Þe Hund

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The Hound is a short story written by H. P. Lovecraft in 1922 that was published two years later.

English Spelling[edit]


The Hound
By H. P. Lovecraft
Went by Cascadia
(Thrutched 1924)



In my tintreyed ears there sweys unendingly a nightmare humming and flapping, and a dim, far off barking as of some ettinish hound. It is not sweven—it is not, I fear, even madness—for too much has already befallen to yeave me these ruthful tweens. Holy Yon is a shredded lich; I alone know why, and such is my knowledge that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be quealed in the ilch way. Down unlit and unedged hallways of eldritch fathoming sweeps the black, shapeless Wreaker that drives me to selfwrake.

May heaven foryeave the unwit and sickness which led us bo to so fivelish an end! Wearied with the everyday of a dull world, where even the wins of love and plee soon grow stale, Holy Yon and I had followed earnestly every lief of lite and mind which told of liss from our eyful weariness. The mistihoods of the Tokeners and the blisses of the Fore-Rafaellievers all were ours in her time, but each new mood was drained too soon of its newness and draw. Only the dark outhwitting of the Forlorn could hold us, and this we found rich only by growing stepwise the depth and evil of our falls. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon emptied of thrills, hent at last there was left for us only the straightforwarder anyets of unkindly bodily undergoings and rosings. It was this frightful need which led us at last to that foul deed which even in my anward fear I nemmen with shame and arghness—that atle end of mans evil, the hated work of gravereaving.

I cannot bewray the small marks of our dreadful deeds, or reckon even in deal the worst of the keepsakes dizening the nameless showroom we readied in the great stone house where we dwelt together, alone and thewless. Our showroom was a godless, unthinkenly stead, where with the devilish way of madmen we had sammed a world of dread and rot to thrill our weary feelings. It was a dern room, far, far underground; where great fithered shucks carven of black stone spewed from wide grinning mouths green and yellowred light, and hidden wind pipes blew into sliding tumbs of death the lines of red gravish things hand in hand woven in great black hangings. Through these pipes came at will the smells our moods most craved; sometimes the smell of ashen graveyard lilies, sometimes the sleepy stoor of fathomed Eastern shrines of the kingly dead, and sometimes—how I shudder to mimmer it!—the frightful, soul upheaving stenches of the unearthed grave.

About the walls of this foul room were boxes of fern wrapped bodies stevenmeal with comely, lifelich bodies wonderfully filled and dried by the akeeper’s craft, and with headstones stolen from the oldest churchyards in the world. Hirns here and there held headbones of all shapes, and heads akept in sundry steps of rot. There man might find the rotting, bald nolls of meer athels, and the fresh and glowingly golden heads of new-buried children. Grafts and metings there were, all of fiendish things and some done by Holy Yon and myself. A locked book, bound in manhide, held sundry unknown and unnamenly drawings which it was said Goya had done but dared not acknowledge. There were latsome gleetools, stringed, brass, and woodwind, on which Holy Yon and I sometimes made dins of keen sickness and devilish ghastliness; whilst in a manifold of inlaid dark wood showglasses laid the unbelievenliest and unfathomenliest gravehoard ever sammed by man’s madness and sickness. It is this hoard above all that I must not speak—thank God I had the dought to unmake it long before I thought of unmaking myself.

The hunting outfares on which we sammed our unnamenly sink were always litefully weighty befallings. We were no filthy fiends, but worked only under a wiss embstandness, of mood, landshape, setting, weather, tide, and moonlight. These games were to us the keenest shape of liteful making, and we yave her small marks great and stickling care. An unfit stound, an unthwear light, or a toward shrithing of the fought turf, would almost wholly quench for us that blissful thrill which followed the delving up of some grim, grinning rown of the earth. Our hunt for new sights and tending things was rithful and unsadenly—Holy Yon was always the leader, and he it was who led the way at last to that unkindly, that accursed spot which brought us to our atle and unatwindenly doom.

