And, as in my dream, I contemplated these triple spirals, I saw suddenly descending upon me, like a sentient beast, a towering waterspout—a mass of wind-driven water come screaming out of the starlit darkness, blotting out the stars. It fell upon me, and I began a terrible, twisting fall into the endless space of its darkness, and above the shrieking of the wind and the torrent of the water there echoed in my ears that mocking phrase of Neal’s—“the whirling around without motion.” Then I awoke, screaming.
II. THE LATE INSPECTOR MISHEW’S LETTER TO THE TRINITY HOUSE OF NAVIGATION.
November 24, 1799
Honorable Sirs:
Inspection of the Shoal Light at this place has been delayed by the bad storms which have been raging here since before my arrival earlier this month, great seas making it impossible to put in any sort of boat. Signal flag communication was ineffectual by reason of limited visibility.
As we had been informed, the country people here are very hostile to this new Light; they are probably responsible for tampering with reef markers and other navigational aids in this vicinity.
Concerning the Light—I observed daily through my telescope one of the keepers standing watch on the outside parapet in the worst weather, unaware of the hideous truth about his vigilance, but since I learned that an attack had actually been made on the lighthouse, I supposed that the keepers were determined to prevent another and were thus constantly on guard. The beacon itself, however, has shone steadily; I am at a loss to understand complaints about its unreliability.
The seas calmed last week, and I was able to get out to the Shoal Light with Brian Mackenzie. What I found there was shocking. The vigilant sentry was Neal’s corpse, horribly wasted away; he had been fatally wounded in an armed skirmish with some of the fishermen. O’Malley seemed to be in mortal fear of being blamed for making away with his companion in a fit of madness; he could not abide the corpse, and, rather than cast it into the sea, lashed it where I found it. Perhaps its presence there was intended to deter a second surprise attack, though the weather was enough to do that.
O’Malley’s privations must have been terrible. He existed on stale bread and, of course, water. No more. His overwhelming responsibilities would have finished a lesser man. As it is, he is so subject to the wildest visions, followed by only partial comprehension and logic, obsessed with something he calls the Caer Sidhi, that he cannot be called sane, and perhaps has not been sane for some time. He is surely not long for this world.
Until you send new keepers, I myself will tend the Shoal Light.
Yr. obedient servant,
John Mishew
Shoal Light
Banff Firth, Scotland
POSTSCRIPT.
I cannot understand the post rider’s failure to deliver your letter last night. He claimed failure under circumstances that suggest too much ale. Even in the dark he could have found the door if he had but walked around the lighthouse and felt the stone with his hand.
I trust the new keepers reach here very soon, for I seem to be coming down with some obscure illness which is incomprehensible to me. I am conscious of a curious nausea at night—a touch of vertigo—and the stars blur to my eyes and look wrong.
DEAD OF NIGHT, by Lin Carter
Originally published in Crypt of Cthulhu #54, April 1988.
CHAPTER 1
Number Thirteen
Below Fourteenth Street, between Chinatown and the river, extends a disreputable region of cryptic, winding alleys, crumbling tenements, rotting wharves and abandoned warehouses slumping in decay. Here dwell the human dregs of a thousand Eastern ports: Hindus, Japanese, Arabs, Chinamen, Levantines, Turks, Portuguese. Once these dark and sinister side-streets and fetid alleyways were the battlefield of the Tong wars; that was in the days of the legendary detective, Steve Harrison, who single-handedly dealt out the white man’s law and the white man’s justice along River Street.
Those days are long since gone—not that River Street has changed in any noticeable way. Urban Renewal has yet to touch the decaying tenements, nor has the law managed to close down the dives and dope dens and honky-tonks. Neither has the furtive, polyglot Asian populace altered, and few could guess what drugs are trafficked in these dark rooms or what crimes of violence and greed are done in those black and garbage-choked alleys…
Of all these matters, Dona Teresa de Rivera was all too uncomfortably aware, and with every block her taxi carried her deeper into the tangled maze of filthy slums, her discomfiture grew. Only the urgency of her mission goaded her into venturing into this ill-famed corner of the city, far from the quiet residential streets and fine cafes which were her accustomed haunts.
