He Who Walks in Shadow

by Brett J. Talley

“You think they are dead, then? Truly dead?”

  “Dead or not, there’s been not one recorded instance of their presence for 1,500 years.”

  “But there have, haven’t there? The nameless cults that exist throughout the world? Maybe not so nameless after all.”

  It was true that there were those who claimed that the ancient religions had not vanished but simply gone underground, disguising themselves in the garb of more modern faiths. I had seen evidence of such subterfuge, from the Esoteric Order of Dagon, which had spread from New England’s own Innsmouth to port cities around the world, to the Circle of the Crescent Moon, which had debased mosques throughout Indonesia.

  “Even so,” I said, “it seems highly unlikely you would have them in Louisiana, no matter what you’ve seen.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, staring down into his drink. “Maybe you should come with me to New Orleans, and we can find out together. We think we know where they meet, and I want you there when we break it up.”

  “Me? But why?”

  For a moment Dubois was silent, but then he picked up the book that I had signed for him and pointed to it. “Because, professor. I’ve read your book, and I’ve read a lot of others, too. I know more than just about anyone out there about this stuff,” he said, gesturing to the hallway where the conference-goers were gathered. “Call it obsession if you want, but I’ve learned that knowledge is power. And that’s why you need to be involved. The Old Ones want chaos, and they thrive on ignorance. If we’re going after them in the shadows, then we gotta shine the light of truth on them. That’s what you do. ‘Cause there can be no faith without seeing truth, and faith is what we need now more than ever.”

  I didn’t need convincing. If even half of what Dubois believed had solid foundation, then the trip to New Orleans was well worth the cost in time and money. In the end, I was not to be disappointed.

  * * *

  The conference still had a day to go, but I was no longer interested in presentations and scholarly theories. Dubois and I were on the next train to New Orleans, watching the swamps speed by as he relayed what had brought him to Baton Rouge in the first place.

  “We found her,” he said, “in the cellar of an abandoned tavern on the outskirts of the city. It wasn’t a pretty sight, professor. Not a pretty sight at all. Never seen anything like it. She was split, all the way down her body. Naked, of course. Most of her organs had been taken out and placed around the chamber, some burnt in front of crude alters. To what god, I don’t know and don’t care to find out. Coroner said she was alive through most of it.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “Well, nothing, at the time. But we were able to track down a name based on a locket that we found under one of the chairs in the cellar. Probably got ripped off when they were getting her ready. Her name was Janet Barboux, seventeen years old. Her father was a sailor, in and out of New Orleans most times. We’ve been unable to locate him, but we also can’t find a speck of proof that he’s aboard any of the ships that have left port in the last month. Sad to say, he’s our prime suspect.”

  “His own daughter?”

  The inspector shook his head, but not in denial. “Terrible thing, isn’t it? Anyway, once we focused on Barboux, we were able to track down some of his less reputable associates. One of them, a man named Joe—doesn’t have a last name that we can find—has a reputation around town as being mentally unstable. Spent some time up at East Louisiana, and they probably should have kept him there. He denied any involvement at first, of course, but we were able to break him. Can’t say I’m altogether proud of our methods, but desperate times, right?”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Claimed he fell into some tough straits. Lost his job, needed money. Someone from his church said they could help. Said they belonged to something special, something that would change his life. They called themselves the pòt an lò, creole for the Golden Gate. Things turned for him. He had money in his pocket for the first time in his life. After about a year, they told him the time was right, that the stars had come round. Told him that a sacrifice was needed, the spilling of blood on the death of the moon.”

  “I assume there was a promise attached to this sacrifice as well?”

  “Indeed, there was. If done correctly, the sacrifice opened a doorway on the coming of the next full moon. A gate through which might pass what he called the bondye wa, apparently some kind of ancient demon, a messenger of some sort.” I must have blanched then, for a shadow of understanding passed over the face of Dubois. “You know of what he speaks? This makes sense to you?”

