H.P. Lovecraft's Haunter in the Dark - Part 1
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If this is your first time listening to the podcast, let me just say you've come to the right place.

In the last episode, we followed Robert Blake on his first ill-fated journey into the unknown. But for this young aspiring writer, his greatest adventure is yet to come in Haunter in the Dark. Haunter was originally published in the December 1936 issue of Weird Tales. It is considered one of Howard Phillips Lovecraft's seminal works. And due to his untimely death in 1937, it is also his last.

H.P. Lovecraft is arguably Rhode Island's most famous author. He was born and spent most of his life in Providence, the state capital. But more than that, Providence and the surrounding New England area are part of the very fabric that makes his stories special. Like Shambler from the Stars, Haunter in the Dark takes place in Providence. For anyone who hasn't been to the quaint New England city, it features a giant white statehouse that is the perfect stand-in for the U.S. Capitol.

With its granite sidewalks, antique street lamps, and English Baroque architecture, it feels like stepping out of a time machine. To the east is the idyllic College Hill, featuring narrow-tiered streets packed shoulder-to-shoulder with Georgian-style houses of red, gray, and white brick.

It is also the home to Brown University and the Rhode Island School of Design, and it embodies the most charming aspects of what it means to be a pre-revolution colonial town. To the west sits Federal Hill, now famous for its Italian food and connections to the mafia patriarcha crime family,

It was once home to many of the city's newly arrived Irish and later Italian immigrants. The tenements and blue-collar businesses of Federal Hill exist in stark contrast to its illustrious eastern neighbor, and stand as a monument to the tenacity of generations old and new that come to these shores looking for better lives. And it's these two neighborhoods that set the stage upon which Robert Blake, our main character's fates, play out in a glorious pageant of supernatural horror.

I decided to start the podcast with Shambler from the Stars and Haunter in the Dark because these stories hold a special place in my heart. I spent my high school years in Rhode Island, and the same streets that inspired Lovecraft were the setting for the most formative years of my life. It was during this time I first read Haunter in the Dark, and it transformed my experience of the city. After reading his works, every street, every alley seemed to come alive in the image of Lovecraft's dark imaginings, as I hope they will now do for you.

So without further delay, it's time to grab your popcorn, turn out the lights, get comfy, and enjoy Haunter in the Dark Part 1. If I were to hazard a guess, I'd say electrical discharge. See here, look. Look at this. The victim's hair has turned completely white. And that expression of shock... That's electrocution. I don't see any outlets. You know, these old Georgians are mostly gas.

Lightning, maybe? Pretty good nor'easter came through last night. College Hill took a few strikes as I hear it. Through a closed window. Nature has been known to perform the occasional freakish anomaly. That's one theory. What do you make of these? Ropes tied to the bedpost. No sign of bruising on his hands and wrists. Whatever their purpose, they played no part in whatever killed this man.

It is a peculiar death mask. Almost looks as though he died of fright. If such a thing were possible. That expression...

It's as though he looked into the face of the devil himself. And how long has he been, uh, boarding with you? Oh, more than a year now at least. A very quiet and restrained young man. A writer and painter, I believe. He didn't share much with me of his history. He said he rented here because the house reminded him of a friend. And he liked this chamber sat beneath the monitor roof and had windows that gave him...

In his words, a crow's eye perch from which to observe the city. It is a nice view. And, uh, these? These are his works? His paintings? Yes, I believe so. Strange, aren't they? I suppose so. I never really look. I never want to impose. Otherworldly landscapes. Shadows, ghosts, and goblins.

Curious subjects. More fitting of the inhabitants of Arkham or Salem, wouldn't you say? Not our fair city of Providence, huh? I really don't like to impose. Did he have any, uh, peculiarities? Drink? Or the pipe? You know, anything like that? No, nothing like that. He was a very respectable young man, though... Go on. Well...

It's really not my business. It may help my investigation. In the last few weeks, he seemed to prefer a more solitary existence. He took most of his meals here in his room, and he rarely went out. I believe he suffered from night terrors. Night terrors? Yeah, bad dreams. Sometimes as I was finishing my, um...