Fog came drifting in from the riverfront to wind its clammy tendrils about walls of rotting old brick, and to blur the dim luminance of the infrequent streetlights.
The cab pulled up before the yawning mouth of a black alley off Levant Street, and the gloom that thickly shadowed the narrow, cobbled lane was feebly dispelled by a single light which burned above a doorway only a few steps from the street.
“That’s it, lady. Number Thirteen China Alley,” announced the driver, cocking his thumb at the dim light. Privately, the cabby wondered what the handsome young Spanish woman could possibly want in this dangerous neighborhood. She had money, that was obvious: no woman wore an expensive frock with such careless elegance unless she had wealth, breeding and taste.
“Are you quite certain this is the address?” the girl faltered.
“Yes, ma’m. Number Thirteen China Alley, between Levant and River streets. That’ll be six seventy-five.” Dona Teresa gave the driver a ten dollar bill and declined to accept any change.
“How do I get back from here?”
He handed her a card. “Call the garage; they’ll send a cab to pick you up.”
With uneasiness clutching at her heart, the young woman left the cab, which hurriedly drove off, fog swirling in its wake. She entered the dark mouth of the alley, cautiously feeling her way on the greasy cobbles. The light which was her goal burned above the single door of a small, narrow, two-story building, shouldered to either side by larger tenements. The small house would have looked long abandoned, had it not been for that light above the door. Its walls of crumbling brick were black with generations of grime, and the windows peered blindly like cataract-infested eyes, their panes dim and smudged with greasy soot. Dona Teresa shivered and drew her fur wrap more closely about her slim shoulders against the chill, damp air from the river.
The door, surprisingly, was an imposing slab of solid oak. A small brass plate above the bell read Zarnak. Shivering a little, the young woman pressed the bell. She did not have to wait long before it opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges.
In the doorway was a tall man, lean and rangy, in an immaculate white jacket—a Hindu of some sort, from his swarthy, hawk-like face and spotless turban. Keen dark eyes as sharp as dagger-points scrutinized her closely.
“Pray come in, madame,” said the Hindu with a slight bow. “The sahib is expecting you. Let me take your wrap.”
Mechanically, Dona Teresa handed him her gloves and fur, staring about the foyer with astonished eyes. Nothing about the locale or outward appearance of the little house could have prepared her for its furnishings. The foyer held an immense bronze Chinese incense-burner on a teak wood stand; Tibetan tonkas or scroll-paintings adorned the walls, which were hung with watered silk. Lush Persian carpets were soft and thick underfoot.
She was ushered into a small study and informed that her host would attend her presently. As the door closed softly behind the tall servant, Dona Teresa looked about, her amazement growing. All her young life she had been raised in luxury, but nothing like this. Furniture of antique workmanship stood here and there, all of carved and polished teak, inlaid with mother-of-pearl or ivory plaques. The walls were hung w
ith rich brocade and displayed illuminated cabinets crowded with exquisite antiquities—Etruscan, Creek, Roman, Hittite, Egyptian—museum-worthy pieces, all. The carpet underfoot was a superb Ispahan of fabulous value, faded with centuries but still glorious. A subtle fragrance hung on the still air, rising in blue and lazy whorls from the grinning jaws of a silver idol of Eastern work.
Bookshelves held hundreds of scholarly-looking tomes whose gilt titles were in Latin, German, French Unaussprechlichen Kulten, Livre d’Ivonis, Cultes de Goules. None of the titles were familiar to her, but they held a sinister connotation of the occult, of the nightshade of science and philosophy.
