Stuff You Should Know - The Tomb

Episode Date: October 28, 2010

In this spooky episode of Stuff You Should Know, Josh and Chuck get you ready for Halloween as they narrate H.P. Lovecraft's creepy tale "The Tomb." Tune in to learn more...if you dare! Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.comSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

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like what we would call a jack move or being robbed. They call civil acid work. Be sure to listen to the War on Drugs on the iHeart radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. Brought to you by the reinvented 2012 Camry. It's ready, are you? Hey and welcome to the podcast, the very special podcast, right Chuck? A spooktacular, if you will. Happy Halloween to all of you out there. This should come out what a couple days before it. Before? But we wanted to make sure that we weren't going to miss it. And so we're releasing a special Halloween podcast. That's right. For this year.

A little something new. Yeah. And what we're doing is not in any way should perform scientific. It is in fact pure fiction, or is it? It is. Okay. We're going to read just to make sure we scare you guys. Good and proper this Halloween. An HP Love Crash short story that was published in 1922. And it's entitled The Tomb, right? That's right. Did you like this? It was good. I think it's a great short story. It's one of my faves. Awesome. Okay. I should probably preface this with Chuck is uncertain about how this is going to go. So if it goes good, that means you're hearing it. If not, it'll be locked away forever in a vault of some sort, possibly a tomb, right? A tomb. Yeah. So Chuck, are you ready?

I am feeling spooky. I'm loose. I'm a little nervous myself. Are you? Yeah. All right. I'm going to start. Okay. Okay. All right. Ready? I'm ready. The Tomb by HP Lovecraft. In relating the circumstances which have led to my confinement within this refuge for the demented, I am aware that my present position will create a natural doubt of the authenticity of my narrative. It is an unfortunate fact that the bulk of humanity is too limited in its mental vision to weigh with patience and intelligence those isolated phenomena seen and felt only by a psychologically sensitive few which lie outside its common experience. Men of broader intellect know that there is no sharp distinction betwixt the real and the unreal that all things reappear as they do only by virtue of

the delicate individual physical and mental media through which we are made conscious of them. But the prosaic materialism of the majority condemns its madness, the flashes of supersight, which penetrate the common veil of obvious empiricism. So I should probably say right here, Chuck, that it gets a lot better. Okay. Okay. My name is Jervis Dudley and from earliest childhood, I've been a dreamer and a visionary, wealthy beyond the necessity of a commercial life and temperamentally unfitted for the formal studies and social recreations of my acquaintances, I have dwelt ever in realms apart from the visible world, spending my youth and adolescence in ancient and little known books and enroaming the fields and groves of the region near my ancestral

home. I do not think that what I read in these books or saw in these fields and groves was exactly what other boys read and saw there. But of this I must say little, since detailed speech would but confirm those cruel slanders upon my intellect, which I sometimes overhear from the whispers of the stealthy attendance around me. It is sufficient for me to relate events without analyzing causes. I have said that I dwelt apart from the visible world, but I have not said that I dwelt alone. This no human creature may do. For lacking the fellowship of the living, he inevitably draws upon the companionship of things that are not or are no longer living. Closed by my home there lies a singular wooded hollow, in whose twilight deeps I spent most

of my time reading, thinking, and dreaming. Down its moss-covered slopes my first steps of infancy were taken, and around its grotesquely gnarled oaks my first fancies of boyhood were woven. Well did I come to know the presiding dryads of those trees, and often have I watched their wild dances in the struggling beams of waning moon. But of these things I must not now speak. I will tell only of the lone tomb and the darkest of the hillside thickets, the deserted tomb of the hides, an old and exalted family whose last direct descendant had been laid within the black recesses many decades before my birth. Take it, Chuck. So there's a family called the hides. Yeah, and there's a tomb. That's where the hides are.

