The Strange Dark One

by W. H. Pugmire

“I don’t know. I burned it after the funeral, as I was tempted to burn all of the weird books he had locked in his cabinet. Then I found that journal with those extraordinary prices offered him by Mr. Williams, and that kept the books from flame. The shop does well enough, and my needs are modest; but it would be pleasant to have a nice sum in the bank for special occasions. When do you expect Mr. Williams to return from Europe?”

  “One cannot say. No matter. I’m prepared to pay you the sums he offered your grandsire. The books are rare indeed, and in excellent condition. Simon will be pleased.”

  He took up the small journal and smiled at her. “Are you happy with your room?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s enchanting. Those beautiful antiques...”

  “Excellent. Stay as long as you wish. It’s often good to ‘get away,’ as people say.”

  He rose, took up their plates and vacated the room. April stood and stretched, and then she found her way to the front door and sat on the porch swing gazing at the nighted valley, the enormous sky. The sky looked unfamiliar to her, as it had never appeared to her before, not that she had ever shown much interest in the heavens. She caught a hazy remnant of her dream and thought again of the line of poetry, “the inconscient dreadful dumb Abyss,” and felt that image as never before; for the blackness above her did seem like some abyss into which she might fall should she release her tight hold on the arm of the swing. She thought about the sonnet’s closing lines, wherein is conveyed the human soul’s relationship with the Unseen, with whom humanity is kindred. This was the pathological obsession of her grandfather, and she had never given the matter serious thought, dismissing it as the mental wanderings of an elderly mind. Yet coming to Sesqua Valley had triggered something that she didn’t understand – filled her with a feeling of disquiet that was not altogether unpleasant. It was unsettling, certainly, to meet people who seemed as serious about these obsessions of her grandfather as he had been. There was something about Adam Webster’s interest in her grandfather’s books and history that seemed too keen, too interested. Perhaps the rare old books were far more fabulous than she realized; perhaps they were worth more than her grandfather had suspected, more than the generous offering made by Simon Gregory Williams.

  Her brain hurt from too much thinking. Yes, she would stay here for a day or two, take a holiday from home, and see the way that others lived. She realized that her life had begun to follow a safe and regular routine, and this annoyed her as it conflicted with her image as a woman who was living an interesting life so different from the staid realities of her family, her boring mother and uncles who had no sense of adventurous living, of radical thought. Her rebellion had been to live what she thought of as an “alternative” lifestyle, but she realized that it hadn’t taken much to seem “different” in her little Wisconsin town. She now laughed at how naive it had all been. It was here, in sequestered Sesqua Valley, that she really felt away from normality as she knew it. Everything here was strange and truly different. She closed her eyes and pushed with her feet so that the chair would sway gently back and forth, a movement that suddenly brought a memory of sitting as a little child in her grandfather’s lap as he rocked her to and fro. April smiled at memory and closed her eyes.

  Adam Webster sat in soft electric light, his eyes closed, his senses on high alert. He heard the movement behind him as young Cyrus entered the room. “You’re looking severe,” said the lad.

  “I don’t like this kind of surprise when Simon is absent. We’ve had some pleasant quiet years without outsiders invading our terrain.”

  Cyrus laughed softly. “We’re the invaders, Adam. This is more her element than our own.”

  “How little you yet understand. The valley is our demesne. We are part of the elemental air, the primal earth. We are clothed for a little while in these primitive aspects of mortality, until such time as we return to the realm of shadow and mist. The mountain is our ancestor. It is the valley that gives us form and flesh and breath. We are one, for a season.”

  Cyrus shrugged. “So what are we to do with her?”

  “The valley will instruct us. Put your ear to earth.”

  “She’s not like the usual outsider, Adam. She’s been tainted by the Outside. Can’t you smell it on her?”

  “That may be merely the contagion of her grandfather’s infection, which he contracted during his time in Rick’s Lake. Simon knows more of the matter than I, but I know enough. She’s looked into the ancient tomes, and to do so is to be touched, however one may misconstrue the manifestations of dream and dread. The Old Ones are forever playing tricks, as you have learned. Miss Dorgan has assuredly been brought to us under some influence and design. This is no happenstance. She likes you, and so you will be her friend. We’ll keep her here for a few days until I understand her fate, or must decide it.” He turned his head and gazed steadfastly into the young man’s eyes. “Put your ear to earth, Cyrus. It’s time that you became more attuned. You’re too fond of the mortal world. Go and do your work.”

