The Devil Rides Out ddr-6

by Dennis Wheatley

  It seemed that they had been crouching in that pentacle for nights on end and that their frugal dinner lay days away. Their discomfort had been dulled into a miserable apathy and they were drowsy now after these hours of strained uneventful watching. Richard lay down again to try and snatch a little sleep. The Duke alone remained alert. He knew that this long interval of inactivity on the part of the malefic powers was only a snare designed to give them a false sense of security before the renewal of the attack. At length he shifted his position slightly, and as he did so he chanced to glance upwards at the ceiling. Suddenly it seemed to him that the lights were not quite so bright as they had been. It might be his imagination, due to the fact that he was anticipating trouble, but somehow he felt certain that the ceiling had been brighter when he had looked at it before. In quick alarm he roused the others.

  Simon nodded, realising why De Richleau had touched him on the shoulder and confirming his suspicion. Then with straining eyes, they all watched the cornice, where the concealed lights ran round the wall above the top of the bookshelves.

  The action was so slow, that each of them felt their eyes must be deceiving them, and yet an inner conviction told them that it was true. Shadows had appeared where no shadows were before. Slowly but surely the current was failing and the lights dimming as they watched.

  There was something strangely terrifying now about that quiet room. It was orderly and peaceful, just as Richard knew it day by day, except for the absence of the furniture. No nebulous ghostlike figure had risen up to confront them, but there, as the minutes passed, they were faced with an unaccountable phenomenon—those bright electric globes hidden from their sight were gradually but unquestionably being dimmed.

  The shadows from the bookcases lengthened. The centre of the ceiling became a dusky patch. Gradually, gradually, as with caught breath they watched, the room was being plunged in darkness. Soundless and stealthy, that black shadow upon the ceiling grew in size and the binding of the books became obscure where they had before been bright until, after what seemed an eternity of time, no light remained save only the faintest line just above the rim of the top bookshelf, the five candles burning steadily in the points of the five-starred pentagram, and the dying fire.

  Richard shuddered suddenly. ‘My God! It’s cold,’ he exclaimed, drawing Marie Lou towards him. The Duke nodded, silent and watchful. He felt that sinister chill draught beginning to flow upon the back of his neck, and his scalp prickled as he swung round with a sudden jerk to face it.

  There was nothing to be seen—only the vague outline of the bookcases rising high and stark towards the ceiling where the dull ribbon of light still glowed. The flames of the candles were bent now at an angle under the increasing strength of the cold invisible air current that pressed steadily upon them.

  De Richleau began to intone a prayer. The wind ceased as suddenly as it had begun, but a moment later it began to play upon them again—this time from a different quarter.

  The Duke resumed his prayer—the wind checked—and then came with renewed force from another angle. He swung to meet it but it was at his back again.

  A faint, low moaning became perceptible as he unholy blast began to circle round the pentacle. Round and round it swirled with ever-increasing strength and violence, beating up out of the shadows in sudden wild gusts of arctic iciness, and tearing at them with chill, invisible, clutching fingers, so that it seemed as if they were standing in the very vortex of a cyclone. The candles flickered wildly—and went out.

  Richard, his scepticism badly shaken, quickly pushed Marie Lou to one side and whipped out his matches. He struck one, and got the nearest candle alight again but, as he turned to the next, that cold damp evil wind came once more, chilling the perspiration that had broken out upon his forehead, snuffing the candle that he had re-lit and the half-burnt match which he still held between his fingers.

  He lit another and it spluttered out almost before the wood had-caught—another—and another, but they would not burn.

  He glimpsed Simon’s face for an instant, white, set, ghastly, the eyeballs protruding unnaturally as he knelt staring out into the shadows—then the whole centre of the room was plunged into darkness.

  ‘We must hold hands,’ whispered the Duke, ‘Quick, it will strengthen our resistance,’ and in the murk they fumbled for each other’s fingers, all standing up now, until they formed a little ring in the very centre of the pentagram, hand clasped in hand and bodies back to back.

