I write this E-Mail message, perhaps my last, from one corner of a lonely, decrepit office building which sits at the crossroads of Main and Walden Streets in the ancient New England Town of Arkham, Massachusetts. Yes, Arkham, whose decaying church steeples pierce the sky in obscene gestures of mock reverence, and whose dank, dark woods bespeak eldritch horrors lurking beneath the surface of aeon-dead forest floors.

I would not be honest if I failed to communicate to you the fear and anxiety that plagues my soul as I compose this message on my laptop computer -- a gift from my dear Uncle, Dr. John Dexter Freeman, late of Benefit Street, Providence, Rhode Island. Alas, this blessed and kindly man had a disposition and temperament diametrically-opposed to that of yours truly, the troubled and frightened writer of these words.

Of course, it was not always like this – nor was I. Raised by a fine, respectable family in Westerly, a pleasant suburban town, my childhood was unexceptional in every way but one – I was exceptionally happy. It is only in my later years that the curse of the Martense Family fell upon me and those I loved. That is when the blackness entered my soul, a horrible blackness which I am still laboring, perhaps fruitlessly, to escape.

The evil-shadowed house of Martense.

The Martense family lived down the block in a small yet attractive colonial home with black shutters, a brick driveway, and a widow’s walk atop the roof. Oh, it was a fine home, but like many occupants of fine homes, the Martense family was not a fine family. How well I remember that accursed day when the wicked Martense family held that fateful yard sale, offering a useless old Macintosh computer for $ 150. No printer, even! I implored my dear father not to buy it.

"What can we do with a system whose CPU offers but 128KB of main memory?," I inquired of the family patriarch. "Nothing, father, nothing! You won’t even be able to run Notepad on it, not to mention Quark Xpress! Please, don’t buy that machine -- save our money for a real computer, I beg of you!"

But in the home of my childhood, my Father’s word was God’s word, as his hand was God’s hand. For some reason, that little computer attracted him strangely; held a kind of twisted fascination for him. Maybe it was all those insidious advertisements he’d seen on television, especially that horrific Super Bowl commercial, with an (apparently) psychotic female athlete making a terrible scene, acting extremely discourteously (and destructively) in front of a group of well-behaved, neatly-attired corporate gentlemen.

In any event, my poor, misguided father "bargained" Mr. Martense down to $ 100 for the Macintosh (believing he had "really pulled the wool over Martense’s eyes"), brought the machine home, placed it atop the desk in his study, and plugged it in. And from that day forward, my health and the health of my loved ones began a remarkable, inexplicable, inexorable decline.

My mother, a beautiful, vibrant woman, became asthmatic and anemic. My father, robust and hearty, developed rickets and shingles, and had to leave his job (an executive at a well-known machine-tool manufacturing concern in Pawtucket) to go on long-term disability. My sister, a fine young girl renowned in our small town for her deep blue eyes and clear complexion, developed leprosy and cataracts – the first reported case of leprosy in the region for more than 200 years, and the only cataracts our Beacon Hill opthomalogist had ever seen on a 13-year-old!

Our fine home -- before the curse of the
Martense Macintosh befell us.

Even the lovely gardens surrounding our home, tended with loving care by my dear mother, began to fail, with hideous weeds springing up where beautiful flowers once thrived!

Our friends, neighbors and relatives did what they could, but they themselves were extremely frightened by the horrible fate that had befallen us, and preferred to stay away, sending us numerous "get well" cards and cheerful telegrams instead. My mother began praying feverishly and continually to a God who had apparently abandoned her. My sister launched a vast campaign intending to do "good works," but her physical appearance, once so enchanting, had become so ghastly that no one wanted anything to do with her. My father would lock himself in his study and play computer solitaire, hour-after-hour, on the Macintosh, which did nothing to alleviate our family’s miserable plight.

And as for me, well, I had no need for foolish religious prescriptions, spiritual quack cures, or idle entertainment, because I had my own ideas about what the trouble was.

That odd-looking Innsmouth fellow...

Late one night, I stole into my father’s second-floor study, and a wave of depression passed over me as I saw how he’d placed the old Martense Macintosh in the center of his old oak roll-top desk, purchased for a song from an odd-looking Insmouth fellow at an antique store on Cape Ann. I sickened as I realized he’d paid less for that wonderful desk than he had for that horrible Macintosh! I reached behind the yellowed plastic case and turned the system on, and after a few odd whirring and grinding noises from the machinery, a familiar screen message appeared, saying "Welcome to Macintosh."

But something about that screen image was different – very different – and very wrong.