The vault to which I refer is an ancient granite, weathered and discolored by the mists and dampness of generations. Excavated back into the hillside, the structure is visible only at the entrance. The door, a ponderous and forbidding slab of stone, hangs upon rusted iron hinges, and is fastened ajar in a queerly sinister way by means of heavy iron chains and padlocks, according to a gruesome fashion of a half a century ago. The abode of the race whose sions are inearned had once crowned the declivity which holds the tomb, but had long since fallen victims to the flames which sprang up from a disastrous stroke of lightning. Of the midnight storm which destroyed this gloomy mansion, the older inhabitants of the region sometimes speak in hushed and uneasy

voices, alluding to what they call divine wrath, in a manner that in later years vaguely increased the always strong fascination which I felt for the forest-darkened sepulcher. One man only had perished in the fire. When the last of the hides was buried in this place of shade and stillness, the sad urnful of ashes had come from a distant land, to which the family had repaired when the mansion burned down. No one remains to lay flowers before the granite portal, and few care to brave the depressing shadows which seemed to linger strangely about the water-worn stones. I shall never forget the afternoon when I first stumbled upon the half-hidden house of the dead. It was in midsummer when the alchemy of nature transmutes the silvan landscape to one vivid

and almost homogeneous mass of green. When the senses are well nigh intoxicated with the surging seas of moist verdure and the subtly indefinable odors of the soil and the vegetation. In such surroundings the mind loses its perspective, time and space become trivial and unreal, and echoes of a forgotten prehistoric past beat insistently upon the enthralled consciousness. All day I had been wandering through the mystic groves of the hollow, thinking thoughts I need not discuss, and conversing with things I need not name. In years, a child of ten, I had seen and heard many wonders unknown to the throng, and was oddly aged in certain respects. When, upon forcing my way between two savage clumps of briars, I suddenly encountered the

entrance of the vault, I had no knowledge of what I had discovered. The dark blocks of granite, the door so curiously ajar, and the funeral carvings above the arch, aroused in me no associations of mournful or terrible character. Of graves and tombs I knew and imagined much, but had on account of my peculiar temperament been kept from all personal contact with church yards and cemeteries. The strange stone house on the woodland slope was to me only a source of interest and speculation, and its cold damp interior into which I vainly peered through the aperture so, tantalizingly left, contained for me no hint of death or decay. But in that instant of curiosity it was born the madly, unreasoning desire which has brought me to this

hell of confinement. Spurred on by a voice which must have come from the hideous soul of the forest, I resolved to enter the beckoning gloom in spite of the ponderous change which barred my passage. In the waning light of day I alternately rattled the rusty impediments with a view to throwing wide the stone door, an essay to squeeze my slight form through the space already provided. But neither plan met with success. At first curious, I was not frantic, and when in the thickening twilight I returned to my home, I had sworn to the hundred gods of the grove that at any cost I would someday force an entrance to the black, chilly depths that seemed calling out to me. The physician with the iron-grey beard who comes each day to my room once told the visitor

that this decision marked the beginnings of a pitiful monomania, but I will leave final judgment to my readers when they shall have learnt all. So basically where we're at, right Chuck, is that we have a little weirdo kid who discovered a family tomb that's been abandoned in a grove, tried to get in, and he realized that he can't because he's too puny. Yet he's drawn to it. So much like his Excalibur, getting into this tomb is like something he's sworn to do eventually, right? Sounds like it. But we find that he is in an asylum. Well, Little Jervis Dudley. Little Jervis Dudley. I'm going to take over now, okay? Okay. The months following my discovery were spent in futile attempts to force the complicated padlock of the slightly open vault and in carefully guarded

inquiries regarding the nature and history of the structure. With the traditionally receptive ears of the small boy I learned much, though an habitual secretiveness caused me to tell no one of my information or my resolve. It is perhaps worth mentioning that I was not at all surprised or terrified on learning the nature of the vault. My rather original ideas regarding life and death had caused me to associate the cold clay with the breathing body in a vague fashion, and I felt that the sinister family of the Burndown Mansion was in some way represented within the stone space I sought to explore. Mumbled tales of the weird rites and godless revels of bygone years in the ancient hall gave to me a new and potent interest in the tomb, before whose doors I would sit for

long hours at a time each day. Once I thrust a candle within the nearly closed entrance, but could see nothing save a flight of damp stone steps leading downward. The odor of the place repelled yet bewitched me. I felt I had known it before, in a past remote beyond all recollection, beyond even my tenancy of the body I now possess. The year after I first beheld the tomb, I stumbled upon a worm-eaten translation of Plutarch's Lives in the book-filled attic of my home. Reading the life of Theseus, I was much impressed by that passage telling of the great stone beneath which the boyish hero was defined as tokens of destiny whenever he should become old enough to lift its enormous weight. This legend had the effect of dispelling my keenest impatience to enter the

