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The Hound by H. P.
Lovecraft. In my tortured ears, there

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sounds unceasingly a nightmare, wearing and
flapping, and a faint, distant baying,

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as of some gigantic hound. It
is not dream, It is not

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I fear even madness, for too
much has already happened to give me these

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merciful doubts. Sinjin is a mangled
corpse. I alone know why, and

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such is my knowledge that I am
about to blow out my brains for fear

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I shall be mangled in the same
way, down unlit and illimitable corridors of

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eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless
nemesis that drives me to self annihilation.

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May Heaven forgive the folly and morbidity
which led us both to so monstrous a

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fate, wearied with the commonplaces of
a prosaic world where even the joys of

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romance and adventures soon grow stale.
Sinjin and I had followed enthusiastically every esthetic

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and intellectual movement which promised respite from
our devastating on we. The enigmas of

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the symbolists and the ecstasies of the
pre Raphaelite all were ours in their time,

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but each new mood was drained too
soon of its diverting novelty and appeal.

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Only the somber philosophy of the decadence
could hold us, and this we

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found potent only by increasing gradually the
depth and diabolism of our penetrations. Beaudelaire

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and Heismans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only

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the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal
experiences and adventures. It was this frightful

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emotional need which led us eventually to
that detestable course which even in my present

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fear I mentioned with shame and timidity, that hideous extremity of human outrage,

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the abhorred practice of grave robbing.
I cannot reveal the details of our shocking

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expeditions, or catalog even partly the
worst of the trophies adorning the nameless museum

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we prepared in the Great Stone House, where we jointly dwelt alone and servantless.

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Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable
place, where, with the satanic

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taste of neurotic virtuosi, we had
assembled a universe of terror and decay to

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excite our jaded sensibilities. It was
a secret room, far far underground,

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where huge winged demons carven of basalt
and onyx, vomited from wide grinning mouths.

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Weird green and orange light, and
hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances

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of death. The lines of red
charnel things hand in hand, woven in

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voluminous black hangings through these pipes came
at will. The odours are moods most

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craved, sometimes the scent of pale
funeral lilies, sometimes the narcotic incense of

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imagined Eastern shrines of the kingly dead, and sometimes, how I shudder to

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recall it, the frightful soul appeaving
stenches of the uncovered grave. Round the

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walls of this repellent chamber were cases
of antique mummies, alternating with comely lifelike

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bodies, perfectly stuffed and cured by
the taxidermist's art, and with headstones snatched

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from the oldest churchyards of the world. Niches. Here and there can skulls

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of all shapes and heads, preserved
in various stages of dissolution. There one

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might find the rotting, bald pates
of famous noblemen, and the fresh and

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radiantly golden heads of newly buried children, statues and paintings. There were all

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of fiendish subjects, and some executed
by Sinjin and myself. A locked portfolio

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bound in tanned human skin held certain
unknown and unnameable drawings, which it was

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rumored Goya had perpetrated, but dared
not acknowledge. There were nauseous musical instruments

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stringed brass and woodwind on which Sinjoin
and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity

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and cacodmoniacal ghastliness, Whilst in a
multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most

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incredible and unimaginable variety of tomblut ever
assembled by human madness and perversity. It

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is of this slute, in particular, that I must not speak. Thank

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God, I had the courage to
destroy it long before I thought of destroying

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myself off. The predatory excursions on
which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always

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artistically memorable events. We were no
vulgar ghouls, but worked only under certain

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conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and moonlight.

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These pastimes were to us the most
exquisite form of esthetic expression, and we

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gave their details a fastidious technical care, an inappropriate hour, a jarring lighting

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effect, or a clumsy manipulation of
the damp sod would almost totally destroy for

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us that ecstatic titillation which followed the
exhumation of some ominous, grinning secret of

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the earth. Our quest for novel
scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate.

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St. John was always the leader, and it was he who led

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the way at last to that mocking, that accursed spot which brought us our

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hideous and inevitable doom. By what
malign fatality were we lured to that terrible

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Holland churchyard. I think it was
the dark rumor and legendary the tales of

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one buried for fire centuries, who
had himself been a ghoul in his time,

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and had stolen a potent thing from
a mighty sepulcher. I can recall

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the scene in these final moments,
the pale autumnal moon over the graves,

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casting long horrible shadows, the grotesque
trees drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass,

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and the crumbling slabs, the vast
legions of strangely colossal bats that flew

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against the moon, The antique ivied
church pointing a huge spectral finger at the

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livid sky, the phosphorescent insects that
danced like death fires under the ewes in

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a distant corner, the odors of
mold vegetation, and less explicable things that

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mingled feebly with the night wind from
over far swamps and seas. And worst

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of all, the faint, deep
toned baying of some gigantic hound, which

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we could neither see nor definitely place. As we heard the suggestion of baying,

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we shuddered, remembering the tails of
the peasantry, for he whom we

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sought had sentries before been found in
this self same spot, torn and mangled

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by the claws and teeth of some
unspeakable beast. I remembered how we delved

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in this ghoul's grave with our spades, and how we thrilled the picture of

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ourselves. The grave, the pale
watching moon, the horrible shadows, the

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grotesque trees, the titanic bats,
the antique church, the dancing death fires,

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the sickening odors, the gently moaning
night wind, and the strange,

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half heard, directionless baying of whose
objective existence, we could scarcely be sure.

