Strange Eons

What men know is called science; what they have not yet learned they call magic. But both are real . . .

In the world of today and the near future, three people inexorably linked by a common interest in the work of H.P. Lovecraft, discover

—that the legendary creatures he created in his fantasies have hideous counterparts in reality . . .

—that his fiction is incredible fact . . .

—that his message is a warning . . .

Robert Bloch, noted author of
Psycho
and, most recently,
American Gothic
and
Night World,
has established his reputation in the horror/mystery field in print and on screen. He has written scores of teleplays and has numerous screenplays to his credit, among them,
Asylum.
Bloch, a protege of H.P. Lovecraft, at the age of fifteen was the youngest member of the so-called “Lovecraft Circle.” This book, based on Lovecraftian themes, is his homage to the man.

The Ultimate Proof

It was not until the morning of the fifth day out on the Pacific that Keith’s calm was shattered.

When Abbott pounded on the stateroom door and roused him to come out on deck, the sight that greeted Keith’s eyes rendered him speechless.

Shuddering, he stared at what lay off the starboard bow. It was horrifyingly familiar, and for a moment he thought he was experiencing
déjà vu.
Then he realized that he was gazing at what H.P. Lovecraft had so vividly and accurately described in his story—the tip of a single muddy peak upthrust from the ocean depths, atop of which towered a mountainous mass of masonry that rose to a monolith formed by gigantic blocks of slime-green stone.

It was R’lyeh, and it was real.

Now at last Keith could believe it all, for here before him was the ultimate proof—proof in a form more frightening than anything hinted at in words or in the imagery of nightmare.

Staring at this horror from the depths, he knew its power—the power to make its presence known in the dreams of men halfway around the world. It was in dreams that Lovecraft had seen it long ago, and wakened to set down his warning.

STRANGE EONS

Copyright © 1979 by Robert Bloch

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

An original Pinnacle Books edition, published for the first time anywhere.

First printing, June 1979

ISBN: 0-523-40447-6

Cover illustration by David Hada

Printed in the United States of America

PINNACLE BOOKS, INC.
2029 Century Park East
Los Angeles, California 90067

This book is dedicated to

HPL

who dedicated himself to

other outsiders and gave

to them a silver key.

P A R T   I

N O W

Albert Keith didn’t believe in love at first sight until he saw the portrait.

It wasn’t just another pretty face. In fact the features were rather canine; glaring reddish eyes, a flat snout of a nose, foam-flecked lips, and ears rising to a point. And the crouching body, caked with mold, was only vaguely humanoid—the upper limbs terminating in scale-covered bony claws, the feet below holding a hint of hooves.

The creature in the painting was gigantic, and the figure of the man clutched in its claws seemed small by comparison. Despite the layer of dust that covered the picture, Keith was able to note at once that the man’s head had been nibbled at.

Standing there in the semidarkness of the dingy back room of the little shop on South Alvarado Street, Keith began to tremble.

For a moment he tried to analyze the reason for his reaction. It wasn’t fear—though the subject of the huge canvas resting against the wall was fearsome indeed. He’d succumbed to the collector’s syndrome, trembling with eagerness and anticipation, for he realized he had to have this painting, whatever the cost.

Keith turned and glanced at the shop’s proprietor standing beside him.

“How much?” he murmured.

The pudgy little man shrugged. “Make it five hundred.”

“Five hundred dollars?”

The dealer’s face was immobile. “Look at the size of it. If I was to clean it up a little and slap on a fancy frame, I wouldn’t take less than a grand.”

“For something like this?”

Keith frowned, but the dealer didn’t waver; his was the professional poker face of a man who had played this game with customers for years. “Sure, it’s pretty wild, but you oughta see some of the weirdos who walk into this place. All I gotta do is stick this here picture in the front window and it’ll be snapped up—pow!—just like that. Those gays from the fancy art galleries over on La Cienega are always cruising around looking for freaky items. One look at this and they’d blow their minds.”

Keith stared at the painting. It was mind-blowing, no doubt about that. The work had power, an authority of execution which transcended its sensational subject matter.

“Who did it?” he asked.

