Dark Conflict

by John Glasby

  ‘No!’ Nayland spoke so suddenly and so savagely that the other two stared round at him in surprise.

  ‘This isn’t Simon. It’s just another diabolical trick to throw us off the scent. They’re afraid of us this time if they have to resort to things like this.’

  ‘But it is Simon!’ persisted Blake. ‘Why good God man, you’ve only got to look at him to see.’

  ‘I tell you it’s not him!’ Nayland’s fingers closed over the tiny silver container in which had been placed the Sacred Host. Be calm and methodical, he told himself fiercely as he strove to control and discipline his will.

  He looked down at the body sprawled at their feet. Even in the moonlight, it seemed to glow a little with a rippling greenish phosphorescence. Then, as he watched, it began to fade away, slowly at first, then rapidly, until there was nothing there.

  ‘Good Lord,’ the doctor whispered. ‘I could have sworn that —’

  Nayland smiled mirthlessly. ‘Now, perhaps, you’re beginning to see what we’re up against, doctor. And I think you’ll see more terrifying and inexplicable things than that before this night is through.’

  It was very quiet in the chill moonlight as they made their way slowly towards the house. Ahead of them, the path wound across the overgrown lawn until it ended at the house itself, now less than thirty yards away.

  Quite suddenly, from somewhere in the blackness of the shrouding shadows in front of them, quite close at hand, there came the unmistakable trill of thin, malicious laughter. It was a strangely evil, threatening sound. Slowly it faded away.

  Then, abruptly, Nayland was aware of someone standing in front of them, less than six feet away. One minute the lawn had been deserted, the next, this small man dressed in the black robes of a priest stood facing them, one arm upraised a little.

  Doctor Reeves started forward. ‘Why, Father Handon, I understood that you wouldn’t be able to come.’

  ‘I came to warn you not to go into that house,’ said the little priest slowly, his words clear and distinct. Nayland was suddenly aware just how quiet it had all become and the realization put him on his guard instantly.

  ‘There is terrible evil there which can destroy you, even with the protection you have. I must urge you to go back and wait. It is dangerous for you to attempt anything tonight.’

  ‘Very well, Father,’ said the doctor hoarsely. He turned to face Nayland. ‘I told you it was foolish to go on with this. I suggest we take Father Handon’s word for it and return to the village.’

  ‘This isn’t Father Handon any more than I am!’ snapped Nayland. ‘They’re doing their damnedest to get us to leave. That means they’re afraid of something. And the only thing that a man like Caltro will be afraid of, is something breaking into the middle of the Black Mass with something as powerful as what I have in my pocket.’

  ‘But I —’

  The doctor stopped suddenly. There was a shrill screech of thwarted anger and the thing that had looked like Father Handon flowed away into something else and then vanished completely.

  As quickly as he could, Nayland walked forward over the wet grass of the lawn. He glanced down at his watch. Ten minutes to midnight. So little time, muttered a little voice in his brain, already they would have begun their obscene ceremony.

  He stopped. There was that nameless odor of filth and decay around him again sending his heart jumping, hammering into his throat. He could sense that the others were feeling the same way.

  ‘Keep close to me,’ he warned in a harsh whisper. ‘And above all, if you see anything, don’t panic. That could be fatal. We have sufficient protection for anything we may come up against so long as we keep our wits about us. There won’t be a second chance if we fail tonight.’

  They reached the door, strong and massive, barred with strips of metal.

  ‘Look!’ The doctor pointed a finger upwards.

  A light was flickering in one of the windows. An eerie glow that seemed to pulse and waver, never remaining steady for any length of time.

  ‘Quickly,’ Nayland muttered. ‘There’s no time to be lost.’ He made to pull the gun from his pocket. There seemed to be some strong, invisible force holding him back, thrusting his arm down to his side as he lifted the gun, placed it close to the lock of the heavy door and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening report that woke all of the echoes around the house. The lock shattered and the door swung open as he thrust against it madly with his shoulder.

