by Robert Bloch
He must have seen the look in my face, but he did not falter. His voice, as he continued, became very tense.
He would not attempt to describe these creatures save to say that they were very horrible to look upon, in ways peculiarly obscene. It was easy for him to recognize them for what they were because of certain significant acts they always performed. It was the sight of these acts, more than anything else, which made him afraid. There are some things that should not even be hinted at to sane minds, and the things that haunted him nightly were among them. In his visions these beings did not accost him and were seemingly unmindful of his presence; they continued to indulge in eldritch feastings in the charnel chambers or join in orgies without a name. But of this he would say no more. His nocturnal flights always ended with the passage of a vast procession of these monstrosities through a cavern still farther beneath—a journey which he would view from a ledge above. Shuddery glimpses into the realms below led him to recall tales of the Inferno, and he would cry out in his sleep. As he watched that demon procession from the brink, he would suddenly lose his footing and be precipitated into the charnel swarm below. Here his dream would mercifully end, and he would awake, bathed in icy sweat.
Night after night the visions had come, but this was not the worst of his troubles. His real and besetting fear lay in his knowledge that the visions were true!
Here I impatiently interrupted, but he insisted upon continuing. Had he not visited the cemetery after the first few dreams and did he not actually find the very vault he had learned to recognize through his dreams? And what about the books? He had been led to institute some extensive research among the private volumes of the college anthropological library. Surely I, as an enlightened and educated man, must admit the veiled and subtle truths so furtively revealed in such tomes as Ludvig Prinn’s Mysteries of the Worm, or the grotesque Black Rites of mystic Luveh-Keraphf, the priest of cryptic Bast. He had made some studies recently of the mad and legendary Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred. I could not refute the arcana behind such things as the banned and infamous Fable of Nyarlathotep, or the Legend of the Elder Saboth.
Here he broke off into a rambling discourse of obscure secret myths, with frequent allusions to such shadows of antique lore as fabled Leng, lightless N’ken, and demon-haunted Nis; spoke too of such blasphemies as the Moon of Yiggurath and the secret parable of Byagoona the Faceless One.
Obviously these incoherent ravings provided the key to his difficulty, and with some argument I succeeded in calming him sufficiently to tell him so.
His readings and research had brought on this attack, I explained. He must not tax his brain with such speculations; these things are dangerous to normal minds. I had read and learned enough of such things to know that such ideas were not meant for men to seek or understand. Besides, he must not take these thoughts too seriously, for after all, these tales were merely allegorical. There are no such things as ghouls and demons—he must see that his dreams could be symbolically interpreted.
He sat in silence for a moment after I concluded. He sighed, then spoke very deliberately. These things were all very well for me to say, but he knew differently. Had he not recognized the place of his dreams?
I interjected a remark about the influence of the sub-conscious mind, but he disregarded my assertion and continued.
Then, he informed me, in a voice that quavered with almost hysterical excitement, he would tell me the worst. He had not yet told me all there was to know about what had occurred when he discovered the vault of his dreams in the cemetery. He had not stopped at this corroboration of his visions. Some nights ago he had gone farther. He had entered the necropolis and found the niche in the wall; descended the stairs and come upon the rest. How he managed to return he never knew, but on all three of these excursions to the scene he had come back and apparently gone to sleep; the following morning he always was in bed. It was the truth he told me he had seen the things! Now I must help him at once, before he did something rash.
I calmed him with difficulty, meanwhile trying to hit upon a logical and effective method of treatment. He was obviously near to a dangerous mental lesion. There would be no use trying to persuade or convince him that he had dreamed the latter incidents as he had the former; that his nervous system had subjected him to sympathetic hallucinations. I could not hope to make him realize in his present state that the books responsible for his affliction were merely the mad ravings of disordered minds. Obviously the only course remaining open was to humor him, and then concretely demonstrate the utter fallacy of his beliefs.