Night routine you see my room is just below well. I would hear things What kind of things? Moans or wails I guess you'd call him thuds as though he'd rolled out of the bed onto the floor and And only sometimes mind you I could swear I heard him crying explains the ropes between what you said in this Art he sounds like quite a disturbed young man. No I assure you he was quite nice I

Well, you said he was an author. I don't see a typewriter. I believe he preferred journals. Green moleskin was what he often carried with him. There is a black leather folio here. Hmm. Looks old. Just gibberish and scribbles. I can't make out a thing. I found it. Here. Wedged between the desk and the wall. Looks as though he was writing when he died. Pens in the pages. So very, very sad. Hmm. Indeed. If there isn't anything else...

I'd like to retire. It's been a most upsetting morning. Yes, of course. One thing, would you mind giving me his full name again? For the record. Yes, um, Robert Harrison Blake.

The Journal of Robert Blake, December 1st, 1934. It's been three months since my return to Providence, and I cannot profess enough how restorative coming back has been to my spirits. So low had I sunken after the events of last year that there was a time when I entertained that the only respite from my reoccurring nightmares might be found at the end of a loaded pistol. But from the misery sprung an idea.

Instead of running from the horror of that fateful night, I should retread my steps. Perhaps there was more to be gleaned from the city and its neighboring region's famous folklore. More than death and flame. Perhaps inspiration might spring from the ash, and so it has. These months have been the most productive of my life.

I have taken the upper floor rooms of a venerable dwelling in a grassy court off College Street near the Brown University campus, a little oasis of Georgian antiquity, and I placed my desk in my study beneath the west-facing windows that commanded a splendid view of the city below. The lower town's outspread roofs and the mystical sunsets that flamed behind them was fuel like I had never known.

On the far horizon, some two miles away, rose the spectral hump of Federal Hill, bristling with huddled roofs whose remote outlines wavered mysteriously, taking fantastic forms as the smoke of the city swirled up and enmeshed them. It was like some foreign, ethereal world which might vanish at any moment, just outside my window.

The tonic this city provided me has borne fruit in the creation of five published stories and countless canvases displaying my imaginings. In searching for my next muse, I have of late become completely entranced by a shape on the western horizon. So much so that I laid down quite a sum of money at a curio shop on Thayer Street, just so that I might have a closer look at my gothic prey.

The target of my fascination was the massive structure of a huge, darkened church. It seemed to rest on especially high ground, and at sunset, the great tower and tapering steeple loomed blackly against the flaming sky. Peculiarly grim and austere, it appeared to be built of stone stained and weathered with the smoke and storms of centuries.

It is a truly magnificent structure, but even the view afforded to me by my costly purchase does not do the Marvel justice. I simply have to see it in person. I thought it would be easier to find. I feel like I've been climbing these weathered streets forever. Perhaps one of these fine people can point me towards my destination. Ma'am? Excuse me, ma'am? Si?

I'm in need of directions. Would you happen to know a church, large, gothic architecture, a tower, steeple, dark gray stone? Guess I'm on my own. Seems to me it should be north of here, somewhere closer to the crest. Maybe just a few more blocks this way? Ah, yes, I think I can see the spire peeking through those rooftops over there.

The higher I climb in these odd surroundings, the more I get the feeling like the eyes and the painting have been moving. It's clear from these unfriendly stares that my presence here is less than welcome. Ah, there appears to be a grocer's on the corner. I could use a moment's respite. My mouth is parched. Perhaps the proprietor will be more open to conversation than the other residents I've met. Hello? Hello. Grocery is our account to service. I'd love a drink.

We've got the coffee milk and creams, what have you. Huh, I'll have a coffee milk, please. And one of these sandwiches. That'll be a quarter. All right. Here you go. Let me know if I can offer you anything else. Could use directions. Do you know a large stone church? Old, with a tower and steeple? It's up here somewhere. Dark, almost black stone. I don't know any church like that.