A carven teak wood desk was drawn up before a fireplace. It held a clutter of books, manuscripts and notepads, weighed down with Egyptian tomb-figurines of blue faience, huge scarabs of schist. Babylonian or Sumerian tablets of baked clay inscribed with sharp cuneiform. Above the fireplace hung a grotesque mask of carved and painted wood, scarlet, black, and gold. It depicted a hideous devil-face with three glaring eyes and open fanged jaws from which escaped painted gold whorls of stylized flames. She was staring up at it with fascination mingled with revulsion when a quiet voice spoke from behind her, startling the girl.
“Tibetan,” said the voice. “It depicts Yama, King of Devils. Some say that he was worshipped in prehistory, in Lemuria, as Yamath, lord of fire.”
The girl turned swiftly. Her host was tall, slender, saturnine, with a fine-boned visage as sallow as old ivory. His hair was sleek, seal-black, with a dramatic streak of pure silver that began at his right temple and zigzagged to the base of his skull. The dark eyes were hooded and cryptic and thoughtful. His age was indeterminate. He wore a dressing-gown of black silk acrawl with writhing gold dragons.
“I am Anton Zarnak,” he said with a slight smile, “and you are Miss de Rivera. Pray make yourself comfortable.” Zarnak glanced at a side-table laden with crystal decanters. “A sip of brandy, perhaps?”
“No, thank you,” the girl declined, sinking into a deep chair. Zarnak nodded, seating himself behind his desk. He opened a notebook and selected a pen.
“How can I assist you?” he inquired.
CHAPTER 2
Night-Fear
Dona Teresa twisted her hands together. “Doctor, there is nothing the matter with me. It is my Uncle, Don Sebastian de Rivera. We are the last survivors of an old California family of Hispanic origin. Ever since my parents died when I was a child, Don Sebastian has been my guardian and my dearest friend. Now he is suffering in the grip of some terrible thing—some hideous curse… I come to you for aid. No one else can help; my Uncle forbids it.”
“Indeed? And what is the problem?”
Dona Teresa lowered her head, veiling lustrous dark eyes behind thick lashes. “It sounds ridiculous…he is afraid of the dark.”
When Zarnak made no response, the young woman continued in a rush of words. “He has not always been so! When I was much younger, he owned immense lands in southern California, in Santiago County. He was a gentleman rancher, as our family has always been for many, many generations. He was tall, strong, a veritable lion of a man, afraid neither of God, man or devil.”
“And now?” Zarnak prompted softly. The girl raised eloquent eyes to his.
“Now he is an old man, although still in his prime…a shuddering coward who hides from the dark; gaunt, wasted, bent—old before his time. Stooped as if under the burden of some terrible and nameless guilt…”
“You say that your Uncle is afraid of the dark. Can you be more precise?”
She twisted her hands together nervously. “It was our priest who bade me visit you—Father Xavier of—”
“I know him well; an excellent man, and a fine priest. Pray continue.”
“It began about seven years ago. I was scarcely more than a child at the time. You must understand, Doctor: our family has ranched our ten thousand acres since the days of the first Spaniards. We raise sheep, cattle, grain. My Uncle was a veritable bull of a man; I have seen him kill a rattlesnake with his bare hands; once, he slew a grizzly with what you call a Bowie knife. Never in his life did he taste the bitterness of fear; now, he cowers behind shut curtains when night falls, trusting to the blaze of a thousand lights to keep the night away…”
Zarnak meditated briefly. “Has your Uncle consulted a physician? A—psychiatrist?”
“The family doctor prescribed nostrums, tonics, a vacation. My Uncle, Don Sebastian, despises analysts. He considers them little more than witch-doctors.”
“I am little more than a witchdoctor,” remarked Anton Zarnak with a slight smile. “But please go on; tell me more. Any detail that springs to mind may be of help, offering a clue…”
“I think that it began when my Uncle opened an old Indian burial mound which has stood on our property for more centuries than we have owned the land,” said Dona Teresa. “I believe it was supposed to have been built by a tribe called the Mutsune, long since extinct, at least in California. It was only after this intrusion upon the sanctity of the ancient dead that my Uncle began to…change.”
