H.P. Lovecraft. Winged Death

Winged Death

by H. P. Lovecraft and Hazel Heald

Written 1933

Published March 1934 in Weird Tales, 23, No. 3, 299-315.

THE Orange Hotel stands in High Street near the railway station in
Bloemfontein, South Africa. On Sunday, January 24, 1932, four men sat
shivering from terror in a room on its third floor. One was George C.
Titteridge, proprietor of the hotel; another was police constable Ian De
Witt of the Central Sation; a third was Johannes Bogaert, the local
coroner; the fourth, and apparently the least disorganized of the group,
was Doctor Cornelius Van Keulen, the coroner's physician.

On the floor, uncomfortably evident amid the stifling summer heat, was the
body of a dead man--but this was not what the four were afraid of. Their
glances wandered from the table, on which lay a curious assortment of
things, to the ceiling overhead, across whose smooth whiteness a series of
huge, faltering alphabetical characters had somehow been scrawled in ink;
and every now and then Doctor Van Keulen would glance half furtively at a
worn leather blank-book, the scrawled words on the ceiling, and a dead fly
of peculiar aspect which floated in a bottle of ammonia on the table.
Also on the table were an open inkwell, a pen and writing-pad, a
physician's medical case, a bottle of hydrochloric acid, and a tumbler
about a quarter full of black oxide of manganese.

The worn leather book was the journal of the dead man on the floor, and
had at once made clear that the name Frederick N. Mason, Mining
Properties, Toronto, Canada, signed in the hotel register, was a false
one. There were other things--terrible things--which it likewise made
clear; and still other things of far greater terror at which it hinted
hideously without making them clear or even fully believable. It was the
half-belief of the four men, fostered by lives spent close to the black,
settled secrets of brooding Africa, which made them shiver so violently in
spite of the searing January heat.

The blank-book was not a large one, and the entries were in a fine
handwriting, which, however, grew careless and nervous-looking toward the
last. It consisted of a series of jottings at first rather irregularly
spaced, but finally becoming daily. To call it a diary would not be quite
correct, for it chronicled only one set of its writer's activities.
Doctor Van Keulen recognized the name of the dead man the moment he opened
the cover, for it was that of an eminent member of his own profession who
had been largely connected with African matters. In another moment he was
horrified to find his name linked with a dastardly crime officially
unsolved, which had filled the newspapers some four months before. And
the farther he read, the deeper grew his horror, awe, and sense of
loathing and panic.

Here, in essence, is the text which the doctor read aloud in that sinister
and increasingly noisome room while the three men around him breathed
hard, fidgeted in their chairs, and darted frightened glances at the
ceiling, the table, the things on the floor, and one another:

JOUNRAL OF
THOMAS SLAUENWITE, M.D.

Touching punishment of Henry Sargent Moore, Ph.D., of Brooklyn, New York,
Professor of Invertebrate Biology in Columbia University, New York, N.Y.
Prepared to be read after my death, for the satisfaction of making public
the accomplishment of my revenge, which may otherwise never be imputed to
me even if it succeeds.

January 5, 1929--I have now fully resolved to kill Doctor Henry Moore, and
a recent incident has shown me how I shall do it. From now on, I shall
follow a consistent line of action; hence the beginning of this journal.

It is hardly necessary to repeat the circumstances which have driven me to
this course, for the informed part of the public is familiar with all the
salient facts. I was born in Trenton, New Jersey, on April 12, 1885, the
son of Doctor Paul Slauenwite, formerly of Pretoria, Transvaal, South
Africa. Studying medicine as part of my family tradition, I was led by my
father (who died in 1916, while I was serving in France in a South African
regiment) to specialize in African fevers; and after my graduation from
Columbia spent much time in researches which took me from Durban, in
Natal, up to the equator itself.

In Mombasa I worked out my new theory of the transmission and development
of remittent fever, aided only slightly by the papers of the late
government physician, Sir Norman Sloane, which I found in the house I
occupied. When I published my results I became at a single stroke a
famous authority. I was told of the probability of an almost supreme
position in the South African health service, and even a probable
knighthood, in the event of my becoming a naturalized citizen, and
accordingly I took the necessary steps.

Then occurred the incident for which I am about to kill Henry Moore. This
man, my classmate and friend of years in America and Africa, chose
deliberately to undermine my claim to my own theory; alleging that Sir
Norman Sloane had anticipated me in every essential detail, and implying
that I had probably found more of his papers than I had stated in my
account of the matter. To buttress this absurd accusation he produced
certain personal letters from Sir Norman which indeed showed that the
older man had been over my ground, and that he would have published his
results very soon but for his sudden death. This much I could only admit
with regret. What I could not excuse was the jealous suspicion that I had
stolen the theory from Sir Norman's papers. The British government,
sensibly enough, ignored these aspersions, but witheld the half-promised
appointment and knighthood on the ground that my theory, while original
with me, was not in fact new.

I could see that my career in Africa perceptibly checked; though I had
placed all my hopes on such a career, even to the point of resigning
American citizenship. A distinct coolness toward me had arisien among the
Government set in Mombasa, especially among those who had known Sir
Norman. It was then that I resolved to be even with Moore sooner or
later, though I did not know how. He had been jealous of my early
celebrity, and had taken advantage of his old correspondence with Sir
Norman to ruin me. This from the friend whom I had myself led to take an
interest in Africa--whom I had coached and inspired till he achieved his
present moderate fame as an authority on African entomology. Even now,
though, I will not deny that his attainments are profound. I made him,
and in return he has ruined me. Now--some day--I shall destroy him.

When I saw myself losing ground in Mombasa, I applied for my present
situation in the interior--at M'gonga, only fifty miles from the Uganda
line. It is a cotton and ivory trading-post, with only eight white men
besides myself. A beastly hole, almost on the equator, and full of every
sort of fever known to mankind. Poisonous snakes and insects everywhere,
and niggers with diseases nobody ever hears of outside medical college.
But my work is not hard, and I have plenty of time to plan things to do to
Henry Moore. It amuses me to give his Diptera of Central and Southern
Africa a prominent place on my shelf. I suppose it actually is a standard
manual--they use it at Columbia, Harvard, and Wisconsin--but my own
suggestions are really responsible for half its strong points.