  The whirling hurricane ceased as suddenly as it had begun. An unnatural stillness descended on the room again. Then without warning, an uncontrollable fit of trembling took possession of Marie Lou.

  ‘Steady, my sweet,’ breathed Richard, gripping her hand more tightly, ‘you’ll be all right in a minute.’ He thought that she was suffering from the effect of that awful cold which had penetrated the thin garments of them all, but she was standing facing the grate and her knees shook under her as she stammered out:

  ‘But look—the fire.’

  Simon was behind her but the Duke and Richard, who were on either side, turned their heads and saw the thing that had caused her such excess of terror. The piled-up logs had flared into fresh life as that strange rushing wind had circled round the room, but now the flames had died down and, as their eyes rested upon it, they saw that the red-hot embers were turning black. It was as though some monstrous invisible hand was dabbing at it, then, almost in a second, every spark of light in that great, glowing fire was quenched.

  ‘Pray,’ urged the Duke, ‘for God’s sake, pray.’

  After a little their eyes grew accustomed to this new darkness. The electric globes hidden behind the cornice were not quite dead. They flickered and seemed about to fail entirely every few moments, yet always the power exerted against them seemed just not quite enough, for their area of light would increase again, so that the shadows across the ceiling and below the books were driven back. The four friends waited with pounding hearts as they watched that silent struggle between light and darkness and the swaying of the shadows backwards and forwards, that ringed them in.

  For what seemed an immeasurable time they stood in silent apprehension, praying that the last gleam of light would hold out, then, shattering that eerie silence like the sound of guns there came three swift, loud knocks upon the window-pane.

  ‘Who’s that?’ snapped Richard.

  ‘Stay still,’ hissed the Duke.

  A voice came suddenly from outside the garden. It was clear and unmistakable. Each one of them recognised it instantly as that of Rex.

  ‘Say, I saw your light burning. Come on and let me in.’

  With a little sigh of relief at the breaking of the tension, Richard let go Marie Lou’s hand and took a step forward. But the Duke grabbed his shoulder and jerked him back :

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he rasped. ‘It’s a trap.’

  ‘Come on now. What the heck is keeping you?’ the voice demanded. ‘It’s mighty cold out here, let me in quick.’

  Richard alone remained momentarily unconvinced that it was a superhuman agency at work. The others felt a shiver of horror run through their limbs at that perfect imitation of Rex’s voice, which they were convinced was a manifestation of some terrible entity endeavouring to trick them into leaving their carefully constructed defence.

  ‘Richard,’ the voice came again, angrily now. ‘It’s Rex I tell you—Rex. Stop all this fooling and get this door undone.’ But the four figures in the pentacle now remained tense, silent and unresponsive.

  The voice spoke no more and once again there was a long interval of silence.

  De Richleau feared that the Adversary was gathering his forces for a direct attack and it was that, above all other things, which filled him with dread. He was reasonably confident that his own intelligence would serve to sense out and avoid any fresh pitfalls which might be set, providing the others would obey his bidding and remain steadfast in their determination not to leave the pentacle, but he had failed i
n his attempt to secure the holy wafers of the Blessed Sacrament that afternoon, the lights were all but overcome, the sacred candles had been snuffed out. The holy waters, horseshoes, garlic and the pentacle itself might only prove a partial defence if the dark entities which were about them made an open and determined assault.

  ‘What’s that!’ exclaimed Simon and they swung round to face the new danger. The shadows were massing into deeper blackness in one corner of the room. Something was moving there.

  A dim phosphorescent blob began to glow in the darkness; shimmering and spreading into a great hummock, its outline gradually became clearer. It was not a man form nor yet an animal, but heaved there on the floor like some monstrous living sack. It had no eyes or face but from it there radiated a terrible malefic intelligence.

