by Sax Rohmer
Becoming restless in turn, the speaker stood up and walking to the fireplace flicked off the long cone of grey ash from his cigar. He leant one elbow upon the mantel-piece, resuming his story:
“St. Paul’s had just chimed the half-hour — half-past ten — when my pipe went out. Before I had time to re-light it, came the damnable smell again. At the moment nothing was farther from my mind, and I jumped up with an exclamation of disgust. It seemed to be growing stronger and stronger. I got my pipe alight quickly. Still I could smell it; the aroma of the tobacco did not lessen its beastly pungency in the smallest degree.
“I tilted the shade of my reading-lamp and looked all about. There was nothing unusual to be seen. Both windows were open and I went to one and thrust my head out, in order to learn if the odour came from outside. It did not. The air outside the window was fresh and clean. Then I remembered that when I had left my chambers in the afternoon, the smell had been stronger near the door than anywhere. I ran out to the door. In the passage I could smell nothing; but—”
He paused, glancing at his father.
“Before I had stood there thirty seconds it was rising all about me like the fumes from a crater. By God, sir! I realised then that it was something ... following me!”
Dr. Cairn stood watching him, from the shadows beyond the big table, as he came forward and finished his whisky at a gulp.
“That seemed to work a change in me,” he continued rapidly; “I recognised there was something behind this disgusting manifestation, something directing it; and I recognised, too, that the next move was up to me. I went back to my room. The odour was not so pronounced, but as I stood by the table, waiting, it increased, and increased, until it almost choked me. My nerves were playing tricks, but I kept a fast hold on myself. I set to work, very methodically, and fumigated the place. Within myself I knew that it could do no good, but I felt that I had to put up some kind of opposition. You understand, sir?”
“Quite,” replied Dr. Cairn quietly. “It was an organised attempt to expel the invader, and though of itself it was useless, the mental attitude dictating it was good. Go on.”
“The clocks had chimed eleven when I gave up, and I felt physically sick. The air by this time was poisonous, literally poisonous. I dropped into the easy-chair and began to wonder what the end of it would be. Then, in the shadowy parts of the room, outside the circle of light cast by the lamp, I detected — darker patches. For awhile I tried to believe that they were imaginary, but when I saw one move along the bookcase, glide down its side, and come across the carpet, towards me, I knew that they were not. Before heaven, sir” — his voice shook— “either I am mad, or to-night my room was filled with things that crawled! They were everywhere; on the floor, on the walls, even on the ceiling above me! Where the light was I couldn’t detect them, but the shadows were alive, alive with things — the size of my two hands; and in the growing stillness—”
His voice had become husky. Dr. Cairn stood still, as a man of stone, watching him.
“In the stillness, very faintly, they rustled!”
Silence fell. A car passed outside in Half-Moon Street; its throb died away. A clock was chiming the half-hour after midnight. Dr. Cairn spoke:
“Anything else?”
“One other thing, sir. I was gripping the chair arms; I felt that I had to grip something to prevent myself from slipping into madness. My left hand—” he glanced at it with a sort of repugnance— “something hairy — and indescribably loathsome — touched it; just brushed against it. But it was too much. I’m ashamed to tell you, sir; I screamed, screamed like any hysterical girl, and for the second time, ran! I ran from my own rooms, grabbed a hat and coat; and left my dressing gown on the floor!”
He turned, leaning both elbows on the mantel-piece, and buried his face in his hands.
“Have another drink,” said Dr. Cairn. “You called on Antony Ferrara to-day, didn’t you? How did he receive you?”
“That brings me to something else I wanted to tell you,” continued Robert, squirting soda-water into his glass. “Myra — goes there.”
“Where — to his chambers?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Cairn began to pace the room again.
“I am not surprised,” he admitted; “she has always been taught to regard him in the light of a brother. But nevertheless we must put a stop to it. How did you learn this?”
Robert Cairn gave him an account of the morning’s incidents, describing Ferrara’s chambers with a minute exactness which revealed how deep, how indelible an impression their strangeness had made upon his mind.
