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The Final Pronunciation
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The Final Pronunciation
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I want to make perfectly clear that I was not the driving force in all this; Harbison
was, and Harbison is dead.
Deservedly so, of course, dragged down and devoured by the
monstrosities that he was so instrumental in unleashing. That does diminish my
culpability, doesn't it? Dear God, doesn't it? Please forgive me, mankind…please
forgive me for what I helped start, for this hell on earth. Iris, poor, sick, half-mad,
breast cancer-ridden woman, can you forgive me also? If your soul still exists somewhere
in the void, can you hear my plea and somehow extend forgiveness? Can't you? I mutilated
you, I deformed you, I violated you, but you agreed to it, didn't you? Didn't you, you
poor, sick woman, didn't you?
For there is no upright judge in this world now who will hold me
accountable for violating my Hippocratic oath, for abusing a patient, for all that I've
done. The world is wrecked. I helped wreck it, so did Harbison, but it was Harbison who
was the driving force. He manipulated us, he inveigled us into it, so that does lessen my
guilt, doesn't it? Oh, Dear God, doesn't it? Doesn't it?
The bare facts of the case are these. My name is Richard Upjohn. I
was, when the world was still intact and functioning, a 37 year-old physician, a surgeon
who specialized in plastic and reconstructive surgery. Although unmarried, I had achieved
and acquired most of the things that denote material success in this earthly existence. I
maintained a successful medical practice in a major city on the East Coast, and was
considered by those who knew me, both professionally and personally, to be a respectable
and well-adjusted member of society.
One facet of my existence that may not have been considered
typical of those with my status, however, was my interest in literature dealing with the
supernatural and outré. The one author who I held in highest regard was H.P. Lovecraft, a
writer with a tremendous cosmic vision of the universe, whose narratives were imbued with
a profound sense of the horror that operates beneath the surface of a coldly indifferent
universe. As is natural with those who have such intense interests, I became a member of a
small group of people who had a similar interest in horror fiction and, most particularly,
in Lovecraft. I want to say here that, at first, my interest in Lovecraft's fiction was
limited to just deriving entertainment and intellectual stimulation from it; I did not
seriously believe that Lovecraft's vision of the universe was anything more than a
fictional artifice.
Indeed, most members of our group had a similarly rational
mind-set. There was an exception, however. A plain, middle-aged woman named Iris, who,
through some combination of personal eccentricity and emotional instability, had convinced
herself that Lovecraft's writings were more than just fiction. She was convinced that they
were, in fact, actual descriptions of terrible monstrosities that threatened mankind's
existence. These creatures were not currently visible to us owing to the fact that they
were somehow "sequestered away in another dimension," as she put it.
Understandably, this woman had a number of other peculiar beliefs relating to astrology
and various aspects of pseudo-science. No one in the group felt threatened by her, though,
and most tended to view her as just a harmless eccentric.
What caused this situation to move in a more sinister direction
was the appearance of a man named William Harbison. Harbison, a scientific programmer who
was otherwise physically unremarkable, found out about our group through a co-worker.
After joining our group, he distinguished himself almost immediately by the obvious
intensity of his interest in Lovecraft's writings and by the sheer force of his
personality. As with Iris, this man held the conviction that Lovecraft was a visionary
whose writings hinted at a reality that we were prevented from appreciating owing to
humankind's sensory and constitutional limitations.
What differentiated this man from Iris was the extreme
persuasiveness of his arguments in support of his beliefs. Claiming that he had subjected
the content of Lovecraft's writings to a rigorous scientific analysis, he implied that he
had, as a first step in his analysis, resolved the confusion relating to the pronunciation
of the exotic terminology that Lovecraft used in his writings, which to most readers
appeared to be nothing more than a jumble of unpronounceable consonants.
