Acolytes of Cthulhu

by Robert M. Price

  “Finally I found that most of their everlasting mutterings centered about some sort of fabulous gems known as the jewels of Charlotte. Nothing more concerning them, however, reached my ears. It was amusing to watch how a group of villagers would suddenly cease their talking at my approach. Toward the last I grew more and more inquisitive about the strange gems and longed for someone to whom I could at least venture my opinions; for my interest had gradually shifted from the dark hillside caverns to the disjointed jargon of the miserable townspeople.

  “Imagine my surprise when, on the sixth day, upon entering my hotel, I found two responsible-looking gentlemen whom I had met several times in Croyden. They were the agents I spoke of. We exchanged greetings, they seeming as pleased as I to find an acquaintance among these surroundings. They had parked their car in the rear, and I had not seen it in approaching the place. Luckily, they had arranged for a room adjoining mine.

  “We immediately became confidential—that is, so far as their professions would allow. I knew that a man-hunt or something equally important was brewing, since two seemed so large a force for so small a hamlet. They had not confided in anyone but the county sheriff, they said, and explained that their purpose must not leak out.

  “Both men were about forty; the eldest, Sargent, doing the most talking. His companion, Roberts, seemed less inclined to speak. They were dressed in civilian clothes, and I doubt if any villager suspected their true identities or purpose. It was only by chance that I learned of their mission at all, and this chance led up to the most unexplainable jumble I’ve ever run into. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.

  “At dinner that evening the two were strangely quiet. At the same table sat a rough-looking individual whom I took to be the sheriff. I was seated in one corner partaking slowly of the meal placed in front of me by the disheveled waiter. The three had not ordered. An unaccountable tenseness reigned over the room. The other occupants went on about their business. A window close by was open, and the distant croaking of frogs came faintly to my ears. The two agents half-faced me while the sheriff was turned squarely in the opposite direction. I bring out these details in view of what subsequently happened. As I said, the frogs were chorusing and the air seemed loaded with an unknown, malign quality.

  “Suddenly, from out of nowhere, there sounded a golden mellow chime. The air was filled with a momentary flood of sweet, sinister music that rang like the voices of woodland nymphs on the cool mountain air. It made my flesh creep. There was a distinct element of the unknown and forbidden in that one elfin-like tone. For an instant the air seemed charged with a vibrant, tangible force—elusive as a rainbow, yet startling and chilling in its utter unearthliness. To say where it came from would be impossible. Simultaneously it seemed to spring from the dark hills and from the very air of the room. I know I must have been startled, for my fingers trembled on the table-top.

  “The effect on the natives was startling. Every one of them froze in attitudes of intense listening. The rugged sheriff cursed under his breath and rose quickly to his feet. The faces of the two marshals showed nothing but awed surprise, and my own must have reflected the same emotion. My God, Single, I can hear that chime ringing yet! A mellow echo; breathtaking in its suddenness, and inherently evil and unreal. I could make nothing of it. About me the few occupants seemed somehow to recognize that note—and to fear it. The sheriff grasped his hat and hurriedly left the ill-lit room, followed by the federal officers, who glanced now and then out the open windows. I heard them pass around to the back, start their powerful automobile, and roar away into the night. I wondered if their destination concerned the haunting, sinister note. I left the dining room, unable to take my thoughts from the thing. I need not describe the utter terror and fear that lined the faces of the people in that room. There was something altogether horrifying in the effect which the one sound had upon them—something that was dimly echoed in my own uneasiness.

  “That night in my room I was awakened by the sound of voices. The strange chime had filled my thoughts before retiring, and I must have slept lightly. The conversation was coming from the adjoining room, the thin walls permitting the words to filter through very distinctly, though, I assure you, I never intended at any time to eavesdrop. My bed was close to the wall. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and saw that a shaft of moonlight played on the bare floor. Then I listened closely to the talking, which originated from the three who had left so mysteriously earlier in the evening.

