Haggopian and Other Stories

by Brian Lumley

  Switching on our torches we ran crouching from the cave into the gallery—and came face to face with utmost terror! A lone member of that flopping, frog-voiced horde had been posted here and now stood central in the gallery, turning startled, bulging batrachian eyes upon us as we emerged from our hiding place.

  A moment later and this squat obscenity this—part-man, part-fish, part-frog creature—threw up webbed hands before its terrible face; screamed a hissing, croaking cry of rage and possibly agony, and finally hurled itself at us…

  …Came frenziedly lurching, flopping and floundering, headlong into a double-barrelled barrage from the weapon I held in fingers which kept on uselessly squeezing the trigger long after the face and chest of the monster had flown into bloody tatters and its body was lifted and hurled away from us across the chamber.

  Then David was yelling in my ear, tugging at me, dragging me after him, and…and all of the rest is a chaos, a madness, a nightmare of flight and fear.

  I seem to recall loading my shotgun—several times, I think—and I have vague memories of discharging it a like number of times; and I believe that David, too, used his weapon, probably more successfully. As for our targets: it would have been difficult to miss them. There were clutching claws, and eyes bulging with hatred and lust; there was foul, alien breath in our faces, slime and blood and bespattered bodies obstructing our way where they fell; and always a swelling uproar of croaking and flopping and slithering as that place below became filled with the spawn of primal oceans.

  Then…the Titan blast that set the rock walls to trembling, whose reverberations had no sooner subsided when a yet more ominous rumbling began… Dust and stony debris rained down from the tunnel ceilings, and a side tunnel actually collapsed into ruin as we fled past its mouth…but finally we arrived at the foot of those upward-winding stone steps in the flue-like shaft which was our exit.

  Here my memory grows more distinct, too vivid if anything—as if sight of our salvation sharpened fear-numbed senses—and I see David lighting the final fuze as I stand by him, firing and reloading, firing and reloading. The sharp smell of sulphur and gunpowder in a haze of dust and flickering torch beams, and the darkness erupting anew in shambling shapes of loathsome fright. The shotgun hot in my hands, jamming at the last, refusing to break open.

  Then David taking my place and firing point-blank into a mass of mewling horror, and his voice shrill and hysterical, ordering me to climb, climb and get out of that hellish place. From above I look down and see him dragged under, disappearing beneath a clawing, throbbing mass of bestiality; and their frog-eyes avidly turning upwards to follow my flight…fangs gleaming in grinning, wide-slit mouths…an instant’s pause before they come squelching and squalling up the steps behind me!

  And at last…at last I emerge into moonlight and mist. And with a strength born of madness I hurl the slab into place and weight it with the millstone. For David is gone now and no need to ponder over his fate. It was quick, I saw it with my own eyes, but at least he has done what he set out to do. I know this now, as I feel from far below that shuddering concussion as the dynamite finishes its work.

  Following which I stumble from the roofless building and collapse on a path between stunted fruit trees and unnaturally glossy borders of mist-damp shrubbery. And lying there I know the sensation of being shaken, of feeling the earth trembling beneath me, and of a crashing of masonry torn from foundations eaten by the ages.

  And at the very end, sinking into a merciful unconsciousness, at last I am rewarded by a sight which will allow me, with the dawn, to come awake a sane, whole man. That sight which is simply this: a great drifting mass of mist, dissipating as it coils away over the dene, melting down from the shape of a rage-tormented merman to a thin and formless fog.

  For I know that while Dagon himself lives on—as he has “lived” since time immemorial—the seat of his worship which Kettlethorpe has been for centuries is at last no more…

  • • •

  That is my story, the story of Kettlethorpe Farm, which with the dawn lay in broken ruins. Not a building remained whole or standing as I left the place, and what has become of it since I cannot say for I never returned and I have never inquired. Official records will show, of course, that there was “a considerable amount of pit subsidence” that night, sinkings and shiftings of the earth with which colliery folk the world over are all too familiar; and despite the fact that there was no storm as such at sea, still a large area of the ocean-fringing cliffs were seen to have sunken down and fallen onto the sands or into the sullen water.

