The Dunwich Romance Read Free Page B

gull naked when she be beautiful as ye.”
    Sary lay numb in her hammock of strong forearms. Scarcely in her entire life had she been complimented, save for infrequent endorsements of “customers” with regard to the skillfulness and even ingeniousness she demonstrated via certain of her carnal modus. One time Elmer Frye retailed to her: “Stew Face, yew could coax a nut aout a dead man’s dick, yew could”; once, also, “En’t nevuh cum so fine in all’a my life as I jess did naow, gull. If yew’re face warn’t so Gawd-damn awful on the eye, why, I’d wring my flop-tit wife’s fat neck’n marry yew! ” So much for the compliments directed toward “Stew Face.” This man seemed much nicer, however, which he’d made evident thus far, not to mention some subjective component about his tenue that she ascertained via her intuitions. Finally came her reply: “Oh, yeah, I know fellas find it pleasin’ to look at my body withaout no clothes on. Jess not my face.”
    The man halted as if bidden by an inner quandary; he looked at her with directness, in her face. “En’t jess ye’re body I’m talkin’ abaount, no. Ye’re face, tew. All’ a ye.”
    Sary felt a tempest in her head. What benefit could there be in his making false statements to her? What strategy could exist through inauthentic compliments to potentially make her compliant for sex, when that she’d already offered? This fella could’a fucked the tar aout’a me whethers I fancied it or not, she reminded herself. What he’d just communicated comprised, indeed, the kindest words ever spoken to her. “Ee-yuh.” Again, he redirected his gaze ahead. He whispered, “Ye’re jess...so...beautiful...,” and then recommenced in his steady, long-strided lope across the field.
    A mile must’ve passed behind them in which she rode in silence, antsy, confused. Sary, in fact, felt as though she understood nothing at this moment, save for one verity. Being in his arms, feeling shielded from all harm, furnished to her an emotion that scarcely visited her bleak existence: happiness.
    A second mile must’ve lapsed when she thought to ask, “Hey! I’se forgot! What’s yew’re name?”
    “Wilbur,” the deep, warbling voice informed her. “Wilbur Whateley.”
     

Three
     
     
    July 28, 1928
     
    My fear now iz it will get too big to keep contained by time Equinox comes round. Sinse I fail at Miskatonic, I had no choice but to make the trip to Cambridge and ast to copy their version of p. 751 of the Latin. But they treat me the same, and I calculate it was Armitage who told em to do just that. May Yog-Sothoth blast that man and throw his body evurlasting into the Basin of the Shoggoths. What difference it make to Armitage? Just another fool like the others, cant understand bout someone who look and think different. But now I keep hearin my grandsire’s words—what he last say to me that night just bfore the Whippoorwills try and get him, “More space, Willy!” he say a-gaspin, “more space soon! Yew grow—an’ THAT grows faster.” Well, I done what he told me...but that One inside just keep growing. Got to keep it qwelled, keep its size down so it dont bust quarters afore the time. Have been feeding it smaller varmints, no more of Sawyer’s Alderney cows.
    Getting nervous. I maye have thougt out things improper. If only Grandfather hadnt up and die.
    It all be in the house now, whole house, like Grandfather want. Was easy tearing out the ceiling and planking all the windows and doors. I got the old tore out wood in a big pile in back but I know the town folk are talkin bout it. Some of them creep up at night, they do, lookin, snoopin. I live in the sheds now, so Im sure they see that. It can only be the most stalwurt of em, though, for the thing’s drippings have gotten more volumous, raising more and more a its smell. Somtimes when I see these folks and their snoopin, I’ll read one of the Alko Hexes that putts on em the burdin of