by Anthology
There was no accompanying parchment or note of any kind in the drawer and I closed it reluctantly.
“Do you have any idea which lock this key is supposed to fit?” Ambrose asked, eyeing me curiously across the desk.
I shook my head. “Only what my uncle wrote in his letter that it must not be used until the proper time unless I call forth Him who comes only at the appointed hour.”
“If I were you, I’d throw it into the sea,” Ambrose said earnestly. “Maybe you’ll say I’m being nothing but an old fool, but in my line of work you get a feel about certain objects and that’s definitely one of them. There’s something evil about it, something horrible. Don’t ask me what it is, because I can’t tell you. I only know that it’s incredibly old and whatever purpose it’s been used for, it’s something to be shunned like the plague.”
“Now you’re being every bit as superstitious as the folk in the village,” I admonished him. “There’s bound to be a door somewhere in the house it fits and I’ll find it. My guess is that whatever is in the room will give us the answer to the mystery about this place.”
My companion did not answer. Now he had made his point, he had transferred his attention to the rows of books on the shelves around the study. An examination of these showed that my uncle had possessed a catholic taste in reading. Curiously, they were not arranged, as in most cases, alphabetically by author or title, but chronologically according to their date of publication. There were several dealing with Einstein’s theories of relativity, Minkowski’s proposals regarding space-time and the block theory of the universe and Cantor’s mathematics of transinfinite numbers. As we moved further along the shelves we came across much older volumes and there was a gradual change from science to alchemy and mythology. Most of these were completely unknown to me, but Ambrose recognised some of them which were written in a wide variety of languages; Greek, Latin, archaic German, while there were others in weird hieroglyphical characters which neither of us could understand.
Evidently my uncle had been keenly interested in the religions of many parts of the world; the cults of the Polynesians, of Easter Island, Tibet and the early races of both North and South America. Some of the titles gave an indication of their contents; The Diablerie Daemonalis, the Seven Volumes of Ksar, Zegrembi’s Ahrimanes Omnipotae, the Book of K’yog and several others which were in manuscript form, with faded characters in mediaeval English which had obviously been copied from still earlier works.
We spent more than an hour going through these fabulously old tomes and our sense of wonderment grew for clearly they represented one of the most complete records in existence of the folklore and legends of many races stretching back to the very beginnings of the human race, or even beyond for some seemed to tell of races on Earth which pre-dated the generally accepted period in time when Man was assumed to have evolved from some earlier stock.
Certain of the books contained lists of spells, chants and incantations supposedly aimed at making contact with demons and spirits and opening the way between our world and other planes of existence coterminous with our own. These, although not uninteresting, we dismissed as being nothing more than the usual claptrap of superstitious charlatans during the Middle Ages. Whether my uncle had actually believed in any of this was unimportant now. Ambrose, however, was keenly interested in them, for he was convinced that there are forces within the universe about which science knows little or nothing, and the idea that there could exist an infinity of other universes which, at certain points, might intersect, and mingle with our own was by no means ridiculous or unscientific.
By now, the hour was growing late and we reluctantly abandoned any further reading for the day. It was growing dark outside and I realised the day had passed too quickly for me to do a number of things I had intended doing. I wanted to examine the overgrown grounds around the house for any sign of a family mausoleum where the remains of my ancestors were buried for it seemed utterly irrational to suppose that they had merely disappeared without a trace. Common sense told me they had to be interred somewhere close by. Considering their reputation, it was inconceivable they would be buried in the village churchyard.
I had also meant to search for the clock my uncle had mentioned in his letter but, knowing from past experience the maze of corridors and passages within the house, I had no wish to do this except in broad daylight.
Accordingly, we retired to the large front room, stoked the fire and prepared a hot meal, the first decent one we had eaten since arriving at the mansion.
I went to my bed early that night, leaving Ambrose reading by the fire.
The wind had got up during the evening and now it whistled and howled among the branches outside causing other noises within the house, which made it difficult for me to fall asleep. There was a wooden casement banging incessantly somewhere in one of the upper rooms and at times I made out a faint rushing sound which seemed to emanate from below. Not in the foundations themselves but deeper than that, far down in the bowels of the cliff. This I put down to the sound of the tide coming in with the wind.
Eventually, I fell asleep and once more I dreamed of a vast waterfall crashing and thundering into bottomless depths. In my dream I had assumed the role of a passive observer and for a long time it seemed nothing happened apart from the mighty rush of water, tumbling eternally over the huge curving lip of the precipice. This time, however, details were clearer and sharper than in my previous nightmare.
There was a cloying mist in the foreground, which obscured part of my dreaming vision and gradually I became aware that something was moving through it towards me. It was impossible to distinguish what the object was but it was moving slowly and silently towards the bank of the wide river and I knew instinctively it would ground upon the rocks very close to where I stood.