  What more is there to say? There was very little deep kelp that year, and in the years since the stuff has seemed to suffer a steady decline. This is hearsay, however, for I have moved inland and will never return to any region from which I might unwittingly spy the sea or hear its wash.

  As for June: she died some eight months later giving premature birth to a child. In the interim her looks had turned even more strange, ichthyic, but she was never aware of it for she had become a happy little girl whose mind would never be whole again. Her doctors said that this was just as well, and for this I give thanks.

  As well, too, they said, that her child died with her…

  The Thing from the Blasted Heath

  If I had to choose a favourite story by a favourite author, it would be somewhere between Jack Vance’s Dying Earth fantasies and HPL’s horror stories: an especially difficult choice. If we were to restrict the subject matter to horror, however, then I know which way I would have to vote: I would have to settle for H.P. Lovecraft, whose story would be (please forgive my English spelling) “The Colour Out of Space”; which in a way, in connection with this current volume, is something of a paradox because “Colour” isn’t a Mythos story! You won’t find a single mention of Cthulhu in it, or any other god or demon of the Mythos pantheon, nor any of the standard titles of those volumes of dark lore we’re so used to, nor anything else to connect it to the Cthulhu Mythos, except perhaps its New England location. The paradox I mentioned is that in my first year of writing—in September 1967, to be exact—I was so steeped in Mythos lore that I had written “The Thing From the Blasted Heath” as an homage to HPL, and to the Mythos. It’s a peripheral Mythos tale, to be sure, but Mythos for all that, and it saw print in hardcovers, in The Caller of the Black, my first Arkham House collection, in 1971.

  That which I once boasted of as being the finest collection of morbid and macabre curiosities outside of the British Museum is no more—and still I am unable to sleep. When night’s furtive shadow steals over the moors I lock and bolt my door to peer fearfully through my window at that spot in the garden which glows faintly, with its own inexplicable light, and about which the freshly grown grass is yellow and withered. Though I constantly put down seeds and crumbs no bird ever ventures into my garden, and without even the bees to visit them my fruit trees are barren and dying. No more will Old Cartwright come to my house of an evening to chat in the drowsy firelight or to share with me his home-pressed wines; for Old Cartwright is dead.

  I have written of it to my friend in New England, he who sent me the shrub from the blasted heath, warning him never to venture again where once he went for me lest he share a similar fate.

  From the moment I first read of the blasted heath I knew I could never rest until I had something of it in my collection. I found myself a pen-friend in New England, developed a strong friendship with him and then, when by various means I had made him beholden to me, I sent him to do my bidding at the blasted heath. The area is a reservoir now, in a valley west of witch-haunted Arkham, but before men flooded that grey desolation the heath lay like a great diseased sore in the woods and fields. It had not always been so. Before the coming of the fine grey dust the place had been a fertile valley, with orchards and wildlife in plenty—but that was all before the strange meteorite. Disease had followed the meteorite and after that had come the dust. Many and varied are the weird tales to come filtering out of that a
rea, and fiction or superstition though they may or may not be the fact remains that men will not drink the water of that reservoir. It is tainted by a poison unknown to science which brings madness, delirium and a lingering, crumbling death. The entire valley has been closed off with barbed-wire fences and warning notices stand thick around its perimeter.

  Nonetheless, my friend climbed those fences and ventured deep into the haunted heart of the place, to the very water’s edge, where he dug in the rotting earth before leaving with my prize. Within twenty-four hours the thing was on its way to me, and after seeing it I could readily understand his haste in getting rid of it. I could not even give the thing a name. I doubt if anyone could have named that shrub for it was the child of strange radiation, not of this world, and therefore unknown to man. Its leaves were awful, hybrid things—thick, flaccid and white like a sick child’s hands—and its slender trunk and branches were terribly twisted and strangely veined. It was in such a poor state when I planted it in my garden that I did not think it would live. Unfortunately I was wrong; it soon began its luxuriant growth and Old Cartwright often used to warily prod it with his cane when he came visiting.

