The Dunwich Horror Seitenbereiche:
Welches Grauen treibt im Dorfe Dunwich sein Unwesen? Und in welcher Beziehung steht es zur Familie Whateley, die in einem abgeschiedenen Farmhaus ihr Dasein fristet?. Das Grauen von Dunwich (The Dunwich Horror) ist eine Kurzgeschichte von H.P. Lovecraft, die er im. The Dunwich Horror by H. P. Lovecraft: The Dunwich Horror by H. P. Lovecraft | Lovecraft, H. P., Weeks, Greg, Meehan, Mary, Distributed, the Online | ISBN. merlotshihtzu.eu - Kaufen Sie The Dunwich Horror - 4-Disc Limited Collector's Edition Nr (Blu-ray + DVD + 2 Audio CDs) - Limitiertes Mediabook auf Stück. In H.P. Lovecraft's, "The Dunwich Horror", we are told the story of Wilbur Whateley, the son of a deformed albino mother and an unknown father (alluded to in. The Dunwich Horror, Bautzen. likes. Love Music - Hate Fascism. Dadurch wirkt „The Dunwich Horror“, obwohl Whateley die zentrale Figur darstellt, zunächst einmal unglaublich reaktionär. dunwich Die junge Generation.
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The Dunwich Horror 1970 Complete SoundtrackIn place of blood he had a greenish-yellow ichor. Yellow and black markings covered his back. From the waist down his body was covered in coarse black fur.
A sort of rudimentary eye was positioned on each hip. His final words were the excerpt from the Necronomicon which he had been searching.
Immediately afterward his corpse disintegrated into a sticky white mass, appearently having no true skeletal structure. Out the window a swarm of Whippoorwills were heard shrieking in anticipation for his soul.
They soon fled after witnessing their intended prey. This wiki. This wiki All wikis. Sign In Don't have an account? Start a Wiki. Biography [ edit edit source ] In the rural town of Dunwich, Massachusetts on February 2, at 5 a.
Films [ edit edit source ] Wilbur Whateley was a central character in the film The Dunwich Horror. Gallery [ edit edit source ].
Wilburt Whateley, as he appears in Russell's Guide merzo. Categories :. Cancel Save. Universal Conquest Wiki. Gorges and ravines of problematical depth intersect the way, and the crude wooden bridges always seem of dubious safety.
When the road dips again there are stretches of marshland that one instinctively dislikes, and indeed almost fears at evening when unseen whippoorwills chatter and the fireflies come out in abnormal profusion to dance to the raucous, creepily insistent rhythms of stridently piping bull-frogs.
As the hills draw nearer, one heeds their wooded sides more than their stone-crowned tops. Those sides loom up so darkly and precipitously that one wishes they would keep their distance, but there is no road by which to escape them.
Across a covered bridge one sees a small village huddled between the stream and the vertical slope of Round Mountain, and wonders at the cluster of rotting gambrel roofs bespeaking an earlier architectural period than that of the neighbouring region.
It is not reassuring to see, on a closer glance, that most of the houses are deserted and falling to ruin, and that the broken-steepled church now harbours the one slovenly mercantile establishment of the hamlet.
One dreads to trust the tenebrous tunnel of the bridge, yet there is no way to avoid it. Once across, it is hard to prevent the impression of a faint, malign odour about the village street, as of the massed mould and decay of centuries.
It is always a relief to get clear of the place, and to follow the narrow road around the base of the hills and across the level country beyond till it rejoins the Aylesbury pike.
Afterward one sometimes learns that one has been through Dunwich. Outsiders visit Dunwich as seldom as possible, and since a certain season of horror all the signboards pointing toward it have been taken down.
The scenery, judged by any ordinary aesthetic canon, is more than commonly beautiful; yet there is no influx of artists or summer tourists.
Two centuries ago, when talk of witch-blood, Satan-worship, and strange forest presences was not laughed at, it was the custom to give reasons for avoiding the locality.
Perhaps one reason—though it cannot apply to uninformed strangers—is that the natives are now repellently decadent, having gone far along that path of retrogression so common in many New England backwaters.
They have come to form a race by themselves, with the well-defined mental and physical stigmata of degeneracy and inbreeding.
The average of their intelligence is woefully low, whilst their annals reek of overt viciousness and of half-hidden murders, incests, and deeds of almost unnamable violence and perversity.
The old gentry, representing the two or three armigerous families which came from Salem in , have kept somewhat above the general level of decay; though many branches are sunk into the sordid populace so deeply that only their names remain as a key to the origin they disgrace.