  “I have heard the legends,” I mumbled.

  “In any event,” he said, “the full moon is tonight. With the assistance of this Joe, we were able to track the cult to its heart. A place called La Salle. I’m not surprised. La Salle has quite a reputation, the sort of place that kids make up ghost stories about and old folks shun. It was one of the first permanent settlements in the territory, and would have been the capital, or so they say. The Catholic Diocese built this enormous cathedral in the center of town. Something else to see. But then the floods came. Some people say it was an Indian curse, that the settlers had disturbed old magic better left alone. But whatever the truth, the intentions of the townsfolk, no matter how grand, couldn’t stand against the rising waters. Before long, the whole place was a ghost town. It’s been that way ever since.”

  “And that is where we are going?”

  “It is. Tonight. My men will meet us at the train station.”

  We rode in silence then, nothing but the sound of the engine and steel wheels on steel rails to interrupt our thoughts.

  * * *

  The inspector’s men were waiting for us at the station, just as he said. There were ten of them, strong men with hard faces that I hoped reflected their hearts. The sun already hung low in the western sky.

  “Time is running short,” Dubois said, “and we have a ways to travel yet.”

  We climbed into a couple of pickup trucks. I rode in the cab of one with Dubois, while most of the men settled into their beds, checking and rechecking the rifles they carried.

  “You expect a fight?” I asked. He nodded.

  “Mmmhm. That’s what we got last time. Can’t imagine why this would be any different.”

  Our truck led the way, and we hadn’t gone far before we left civilization behind entirely. The swamps and thick woods we had traversed aboard the train did not prepare me for the utter desolation of that world. And yet, even though the green jungle was thick around me, the stench of rotting decay was in the air as well. For this was a dying world, one struck with some disease that went beyond the ordinary realm. Something older. Something more foul.

  We rumbled along the broken pavement until the pavement itself ran out. Now it was dirt and rocks, a one-way road that barely deserved the name, a trail that the swamp was gradually swallowing. It seemed that we were no closer to much of anything when we turned off the main path onto an even more perilous lane, but we had not gone far before Dubois pulled behind a copse of trees and killed the engine. “We walk from here,” he said, turning to me. “Wouldn’t want to give away our approach.”

  The twelve of us piled out, each man removing an electric torch and switching it on. Dubois addressed his troops briefly, telling them that they had his full faith, his full confidence. They had been with him the longest, and many of them had seen the cult’s foul doings in the swamps more than a decade before. Today they would extinguish its flame, once and for all.

  “Let’s go.”

  We crept back to the main road, staying in tight formation on either side, ready to dive into the forest at the merest sound of an approaching vehicle. The night was growing thick, and it was only then that I noticed something peculiar. We were in the midst of a great swamp, surrounded by wilderness for a hundred miles, maybe. And yet I heard nothing. Not a bird, not an animal in the brush, not even the insects that normally teem about. No mosquitos
feasted upon us. No ancient-eyed owls watched our approach. We were completely alone. It was as if they had foreseen some coming doom that we could only imagine, the maw of which we were now walking directly into.

  We’d gone maybe a mile when Dubois held up his hand. “Do you hear that?” We all stopped, craning our necks to try to hear better, to catch some semblance of sound. It started off as a murmur, a thumping echo that I might have mistaken for the beating of my own heart. But it was too regular, even for that. Too deep. That throbbing rhythm, that howling bass. Conga drums, pounding through the night.

  “Check your weapons,” Dubois whispered. “We’ll be upon them any second.”

  Suddenly the forest changed, and it was only when I peered deep into its depths that I saw why. We were in a town. You would barely know it, since the jungle had claimed it back for nature, but there were buildings in the gloaming of the swamps, covered in vines, long, green arms breaking through signs that read “Oldman’s Apothecary” and “Village Café,” all collapsing under the weight of kudzu and Spanish moss. The road was no longer dirt but rather cobblestone.