Last week I encountered the thing which decided me how to kill Moore. A
party from Uganda brought in a black with a queer illness which I can't
yet diagnose. He was lethargic, with a very low temperature, and shuffled
in a peculiar way. Most of the others were afraid of him and said he was
under some kind of witch-doctor spell; but Gobo, the interpreter, said he
had been bitten by an insect. What it was, I can't imagine--for there is
only a slight puncture on the arm. It is bright red, though, with a
purple ring around it. Spectral-looking--I don't wonder the boys lay it
to black magic. They seem to have seen cases like it before, and say
there's really nothing to do about it.

Old N'Kora, one of the Galla boys at the post, says it must be the bite of
a devil-fly, which makes its victim waste away gradually and die, and then
takes hold of his soul and personality if it is still alive itself--flying
around with all his likes, dislikes and consciousness. A queer
legend--and I don't know of any local insect deadly enough to account for
it. I gave this sick black--his name is Mevana--a good shot of quinine
and took a sample of his blood for testing, but haven't made much
progress. There certainly is a strange germ present, but I can't even
remotely identify it. The nearest thing to it is the bacillus one finds
in oxen, horses and dogs that the tsetse fly has bitten; but tsetse-flies
non't infect human beings, and this is too far north for them anyway.

However--the important thing is that I've decided how to kill Moore. If
this interior region has insects as poisonous as the natives say, I'll see
that he gets a shipment of them from a source he won't suspect, and with
plenty of assurances that they are harmless. Trust him to throw overboard
all caution when it comes to studying an unknown species--and then we'll
see how nature takes its course! It ought not to be hard to find an
insect that scares the blacks so much. First to see how poor Mevana turns
out--and then to find my envoy of death.

Jan. 7--Mevana is no better, though I have injected all the antitoxins I
know of. He has fits of trembling, in which he rants affrightedly about
the way his soul will pass when he dies into the insect that bit him, but
between them he remains in a kind of half-stupor. Heart action still
strong, so I may pull him through. I shall try to, for he can probably
guide me better than anyone to the region where he was bitten.

Meanwhile I'll write to Doctor Lincoln, my predecessor here, for Allen,
the head factor, says he had a profound knowledge of the local
sicknesses. He ought to know about the death-fly if any white man does.
He's at Nairobi now, and a black runner ought to get me a reply in a
week--using the railway for half the trip.

Jan. 10--Patient unchanged, but I have found what I want! It was in an
old volume of the local health records which I've been going over
diligently while waiting to hear from Lincoln. Thirty years ago there was
an epidemic that killed off thousands of natives in Uganda, and it was
definitely traced to a rare fly called Glossina palpalis--a sort of cousin
of the Glossina norsitans, or tsetse. It lives in the bushes on the
shores of lakes and rivers, and feeds on the blood of crocodiles,
antelops, and large mammals. When these food animals have the germ of
trypanosomiasis, or sleeping-sickness, it picks it up and develops acute
infectivity after an incubation period of thirty-one days. Then for
seventy-five days it is sure death to anyone or anything it bites.

Without doubt, this must be the "devil-fly" the niggers talk about. Now I
know what I'm heading for. Hope Mevana pulls through. Ought to hear from
Lincoln in four or five days--he has a great reputation for success in
things like this. My worst problem will be to get the flies to Moore
without his recognizing them. With his cursed plodding scholarship it
would be just like him to know all about them since they're actually on
record.

II

Jan. 15--Just heard from Lincoln, who confirms all that the records say
about Glossina palpalis. He has a remedy for sleeping-sickness which has
succeeded in a great number of cases when not given too late.
Intermuscular injections of tryparsamide. Since Mevana was bitten about
two months ago, I don't know how it will work--but Lincoln says cases have
been known to drag on eighteen months, so possibly I'm not too late.
Lincoln sent over some of his stuff, so I've just given Mevana a stiff
shot. In a stupor now. They've brought his principal wife from the
village, but he doesn't even recognize her. If he recovers, he can
certainly show me where the flies are. He's a great crocodile hunter,
according to report, and knows all Uganda like a book. I'll give him
another shot tomorrow.

Jan. 16--Mevana seems a little brighter today, but his heart action is
slowing up a bit. I'll keep up the injections, but not overdo them.

Jan. 17--Recovery really pronounced today. Mevana opened his eyes and
showed signs of actual consciousness, though dazed, after the injection.
Hope Moore doesn't know about the tryparsamide. There's a good chance he
won't, since he never leaned much toward medicine. Mevana's tongue seems
paralyzed, but I fancy that will pass off it I can only wake him up.
Wouldn't mind a good sleep myself, but not of this kind!

Jan. 25--Mevana nearly cured! In another week I can let him take me into
the jungle. He was frightened when he first came to--about having the fly
take his personality after he died--but brightened up finally when I told
him he was going to get well. His wife, Ugowe, takes good care of him
now, and I can rest a bit. Then for the envoys of death!

Feb. 3--Mevana is well now, and I have talked with him about a hunt for
flies. He dreads to go near the place where they got him, but I am
playing on his graditude. Besides, he has an idea that I can ward off
disease as well as cure it. His pluck would shame a white man--there's no
doubt that he'll go. I can get off by telling the head factor the trip is
in the interest of local health work.

March 12--In Uganda at last! Have five boys beside Mevana, but they are
all Gallas. The local black couldn't be hired to come near the region
after the talk of what had happened to Mevana. This jungle is a
pestilential place--steaming with miasmal vapors. All the lakes look
stagnat. In one spot we came upon a trace of Cyclopean ruins which made
even the Gallas run past in a wide circle. They say these megaliths are
older than man, and that they used to be a haunt or outpost of "The
Fishers from Outside"--whatever that means--and of the evil Gods Tsadogwa
and Clulu. To this day they are said to have a malign influence, and to
be connected somehow with the devil-flies.