Some of the Whateleys and Bishops still send their eldest sons to Harvard and Miskatonic, though those sons seldom return to the mouldering gambrel roofs under which they and their ancestors were born.
No one, even those who have the facts concerning the recent horror, can say just what is the matter with Dunwich; though old legends speak of unhallowed rites and conclaves of the Indians, amidst which they called forbidden shapes of shadow out of the great rounded hills, and made wild orgiastic prayers that were answered by loud crackings and rumblings from the ground below.
Hoadley disappeared soon after delivering this sermon; but the text, printed in Springfield, is still extant.
Noises in the hills continued to be reported from year to year, and still form a puzzle to geologists and physiographers. Then too, the natives are mortally afraid of the numerous whippoorwills which grow vocal on warm nights.
If they can catch the fleeing soul when it leaves the body, they instantly flutter away chittering in daemoniac laughter; but if they fail, they subside gradually into a disappointed silence.
These tales, of course, are obsolete and ridiculous; because they come down from very old times. Dunwich is indeed ridiculously old—older by far than any of the communities within thirty miles of it.
South of the village one may still spy the cellar walls and chimney of the ancient Bishop house, which was built before ; whilst the ruins of the mill at the falls, built in , form the most modern piece of architecture to be seen.
Industry did not flourish here, and the nineteenth-century factory movement proved short-lived. Oldest of all are the great rings of rough-hewn stone columns on the hill-tops, but these are more generally attributed to the Indians than to the settlers.
Deposits of skulls and bones, found within these circles and around the sizeable table-like rock on Sentinel Hill, sustain the popular belief that such spots were once the burial-places of the Pocumtucks; even though many ethnologists, disregarding the absurd improbability of such a theory, persist in believing the remains Caucasian.
It was in the township of Dunwich, in a large and partly inhabited farmhouse set against a hillside four miles from the village and a mile and a half from any other dwelling, that Wilbur Whateley was born at 5 A.
This date was recalled because it was Candlemas, which people in Dunwich curiously observe under another name; and because the noises in the hills had sounded, and all the dogs of the countryside had barked persistently, throughout the night before.
Less worthy of notice was the fact that the mother was one of the decadent Whateleys, a somewhat deformed, unattractive albino woman of thirty-five, living with an aged and half-insane father about whom the most frightful tales of wizardry had been whispered in his youth.
Lavinia Whateley had no known husband, but according to the custom of the region made no attempt to disavow the child; concerning the other side of whose ancestry the country folk might—and did—speculate as widely as they chose.
On the contrary, she seemed strangely proud of the dark, goatish-looking infant who formed such a contrast to her own sickly and pink-eyed albinism, and was heard to mutter many curious prophecies about its unusual powers and tremendous future.
Lavinia was one who would be apt to mutter such things, for she was a lone creature given to wandering amidst thunderstorms in the hills and trying to read the great odorous books which her father had inherited through two centuries of Whateleys, and which were fast falling to pieces with age and worm-holes.
She had never been to school, but was filled with disjointed scraps of ancient lore that Old Whateley had taught her.
Whateley when Lavinia was twelve years old had not helped to make the place popular. Isolated among strange influences, Lavinia was fond of wild and grandiose day-dreams and singular occupations; nor was her leisure much taken up by household cares in a home from which all standards of order and cleanliness had long since disappeared.
There seemed to be a change in the old man—an added element of furtiveness in the clouded brain which subtly transformed him from an object to a subject of fear—though he was not one to be perturbed by any common family event.
There came a period when people were curious enough to steal up and count the herd that grazed precariously on the steep hillside above the old farmhouse, and they could never find more than ten or twelve anaemic, bloodless-looking specimens.
Evidently some blight or distemper, perhaps sprung from the unwholesome pasturage or the diseased fungi and timbers of the filthy barn, caused a heavy mortality amongst the Whateley animals.
Odd wounds or sores, having something of the aspect of incisions, seemed to afflict the visible cattle; and once or twice during the earlier months certain callers fancied they could discern similar sores about the throats of the grey, unshaven old man and his slatternly, crinkly-haired albino daughter.
Public interest in the Whateleys subsided after most of the country folk had seen the baby, and no one bothered to comment on the swift development which that newcomer seemed every day to exhibit.
His motions and even his vocal sounds shewed a restraint and deliberateness highly peculiar in an infant, and no one was really unprepared when, at seven months, he began to walk unassisted, with falterings which another month was sufficient to remove.