When I woke, jerking upright in the large bed, perspiration dripping from my forehead into my eyes, it was with the sound of the rushing water still ringing in my ears. I was clutching convulsively at the bedclothes and several frantic seconds passed before I realised that the sound was not a fading echo of my dream. It was real and came from deep below the foundations of the ancient house. As if in confirmation of its actuality, I distinctly felt the house shaking as if caught in the grip of some monstrous earth tremor.
When the sound and shaking failed to abate, I got up, threw on my dressing gown and lit the lamp on the bedside table and, leaving my room quietly in order not to awaken Ambrose, I went to the rear of the house where it overlooked the sea, never stopping to realise that if the cause of the sound and shaking came from far below, there would be no sign of anything out of the ordinary outside.
Somehow, I succeeded in opening one of the windows and, in spite of the chill of the strong wind, I leaned out, peering into the darkness. Indeed, at first, I did see nothing that might account for the peculiar phenomenon. Much of the sound had now ceased and all I could hear was the nearby booming of the surf on the rocks. Directly beneath me, the ivied wall fell sheer to the cliff-top, which then continued in an almost unbroken line for a further three hundred feet to the beach for the house was built right on the edge.
The sky was now clear and there was a moon, just past full to the southeast, and in the pale wash of moonlight, I made out the twin pillars of rock far-off in the water, guarding the entrance to the harbour away to my right. The moon threw a glittering radiance upon the water and as I watched I noticed a strange thing. The long sweep of the waves rolling towards the shore was unbroken in both directions. Bu between the two columns, the reflection of the moonlight was oddly disturbed, broken and churned as if some seething maelstrom whirled between them.
I thought at first it was some trick of the light, an optical illusion. But the more I stared, the more convinced I became that there was, indeed, something beneath the surface of the ocean which was disturbing it, some powerful submerged current, perhaps, driving along an invisible channel.
How long I stood there, shivering in the cold air, it
was impossible to tell. But gradually the swirling transfiguration diminished and the ocean resumed its normal aspect.
Once my initial shock had passed, I returned to my room. It was impossible for me to sleep again. For one thing, I dreaded those weird dreams which now seemed bent on plaguing me each night and secondly, my brain was filled with too many conflicting facts; too many urgent questions demanding answers, for me to relax. I lay wide awake until, hearing Ambrose leave his room just as dawn was breaking, I got up and joined him in the parlour.
I questioned him seriously as to whether he had heard anything strange during the night but he had sat reading until after midnight and had then gone to bed, falling into a deep sleep almost at once and had heard nothing.
The arrival of the architect from Penzance pushed the incidents of the night into the background of my mind. He was youngish man of Midland stock, having only moved to Cornwall within the past year, and he was not given to over-imaginative speculations concerning the house he examined; nor had he any leanings towards the occult and evidently knew very little of the history of the Dexters.
I accompanied him as he went over the house, making brief notes and sketches on a pad as I explained to him exactly what I wanted. It was as we were returning along the long, gloomy upper corridor that a very curious incident occurred. We had paused to look at the rows of family portraits along either side.
“I notice there’s no room left for yours as last of the family,” said the architect, indicating to where my uncle’s picture occupied the position at the very end of the wall.
“Most of these portraits have been here for centuries,” I said. “It seemed unlikely whoever arranged spaces for them could have known how many more would be needed.”
The architect stepped forward and, grasping the bottom of my uncle’s picture, tilted it slightly in order for it to hang level. It was as he did so that something small and round fell onto the thick carpet and rolled away into the shadows. I went forward, stooped, and picked it up holding it tightly in my fingers. It was a large golden coin with Greek inscriptions on either side, and a head which I did not recognise. I slipped it into my pocket and then led the way downstairs.
After the architect had gone, promising to proceed with his plans and let me see them as soon as possible so that workmen might be engaged to put them into practice, I showed my find to Ambrose for I had never had any interest in things of that kind.
He took it across to the window and examined it curiously, obviously puzzled by its antiquity and the inscriptions.
Finally, he said, “I must confess I’ve never come across anything like this before. It’s certainly gold and must be some three thousand years old. But the head is one I don’t recognise, nor the design on the other side.”
“Can you make out what it is?”
“I’m not sure. It looks like a boat, rather a primitive design and there are leaves, or perhaps flames, in the background. Do you mind if I keep it for a while? I’d like to have the experts look at it. I’ll let you have it back.”
“You may keep it if you wish,” I said. “It’s of no interest to me and I’ve no idea of its worth.”
“It could be extremely valuable,” he remarked, eyeing me dubiously as if reluctant to accept it.
Had I known of its true meaning and value I would certainly never have let him have it for, unwittingly, by that simple act I had brought doom upon both of us. For Ambrose is gone now, like all the others of my accursed family. Some might say he went in my place and my only consolation is that his fate was not as terrible as mine is likely to be.
That afternoon, we decided to explore the upper rooms for I was now anxious to discover the whereabouts of the clock that had featured so strangely in my uncle’s letter. But though we searched every room on the top floor we found no sign of anything even remotely resembling a clock. It might have well gone undiscovered had it not been for Ambrose’s sharp eyes later that afternoon.
