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The horror in the museum
It
was
languid
curiosity
which
first
brought
Stephen
Jones
to
Rogers
'
Museum
.
Someone
had
told
him
about
the
queer
underground
place
in
Southwark
Street
across
the
river
,
where
waxen
things
so
much
more
horrible
than
the
worst
effigies
at
Madame
Tussaud
's
were
shewn
,
and
he
had
strolled
in
one
April
day
to
see
how
disappointing
he
would
find
it
.
Oddly
,
he
was
not
disappointed
.
There
was
something
different
and
distinctive
here
,
after
all
.
Of
course
,
the
usual
gory
commonplaces
were
present
--
Landru
,
Dr.
Crippen
,
Madame
Demers
,
Rizzio
,
Lady
Jane
Grey
,
endless
maimed
victims
of
war
and
revolution
,
and
monsters
like
Gilles
de
Rais
and
Marquis
de
Sade
--
but
there
were
other
things
which
had
made
him
breathe
faster
and
stay
till
the
ringing
of
the
closing
bell
.
The
man
who
had
fashioned
this
collection
could
be
no
ordinary
mountebank
.
There
was
imagination
--
even
a
kind
of
diseased
genius
--
in
some
of
this
stuff.Later
he
had
learned
about
George
Rogers
.
The
man
had
been
on
the
Tussaud
staff
,
but
some
trouble
had
developed
which
led
to
his
discharge
.
There
were
aspersions
on
his
sanity
and
tales
of
his
crazy
forms
of
secret
worship
--
though
latterly
his
success
with
his
own
basement
museum
had
dulled
the
edge
of
some
criticisms
while
sharpening
the
insidious
point
of
others
.
Teratology
and
the
iconography
of
nightmare
were
his
hobbies
,
and
even
he
had
had
the
prudence
to
screen
off
some
of
his
worst
effigies
in
a
special
alcove
for
adults
only
.
It
was
this
alcove
which
had
fascinated
Jones
so
much
.
There
were
lumpish
hybrid
things
which
only
fantasy
could
spawn
,
moulded
with
devilish
skill
,
and
coloured
in
a
horribly
life-like
fashion.Some
were
the
figures
of
well-known
myth
--
gorgons
,
chimaeras
,
dragons
,
cyclops
,
and
all
their
shuddersome
congeners
.
Others
were
drawn
from
darker
and
more
furtively
whispered
cycles
of
subterranean
legend
--
black
,
formless
Tsathoggua
,
many-tentacled
Cthulhu
,
proboscidian
Chaugnar
Faugn
,
and
other
rumoured
blasphemies
from
forbidden
books
like
the
Necronomicon
,
the
Book
of
Eibon
,
or
the
Unaussprechlichen
Kulten
of
von
Junzt
.
But
the
worst
were
wholly
original
with
Rogers
,
and
represented
shapes
which
no
tale
of
antiquity
had
ever
dared
to
suggest
.
Several
were
hideous
parodies
on
forms
of
organic
life
we
know
,
while
others
seemed
taken
from
feverish
dreams
of
other
planets
and
other
galaxies
.
The
wilder
paintings
of
Clark
Ashton
Smith
might
suggest
a
few
--
but
nothing
could
suggest
the
effect
of
poignant
,
loathsome
terror
created
by
their
great
size
and
fiendishly
cunning
workmanship
,
and
by
the
diabolically
clever
lighting
conditions
under
which
they
were
exhibited.Stephen
Jones
,
as
a
leisurely
connoisseur
of
the
bizarre
in
art
,
had
sought
out
Rogers
himself
in
the
dingy
office
and
workroom
behind
the
vaulted
museum
chamber
--
an
evil-looking
crypt
lighted
dimly
by
dusty
windows
set
slit-like
and
horizontal
in
the
brick
wall
on
a
level
with
the
ancient
cobblestones
of
a
hidden
courtyard
.
It
was
here
that
the
images
were
repaired
--
here
,
too
,
where
some
of
them
had
been
made
.
Waxen
arms
,
legs
,
heads
,
and
torsos
lay
in
grotesque
array
on
various
benches
,
while
on
high
tiers
of
shelves
matted
wigs
,
ravenous-looking
teeth
,
and
glassy
,
staring
eyes
were
indiscriminately
scattered
.
Costumes
of
all
sorts
hung
from
hooks
,
and
in
one
alcove
were
great
piles
of
flesh-coloured
wax-cakes
and
shelves
filled
with
paint-cans
and
brushes
of
every
description
.