  Suddenly there ceased to be anything ghostlike about it. The Thing had a whitish pimply skin, leprous and unclean, like some huge silver slug. Waves of Satanic power rippled through its spineless body, causing it to throb and work continuously like a great mass of new-made dough. A horrible stench of decay and corruption filled the room; for as it writhed it exuded a slimy poisonous moisture which trickled in little rivulets across the polished floor. It was solid, terribly real, a living thing. They could even see long, single golden hairs, separated from each other by ulcerous patches of skin, quivering and waving as they rose on end from its flabby body—and suddenly it began to laugh at them, a low, horrid, chuckling laugh.

  Marie Lou reeled against Richard, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth and biting into it to prevent a scream.

  His eyes were staring, a cold perspiration broke out upon his face.

  De Richleau knew that it was a Saiitii manifestation of the most powerful and dangerous kind. His nails bit into the palms of his hands as he watched that shapeless mass, silver white and putrescent, heave and ferment.

  Suddenly it moved, with the rapidity of a cat, yet they heard the squelching sound as it leapt along the floor, leaving a wet slimy trail in its wake, that poisoned the air like foul gases given off by animal remains.

  They spun round to face it, then it laughed again, mocking them with that quiet, diabolical chuckle that had the power to fill them with such utter dread.

  It lay for a moment near the window pulsating with demoniac energy like some enormous livid heart. Then it leapt again back to the place where it had been before.

  Shuddering at the thought of that ghastliness springing upon their backs they turned with lightning speed to meet it, but it only lay here wobbling and crepitating with unholy glee.

  ‘Oh, God!’ gasped Richard.

  The masked door which led up to the nursery was slowly opening. A line of white appeared in the gap from near the floor to about three feet in height. It broadened as the low door swung back noiselessly upon its hinges, and Marie Lou gave a terrified cry: ‘It’s Fleur!’

  The men, too, instantly recognised the little body, in the white nightgown, vaguely outlined against the blackness of the shadows, as the face with its dark aureole of curling hair became clear.

  The Thing was only two yards from the child. With hideous merriment it chuckled evilly, and flopping forward, decreased the distance by a half.

  With one swift movement, De Richleau flung his arm about Marie Lou’s neck and jerked her backwards, her chin gripped fast in the crook of his elbow. ‘It’s not Fleur,’ he cried desperately. ‘Only some awful thing which has taken her shape to deceive you.’

  ‘Of course it’s Fleur—she’s walking in her sleep!’ Richard started forward to spring towards the child, but De Richleau grabbed his arm with his free hand and wrenched him back.

  ‘It’s not,’ he insisted in an agonised whisper. ‘Richard, I beg you! Have a little faith in me! Look at her face—it’s blue! Oh, Lord protect us!’

  At that positive suggestion, thrown out with such vital force at a moment of supreme emotional tension, it did appear to them for an instant that the child’s face had a corpse-like bluish tinge then, upon the swift plea for Divine aid, the lines of the figure seemed to blur and tremble. The Thing laughed, but this time with thwarted malice, a high-pitched, angry, furious note. Then both the child and that nameless Thing became transparent and faded. The silent heavy darkness, undisturbed by sound or movement, settled all about them once again.

  With a gasp of relief the straining Duke released his prisoners. ‘Now do you believe me?’ he muttered hoarsely, but there was no time for them to reply. The next attack developed almost instantly.

  Simon was crouched in the middle of the circle. Marie Lou felt his body trembling against her thigh. She put her hand on his shoulder to steady him and found that he was shaking like an epileptic in a fit.

  He began to gibber. Great shudders shook his frame from head to toe and suddenly he burst into heart-rending sobs.

  ‘What is it, Simon?’ She bent towards him quickly, but he took no notice of her and crouched there on all fours like a dog until, with a sudden jerk, he pulled himself upright and began to mutter :

  ‘I won’t — I won’t I say — I won’t. D’you hear–– You mustn’t make me—no—no––No!’ Then with a reeling drunken motion he staggered forward in the direction of the window.

  But Marie Lou was too quick for him and flung both arms about his neck.