March 15--Struck Lake Mlolo this morning--where Mevana was bitten. A
hellish, green-scummed affair, full of crocodiles. Mevana has fixed up a
flytrap of fine wire netting baited with crocodile meat. It has a small
entrance, and once the quarry get in, they don't know enough to get out.
As stupid as they are deadly, and ravenous for fresh meat or a bowl of
blood. Hope we can get a good supply. I've decided that I must
experiment with them--finding a way to change their appearance so that
Moore won't recognize them. Possibly I can cross them with some other
species, producing a strange hybrid whose infection-carrying capacity will
be undiminished. We'll see. I must wait, but am in no hurry now. When I
get ready I'll have Mevana get me some infected meat to feed my envoys of
death--and then for the post-office. Ought to be no trouble getting
infection, for this country is a veritable pest-hole.

March 16--Good luck. Two cages full. Five vigorous specimens with wings
glistening like diamonds. Mevana is emptying them into a large can with a
tightly meshed top, and I think we caught them in the nick of time. We
can get them to M'gonga without trouble. Taking plenty of crocodile meat
for their food. Undoubtedly all or most of it is infected.

April 20--Back at M'gonga and busy in the laboratory. Have sent to Doctor
Joost in Pretoria for some tsetse flies for hybridization experiments.
Such a crossing, if it will work at all, ought to produce something pretty
hard to recognize yet at the same time just as deadly as the palpalis. If
this doesn't work, I shall try certain other diptera from the interior,
and I have sent to Doctor Vandervelde at Nyangwe for some of the Congo
types. I shan't have to send Mevana for more tainted meat after all; for
I find I can keep cultures of the germ trypanosoma gambiense, taken from
the meat we got last month, almost indefinitely in tubes. When the times
comes, I'll taint some fresh meat and feed my winged envoys a good
dose--then bon voyage to them!

June 18--My tsetse flies from Joost came today. Cages for breeding were
all ready long ago, and I am now making selections. Intend to use
ultra-violet rays to speed up the life-cycle. Fortunately I have the
needed apparatus in my regular equipment. Naturally I tell no one what
I'm doing. The ignorance of the few men here makes it easy for me to
conceal my aims and pretend to be merely studying existing species for
medical reasons.

June 29--The crossing is fertile! Good deposists of eggs last Wednesday,
and now I have some excellent larvae. If the mature insects look as
strange as these do, I need do nothing more. Am preparing separate
numbered cages for the different specimens.

July 7--New hybrids are out! Disguise is excellent as to shape, but sheen
of wings still suggests palpalis. Thorax has faint suggestions of the
stripes of the tsetse. Slight variation in individuals. Am feeding them
all on tained crocodile meat, and after infectivity develops will try them
on some of the blacks--apparently, of course, by accident. There are so
many mildly venemous flies around here that it can easily be done without
exciting suspicion. I shall loose an insect in my tightly screened
dining-room when Batta, my house-boy, brings in breakfast--keeping well on
guard myself. When it has done its work I'll capture or swat it--an easy
thing because of its stupidity--or asphyxiate it by filling the room with
chlorine gas. If it doesn't work the first time, I'll try again until it
does. Of course, I'll have the tryparsamide handy in case I get bitten
myself--but I shall be careful to avoid biting, for no antidote is really
certain.

Aug. 10--Infectivity mature, and managed to get Batta stung in fine
shape. Caught the fly on him, returning it to its cage. Eased up the
pain with iodine, and the poor devil is quite grateful for the service.
Shall try a variant specimen on Gamba, the factor's messenger tomorrow.
That will be all the tests I shall dare to make here, but if I need more I
shall take some specimens to Ukala and get additional data.

Aug. 11--Failed to get Gamba, but recaptured the fly alive. Batta still
seems well as usual, and has no pain in the back where he was stung.
Shall wait before trying to get Gamba again.

Aug. 14--Shipment of insects from Vandervelde at last. Fully seven
distinct species, some more or less poisonous. Am keeping them well fed
in case the tsetse crossing doesn't work. Some of these fellows look very
unlike the palpalis, but the trouble is that they may not make a fertile
cross with it.

Aug. 17--Got Gamba this afternoon, but had to kill the fly on him. It
nipped him in the left shoulder. I dressed the bite, and Gamba is as
grateful as Batta was. No change in Batta.

Aug. 20--Gamba unchanged so far--Batta too. Am experimenting with a new
form of disguise to supplement the hybrization--some sort of dye to change
the telltale glitter of the palpalis' wings. A blueish tint would be
best--something I could spray on a whole batch of insects. Shall begin by
investigating things like Prussian and Turnbull's blue--iron and cyanogen
salts.

Aug. 25--Batta complained of a pain in his back today--things may be
developing.

Sept. 3--Have made fair progress in my experiments. Batta shows signs of
lethargy, and says his back aches all the time. Gamba beginning to feel
uneasy in his bitten shoulder.

Sept. 24--Batta worse and worse, and beginning to get frightened about his
bit. Thinks it must be a devil-fly, and entreated me to kill it--for he
saw me cage it--until I pretended that it had died long ago. Said he
didn't want his soul to pass into it upon his death. I give him shots of
plain water with a hypodermic to keep his morale up. Evidently the fly
retains all the properties of the palpalis. Gamba down, too, and
repeating all of Batta's symptoms. I may decide to give him a chance with
tryparsamide, for the effect of the fly is proved well enough. I shall
let Batta go on, however, for I want a rough idea of how long it takes to
finish a case.

Dye experiments coming along nicely. An isomeric form of ferrous
ferro-cyanide, can be dissolved in alcohol and sprayed on the insects with
splendid effect. It stains the wings blue without affecting the dark
thorax much, and doesn't wear off when I sprinkle the specimens with
water. With this disguise, I think I can use the present tsetse hybrids
and avoid bothering with any more experiments. Sharp as he is, Moore
couldn't recognize a blue-winged fly with a half-tsetse thorax. Of course
I keep all this dye business strictly under cover. Nothing must ever
connect me with the blue flies later on.

