Newsgroups: alt.horror.cthulhu
From: piharris@cix.compulink.co.uk (Philip Harris)
Subject: No subject 
Reply-To: piharris@cix.compulink.co.uk
Date: Wed, 6 Jan 1993 19:45:00 +0000

THE EPITAPH PART 2

The concluding part of my story, Part one was posted a short time
ago. Let me know what you think.


About a year ago I had an idea, once again it was related to
Lovecraft and once I'd thought of it my attentions focussed on it as
narrow mindedly as they had when I'd first started collecting
Lovecraft memorabilia. At the time the flow of Lovecraftian items was
slowing to a trickle and I hadn't received any new items for over a
month. I remember having a dream, although I can't remember what was
in it, except that it gave me an idea when I woke.

I had one thought in my mind from that point onwards, that I should
visit Lovecraft's grave and dig him up. It was to be the crowning
glory on my Lovecraft collection, I would create a Lovecraftian
museum and had his decaying corpse as the centrepiece. I had no idea
how I would get the remains back into the UK, but I knew I had to
try.

The next morning I began to plan my trip to America, collecting
information on the location of the grave, how I would get there and
more importantly how much it would cost. I began to save for the
journey, although the influx of Lovecraft memorabilia increased
dramatically, which depleted my funds quite considerably. Eight days
ago I finally left for America, filled with anticipation at actually
seeing my hero in the flesh, or at least the bones.

When I arrived in Providence, I booked into a small bed and breakfast
which overlooks the cemetery where Lovecraft was buried. I spent the
first day asleep, the journey had take more out of me than I had
expected. When I awoke on the Tuesday morning I felt somehow
downhearted, despite being so close to my goal. I was still very
tired but decided to at least take a look at the cemetery, even if I
didn't enter it.

Although Swan Point Cemetery was visible from the B&B, it was
actually a five minute walk down the road to get to the gates. They
were made of black iron, simple vertical bars with four horizontal
supports spaced evenly across the width of each one. Across the top
of gates, was an arched strip of metal with the name of the cemetery
punched out of it. The gates were unlocked. My spirits had lifted
somewhat and I decided to try and find the grave after all.

I slipped into the cemetery, unsure of whether I should be there or
not, and began looking for Lovecraft's grave. I realised then that I
didn't actually know what I was looking for. I'd read several
biographical works, including de Camp's which includes a piece on
Lovecraft's death but I could remember a description of the grave. I
spent about an hour searching the seemingly endless graveyard before
finding what I was looking for: Lovecraft's final resting place, or
at least the Lovecraft family plot.

In the center of the plot was a large stone pillar, inscribed with
the names of each of the members of the family buried there. Howard's
name was round the back. The plot itself was completely unmarked and
I realised that there was no way of knowing where he was buried, I
would have to hope for the best. I memorised the position of the plot
and returned to my room.

I spent the next couple of hours in a state of nervious excitement,
planning how exactly I would achieve my task. I decided to check out
of the boarding house that evening, and wait in my hire car until
about two in the morning when I could enter the cemetery unseen and
begin my task. That would give me two or three hours to accomplish my
task before leaving for the airport. There was a flight back to
England later that day which was ideal.

I hardly ate a thing that evening, which upset the owner of the
house, and she was even more upset when I said I was leaving.
Eventually I managed to convince her that there was nothing wrong,
and that I'd come back one day. It took about half an hour to
actuallly leave once I'd packed, she insisted on talking to me, and
her family had to say goodbye as well.

But eventually I escaped and went to the local bar for a drink or
two. I spent a nervous three hours in the bar, before deciding I'd
better leave and drive around for a bit. I drove for an hour, then
drove back, arriving back in the town as the radio declared it to be
two o'clock. I parked the car five minutes away from the cemetery
gates and walked to the entrance. The town was completely dead.

The gates were exactly as they had been in the afternoon and I
quickly slid in, running into the darkness in the direction of the
Lovecraft plot. I lost track of where I was almost immediately and
spent quarter of an hour back tracking to the entrance and trying
again, more slowly this time. This time I found the area and moved
round to the back of the centre pillar.

It was intensely cold, I began to wish that I'd brought a thicker
coat from the car. Shivering, I began to dig in the area where I
hoped Lovecraft would be buried. The spade slid noisily into the
ground, the weather had been wet over the past few days and it seemed
to have made the ground very soft. My heart was racing, I was
terrified that I would be caught, and the adrenelin spurred me on. I
made good progress, and was soon able to ignore both the cold and the
noise of the spade.

Then I hit metal, the force of the impact jarring up my arms. I
remember being slightly puzzled at the time, thinking that it was
surprising that the coffin was metal. The thought was gone in a
second though, replaced with excitement. I quickly uncovered the rest
of the coffin, certain that it would be the wrong one, or that I
would be discovered before I could open the casket.

At one end of the coffin was a plate, covered in mud. I wiped it off,
eager to see what it said. I felt a stab of dissapointment. It didn't
say who was in the coffin, all the plate had on it was a date, 1937.
My initial dissapointment was replaced seconds later by pure joy.
Lovecraft had died in 1937, this was obviously his coffin.

I checked my watch, I still had half an hour before I had to leave.

The coffin had three chains wrapped around it, each one secured with
a large padlock. Whoever had buried Lovecraft hadn't wanted anyone
stealing the body. The chains were pretty rusty though, and a couple
of slices with the spade soon shattered each one.

Suddenly sure I was being watched, I looked out of the hole in the
ground and glanced round the cemetery, now coated in a thin layer of
early morning mist. When I was convinced that there was no one there,
I picked up the metal bar I had brought with me, knelt down and began
to prise off the lid.

