All language subtitles for Night Gallery S02E08 The Diary.DVDRip.NonHI.en.UNVSL

SERLING: Starring tonight:

Patty Duke,

Carl Reiner,

Virginia Mayo,

John Carradine,

David Wayne

and Cesar Romero.

Good evening.

A most cordial welcome
to a display of canvases

from what you might call
the mausoleum school of art.

Subject, a common enough item
utilized by teenagers and tycoons,

the daily journal in which we notate the
happenings of our day-to-day existence.

But in this instance, a unique
periodical that doesn't record what was,

but rather predicts
what will be.

Its title, The Diary.

It's our initial offering
in the Night Gallery.

And on this New Year's
Eve, we come to our last item,

the Holly Schaefer Portfolio of
Particularly Unpalatable People.

Tonight's subject, Miss Carrie
Crane, movie star emeritus.

If you're over the age of 50, the
name may tug at your memory.

I was never a fan of Miss Crane's
thespic talent or lack thereof,

and I am currently less than
a fan of her nocturnal antics,

said antics of this somewhat faded
and jaded relic of Mack Sennett

having to do with being
picked up last night

for drunk and disorderly
conduct on the Sunset Strip.

This is a picture of the event.

This was her third
adventure in as many weeks.

Take a look at the
calendar, Carrie, darling.

It's December of 1970.
Prohibition has passed us by.

Hollywood is the
Fondas and the Hondas.

It's no longer Fairbanks and Pickford
and lesser lights like Miss Carrie Crane.

So stop acting, Miss Crane,

as if you were a pushy
ingénue on the way up.

Because you aren't
and you're not.

You're an aging broad who
makes a spectacle of herself

like the Wicked Witch
of the West in hot pants.

Elsewhere on this
New Year's Eve...

Miss Crane. I'd
recognize you anywhere.

Miss Schaefer's
apartment, please.

She's having a party, and I can't
let anyone up without her permission.

Maybe... Maybe one
exception, for old times' sake?

I just want to wish
her a happy New Year.

I'd like to accommodate
you, Miss Crane, but...

Please. It's important to
me. I'll just stay a moment.

Well, look who's here,

fresh from a triumphant engagement
at the West Hollywood drunk tank.

Holly, can't we adjourn
this to another room?

And deny our guests of a scene of
such potentially heart-rending melodrama?

Over here, all
right, Miss Crane?

A superb business manager,
my Jeb, but a lousy showman.

If you two girls
will excuse me...

In case there's any bloodletting,
I'd just as soon have a witness.

Now, my darling, if it's not
too presumptuous of me to ask,

how did you get
up here uninvited?

The guard downstairs was
very kind. He remembered me.

Oh, how nice.

Well, he's going to have an even
better reason to remember you after this.

Every Friday at the
unemployment office.

Now, about that package you're
clutching. Don't tell me. Let me guess.

It's a pearl-handled revolver,
all primed and loaded.

Nothing quite so
lethal, I regret to say.

Then a peace offering, perhaps.

Or a bribe?

A little something intended to lever
my foot from the back of your neck?

How very much like you, Holly,
to look for motives in dark places.

You give the worst, so that's
what you expect from everyone.

Now comes the plaintive
lament about her lost man,

the one I stole.

And what would you call it?

Incredible.

To have been on earth
as long as you have

and not to know that a man
isn't stolen, he's relinquished.

As for the towheaded bronco rider
who occasionally squired you about,

you're right.

He did sort of gravitate my way.

But then, that is the
way of the world, isn't it?

The rich get richer and
the old broads get older.

And after him,
the heir apparent.

Tell me, Mr. Harlan,

is your ex-wife as philosophical
as I'm supposed to be?

No, as a matter
of fact, she's not.

If either of you need a
tourniquet, I'll be outside.

Well,

in a life already notorious
for spectacular boo-boos,

you've hit an all-time high.

If you thought tonight's
telecast was something,

catch me tomorrow.

Oh, before you heave
me out on my ear, Holly,

aren't you the least bit curious
to know what's in this package?

It's a diary, Holly.

I bought it in an
obscure little shop.

They sell funny little things,
curios, potions, talismans.