Therefore, in response to his reiterated pleas, we struck a bargain. He was to undertake to guide me to the place where he claimed his journeys and his dreams had been located, and then prove to me the truth of what he stated. In short, at ten o’clock upon the following evening I agreed to meet him at the graveyard. His pleasure at this arrangement was almost pathetic to see; he smiled upon me like a fond child with a newly bestowed plaything. Obviously he was glad of my decision.
I prescribed a mild sedative to be taken by him that evening, arranged the minor details of our forthcoming tryst and undertaking; then dismissed him until the following night.
His departure left me in a state of great excitement. Here at last was a case worthy of study; a well-educated, seemingly intelligent college professor subject to the ogreish nightmares of a three-year-old infant! I forthwith determined to write a monograph upon the subsequent proceedings. I felt sure that upon the following evening I could conclusively demonstrate the fallacy of his aberration and effect an immediate cure. The night was spent in a frenzy of research and calculated speculation; the following morning in a hasty perusal of the expurgated edition of Comte d’Erlette’s Cultes des Goules.
Nightfall found me ready for the business at hand. At ten o’clock, clad in hip-boots, rough woolen jacket, miner’s cap with candle in its brim, I was standing at the cemetery entrance. I felt fully prepared for the coming of Professor Alexander Chaupin; still I must confess to an uneasy and inexplicable nyctaphobia. I did not relish the unpleasant task to follow. Suddenly I found myself anxiously awaiting the arrival of my patient, if only for the sake of companionship.
He came at last, similarly attired, and seemingly in better spirits. Together we scaled the low stone wall surrounding the necropolis. Then he led me across the moonlit garden of graves and into the creeping shadows of a silent grove in the heart of the cemetery Here the tombstones leered crazily amid the darkness, and the rays of the moon fell not. Some atavistic dread caused me to repress an involuntary shudder as my mind dwelt unbidden upon the fearful trafficking of the worms below. I did not care to let my thoughts rest upon the grave-earth, or the diabolic density of the encircling shadows. I was relieved when Chaupin, unperturbed, led me at last up a long avenue of towering trees to the forbidding portals of the tomb he claimed to have profaned.
— 2 —
I cannot bear to dwell in detail upon that which followed. I shall not tell you of how we unfastened the chains that barred the tomb, or describe the grim interior of the mausoleum. It is enough for me to state that Chaupin’s promise was fulfilled; for he found the niche by the light of the candles we wore upon our miner’s caps—found the niche and pressed the secret spot, so that the tunnel from below was revealed. I stood aghast at this unexpected revelation, and a sudden blast of fear stabbed my senses into unnatural tenseness. I must have stood gazing into that sable orifice for many minutes. Neither of us spoke.
For the first time I hesitated. No longer did I have any doubts concerning the validity of the professor’s statements. He had proven them beyond the shadow of a doubt. Still, this did not mean that he was wholly sane; it did not cure him of his obsession. I realized, with a repulsion I could not then explain, that my task was far from ended; that we must descend into those nether depths and settle once and for all the questions yet unanswered. I was not prepared to believe Chaupin’s incoherent rigmarole about imaginary ghouls; the mere ex
istence of a tomb-passage did not necessarily tend to substantiate his other claim. Perhaps if I went with him to the termination of the pit his mind could be put at rest regarding his singular suspicions. But—and I dreaded to acknowledge the possibility—just supposing there really was some malign, distorted truth in his story of what lurked and bided there below? Some band of refugees, fugitives from the law perchance, who might actually denizen the pit? Perhaps accident had led them to stumble upon this unusual hiding-place. If so, what then?
Still, in this event, something told me that we would have to go on and see for ourselves. To this inward prompting, Chaupin added his vocal pleas. Let him show me the truth, he said, and I could no longer doubt. After that I would believe, and with belief alone could I help. He was begging me to go on, but if I refused he would have to take recourse in a police investigation of the place.
