The Craghold Legacy

by Michael Avallone

  “Don’t get hysterical now,” Guy Warmsby cut in smoothly. “Anything is possible. But—feeling any better now, Anne?”

  “Yes—I think so—so long as you’re all here.”

  From the other side of the bed, Katharine Cowles had taken her other hand and was patting it affectionately. Anne smiled at her. And Kathy smiled back. But Peter Cowles was sniffing around the room and poking into corners and closets. After he had made a tour of the place he was shaking his head and snorting all over again—the critic of old.

  “Well—no secret doors or sliding walls. None of that stalwart stuff of which haunted houses are made. Still, where the hell is dear Carteret? Anne’s screams should have brought him on the dead run. And Wentworth. Not to mention Hilda—my Dutch delight.”

  Guy Warmsby emitted a bitter chuckle.

  Peter Cowles scowled as if Guy Warmsby had slapped him in the face. He looked pained.

  “I said something funny, Guy?”

  “Sort of. Hilda goes back home every night, after dinner. To her father’s farmhouse in the valley. Carteret is a night owl. Likes to take a lot of solitary walks. He’s probably out now. As for Wentworth—I haven’t seen him yet, though he certainly delivers the goods when you ask for them.”

  Katharine Cowles glared, her dark eyes blazing at Guy Warmsby. There was something bewitchingly lovely about her anger.

  “First thing in the morning you talk to that man, Guy Warmsby. There’s been a lot going on, and I think it’s high time something was said—Anne, you can’t keep it all to yourself—”

  “Kathy—please—no more—” Anne Fenner moaned. “Not tonight.”

  “All right. I agreed. Not tonight. But tonight, I’m staying with you until the morning. Understood? The two of us will sit out this nonsense all the way. So you two men can go back to bed. Unless you want to make it a foursome—” Kathy’s tone was almost wistful.

  Guy Warmsby nodded. “I was going to suggest you stay with Anne. If the four of us stay in here, nobody will get any sleep. You realize it’s only about two thirty in the morning? Come on, Peter. This can keep until we talk to Carteret. Anne—”

  “Yes, Guy?”

  His eyes reached down and touched her. His smile warmed her all over in spite of everything—which was why she did not see Katharine Cowles turn away suddenly, unable to look, her lips pinched.

  “We’ll sort all this out tomorrow. Still want to go on the hike?”

  “Uh huh.” She nodded. “Daylight is better than anything.”

  “Good girl.”

  He squeezed her hand urgently, his fingers communicating a silent message. Anne Fenner squeezed back, wrapping her fears up in layers of Guy’s concern and comforting presence. Peter Cowles pushed his lower lip out and placed his hand over the right-hand pocket of his robe. He left it there. Guy Warmsby blew a kiss at Katharine Cowles, and her slight smile was regretful. Only her smile wasn’t in her eyes.

  “We’ll barricade that broken door with some hall chairs,” Guy Warmsby said. “It will have to do for tonight. Tomorrow, the door is Carteret’s headache. And Craghold House’s.”

  “Goodnight, Guy,” Anne Fenner said.

  “Pleasant dreams,” he suggested.

  With that, he and Peter Cowles left the room and busied themselves beyond the shattered portal. Katharine Cowles sat at the foot of the bed and dug a silver cigarette case from the folds of her silvery bathrobe. Anne Fenner watched her, unconsciously admiring the grace of her movements, still trying to forget the dreadful, red-lipped, fanged monster that had stalked from the window toward her. Only her screams and her dazed disbelief had seemed to drive the creature away. But how had it entered the room, and how had it left?

  There was no doubt in Anne Fenner’s mind.

  She had seen a monster.

  A vampire.

  “Anne,” Katharine Cowles said with evident delicacy and extreme sympathy, “why aren’t you out of your mind with fright? Seeing something like that—I think it would drive me right off the rails.”

  Anne Fenner stared at her, surprised at the question.

  Then she had to shake her head, too, wondering at the oddity of such an apparent truth. Hadn’t what she saw been enough to drive any sane person out of his minds?

  “You’re right, you know,” she admitted, very slowly. “I saw a vampire. As plain as the day. And here I am, talking as if it weren’t all that ridiculous. And impossible. And terrifying.”

