The Dark Boatman: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos by John Glasby
Authors: John Glasby
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entire cliff collapsed into the sea at that point. The general opinion is that the action of the salt water on porous rock, riddled with underground passages and vaults, was sufficient to cause the entire structure to disintegrate. Be that as it may, I feel somehow oddly certain that those sub-human creatures you saw did not die. Someday they will inevitably rise again, if not here in Devon, then at some other place, evil and indestructible, ready to seek out and destroy all who know their terrible secret.”
DUST
It is fortunately seldom that one experiences such a moment of pure, unadulterated terror as befell me in the autumn of 1936, following a series of inexplicable incidents which, even now, I cannot possibly explain. At the end of June in that year I had relinquished my post as lecturer in mythology and ancient history at Cambridge, and accepted the offer of my uncle, James Oliver, to live with him in the large, rambling house on the outskirts of Wisterton, a picturesque fishing village on the Northumberland coast, some fifteen miles from Newcastle. For almost six years I had been working sporadically on my book dealing with the legends of this part of the country, but of late my academic duties had interfered more and more with it, and when the opportunity of devoting all my time to it had arisen, I had seized it willingly and gratefully.
The thought of actually living in that region of age-old myth and legend had an exhilarating effect on my mind, and I experienced a curious sense of excitement as my train rumbled north from York through wild, untouched countryside into deeply-forested places of which I had often read and dreamed, but never visited. This was a primitive part of England where old things were still remembered, and the green, domed hills, which nestled low on the skyline, hinted of half-forgotten mysteries which had existed there from the very beginning of time. The old tales of Northumberland had their roots deep in misted antiquity, and in spite of the speed of the train, it seemed that time had been turned back several centuries as I spied the tiny hamlets set on the low hillsides, clusters of houses gleaming faintly in the late afternoon sunlight.
An increasing and unexplainable atmosphere of elusive alienness seemed to pervade the square, cultivated fields and narrow, winding lanes, half-hidden by tall, thick hedgerows and walls of flint as the train continued further north. The wilderness grew more apparent until it intruded upon my thoughts, giving me the unshakeable feeling that I was an interloper here, that this was a territory I would never be able to understand nor become a part of. Deep gorges and ravines were cut through the dark hills where the sunlight never seemed to penetrate, and here and there I caught a glimpse of glinting water as a stream rushed down from the heights to vanish into inconceivable depths.
Certainly there was a strange beauty about the scenery I saw from the carriage window, but it was as though an underlying malignancy existed there, just beneath the surface, waiting to engulf those who tried to probe too deeply. For a little while, I began to doubt the wisdom of my move, but even as the thought crossed my mind, I told myself that this was surely the kind of atmosphere that was essential for me if I was to complete my book. Where else could I find the necessary inspiration if not in the very heart of legend-haunted Northumberland?
I already knew something of the reputation of this part of the country, had spent long hours among musty tomes, searching through ancient parchments, many written in archaic English, some even in the age-old runes of the early centuries. There were, too, other, more tangible remains of this haunted past; the circles of stone pillars which existed on the dark hilltops, lost, drowned towns beneath the sea where, whenever the tides were right, millennia-old bells could be heard ringing beneath the swelling waves. The gigantic black
DUST
It is fortunately seldom that one experiences such a moment of pure, unadulterated terror as befell me in the autumn of 1936, following a series of inexplicable incidents which, even now, I cannot possibly explain. At the end of June in that year I had relinquished my post as lecturer in mythology and ancient history at Cambridge, and accepted the offer of my uncle, James Oliver, to live with him in the large, rambling house on the outskirts of Wisterton, a picturesque fishing village on the Northumberland coast, some fifteen miles from Newcastle. For almost six years I had been working sporadically on my book dealing with the legends of this part of the country, but of late my academic duties had interfered more and more with it, and when the opportunity of devoting all my time to it had arisen, I had seized it willingly and gratefully.
The thought of actually living in that region of age-old myth and legend had an exhilarating effect on my mind, and I experienced a curious sense of excitement as my train rumbled north from York through wild, untouched countryside into deeply-forested places of which I had often read and dreamed, but never visited. This was a primitive part of England where old things were still remembered, and the green, domed hills, which nestled low on the skyline, hinted of half-forgotten mysteries which had existed there from the very beginning of time. The old tales of Northumberland had their roots deep in misted antiquity, and in spite of the speed of the train, it seemed that time had been turned back several centuries as I spied the tiny hamlets set on the low hillsides, clusters of houses gleaming faintly in the late afternoon sunlight.
An increasing and unexplainable atmosphere of elusive alienness seemed to pervade the square, cultivated fields and narrow, winding lanes, half-hidden by tall, thick hedgerows and walls of flint as the train continued further north. The wilderness grew more apparent until it intruded upon my thoughts, giving me the unshakeable feeling that I was an interloper here, that this was a territory I would never be able to understand nor become a part of. Deep gorges and ravines were cut through the dark hills where the sunlight never seemed to penetrate, and here and there I caught a glimpse of glinting water as a stream rushed down from the heights to vanish into inconceivable depths.
Certainly there was a strange beauty about the scenery I saw from the carriage window, but it was as though an underlying malignancy existed there, just beneath the surface, waiting to engulf those who tried to probe too deeply. For a little while, I began to doubt the wisdom of my move, but even as the thought crossed my mind, I told myself that this was surely the kind of atmosphere that was essential for me if I was to complete my book. Where else could I find the necessary inspiration if not in the very heart of legend-haunted Northumberland?
I already knew something of the reputation of this part of the country, had spent long hours among musty tomes, searching through ancient parchments, many written in archaic English, some even in the age-old runes of the early centuries. There were, too, other, more tangible remains of this haunted past; the circles of stone pillars which existed on the dark hilltops, lost, drowned towns beneath the sea where, whenever the tides were right, millennia-old bells could be heard ringing beneath the swelling waves. The gigantic black
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