, but from what I can ascertain, once they took up residence in their secluded house they lost themselves in their phantasies; living nocturnally, reading arcane books, discussing blasphemous things, and indulging in even more blasphemous pursuits.
The grand and tragic madness did not truly begin to unfurl until March of this year, when Patrick and St. John sailed all the way to the Marmorsaal in Berlin solely to attend the premiere of that dreadful moving-picture by Murnau, the one we read of in the
Daily Mirror.
On the night of the gala they struck up an acquaintanceship with an American, one Richard Upton Pickman.
This Pickman is, I gather, rather an accomplished painter and artist, one whose creations Patrick heaps with praise. Pickman had apparently been brought over to Germany by Murnau so that he could design the appearance of the monstrous villain in Murnau’s cinematic project. (I can only imagine the tone of his art if it fired the imaginations of people like Murnau, Patrick, and St. John.)
I believe it was Pickman who began nudging Patrick and St. John over the brink with his incessant talk of ghouls and black magic.
The three of them spent several evenings roaming around Germany before Pickman had to return to the United States. On those nocturnal sojourns Pickman led them to places civilized men would never venture; hideous ruins and charnel houses that he had discovered during the making of
Nosferatu
.
Patrick writes of Pickman regaling him and St. John with tales of a very special “old Holland cemetery,” where he claimed some powerful wizard was interred, or some such nonsense.
But this bit of fool’s stuffing was enough to inspire Patrick and St. John to stay on here on the Continent and find this burial ground (for what purpose Patrick does not state). They accrued the funds for this train journey through unmentionable means, so great was their determination to find this Holland churchyard.
On the day of his departure, Pickman gave Patrick and St. John one of his paintings as a parting gift, or, to quote my brother, as “a succulent new sacrament for our growing
collection
.”
Their desperation to find this Holland churchyard was stiflingly obsessive. My mere reading of these entries caused it to weigh upon me.
And that is where I left off in the diary.
Provided you can wire me sufficient funds to extend my stay, I shall see if I can unearth more facts as to what truly drove Patrick to suicide.
I must sleep, but I will read the final pages of the journal when I awaken.
I shall telephone you soon.
With Love,
Hugh
***
5 December 1922
Dear Mother,
I apologize again for the brevity of our telephone conversation yesterday, but the chartered automobile was waiting for me. Also, I was uncomfortable disclosing some of the details for which you were pressing me.
Yes, I have finished reading Patrick’s journal. I could not explain its latter contents to you on the telephone because what he and this St. John fellow were pursuing should not be discussed in public, Mother, believe you me.
Frankly, I harbour discomfort even relaying them in this letter, but my revulsion is overcome by the guilt I would feel keeping the truth from you.
I will be blunt, Mother: Patrick was a ghoul.
Whether he’d always harboured such profoundly morbid obsessions or whether they were foisted upon him by Pickman I can only guess, but he and St. John seemed to be on a heartfelt and unbridled race to damn themselves.
Patrick writes of their discovery of the “old Holland cemetery” as though they’d stumbled upon the New Jerusalem.
His final days were spent in the thrall of a madman’s delirium. He was convinced that some winged hell-hound was on his trail, and even claimed that this bugaboo murdered St. John.
This delusion was, so far as I can surmise, the result of Patrick suffering a shattered mind. He’d pushed himself over the edge after he and St. John obtained some kind of statue or fetish by
very
abhorrent methods.
That is the reality of the situation, Mother. I am sorry for you, for us.
Thank you for the wired funds, which arrived safely. I plan to spend the coming days delving further into the apparent demise of St. John. No one in this village has any recollection of him (hardly surprising, given that all I can provide authorities with is this name, which might well be a pseudonym). Patrick returned to this inn alone for that final, fatal trip. I suspect that this “old Holland cemetery” must be somewhere nearby, for why else would have Patrick lodged here?
I shall spare you the expense of another telephone call unless something urgent arises. Expect another letter shortly.
Love,
Hugh
***
10 Dec. ’22
To Mother,
After several days of wandering, of querying, I finally managed to locate the burial ground.