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Then we struck a substance harder than
the damp mold, and beheld a

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rotting, oblong box, crusted with
mineral deposits from the long undisturbed ground.

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It was incredibly tough and thick,
but so old that we finally pried it

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open and feasted our eyes on what
it held. Much, amazingly much was

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left of the object, despite the
lapse of five hundred years. The skeleton,

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though crushed in places by the jaws
of the thing that had killed it,

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held together with surprising firmness, and
we gloated over the clean white skull

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and its long, firm teeth,
and its eyeless sockets that had once glowed

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with a charnel fever like our own. In the coffin lay an amulet of

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curious and exotic design which had apparently
been worn around the sleeper's neck. It

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was the oddly conventionalized figure of a
crouching winged hound or sphinx with a semi

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canine face, and was exquisitely carved
in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece

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of green jade. The expression on
its features was repellent in the extreme savoring

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at once of death, bestiality,
and malevolence. Around the base was an

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inscription in characters which neither Stingin nor
I could identify, And on the bottom,

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like a maker's seal, was grave
in a grotesque and formidable skull.

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Immediately upon beholding this amulet, we
knew that we must possess it, that

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this treasure alone was our logical palf
from the sentried grave. Even had its

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outlines been unfamiliar, we would have
desired it. But as we looked more

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closely, we saw that it was
not wholly unfamiliar alien. It indeed was

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to all art and literature which sane
and balanced readers know. But we recognized

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it as the thing hinted of in
the forbidden necronomicon of the mad Arab abdul

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ahasred, the ghastly soul symbol of
the corpse eating colt of inaccessible Lange in

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Central Asia. All too well did
we trace the sinister lineaments described by the

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old Arab demonologist, lineaments he wrote
drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the

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souls of those who vexed and gnawed
the dead. Seizing the green jade object,

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we gave a last glance at the
bleached and cavernized face of its owner,

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and closed up the grave as we
found it. As we hastened from

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that abhorrent spot, the stolen amulet
in StJohn's pocket, we thought we saw

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the bats descend in a body to
the earth we had so lately rifled,

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as if seeking for some cursed and
unholy nourishment. But the autumn moon shone

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weak and pale, and we could
not be sure. So too, as

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we sailed the next day away from
Holland to our home, we thought we

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heard the faint, distant bang of
some gigantic hound in the background, But

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the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and we could not be sure.

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Less than a week after our return
to England, strange things began to happen.

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We lived as recluses, devoid of
friends, alone and without servants,

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in a few rooms of an ancient
manor house on a bleak and unfrequented more

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so that our doors were seldom disturbed
by the knock of the visitor. Now,

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however, we were troubled by what
seemed to be frequent fumblings in the

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night, not only around the doors, but around the windows, also upper

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as well as lower. Once we
fancied that a large opaque body darkened the

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library window when the moon was shining
against it, and another time we thought

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we heard a whirring or flapping sound
not far off. On each occasion,

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investigation revealed nothing, and we began
to ascribe the occurrences to imagination alone.

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That same curiously disturbed imagination, which
still prolonged in our ears. The faint

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far bang we thought we had heard
in the Holland churchyard. The jade amulet

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now reposed in a niche in our
museum, and sometimes we burned strangely scented

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candles before it. We read much
in al Hazard's and Necronomicon about its properties

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and about the relation of Ghul's souls
to the objects symbolized, and were disturbed

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by what we read. Then terror
came. On the night of September twenty

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fourth, nineteen. I heard a
knock at my chamber door. Fancying its

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Sinjohns, I bade the knocker enter, but was answered only by a shrill

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laugh. There was no one in
the corridor. When I aroused Sinjhn from

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his sleep, he professed entire ignorance
of the event. And became as worried

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as I. It was that night
that the faint, distant baying over the

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moor became to us a certain and
dreaded reality. Four days later, whilst

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we were both in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching

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at the single door which led to
the secret library staircase. Our alarm was

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now divided, for, besides our
fear of the unknown, we had always

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entertained a dread that our grisly collection
might be discovered. Extinguishing all lights,

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we proceeded to the door and threw
it suddenly open, whereupon we felt an

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unaccountable rush of air, and heard, as if receding far away, a

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queer combination of rustling, tittering,
and articulate chatter. Whether we were mad,

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dreaming, or in our senses,
we did not try to determine.

