He
by H. P. Lovecraft
Written 11 Aug 1925
Published September 1926 in Weird Tales, Vol. 8, No. 3, P. 373-80.
I saw him on a sleepless night when I was walking desperately to save my soul and my vision. My
coming to New York had been a mistake; for whereas I had looked for poignant wonder and inspiration
in the teeming labyrinths of ancient streets that twist endlessly from forgotten courts and squares and
waterfronts to courts and squares and waterfronts equally forgotten, and in the Cyclopean modern towers
and pinnacles that rise blackly Babylonian under waning moons, I had found instead only a sense of
horror and oppression which threatened to master, paralyze, and annihilate me.
The disillusion had been gradual. Coming for the first time upon the town, I had seen it in the sunset
from a bridge, majestic above its waters, its incredible peaks and pyramids rising flowerlike and delicate
from pools of violet mist to play with the flaming clouds and the first stars of evening. Then it had
lighted up window by window above the shimmering tides where lanterns nodded and glided and deep
horns bayed weird harmonies, and had itself become a starry firmament of dream, redolent of faery
music, and one with the marvels of Carcassonne and Samarcand and El Dorado and all glorious and halffabulous
cities. Shortly afterward I was taken through those antique ways so dear to my fancy-narrow,
curving alleys and passages where rows of red Georgian brick blinked with small-paned dormers above
pillared doorways that had looked on gilded sedans and paneled coaches - and in the first flush of
realization of these long-wished things I thought I had indeed achieved such treasures as would make me
in time a poet.
But success and happiness were not to be. Garish daylight showed only squalor and alienage and the
noxious elephantiasis of climbing, spreading stone where the moon had hinted of loveliness and elder
magic; and the throngs of people that seethed through the flume-like streets were squat, swarthy strangers
with hardened faces and narrow eyes, shrewd strangers without dreams and without kinship to the scenes
about them, who could never mean aught to a blue-eyed man of the old folk, with the love of fair green
lanes and white New England village steeples in his heart.
So instead of the poems I had hoped for, there came only a shuddering blackness and ineffable
loneliness; and I saw at last a fearful truth which no one had ever dared to breathe before - the
unwhisperable secret of secrets - the fact that this city of stone and stridor is not a sentient perpetuation
of Old New York as London is of Old London and Paris of Old Paris, but that it is in fact quite dead, its
sprawling body imperfectly embalmed and infested with queer animate things which have nothing to do
with it as it was in life. Upon making this discovery I ceased to sleep comfortably; though something of
resigned tranquillity came back as I gradually formed the habit of keeping off the streets by day and
He by H. P. Lovecraft
venturing abroad only at night, when darkness calls forth what little of the past still hovers wraith-like
about, and old white doorways remember the stalwart forms that once passed through them. With this
mode of relief I even wrote a few poems, and still refrained from going home to my people lest I seem to
crawl back ignobly in defeat.
Then, on a sleepless night's walk, I met the man. It was in a grotesque hidden courtyard of the Greenwich
section, for there in my ignorance I had settled, having heard of the place as the natural home of poets
and artists. The archaic lanes and houses and unexpected bits of square and court had indeed delighted
me, and when I found the poets and artists to be loud-voiced pretenders whose quaintness is tinsel and
whose lives are a denial of all that pure beauty which is poetry and art, I stayed on for love of these
venerable things. I fancied them as they were in their prime, when Greenwich was a placid village not yet
engulfed by the town; and in the hours before dawn, when all the revellers had slunk away, I used to
wander alone among their cryptical windings and brood upon the curious arcana which generations must
have deposited there. This kept my soul alive, and gave me a few of those dreams and visions for which
the poet far within me cried out.
The man came upon me at about two one cloudy August morning, as I was threading a series of detached
courtyards; now accessible only through the unlighted hallways of intervening buildings, but once
forming parts of a continuous network of picturesque alleys. I had heard of them by vague rumor, and
realized that they could not be upon any map of today; but the fact that they were forgotten only
endeared them to me, so that I had sought them with twice my usual eagerness. Now that I had found
them, my eagerness was again redoubled; for something in their arrangement dimly hinted that they
might be only a few of many such, with dark, dumb counterparts wedged obscurely betwixt high blank
walls and deserted rear tenements, or lurking lamplessly behind archways unbetrayed by hordes of the
foreign-speaking or guarded by furtive and uncommunicative artists whose practises do not invite
publicity or the light of day.
