At the foot of the stairs I stumbled over a soft heap, and a familiar whine woke me from the mazes of unutterable horror into which I had fallen. Marjory had not obeyed me; she had returned to that house of horror. She lay at my feet in a dead faint, and Bozo stood faithfully over her. Aye, I doubt not, if I had lost that grim battle, he would have given up his life to save his mistress when the monster came lurching down the stairs. With a sob of horror I caught up the girl, crushing her limp form to me; then Bozo cringed and snarled, gazing up the moon-flecked stairs. And down these stairs I saw a black glittering tide flowing sluggishly.
I ran from that house as I would flee from Hell, but I halted in the old store-room long enough to sweep a hasty hand over the table where I had found the candles. Several burnt matches littered the table, but I found one unstruck. And I struck it hurriedly and tossed it blazing into a heap of dusty papers near the wall. The wood was old and dry; it caught quickly and burned fiercely.
And as, with Marjory and Bozo, I watched it burn, I at least knew what the awakened townspeople did not guess; that the horror which had hovered over the city and the countryside was vanishing in those flames–I most devoutly hope, forever.
The Noseless Horror
Abysses of unknown terror lie veiled by the mists which separate man’s everyday life from the uncharted and unguessed realms of the supernatural. The majority of people live and die in blissful ignorance of these realms–I say blissful, for the rending of the veil between the worlds of reality and of the occult is often a hideous experience. Once have I seen the veil so rent, and the incidents attendant thereto were burned so deeply into my brain that my dreams are haunted to this day.
The terrible affair was ushered in by an invitation to visit the estate of Sir Thomas Cameron, the noted Egyptologist and explorer. I accepted, for the man was always an interesting study, though I disliked his brutal manner and ruthless character. Owing to my association with various papers of a scientific nature, we had been frequently thrown together for several years, and I gathered that Sir Thomas considered me one of his few friends. I was accompanied on this visit by John Gordon, a wealthy sportsman to whom, also, an invitation had been extended.
The sun was setting as we came to the gate of the estate, and the desolate and gloomy landscape depressed me and filled me with nameless forebodings. Some miles away could be faintly seen the village at which we had detrained and between this, and on all sides, the barren moors lay stark and sullen. No other human habitation could be seen, and the only sign of life was some large fen bird flapping its lonely way inland. A cold wind whispered out of the east, laden with the bitter salt tang of the sea; and I shivered.
“Strike the bell,” said Gordon, his impatience betraying the fact that the repellent atmosphere was affecting him, also. “We can’t stand here all night.”
But at that moment the gate swung open. Let it be understood that the manor house was surrounded by a high wall which entirely enclosed the estate. It was at the front gate that we stood. As it opened, we looked down a long driveway flanked by dense trees, but our attention at the present was riveted on the bizarre figure which stood to one side to let us pass. The gate had been opened by a tall man in Oriental dress. He stood like a statue, arms folded, head inclined in a manner respectful, but stately. The darkness of his skin enhanced the scintillant quality of his glittering eyes, and he would have been handsome save for a hideous disfiguration which at once robbed his features of comeliness and lent them a sinister aspect. He was noseless.
While Gordon and I stood silent, struck speechless by this apparition, the Oriental–a Sikh of India, by his turban–bowed and said in almost perfect English: “The master awaits you in his study, sahibs.”
We dismissed the lad who had brought us from the village, and, as his cart wheels rattled away in the distance, we started up the shadowed driveway, followed by the Indian with our bags. The sun had set as we waited at the gate, and night fell with surprising suddenness, the sky being heavily veiled by gray misty clouds. The wind sighed drearily through the trees on each side of the driveway and the great house loomed up in front of us, silent and dark except for a light in a single window. In the semi-darkness I heard the easy pad-pad of the Oriental’s slippered feet behind us, and the impression was so like a great panther stealing upon his victim that a shudder shook me.
