by Byron Craft
I wasn’t alone in my feelings. As if in answer to my thoughts, Jim crouched closer to the gaping crevice. We heard the last receding cry of Vesta then. It sounded like she was just below us. Jim, excited, hollered that something moved. “Its got Vesta.” Before I could stop him he had raised and aimed the rifle. Two reports burst from the barrel. Thunder echoed in the darkness. The noise was extremely painful on the eardrums. I ripped the gun loose from his grasp and tossed it across the room in a fit of rage. I was taking my anger out on poor Jim. I realized then that he was as frightened as the rest of us. Somehow I had thought him void of the emotion. Jim’s large size and boastful ways made him seem fearless. I called him trigger happy and after settling down eyed him coldly. He was worried, pleading that in the excitement he could not have shot Vesta. He was certain that something else moved down there. In a few minutes I cooled down and allowed him the security of his M1.
Vesta never answered our calls after that, nor could we find any traces of her. Lying at full length at the edge of the brink, Jim holding on to my belt and I holding both flashlights downward at arms length to see what lie below produced nothing. I cringe now when I think of what was down there and how close I probably was to it.
VonTassell lit the candles in the room and while I was still hanging below the level of the floor I heard him announce that the machine was missing. The reading stand had narrowly missed falling into the crevice. It was perched on the edge of the crack, the Necronomicon endured as well, pages unruffled by the quake. But the machine was gone. We had placed it in the recess at the base of the reading stand the other night. It was empty. The chamber was beginning to clear and there was no visible signs that it had toppled into the hole. If it had, some of its delicate glass parts would have been littered around the opening.
I understood then what Ephraim Pryne meant when he said the windlass would be in their possession. The device, constructed by my great uncle was the windlass and now somehow they had it. I suspected as well with a sinking feeling what it was that moved within the depths of that fissure.
***
We laid some planks from the cellar workshop across the broader expanses of the crevice and took the rest upstairs to board up the east bay window.
I felt a need to fortify the house even if it was only for a short while. I nailed the lumber in place while Jim hiked up the road to get the battery. The minute the car was ready we would abandon the old schloss and head for Stuttgart.
VonTassell had brought the old book up with him. I didn’t like the vile smelling thing but I didn’t protest. My temper was short and my nerves were on edge. I was a short fuse primed by suspicion and keeping myself busy and away from any confrontation with the Doctor was good therapy. I knew that if we did confront one another that I might loose control and I didn’t want to succumb to the rages of anger when a level head and an alert mind was needed most. There would be plenty of time for questions later in the car. If it hadn’t been for the repair tasks that I occupied myself with while waiting for Jim I probably would have ended up pacing the carpet.
VonTassell never offered to lend a hand. Instead he sat in the kitchen leafing through the rotting pages of the Necronomicon, mumbling something about finding a key.
I repaired the back door, nailing the jamb back together after the windows were secured. When the last nail was hammered into place I returned to Janet’s bedside and started to pack. I tried to temper my discontent with pictures of an early return home, with health intact, and Janet, and of a homecoming which would be almost a triumphal ceremony.
Janet stirred restlessly against the sedative. She muttered my name in her sleep sobbing that the baby was wet and, “he would catch cold.” The words were agonizingly sad. I held her in my arms and gently caressed her until she settled quietly. I talked to her, although I doubt any of my words were heard. I told her that all was fine and we would soon be home. I prayed to God that I was right.
Strewn across the bedspread was Janet’s diary and some loose sheets of stationary. Knowing that it had never been used, I was surprised when looking inside finding the pages crammed tight with a hastily scrawled hand. All of the pages on both sides had been written on in my wife’s feverish but recognizable handwriting. She must have been writing for many hours throughout the entire evening and even later, upstairs, until the moment the drug took effect. The last few pages, written on separate stationary, after running out of pages in the diary, bore a large swirling scribble that trailed off illegibly at the end.
I scooped the papers together along with the diary and started reading the last few loose pages. Even under the drug her remaining words were hurried and frantic. She wrote that she had discovered who Peter was. My great uncle’s closest friend. It was almost as if she was leaving a warning, perhaps for me, but never had the chance to finish the message.
The name Peter had no sooner formed in my thoughts when the answer to Janet’s discovery unfolded in my mind. I never realized until that evening that I hadn’t known Von Tassell’s first name, always calling him “Doctor.” When we carried Janet upstairs earlier, I noticed the engraving on the clasp of his medical bag. It read “P. VonTassell, M.D.” At the time I didn’t give it a second thought. There were too many other things on my mind. Janet must have seen it too when she came around. I wasn’t in the room and the realization of it must have frightened her.
Then I realized something else. If Janet knew about Peter, then she somehow had read Heinrich Todesfall’s notes.
Jim was at the foot of the stairs calling my name in a loud whisper, before I had a chance to read further.
“What is it?” I said, a bit irritated after coming to the head of the stairs.
“Somebody’s on the grounds. I saw him on the way back.”
VonTassell was looking out the rear kitchen window when I came up from behind, followed by Jim. I squinted my eyes and stared out into the fog. Jim pointed over the Doctor’s shoulder and whispered, “There.”