“There is one thing,” he concluded, “against which I am always coming up, I puzzled over it at Oxford, and others did, too; I came against it to-day. Who is Antony Ferrara? Where did Sir Michael find him? What kind of woman bore such a son?”
“Stop boy!” cried Dr. Cairn.
Robert started, looking at his father across the table.
“You are already in danger, Rob. I won’t disguise that fact from you. Myra Duquesne is no relation of Ferrara’s; therefore, since she inherits half of Sir Michael’s fortune, a certain course must have suggested itself to Antony. You, patently, are an obstacle! That’s bad enough, boy; let us deal with it before we look for further trouble.”
“He took up a blackened briar from the table and began to load it.
“Regarding your next move,” he continued slowly, “there can be no question. You must return to your chambers!”
“What!”
“There can be no question, Rob. A kind of attack has been made upon you which only you can repel. If you desert your chambers, it will be repeated here. At present it is evidently localised. There are laws governing these things; laws as immutable as any other laws in Nature. One of them is this: the powers of darkness (to employ a conventional and significant phrase) cannot triumph over the powers of Will. Below the Godhead, Will is the supreme force of the Universe. Resist! You must resist, or you are lost!”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean that destruction of mind, and of something more than mind, threatens you. If you retreat you are lost. Go back to your rooms. Seek your foe; strive to haul him into the light and crush him! The phenomena at your rooms belong to one of two varieties; at present it seems impossible to classify them more closely. Both are dangerous, though in different ways. I suspect, however, that a purely mental effort will be sufficient to disperse these nauseous shadow-things. Probably you will not be troubled again to-night, but whenever the phenomena return, take off your coat to them! You require no better companion than the one you had: — Mark Twain! Treat your visitors as one might imagine he would have treated them; as a very poor joke! But whenever it begins again, ring me up. Don’t hesitate, whatever the hour. I shall be at the hospital all day, but from seven onward I shall be here and shall make a point of remaining. Give me a call when you return, now, and if there is no earlier occasion, another in the morning. Then rely upon my active co-operation throughout the following night.”
“Active, sir?”
“I said active, Rob. The next repetition of these manifestations shall be the last. Good-night. Remember, you have only to lift the receiver to know that you are not alone in your fight.”
Robert Cairn took a second cigar, lighted it, finished his whisky, and squared his shoulders.
“Good-night, sir,” he said. “I shan’t run away a third time!”
When the door had closed upon his exit, Dr. Cairn resumed his restless pacing up and down the library. He had given Roman counsel, for he had sent his son out to face, alone, a real and dreadful danger. Only thus could he hope to save him, but nevertheless it had been hard. The next fight would be a fight to the finish, for Robert had said, “I shan’t run away a third time;” and he was a man of his word.
As Dr. Cairn had declared, the manifestations belonged to one of two varieties. According to the most ancient science in the world, the science by which the Egyptians, and
perhaps even earlier peoples, ordered their lives, we share this, our plane of existence, with certain other creatures, often called Elementals. Mercifully, these fearsome entities are invisible to our normal sight, just as the finer tones of music are inaudible to our normal powers of hearing.
Victims of delirium tremens, opium smokers, and other debauchees, artificially open that finer, latent power of vision; and the horrors which surround them are not imaginary but are Elementals attracted to the victim by his peculiar excesses.
The crawling things, then, which reeked abominably might be Elementals (so Dr. Cairn reasoned) superimposed upon Robert Cairn’s consciousness by a directing, malignant intelligence. On the other hand they might be mere glamours — or thought-forms — thrust upon him by the same wizard mind; emanations from an evil, powerful will.
His reflections were interrupted by the ringing of the ‘phone bell. He took up the receiver.
“Hullo!”
“That you, sir? All’s clear here, now. I’m turning in.”
“Right. Good-night, Rob. Ring me in the morning.”
“Good-night, sir.”