In
the
centre
of
the
room
was
a
large
melting-furnace
used
to
prepare
the
wax
for
moulding
,
its
fire-box
topped
by
a
huge
iron
container
on
hinges
,
with
a
spout
which
permitted
the
pouring
of
melted
wax
with
the
merest
touch
of
a
finger.Other
things
in
the
dismal
crypt
were
less
describable
--
isolated
parts
of
problematical
entities
whose
assembled
forms
were
the
phantoms
of
delirium
.
At
one
end
was
a
door
of
heavy
plank
,
fastened
by
an
unusually
large
padlock
and
with
a
very
peculiar
symbol
painted
over
it
.
Jones
,
who
had
once
had
access
to
the
dreaded
Necronomicon
,
shivered
involuntarily
as
he
recognised
that
symbol
.
This
showman
,
he
reflected
,
must
indeed
be
a
person
of
disconcertingly
wide
scholarship
in
dark
and
dubious
fields.Nor
did
the
conversation
of
Rogers
disappoint
him
.
The
man
was
tall
,
lean
,
and
rather
unkempt
,
with
large
black
eyes
which
gazed
combustively
from
a
pallid
and
usually
stubble-covered
face
.
He
did
not
resent
Jones
's
intrusion
,
but
seemed
to
welcome
the
chance
of
unburdening
himself
to
an
interested
person
.
His
voice
was
of
singular
depth
and
resonance
,
and
harboured
a
sort
of
repressed
intensity
bordering
on
the
feverish
.
Jones
did
not
wonder
that
many
had
thought
him
mad
.
With
every
successive
call
--
and
such
calls
became
a
habit
as
the
weeks
went
by
--
Jones
had
found
Rogers
more
communicative
and
confidential
.
From
the
first
there
had
been
hints
of
strange
faiths
and
practices
on
the
showman
's
part
,
and
later
on
these
hints
expanded
into
tales
--
despite
a
few
odd
corroborative
photographs
--
whose
extravagance
was
almost
comic
.
It
was
some
time
in
June
,
on
a
night
when
Jones
had
brought
a
bottle
of
good
whiskey
and
plied
his
host
somewhat
freely
,
that
the
really
demented
talk
first
appeared
.
Before
that
there
had
been
wild
enough
stories
--
accounts
of
mysterious
trips
to
Thibet
,
the
African
interior
,
the
Arabian
desert
,
the
Amazon
valley
,
Alaska
,
and
certain
little-known
islands
of
the
South
Pacific
,
plus
claims
of
having
read
such
monstrous
and
half-fabulous
books
as
the
prehistoric
Pnakotic
fragments
and
the
Dhol
chants
attributed
to
malign
and
non-human
Leng
--
but
nothing
in
all
this
had
been
so
unmistakably
insane
as
what
had
cropped
out
that
June
evening
under
the
spell
of
the
whiskey.To
be
plain
,
Rogers
began
making
vague
boasts
of
having
found
certain
things
in
Nature
that
no
one
had
found
before
,
and
of
having
brought
back
tangible
evidences
of
such
discoveries
.
According
to
his
bibulous
harangue
,
he
had
gone
farther
than
anyone
else
in
interpreting
the
obscure
and
primal
books
he
studied
,
and
had
been
directed
by
them
to
certain
remote
places
where
strange
survivals
are
hidden
--
survivals
of
aeons
and
life-cycles
earlier
than
mankind
,
and
in
some
cases
connected
with
other
dimensions
and
other
worlds
,
communication
with
which
was
frequent
in
the
forgotten
pre-human
days
.
Jones
marvelled
at
the
fancy
which
could
conjure
up
such
notions
,
and
wondered
just
what
Rogers
'
mental
history
had
been
.
Had
his
work
amidst
the
morbid
grotesqueries
of
Madame
Tussaud
's
been
the
start
of
his
imaginative
flights
,
or
was
the
tendency
innate
,
so
that
his
choice
of
occupation
was
merely
one
of
its
manifestations
?
At
any
rate
,
the
man
's
work
was
very
closely
linked
with
his
notions
.
Even
now
there
was
no
mistaking
the
trend
of
his
blackest
hints
about
the
nightmare
monstrosities
in
the
screened-off
"
Adults
only
"
alcove
.
Heedless
of
ridicule
,
he
was
trying
to
imply
that
not
all
of
these
daemoniac
abnormalities
were
artificial.It
was
Jones
's
frank
scepticism
and
amusement
at
these
irresponsible
claims
which
broke
up
the
growing
cordiality
.
Rogers
,
it
was
clear
,
took
himself
very
seriously
;
for
he
now
became
morose
and
resentful
,
continuing
to
tolerate
Jones
only
through
a
dogged
urge
to
break
down
his
wall
of
urbane
and
complacent
incredulity
.