  “What was you burnin’ t’other night?” he asked me one morning in the garden. “I seen t’glow from me winder. Looked like you was burnin’ old films or summat! Funny, silver lookin’ flames they was.”

  I was puzzled by his remarks. “Burning? Why, nothing! Where did you see this fire, Harry?”

  “’Ere in t’garden, or so I tho’t! P’raps it were just t’glow from your fire reflected in yon winder.” He nodded towards the house and spat expertly at the shrub. “Seemed to be just about there where yon thing is.” He moved a pace closer to the shrub and prodded it with his cane. “Gettin’ right fat, aint ’e?” Then he turned and looked at me curiously. “Can’t rightly say as I like yon.”

  “It’s just a plant, Harry, like any other,” I answered. Then, on afterthought: “Well, perhaps not quite like any other. It looks ugly, I’ll admit—but it’s perfectly harmless. Surprises me you don’t like it! You don’t seem to mind my Death-Masks or the other things I’ve got.”

  “’Armless, they be,” he said. “Interestin’ toys and nowt else—but you wouldn’t catch me plantin’ yon in my garden!” He grinned at me in that way of his which meant ‘I-know-something-you-don’t-know’, and said: “Anyhow, can you answer me this, Mr. Bell? What kind o’ bush is it what t’birds don’t settle on, eh?” He glanced sharply at the plant and then at me. “Never seen a sparrer on it yet, I aint…” He spat again. “Not as I blames ’em, mind you. I shouldn’t fancy sittin’ on that thing myself. Just look at them leaves what never seem to move in t’wind; and that lepry-white colour of the trunk and branches. Why! Yon looks more like a queer, leafy octypus than a shrub.”

  At the time I thought very little of our conversation. Old Cartwright was always full of strange fancies and had said more or less the same things about my conches when he first saw them. Yet a few weeks later, when I noticed the first really odd thing about the tree from the heath, I thought of his words again.

  Oh, yes! It was a tree by then. It had nearly trebled its size since I planted it and was almost three feet tall. It had put out lots of new, greyly-mottled branches and because its trunk and lower branches had thickened, the weirdly knotted dark veins stood out clearly against the drowned-flesh texture of the tree’s limbs. It was that day that I had to stop Old Cartwright from pestering it. I had thought he was going just a bit heavy with his cane, for after all, the tree was the show-piece of my collection and I did not want it damaged.

  “It’s you, aint it, what glows at night?” he had asked of the thing, prodding away. “It’s you what shines like them yeller toadstools do! I come over ‘ere last night, Mr. Bell, but you was already in bed. Tho’t I seen a fire in your garden again, but it weren’t a fire—’twas ‘im!” He prodded the tree harder, actually shaking it. “What kind o’ tree is it?” he asked, “what t’birds don’t sit on and what glows at night, eh?” That was when I got angry and told him to leave the tree alone.

  He could be petulant at times, Old Harry, and off he went in a huff in the direction of his cottage. I walked back towards the house and then, thinking I had been perhaps a bit too gruff with the old boy, I turned to call him back for a drink. Before I could open my mouth to shout I noticed the tree. As God is my witness the thing was straining after Old Cartwright like a leashed dog strains after a cat. Its white leaves were all stretched out straight like horrid hands, pointing in his direction, and the trunk had literally bent towards his retreating figure….

  • • •

  He was right. That night I stayed up purposely and saw it for myself. The tree did glow in the night, with a strange, silvery St. Elmo’s Fire of its own. It was then that I decided to get rid of it, and what I found in the garden the next morning really clinched the matter.

  I do not think that at the time the glowing really bothered me. As Old Harry himself had remarked, certain toadstools are luminous in the dark and I knew that the same thing holds true of one or two species of moss. Even higher life-forms—for instance many fishes of the great deeps—are known to carry their own peculiar lighting systems, and plankton lies luminous even upon the ocean’s surface. No, I was sure that the glowing was not important; but that which I found in the morning was something else! For none of the aforementioned life-forms are capable of doing that which I was ready to believe the tree had somehow done that night.