Are you sure? It's quite an impressive piece of architecture. There's nothing like that here. Really? I'm sure anyone who'd seen it would remember. I mean, it's so... I do not know this church you're looking for. I think you should finish your meal and go. Yes, yes. Oh, okay. Thank you. I could swear that man had fear in his eyes when I mentioned the church. And that curious hand gesture he made. Crossed fingers laid upon his forehead. Could it be a ward of some kind? What?

At last, the end of my quest. Finding it feels all the more triumphant after the day's exertions. Here the church finally stands in front of me and I am in, vacant as I suspected, never having seen lights emitting from it. It is in a state of magnificent decay. A grim titan watching over this cobblestone square.

Some of the buttresses have collapsed into the tangled overgrowth of the churchyard. The windows are all intact. That's curious. Those are usually the first to be targeted by the habits of young boys. Now come to think of it, I wonder why this square is so empty of traffic. This sort of place is usually a flurry of local commerce. Locked. Here comes someone. A priest. Father? Padre?

A moment of your time? Yes, my son. I was wondering, um, I'm visiting from the other side of the city, and I'm a great admirer of local architecture. It's my first time visiting Federal Hill. I was wondering, uh, what could you tell me about this abandoned church? It was a holy place, but no longer. Let's leave it at that. May it lay empty till time sees fit to bring it low. May it crumble and fall to dust. What happened here? Please, Father.

The curious nature of this church called me all the way across the city, and I've spent the entire day in search of this place only to be gawked at and dismissed by local residents here. I mean to find answers. If it will help you return home and delve no further, I will tell you what I know. The church has been as you see it since long before I received my calling to the faith.

But the older members of the congregation still remember the blight and horror that took place here. This church was once the prize of the Anglican diocese, a marvel in stone, a house of grace. They made it a house of the devil. In that lost sect, they called up awful things from some unknown gulf of night. There were disappearances and rumors of human sacrifices.

Children stolen in the dead of night. The trauma of that time has left scars on the people here that may never fade. A father of our order gave his life to banish the things they called forth from the darkness. What happened to the sect? Where did they go? They ran away like rats, scaring them from a sinking ship. Someday the city will step in and take the property back for lack of airs.

a little good will come of anybody touching it. Better it be left alone for the years to topple, lest things be stirred that ought to rest forever in their black abyss. I must be on my way. Hopefully, whatever you learn may put the rest any further curiosity in this cursed place.

Reporting live from under my blanket, I'm Susan Curtis with Duncan at Home. Breaking news, pumpkin spice iced and hot coffees are back. I'll pass it to Mr. Curtis with his blanket for the full story. That is so right, Susan. You know, it's never too early to get in a spicy mood. I'm talking cinnamony goodness that's so tasty, people don't want to leave their blankets either. Back to you. No, back to you. All you.

The home with Dunkin' Pumpkin Spice is where you want to be. This podcast is supported by FX's English Teacher, a new comedy from executive producers of What We Do in the Shadows and Baskets. English Teacher follows Evan.

From the Journal of Robert Blake, December 3rd, 1934.

I wandered around the outside of the church for a while after my conversation with the priest, a Father Merzullo of the nearby Church of the Holy Spirit. His words rumbled around in my conscious mind as I made several orbits of the raised palisade wall that ringed the imposing edifice. The holy man hoped that I might return home in trade for his providing a rare glimpse into the church's dark history.

But his candor only fanned the flames of my interest. The priest's tales were likely only the product of local rumor and the scary appearance of this structure, but even so they were like strange comings to life of one of my own stories. A looking glass and a white rabbit tailored to the odd flavor of my own imagination. How could I resist the terrible lore of this blackened fane now?

In the fading light of the winter afternoon, the wall before me presented itself like some mysterious Christmas present waiting to be torn open. I noticed on a previous lap that one of the postern gates had warped on its hinges and with effort might be forced open. I had come this far. It was time to see what laid within. Come on now. Come on. There you go. Just a little more, damn it. Hot dog. It's like another world.