  Together, they tumbled inside, into darkness. Not a single light was visible.

  ‘Hurry! We’ve got to find them while there’s still time.’

  Something rustled darkly in one of the corners, peering at them out of red eyes filled with a naked hatred There was a flicker of motion and then the thing was gone.

  They became aware of a quiet, low voice murmuring monotonously in the emptiness of the house. Nayland twisted his head round sharply to determine from which direction the voice came, but found it impossible.

  ‘It came from over there. I’m sure of it,’ Reeves said, switching on the torch he’d brought, and swinging the beam across the room to dimly reveal the foot of a staircase through an open doorway.

  One after the other, they hurried across the room their feet clattering on the wooden floorboards.

  The monotonous voice was louder now, more insistent and Nayland could hear others joining in with it at intervals. But still he was unable to make out the words. It was all he could do to force his legs to move. They seemed to have become turned to water, unable to bear his weight. But he had to move, to get Simon away from this place if there was still a chance.

  They reached the foot of a wide stairway which led up to the rooms above, sweeping around a gentle curve halfway up; there was a pale slit of yellow light, just visible, at the top.

  Nayland pulled himself forward, staggering up the stairs sensing rather than seeing the others following closely behind him. Vaguely, he was aware of the doctor’s harsh breathing and the sound of his own heart beating in his ears.

  ‘This way,’ he shouted, raising his voice to make himself heard above the shrieking chant which burst forth from somewhere above them. The murmur of voices seemed to have lost its pleading tone. Now there was a triumphant ring to it that frightened him.

  With an effort, he reached the top of the stairs and looked about him to get his bearings.

  The voices had dropped into silence for a moment and he could hear nothing. Then, they began again, a throbbing insistent mutter of sound that rose in crescendo. The doctor swung his torch beam. It revealed a door on one side of a long passage.

  ‘In there!’ Nayland rapped, lunging forward, and twisting the handle of the door. It was locked.

  The sound of the shot as he blew the lock to pieces, was scarcely audible above the chanting voices. He felt a little thrill of horror pass through him as he put his weight against the door and heaved it open, almost falling into the room beyond, carried forward by his own momentum.

  In appearance, the room was similar to that which he had seen back at Simon Merrivale’s house. It was, if anything, larger, the ceiling a curved immensity high overhead, painted a brilliant scarlet so that it seemed to his stultified vision that he was looking directly into the Pit of Hell.

  Then his vision righted itself and he saw that it was only the result of a very clever artistic design, cunningly contrived, which gave the appearance of depth when viewed obliquely.

  A vast erection of carved stone stood at the far end of the room, hung with heavy, richly-embroidered curtains of black and gold, topped with glittering crystal and silver vases and cups. Ernest Caltro, easily recognizable even from that distance, stood with his back to them, his arms raised slightly as if in prayer.

  But this, Nayland knew instinctively, was no prayer to a Christian God. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a fragmentary glimpse of the doctor and Blake staring into the room, their eyes wide.

  There must have been at least a score of other peo
ple in the room. All were kneeling on the hard floor, facing the altar. Many of them, Nayland noticed, were women. They all wore white gowns, trimmed with black velvet and their faces, what little he could see of them in the light, were set into lines of utter concentration, their eyes filled with a feral eagerness.

  ‘The Black Mass,’ Nayland said unnecessarily.

  Ernest Caltro was a tall, bloated figure, standing perfectly still, his arms upraised, his head thrown back a little way, intoning the monotonous phrases which seemed to move on to the air in little flashes of lambent flame.

  At first, Nayland could see no sign of Simon. Then, as his eyes became accustomed to the light, he made out the inert figure of the other, lying on the stone altar, almost completely hidden by the corpulent bulk of Caltro’s body. The jeweled knife lay a little way from his feet and the silver chalice had been placed at his head.

  One of the women came forward and stepped up behind Caltro. There was something soft and flowing in her hands and she draped it carefully over the other’s shoulders. The lights dimmed slightly and then resumed their original strength. The weird chant began again and occasionally Caltro would lower his hands and make some strange sign in the air in front of his face, at times making obeisance to the altar.