He spoke to me without invitation, noting my mood and glances as I studied certain knockered doorways
above iron-railed steps, the pallid glow of traceried transoms feebly lighting my face. His own face was
in shadow, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat which somehow blended perfectly with the out-of-date
cloak he affected; but I was subtly disquieted even before he addressed me. His form was very slight;
thin almost to cadaverousness; and his voice proved phenomenally soft and hollow, though not
particularly deep. He had, he said, noticed me several times at my wanderings; and inferred that I
resembled him in loving the vestiges of former years. Would I not like the guidance of one long practised
in these explorations, and possessed of local information profoundly deeper than any which an obvious
newcomer could possibly have gained?
As he spoke, I caught a glimpse of his face in the yellow beam from a solitary attic window. It was a
noble, even a handsome elderly countenance; and bore the marks of a lineage and refinement unusual for
the age and place. Yet some quality about it disturbed me almost as much as its features pleased me -
perhaps it was too white, or too expressionless, or too much out of keeping with the locality, to make me
feel easy or comfortable. Nevertheless I followed him; for in those dreary days my quest for antique
beauty and mystery was all that I had to keep my soul alive, and I reckoned it a rare favor of Fate to fall
He by H. P. Lovecraft
in with one whose kindred seekings seemed to have penetrated so much farther than mine.
Something in the night constrained the cloaked man to silence and for a long hour he led me forward
without needless words; making only the briefest of comments concerning ancient names and dates and
changes, and directing my progress very largely by gestures as we squeezed through interstices, tiptoed
through corridors clambered over brick walls, and once crawled on hands and knees through a low,
arched passage of stone whose immense length and tortuous twistings effaced at last every hint of
geographical location I had managed to preserve. The things we saw were very old and marvelous, or at
least they seemed so in the few straggling rays of light by which I viewed them, and I shall never forget
the tottering Ionic columns and fluted pilasters and urn-headed iron fenceposts and flaring-linteled
windows and decorative fanlights that appeared to grow quainter and stranger the deeper we advanced
into this inexhaustible maze of unknown antiquity.
We met no person, and as time passed the lighted windows became fewer and fewer. The streetlights we
first encountered had been of oil, and of the ancient lozenge pattern. Later I noticed some with candles;
and at last, after traversing a horrible unlighted court where my guide had to lead with his gloved hand
through total blackness to a narrow wooded gate in a high wall, we came upon a fragment of alley lit
only by lanterns in front of every seventh house - unbelievably Colonial tin lanterns with conical tops
and holes punched in the sides. This alley led steeply uphill - more steeply than I thought possible in this
part of New York - and the upper end was blocked squarely by the ivy-clad wall of a private estate,
beyond which I could see a pale cupola, and the tops of trees waving against a vague lightness in the sky.
In this wall was a small, low-arched gate of nail-studded black oak, which the man proceeded to unlock
with a ponderous key. Leading me within, he steered a course in utter blackness over what seemed to be
a gravel path, and finally up a flight of stone steps to the door of the house, which he unlocked and
opened for me.
We entered, and as we did so I grew faint from a reek of infinite mustiness which welled out to meet us,
and which must have been the fruit of unwholesome centuries of decay. My host appeared not to notice
this, and in courtesy I kept silent as he piloted me up a curving stairway, across a hall, and into a room
whose door I heard him lock behind us. Then I saw him pull the curtains of the three small-paned
windows that barely showed themselves against the lightening sky; after which he crossed to the mantel,
struck flint and steel, lighted two candles of a candelabrum of twelve sconces, and made a gesture
enjoining soft-toned speech.