vault, for it made me feel that the time was not yet ripe. Later I told myself I should grow to a strength and ingenuity which might enable me to unfasten the heavily chained door with ease, but until then I would do better by conforming to what seemed the will of fate. Accordingly, my watches by the dank portal became less persistent, and much of my time was spent in other, though equally strange, pursuits. I would sometimes rise very quietly in the night, stealing out to walk in those churchyards in places of burial from which I had been kept by my parents. What I did there I may not say, for I am not now sure of the reality of certain things, but I know that on the day after such a nocturnal ramble I would often astonish those

about me with my knowledge of topics almost forgotten for many generations. It was after a night like this that I shocked the community with a queer conceit about the burial of the rich and celebrated squire Brewster, a maker of local history who was interred in 1711, and whose slate headstone, bearing a graven skull and crossbones, was slowly crumbling to powder. In a moment of childish imagination I vowed not only that the undertaker, Goodman Simpson, had stolen the silver-buckled shoes, silken hosed, and sat in small clothes of the deceased before burial, but that the squire himself, not fully inanimate, had turned twice in his mound-covered coffin on the day of internment. So what's going on here? So basically the kid is

resolved, like Thesias, that his destiny still awaits him, he's not ready for it yet. So instead he's kind of going around hanging around church yards, burial places, and he's coming back the next day with weird knowledge, Chuck, like knowledge no living human should have. Knowledge that Jervis Dudley surely should not have. Right, Chuck. You taking over again? I'd like to. Okay. Okay. But the idea of entering the tomb never left my thoughts, Josh. Being indeed simulated by the unexpected genealogical discover that my own maternal ancestry possessed at least a slight link with the supposedly extinct family of the hides. Last of my paternal race I was likewise the last of this older and more mysterious line. I began to feel that the tomb was mine, and to look forward

with hot eagerness to the time when I might pass within the stone door and down those slimy stone steps into the dark. I now form the habit of listening very intently at the slightly open portal, choosing my favorite hours of midnight stillness for the odd vigil. By the time I came of age I had made a small clearing in the thicket before the mold-stained facade of the hillside, allowing the surrounding vegetation to encircle and overhang the space like the walls and roof of Sylvan Bauer. This Bauer was my temple, Josh, the fastened door of my shrine, and here I would lie outstretched on the mossy ground, thinking strange thoughts and dreaming of strange dreams. The night of the first revelation was a sultry one. I must have fallen asleep from fatigue,

for it was with a distinct sense of awakening that I heard the voices. Of those tones and accents I hesitate to speak, of their quality I will not speak. But I may say that they presented certain uncanny differences in vocabulary, pronunciation of mode and utterance. Every shade of the New England dialect from the uncouth syllables of the Puritan colonists to the precise rhetoric of fifty years ago seemed represented in that shadowy colloquy, though it was only later that I noticed the fact. At the time, indeed, my attention was distracted from this matter by another phenomenon, a phenomenon so fleeting that I could not take oath upon its reality. I barely fancied that, as I awoke, a light had been hurriedly extinguished

within the sunken sepulchre. I do not think I was either astounded or panic-stricken, but I know that I was greatly and permanently changed that night. Upon returning home I went with much directness to a riding chest in the attic, wherein I found the key which next day unlocked with ease the barrier I had so long stormed in vain. The dude has a key in his attic to this tomb, and he went directly to it after this big night. It was in the soft glow of the late afternoon that I first entered the vault on the abandoned slope. A spell was upon me, and my heart leaped with an exultation I can but ill describe. As I closed the door behind me and descended the dripping steps by the light of my lone candle, I seemed to know the way, and though the candle

