THE HORROR OUT OF TIME

   H. P. Lovecraft was a master at writing creepy horror. Those who know him -- among them Robert Bloch and Donald Wollheim--were aware of his horror of the sea and the things that lived in it. This story is dedicated to H. P., Robert, and Don, to assure them that there are more horrid things beneath the sea than Chthulu.
 It all depends on your viewpoint.

 By Randall Garrett

 It has been more than thirty years now since I saw that terrifying thing in the crypt-like temple, but I remember it as clearly, and with all the horror, as if I had seen it but an hour ago.

 In those days, twenty years before the turn of the century, the sailing ship still held sway over most of the world's waters; now, the steam-driven vessels cover in days distances that took months. All that no longer matters to me; I have not been abroad since I returned from that South Sea voyage, still weak from fever and delirium, over thirty years ago.

 I think that before the end of this new century, scientific researchers will have proven as fact things which I already know to be true. What facts lie behind the mysteries of certain megalithic ruined cities found buried beneath the shifting sands on three separate continents? Are they merely the constructs of our prehistoric ancestors? Or are they much older than we know, the products of some primal race, perhaps from this planet, perhaps from another, far distant in space? The latter sounds wild, phantastick, perhaps even... mad, but I believe it to be true, and may hap this narrative will be of some service to those researchers who already suspect the truth. Long before our ancestors discovered the use of fire, even before they had evolved beyond animal form and intellect, there were beings of vast power and malignant intelligence who ruled supreme over this planet.

   I have always been a person of leisure, spending my time in historical research, in reading books on philosophy, both natural and metaphysical, and in writing what I believe to be scholarly articles for various learned journals. When I was younger, I was more adventurous; I travelled a great deal, not only to read and research in the great universities of the world, but to do original research in hidden places of the earth, where few learned folk have gone. I was fearless then; neither the rotten foetidness of tropic jungles, nor the arid heat of harsh deserts, nor the freezing cold of polar regions daunted me.

 Until the summer of my twenty-sixth year. I was aboard the White Moon , sailing homeward through the South Seas, after having spent some months exploring the ancient ruins on one of the larger islands. (Their age can be measured in mere centuries; they have nothing to do with the present narrative.)

 During the time I had been aboard, I had become quite friendly with Captain Bork, the commander of the three-masted vessel. He was a heavy-set, bluff, hearty fellow, an excellent ship's officer, and well-read in many subjects far divergent from mere nautical lore. Although self-educated, his behavior was that of one gently born, far above that of the common sailor of the day. He was perhaps a dozen years older than I, but we spent many an hour during that tedious journey discussing various subjects,and I dare say I learned as much from him as he learned from me. We became, I think, good friends.

One evening, I recall, we sat up rather late in his cabin, discoursing on daemonology. "I'm not a superstitious chap, myself, sir," said he, "but I will tell you that there are things take place at sea that could never happen on land. Things I couldn't explain if I tried." "And you attribute them to non-material spirits, Captain?" I asked. "Surely not."

 In the dim light shed by the oil-lamp swinging gently overhead, his face took on a solemn expression."Not spirits, perhaps, sir. No, not spirits exactly. Something...else."

 I became interested. I knew the captain's sincerity, and I knew that, whatever he had to tell me, it would be told as he knew it to be.

 "What, then, if not spirits?" I asked.

 He looked broodingly out the porthole of his cabin. "I don't really know," he said slowly in his low, rumbling voice, staring out at the moonless sea-night. After a moment, he looked back at me, but there was no change in his expression. "I don't really know," he repeated. "It may be daemons or spirits or whatever, but it's not the feeling one gets in a graveyard, if you see what I mean. It's different, somehow.It's as if there were something down there--"

 And he pointed straight downward, as though he were directing my attention down past the deck, past the hull, to the dreadful black sea-bottom so far beneath. I could say nothing.

 "Way down there," he continued solemnly. "There is something old down there--something old, but living. It is far older than we can know. It goes far back beyond the dawn of time. But it is there and it... waits."

 A feeling of revulsion came over me-not against the captain, but against the sea itself, and I realized that I, too, had felt that nameless fear without knowing it.
 But of course I could not fall prey to that weird feeling. "Come, Captain," said I, in what I hoped was a pleasant tone, "this is surely your imagination. What
intelligence could live at the bottom of the sea?" He looked at me for a long moment, then his countenance changed. There was a look of forced
cheerfulness upon his broad face. " Aye, sir; you're right. A person gets broody at sea, that's all. I fear I've been at sea too long. Have to take a long rest ashore, I will. I've been planning a month in port, and it'll rid me of these silly notions. Will you have another drink, sir?"

