Although many of the pools were relatively shallow, the old-time quicksand rumors held us to a slow and hesitant advance.
While we paused as Chris adjusted his shoulder pack, I questioned him in regard to the location of the Jendick house.
“I might as well admit,” he confessed, “that I’m trusting largely to luck. I do know that the place is supposed to be situated in the middle someplace and that—at one time at least—there was a stand of black-gum trees alongside the knoll the house is set on.”
We slogged along in silence most of the time. The footing was treacherous; our attention was concentrated on the terrain immediately ahead. At one point, I slipped and went to my knees in algae-scummed water. The hip boots helped.
The silence became oppressive. Although sun seldom penetrated the overhead screen of tree branches and climbing vines, heat and humidity increased as the morning wore on.
“Does this devil’s morass have a name?” I asked, by way of conversation.
Turning, Chris looked at me in surprise. “Jendick’s Swamp, of course.”
Around noon, chancing on a cleared and relatively dry patch of ground, we stopped and sat down. Coffee and an egg-salad sandwich revived my spirits a bit.
“We’ll stumble on the place soon,” I predicted with forced optimism.
“Sure,” Chris agreed, “if we don’t travel in a big circle.”
“Didn’t you bring a compass?”
“There’s one in the pack somewhere. We’ve been moving north so far. But the trouble is, I’m not positive about the knoll’s location. I think it’s about in the middle, but I can’t vouch for it. And I’m not sure of the size of the swamp. It may have shrunk—or spread—drastically over the years. I think we’ll swing toward the northwest. That means we veer left. I don’t need a compass for that.”
We moved on. Conversation dwindled away. The silence seemed all- pervading and somehow ominous. We plodded through an acre or more where close-growing, creeper-laden swamp oaks proved nearly impenetrable. More than once, we waded through pools up to our waists. Our boots, luckily tight at the tops, kept out most of the water.
As I slogged doggedly along behind him, I noticed that Chris was becoming increasingly hesitant. Frowning, he paused frequently while he peered through the moist, matted tangle of trees and twisting vines which surrounded us.
I feared he was lost but I said nothing. The heat and the unaccustomed exercise were taking their toll, however. My legs ached; I was starting to feel dizzy. I was on the point of suggesting a ten-minute break when Chris stopped and pointed.
“There! To the left, ahead!”
Squinting in the direction he indicated, I saw a line of dark trees which rose slightly above the level of the others around us.
“Look like black gums to me. Let’s check!”
Minutes later we pushed our way through underbrush beneath a stand of tall black-gum trees.
Pointing ahead, Chris nodded. “Jendick’s house!”
Sprawled on an overgrown knoll before us lay a half-collapsed, ramshackle building which nearly defied description. Rooms appeared to have been added at random with no regard for uniformity. A sagging second story stretched over only part of the first. All windowpanes were broken or missing; two window apertures had been boarded up; the others gaped open. Shingles hung askew alongside patches of loose tar paper. A wooden front door, panels split, hung by one rusty hinge. A green mold, abetted by the damp air of the swamp, lay like a slimy glaze of hastily applied paint over the entire house. Shaggy clumps of juniper, burdock, and willow saplings crowded alongside the structure.
There was no sign of life, much less occupancy. Save for the metallic chirr of a cicada, far off in the swamp, unbroken silence prevailed.
Chris spoke first. “A few years more and it’ll just sink into the cellar— if there is one. Let’s take a closer look.”
Moving through a barrier of burdock and juniper shrubs, we walked up to a window aperture and looked into a plank-floored dusty room, empty except for a heap of sticks and straw in one corner plus a scattered litter of rusting cans, cracked bottles, and miscellaneous rags of discarded clothing.
What struck me at once—almost literally—was the smell. Part of it was merely the musty pungency of mold and rotting wood, but there was something else—-a sickening rancid stink which I could not identify but which I found more repellent that any other odor I could remember.
I pulled away from the window. “What is that?”
Chris drew back as hastily as I and shook his head. “I guess some critter crawled in there to die. Maybe it’s the combination of mold and maggots!"