  The older man watched the lad back away and exit the room. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he took out his flute and brought it to his lips. The airy music rose into dark air; it floated to the porch and entered the dreaming of the young outsider who had fallen asleep on the porch swing.

  IV.

  April awakened from a deep and dreamless sleep and found herself in bed, having no recollection of returning to her room and retiring. Her suitcases had been brought up to the room, and she found her car keys on a bedside table. Changing into fresh clothes, she walked to the lower level and found it vacant of inhabitants, and thus she decided to wander the valley and find a place to breakfast. The day was sunny and pleasant, and she decided to walk farther along the road, which led into the surrounding woodland. There was a hush in the valley, it seemed almost unnaturally quiet, and she could not help imagining that it was listening, to her perhaps. Never had a region had such an aura of patient sentience – it was as if Sesqua Valley was a living presence that was fully aware of her and everything around it. The mountain stood as some twin-peaked sentinel, watching over everything, protecting the place. At last she came to a clearing surrounded by mammoth trees, and she stopped to examine a curious statue of black stone that stood three feet in height and resembled some kind of cat-faced gargoyle with a head raised in howling, a crude suggestion of folded wings on its back portion. The stone with which the beast had been composed was smooth as silk.

  She turned her gaze from the statue to the other statues that tilted on the grassy field before her, and then she looked beyond them to the structure that was situated on a raised plot of ground, earth from which vapors of mauve mist arose. She had seen an almost identical structure on a program on Wales that she had watched on PBS, a church that had been built in the 1700’s. The black pile before her could have come from that era, its stones were so discolored with age. The place looked absolutely abandoned and uninviting, and yet the young woman felt compelled to advance toward it, to climb the slight incline and touch her hand to the cool rough blocks of stone with which the building had been constructed. April stopped at one of the wide arched cavities that led into the mist-enshrouded church and studied the tall totem that greeted her; the bizarre creation exuded an aura of age identical to that of the building’s black stone, and it was certainly like nothing she had ever seen before, for she had never seen a totem onto which long lean arms had been fastened, one of which was weirdly outstretched with its fingers in a position of beckoning, while the other arm hung at its side and the hand of which almost touched the grassy ground. These arms extended from the lowest portion of the totem, a base four feet in height on which barely legible symbols or alphabet had been chiseled aeons ago. Above this was the first visage, which seemed little more than a distorted skull with a oval mouth that reminded April of Munch’s “The Scream.” Above this was an elongated octopoid head to which two small eagle-like wings had been attached. It was the third topmost head that filled April with dis
quiet and moved her to moan in horror; for there was no real visage but rather a blank mask-like surface that, nonetheless, contained an aspect of mockery. It utterly perplexed the young woman – her eyes begin to itch as she studied it. Her hands went to her eyes, which shut, yet as she rubbed her eyes she was overwhelmed with a violent vertigo. Red and black shadows whirled before her eyelids, drawing her into a kaleidoscopic void in which she spiraled. Stumbling forward, April reached out and touched the wall of the ancient edifice, and she recoiled at the chilliness of its stones, which had not been warmed by the late morning sunlight.

  It was difficult to see because her eyesight was so blurred as she felt her way along the wall, to the opening that led into the building. She found the arched threshold and stood listening to the soft chorus of sound that came from somewhere within the church, a sound that wafted to her as gentle wind that washed her face and cleared her vision. Unlike the building’s stone, this wind was hot, like living breath pushing to her from some mammal’s mouth. Crossing the threshold, she entered the church, initially confused at the sight before her. The place was definitely a temple – to art. Strange and grotesque statues stood against walls and in dusky corners. Diabolic figurines and satanic objets d’art squatted on pillars of various width and height. One small statue, that at first she took to be a representation of Lucifer, was in fact a representation of Pan, playing his pipe, his hoofed feet seemingly preparing to lift in dance. Her flesh crept and she hugged herself and rubbed her hands over her arms. She was, in fact, rather surprised at her reaction to the place; for in her Bohemian life she had met some few persons who identified as witches, and she had once sat within a coven circle. But it all felt very safe and rather “nerdy” to her, lacking any substance of what she considered the sorcerous.

