by Brian Lumley
The idol, however, had a most unsettling effect upon the younger brother. He was wont to go in to see the thing in the dead of night, when Anderson was in bed and apparently asleep. But often Anderson was awake, and during these nocturnal visits he had heard Hamilton talking to the idol. More disturbingly, he had once or twice dimly imagined that he heard something talking back! Too, before he went off again on his wanderings in unspoken areas of the great deserts of Arabia, the sensitive, mystery-loving traveller had started to suffer from especially bad nightmares.
Again, in Hamilton’s absence, things went badly. Soon Anderson was obliged to sell out to Bella Hodgson, retaining only the freak house as his own and his prodigal brother’s property. A year passed, and another before Hamilton once more returned to the fairground, demanding his living as before but making little or no attempt to work for his needs. There was no arguing, however, for the formerly sensitive younger brother was a changed, indeed a saturnine man now, so that soon Anderson came to be a little afraid of him.
And quite apart from the less obvious alterations in Hamilton, other changes were much more apparent: changes in habit, even in appearance. The most striking was the fact that now the younger Tharpe constantly wore a shaggy black toupee, as if to disguise his partial premature baldness, which all of the funfair’s residents knew about anyway and which had never caused him the least embarrassment before. Also, he had become so reticent as to be almost reclusive, keeping to himself, only rarely and reluctantly allowing himself to be drawn into even the most trivial conversations.
More than this: there had been a time prior to his second long absence when Hamilton had seemed somewhat enamoured of the young, single, dark-eyed Romany fortune-teller, “Madame Zala”— a Gypsy girl of genuine Romany ancestry—but since his return he had been especially cool toward her, and for her own part she had been seen to cross herself with a pagan sign when he had happened to be passing by. Once he had seen her make this sign, and then he had gone white with fury, hurrying off to the freak house and remaining there for the rest of that day. Madame Zala had packed up her things and left one night in her horse-drawn caravan without a word of explanation to anyone. It was generally believed that Hamilton had threatened her in some way, though no one ever taxed him over the affair. For his own part, he simply averred that Zala had been “a charlatan of the worst sort, without the ability to conjure a puff of wind!”
All in all the members of the funfair fraternity had been quick to find Hamilton a very changed man, and towards the end there had been the aforementioned hints of a brewing madness . . .
On top of all this, Hamilton had again taken up his nocturnal visits to the octopoid idol, but now such visits seemed less frequent than of old. Less frequent, perhaps, but they nevertheless heralded much darker events, for soon Hamilton had installed the idol within a curtained and spacious corner of the tent, in the freak house itself, and he no longer paid his visits alone... .
Anderson Tharpe had seen, from his darkened caravan window, a veritable procession of strangers—all of them previous visitors to the freak house, and always the more intelligent types—accompanying his brother to the tent’s nighted interior. But he had never seen a one come out! Eventually, as his younger brother became yet more saturnine, reticent, and secretive, Anderson took to spying on him in earnest—and later almost wished that he had not.
In the months between, however, Hamilton had made certain alterations to the interior of the freak house, partitioning fully a third of its area to enclose the collection of rare and obscure curiosities garnered upon his travels. At that time Anderson had been puzzled to distraction by his brother’s firm refusal to let his treasures be viewed by any but a chosen few of the freak house’s patrons: those doubtfully privileged persons who later accompanied him into the private museum never again to leave.
Of course, Anderson finally reasoned, the answer was as simple as it was fantastic: somewhere upon his travels Hamilton had learned the arts of murder and thievery, arts he was now practicing in the freak house. The bodies? These he obviously buried, to leave behind safely lodged in the dark earth when the fair moved on. But the money... what of the money? For money—or rather its lack— patently formed the younger brother’s motive. Could he be storing his booty away, against the day when he would go off on yet another of his foolish trips to foreign places? Beside himself that he had not been “cut in” on the profits of Hamilton’s dark machinations, Anderson determined to have it out with him, to catch him, as it were, red-handed.
