Acolytes of Cthulhu

by Robert M. Price

  “Along about that time, a lot of livestock was disappearing. And a few children. It seems that Zickler had them all carefully recorded, but it’s hard to place any of these circumstances consecutively; as Lyle read to me he kept skipping about in the diary haphazardly, looking up every once in a while to see what impression it made.

  “There was one place where Zickler hinted at being dissatisfied and restless and wanting to learn more, but to do that he would have to look up a certain passage in the Necronomicon. He mentioned saving his money so he could take a trip over to Arkham, to look into the copy of the Necronomicon it is rumored they have hidden away in the Miskatonic University there. But evidently he never did make the trip. At least, there’s no mention of it, and Lyle tells me that Zick never left Vecra. Died a natural death here, though he was mumbling bizarre things on his deathbed.”

  We walked on to the south field, where we found Eb Corey busily plowing. He stopped for a while and watched Bruce poking around in the ground at various spots.

  “I’ll bet you never saw any soil like that before,” Eb said grimly as Bruce straightened up with a sample.

  “You’d win that bet all right. Look at this stuff, will you?” And Bruce handed a clod to me. It was the most peculiar looking soil I had ever seen—a queer grayish color, almost powdery, though it wasn’t dry. More like slightly damp ashes. It seemed tainted somehow, and evil—even felt tainted to the touch, not like fresh clean earth should. I dropped it, repressing a shudder, and wiped my fingers clean.

  Bruce looked at Eb in amazement. “Do you mean to say that things grow in this?”

  “Oh, sure. Tain’t near so bad down on this end as it is closer to the house.”

  “Closer to the old graveyard, you mean?”

  Eb looked at Bruce, then shrugged. “Well, same thing. Not as bad as it was in my grandfather’s day, either. Only thing is, stuff don’t quite get to normal size somehow; and often as not, I raise some things that are might—well, queer, distorted like. But it all seems eatable enough.”

  “I wonder what your grandfather thought about this land. He must have had some idea about it…”

  Eb shrugged again. “No telling what grandfather Zickler thought, especially in his last years. He was half crazy then, everybody knew that. All I can say is, he was drove to it—or drove hisself to it. I remember him saying once that the land didn’t belong to us nohow. And the way he said it, he didn’t mean just this little piece of land—he meant all the land everywhere, I guess. It give me the creeps the way he used to talk. Said something about we was here just temporary, like, and someday They would wake and claim the land that was rightfully theirs. He used to mention They sort of reverent like.”

  There was an awakened light of interest in Bruce’s eyes as he tried to press this point. “He didn’t say how or when this was to happen? He didn’t mention certain names, such as—Lloigor? Or B’Moth? Or Ftakhar?”

  But Eb didn’t seem to remember. Old Zickler had spoken too many queer words. Bruce put a sample of that evil soil in an envelope, and before we left he asked one more question, “Eb, do you remember Lyle Wilson taking a trip to Arkham fairly recently? Maybe he said something about visiting the Miskatonic University library…?”

  “Nope,” Eb shook his head. Then he seemed to remember something. “Maybe you mean that time a little more than a year ago; Wilson made a trip then, was gone two or three days, but he never breathed a word to anybody where he’d been.”

  “Thanks.” Bruce seemed deeply immersed in thought. Corey resumed his plowing, and Bruce and I cut across a field toward the ravine. It was quite steep where we reached it, full of small trees and scrub bushes. In the direction of the house, however, a quarter of a mile away, it shallowed into a little gully that ended by the edge of the old graveyard. Bruce looked intently down into the ravine for a moment, then turned away.

  “What did you mean by those names you asked Corey?” I said, as we walked back to the house. “And what do they mean? Lord knows I won’t attempt to pronounce them the way you did!” And I laughed.

  Bruce didn’t laugh.

  “What do they mean?” he repeated. His voice was different than I had ever heard it. “I had come almost to believe that they meant nothing, that they were only names. But now—my god, I’m beginning to believe again.

  Do there really exist embodiments of those names? Perhaps old Zickler knew. And others, from time to time. After all, those names and the rumors and the books do persist through the years, and where there is legend there is a basis of fact, if only it could be traced back through the eons.”