The little man shook his head. “Search me. It’s not signed.” He gave Keith a sidelong glance. “I got a hunch maybe it was some big artist who didn’t want his name on a far-out job like this. Could be worth a bundle.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Blind lot. Warehouse auction back East. Tearing the place down, and they wanted to clear out all the unclaimed storage. Some stuff must of laid around maybe forty, fifty years. I got boxes of books and letters I ain’t even gone through yet.”

“Any more paintings?”

“No, this is the only one.” The dealer shifted his glance to the canvas and nodded. “You know, come to think of it, maybe I’d be better off to do like I said. Clean it up, get a frame and shove it in the window—”

Keith stared at the painting: the huge doglike figure crouched before him and, for a moment, he had the crazy notion that it was listening, waiting for him to speak. Its red eyes questioned, then commanded.

“I’ll give you the five hundred,” Keith said.

The dealer turned away, concealing his smile as Keith produced his checkbook and fumbled for a pen.

“Who do I make this out to?”

“Santiago. Felipe Santiago.”

Keith nodded, wrote, tore the check from its stub and extended it. “Here you are. You need an ID?”

“No, that’s okay.” The little man lifted the canvas. “Where you parked?”

“Right in front.”

Outside, where Keith’s old Volvo stood at the curb, there were problems in logistics. The painting was too large to fit into the trunk. It took the combined efforts of the two men to angle the canvas through the door and onto the floor where it rested against the back seat. There it loomed and leered.

As Keith drove home in the gathering dusk, he could see the red eyes glaring at him in the rearview mirror.

That night the dog-creature’s eyes glared at Keith in the reflected flame of the fireplace. He’d propped the canvas up on the big table in his den, and it looked oddly appropriate in these surroundings. The firelight flickering across the gigantic figure played over the Ibo tribal masks hanging from the walls and danced along the rows of jade and ivory figurines lining the shelves of a Chinese cabinet. Stirred by the chimney updraft, the shrunken head, dangling on a cord from the mantel, made bobbing obeisance. Keith still wasn’t sure the head was genuine, but the furtive gentleman from Ecuador had sworn it was an authentic Jibaro piece, and he’d paid a small fortune for it.

The painting, however, was genuine enough, and the dealer hadn’t lied about its age. The layers of grime and dirt overlaying its surface must indeed have taken many decades to accumulate. And now, before considering the problems of framing and hanging his prize, Keith set about the task of cleaning it.

There were fluids and compounds for that purpose, but Keith had learned from experience that the best method was to use ordinary soap and water.

Slowly he began to work away, using a flannel cloth and rubbing carefully.

Gradually the nacreous surface cleared and brightened, so that the crouching creature emerged in bold relief against its background of shadow. The flesh tones became livid blendings of pustulant ochre and myxalike green, and the red eyes flared with renewed intensity. Hitherto-undisclosed details were revealed; the tiny black mites clinging to the furry forearms, the patches of
usnea humana
on the surface of the victim’s skull, and the minute gobbets of flesh lodged between the feasting fangs.

“Good God!”

Keith turned, startled at the sound of the strident voice.

“Waverly,” he said. “How did you get in here?”

The tall, bearded man moved toward him, smiling. At least Keith thought he was smiling, though the combination of beard and tinted glasses almost concealed his expression.

“The usual way.” Simon Waverly shook his head. “You really ought to learn to lock the front door. And get those chimes repaired. I stood there knocking for a good five minutes.”

“Sorry, didn’t hear you.” Keith indicated the basin of soapy water on the tabletop. “As I told you on the phone, I’m washing a ghoul.” He gestured toward the painting. “It
is
a ghoul, isn’t it?”

His friend peered up at the canvas through the dark lenses, then uttered the low whistling sound that indicates astonishment.

“Not just
a
ghoul,” he said. “It’s
the
ghoul. Do you know what you’ve got here?
Pickman’s Model.”

“What?”

Simon Waverly nodded. “You remember—Pickman, the eccentric artist who did all the weird paintings of ghouls digging up graves in Boston cemeteries and climbing out of holes to attack people in subway tunnels? Finally he disappeared and his friend found a canvas in his cellar, a huge portrait of a thing like this. Tacked to the canvas was a picture of the model, showing the same creature. But it wasn’t a drawing—it was a photograph from life.”

“Where’d you come across such a crazy idea?”

“Lovecraft.”

“Who?”

Waverly’s dark glasses masked his surprise. “You mean to tell me you don’t know H.P. Lovecraft?”

“Never heard of him.”