All sorts of
peculiar little items.

I paid an enormous
sum of money for it.

Well, words cannot
adequately describe

my profound emotion.

Good night, grandmother.

"New Year's Day. A
bummer all the way around.

"Can't shake that miserable
disquiet over Crane's suicide.

"And how typically hambone
to do it on New Year's Eve.

"Can't make it in
life, so do it in death.

"But even so, an ugly little preface
to what I hope is a better New Year."

It's my handwriting,
but I didn't write it.

Jeb?

Hey, hey, go back to sleep.

Only the milkmen
are up and about.

I can't. I couldn't.

What about you?
Did you sleep at all?

Oh, in spurts.

It wasn't easy.

Well, it's morning. A new day.

Explain it to me.

Explain what?

What you couldn't
explain last night.

I have never
written in this diary,

yet Carrie Crane had no sooner
left when the first page was filled in.

And then, minutes later,
she walks in front of a car.

Holly.

No, honey, I don't want to be
held and I don't want to be humored.

I want answers.

Please don't look at
me as if you can't decide

whether to flag the next elevator or
book me a reservation in a rubber room.

A simple answer to
an impossible question.

How did an entry in my
handwriting appear in this diary

describing a suicide
before it even happened?

She planted it in
your mind, darling.

Something she said, the way
she acted. That's why you wrote it.

I didn't write it, I tell you! I
never touched that thing!

Holly, what other
explanation is there?

I guess you're right.

There's my girl.

We'll just leave it
at that and forget it.

Agreed?

I'm gonna go put on some coffee.

If your head is half as big as mine
is, we're both red blanket cases.

I never did like that broad
anyway. She was a vindictive lush.

You know what she called me?

A direct quote, my dear.

She said I was "a malignant crossbreed
between a vulture and a hotel dick."

Now she's dead
anyway, so who cares?

Holly?

Yeah?

You said only the first
page was filled in, right?

That's right.

The second page
is filled in, too.

"January 2nd.

"Didn't work last night.

"Should have gone to the
desert or up to Arrowhead,

"but no sun in one and
no snow in the other.

"So just stayed home.

"To top everything off,
the phone was out of order."

I didn't write that, either.

Oh, help you with
those, Miss Schaefer?

You just sit where you
are, Georgie Porgie.

The last time you got into the act, I
wasn't too crazy about the results.

Well, I want to apologize for letting
Miss Crane in night before last,

but she said she had
this present for you.

Yeah.

Terrible thing.

It's terrible. She was a
real beauty in her time.

Well, that day has long
fled the premises, Georgie.

So you just remember that the
next time you feel your heart melting

over some antique has-been.

I don't care if they wheel in
a gift-wrapped Rolls Royce.

You keep them out of my
digs. You read me, Georgie?

Yes, ma'am.

Oh, Miss Schaefer, I thought
you was at the television studio.

Say again?

I figured you'd be at the studio by
now, getting ready to tape your show.

Oh, there's plenty of time
yet. I've got at least an hour.

I want this thing burned.

Did you say burned?

Burned.

Incinerated. Cremated.

And finish up later, will you?

How much later, Miss Schaefer?

I was hoping to get
home a little early tonight.

All right, then, just leave
it and do it tomorrow.

Miss Schaefer?
Are you all right?

I busted it.

I busted the telephone.

Well, you've listened
to my bizarre little tale.

What's your professional
assessment, Doctor?

Do I have the necessary requirements for
a tour of duty on that couch over there?

You make it sound like
punishment, Miss Schaefer.

Well, coming here wasn't my
idea. It was Jeb's. Mr. Harlan's.

Soft, gentle,
friendly persuasion.

"Go get your head
examined, lover."

You say there have been two
notations predicting future events,

and all these
events came to pass.

A suicide, my phone
being out of order

and missing tonight's show.

You canceled your show, Miss
Schaefer, in order that I might fit you in.

It was entirely your own doing.

Had you waited until tomorrow,
gone ahead and done your program,

then you would have
foiled the prophecy.

Is this not true?

And the other things?

You're gonna tell me that
those were of my own doing, too?

It was you who
dropped the telephone.