He argued further that any attempts to achieve an accurate
pronunciation for Lovecraftian terminology would be frustrated by the fact that the human
oral structure was not suitable for the sort of alien pronunciation that Lovecraft
intended for his terminology. He finished the presentation of his findings by saying that,
not only had he developed the proper phonetics for the terminology, but also concluded
that the human mouth could be altered with some minor anatomical adjustments to achieve a
correct pronunciation. In support of his theories, he presented a number of
computer-generated graphics which he said visualized the necessary contours that the human
mouth would have to have in order to produce the desired sounds.
I must say that while listening to all this, I had doubts about
the man's sanity. Yes, he argued his case with the utmost lucidity and coherence, but in
my view, what he contended was almost pathologically bizarre. The other group members
appeared to be similarly skeptical of Harbison's theories. They sat in stony silence
during his presentation with expressions of tight-lipped cynicism upon their faces.
There was an exception. Iris appeared spell-bound during
Harbison's presentation, and frequently interrupted the flow of his narrative with
questions. One of her questions related to whether these theories could be tested to
determine their validity. Harbison understandably replied that any such testing would
require, as a starting point, the participation of an experimental subject who would allow
the necessary anatomical modifications to be made.
After the group meeting concluded for the evening, I noticed with
some feeling of uneasiness that Iris continued to be engrossed in a conversation with
Harbison. She found a kindred spirit who shared her convictions about the authenticity of
the subject matter upon which Lovecraft based his stories. As the two of them left the
meeting-room together, I felt an almost irrational compulsion to rush up to Harbison and
demand that he leave our group at once, saying that it was not intended for fanatical
people who held occult or delusional notions about Lovecraft. In retrospect, my failure to
do this was the first missed opportunity to prevent catastrophe.
The next development that played a pivotal role in this grotesque
situation was Iris learning that she had breast cancer. About five months after Harbison
had joined our group, I noticed that Iris seemed withdrawn and preoccupied; qualities
which were not consistent with her normal behavior. When I observed her at our meetings,
it appeared that her colloquies with Harbison had taken on a more serious, even grim
character, if one were to judge by their demeanors. Moreover, I noticed that, on occasion,
Iris would gesture in my direction while in the midst of a heated discussion with
Harbison.
I did not have long to wait to discover what was going on. I
received a phone call from Iris at my home late one evening. In a distraught and tearful
tone, Iris related the fact that she had been diagnosed with advanced breast cancer, and
told by her physician that the prognosis was not good; she was told to realistically
expect no more than six months of life. She continued by saying that Harbison had revealed
to her his conviction that I, as a plastic surgeon, had the ability to make the minor
anatomical adjustments which he had expounded upon. Only if I could be persuaded to do so
and if a suitable and willing subject could be found...
She concluded by saying that, since she was destined to die very
soon, she wanted to do something with the final days of her life which would gratify this
tremendous fascination she felt about achieving a true and authentic pronunciation of
Lovecraft's bizarre terminology. In short, she wanted me to perform on her the surgery
which would allow her to be the first human being to correctly pronounce Lovecraft's
terminology as it was meant to be pronounced.
I was flabbergasted with the import of this torrent of words that
Iris poured forth over the telephone. I told her that she was overwrought and confused,
that Harbison had filled her head with a lot of fanatical and unscientific nonsense. My
protestations fell on deaf ears. Iris wanted me to perform this surgery which, as Harbison
had assured her, was relatively minor and not likely to produce a profound disfiguration
of her features.
She blurted out also that she would very likely do away with
herself if I didn't acquiesce to her demands. When she told me this, I realized that she
could very well be serious, since I had seen enough of her behavior in the past to know
that she was emotionally both unstable and impetuous. Since the hour was late, I told her
that I would consider her proposal and give her a final answer after I had discussed the
matter with Harbison.
Early the next day, I called Harbison and told him in no uncertain
terms that I considered it criminal that he had misled Iris with a bunch of nonsense. His
reaction was cold and restrained; he said he happened to believe very seriously in the
theories that he had expounded upon at our meeting, and that he was not responsible for
the illness that now afflicted Iris nor for her emotional instability. He pointed out
that, given the dire circumstances that Iris now found herself in, the most humane and
reasonable thing would be to give in to her desires; he stressed that the surgery that he
had described in his presentation would be only minimally disfiguring and very limited in
scope.
