The Color out of Space and Other Mystery Stories / «Цвет из иных миров» и другие мистические истории

The Color out of Space and Other Mystery Stories / «Цвет из иных миров» и другие мистические истории
Howard Phillips Lovecraft

Abridged & Adapted
Параллельные миры, неразгаданные семейные тайны, злые духи, инопланетные материи, колдовство и магия, проклятые места, неподвластные человеческому разуму видения – мир произведений Лавкрафта наполнен вовсе не одними мифами Ктулху. Его вселенную населяют и другие неизведанные и непостижимые существа, пришедшие из чащи лесов, непроходимых болот, глубоких пещер, таинственных подземелий и даже иных времён и измерений, в которые можно случайно попасть, открыв окно мансарды.

Одну из своих первых историй, «Зверь в пещере», Лавкрафт написал всего в 14 лет, а вошедшие в этот сборник рассказы «Музыка Эриха Цанна» и «Цвет из иных миров» автор считал своими лучшими произведениями. Оригинальные сюжеты мистических историй Лавкрафта легли в основу популярных песен, фильмов и компьютерных игр. По сей день знаменитый писатель Стивен Кинг считает Говарда Лавкрафта своим вдохновителем.

Текст сокращён и адаптирован. Уровень А2.

H. P. Lovecraft

The Color out of Space and Other Mystery Stories

© Шитова А. В., адаптация, сокращение, словарь, 2020

© ООО «ИД «Антология», 2020

Cool air

So you want to know why I am afraid of draughts of cool air, why I shiver more than others in a cold room, and why I faint when I suddenly feel the evening chill of a mild autumn day. Some people say I react to cold as others react to a bad smell, and maybe it is true. I will tell you about the most horrible thing that has ever happened to me, and you will see for yourselves if it explains my fear.

It is a mistake to think that horror is hidden only in the darkness, silence, and loneliness. I found it in the middle of the day, in the center of a big city, in a shabby boarding house[1 - зд. пансион; дом, в котором сдаются меблированные комнаты (прим. сост.)], with a typical landlady and two workmen by my side.

In the spring of 1923, I had found some hard and low-paid job in the city of New York. I could not pay any big rent, so I began moving from one cheap boarding house to another, looking for a room which would be clean, furnished, and would have a very low price. I soon learned that I had almost no choice, but after some time I finally found a house in West Fourteenth Street which I disliked much less than the others I had seen.

The place was a four-story mansion of brownstone[2 - особняк из песчаника; зажиточный, аристократический дом (прим. сост.)], with too much woodwork and marble. The large rooms, decorated with impossible wallpaper and moldings on the ceilings, were depressingly musty and smelled of cookery. But the floors and the linen were clean, and the hot water was not too often cold or turned off. So I thought it was a bearable place to stay at – at least for a while. The landlady, a Spanish woman named Herrero, did not annoy me with gossip or criticisms of the burning electric light late at night in my third-floor room. My neighbors, mostly Spaniards, too, were quiet and uncommunicative. Only the noise from the cars in the street below was a bit annoying.

I had been there for three weeks when the first strange incident happened. One evening, at about eight, I heard something dripping onto the floor and suddenly realized that I had been smelling the stench of ammonia for some time. I looked around and saw that in one corner, on the side toward the street, my ceiling was wet. To find the source of the trouble and stop it, I ran downstairs to inform the landlady, and she told me that the problem would be solved quickly.

“Doctor Muñoz,” she cried as she rushed upstairs with me. “I think he has spilled his chemicals again. He is too sick to take care of himself, getting sicker and sicker all the time, but he will not ask any other doctor for help. He has a very strange sickness: all day he takes bad-smelling baths, and he should never get warm. His little room is full of bottles and machines. He does not work as a doctor now, but he was great once. Even my father in Barcelona heard of him. He never goes out, only on the roof, and my boy Esteban brings him food, and laundry, and medicines, and chemicals – the ammonia that man uses for keeping himself cool!”

Mrs. Herrero went up the stairs to the fourth floor, and I returned to my room. The ammonia stopped dripping, and as I cleaned it up and opened the window for air, I heard the landlady’s heavy footsteps above me. I had never heard Dr. Muñoz himself, only some sounds of a mechanism. I wondered for a moment what the strange illness of this man might be and why he did not want to get the outside help.