Oct. 9--Batta is lethargic and has taken to his bed. Have been giving
Gamba tryparsamide for two weeks, and fancy he'll recover.

Oct. 25--Batta very low, but Gamba nearly well.

Nov. 18--Batta died yesterday, and a curious thing happened which gave me
a real shiver in view of the native legends and Batta's own fears. When I
returned to the laboratory after the death I heard the most singular
buzzing and thrashing in cage 12, which contained the fly that bit Batta.
The creature seemed frantic, but stopped still when I appeared--lighting
on the wire netting and looking at me in the oddest way. It reached its
legs through the eyes as if it were bewildered. When I came back from
dining with Allen, the thing was dead. Evidently it had gone wild and
beaten its life out on the sides of the cage.

It certainly is peculiar that this should happen just as Batta died. If
any black had seen it, he'd have laid it at once to the absorption of the
poor devil's soul. I shall start my blue-stained hybrids on their way
before long now. The hybrid's rate of killing seems a little ahead of the
pure palpalis' rate, if anything. Batta died three months and eight days
after infection--but of course there is always a wide margin of
uncertainty. I almost wish I had let Gamba's case run on.

Dec. 5--Busy planning how to get my envoys to Moore. I must have them
appear to come from some disinterested entomologist who has read his
Diptera of Central and Southern Africa and believes he would like to study
this "new and unidentifiable species." There must also be ample
assurances that the blue-winged fly is harmless, as proved by the natives'
long experience. Moore will be off his guard, and one of the flies will
surely get him sooner or later--though one can't tell just when.

I'll have to rely on the letters of New York friends--they still speak of
Moore from time to time--to keep me informed of early results, though I
dare say the papers will announce his death. Above all, I must show now
interest in his case. I shall mail the flies while on a trip, but must
not be recognized when I do it. The best plan will be to take a long
vacation in the interior, grow a beard, mail the package at Ukala while
passing as a visiting entomologist, and return here after shaving off the
beard.

April 12, 1930--Back in M'gonga after my long trip. Everything has come
off finely--with clockwork precision. Have sent the flies to Moore
without leaving a trace. Got a Christmas vacation Dec. 15th, and set out
at once with the proper stuff. Made a very good mailing container with
room to include some germ-tainted crocodile meat as food for the envoys.
By the end of February I had beard enough to shape into a close Vandyke.

Showed up at Ukala March 9th and typed a letter to Moore on the
trading-post machine. Signed it "Nevil Wayland-Hall"--supposed to be an
entomologyist from London. Think I took the right tone--interest of a
brother-scientist, and all that. Was artistically casual in emphasizing
the "complete harmlessness" of the specimens. Nobody suspected anything.
Shaved the beard as soon as I hit the bush, so there wouldn't be any
uneven tanning by the time I got back here. Dispensed with native bearers
except for one small stretch of swamp--I can do wonders with one knapsack,
and my sense of direction is good. Luckily I'm used to such travelling.
Explained my protracted absence by pleading a touch of fever and some
mistakes in direction when going through the bush.

But now comes the hardest part psychologically--waiting for news of Moore
without showing the strain. Of course, he may possibly escape a bite
until the venom is played out--but with his recklessness the chances are
one hundred to one against him. I have no regrets; after what he did to
me, he deserves this and more.

June 30, 1930--Hurrah! The first step worked! Just heard casually from
Dyson of Columbia that Moore had received some new blue-winged flies from
Africa, and that he is badly puzzled over them! No word of any bite--but
if I know Moore's slipshod ways as I think I do, there'll be one before
long.

August 27, 1930--Letter from Morton in Cambridge. He says Moore writes of
feeling very run-down, and tells of an insect bite on the back of his
neck--from a curious new specimen that he received about the middle of
June. Have I succeeded? Apparently Moore doesn't connect the bite with
his weakness. If this is the real stuff, then Moore was bitten well
within the insect's period of infectivity.

Sept. 12, 1930--Victory! Another line from Dyson says that Moore is
really in an alarming shape. He now traces his illness to the bite, which
he received around noon on June 19, and is quite bewildered about the
identity of the insect. Is trying to get in touch with the "Nevil
Wayland-Hall" who sent him the shipment. Of the hundred-odd that I sent,
about twenty-five seem to have reached him alive. Some escaped at the
time fo the bite, but several larvae have appeared from eggs laid since
the time of mailing. He is, Dyson says, carefully incubating these
larvae. When they mature I suppose he'll identify the tsetse-palpalis
hybridization--but that won't do him much good now. He'll wonder, though,
why the blue wings aren't transmitted by heredity!

Nov. 8, 1930--Letters from half a dozen friends tell of Moore's serious
illness. Dyson's came today. He says Moore is utterly at sea about the
hybrids that came from the larvae and is beginning to think that the
parents got their blue wings in some artificial way. Has to stay in bed
most of the time now. No mention of using tryparsamide.

Feb. 13, 1931--Not so good! Moore is sinking, and seems to know no
remedy, but I think he suspects one. Had a very chilly letter from Morton
last month, which told nothing of Moore; and now Dyson writes--also rather
constrainedly--that Moore is forming theories about the whole matter.
He's been making a search for "Wayland-Hall" by telegraph--at London,
Ukala, Nairobi, Mombasa, and other places--and of course finds nothing. I
judge that he's told Dyson whom he suspects, but that Dyson doesn't
believe it yet. Fear Morton does believe it.

I see that I'd better lay plans for getting out of here and effacing my
identity for good. What an end to a career that started out so well!
More of Moore's work--but this time he's paying for it in advance!
Believe I'll go back to South Africa--and meanwhile will quietly deposit
funds there to the credit of my new self--"Frederick Nasmyth Mason of
Toronto, Canada, broker in mining properties." Will establish a new
signature for identification. If I never have to take the step, I can
easily re-transfer the funds to my present self.