  The hot air whorled about her and whispered at her eyes. Those eyes scanned along the space of what must be the nave of the church, although there were no pews; they considered the walls, which had slender carved openings rather than windows. She continued to walk toward the raised platform of the altar, on which she could espy no objects of art, no statues. There was but a rectangle of shimmering blackness fastened to chains that descended from rafter beams. Reaching the altar, April climbed its steps and stood directly before what looked like a kind of stained glass window composed of shiny black material, although what its art attempted to convey was beyond conjecture. The window’s painting seemed to convey a dark space with spirals of curious luminosity scattered about in its void of umbra. She had never seen blackness that looked so thick, so palpable. A wave of entropic energy issued from the surface of glass. Lines, like minutia of lightning, violated her eyes, and her mouth began to burn, so that she ran her tongue over her lips and then blew a gust of breath at the window. The place where her hot mortal breath touched the glass formed a circle of bright yellow coloring which glowed momentarily and then disappeared; and as it vanished so too did her eyesight, as something benumbed her brain. She was barely aware of falling onto the altar floor.

  Soft lips pressed against her ear and breathed uncanny language into her, articulation that was thick and cold as it oozed into her mind. It was unlike any tongue with which she was acquainted, seeming almost more like clumsy mumbling than actual idiom; but it had its effect, it cleared her mind and soothed her itching eyes. Cyrus knelt beside her and helped April to a sitting position. He brushed his fingers through her hair and touched a bump that bled on her head. “That was clumsy,” he said.

  She laughed, then moaned at the pain that pierced her head. “God, that was weird. Is it bleeding? Here, I have a clean handkerchief in my pocket.”

  “Try to stand,” the boy told her as he helped her to her feet. Together they went to a low stand on which she saw a basin of dark water. Cyrus took her black handkerchief and soaked it in the basin, and then he brought it to her head and bathed her wound. He gazed at her with his queer silver eyes. “Did you touch it, or speak to it? The black window?”

  His naming of it brought a sudden chill to her flesh. “No, of course not. What on earth would I speak to it, Cyrus?” However, she could not help but turn her head to gaze again at the thing that hung above the altar. “What the hell is this place? It looks so ancient.”

  “It’s where Simon Gregory Williams keeps his special collection of art. The church is modeled on one that he saw in Europe. The stones and bricks with which he had it built were brought over from Ireland and Wales, and they are ancient indeed. Here, hold this to your head. Does it hurt?”

  “Yes. Must have been an effect of this insufferable air, this heat. Made me dizzy. Let’s get out of here.” Without waiting for his reply, she hurried to an arched threshold and escaped the dark place, rushing off the mound of mist and happy to feel mild sunlight on her eyes. She turned and watched Cyrus slowly emerge from the church. “What was that you were saying when I was on the floor?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What was it you were whispering to me, those weird words?”

  He furrowed his brow. “I whispered nothing.”

  She shook her head, annoyed. “Damn, this place is strange.” She looked around, disconcerted. “Which way is it to the bookshop?”

  “We’ll go there together.” He walked away from her, toward the woods. It was not the way she had come, she was certain, and yet she followed him as she gazed at the very white sky above them, at the sphere of pale fire that was the sun. The aether had lost some of its cloying sweetness but had retained its unseasonable heat, and she was glad to step into the darkness of the trees as she followed the silent boy. She watched him as they walked and felt again his aura of strangeness. Cyrus moved with animal grace through the woodland, which grew darker as they moved deeper into it. She noticed the way he reached out to trees and soothed their texture with his hands, as one would touch a beloved friend. And then she caught her breath as he led her to a circle of tall standing stones that tilted toward each other beneath dark tree limbs.

  “This isn’t the way to Webster’s,” she accused him.

  “No. But it’s cool, isn’t it? Come on, I thought you’d enjoy seeing it, with your background.”

  “What background is that, Cyrus?”

