With nods to Poe, this is written about two young bored Englishmen who take to grave robbing. One day, they rob the wrong grave and it comes back to bite them.

Please read the full review here.

This is another favorite of mine. It's a pretty contained story as far as Lovecraft mythos goes. Two grave robbers steal from the wrong damned grave and pay a grisly cost. What more can you want.

Add this to my "I'd really like to see this be adapted to a visual medium" list.

A quick read and my second time trying a Lovecraft story.

Spoiler

Not sure if this can be considered a spoiler but just in case... From the very beginning, I kept getting old fashioned vampire vibes from this and the ending when the body in the coffin was revealed (for the second time) pretty much solidified the vampire feel to this. And didn't old stories of vampires also include wolves/werewolves who howled at night?

Overall it was vaguely creepy but not enough to actually make me scared. I'd also forgotten just how much Lovecraft's writing seemed to enjoy long sentences and equally long words.

"Wearied with the commonplaces of a prosaic world, where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St. John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui." So begins this tale of Lovecraft horror. Most unfortunately, how to deal with ennui, that is, one’s boredom, has been a huge, huge ongoing issue in the West, particularly in the last two hundred years.

To underline this point, there is hardly a novel written in nineteenth century Europe where at least one character doesn’t have an issue with their "devastating ennui." And the narrator in this Lovecraft tale who suffers from boredom complains of the "commonplaces of the prosaic world." A question we could pose: My good man, is the world really as commonplace, dull and prosaic as you make it out? Perhaps, sir, this dullness has nothing to do with the world but everything to do with your deadened perceptions, jaded worldview and dreary, lackluster mental state.

This gentleman and his aristocratic partner turn to aesthetics for a possible cure: "The enigmas of the Symbolists and the ecstasies of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but each new mood was drained too soon of its diverting novelty and appeal. Only the somber philosophy of the Decadents could hold us, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills."

From the narrator’s tone, it sounds like they have been pondering Charles Baudelaire’s The Flowers of Evil, with such lines as: "Just like an angel with evil eye/ I shall return to thee silently/ Upon thy bower I'll alight/ With falling shadows of the night" and Joris-Karl Huysmans’s Là-Bas (Down There), a novel of Satanism, sadism and torture. The narrator tells us when it comes to reading these Decadents, he is "exhausted of thrills." Ha! To envision literature as a kind of top ten roller-coaster ride, a way to get your kicks and jollies. These works of Baudelaire and Huysmans could be infinitely rich and enlivening if one reads with creative engagement rather than placing the onus on the author to provide you, the reader, with a series of unending thrills.

Such a jaded sense of the world can have, especially in a Lovecraft tale, horrifying consequences. The narrator continues: "Until finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. t was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.”

Well, my goodness! Our engagement with a work of art or literature can be uplifting, inspiring, even transforming but such vital experiences according to aestheticians like Kant, Shelling and Schopenhauer are part of life’s fabric not the totality of life. Gentlemen, please, accept the natural flow of being alive - no need to go grave digging! On a somewhat humorous note, I can just imagine Arthur Schopenhauer and Immanuel Kant, shovel in hand, on a moonlight night, digging up a grave.

And the narrator provides us with a glimpse of his exploring the nuances of a new form of highly original, highly refined performance art. “The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. We were no vulgar ghouls, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and moonlight. These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.” Well, if you are going to dig up corpses in a graveyard, please devote loving care and heightened attention to each step, embellishing every spadeful of dirt with a distinctive flourish as if you are performing on oboe or violin!

Lovecraft’s flair for creating metaphor and turn of phrase in the lavish style of high baroque, employing ornate, highly polished language, is most befitting for the ghoulish, chilling events that transpire in this gruesome tale. The narrator goes on to describe the details of his newly conceived subterranean museum, monstrous and unspeakable, an entire museum constructed to house his infernal graveyard bounty. But, there came a time, our artist of the diabolical haltingly confesses, in a Holland graveyard, when the wheel of nocturnal fortune took a decidedly bad turn.

Any aesthetic satisfaction the two British grave-robbers received in their past grisly undertakings is transformed into disorientation and terror once they pilfer a particular amulet from a most peculiar Dutch coffin. Alarm, dread, apprehension, horror and impending doom become their constant companions. Indeed, every horrifying hour of every ensuing day, including a number of unexpected, violent, harrowing deaths, leads our narrator to the decision he notes in the first sentences of his tale: he is about to put a revolver to his head to blow out his brains.