by Sax Rohmer
“He has always avoided a direct answer when I have asked him that,” she said. “But it is only reasonable to suppose that it does. His translation of the writing I have never seen. But he has been dieting in a most extraordinary manner for nearly a year! Since the workmen completed it, no one but himself has been inside the chamber which he has had constructed at the end of his study; and he spends hours and hours there every day — and every night!”
Her anxiety became more evident with each word.
“You saw that he ate nothing at dinner,” she continued, and taxed him with faddism. “But it is something more than that. Why has he sent the servants away to-night? Oh, Dr. Fairbank! I have a dreadful foreboding! I am so afraid!”
The light in her eyes, suddenly upturned to him in the vague half-light, the tone in her voice, the appeal in her attitude — were unmistakable. Fairbank had been abroad for three years, and I could see that between these two was an undeclared love, and almost I felt that I intruded. Moris Klaw looked away for a moment, too. Then —
“My dear young lady,” he rumbled, paternally, “do not be afraid. I, the old know-all, so fortunately am here! Perhaps there is danger — yes, I admit it; there may be danger. But it is such danger as dwells here” — he tapped his yellow brow— “it is a danger of the mind. For thoughts are things, Miss Brearley — that is where it lies, the peril — and thought-things can kill!”
“Ailsa! Fairbank! Mr. Klaw!” came Brearley’s voice. “We have none too much time!”
“Proceed, my friends,” rumbled Moris Klaw; “I am with you.” And, oddly enough, I was comforted by his presence; so, it was evident, were the girl and the doctor; for Moris Klaw, beneath that shabby, ramshackle exterior, Moris Klaw, the Wapping curio-dealer was a man of power — an intellectual ark of refuge.
In the Egyptologist’s study all appeared much the same as when last I had set foot there. The cases filled with vases, scarabs, tablets, weapons, and the hundred-and-one relics of the great, dead age with which the student had surrounded himself; the sarcophagi; the frames of papyri: all seemed familiar.
“We must begin almost immediately!” he said, as we entered.
A danger-spot burned lividly upon either pale cheek. His eyes gleamed brilliantly. The prolonged excitement of his strange experiment was burning the man up. His nerve-centres must be taxed abnormally I knew.
Brearley glanced at his watch.
“I must be very brief,” he explained hurriedly, “as it is vitally important that I commence in time. Beyond the book-case, there, you will see that a part of the room has been walled off.”
We looked in the direction indicated. Although it was not noticeable at first glance I now saw that the apartment was, indeed, smaller than formerly. The usual books covered the new wall, giving it much the same aspect as the old; but, where hitherto there had been nothing but shelves, a small, narrow door of black wood now broke the imposing expanse of faded volumes.
“In there,” Brearley resumed, “is the Secret Place described by Khamus!”
He placed his long, thin hand upon a yellow roll that lay partly opened on the table.
“No one but myself may enter there — until after to-night, at any rate!” with a glance at Moris Klaw. “To the most minute particular” — patting the papyrus— “it is equipped as Khamus describes. For many months I have prepared myself, by fasting and meditation, as he prepared! There was, as no doubt you know, a widespread belief in ancient times that for any but the chosen to look upon the goddess was death. As I admit the possibility of Isis existing I must also admit the possibility of this belief being true — the more so as it is confirmed by Khamus! Therefore none may enter with me.”
“One moment, Mr. Brearley,” interrupted Klaw; “in what form does Khamus relate that the goddess appeared?”
A cloud crossed Brearley’s face.
“It is the one point upon which he is not clear,” was the reply. “I do not know, in the least, what to expect!”
“Go on!” I said, quickly. Although I seriously doubted my poor friend’s sanity, I began to find the affair weirdly, uncannily fascinating.
Brearley continued —
“The ritual opens with a chant, which I may broadly translate as ‘The Hymn of Dedication.’ Its exact purport is not very clear to me. This hymn is the only part of the ceremony in which I am assisted. It is to be ‘sung by a virgin beyond the door.’ That is, directly I have entered yonder it must be sung out here. Ailsa has composed a sort of chant to the words, which, I think, is the proper kind of setting. Have you not, Ailsa?”
