The Lonely Shadows: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos (6 page)

It was then that he knew he was lost. That this was what Woodbridge had been afraid of, that the utter evil which had originated in the house all those years before, when Henry Belstead, using the terrible knowledge that he had gained during his long travels into the jungles of New Guinea, had brought forth terror and a diabolical madness in return for some strange form of immortality of his own.

He could feel the sweat beginning to run down the folds of his cheeks and the muscles of his arms and legs jerked spasmodically without his control. His face twitched uncontrollably. There was no sign of Woodbridge; but it was difficult to see anything clearly in that terrible room. With an effort, he got to his feet and groped blindly forward. Another peal of thunder, a vivid flash of lightning outside the windows. Then something seemed to snap inside his brain and he pitched forward on to his face, knowing nothing.

* * * * * * *

Jeremiah Calder woke with a start, his mind hazy as it forced its way out of unconsciousness. His body felt cold, his limbs numbed. His arms and legs moved stiffly and jerkily, like those of a puppet caught on strings. In the dim light, he managed to make out the large bookcase over against the wall, the fire in the wide hearth, now dim and grey, little more than a heap of ashes; and the tall French windows open to the dawn.

Afraid, startled, he pulled himself to his feet. His heart was thumping madly against his ribs although, at the moment, he was not sure why. Something had happened he told himself hazily, something that he did not understand. He recalled coming to this place with Woodbridge the previous night, during that terrible storm, and of what they had discovered up there on the hill when they had visited the family vaults. Then they had made their way here and—

His thoughts gelled inside his head. Had he really seen all those terrible creatures in this room? Was Charles Belstead really dead? And if so, where in God’s name was the doctor who had accompanied him here?

Outside, it was almost dawn. The storm had evidently moved away when he had been unconscious. Already, there was a clearing in the east and the trees stood outlined against it. He shivered, pulled the coat more tightly about his body. There was no sense in a man of his age staying here any longer now. Somehow, he had to find Woodbridge and discover what had happened. Perhaps he might find out that it had all been a dream.

He rubbed the muscles on the back of his neck, moved towards the library door. Then he paused. Another door opened somewhere in the near distance. He heard the eerie creak of rusty hinges and felt the cold draft on his body a few seconds later. The mere sound of that door opening slowly made him shiver convulsively and his teeth began to chatter in his head. He turned on his heel, ran to the French windows. They were closed, yet he distinctly remembered that a few moments earlier they had been lying open. Perhaps that draft he had felt, had blown them shut and he had not noticed it, he told himself, twisting the handle, he tried to open them. A second later, terrified beyond anything he had ever known, he was tugging desperately at them as they stubbornly refused to open. He felt like screaming out aloud with the terror that bubbled up inside him. Outside on the lawn, through the glass, he caught the glimpse of a dark shadow that stood under the trees, watching him with red eyes. Henry Belstead!

He whirled with a cry, ran to the door and jerked it open, out into the corridor and through the room at the other end, running to the front door. The chain slipped in his fingers as he fumbled with it. Then he headed out. Savagely, seized with a desperate strength, he jerked open the door, made to run out into the drive, then stopped abruptly as Charles Belstead stepped out of the trees, glided on to the drive and moved towards him. Hurriedly, frenziedly, he slammed the door shut, leaned back against it, trembling violently, shaking fingers up to his mouth. More sweat popped out on his forehead and the horror of its suddenly washed over him afresh. That loathsome thing outside—and the other on the lawn at the back of the house; and God alone knew where those other abominations were.

Very slowly, still shaking uncontrollably, he made his way back into the house. A lot of things made sense now; a crazy, terrible kind of sense. He knew why Charles Belstead had never left this house, even when he had all of that money, when everyone expected him to go back to his riotous life in London. The evil that had once been brought into this terrible house was still there. And Charles Belstead, old and afraid, could not be allowed to die until there was someone there to take his place. He tried to control the shivering in his limbs. No matter by which way he tried to get away, there would always be one of those creatures waiting for him, preventing him from leaving. What had happened to Doctor Woodbridge he did not know. Whether the other was still alive or not, was something he might never know. He went back into the library, feeling the coldness in the room.

It came as no surprise to him, when old Mr. Peters stepped through the wall and stood smiling down at him.

THE SEVENTH IMAGE

There was a thin spatter of rain against the window. Down in the hall, the grandfather clock gave several desultory chimes; eight booming echoes that chased themselves up the winding stairs.

Over by the window, Peter Kennet stared down at the darkening trees and pathways through the dull washing of rain. Night was moving through the sky with an ominous, relentless surge of racing storm clouds. A chill wind moaned drearily around the house, rattling the sash of the window with icy fingers. He turned away and then looked down again at the letter in his hands.

But it still read the same, fingering little thrills of fear up and down his back, though he didn’t quite know why. The words seemed to thrust themselves at him, commanding attention, burning their way into his brain.

And yet, on the face of it, it was nothing more than a very ordinary letter. He forced himself to read it again:

Dear Peter,

Remember we were talking about Arnold Kestro the other day during lunch? I gathered from what you said then, that he was a pretty elusive fellow to get to know. Probably this will surprise you then. I’ve managed to get myself an invitation to a dinner he’s giving tomorrow night.

He seemed to me to be quite a friendly person, nothing out of the ordinary, and not at all unusual. A little odd in his ideas perhaps, but that’s all.

I’ll be going down there about eight o’clock, but I’ll call in and see you on the way. Perhaps you’ll be able to tell me a little more about him before I go.

