His finger moved.
So did Dr. Dexter’s. His hand went swiftly behind him, to the master light-switch on the wall. A click, and the room was plunged into utter darkness.
Not utter darkness—for there was a glow.
The face and hands of Dr. Ambrose Dexter glowed with a phosphorescent fire in the dark. There are presumable forms of radium poisoning which can cause such an effect, and no doubt Dr. Dexter would have so explained the phenomenon to Edmund Fiske, had he the opportunity.
But there was no opportunity. Edmund Fiske heard the click, saw the fantastic flaming features, and pitched forward to the floor.
Dr. Dexter quietly switched on the lights, went over to the younger man’s side, and knelt for a long moment. He sought a pulse in vain.
Edmund Fiske was dead.
The doctor sighed, rose, and left the room. In the hall downstairs he summoned his servant.
“There has been a regrettable accident,” he said. “That young visitor of mine—a hysteric—suffered a heart attack. You had better call the police, immediately. And then continue with the packing. We must leave tomorrow, for the lecture tour.”
“But the police may detain you.”
Dr. Dexter shook his head. “I think not. It’s a clear-cut case. In any event, I can easily explain. When they arrive, notify me. I shall be in the garden.”
The doctor proceeded down the hall to the rear exit and emerged upon the moonlit splendor of the garden behind the house on Benefit Street.
The radiant vista was walled off from the world, utterly deserted. The dark man stood in moonlight, and its glow mingled with his own aura.
At this moment two silken shadows leaped over the wall. They crouched in the coolness of the garden, then slithered forward toward Dr. Dexter. They made panting sounds.
In the moonlight, he recognized the shapes of two black panthers.
Immobile, he waited as they advanced, padding purposefully toward him, eyes aglow, jaws slavering and agape.
Dr. Dexter turned away. His face was turned in mockery to the moon as the beasts fawned before him and licked his hands.
* Originally published in Weird Tales, September 1950.
Notebook Found in a Deserted House*
ROBERT BLOCH
First off, I want to write that I never did anything wrong. Not to nobody. They got no call to shut me up here, whoever they are. They got no reason to do what I’m afraid they’re going to do, either.
I think they’re coming pretty soon, because they’ve been gone outside a long time. Digging, I guess, in that old well. Looking for a gate, I heard. Not a regular gate, of course, but something else.
Got a notion what they mean, and I’m scared.
I’d look out the windows but of course they are boarded up so I can’t see.
But I turned on the lamp, and I found this here notebook so I want to put it all down. Then if I get a chance maybe I can send it to somebody who can help me. Or maybe somebody will find it. Anyway, it’s better to write it out as best I can instead of just sitting here and waiting. Waiting for them to come and get me.
I better start by telling my name, which is Willie Osborne, and that I am 12 years old last July. I don’t know where I was born.
First thing I can remember is living out Roodsford way, out in what folks call the back hill country. It’s real lonesome out there, with deep woods all around and lots of mountains and hills that nobody ever climbs.
Grandma use to tell me about it when I was just a little shaver. That’s who I lived with, just Grandma on account of my real folks being dead. Grandma was the one who taught me how to read and write. I never been to a regular school.
Grandma knew all kinds of things about the hills and the woods and she told me some mighty queer stories. That’s what I thought they was, anyway, when I was little and living all alone with her. Just stories, like the ones in books.
Like stories about them ones hiding in the swamps, that was here before the settlers and the Indians both and how there was circles in swamps and big stones called alters where them ones use to make sacrefices to what they worshiped.
Grandma got some of the stories from her Grandma she said—about how them ones hid in the woods and swamps because they couldn’t stand sunshine, and how the Indians kept out of their way. She said sometimes the Indians would leave some of their young people tied to trees in the forest as a sacrefice, so as to keep them contented and peacefull.
Indians knew all about them, and they tried to keep white folks from noticing too much or settling too close to the hills. Them ones didn’t cause much trouble, but they might if they was crowded. So the Indians give excuses not for settling, saying there weren’t enough hunting and no trails and it was too far off from the coast.
Grandma told me that was why not many places was settled even today. Nothing but a few farmhouses here and there. She told me them ones was still alive and sometimes on certain nights in the Spring and Fall you could see lights and hear noises far off on the tops of the hills.
Grandma said I had an Aunt Lucy and a Uncle Fred who lived out there right smack in the middle of the hills. Said my Pa used to visit them before he got married and once he heard them beating on a tree drum one night along about Halloween time. That was before he met Ma and they got married and she died when I come and he went away.
I heard all kinds of stories. About witches and devils and bat men that sucked your blood and haunts. About Salem and Arkham because I never been to a city and I wanted to hear tell how they were. About a place called Innsmouth with old rotten houses where people hid awful things away in the cellars and the attics. She told me bout the way graves was dug deep under Arkham. Made it sound like the whole country was full of haunts.
She use to scare me, telling about how some of these things looked and all but she never would tell me how them ones looked no matter how much I asked. Said she didn’t want me to have any truck with such things—bad enough she and her kin knew as much as they did—allmost too much for decent God fearing people. It was lucky for me I didn’t have to bother with such ideas, like my own ancestor on my father’s side, Mehitabel Osborne, who got hanged for a witch back in the Salem days.
