I went through a *big* Lovecraft phase in the early nineties. I somehow picked up a collection that opened with his delirious fever-dream of a story "The Rats in the Walls", and I was immediately mesmerized by the genre that has since been dubbed "cosmic horror", in which a narrator, either by ignorance or morbid curiosity, taps into some kind of forbidden knowledge. Through them, you learn that mankind is a mere flea on the back of an eons-deep, universe-spanning secret mythology of malevolent inter-dimensional gods and other unspeakable horrors that will literally drive you mad, merely by grasping how small you really are in the vast scheme of things.
For all the sheer ambition that this genre holds, its originator, H.P. Lovecraft, didn't live long enough to produce much. He was very generous with his creations, however, and openly invited other authors to come play in his literary universe full of ancient alien god-monsters like Cthulhu. That's how we got the whole secondary constellation of later "mythos" writers such as August Derleth, Robert E. Howard, and the author of this particular collection, Brian Lumley.
It was the search for a Lovecraft proxy that led me to this volume, one of two (the other being the unfortunately-named "The Taint and Other Stories") where Lumley collects the assorted Lovecraft-inspired pulp stories that he wrote for collections and weird fiction magazines between the sixties and the eighties. And while there are still some elements missing that I enjoy in a good Lovecraft story, I think Lumley gets what lies at the center of a good Lovecraft story better than just about any other author that seeks to emulate the master.
So, what does it take for a writer to effectively enter into the Lovecratian realm? A lot of it is atmosphere. These stories usually take place out on the fringes of civilization, in a place where it's possible for ruins or decrepit old cities to have lain unchanged and undisturbed for centuries, and you need someone oblivious or curious enough to gain access to the hidden, secret reality of the world that can be found there. Also importantly, you need the sheer vocabulary to access the sense of unnamable dread that permeates Lovecraft's prose. It's old-fashioned, it's wildly overwrought, and necessarily paranoid ("eldritch" and "foetid" are good words to know how to use effectively). You also have to be able to resist falling on the old trope of always ending a story with an horrific revelation all in italics with many exclamation points!!!. Lumley doesn't always fire on all cylinders when it comes to these elements, but what he does have is the one thing that I think is most crucial for one of these types of stories...
Lovecraft always doubled down on the fact that good horror hinges on the reader being able to figure out ahead of time what the narrator is blindly stumbling into, and what they will eventually come to understand before being dragged into the abyss. The clues need to be laid out step by step, but we should always be the ones connecting the dots first. And that's why Lumley is best when he stays away from his occult-fluent character Titus Crow, who stars in a half-dozen of the author's other novels, and sticks to stories like these. As an author, he understands the structure, and often gives us that delightfully creepy sense of not so much reading a horrific tale, but being dragged toward the doom-laden ending right along with the protagonist. In a world where H.P. has been gone for more than eighty years, you can certainly do much worse than Brian Lumley to get your cosmic horror fix.