In this feeble radiance I saw that we were in a spacious, well-furnished and paneled library dating from
the first quarter of the Eighteenth Century, with splendid doorway pediments, a delightful Doric cornice,
and a magnificently carved overmantel with scroll-and-urn top. Above the crowded bookshelves at
intervals along the walls were well-wrought family portraits; all tarnished to an enigmatical dimness, and
bearing an unmistakable likeness to the man who now motioned me to a chair beside the graceful
Chippendale table. Before seating himself across the tahle from me, my host paused for a moment as if in
embarrassment; then, tardily removing his gloves, wide-brimmed hat, and cloak, stood theatrically
revealed in full mid-Georgian costume from queued hair and neck ruffles to knee-breeches, silk hose,
and the buckled shoes I had not previously noticed. Now slowly sinking into a lyre-back chair, he
He by H. P. Lovecraft
commenced to eye me intently.
Without his hat he took on an aspect of extreme age which was scarcely visible before, and I wondered if
this unperceived mark of singular longevity were not one of the sources of my disquiet. When he spoke
at length, his soft, hollow, and carefully muffled voice not infrequently quavered; and now and then I had
great difficulty in following him as I listened with a thrill of amazement and half-disavowed alarm which
grew each instant.
"You behold, Sir," my host began, "a man of very eccentrical habits for whose costume no apology need
be offered to one with your wit and inclinations. Reflecting upon better times, I have not scrupled to
ascertain their ways, and adopt their dress and manners; an indulgence which offends none if practised
without ostentation. It hath been my good fortune to retain the rural seat of my ancestors, swallowed
though it was by two towns, first Greenwich, which built up hither after 1800, then New York, which
joined on near 1830. There were many reasons for the close keeping of this place in my family, and I
have not been remiss in discharging such obligations. The squire who succeeded to it in 1768 studied
sartain arts and made sartain discoveries, all connected with influences residing in this particular plot of
ground, and eminently desarving of the strongest guarding. Some curious effects of these arts and
discoveries I now purpose to show you, under the strictest secrecy; and I believe I may rely on my
judgement of men enough to have no distrust of either your interest or your fidelity."
He paused, but I could only nod my head. I have said that I was alarmed, yet to my soul nothing was
more deadly than the material daylight world of New York, and whether this man were a harmless
eccentric or a wielder of dangerous arts, I had no choice save to follow him and slake my sense of
wonder on whatever he might have to offer. So I listened.
"To - my ancestor," he softly continued, "there appeared to reside some very remarkable qualities in the
will of mankind; qualities having a little-suspected dominance not only over the acts of one's self and of
others, but over every variety of force and substance in Nature, and over many elements and dimensions
deemed more universal than Nature herself. May I say that he flouted the sanctity of things as great as
space and time and that he put to strange uses the rites of sartain half-breed red Indians once encamped
upon this hill? These Indians showed choler when the place was built, and were plaguey pestilent in
asking to visit the grounds at the full of the moon. For years they stole over the wall each month when
they could, and by stealth performed sartain acts. Then, in '68, the new squire catched them at their
doings, and stood still at what he saw. Thereafter he bargained with them and exchanged the free access
of his grounds for the exact inwardness of what they did, larning that their grandfathers got part of their
custom from red ancestors and part from an old Dutchman in the time of the States-General. Arid pox on
him, I'm afeared the squire must have sarved them monstrous bad rum - whether or not by intent - for a
week after he larnt the secret he was the only man living that knew it. You, Sir, are the first outsider to be
told there is a secret, and split me if I'd have risked tampering that much with - the powers - had ye not
been so hot after bygone things."
I shuddered as the man grew colloquial - and with the familiar speech of another day. He went on.
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He by H. P. Lovecraft
"But you must know, Sir, that what - the squire - got from those mongrel savages was but a small part of
the larning he came to have. He had not been at Oxford for nothing, nor talked to no account with an
ancient chymist and astrologer in Paris. He was, in fine, made sensible that all the world is but the smoke
of our intellects; past the bidding of the vulgar, but by the wise to be puffed out and drawn in like any
cloud of prime Virginia tobacco. What we want, we may make about us; and what we don't want, we
may sweep away. I won't say that all this is wholly true in body, but 'tis sufficient true to furnish a very
pretty spectacle now and then. You, I conceive, would be tickled hy a better sight of sartain other years
than your fancy affords you; so be pleased to hold back any fright at what I design to show. Come to the
window and be quiet."