She bowed her graceful head, glancing, under her lashes, towards Fairbank.
“She has learned the words — for, of course, it must be sung in Egyptian—”
“But have no idea of their meaning,” said his sister, softly.
“That is unnecessary,” he went on, quickly. “After this, I want you all just to remain here in this room. I am afraid you will have to sit in the dark! Any sounds which you detect, please note. I will not tell you what to expect, then imagination cannot deceive you. I will be back in a moment.”
With another hasty glance at his watch, he went out in high excitement.
“Please,” began Ailsa Brearley, the moment he was gone, “do not think that because I assist him I approve of this attempt! I think it is horrible! But what am I to do? He is wrapped up in it! I dare not try to check him!”
“We understand that,” said Fairbank; “all of us. Do as he desires. When he has made the attempt, and failed — as, of course, he must do — the folly of the whole thing will become apparent to him. Do not let it worry you, Miss Brearley. Your brother is not the first man to succumb, temporarily, to the glamour of the Unknown.”
She shook her head sadly.
“It is an unpleasant farce,” she said. “But there is something more in it than that.”
Her blue eyes were full of trouble.
“What do you mean, Miss Brearley?” asked Moris Klaw.
“I hardly know, myself!” was the reply; “but for the past two months an indefinable horror of some kind has been growing upon me.”
With a deep sigh, she turned to a tall case and took from it a kind of slender harp. The instrument, of which the frame, at any rate, was evidently ancient Egyptian work, rested upon a claw-shaped pedestal.
“Do you play this? Yes? No?” inquired Moris Klaw, with interest.
“Yes,” she said, wearily. “It comes from the tomb of a priestess of Isis and was played by her in the temple. It is scaled differently from the modern harp, but any one with a slight knowledge of the ordinary harp, or even of the piano, can perform upon it with ease. It is sweet toned, but — creepy!”
She smiled slightly at her own expression, and I was glad to see it.
Brearley returned.
He wore a single, loose garment of white linen, and thin sandals were upon his feet. Save for his long, fair hair, he looked a true pagan priest, his eyes bright with the fire of research that consumed him, his features gaunt, ascetic.
Some ghost of his old humorous expression played, momentarily, about his lips as he observed the astonishment depicted upon our faces. But it was gone almost in the moment of its coming.
“You wonder at me, no doubt,” he said; “and at times I have wondered at myself! Do not think me fanatic. I scarcely hope for any result. But remembering that the writing is authentic and that there prevails, to this day, a wide-spread belief in the occult wisdom of the Egyptians, why should not this problem in psychics receive the same attention from me that one in physics would receive from you, Fairbank?”
There was reason in his argument and in his manner of advancing it. Fairbank glanced from Brearley to the girl sitting with her white hands listlessly caressing the harp-strings. The silence of the great, empty house grew oppressive. Suppose the ancients indeed possessed the strange lore attributed to them? Suppose in those Dark Continents, the Past and the Future, somewhere in the vast unknown, there
existed a power, a being, a spirit, named by the Egyptians, Isis?
Those were my thoughts, when Moris Klaw said suddenly —
“Mr. Brearley, it is not yet too late to turn back! This sensitive plate” — he tapped his forehead— “warns me that some evil thought-thing hovers about us! You are about to give form to that thought-being. Be wise, Mr. Brearley — abandon your experiment!”
His tone surprised every one. Otter Brearley looked at him, with an odd expression, and then glanced at the watch upon the writing-table.
“Mr. Klaw,” he said, quietly, “I had hoped for a different attitude in you; but if you really disapprove of what I am about to attempt, I can only ask you to withdraw; it is too late for further arguments—”
“I remain, my friend! I spoke not for myself — my life has been passed in this coping with evil things; I spoke for others.”
None of us entirely understood his words, but Brearley went on, impatiently —
“Listen, please. I rely upon your co-operation. From now onward I require absolute silence. Whatever happens make no noise.”
