The Church of Cosmic
Indifference affirms that there
is no supernatural force in the
cosmos that cares about or
intervenes in the affairs of
humanity. This means human
beings have a great opportunity
to create lives that reflect
what we care about most deeply.
We find the collection of
imagery and symbolism widely
known as the Cthulhu Mythos to
be a useful and fitting
depiction of the indifferent
cosmos. And we believe that the
appropriate response to a cold
and meaningless cosmos is to be
personally responsible for
creating our own meaning and
purpose in life. We rely on one
another for support and
encouragement as we journey
together.
Welcome to the Church
of Cosmic Indifference. I'm
Reverend Randolph. And thank you
to all of our patrons on Patreon
We just sent out a special
opportunity to all of our
patrons of Transmundane
Occultist level and above to
provide ongoing support for our
ministry, please visit patreon.com
/cosmicindifference
That link is in
the notes for this episode.
Today we're gonna take a look at
H. P. Lovecraft's tale, "The
Whisperer in Darkness," in which
he alludes to a cult of Hastur
and the Yellow Sign. So let's
dive in.
As we mentioned last episode,
Arthur Machen's story, "The
Novel of the Black Seal," is at
least a part of Lovecraft's
inspiration for The Whisperer in
Darkness. In Machen's tale, a
Professor Gregg is obsessed with
finding inhuman supernatural
beings that are connected with a
black stone inscribed with
glyphs. Spoiler alert, he finds
them, and it isn't pretty. The
Whisperer in Darkness is modeled
after Machen's tale to some
extent, including the appearance
of a black stone inscribed with
glyphs. As the story opens,
storms have raised the water
level of some rivers in Vermont
and strange shapes are seen
floating in the waters that come
pouring down from remote hills.
Some folks want to connect these
enormous, crustacean-like shapes
with some supernatural creatures
of local folklore, claiming
these bizarre, waterlogged
corpses as proof that inhuman
beings inhabit the hills. There
are also strange tracks people
claim to have seen, made not by
hooves, or boots, or feet, but by
pincer-like appendages. Albert
Wilmarth, an English
professor from fabled Miskatonic
University who specializes
in folklore, wades into the
public debate on the side of the
skeptics. Wilmarth claims that
there's no evidence for the
supernatural claims of folklore,
and there's no reason to get
excited about such inconclusive
things as seeing shapes and
floodwaters or vague prints in
the dirt. When his skeptical
letters are printed in the
newspapers as part of the
ongoing debate, Professor Wilmarth
is contacted by Henry
Akeley, who lives in the
Vermont hills. Mr. Akeley writes
that he has evidence, including
a sound recording of the strange
beings. He thinks he knows where
the creatures come from and he
wants Wilmarth's help. Akeley
doesn't think it's good to
attract too much attention to
the presence of these beings, so
he hopes the public debate
persuades people that there's
nothing to these stories. At the
same time, he's become afraid
that these beings know he has
information, and he thinks
they're going to try to silence
him in a rather permanent
fashion. Akeley sends
photographs showing some of the
strange prints in the dirt that
Akeley has found around his
house. There's also a picture of
a black stone inscribed with
glyphs, though, and it looks
remarkable. But the glyphs are
not very clear in the photograph.
Wilmarth really wants to be
able to examine this stone in
person. Along with the
photographs, Akeley has sent a
rambling letter connecting these
Vermont entities with a
constellation of other occult
references. Essentially a lot of
Lovecraftian name dropping,
including Hastur, The Lake of
Hali, and The Yellow Sign in and
amongst the litany of
unpronounceable names. This is
Lovecraft's way of embracing Hastur
mythology and incorporating it
into his cosmology without
really contributing any new
information to add to the
specifics about Hastur and The
Yellow Sign. Well, you might
think all of these references
would mark old Akeley as a bit
delusional, Professor Wilmarth
has to reevaluate things for
another reason. Akeley obviously
isn't some backwoods folklorist
passing on stories he heard from
his parents and grandparents.
He's dropping some obscure names
from rare, esoteric texts, and
he's drawing connections between
the Vermont creatures and the
legendary mi-go of the Himalayas.