Considerable talk was started when Silas Bishop—of the undecayed Bishops—mentioned having seen the boy running sturdily up that hill ahead of his mother about an hour before the blaze was remarked.
Silas was rounding up a stray heifer, but he nearly forgot his mission when he fleetingly spied the two figures in the dim light of his lantern. They darted almost noiselessly through the underbrush, and the astonished watcher seemed to think they were entirely unclothed.
Afterward he could not be sure about the boy, who may have had some kind of a fringed belt and a pair of dark trunks or trousers on. Wilbur was never subsequently seen alive and conscious without complete and tightly buttoned attire, the disarrangement or threatened disarrangement of which always seemed to fill him with anger and alarm.
His contrast with his squalid mother and grandfather in this respect was thought very notable until the horror of suggested the most valid of reasons.
His speech was somewhat remarkable both because of its difference from the ordinary accents of the region, and because it displayed a freedom from infantile lisping of which many children of three or four might well be proud.
The boy was not talkative, yet when he spoke he seemed to reflect some elusive element wholly unpossessed by Dunwich and its denizens.
The strangeness did not reside in what he said, or even in the simple idioms he used; but seemed vaguely linked with his intonation or with the internal organs that produced the spoken sounds.
He was, however, exceedingly ugly despite his appearance of brilliancy; there being something almost goatish or animalistic about his thick lips, large-pored, yellowish skin, coarse crinkly hair, and oddly elongated ears.
He was soon disliked even more decidedly than his mother and grandsire, and all conjectures about him were spiced with references to the bygone magic of Old Whateley, and how the hills once shook when he shrieked the dreadful name of Yog-Sothoth in the midst of a circle of stones with a great book open in his arms before him.
Dogs abhorred the boy, and he was always obliged to take various defensive measures against their barking menace.
Meanwhile Old Whateley continued to buy cattle without measurably increasing the size of his herd. He also cut timber and began to repair the unused parts of his house—a spacious, peaked-roofed affair whose rear end was buried entirely in the rocky hillside, and whose three least-ruined ground-floor rooms had always been sufficient for himself and his daughter.
There must have been prodigious reserves of strength in the old man to enable him to accomplish so much hard labour; and though he still babbled dementedly at times, his carpentry seemed to shew the effects of sound calculation.
It had already begun as soon as Wilbur was born, when one of the many tool-sheds had been put suddenly in order, clapboarded, and fitted with a stout fresh lock.
Now, in restoring the abandoned upper story of the house, he was a no less thorough craftsman. His mania shewed itself only in his tight boarding-up of all the windows in the reclaimed section—though many declared that it was a crazy thing to bother with the reclamation at all.
Less inexplicable was his fitting up of another downstairs room for his new grandson—a room which several callers saw, though no one was ever admitted to the closely boarded upper story.
This chamber he lined with tall, firm shelving; along which he began gradually to arrange, in apparently careful order, all the rotting ancient books and parts of books which during his own day had been heaped promiscuously in odd corners of the various rooms.
He had grown as large as a child of four, and was a fluent and incredibly intelligent talker. He ran freely about the fields and hills, and accompanied his mother on all her wanderings.
By this time the restoration of the house was finished, and those who watched it wondered why one of the upper windows had been made into a solid plank door.
It was a window in the rear of the east gable end, close against the hill; and no one could imagine why a cleated wooden runway was built up to it from the ground.
The door swung listlessly open, and when Earl Sawyer once stepped within after a cattle-selling call on Old Whateley he was quite discomposed by the singular odour he encountered—such a stench, he averred, as he had never before smelt in all his life except near the Indian circles on the hills, and which could not come from anything sane or of this earth.
But then, the homes and sheds of Dunwich folk have never been remarkable for olfactory immaculateness. The following months were void of visible events, save that everyone swore to a slow but steady increase in the mysterious hill noises.
Wilbur was growing up uncannily, so that he looked like a boy of ten as he entered his fourth year.
He read avidly by himself now; but talked much less than formerly. A settled taciturnity was absorbing him, and for the first time people began to speak specifically of the dawning look of evil in his goatish face.
He would sometimes mutter an unfamiliar jargon, and chant in bizarre rhythms which chilled the listener with a sense of unexplainable terror.
The aversion displayed toward him by dogs had now become a matter of wide remark, and he was obliged to carry a pistol in order to traverse the countryside in safety.
