The disembodied spirit of professor Zlotty could be heard whimpering in the humidor, making strange sucky noises between his sobbing, as though he was trying to remove imaginary bisque from thin air. The Dunwich Horror came huffing home in the early morning, rain-drenched and clutching in his indescribable appendages a crudely-drawn map, apparently leading to non-existent dumpsters at the city’s edge. Ms. Teahymn absorbed in a Chinese puzzle box of some sort… the sort which is not a puzzle box at all, but a fancy block of solid and non-moving wood made to look like a puzzle box.

Really, I have no idea what must have gotten into the water around here – especially since really, none of them drink water at all, but somehow the device was tuned to a rather interesting new find when I arrived.

I found there on the crystal screen, some amazing footage captured by some rather adventurous cinematographers. I do hope they’ll be filming more of this incident. This is not one of those talking pictures, and the music playing in the background is at a low volume, but the images are nothing short of amazing.

EYE OF THE STORM | Lovett from Lovett on Vimeo.

EYE OF THE STORM by Lovett

Directed by Chris Alender
Produced by Kris Eber for Soapbox Films
From the album Highway Collection, available March 15, 2011
Eye Of The Storm is now available on iTunes and loverslabel.com
Download a song from Highway Collection free at lovettmusic.com

Share This

Dunwich, for the records, did also not eet the website – instead there was errors at the webhost which resulted in losing of a year worth of entrees even though professor pokes Dunwich with stick and threatens Dunwich with mustard to apologize for eet yucky web site, which Dunwich did not eet because it tasted bad.. not like chickins.

Share This

If tasty human aprishiate all Dunwich bring to there Aether-net-bocks, Dunwich appreciate small gifts of lifestock or sheeps. Thank you. Do not spray Dunwich Horror with yellow stuff agin. Thank you.

Share This

Humans are at it again this time! From the cover, it seem innogurous enough, howevers Dunwich Horror think Dunwich Horror not deserving of this portrayal… AGAIN!

This story, equally lie like the last story, wishes again to paint Dunwich as bad smelly guy, probably with big footprints the size of tree trunks. This in themself is misleading to people because what size is tree trunk? Exactly! Tree trunk have no exact size! Tree trunk can be small like tasty cat, or big like tasty cow – can be short and have candy like tasty child, or tall like tasty moose! Tree trunk come in all shapes and sizes.

They say history is written by Victor, and therefore, if your name not Victor, you should not write history AT ALL, especiarey when write lies about dunwich AGAIN! If writing things about Dunwich, or saying things about Dunwich – say them in MUSICAL!

Dunwich Horror deserve good MUSICAL, think it better for public relationships, make people know Dunwich Horror am really good guy.

Dunwich would like have relations with all humans… humans like you… yes, Dunwich want have relations with YOU… good ones.

Instead Dunwich get banished time and time again by wrinkly old guy with bug sprayer and naughty bad words what hurt Dunwich Horrors tender ears.

If you want hear spooky LIES written to make humans not look bad, this am album for you:

Along with LIES ABOUT DUNWICH HORROR comes the  a supposed clipping from 1917 copy of Arkham Advertiser, a vintage map of Dunwich, Sentinel Hill and the surrounding region (SEE? Dunwich Horror cannot be all bad if they NAMED REGION AFTER DUNWICH HORROR), a page from Wilbur Whateley’s diary with some occult cypher, and replica of key page from the Whateleys’ copy of John Dee’s Necronomicon. You can buy it through Amazon here.Doing so through link not cost you more, however, will give me some Archive funds to build onto my special gallery wing of archive.

If you smart human and would rather have musical, you can write creators of lie CD and tell them so at their main page: H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society (cthulhulives.org).

Serverely thank you, Dunwich Horror

Share This

What you might not know about things is that Dunwich Horror has found new corners of archive no one knows about, even you, and those corners am currently empty of the sorts of interested things what decorate the archive where humans and others dwell.

My annex, as we in art worlds say about art places that are extra, has much need for things to make it more… “placey”, something to pretty up empty space.

I need better providers of stuff – here is why:

Ready? Okay!

Unknown decorators come throughout every day and try to decorate the Dunwich Horror Annex with things… many of which not too spiffy, such as bananna peels, empty milk cartons, styrofoam peanuts, and such.

Not to complain, they are not bad decorations – but apparently trucks like these things… A LOT!

Each weak, BIG truck finds annex, lifts annex up in sky, and eats all decorations what were donated. Sometimes Eats Dunwich Horror. Scares bejebus out of Dunwhich Horror each and every time… sometime Dunwich Horror has to walk home after being eaten.

Dunwich Horror wants make annex official with real stuff what trucks do not like. Dunwich Horror wants to sleep in on Tuesdays, and not get eated by BIG truck, and not have walk home.

More artifact and relic donations, crafty donations, and such – less dead cats and “sporks” – less mustache cream tin, less ”shaved snizzy magazine” (scary!). ART! That is what Dunwich needs to get annex up and running.

Send links to art donations and exhibits through handy contact form, tell Dunwich Horror about yourself and donations.

Thank you,

Dunwich Horror.

