Nightmare Magazine Issue 6

by Molly Tanzer

  Rosemary then recounted what has already been recorded here, and she and Basil resolved upon a course of action that shall comprise the denoument of this chronicle. Both were determined that the gangrenous affliction should not claim Rosemary, but until Lady Calipash, wondering why her daughter did not come down to dinner, intruded into the parlor where the siblings colluded, they could not see how. The idea occurred to the Twins when Lady Calipash’s alarm at seeing Mr. Villein’s corpse upon the carpet was so tremendous that she began to scream. Basil, fearing they should be overheard and the murder discovered before they had concocted an adequate reason for his unfortunate death, caught Lady Calipash by the neck when she would not calm herself. As he wrapped his fingers about her throat, Basil noticed the softness of his mother’s skin, and, looking deeply into her fearful eyes, saw that she was still a handsome creature of not five-and-thirty.

  “Sister,” he began, but Rosemary had already anticipated his mind, and agreed that she should immediately switch her consciousness with Lady Calipash’s by means of witchcraft she and Basil had long ago learned (and once utilized in their youthful lovemaking) from the donkey-headed eel-creature they had conjured, and henceforth inhabit her own mother’s skin. This was done directly, and after securely locking Rosemary’s former body (now occupied by their terrified mother) into the family crypt, along with Mr. Villein’s corpse, mother and prodigal son, rather than brother and sister, had the carriage made ready, and they drove to the head of the River Plym, whereupon Basil summoned one of the aquatic priests of his god, and handed over the relic that has figured so prominently in their narrative.

  To conclude, the author hopes that readers of this History will find this account entirely mortifying and disgusting, and seek to avoid modeling any part of his or her behavior upon that of the Infernal Ivybridge Twins—though to be fair, it must be recorded that, for all the duration of their cacodemoniacal lives, the Twins preserved the tenderest affection for each other. Still, there has never been found anywhere in the world a less-worthy man or woman than they, and, until the moonless night when the Twins decided to join the ranks of the cetaceous worshipers of their unholy deity—Lord Calipash being called thence, his sister long-missing her former amphibious wanderings—there was not a neighbor, a tenant, or a servant who did not rue the day they came into the company of Basil and Rosemary.

  © 2011 by Molly Tanzer.

  Originally published in Historical Lovecraft, edited by Silvia Moreno-Garcia & Paula R. Stiles.

  Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Molly Tanzer lives in Boulder, Colorado along the front range of the Mountains of Madness, or maybe just the Flatirons. She is a professional writer and editor, among other things. Her debut, A Pretty Mouth, was published by Lazy Fascist Press in September 2012, and her short fiction has appeared in The Book of Cthulhu (Vols. I and II), the Lovecraft eZine, and Fungi,and is forthcoming in Geek Love: An Anthology of Full Frontal Nerdery, The Starry Wisdom Library, and Zombies: Shambling through the Ages. She blogs—infrequently—about writing, hiking, cocktail mixing, vegan cooking, movies, and other stuff at mollytanzer.com, and tweets as @molly_the_tanz.

  The Sign in the Moonlight

  David Tallerman

  You will have heard, no doubt, of the Bergenssen expedition—if only from the manner of its loss. For a short while, that tragedy was deemed significant and remarkable enough to adorn the covers of every major newspaper in the civilised world.

  At the time, I was in no position to follow such matters. However, in subsequent months I’ve tracked down many journals from that period. As I write, I can look up at the wall to see a cover of the New York Times I’ve pinned there, dated nineteenth of May 1908, bearing the headline, “Horror in the Himalayas: Bergenssen five reported lost in avalanche.”

  In a sense, I suppose, it’s a spirit of morbidity that draws me back to those days upon the mountain and their awful finale, which I failed to witness only by the purest chance. Equally, there’s a macabre humour in the thought that to almost all the world I am dead, my body shattered and frozen in the depths of some crevasse. But what draws me most, I think, is the memory of what I saw after I left Bergenssen and the others—that knowledge which is mine uniquely. It’s without disrespect to the Times that I say they know nothing, nothing whatsoever, of the horror of Mount Kangchenjunga. Likely, there is no one else alive who does.