Regards,

James

Savagely, Kennet crumpled the thin sheet of paper in his hand and flung it into the centre of the room. The fool! his mind yelled at him. The blind, utter fool!

The writing looked simple and clear enough, but unlike many others, he was able to read between the lines, to see what lay at the back of it all. He lit a cigarette with a sudden flick of his lighter, and blew a ring of swirling smoke angrily into the air.

Kestro! Arnold Kestro! The name sent a little shiver of apprehension through him. Probably the most infamous name in the whole history of the Black Art. And James Fisher was walking unwittingly, unbelievingly, into a hell from which there would be no return.

It wasn’t that he had anything against Kestro, he told himself inwardly. All he knew about the man he had heard from others. Not once had he met him face-to-face. To look him straight in the eye and say to himself: This man is an enemy of all that is good and decent and sane in the world.

Several years had passed now since he had first begun his single-handed campaign against these fiends in human guise who continued to prey on the frailty of Man. In the beginning, it had all been quite fascinating, even fun, this tampering about with the black forces of evil, the unknown.

But the novelty and the fascination wore off in a hurry. When one saw the brutality and the misery and the horror that came with it. The madness and the sinister nightmare that existed on the Other Side.

The hollow-eyed things that had once been men and women, meeting in tiny secret groups, away from their fellow creatures, shunning the light, mumbling their frenzied words of idolatry, indulging in mind-shuddering orgies of sheer bestiality. Sure it existed. And as long as it did, he would go on fighting it.

Something had gotten him over the weary years. It was more than a battle now, it was a crusade. He could always tell himself that when everything else failed. When the madness and screaming fear and the panic came padding in on noiseless feet.

Then it was necessary for someone to step in and say: Stop! This is enough! He smiled grimly to himself and turned back to the middle of the room. That was the magic word, the charm that made everything so fine and correct. Even when you knew, deep down inside, the proper thing to do was to leave them to stew in their own juice. To sink deeper into the hell of their own making.

There was a sudden sound outside, above the incessant patter of rain on the grass. A car turned into the drive. Headlights threw the entire room into harsher brilliance as they swung momentarily over the window.

That would be Fisher coming to see him. He tightened his lips and squared his thin shoulders. A lot would depend on whether he could persuade the other not to go, to turn down this devilish invitation. If he couldn’t—

His mind stopped there because he could see no other way out. A car door slammed outside in the teeming rain. Feet pounded up the steps to the front door. A moment later, he felt the slight draft as it was pushed open.

That was Jimmy, all right. He’d been coming here so often now that he never bothered to knock. The other’s deep bass voice reached him from the bottom of the stairs.

“Peter! Where are you, you old devil-worshipper?”

The same old Jimmy, he told himself for the second time. He opened the door of his room and stood in the square of light at the top of the stairs.

“Up here, Jimmy. Come on up.”

“Thought you were out, Peter.” The other came running up the stairs, two at a time, as he always did, the yellow light shining faintly on his wide features with the dark blue eyes dominating everything else, seeing no evil in the world. That was the trouble, thought Kennett bitterly.

The other refused to believe in the existence of devils and other things of the darkness. Which was obviously why he had received this invitation to dinner.

“You got my letter, I see. I didn’t want to go without having another little talk with you. You were quite wrong about Kestro, Peter. Really you were. All that Black Magic stuff.”

Kennett let him ramble on, leading him gently into the room. A tiny corner of his mind was listening attentively to what the other was saying, but the rest was spinning madly inside his head.

How to stop him from going? Keep him here by force?

He looked at the other out of the corner of his eye, as he mixed a couple of drinks, and shook his head slightly. Tall, athletic, well-built, James Fisher had always been the outdoor type, all the time he had known him.

A complete contrast to his own slight build, and more studious nature. Possibly that was why they had always got on well together. Mutual liking of opposites. No, he decided, he wouldn’t be able to keep the other here by force, even if he were foolish enough to try.

He walked over to where the other sat, quite at ease, in the high-backed chair in front of the blazing fire. “Here,” he said. “Take this. It’ll bring some of the heat back into you. God! You must be frozen after driving through that.”

He inclined his head to where the rain was still spilling sheets against the window. Lightning threw a blue sheet of flame across the world, outlining the wind-tossed trees that threshed wildly against the sky. The dull rumble of thunder came an instant later, booming about the walls like an insane thing, venting its anger on the world.

Fisher had the drink in his hand but did not immediately partake of it. His face was full of an uneasiness that Kennett noted and didn’t like.

“It would seem that you have already made up your mind to go to Kestro’s place tonight,” he said suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence. God! What was coming over them? He had never felt ill at ease with Fisher before. He sat down and sipped his drink.

“That’s rather obvious, old man.”

Kennett bit his lip. “I’d rather you didn’t go, Jim,” he said sharply, blurting the words out. “If only you knew what you were letting yourself in for, I’m sure you’d think twice about accepting that devilish invitation.”

“Peter,” said the other, leaning forward, a smile on his face. “You’ve been mixing with devils and black magic for so long now, you see it where it doesn’t exist. You seek inhuman shapes lurking in every corner. You even read things into a normal, simple, everyday invitation that aren’t there. I remember what you said about Arnold Kestro the other day, and I have no doubt that you believed it all quite sincerely. But this is London, man. In the middle of the twentieth century.”

“And what difference do you think that makes?” muttered Kennett with a sharpness beyond his intention. He felt suddenly on edge. “The worship of the Devil is as old as Christianity, at least. Probably older. And you wouldn’t say that that had died out, would you?”