  “It finally became apparent that they were trailing two suspicious characters who had arrived in Hampdon under great secrecy. I thought it strange that I had neither seen nor heard of their coming, but, as you know, the townfolk had told me absolutely nothing. I expected them to say something concerning the lone chime, and, finally, many moments later, the conversation indeed turned in that direction. I was, of course, wondering why they had not referred to it so far. To my astonishment, the two outsiders knew nothing about it and confessed they were greatly puzzled at the sound. I listened, fairly holding my breath, as they plied the sheriff with questions. He seemed reluctant to talk of it. Some time later, though, after a long interlude of whispering, the fellow began an unusual story. As I remember it, his guttural words told a tale something like this:

  * * *

  “A long time ago, when Hampdon was nothing but a settlement, a strange man and his daughter Charlotte came there from God-knew-where and built a house over by the hills. No one could say just how long ago this was, but the man—now very old—still lived in the same dwelling. People had long since quit going near the rotting place, which crouched under those overhanging cliffs. At any rate, his beautiful daughter Charlotte fell from the high mountains to her death, as the legend went, and the old fellow—his name was Cruth—never recovered from the shock.

  “Some said he built an enormous tomb in the fastness of the hills where he laid his beloved child. Others said he had spirited her away to other places. Most people believed in the hidden tomb. About two years after her death, there arose rumors to the effect that there were gems of uncountable wealth buried within the tomb of Charlotte. No one knew just what they were, though some said diamonds, others pearls, and others opals. An intense longing grew among some of the younger people to subdue Cruth, hunt up the hidden tomb and loot it of its enormous fortune. There was, of course, much uncertainty about the matter, but for years it had been the talk of the townspeople—especially after the occurrence of a certain incident.

  “In the fervor of the new gossip, a group of young men—five in all—decided to explore into the hills in quest of the mysterious sepulcher. This was, of course, nearly twenty years ago, and at the time most of the people had laughed when anyone mentioned the mysterious jewels. No one asked old Cruth about the affair or even cared to. The marauders started out one morning and did not reappear till late evening. They told strange, disjointed tales of finding the hidden place, but of fearing to enter at the last moment for some vague, unstated reason. No person could elicit anything concrete from the five. They seemed reluctant to reveal the incidents of the previous day, and very little was learned of the mysterious tomb.

  “The next day they were off in fevered haste, neglecting to tell anyone just where their find had been made. The townspeople waited another day, still tolerantly amused at the antics of the young men. But that night they did not make an appearance. And they never came back! Not a trace of them was ever found! Dozens of expeditions were sent into the hills, but none of them ever solved the riddle of the missing five. After that, people did not laugh when anyone mentioned the Jewels of Charlotte, as they eventually came to be known. Some doubted the existence of the jewels; the sheriff did himself. But here is the strangest and most significant part of the whole thing. That night when the five were expected back—about eight o’clock—a very peculiar thing occurred. From somewhere in the hills there came a golden, mellow chime! And now that accursed ringing had been heard again—for the only time since then—and people
were counting their families.

  “But that wasn’t all. About a month before, two ragged-looking men had come into Hampdon and settled in a decrepit shack near the place where old man Cruth lived. From the first, the sheriff had not liked their actions; but there was nothing he could pin on them, so he just bided his time. At length, he saw them call on the old man—which was extremely singular, since Cruth had never cared for strangers. The sheriff had hidden in the brush, and when they came out of the house he saw that there was dark hate and anger on their faces. He could hear the old man’s hoarse voice ordering them to take their accursed proposition and get out of his shack. When they had moved off a ways, Cruth stepped out and yelled so loudly that the words were clearly audible to the sheriff—and he never forgot them. The aged man, as he tottered on his feeble legs, had cried: ‘—and if you monkey with those stones, the chime will ring again!’ The sheriff hadn’t known whether they actually read any significance in the phrase, but their faces surely looked as if they had. That had only been two days ago. Then the marshals arrived. ‘Do you wonder,’ concluded the sheriff, ‘that I jumped up and beat it for those fellows’ shack this evening when we heard it? But it was empty—and tonight the thing rang again…’”

  * * *

  “I did not sleep well that night.