Professor Wilmarth can't just
write off this report as mad
ramblings, because now Akeley
seems like he might really know
his stuff. He could still be off
his rocker, but Akeley says that
the black stone in the
photographs is somehow important
to the creatures. Not long after
that, Akeley sends a wax
phonograph cylinder as further
evidence. The photographs were
maybe indistinct and blurry
enough to dismiss, but the sound
recording is harder to explain
away. There's a human voice on
the phonograph recording.
But there's also a buzzing
imitation of human words that
chills Wilmarth. He doesn't
have a convincing explanation
for what could have made those
sounds. Wilmarth starts making
plans to visit Akeley, and he
asks Akeley to send the
black stone to Miskatonic
University in the meantime so
that it can be thoroughly
examined. By some obvious
interference, though, the
black stone never makes it. It's
lost in transit or taken by
someone. And Akeley's next
messages are warnings to Wilmarth
to stay away. It's too
dangerous. Akeley believes he's
underestimated the beings, and
he's terrified. He recounts a
fight involving gunfire and says
that several of his dogs died
from attacks by the creatures.
His next bit of correspondence
says that the beings are
speaking to him in their buzzing
voice, promising or threatening
to carry him away to the planet
Yuggoth at the borders of the
solar system and beyond. Finally,
Akeley writes that he's going to
try to use poison gas on the
creatures. Wilmarth doesn't
really do anything during all of
this time when he's receiving
dire warnings from Akeley. But he
gets another letter from Akeley, a
typewritten letter saying that
everything is fine. There's been
a big misunderstanding with
these creatures. Now they've
communicated with him through a
human emissary, and he
understands that they mean no
harm. Akeley writes that the
creatures have never knowingly
harmed men, but have often been
cruelly wronged and spied upon
by our species. There is a whole
secret cult of evil men linked
to Hastur and The Yellow Sign,
devoted to the purpose of
tracking them down and injuring
them on behalf of monstrous
powers from other dimensions. It
is against these aggressors, not
against normal humanity, that
the drastic precautions of the
Outer Ones are directed. So a
cult of Hastur serves monstrous
powers that are the enemies of
these aliens in the Vermont
woods, and they are the ones
that have been inflicting all of
this terror and violence. These
aliens just want peaceful
relations--to exchange knowledge
with humanity. They don't want
to enslave or degrade human
beings. That Akeley has to say
that specifically is maybe a
little creepy. Akeley ends this
typed letter with an invitation.
He says he has an amazing device
to show Wilmarth. And since all
the drama is over, Wilmarth
should come and visit as soon as
possible. With all the
correspondence, and the
phonograph record, and the Kodak
prints. So Wilmarth agrees.
I know. Unbelievable
Wilmarth gets to Akeley's
house, and Akeley is sitting
still in the darkness. With a
raspy voice, he apologizes for
feeling ill. After he confirms
that Wilmarth has brought all
of the documents and evidence.
They talk at length about
many esoteric connections and
the vastness of the universe.
And, of course, Akeley praises
the local aliens for their
scientific and surgical acuity.
Their conversation eventually
turns to a macabre procedure.
"There was a harmless way to
extract a brain, and a way to
keep the organic residue alive
during its absence. The bare,
compact cerebral matter was then
immersed in an occasionally
replenished fluid within an
ether-tight cylinder of a metal
mined in Yuggoth, certain
electrodes reaching through and
connecting at will with
elaborate instruments capable of
duplicating the three vital
faculties of sight, hearing, and
speech. For the winged fungus-
beings to carry the brain-
cylinders intact through space
was an easy matter. Then, on
every planet covered by their
civilization, they would find
plenty of adjustable faculty-
instruments capable of being
connected with the encased
brains; so that after a little
fitting these traveling
intelligences could be given a
full sensory and articulate life--
albeit a bodiless and mechanical
one--at each stage of their
journeying through and beyond
the space time continuum. It was
as simple as carrying a
phonograph record about and
playing it wherever a
phonograph of the corresponding
make exists. Of its success
there could be no question. Akeley
was not afraid. Had it not
been brilliantly accomplished
again and again? For the first
time, one of [Akeley's] inert,
wasted hands raised itself and
pointed to a high shelf on the
farther side of the room.