“I shall not be noisy, I, my friend!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “I am the old silent; I watch and wait — until I am wanted.”
He shrugged his shoulders and nodded, significantly.
“Good!” said Brearley and his voice quivered with excitement; “then the experiment, the final experiment, has begun!”
III
He suddenly extinguished the light.
Passing to a window, he looked up to the moon, and, a moment later, lowered the blind. Dimly visible, in his white garment, he crossed the room. He might be heard unfastening the door of the inner chamber, and a faint, church-like smell crept to our nostrils. The door closed.
Immediately the harp sounded.
Its tone was peculiar — uncomfortable. The strain which Ailsa played was a mere repetition of three notes. Then she began to sing.
Our eyes becoming more accustomed to the gloom, we could vaguely discern her, now; the soft outlines of her figure; the white, ghost-like fingers straying over the strings of the instrument. The music of the chant was very monotonous, and weird to a marked degree. The sound of that ancient tongue, dead for many ages, chanted softly by Ailsa Brearley’s beautiful voice, was almost incredibly eerie. I found myself gripped hard by a powerful sense of the uncanny.
No other sound was audible. Throughout the rambling old house intense silence prevailed. A slight breeze stirred the cedars, outside. Every now and again it came — like a series of broken sighs.
How long the chant lasted, I cannot pretend to state. It seemed interminable. I became aware of a curious sense of physical loss. I found myself drawn to high tension, as though the continuance of the chant demanded a vast effort on my part. Though I told myself that imagination was tricking me, the music seemed to be draining my nerve force!
Ailsa’s voice grew louder and clearer, until the queer words, of unknown purport, rang out passionately, imperatively.
She ceased.
In the ensuing silence, I could hear distinctly Moris Klaw’s heavy breathing. A compelling atmosphere of mystery had grown up about us. Repel it how we might, it was there — commanding acknowledgment.
Fairbank, who sat nearest, was the first to see Ailsa Brearley rise, unsteadily, and move in the direction of the study door.
Something in her manner alarmed us all, and the doctor quietly left his seat and followed her. As she quitted the room, he came out behind her; and in the better light on the landing, as he told us later, saw that she was deathly pale.
“Miss Brearley!” he said.
She turned.
“Ssh!” she whispered, anxiously, “it is nothing — Dr. Fairbank. The excitement has made me rather faint, that is all. I shall go to my room and lie down. Believe me, I am quite well!”
“But there is no servant in the house,” he whispered, “if you should become worse—”
“If I need anything I shall not hesitate to ring,” she answered. “It is so still, you will hear the bell. Please go back! He has hoped so much from this.”
Fairbank was nonplussed. But the appeal was so obviously sincere, and the situation so difficult, that he saw no alternative. Ailsa Brearley passed along the corridor. Fairbank slipped back into the study, where Moris Klaw and I anxiously awaited him.
From the inner room came Brearley’s voice, muffled.
The long vigil began.
I found myself claimed by the all-pervading spirit of mystery. For some little time I listened in expectation of hearing Ailsa Brearley returning. But soon the strange business of the night claimed my mind, to the exclusion of every other idea. I found myself listening only for Brearley’s muffled voice. Although the half-audible words were meaningless, their sound assumed, as time wore on, a curious significance. They seemed potent with a strange power proceeding not from them, but to them.
Then I heard a new sound.
Fairbank heard it — for I saw him start, and Moris Klaw muttered something.
It did not come from the trees outside, nor from the inner room. It was somewhere in the house.
A faint rattling it was, bell-like but toneless.
Brearley’s voice had ceased.
Again the sound arose — nearer.
I turned my head toward Fairbank, and seemed to perceive him more clearly. I had less difficulty in distinguishing the objects about.
Again it came — the shivering, bell-like sound.
Even the strings of the harp were visible, now.
“Curse me!” came Moris Klaw’s hoarse whisper; “it seems to grow light! That is a delusion of the mind, my friends — repel it — repel it!”