If nothing else, you must admit that
you've been a very cooperative accomplice.

Next you'll have me convinced that I
pushed Carrie Crane in front of that car.

Well, that's what they'd
like you to believe, isn't it?

Suicides.

It's their parting gift,
an act of punishment.

They'd like us to feel
responsible for their death.

It can be, sometimes.

In this case, I'm inclined
to agree with you.

The explanation is
insufficient to our needs.

That's wonderful, Doctor.

Thirty-five bucks an
hour to find out something

that I knew before I
came through that door.

Oh, I'm not without a theory.

There have been cases
like this, Miss Schaefer.

They're not covered
by psychiatry, however.

Well, what, then?

It has to do with certain forms
of clairvoyance, telepathy.

An area called hyperesthesia.

That would make a
great lounge act in Vegas.

If, instead of
appearing in your diary,

you had actually seen
it, had visions of it,

I think we might call it
paranormal precognition.

It's rare,

but it's not unheard of.

In your case, I think
what's happening

is an altogether subconscious
compulsion to write these visions down,

with no recollection,
however, of having done so.

That's the weenie, huh?

My subconscious is the culprit.

Thank you very much, Doctor.

The next time I have a problem,
I'll take it to Popular Mechanics.

Your hour isn't up yet.

That's okay. Keep the change.

You spoke earlier

of the accusations Miss
Crane leveled at you.

Wouldn't you like
to explore those?

In walks Sigmund Freud.

Did I hate my mother?
Did I love my father?

What's my position
on women's lib?

Look, I'll give you Holly Schaefer
in one terse, cogent paragraph.

I grew up in a tenement building.
I had to scrounge for what I got.

Nobody gave me
anything. I had to take it.

And that included?

Everything.

And no guilts,
Doctor. No guilts at all.

I see.

You see?

You see nothing.

You think you see.

The classic guilt neuroses.

The lady is a predatory grabber.

Lady can't face it. Lady would
like to hide it in her subconscious.

Lady sublimates it by
making kooky entries in a diary

and has no idea...

"January 3rd.

"A black day.

"Jeb is gone,

"a man I loved wiped
out for no good reason.

"I can't live with his death.

"I can't live with the
knowledge that somehow,

"in a manner both mysterious and
unfathomable, I was responsible.

"This whole thing must end.

"I can endure no more of it.
The wrong people are dying.

"I may be able to justify my sins,
but I can no longer forgive them.

"Dear God, after this,
how do I live with myself?"

Where is he? Where's Mr. Harlan?

He's gone. Over an hour ago.

In fact, he should be landing in San
Francisco about now, Miss Schaefer.

San Francisco?

Mmm-hmm. Business. In fact,
some of your investments, I believe.

My...

Look, I've got to reach him.
I've got to talk to him immediately.

I don't see how. I don't even
know what hotel he's stopped at.

You see, he left so suddenly, there
was not even time to make reservations.

Look, I've got to talk to him.
Don't you understand that?

Well, I'm sure he'll
be telephoning in.

Tomorrow morning, first thing.

Yes, of course he will.

Well, look, when he calls,
you tell him to stay put,

not to leave that
hotel for anything.

You've got to tell him that.

Miss Schaefer, if you could just tell
me what this is all about, perhaps...

I'll tell you what it's about.

You tell him that if he doesn't anchor
himself to some real estate tomorrow,

he's going to wind
up in the obituaries.

Tell him that's the
way it is in the diary!

You've got to tell him
that! You've got to tell him!

You've just got
to tell him that!

Somebody's got to tell
him. You've got to tell him.

Tell him. You've
got to tell him.

You mustn't blame yourself.

You were hysterical.
I couldn't control you.

I thought perhaps
if he were here...

So when he phoned me last night,

anxious to know how
our consultation had gone,

I expressed my concern to him.

He was on his way to the San
Francisco airport when it happened.

He was killed instantly.

Everything I touch
turns to graveyards.

Everything.

He phoned me. I was the reason
he was hurrying back, not you.

Because of me,
Doctor. Don't you see?

Because of me.

I'm 29 years old,

and in all those years
I've only loved once. Jeb.