There, in a neat row, stood
more than a dozen cylinders of
metal I had never seen before--
cylinders about a foot high and
somewhat less in diameter, with
three curious sockets set in
an isosceles triangle over
the front convex surface of each."
So Akeley directs Professor Wilmarth
toward a particular cylinder and
has him connect it to various
apparatuses that allow the brain
within the cylinder to see, hear,
and speak. A man who now exists
only as a brain in a metal
cylinder tries to convince Wilmarth
that the professor really
should consider going with the
aliens. Akeley's going to go.
It's painless, and you get to
see the wonders of the universe
no one else has ever seen. The
aliens could benefit from Wilmarth's
knowledge and Wilmarth
would basically be on permanent
vacation. After this highly
disturbing conversation, Akeley
says, they'll talk more in the
morning. Wilmarth tries to
sleep, but he basically lies in
bed, fully-clothed with a
revolver in his hand. Eventually
he hears voices downstairs, some
of them inhuman, and he begins
to think that they plan to take
him--or his brain, at least--and
put it in a cylinder whether he
agrees with the plan or not.
Then some of the whatever-they-
are downstairs leave to make
some sort of arrangements and
things fall quiet. So Wilmarth
quickly musters up the
courage and gets ready to leave--
but he doesn't want to leave Akeley.
He thinks the old man may
be a victim in all of this, too.
So he goes to convince Akeley
quickly to come with him, but
Henry Akeley isn't in his chair.
Instead, there's just a weird,
waxy mask of Akeley's face and a
pair of mannequin-like hands.
Wilmarth sees Akeley's name on
one of the shiny metal cylinders
and realizes that Akeley's fate
has already been sealed, long
before the professor even
received the final invitation.
It was a thing disguised as
Akeley that had entertained him
since his arrival, and Professor
Wilmarth flees the house as
quietly as he can, realizing
that there is nothing he can do
to stop the alien mi-go and the
cult of human beings who serve them.
The Whisperer in Darkness is a
bit on the longer side, around
50 pages, and it's a struggle to
do it justice with a summary. So
I do recommend that you give it
a read for yourself. We're gonna
pull just a couple of ideas that
might be useful for our lives.
First, Lovecraft imbeds in the
story his conviction that
scientific discovery will
ultimately lead us to
frightening and debilitating
truths. At the same time, the
story suggests that Wilmarth's
assumptions about whether
something is possible are based
on inaccurate and incomplete
information. So is it better to
have naive confidence? Or is it
better to have honest
uncertainty that could lead to
challenging discoveries? This
seems like one of those
conundrums that's easy to answer
in theory, but much more
difficult to put into practice.
A lot of the time we operate
on the assumption that our
knowledge of a topic is based on
sound and complete evidence.
Even then, we sometimes draw
conclusions based on only a
portion of our knowledge. Our
comfort often plays a big role
in the conclusions we draw. If
some piece of knowledge makes us
really uncomfortable, we might
dismiss that when we start
drawing conclusions about our
lives and other people in the
world around us. But if we're
honest about how incomplete our
knowledge is, that can seem
debilitating. We can't possibly
do enough research to have
complete knowledge about all the
things we care about. And the
more we learn, the more it seems
like we can come across some
information that really
challenges the way we prefer to
do things--evidence that really
challenges the conclusions that
make us most comfortable. I had
a conversation recently that
seems to touch on this dilemma.
I was talking with a theist who
said that they thought my life
must be very sad because I
couldn't have a sense of wonder
if I relied on science for
knowledge about the world. I
found this assertion puzzling,
since I happen to feel quite a
bit of awe and wonder. I have a
deep appreciation for mystery,
but I'm also thrilled with the
prospect of discovery. For this
individual who is painting a
picture of the humanist or
scientific worldview as being
devoid of wonder, not knowing
things was satisfying. Not
knowing how things work and
having a sense of wonder meant
seeing something they didn't
understand and experiencing the
gulf between what they knew and
what they observed. Sort of. The
catch was that for this person,
anything that was unknown was
interpreted as being evidence of
a god's power, or love, or purpose.
It wasn't important to gain
understanding, because not
understanding reinforced a
worldview that interpreted
ignorance as all. There's no
need to learn anything new for
this individual because
everything they don't know has
the same answer. And that
universal answer is a
supernatural, spiritual answer.
Well, of course, it would look
like my experience doesn't leave
room for awe. But I interpret
things a little differently. I
feel a sense of wonder about a
lot of things. Cuttlefish,
magnetism, human creativity. And
I love that there are things in
life that are mysterious. But I
also love this thing about some
human beings that keeps us
asking why. There are some people
who thrive on making discoveries--
on learning new things--on
figuring things out. And we
aren't always right. But that
just sparks our sense of
curiosity and our drive toward
discovery even more. One of our
small groups plays a deduction
game on a pretty regular basis.
We're trying to cooperate to
solve a mystery, and the mystery
has some definite correct
answers. We have to use the
clues at our disposal to arrive
at the correct answers and we
can decide when we have those
answers. There's no time limit.
Sometimes we spend a lot of time
and try to piece together a lot
of clues, and we still don't
have a great deal of confidence
that we've solved the mystery
correctly. Sometimes we're
absolutely positive that we have
the answer, but we never truly
know until we check our
conclusions with the solution to
see if they match. Life rarely
has an answer key. Natural
processes can be predictable,
but they can also change over
time. Understanding the way our
world, or the universe, or people
work is a moving target. We
might be absolutely positive
that we figured something out,
only to come across a new piece
of evidence that calls our
conclusions into question. Life
isn't like our game of deduction,
where there's a definite end to
the case. We can keep making
discoveries and revising our
conclusions for our entire lives
and still retain a sense of
wonder and mystery if we're
honest about how much there is
to still discover. And even when
I know how something works, even
when I know that the Aurora
Borealis is caused by
charged particles from the sun
colliding with atoms and
molecules in Earth's atmosphere,
I can still be filled with a
sense of wonder. Knowledge, and a
commitment to an evidence-based
way of drawing conclusions about
reality don't rob us of a sense
of mystery and awe. They just
rob us of the opportunity to
glorify ignorance. From this
perspective, Wilmarth's
attitude in The Whisperer in
Darkness was initially wrong. He
believed he knew all that he
needed to know about the
folklore of Vermont, and he
didn't need to see any new
evidence that could potentially
call his conclusions into
question. He was confident in
the conclusions he had already
drawn. But then, when the new
evidence was presented to him,
his human curiosity drew him in.
There was at least a spark of
honesty within him that
understood he only had limited
knowledge. As the evidence
mounted, he changed his
conclusions. He didn't have to
do that. It wouldn't have made
much of a story. But Wilmarth
could have just decided that old
man Akeley was a fraud or had
been the victim of a prank, or
was just fooled by his own
fantasies into perceiving the
world around him inaccurately.
A lot of people do that. When
we encounter something that
conflicts with our view of the
world, we double down rather
than allowing it any credence. We
could do, as Wilmarth did. We
could keep an open mind and
weigh the evidence for what it
is. That's not to say that we
should walk around with a sense
of anxious uncertainty. We have
to assume to some extent that
our conclusions about the world
and reality are accurate enough
for us to make meaningful and
wise decisions. But we can hold
on to those convictions loosely.
When something seems to conflict
with our perception of things,
we don't have to accept
everything other people present
as evidence without question.
But we can keep an open mind as
we examine it to see if it has
merit. See, there's really no
threat to allowing new evidence
to be considered. If the
evidence winds up having warrant,
then we stand to improve our
conclusions about life and
reality. We'll make better
decisions when we aren't
operating from a flawed and
inaccurate sense of reality. And
if the evidence winds up to be
lacking, we can rest assured that
our previous conclusions remain
workable. We don't have to
constantly question our beliefs
in order to be open to revising
or refining them. Another
conversation that I had recently
was around the topic of prayer.
Someone challenged the sacrament
of Curses and Blessings that we
do on each episode and suggested
that we're praying to dark
forces. I explained that we
aren't really petitioning
anything because we don't really
believe anything is listening.
If there's nothing supernatural
to act on our petitions, we're
really just having a bit of fun,
expressing things that anger or
inspire us. But this person
wasn't convinced. This person
believed that prayer is an
effective way to influence
reality, that something external
to humanity hears and responds
to human prayers. So I offered
my usual challenge. I suggested,
for the next month, this person
prayed fervently as usual and
chart how successful the prayers
were. The predictable response
was that this wouldn't prove
anything because sometimes their
god says "yes," and sometimes
they're god says "no." But their
god is wiser than they are and
knows what's best for them. So
sometimes they don't get what
they pray for, because their god
has something better in mind. I
expected this, though. I've
heard this before, which is why
I have a second part to my usual
challenge. After you've charted
how often your god says yes or
no, I suggested, spend the next
month praying to a jar of
orange juice or a house plant--
anything really--and chart that.
Then, after a month, compare
your charts and see whether your
prayers were more successful
when you prayed to a god, or if
the outcome was more or less the
same. This individual did not
take me up on the challenge.
They thought this was a
blasphemous idea, and I suppose
it is. It confronts the idea of
faith as a useful way of drawing
accurate conclusions about the
world. But if we aren't willing
to test our conclusions once in
a while, we're operating out of
a stubborn insistence that we
know all that we need to know,
and we can't learn anything new.
And that's simply not true.
Sometimes I suffer from going
too far in the other direction,
though. I second guess myself
when I really don't have a good
reason to. I assume that other
people know more than I do or that
I need to learn more and more
before I can be legitimately
confident in what I'm doing. I
even dismiss people's
compliments and acknowledgement,
sometimes, because I think I'm
not as proficient as I could be.
I have a lot of evidence that I
don't know everything, after all.
But my mistake is confusing not
knowing everything with not
knowing anything. One solution
I've discovered is to constantly
pursue opportunities to teach or
apply something I know alongside
opportunities to learn something
new. When we teach other people,
or create something based on
some area of expertise, we
reinforce that we have some
reason for confidence in what
we've learned thus far. And when
we engage in learning something
new, we're reminded to be open
to additional information. Now,
sometimes we still
compartmentalize and think we're
absolute experts about something
who can't be bothered to
consider novel ideas. But
hopefully we can retain some
sense of curiosity--a
fascination with wonder and
mystery that keeps us open to
learning new things even as we
make confident decisions based
on the very best conclusions we
can draw based on what we
currently know. If we don't have
a sense of curiosity, we could
miss a lot of opportunities to
create the lives and the world
we most want. Unlike the
characters in The Whisperer in
Darkness, we're not likely to be
approached by a malevolent alien
race with a dubious offer to
have our brains removed in
exchange for a first class
travel to exotic corners of the
universe. But we do sometimes
have unexpected opportunities.
There are a lot of excuses and
justifications I can come up
with for rejecting opportunities,
just as there are a lot of
excuses and justifications I can
come up with for rejecting any
new piece of evidence or
information that challenges my
previous conclusions about the
world or reality. But when I
step back and evaluate whether
something connects with my
guiding principles--my personal
values--those excuses and
justifications start to seem
pretty flimsy. Even though we
never have it spelled out for us
in The Whisperer in Darkness, I
imagine one of Professor Wilmarth's
guiding principles was a pursuit
of the truth, even if it meant
revising his convictions about
what's possible. And one of
Akeley's guiding principles was
probably to do what serves the
common good, even if it meant
putting himself at personal risk.
His actions went way beyond the
bounds of merely entertaining
his curiosity. Some people have
a guiding principle of
fundamental value that says that
they will trust completely in
the teachings of a particular
faith tradition. That value is
going to determine a lot about
how they draw conclusions about
themselves and other people in
the world we share. Some people
have a guiding principle that
they're going to focus on one
single-minded purpose
passionately, and let other
people be the experts in
everything else. That value is
going to determine how they
perceive the world around them.
I would suggest that it's
important for us to act with
confidence and not second guess
ourselves at every turn. And
it's equally important for us to
maintain a willingness to
evaluate new information, new
evidence that might help us
bring our convictions into
better alignment with reality.
So my hope for you is that your
deepest values allow room for
your conclusions and your
commitments to be revised and
refined. Whatever your guiding
principles are, I hope that
you're able to connect them to
an openness to learning more
than you know today. That you can
embrace a sense of wonder and an
appreciation for mystery so that
you keep growing and improving
your ability to contribute to
wholeness in your life and in
the lives of others.
The Curses and Blessings we
pronounce each week are, in one
sense, empty petitions. We don't
think the cosmos or anything in
it is going to hear or respond
to our requests. On the other
hand, this sacrament of
pronouncing a Curse gives us an
opportunity to clarify what
behaviors in others have sparked
our ire. And we can have a
little fun expressing how angry
or resentful we feel and then
release that resentment or
transform that anger into
meaningful action that aligns
with our life-affirming values.
And even though we don't expect
pronouncing a Blessing to change
reality in any way, this
sacrament allows us to focus on
things for which we're grateful,
hopeful, or the things that evoke
our compassion. We're the only
ones who can make our Blessings
meaningful, though, through our
intentional action. All of that
being said, I now proclaim this
week's Curse and Blessing.
Beauteous and ravenous Yidhra,
We Curse Johnny for
dehumanizing people who
originate from other countries
and allowing his arrogant fear
to override his opportunity to
offer hospitality and welcome.
For failing to recognize the
inherent worth and dignity of
other human beings, Restless and
Bountiful Mother, may Johnny
himself be transformed into an
animal, as he accuses others of
being, displaying through his
outward equus asinus form
the personality he cultivates by
degrading others and declaring
them less than human. Immortal
and Undying Dream-Witch, may
Johnny be rejected by those who
would otherwise offer a sense of
belonging. And may he bray his
desolation as a long-eared
donkey, inviting ridicule and
humiliation from all around him.
Hear us Illusory and Ancient
Yidhra.
in the name of Ngyr-Korath,
we pronounce a Blessing of
gratitude for Beatrice, for
following through and keeping a
promise made. Ultimate
Abomination and Mad God of the
Void, although we would like to
think that keeping one's word is
among the most basic
expectations human beings might
have of one another, all too
often one's word is given
unwisely or thoughtlessly, and
promises are broken with
impunity. Thus, we extend the
utmost gratitude to Beatrice for
not only giving her word wisely,
but also for keeping her word
with integrity. Mighty and
Unyielding Ngyr-Korath,
may Beatrice be blessed with
even greater wisdom, that she may
discern the limits of her
capability clearly, and
approach challenges in her
life with bold integrity. And
may promises made to Beatrice be
unbreakable oaths so that she is
never disappointed by the
perfidy of another. With grateful
praise do we extol you,
Beatrice.
We speak this Curse
and Blessing into an indifferent
cosmos, expecting nothing and
receiving in accordance with our
expectations.
If you would like
a blessing from the Great Old
Ones, or if you would like us to
Curse those who offend
you to help you release your
resentment and carry that poison
with you no longer, please visit
our website at cosmicindifference.org
or seek us out on Patreon at
patreon.com/cosmicindifference
In addition to supporting our
ministry, you'll be able to have
a more direct role in what we
create together. Our book, "Lessons
From an Indifferent Cosmos: How
Cthulhu Can Help You Be a Better
Human," is also available on
Amazon. It includes 36 lessons
on our opportunity to take
personal responsibility for
creating lives of purpose and
meaning, drawing on the weird
fiction of H. P. Lovecraft and
other authors who have
contributed to the Cthulhu
Mythos. You can also subscribe
to our channel here, of course,
and pass it along to others. May
you journey with confidence in
the things you know about
yourself and the world around
you. And may you hold that
confidence loosely enough to
keep learning and growing,
reviewing and revising your
conclusions as you need to, so
that you live in alignment with
reality and can embrace all of
the unexpected opportunities
before you that resonate with
your deepest values. Go with
peace and courage.