It was this last point that determined me. I could not afford to see my name mixed up in a mess that involved such spectacular opportunities for scandal. If the man were mad, I could take care of myself. If not—well, we would soon see. Accordingly I gave reluctant consent to proceeding, then stepped aside for him to lead the way.
The opening gaped like the mouth of a mythic monster. Down we went; down a serpentine, slanting stairway in the damp stone passage that was chiseled out of solid rock. The tunnel was hot and humid, and upon the air was the odor of putrefying life. It was like a journey through the most fantastic realms of nightmare—a journey that led to unknown crypts beneath the corpse-earth. Here were things secret to all but the worms, and as we continued I began to wish that they might remain so. I was actually becoming panicky, though Chaupin seemed oddly calm.
Several factors contributed to my growing unease. I did not like the stealthy rats that chittered ceaselessly from countless tiny burrows that lined the second spiral of the passage. An army of them swarmed the stairs; all sleek and fat and bloated. I began to conceive some peculiar notions as to the cause of that bloating, and the probable sources of their nocturnal nourishment. Then, too, I noticed that Chaupin seemed to know the way quite well; and if it were true that he had been here before, then what about the rest of his story?
My eyes, glancing down the stairs, received still another shock. There was no dust on the steps! They looked as if they were constantly in use! For a moment my mind refused to comprehend the import of this discovery, but when at last it burst full-blown upon my brain I felt suddenly stunned. I did not dare to look again, lest my ready imagination conjure up the probably image of what might ascend that stairway from below.
Hastily dissembling my childish dread, I hurried on after my silent conductor, whose candle threw strange shadows on the pitted walls. I realized that I was beginning to be nervous about this whole affair, and I vainly tried to reason myself out of my fears by concentrating on some definite object.
There certainly was nothing reassuring about our surroundings as we proceeded. The leering, crazily burrowed walls of the tunnel looked ghastly in the torchlight. I suddenly felt that this ancient pathway had not been built by anything normal or akin to sanity, and I dared not let my thoughts impinge on the ultimate revelations which might lie ahead. For a long time we crept on in stark silence.
Down, down, down; our way ever narrowed into a deeper, damper darkness. Then the staircase abruptly terminated in a cave. There was a bluish light, phosphorescent as ultraviolet, and I wondered as to its source. It revealed a small, smooth-surfaced, open area, overhung with rows of colossal stalactites and vast basic pylons of massive breadth. Beyond, in the denser dark, were openings to other burrows, leading to seemingly endless vistas of forgotten night. An air of creeping horror froze my heart; we seemed to have profaned in our intrusion some mysteries better left unsought. I began to tremble, but Chaupin gripped me roughly and dug his thin fingers into my shoulders as he told me to keep silent.
He whispered as we huddled side by side in that dim and twilit cavern under the earth; whispered awesomely of what he said lurked and shambled in the darkness just beyond. He would prove now that his words were true; I must wait here while he ventured into the black beyond. When he returned he would bring me proof. So saying, he rose and walked swiftly forward, disappearing almost immediately into one of the burrows just ahead. He left me so suddenly that I did not even have time to voice my objections to his proposal.
I sat there in the darkness and waited—I dared not guess for what. Would Chaupin return? Was it all a monstrous hoax? Was Chaupin mad, or was it all true? If so, what might not happen to him in that labyrinth beyond? And what might happen to me? I had been a fool ever to think of coming: the whole thing was insane. Perhaps those books were not so absurd as I had thought: the earth may nurse hideous secrets in its ageless breast.
The blue light cast screening shadows on the stalactitic walls and crowded closely around the dim circle of luminance afforded by my tiny torch. I did not like those shadows: they were distorted, unhealthy, disconcertingly deep. The silence was even more potent: it seemed to hint of nameless things yet to come; it mocked unbearably my growing fear and loneliness. The minutes crawled like maggots on their way and nothing broke that deadly silence.
Then came the cry. A sudden crescendo of indescribable madness welled upon the entombed air, and my soul cleaved, for I knew what that cry meant. I knew now—now, when it was too late—that Chaupin’s words were true.