sputtered with the stifling reek of the place, I felt singularly at home in the musty, charnel house air. Looking about me I beheld many marble slabs bearing coffins or the remains of coffins. Some of these were sealed and intact, but others had nearly vanished. Leaving the silver handles and plates isolated amid certain curious heaps of whitish dust. Upon one plate I read the name, Sir Jeffrey Hyde, who had come from Sussex in 1640 and died here a few years later. And a conspicuous alcove was one fairly well-preserved and untenanted casket, adorned with a single name which brought to me both a smile and a shudder. An odd impulse calls me to climb upon the broad slab, extinguish my candle, and lie down within

the vacant box. So this guy is totally off his night at this point. He's lying down in a coffin in the tomb. In the gray light of dawn I staggered from the vault and locked the chain of the door behind me. I was no longer a young man, though but twenty-one winters had chilled my bodily frame. Early rising villagers who observed my homeward progress looked at me strangely, and marveled at the signs of ribald revelry, which they saw in one whose life was known to be a sober and solitary one. I did not appear before my parents till after a long and refreshing sleep. You're good at this, Chuck. Thanks, you're good. So you get what's going on here, right? Yeah, I think Audible.com was going to be calling us any minute now.

And say please stop. We'll sue you. All right, Chuck. You ready? So what's going on is this kid is lying down in this tomb. He leaves the tomb. Is he older now? He's twenty-one now. Remember he first found the tomb at age ten. Couldn't open it, resolved to figure out, you know, basically just turn into a weirdo in other ways. And then finally when he's twenty-one, he sees a light in this place one night. It's changed when he wakes up, he goes directly to his own attic, his own attic. Finds a key.

Finds a key. Gets in, lays down in the coffin. Pretty new coffin. Wakes up the next day, stumbles back home in the morning, and it looks like he'd been partying all night. Yeah, and people are looking at him like he's weird, which I can't figure out. This all seems very normal to me. All right, you ready? May I?

Please do. Henceforward, I haunted the tomb each night, seeing, hearing, and doing things I must never reveal. My speech, always susceptible to environmental influences, was the first thing to succumb to the change. He must have a thick tongue, too. And my suddenly acquired archaism of diction was soon remarked upon. Later, a queer boldness and recklessness came into my demeanor, till I unconsciously grew to possess the bearing of a man of the world, despite my lifelong seclusion. My former silent tongue waxed voluble with the easy grace of a

Chesterfield, with a godless cynicism of a Rochester. I know you get that, Chuck. I displayed a peculiar erudition, utterly unlike the fantastic monkish lore over which I abhorred in my youth, and covered the fly leaves of my books with facile impromptu epigrams, which brought up suggestions of gay, prior, and the sprightliest of Augustine wits and rhymesters. One morning at breakfast, I came close to disaster by declaiming impalpably licorice accents in a fusion of 18th century bacchanalium mirth, a bit of Georgian playfulness never recorded in a book. So basically what he's saying is he sounds like he's drunk in the mornings,

even though he's like a very sober, solitary, kind of a reclusive kid, but he's starting to kind of change into a party boy. Nice. Now here, there's a few passages that we're not going to read. We're going to skip over these, okay? Yeah, the poetry. We're actually editing Lovecraft right now. About this time, I conceived my present fear of fire and thunderstorms. Previously indifferent to such things, I had now an unspeakable horror of them, and would retire to the

innermost recesses of the house whenever the heavens threatened an electrical display. Lighting. Yes. A favorite haunt of mine during the day was the ruined cellar of the mansion that had burned down. Remember that? Oh yeah. That's above the tomb. And in fancy, I would picture the structure as it had been in its prime. On one occasion, I startled the villager by leading him confidently to a shallow sub-cellar of whose existence I seemed to know in spite of the fact that it had been unseen and forgotten for many generations. At last came that which I had long feared. My parents alarmed at the altered manner in appearance of their only son commenced to exert over my movements a kindly espionage which threatened to result in disaster. I had told

no one of my visits to the tomb having guarded my secret purpose with religious zeal since childhood, but now I was forced to exercise care in threading the mazes of the wooded hollow that I might throw off a possible pursuer. My key to the vault I kept suspended from accord about my neck, its presence known only to me. I never carried out of the sepulchre any of the things I came upon whilst within its walls. I like that word sepulchre. You've got it twice. That was my first one. So what's going on here? Kids afraid of lightning and thunder. Remember that house? Yeah. This cellar of which he's visiting was struck by lightning and burned down and one person perished in it. And this is in the 18th century, I think. Yeah. Long before this kid's running around because