A local barman, whom I gather is the fount of local gossip, recalls serving someone matching Patrick’s description the night before Patrick’s death. I’m told that this patron was looking rather the worse for wear and was distraught over his room having been burglarized of something very precious. (According to the diary, a band of thieves stole the hound fetish and were subsequently torn to ribbons by some monster that Patrick believes was out to reclaim its jade property.)
After offering this barman more money than I’d wished to part with, he was forthcoming about my shady inquiries and made mention of a “resting yard out by Black River.” The cemetery resides about a half-day’s hike into the woods that frame this village on Rotterdam’s outskirts. Confident that I’d discovered the correct location, I asked the barman to draw me a map.
It took me all morning and a good portion of the afternoon to find it, even with the barman’s map to aid me. I had hoped to find a hunter or woodcutter who might be able to direct me, but the area was vacated of all life but for the aged flora, itself more decayed than in a state of seasonal hibernation.
At long last the suggestion of a thin wire fence on the opposite bank of the river met my gaze. I hopped like a frog from stone to stone until I reached the other side.
The cemetery was tiny and its scant collection of markers was visibly battered by the elements and by an unimaginably long stretch of time. But I did not need to attempt to read the smoothed epitaphs. My destination became horribly apparent the moment I climbed over the wire fencing: the soil around one of the stones had been recently tilled. I stood in the gloaming, eyeing the evidence of my brother’s unholy deeds, and I began to weep. Like a character in some tragic novel, I stood shivering and sobbing and wracked with fear.
My nerves had obviously been strained by the survey, for as the moon broke the darkness like an iceberg in the deep, the wind that pushed through the gnarled trees assumed a low and baleful howl. . . .
I must close for now. I have not been sleeping well at all. I have been suffering, for the first time in my entire life, ugly nightmares. This business is affecting me more profoundly than I believed it might. But I have not forgotten my promise. I shall persevere.
I rented a room above the tavern I’d mentioned. Tomorrow I shall do little more than rest; I am fighting a temperature, no doubt from roaming the damp December woods. After this day of rest I shall spend my final day making any last inquiries. I am doubtful about what else I may glean from the locals. I look forward to sailing home to Ireland.
Good night, mother.
Hugh
***
11/Dec
I had not intended on sending another note on the heels of yesterday’s letter, but I am so afraid, Mother. I don’t know what to do.
The Hound came to me last night.
You would tell me I was dreaming, and under any other circumstances I would agree, but the fact is that when this creature came, it woke me
from
my dream, or rather my nightmare.
In the dream I was in the yard behind Patrick’s terrible house in England. I envisioned Patrick’s house as a deeply secluded shamble of a place, scarcely fit for a rat, let alone two men. The anxieties my dream-self was harbouring over breaching one of the rear windows were eased once it became apparent that Patrick and St. John had themselves likely just claimed squatter’s rights over the derelict property. I began to roam and rummage.
I saw the main floor as being furnished only with debris and rot and several autumns’ worth of blown leaves. The basement showed signs of habitation, but only rudimentary ones: two dilapidated cots and a battered wooden bureau, vacated of its contents.
I then found myself standing outside the house. A very queer detail visible to me was that the rear exterior of the house hosted a set of gouges that marred almost the entire wall. In the dream I came to suspect that these marks had been wrought by St. John or Patrick in order to feed their mad game. The scratches might have been convincingly canine were it not for their ludicrous scope. I knew of no beast whose reach extends to the second-storey eaves.
At the edge of the yard I discovered an ash-heaped fire pit where Patrick had sacrificed his and St. John’s grotesque “collection.” Among the soft grey dust I found the leavings of a few grisly artefacts. (Someone should have told dear Patrick that a simple bonfire is not hot enough to fully erase objets d’art made from bones.)
I found no sign of the unmarked grave where Patrick claimed to have interred the remains of St. John.
As I stood on that weedy yard, something under the ground began to shift and squirm. The gyrations made the soil pulse beneath my feet. Perhaps it was the mangled remains of St. John lurching upward, clawing, grasping.
I then felt a presence just behind me, and heard the sound of faint baying from afar, but in the dream I knew it was not the wind.
I was also certain that the creature, whatever it was, was drawing nearer, nearer. . . .
At that instant I was rescued from this nightmare, only to be delivered into an even greater terror: the sight of a giant winged Hound hunched just outside my window.