By what foul wird were we drawn to that eyful Holland churchyard? I think it was the dark talk and spells, the tales of a man buried for five yearhundreds, who had himself been a fiend in his time and had stolen a rich thing from a mighty earthern. I can mimmer the sight in these last brightoms—the wan harvest moon over the graves, throwing long atle shadows; the misshapen trees, sinking glumly to meet the forsaken grass and the crumbling stones; the great thrums of ferly ettinish rearmice that flew ayenst the moon; the fern ivied church putting a great ghostly finger to the brised heaven; the glowing wigs that tumbed lich deathfires under the yews in a firlen hirn; the stenches of loam, worts, and less rechenly things that minged woakly with the nightwind from over sloughs and seas; and worst of all, the far off deep barking of some ettinish hound which we could neither see nor wissly put. As we heard this hint of barking we shuddered, mimmering the tales of the churlfolk; for he whom we sought had yearhundreds before been found in this ilch spot, torn and shredded by the claws and teeth of some unspeakenly wight.

I mimmered how we delved in this reaver’s grave with our spades, and how we thrilled at the look of ourselves, the grave, the wan watching moon, the atle shadows, the misshapen trees, the ettinish rearmice, the fern church, the tumbing deathfires, the sickening stenches, the softly moaning nightwind, and the ferly, halfheard, wayless barking, of whose true being we could hardly be wiss. Then we struck an antimber harder than the fought loam, and beheld a long, rotting box shrouded with stony growth from the long unbroken ground. It was amazingly tough and thick, but so old that we at last wrenched it open and fed our eyes on what it held.

Much—amazingly much—was left of the thing, the span of five hundred years notwithstanding. The bones, thaugh ground in spots by the chavels of the thing that had quelled it, held together with ferly strength, and we crowed over the clean white headbone and its long, hard teeth and its eyeless rings that once had glowed with a deathly rith lich our own. In the through lay a libsen of ferly and outlandish making, which looked to have been worn about the sleeper’s neck. It was the ferly streamlined graft of a sitting fithered hound, or a sphinx with a doglich anlet, and was well carved in a fern Eastern way from a small deal of greenstone. Its ansen was of the greatest foulness, smacking at once of death, reethness, and evil. About the staddle was a graving in staves which neither Holy Yon nor I could acknow; and on the bottom, lich a maker’s mark, was graven a misshapen and dreadful headbone.

Right on beholding this libsen we knew that we must have it; that this mathom alone was our wiss houth from the olden grave. Even had its outlines been uncouth to us we would have listed for it, but as we looked nigher we saw that it was not wholly uncouth. Outcund it was indeed to all craft and writing known by readers sound of mind and sid, but we acknowed it as the thing hinted of in the forbidden Book of the Dead of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the ghastly soultoken of the lich eating church of unreachenly Leng, in Middle Asey. All too well did we rine the dreadful marks reched by the old Arab shucklorer; marks, he wrote, drawn from some shadowy unkindly showing of the souls of those who treyed and gnawed at the dead.

Fanging the greenstone graft, we yave a last look at the bleached and empty-eyed anlet of its owner and clised up the grave as we found it. As we sped from that atle spot, the stolen libsen in Holy Yon’s sack, we thought we saw the rearmice come down in a body to the earth we had so lately delved through, as if seeching for some cursed and unholy moose. But the harvest moon shone woak and wan, and we could not be wiss. So, too, as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we heard the far off barking of some ettinish hound in the background, but the fall wind moaned sad and wan, and we could not be wiss.



Less than a week after we came back to England, ferly things began to befall. We lived as loners; bare of friends, alone, and without thews in a few rooms of a fern bold on a bleach and outlying moor; so that our doors were seldom dreeved by the knock of a comer. Now, however, we were ailed by what sweyed lich often fumblings in the night, not only about the doors but about the eyedoors also, upper as well as nether. Once we fathomed that a great, cloudy body darkened the bookroom eyedoor when the moon was shining ayenst it, and another time we thought we heard a humming or flapping sough not far off. Each time shruttening unheeled nothing, and we began to put the befallings to the mind alone—that ilch ferly sick fathoming which still whispered in our ears the far off barking we thought we had heard in the Holland churchyard. The greenstone libsen now rested in a hirn in our showroom, and sometimes we burned outlandish smelling candles before it. We read much in Alhazred’s Book of the Dead about its marks, and about the lench of gravereavers’ souls to the things it tokened; and were unstilled by what we read. Then brow came.