  ‘What in God’s name are they going to do?’ Reeve’s voice shook a little and his face looked ghastly in the greenish glow. ‘And why haven’t they seen us before this?’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t hear us, maybe they’re in some kind of trance—’ Nayland broke off. At the far end of the room, Caltro had ascended the altar, his arms wide. Then, he turned and faced his audience.

  His green features, lit by the ghostly radiance were satanic and oddly diabolical. Like the Devil Incarnate, thought Nayland, his fingers closing around the silver container with the Sacred Host. Madly, he strove to control his reeling senses. There was a sudden roar in his ears, almost blotting out everything else.

  Caltro moved forward slowly until he stood at the bottom of the altar. Behind him, there was a sudden wavering as of black smoke; a mist, a fog, something that initially had no shape, but which thickened and whirled, forming, forming . . .

  Chapter Eleven – The Devil Incarnate

  It took all of Nayland’s control to prevent himself from crying out at what he saw next. Vaguely, he was aware of Blake’s sharp intake of breath and the low moan that escaped the doctor’s lips. The thing at the end of the room, above the huge altar became something more than mist. There was substance and something evil like a dark shadow standing out hellishly against the greenness.

  He was aware that Caltro was shouting words at the top of his voice and that this time, he was able to understand them quite clearly. They seemed to enter his brain as though each were coated with acid.

  ‘Once again, the Grand Master has come. We must begin our sacrifice. We must all renew the vows of obedience we made.’ He made a sharp movement with the forefinger of his right hand.

  Above the altar, a rearing goat shape looked down at the gathering out of slitted eyes. A terrible triumphant neighing filled the entire room, seeming to shake the house to its very foundations like a peal of thunder.

  Then, Caltro looked up and in that single instant, they were seen. The Goat clashed its hooves together and sparks flew from its eyes. Its foetid breath reached Nayland even across the width of the room.

  ‘The sacrifice must go on,’ screamed Caltro at the top of his voice. ‘But now we have more victims to give in sacrifice to our Master.’

  Nayland fumbled blindly in his pocket. His fingers were slippery with sweat and the silver container kept sliding out of his grasp just when he thought he had a tight hold on it. The green glare hampered his vision, but he had a vague impression of the people in the gathering turning to face them, come running forward, their eyes afire with an eager hatred.

  Meanwhile, beyond them, in front of the altar, Caltro had seized the sacrificial knife and was holding it poised above Simon’s body as he lay on his back on the altar.

  ‘No! God — no!’ Desperately, Nayland tried to shout the words, but they refused to come.

  Caltro’s voice was droning somewhere in the background. ‘Now receive thy victim O Prince of Darkness. Claim that body and soul which is rightfully yours. For your existence shall be his existence; your being, his being. And the bond which shall be forged between you by this sacred knife shall remain unbroken until the end of time.’

  The vast, rearing beast suddenly drew itself up on to its hind legs, towering above the altar. The slitted eyes flashed fire, the cloven hooves crashed with a sound like thunder. The terrible neighing bleat echoed in Nayland’s ears, drowning out the sound of his own voice as he tried to pray.

  Desperately, he fumbled in his pocket, then succeeded in drawing out the tiny silver casket. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of one of the women, walking forward towards Caltro; and for the first time, he noticed the mask and headdress which he had been seeking for so long, lying on the altar beside the red book which lay open on a silver stand.

  Now it was clear that Caltro could take these objects whenever he wished without Merrivale’s permission. Obviously here, the power of the Goat of Mendes was far greater than any spell that had been placed upon them.

  Taking up the mask and headdress, Caltro handed them to the woman as she turned and faced the altar. Her features changed, blurred a little, then became those of Shabaka, the witch-doctor.

