Tony's Review of the Dunwich Horror

The Dunwich Horror is Lovecraft in full mythos mode—a tale of rural rot, cosmic reckoning, and the quiet terror of inheritance. It's steeped in uneasy silence, where every crumbling barn and shadowed hill seems to whisper warnings. The story operates on two levels: the local and the cosmic, the personal and the incomprehensible. And, as with much of Lovecraft’s work, it’s not what you see that disturbs you—it’s what you understand just a moment too late.

I’ll note up front that I’ve addressed Lovecraft’s well-known personal prejudices and problematic views in other reviews. Those issues are real and deserve acknowledgment. Here, I’m focusing on the story itself, particularly how it weaves dread with mythology in a way that still influences horror fiction today.

Set in the decaying town of Dunwich, Massachusetts, the plot follows the Whateleys—a cursed and insular family with roots tangled deep in things man was not meant to know. Wilbur Whateley, the child of Lavinia and an entity whose name should not be spoken lightly, is both central and peripheral. He is the herald of something worse: his twin, kept hidden in the hills, growing louder and more dangerous as the veil between worlds thins.

And this is where the Necronomicon steps in—not just as a set dressing, but as a genuine tool of horror. The infamous grimoire by the “mad Arab Abdul Alhazred” isn’t just name-dropped; it's central to the arc. Wilbur seeks it from Miskatonic University not as a curiosity, but because it holds keys to interdimensional gates and rites beyond sanity. The book becomes more than a prop—it becomes the symbol of how fragile our reality is when exposed to deeper truths. When scholars later consult it to understand and banish the Whateleys’ threat, it’s not out of idle curiosity—it’s desperation dressed as scholarship.

There’s a gravity to how the Necronomicon is treated in this story. Unlike some later, more casual references in mythos tales, here it retains its menace. Its language is arcane. Its warnings are dire. It isn’t a book you read; it’s a book that stains you just by opening it. That lends real weight to the supernatural elements of the story. This isn’t ghost story territory—it’s cosmic intrusion. It's myth colliding with bloodlines.

Another standout feature is the pacing. Lovecraft slowly builds tension through hearsay, rural gossip, and academic worry. The horror comes creeping—hooves in the night, massive unseen forces knocking over trees, whispers of unnatural birth. When the story finally reveals its monstrous heart, it’s both horrifying and oddly tragic. What walks the hills is not only a creature—it is someone’s child, born from a monstrous union and raised in secret. The final confrontation on the ridge is one of Lovecraft’s most emotional moments—there’s a dark kind of pathos in the voice crying for its father.

The fusion of folklore, occult knowledge, and cosmic dread is a blueprint for rural horror that holds up even now. It also shows how knowledge—particularly forbidden knowledge like that found in the Necronomicon—is both power and poison.

That said, the story is still tied to its time. The dialect used for the locals reads as exaggerated and demeaning. The fear of "otherness" lingers in its characterizations. Lovecraft’s obsession with tainted bloodlines is part of what fuels the horror—but it’s also a reflection of his own prejudices, not just narrative design.

Still, The Dunwich Horror remains essential Lovecraft. It’s where the Necronomicon doesn’t just exist—it matters. Where myth bleeds into rural life. And where horror isn’t only about monsters, but about what happens when humanity brushes against something far older and much less forgiving.