On the night of Holimonth 24, 19—, I heard a knock at my bedroom door. Thinking it Holy Yon I bade the knocker infare, but was answered only by a shrill laugh. There was nobody in the hallway. When I woke Holy Yon from his sleep, he was unknowing of the thing, and became as worried as I. It was that night that the far off barking over the moor became to us a wiss and dreaded sooth. Four days later, whilst we were bo in the hidden showroom, there came a soft, wary clawing at the lone door which led to the hidden bookroom stairwell. Our fright was now cloven, for besides our fear of the unknown, we had always held a dread that our grim samming might be found. Quenching all lights, we went to the door and threw it swiftly open; whereon we felt an untellenly blast of lift, and heard as if backing far away a ferly ming of whispering, tittering, and hearenly speec. Whether we were mad, swevening, or out of our minds, we fanded not to find out. We only acknowed, with the blackest of dreads, that the unbodied chatter was beyond tween in the Dutch tongue.

After that we lived in growing brow and grip. Mostly we held to the reching that we were bo going mad from our life of unkindly thrills, but sometimes it queemed us more to play ourselves up as the tivers of some creeping and eyful doom. Ferly showings came now too often to rime. Our lonely house felt alive with the shade of some evil being whose eard we could not fathom, and every night the devilish barking came over the windswept moor, always louder and louder. On Winterfulth 29 we found in the soft earth underneath the bookroom eyedoor a line of footmarks trewly unmightly to rech. Hy were as mazing as the swarms of great rearmice which hanged about the bold in a never before seen and growing tale.

The brow raught an end on Blootmonth 18, when Holy Yon, walking home after dark from the firlen ironroad stop, was fanged by some frightful flesheating thing and torn to shreds. His shrees had raught the house, and I had sped to the atle stead in time to hear a hum of fithers and see a black cloudy thing outlined ayenst the rising moon. My friend was quealing when I spoke to him, and he could not answer understandenly. All he could do was whisper, “The libsen—that cursed thing—.” Then he fell, a dead weight of shredded flesh.

I buried him the next midnight in one of our forlorn leightons, and mumbled over the body one of the devilish rights he had loved in life. And as I spoke the last shuckish quid I heard afar on the moor the barking of some ettinish hound. The moon was up, but I dared not look at it. And when I saw on the dimlitten moor a wide, shapeless shadow sweeping from hill to hill, I shut my eyes and threw myself down on the ground. When I arose quaking, I know not how much later, I reeled into the house and threw myself dreadfully before the inshrined greenstone libsen.

Being now afeared to live alone in the fern house on the moor, I left on the following day for London, bringing with me the libsen after burning and burying the rest of the unholy samming in the showroom. But after three nights I heard the barking ayen, and before a week was over felt ferly eyes on me whenever it was dark. One evening as I walked along the Thames for some needed lift, I saw a black shape darken one of the glassings of the lights in the water. A wind stronger than the nightwind flew by, and I knew that what had befallen Holy Yon must soon befall me.

The next day I carefully wrapped the greenstone libsen and sailed for Holland. What milse I might find by bringing the thing back to its still, sleeping owner I knew not; but I felt that I must at least fand any step rightly fathomenly. What the hound was, and why it hunted me, were frains still cloudy; but I had first heard the barking in that fern churchyard, and every following thing inning Holy Yon’s swelting whisper had lenched the curse with the stealing of the libsen. Thus I sank into the nethermost depths of wanhope when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I found that thieves had nimmed from me this lone path to aleesedness.

The barking was loud that evening, and in the morning I read of a nameless deed in the foulest deal of the borough. The churlfolk were in brow, for on an evil building had fallen a red death beyond the foulest forn deed of the neighborhood. In a filthy thieves’ den a whole hird had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no loast, and those about had heard all night above the wonly din of drunken stevens a far off, deep, pounding bark as of an ettinish hound.