Wild
tales
and
suggestions
of
rites
and
sacrifices
to
nameless
elder
gods
continued
,
and
now
and
then
Rogers
would
lead
his
guest
to
one
of
the
hideous
blasphemies
in
the
screened-off
alcove
and
point
out
features
difficult
to
reconcile
with
even
the
finest
human
craftsmanship
.
Jones
continued
his
visits
through
sheer
fascination
,
though
he
knew
he
had
forfeited
his
host
's
regard
.
At
times
he
would
try
to
humour
Rogers
with
pretended
assent
to
some
mad
hint
or
assertion
,
but
the
gaunt
showman
was
seldom
to
be
deceived
by
such
tactics.The
tension
came
to
a
head
later
in
September
.
Jones
had
casually
dropped
into
the
museum
one
afternoon
,
and
was
wandering
through
the
dim
corridors
whose
horrors
were
now
so
familiar
,
when
he
heard
a
very
peculiar
sound
from
the
general
direction
of
Rogers
'
workroom
.
Others
heard
it
,
too
,
and
started
nervously
as
the
echoes
reverberated
through
the
great
vaulted
basement
.
The
three
attendants
exchanged
odd
glances
;
and
one
of
them
,
a
dark
,
taciturn
,
foreign-looking
fellow
who
always
served
Rogers
as
a
repairer
and
assistant
designer
,
smiled
in
a
way
which
seemed
to
puzzle
his
colleagues
and
which
grated
very
harshly
on
some
facet
of
Jones
's
sensibilities
.
It
was
the
yelp
or
scream
of
a
dog
,
and
was
such
a
sound
as
could
be
made
only
under
conditions
of
the
utmost
fright
and
agony
combined
.
Its
stark
,
anguished
frenzy
was
appalling
to
hear
,
and
in
this
setting
of
grotesque
abnormality
it
held
a
double
hideousness
.
Jones
remembered
that
no
dogs
were
allowed
in
the
museum
.
He
was
about
to
go
to
the
door
leading
into
the
workroom
,
when
the
dark
attendant
stopped
him
with
a
word
and
a
gesture
.
Mr.
Rogers
,
the
man
said
in
a
soft
,
somewhat
accented
voice
at
once
apologetic
and
vaguely
sardonic
,
was
out
,
and
there
were
standing
orders
to
admit
no
one
to
the
workroom
during
his
absence
.
As
for
that
yelp
,
it
was
undoubtedly
something
out
in
the
courtyard
behind
the
museum
.
This
neighbourhood
was
full
of
stray
mongrels
,
and
their
fights
were
sometimes
shockingly
noisy
.
There
were
no
dogs
in
any
part
of
the
museum
.
But
if
Mr.
Jones
wished
to
see
Mr.
Rogers
he
might
find
him
just
before
closing-time
.
After
this
Jones
climbed
the
old
stone
steps
to
the
street
outside
and
examined
the
squalid
neighbourhood
curiously
.
The
leaning
,
decrepit
buildings
--
once
dwellings
but
now
largely
shops
and
warehouses
--
were
very
ancient
indeed
.
Some
of
them
were
of
a
gabled
type
seeming
to
go
back
to
Tudor
times
,
and
a
faint
miasmatic
stench
hung
subtly
about
the
whole
region
.
Beside
the
dingy
house
whose
basement
held
the
museum
was
a
low
archway
pierced
by
a
dark
cobbled
alley
,
and
this
Jones
entered
in
a
vague
wish
to
find
the
courtyard
behind
the
workroom
and
settle
the
affair
of
the
dog
more
comfortably
in
his
mind
.
The
courtyard
was
dim
in
the
late
afternoon
light
,
hemmed
in
by
rear
walls
even
uglier
and
more
intangibly
menacing
than
the
crumbling
street
facades
of
the
evil
old
houses
.
Not
a
dog
was
in
sight
,
and
Jones
wondered
how
the
aftermath
of
such
a
frantic
turmoil
could
have
completely
vanished
so
soon
.
Despite
the
assistant
's
statement
that
no
dog
had
been
in
the
museum
,
Jones
glanced
nervously
at
the
three
small
windows
of
the
basement
workroom
--
narrow
,
horizontal
rectangles
close
to
the
grass-grown
pavement
,
with
grimy
panes
that
stared
repulsively
and
incuriously
like
the
eyes
of
dead
fish
.
To
their
left
a
worn
flight
of
steps
led
to
an
opaque
and
heavily
bolted
door
.
Some
impulse
urged
him
to
crouch
low
on
the
damp
,
broken
cobblestones
and
peer
in
,
on
the
chance
that
the
thick
green
shades
,
worked
by
long
cords
that
hung
down
to
a
reachable
level
,
might
not
be
drawn
.