As the lid popped off and a fifty six year old cloud of air floated
into my face, I realised this was all a mistake. I realised that
there was no way I would be able to transport the body through two
sets of customs, if the body was even there at all. What I had done
was illegal and there was absolutely no chance that I'd get away with
it. The police would suspect me immediately and I'd be stopped before
I got to the airport. I had no idea why I had tried to steal the
body, it was as though someone else had been controlling my thoughts
and actions since my dream.

As I stood there, staring out across the cemetery, contemplating my
next move, I heard a dry rustling. I glanced around quickly, certain
I had been discovered. But the cemetery was as empty as it had been
when I'd first arrived.

Then, I heard the noise again. It was then that I realised that the
noise had come from beneath my feet. I glanced down at the contents
of the coffin. The first surprise was that there was a body inside, I
had been convinced that there would just be dust, or no more than a
skeleton. But there was a body. It's naked form covered in tight
brown skin, pulled taut over the bones.

The second surprise was that it's eyes were open, and looking
directly at me, sparkling with menace. It took a fraction of a second
to register all this, then I was scrambling out of the hole, covering
myself with mud as I did. I was almost out of the hole when I felt
some thing cold grab my ankle. I kicked out. Something ripped through
my jeans and an agonising pain shot up my leg as the creature dug
it's bony fingers into my leg. I kicked out, a sickening crunch
echoed across the misty night.

I rolled over twice, stood up, then promptly fell over as my torn leg
gave way beneath me. I tried again, succeeded and began to stumble
towards the exit, not daring to look behind me. I fell once more on
the way to the exit, but the grip I feared never arrived. By some
miracle I managed to find the exit from the cemetery first time and I
half ran, half fell through the gates. I slid the gates shut behind
me, sliding the bolt across to delay the creature.

I cursed as I hobbled along the road, wishing I'd parked my car
closer to the gates. But my leg was becoming numb, and I could almost
walk properly. I reached the car, still without any signs of pursuit.
I sat in the car, doors locked, panting. Every few seconds I checked
behind me for the creature, but there was nothing. After a few
minutes I decided it would be wise to leave the area, even if the
thing was dead, I didn't want to hang around for the police. The
numbness in my leg had gone, as had the pain so I started the car and
began the journey to the airport.

The journey took a little longer than normal, but considering the
events that preceeded my departure from Providence, it went pretty
well. I spent the whole time going over what had happened, and I had
to stop twice to give myself a chance to calm down a little, and to
change my trousers. But I made it to the airport with plenty of time
to spare, dropped the car off and checked in.

The airport was freezing for some reason. I was shivering despite
being huddled over a warm air duct. After half an hour I went into
the toilets, to check my leg and try and warm up. It had still been
dark when I'd changed my trousers but in the light of the toilets I
could see the damage the creature had done. It had gouged three deep
gashes out of my leg, I was amazed that I could walk. The edges of
the wounds were puffy and blue, but quite painless, despite my
poking. I pulled my trousers back on, and left to board the plane.
The plane was as cold as the airport, and I spent the entire journey
huddled under a blanket.

It was a two hour journey from the airport to Hampton where I live,
and I was growing colder by the minute. I'd realised that it wasn't
anything to do with the temperature in the bus, the wound on my leg
was burning, obviously infected. By the time I reached Hampton it was
dark and I was terrified. I knew I was seriously ill, my senses were
in turmoil. I could hardly see, and I could hardly hear. And somehow,
I knew I couldn't do anything about it. I caught a cab home walked
unsteadily into my flat, and passed out.

I've no idea how long I'd been unconcious, but it was light outside
when I woke. I lay where I was for a few minutes trying to remember
why I was laying on my hall carpet. Then I remembered the trip to
America. And my leg. I felt gingerly down the side of my trousers,
but there was no pain at all. I felt refreshed, and my leg was no
longer burning up. I clambered to my feet and stood for a moment,
there was no sign of weakness. I walked into the living room, sat
down and stripped off my trousers. The sight that greeted me was less
than encouraging.

My entire lower body was crisscrossed with blue green veins, each one
standing out a few millimeters from my leg. The rest of the skin was
a mottled blue, and had a thick leathery feel to it. My heart sank at
the sight of it and I sat on edge of the chair, head hanging down in
despair.

Something made me glance at the window.

I screamed.

I turned and ran. I ran out of the living room, down the hall and up
the stairs, into my bedroom. I barracaded the door with the desk
Lovecraft had owned. I sat listening for several minutes, but I
couldn't hear a thing. I decided to phone Mr Tomlinson at the
bookshop. The phone rang three times before it was answered. It was a
womans voice. The shop was now a vegetable shop, Mr Tomlinson had
suddenly disappeared just over a week before, along with all his
stock.

I realised I had very little time, opening the cabinet containing my
Lovecraftian collection I began to throw each and every Lovecraft
item I had on, or under, the desk. When I had finished I pulled out a
box of matches from my bedside cabinet, and lit the books under the
desk. The dry paper caught immediately and tears filled my eyes as I
watched my collection burn. It was then I began writing down
everything that had happened to me.

I must look a sight, sitting next to a burning desk in my underware,
my legs a multitude of shades of green and blue. But I know I can't
escape, he'll come to get me soon. I pray that these papers survive,
and that whoever finds and read this will believe that someone must
be told. Someone who knows how to stop the creature I have freed,
some who knows how to stop Lovecraft.

Philip Harris
4th January 1992

     **********************
     *                    *       .... TERROR IN THE UK ....
     *    Philip Harris   *       
     * Born Oct 15th 1969 *    Barker....Campbell....Herbert...
     * Died Feb 25th 1973 *
     *                    *       .... TERROR IN THE UK ....
     **********************
     
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