So they was just stories to me until last year when Grandma died and Judge Crubinthorp put me on the train and I went out to live with Aunt Lucy and Uncle Fred in the very same hills that Grandma use to tell about so often.
You can bet I was pretty excited, and the conductor let me ride with him all the way and told me about the towns and everything.
Uncle Fred met me at the station. He was a tall thin man with a long beard. We drove off in a buggy from the little deepo—no houses around there or nothing—right into the woods.
Funny thing about those woods. They was so still and quiet. Gave me the creeps they was so dark and lonesome. Seemed like nobody had ever shouted or laughed or even smiled in them. Couldn’t imagine anyone saying anything there excep in whispers.
Trees and all was so old, too. No animals around or birds. Path kind of overgrown like nobody used it much ever. Uncle Fred drove along right fast, he didn’t hardly talk to me at all but just made that old horse hump it.
Pretty soon we struck into some hills, they was awfully high ones. They was woods on them, too, and sometimes a brook come running down, but I didn’t see no houses and it was always dark like at twilight, wherever you looked.
Lastly we got to the farmhouse—a little place, old frame house and barn in a clear space and trees all around kind of gloomy-like. Aunt Lucy come out to meet us, she was a nice sort of little middle-aged lady who hugged me and took my stuff in back.
But all this don’t hold with what I’m supposed to write down here. It don’t matter that all this last year I was living in the house here with them, eating off the stuff Uncle Fred farmed without ever going into town. No other farms around here for almost four mile and no school—so evenings Aunt Lucy would help me with my reading. I never played much.
&
nbsp; At first I was scared of going into the woods on account of what Grandma had told me. Besides, I could tell as Aunt Lucy and Uncle Fred was scared of something from the way they locked the doors at night and never went into the woods after dark, even in summer.
But after a while, I got used to the idea of living in the woods and they didn’t seem so scarey. I did chores for Uncle Fred, of course, but sometimes in afternoons when he was busy, I’d go off by myself. Particular by the time it was fall.
And that’s how I heard one of the things. It was early October, I was in the glen right by the big boulder. Then the noise started. I got behind that rock fast.
You see, like I say, there isn’t any animals in the woods. Nor people. Excep perhaps old Cap Pritchett the mailman who only comes through on Thursday afternoons.
So when I heard a sound that wasn’t Uncle Fred or Aunt Lucy calling to me, I knew I better hide.
About that sound. It was far-away at first, kind of a dropping noise. Sounded like the blood falling in little spurts on the bottom of the bucket when Uncle Fred hung up a butchered hog.
I looked around but I couldn’t make out nothing, and I couldn’t figure out the direction the noise was from either. The noise sort of stopped for a minute and they was only twilight and trees, still as death. Then the noise started again, nearer and louder.
Sounded like a lot of people running or walking all at once, moving this way. Twigs busting under feet and scrabbling in the bushes all mixed up in the noise. I scrunched down behind that boulder and kept real quiet.
I can tell that whatever makes the noise, it’s real close now, right in the glen. I want to look up but dassn’t because the sound is so loud and mean. And also there is an awful smell like something that was dead and buried being uncovered again in the sun.
All at once the noise stops again and I can tell that whatever makes it is real close by. For a minute the woods are creepy-still. Then comes the sound.
It’s a voice and it’s not a voice. That is, it doesn’t sound like a voice but more like a buzzing or croaking, deep and droning. But it has to be a voice because it is saying words.
Not words I could understand, but words. Words that made me keep my head down, half afraid I might be seen and half afraid I might see something. I stayed there sweating and shaking. The smell was making me pretty sick, but that awful, deep droning voice was worse. Saying over and over something like
“E uh shub nigger ath ngaa ryla neb shoggoth.”
I can’t hope to spell it out the way it sounded, but I heard it enough times to remember. I was still listening when the smell got awful thick and I guess I must have fainted because when I woke up the voice was gone and it was getting quite dark.
I ran all the way home that night, but not before I saw where the thing had stood when it talked—and it was a thing.
No human being can leave tracks in the mud like goat’s hoofs all green with slime that smell awful—not four or eight, but a couple hundred!
I didn’t tell Aunt Lucy or Uncle Fred. But that night when I went to bed I had terrible dreams. I thought I was back in the glen, only this time I could see the thing. It was real tall and all inky-black, without any particular shape except a lot of black ropes with ends like hoofs on it. I mean, it had a shape but it kep changing—all bulgy and squirming into different sizes. They was a lot of mouths all over the thing like puckered up leaves on branches.
That’s as close as I can come. The mouths was like leaves and the whole thing was like a tree in the wind, a black tree with lots of branches trailing the ground, and a whole lot of roots ending in hoofs. And that green slime dribbling out of the mouths and down the legs was like sap!
Next day I remembered to look in a book Aunt Lucy had downstairs. It was called a mythology. This book told about some people who lived over in England and France in the old days and was called Druids. They worshiped trees and thought they was alive. Maybe this thing was like what they worshiped—called a nature-spirit.
