Book review: The Call of Cthulhu by H. P. Lovecraft

There are stories that chill with ghosts, that unsettle with monsters, and then there are stories like The Call of Cthulhu by H. P. Lovecraft—stories that evoke dread not from what we see, but from what we realize we can never understand. Reading this novella for the first time felt less like consuming fiction and more like brushing against the edge of something vast and unknowable, as though I were peering into a crack in the world and glimpsing the dark, incomprehensible abyss beneath.

Written in 1926 and first published in 1928 in Weird Tales magazine, The Call of Cthulhu is a seminal work in the genre of cosmic horror. Lovecraft, an American author whose influence has only grown since his death, is widely regarded as the creator of a distinct branch of horror fiction—one that replaces personal fear with metaphysical insignificance. This particular tale is aimed at readers who appreciate psychological tension, philosophical horror, and a deliberate rejection of comforting logic. It is not about escape or survival; it is about the horror of knowledge itself.

The story is told through a complex, layered narrative structure, centering on a man named Francis Wayland Thurston. Following the death of his great-uncle, a respected professor, Thurston uncovers a series of papers, clippings, and accounts that point to a disturbing truth. What begins as a routine investigation into a few scattered oddities—an ancient bas-relief, a dream cult, a ship's log—slowly coalesces into a terrifying implication: that there exist entities of unimaginable power and antiquity that lie beyond our perception, awaiting a time when they will reawaken. The most prominent of these beings is Cthulhu, a godlike creature of monstrous form, worshipped by cults in secret and linked through uncanny dreams to sensitive minds around the world. The narrative spans locations from New England to the South Pacific, threading together diverse accounts into a mosaic of growing unease.

Lovecraft’s prose is immediately recognizable: dense, formal, and imbued with a certain archaic flair. He often eschews dialogue and action in favor of mood and description. In lesser hands, this could feel sluggish, but in The Call of Cthulhu, it serves to heighten the sensation of scholarly detachment unraveling into existential horror. The story is structured as a metafictional document—Thurston is writing down what he has learned, almost compulsively, and we as readers are presented with his account after the fact. This creates a layered narrative filter, adding to the story’s verisimilitude while distancing us emotionally from immediate danger. That distance, paradoxically, makes the dread more potent: we are not witnessing horror unfold; we are learning, slowly and unavoidably, that it already has.

Imagery plays a critical role in Lovecraft’s fiction, and this story is no exception. He conjures visual impressions of cyclopean architecture, non-Euclidean geometries, and nightmarish vistas not with exacting detail but with suggestive force. Much of what is described is deliberately vague—squid-like heads, bat-like wings, a scale that defies human reference—and this ambiguity leaves the reader’s imagination to complete the horror. Perhaps the most famous phrase in the story, “the most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents,” encapsulates Lovecraft’s technique: his horror lies not in explicit revelation, but in the dawning realization that our understanding is limited and that those limits are not protection but illusion.

At the thematic core of The Call of Cthulhu is the idea of cosmic indifference. Unlike the traditional horror story, where evil is often moral or supernatural in a familiar sense, Lovecraft’s horror stems from the insignificance of humanity in a vast, impersonal universe. The entities he describes are not malevolent in the human sense—they are simply beyond us, operating on scales of time and power that dwarf our comprehension. This is what gives the story its lingering unease: it does not offer closure, only the haunting suggestion that what we perceive as reality is a shallow veneer, under which something ancient and unspeakable stirs.

Despite its brilliance, the story is not without limitations. Lovecraft’s style—his antiquated diction, long sentences, and academic tone—can be challenging, especially for readers used to contemporary pacing. His avoidance of character depth and emotional intimacy may also alienate some, as the characters serve more as vessels for information than as people we connect with. Furthermore, it must be acknowledged that some of Lovecraft’s views on race and culture, while not overt in this particular story, permeate much of his work and should be read with critical awareness. While the cultists and "primitive" worshippers are tropes within the genre, Lovecraft’s descriptions sometimes carry the weight of his xenophobic worldview, and modern readers may find aspects of this troubling.

Nevertheless, I found The Call of Cthulhu to be a masterful work—not just of horror, but of philosophical fiction. It impressed me not because it made me jump, but because it made me think. It made me question what lies behind the assumptions we take for granted: the knowability of the world, the centrality of the human experience, the trust we place in science and reason. In Lovecraft’s world, knowledge is not power but peril, and revelation does not liberate—it annihilates certainty. The story lingers long after it ends, not because of what is seen, but because of what it implies we might see, if we dare to look.

What also makes the work unique is its construction as a fragmented narrative, assembling mystery from scattered facts, dreams, and half-forgotten tales. It mimics the experience of discovery, of piecing together a puzzle you may wish you had never started. This literary technique sets it apart from more linear horror fiction and gives it the feel of an academic paper gone wrong—something you might stumble upon in a dusty archive and regret reading too late.

So, The Call of Cthulhu is a chilling, cerebral, and profoundly influential work that reshaped the horror genre. It demands attention not for its shocks, but for its atmosphere, its implications, and its ability to conjure dread from the unseen and the unknowable. I would recommend it to anyone who enjoys horror that challenges rather than comforts, who finds fascination in the fragility of human understanding, and who can appreciate a story that whispers its terror rather than screams it. A darkly poetic meditation on the limits of reason and the vastness of the unknown.

This book review was written using the following references 👇

• Full text The Call of Cthulhu by H. P. Lovecraft at LitArchive
• Audiobook The Call of Cthulhu by H. P. Lovecraft at AudioReads