And yet it was not until early in the spring of 1961 that Anderson finally managed to “overhear” a conversation between his brother and an obviously well-to-do visitor to the freak house. Hamilton had singled out this patently intelligent gentleman for attention, inviting him back to the caravan during a break in business. Anderson, knowing most of the modus operandi by now and, aware of the turn events must take, positioned himself outside the caravan where he could eavesdrop.
He did not catch the complete conversation, and yet sufficient to make him aware at last of Hamilton’s expert and apparently unique knowledge in esoteric mysteries. For the first time he heard uttered the mad words Cthulhu and Yibb-Tstll, Tsathoggua and Yog-Sothoth, Shudde-M’ell and Nyarlathotep, discovering that these were names of monstrous “gods” from the dawn of time. He heard mention of Leng and Lh’yib; Mnar, lb, and Sarnath; R’lyeh and “red-litten” Yoth, and knew now that these were cities and lands ancient even in antiquity. He heard descriptions and names given to manuscripts, books, and tablets—and here he started in recognition, for he knew that some of these aeon-old writings existed amid Hamilton’s treasures in the freak house—and among others he heard the strangely chilling titles of such works as the Necronomicon, the Cthaat Aquadingen, the Pnakotic Manuscripts and the R’lyehan Texts. This then formed the substance of Hamilton’s magnetism: his amazing erudition in matters of myth and time-lost lore.
When he perceived that the two were about to make an exit from the caravan, Anderson quickly hid himself away behind a nearby stall to continue his observations. He saw the flushed face of Hamilton’s new confidant, his excited gestures, and, at a whispered suggestion from the pale-faced brother, he finally saw that gentleman nodding eagerly, wide-eyed in awed agreement. And after the visitor had gone, Anderson saw the look that flitted briefly across his brother’s features: a look that hinted of awful triumph, nameless emotion—and, yes, purest evil!
But it was something about the face of the departed visitor— that rounded gentleman of obvious substance but doubtful future— which caused Anderson the greatest concern. He had finally recognized that face from elsewhere, and at his first opportunity he sneaked a glance through some of the archaeological and anthropological journals which his brother now spent so much time reading. It was as he had thought: Hamilton’s prey was none other than an eminent explorer and archaeologist, one whose name, Stainton Gamber, might be even higher in the lists of famous adventurers and discoverers but for a passion for wild-goose expeditions and safaris. Then he grew even more worried, for plainly his brother could not go on forever depleting the countryside of eminent persons without being discovered.
That afternoon passed slowly for Anderson Tharpe, and when night came he went early to his bed in the caravan. He was up again, however, as soon as he heard his brother stirring and the hushed whispers that led off in the direction of the freak house. It was as he had known it would be, when for a moment pale moonlight showed him a glimpse of Hamilton with Stainton Gamber.
Quickly he followed the two to the looming canvas tent, and in through the dragon-jawed entranceway, but he paused at the door flap to the partitioned area to listen and observe. There came the scratch of a match and its bright, sudden flare, and then a candle flickered into life. At this point the whispering recommenced, and Anderson drew back a pace as the candle began to move about the interior of Hamilton’s museum. He could hear the hushed conversation quite clearly, could feel the tremulous exci
tement in the voice of the florid explorer:
“But these are—fantastic! I’ve believed for years now that such relics must exist. Indeed, I’ve often brought my reputation close to ruin for such beliefs, and now... Young man, you’ll be world-famous. Do you realize what you have here? Proof positive that the Cult of Cthulhu did exist! What monstrous worship—what hideous rites! Where, where did you find these things? I must know! And this idol—which you say is believed to invoke the spirit of the living Cthulhu himself!—Who holds such beliefs? I know of course that Wendy-Smith—”
“Hah!” Hamilton’s rasping voice cut in. “You can keep all your Wendy-Smiths and Gordon Walmsleys. They only scraped the surface. I’ve gone inside—and outside! Explorers, dreamers, mystics— mere dabblers. Why, they’d die, all of them, if they saw what I’ve seen, if they went where I’ve been. And none of them have ever dreamed what I know!”