this was supposed to be contemporary in like the 1920s. Right. Okay. Okay. Jerry's in there laughing. You ready? My turn? I'm ready bud. One morning as I emerged from the damp tomb and fastened the chain of the portal with no too steady hand, I beheld an adjacent thicket the dreaded face of a watcher. See that's creepy. Surely the inn was near for my bower was discovered and the objective of my nocturnal journeys revealed. The man did not accost me so I hasten home in an effort to overhear what he might report to my careworn father. Were my sojourns beyond the chain door about to be proclaimed to the world? Imagine my delighted astonishment on hearing the spy inform my parents in cautious whisper that I had spent the night in the bower outside the tomb. My sleep filmed

eyes fixed upon the crevice where the padlock portal stood ajar. By what miracle had the watcher thus deluded? I was now convinced that a supernatural agency protected me. Made bold by this heaven sent circumstance, I began to resume perfect openness in going to the vault, confident that no one would witness my entrance. For a week I tasted to the full the joys of that churnal conviviality, which I must not describe when the thing happened. And I was born away to this accursed abode of sorrow and monotony. So did you get what just happened? Yeah, he basically, the guy said this kid hasn't been going in there. He's just been sleeping outside of it. Yeah, but he feels like he's going in there.

Sure. He's losing it. Or has lost it. Or is he? Or will he? I should not have ventured out that night for the taint of thunder was in the clouds, and hellish phosphorescence rose from the rank swamp at the bottom of the hollow. The call of the dead, too, was different. Instead of the hillside tomb, it was the charred cellar on the crest of the slope, whose presiding daemon beckoned me with unseen fingers. As I emerged from the intervening grove upon the plain before the ruin, I beheld in the misty moonlight a thing I had always vaguely expected. The mansion, gone for a century, once more reared its stately height to the raptured vision,

every window ablaze with the splendor of many candles. Up the long drive rolled the beaches of the Boston Gentry, whilst on foot came a numerous assemblage of powdered exquisites from the neighboring mansions. With this throng I mingled, though I knew I belonged with the hosts rather than the guests. Inside the hall were music, laughter, and wine on every hand. Several faces I recognized, though I should have known them better had they been shriveled or eaten away by death and decomposition. Amidst a wild and reckless throng I was the wildest and most abandoned. Gay blasphemy poured in torrents from my lips, and in my shocking sallies I heated no law of God, man, or nature. Suddenly a peel of thunder, resonant, even above the den of the

swinish revelry, claved the very roof and laid a hush fear upon the boisterous company. Red tongues of flame and searing gust of heat engulfed the house, and the roisterers struck with terror at the descent of a calamity which seemed to transcend the bounds of an guided nature. Fled shrieking into the night, I alone remained, Josh, riveted to my seat by a groveling fear which I had never felt before. And then a second horror took possession of my soul. Burnt alive the ashes, my body dispersed by the four winds, I might never lie in the tomb of the hides. Was not my coffin prepared for me? Had I not a right to rest till eternity amongst the descendants of Sir Joffrey Hyde? Aye! I would claim my heritage of death, even though my soul

go seeking through the ages for another corporeal tenement to represent it on that vacant slab in the alcove of the vault. Jervis Hyde should never share the sad fate of Pallarinus. He's Scottish all of a sudden. Yeah. Or whatever that was. You ready? Well, what's going on here is he clearly saw the mansion and went and partied in it. Yeah, I mean it was rebuilt, there were guests, ghostly guests, and he went and partied as a host he felt like. As a hide? Yeah, as a hide. And then what lightning came and took care of business all over again? Yeah, he was at the party on the night that it went down. That whole sad ghastly business went down. Is he mad? Let's find out. Alright. You ready? Yeah. May I take it home? Yeah,

the exciting conclusion of the tomb. As the phantom of the burning house faded, I found myself screaming and struggling madly in the arms of two men, one of whom was the spy who had followed me to the tomb. Rain was pouring down in torrents and upon the southern horizon were flashes of the lightning that had so lately passed over our heads. My father, his face lined with sorrow, stood by as I shouted my demands to be laid within the tomb, frequently admonishing my captors to treat me as gently as they could. A blackened circle on the floor of the ruined cellar told of a violent stroke from the heavens. And from this spot, a group of curious villagers with lanterns were prying a small box of antique workmanship which the thunderbolt had brought