The yard is completely overgrown. These brambles and vines are so thick I can hardly move. God damn it! Something caught my foot. A broken headstone. Ugh. Buck up, man. Only a torn pant leg and a bruised heel. Nothing is ever easy. All right, then. Shall we go left or right? It's so quiet here. There are no birds chirping. And I can't make out any circling the spire above. Aha! There you are.

Someone left this cellar window ajar when they abandoned this place. Ugh, the sill and frame are completely rotted from decades of rain and snow. I'll just slip in here. Here we go. Ah, god, that's... Something definitely died in here. This must have been the boiler room. Coal burning from the looks of it. Cobwebs, mold, and darkness.

I should secure an easy evacuation route. The last thing I want to do is be stuck in here if this proves to be the state of the entire church. Hmm, crates... not sturdy enough. An oak barrel. I think this should work fine. If, uh... let me see. I move it over below the window. There it is. This will be all I need to make a hasty exit should the need arise.

Now let us ascend and see if there are better environs above. Half choked with dust and covered in ghostly fibers, I reached out and began to climb the worn stone steps which rose into the darkness. I had no light but groped carefully. After a sharp turn, I felt a closed door before me, and a little fumbling revealed its ancient latch. Hello? Hello?

"Hello?" The colossal nave was magnificent, with its drifts and mountains of dust over row and row of box pews, the altar, the raised hourglass pulpit,

Titanic ropes of cobwebs stretched among the pointed arches of the gallery and entwined the clustered Gothic columns. This glorious desolation was made even more striking by the light of the declining afternoon streaking through the stained glass illuminating beams of dust. "Anybody home?" I couldn't help myself. The paintings in the stained glass were hard to make out. They were so covered with soot and grime

It seems though that the sect hadn't deemed to replace the boring saints and angels of the original tenants, except for one. The largest of the articulately designed windows hung above the altar in the chancel. Its design wholly unlike the others. Its spiraling negative space and luminescent curves had a hypnotic quality that drew you in, pulling you into its center. Extraordinary. Look at that cross!

This is no mere crucifix. It's like something out of ancient Egypt. An Ankh or a Crux Ansata. There's a door here. Well, who am I talking to? This must have been the vestry. The tenants definitely left in a hurry. All the books are still on the shelves. What have we here? Mildew and the damp have destroyed whatever these might have contained. The damage is so extreme I can't even make out the titles. They just collapse into mush.

Ah, just as I thought, the drawers provided protection from the elements. What's this? A leather-bound folio. It's in surprisingly good condition. More symbols. I know a few of these. Alchemical, I believe. Like those used in astrology and other dubious arts. Perhaps it's a code of some sort. I recognize some of these devices: the sun, the moon, the planets. But there are others here I've never seen before. Let's just tuck you away for later study, shall we?

Standing in that room, perfectly preserved and untouched, it struck me again how powerful a force the local sphere must have been for no one to disturb a sight of such obvious value. The contents of this room alone would have netted a hefty sum in certain antique stores I know, and the residents of this part of town seemed the poorer sort who could scarce ignore such an obvious opportunity.

Having now thoroughly explored the ground floor, I plowed again through the dust to the front vestibule where I spied a staircase, presumably leading up to the blackened tower. The ascent was a choking experience, again groping in darkness up the 123 stone steps. I expected to find a brass bell or chimes in the uppermost chamber, but the room that awaited me was clearly devoted to a vastly different purpose.

In the center of that dim, dust-laden space rose a curiously angled stone pillar, some four feet in height, covered on each side with bizarre, crudely incised and wholly unrecognizable hieroglyphs. What dark rituals were performed here? Seven chairs arranged around a heptagonal pillar. Seven colossal murals depicting... what are these?

Faces? Totems? What arcane purpose did a room like this provide? There's something here on the center of the pedestal. It's completely buried in dust and soot. A box, delicately inlaid. As I opened that curious box, something glowed ever so subtly within. The object inside appeared to be a black and red streaked crystal. Was it truly glowing or was it a trick of the light?