 I did, and by the time I was in my own cabin, I had almost forgotten the conversation. I lay down in my bunk and went fast asleep.

 I was awakened by the howling of the wind through the rigging. The ship was heaving from side to side, and I realized that heavy seas had overtaken her. From above, I heard the shouts of the captain and the first mate. I do not remember what they were, for I am not fully conversant with nautical terms, but I could hear the various members of the crew shouting in reply.

 It was still dark, and, as it was summertime in the southern hemisphere, that meant that it was still early. I hadn't the faintest notion of the time, but I knew I had not slept long.

 I got out of my bunk and headed topside. It is difficult, even now, for me to describe that storm. The sea was roiling like a thing alive, but the wind was almost mild. It shifted, now blowing one way, now another, but it came nowhere near heavy gale force. The White Moon swerved this way and that under its influence, as though we were caught in some monstrous whirlpool that changed its direction of swirl at varying intervals.

 There were no clouds directly overhead. The stars shone as usual in every direction save to the west, where one huge black cloud seemed to blot the sky.

 I heard the Captain shout: "Get below, sir! Get below! You're only a hindrance on deck! Get below!" I was, after all, no sailor, and he was master of the ship, so I went back to my cabin to wait the storm out. I know not how long that dreadful storm lasted, for there was no dawn that day. The enveloping cloud from the west had spread like heavy smoke, almost blocking out the sun, and the sky was still a darkling grey when the sea subsided into gentle swells. Shortly after it had done so, there was a rap at my cabin door.

 "The Captain would like to see you on deck, sir," said a sailor's rough voice from without. I accompanied the sailor up the ladder to the weatherdeck, where Captain Bork was staring into the greyness abaft the starboard rail.

 "What is it, Captain?" I inquired.

 Without looking at me, he asked, "Do you smell that, sir?" I had already perceived the stench which permeated the sea air about us. There was the nauseous aroma of rotting sea flesh combined with the acrid bitterness of burning sulphur. Before I could answer his question, the Captain continued. "I caught that smell once before many years ago." He turned to look at me. "Have you smelt it before, sir?"

 "Once," I said. "Not exactly the same, Captain, but similar. It was near a volcano. But there was no smell of rotten fish."

 Captain Bork nodded his massive head. "Aye, sir. That's the smell of it. Somewhere to the west--" He pointed toward the area where the black cloud was densest. "--there's been a volcanic explosion; the like of which we've not seen before. I knew it was no ordinary storm; this is not the season for typhoon."

 "But what is that horrid miasma of decay?" I asked. "No volcano ever gave off a smell like that." Before the Captain could answer, a call came from the top of the mizzenmast. " Land Ho-o-o-o!"

 Captain Bork jerked his head around and squinted toward the north" He thrust an arm out, pointing."Land it is, sir," he said to me, "and that's where your stench comes from. The seas are shallow in these parts, but there should be no islands about. Look."

 In the dim, wan light I saw a low, bleak headland that loomed above the surging surface of the sea. I knew then what had happened. The volcanic eruption, and the resulting seismic shock, had lifted a part of the sea bottom above the surface. There before Us, in black basalt, was a portion of the seabed which had been inundated for untold millennia. It was from that newly-risen plateau that the revolting odour came, wafted by the gusting sea-breeze.

 The captain began giving orders. There were certain repairs which had to be made, and he felt it would be better to have the ship at anchor for the work, so he directed that the ship be brought in close to the newly-risen island. Not too close, of course; if another volcanic quake stirred the sea, he wanted leeway between the White Moon and those forbidding rocks. He found water shallow enough to set the anchors, and the crew went to work with a will. The stench from the island, while mephitic enough, was not really strong, and we soon grew accustomed to it. I was of no use whatever aboard, and might well have gone to my cabin and stayed there while the crew worked, but there was something about that bleak, malodorous island that drew my attention powerfully.The ship was anchored roughly parallel to the beach, with the island to port, so I found a spot forward where I would be out of the way of the work and examined the island minutely with a spyglass I had borrowed from Captain Bork. The island was tiny; one could have walked across it with no trouble at all, had it been level and even.