  “It’s this place,” Katharine Cowles rasped with a rough edge to her fine voice. “It gets to you. Finally, it does.”

  “Craghold House?”

  “Yes.” Katharine Cowles drew on. her cigarette, blew a worried smoke ring. “Anything is possible in Craghold House.”

  Anne Fenner shuddered once again.

  Carteret had just hung up his long cape in the dimly-dark chamber where he spent his solitary hours when there was a low knock at his door. With a candle gleaming from his hand, he drew closer to the wooden barrier and inclined his lean head. His eyes moved mysteriously, and the half-smile on his lips was almost ghastly.

  The flame of the taper threw a high, crooked shadow across the wall of the room. In its glare, the outlines of book-filled shelves showed briefly, as well as the huge size of the long crate on the floor in the corner. The lid of the box was tilted to the wall.

  “Yes?” Carteret murmured hollowly.

  “Six o’clock,” came the ritual-like voice from beyond the door, “and all is well. The dead are sleeping and nothing can awaken them.”

  “Good, my friend.”

  “Will we, won’t we, will we, won’t we, depart for the Caves of Hex?” The curious laughing rhythms of the voice, for all its chuckling, paradoxical solemnity, lingered in the corridor like the voice of the wind—faint yet sinisterly clear. Carteret nodded.

  “We shall. All things for those who wait.”

  “Look before you leap. He who hesitates is—”

  “Lost. Twas ever thus. Good night, my friend.”

  “Good night.”

  There came a far-off, skipping sort of sound, and then only silence from the hall beyond the door. Carteret’s smile vanished.

  As did the candle glow when he snuffed it out with a wave of his left hand. Utter blackness and Stygian inkiness enveloped the room.

  The creak of the lid closing down on its hinging was no more loud than the squeak of a mouse within the eaves of the old house.

  Dawn was coming to Craghold House again.

  The morning of a new day.

  And a new terror.

  Out there in the darkness, which was still not completely dispelled by the advancing precursors of dawn, the location known as Goblin Wood lay locked in its own deathly stillness. Tall trees and high masses of shrubs and greenery, as immobile as though they had been made out of stone, stood beneath a grey canopy of Kragmoor country sky. The greyness, shadowed here and there, was like a permanent ceiling for the scene, an endless, eternal ceiling that lay like an arched umbrella over the setting. Goblin Wood had been in existence long before anyone in the valley or the surrounding reaches of Shanokin Range could attest. Like all the other locales within the territory, the regions of Goblin Wood were incredibly silent and still, another area in which nothing existed that lived or moved or had the breath of Life.

  And yet, this dawn exposed a strange sight within the confines of the oldest piece of ground in the territory. A tableau of wonder.

  The first flickers of dawn cast slanting, baleful slivers of light through the trees, the shrubbery and the foliage, revealing a small band of ghostly figures proceeding with stoic silence through the grey, ghastly greenery. A procession of six figures walked in Indian file, each holding aloft a torch, the tarred and fiery tips recently extinguished, from which small spirals of black and acrid smoke trailed up into the limbs of the surrounding trees. As each of the six figures walked, heads up, shoulders erect, it could be seen that each wore a black frock coat and matching trousers, and y
et more uniform than these were the long black beards and rounded crown hats with thin wide brims. The men looked like brothers, or at the very least, members of some fraternity or social club or secret society. As indeed they were.

  A secret meeting of Preacher Podney’s flock had just taken place.

  A night-time event which fell on the third Thursday of every month of the calendar year, no matter what was happening to the rest of the world. Or the universe. Preacher Podney had gathered his clan, and the torches had been lit and the fires burned in honor of Lucifer, Lord of Darkness and the Night, Emperor of Evil. The altar in the wilderness had been prepared—a white sheet trimmed with black borders set upon a table of flat rock, perfect for the reposing of a human sacrifice at the Black Mass. The Order Of Unending Hades—Beelzebub Triumphant—Lord and Master Of Us All——yes, the hour of deliverance was at hand. Black Friday, that very day, would see the fulfillment of the covenants and articles of The Black Book—The Doomsday Book.

  Preacher Podney and The Five Fallen Angels would return that midnight to prepare the table in the wilderness for the sacrifice to the King, Their God—Nicodemus.

  His Satanic Majesty. No matter what name you called him.