“But why keep it hidden? Why don’t you open this place up, show the world what you’ve got here, what you’ve achieved? Publish, man, publish! Why, together—”
“Together?” Hamilton’s voice was darker, trembling as he suddenly snuffed the candle. “Together? Proof that the Cult of Cthulhu did exist? Show it to the world? Publish?” His chuckle was obscene in the dark, and Anderson heard the visitor’s sharp intake of breath. “The world’s not ready, Camber, and the stars are not right! What you would like to do, like many before you, is alert the world to Their one-time presence, the days of Their sovereignty—which might in turn lead to the discovery that They are here even now! Indeed Wendy-Smith was right, too right, and where is Wendy-Smith now? No, no—They aren’t interested in mere dabblers, except that such are dangerous to Them and must be removed! Iä, R’lyeh! You are no true dreamer, Camber, no believer. You’re not worthy of membership in the Great Priesthood. You’re... dangerous! Proof? I’ll give you proof. Listen, and watch—”
Hearing his brother’s injunction, the secret listener would have paid dearly to see what next occurred. A short while earlier, just before Hamilton had snuffed out the candle, Anderson had managed to find a hole in the canvas large enough to facilitate a fair view of the partitioned area. He had seen a semicircle of carved stone tablets, with the octopoid idol presiding atop or seated upon a thronelike pedestal. Now, in the dark, his view-hole was useless.
He could still listen, however, and now Hamilton’s voice came—strange and vibrant, though still controlled in volume—in a chant or invocation of terrible cadence and rhythmic disorder. These were not words the younger Tharpe uttered but unintelligible sounds, a morbidly insane agglutination of verbal improbabilities which ought never to have issued from a human throat at all! And as the invocation ceased, to an incredulous gasping from the doomed explorer, Anderson had to draw back from his hole lest he become visible in the glow of a green radiance springing up abruptly in the centre of Hamilton’s encircling relics.
The green glow grew brighter, filling the hidden museum and spilling emerald beams from several small holes in the canvas. This was no normal light, for the beams were quite alien to anything Anderson had ever seen before; the very light seemed to writhe and contort in a slow and loathsomely languid dance. Now Anderson found himself again a witness, for the shadows of Hamilton and his intended victim were thrown blackly against the wall of canvas. There was no requirement now to “spy” properly upon the pair; his view of the eerie drama could not have been clearer. The centre of the radiance seemed to expand and shrink alternatively, pulsing like an alien heart of light. Hamilton stood to one side, his arms flung wide in terrible triumph; Stainton Gamber cowered, his hands up before his face as if to shield it from some unbearable heat—or as if to ward off the unknown and inexplicable!
Anderson’s shadow-view of the terrified explorer was profile, and he was suddenly astonished to note that while the man appeared to be screaming horribly he could hear nothing of his screams! It was as if Anderson had been stricken deaf. Hamilton, too, was now plainly vociferous: his throat moved in crazed cachinnations and his thrown-back head and heaving shoulders plainly announced unholy glee—but all in stark silence! Anderson knew now that the mad green light had somehow worked against normal order, annulling all sound utterly and thereby hiding in its emerald pulsings the final act in this monstrous shadow-play. As the core pulsated even faster and brighter, Hamilton moved quickly after the silently shrieking explorer, catching him by the collar of his jacket and swinging him sprawling into the core itself!
Instantly the core shrank, sucking in upon itself and dwindling in a moment to a ball of intense brightness. But where was the explorer? Horrified, Anderson saw that now only one shadow remained faintly outlined upon the canvas—that of his brother!