 But it would be much more difficult over that craggy, slippery black surface. The close-up view through the spyglass only made the island look the more uninviting. Rivulets of sea
water, still draining from the upper plateau, cut through sheets of ancient slime that oozed gelatinously down the precipitate slopes to the coral-crusted beach below. Pools of nauseous-looking liquid formed in pockets of dark rock and bubbled slowly and obscenely. As I watched, I became obsessed with the feeling that I had seen all this before in some hideous nightmare. Then something at the top of the cliff caught my eye. It was something farther inland, and I had to readjust the focus of my instrument to see it clearly. For a moment, I held my breath. It appeared to be the broken top of an embattled tower!

 It could not be, of course. I told myself that it was merely some chance formation of rock. But I had to get a better view of it.

 I went in search of the Captain and requested his permission to climb a little way up the rigging, so that my point of view would be above the top of the cliff. Busy as he was, he granted my request almost offhandedly. Up I went, and used the spyglass once again.

 The tower was plainly visible now. It appeared to be one of two, the second broken off much lower than the first. Both rose from one end of a rectangular block that might have been a partly buried building,as if some great fortress, aeons old, still stood there.

 Or was my over-fervid imagination making too much of what, after all, was more likely to be a natural formation? I have often watched cloud formations take on weird and phantastick shapes as the wind shifts them across the sky; could not this be the same or a similar phenomenon? I forced my mind to be more objective, to look at the vista before me as it actually was, not as I might imagine it to be. The spyglass showed clearly that the surface of that ugly, looming structure was composed of coral-like cells and small shellfish like those which cling to the bottoms of sea-going vessels when they have not been drydocked for too long a time. The edges of the building--if building it was--were rounded, and not angular. It could be merely a happenstance, a natural formation of rock which had been covered, over the millenia, by limeshell creatures which had given that natural structure a vague, blurred outline resembling an ancient fortress. Still, would not a genuine artifact of that size and shape have looked the same if it were covered with the same encrustations? I could not decide. Even after the most minute examination through the spyglass, I could not decide. There was but one thing to do, so I approached the Captain with my request.

 "Go ashore?" Captain Bork said in astonishment. "No, sir; I could not allow that! In the first place, it is far too dangerous. Those rocks are slippery and afford too precarious a foothold. And look to the west;that volcano is still active; a second quake might submerge that island again as easily as the first raised it. In the second place, I cannot, at this time, spare the men to row you ashore in a longboat."

 I had to make a firm stand. "Captain," said I, "surely you realise the tremendous scientific importance of this discovery. If that structure is, as I surmise, an artifact rather than a natural configuration of stone, the failure to investigate it would be an incalculable loss to science."

 It required some little time to convince the Captain, but after I had persuaded him to climb the rigging and look for himself, he conceded to my request, albeit grudgingly. "Very well, sir, since you insist. Two of my crew will row you ashore. Since we are within easy hailing distance, they will return and work until you call. I cannot do more. I feel it is risky--no, more than that; it is downright foolhardy. But you are not a cub, sir; you have the right to do as you wish, no matter how dangerous." Then his stern countenance changed. "To be honest, sir, I would come with you if I could. But my duty lies with my ship."

 "I understand, Captain," said I. Actually, I had no desire for him to come ashore with me. At that time, I wanted to make any discovery that might be made by myself. If any glory were to be earned in that exploration, I wanted to earn it myself. How bitterly was I to repent that feeling later!

 The "beach"--if such it could be called--was merely a slope of sharp coral permeated with stinking slime. I had had the good sense to dress properly in heavy boots and water-resistant clothing, but, closeup, the nauseating odour was almost unbearable. Still, I had asked for it, and I must bear it.

 The "beach" ended abruptly with a cliff nearly twice my own height, and I had to circle round to find a declivity I could negotiate.

 Up I went, but it was hard going over those slippery, jagged rocks to the more level portion of the island.

 I cannot, even now, describe the encroaching dread that came over me as I topped that rise and beheld the structure that squatted obscenely before me. Had I had less foolish courage, I might have turned,even then, and called back the longboat that was moving away, back toward the White Moon. But there was the matter of youthful pride. Having committed myself, I must go on, lest I be thought a coward by the Captain and crew of that gallant ship.