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We only realized with the blackest of
apprehensions that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond

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a doubt in the Dutch language.
After that we lived in growing horror and

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fascination. Mostly we held to the
theory that we were jointly going mad from

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our life of unnatural excitements, but
sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves

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as the victim of some creeping and
appalling doom. Bizarre manifestations were now too

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frequent to count. Our lonely house
was seemingly alive with the presence of some

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malign being whose nature we could not
guess, And every night that demoniac baying

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rolled over, the wind swept more, always louder and louder. On October

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twenty ninth, we found in the
soft earth underneath the library window a series

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of footprints, utterly impossible to describe. They were as baffling as the hordes

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of giant bats which haunted the old
manor House an unprecedented and increasing numbers.

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The horror reached a culmination on November
eighteenth, when Sinjohn, walking home after

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dark from the distant railway station,
was seized by some frightful, carnivorous thing

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and torn to ribbons. His screams
had reached the house, and I hastened

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to the terrible scene in time to
hear a whir of wings and see a

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vague, black, cloudy thing silhouetted
against the rising moon. My friend was

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dying when I spoke to him,
and he could not answer coherently. All

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he could do was to whisper the
amulet, that damned thing. Then he

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collapsed, an inert mass of mangled
flesh. I buried him the next midnight

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in one of our neglected gardens,
and mumbled over his body one of the

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devilish rituals he had loved in life. And as I pronounced the last demoniac

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sentence, I heard afar on the
moor, the faint baying of some gigantic

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hound. The moon was up,
but I dared not look at it,

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And when I saw in the dim
litton more a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping

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from mound to mound, I shut
my eyes and threw myself face down upon

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the ground. When I arose trembling, I know not how much later I

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staggered into the house and made shocking
obeiences before the enshrined amulet of green Jade.

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Being now afraid to live alone in
the ancient house on the moor,

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I departed on the following day for
London, taking with me the amulet,

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after destroying by fire and burial the
rest of the impious collection in the museum.

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But after three nights I heard the
baying again, and before a week

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was over felt strange eyes upon me
whenever it was dark. One evening,

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as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for
some needed air, I saw a black

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shape obscure one of the reflections of
the lamps in the water. A wind

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stronger than the night wind rushed by, and I knew that what had befallen

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sin John must soon befall me me. The next day, I carefully wrapped

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the green jade amulet and sailed for
Holland. What mercy I might gain by

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returning the thing to its silent,
sleeping owner, I knew not, but

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I felt that I must at least
try any step conceivably logical. What the

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hound was and why it pursued me
were questioned still vague, But I had

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first heard the baying in that ancient
churchyard, and every subsequent event, including

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sin John's dying whisper, had served
to connect the curse with the stealing of

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the amulet. Accordingly, I sank
into the nethermost abysses of despair, when

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at an inn in Rotterdam, I
discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this

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sole means of salvation. The baying
was loud that evening, and in the

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morning I read of a nameless deed
in the vilest quarter of the city.

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The rabble were in terror, for
upon an evil tenement had fallen, a

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red death beyond the foulest previous crime
of the neighborhood. In a squalid thieves

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den, an entire family had been
torn to shreds by an unknown thing which

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left no trace, And those around
had heard all night, above the usual

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clamor of drunken voices, a faint, deep, insistent note as of a

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gigantic hound. So at last I
stood again in that unwholesome churchyard, where

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a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows, and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet

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the withered, frosty grass and cracking
slabs, and the ivied church pointed a

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jeering finger at the unfriendly sky,
and the night wind howled maniacally from over

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frozen swamps and frigid seas. The
baying was very faint now, and it

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ceased altogether. As I approached the
ancient grave I had once violated and frightened

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away an abnormally large horde of bats
which had been hovering curiously around it.

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I know not why I went hither
unless to pray or gibber out insane please

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and apologies to the calm, white
thing that lay within. But whatever my

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reason, I attacked the half frozen
sod with a desperation, partly mine and

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partly that of a dominating will outside
myself. Was much easier than I expected,

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though at one point I encountered a
queer interruption when a lean vulture darted

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down out of the cold sky and
pecked frantically at the grave earth until I

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killed him with a blow of my
spade. Finally I reached the rotting oblong

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box and removed the damp, nitrous
cover. This is the last rational act

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I ever performed. For Crouched within
that sentried coffin, embraced by a close

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packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was the bony thing

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my friend and I had robbed,
not clean and placid as we had seen

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it then, but covered with caked
blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair,

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and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent
sockets and sharp and sanguine fangs,

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yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable
doom, and when it gave from those

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00:16:48,480 --> 00:16:53,480
grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay, as of some gigantic hound, and

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I saw that it held in its
gory, filthy claw the lost and fateful

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amulet of green Jade. I merely
screamed and ran away idiotically, My screams,

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soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Madness rides the star wind,

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claws and teeth sharpened on sentries of
corpses dripping death, astride a bacchanal of

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bats from night black ruins, of
buried temples of Bolile. Now, as

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the baying of that dead, fleshless
monstrosity grows louder and louder, and the

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stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed
web wings circles closer and closer, I

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shall seek with my revolver the oblivion, which is my only refuge from the

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unnamed and unnamable end of the hound,