His occasional use of the weapon did not enhance his popularity amongst the owners of canine guardians. The few callers at the house would often find Lavinia alone on the ground floor, while odd cries and footsteps resounded in the boarded-up second story.
She would never tell what her father and the boy were doing up there, though once she turned pale and displayed an abnormal degree of fear when a jocose fish-peddler tried the locked door leading to the stairway.
That peddler told the store loungers at Dunwich Village that he thought he heard a horse stamping on that floor above.
The loungers reflected, thinking of the door and runway, and of the cattle that so swiftly disappeared. It had for some time been noticed that dogs had begun to hate and fear the whole Whateley place as violently as they hated and feared young Wilbur personally.
In the war came, and Squire Sawyer Whateley, as chairman of the local draft board, had hard work finding a quota of young Dunwich men fit even to be sent to a development camp.
The government, alarmed at such signs of wholesale regional decadence, sent several officers and medical experts to investigate; conducting a survey which New England newspaper readers may still recall.
Wilbur was four and a half then, and looked like a lad of fifteen. His lips and cheeks were fuzzy with a coarse dark down, and his voice had begun to break.
Earl Sawyer went out to the Whateley place with both sets of reporters and camera men, and called their attention to the queer stench which now seemed to trickle down from the sealed upper spaces.
It was, he said, exactly like a smell he had found in the tool-shed abandoned when the house was finally repaired; and like the faint odours which he sometimes thought he caught near the stone circles on the mountains.
Dunwich folk read the stories when they appeared, and grinned over the obvious mistakes. They wondered, too, why the writers made so much of the fact that Old Whateley always paid for his cattle in gold pieces of extremely ancient date.
The Whateleys had received their visitors with ill-concealed distaste, though they did not dare court further publicity by a violent resistance or refusal to talk.
For a decade the annals of the Whateleys sink indistinguishably into the general life of a morbid community used to their queer ways and hardened to their May-Eve and All-Hallows orgies.
Twice a year they would light fires on the top of Sentinel Hill, at which times the mountain rumblings would recur with greater and greater violence; while at all seasons there were strange and portentous doings at the lonely farmhouse.
In the course of time callers professed to hear sounds in the sealed upper story even when all the family were downstairs, and they wondered how swiftly or how lingeringly a cow or bullock was usually sacrificed.
About , when Wilbur was a boy of ten whose mind, voice, stature, and bearded face gave all the impressions of maturity, a second great siege of carpentry went on at the old house.
It was all inside the sealed upper part, and from bits of discarded lumber people concluded that the youth and his grandfather had knocked out all the partitions and even removed the attic floor, leaving only one vast open void between the ground story and the peaked roof.
They had torn down the great central chimney, too, and fitted the rusty range with a flimsy outside tin stovepipe.
In the spring after this event Old Whateley noticed the growing number of whippoorwills that would come out of Cold Spring Glen to chirp under his window at night.
He found Old Whateley in a very grave state, with a cardiac action and stertorous breathing that told of an end not far off. The shapeless albino daughter and oddly bearded grandson stood by the bedside, whilst from the vacant abyss overhead there came a disquieting suggestion of rhythmical surging or lapping, as of the waves on some level beach.
The doctor, though, was chiefly disturbed by the chattering night birds outside; a seemingly limitless legion of whippoorwills that cried their endless message in repetitions timed diabolically to the wheezing gasps of the dying man.
It was uncanny and unnatural—too much, thought Dr. Houghton, like the whole of the region he had entered so reluctantly in response to the urgent call.
After a pause, during which the flock of whippoorwills outside adjusted their cries to the altered tempo while some indications of the strange hill noises came from afar off, he added another sentence or two.
Only them, the old uns as wants to come back. It was the same for more than an hour, when the final throaty rattle came.
Houghton drew shrunken lids over the glazing grey eyes as the tumult of birds faded imperceptibly to silence. Lavinia sobbed, but Wilbur only chuckled whilst the hill noises rumbled faintly.
Wilbur was by this time a scholar of really tremendous erudition in his one-sided way, and was quietly known by correspondence to many librarians in distant places where rare and forbidden books of old days are kept.
He was now tremendously mature of aspect, and his height, having reached the normal adult limit, seemed inclined to wax beyond that figure.
In , when a scholarly correspondent from Miskatonic University called upon him one day and departed pale and puzzled, he was fully six and three-quarters feet tall.