  ‘Simon darling—Simon,’ she panted. ‘You mustn’t leave us.’

  For a moment he remained still, then, his body twisted violently as though his limbs were animated by some terrible inhuman force, and he flung her from him. The mild, good-natured smile had left his face and it seemed, in the faint light which still glowed from the cornice, that he had become an utterly changed personality—his mouth hung open showing the bared teeth in a snarl of ferocious rage—his eyes glinted hot and dangerous with the glare of insanity—a little dribble of saliva ran down his chin.

  ‘Quick, Richard,’ cried the Duke. ‘They’ve got him—for God’s sake pull him down!’

  Richard had seen enough now to destroy his scepticism for life. He followed De Richleau’s lead, grappling frantically with Simon, and all three of them crashed struggling to the floor.

  ‘Oh, God,’ sobbed Marie Lou. ‘Oh, God, dear God!’

  Simon’s breath came in great gasps as though his chest would burst. He fought and struggled like a maniac, but Richard, desperate now, kneed him in the stomach and between them they managed to hold him down. Then De Richleau, who, fearing such an attack, had had the forethought to provide himself with chords, succeeded in tying his wrists and ankles.

  Richard rose panting from the struggle, smoothed back his dark hair, and huskily said to the Duke: ‘I take it all back. I’m sorry if I’ve been an extra nuisance to you.’

  De Richleau patted him on the elbow. He could not smile for his eyes were flickering, even as Richard spoke, from corner to corner of that grim, darkened room, seeking, yet dreading, some new form in which the Adversary might attempt their undoing.

  All three linked their arms together and stood, with Simon’s body squirming at their feet, jerking their heads from side to side in nervous expectancy. They had not long to wait. Indistinct at first, but certain after a moment, there was a stirring in the blackness near the door. Some new horror was forming out there in the shadows beyond the pointers of the pentacle—just on a level with their heads.

  Their grip upon each other tightened as they fought desperately to recruit their courage. Marie Lou stood between the others, her eyes wide and distended, as she watched this fresh manifestation gradually take shape and gain solidity.

  Her scalp began to prickle beneath her chestnut curls. The Thing was forming into a long, dark, beastlike face. Two tiny points of light appeared in it just above the level of her eyes. She felt the short hairs at the back of her skull lift of their own volition like the hackles of a dog.

  The points of light grew in size and intensity. They were eyes. Round, protuberant and burning with a fiery glow, they bored into hers, watching her with a horrible unwinking
stare.

  She wanted desperately to break away and run, but her knees sagged beneath her. The head of the Beast merged into powerful shoulders and the blackness below solidified into strong thick legs.

  ‘It’s a horse!’ gasped Richard. ‘A riderless horse.’

  De Richleau groaned. It was a horse indeed. A great black stallion and it had no rider that was visible to them, but he knew its terrible significance. Mocata, grown desperate by his failure to wrest Simon from their keeping had abandoned the attempt and in savage revenge, now sent the Angel of Death himself to claim them.

  A saddle of crimson leather was strapped upon the stallion’s back, the pressure of invisible feet held the long stirrup leathers rigid to its flanks, and unseen hands held the reins taut a few inches above its withers. The Duke knew well enough that no human who has beheld that dread rider in all his sombre glory has ever lived to tell of it. If that dark Presence broke into the pentacle they would see him all too certainly, but at the price of death.

  The sweat streaming down his face, Richard held his ground, staring with fascinated horror at the muzzle of the beast. The fleshy nose wrinkled, the lips drew back, baring two rows of yellowish teeth. It champed its silver bit. Flecks of foam, white and real, dripped from its loose mouth.

  It snorted violently and its heated breath came like two clouds of steam from its quivering nostrils warm and damp on his face. He heard De Richleau praying, frantically, unceasingly, and tried to follow suit.

  The stallion whinnied, tossed its head and backed into the bookcases drawn by the power of those unseen hands, its mighty hoofs ringing loud on the boards. Then, as though rowelled by knife-edged spurs, it launched upon them.