  He smiled cryptically and stepped between the stones, which he touched with hands and forehead. April stepped to them and studied the designs that had been chiseled on them, which reminded her slightly of the “manitou” stones she had seen in her home state. Cyrus, tracing symbols on one pillar with his finger, began to whistle, a high-pitched sound that April did not enjoy. It was strange, because the sound seemed to sail away from his pursed lips and rise above them, into the verdant darkness above. His face looked queer in the shaded place, especially the silver eyes, which seemed almost to shimmer with an inner illumination. She stepped nearer to him as his song softened, and she caught hold of his hand that traced the tribal glyph upon the stone. Uncannily, he smiled at her, twisted his lips into a new shape and whistled in a different way. The hand she held lifted from the stone and moved to her breastbone; she shuddered as she felt it move further upward, to her face, seeming still to trace an occult symbol on her skin. She stopped the movement of his hand and lifted it to her face, and her nostrils drank in its sweet fragrance, which was the perfume she had detected earlier in the air. His flesh was very soft as she moved his hand to her mouth and touched it with her tongue. Lowly, he laughed and led her from the place, through the woodland, until they stood on the hill on which Adam Webster’s bookshop was situated.

  V.

  She lay in bed, the windows to her room open, and watched the burning candle that she had placed on a window sill. The patch of sky outside her window was black and void of starlight. The tiny flame of the candle did not move, for there was no breeze, and as she gazed at it her eyes grew heavy. She did not understand the sound that seemed to whisper outside her window, the language that had been uttered to her in the church and that she could not understand or remember. Oddly, she seemed to remember it now, on th
e verge of dreaming. April fell into a deep sleep as she whispered to herself, and thus she did not witness the sky outside her window as it began to alter subtly, to contain the image that she had examined on the pane of glass that hung within the church. Nor did she hear the things that began to moan atop the twin-peaked mountain, or the subtle pounding that emerged from some place beneath the valley earth. Perhaps she dreamed of these matters as she spoke in sleep; perhaps she envisioned the place deep within the Sesquan woods where the mauve mist rose eerily and revealed a second alternative woodland, where a tunnel formed by dark twisted trees was trod upon by smooth black feet. Perhaps she saw the one who stood at the threshold where the two forests met and momentarily combined, the one whose face of mockery was illuminated by the phosphorescent moss that clung to the trunks of trees and was the only feeble light. Then the forest with those mossy trees melted away, and the black man stood on Sesqua’s sod, that dirt which shuddered at the touch of the strange one’s daemonic tread as he stalked through the woodland, toward the hill whereon the ancient church had been erected.

  In his personal study beneath the room where April Dorgan slept, Adam Webster fondled runic bones in his hand, tossed them onto a table and frowned at the portent they conveyed. His large hand swept the bones to the floor and picked up the partial translation of the Dhol Chants that had been one of the books that had belonged to Laird Dorgan. He spoke one of the chants in his low voice, using the original Chinese inflections, and felt the psychic response that wove through the aether from the one who had entered the ancient church. In the room above him, the sleeping woman whispered a response to Adam’s muttered phrase.

  Cyrus crept beneath the alien starlight. The sky had never looked as it did this night, so similar to the plate of window pane that had been taken from a haunted church in Providence, Rhode Island, just before that building had been razed. Darkness whirled within darkness, and light danced within lines of light. As he gazed into the sky, Cyrus felt as never before that he was a creature of the valley and its elements, rooted to this planet and its particular chemistry of earth and air. That air was now tainted by the presence that had invaded it, but the sacred sod was pure. Cyrus fell to his knees and clawed into the earth, picked up handfuls of dirt and rubbed the substance into his face. He listened to the ground and sensed the subdued pulsation of that which served as the valley’s heart. And then he rose and walked toward the raised ground on which Simon Gregory Williams had had his cathedral of arcane art erected; he climbed up the earthen steps that took him up the incline, to the black ancient pile that was eerily shadowed in encroaching moonlight. Cyrus approached the arched threshold through which he could see the deep purple light that filled the church, the light that emanated from the tall and lean figure who stood upon the altar with one dark hand against the square of black glass that had once been a window in a spectral church in New England.