Aug. 15, 1931--Half a year gone, and still suspense. Dyson and Morton--as
well as several other friends--seem to have stopped writing me. Doctor
James of San Francisco hears from Moore's friends now and then, and says
Moore is in an almost continuous coma. He hasn't been able to walk since
May. As long as he could talk he complained of being cold. Now he can't
talk, though it is thought he still has glimmers of consciousness. His
breathing is short and quick, and can be heard some distance away. Now
question but the trypanosoma gambiense is feeding on him--but he holds out
better than the niggers around here. Three months and eight days finished
Batta and here Moore is alive over a year after his biting. Heard rumors
last month of an intensive search around Ukala for "Wayland-Hall." Don't
think I need to worry yet, though, for there's absolutely nothing in
existence to link me with this business.

Oct. 7, 1931--It's over at last! News in the Mombasa Gazette. Moore died
September 20 after a series of trembling fits and with a temperature
vastly below normal. So much for that! I said I'd get him, and I did!
The paper has a three-column report of his long illness and death, and of
the futile search for "Wayland-Hall." Obviously, Moore was a bigger
character in Africa than I had realized. The insect that bit him has now
been fully identified from the surviving specimens and developed larvae,
and the wing-staining is also detected. It is universally realized that
the flies were prepared and shipped with intent to kill. Moore, it
appears, communicated certain suspicions to Dyson, but the latter--and the
police--are maintaining secrecy because of absence of proof. All of
Moore's enemies are being looked up, and the Associated Press hints that
"an investigation, possibly involving an eminent physician now abroad,
will follow."

One thing at the very end of the report--undoubtedly the cheap romancing
of a yellow journalist--gives me a curious shudder in view of the legends
of the blacks and the way the fly happened to go wild when Batta died. It
seems that an odd incident occurred on the night of Moore's death; Dyson
having been aroused by the buzzing of a blue-winged fly--which immediately
flew out the window--just before the nurse telephoned the death news from
Moore's home, miles away in Brooklyn.

But what concerns me most is the African end of the matter. People at
Ukala remember the bearded stranger who typed the letter and sent the
package, and the constabulary are combing the country for any blacks who
may have carried him. I didn't use many, but if officers question the
Ubandes who took me through N'Kini jungle belt I'll have to explain more
than I like. It looks as if the time has come for me to vanish; so
tomorrow I believe I'll resign and prepare to start for parts unknown.

Nov. 9, 1931--Hard work getting my resignation acted on, but release came
today. I didn't want to aggravate suspicion by decamping outright. Last
week I heard from James about Moore's death--but nothing more than is in
the papers. Those around him in New York seem rather reticent about
details, though they all talk about a searching investigation. No word
from any of my friends in the East. Moore must have spread some dangerous
suspicions around before he lost consciousness--but there isn't an iota of
proof he could have adduced.

Still, I am taking no chances. On Thursday I shall start for Mombasa, and
when there will take a steamer down the coast to Durban. After that I
shall drop from sight--but soon afterward the mining properties broker
Frederick Nasmyth Mason, from Toronto, will turn up in Johannesburg.

Let this be the end of my journal. If in the end I am not suspected, it
will serve its original purpose after my death and reveal what would not
otherwise be known. If, on the other hand, these suspicions do
materialize and persist, it will confirm and clarify the vague charges,
and fill in many important and puzzling gaps. Of course, if danger comes
my way I shall have to destroy it.

Well, Moore is dead--as he amply deserves to be. Now Doctor Thomas
Slauenwite is dead, too. And when the body formerly belonging to Thomas
Slauenwite is dead, the public may have this record.

III

Jan. 15, 1932--A new year--and a reluctant reopening of this journal.
This time I am writing solely to relieve my mind, for it would be absurd
to fancy that the case is not definitely closed. I am settled in the Vaal
Hotel, Johannesburg, under my new name, and no one has so far challenged
my identity. Have had some inconclusive business talks to keep up my part
as a mine broker, and believe I may actually work myself into that
business. Later I shall go to Toronto and plant a few evidences for my
fictitious past.

But what is bothering me is an insect that invaded my room around noon
today. Of course I have had all sorts of nightmares about blue flies of
late, but those were only to be expected in view of my prevailing nervous
strain. This thing, however, was a waking actuality, and I am utterly at
a loss to account for it. It buzzed around my bookshelf for fully a
quarter of an hour, and eluded every attempt to catch or kill it. The
queerest thing was its color and aspect--for it had blue wings and was in
every way a duplicate of my hybrid envoys of death. How it could possibly
be one of these in fact, I certainly don't know. I disposed of all the
hybrids--stained and unstained--that I didn't send to Moore, and can't
recall any instance of escape.

Can this be wholly an hallucination? Or could any of the specimens that
escaped in Brooklyn when Moore was bitten have found their way back to
Africa? There was that absurd story of the fly that waked Dyson when
Moore died--but after all, the survival and return of some of the things
is not impossible. It is perfectly plausible that the blue should stick
to their wings, for the pigment I devised was almost as good as tattooing
for permanence. By elimination, that would seem to be the only rational
explanation for this thing; though it is very curious that the fellow has
come as far south as this. Possibly its some hereditary homing instinct
inherent in the tsetse strain. After all, that side of him belongs to
South Africa.

I must be on my guard against a bite. Of course the original venom--if
this is actually one of the flies that escaped from Moore--was worn out
ages ago; but the fellow must have fed as he flew back from America, and
he may well have come through Central Africa and picked up a fresh
infectivity. Indeed, that's more probable than not; for the palpalis half
of his heredity would naturally take him back to Uganda, and all the
trypanosomiasis germs. I still have some of the tryparsamide left--I
couldn't bear to destroy my medicine case, incriminating though it may
be--but since reading up on the subject I am not so sure about the drug's
action as I was. It gives one a fighting chance--certainly it saved
Gamba--but there's always a large probability of failure.