  No rival can rightly be offended when I say that Bergenssen was the finest mountaineer of his generation. No other but that fierce and hardy Swede would have considered an expedition upon Kangchenjunga after the dramatic failure of the first attempt, and the very suspect circumstances of that failure.

  I recollect clearly how we spoke of the matter, when he first proposed the climb to me. Coincidence had brought us together in a London gentleman’s club that I favoured whenever I was there on business. His tone was scathing as he cried, “Aleister Crowley, that self-publicising fool? The man’s as much a mountaineer as I am Henry Ford.”

  “You can’t deny that Dr. Jacot-Guillarmod knows his business.”

  “Pah! I’ll deny what I like. I doubt if they ever left Darjeeling.”

  “Then how do you explain the death of Alexis Pache and those three porters?”

  Bergenssen furrowed his brows. “Must I explain it? Perhaps what they say about Crowley is true. Perhaps those unfortunates were sacrificed to whatever ghoulish spirits the man had devoted himself to that week. More likely, he plied Pache with alcohol, drugs, or some yet darker vice and the man remained in India to indulge himself. Even if it’s true, a better climber would have known the warning signs of an avalanche and avoided it accordingly.”

  With retrospect, those words seem bitter with irony, but at the time, I was caught up by the Swede’s immense self-confidence and courage, which were as infectious as any cold. “Then you really think it’s possible? Freshfield and Sella confirmed the findings of the Great Trigonometric Survey—it truly is the third-highest peak on Earth. It would be a grand achievement.”

  “I believe there’s nothing to be lost in the trying.”

  “Nothing except our lives.”

  “Well, of course.” He grinned, baring perfectly even white teeth. “So are you with me?”

  I was violently tempted to agree on the spot. Instead, I prevaricated, knowing in my heart that I was little more than a hobbyist and, in the final analysis, not fitted to such a venture. Bergenssen’s dream was a marvellous one, but outside the smoky environs of the club it would evaporate, and though I might think of our conversation with a certain wistfulness, that would soon pass.

  I was wrong. That month brought both personal and business misfortunes, and with each fresh trial, my mind called back to Bergenssen and to misty, snow-clad vistas. By the end of February, almost in despair, I wrote a brief note and mailed it immediately. If the offer still stood, then I was in.

  Bergenssen’s reply came three weeks later, by telegram to my offices. Aside from the date, time and place for our rendezvous it bore only a simple message: GOOD TO HAVE YOU SIR.

  I won’t trouble the reader with facts that can be gleaned elsewhere, and which have no bearing upon the substance of my tale. The details of our preparation are common knowledge, and the names of our three companions may be found from many sources, not least the May obituaries.

  Bergenssen—somewhat contradicting his earlier comments to me—thought it wise to follow the route established by Crowley and Jacot-Guillarmod, and if we didn’t all agree with his logic then there was no question of debate. He was our leader absolutely, and no one would have suggested the excursion become a democracy.

  Therefore, after much prevarication on the part of the local authorities, we began in India, and approached our object via the Singalila Ridge in West Bengal. From Ghum, we trekked through Jorpakri, Tongly, Sandakphu and Falut, in an unremitting downpour of the most torrential rain I’ve known.

  There’s little else to tell of those days, except that Bergenssen
travelled under something of a funk, which in turn infected the rest of our party, even down to our squadron of porters. He avoided any questions as to what had put him out of sorts, and so I took it for a mood of grim determination, or perhaps mere consequence of the abysmal weather, leaches, and other hardships.

  In any case, we made good progress. We proceeded in short order through Gamotang, whence the work of mountaineering began in earnest, and on through successive camps until—late of an afternoon, with violet hints already softening the robust blue of the Himalayan sky—we came upon camp five.