Just Jeb, no one else.

I think if he'd asked me, pretty
please, I'd have died for him.

Tell me, Doctor,

what have I got to
show for those 29 years?

A fancy high-rise apartment,

a catalog of victims

and a growing list of corpses.

That's a pretty pathetic
inventory, wouldn't you say?

Miss Schaefer...

Maybe I'll retire television's
foremost hatchet lady.

Put my talent...
What did you call it?

Precognition, to
more productive use.

The ponies, maybe.

Pimlico, Hialeah,
Saratoga, Hollywood Park.

All I have to do is look in
the diary, check the winners

and make my bets.

It's like having a copy
of tomorrow's newspaper.

How can I lose? Nine
horses, nine winners.

I'll...

What is it?

There's nothing written in it.

January 4 is a blank page.

Miss Schaefer, throw that
thing away. Get rid of it.

What good would that do?

Do you think for a moment that
I don't realize what this means?

Just because there's
nothing written on this page

doesn't signify that
it bears no meaning.

Last entry, January 3rd.

"The wrong people are dying.

"Dear God, after this,
how do I live with myself?"

Can't you understand
now why it's blank?

Last entry. Holly
gives it to Holly.

You dig, shrink?
Next entry, nothing.

The page is blank

because I won't
be alive to write in it.

Not after tomorrow.

Nurse?

Nurse, I've got to see Dr. Mill.

You've got to get him for me!

Nurse?

Do you hear me?

Nurse, are you there?

Can't you hear
me? Get me Dr. Mill!

Nurse!

I didn't want to disturb
you, Doctor, but I...

Dr. Mill! I've got
to see Dr. Mill!

That has been
going on all evening.

I'll look in on it.

Yes, Miss Schaefer?

Schaefer?

Never heard of her.

Nobody here but
us historical figures.

Me? I'm Napoleon's
favorite mistress.

Next door we have Delilah, who's planning
the grand opening of a men's barbershop.

Down the hall, there's
a lady who recites a lot.

Goes by the name
of Sarah Bernhardt.

Just historical figures.

Hysterical, historical figures!

The nurse said you
were calling for me?

It's almost 12:00.

In a few minutes, it's
gonna be January 5th.

I know.

Well, I asked the nurse for a pen or a
pencil and she wouldn't let me have it.

You know why, Miss Schaefer.
Coming here was your idea.

You laid down the ground rules.

No sheets, no ropes, no
silverware, no plates, nothing sharp.

No instruments at all with which
you might do yourself bodily harm.

I know.

But I've been thinking about it.

Maybe I was wrong.

See, I just assumed, when I
read that last entry in the diary,

that because the page was blank,

I was automatically
gonna do myself in.

But I ruled out the
prospect of natural causes.

A heart attack, a massive
cerebral hemorrhage,

an unexpected aneurism.

You're in perfect physical
health, Miss Schaefer.

You read about it every day.

People with no past medical
history all of a sudden dropping dead.

So don't tell me it can't
happen to me. It can.

And it will! Unless...

But I can beat the rap.

I have a plan. I
have it all figured out.

It's so simple, it's crazy.

I mean, I don't know why
I didn't think of it before.

The page is blank, yes?

Don't you see?

I mean, it's so
obvious, it's ridiculous.

All I have to do is write
something on that blank page.

I don't have to die.

I can write anything,
anything at all.

If I write on the page, it
means nothing happened to me.

Don't you see?

I mean, how could I write
something if I was already dead?

Doctor, in 10 minutes,
it's gonna be 12:00.

For God's sakes,
please get me a pen!

I'll be right back.

In the upper right-hand
drawer you'll find a pen.

Would you give it to me, please?

You're going to let her have it?

You're new on this
ward, aren't you?

It's my first shift.

I thought so. Otherwise, you'd know.
We give her a pen every evening.

Every evening, Doctor?

Yes. Miss Schaefer has
been a patient at this sanitarium

going on five years now.

Hurry, Doctor! Hurry!

Yes, Miss Schaefer.
I'm hurrying.

7:00 already. I hadn't
realized it was so late.

Well, this is the last one.

Okay.

