Whilst in waiting upon a stone seat sitting,
surrounded by the stench of an air most fitting,
I became lost among the most antique and esoteric of thoughts.
It seemed to me a most singular feeling,
that on the eve of Yuletide I find myself reeling,
as I await the stated purpose of my summons, to the cold and darkened night beside this crypt.
For not a moment short of the midnight hour bell’s tolling,
did my ears detect the wheels of a horse drawn carriage rolling,
finally stopping just without the first weatherworn steps beneath my door.
The courier’s form and presence, a barely present wraith,
an almost illegible script, a map upon black paper trace,
I rose my head to inquire of the phantom the purpose of this note.
My eyes beheld the empty porch, the absence of any man,
nor distinguishable was any mode of transport,
least not what was clear upon a cursory scan,
the only clue seemed to be a crude sketch at the bottom of the map in the vulgar style of a tombstone.
It had been many a year since my living within the bounds of a city,
and so on hallowed ground there was but one place for the living to take pity,
it went by name, the dreary, dark, and soundless crypts of the Wormwood cemetery.
Being a man of soundness and intellectual clarity,
I was unwilling to fill my schedule with such an eldritch disparity,
I would return to my chambers and to the warm touch of my feather linen sheets.
As I retired to what I assumed would be the supple delight within my dreams,
I was tortured by black sweat upon my back and the horrid sound of screams,
I arose and examined my back for the blackness I knew surely to be there.
Upon further examination I found nothing to convince me of any
change in the fair complexion I had always known.
In the hope that it had all been vision,
I looked to my nightstand and to the note of the villain,
the map upon black paper traced.
I remarked upon what was surely a most absurd notion,
that in the middle of the night I should find myself in motion,
and contemplating the dreary, dark and soundless vaults of the Wormwood Crypt.
I thought surely to disregard the haunting summons,
for the business alone was in its nature most sullen,
but I could not, dare not deny the vision,
of my consummation within the suffocating blackness of the vault.
And so to alleviate myself of the grim prescience,
I braved the dull and dark ambience,
and made my way down the cobbled streets in the dead of a most singular hour.
Twice was I passed on my way by a member of the night’s watch,
feeling no fear as I have not as late committed any botch,
nor was I anticipating the unwashed actions I was likely to be
committing, upon my arrival to the hallowed ground atop
Wormwood Cemetery.
As I gazed upon the rusted surface of the gated bars,
the only light being the points of a few stars,
as if the heavens themselves refused to provide illumination,
to the ominous meeting for which I had been summoned.
Strangely as I approached the ominous gate,
no accomplice seemed to wait,
instead the only motion was a sudden alarming opening of the rusted Arch.
When I attempted to deduce what had caused the gate to open,
I felt my heart’s beating sharpen,
as there was no one there to account for the mysterious opening of the weatherworn gate.
Feeling now an excessiveness of gloom,
I proceeded to what surely was my doom,
and took my first faint steps onto the accursed ground of the
Wormwood Cemetery.
As the bitter wind bit with the cold of the winter solstice night,
my senses became infected by the most miasmic of sights,
for the hollow hallowed graveyard grounds yielded up the most
impure and daemonic of sensations ever felt by man or beast.
As I forced my constitution to abide the stench by which I was now surrounded,
the powers of my intellect now confounded,
for I appeared to be completely alone in those numbered amongst the living.
Having not the wherewithal to stand,
my legs being beyond the enticings of command.
I found myself a stone seat beside a black decaying crypt and sat.
As the dead quiet hours of the evening went onward,
I still saw no trace of the black paper’s steward,
Instead I felt only a haunting feeling that pervaded even unto my very soul.
Consigning my conscious to creating meaning in my sojourn,
I reached for a spade and the action I did so yearn,
Ready to rend the iron bars themselves in pursuit of the horrors of the soundless dark.
In the endless wait was my mind entrapped,
unable to escape the tombstone mapped.
How in the name of Almighty God did I find myself in this precariously perplexing predicament!?
By what was surely the onset of madness,
Not suffering the most insipid sadness,
I tore my way into the antiquated catacombs of the subterranean vault.
For my spirit should never have rest,
until at last I discern the meaning of my quest,
And find the supposed purpose of my summons, to the cold and darkened night inside this crypt.
Then as if a drum did sound behind my ear,
I heard a loud noise and coming from my rear,
A horrible noise coming from up the stairs I had so tread,
down into the bowels of this horrid eldritch entrance.
Perceiving then no alternate route of flight,
and faced with the unknown drums of theurgic night,
I took the one discernable course further still into the suffocating blackness of the ossuary.
Descending then halls devoid of life and God
A daemonic chamber entrance left me awed.
Through a crack in the stone door I beheld a pale red ambiance and the sound of a denizen tormented.
With the faintest courage I opened wide the door,
The image of what I saw, it stains me evermore.
How to describe the horrors waiting in the black tatarus of the Wormwood Crypt?
To make use of the most disgusting language,
To manifest the inferno in the form an adage.
A lone Prometheus chained to an altar made from the fruits of his punishment, though man and not eagle has laid him open.
He stares at me though he has not eyes to see,
he screams though there is nothing where tongue should be.
Who besides Charon and those aboard his mast should witness the screams of a dead man?
His heart out his chest beating out in show,
The anatomy more clear than any man should know.
A vile putrid bloody mess hung about the damning chamber walls.
Before I could let out the most quivering of shrieks
Surrounded by a white mass and bloody streaks.
I turned and was confronted solely with the unholy hooded clergy of theurgic night.
There in that chamber was my vessel bound,
Gagged and forbade to utter any sound.
A dagger to my chest was taken and a curious incision made.
Daemonic chantings they all did shout,
Yagnu deus volcrum yout!
As the bleeding heart from out my breast was taken,
The pain and horror of my mind and spirit shaken.
I screamed and reached out only to feel the soft comfort of my feather linen sheets.
I lit a small lantern to illuminate my space,
Trying to find the map upon black paper trace.
I saw nothing felt nothing, only the sweet sounds of the English song birds.
The morning light through my glass window broke
I looked down at my chest and with my hand did stroke.
Off I took my nightshirt and behold the thin curious line down my breast,
and the haunting shout!
Yagnu deus vulcrum yout…..
The Writings of Professor Reginald Rose 