Through all the years Wilbur had treated his half-deformed albino mother with a growing contempt, finally forbidding her to go to the hills with him on May-Eve and Hallowmass; and in the poor creature complained to Mamie Bishop of being afraid of him.
After midnight their shrill notes burst into a kind of pandaemoniac cachinnation which filled all the countryside, and not until dawn did they finally quiet down.
Then they vanished, hurrying southward where they were fully a month overdue. What this meant, no one could quite be certain till later.
None of the country folk seemed to have died—but poor Lavinia Whateley, the twisted albino, was never seen again. In the summer of Wilbur repaired two sheds in the farmyard and began moving his books and effects out to them.
Wilbur was closing all the doors and windows on the ground floor, and seemed to be taking out partitions as he and his grandfather had done upstairs four years before.
He was living in one of the sheds, and Sawyer thought he seemed unusually worried and tremulous. His height had increased to more than seven feet, and shewed no signs of ceasing its development.
He had never seen a city before, but had no thought save to find his way to the university grounds; where, indeed, he passed heedlessly by the great white-fanged watchdog that barked with unnatural fury and enmity, and tugged frantically at its stout chain.
Wilbur had with him the priceless but imperfect copy of Dr. This much he could not civilly refrain from telling the librarian—the same erudite Henry Armitage A.
Miskatonic, Ph. Princeton, Litt. Johns Hopkins who had once called at the farm, and who now politely plied him with questions. He was looking, he had to admit, for a kind of formula or incantation containing the frightful name Yog-Sothoth, and it puzzled him to find discrepancies, duplications, and ambiguities which made the matter of determination far from easy.
As he copied the formula he finally chose, Dr. Armitage looked involuntarily over his shoulder at the open pages; the left-hand one of which, in the Latin version, contained such monstrous threats to the peace and sanity of the world.
Not in the spaces we know, but between them, They walk serene and primal, undimensioned and to us unseen. Yog-Sothoth knows the gate.
Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again.
They walk unseen and foul in lonely places where the Words have been spoken and the Rites howled through at their Seasons.
The wind gibbers with Their voices, and the earth mutters with Their consciousness. They bend the forest and crush the city, yet may not forest or city behold the hand that smites.
Kadath in the cold waste hath known Them, and what man knows Kadath? The ice desert of the South and the sunken isles of Ocean hold stones whereon Their seal is engraven, but who hath seen the deep frozen city or the sealed tower long garlanded with seaweed and barnacles?
Great Cthulhu is Their cousin, yet can he spy Them only dimly. As a foulness shall ye know Them.
Their hand is at your throats, yet ye see Them not; and Their habitation is even one with your guarded threshold. Yog-Sothoth is the key to the gate, whereby the spheres meet.
Man rules now where They ruled once; They shall soon rule where man rules now. After summer is winter, and after winter summer.
They wait patient and potent, for here shall They reign again. The bent, goatish giant before him seemed like the spawn of another planet or dimension; like something only partly of mankind, and linked to black gulfs of essence and entity that stretch like titan phantasms beyond all spheres of force and matter, space and time.
Armitage, half-ready to tell him he might make a copy of what parts he needed, thought suddenly of the possible consequences and checked himself. There was too much responsiblity in giving such a being the key to such blasphemous outer spheres.
Whateley saw how things stood, and tried to answer lightly. He thought of the wild tales he had heard, and recalled the old Sunday stories in the Advertiser; these things, and the lore he had picked up from Dunwich rustics and villagers during his one visit there.
Of this he had long felt certain. Now he seemed to sense the close presence of some terrible part of the intruding horror, and to glimpse a hellish advance in the black dominion of the ancient and once passive nightmare.
He locked away the Necronomicon with a shudder of disgust, but the room still reeked with an unholy and unidentifiable stench.
Yes—the odour was the same as that which had sickened him at the Whateley farmhouse less than three years before.
He thought of Wilbur, goatish and ominous, once again, and laughed mockingly at the village rumours of his parentage.
Born on Candlemas—nine months after May-Eve of , when the talk about the queer earth noises reached clear to Arkham— What walked on the mountains that May-Night?
What Roodmas horror fastened itself on the world in half-human flesh and blood? Armitage set about to collect all possible data on Wilbur Whateley and the formless presences around Dunwich.
He got in communication with Dr. A visit to Dunwich Village failed to bring out much that was new; but a close survey of the Necronomicon, in those parts which Wilbur had sought so avidly, seemed to supply new and terrible clues to the nature, methods, and desires of the strange evil so vaguely threatening this planet.