It's devilish queer that this fly should have happened to come into my
room--of all places in the wide expanse of Africa! Seems to strain
coincidence to breaking point. I suppose that if it comes again, I shall
certainly kill it. I'm surprised that it escaped me today, for ordinarily
these fellows are extremely stupid and easy to catch. Can it be a pure
illusion after all? Certainly the heat is getting me of late as it never
did before--even up around Uganda.

Jan. 16--Am I going insane? The fly came up again this noon, and acted so
anomalously that I can't make head or tail of it. Only delusion on my
part could account for what that buzzing pest seemed to do. It appeared
from nowhere, and went straight to my bookshelf--circling again and again
to front a copy of Moore's Diptera of Central and Southern Africa. Now
and then it would light on top or back of the volume, and occasionally it
would dart forward toward me and retreat before I could strike at it with
a folded paper. Such cunning is unheard of among the notoriously stupid
African diptera. For nearly half an hour I tried to get the cursed thing,
but at last it darted out the window through a hole in the screen that I
hadn't noticed. At times I fancied it deliberately mocked me by coming
within reach of my weapon and then skilfully sidestepping as I struck
out. I must keep a tight hold of my consciousness.

Jan. 17--Either I am mad or the world is in the grip of some sudden
suspension of the laws of probability as we know them. That damnable fly
came in from somewhere just before noon and commenced buzzing around the
copy of Moore's Diptera on my shelf. Again I tried to catch it, and again
yesterday's experience was repeated. Finally the pest made for the open
inkwell on my table and dipped itself in--just the legs and thorax,
keeping its wings clear. Then it sailed up to the ceiling and
lit--beginning to crawl around in a curved patch and leaving a trail of
ink. After a time it hopped a bit and made a single ink spot unconnected
with the trail--until it dropped squarely in front of my face, and buzzed
out of sight before I could get it.

Something about this whole business struck me as monstrously sinister and
abnormal--more so than I could explain to myself. When I looked at the
ink-trail on the ceiling from different angles, it seemed more and more
familiar to me, and it dawned on me suddenly that it formed an absolutely
perfect questionmark. What device could be more malignly appropriate? It
is a wonder that I did not faint. So far the hotel attendants have not
noticed it. Have not seen the fly this afternoon and evening, but am
keeping my inkwell securely closed. I think my extermination of Moore
must be preying on me, and giving me morbid hallucinations. Perhaps there
is no fly at all.

Jan. 18--Into what strange hell of living nightmare am I plunged? What
occurred today is something which could not normally happen--and yet an
hotel attendant has seen the marks on the ceiling and concedes their
reality. About 11 o'clock this morning, as I was writing on a manuscript,
something darted down to the inkwell for a second and flashed aloft again
before I could see what it was. Looking up, I saw that hellish fly on the
ceiling as it had been before--crawling along and tracing another trail of
curves and turns. There was nothing I could do, but I folded a newspaper
in readiness to get the creature if it should fly near enough. When it
had made several turns on the ceiling it flew into a dark corner and
disappeared, and as I looked upward at the doubly defaced plastering I saw
that the new ink-trail was that of a huge and unmistakable figure 5!

For a time I was almost unconscious from a wave of nameless menace for
which I could not fully account. Then I summoned up my resolution and
took an active step. Going out to a chemist's shop I purchased some gum
and other things necessary for preparing a sticky trap--also a duplicate
inkwell. Returning to my room, I filled the new inkwell with the sticky
mixture and set it where the old one had been, leaving it open. Then I
tried to concentrate my mind on some reading. About 3 o'clock I heard the
accursed insect again, and saw it circling around the new inkwell. It
descended to the sticky surface but did not touch it, and afterward sailed
straight toward me--retreating before I could hit it. Then it went to the
bookshelf and circled around Moore's treatise. There is something
profound and diabolic about the way the intruder hovers near that book.

The worst part was the last. Leaving Moore's book, the insect flew over
to the open window and began beating itself rhythmically against the wire
screen. There would be a series of beats and then a series of equal
length and another pause, and so on. Something about this performance
held me motionless for a couple of moments, but after that I went over to
the window and tried to kill the noxious thing. As usual, no use. It
merely flew across the room to a lamp and began beating the same tattoo on
the stiff cardboard shade. I felt a vague desperation and proceeded to
shut all the doors as well as the window whose screen had the
imperceptible hole. It seemed very necessary to kill this persistent
being, whose hounding was rapidly unseating my mind. Then, unconsciously
counting, I began to notice that each of its series of beatings contained
jus five strokes.

Five--the same number that the thing had traced in ink on the ceiling in
the morning! Could there be any conceivable connection? The notion was
maniacal, for that would argue a human intellect and a knowledge of
written figures in the hybrid fly. A human intellect--did that not take
one back to the most primitive legends of the Uganda blacks? And yet
there was that infernal cleverness in eluding me as contrasted with the
normal stupidity of the breed. As I laid aside my folded paper and sat
down in growing horror, the insect buzzed aloft and disappeared through a
hole in the ceiling where the radiator pipe went to the room above.

The departure did not soothe me, for my mind had started on a train of
wild and terrible reflections. If this fly had a human intelligence,
where did that intelligence come from? Was there any truth in the native
notion that these creatures acquire the personality of their victims after
the latters' death? If so, whose personality did this fly bear? I had
reasoned out that it must be one of those which escaped from Moore at the
time he was bitten. Was this the envoy of death which had bitten Moore?
If so, what did it want with me? What did it want with me anyway? In a
cold perspiration I remembered the actions of the fly that had bitten
Batta when Batta died. Had its own personality been displaced by that of
its dead victim? Then there was that sensational news account of the fly
that waked Dyson when Moore died. As for that fly that was hounding
me--could it be that a vindictive human personality drove it on? How it
hovered around Moore's book!--I refused to think any farther than that.
All at once I began to feel sure that the creature was indeed infected,
and in the most virulent way. With a malign deliberation so evident in
every act, it must surely have charged itself on purpose with the
deadliest bacilli in all Africa. My mind, thoroughly shaken, was now
taking the thing's human qualities for granted.