If you do not mind. I have
this thing about mirrors.

Won't you sit down, please?

Thank you.

This won't take long.
Your name, please?

Count Dracula.

Your address?

Post Office Box 13,
Bistritz, Transylvania.

This is most generous
of you, Your...

Do I say Highness?

Your Eminence will suffice.

Your Eminence.

After all, it isn't often that we
get people of your station in life,

especially foreign visitors to our
sunny shores, which is a shame,

because the cause, as you
well know, is a worthy one.

Oh, I can think
of none worthier.

You keep looking
at our equipment.

There's nothing to
be afraid of, you know.

Afraid? Me?

Good.

Well, it's just that some people are
a trifle squeamish on their first visit.

Young lady, I am
never squeamish.

Oh, good.

Because, after all,
it is only one pint.

Oh, but one pint will not do.

Won't do?

Better make it three.

Three?

Your Eminence, that's
most commendable of you,

but I'm afraid it's impossible.

Oh, I can see that this is
the first time you've given.

There appears to be a
slight misunderstanding.

Your Eminence?

Young lady, this
is a blood bank?

Certainly.

Ah! Well, then, I wish
to apply for a loan.

Our painting reminds us that
there's a strange fascination

to digging holes
alongside ancient oaks.

You give the average man
a shovel and an X on a map

and the fantasies
come thick and fast.

Pirate gold, hidden Confederate
treasure and sometimes the unexpected.

And sometimes the unwelcome.
Hence the title Big Surprise.

Uh-oh. There he is.

What do you think he wants?

Why don't you ask him?

Are you kidding? I wouldn't
go near him for a million dollars.

Has anybody ever gone near him?

Not unless they were crazy.

Come here. I have
something to tell you.

He means you, Chris.

Does not.

You, with the blue jacket.

See? He does mean you.

So what?

Don't be afraid,
lad. I won't hurt you.

Go on. See what he wants.

You chicken?

Shut up.

I won't hurt you. Come here.

Well, go on.

He is chicken.

I am not!

Go talk to him, then.

Come on!

Go on.

If you're so brave,
why don't you do it?

Trying to get out of it?

I'm not trying to
get out of anything.

Then do it.

All right.

That's it. That's it, lad.

Come a little closer.

You're not afraid of old
Mr. Hawkins, are you?

I'm not afraid of anything.

That's a lad.

What's your name?

Chris.

Well, Chris,

how would you
like a big surprise?

Huh?

You know where
Miller's field is?

You know where that
great big oak tree is?

Go over to that tree.

Face the steeple of the
church. You understand?

Yeah.

Walk 10 paces,
dig down four feet.

Understand?

Walk 10 paces,
dig down four feet,

and there you'll find
a great big surprise.

Don't forget!

What did he say?

Come on, man!

You think there's
something down there, really?

Nah. There's nothing down there.

Why'd he tell me there was?

He's pulling a prank.

Yeah, but why?

What good would it do him?

He wouldn't know if
we dug the hole or not.

He's always at home.

How do you know?

Because he's always there.

Have you ever seen him leave?

Has anybody?

It's a prank.

Yeah? Well, what if it isn't?

All right, then, what is it?

Well, suppose there's
money down there.

Did he say there was?

Well, he wouldn't say.

He'd just let you find it, huh?

And after you found it, you'd go
running back and give it to him, I suppose.

Yeah, I would.

Like fun you would.
And he knows it.

That's why there's
no money down there.

What if there is, though?

What?

No, really. He's old, ain't he?

Maybe money don't mean
nothing to him anymore.

Maybe he's one of those crazy guys
who likes to give money to people 'cause...

'Cause it makes them feel good.

Well, there's only one
way we can find out.

What are you gonna
dig with? Your hands?

We'll go borrow some
shovels from Miller's barn.

You wanna?

We'd be wasting our time.

I'm gonna do it.

Me, too.

Waste of time.

One, two, three, four,

five, six, seven,
eight, nine, 10.

Stupid!

You dig awhile now.

You don't dig, you don't share.

Share what? There's
nothing down there.

Then why don't you just go home?

Get out of the way, then.

Well, how about you?

I've been digging!