Then we had reached the door and were being ushered into a broad, dimly-lighted hallway, where Sir Thomas came striding forth to greet us.
“Good evening, my friends,” his great voice boomed through the echoing house. “I have been expecting you! Have you dined? Yes? Then come into my study; I am preparing a treatise upon my latest discoveries and wish to have your advice on certain points. Ganra Singh!”
This last to the Sikh who stood motionless by. Sir Thomas spoke a few words to him in Hindustani, and, with another bow, the noseless one lifted our bags and left the hall.
“I’ve given you a couple of rooms in the right wing,” said Sir Thomas, leading the way to the stairs. “My study is in this wing–right above this hall–and I often work there all night.”
The study proved to be a spacious room, littered with scientific books and papers, and queer trophies from all lands. Sir Thomas seated himself in a vast armchair and motioned us to make ourselves comfortable. He was a tall, heavily-built man in early middle life, with an aggressive chin masked by a thick blond beard, and keen, hard eyes that smoldered with pent energy.
“I want your help as I’ve said,” he began abruptly. “But we won’t go into that tonight; plenty of time tomorrow, and both of you must be rather fatigued.”
“You live a long way from anywhere,” answered Gordon. “What possessed you to buy and repair this old down-at-the-heels estate, Cameron?”
“I like solitude,” Sir Thomas answered. “Here I am not pestered with small brained people who buzz about one like mosquitoes about a buffalo. I do not encourage visitors here, and I have absolutely no means of communicating with the outside world. When I am in England I am assured of quiet in which to pursue my work here. I have not even any servants; Ganra Singh does all the work necessary.”
“That noseless Sikh? Who is he?”
“He is Ganra Singh. That’s all I know about him. I met up with him in Egypt and have an idea that he fled India on account of some crime. But that doesn’t matter; he’s been faithful to me. He says that he served in the Anglo-Indian army and lost his nose from the sweep of an Afghan tulwar in a border raid.”
“I don’t like his looks,” said Gordon bluntly. “You have a great deal of valuable trophies in this house; how can you be sure of trusting a man whom you know so little?”
“Enough of that,” Sir Thomas waved the matter aside with an impatient gesture. “Ganra Singh is all right; I never make mistakes in reading character. Let us talk of other things. I have not told you of my latest researches.”
He talked and we listened. It was easy to read in his voice the determination and ruthless driving power which made him one of the world’s foremost explorers and research men, as he told us of hardships endured and obstacles overcome. He had some sensational discoveries to disclose to the world, he said, and he added that the most important of his findings consisted of a most unusual mummy.
“I found it in a hitherto undiscovered temple far in the hinterlands of Upper Egypt, the exact location of which you shall learn tomorrow when we consult my notes together. I look to see it revolutionize history, for while I have not made a thorough examination of it, I have at least found that it is like no other mummy yet discovered. Differing from the usual process of mummification, there is no mutilation at all.
The mummy is a complete body with all parts intact just as the subject was in life. Allowing for the fact that the features are dried and distorted with the incredible passage of time, one might imagine that he is looking upon a very ancient man who recently died, before disintegration has set in. The leathery lids are drawn down firmly over the eye
sockets, and I am sure when I raise those lids I shall find the eyeballs intact beneath.
“I tell you, it is epoch making and overthrows all preconceived ideas! If life could by some manner be breathed into that withered mummy, it would be as able to speak, walk, and breathe as any man; for, as I said, its parts are as intact as if the man had died yesterday. You know the usual process–the disembowelling and so on–by which corpses are made mummies. But no such things have been done to this one. What would my colleagues not give to have been the finder! All Egyptologists will die from pure envy! Attempts have already been made to steal it–I tell you, many a research worker would cut my heart out for it!”
“I think you overvalue your find, and undervalue the moral senses of your co-workers,” said Gordon bluntly.
Sir Thomas sneered. “A flock of vultures, sir,” he exclaimed with a savage laugh. “Wolves! Jackals!