But I dared not pause or ponder, for presently there came a soft padding from the far-off darkness—the rustling scrape of frantic movement. I turned and raced up the subterrene staircase with the speed of utter desperation. No need for me to look back; my horrified ears clearly caught the cadence of running feet. I heard nothing but the clamor of those feet or paws until my own breath rasped in my ears as I rounded the first spiral of those interminable stairs. I stumbled upward, gasping and choking; a realization in my soul that ate away every thought save one of deathly fear and grinning horror. Poor Chaupin!
It seemed to me that the sounds were drawing nearer and nearer; then came a hoarse barking on the stairs directly below; a bestial growling that sickened me with its semi-human tones, and an accompanying laughter that was loathly with horror. They were coming!
I ran on, to the rhythmic thundering of the footfalls below. I dared not glance behind me, but I knew that they were closing the gap. The hairs rose upon my neck as I sped up endless flights that writhed and twisted like a serpent in the earth. I toiled and shrieked aloud, but the baying horrors were at my very heels. On, on, on, on; closer and closer and closer, while my body burned with pain and agony.
The stairs ended at last, and I squirmed madly through the narrow opening while the creatures raced through the darkness barely ten yards behind. I made it just as the candle in my cap flickered out; then I jammed the stone back into place, full in the faces of the foremost oncoming horrors. But as I did so my dying candle flared up for a single moment so that I saw the first of my pursuers in the glaring light. Then it went out; I slammed the portal into place and somehow staggered back to the world of men.
I shall never forget that night, whatever I do to erase those hideous memories; never shall I find the sleep I crave. I dare not even kill myself for fear of being buried instead of cremated; though death would be welcome to such as I have become. I shall never forget, for now I know the whole truth of the affair; but there is one memory I would give my soul to blot for ever from my brain—that mad moment when I saw the monsters in the torchlight; the horrors from below.
For the first and foremost of them all was the monster known to men as Professor Chaupin!
The Opener of the Way
As if the ancient divinities of Egypt were not already frightful enough, Anubis and Sebek in particular, in this tale we discover that these gods were mere masks for far more terrible, and more ancient, deities. And you can pretty well guess which Ones! “Demon Messenger”? “Black Temple”? And then there’s our old friend Ludvig Prinn and his book. Sufficient clues, I’
d say. And yet Lin Carter must have missed them, as did I, since this tale was not initially included in Mysteries of the Worm. Thanks to Richard L. Tierney for pointing out the omission.
Both Lovecraft himself and Robert E. Howard used more than once the same premise of a secret history buried beneath the known ages of Egypt, as well as the kindred notion of repressed terrors surviving in the relatively innocuous forms of conventional religious myths and legends. More recent writers used the same idea, sometimes in the form of direct sequels to and glosses on stories by Bloch, Lovecraft and Howard, include Lin Carter (e.g.. “The Vault Beneath the Mosque”) and Richard Tierney (“The Curse of the Crocodile,” “The Treasure of Horemkhu”).
The Opener of the Way
by Robert Bloch
The statue of Anubis brooded over the darkness. Its blind eyes had basked in the blackness for unnumbered centuries, and the dust of ages had settled upon its stony brow. The damp air of the pit had caused its canine features to crumble, but the stone lips of the image still were curled in a snarling grin of cryptic mirth. It was almost as if the idol were alive; as if it had been the shadowed centuries slip by, and with them the glory of Egypt and the old gods. Then indeed would it have reason to grin, at the thought of ancient pomps and vain and vanished splendor. But the statue Anubis, Opener of the Way, jackal-headed god of Karneter, was not alive, and those that had bowed in worship were long dead. Death was everywhere; it haunted the shadowy tunnel where the idol stood, hidden away in the mummy-cases and biding amidst the very dust of the stone floor. Death, and darkness—darkness undispelled by light these three thousand years.