Fairbank drew a quick, sibilant breath. A half-suppressed exclamation from Klaw followed; for the high-pitched rattle came from close at hand! The sense of the supernormal had grown unbearable. Fairbank’s science, and my own semi-scepticism, were but weapons of sand against it.
The door opened silently, admitting a flood of the soft moon-like radiance. And Ailsa Brearley entered!
Her slim figure was bathed in light; her fair hair, unbound, swept like a gleaming torrent about her shoulders. She looked magnificently, unnaturally beautiful. A diaphanous veil was draped over her face. From her radiant figure I turned away my head in sudden, stark fear!
Fairbank, clutching the arms of his chair, seemed to strive to look away, too.
Her widely opened eyes, visible even through the veil, were awful in their supernormal, significant beauty. Was it Ailsa Brearley? I clenched my fists convulsively; I felt my reason tottering. As the luminous figure, so terrible in its perfect loveliness, moved slowly towards the inner door, with set gaze that was not for any about her, Dr. Fairbank wrenched himself from his chair and leapt forward.
“Ailsa!”
His voice came in a hoarse shriek. But it was drowned by a rumbling roar from Moris Klaw.
“Look away! look away!” he shouted. “The good God! do not look at her! Look away!”
The warning came too late. Fairbank had all but reached her side, when she turned her eyes upon him — looking fully in his face.
With no sound or cry he went down as though felled with a mighty blow!
She passed to the door of the inner room. It swung open noiselessly. A stifling cloud of some pungent perfume swept into the study; and the door reclosed.
“Fairbank!” I whispered, huskily. “My God! he’s dead!”
Moris Klaw sprang forward to where Fairbank, clearly visible in the soft light, lay huddled upon the floor.
“Lift him!” he hissed. “We must get him out — before she returns — you understand? — before she returns!”
Bending together, we raised the doctor’s inanimate body and half dragged, half carried him from the room. On the landing we laid him down, and stood panting. A voice, clear and sweet, was speaking. I recognised neither the language nor the voice. But each liquid syllable thrilled me like an icy shock. I met Moris Klaw’s gaz
e, set upon me through the pince-nez.
“Do not listen, my friend!” he said.
Raising Fairbank, we dragged him into the first room we came to — and Klaw locked the door.
“Here we remain,” he rumbled, “until something has gone back where it came from!”
Fairbank lay motionless at our feet.
Presently came the rattling.
“It is the sistrum,” whispered Moris Klaw, “the sacred instrument of the Isis temples.”
The sound passed — and faded.
“Searles! Fairbank!” It was Brearley’s voice, sobbingly intense— “do not touch her! Do not look at her!”
The study door crashed open and I heard his sandals pattering on the landing.
“Fairbank! Mr. Klaw! Good God! answer me! Tell me you are safe!”
Moris Klaw unlocked the door.
Brearley, his face white as death and bathed in perspiration, stood outside. As Klaw appeared, he leapt forward, wild eyed.
“Quick! Did anyone—”
“Fairbank!” I said huskily.
Brearley pushed into the room and turned on the light. Fairbank, very pale, lay propped against an armchair. Moris Klaw immediately dropped on his knee beside him and felt his heart.
“Ah, the good God! he is alive!” he whispered. “Get some water — no brandy, my friend — water. Then look to your sister!”
Brearley plunged his trembling hands into his hair, and tugged at it distractedly.
“How was I to know!” he moaned, “how was I to know! There is water in the bottle, Mr. Klaw. Searles will come with me. I must look for Ailsa!”
A bizarre figure, in his linen robe, he ran off. Moris Klaw waved me to follow him.
The door of his sister’s room was closed.
He knocked, but there was no reply. He turned the knob and went in, whilst I waited in the corridor.
“Ailsa!” I heard him call, and again: “Ailsa!” then, following an interval, “Are you all right, dear?” he whispered.
“Oh, thank Heaven it is finished!” came a murmur in Ailsa Brearley’s soft voice. “It is finished, is it not?”