Treading cautiously, we circled the house. In the rear we stumbled on some discarded remnants of broken furniture, a split cask, and the nearly liquescent remains of a rotting carpet. Whenever we paused to peer into a window, an overpowering reek drove us back.
“The chances of any written record surviving in that reeking shambles is remote,” I observed.
“I sure wouldn’t bet on it,” Chris agreed.
We made our way to the far edge of the knoll, away from the house, and sat down on some dry ground near a juniper bush. Sunlight had glinted through the overcast sky several times during the morning but now the sky was filled with dark gray clouds again.
Seen from the knoll, the surrounding swamp appeared even more forbidding than when we were actually slogging through it. At a distance, the fetor emanating from inside the house was no longer detectable, but I loathed the mere sight of the sagging mold-covered clapboards.
“After we’ve rested a few minutes, let’s get started out of here,” I suggested.
Chris remained silent for a minute or two. Looking out over the swamp, he scrubbed his chin. “Well, it would be sort of a shame, having come this far, to leave without even going inside.”
I stared at him as if he had gone insane. “Inside? We’d never get that smell out of our clothes—or off our skins!”
He grinned. “Bad, isn’t it? But I think after we’d beaten our way back out of the swamp it would be pretty well worn off.”
Knowing Chris, I sighed and stood up. “Let’s get it over with, then. My stomach is doing flip-flops already.”
As we shoved aside the splintered front door, the one remaining hinge fell out and the door dropped to the ground.
Chris smiled wryly. “Vandalism, that is. I’ll bring charges against myself when we get back.”
As soon as we stepped inside, the smell overwhelmed us. Hoping Chris would hurry, I tried to take only shallow breaths.
We tramped through a succession of grimy, dust-laden rooms. One contained the frame of an armchair, another a ripped mattress, sprinkled with mold. A rear room, whose floor and walls were saturated with congealed grease, we assumed had served as kitchen.
Glancing up a staircase which appeared on the verge of total collapse, we saw gray daylight filtering through a sagging roof.
“We’ll skip the second floor,” he said. “If the stairs didn't tumble under our weight, the roof would probably fall on our heads.”
I sighed with relief. “That’s it, then. Let’s get out.”
“Well, I guess. Wait—” Crossing back through the kitchen, he called to me. “There’s a corner door here.”
I heard a door creak as I reluctantly returned to the kitchen. Chris stood in front of an open door in one corner. He pointed downward. “We forgot the cellar.”
My stomach tightened at the smell which swept through the open door. It was the same sickening odor which seemed to permeate the entire house—only stronger.
"We forgot the cellar?” I repeated. “Let’s forget the cellar! We’re apt to pass out down there.”
He was already pulling a small flashlight out of his pack. “Pretty awful, isn’t it? But I ought to take a look. Stairs look fairly good. You stay here.” He started down. Shaking my head, I followed.
Once at the bottom of the stairs, the rancid reek all but overcame us. By
the light of the flashlight, we saw that the floor of the place was dirt, shiny with spreading snail tracks and gray-green fungus. A cobwebbed open doorway just beyond the bottom of the flight of stairs led into a large room which was obviously the main cellar space.
As we entered, the light picked out a heap of crates and cartons piled in the center of the room. Beyond, near the far wall, stretched a long double row of big vats, interspersed with smaller casks.
The stench here was insufferable.
Chris played his light along the lines of vats. "We’d better look in one of those. There’s the source of our sweet aroma.”
The first vat was empty, as was the adjacent one, but Chris stood frozen as he directed his light into the third.
“What is it?” I moved to his side, curiosity overcoming my initial hesitation.
The vat was loosely packed with irregular-shaped chunks of bloody- looking gray-white meat immersed in a yellowish liquid which appeared to be some kind of brine.
I stared down at the vat contents for a long half minute before I realized what I was looking at.
When I finally looked up—white-faced, I’m sure—Chris was watching me. He nodded. “I’m pretty sure it’s what we think it is.”
He flashed his light around the cellar. A two-pronged, long-handled, skewer-like fork hung from an overhead hook.