Even as a child, I was known for my sharp eyes and observant nature, and I was frequently scolded by parents and teachers alike for not overlooking some of their more obvious transgressions. But now, with those same sharp eyes, I observed that the little Macintosh Icon wasn’t smiling at me, as it was supposed to be. Rather, it was sneering, even leering, malevolently. For some reason, I knew not why, that computer was the cause of all my family’s frightful troubles. Was it any wonder that the corrupt Martense Family, headed by a distinguished attorney (Mr.) and popular psychotherapist (Mrs.), had unloaded it on us?

Even in the midst of my fear and desperation, it occurred to me that if I could simply reprogram the BIOS code in that dreadful machine, I might possibly lift the curse that was threatening to drive my poor family to ruin. I reached over to my father’s bookshelf to pull out a copy of "The Macintosh Bible," but for some reason my weary hand fell instead upon a book that has figured in my most terrifying and soul-deadening nightmares: the dreaded Necronomicon, written by the mad Arab, Abdu1 Alzahared.

In this accursed volume, the insane author recommends a chemical cure for a species of depression and malaise of the spirit which is all-too-common in these tasteless, godless, modern times. He calls it Prozac, and traces its history back to a rare and hideous climbing vine, found in the deepest, most remote tropical regions -- an area of the world whose ignorant and savage citizens regularly engage in horrific and blasphemous practices that can, hopefully, only be guessed at by the civilized and gentle reader of this e-mail message.

The tendrils of this unwholesome plant resemble the twisted, withered fingers of a dying old woman, and the small blossoms, 'though comely, are said to emit an odour so foul as to send animals and men running in nauseous terror from the foetid fumes.

According to the Necronomicon's gruesome teachings, our family could alleviate our troubles forever by simply sampling this "Prozac" at regular intervals. Once under its spell, we would find blessed escape from the misery that had become our lot in life. It was a temptation, mind you, and a strong one. God knows, didn’t we deserve release from the hell our lives had become?

"I am Providence..."

Taking the Prozac was the easy way out, while hacking the Macintosh might take hours – days --- weeks even –with no guarantee of success! Could I EVER remove that malicious sneer from the Macintosh startup screen, and restore it to a friendly smile? Was bringing about an alchemical transformation of this magnitude within my powers as a mere human being, and Brown University Graduate?

The archaic and discordant chimes of the First Christian Scientist Church floated through the stagnant, malodorous atmosphere that enveloped downtown Westerly on mid-winter evenings. I knew I had to act fast. But should I hack the Macintosh BIOS code, or just go to sleep, and seek blessed narcotic relief instead from the Prozac in the morning? Miraculously, as I turned the two alternatives over in my mind, a third alternative appeared to me. Ironically, it was that ridiculous and offensive television commercial that gave me the idea. Immediately, I knew what I had to do.

I opened the bottom drawer of my father’s desk, and grabbed the small brass sledge hammer which he employed to discipline the children when we became particularly unruly. I crossed myself in a last desperate gesture to appease whatever Gods might be watching the proceedings, shielded my eyes with my left hand, and smashed that leering Macintosh Icon right between the eyes with the sledge hammer.

Sparks flew everywhere, smoke bellowed from the computer case, shards of glass swirled about the room like a winter snowstorm. The smell of ozone filled the air. Outside, the streetlights flickered, and went black. I heard commotion and voices in the rooms downstairs. And I knew in a flash that, even though I had succeeded in removing the Martense Curse from my family, the explanation of why I had to do what I had done would never be accepted by my stern and autocratic father. So quickly, I clambered out the study window, shinnied down the rain spout, and fled into the ancient, haunted streets of Westerly. I never looked back.

 

So that is my story, told here for the first time. It is a story of youth, but I am an old man now, my parents both dead after enjoying a comfortable retirement, free of the mysterious illnesses that had plagued them previously. My sister, her former loveliness fully restored, has married a handsome but unscrupulous commodities trader from Rowayton, Connecticut, and purchased a brand-new Power Macintosh of her own. I’ve never seen the startup screen.

My heart is heavy; my hands no longer have the strength to press the keys on this computer. And yet I am not, quite, old enough to die. Would that I could join my beloved Uncle John now in his silent sleep, free from the troubles and cares of this world, at peace in the comfort and companionship of The Old Ones. What immortal bliss! What ecstatic solitude! Rylah! Cthulu ad despetum nog sogath adontis! N’ylep toganthus .. Shub Niggurath -- Ia! Ia! Ia!…

[At this point in the mail message, the text breaks off and a large, flashing message box fills the video screen. It reads: "An unrecoverable communications protocol error was received from the Internet Mail Server: Buffer Overload, IP Address 666.666.666.666. Try logging in again, using password "Martense." Have a Nice Day."]

Respectfully submitted,

Howard Phillips Lovecraft (Deceased)
Hope Street, The Ancient Hill
Providence Plantations
Rhode Island, U.S.A.