H.P. Lovecraft. The Terrible Old Man
The Terrible Old Man
by H. P. Lovecraft
Written 28 Jan 1920
Published July 1921 in The Tryout, Vol. 7, No. 4, p. 10-14.
It was the design of Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva to call
on the Terrible Old Man. This old man dwells all alone in a very ancient
house on Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be both exceedingly
rich and exceedingly feeble; which forms a situation very attractive to
men of the profession of Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva, for that
profession was nothing less dignified than robbery.
The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the Terrible
Old Man which generally keep him safe from the attention of gentlemen like
Mr. Ricci and his colleagues, despite the almost certain fact that he
hides a fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about his musty and
venerable abode. He is, in truth, a very strange person, believed to have
been a captain of East India clipper ships in his day; so old that no one
can remember when he was young, and so taciturn that few know his real
name. Among the gnarled trees in the front yard of his aged and neglected
place he maintains a strange collection of large stones, oddly grouped and
painted so that they resemble the idols in some obscure Eastern temple.
This collection frightens away most of the small boys who love to taunt
the Terrible Old Man about his long white hair and beard, or to break the
small-paned windows of his dwelling with wicked missiles; but there are
other things which frighten the older and more curious folk who sometimes
steal up to the house to peer in through the dusty panes. These folk say
that on a table in a bare room on the ground floor are many peculiar
bottles, in each a small piece of lead suspended pendulum-wise from a
string. And they say that the Terrible Old Man talks to these bottles,
addressing them by such names as Jack, Scar-Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe,
Peters, and Mate Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle the little
lead pendulum within makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer.
Those who have watched the tall, lean, Terrible Old Man in these peculiar
conversations, do not watch him again. But Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and
Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood; they were of that new and
heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charmed circle of New
England life and traditions, and they saw in the Terrible Old Man merely a
tottering, almost helpless grey-beard, who could not walk without the aid
of his knotted cane, and whose thin, weak hands shook pitifully. They were
really quite sorry in their way for the lonely, unpopular old fellow, whom
everybody shunned, and at whom all the dogs barked singularly. But
business is business, and to a robber whose soul is in his profession,
there is a lure and a challenge about a very old and very feeble man who
has no account at the bank, and who pays for his few necessities at the
village store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago.
Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva selected the night of April 11th for
their call. Mr. Ricci and Mr. Silva were to interview the poor old
gentleman, whilst Mr. Czanek waited for them and their presumable metallic
burden with a covered motor-car in Ship Street, by the gate in the tall
rear wall of their host's grounds. Desire to avoid needless explanations
in case of unexpected police intrusions prompted these plans for a quiet
and unostentatious departure.
As prearranged, the three adventurers started out separately in order to
prevent any evil-minded suspicions afterward. Messrs. Ricci and Silva met
in Water Street by the old man's front gate, and although they did not
like the way the moon shone down upon the painted stones through the
budding branches of the gnarled trees, they had more important things to
think about than mere idle superstition. They feared it might be
unpleasant work making the Terrible Old Man loquacious concerning his
hoarded gold and silver, for aged sea-captains are notably stubborn and
perverse. Still, he was very old and very feeble, and there were two
visitors. Messrs. Ricci and Silva were experienced in the art of making
unwilling persons voluble, and the screams of a weak and exceptionally
venerable man can be easily muffled. So they moved up to the one lighted
window and heard the Terrible Old Man talking childishly to his bottles
with pendulums. Then they donned masks and knocked politely at the
weather-stained oaken door.
Waiting seemed very long to Mr. Czanek as he fidgeted restlessly in the
covered motor-car by the Terrible Old Man's back gate in Ship Street. He
was more than ordinarily tender-hearted, and he did not like the hideous
screams he had heard in the ancient house just after the hour appointed
for the deed. Had he not told his colleagues to be as gentle as possible
with the pathetic old sea-captain? Very nervously he watched that narrow
oaken gate in the high and ivy-clad stone wall. Frequently he consulted
his watch, and wondered at the delay. Had the old man died before
revealing where his treasure was hidden, and had a thorough search become
necessary? Mr. Czanek did not like to wait so long in the dark in such a
place. Then he sensed a soft tread or tapping on the walk inside the gate,
heard a gentle fumbling at the rusty latch, and saw the narrow, heavy door
swing inward. And in the pallid glow of the single dim street-lamp he
strained his eyes to see what his colleagues had brought out of that
sinister house which loomed so close behind. But when he looked, he did
not see what he had expected; for his colleagues were not there at all,
but only the Terrible Old Man leaning quietly on his knotted cane and
smiling hideously. Mr. Czanek had never before noticed the colour of that
man's eyes; now he saw that they were yellow.
Little things make considerable excitement in little towns, which is the
reason that Kingsport people talked all that spring and summer about the
three unidentifiable bodies, horribly slashed as with many cutlasses, and
horribly mangled as by the tread of many cruel boot-heels, which the tide
washed in. And some people even spoke of things as trivial as the deserted
motor-car found in Ship Street, or certain especially inhuman cries,
probably of a stray animal or migratory bird, heard in the night by
wakeful citizens. But in this idle village gossip the Terrible Old Man
took no interest at all. He was by nature reserved, and when one is aged
and feeble, one's reserve is doubly strong. Besides, so ancient a
sea-captain must have witnessed scores of things much more stirring in the
far-off days of his unremembered youth.