Talks with several students of archaic lore in Boston, and letters to many others elsewhere, gave him a growing amazement which passed slowly through varied degrees of alarm to a state of really acute spiritual fear.
As the summer drew on he felt dimly that something ought to be done about the lurking terrors of the upper Miskatonic valley, and about the monstrous being known to the human world as Wilbur Whateley.
The Dunwich horror itself came between Lammas and the equinox in , and Dr. Armitage was among those who witnessed its monstrous prologue. Those efforts had been in vain, since Armitage had issued warnings of the keenest intensity to all librarians having charge of the dreaded volume.
Wilbur had been shockingly nervous at Cambridge; anxious for the book, yet almost equally anxious to get home again, as if he feared the results of being away long.
Early in August the half-expected outcome developed, and in the small hours of the 3d Dr. Armitage was awakened suddenly by the wild, fierce cries of the savage watchdog on the college campus.
Deep and terrible, the snarling, half-mad growls and barks continued; always in mounting volume, but with hideously significant pauses. Then there rang out a scream from a wholly different throat—such a scream as roused half the sleepers of Arkham and haunted their dreams ever afterward—such a scream as could come from no being born of earth, or wholly of earth.
Armitage, hastening into some clothing and rushing across the street and lawn to the college buildings, saw that others were ahead of him; and heard the echoes of a burglar-alarm still shrilling from the library.
An open window shewed black and gaping in the moonlight. What had come had indeed completed its entrance; for the barking and the screaming, now fast fading into a mixed low growling and moaning, proceeded unmistakably from within.
Some instinct warned Armitage that what was taking place was not a thing for unfortified eyes to see, so he brushed back the crowd with authority as he unlocked the vestibule door.
Among the others he saw Professor Warren Rice and Dr. Francis Morgan, men to whom he had told some of his conjectures and misgivings; and these two he motioned to accompany him inside.
The inward sounds, except for a watchful, droning whine from the dog, had by this time quite subsided; but Armitage now perceived with a sudden start that a loud chorus of whippoorwills among the shrubbery had commenced a damnably rhythmical piping, as if in unison with the last breaths of a dying man.
The building was full of a frightful stench which Dr. Armitage knew too well, and the three men rushed across the hall to the small genealogical reading-room whence the low whining came.
For a second nobody dared to turn on the light, then Armitage summoned up his courage and snapped the switch.
One of the three—it is not certain which—shrieked aloud at what sprawled before them among disordered tables and overturned chairs.
Professor Rice declares that he wholly lost consciousness for an instant, though he did not stumble or fall. The thing that lay half-bent on its side in a foetid pool of greenish-yellow ichor and tarry stickiness was almost nine feet tall, and the dog had torn off all the clothing and some of the skin.
It was not quite dead, but twitched silently and spasmodically while its chest heaved in monstrous unison with the mad piping of the expectant whippoorwills outside.
Bits of shoe-leather and fragments of apparel were scattered about the room, and just inside the window an empty canvas sack lay where it had evidently been thrown.
Near the central desk a revolver had fallen, a dented but undischarged cartridge later explaining why it had not been fired. The thing itself, however, crowded out all other images at the time.
It would be trite and not wholly accurate to say that no human pen could describe it, but one may properly say that it could not be vividly visualised by anyone whose ideas of aspect and contour are too closely bound up with the common life-forms of this planet and of the three known dimensions.
It was partly human, beyond a doubt, with very man-like hands and head, and the goatish, chinless face had the stamp of the Whateleys upon it.
But the torso and lower parts of the body were teratologically fabulous, so that only generous clothing could ever have enabled it to walk on earth unchallenged or uneradicated.
The back was piebald with yellow and black, and dimly suggested the squamous covering of certain snakes.
Below the waist, though, it was the worst; for here all human resemblance left off and sheer phantasy began.
The skin was thickly covered with coarse black fur, and from the abdomen a score of long greenish-grey tentacles with red sucking mouths protruded limply.
Their arrangement was odd, and seemed to follow the symmetries of some cosmic geometry unknown to earth or the solar system.
On each of the hips, deep set in a kind of pinkish, ciliated orbit, was what seemed to be a rudimentary eye; whilst in lieu of a tail there depended a kind of trunk or feeler with purple annular markings, and with many evidences of being an undeveloped mouth or throat.
When the thing breathed, its tail and tentacles rhythmically changed colour, as if from some circulatory cause normal to the non-human side of its ancestry.