  With a swiftly uncalculated action like a reflex kick, Nayland succeeded in lifting the tiny casket in front of him, his fingers fumbling with the catch. The Sacred Host was their only hope now. He must open the catch. There was not a single moment to lose. Already, the vast figure of the Goat of Mendes was reaching up over the altar. The knife held in Caltro’s hand was beginning to flash downwards towards Simon’s unprotected body.

  Something foul and rotten touched his face. A hand seemed to reach out of the greenness and clutch at his fingers, pulling them away, tearing them apart, so that he almost dropped the silver container.

  Then the catch clicked open. Instantly a ray of pure white light seemed to stream up into the room. The greenness faded, writhed away from the brilliance.

  Weakly, he held it up so that it was in full view of the men and women in front of him. They turned and began to scream thinly in terror, running this way and that in all directions, striving to get out of the way of that pure glow which came from the Sacred Host.

  At the altar, Caltro half-turned at the sudden commotion behind him. The hand holding the knife seemed to have stayed in its downward sweep. A sudden screech of fiendish rage rang through the room. The thing above the altar glared balefully down at him.

  A malefic darkness seemed to spread from it, striking down against the Sacred Host. Nayland felt as if an intolerable weight had been placed upon his arm. His muscles ached and his fingers began to shake. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of Blake and the doctor cowering in the doorway, their faces taut and fixed, their eyes wide and staring.

  Then, with a neigh of anger, the creature at the end of the room began to twist and writhe as the light played over it, beating back the darkness. The aura of evil began to lessen.

  Nayland found that he could breathe more easily. The strength returned to his arm and he was able to stand upright, squaring his shoulders. A moment later, the thing had vanished, the green light had snapped out of existence and only the pale candlelight from the altar showed in the room.

  There was no sign of the Goat, nor of Caltro. The man had vanished as though he had never been. On the altar, Simon Merrivale stirred and tried to sit up, putting his hands to his head.

  There was a vacant expression on his face. The rest of the men and women cowered against the wall, looking about them with frightened eyes. Nayland guessed that they would have nothing to fear from them. The nightmare and the terror had been temporarily removed.

  ‘What happened?’ asked the doctor shakily.

 
‘They’re gone now,’ Nayland said. ‘Do you think you could take a look at Merrivale, doctor? You may be able to do more for him now than we can.’

  Shuddering a little from his recent ordeal, the doctor pushed his way forward towards the black stone altar. With an effort, Simon had pushed himself up on to one elbow. He grinned weakly as he saw them.

  ‘Stephen! And you too, Richard. God, I never thought I’d see either of you again.’

  ‘Just lie still for a moment,’ said the doctor quietly. He seemed to have regained a little of his composure, but there was still a faint film of perspiration on his face and his eyes held a queer look as though he could still not understand what he had just witnessed.

  ‘What happened to Caltro, Stephen?’ Blake asked finally, looking about him. ‘I didn’t see him leave when that horrible creature vanished, but I guess he must have done. You don’t think we destroyed him too, do you?’

  ‘I hope so. I sincerely hope so. But frankly, I doubt it. I believe he’s still alive, somewhere, and that he’ll come back as soon as the time is right. He almost succeeded then. I don’t think his Evil Master will have killed him for that mistake.’

  Blake nodded and walked forward, to the end of the altar. He bent and picked something up, bringing it back into the light. The mask and headdress of Shabaka. Without a word, he handed them to Nayland.

  ‘Not very nice looking things, are they?’ muttered Stephen with a slight laugh. Now that it was all over, he could feel some of the old confidence beginning to come back.

  ‘What do you intend to do with these people?’ asked the doctor, glancing up and jerking his head in the direction of the score of so people standing in little nervous groups round the room.

  Nayland shrugged. It was something he hadn’t considered before. Finally, he said. ‘I don’t think there’s anything we can do with them — or for them. They made their choice a long time ago. Perhaps now they’ve seen that evil can be destroyed, they may change their minds about a lot of things. We’ll leave them to make their own way home. I doubt whether we have anything to fear from them. They’re mostly ignorant people who’ve got into this horrible affair so deeply that they can’t get out.’