So at last I stood ayen in that unwholesome churchyard where a wan winter moon threw atle shadows, and leafless trees sunk grimly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking stones, and the ivied church put a kenching finger to the unfriendly heaven, and the nightwind theeted madly from over frozen sloughs and icy seas. The barking was mighty wan now, and it ended altogether as I neared the fern grave I had once filed, and frightened away an unkindly great swarm of rearmice which had been hovering ferly about it.

I know not why I went thither unless to bow, or babble out mad beads and sorries to the smilt white thing that lay within; but, whatever my ground, I struck the half frozen turf with a wantonness in deal mine and in deal that of a bestriding will outside myself. Delving was much eather than I highted, thaugh once I met a ferly hitch; when a lean gripe alit out of the cold heaven and billed madly at the grave earth hent I quealed him with a blow of my spade. At last I raught the long rotting box and fornimmed the clammy lid. This is the last sound deed I ever did.

For sitting within that olden through, held by a nigh crammed nightmare thrum of great, sinewy, sleeping rearmice, was the bony thing my friend and I had reaved; not clean and restful as we had seen it then, but shrouded with dried blood and shreds of outcund flesh and hair, and leering knowingly at me with glowing eyerings and sharp bloodied fangs yawning twistedly in hooker at my inatwindenly doom. And when it yave from those grinning chavels a deep, biting bark as of some ettinish hound, and I saw that it held in its gory, filthy claw the lost and weighty greenstone libsen, I but shreed and ran away mindlessly, my shrees soon melting into mad laughter.

Madness rides the starwind… claws and teeth sharpened on yearhundreds of liches… dripping death astride a swarm of rearmice from night black isels of buried harrows of Belial… Now, as the barking of that dead, fleshless fivel grows louder and louder, and the stealthy humming and flapping of those accursed web fithers comes nigher and nigher, I shall seech with my handgun the nothingness which is my only yenner from the unnamed and unnamenly.




Anglish Spelling[edit]


By H. P. Lovecraft
Ƿent by Cascadia
(Þrucced 1924)



In my tintreyed ears þere sƿeys unendingly a nigtmare humming and flapping, and a dim, far off barking as of sum ettinisc hund. It is not sƿefen—it is not, I fear, efen madness—for too muc has already befallen to geef me þese reƿþful tƿeens. Holy Geon is a scredded lic; I alone knoƿ hƿy, and suc is my knoƿlecg þat I am abute to bloƿ ute my brains for fear I scall be cƿealed in þe ilc ƿay. Dune unlit and unecged hallƿays of eldric faþoming sƿeeps þe black, scapeless Ƿreaker þat drifes me to selfƿrake.

May heafen forgeef þe unƿit and sickness hƿic led us bo to so fifelisc an end! Ƿearied ƿiþ þe eferyday of a dull ƿorld, hƿere efen þe ƿins of luf and plee soon groƿ stale, Holy Geon and I had folloƿed earnestly efery leef of lite and mind hƿic told of liss from ure eyful ƿeariness. Þe mistihoods of þe Tokeners and þe blisses of þe Fore-Rafaelleefers all ƿere ures in her time, but eac neƿ mood ƿas drained too soon of its neƿness and draƿ. Only þe dark uþeƿitting of þe Forlorn culd hold us, and þis ƿe fund ric only by groƿing stepƿise þe depþ and efil of ure falls. Baudelaire and Huysmans ƿere soon emptied of þrills, hent at last þere ƿas left for us only þe straigtforƿarder angets of unkindly bodily undergoings and rosings. It ƿas þis frigtful need hƿic led us at last to þat fule deed hƿic efen in my anƿard fear I nemmen ƿiþ scame and argness—þat atel end of mans efil, þe hated ƿork of grafereafing.

I cannot beƿray þe small marks of ure dreadful deeds, or reckon efen in deal þe ƿorst of þe keepsakes disening þe nameless scoƿroom ƿe readied in þe great stone huse hƿere ƿe dƿelt togeþer, alone and þeƿless. Ure scoƿroom ƿas a godless, unþinkenly stead, hƿere ƿiþ þe defilisc ƿay of madmen ƿe had sammed a ƿorld of dread and rot to þrill ure ƿeary feelings. It ƿas a dern room, far, far undergrund; hƿere great fiþered scucks carfen of black stone speƿed from ƿide grinning muþes green and gelloƿred ligt, and hidden ƿind pipes bleƿ into sliding tumbs of deaþ þe lines of red grafisc þings hand in hand ƿofen in great black hangings. Þruge þese pipes came at ƿill þe smells ure moods most crafed; sumtimes þe smell of ascen grafegeard lillies, sumtimes þe sleepy stoor of faþomed Eastern scrines of þe kingly dead, and sumtimes—hu I scudder to mimmer it!—þe frigtful, soƿlupheafing stences of þe unearþed grafe.