In spite of my growing detestation for the man and his crack-pot
theories, I felt the need to question him about the extent and nature of the surgery he
described. He replied that from his own clinical inquiries with some practitioners within
the plastic surgery field, he had determined that a procedure to slightly thicken and
protrude the upper lip, along with some reshaping of the tongue, was all that would be
required. He reminded me that he had shown some graphics during his presentation that
attested to the modest nature of the changes that would be effected by the surgery. I
conceded that, from my recollection of what he had shown at the meeting, the anatomical
changes did not appear to be that severe. I concluded the conversation and hung up the
phone.
What caused my decision to finally grant Iris' wish is not
something that, to this day, I really understand. I like to think it was because I had a
very profound conviction that she would, in fact, kill herself if I did not comply with
her demands. At the time, I thought this would be the humane thing, the merciful and
reasonable thing to do. Harbison's persuasive arguments made it easier to arrive at this
conclusion, but I like to think it was altruism towards Iris that played the major role.
This was another time that I could have prevented this whole nightmare by acting
differently. But I didn't. The fact that I might have had Iris committed to a mental
hospital for her own protection is now just a bitter, mocking speculation. Yes, I could
have handled it all so differently. But I didn't.
I contacted Iris and informed her that, despite my reservations, I
had concluded that performing the requested surgery would be acceptable to me, once I had
determined that her prognosis was as bleak as she had portrayed it. She agreed to the
release of her medical records and, in fact, the situation was as she had described
it—advanced breast cancer with metastasis, with no viable options for treatment
indicated. After reviewing her records, I determined Iris would be able to tolerate the
minor surgical procedure that was planned, and that the surgery could be performed without
appreciable risk as an outpatient procedure in my office. Understandably, I had Iris sign
a consent form for my own protection.
Of the details of the surgery I will say little. Clinically, the
surgery was without incident, nor was it particularly demanding from a technical
standpoint. What stays in my memory, however, is how little I grasped, while performing
the surgery, how alien the changes were that I was perpetrating upon Iris' features. The
changes I made to her facial anatomy were subtle and limited in scope, but, as I was to
see, the impact those changes had when viewed by others was considerable.
Within two days of the surgery, Iris was well enough to attend a
meeting of our Lovecraft group. Harbison would be there, and a demonstration of Iris'
attempts to achieve a correct pronunciation of Lovecraftian terminology was to be given.
Arriving early to the meeting in the company of Iris, whose lower face was still covered
with surgical gauze, I had little inkling of the catastrophic events that were shortly to
be set in motion. Harbison arrived a short time later, obviously pleased to again be able
to expound upon his theories.
Once all members of our group were present, Harbison strode to the
front of the room and called the meeting to order. He announced, with obvious excitement,
that those present would soon witness something remarkable and without parallel. Very much
in command of the situation, he motioned Iris, still wearing her gauze facial covering, to
come forward and take a seat near the equipment that Harbison had set up for the meeting.
Iris came forward and sat in the chair that Harbison motioned her to.
Gesturing at his equipment, Harbison said that the first step of
the demonstration would be for him to play a recording of the sounds that he had
synthesized electronically of an authentic rendering of the Lovecraftian phrase
"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn," which is so well known to
devotees of Lovecraft's fiction. He directed Iris to pay particular attention to the
sounds, as she would very shortly be expected to attempt a pronunciation of those sounds.
He also proceeded to hand out to everyone a sheet containing a precise phonetic breakdown
of the phrase, again, with the intent of making possible an understanding of the correct
pronunciation for the phrase.
Switching on his tape mechanism with the flourish of a magician,
Harbison stood with arms folded as everyone in the group listened to the sounds that his
mechanism produced. The sounds that issued forth were harsh, metallic and strange. I
believe I was able to recognize the individual words that composed the phrase, but I had
never imagined that they could sound quite as they did in that recording. I think it was
at this point that I and, I suspect, many of the group, began to experience the first
intimations of a deep-seated sense of unease about the activity we were engaged in.