  That was all I got from Bruce. But he didn’t need to tell me more. For a long time I had been aware, disinterestedly, of his study of ancient lores. I knew he had in his library a certain shelf of old books, besides scores of fiction pieces on the subject. I had read a few of the fiction pieces, and was amused. Deep in my mind was the safe and comfortable knowledge that they were fiction and nothing more.

  But now I wasn’t so sure, and I didn’t feel so safe. Perhaps all that fiction, after all, had been based on—on something I didn’t like to think of. My vague perturbation was enhanced by the way Bruce had said those words: “But now—my god, I’m beginning to believe again!”

  * * *

  Just how much Bruce believed, I don’t know. Nor what he was trying to learn, nor why he left his room that night. I doubt now if I could have acted in any way to stop him, even if I had known. The one fact I see clearly now is that neither of us then realized how slowly and insidiously everything was building up to that tragic climax…

  That night after supper, Bruce went upstairs to his room—intending, he said, to look more carefully into those ancient books. I stepped outdoors to smoke my pipe; somehow I always enjoy it more outdoors and at night—it helps me to think, and that’s what I needed to do. In a muddled sort of way I was trying to decide how much of this “ancient lore” business I dared, and how much I feared, to believe. I only knew that I liked this place less and less, and if Bruce didn’t want to leave in the morning, I would take the car myself.

  Finding I was nearly out of tobacco, I walked down to Lyle Wilson’s store. The place was dark. I stepped onto the porch and was about to try the door, thinking perhaps he hadn’t locked up yet; but then I decided he must be in bed, and I had better wait until morning. I stepped off the porch and was almost out to the road again, when I heard his front door open. I turned and was about to call out to him… when something stopped me.

  It may have been partly intuition, but mainly it was Lyle’s actions. I could see him only dimly, and apparently he did not see me at all. But the way he closed his door ever so softly, and crept furtively across the porch interested me. He disappeared around the corner of his store, and I followed.

  He passed through a gate at the rear of his property, crossed a field, climbed a low fence into another field. I stayed a safe distance behind him, just keeping him in sight. I could barely make out something that he carried under his arm—apparently a thick book; undoubtedly the diary that both he and Bruce seemed so interested in.

  I soon saw that he was heading for the ravine. Undoubtedly he had traveled this route before, because he seemed very sure of his direction and seemed to be heading for a certain point. I lost him in the dark for a moment, hurried forward, bumped into the low-hanging branches of a tree and scratched my face. When I reached the ravine he had disappeared entirely, but I could hear him faintly as he climbed down some path near by. I searched for a few minutes; finally finding it, I descended.

  Rather, I skidded, rolled and tumbled down that steep path in the dark, arriving at the bottom by the simple expedient of plunging head first the last five feet. I arose and brushed off my clothes. By that time, Lyle Wilson had disappeared entirely. I couldn’t hear a sound, couldn’t even guess which direction he’d taken. And if the night were dark before, it was positively Stygian at the bottom of this ravine.

  As disgruntled as I was puzzle
d, I tried to climb back up the path. But I couldn’t. I stood there for a minute, nursing my bruises and cursing myself for a fool. Then I remembered that the ravine became shallower until it led out by the edge of the graveyard a quarter of a mile away. The only thing to do was to follow it in that direction. After all, I decided, I might come upon Wilson again.

  But I didn’t see him. Once I stopped, thinking I heard the sound of metal striking on metal, but I didn’t hear it again. I proceeded in the dark, avoiding small clumps of bushes and trees as best I could. It wasn’t until I was almost at the graveyard that I remembered—suddenly, disturbingly—something Eb Corey had said; about the youngest Munroe boy who had been playing in the ravine, and had run home to tell his mother he’d seen his lost brother’s face, “with a lot of others.”

  At the thought of it, I hurried my steps. I cut across a corner of the graveyard to the house. Looking up at the window of the rear room, I saw no light there. Thinking Bruce must be asleep, I went around the house, entered the front door a bit breathlessly, and hurried upstairs.