  I noticed the thing’s horrid new luxuriance the moment I stepped into the garden. It looked altogether…stronger, and the leaves and veins seemed somehow to be of a darker tint than before. I was so taken up by the change in the plant that I did not see the cat until I almost stepped on it. The body was lying in the grass at the foot of the tree and when I turned it over with my boot I was surprised that it was not stiff. The animal was obviously dead, being merely skin and bone, and…

  I kneeled to examine the small, furry corpse—and felt the hackles suddenly rise at the back of my neck! The body of the cat was not stiff—because there was nothing to stiffen!

  There were only bones inside that unnatural carcass; and looking closer I saw that the small mouth, nostrils and the anal exit were terribly mutilated. Of course, a car could have gone over the poor creature’s body and forced its innards (I shuddered) outwards; but then who would have thrown the body into my garden?

  And then I noticed something else: there were funny little molehills all about the foot of the tree! Now, I asked myself, since when are moles flesh-eaters? Or had they perhaps been attracted by the smell of the corpse? Funny, because I was damned if I could smell it! No, this was a freshly dead cat.

  I had studied the tree before, of course, but now I gave it a really thorough going over. I suppose, in the back of my mind, that I was thinking of my Dionaea Muscipulas—my Venus-Flytraps—but for the life of me I could in no way match the two species. The leaves of this tree were not sticky, as I knew the leaves of some flesh-eaters to be, and their edges were not spiked or hinged. Nor did the plant seem to have the necessary drainage apparatus to do that which I feared had been done. There were no spines or thorns on the thing at all, and so far as I could tell there was nothing physically poisonous about it.

  What then had happened to the cat? My own cat, a good companion of many years, had died of old age long before I ever heard of the blasted heath. I had always intended to get another. Now I was glad I had not done so. I did not know how this animal had died but one thing I was sure of—I could no longer abide the blasphemy from the heath in my garden. Collection or not, it had to go.

  That same day I walked into Marske and put through a telephone call to a botanist friend in London. It was he who had sold me my fly-traps. I told him all about my tree and after I had assured him I was not “pulling his leg” he said he would come up over the weekend to have a look at it. He told me that if the specimen was anything like my description he would be only too pleased
to have it and would see that I did not lose on the deal.

  That was on Thursday, and I went home from the village happy in the belief that by Sunday I would be rid of the thing from the blasted heath and the birds would be singing in my garden once again. I could not have even dreamt it then, but things were to happen before Sunday which would make it impossible for me ever to be happy again, or for that matter, ever again to have a good night’s sleep.

  That evening I developed an awful headache. I had a good double brandy and went to bed earlier than usual. The last thing to catch my attention before I dozed off was the silvery glow in the garden. It was so plain out there that I was surprised I had not noticed it before Old Harry Cartwright brought it to my attention.

  My awakening was totally inexplicable. I found myself stretched flat on my face on the garden path just outside my front door. My headache had worsened until the pounding inside my skull was like a trip hammer.

  “What in hell…?” I said aloud as I looked dazedly about. I had obviously tripped over the draught-strip on the doorstep; but how had I come to be there in the first place?

  From my prone position I looked down the garden toward the tree. The clatter of my fall onto the gravel of the path must have disturbed the thing. It was straining in my direction with the same horrible eagerness it had displayed towards Old Cartwright. I got painfully to my feet and, as I turned to go into the house, saw that the tree was already swaying away from me to point up the road in the direction of Old Cartwright’s place.

  “What’s bothering the thing now?” I wondered, going inside and locking the door again. I sat on my bed and tried to work it all out. Thank God for the draught-strip! I had been threatening all summer to remove it because hardly a day went by that I did not trip over it. “Just as well I didn’t,” I muttered to myself, unknowingly understating the fact. My meaning was simply that if people had seen me walking down the country road in the middle of the night dressed only in my pyjama bottoms—well, it just did not bear thinking about. The Marske villagers probably already thought me a bit queer because of my collection—Old Harry was a real gossip at times.