Beckoning me to come forward and stand beside Iris, Harbison asked
me to remove the surgical gauze that had, up to now, concealed the lower portion of her
face. Doing as he asked, I began to cut through the gauze with a pair of surgical
scissors. As I did this, I can remember thinking how much like a confused and frightened
little girl Iris seemed. I felt a tremor of self-disgust run through me as I thought again
of my own role in this strange situation. Having completed the cutting, I removed the
gauze.
I don't believe any of us in the room were prepared for what we
saw. I felt the hairs stand on the back of my neck and heard the sharp intake of breath
that several people in the room took when Iris' face was revealed. I don't believe words
can convey the utter strangeness of Iris' face. Although in no sense grossly deformed, her
upper lip had a shape to it that suggested something alien and unnatural, yet the
strangeness was not that of deformed human features, but rather of something truly
inhuman, difficult as that might be to understand. Feeling another pang of self-reproach
at my role in this sordid business, I moved away from Iris and Harbison, walking to the
back of the room, where I stood by myself. I believe it was this gesture that allowed me
to survive.
Harbison bent down to Iris and whispered to her, while pointing to
the phonetic analysis sheet she was holding. The two talked quietly for a time, then
Harbison stood erect and announced that Iris was now ready and able to render the
Lovecraftian phrase as it was meant to be rendered. Iris stood, glancing nervously in my
direction as she did so, and proceeded to utter the words of the phrase "Ph'nglui
mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."
As the last word of the phrase was uttered, a sound like the angry
electric buzzing of a defective fluorescent light became audible. Things began to happen
very quickly after that. One of the female members of the group stood up and began
screaming hysterically "we shouldn't have done this," over and over. The buzzing
sound increased in volume until it ended with an explosive bang like a pistol shot. Iris
screamed once and fell back into the arms of Harbison, who struggled to keep her upright.
Suddenly, in an explosion of blood and gore, a tendril-like thing emerged from Iris'
chest.
This tendril, as thick as a human leg, quickly extruded itself out
of the bloody and torn remains of the now quite dead Iris, and proceeded to flail itself
about the room, reaching a length of about twenty feet. Several people were struck down as
it lashed about; I was certain they were killed when struck by the thing. As the tentacle
flailed about, it threw off things from its rugose surface which hit against the walls,
floor and ceiling of the room; a few people appeared to be struck by these flying things
as well. As quickly as it had come, the tendril disappeared, withdrawing into the ripped
body of Iris on the floor. The tentacle had been present in the room for only three to
four seconds before disappearing, but this was not the end of the horror.
The objects thrown off by the tentacle began to pulsate and jump
about the room. I can only describe these things by likening them to the freshwater
organism known as the hydra. They had a polyp-like structure, consisting of a cylindrical
foot-stalk terminating at one end in a cluster of tentacles, the entire object about ten
inches in length. These creatures proceeded to bound about the room on their foot-stalks
for a moment. Then suddenly, as if realizing that the humans in the room were their prey,
began to jump upon and fasten themselves to several of the people standing in the room.
After fastening themselves, the bodies of these hydra-things began to pulsate and swell;
it was obvious to me that the hydra-things were sucking the fluids from the bodies of
their victims.
One of the victims so attacked was Harbison. A moment before
rushing from the room in a blind panic I made eye contact with him. I remember the look of
stark, uncomprehending horror upon his face. As much as I hold the man responsible for the
horror that has befallen mankind, I still feel a pang of emotion when thinking of the
beseeching look in his eyes; a look that was a cry for help, even though he realized none
would be forthcoming.