I might have never met Dr. Muñoz, but one morning, as I sat writing in my room, I suddenly had a heart attack[3 - сердечный приступ]. Doctors had warned me about the danger of those attacks before, and I knew there was no time to lose. So, remembering what the landlady had said about the genius doctor, I managed to walk upstairs and knock at his door. My knock was answered in good English by a strange voice coming from the right, asking my name and business[4 - и по какому делу я пришёл]. I explained my situation and the door next to the one I had knocked at opened.

I was greeted by a rush of cool air, and although the day was one of the hottest days in June, I shivered as I stepped into a large apartment. Its rich decoration surprised me: mahogany furniture, old paintings, and many bookshelves. It all looked more like a gentleman’s study than a boarding house bedroom. I now saw that his hall room which was above mine – the “little room full of bottles and machines” which Mrs. Herrero had told me about – was the laboratory of the doctor, and that his main living-room with a large bathroom was in the spacious next room.

The man I saw in front of me was short, but well-built and well-dressed. His noble face, which spoke of intelligence, had a short gray beard, and I could see his dark eyes behind an old-fashioned pince-nez[5 - пенсне – очки без дужек, держащиеся на переносице (прим. сост.)] on his nose. Thick, well-cut hair, which meant regular visit of a barber, was parted above his high forehead, and the whole picture of him was of superior blood and breeding[6 - голубых кровей и благородного происхождения].

But as I saw Dr. Muñoz in that rush of cool air, I felt an unexplainable dislike for that man. Maybe it was his pale and gray complexion or coldness of touch that was the reason for this feeling, but probably these things were due to the man’s unknown serious illness. Or maybe it was just that cold which was so strange to feel on such a hot summer day.

However, my dislike was soon forgotten in admiration because the strange doctor was extremely skillful despite the ice-coldness and shakiness of his pale hands. He examined me and clearly understood my needs. Then in his weak voice he told me that he was the worst of enemies to death, but, unfortunately, lost all his friends in a lifetime battle with it, using unusual experiments. He was something of a fanatic, and he talked and talked about it while mixing drugs which he brought from the smaller laboratory room.

His voice was queer but soothing. I could not even hear his breathing as he talked so fast. He tried to distract my mind from my own problems by speaking of his theories and experiments. I remember him telling me about my weak heart, and that a man’s will and consciousness can be stronger than organic life itself. If a body is healthy and carefully preserved, it may keep its functions despite the most serious problems, defects, or even the absence of some organs. He might, he said, some day teach me to live without any heart at all! About his own illness he said that it needed constant cold. Any rise in temperature could actually kill him, and so the temperature was kept at some 55° or 56° Fahrenheit[7 - примерно +1 3 °C (прим. сост.)] by a system of ammonia cooling and the engine whose noise I had often heard in my own room below.

Feeling much better in a very short time, I left the cold place as a true admirer and follower of the genius doctor. After that I visited him quite often, listening to him while he told me of secret researches and terrible results. I shivered a bit when I examined the strange and shockingly ancient books on his shelves. By then I was almost cured of my heart problems by his skillful manipulations. He told me he preferred using rare medieval methods. Those methods had the power to affect the nervous system from which organic impulses had gone. He also told me about his older friend, Dr. Torres, who had a great illness, and how he had done his earlier experiments with him eighteen years before. The methods of healing he used had been most extraordinary, and its processes were not welcomed by older and more conservative colleagues. Unfortunately, soon after Dr. Muñoz had saved his colleague, he himself fell victim[8 - стал жертвой]to the enemy he had fought.

As the weeks passed, I was sorry to see that my new friend was slowly getting physically weaker and weaker, as Mrs. Herrero had said. His complexion was grayer than usual, his voice became hollow, his movements were slow, and his mind was blurred. He did not seem to notice this sad change, and little by little my conversations with him started bringing back that slight dislike I had felt at first.

He had also developed strange whims, for example, he started using exotic spices and Egyptian incense till his room smelled like a tomb of a pharaoh. At the same time, he demanded even colder air, and with my help he increased the ammonia in his refrigerating machine till he could keep the temperature as low as 40° or 34° and finally even 28°[9 - +4 °C, +1 °C и, под конец, даже -2 °C]. The bathroom and laboratory, of course, were less chilly, or all the water there would have frozen and the chemical processes would have stopped. Yet, a kind of growing horror seemed to possess the doctor. He now talked of death all the time, but laughed bitterly when things such as burial or funeral were mentioned.