A figure scurried by in the distance and headed into the small summer house, apparently unhindered by its padlocked door. There was only one way in and no other out. I couldn’t make out who the intruder was but from the outline it was plain that it was a man or at least a human shape. And, if I acted first, he was trapped. The idea overcame me. I felt a wild rage. Without giving a second thought to the possible consequences I spun around, unlatched the back door and ran across the lawn. VonTassell shouted for me to wait but I didn’t pay him any mind nor did I pay any particular attention to the van backed up alongside the summer house.
A shape moved in the darkness. I slammed my shoulder against the partially opened door sending it crashing into the wall. A silhouetted figure struggled feebly in my grasp, falling to the floor amid the shattering of pottery and glass. I had my hands around a throat. A match was struck and a kerosene lantern lit the room. Doctor VonTassell lowered the glass chimney of an oil lamp on a nearby table. Jim stood military style, rifle in hand, blocking the entrance. The apparition was not a visitor from the shadows. I had Rudolph Hausmann pinned to the floor with my knee planted squarely in his chest. I released my grip from the old caretaker’s neck and grabbed him by the collar shaking him violently. I was in an insane rage, screaming accusations, blaming him for the harassment of my wife.
The Doctor shouted at me to let him go. “He is harmless, Hausmann is not behind these odd events.”
I relaxed my grip on the old man and turned my attention to VonTassell. Looking up I saw murals and paintings covering the four walls. They were ghostly looking oils heavily framed about four to five feet in length. The framing was made in two shapes, all of equal length, half of them rectangular and the rest oval in configuration. The individual canvases pictured different settings of a strange city of massive domes, gigantic pyramids flattened at the top connected by a network of bridges to towers and other structures all made of a night black masonry. The works of art created a visual vista of chill; that feeling of déjà vu again...�
��my dream,” I said in a half whisper.
I was hypnotized by the surroundings. Slowly no longer regarding Hausmann, I slid off of him and sat dumbfounded on the floor.
The old caretaker scrambled to his feet and headed toward the door. Jim stepped in front, cutting him off, menacingly tapping the stock of the M1. He was at last having something earthly to deal with.
Hausmann shot a pleading look to the Doctor who announced, “He is here by my instructions.” I rose to my feet fascinated by the trappings of the room. There were two windows blocked out with cardboard from the inside. A small one at the front, near the door, and a larger casement at the back with a cushioned window seat below. The summer house was piled high with unusual furnishings. The paintings covered most of the wall area and the remaining surfaces were concealed by red and black velvet drapes that hung over tables and benches all of which overflowed with a tremendous array of books and pottery. In the center was a small wood burning stove, a library table and chair. The surface of the table was littered with fragments of stone tablets, old melted candles and a wide assortment of books, manuscripts and papers, many of which exhibited extreme age.
Among some of the books were titles that I couldn’t begin to pronounce and have noted some of them here. Some of them were familiar while others, although unforgettable, were completely unknown to me. There was THE EGYPTIAN BOOK OF THE DEAD, something called COMTE D’ERLETTE’S CULTES DES GOULES, a paperback edition of Van Daniken’s, CHARIOTS OF THE GODS, and Koestler’s ROOTS OF COINCIDENCE and a worn copy of MEIN KAMPH and even an Arkham House edition of H.P. Lovecraft’s AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS. One baffling work by a Ludvig Prinn called DEVERMIS MYSTERIIS and another equally as mysterious THE UNAUSSPRECHLICHEN KULTEN OF VON JUNTZ. There were fragments of a puzzling work entitled THE BOOK OF EIBON and a great odorous thing that seemed to reek of nameless terror with a heading that read; THE PNAKOTIC MANUSCRIPTS.
And one other. I was surprised to see it. It was another copy of the Necronomicon and in English. It wasn’t as thick as the one discovered in the cellar, about a third of the pages missing and it appeared to be much newer. Besides the size and age it had a similar cover as the other except that it bore no title.
“What is all this?,” I asked. Hausmann speaking for the first time approached me fearfully. “These are Professor Todesfall’s...I was coming to take them away tonight.”
“You were not supposed to be here when he came,” added the Doctor. “If our dinner arrangements would have come off as planned, Rudolph would have emptied the contents here into his truck substituting some old tools which he would have retrieved on another day when you and your wife were at home.” This, I guessed would have left the impression that he had finally come to get his things.
“But why all the secrecy?”
VonTassell fingered the pages of the English copy of Olaus Wormus. “This is a very good reason.” He looked almost grief stricken then continued. “This book is an imperfect copy of Dr. Dee’s English version of the Necronomicon. Originally part of the Whately estate, an old family that resided at one time in Dunwich, Massachusetts. They had a sordid past. In 1955 it was stolen from the Library of Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts.
I followed his line of thought, but didn’t have to say so. The look on my face gave me away.