  “Upon rising the next morning I decided to make a clean breast of my eavesdropping. At breakfast I told the two marshals what I had heard. At first they were displeased, but in the end they seemed glad to confide in me. The story had affected them fully as much as it had me—indeed, they believed that a sinister element hovered over the whole region and the whole affair. It was an idea that had bothered me a great deal as well. We were talking the matter over when the sheriff arrived and I was introduced to the man to whom I had listened the night before. He was an interesting individual, once one became acquainted with him. Sargent and Roberts explained my interest in the affair and the chance eavesdropping that had occurred. He was more than willing to have another man in the swing.

  “We set out immediately for Cruth’s house to investigate the matter of the two missing men. My own interests centered around the strange sound, and I think the sheriff’s did too. But it was all so hopelessly jumbled that none of us knew just where to start. As the car roared down the road toward the ancient abode I happened to glance at the local officer. His gaze, instead of resting on the rapidly approaching house, was fastened longingly on the forbidding wooded slopes. He had not mentioned that a brother of his had been among the missing five…

  “When we pulled up at the ramshackle dwelling, the only sign of life was a thin ribbon of smoke rising from the leaning chimney. Far above loomed the dark hills and rugged outcroppings of black rock. About the place were tall, moss-covered pines which seemed to shroud the house in a blanket of perpetual gloom.

  “We approached the house and the sheriff rapped on the door. For several moments no sound came from within—then a hobbling movement and the door creaked open. An age-wrinkled face glared out at us. Cruth’s eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and he braced himself feebly against the warped door jamb.

  ‘“What do you want?’ he asked weakly, his lined hands clasped tightly around his cane.

  “Sargent stepped forward. ‘We want to know if you have seen your two neighbors this morning.’

  “‘My neighbors,’ he croaked, ‘those damned thieves aren’t no neighbors of mine! I haven’t seen ’em and I don’t want to!’

  “‘Why not?’ queried Sargent.

  “‘Why?’ wheezed the old man. ‘Because they wanted me to tell them how to get to the tomb of my girl—my little girl—and her pretty stones!’ His voice grew weaker and trailed off. Then suddenly: ‘But I told ’em! I told ’em!—and last night—last night…’ His breath was failing. ‘…the chime—rang—again! The chime! The golden chime! My…’

  “‘Come on, let’s go!’ the sheriff whispered.

  “We complied, but the old fellow still stood in the doorway gibbering, half to himself. We heard his last words faintly, and I shall never forget them.

  “‘—and I think soon the chime will ring—again, for—I know the way well… Through the ancient gate—and beyond—where… in Yith my Charlotte will not—be broken—and I shall pass…’

  “The roar of the motor drowned out further words—words I wish we had listened to—words which might have been the key to the whole thing. As the faded dwelling passed from sight around a curve in the road, I felt a queer tinge of sorrow course through me. The sheriff stared straight into the weaving road. He, too, had heard.

  “We stopped momentarily at the shack where the two fugitives had lived, but found it completely empty, with signs of recent habitation quite evident. The decrepit hut seemed too empty and suggestive after the visit with the old man, and we left hurriedly. It soon disappeared from sight as the car sped down the winding road, and I was relieved to be gone from the mouldering thing that hinted at something wholly alien and sinister; something that should be left undisturbed. It was strange how I felt, for some unexplainable reason, that the former occupants would never return to their lowly dwelling.

  “I left that evening on an outgoing stage—I don’t know whether they ever solved the secret or not; at least nothing ever appeared in the papers. So far as I’m concerned it can stay hidden. The look in old man Cruth’s eyes still lingers hauntingly with me. There was a deep wisdom behind that ancient voice—a wisdom which perhaps should not be discussed.