My host now took my hand to draw me to one of the two windows on the long side of the malodorous
room, and at the first touch of his ungloved fingers I turned cold. His flesh, though dry and firm, was of
the quality of ice; and I almost shrank away from his pulling. But again I thought of the emptiness and
horror of reality, and boldly prepared to follow whithersoever I might be led. Once at the window, the
man drew apart the yellow silk curtains and directed my stare into the blackness outside. For a moment I
saw nothing save a myriad of tiny dancing lights, far, far before me. Then, as if in response to an
insidious motion of my host's hand, a flash of heat-lightning played over the scene, and I looked out upon
a sea of luxuriant foliage - foliage unpolluted, and not the sea of roofs to be expected by any normal
mind. On my right the Hudson glittered wickedly, and in the distance ahead I saw the unhealthy shimmer
of a vast salt marsh constellated with nervous fireflies. The flash died, and an evil smile illumined the
waxy face of the aged necromancer.
"That was before my time - before the new squire's time. Pray let us try again."
I was faint, even fainter than the hateful modernity of that accursed city had made me.
"Good God!" I whispered, "can you do that for any time?" And as he nodded, and bared the black stumps
of what had once been yellow fangs, I clutched at the curtains to prevent myself from falling. But he
steadied me with that terrible, ice-cold claw, and once more made his insidious gesture.
Again the lightning flashed - but this time upon a scene not wholly strange. It was Greenwich, the
Greenwich that used to be, with here and there a roof or row of houses as we see it now, yet with lovely
green lanes and fields and bits of grassy common. The marsh still glittered beyond, but in the farther
distance I saw the steeples of what was then all of New York; Trinity and St. Paul's and the Brick Church
dominating their sisters, and a faint haze of wood smoke hovering over the whole. I breathed hard, hut
not so much from the sight itself as from the possibilities my imagination terrifiedly conjured up.
"Can you - dare you - go far?" I spoke with awe and I think he shared it for a second, but the evil grin
returned.
"Far? What I have seen would blast ye to a mad statue of stone! Back, back - forward, forward - look ye
puling lackwit!"
He by H. P. Lovecraft
And as he snarled the phrase under his breath he gestured anew bringing to the sky a flash more blinding
than either which had come before. For full three seconds I could glimpse that pandemoniac sight, and in
those seconds I saw a vista which will ever afterward torment me in dreams. I saw the heavens
verminous with strange flying things, and beneath them a hellish black city of giant stone terraces with
impious pyramids flung savagely to the moon, and devil-lights burning from unnumbered windows. And
swarming loathsomely on aerial galleries I saw the yellow, squint-eyed people of that city, robed horribly
in orange and red, and dancing insanely to the pounding of fevered kettle-drums, the clatter of obscene
crotala, and the maniacal moaning of muted horns whose ceaseless dirges rose and fell undulantly like
the wave of an unhallowed ocean of bitumen.
I saw this vista, I say, and heard as with the mind's ear the blasphemous domdaniel of cacophony which
companioned it. It was the shrieking fulfilment of all the horror which that corpse-city had ever stirred in
my soul, and forgetting every injunction to silence I screamed and screamed and screamed as my nerves
gave way and the walls quivered about me.
Then, as the flash subsided, I saw that my host was trembling too; a look of shocking fear half-blotting
from his face the serpent distortion of rage which my screams had excited. He tottered, clutched at the
curtains as I had done before, and wriggled his head wildly, like a hunted animal. God knows he had
cause, for as the echoes of my screaming died away there came another sound so hellishly suggestive that
only numbed emotion kept me sane and conscious. It was the steady, stealthy creaking of the stairs
beyond the locked door, as with the ascent of a barefoot or skin-shod horde; and at last the cautious,
purposeful rattling of the brass latch that glowed in the feeble candlelight. The old man clawed and spat
at me through the moldy air, and barked things in his throat as he swayed with the yellow curtain he
clutched.