  In my mind’s eye, I’d expected some place remarkable, befitting the violence that had occurred nearby. In fact, it was nondescript, nothing more than a small mound nestled in the shadow of one minor peak. Strangely, this disappointment didn’t so much mitigate my sense of nervous excitement as increase it—as though I’d unconsciously decided to seek elsewhere for the tragic drama the scenery failed to provide.

  We were all of us very quiet, however, and Bergenssen seemed practically catatonic, having said not a word all through the afternoon. By the time we’d pitched our tents and retired, the sky was a dark and livid purple that made the snow seem almost black, and my excitement had risen nearly to fever pitch—though I still couldn’t say why, or what might possibly relieve it.

  Rather than settle down to sleep, I sought out Bergenssen, and was pleased to find him in better cheer than he’d been throughout the day. Without to-do, I said, “This is the point where the Crowley expedition floundered, isn’t it? Do you think we’re in any danger?”

  “If Crowley’s to be believed then no, none whatsoever. He blamed the matter entirely on Tartarin and Righi’s incompetence, as I’m sure you know.”

  I detected a note in Bergenssen’s tone. “And if he isn’t to be believed?”

  “Well . . . it’s all very strange, you know.” He lapsed into silence, and for a while it seemed this cryptic statement would be his last word on the matter. Finally he continued, “One newspaper claimed that he heard their screams but chose to stay in his tent, drinking tea rather than hurrying to their aid. There was a quote I memorised: ‘A mountain accident of this sort is one of the things for which I have no sympathy whatever,’ he said. Can you believe it?”

  “If there’s anything in the rumours about him, I can. They refer to him in certain circles as ‘the wickedest man in Britain.’ Do you really think it’s strange that he’d let his fellows go to their deaths unaided?”

  “That? No, that isn’t it.”

  There followed another long pause. These silences unsettled me more than anything because they were so out of keeping with Bergenssen’s characteristic bluster. What he eventually said, however, was nearly as unexpected. “You know, I suppose, what Kangchenjunga means?”

  I’d passed a few hours in research before we set out. “The Five Treasures of Snows. . .the natives associate the five peaks with the five repositories of their god.”

  “Did you know that Crowley claimed the porters were willing to continue—the next morning, that is, after the accident? He said they told him that the spirits of the mountain had been propitiated. One death for every peak.”

  “But every account reports only four deaths, those of Pache and three of the porters.”

  Bergenssen looked away, to stare distractedly at the wall of the tent. “Yes. I know.”

  I sensed that his brief spell of loquacity had come to an end. I bid him goodnight and retired to my own small shelter. Feeling suddenly exhausted, I climbed straight into my sleeping bag and extinguished my lamp.

  Yet sleep was not forthcoming. As often happens, bodily tiredness served only to exacerbate the activity of my mind. Outside, the wind ranged between eerie soughing and a penetrating, almost feline screech. Every so often, a crash marked the passage of some loose snow bank into the abyss.

  As I lay staring into perfect darkness, I thought upon the rumours I’d heard of Aleister Crowley, tales he seemed to delight in and even propagate. I wondered what succour such a man could hope to find amidst the soul-wrenching desolation and wild beauty of the Himalayas. I imagined myself at the very spot where Crowley had sat, listening as his colleagues were torn from the mountain face, sipping tea as they tumbled down and down toward horrific deaths.,

  I don’t remember falling asleep, but I have vague recollections of dreams in which I was led not by the hardy Bergenssen but by Crowley himself, who beckoned me through the most hazardous of routes, paths he crossed effortlessly only to laugh and caper when I couldn’t follow with the same ease.

  I remember how I raged at him—and how my cries only made him laugh the harder.

  I woke late. It was that, I suppose, that saved my life.

  I transitioned abruptly from deep sleep into wakefulness, and realised the sounds from outside were my colleagues preparing for our departure. Yet I had no urge at all to move. I felt cold beyond belief, and it was more than I could do to control my shivering.Nevertheless, I struggled into my coat and boots, whilst the urge to vomit rose in my gullet.

  The moment I stepped outside, Bergenssen rushed over. “My God, man, are you all right? You look like death! Can you stand?”