But these Druids lived across the ocean, so how could it be? I did a lot of thinking about it the next couple days, and you can bet I didn’t go out to play in those woods again.
At last I figgered it out something like this.
Maybe those Druids got chased out of the forests over in England and France and some of them was smart enough to build boats and come across the ocean like old Leaf Erikson is supposed to have. Then they could maybe settle in the woods back here and frighten away the Indians with their magic spells.
They would know how to hide themselves away in the swamps and go right on with their heathen worshiping and call up these spirits out of the ground or wherever they come from.
Indians use to believe that white gods come from out of the sea a long time ago. What if that was just another way of telling how the Druids got here? Some real civilized Indians down in Mexico or South America—Aztecs or Inkas, I guess—said a white god come over in a boat and taught them all kinds of magic. Couldn’t he of been a Druid?
That would explain Grandma’s stories about them ones, too.
Those Druids hiding in the swamps would be the ones who did the drumming and pounding and lit the fires on the hills. And they would be calling up them ones, the tree spirits or whatever, out of the earth. Then they would make sacrefices. Those Druids always made sacrefices with blood, just like the old witches. And didn’t Grandma tell about people who lived too near the hills disappearing and never being found again?
We lived in a spot just exactly like that.
And it was getting close to Halloween. That was the big time, Grandma always said.
I began to wonder—how soon now?
Got so scared I didn’t go out of the house. Aunt Lucy made me take a tonic, said I looked peaked. Guess I did. All I know is one afternoon when I heard a buggy coming through the woods I ran and hid under the bed.
But it was only Cap Pritchett with the mail. Uncle Fred got it and come in all excited with a letter.
Cousin Osborne was coming to stay with us. He was kin to Aunt Lucy and he had a vacation and he wanted to stay a week. He’d get here on the same train I did—the only train they was passing through these parts—on noon, October 25th.
For the next few days we was all so excited that I forgot all my crazy notions for a spell. Uncle Fred fixed up the back room for Cousin Osborne to sleep in and I helped him with the carpenter parts of the job.
Days got shorter right along, and the nights was all cold with big winds. It was pretty brisk the morning of the 25th and Uncle Fred bundled up warm to drive through the woods. He meant to fetch Cousin Osborne at noon, and it was seven mile to the station. He wouldn’t take me, and I didn’t beg. Them woods was too full of creaking and rustling sounds from the wind—sounds that might be something else, too.
Well, he left, and Aunt Lucy and I stayed in the house. She was putting up preserves now—plums—for over the winter season. I washed out jars from the well.
Seems like I should have told about them having two wells. A new one with a big shiny pump, close to the house. Then an old stone one out by the barn, with the pump gone. It never had been any good, Uncle Fred said, it was there when they bought the place. Water was all slimy. Something funny about it, because even without a pump, sometimes it seemed to back up. Uncle Fred couldn’t figure it out, but some mornings water would be running out over the sides—green, slimy water that smelled terrible.
We kep away from it and I was by the new well, till along about noon when it started in to cloud up. Aunt Lucy fixed lunch, and it started to rain hard with thunder rolling in off the big hills in the west.
Seemed to me Uncle Fred and Cousin Osborne was going to have troubles getting home in the storm, but Aunt Lucy didn’t fret about it—just made me help her put up the stock.
Come five o’clock, getting dark, and still no Uncle Fred. Then we begun to worry. Maybe the train was late, or something happened to the horse or buggy.
Six o’clock and still no Uncle
Fred. The rain stopped, but you could still hear the thunder sort of growling off in the hills, and the wet branches kep dripping down in the woods, making a sound like women laughing.
Maybe the road was too bad for them to get through. Buggy might bog down in the mud. Perhaps they decided to stay in the deepo over night.
Seven o’clock and it was pitch dark outside. No rain sounds any more. Aunt Lucy was awful worried. She said for us to go out and post a lantern on the fence rail by the road.
We went down the path to the fence. It was dark and the wind had died down. Everything was still, like in the deep part of the woods. I felt kind of scared just walking down the path with Aunt Lucy—like something was out there in the quiet dark, someplace, waiting to grab me.
We lit the lantern and stood there looking down the dark road and, “What’s that?” said Aunt Lucy, real sharp. I listened and heard a drumming sound far away.
“Horse and buggy,” I said. Aunt Lucy perked up.
“You’re right,” she says, all at once. And it is, because we see it. The horse is running fast and the buggy lurches behind it, crazy-like. It don’t even take a second look to see something has happened, because the buggy don’t stop by the gate but keeps going up to the barn with Aunt Lucy and me running through the mud after the horse. The horse is all full of lather and foam, and when it stops it can’t stand still. Aunt Lucy and I wait for Uncle Fred and Cousin Osborne to step out, but nothing happens. We look inside.
There isn’t anybody in the buggy at all.
Aunt Lucy says, “Oh!” in a real loud voice and then faints. I had to carry her back to the house and get her into bed.
I waited almost all night by the window, but Uncle Fred and Cousin Osborne never showed up. Never.
The next few days was awful. They was nothing in the buggy for a clue like to what happened, and Aunt Lucy wouldn’t let me go along the road into town or even to the station through the woods.
Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos Page 29