Well, dig some more.

I'm not gonna do it all
by myself, you know.

It's four feet deep.

Is not.

It is!

No!

It is!

I told you he was
pulling a prank.

He's probably rolling on his floor right
now, laughing like crazy, thinking of us.

And you out here
digging this stupid hole.

It's not four feet yet.

It is four feet!

And I'm clearing out.

You do that and you're
not gonna be able to share.

Share what? Dirt?

You coming?

Then you're not gonna
get to share, either.

Come on, let's go to my
house and get something to eat.

Don't come running
back to me after I find it.

What a jerk.

You'll be sorry.

So long, Digger.

I'll dig another foot.

"Can we have some, Chris?"

"No. It's mine, all mine."

Hey...

No, why should I?

Surprise.

Our final offering, a study in depth
of a gentleman from the academe,

seen here at the lectern
delivering a most scholarly treatise.

This particular class, I
don't think you'd want to cut.

The painting's title, Professor
Peabody's Last Lecture.

During the past term, we have
covered the field of pagan religious cults,

taking in such far-ranging subjects as
Kali, the druids, Thoth, Andramelech,

the Dionysian mysteries,
obeah and the Red Vodou Sect,

Satanism, Moloch, Ifrit,

the East Indian Benjees
and the Magna Mater,

all of them viewed from the perspective
of an enlightened 20th century.

How patently barbaric
and, if I may say so, childish.

Childish, that is,

in the sense it's childish to believe
that Clark Kent, in the guise of Superman,

can leap over tall
buildings in a single bound.

Yes, Mr. Bloch?

Were they really
so childish, sir?

Superstition had a
way of explaining things,

things that otherwise were too
bewildering, too frightening to face.

Balderdash.

Superstition is and always has been
a bottleneck in the path of progress.

Primeval man was out making
sacrifices to nonexistent gods

when he should have been directing
his energies to harnessing the elements.

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes. This should interest you,
Mr. Bloch, since it illustrates my point.

We will, this afternoon,
discuss what is indisputably

the most outlandishly
preposterous of all the ancient cults,

one which inexplicably
took root about...

Well, as recently as 50 years
ago, in Arkham, Massachusetts.

I refer to the worship of
a group of obscure gods

known as the Great Old Ones.

You know, as incredibly
bizarre as it may seem to us now,

sitting here in our
air-conditioned classrooms,

no advanced study of comparative
religion would be complete

without a brief
examination of them,

if only for the laughs.

Well, now, I have here, you
will observe, a list of names.

These are the
so-called Major Gods.

How they arrived at their
pecking order is anybody's guess.

Perhaps they won their stripes
in some antediluvian crap game.

Nyarlathotep, the
Crawling Chaos,

reputedly the first deity
worshipped in olden Egypt.

Umr at-Tawil, the
most ancient one,

whose terrible powers have
been feared by all the world

since Lomar arose from the sea

and the Children of Fire came
to teach the Elder Lore to men.

Reads rather like a press
agent's handout, doesn't it?

Providing he was on lysergic
acid at the time he wrote it.

Next, we have Hastur,
the Unspeakable.

Sir?

Yes, Mr. Derleth?

Perhaps I'm mistaken, but I've done
a little outside reading on this subject,

and isn't the god
you just mentioned...

Isn't it a punishable blasphemy
to speak his name aloud?

Punishable by whom, Mr. Derleth?

Having unwittingly
committed the fatal faux pas,

am I now to expect
a midnight visitation

from some tentacled
monstrosity from beyond the stars?

I sincerely hope
not, Mr. Derleth.

My wife and I have just
installed new carpeting.

Yes. Now, as I was saying

before Mr. Derleth, with commendable
solicitude, chose to interrupt,

we have Great Hastur,

who, I might point out, is
a half-brother to Cthulhu,

the next name on
our prestigious list.

Lord of Rlyeh, Cthulhu.

Every time I pronounce that name,
I'm tempted to say "gesundheit."

Cthulhu actually
predates Nyarlathotep

and is said to have been worshipped
in the primal Mu by the first humans.

Then there's dear old Azathoth.

Yes.

Lord of All Things.