Abute þe ƿalls of þis fule room ƿere boxes of fern ƿrapped bodies stefenmeal ƿiþ cumly, lifelic bodies ƿunderfully filled and dried by þe akeepers craft, and ƿiþ headstones stolen from þe oldest circgeards in þe ƿorld. Hirns here and þere held headbones of all scapes, and heads akept in sundry steps of rot. Þere man migt find þe rotting, bald nolls of meer aþels, and þe fresc and gloƿingly golden heads of neƿberried cildren. Grafts and metings þere ƿere, all of feendisc þings and sum done by Holy Geon and myself. A locked book, bund in manhide, held sundry unknoƿn and unnamenly draƿings hƿic it ƿas said Goya had done but dared not acknoƿlecg. Þere ƿere latsum gleetools, stringed, brass, and ƿoodƿind, on hƿic Holy Geon and I sumtimes made dins of keen sickness and defilisc gastliness; hƿilst in a manifold of inlaid dark ƿood scoƿglasses laid þe unbeleefenliest and unfaþomenliest grafehoard efer sammed by mans madness and sickness. It is þis hoard abuf all þat I must not speak—þank God I had þe dugt to unmake it long before I þougt of unmaking myself.

Þe hunting utefares on hƿic ƿe sammed ure unnamenly sink ƿere alƿays litefully ƿeigty befallings. Ƿe ƿere no filþy feends, but ƿorked only under a ƿiss embstandness, of mood, landscape, setting, ƿeaþer, tide, and moonligt. Þese games ƿere to us þe keenest scape of liteful making, and ƿe geafe her small marks great and stickelling care. An unfit stund, an unþƿear ligt, or a toƿard scriþing of þe fugt turf, ƿuld almost hƿolly cƿenc for us þat blissful þrill hƿic folloƿed þe delfing up of sum grim, grinning rune of þe earþ. Ure hunt for neƿ sigts and tending þings ƿas riþful and unsadenly—Holy Geon ƿas alƿays þe leader, and he it ƿas hƿo led þe ƿay at last to þat unkindly, þat acursed spot hƿic brougt us to ure atel and unatƿindenly doom.

By hƿat fule ƿird ƿere ƿe draƿn to þat eyful Holland circgeard? I þink it ƿas þe dark talk and spells, þe tales of a man berried for fife gerehundreds, hƿo had himself been a feend in his time and had stolen a ric þing from a migty earþern. I can mimmer þe sigt in þese last brigtoms—þe ƿan harfest moon ofer þe grafes, þroƿing long atel scadoƿs; þe misscapen trees, sinking glumly to meet þe forsaken grass and þe crumbelling stones; þe great þrums of ferly ettinisc rearmise þat fleƿ agenst þe moon; þe fern ified circ putting a great goastly finger to þe brised heafen; þe gloƿing ƿigs þat tumbed lic deaþfires under þe geƿs in a firlen hirn; þe stences of loam, ƿurts, and less reccenly þings þat minged ƿoakly ƿiþ þe nigtƿind from ofer sluges and seas; and ƿorst of all, þe far off deep barking of sum ettinisc hund hƿic ƿe culd neiþer see nor ƿissly put. As ƿe heard þis hint of barking ƿe scuddered, mimmering þe tales of þe cerlfolk; for he hƿom ƿe sougt had gerehundreds before been fund in þis ilc spot, torn and scredded by þe claƿs and teeþ of sum unspeakenly ƿigt.