As I examined the box closer, I noticed that the stone was pierced by seven small gold protrusions, as though the container itself were spearing its charge to death. I lifted the box to look at it, and the object moved. The ornate protrusions were merely supports to keep the crystal from contacting the sides. "Come here, you." As I gazed into the depths of the stone, something overtook me.

My mind's eye was transported to a completely alien world. One second I was there in that blackened tower and the next I was standing at the foot of titanic mountains of glass. There were great stone towers and endless stars. A civilization of monstrous and utterly exotic beings labored and toiled at their works.

These entities, which though seemingly alive, resembled no life form imaginable. I traversed eons in a matter of heartbeats. Cities grew and collapsed before me. I'm back. What is this thing? Is it a portal? Was I actually there? Or was it some sort of vision recorded in stone? Like some psychic phonograph. God, that place. Those things.

As I backed away from that stone, my mind reeling, I tripped on something at my feet. But when I hit the ground, instead of stone, I landed on something soft. "What is this?" "It's a coat." "Oh god!" A skull. A grinning, bleached skull smiled at me in the folds of the gray cloth. "Get a hold of yourself, man." I steadied myself as best I could.

Feeling my way around in that dark space for a wallet or some way to identify the dead man. A satchel? And something inside. Too dark. The lancet window there. Hello? Hello? I could hear something in the room above. What I assumed to be the peak of the steeple. Oh god! The barrel's still here. Oh thank you.

I found my way back to the post-ruin gate and out onto the side streets of Federal Hill as residents emerged from their homes. What have I done? God forgive me. What have I done?

We hope you enjoyed this presentation of Haunter in the Dark Part 1. It was dramatized, produced, and edited by me, your host, Jonathan Pezza. Our ensemble cast includes the voices of Philip Gray, Matthew Hoban, Jeremy Pezza, Maria Pezza, and Catherine Mews. The score was provided by EpidemicSound.com. Additional score by Giuseppe Verdi and featuring Antonin Dvorak's Legends, performed by the Waterloo Cedar Falls Symphony.

Sound effects were provided by Soundsnap.com. Haunter in the Dark is a work in the public domain and was produced in accordance with U.S. copyright law. Curious Matter is a production of Jonathan Pezza, Inc., copyright 2019, all rights reserved.

If you have a question or feedback about the podcast, or you have an idea for a future episode, I'd love to hear from you. You can reach me at [email protected] or check us out online for more information at www.curiousmatterpodcast.com. Here on Curious Matter, we dedicate each episode to a used bookstore. This one goes out to the store where I purchased my very first copy of H.P. Lovecraft's work, The Seller Stories Bookshop in Providence, Rhode Island.

The Seller Stories Bookshop is one part Diagon Alley and one part the bookstore from Neverending Story. It is the perfect place to get out of the cold and discover your next favorite. Do yourself a favor and look them up online at sellerstories.com, or better yet, if you live nearby, go for a visit and buy a book. Coming up on the next episode of Curious Matter, we will bring you the epic conclusion to Haunter in the Dark, so make sure to subscribe today, and thank you for listening.

The Fable & Folly Network, where fiction producers flourish. Please try to get some sleep tonight. I've been trying to sleep all week. Nothing helps. You could try a sleep sound. No thanks. You've had enough nightmares for the both of us.

Come on, the medication has nothing to do with that. I haven't had a bad dream in ages. Ever since your highly problematic affair in Idaho? Oh my god, never stop. Nothing happened. Nothing happened? Well, you still haven't told me who you're bringing to graduation. Oh, your heart is racing. How can you tell? You're lying on top of me. What if I don't want anyone else to know yet? And it wasn't a bad dream?

I don't know. Christopher, you know. Can't you appreciate that I'm trying to help you here? Thanks for the pills, Lilz. Dreamers, season two by Broken Crown Productions. Tune in weekly wherever you listen to podcasts.