  Dubois gave a signal, and we extinguished our lights. In an instant, we were plunged into a black darkness that swallowed us whole, and I had to fight with all my being not to go running headlong into the wilderness.

  The moon was bright that night, though, and the sky clear of obscuring clouds. In only a moment, my eyes had adjusted and I could see as well as, if not better than, before. We continued on, and it was no time at all before we came to the empty city square, as dead as if it were the end of the world. And at the head of that square sat a towering cathedral, made all the more glorious by the vines that wreathed it in green. I almost didn’t notice the flickering lights from within.

  Dubois glanced at me before nodding to his men, flicking his hand left and then right. The detectives filed out, forming a rough cordon around the building, surrounding it. They were the hunters. We were the hounds meant to flush our prey. I followed the inspector as he made his way around the old church, searching for some weakness, some point of access. We swung wide of the door; a direct entry would not do. From within, the sound of discordant piping had joined the bestial thump of the drums.

  I saw it before Dubois. A ladder, wrought iron, added to the side of the building for easy access, some time before the cathedral was abandoned forever. I tapped the inspector on the shoulder, disheartened by his startled reaction. If I was looking for a rock on which to lean during this journey, he was not it. I gestured toward the ladder. He followed my eyes, nodding back at me when he saw it.

  We began to climb.

  I was not entirely convinced that the rust-rotten iron would hold us, but it was our best bet. If I was to fall to my death in the midst of that swamp, then so be it.

  Our target was an opening high on the cathedral wall, a window I suppose, meant to provide ventilation and light during happier times. It still might, if we could squeeze through it. I had my doubts about Dubois, raised as he was on the sumptuous fare of Louisiana, but he managed to pass with little effort. I followed him, and we found ourselves on the inside.

  The sound which had been growing with intensity as we climbed boomed through the dank attic of the church. Light seeped through the wooden slats of the floor, illuminating motes of dust that swirled and danced around us. I found myself stifling a sneeze, knowing that such a mistake would be the end of us both. We crawled forward on our hands and knees, careful not to make a sound, though I wondered if our weight alone was raining down the accumulated dirt and detritus of many decades on the adherents below. Not that they would have noticed in the frenzy of their exultations. We were in luck, in any event, for, not ten feet from us, a great square had been cut in the floor, a veritable skylight through which we could peer without fear of discovery.

  We crawled forward, every creak of every beam sending lightning bolts of terror into the pit of my stomach, and yet the sound of drums and pipes and now human voices was enough to drown out all sound, if not all fear. There was a smell too, a combination of burning smoke and something sweet I couldn’t place.

  And then we peered over that edge to below and looked upon madness made flesh.

  The cathedral floor was a shambles of all that is holy. Rotten pews and prayer kneelers had been torn up and shoved into piles along the side, save where the boards would serve a purpose. The wood had been fashioned into crude St. Andrew’s crosses, though I knew well that this ungodly crew had another name for the implements of death that surrounded the gathered mass in a large semi-circle.

  “The mark of the harbinger,” I dared to whisper to Dubois. “The sign of the cult of Nyarlathotep.”

  Would that they had been empty. The people—three men, three women, and worst of all, a boy who could not have been more than seven or eight years old—that hung, spread-eagled, from them were beyond saving. I knew then what the smell was; it was the scent of rotting flesh, mingled with the smoke from the torches that illuminated the room. The skin hung loose and low from the naked bodies, and in places—especially around the face—it had peeled off altogether. The stench was overwhelming now, and I marveled that I hadn’t recognized it earlier.

  The cultists numbered a couple of dozen. Their god was no respecter of persons. Among their ranks were men and women, young and old, rich and poor, black and white. At their front stood a single figure, its long, black robe decorated with strips of fabric in every color, head wrapped in a crimson scarf that seemed to climb into the sky. A priestess of Nyarlathotep, or so her bearing said, though there was nothing soft or feminine or motherly about her. She was the sword of the god, the bringer of his vengeance, the sower of his destruction. Lying before her on what must have been the cathedral’s once-holy altar was a youth, a man of perhaps eighteen. He was nude, and no bindings held him down. He was either there of his own volition or, more likely, drugged for the sacrifice.