Sneaking about seeking to steal the credit from a better man! The laity have no real conception of the rivalry that exists in the class of their betters. It’s each man for himself–let everyone look to his own laurels, and to the devil with the weaker. Thus far I’ve more than held my own.”
“Even allowing this to be true,” retorted Gordon, “you have scant right to condemn your rivals’ tactics in the light of your own actions.”
Sir Thomas glared at his outspoken friend so furiously that I half expected him to commit bodily assault upon him; then the explorer’s mood changed, and he laughed mockingly and uproariously.
“The affair of Gustave Von Honmann is still on your mind, doubtless. I find myself the object of scathing denunciations wherever I go since that unfortunate incident. It is, I assure you, a matter of complete indifference to me. I have never desired the mob’s plaudits, and I ignore its accusations. Von Honmann was a fool and deserved his fate. As you know, we were both searching for the hidden city of Gomar, the finding of which added so much to the scientific world. I contrived to let a false map fall into his hands and sent him away on a wild goose chase into Central Africa.”
“You literally sent him to his death,” Gordon pointed out. “I admit that Von Honmann was something of a beast, but it was a rotten thing to do, Cameron. You knew that all the chances in the world were against him escaping death at the hands of the wild tribesmen into whose lands you sent him.”
“You can’t make me angry,” answered Cameron imperturbably. “That’s what I like about you, Gordon; you’re not afraid to speak out your mind. But let’s forget Von Honmann; he’s gone the way of all fools.
The one camp follower who escaped the general massacre and made his way back to civilization’s outpost said that Von Honmann, when he saw the game was up, realized the fraud and died swearing to avenge himself on me, living or dead, but that has never worried me. A man is living and dangerous, or dead and harmless; that’s all. But it’s growing late and doubtless you are sleepy; I’ll have Ganra Singh show you to your rooms. As for myself, I shall doubtless spend the rest of the night arranging the notes of my trip for tomorrow’s work.”
Ganra Singh appeared at the door like a giant phantom, and we said good night to our host and followed the Oriental. Let me here say that the house was built in shape like a double ended L. There were two stories and between the two wings was a sort of court upon which the lower rooms opened. Gordon and I had been assigned two bedrooms on the first floor in the left wing, which let into this court. There was a door between them, and, as I was preparing to retire, Gordon entered.
“Strange sort of a chap, isn’t he?” nodding across the court at the light which shone in the study window.
“A good deal of a brute, but a great brain, marvelous brain.”
I opened the door which let into the court for a breath of fresh air. The atmosphere in these rooms was crisp and sharp, but musky as if from unuse.
“He certainly doesn’t have many visitors.” The only light visible, besides those in our two rooms, was that in the upstairs study across the court.
“No.” Silence fell for a space; then Gordon spoke abruptly, “Did you hear how Von Honmann died?”
“No.”
“He fell into the hands of a strange and terrible tribe who claim descent from the early Egyptians. They are past masters at the hellish art of torture. The camp follower who escaped said that Von Honmann was killed slowly and fiendishly, in a manner which left him unmutilated, but shrunk and withered him until he was unrecognizable. Then he was sealed into a chest and placed in a fetish hut for a horrible relic and trophy.”
My shoulders twitched involuntarily. “Frightful!”
Gordon rose, tossed away his cigarette, and turned toward his room.
“Getting late, good night– what was that? ”
Across the court had come a faint crash as if a chair or table had been upset. As we stood, frozen by a sudden vague premonition of horror, a scream shuddered out across the night.
“Help! Help! Gordon! Slade! Oh God!”
Together we rushed out into the court. The voice was Sir Thomas’, and came from his study in the left wing. As we raced across the court, the sounds of a terrible struggle came clearly to us, and again Sir Thomas cried out like a man in his death agony: “He’s got me! Oh God, he’s got me!”
“Who is it, Cameron?” shouted Gordon desperately.