I now telephoned the clerk and asked for a man to stop up the radiator
pipehole and other possible chinks in my room. I spoke of being tormented
by flies, and he seemed to be quite sympathetic. When the man came, I
showed him the inkmarks on the ceiling, which he recognized without
difficulty. So they are real! The resemblance to a questionmark and a
figure five puzzled and fascinated him. In the end he stopped up all the
holes he could find, and mended the window-screen, so that I can now keep
both windows open. He evidently thought me a bit eccentric, especially
since no insects were in sight while he was here. But I am past minding
that. So far the fly has not appeared this evening. God knows what it
is, what it wants, or what will become of me!

Jan. 19--I am utterly engulfed in horror. The thing has touched me.
Something monstrous and demoniac is at work around me, and I am a helpless
victim. In the morning, when I returned from breakfast, that winged fiend
from hell brushed into the room over my head, and began beating itself
against the window-screen as it did yesterday. This time, though, each
series of beats contained only four strokes. I rushed to the window and
tried to catch it, but it escaped as usual and flew over to Moore's
treatise, where it buzzed around mockingly. Its vocal equipment is
limited, but I noticed that its spells of buzzing came in groups of four.

By this time I was certainly mad, for I called out to it "Moore, Moore,
for God's sake, what do you want?" When I did so, the creature suddenly
ceased its circling, flew toward me, and made a low, graceful dip in the
air, somehow suggestive of a bow. Then it flew back to the book. At
least, I seemed to see it do this--though I am trusting my senses no
longer.

And then the worst thing happened. I had left my door open, hoping the
monster would leave if I could not catch it; but about 11:30 I shut the
door, concluding it had gone. Then I settled down to read. Just at noon
I felt a tickling on the back of my neck, but when I put my hand up
nothing was there. In a moment I felt the tickling again--and before I
could move, that nameless spawn of hell sailed into view from behind, did
another of those mocking, graceful dips in the air, and flew out through
the key-hole--which I never dreamed was large enough to allow its passage.

That the thing had touched me, I could not doubt. It had touched me
without injuring me--and then I remembered in a sudden cold fright that
Moore had been bitten on the back of the neck at noon. No invasion since
then--but I have stuffed all the keyholes with paper and shall have a
folded paper ready for use whenever I open the door to leave or enter.

Jan. 20--I can not yet believe fully in the supernatural, yet I fear none
the less that I am lost. The business is too much for me. Just before
noon today that devil appeared outside the window and repeated its beating
operations; but this time in series of three. When I went to the window
it flew out of sight. I still have resolution enough to take one more
defensive step. Removing both window-screens, I coated them with my stick
preparation--the one I used in the ink-well--outside and inside, and set
them back in place. If that creature attempts another tattoo, it will be
its last!

Rest of the day in peace. Can I weather this experience without becoming
a maniac?

Jan. 21--On board train for Bloemfontein.

I am routed. The thing is winning. It has a diabolic intelligence
against which all my devices are powerless. It appeared outside the
window this morning, but did not touch the sticky screen. Instead it
sheared off without lighting and began buzzing around in circles--two at a
time, followed by a pause in the air. After several of these performances
it flew off out of sight over the roofs of the city. My nerves are just
at the breaking-point, for these suggestions of numbers are capable of a
hideous interpretation. Monday the thing dwelt on the figure five;
Tuesday it was four; Wednesday it was three; and now today it is two.
Five, four, three, two--what can this be save come monstrous and
unthinkable counting-off of days? For what purpose, only the evil powers
of the universe can know. I spent all the afternoon packing and arranging
my trunks, and now I have taken the night express for Bloemfontein.
Flight may be useless, but what else can one do?

Jan. 22--Settled at the Orange Hotel, Bloemfontein--a comfortable and
excellent place--but the horror followed me. I had shut all the doors and
windows, stopped all the keyholes, looked for any possible chinks, and
pulled down all the shades--but just before noon I heard a dull tap on one
of the window-screens. I waited--and after a long pause another tap
came. A second pause, and still another single tap. Raising the shade, I
saw that accursed fly, as I had expected. It described one large, slow
circle in the air, and then flew out of sight. I was left as weak as a
rag, and had to rest on the couch. One! This was clearly the burden of
the monster's present message. One tap, one circle. Did this mean one
more day for me before some unthinkable doom? Ought I to flee again, or
entrench myself here by sealing up the room?

After an hour's rest I felt able to act, and ordered a large reserve
supply of canned and packaged food--also linen and towels--sent in.
Tomorrow I shall not under any circumstances open any crevice of door or
window. When the food and linen came the black looked at me queerly, but
I no longer care how eccentric--or insane--I may appear. I am hounded by
powers worse than the ridicule of mankind. Having received my supplies, I
went over every square millimeter of the walls, and stopped up every
microscopic opening I could find. At last I feel able to get some sleep.

(Handwriting here becomes irregular, nervous, and very difficult to decipher.)

Jan. 23--It is just before noon, and I feel that something very terrible
is about to happen. Didn't sleep as late as I expected, even though I got
almost no sleep on the train the night before. Up early, and have had
trouble getting concentrated on anything--reading or writing. That slow,
deliberate counting-off of days is too much for me. I don't know which
has gone wild--nature or my head. Until about eleven I did very little
except walk up and down the room.

Then I heard a rustle among the food packages brought in yesterday, and
that demoniac fly crawled out before my eyes. I grabbed something flat
and made passes at the thing despite my panic fear, but with no more
effect than usual. As I advance, that blue-winged horror retreated as
usual to the table where I had piled my books, and lit for a second on
Moore's Diptera of Central and Southern Africa. Then as I followed, it
flew over to the mantel clock and lit on the dial near the figure 12.
Before I could think up another move it had begun to crawl around the dial
very slowly and deliberately--in the direction of the hands. It passed
under the minute hand, curved down and up, passed under the hour hand, and
finally came to a stop exactly at the figure 12. As it hovered there it
fluttered its wings with a buzzing noise.