I mimmered hu ƿe delfed in þis reafers grafe ƿiþ ure spades, and hu ƿe þrilled at þe look of ureselfs, þe grafe, þe ƿan ƿaccing moon, þe atel scadoƿs, þe misscapen trees, þe ettinisc rearmise, þe fern circ, þe tumbing deaþfires, þe sickening stences, þe softly moaning nigtƿind, and þe ferly, halfheard, ƿayless barking, of hƿose treƿ being ƿe culd hardly be ƿiss. Þen ƿe struck an antimber harder þan þe fugt loam, and beheld a long, rotting box scruded ƿiþ stony groƿþ from þe long unbroken grund. It ƿas amasingly tuge and þick, but so old þat ƿe at last ƿrenced it open and fed ure eyes on hƿat it held.

Muc—amasingly muc—ƿas left of þe þing, þe span of fife hundred geres notƿiþstanding. Þe bones, þaug grund in spots by þe ceafels of þe þing þat had cƿelled it, held togeþer ƿiþ ferly strengþ, and ƿe croƿed ofer þe clean hƿite headbone and its long, hard teeþ and its eyeless rings þat ones had gloƿed ƿiþ a deaþly riþ lic ure oƿn. In þe þruge lay a libsen of ferly and utelandisc making, hƿic looked to haf been ƿorn abute þe sleepers neck. It ƿas þe ferly streamlined graft of a sitting fiþered hund, or a sfinx ƿiþ a doglic anlet, and ƿas ƿell carfed in a fern Eastern ƿay from a small deal of greenstone. Its ansen ƿas of þe greatest fuleness, smacking at ones of deaþ, reeþness, and efil. Abute þe staddel ƿas a grafing in stafes hƿic neiþer Holy Geon nor I culd acknoƿ; and on þe bottom, lic a makers mark, ƿas grafen a misscapen and dreadful headbone.

Rigt on beholding þis libsen ƿe kneƿ þat ƿe must haf it; þat þis maþom alone ƿas ure ƿiss huþe from þe olden grafe. Efen had its utelines been uncooþ to us ƿe ƿuld haf listed for it, but as ƿe looked niger ƿe saƿ þat it ƿas not hƿolly uncooþ. Utecund it ƿas indeed to all craft and ƿriting knoƿn by readers sund of mind and sid, but ƿe acknoƿed it as þe þing hinted of in þe forbidden Book of þe Dead of þe mad Arab Abdul Alhasred; þe gastly soƿltoken of þe lic eating circ of unreacenly Leng, in Middel Asey. All too ƿell did ƿe rine þe dreadful marks recced by þe old Arab scucklorer; marks, he ƿrote, draƿn from sum scadoƿy unkindly scoƿing of þe soƿls of þose hƿo treyed and gnaƿed at þe dead.

Fanging þe greenstone graft, ƿe geafe a last look at þe bleaced and emptyeyed anlet of its oƿner and clised up þe grafe as ƿe fund it. As ƿe sped from þat atel spot, þe stolen libsen in Holy Geons sack, ƿe þougt ƿe saƿ þe rearmise cum dune in a body to þe earþ ƿe had so lately delfed þruge, as if seecing for sum cursed and unholy moos. But þe harfest moon scone ƿoak and ƿan, and ƿe culd not be ƿiss. So, too, as ƿe sailed þe next day aƿay from Holland to ure home, ƿe þougt ƿe heard þe far off barking of sum ettinisc hund in þe backgrund, but þe fall ƿind moaned sad and ƿan, and ƿe culd not be ƿiss.



Less þan a ƿeek after ƿe came back to England, ferly þings began to befall. Ƿe lifed as loners; bare of frends, alone, and ƿiþute þeƿs in a feƿ rooms of a fern bold on a bleac and utelying moor; so þat ure doors ƿere seldom dreefed by þe knock of a cummer. Nu, huefer, ƿe ƿere ailed by hƿat sƿeyed lic often fumbellings in þe nigt, not only abute þe doors but abute þe eyedoors also, upper as ƿell as neþer. Ones ƿe faþomed þat a great, cludy body darkened þe bookroom eyedoor hƿen þe moon ƿas scining agenst it, and anoþer time ƿe þougt ƿe heard a humming or flapping soug not far off. Eac time scruttening unheeled noþing, and ƿe began to put þe befallings to þe mind alone—þat ilc ferly sick faþoming hƿic still hƿispered in ure ears þe far off barking ƿe þougt ƿe had heard in þe Holland circgeard. Þe greenstone libsen nu rested in a hirn in ure scoƿroom, and sumtimes ƿe burned utelandisc smelling candels before it. Ƿe read muc in Alhasreds Book of þe Dead abute its marks, and abute þe lenc of grafereafers soƿls to þe þings it tokened; and ƿere unstilled by hƿat ƿe read. Þen broƿ came.