"The full moon - damn ye - ye... ye yelping dog - ye called 'em, and they've come for me! Moccasined
feet - dead men - Gad sink ye, ye red devils, but I poisoned no rum o' yours - han't I kept your pox-rotted
magic safe - ye swilled yourselves sick, curse ye, and yet must needs blame the squire - let go, you!
Unhand that latch - I've naught for ye here - "
At this point three slow and very deliberate raps shook the panels of the door, and a white foam gathered
at the mouth of the frantic magician. His fright, turning to steely despair, left room for a resurgence of his
rage against me; and he staggered a step toward the table on whose edge I was steadying myself. The
curtains, still clutched in his right hand as his left clawed out at me, grew taut and finally crashed down
from their lofty fastenings; admitting to the room a flood of that full moonlight which the brightening of
the sky had presaged. In those greenish beams the candles paled, and a new semblance of decay spread
over the musk-reeking room with its wormy paneling, sagging floor, battered mantel, rickety furniture,
and ragged draperies. It spread over the old man, too, whether from the same source or because of his
fear and vehemence, and I saw him shrivel and blacken as he lurched near and strove to rend me with
vulturine talons. Only his eyes stayed whole, and they glared with a propulsive, dilated incandescence
which grew as the face around them charred and dwindled.
He by H. P. Lovecraft
The rapping was now repeated with greater insistence, and this time bore a hint of metal. The black thing
facing me had become only a head with eyes, impotently trying to wriggle across the sinking floor in my
direction, and occasionally emitting feeble little spits of immortal malice. Now swift and splintering
blows assailed the sickly panels, and I saw the gleam of a tomahawk as it cleft the rending wood. I did
not move, for I could not; but watched dazedly as the door fell in pieces to admit a colossal, shapeless
influx of inky substance starred with shining, malevolent eyes. It poured thickly, like a flood of oil
bursting a rotten bulkhead, overturned a chair as it spread, and finally flowed under the table and across
the room to where the blackened head with the eyes still glared at me. Around that head it closed, totally
swallowing it up, and in another moment it had begun to recede; bearing away its invisible burden
without touching me, and flowing again out that black doorway and down the unseen stairs, which
creaked as before, though in reverse order.
Then the floor gave way at last, and I slid gaspingly down into the nighted chamber below, choking with
cobwebs and half-swooning with terror. The green moon, shining through broken windows, showed me
the hall door half open; and as I rose from the plaster-strewn floor and twisted myself free from the
sagged ceiling, I saw sweep past it an awful torrent of blackness, with scores of baleful eyes glowing in
it. It was seeking the door to the cellar, and when it found it, vanished therein. I now felt the floor of this
lower room giving as that of the upper chamber had done, and once a crashing above had been followed
by the fall past the west window of some thing which must have been the cupola. Now liberated for the
instant from the wreckage, I rushed through the hall to the front door and finding myself unable to open
it, seized a chair and broke a window, climbing frenziedly out upon the unkempt lawn where moon light
danced over yard-high grass and weeds. The wall was high and all the gates were locked but moving a
pile of boxes in a corner I managed to gain the top and cling to the great stone urn set there.
About me in my exhaustion I could see only strange walls and windows and old gambrel roofs. The steep
street of my approach was nowhere visible, and the little I did see succumbed rapidly to a mist that rolled
in from the river despite the glaring moonlight. Suddenly the urn to which I clung began to tremble, as if
sharing my own lethal dizziness; and in another instant my body was plunging downward to I knew not
what fate.
The man who found me said that I must have crawled a long way despite my broken bones, for a trail of
blood stretched off as far as he dared look. The gathering rain soon effaced this link with the scene of my
ordeal, and reports could state no more than that I had appeared from a place unknown, at the entrance to
a little black court off Perry Street.
I never sought to return to those tenebrous labyrinths, nor would I direct any sane man thither if I could.
Of who or what that ancient creature was, I have no idea; but I repeat that the city is dead and full of
unsuspected horrors. Whither he has gone, I do not know; but I have gone home to the pure New
England lanes up which fragrant sea-winds sweep at evening.