Taking it down, he probed into the vat.
When he lifted the fork, it held a forearm with the hand still attached. The brine had prevented decay but the flesh looked puffy and discolored.
Chris shook it back into the vat and we went on down the rows.
About a third of the vats and a few of the small casks were partially filled with ghastly chunks and gobbets of human flesh. The last vat at the end of one row was crammed with human bones.
Chris played the light over them and spoke one word which made me shudder. “Gnawed,” he said.
“Maybe,” I whispered desperately, “they fed—some kind of swamp animal.”
Chris shook his head. “No sense kidding ourselves, Kirk. The Jendicks became cannibals at the last. No other explanation.”
“But you said the Jendicks died out a long time ago.”
“I thought they had. And even strong brine wouldn't preserve flesh year after year—at least I don’t believe it would.”
I didn’t think the time or place was suitable for a discussion on the preservation properties of brine.
“Chris,” I urged, “let’s get out of this butcher shop! We can talk later!”
"Agreed.” He moved toward the doorway.
We were just starting up the stairs when the thing appeared at the top. We both froze, staring upward with shock and disbelief.
It looked human, but barely so. A huge greasy mass of tangled white hair. Wild staring eyes of a rabid animal. Writhing lips around a toothless hole of a mouth. A cadaverlike body, hairy, gaunt, scab-covered. Clothing, a tattered remnant of trousers ending at the knees. A nightmare shape straight out of Goya.
The thing’s voice was a high-pitched, half-coherent scream. “Thought ye the Jendicks been all gone, eh? Old Asa ain’t! Come snoopin’, hah? Ah’ll pickle ye both!”
It had been holding out of sight a massive length of tree limb, or trunk, which it now swung into view. The club looked like an oak sapling tom up by the roots. One huge hairy hand circled the base of it.
As it started down the stairs, Chris gripped my arm. “Back into the other room! Quick!”
As we ran into the brine-vat room, the creature’s shrill, mirthless chuckle followed us. ‘“Twon’t do ye no good ta hide! Old Asa c’n see in the dark!”
Chris stuck the flash into my hand. “Shine it in his eyes. Give me a minute.”
As he groped somewhere behind me, the murderous thing appeared in the doorway. I directed the light straight into its eyes.
It froze, startled and obviously blinded, for a moment. Abruptly, squealing with rage, it flung itself sideways into the room.
At that moment Chris moved up beside me. As I swung my light, I saw that he was holding the long-handled, skewer-like fork.
“Keep it on him!” he warned me.
I quickly swept the light in a half circle but the thing which called itself Asa Jendick had disappeared in the darkness.
“Crawling,” Chris whispered. “Lower the light.”
As I did so, both of us heard a slight scraping sound somewhere among the vats. Instinctively, we dropped to a crouch. Something hurtled through the air where our heads had been a second before and crashed against the farther wall. I assumed it was a cask. It seemed to have been hurled with the force and speed of an artillery projectile.
I aimed the flash along the row of vats and casks. Before the cone of light reached the far end of the row, something came rushing toward us from the near end. By the time I swung the light back, it was only feet away. In the circle of light it seemed like an impossible apparition materialized from the darkness and the foul, seething corruption of the cellar itself.
Chris dropped something at my feet. “Backpack. Thirty-two."
Holding the skewer fork at the ready, he sprang in front of me to meet the lunge of the crazed creature.
I heard a tearing impact followed by a scream of rage and pain. Chris stepped backward, nearly tripping over me. “God!” he exclaimed in a shocked voice.
My frantic groping closed on the butt of the .32 automatic at the bottom of the pack. Yanking it out with one hand and aiming the light with the other, I saw what had caused Chris’ exclamation.
Asa Jendick’s huge hands were tugging at the skewer projecting from his chest. It had been driven into his ribcage up to the handle.
As we watched in disbelief, he managed a fierce final tug. The fork came out. Blood poured out of the wound; when he opened his mouth in another squeal of rage, blood spilled out of that as well.
Holding the skewer in both hands, he lurched toward us. I fired the .32 six times without stopping and at that range I couldn’t miss, but he kept on coming.
