H. P. Lovecraft
The Shunned House, The Dunwich Horror
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Table of contents
The Shunned House
1
2
3
4
5
The Dunwich Horror
1
2
3
4
5
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7
8
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10
The Shunned House
A
posthumous story of immense power, written by a master of weird
fiction—a tale of a revolting horror in the cellar of an old house
in New EnglandFrom
even the greatest of horrors irony is seldom absent. Sometimes it
enters directly into the composition of the events, while sometimes
it relates only to their fortuitous position among persons and
places. The latter sort is splendidly exemplified by a case in the
ancient city of Providence, where in the late forties Edgar Allan Poe
used to sojourn often during his unsuccessful wooing of the gifted
poetess, Mrs. Whitman. Poe generally stopped at the Mansion House in
Benefit Street—the renamed Golden Ball Inn whose roof has sheltered
Washington, Jefferson, and Lafayette—and his favorite walk led
northward along the same street to Mrs. Whitman's home and the
neighboring hillside churchyard of St. John's, whose hidden expanse
of Eighteenth Century gravestones had for him a peculiar fascination.Howard
Phillips Lovecraft died last March, at the height of his career.
Though only forty-six years of age, he had built up an international
reputation by the artistry and impeccable literary craftsmanship of
his weird tales; and he was regarded on both sides of the Atlantic as
probably the greatest contemporary master of weird fiction. His
ability to create and sustain a mood of brooding dread and unnamable
horror is nowhere better shown than in the posthumous tale presented
here: "The Shunned House."Now
the irony is this. In this walk, so many times repeated, the world's
greatest master of the terrible and the bizarre was obliged to pass a
particular house on the eastern side of the street; a dingy,
antiquated structure perched on the abruptly rising side hill, with a
great unkempt yard dating from a time when the region was partly open
country. It does not appear that he ever wrote or spoke of it, nor is
there any evidence that he even noticed it. And yet that house, to
the two persons in possession of certain information, equals or
outranks in horror the wildest fantasy of the genius who so often
passed it unknowingly, and stands starkly leering as a symbol of all
that is unutterably hideous.The
house was—and for that matter still is—of a kind to attract the
attention of the curious. Originally a farm or semi-farm building, it
followed the average New England colonial lines of the middle
Eighteenth Century—the prosperous peaked-roof sort, with two
stories and dormerless attic, and with the Georgian doorway and
interior panelling dictated by the progress of taste at that time. It
faced south, with one gable end buried to the lower windows in the
eastward rising hill, and the other exposed to the foundations toward
the street. Its construction, over a century and a half ago, had
followed the grading and straightening of the road in that especial
vicinity; for Benefit Street—at first called Back Street—was laid
out as a lane winding amongst the graveyards of the first settlers,
and straightened only when the removal of the bodies to the North
Burial Ground made it decently possible to cut through the old family
plots.At
the start, the western wall had lain some twenty feet up a
precipitous lawn from the roadway; but a widening of the street at
about the time of the Revolution sheared off most of the intervening
space, exposing the foundations so that a brick basement wall had to
be made, giving the deep cellar a street frontage with door and one
window above ground, close to the new line of public travel. When the
sidewalk was laid out a century ago the last of the intervening space
was removed; and Poe in his walks must have seen only a sheer ascent
of dull gray brick flush with the sidewalk and surmounted at a height
of ten feet by the antique shingled bulk of the house proper.
"That
awful door in Benefit Street which I had left ajar."
1
The
farm-like ground extended back very deeply up the hill, almost to
Wheaton Street. The space south of the house, abutting on Benefit
Street, was of course greatly above the existing sidewalk level,
forming a terrace bounded by a high bank wall of damp, mossy stone
pierced by a steep flight of narrow steps which led inward between
canyon-like surfaces to the upper region of mangy lawn, rheumy brick
walks, and neglected gardens whose dismantled cement urns, rusted
kettles fallen from tripods of knotty sticks, and similar
paraphernalia set off the weather-beaten front door with its broken
fanlight, rotting Ionic pilasters, and wormy triangular pediment.
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