On þe nigt of Holimonþ 24, 19—, I heard a knock at my bedroom door. Þinking it Holy Geon I bade þe knocker infare, but ƿas ansƿered only by a scrill laug. Þere ƿas nobody in þe hallƿay. Hƿen I ƿoke Holy Geon from his sleep, he ƿas unknoƿing of þe þing, and became as ƿurried as I. It ƿas þat nigt þat þe far off barking ofer þe moor became to us a ƿiss and dreaded sooþ. Foƿr days later, hƿilst ƿe ƿere bo in þe hidden scoƿroom, þere came a soft, ƿary claƿing at þe lone door hƿic led to þe hidden bookroom stairƿell. Ure frigt ƿas nu clofen, for besides ure fear of þe unknoƿn, ƿe had alƿays held a dread þat ure grim samming migt be fund. Cƿencing all ligts, ƿe ƿent to þe door and þreƿ it sƿiftly open; hƿereon ƿe felt an untellenly blast of lift, and heard as if backing far aƿay a ferly ming of hƿispering, tittering, and hearenly speec. Hƿeþer ƿe ƿere mad, sƿefening, or ute of ure minds, ƿe fanded not to find ute. Ƿe only acknoƿed, ƿiþ þe blackest of dreads, þat þe unbodied ceatter ƿas begeond tƿeen in þe Duc tung.

After þat ƿe lifed in groƿing broƿ and grip. Mostly ƿe held to þe reccing þat ƿe ƿere bo going mad from ure life of unkindly þrills, but sumtimes it cƿeemed us more to play ureselfs up as þe tifers of sum creeping and eyful doom. Ferly scoƿings came nu too often to rime. Ure lonely huse felt alife ƿiþ þe scade of sum efil being hƿose eard ƿe culd not faþom, and efery nigt þe defilisc barking came ofer þe ƿindsƿept moor, alƿays luder and luder. On Ƿinterfulþ 29 ƿe fund in þe soft earþ underneaþ þe bookroom eyedoor a line of footmarks treƿly unmigtly to rec. Hy ƿere as masing as þe sƿarms of great rearmise hƿic hanged abute þe bold in a nefer before seen and groƿing tale.

Þe broƿ raugt an end on Blootmonþ 18, hƿen Holy Geon, ƿalking home after dark from þe firlen ironroad stop, ƿas fanged by sum frigtful flesceating þing and torn to screds. His screes had raugt þe huse, and I had sped to þe atel stead in time to hear a hum of fiþers and see a black cludy þing utelined agenst þe rising moon. My frend ƿas cƿealing hƿen I spoke to him, and he culd not ansƿer understandenly. All he culd do ƿas hƿisper, “Þe libsen—þat cursed þing—.” Þen he fell, a dead ƿeigt of scredded flesc.

I berried him þe next midnigt in one of ure forlorn leigtons, and mumbelled ofer þe body one of þe defilisc rigts he had lufed in life. And as I spoke þe last scuckisc cƿid I heard afar on þe moor þe barking of sum ettinisc hund. Þe moon ƿas up, but I dared not look at it. And hƿen I saƿ on þe dimlitten moor a ƿide, scapeless scadoƿ sƿeeping from hill to hill, I scut my eyes and þreƿ myself dune on þe grund. Hƿen I arose cƿaking, I knoƿ not hu muc later, I reeled into þe huse and þreƿ myself dreadfully before þe inscrined greenstone libsen.