Dr. Cairn refilled his charred briar, and, taking from a drawer in the writing table a thick MS., sat down and began to study the closely-written pages. The paper was in the cramped handwriting of the late Sir Michael Ferrara, his travelling companion through many strange adventures; and the sun had been flooding the library with dimmed golden light for several hours, and a bustle below stairs acclaiming an awakened household, ere the doctor’s studies were interrupted. Again, it was the ‘phone bell. He rose, switched off the reading-lamp, and lifted the instrument.
“That you, Rob?”
“Yes, sir. All’s well, thank God! Can I breakfast with you?”
“Certainly, my boy!” Dr. Cairn glanced at his watch. “Why, upon my soul it’s seven o’clock!”
CHAPTER VI
THE BEETLES
Sixteen hours had elapsed and London’s clocks were booming eleven that night, when the uncanny drama entered upon its final stage. Once more Dr. Cairn sat alone with Sir Michael’s manuscript, but at frequent intervals his glance would stray to the telephone at his elbow. He had given orders to the effect that he was on no account to be disturbed and that his car should be ready at the door from ten o’clock onward.
As the sound of the final strokes was dying away the expected summons came. Dr. Cairn’s jaw squared and his mouth was very grim, when he recognised his son’s voice over the wires.
“Well, boy?”
“They’re here, sir — now, while I’m speaking! I have been fighting — fighting hard — for half an hour. The place smells like a charnel-house and the — shapes are taking definite, horrible form! They have ... eyes!” His voice sounded harsh. “Quite black the eyes are, and they shine like beads! It’s gradually wearing me down, although I have myself in hand, so far. I mean I might crack up — at any moment. Bah!—”
His voice ceased.
“Hullo!” cried Dr. Cairn. “Hullo, Rob!”
“It’s all right, sir,” came, all but inaudibly. “The — things are all around the edge of the light patch; they make a sort of rustling noise. It is a tremendous, conscious effort to keep them at bay. While I was speaking, I somehow lost my grip of the situation. One — crawled ... it fastened on my hand ... a hairy, many-limbed horror.... Oh, my God! another is touching....”
“Rob! Rob! Keep your nerve, boy! Do you hear?”
“Yes — yes—” faintly.
“Pray, my boy — pray for strength, and it will come to you! You must hold out for another ten minutes. Ten minutes — do you understand?”
“Yes! yes! — Merciful God! — if you can help me, do it, sir, or—”
“Hold out, boy! In ten minutes you’ll have won.”
Dr. Cairn hung up the receiver, raced from the library, and grabbing a cap from the rack in the hall, ran down the steps and bounded into the waiting car, shouting an address to the man.
Piccadilly was gay with supper-bound theatre crowds when he leapt out and ran into the hall-way which had been the scene of Robert’s meeting with Myra Duquesne. Dr. Cairn ran past the lift doors and went up the stairs three steps at a time. He pressed his finger to the bell-push beside Antony Ferrara’s door and held it there until the door opened and a dusky face appeared in the opening.
The visitor thrust his way in, past the white-clad man holding out his arms to detain him.
“Not at home, effendim—”
Dr. Cairn shot out a sinewy hand, grabbed the man — he was a tall fellahîn — by the shoulder, and sent him spinning across the mosaic floor of the mandarah. The air was heavy with the perfume of ambergris.
Wasting no word upon the reeling man, Dr. Cairn stepped to the doorway. He jerked the drapery aside and found himself in a dark corridor. From his son’s description of the chambers he had no difficulty in recognising the door of the study.
He turned the handle — the door proved to be unlocked — and entered the darkened room.
In the grate a huge fire glowed redly; the temperature of the place was almost unbearable. On the table the light from the silver lamp shed a patch of radiance, but the rest of the study was veiled in shadow.
A black-robed figure was seated in a high-backed, carved chair; one corner of the cowl-like garment was thrown across the table. Half rising, the figure turned — and, an evil apparition in the glow from the fire, Antony Ferrara faced the intruder.
Dr. Cairn walked forward, until he stood over the other.
“Uncover what you have on the table,” he said succinctly.