As to the nightmare that life upon this planet has become, I can
give only the narrow snapshot of details that my own experience has provided me. The
hydra-things began to multiply. From that initial point-of-entry to our world in that
room, they multiplied and spread rapidly. Highly mobile and possessing the ability to move
with great speed, they also demonstrated the ability to fly and travel in water, sprouting
membranous wing-like structures to do so. They were capable of growing during their
life-cycle to a much larger size; a mature specimen could easily reach a length of twenty
feet or more. Above all, they were predatory. All organic life on this planet large enough
to interest them became their prey, but man seemed to bear the brunt of their voracious
appetites. Mankind did try to fight back, but the hydra-things
moved and multiplied with such astonishing speed that little could be done that was
meaningful. More than one human population center was wiped out by desperate nuclear
attacks that were intended to destroy large numbers of them; some were killed by these
sort of attacks, but far more survived, and many innocent people died to prove the
futility of the military's actions. Bounding about the landscape of earth on their
muscular foot-stalks or swooping down on their victims' from above when it suited them,
the hydra-things came to dominant the earth; there was little mankind could do but hunker
down in some sort of shelter and hope to escape their notice.
Yes, to hunker down, as I am doing right now, as I reflect upon
all that has befallen me and a mankind that didn't really deserve to suffer this sort of
wretched demise. Just this morning, peering from the basement window of an abandoned house
on the outskirts of the city in which I had maintained my successful but long-gone medical
practice, I witnessed a scene of horror. I had seen many such scenes since this living
nightmare began, but this was the worst.
A young couple with a child, apparently from a desperation born of
hunger or just the cruel hopelessness of the situation, came rushing out into the open.
Maybe thinking they could somehow run away from all the horror that life had become, they
started to run in the direction of the countryside. Suddenly, hydra-things were
everywhere, small and large in size; they rushed upon the young family and buried them
under a mass of their pulsating shapes. When they had stopped their frenzied feeding, what
remained was no longer recognizable as even having once been human. Just a few scraps of
tissue remained, nothing more.
So yes, I hunker down, thinking, reflecting on the past, trying to
survive as long as I can, although I don't know what point there is to prolonging this now
wretched and joyless existence. Yes, I had a hand in it, but I like to think my role was
the most excusable, but then again, was it? I was a doctor, shouldn't I have known better?
Was I acting out of concern for Iris in what I did, or was it a morbid fascination for
Harbison's theories that I may have developed, if only subconsciously, in spite of my
avowed skepticism? At this point, I don't think I would even want to know.
As for the hydra-things, what are they? If, in fact, a line of
communication was briefly opened up between our world and some sort of Lovecraftian
alternate universe because of Iris' enunciation of the Lovecraftian phrase, then it seems
plausible that the tentacle that extruded itself from poor Iris' chest may have been the
merest appendage of some sort of Lovecraftian monstrosity. Perhaps this monstrosity was
huge beyond all imagining, and by glimpsing the tentacle, we were shown only a very small
portion of it.
But again, what would that make the hydra-things? It is only an
educated guess on my part, but one could speculate that the hydra-things were some sort of
parasite or symbiotic organism that existed, flea-like, upon the exterior of the cosmic
monstrosity whose tentacle we briefly saw. If that speculation is accurate, then I suspect
even Lovecraft himself would be grimly amused at the fate that has befallen us: to be
dragged down and devoured, not by the cosmic and colossal entities that he wrote about,
but rather by the things that might live, like lice or fleas, upon their
exteriors. So now, I wait and try to live day by day. Yes, I am
culpable, but what of it? What body of law or court of justice will mete out to me my just
deserts? Thinking about it, was there really anything to what Harbison preached? I don't
know. Maybe the perverted alchemy of the interaction of our three personalities brought
this all about. Three personalities, embodied in Harbison's analytical fanaticism, Iris'
half-mad, obsessive wish-fulfillment, and my own dilettantish dabblings in matters
Lovecraftian; did we create all that has occurred just by believing in the reality of
Lovecraft's vision and making it come true in the process? Again, I don't know. But I do
know that life on earth is now a hell, and mankind is doomed. So, if there is a God,
please forgive me for my role in all this. Somehow, please try and forgive me. Please.
Please...
Visit Bruce's Cthulhu Mythos Original Short Fiction Website, or contact him directly at brt@efn.org.