  I had intended to waken Bruce, if necessary, to tell him of Lyle Wilson’s nocturnal excursion, for it might mean something to him. I pushed open the door and entered his room, and moved through the darkness to the table and the dimly-seen oil lamp. I searched in my pocket for a match, while with the other hand I fumbled for the lamp.

  “Damn!” My searching fingers had found the lamp all right, and I had burned them on the still hot glass chimney. Bruce must have turned it off no more than a few minutes before. I finally managed to light it again, and as the shadows flickered about the room, I saw that Bruce wasn’t there at all, nor had his bed been slept in. Perhaps he had stepped out for a breath of air.

  On the table one of the heavy tomes lay open, which I recognized as Monstres and Their Kynde. Beside it was a soft-leaded pencil. Then I noticed that Bruce apparently had been checking certain passages with the pencil, very lightly on the crisp yellowish pages.

  I decided to wait for him, so drew up a chair and began to read those passages which Bruce had so painstakingly marked. Now, after twelve years, I cannot precisely remember those excerpts; but I do know they were in a quaint old English spelling, and the first paragraph to strike my eye was almost as follows:

  These be nott manifest, but They do wait in patience for a tyme that ys nott yet. Of a hydeous potency be ye blackeness wherein They dwell, for They do nott always sleep. They be remote one from another; nonetheless They do have a devious yntercourse. Beneath that far Northe, in ye ancient tymes yclept Hyperborea, do They wait. Afar in ye East, beneath vaste plateaus, They be rumoured. In ye new darke lands across ye seas They surely be. Men of ye sea have whispered of unspeakable manifestations on strange islands. Indeede there be fearfulle rumour of ye fate of men who go down with doomed shippes. These Creatures be nameless, but assuredly must They be spawned of ancient B’Moth and Ftakhar, Lloigor and Kathuln and ye others. In silence do They await ye call of those Elder Ones…

  I stopped reading there, aware that this all sounded vaguely familiar. I must have read similar things in other old books of Bruce’s. I turned a few pages to see if he had checked other passages. He had.

  “Some mortals there do be who revere Them, and some fewe also whom They instruct in a certain wyse. One of these was ye Eybon of that ancient Hyperborea, and there have been others.” Suddenly startled, I remembered old Zickler sitting at that very window talking a sort of gibberish to something in the tomb, which he hinted had answered him. Now I read on, suddenly eager, seeking out those passages which Bruce had marked:

  There be divers ways, mostly forgotte, in whych They may be awakened; and it ys then that They become resteless and impatient for ye tyme, and provoke Their powers. One of ye ways, as sette down by Eybon in hys Booke, doth follow…

  Here there was only the beginning of a long incantation of indistinguishable words. Most of it had faded away, as though from constant reference to this page. As I thought again of old Zickler sitting mumbling at this window, my interest surpassed all previous bounds. I turned back a few pages, to where Bruce had first begun marking.

  So evyl They be, that ye lande whych under They lie doth become strangely polluted, and ye very soil dothe crawle, and strangely be ye thynges whych growe thereon… Alhazred in hys chronicle hath avowed: that whomesoever be attracted unto Them (by ye nefarious ynfluence whych They project when invoked), doth remain forever a parte of Them, nott dead, but newe and oddly bodied, instructing ye very grounde and adding to ye power of Them… also hath Alhazred said: evyl ye Mynde whych ys helde by no Hedde, and dyre ys ye grounde whych…

  For the moment I stopped reading there, and my eyes skipped over to the next page where Bruce seemed to have underlined several of the statements, as if they were of the utmost importance. I read that passage carefully.

  But Some there be amonge Them, whych wait resteless and impatient for ye tyme. ’Tis said these fewe do inherit ye Elder Power to attracte unto Them small animals; then ye cattle and smalle children; then ye weake and ye sycke; then whychever men who sleepe close to Them, upon ye whom They do project a kynde of Dreame. ’Tis also said, that whom-so-ever be thusly attracted unto Them, doth become a Part of Them (thate ys to saye, ye All-in-One whych ye Elder Ones await), and doth instruct ye Creatures and ye very grounde in whych They be. In thys wyse (when ye tyme doth come) shall They enjoy ye ultimate consummation; thusly shalle They inherit ye lande again whych once was Theirs.

