The Village itself I had visited only once before, and will not visit again; its Streets are silent and filled with the Fear the old Man inspires from his Pulpit: I fear also that Like has mated with Like, as so many of the Faces are similar. It seemed that each way I turned I beheld the old Man’s Visage…all are so wan; they seem Lack-Luster, as if sucked dry of all Vitality, I beheld Eyeless and Noseless Children, Women who wept and gibbered and pointed at the Sky for no Reason, and garbled talk from the Scriptures with talk of Demons;…
P. wished me to stay for Services, but the thought of that sinister Ancient in the Pulpit before an Audience of this Town’s interbred Populace repulsed me and I made an Excuse…
The entries preceding and following this tell of Philip’s growing fascination with James Boon. On September 1, 1789, Philip was baptized into Boon’s church. His brother says: “I am aghast with Amaze and Horror—my Brother has changed before my very Eyes—he even seems to grow to resemble the wretched Man.”
First mention of the book occurs on July 23. Robert’s diary records it only briefly: “P. returned from the smaller Village to-night with, I thought, a rather wild Visage. Would not speak until Bedtime, when he said that Boon had enquired after a Book titled Mysteries of the Worm. To please P. I promised to write Johns & Goodfellow a letter of enquiry; P. almost fawningly Grateful.”
On August 12, this notation: “Rec’d two Letters in the Post today…one from Johns & Goodfellow in Boston. They have Note of the Tome in which P. has expressed an Interest. Only five Copies extant in this Country. The Letter is rather cool; odd indeed. Have known Henry Goodfellow for Years.”
August 13
:P. insanely excited by Goodfellow’s letter; refuses to say why. He would only say that Boon is
exceedingly anxious
to obtain a Copy. Cannot think why, since by the Title it seems only a harmless gardening Treatise…
Am worried for Philip; he grows stranger to me Daily. I wish now we had not returned to Chapelwaite. The Summer is hot, oppressive, and filled with Omens…
There are only two further mentions of the infamous book in Robert’s diary [he seems not to have realized the true importance of it, even at the end]. From the entry of September 4:
I have petitioned Goodfellow to act as P.’s Agent in the matter of the Purchase, although my better Judgement cries against It. What use to demur? Has he not his own Money, should I refuse? And in return I have extracted a Promise from Philip to recant this noisome Baptism…yet he is so Hectic; nearly Feverish; I do not trust him. I am hopelessly
at Sea
in this Matter…
Finally, September 16:
The Book arrived to-day, with a note from Goodfellow saying he wishes no more of my Trade…P. was excited to an unnatural Degree; all but snatched the Book from my Hands. It is writ in bastard Latin and a Runic Script of which I can read Nothing. The Thing seemed almost warm to the Touch, and to vibrate in my Hands, as if it contained a huge Power…I reminded P. of his Promise to Recant and he only laughed in an ugly, crazed Fashion and waved that Book in my Face, crying over and over again: “We have it! We have it! The Worm! The Secret of the Worm!” He is now fled, I suppose to his mad Benefactor, and I have not seen him more this Day…
Of the book there is no more, but I have made certain deductions which seem at least probable. First, that this book was, as Mrs Cloris has said, the subject of the falling-out between Robert and Philip; second, that it is a repository of unholy incantation, possibly of Druidic origin [many of the Druidic blood-rituals were preserved in print by the Roman conquerors of Britain in the name of scholarship, and many of these infernal cook-books are among the world’s forbidden literature]; third, that Boon and Philip intended to use the book for their own ends. Perhaps, in some twisted way, they intended good, but I do not believe it. I believe they had long before bound themselves over to whatever faceless powers exist beyond the rim of the Universe; powers which may exist beyond the very fabric of Time. The last entries of Robert Boone’s diary lend a dim glow of approbation to these speculations, and I allow them to speak for themselves:
October 26, 1789.
A terrific Babble in Preacher’s Corners to-day; Frawley, the Blacksmith, seized my Arm and demanded to know “What your Brother and that mad Antichrist are into up there.” Goody Randall claims there have been
Signs
in the Sky of
great impending Disaster.
A Cow has been born with two Heads.
As for Myself, I know not what impends; perhaps ’tis my Brother’s Insanity. His Hair has gone Gray almost Overnight, his Eyes are great bloodshot Circles from which the pleasing light of Sanity seems to have departed. He grins and whispers, and, for some Reason of his Own, has begun to haunt our Cellar when not in Jerusalem’s Lot.
The Whippoorwills congregate about the House and upon the Grass; their combined Calling from the Mist blends with the Sea into an unearthly Shriek that precludes all thought of Sleep.
October 27, 1789.
Followed P. this Evening when he departed for Jerusalem’s Lot, keeping a safe Distance to avoid Discovery. The cursed Whippoorwills flock through the Woods, filling all with a deathly, psycho-pompotic Chant. I dared not cross the Bridge; the Town all dark except for the Church, which was litten with a ghastly red Glare that seemed to transform the high, peak’d Windows into the Eyes of the Inferno. Voices rose and fell in a Devil’s Litany, sometimes laughing, sometimes sobbing. The very Ground seem’d to swell and groan beneath me, as if it bore an awful Weight, and I fled, amaz’d and full of Terror, the hellish, screaming Cries of the Whippoorwills dinning in my ears as I ran through those shadow-riven Woods.
All tends to the Climax, yet unforeseen. I dare not sleep for the Dreams that come, yet not remain awake for what lunatic Terrors may come. The night is full of awful Sounds and I fear—
And yet I feel the urge to go again, to watch, to see. It seems that Philip himself calls me, and the old Man.
The Birds cursed
cursed cursed
Here the diary of Robert Boone ends.
Yet you must notice, Bones, near the conclusion, that he claims Philip himself seemed to call him. My final conclusion is formed by these lines, by the talk of Mrs Cloris and the others, but most of all by those terrifying figures in the cellar, dead yet alive. Our line is yet an unfortunate one, Bones. There is a curse over us which refuses to be buried; it lives a hideous shadow-life in this house and that town. And the culmination of the cycle is drawing close again. I am the last of the Boone blood. I fear that something knows this, and that I am at the nexus of an evil endeavor beyond all sane understanding. The anniversary is All Saints’ Eve, one week from today.
How shall I proceed? If only you were here to counsel me, to help me! If only you were here!
I must know all; I must return to the shunned town. May God support me!
CHARLES.
(From the pocket journal of Calvin McCann)
Oct. 25, ’50
Mr Boone has slept nearly all this day. His face is pallid and much thinner. I fear recurrence of his fever is inevitable.
While refreshing his water carafe I caught sight of two unmailed letters to Mr Granson in Florida. He plans to return to Jerusalem’s Lot; ’twill be the killing of him if I allow it. Dare I steal away to Preacher’s Corners and hire a buggy? I must, and yet what if he wakes? If I should return and find him gone?