 I made my way carefully across that broken field of coral-covered basalt but, try as I might, I could not avoid slipping now and then. More than once my feet slid into malodorous pools of ichthyc ooze. I would not care to take that walk today, for I am more brittle and my muscles are not as strong as they were then; even my younger, stronger self was fortunate that he did not break something. Suddenly the going became easier. The area around that looming structure, some ten or twelve paces from the base of the wall, was quite level and covered with pebbles and fine sand rather than coral. But even up close those dripping, encrusted walls gave no clue as to whether they were natural or artificial.Slowly, carefully, I walked along the wall toward the east and, after thirty paces, turned the corner and
continued north, along the shorter side of the structure. That eastern wall was as blank and unyielding of any evidence as the previous one had been. At the next corner I turned west and walked along the northern wall. It, too, looked exactly the same as the southern one. It was not until I came to the fourth side that I saw the opening. I approached the breach in the wall with equal dread and fascination. Here, at last, I might find an avenue through which to reach the answers I sought. I paused at its edge, reluctant somehow to look inside. The way was difficult here, for a great stone slab lay flat on the sand, a mire-filled trench marking where it must have been resting upright for millenia, until the recent volcanic disturbance unbalanced and toppled It, unsealing the doorway before me. There was no question remaining in my mind that it was indeed a doorway; a single fearful glance revealed a smooth, dry stone floor. Even in the wan grey light of the smoke-clouded day, an astounding fact was evident to me: that the mysterious structure was indeed an artifact constructed by intelligent beings, and that until a few hours ago the stone slab at my feet had covered the doorway which surrounded me, sealing out the corrosive sea water. The vapours which wafted from within were malodorous enough, but the stench was musty and dry. In spite of the strong sense of foreboding that was tugging at my heart and bowels, I could no longer contain my scientific curiosity. I slipped from my back the supply pack provided me by the Captain, and drew out the most bulky object, one of the ship's lamps. Beside the great slab of stone, I struggled with flint and steel to light the oily wick. I recall clearly how I felt at that moment. The White Moon seemed aeons away, unreachable. I told myself that the excitement which made my body tremble was the incredible fortune of my find. That I should be at this place and time to avail myself of this unprecedented opportunity seemed miraculous. A different angle of course, a slightly stronger wind, the Captain refusing flatly to have me escorted to these forbidding shores; any of these might have deprived me of the knowledge I was about to gain. So I told myself then. But looking back I know that I searched my mind for some rational reason for the lump of fear that seemed to choke me. For I am sure, now, that in my heart I already knew that what I had found would change my life in ways far different from the fortune and acclaim I tried so hard to believe I would receive.

 The lamp finally caught. and its cheerful yellow light was most welcome. Braced up by its dancing glow.shielded within it from the baleful grey of the day. I walked into that ancient, long-hidden temple.

 How did I know. immediately, that the large. Shadow-shrouded room I entered had been a place of worship? I have tried, many times. to understand what I sensed when I stepped through that doorway. I can describe it only as a many-particular presence. a malignant energy which swelled and eddied around me. And that energy was not random or undirected. It was focussed far across the floor. against the far wall. The area was completely hidden from the brave little light of my oil lamp--to inspect it I would have to cross the great room.

 Gone, now. was the brief impulse of bravado inspired by the lighting of the lantern. I moved across that endless room in the grip of a terror so profound that my mind was virtually paralyzed. I walked not through my own volition, but out of a reluctance to resist the pressure of that force which surrounded me, drawing me inexorably to the hidden area where I knew I would find an answer which I was becoming ever more certain I did not want to find!

 The lamp swayed with my every step, casting inadequate illumination on the pillars that lined my path,and causing fearsome shadows to billow out into the blankness beyond them. I could see symbols on the pillars: unintelligible. weird carvings which were somehow utterly repulsive, and from which looked quickly away. Now and then the nether regions of the room would catch a ray of light and reveal drifts of dust, all that remained of wooden furniture or fabric wall-hangings. A part of me still stubbornly mourned the loss and surmised that the originals had been perfectly preserved until the advent of fresh air had accelerated their long-delayed decomposition. But that objective, scientific interest was almost totally submerged in a great relief that I was spared the scenes depicted in those ancient tapestries.

 If those aspects of the huge room which I could see in the glow of my lantern contributed to a sense of apprehension, consider the effect of the vast areas which remained concealed. I began to fill the darkened corners with fancy. What lurked there, just beyond the light, watching me? Did I hear whispering in the gloom above me, or was it only the sea breeze becoming reacquainted with these aged stones? Surely the latter was true, for I could smell afresh, with sharpened senses, the foetid odour of the"beach." Or was this scent original within the temple, caused by the same sudden decay of once-living flesh as had struck the objects which had been reduced to dust?

 For the first time in my young life, I cursed the imagination which had always enriched physical experience for me. If I persisted in conjuring spectres to satisfy my straining senses...

 I saw the altar. It rested atop a long, shallow stairway which stretched the whole width of the aisle. From where I was, I could see three steps, a long platform, and another set of three steps. At the end of that second platform stood a massive block, only a rectangular shape at the edge of the light.