Something leapt to life and alertness behind Zarnak’s impassive gaze at this mention of the Mutsune burial mound. He made a brief note on the pad in his small, precise hand.
“Was anything of interest discovered in the mound?” he asked.
The girl shrugged listlessly. “I don’t know…perhaps an anthropologist might find these things of interest or value. It was the tomb, I believe, of some old Mutsune shaman or ghost-doctor or medicine man, whatever you wish to call them. My Uncle found clay pots of corn, scattered beads, shell work, bones. The shaman was well preserved, almost like an Egyptian mummy. The remains, I recall, fell to dust when opened and exposed to the air…”
“Was anything else found in this tomb?”
“Jewelry of hammered copper…silver bracelets studded with uncut but polished turquoises…there was an odd pectoral pendent, carved of black volcanic glass—”
“Obsidian? That is interesting,” commented Zarnak.
“It was some months after opening the mound that my Uncle began to display peculiar tendencies to avoid the dark. Within a year, he abruptly sold all of our land to a rival rancher and brought me here into the east. I had hoped we would relocate to San Francisco, a city that I love; but, no, we must put the breadth of the entire continent between us and our ancestral home, it seemed. We took a town-house on a lovely tree-lined street off Park Avenue, and have lived in seclusion ever since.”
“While your Uncle’s health has declined?”
“In seven years, he shrank and dwindled into an old man frail and fearful. It is not a physical thing, I am sure; the family doctor assures me that it is merely nerves. As I have mentioned, he refuses to consult a psychiatrist. Even a priest; I am a good Catholic, I hope. My Uncle is indifferent to the Church; he supports it but rarely attends. He has not been to confession in more years than I can remember. Sometimes, I fear for his soul.”
“Tell me more about his fear of the dark.”
“It sounds absurd and childish, doesn’t it? But to him the peril is horribly real. In the daylight hours he is normal enough, takes meals with me, talks, even jests. But when twilight nears, Uncle commands the servants to close the drapes over every window, and to light every light. Then he retires to his own quarters. He is armored against the darkness by powerful electric lamps contrived in such a manner that no corner is shadowy. He detests even shadows. And he lives in constant dread of a power-failure; every room of the house contains dozens of candelabra and flashlights with fresh batteries. It is a fearful thing to see a grown man cower before night-fears…”
“How does your Uncle pass his time?”
“In research; he digs through old, mouldering books; he writes to scholars all over the world, he is in constant touch with great libraries…to be honest, si
r, I have no notion of the nature of his research. We never talk of it…but he is horribly afraid of something…it is almost as if my Uncle had somehow incurred the wrath of some demon of the darkness, and clings with frail hands pitifully to the light.”
Zarnak made a small notation in his careful hand.
“What became of the relics which your Uncle discovered in the Indian burial mound?” he asked quietly.
“He has them with him. Keeps them in his rooms. He clings to them, seems to cherish them,” said the girl.
“I see. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
Dona Teresa thought for a moment. “Perhaps, Doctor, but whether it’s of any value or not…anyway, before Uncle sold the ranch, we had a priest staying with us. He was of pure Indian blood, of a race descended from the Mutsunes. I’ll never forget how violently agitated he became when he discovered that Uncle had disturbed the mound, and brought the artifacts to light…he was transfixed with horror, as if of a sacrilege or the exposure of some dreadful danger.”
“Was there any one of the artifacts in particular that seemed to alarm him?” inquired Zarnak.
The girl considered. “Yes; the tablet or pectoral of black obsidian. I remember how he stared at my Uncle in frozen shock, and what he said. It was…‘You dared expose this thing to the light of day?’ And then he went into a sort of Indian chant, repeating one name or phrase over and over, swaying to the rhythm of the sound.”
The Second Cthulhu Mythos MEGAPACK® Page 41