Ferrara’s strange eyes were uplifted to the speaker’s with an expression in their depths which, in the Middle Ages, alone would have sent a man to the stake.
“Dr. Cairn—”
The husky voice had lost something of its suavity.
“You heard my order!”
“Your order! Surely, doctor, since I am in my own—”
“Uncover what you have on the table. Or must I do so for you!”
Antony Ferrara placed his hand upon the end of the black robe which lay across the table.
“Be careful, Dr. Cairn,” he said evenly. “You — are taking risks.”
Dr. Cairn suddenly leapt, seized the shielding hand in a sure grip and twisted Ferrara’s arm behind him. Then, with a second rapid movement, he snatched away the robe. A faint smell — a smell of corruption, of ancient rottenness — arose on the superheated air.
A square of faded linen lay on the table, figured with all but indecipherable Egyptian characters, and upon it, in rows which formed a definite geometrical design, were arranged a great number of little, black insects.
Dr. Cairn released the hand which he held, and Ferrara sat quite still, looking straight before him.
“Dermestes beetles! from the skull of a mummy! You filthy, obscene beast!”
Ferrara spoke, with a calm suddenly regained:
“Is there anything obscene in the study of beetles?”
“My son saw these things here yesterday; and last night, and again to-night, you cast magnified doubles — glamours — of the horrible creatures into his rooms! By means which you know of, but which I know of, too, you sought to bring your thought-things down to the material plane.”
“Dr. Cairn, my respect for you is great; but I fear that much study has made you mad.”
Ferrara reached out his hand towards an ebony box; he was smiling.
“Don’t dare to touch that box!”
He paused, glancing up.
“More orders, doctor?”
“Exactly.”
Dr. Cairn grabbed the faded linen, scooping up the beetles within it, and, striding across the room, threw the whole unsavoury bundle into the heart of the fire. A great flame leapt up; there came a series of squeaky explosions, so that, almost, one might have imagined those age-old insects to have had life. Then the doctor turned again.
Ferrara leapt to his feet with a cry that had i
n it something inhuman, and began rapidly to babble in a tongue that was not European. He was facing Dr. Cairn, a tall, sinister figure, but one hand was groping behind him for the box.
“Stop that!” rapped the doctor imperatively— “and for the last time do not dare to touch that box!”
The flood of strange words was dammed. Ferrara stood quivering, but silent.
“The laws by which such as you were burnt — the wise laws of long ago — are no more,” said Dr. Cairn. “English law cannot touch you, but God has provided for your kind!”
“Perhaps,” whispered Ferrara, “you would like also to burn this box to which you object so strongly?”
“No power on earth would prevail upon me to touch it! But you — you have touched it — and you know the penalty! You raise forces of evil that have lain dormant for ages and dare to wield them. Beware! I know of some whom you have murdered; I cannot know how many you have sent to the madhouse. But I swear that in future your victims shall be few. There is a way to deal with you!”
He turned and walked to the door.
“Beware also, dear Dr. Cairn,” came softly. “As you say, I raise forces of evil—”
Dr. Cairn spun about. In three strides he was standing over Antony Ferrara, fists clenched and his sinewy body tense in every fibre. His face was pale, as was apparent even in that vague light, and his eyes gleamed like steel.
“You raise other forces,” he said — and his voice, though steady was very low; “evil forces, also.”
Antony Ferrara, invoker of nameless horrors, shrank before him — before the primitive Celtic man whom unwittingly he had invoked. Dr. Cairn was spare and lean, but in perfect physical condition. Now he was strong, with the strength of a just cause. Moreover, he was dangerous, and Ferrara knew it well.
“I fear—” began the latter huskily.
“Dare to bandy words with me,” said Dr. Cairn, with icy coolness, “answer me back but once again, and before God I’ll strike you dead!”
Ferrara sat silent, clutching at the arms of his chair, and not daring to raise his eyes. For ten magnetic seconds they stayed so, then again Dr. Cairn turned, and this time walked out.