 I recognized that it functioned as an altar because I could now sense the exact focus of the energies which had drawn me across the room. On the wall above and behind the altar was an idol. Not even its vaguest outline was visible to me, yet I knew it was there, and that when I looked upon it, I would know the truth. At that moment I looked back across the blackness at the patch of grey gloom that was the only doorway, the only way in... or out. I knew that I had reached the only remaining moment of choice. To mount the first step toward the altar was to commit myself unremittingly to viewing what waited beyond it. I could turn back now, escape this dark and horrid place, return to the honest sunlight, however obscure. But with my goal in sight, the hard stone step at the toe of my boot, I was shamed by the memory of my
terrifying phantasies. I could not quite scoff at them, standing as I was almost within reach of what I could think of only as a sacrificial altar. But I argued with valid logic that the truth, whatever it might be, would dispel forever the lingering trauma of that fancy-ridden trek. So, with a grand and foolish determination, I turned and stepped upward. As the altar loomed into the circle of light I carried with me, I could not repress a shudder of horror.

 Here was not the indestructible grey stone I had seen throughout the temple, but a giant block of scabrous white marble. Once smooth and gleaming, it had been etched and scarred by the elements of the air confined for--how long?--within these walls. The pattern of the marbled surface was lost beneath scattered patches that reflected an unhealthy white, as though some thin and pallid fungus were feeding on the evil, glistening stone.

 I looked down at last upon the entire altar, and try as I did to resist, I was swept up in another eddy of phantasy. For what blasphemous rituals had this hideous altar been used? I could not shake the impression that living sacrifice had been offered here. In my mind's eye I could see a razor-sharp spear blade hovering ever nearer a terrified victim whose outline was blurred and unclear. And who--or what--held that threatening blade? Was this really only phantasy, or was I seeing a scene so often repeated that its impression had remained these countless thousands of years?

 I knew the moment had come. I lifted high my lantern and looked upon the thing to which the ancient sacrifice had been made.

 The carven image on that wall was never meant for our eyes. I am the only person who has ever seen it,and time has not yet erased my sense of utter revulsion when the light of my lantern exposed it at last.Numbed by the horror of it, I stood as if paralyzed for what seemed an interminably long time; then, driven nearly mad by that ghastly visage, I threw the lamp at it with all my strength, as though I could destroy the sight of it. I must have screamed, but I can remember only the echoing of my boots as I ran back to the welcoming gloom of the still-dark day, fled for my soul's sake from that revolting and nauseous vision.
 Past that, my memory is unclear. I retain an impression still of the total panic in my mind, as my body ran back across the sandy level to the noxious sea-scudded rocks. Some thankful instinct guided me toward the White Moon. The joy that surged through me when I saw her masts above the slimy crest that marked the edge of the "beach" is totally indescribable. Those masts represented safety, refuge,security. To my unbalanced mind they represented wholesomeness. All I need do, so my mind ran, was reach the White Moon-there I would find forgetfulness. It would be as though I had never set foot in that gruesome temple; it would never have happened at all. And how I longed to escape the memory of that place, of the indescribable horror that ruled over that dishonourable altar!

 I ran for the White Moon's masts, slipping and falling, heedless of the dangerous coral which cut repeatedly at my extremities. With a soul felt sob of relief, I ran straight over the edge of the crest and plummeted to the beach below.

 I do not remember the pain; all I remember is the shock of the blow that knocked the breath out of me. And then, gratefully, I gave myself up to the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness.

 I was told later that I was unconscious for two days, and thus did not experience the second volcanic eruption and the resulting quake which allowed the merciful sea to flood over and cover again that horrid island and its tomb-like temple.

 Some infection from the coral cuts must have invaded my body, for I was in a fevered delirium for the next five days.

 But, delirium or no, I did not imagine that carven figure above that gruesome altar. No living thing has that much imagination, even in delirium.

 I can still see it clearly in my mind's eye, although I would far rather forget it. It tells too much about the horrible and blasphemous rites which must have been performed in that evil place, rites practiced by monstrous beings that ruled this planet a quarter of a million or more years ago.

 The hideous thing was almost indescribable, and I cannot, will not, bring myself to draw it. It was thin and emaciated-looking, with two tiny, deep-sunken eyes and a small mouth surrounded by some kind of bristles or antennae. The muscles were clearly visible, as though its flesh were all on the outside. It had only two arms, and these were flung wide. The horrible, five-fingered hands and the five-toed feet were nailed firmly to a great stone cross!