  But, first—the victim.

  The woman.

  It had to be a woman, this time.

  The Prince of Darkness had not had a female victim since April last. Preacher Podney, walking at the head of his cohorts, grimly contemplated the twisted path through the woods before him. From his vast knowledge of the peoples of the area, and all his contacts, he began mentally to single out the victim—the human sacrifice. Preacher Podney knew just about everyone there was to know in Kragmoor country. There was no one he could not choose—man, woman, child or animal. No one.

  Dawn dusted up the crest of Goblin Wood as he walked, a tall somber-faced man, whose dark beard and bony-featured face might have been found somewhere among the artifacts of the Farmer’s Museum in Cooperstown, New York. Preacher Podney was of the land. Of the soil. Of the Devil himself.

  Everyone feared him.

  The six men emerged from the clustered depths of Goblin Wood to find the silent horses and two-wheeled surreys waiting for them. Preacher Podney had no more to think about. He had easily made up his mind as to the identity of her to whom would fall the great honor of Sacrifice at the Sacred Ceremony.

  Hilda Warnsdorf.

  The bookkeeper up at Craghold House.

  Why not?

  Beautiful, pure, virginal Hilda, with her peaches-and-cream complexion, her clear blue eyes and so-red lips. Yes, a perfect victim. A healthy, buxom and vital young creature of warm flesh and blood, whose soft white breast would spout like a crimson fountain when the Preacher drove the stone knife downward as he intoned the solemn ritual of his high office. Yes, Hilda Warnsdorf. Satan’s Will Be Done! Lamb To The Proper Slaughter.

  Satisfied, Preacher Podney gestured to his clan and mounted the nearest surrey. The others did likewise, the remaining five members having come in two other vehicles. Preacher Podney had arrived alone, as he always did. Soon all three surreys were slowly bumping out to the improved dirt roadway, the riders urging the horses onward. A low cloud of dust engulfed the wheels of the rigs as they drove past a mammoth pile of stone and rock whose very height and enormity of size dwarfed the trail below. A Colossus of granite.

  Preacher Podney cast one long glance upward at the Caves of Hex, muttered something under his breath that might have been a prayer, and then returned his attention to the path leading away from Goblin Wood. There was a fine burst of dawn now in the eastern sky, lengthening, widening, as though it would soon encompass the world of Kragmoor country. As it would—and very soon.

  But all the light in the universe could not illuminate or edify the dark corners and depths of the mind of Preacher Podney. He was a man hopelessly in the toils of Satan—a man steeped in evil, a soul blacker than the blackest night.

  All about him, Kragmoor was coming awake, opening its eyes to the new day. He might have heard a cock crow in the distance if he had paid attention. But he did not. He never did.

  Cocks never crowed in Kragmoor country. Or at least, it had always seemed that way. It was as if Mother Nature herself had turned her back on this desolate and ghastly land.

  As God himself seemed to have.

  A long, long time ago.

  When the dream of truth and love and goodness was still green. Still blossoming, still growing.

  Still young.

  At a quarter to ten that morning, in a busy office on Manhattan’s Fifth Avenue, a lawyer named Wilton Maxwell hung up a telephone in his private office and summoned his secretary on the office intercom box. When the girl appeared, trimly poised with steno pad and pencil, Maxwell waved all that aside and barked out a question. Wilton Maxwell was one to get right to the heart of all matters—both in a business sense and a personal one.

  “Where the devil is Guy Warmsby this week?”

  The secretary—who was efficient, which was why she had lasted so long in Maxwell’s employ, not because of her considerably attractive appearance—quickly had the reply.

  “Kragmoor. One of his hunts again.”

  “Those Cowles characters still with him?”

  “Why, yes, Mr. Maxwell. About a week now since they left the city for—”

  “Never mind that. Ring up the place. I want to talk to him, person-to-person. On the double, Miss Adams.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go get him, Miss Adams. It’s important.”

  Miss Adams fled back to her desk.

  Wilton Maxwell sighed, shook his head, and rocked back in his swivel chair, trying to find some solace in the Manhattan skyline, visible very clearly from his fifteenth floor office windows. But it was one of those deadly mornings when nothing looked very good. The news from Wall Street had been particularly bad at nine thirty that morning. Once again, Guy Warmsby had taken another bath in the stock market. Him and his stupid ideas about when to buy and when to sell and what to buy in the first place. Some men just never learned. Even the ones with smart and practical lawyers like Wilton Maxwell to provide legal aid and comfort.