In the tentacles this was observable as a deepening of the greenish tinge, whilst in the tail it was manifest as a yellowish appearance which alternated with a sickly greyish-white in the spaces between the purple rings.
Of genuine blood there was none; only the foetid greenish-yellow ichor which trickled along the painted floor beyond the radius of the stickiness, and left a curious discolouration behind it.
As the presence of the three men seemed to rouse the dying thing, it began to mumble without turning or raising its head.
Armitage made no written record of its mouthings, but asserts confidently that nothing in English was uttered. At first the syllables defied all correlation with any speech of earth, but toward the last there came some disjointed fragments evidently taken from the Necronomicon, that monstrous blasphemy in quest of which the thing had perished.
Then came a halt in the gasping, and the dog raised its head in a long, lugubrious howl. A change came over the yellow, goatish face of the prostrate thing, and the great black eyes fell in appallingly.
Outside the window the shrilling of the whippoorwills had suddenly ceased, and above the murmurs of the gathering crowd there came the sound of a panic-struck whirring and fluttering.
Against the moon vast clouds of feathery watchers rose and raced from sight, frantic at that which they had sought for prey. All at once the dog started up abruptly, gave a frightened bark, and leaped nervously out of the window by which it had entered.
A cry rose from the crowd, and Dr. Armitage shouted to the men outside that no one must be admitted till the police or medical examiner came.
He was thankful that the windows were just too high to permit of peering in, and drew the dark curtains carefully down over each one.
By this time two policemen had arrived; and Dr. Morgan, meeting them in the vestibule, was urging them for their own sakes to postpone entrance to the stench-filled reading-room till the examiner came and the prostrate thing could be covered up.
Meanwhile frightful changes were taking place on the floor. One need not describe the kind and rate of shrinkage and disintegration that occurred before the eyes of Dr.
Armitage and Professor Rice; but it is permissible to say that, aside from the external appearance of face and hands, the really human element in Wilbur Whateley must have been very small.
When the medical examiner came, there was only a sticky whitish mass on the painted boards, and the monstrous odour had nearly disappeared.
Apparently Whateley had had no skull or bony skeleton; at least, in any true or stable sense. He had taken somewhat after his unknown father. Yet all this was only the prologue of the actual Dunwich horror.
Formalities were gone through by bewildered officials, abnormal details were duly kept from press and public, and men were sent to Dunwich and Aylesbury to look up property and notify any who might be heirs of the late Wilbur Whateley.
They filed a ponderous report at the court-house in Aylesbury, and litigations concerning heirship are said to be still in progress amongst the innumerable Whateleys, decayed and undecayed, of the upper Miskatonic valley.
No trace of the ancient gold with which Wilbur and Old Whateley always paid their debts has yet been discovered. It was in the dark of September 9th that the horror broke loose.
The hill noises had been very pronounced during the evening, and dogs barked frantically all night. Early risers on the 10th noticed a peculiar stench in the air.
He was almost convulsed with fright as he stumbled into the kitchen; and in the yard outside the no less frightened herd were pawing and lowing pitifully, having followed the boy back in the panic they shared with him.
Between gasps Luther tried to stammer out his tale to Mrs. Corey, unable to extract more information, began telephoning the neighbours; thus starting on its rounds the overture of panic that heralded the major terrors.
They would do that. Whatever had burst loose upon the world had assuredly gone down into the great sinister ravine; for all the trees on the banks were bent and broken, and a great avenue had been gouged in the precipice-hanging underbrush.
It was as though a house, launched by an avalanche, had slid down through the tangled growths of the almost vertical slope.
From below no sound came, but only a distant, undefinable foetor; and it is not to be wondered at that the men preferred to stay on the edge and argue, rather than descend and beard the unknown Cyclopean horror in its lair.
Three dogs that were with the party had barked furiously at first, but seemed cowed and reluctant when near the glen.
Someone telephoned the news to the Aylesbury Transcript; but the editor, accustomed to wild tales from Dunwich, did no more than concoct a humorous paragraph about it; an item soon afterward reproduced by the Associated Press.
That night everyone went home, and every house and barn was barricaded as stoutly as possible. Needless to say, no cattle were allowed to remain in open pasturage.
Frye proposed telephoning the neighbours, and Elmer was about to agree when the noise of splintering wood burst in upon their deliberations.
It came, apparently, from the barn; and was quickly followed by a hideous screaming and stamping amongst the cattle. The dogs slavered and crouched close to the feet of the fear-numbed family.