Share This

First off imagine be sprayed with yellow mustard from giant bottle, being treeted like giant cosmic weiner, then to be called ‘ugly’ or ‘hideous’ by wrinkly old humans I not even know personally, waving their arms about at self all threatening like, screaming at Dunwich Horror when Dunwich Horror not doing anything bad – just happily crusching trees all like “Crunch! Crunch!” minding own business… maybe eat a few humans but it’s okay really.

Then imagine be dissolved from world by meddlesome old people what won’t lend ancient books out and then think you are stinky, and what think brother are stinky which is LIE!

Well, It took long time be conjured back here just to defend myself from terrible old wrinkly man’s malicous comments at Dunwich Horror smell.

I wants to start with saying “Untrue!” at hideous wrinkly human thing what LIE about Dunwich Horror and Dunwich Horror family, want to ruin good name of Dunwich Horror!

Me could explain things about destruction of Earth and sucking it into nother dimension, but not worth dignifying that right now because of more important thing, like, say old man LIE!

Note:

1) Odour was at Whately farm house at SAME TIME Old Man was, then again in library at same time OLD MAN was in library. It does not take a brain genius to figure out this not happenstance or coindicince that SMELL WAS WHERE OLD MAN WAS, both times!

Old man wants to be seen as hero, but in reality, old man make hideous smell – not Dunwich Horror – then wrinkly old man blames hideous smell on Dunwich Horror, and then finds only spell to make Dunwich Horror leave before Dunich Horror tell about him lie to others.

Old Man not hero. Not hero at all! Not banish Dunwich Horror anymore!

Banish Old Man! Banish Old Stinky Man!

Share This

The Dunwich Horror

Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimaeras – dire stories of Celaeno and the Harpies – may reproduce themselves in the brain of superstition – but they were there before. They are transcripts, types – the archtypes are in us, and eternal. How else should the recital of that which we know in a waking sense to be false come to affect us all? Is it that we naturally conceive terror from such objects, considered in their capacity of being able to inflict upon us bodily injury? O, least of all! These terrors are of older standing. They date beyond body – or without the body, they would have been the same… That the kind of fear here treated is purely spiritual – that it is strong in proportion as it is objectless on earth, that it predominates in the period of our sinless infancy – are difficulties the solution of which might afford some probable insight into our ante-mundane condition, and a peep at least into the shadowland of pre-existence.

- Charles Lamb: Witches and Other Night-Fears

Chapter One

When a traveller in north central Massachusetts takes the wrong fork at the junction of Aylesbury pike just beyond Dean’s Corners he comes upon a lonely and curious country.

The ground gets higher, and the brier-bordered stone walls press closer and closer against the ruts of the dusty, curving road. The trees of the frequent forest belts seem too large, and the wild weeds, brambles and grasses attain a luxuriance not often found in settled regions. At the same time the planted fields appear singularly few and barren; while the sparsely scattered houses wear a surprisingly uniform aspect of age, squalor, and dilapidation.

Without knowing why, one hesitates to ask directions from the gnarled solitary figures spied now and then on crumbling doorsteps or on the sloping, rock-strewn meadows. Those figures are so silent and furtive that one feels somehow confronted by forbidden things, with which it would be better to have nothing to do. When a rise in the road brings the mountains in view above the deep woods, the feeling of strange uneasiness is increased. The summits are too rounded and symmetrical to give a sense of comfort and naturalness, and sometimes the sky silhouettes with especial clearness the queer circles of tall stone pillars with which most of them are crowned.

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. The thin, shining line of the Miskatonic’s upper reaches has an oddly serpent-like suggestion as it winds close to the feet of the domed hills among which it rises.

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. Afterwards 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 towards it have been taken down. The scenery, judged by an 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. In our sensible age – since the Dunwich horror of 1928 was hushed up by those who had the town’s and the world’s welfare at heart – people shun it without knowing exactly why. 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 unnameable violence and perversity. The old gentry, representing the two or three armigerous families which came from Salem in 1692, 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. In 1747 the Reverend Abijah Hoadley, newly come to the Congregational Church at Dunwich Village, preached a memorable sermon on the close presence of Satan and his imps; in which he said:

“It must be allow’d, that these Blasphemies of an infernall Train of Daemons are Matters of too common Knowledge to be deny’d; the cursed Voices of Azazel and Buzrael, of Beelzebub and Belial, being heard now from under Ground by above a Score of credible Witnesses now living. I myself did not more than a Fortnight ago catch a very plain Discourse of evill Powers in the Hill behind my House; wherein there were a Rattling and Rolling, Groaning, Screeching, and Hissing, such as no Things of this Earth could raise up, and which must needs have come from those Caves that only black Magick can discover, and only the Divell unlock”.

Mr. 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.

Other traditions tell of foul odours near the hill-crowning circles of stone pillars, and of rushing airy presences to be heard faintly at certain hours from stated points at the bottom of the great ravines; while still others try to explain the Devil’s Hop Yard – a bleak, blasted hillside where no tree, shrub, or grass-blade will grow. Then, too, the natives are mortally afraid of the numerous whippoorwills which grow vocal on warm nights. It is vowed that the birds are psychopomps lying in wait for the souls of the dying, and that they time their eerie cries in unison with the sufferer’s struggling breath. 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 1700; whilst the ruins of the mill at the falls, built in 1806, 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 hilltops, 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.

Share This