Disappointed in our efforts to find a clock, he went out into the grounds to look, instead, for the family mausoleum, which I was certain had to be located somewhere within walking distance of the house. Most of the grounds lay to one side of the house and at the front where they stretched in the direction of the narrow track that served as a road. Very little vegetation of any kind grew close to the cliff edge for here there was only a meager covering of soil on top of hard rock. But elsewhere stood a veritable forest of tall trees and bushes, which had long gone untended.
The unnatural growth of vegetation was not due only to years of neglect, however. We came across several places where grotesque plants flourished in such wild profusion we were forced to literally hack our way through them. Long, creeping tendrils as thick as my wrist coiled and intertwined among patches of abnormally large fungi of such garish colours and hideous configurations it was almost impossible to believe they were natural species. Everything we saw seemed changed as if the roots which penetrated deep into the soil sucked some blasphemous nourishment from the earth, transforming and mutating them into the shapes they now possessed.
The mausoleum, when we eventually found it, was an unobtrusive, low building, concealed within the trees close to the eastern boundary of the property. Very little of the structure was visible apart from the huge door that sloped backward at the bottom of a short flight of steps leading below ground level.
I had not thought to bring a key with me but, to our surprise, the heavy door was not locked and readily yielded to our efforts.
Ambrose had brought a powerful torch and, stepping inside, he shone the beam around the dark interior. It was considerably larger than we had anticipated from the outside, clearly built many centuries earlier from stone blocks which had survived the years remarkably well.
So this was where the Dexter dead lay interred, I mused as I glanced at the long rows of coffins stacked along the walls. That they were indeed those of my ancestors appeared evident from the state of increasing decay, the further they lay from the door. Those against the far wall had all but crumbled into mouldy heaps of dry dust.
Yet there was still a nagging suspicion at the back of my mind, one that had to be confirmed or stilled forever. Motioning Ambrose to hold the torch steady, I gripped the outer edge of the coffin lid nearest me and slid it aside. Tilting the torch, Ambrose shone the beam directly into the coffin, revealing to our startled gaze that it was empty. In my mind, there was no doubt at all that it had never been occupied. An examination of several others confirmed my suspicions, for inwardly, I had been half-expecting something like this, ever since reading through the old records in the Penzance library.
Whatever had taken place whenever one of my ancestors had died, they had never been buried here nor, it seemed, were their deaths ever recorded anywhere!
Closing the vault behind us, we retraced our steps in silence, mystified by our grim discovery, pondering on any possible explanation for this curious state of affairs.
By some misjudgement of our direction we emerged from the trees, not at the point where we had earlier entered but close to the cliff edge with the surf pounding onto the rocks directly below. Thus it was we approached the house at an angle from the rear and, as I have intimated earlier, Ambrose’s keen antiquarian eye noticed an odd peculiarity. He drew my attention to it at once.
At the back of the house, midway between two turrets and obviously forming part of the upper floor, an oblong abutment jutted from the wall, standing out for perhaps ten feet. Although it would have been completely invisible from any other direction, it was obvious from where we stood.
There could be only one answer. Somewhere at the end of the long upper corridor was a concealed room. That it wasn’t the most ancient part of the house seemed highly significant.
Now convinced that this had to be the room my uncle had written of, we hurriedly made our way inside and up the wide stairway to the upper floor. Had we not known the room was there, it is extremely unlikely we would ever have found it for the mea
ns of opening the concealed door was well hidden among the embossed carving on the wall. It took several minutes of painstaking examination of these carvings before Ambrose uttered a sharp exclamation as his questing fingers depressed a small, insignificant portion of the design.
What hidden mechanism controlled the opening and closing of the door we could not tell for it slid snugly into a narrow cavity in the wall. But from the smooth, silent way it moved I guessed it had been in use on several previous occasions.
The room was small and cramped yet it was just possible for both of us to stand side by side with our heads scraping the low ceiling. There were no windows, nor had we really expected to find any. By the torchlight we saw that the room was completely empty except for the object that stood against the far wall. It was indeed the clock mentioned by my uncle yet it presented the most singular appearance for it was totally unlike any I had ever seen.
It was about nine feet tall, roughly oblong in shape, rather like a grandfather clock. Yet there the resemblance ended. It bore a large oval face with but a single pointer and around the circumference were all manner of repulsive figures, interspersed with drawings of the sun and moon and planets. The case was not of wood but some kind of black metal, which did not reflect the light from the torch. And although we carried out a minute and meticulous examination of the entire surface we could discover no means of opening the case to determine what sort of mechanism operated it.
By this time, the most horrifying conclusions were pushing their way into my mind but all without any logic to them. That there had to be some connecting link between all of the weird and seemingly inexplicable facts I had ascertained, seemed obvious. Some concealed thread wove continuously through the twisted fabric of myth, ancient belief and genuine reality. I had the feeling it lay right under my nose but I could not see it.