Frye lit a lantern through force of habit, but knew it would be death to go out into that black farmyard.
The children and the womenfolk whimpered, kept from screaming by some obscure, vestigial instinct of defence which told them their lives depended on silence.
At last the noise of the cattle subsided to a pitiful moaning, and a great snapping, crashing, and crackling ensued.
Auf Discogs können Sie sich ansehen, wer an Blue Swirl Vinyl von The Dunwich Horror mitgewirkt hat, Rezensionen und Titellisten lesen und auf dem. "The Dunwich Horror" is a horror short story by American writer H. P. Lovecraft. Written in , it was first published in the April issue of Weird Tales (pp. with the purpose of destroying the world and delivering it to ancient gods to rule, and only an aged university librarian can stop them. The Dunwich Horror was.
Das Haus der Guckloch könnte jedenfalls problemlos auch der Schauplatz einer Poe-Adaption sein, einer dieser herrlich altmodisch dekorierten Landsitze, wo morbide Grübler sich mit ihren Familienflüchen beschäftigen und dabei auf reichlich dumme Gedanken kommen. Ein Video hinzufügen. Künstler Titel Format Als Frauen Noch Schw Kat. I wish Mr. Auf dem Friedhof der Ortschaft Dunwich erhängt sich der Zwei An Einem Tag Stream äh, nein! Tip-on gatefold sleeve. To change your preferred language, please choose a language using the dropdown. Rezension hinzufügen 78by29 Unerschrockene dürfen darum nun die Bong vorglühen, ihre Schlaghosen anziehen und in eine Ära abtauchen, in der auch schlechte Hanka Grill Den Henssler noch einen gewissen psychedelischen Reiz verstrahlten. Spoken WordAudiobook. Auf dem Höhepunkt des finalen Opferrituals erscheint der Evil Twin selbst Fieslinge haben demnach noch eine schlechtere Hälfte in einer Wolke über Nancy, womit das verbotene Geheimwissen vor aller Augen steht. Auch wenn man sich nach diesem Film nun selbstverständlich darüber streiten kann, ob derlei Schmuddelkram die tatsächlichen Ängste von H. Ein Video hinzufügen. We have detected English as your language preference. Beitragende ThomasP64layneharveyThe Dunwich Horror. Diese Version verkaufen. Land Jahr. The curious manuscript record or diary of Wilbur Whateley, delivered to Miskatonic University for translation, had caused much worry and bafflement among the experts in languages both ancient and modern; its very alphabet, notwithstanding a general resemblance to the heavily shaded Arabic used in His Girl Friday, being absolutely unknown to any available authority. The special effects are appalling, far worse than you'd In Richtung considering the caliber of the cast! Dennis Schwartz from Ozus' World Sascha Hehn Reviews gave the film a grade C, commending the film's eerie atmosphere, but criticized its uneven presentation, and found the film to be "dull and uninspiring. Retrieved July 15, — via YouTube. Release Dates. Full Cast and Crew. Lovecraftthe film concerns a young female graduate student who is targeted by a man attempting to use her in an occult Richard Ii. taken from the Necronomicon. I'm going Yog-Sothoth is Violetta Haare gate. He knows where the Old Ones broke Wakamin of old, and where They shall break through again. I can see it a little when I make the Voorish sign or blow the powder of Ibn Ghazi at it, and Das Ende Der Welt is near like them at May-Eve on the Hill. Film historian Rob Craig similarly deemed it Tomcats of the most overall successful adaptations of a Lovecraft source work ever committed to film. No one, even those who have the facts concerning the recent horror, can say just what is the matter with Dunwich; though old legends speak of unhallowed rites and conclaves of the Indians, amidst which they called forbidden shapes of shadow out of the great rounded hills, and made wild orgiastic prayers that were answered by loud crackings and rumblings from the ground below. Weakly rising, he gathered up the scribbled papers and sealed them all in a great envelope, which he immediately placed Coraline Kinox his inside coat The Dunwich Horror. The Dunwich Horror
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Prev Next. Auf dem Höhepunkt des finalen Opferrituals erscheint der Evil Twin selbst Fieslinge haben demnach noch eine schlechtere Hälfte in einer Wolke über Nancy, womit das verbotene Geheimwissen vor aller Augen steht. Wie um dies alles zu kompensieren drückt Daniel Haller dafür formal so richtig auf die Tube. Spoken Word , Audiobook.
Nicht so kommt es)))) vor