  “That night as the stage swung up and around the many turns of highway which leads out of Hampdon, I watched the flickering lights of the tiny city fade away in the distance. Far to the west, the afterglow bathed the beetling hills in rosy splendor, and below, deep shadows were gathering in ravines and gulleys. And as the panorama faded slowly from view, I heard, above the roar of the motor, a single haunting, and never to be forgotten, chime that echoed and reechoed faintly in the gathering dusk.”

  THE LETTERS OF COLD FIRE

  BY MANLY WADE WELLMANN

  THE EL HAD ONCE CURVED AROUND A CORNER AND ALONG THIS block of the narrow rough-paved street. Since it had been taken up, the tenements on either side seemed like dissipated old vagabonds, ready to collapse without the support of that scaffolding. Between two such buildings of time-dulled red brick sagged a third, its brickwork thickly coated with cheap yellow paint that might well be the only thing holding it together. The lower story was taken up by the dingiest of hand laundries, and a side door led to the lodgings above. Rowley Thorne addressed a shabby dull-eyed landlord in a language both of them knew:

  “Cavet Leslie is—” he began.

  The landlord shook his head slowly. “Does not leave his bed.”

  “The doctor sees him?”

  “Twice a day. Told me there was no hope, but Cavet Leslie won’t go to a hospital.”

  “Thanks,” and Thorne turned to the door. His big hand was on the knob, its fingertips hooked over the edge. He was a figure inordinately bulky but hard, like a barrel on legs. His head was bald, and his nose hooked, making him look like a wise, wicked eagle.

  “Tell him,” he requested, “that a friend was coming to see him.”

  “I never talk to him,” said the landlord, and Thorne bowed, and left, closing the door behind him.

  Outside the door, he listened. The landlord had gone back into his own dim quarters. Thorne at once tried the knob—the door opened, for in leaving he had taken off the night lock.

  He stole through the windowless vestibule and mounted stairs so narrow that Thorne’s shoulders touched both walls at once. The place had that old-clothes smell of New York’s ancient slum houses. From such rookeries the Five Points and Dead Rabbits gangsters had issued to their joyous gang wars of old, hoodlums had thronged to the Draft Riots of 1863 and the protest against Macready’s performance of Macbeth at Astor Place Opera House… The hallway above was as narrow as the stairs, and darker, but Thorne knew the way to the door he sought. It opened readil
y, for its lock was long out of order.

  The room was more a cell than a room. The plaster, painted a dirt-disguising green, fell away in flakes. Filth and cobwebs clogged the one backward-looking window. The man on the shabby cot stirred, sighed and turned his thin fungus-white face toward the door. “Who’s there?” he quavered wearily.

  Rowley Thorne knelt quickly beside him, bending close like a bird of prey above a carcass. “You were Cavet Leslie,” he said. “Try to remember.”

  A thin twig of a hand crept from under the ragged quilt. It rubbed over closed eyes. “Forbidden,” croaked the man. “I’m forbidden to remember. I forget all but—but—” the voice trailed off, then finished with an effort:

  “My lessons.”

  “You were Cavet Leslie. I am Rowley Thorne.”

  “Rowley Thorne!” The voice was stronger, quicker. “That name will be great in hell.”

  “It will be great on earth,” pronounced Rowley Thorne earnestly. “I came to get your book. Give it to me, Leslie. It’s worth both our lives, and more.”

  “Don’t call me Leslie. I’ve forgotten Leslie—since—”

  “Since you studied in the Deep School,” Thorne finished for him. “I know. You have the book. It is given to all who finish the studies there.”

  “Few finish,” moaned the man on the cot. “Many begin, few finish.”

  “The school is beneath ground,” Thorne said, as if prompting him. “Remember.”

  “Yes, beneath ground. No light must come. It would destroy what is taught. Once there, the scholar remains until he has been taught, or—goes away in the dark.”