We sprang aside as he stabbed the air between us with the lethal fork.
He fell to his knees, stood up, still holding the bloody skewer, raised his head, and screamed shrilly: “Iththaqua!”
For just a moment, he seemed to be listening. He dropped, rolled, twitched, lay still.
I held the light on him. Neither of us spoke.
For relief, I looked off into the cellar darkness, away from the last Jendick lying on the fungus-covered floor.
“Kirk!” Chris said suddenly. He stood looking down at the hideous hairy thing.
It appeared to be undergoing some kind of degenerative transformation. The facial skin, matted hair and all, had loosened. As we watched, it slid off, exposing the skull bones. The body skin began to shrivel. Instead of blood, a yellowish ichor began oozing out of the gaping chest wound.
We went on watching, horrified but hypnotized, as the process of decay and dissolution accelerated. Within minutes we stared down at a half-mummified skeleton. Even this, swiftly turning black and desiccated, started to disintegrate.
Chris heard it first and raised his head—a roaring sound in the distance, a sound like a hundred tractors suddenly revved up and rolling fast.
“Let’s go!” Grabbing his pack, he ran through the doorway, up the stairs. I bolted behind him.
When we charged out of the ruinous charnel house, through the juniper bushes, across the overgrown knoll, the sky was already black. The roaring sound seemed nearly overhead.
“Swamp’s our only hope! Far as we can get!” Chris yelled.
“Tornado?” I yelled back, he didn’t answer.
Plunging into the swamp, we ran like madmen. Chris grabbed my arm and pulled me down where dense tangles of shrub and brush surrounded us.
“Too dangerous near trees!” he shouted. "Lie flat!”
A darkness like that of moonless midnight closed on the swamp. The roaring increased, obliterating all else. A mighty wind swept throug
h the swamp. Rain cascaded down. I was aware of toppling trees nearby. Bushes were torn out by the roots and tossed away. I felt that at any moment I would be scooped up by the wind, pitched and pummeled to death.
I lay prone, arms over my head, as the tornado-like torrent of wind, rain, and sound raged on. Suddenly aware of light, I moved an arm and glanced aside at Chris. He was watching the sky. I looked up.
Etched above, against a background of rushing sulfurous cloud masses, was the huge fiery image of a distorted Indian face, a diabolical face, blazing with fury, filled with the evil of the Pit itself.
It hung there, its flaming outline crowding the sky over the swamp. I felt convinced that the glaring eyes in that malevolent face were fixed upon us.
“Iththaqua!” Chris gasped.
Slowly, at first almost imperceptibly, the roaring sound began to abate. As it did so, the lurid countenance towering above us gradually faded. Contours of the burning, hate-twisted face became blurred. The glaring eyes turned blank. At length only the jagged yellow outline of a face remained. Finally even this was swept away in the tumult of racing, gale- driven clouds.
Soaked and shaken, we stood up unsteadily. The sky was still black, and though the wind had dropped noticeably, it remained strong enough to fling wet leaves and other debris into our faces.
Our trip out of the swamp was a suspense story in itself. All trails and landmarks appeared to have been torn away. The swamp was flooded. Hillocks and ridges we had traversed on our way in were now under water. The heavy rain never slackened. It was a miracle that we both escaped from that mud-laden watery morass without drowning.
By the time we emerged from the swamp, skirted the marshes, and found our way over North Hill and back to my place, we were at the end of our strength.
After I had started a fire in the wood stove and poured two stiff brandies, we sat down in the kitchen.
Chris scarcely spoke until ws had finished one glass and poured a second.
“Well, Kirk, I’m feeling half human again, but I’m too dragged out to talk much. I’ve been thinking that I ought to do a little research. Meanwhile, I’d be grateful if you kept our little adventure to yourself—at least for a time. I’m hoping the town folks think it was just a random tornado centered around the swamp. If they saw the sky image, it will complicate matters. But maybe even that could be explained away as a freak of lightning combined with funny cloud formations.”
Pyrate Cthulhu: Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos, Volume 2 (5.0) Page 9