Being nu afeared to lif alone in þe fern huse on þe moor, I left on þe folloƿing day for Lunden, bringing ƿiþ me þe libsen after burning and berrying þe rest of þe unholy samming in þe scoƿroom. But after þree nigts I heard þe barking agen, and before a ƿeek ƿas ofer felt ferly eyes on me hƿenefer it ƿas dark. One efening as I ƿalked along þe Tems for sum needed lift, I saƿ a black scape darken one of þe glassings of þe ligts in þe ƿater. A ƿind stronger þan þe nigtƿind fleƿ by, and I kneƿ þat hƿat had befallen Holy Geon must soon befall me.

Þe next day I carefully ƿrapped þe greenstone libsen and sailed for Holland. Hƿat mils I migt find by bringing þe þing back to its still, sleeping oƿner I kneƿ not; but I felt þat I must at least fand any step rigtly faþomenly. Hƿat þe hund ƿas, and hƿy it hunted me, ƿere frains still cludy; but I had first heard þe barking in þat fern circgeard, and efery folloƿing þing inning Holy Geons sƿelting hƿisper had lenced þe curs ƿiþ þe stealing of þe libsen. Þus I sank into þe neþermost depþs of ƿanhope hƿen, at an inn in Rotterdam, I fund þat þeefs had nimmed from me þis lone paþ to aleesedness.

Þe barking ƿas lude þat efening, and in þe morning I read of a nameless deed in þe fulest deal of þe boroug. Þe cerlfolk ƿere in broƿ, for on an efil bilding had fallen a red deaþ begeond þe fulest forn deed of þe neigborhood. In a filþy þeefs den a hƿole hird had been torn to screds by an unknoƿn þing hƿic left no loast, and þose abute had heard all nigt abuf þe ƿunly din of drunken stefens a far off, deep, punding bark as of an ettinisc hund.

So at last I stood agen in þat unhƿolesum circgeard hƿere a ƿan ƿinter moon þreƿ atel scadoƿs, and leafless trees sunk grimly to meet þe ƿiþered, frosty grass and cracking stones, and þe ified circ put a kencing finger to þe unfrendly heafen, and þe nigtƿind þeeted madly from ofer frosen sluges and isy seas. Þe barking ƿas migty ƿan nu, and it ended altogeþer as I neared þe fern grafe I had ones filed, and frigtened aƿay an unkindly great sƿarm of rearmise hƿic had been hofering ferly abute it.

I knoƿ not hƿy I ƿent þiþer unless to bue, or babbel ute mad beads and sorries to þe smilt hƿite þing þat lay ƿiþin; but, hƿatefer my grund, I struck þe half frosen turf ƿiþ a ƿantonness in deal mine and in deal þat of a bestriding ƿill uteside myself. Delfing ƿas muc eaþer þan I higted, þaug ones I met a ferly hic; hƿen a lean gripe alit ute of þe cold heafen and billed madly at þe grafe earþ hent I cƿealed him ƿiþ a bloƿ of my spade. At last I raugt þe long rotting box and fornimmed þe clammy lid. Þis is þe last sund deed I efer did.

For sitting ƿiþin þat olden þruge, held by a nige crammed nigtmare þrum of great, sineƿy, sleeping rearmise, ƿas þe bony þing my frend and I had reafed; not clean and restful as ƿe had seen it þen, but scruded ƿiþ dried blood and screds of utecund flesc and hair, and leering knoƿingly at me ƿiþ gloƿing eyerings and scarp bloodied fangs geaƿning tƿistedly in hooker at my inatƿindenly doom. And hƿen it geafe from þose grinning ceafels a deep, biting bark as of sum ettinisc hund, and I saƿ þat it held in its gory, filþy claƿ þe lost and ƿeigty greenstone libsen, I but screed and ran aƿay mindlessly, my screes soon melting into mad laugter.

Madness rides þe starƿind… claƿs and teeþ scarpened on gerehundreds of lices… dripping deaþ astride a sƿarm of rearmise from night black isels of berried harroƿs of Belial… Nu, as þe barking of þat dead, flescless fifel groƿs luder and luder, and þe stealþy humming and flapping of þose acursed ƿeb fiþers cums niger and niger, I scall seec ƿiþ my handgun þe noþingness hƿic is my only genner from þe unnamed and unnamenly.