Shub-Niggurath,

wife to Hastur.

Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Derleth.
I said that name again.

I must remember to tell my wife to
set places for two unexpected guests.

And finally, last but not least,

Yog-Sothoth, the
Lurker at the Threshold.

My, my. Seems to be a
summer storm coming up.

I trust you all brought
your bumbershoots?

Yes, well, I guess that
disposes of the gods.

Reads like an Albanian
vaudeville program, doesn't it?

Ladies and gentlemen, presenting,
for the first time on any stage anywhere,

Shub-Niggurath and
her performing Cthulhus!

Yes, Mr. Lovecraft,

without whose esoteric contributions
no seminar would be complete.

You have a question, sir?

Yes. Wasn't there a book, a
Grand Grimoire, a testament...

Indeed there was,
Mr. Lovecraft. Indeed there was.

And through a fortuitous circumstance,
I have in my possession a copy of it.

Sparing no expense,
I bring to you,

direct from the library of
the Miskatonic University,

a manuscript of that most
infamous of all cabalistic treatises,

The Necronomicon
by Abdul Alhazred.

Translated from the Arabic into
Greek by Theodorus Philetas, AD 950,

from Greek to Latin by
Olaus Wormius, AD 1228,

black-letter edition,
Germany, circa 1400.

What we have here, my dear students,
is the equivalent of a paperback edition.

But we must be
grateful for small favors,

since I'm given to understand
that even this is a scarce item,

owing to the fact that, unlike other
volumes of demonology and necromancy,

it was rigidly suppressed
down through the centuries,

which serves to prove that not
all fools are out buying Edsels.

This overblown gibberish,
and I have read it all,

is as corruptively harmful
as the Farmer's Almanac.

Yes. I have selected a few representative
passages to read aloud to you.

The text itself, more than
any observations I might offer,

should prove to you just how imbecilically
laughable this entire religion is.

Mr. Lovecraft, you are
bestirring yourself again.

May I anticipate your question?

Isn't it written that...

Yes, it is, Mr. Lovecraft.
It is written,

and in terribly, terribly bad
penmanship, I might add.

"All who behold this book will
fall heir to ghastly consequences."

Whereupon, I can only say, Mr. Lovecraft,
that having injudiciously partaken

of the blue-plate special this
noon at the campus cafeteria,

I can imagine no
consequences more ghastly

than the indigestion which is
bedeviling me at the moment.

My, this is unseasonable
weather we're having.

I'm half-tempted
to suspend class

so that we can all go out and
knit snoods for the strawberry crop.

No, no, no. I merely said
"half-tempted." Steady yourselves.

Yes.

"Never is it to be thought

"that man is either oldest or
last of the masters of earth,

"nor that the greater part
of substances walks alone.

"The Old Ones were, the Old
Ones are and the Old Ones shall be.

"They walk calm and primal, of
no dimension, and to us unseen.

"They walk foul in lonely places
where the words have been spoken

"and the rites howled
through at their seasons,

"which are in the blood and
differ from the seasons of man.

"The winds gibber with their voices, the
earth mutters with their consciousness.

"They bend the forest, they raise
up the waves, they crush the cities.

"Yet not forest or ocean or cities
beholds the hand that smites.

"As a foulness shall they
be known to the race of man.

"Their hands are at the
throats of men forever,

"from the beginning of known
time to the end of time known.

"Man rules where
once they ruled!

"Soon they shall rule
again where man rules now!

"They shall return,

"and on this returning
shall great Cthulhu be freed

"from Rlyeh beneath the sea,

"and Him Who Is Not To Be
Named shall come from his city,

"which is Carcosa
near the Lake of Hali,

"and Shub-Niggurath shall come
forth and multiply in her hideousness,

"and Nyarlathotep shall carry the word
to the Great Old Ones and their minions,

"and Yog-Sothoth, who is
All-in-One and One-in-All,

"shall lay his hand upon that
who oppose him and destroy!

"Then, from the black-litten
caverns within the earth

"where all is chaos
and destruction,

"shall come the
noxious Azathoth!

"And together they will take possession
of all things that live upon earth!"

And now, if there are
no further questions...