  That is as much as I read. I remembered old Zickler’s statement about the earth not belonging to us. I remembered Mrs. Corey’s vague hintings of people who had slept in this room, and who had dreamed and then disappeared. I remembered Bruce’s dream the previous night, of the graveyard and the tomb behind this house. For perhaps five minutes I sat there in the flickering lamplight, remembering these and other things. Suddenly I leaped to my feet, shuddering, an icy-cold wave of horror sweeping over me. Here I had been sitting waiting for Bruce to come back!

  In that moment I knew what I must do. I went leaping down the stairway out into the dark night, and around to the side of the house where we had left the car. The .45 automatic that Bruce usually carried in the glove compartment was gone. So was the flashlight. Anyway, it made no difference now. I found another flashlight in my kit; the batteries were very weak, but I was thankful for it.

  I went through the gap in the fence, and down that path behind the house toward the tomb. I remembered Bruce’s description of his dream, wherein something had drawn him here against his will. Nothing was drawing me, of that I was certain.

  How true is the saying, “Fools rush in…”

  Not until I was standing right before the tomb did I see that Bruce had indeed been there. The heavy plank door was pulled slightly ajar, making a little arc in the dirt. The iron chain which had held it was now broken. It was a tight squeeze, since the door would open no further, but I finally managed to enter. Flashing my light around, I saw a few mouldering wooden coffins at one side. I scarcely glanced at them. Instead, I examined the cement walls that were damp and musty.

  Then I gave a start of surprise. Without quite knowing what I was looking for, I had found it! At the rear of the tomb, I saw a roughly rectangular hole in the cement. Quickly I crossed to it. I flashed my light into a passage that led slightly downward for about ten feet, then seemed to level off. Determined now to go where Bruce had gone, I bent low and squeezed into the passage.

  At the bottom of the slight incline, I again flashed my light ahead. Then my heart pounded in excitement and amazement. The passage was narrow, but high enough for a man to stand erect—and it extended far beyond the feeble beam of my flashlight! I moved slowly ahead. Soon I began to distinguish what seemed to be other smaller passages branching off, but what struck me so forcibly was that this main passage seemed to extend straight toward the ravine!

  There was a stagnant, loathsome stench that seemed to roll over me in tangible waves. I touched the earth walls, a
nd recoiled. It was the same dampish, grayish kind of soil Bruce had examined, but much worse. It was slimy; it seemed to crawl under my touch as though it were alive. I came near then to giving up and going back; but, gritting my teeth, I went on.

  My foot struck something hard. I bent, fumbled, and picked it up. It was Bruce’s automatic. It still felt faintly warm. I knew it had been fired. Now there was no more doubt—only a vague fear and foreboding. I stood there in that noisome passage, holding the gun that had been fired, wondering what I should do next.

  It was decided for me. Just then I heard the sound. Quickly I snapped off the flashlight and stood there in the dark, tense and listening. My heart pounded blood into my ears so that I could hardly hear the sound when it came again. But I heard it all right—faint and far away, not close as I had first thought.

  The sound was a voice. A blurred and mumbled voice that seemed to chant, and the chant was a thing obscene and alien for all its vagueness—of that much I was sure. Quite still I stood and listened, and still the sound came, faintly from far away down that passage toward the ravine. It seemed jubilant and joyous; now uttering paeans of praise, now again descending to a garbled undertone of obscene implications that made my flesh crawl, despite that I could distinguish none of the words.

  I knew, as I stood there listening to that loathsome ritual, that there were things I should piece together—something to do with Lyle Wilson—but somehow I couldn’t remember any more; my thoughts were becoming jumbled and uncertain. Not daring to use the flashlight, I moved warily forward a few more paces.

  “Bruce!” I called softly, and listened. Then a bit louder: “Bruce! Can you hear me? You must be in here!”

  Then—oh god!—then I heard a sound that was not the chanting, a sound much closer, just ahead of me. I stopped and listened and didn’t breathe. Something a few yards away was moving toward me in the darkness.

  “Bruce, is that you?” I called again.

  And suddenly I knew those were not footsteps nor anything resembling footsteps, nor anything I had ever heard before.