  Dubois removed his pistol and a whistle from his pocket. Once he gave the signal, his men would rush the building, and in the confusion we hoped to take our prisoners without violence. But if they had weapons, Dubois was prepared to take down anyone who threatened his men. He put the whistle to his lips, but I stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. He looked at me, and without words, he knew I wanted to see more. The woman below began to cast her spell.

  When she spoke, I was surprised that her words were not English or French or even Creole. They were much older—Sumerian—an ancient tongue from the ancient people who first wrote of Nyarlathotep, before the Egyptians gave him the name by which we know him best. I record her words here, as closely as I can. The translation, though rough, conveys all the truth of those dread utterances.

  Her voice started as a whisper, rising to a murmur, and then soaring to a roar. “Alal. Alla xul. Nisme! Ati me peta babka! Kanpa! Taru! Iksuda! Negeltu xul labiru ensi ersutu!” Destroyer. Dark god. Hear me! Throw open the gate between worlds! Remember! Return! Conquer! Then shall the old gods awake and restore their dominion over the earth!

  A roar shook the foundations of the old church. It was below, above, and around all at once. The cultish fires flared, and yellow smoke poured from their flickering flames. The sallow fog gathered around the altar. Reaching tentacles probed upwards, wrapping the body of the boy, covering him in a blanket of golden mist. The youth breathed deep, sucking the yellow smoke into his lungs.

  And I knew.

  “This is no sacrifice,” I whispered.

  An explosion roared from Dubois’s pistol and through the church. A bullet ripped off the back of the youth’s skull. Another roar followed quickly, but of a completely different quality. And if I hadn’t known better, I would have said that this hate-filled cry erupted from a demonic maw that formed in the midst of the now-dissipating fog.

  What followed was chaos. Dubois was now firing wildly, as many in the cult had drawn weapons and were shooting toward the ceiling. The front doors of the church burst open, and in poured Dubois’s army. With
their guns added to his, the battle was short-lived. When it was over, a dozen cultists were dead, the same number in custody.

  The enigmatic woman who had led them had escaped, seemingly vanishing into thin air. I had caught her eye, just after Dubois fired his first shot. She had gazed up through the portal that framed our faces. And when her eyes met mine, I would swear that a dark smile crept up the corner of her mouth.

  Was that the end of the New Orleans coven? Who can say? But I think we had stumbled upon something far more significant than a simple cult, dedicated to some lost and forgotten deity. We had seen something much older, and much more dangerous. This handful of devotees had come within moments of calling forth the dark one himself, the black messenger of Azathoth. And if even they were able to come so close, then what hope do we have of stopping others in the future?

  I visited her grave before I left New Orleans, the voodoo queen, Marie Laveau. I left the offering of bourbon and I made the three x’s on her tombstone, as so many devotees seeking favor from beyond the veil have done before me.

  But my wish was different. My wish was that neither she, nor the dark god she served, would ever return.

  Chapter 22

  Journal of Carter Weston

  July 25, 1933

  “Carter Weston. The last time we parted, I swore I would kill you if we met again.”

  He stood twirling his ivory-handled cane in his hand, glaring at Henry and me. For a second, I was concerned.

  “Well, Marcel, I certainly hope you are as good at keeping your word now as you were back then.”

  Henry glanced at me nervously, but then the man at the head of the table where we sat burst into laughter. He kicked back a chair and fell into it.

  “I was never able to resist your charms, Carter, even if you are a son-of-a-bitch.” He called for a waitress and ordered a Beaujolais and three glasses. “I always preferred Beaujolais,” he said. “Like men, it is better when it is young. Neither it, nor we, it seems, age well.”