to light. Ceasing my futile and now objectless writhing, I watched the spectators as they viewed the treasure trove and was permitted to share in their discoveries. The box, whose fastenings were broken by the stroke which unearthed it, contained many papers and objects of value, but I had eyes for one thing alone. It was the porcelain miniature of a young man in a smartly curled bagwig and bore the initials J.H. The face was such that as I gazed, I might as well have been studying my mirror. You got that? That's messed up. On the following day, I was brought to this room with the barred windows, but I have been kept informed of certain things through an aged and simple-minded servitor for whom I bore a fondness and infancy and who, like me, loves the churchyard. What I have dared

relate of my experiences within the vault has brought me only pitying smiles. My father, who visits me frequently, declares that at no time did I pass the chained portal and swears that the rusted padlock had not been touched for fifty years when he examined it. He even says that all the village knew of my journeys to the tomb and that I was often watched as I slept in the bower outside the grim facade, my half-open eyes fixed on the crevice that leads to the interior. Against these insertions I have no tangible proof to offer, since my key to the padlock was lost in the struggle on that night of horrors. The strange things of the past which I learned during those nocturnal meetings with the dead, he dismisses as the fruits of my lifelong and omnivorous

browsing amongst the ancient volumes of the family library. Had it not been for my old servant Hiram, I should have by this time become quite convinced of my madness. But Hiram, loyal to the last, has held faith in me and has done that which impels me to make public at least part of my story. A week ago he burst open the lock which changed the door of the tomb perpetually a jar and descended with a lantern into the murky depths. On a slab in an alcove he found an old but empty coffin whose tarnished plate bears the single word Jervis. In that coffin and in that vault they have promised me I shall be buried. The end. The end scene. Wow. The tomb, HP Lovecraft, pretty good, huh? Very creepy. Yeah, absolutely. Different time back then. Well, much creepier obviously. Yeah,

yeah, I think this might have been an amazing story at first, or weird stories, one of the two. In the TV show Amazing Stories? No, no, the old pulp comic book. Oh, okay. Yeah. So hopefully that creeped everybody out, right Chuck? I'm creeped out. I'm creeped out too. What are you going to be for Halloween? I don't know, the band is playing a gig and we're all going to dress alike, so something I'm lobbying for something with mustaches. Okay. Or maybe the taint of the Thunder Cloud. Yes, which took. What are you going to be? Eight times. Eight takes. For me to read that? Yeah. Or you laughing or Jerry laughing? Yeah, it was something messed that up. We should release the outtakes of this. That'd be good. So I guess that's it. I got nothing. Happy Halloween

to everybody. Thank you very much. Be careful. Yes, be safe out there. Remember, if you're wearing an all black costume, don't be stupid. Put some sort of reflective material on it. Be careful of kids if you're driving. Be careful of cars if you're a kid and have a happy, happy Halloween. And to line us sitting in the great pumpkin patch, there's always next year, pal. For more on this and thousands of other topics, visit HowStuffWorks.com. Want more HowStuffWorks? Check out our blogs on the HowStuffWorks.com homepage. Brought to you by the reinvented 2012 Camry. It's ready. Are you? The war on drugs is the excuse our government uses to get away with absolutely insane stuff. Stuff that'll piss you off. The cops, are they just like looting? Are they just like pillaging?

They just have way better names for what they call like what we would call a jack move or being robbed. They call civil answer for it. Be sure to listen to the war on drugs on the iHeart radio app, Apple podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Langston Kermit. Sometimes I'm on TV. I'm David Boreen. I'm probably on TV right now. David and I are going to take a deep dive every week into the most exciting groundbreaking and sometimes problematic black conspiracy theories. We've had amazing past notable guests like Brandon Kyle Goodman, Sam J. Quinta Brunson, and so many more new episodes around every Tuesday, many episodes out on Thursdays where we answer you, the listeners conspiracy theories. Listen to

my mama told me on the iHeart radio app, Apple podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts.