"The Black Stone"

by Robert E. Howard

Published Weird Tales Nov. 1931

An unnamed narrator, fascinated by tales found in the controversial occult writings of Friedrich von Junzt, specifically by tales in his notorious work Nameless Cults of a black monolith near a village called Stregoicavar ("witch-town") in the mountains of Hungary.

He decides to vacation in Hungary (Cthulhu story narrators really are strange, aren't they?  "I need a vacation - I know - I'll go to some legendary cursed location in the middle of nowhere!"  Haven't any of these suckers ever heard of Hawaii?)

Along the way, the narrator learns more of local history, including a tale involving a famous battle, a scroll, and ruined castle.  He learns that the inhabitants of Stregoicavar are not the original inhabitants.  Their predecessors were wiped out by Turkish invaders in 1526, and are said to have been of an unknown race and an unsavory reputation.  He learns that the black stone may predate any known settlers, but was once a site of pagan worship.

On Midsummer Night, the night legends say the stone is most dangerous, the narrator makes his way out there.  He falls asleep for no particular reason, but awakens to find himself surrounded by a horde of half-dressed, ancient pagan figures beginning a ritual.  Here's where things get really spectacular, as the pagans indulge in a blood orgy complete with ritual whippings, naked dancing, a nude, bound victim, the gory sacrifice of an infant, and finally, the appearance of a "toad-like" monster atop the stone.  This final horror (I myself found the giant toad-thing quite welcome compared to the baby sacrifice) (why do so many Lovecraftians like toad-monsters anyway?  I'll have to think about this...)

The narrator awakes to find no evidence of the night's horrors.  But, something leads him to go to the ruined castle at night and search for the legendary scroll.  Of course, he finds it.  Translating the scroll feverishly, he finds an account of the Turks discovery of the pagan worshipers and their toad-demon, all of which they eradicated.  He realizes that his "dream" was actually a vision of a real event. He throws the scroll and a small gold idol of the toad-thing into the Danube.  He is now haunted by the realization that the gruesome cults described by von Junzt are entirely real.

Robert E. Howard, to use a cliche, probably needs no introduction any serious fantasy fan.  Howard was a pulp writer all the way, which has netted him quite a following but little respect.  But what the mens don't know but the little girls understand is that, pulp writer or not, Howard was a major talent.  Those smarter observers have noted this even when slagging him.  As Stephen King wrote: 

Howard overcame the limitations of his puerile material by the force and fury of his writing and by his imagination, which was powerful beyond his hero Conan's wildest dreams of power. In his best work, Howard's writing seems so highly charged with energy that it nearly gives off sparks. Stories such as "The People of the Black Circle" glow with the fierce and eldritch light of his frenzied intensity. At his best, Howard was the Thomas Wolfe of fantasy, and most of his Conan tales seem to almost fall over themselves in their need to get out. Yet his other work was either unremarkable or just abysmal.

I disagree with King insofar as to the "abysmal" part.  Howard wrote a lot (several hundred completed stories and many more partials), and he wrote fast.  Some of the lesser works I've encountered by him have been dashed-off, sloppy or unimpressive.  But I am 100% with King on Howard's best - when he was on, Howard's writing positively burned.  And it's that quality that makes his work special.

This is a fairly minor story, definitely written in imitation of Lovecraft (Howard tried his hand at nearly every type of pulp fiction, whether for money, his own entertainment or simply to keep expanding his horizons as a writer). But it's quite competently told, and Howard's description of the pagan rite is feverish and vivid.  It is this portion, which is also full of the sort of kinky sexuality that made pulp magazines disreputable in their day, that makes the story memorable.  It is not Howard's best horror story, nor his best Lovecraft imitation.  But it is a memorable read.