All in all, he became a sad and even depressing companion, but I was grateful to him for helping me, and I could not leave him to the strangers around him. I carefully dusted his room every day and did much of his shopping, though some chemicals he ordered from druggists puzzled me.

There seemed to be an unexplained atmosphere of panic around his apartment. The whole house, as I have said, had a musty smell, but the smell in his room was the worst, despite all the spices and incense he used. The stench of chemical baths which he was constantly taking was unbearable. I thought that it must be connected with his illness and often wondered what that illness might be. The appearance and the voice of the doctor became frightful, so even Mrs. Herrero crossed herself when she looked at the doctor and left him all to me, not letting her son Esteban do chores for him anymore. When I suggested bringing in other doctors, Dr. Muñoz became furious. Although he avoided any emotions, he strongly refused to stay in his bed. He seemed determined to defy the death demon – his ancient enemy. He then stopped eating anything and lived on his mental power[10 - сила духа] alone.

He started writing some long documents, which he carefully sealed, and instructed me to send them after his death to certain people whom he named. As it happened, I burned all these papers unopened.

Then, in the middle of October, suddenly came the horror of horrors. One night, at about eleven, the pump of the refrigerating machine broke down, so that in three hours the process of ammonia cooling became impossible. Dr. Muñoz called me, and I tried to repair the engine, but my efforts were useless. When I had brought in a mechanic from an all-night garage, we learned that nothing could be done till morning because a new spare part was needed. The doctor’s rage and fear ruined the last of his poor health. A spasm made him cover his eyes with his hands and rush into the bathroom. He later came out with his face bandaged, and I never saw his eyes again.

The apartment was now getting warmer and warmer, and at about 5 a. m. the doctor went to the bathroom, ordering me to bring him all the ice I could get at the all-night drugstores and cafeterias. As I returned from my trips and lay the ice before the closed bathroom door, I could hear the doctor shouting, “More, more!”

Then another warm day came, and the shops opened one by one. I asked Esteban to help the doctor with the ice while I would go and find the pump spare parts and the workmen, but instructed by his mother, he absolutely refused.

Finally, I hired a man whom I met in the street to keep bringing the ice from a little shop. The hours went by in vain as I was telephoning different companies and running from place to place to find the right spare part. Finally, at about 1:30 p. m., I returned to my boarding house with the necessary equipment and two intelligent mechanics. I had done all I could, and hoped I was in time.

But the house was in black terror. Unthinkable stench was coming from under the doctor’s closed door. The man I had hired, it seemed, had run away screaming soon after his second delivery of ice. The doctor’s door was locked from the inside, and there was no sound except of slow dripping.

I spoke with Mrs. Herrero and the workmen, and at first, despite our fear, we decided to break down the door, but the landlady found a way to turn the key from the outside with some wire. We had opened the doors and windows of all the other rooms, and now, with our noses covered by handkerchiefs, we entered the doctor’s room.

A kind of dark, slimy trail led from the open bathroom door to the hall, and then to the desk, where there was a terrible little pool. Something was written there in pencil on a piece of paper – the doctor’s last words. Then the trail led to the couch and ended unspeakably.

What was, or had been, on the couch – I cannot describe. But here is what I saw on that paper before I burned it while the landlady and two mechanics rushed from that hellish place to the nearest police station. The sickening words seemed unbelievable, yet I confess that I believed them then. I honestly do not know if I believe them now. There are things about which it is better not to talk, and all I can say is that now I hate the smell of ammonia and can faint at a draught of unusually cool air.

“The end,” it was written on the paper, “is here. No more ice – the man saw me and ran away. Warmer every minute, and the tissues can’t last. I think you understood what I said about the will and the nerves, and the preserved body after the organs stopped working. It was a good idea, but it couldn’t last forever. I didn’t realize it. Dr. Torres had understood it, but the shock killed him. He couldn’t stand what he had to do when he got my letter. He had put me in a strange, dark place and nursed me back, but the organs would never work again. So it had to be done my way – artificial preservation – because, you see, I died that time, eighteen years ago.”