The
outer
surfaces
were
thick
with
dirt
,
but
as
he
rubbed
them
with
his
handkerchief
he
saw
there
was
no
obscuring
curtain
in
the
way
of
his
vision.So
shadowed
was
the
cellar
from
the
inside
that
not
much
could
be
made
out
,
but
the
grotesque
working
paraphernalia
now
and
then
loomed
up
spectrally
as
Jones
tried
each
of
the
windows
in
turn
.
It
seemed
evident
at
first
that
no
one
was
within
;
yet
when
he
peered
through
the
extreme
right-hand
window
--
the
one
nearest
the
entrance
alley
--
he
saw
a
glow
of
light
at
the
farther
end
of
the
apartment
which
made
him
pause
in
bewilderment
.
There
was
no
reason
why
any
light
should
be
there
.
It
was
an
inner
side
of
the
room
,
and
he
could
not
recall
any
gas
or
electric
fixture
near
that
point
.
Another
look
defined
the
glow
as
a
large
vertical
rectangle
,
and
a
thought
occurred
to
him
.
It
was
in
that
direction
that
he
had
always
noticed
the
heavy
plank
door
with
the
abnormally
large
padlock
--
the
door
which
was
never
opened
,
and
above
which
was
crudely
smeared
that
hideous
cryptic
symbol
from
the
fragmentary
records
of
forbidden
elder
magic
.
It
must
be
open
now
--
and
there
was
a
light
inside
.
All
his
former
speculations
as
to
where
that
door
led
,
and
as
to
what
lay
behind
it
,
were
now
renewed
with
trebly
disquieting
force.Jones
wandered
aimlessly
around
the
dismal
locality
till
close
to
six
o'clock
,
when
he
returned
to
the
museum
to
make
the
call
on
Rogers
.
He
could
hardly
tell
why
he
wished
so
especially
to
see
the
man
just
then
,
but
there
must
have
been
some
subconscious
misgivings
about
that
terribly
unplaceable
canine
scream
of
the
afternoon
,
and
about
the
glow
of
light
in
that
disturbing
and
usually
unopened
inner
doorway
with
the
heavy
padlock
.
The
attendants
were
leaving
as
he
arrived
,
and
he
thought
that
Orabona
--
the
dark
foreign-looking
assistant
--
eyed
him
with
something
like
sly
,
repressed
amusement
.
He
did
not
relish
that
look
--
even
though
he
had
seen
the
fellow
turn
it
on
his
employer
many
times.The
vaulted
exhibition
room
was
ghoulish
in
its
desertion
,
but
he
strode
quickly
through
it
and
rapped
at
the
door
of
the
office
and
workroom
.
Response
was
slow
in
coming
,
though
there
were
footsteps
inside
.
Finally
,
in
response
to
a
second
knock
,
the
lock
rattled
,
and
the
ancient
six-panelled
portal
creaked
reluctantly
open
to
reveal
the
slouching
,
feverish-eyed
form
of
George
Rogers
.
From
the
first
it
was
clear
that
the
showman
was
in
an
unusual
mood
.
There
was
a
curious
mixture
of
reluctance
and
actual
gloating
in
his
welcome
,
and
his
talk
at
once
veered
to
extravagances
of
the
most
hideous
and
incredible
sort.Surviving
elder
gods
--
nameless
sacrifices
--
the
other
than
artificial
nature
of
some
of
the
alcove
horrors
--
all
the
usual
boasts
,
but
uttered
in
a
tone
of
peculiarly
increasing
confidence
.
Obviously
,
Jones
reflected
,
the
poor
fellow
's
madness
was
gaining
on
him
.
From
time
to
time
Rogers
would
send
furtive
glances
toward
the
heavy
,
padlocked
inner
door
at
the
end
of
the
room
,
or
toward
a
piece
of
coarse
burlap
on
the
floor
not
far
from
it
,
beneath
which
some
small
object
appeared
to
be
lying
.
Jones
grew
more
nervous
as
the
moments
passed
,
and
began
to
feel
as
hesitant
about
mentioning
the
afternoon
's
oddities
as
he
had
formerly
been
anxious
to
do
so.Rogers
'
sepulchrally
resonant
bass
almost
cracked
under
the
excitement
of
his
fevered
rambling
.
"
Do
you
remember
,
"
he
shouted
,
"
what
I
told
you
about
that
ruined
city
in
Indo-China
where
the
Tcho-Tchos
lived
?
You
had
to
admit
I
'd
been
there
when
you
saw
the
photographs
,
even
if
you
did
think
I
made
that
oblong
swimmer
in
darkness
out
of
wax
.
If
you
'd
seen
it
writhing
in
the
underground
pools
as
I
did
...
.
"
Well
,
this
is
bigger
still
.
I
never
told
you
about
this
,
because
I
wanted
to
work
out
the
later
parts
before
making
any
claim
.
