“Yʻai ʻNgʻngah Yog-Sothoth Hʻee ⸻ Lʻgeb Fʻaiʻ Throdog Uaah!
But what was this cold wind which had sprung into life at the very outset of the chant? The lamps were sputtering woefully, and the gloom grew so dense that the letters on the wall nearly faded from sight. There was smoke, too, and an acrid odor which quite drowned out the stench from the faraway wells; an odor like that he had smelt before, yet infinitely stronger and more pungent. He turned from the inscriptions to face the room with its bizarre contents, and saw that the kylix on the floor, in which the ominous efflorescent powder had lain, was giving forth a cloud of thick, greenish-black vapor of surprising volume and opacity. That powder—Great God! it had come from the shelf of “ Custodes ”—what was it doing now, and what had started it? The formula he had been chanting—the first of the pair—Dragon’s Head, ascending node —Blessed Saviour, could it be—
The doctor reeled, and through his head raced wildly disjointed scraps from all he had seen, heard, and read of the frightful case of Joseph Curwen and Charles Dexter Ward. “I say to you againe, doe not call up Any that you cannot put downe. … Have ye Wordes for laying at all times readie, and stopp not to be sure when there is any Doubte of Whom you have—Three Talkes with What was therein inhum’d—” Mercy of Heaven, what is that shape behind the parting smoke?
Marinus Bicknell Willett has no hope that any part of his tale will be believed except by certain sympathetic friends, hence has made no attempt to tell it beyond his most intimate circle. Only a few outsiders have ever heard it repeated, and of these the majority laugh and remark that the doctor surely is getting old. He has been advised to take a long