“Your great uncle could not be trusted. He was a dangerous man with a dangerous vision. He was an outsider with a passion that, even a world war could not quench. Todesfall probed into the deepest roots of man’s origin in search of an ancient evil. He wanted to know who or what Satan actually was and tried to locate the very gates of hell. He found them,” he mused. “I suspect somewhere in our darkest slumbers. He theorized the memory of times and hells and secrets long gone. Of course a few wakeful eyes remain…in our archetypes and visions.” He broke off and stared at me for a moment then went on. “Like those few depraved cults scattered around the world that have striven for thousands of years to release the Old Ones but failed because they could not discover the secret of the key.”
“That is why Todesfall required two copies of the Necronomicon. He began to collate the two texts with the aim of discovering a certain passage, a formula containing the frightful names of Yog-Sothoth and Yath Notep. Listen to this,” he said to me. “Some of the words should be familiar to you.”
He flipped a page of the English copy and read:
“Nor is to be thought that man is either the oldest or the last of earth’s masters, or that the common bulk of life and substance walks alone. The old ones were, the old ones are, and the old ones shall be. Not in spaces we know, but between them. They walk serene and primal, un-dimensioned and unseen. Yog-Sothoth knows the gate.
Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the old ones broke through of old and where they shall break through again. He knows where they have trod earth’s fields, and where they still tread them, and why no one can behold them as they tread. By their smell can men sometimes know them near, but of their semblance can no man know, saving only in the features of those they begotten on mankind; and of those are there many sorts, differing in likeness from man’s truest eidolon to that shape without sight or substance which is them. They walk unseen and foul in lonely places where the words have been spoken and the rites howled through at their seasons. The wind gibbers with their voices, and the earth mutters with their consciousness. They bend the forest and crush the city, yet may not forest or city behold the hand that smites.”
Sliding a finger down the page he ignored one passage then read further.
“Man rules now where they ruled once; they shall soon rule where man rules now. After summer is winter, and after winter summer. They wait patient and potent, for here shall they reign again.”
The words were familiar in spots, but slightly different from what I had remembered. The passage the Doctor read was similar to the letter we found in the cellar, but with one definite change. “There was no mention of the mysterious Yath-Notep.”
“Exactly” the Doctor proclaimed after I made my thoughts known. “Your late uncle realized that certain discrepancies and ambiguities existed with the “Dee” version of the text but the Latin copy of Olaus Wormus was an excellent one and supplied the necessary information by comparison. The answer lay in the many duplications of the god Yog-Sothoth’s name although inscribed in haste in both copies; the older, Latin version produced after careful translation a different name. It was the discovery of a lesser deity, an earth elemental...Yath Notep. Possibly, it was something that had been slurred in the earlier Greek and Arabic translations. There is a definite similarity in the two names, an obvious reason why scholars in the past, encumbered as well by the illegibility of the texts, had read it wrong.”
“This is insane,” I said, disgusted with the whole business by then, “He was crazy to believe in all this. He was weak with age and in poor physical condition. More than likely weak of mind and spirit. Even if he did truly believe why would he prefer that world to this one?”
“It requires more courage and intelligence to be a sorcerer than the folk who take experience at hearsay think,” the Doctor snapped back. “Heinrich Todesfall was a brilliant, but vengeful man, embittered by a world that treated him cruelly, giving him nothing but pain. Perhaps he envisioned himself immortal, standing side-by-side with the great Old Ones as mankind crumbled before their power, or perhaps he did it out of sheer madness. In any case, it seems I underestimated his level of vindictiveness.”
“You mean the translation and the machine?”
“And the time,” the Doctor answered gravely. “I’ve journeyed through much of this world, seen a great deal, travels which cultivated an interest in anthropology until it became my major preoccupation. The legends and folklore abounding in the Black Forest drew me to this region, from my New England practice, and so I met Heinrich Todesfall.
“From To
desfall I learned of the lore and legends little known by the rest of the world. I began to suspect his intentions early in our acquaintance but he was guarded of his secrets and never let me totally into his confidence. I never found out the time of the coming, only that it would occur somewhere between the Lammas and vernal Equinox, a span of nearly eight months.
“Until this evening I didn’t know that the time was so close. I hired Rudolph here to help me move your Uncle’s effects. We had tried unsuccessfully once before, the day you first arrived at the schloss.”
“So you weren’t the welcome wagon after all. We happened to arrive at a bad time for you.”
“I am not a thief.” He replied with some indignation. “And neither is Rudolph. I hoped that a close private study of Todesfall’s things would provide me with the answer to undo what had already been done.”
“Please, for God sake, tell me what he has done?”
“Apparently Todesfall actually used the machine and in doing so altered time and space slightly and released some of Yath Notep’s menial servants.”
“Like that thing that attacked me through the window?”
“Yes. Either the energy released or possibly certain words spoken also reanimated the bodies of the soldiers from the old battle field into the living dead your wife claims she saw.”
“This is crazy...I don’t know what is going on around here or who’s behind it all but I’m leaving here tonight with Janet to get help.”
Suddenly alarmed, he cried out, “you can’t!”
“And why not?” I answered in a challenging tone.
“I know all this sounds insane to you, but you must realize that there is danger...great danger...in allowing others to meddle with this. Because of my hesitations, we may be witnessing the beginning of something horrible... it...it could be Armageddon.”