The tree on the hill

1

Southeast of Hampden, near the Salmon River, there is a range of rocky hills on which no one lives. The canyons are too deep and the slopes are too steep for anyone except the cows and sheep. The last time I visited Hampden, the region known as Hell’s Acres was part of the Blue Mountain Forest Reserve. There are no roads linking this place with the outside world, and the local people will tell you that it is indeed an evil spot. There is a local superstition that the area is haunted, but by what or by whom no one seems to know. Natives do not go walking in those hills because they believe the stories told by the Nez Perce Indians, who have avoided the region for generations, because, according to them, it is a playground of devils from the Outside. These tales made me very curious.

My first visit – and my last, thank God! – to those hills was while Theunis and I were living in Hampden the summer of 1938. He was writing an article on Egyptian mythology, and I was walking alone much of the time. We lived in a small house on Beacon Street.

On the morning of June 23rd, I was walking in those strangely shaped hills, which at first had seemed very ordinary. I must have been about seven miles south of Hampden before I noticed anything unusual. I was climbing a grassy slope of a deep canyon when I saw an area totally without any vegetation. It went southward over many hills and valleys. At first I thought the spot had been burned in the previous fall, but after examining the ground, I found no signs of a fire. The nearby slopes and ravines looked terribly scarred as if some gigantic torch had blasted them, burning all vegetation. And yet there was no sign of a fire…

I moved on over rich, black soil in which no grass grew. As I went for the center of this deserted area, I began to notice a strange silence. There were no birds, no rabbits, and even the insects seemed to have left the place. I stood on a little hill and tried to guess at the size of that strange region. Then I saw the lone tree.

It stood on a hill, which was higher than the other hills, and attracted the attention because it was so unexpected. I had seen no trees for miles: many bushes grew in the ravines, but there had been no big trees. It was strange to find one standing on that hill.

I crossed two canyons before I came to it, and a surprise waited for me. It was not a pine tree, nor a fir tree, nor an ash tree. I had never, in all my life, seen a tree which I could compare with it – for which I am thankful!

More than anything it looked like an oak. It had a huge, twisted trunk, a yard in diameter, and the large branches began spreading about seven feet from the ground. The leaves were round and strangely alike in size and design. It might have been a tree from a painting, but I swear to God it was real. I will always know that it was real, despite what Theunis said later.

I remember that I looked at the sun and thought it was about ten o’clock in the morning, but I did not look at my watch. The day was getting warm, and I sat for a while in the welcome shade of the huge tree. Then I noticed the grass that grew under it – another strange phenomenon when I remembered the deserted area through which I had passed. A wild maze of hills and ravines surrounded me on all sides, although the hill on which I sat was rather higher than any other within miles. I looked far to the east and I jumped to my feet, startled and amazed. Through a blue haze in the distance I could see the Bitterroot Mountains! There is no other range of snow-capped peaks[11 - снежные вершины] within three hundred miles of Hampden, and I knew that I shouldn’t be seeing them at all from this hill. For several minutes I looked at the peaks, and then I became sleepy. I lay in the grass under the tree. I put down my camera, took off my hat, and relaxed, staring at the sky through the green leaves. Finally, I closed my eyes.

Then a curious thing happened to me: I saw a cloudy vision of something unfamiliar. I thought I saw a great temple by a sea where three suns shone in the pale red sky. The temple, or a vast tomb, was of a strange color – a nameless blue-violet shade. Large beasts flew in the cloudy sky, and I seemed to hear the flapping of their heavy wings. I went nearer the stone temple, and a huge doorway appeared in front of me. Within that doorway were shadows that seemed to try to suck me inside that awful darkness. I thought I saw three burning eyes in the void of the doorway, and I screamed with mortal fear. In that depth, I knew, was a living hell even worse than death. I screamed again. The vision faded.

I saw the round leaves and the blue sky again. Trembling and covered in cold sweat, I tried to get up. I wanted to run away, to run from that evil tree on the hill, but then I calmed down and thought it was absurd. Never had I dreamed anything so realistic, so horrifying. What had caused the vision? I had been reading several of Theunis’ books on ancient Egypt… I wiped my forehead and decided that it was time for lunch.