  It was one of those mornings, also, when Wilton Maxwell fervently wished he had never heard of the Warmsby millions.

  And could buy back his introduction to Guy.

  White elephants and all.

  The boy had a genius for losing money.

  A positive genius.

  Goes A-Walking

  They had started on their journey promptly at ten o’clock. Guy Warmsby had suggested they all wear heavy clothing, just in case they returned after dark. So the women wore hiking boots, parka jackets, mufflers, and the sort of caps with flap earmuffs. Guy himself and Peter Cowles outfitted themselves in standard hunting outfits—Jodhpurs, boots, and field packs which hung over their shoulders and backs to accommodate their supplies. Guy Warmsby had been unable to locate Carteret that morning after a hot breakfast (again there had been no eggs!), for according to blue-eyed Hilda, Mr. Carteret had once again “gone to town.” Still, Carteret had not forgotten his managerial duties—four box lunches, complete with sandwiches, fried chicken and fruits. The mystery of Carteret’s long absences from the hotel nettled Guy considerably, but his irritation vanished under the intense heat of his eagerness to explore the Caves of Hex. It seemed that any explanations about the rather sinister tourist attractions of Craghold House, which were certainly not listed in the brochures and catalogues, would have to come much later. Necessarily. And there was no use in asking Hilda any questions. The blue-eyed, wholesome Dutch doll was only a bookkeeper, and not a very enlightened one, at that, obviously.

  Wentworth, of course, could not be found. Or seen. So there was no point in looking for him, either. Yet Guy Warmsby knew for certain that when the four of them returned, all the beds in all the rooms would be made up, the floors swept and ashtrays emptied, and everything would be in tip-top order. Whatever and whoever Wentworth was, he su
rely was the perfect Jack-of-all-trades.

  What a place, this Craghold House!

  As for the ladies, they had had a fine night together in spite of the nebulous threat hanging over their lives. Anne Fenner had come to like Katharine Cowles enormously. On such short acquaintance, the tall, striking brunette had become a person very dear to her. She didn’t want to guess how she could have endured the last evening without Kathy’s strong presence, wise words, and somehow fearless “cool.” Kathy seemed able to keep her wits about her. Of course, Kathy wasn’t the one who had seen that awful creature at the window coming toward her, fangs exposed, mouth salivating, eyes gleaming—

  Still, it was a new day again.

  A day as gray and palely warm as the others, but a new day all the same. The sun was in the heavens, hazy, indefinite in outline, but it was casting faint amber rays over the forlorn countryside. It would be a tonic to get away from the hotel for a while—even for something as possibly fearful as The Caves of Hex.

  Whatever that might be.

  They moved out from Craghold House in a body, keeping together, Guy Warmsby in the lead. The morning stillness was solemn and impressive. Again, there was no sound of any bird or animal. Or insect. The gnarled wall of trees seemed to be waiting for them like some awesome entity with mouth bared, a dismal grey mouth. But Guy pushed on, with firm, long strides, and all the others followed. He quickly made for the pathway that divided the thick wall, and soon the hotel was behind them, blotted out by a cemetery-like forest of cypresses and oaks and elms. Anne Fenner clung close to Guy Warmsby, while the Cowles kept up, directly behind them. Katharine Cowles was chattering brightly, making grim comments on the sad nature of the real estate through which they were moving. Peter Cowles guffawed in response, even as he added some jibes of his own. Guy Warmsby was silent, his eyes on the trail. He seemed oblivious of the rest of them, though Anne was right at his elbow. She tried to imagine what he was thinking—what he thought of her specifically—and she also wondered just how far she should let her own loyalty to Katharine Cowles interfere with the dictates of her own heart. Guy was so like a Greek god, even with his rough hunting clothes. The beauty of his profile reminded her of warriors of Sparta, of statuesque Indian braves and bronzed and muscular tribal chiefs. He could be all things to any woman. She was sure of that. As green as she was in the tournaments of Love, she seemed to know that as a fact. A clear truth. Why, the man was indeed God’s Gift’s To Women!