The rest is so terrible. There was no one on that soaked hill and no one I dared tell. I walked aimlessly down toward the river and then back up to Peach Valley Road and out to Route 109, just to see the passing cars and have the reassurance of the continued existence of the rest of the world. Then the gray dawn unfolded wetly from the east, silhouetting the archaic hill and the old house, and beckoning to the place where my terrible work was still unfinished. And in the end I went, wet, hatless, and dazed in the morning light, and entered that awful door to the basement of Allendale, which I had left open, and which still swung cryptically in the morning light.
The grease was gone and in front of the fireplace was no remaining hint of the giant doubled-up form. I looked at the cot, the chairs, the neglected equipment, and the yellow straw hat of my uncle. I was so dazed I could scarcely recall what was dream and what was reality. But then, it all came back to me. Sitting down, I tried to remember it all, in as minute a detail as possible, in order to gather some clue as to how I might, once and for all, end the horror. It didn’t seem to be real, not solid in form, but instead some kind of emanation, some vampirish vapor, a cemetery mist. Oh, this I felt was a clue, and again I looked at the floor in front of the fireplace, this time not for the oddly shaped mold, but for how the bricks had been arranged. In ten minutes, my mind was made up, and taking only my uncle’s hat, set now squarely on my head, I set out back to town, back home, where I bathed, ate, and gave an order by phone to the military surplus store for a pickaxe, a spade, a gas-mask, and six containers of sulfuric acid, all to be delivered the next morning at the basement door of Allendale. After that, I tried to sleep, and failing that I passed the hours reading and in the composition of inane verse to counteract my mood.
Tiny Cat Pants 
Military surplus store. Puh-lease. You know he got that shit from Tractor Supply. I don’t even know why he’s claiming otherwise.
This is, perhaps, my favorite part of the story. I mean, I have lots of parts I love, but the idea that Ole George here has just been through the most terrifying night of his life, witnessed the gruesome, grease-filled death of his uncle, and plotted revenge, and is now going to sit around and write shitty poetry just tickles me so much!
What the hell kind of “inane verse” do you write upon this occasion? I wish I had a good prize to give out, because I would totally have a contest for best guess as to what those poems looked like.
There once was an uncle from Gallatin
And with him I evil was battlin’
Our terror increased
He got turned into grease
And now off these limericks I’m rattlin’
Before I read your comment I actually asked George out loud, “You’re going home to write poetry? Seriously?” I also yelled at him for having the stuff delivered because…dude wants to get rid of the evil for once and for all but first he’s going to send some innocent delivery people out there while he takes a break? He’s a total enabler…of evil. I thought Tractor Supply was basically the same as Farm and Fleet. If it is I am feeling ripped off because I am pretty sure my Farm and Fleet does not carry gas masks.
Oh my god! I hadn’t even considered the poor delivery people! HOLY SHIT! What kind of douche canoe sends unsuspecting delivery people to the house where an evil vampiric ghost werewolf lives? I am telling you, the fact that he’s working for the garou is almost subtext. It is just under the surface of the story.
It’s true that Tractor Supply is basically like Farm & Fleet, but I still contend that you’re more likely to get this stuff from them–especially delivered–than you are to get it from a military surplus store. I mean, who’s ever heard of a military surplus store that delivers?
The more I think about this, the more I think this may be my favorite moment in the story. It’s just so fucking absurd. Poetry. Army Surplus Store with delivery. It’s the moment we learn that Lovecraft has no idea what happens during normal moments in people’s lives.
The watch a supernatural murder, then head home to write poetry also resulted in a knitted brow and muttered huh? from here. Knew it had to be from the original.
The curse of the family Duroque
Was a scandal, a sin, and a shock.
Their mist took my breath,
Caused my poor uncle’s death,
–now to rewriting Rape of the Lock.
Eh, people do strange, irrelevant things after a shock. And making up limericks or whatever focuses the mind on something different than what’s distressing it. I’m willing to believe that George did just that. I think it can be read either way.
Jess, he says “inane” verse.
But he sent delivery people into the basement where he knows a killer vampire ghost werewolf mold lives! I’m with the SuperGenius. Whether he means to be or not, George is Evil’s Handmaid.
Jess, I love your limerick.
Oh, he is certainly Evil’s handmaid. I just think that if his story is true (rather than being a cover for killing Uncle Elias) it’s not shocking that he would spend the evening writing limericks and not worrying about mere service people. I’m sure that Lovecraft wouldn’t worry about them.
Well, that is certainly true! And it does leave the door open for a sequel.
But man, it struck me on the way into work this morning that tonight’s portion is probably causing all the people at the State Archaeologist’s office to shudder in anticipation of some unknown horror. I mean, what happens tonight has got to be their nightmare. You found what? And you did what? And when you mean “nothing’s left,” how “nothing” is that? NOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOoooooo.
Ha ha ha.God, I love this story so much.
I thought it was a bit weird, but I assumed he used military surplus so he could get a gas mask. Does Tractor Supply carry those?
I doubt Tractor Supply carries gas masks. I haven’t seen them there. But I also doubt military surplus carries big vats of sulfuric acid. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I wonder how, indeed, he so quickly sourced sulfuric acid. Doesn’t that seem like the kind of thing Homeland Security would want to know about?
Don’t they use it for etching? Maybe at an art supply place.
B, the longer these conversations go on, the more I think you need to rewrite the story, the whole thing, making it about all the themes that have come up in discussions and especially heightening the ambiguity of the narrator. I think it would be publishable.
I heartily second nm. This is a really good story and does some cool original things that Lovecraft could not have imagined, meditating on subjects and themes he would not have taken up. Rewriting would liberate you to get rid of some of the false Lovecraftian moments that you know don’t work and to discuss the implications of those truly horror-filled Lovecraftian moments (like the poor delivery guys! Yikes!) that he doesn’t even give a second thought.
Yeah, but you’ll keep “unwholesome,” right?
Could their family and the rumors about them be prevalent enough that when he calls Tractor Supply or the army surplus they’re just like get what he wants and get it delivered so he’ll leave us alone?
I feel like there’s a joke in here about needing an old priest a young priest for the delivery.