Is this a portent of some sort? I am getting as superstitious as the
blacks. The hour is now a little after eleven. Is twelve the end? I
have just one last resort, brought to my mind through utter desperation.
Recalling that my medicine case contains both of the substances necessary
to generate chlorine gas, I have resolved to fill the room with that
lethal vapor--asphyxiating the fly while protecting myself with an
ammonia-sealed handkerchief tied over my face. Fortunately I have a good
supply of ammonia. This crude mask will probably neutralize the acrid
chlorine fumes till the insect is dead--or at least helpless enough to
crush. But I must be quick. How can I be sure that the thing will not
suddenly dart for me before my preparations are complete? I ought not to
be stopping to write in this journal.

Later--Both chemicals--hydrochloric acid and manganese dioxide--on the
table ready to mix. I've tied the handkerchief over my nose and mouth,
and have a bottle of ammonia ready to keep it soaked until the chlorine is
gone. Have battened down both windows. But I don't like the actions of
that hybrid demon. It stays on the clock, but is very slowly crawling
around backward from the 12 mark to meet the gradually advancing minute
hand.

Is this to be my last entry in this journal? It would be useless to try
to deny what I suspect. Too often a grain of incredible truth lurks
behind the wildest and most fantastic of legends. Is the personality of
Henry Moore trying to get at me through this blue-winged devil? Is this
the fly that bit him, and that in consequence absorbed his personality
when he died? If so, and if it bites me, will my own personality displace
Moore's and enter that buzzing body when I die of the bite later on?
Perhaps, though, I need not die even if it gets me. There is always a
chance with tryparsamide. And I regret nothing. Moore had to die, be the
outcome what it will.

Slightly later.

The fly has paused on the clock-dial near the 45-minute mark. It is now
11:30. I am saturating the handkerchief over my face with ammonia, and
keeping the bottle handy for further applications. This will be the final
entry before I mix the acid and manganese and liberate the chlorine. I
ought not to be losing time, but it steadies me to get things down on
paper. But for this record, I'd have lost all my reason long ago. The
fly seems to be getting restless, and the minute-hand is approaching it.
Now for the cholrine. . . .

(End of the journal)

On Sunday, Jan. 24, 1932, after repeated knocking had failed to gain any
response from the eccentric man in Room 303 of the Orange Hotel, a black
attendant entered with a pass key and at once fled shrieking downstairs to
tell the clerk what he had found. The clerk, after notifying the police,
summoned the manager; and the latter accompanied Constable De Witt,
Coroner Bogaert, and Doctor Van Keulen to the fatal room.

The occupant lay dead on the floor--his face upward, and bound with a
handkerchief which smelled strongly of ammonia. Under this covering the
features showed an expression of stark, utter fear which transmitted
itself to the observers. On the back of the neck Doctor Van Keulen found
a virulent insect bite--dark red, with a purple ring around it--which
suggested a tsetse fly or something less innocuous. An examination
indicated that death must be due to heart-failure induced by sheer fright
rather than to the bite--though a subsequent autopsy indicated that the
germ of trypanosomiasis had been introduced into the system.

On the table were several objects--a worn leather blankbook containing the
journal just described, a pen, writing-pad, and open inkwell, a doctor's
medicine case with the initials "T. S." marked in gold, bottles of ammonia
and hydrochloric acid, and a tumbler about a quarter full of black
manganese dioxide. The ammonia bottle demanded a second look because
something besides the fluid seemed to be in it. Looking closer, Coroner
Bogaert saw that the alien occupant was a fly.

It seemed to be some sort of hybrid with vague tsetse affiliations, but
its wings--showing faintly blue despite the action of the strong
ammonia--were a complete puzzle. Something about it waked a faint memory
of a newspaper reading in Doctor Van Keulen--a memory which the journal
was soon to confirm. Its lower parts seemed to have been stained with
ink, so thoroughly that even the ammonia had not bleached them. Possibly
it had fallen at one time into the inkwell, though the wings were
untouched. But how had it managed to fall into the narrow-necked ammonia
bottle? It was as if the creature had deliberately crawled in and
committed suicide!

But the strangest thing of all was what Constable De Witt noticed on the
smooth white ceiling overhead as his eyes roved about curiously. At his
cry the other three followed his gaze--even Doctor Van Keulen, who had for
some time been thumbing through the worn leather book with an expression
of mixed horror, fascination, and incredulity. The thing on the ceiling
was a series of shaky, straggling ink-tracks, such as might have been made
by the crawling of some ink-drenched insect. At once every one thought of
the stains on the fly so oddly found in the ammonia-bottle.

But these were no ordinary ink-tracks. Even a first glance revealed
something hauntingly familiar about them, and closer inspection brought
gasps of startled wonder from all four observers. Coroner Bogaert
instinctively looked around the room to see if there were any conceivable
instrument or arrangement of piled-up furniture which could make it
possible for those straggling marks to have been drawn by human agency.
Finding nothing of the sort, he resumed his curious and awesome upward
glance.

For beyond a doubt these inky smudges formed definite letters of the
alphabet--letters coherently arranged in English words. The doctor was
the first to make them out clearly, and the others listened breathlessly
as he recited the insane-sounding message so incredibly scrawled in a
place no human hand could reach:

"SEE MY JOURNAL--IT GOT ME FIRST--I DIED--THEN I SAW I WAS IN IT--THE BLACKS ARE
RIGHT--STRANGE POWERS IN NATURE--NOW I WILL DROWN WHAT IS LEFT--"

Presently, amid the puzzled hush that followed, Doctor Van Keulen
commenced reading aloud from the worn leather journal.

The Lovecraft Library wishes to extend its gratitude to Kevin Park for
transcribing this text.

Lovecrafts Work Winged Death

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