  I struggled to control my thoughts. “I had the malaria,” I said. “Last year, in Egypt. I think perhaps it’s back.” I brushed a palm across my brow, found it clammy. “I’m afraid I’ll be going nowhere today.”

  “Not to worry, old man,” Bergenssen said—though in fact, he looked more dejected even than I felt. “It’s a poor time for a delay, though.”

  I couldn’t see how this was true. The wind was high, visibility was poor, and in all it promised to be a bad day for mountaineering. When I pointed this out, he said, “Yes, but we have a while yet. I wanted badly to make camp six.”

  I was startled by the lack of sympathy in his tone. It was a sort of childish spite that made me say, “You should go on. I’ll be better soon, I’m sure.” Then, beginning to realise how foolishly I was jeopardising myself, I added, “If you rope the worst parts and send someone back in a day or two, I’ll be able to catch up.”

  Bergenssen nodded vigorously. I could see that he very much wanted to believe me. “Yes, I suppose that’s the only way. You can manage, can’t you? I’d leave one of the porters, you know . . .”

  “Yes? “ I said, with sudden hope.

  “But we’ll need them all at six, you see.”

  My heart sank. I felt a flush of horror at the thought that the man before me was nothing like the Bergenssen I knew; that no words I could say would move him. “Don’t worry,” I told him. “What’s the worst that can happen to me here?”

  So they set out, and I watched until they disappeared. Had I any premonition? I remember being ill at ease, but of course there was the sudden rush of sickness, my half-remembered nightmares, and Bergenssen’s uncharacteristic behaviour. With all that, it was easy to dismiss any doubts as fanciful.

  Yet very soon, I had graver reasons for concern. The weather worsened drastically: the wind rose in a matter of minutes, until soon it was a gale, flinging pirouettes of snow and wailing banshee-like across the cliffs. It wasn’t long before I was driven back into my tent, where I huddled shivering, hoping against hope to hear the sounds of their return.

  What I heard instead was the worst thing I could have expected—a colossal crash that seemed to go on for minutes before it subsided into a low muttering.

  It could only be an avalanche.

  I think I grew feverish then, if I hadn’t been already. I know it wasn’t long after the avalanche that I convinced myself my companions would not be returning. They were gone, and I was alone.

  I shouted and raved for a while. Afterwards, I imagined I’d returned to lucidity. The truth was that my temporary madness had taken a different turn. I was sure I should go outside and start back to camp four, where a portion of our entourage was waiting with supplies. If I didn’t, I would be buried—as Bergenssen and the others had been buried.

  I s
taggered outside. The storm was like nothing I’d seen. Visibility was non-existent, except when a flash of lightning offered brief and violent illumination. Other than that, there was only darkness and snow, mixed inseparably, an ever-shifting funnel that howled around my every step.

  In a minute, I’d lost all trace of my tent. On one level I realised I was as likely to blunder off a cliff as to come anywhere near our last camp, but that realisation did nothing to slow my steps. Increasingly, I was unsure of where I was going, or why. Was something pursuing me? Yes, that was it—now that I thought, I could hear it, hear its measured steps through the bludgeoning of the gale. Was it a thing or a man? Perhaps it was something of both.

  I stumbled often and fell more than once, but I seemed to have grown oblivious to pain, or sense, or anything but my fear. I reeled without direction, with no sense of time, unaware even of the storm.

  I don’t remember finding the valley. All I recollect is a change in the pitch of the wind, a relaxing in the lash of the snow against my back. It seemed quite abrupt. There was light, for the first time in ages. At first, I thought it was artificial. Then I recognised the pallid glow of the moon. It hung low and gigantic, as though I’d scaled a peak that had somehow brought us face to face. It was bright enough for me to see the crevasse walls to either side—and ahead, the building that rose where those walls met.

  I thought it must be a monastery, but it looked as much like a fortress, with four windowless tiers raised on columns, each level roofed in the peculiarly sharp and steep Tibetan style. The wide doors were of plain, black wood, and there was none of the usual ornamentation, except for one detail—the huge, golden pentagram mounted high upon the fourth storey.