Quickly, weirdly, paling as they went, the beams of green light withdrew. Sound instantly returned, and Anderson heard his own harsh breathing. He stilled the sound, moving back to his spy-hole to see what was happening. A faint green glow with a single bright speck of a core remained within the semicircle; and now Hamilton bowed to this dimming light and his voice came again, low and tremulous with emotion:
Id, naflhgn Cthulhu R’lyeh mglw’nafh,
Eha’ungl wglw hflghglui ngah’glw,
Engl Eha gh’eehf gnhugl,
Nhflgng uh’eha wgah’nagl hfglufh—
U’ng Eha’ghlui Aeeh ehn’hflgh ...
That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die.
No sooner had Hamilton ceased these utterly alien mouthings and the paradoxical couplet that completed them, and while yet the green glow continued to dim and fade, then he spoke again, this time all in recognizable English. Such was his murmured modulation and deliberate spacing of the spoken sequences that his hidden brother immediately recognized the following as a translation of what had gone before:
Oh, Great Cthulhu, dreaming in R’lyeh,
Thy priest offers up this sacrifice,
That thy coming be soon
And that of thy kindred dreamers.
I am thy priest and adore thee...
It was only then that the full horror of what he had seen—the coldblooded, premeditated murder of a man by either some monstrous occult device or a foreign science beyond his knowledge—finally went home to Anderson Tharpe, and barely managing to stifle the hysterical babble he felt welling in his throat, he took an involuntary step backward ... to collide loudly with a cage of great bats.
Three things happened then in rapid succession before Anderson could gather his wits to flee. All trace of the green glow vanished in an instant, throwing the tent once more into complete darkness; then in contrast, confusing the elder brother, the bright interior lights blinked on; finally, as he sought to recover from his confusion, Hamilton appeared through the partition’s canvas door, his eyes blazing in a face contorted in fury!
“You!” Hamilton spat, striding to Anderson’s side and catching him fiercely by the collar of his dressing gown. “How much have you seen?”
Anderson twisted free and backed away. “I... I saw it all, but I had guessed as much some time ago. Murder—and you my brother!”
“Save your sanctimony,” Hamilton sneered. “If you’ve known so much for so long, then you’re as much a murderer as I am! And anyway”—his eyes seemed visibly to glaze and take on a faraway look—”it wasn’t murder, not as you understand it.”
“Of course not.” Now it was Anderson’s turn to sneer. “It was a—a ‘sacrifice’—to this so-called ‘god’ of yours, Great Cthulhu! And were the others all sacrifices, too?”
“All of them,” Hamilton answered with a nod, automatically, as in a trance.
“Oh? And where’s the money?”
“Money?” The faraway look went out of the younger Tharpe’s eyes immediately. “What money?”
Anderson saw that this was no bluff; his brother’s motive had not been personal gain, at least not in a monetary sense. Which in turn meant—
Had those rumours and unfriendly
whispers heard about the stalls and sideshows—those hints of a looming madness in his brother—had they been more than mere guesswork, then? Surely he would have known. As if in answer to his unspoken question, Hamilton spoke again—and listening to him Anderson believed he had his answer:
“You’re the same as all the others, Anderson—you can’t see beyond the length of your greedy nose. Money? Pah! You think that They are interested in wealth? They are not; neither am I. They have a wealth of aeons behind Them; the future is Theirs...” Again his eyes seemed to glaze over.
“Them? Who do you mean?” Anderson asked, frowning and backing farther away.
“Cthulhu and the others. Cthulhu and the Deep Ones, and Their brothers and kin forever dreaming in the vast vaults beneath. ‘Iä, R’lyeh, Cthulhu fhtagn!’ “
“You’re quite—mad!”
“You think so?” Hamilton quickly followed after him, pushing his face uncomfortably close. “I’m mad, am I? Well, perhaps, but I’ll tell you something: when you and the others like you are reduced to mere cattle, before the Earth is cleared off of life as you know it, a trusted handful of priests will guard the herds for Them—and I shall be a priest among priests, appointed to the service of Great Cthulhu Himself!” His eyes burned feverishly.