“Ganra Singh–” suddenly the straining voice broke short, and a wild gibbering came dimly to us as we rushed into the first door of the lower left wing and charged up the stairs. It seemed an Eternity before we stood at the door of the study, beyond which still came a bestial yammering. We flung open the door and halted, aghast.
Sir Thomas Cameron lay writhing in a growing pool of gore, but it was not the dagger sunk deep into his breast which held us in our tracks like men struck dead, but the hideous and evident insanity stamped on his face. His eyes flared redly, fixed on nothing, and they were the eyes of a man who is staring into Purgatory. A ceaseless gibbering burst from his lips, and then into his yammering was woven human words: “–Noseless–the noseless one–” Then a rush of blood burst from his lips, and he dropped on his face.
We bent over him and eyed each other in horror.
“Stone dead,” muttered Gordon. “But what killed him?”
“Ganra Singh–” I began; then both of us whirled. Ganra Singh stood silently in the doorway, his expressionless features giving no hint of his thoughts. Gordon rose, his hand sliding easily to his hip pocket.
“Ganra Singh, where have you been?”
“I was in the lower corridor, locking the house for the night. I heard my master call me, and I came.”
“Sir Thomas is dead. Do you have any idea as to who did the murder?”
“No, sahib. I am new to this English land; I do not know if my master had any enemies.”
“Help me lift him on this couch.” This was done. “Ganra Singh, you realize that we must hold you responsible for the time being.”
“While you hold me, the real killer may escape.”
Gordon did not reply to this. “Let me have the keys to the house.”
The Sikh obeyed without a word.
Gordon then led him across the outer corridor to a small room in which he locked him, first assuring himself that the window, as all the other windows in the house, was heavily barred. Ganra Singh made no resistance; his face showed nothing of his emotions. As we shut the door we saw him standing impassively in the center of the room, arms folded, eyes following us inscrutably.
We returned to the study with its shattered chairs and tables, its red stain on the floor, and the silent form on the couch.
“There’s nothing we can do until morning,” said Gordon. “We can’t communicate with anyone, and if we started out to walk to the village we should probably lose our way in the darkness and fog. It seems a pretty fair case against the Sikh.”
“Sir Thomas practically accused him in his last words.”
“As to that, I don’t know. Cameron shouted his name when I y
elled, but he might have been calling the fellow–I doubt if Sir Thomas heard me. Of course, that remark about the ‘noseless one’ could seem to mean no one else, but it isn’t conclusive. Sir Thomas was insane when he died.”
I shuddered. “That, Gordon, is the most terrible phase of the matter. What was it that blasted Cameron’s reason and made of him a screaming maniac in the last few minutes he had to live?”
Gordon shook his head. “I can’t understand it. The mere fact of looking death in the eyes never shook Sir Thomas’ nerve before. I tell you, Slade, I believe there’s something deeper here than meets the eye.
This smacks of the supernatural, in spite of the fact that I was never a superstitious man. But let’s look at it in a logical light.
“This study comprises the whole of the upper left wing, being separated from the back rooms by a corridor which runs the whole length of the house. The only door of the study opens into that corridor.
We crossed the court, entered a lower room of the left wing, went into the hall into which we were first admitted, and came up the stairs into the upper corridor. The study door was shut, but not locked. And through that door came whatever it was that shattered Sir Thomas Cameron’s brain before it murdered him. And the man–or thing–left the same way, for it is evident that nothing is concealed in the study, and the bars on the windows prohibit escape in that manner. Had we been a few moments quicker we might have seen the slayer leaving. The victim was still grappling with the fiend when I shouted, but between that instant and the moment we came into the upper corridor, there was time for the slayer, moving swiftly, to accomplish his design and leave the room. Doubtless he concealed himself in one of the rooms across the hall and either slipped out while we were bending over Sir Thomas and made his escape–or, if it were Ganra Singh, came boldly into the study.”
The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard Page 40
