Lightning flashed, closer and brighter, a sinister greenish sheet silhouetting dark deciduous vegetation. “Look!” Delia exclaimed, “there it is again!” She pointed toward the east. “Those lights, blinking like terrible, hungry eyes!”
This time Paul pulled the little car onto the shoulder of the road. He turned off the engine, followed Delia’s pointing finger with his eyes. “I don’t see anything.”
“No,” Delia shook her head. “They’re gone. But wait, Paul, listen.” The radio had of course lapsed into silence when the roadster’s ignition was cut, and the whisper of the gathering storm sounded through pines and oaks.
There was another flash of lightning. This time Paul counted the seconds until thunder boomed. “What’s the saying,” he muttered, “a mile a second? That storm is only a few miles away now. In fact, I think I just felt the first raindrops on my face. Help me, Delia, let’s get the top up!”
Delia cocked her head, “Listen to that, dear.”
Paul frowned. “I hear the wind and rain.”
“No, there’s another sound. A sort of piping and hissing and scratching. Like some incredibly gigantic — oh, Paul, I don’t know. Something horrible. Could there be a spider so huge that it towers above the trees? Is it possible?”
Paul put his arms around her. “No, Delia. It’s just the storm. The thunder and lightning and wind. Really, dear, it’s just the storm.”
Paul fumbled for the three-cell flashlight that he kept in the Hudson-Terraplane. It blazed into light and he used it now as a work-lamp.
It took the effort of a few minutes to raise the canvas top on the little roadster and button it in place. Even so, Paul and Delia were halfway to a good drenching by the time they scrambled back into the car and slammed the side doors that turned it into a snug refuge from the storm. With the optimism of youth they laughed off their wet condition. Delia undid her scarf and primped her raven curls with a brush she’d carried in her purse.
Paul ran his fingers through his own rust-colored hair. He was overdue for a trim; the hair was beginning to curl over his collar. He turned the ignition key and mashed down on the self-starter switch with his heavy brogan. The Hudson-Terraplane’s six-cylinder engine coughed once as if clearing its throat of the falling rain, then purred happily. Paul switched on the headlights. The fog had disappeared now, and twin shafts of raindrops appeared before the roadster.
“What shall it be, darling?” he asked. “Shall we push on or turn back to Springfield?”
Delia hummed for a moment, a habit of hers while considering choices. “I could do with a cup of warm soup beside a friendly fireplace, dear. Isn’t there a roadhouse somewhere along the Peltonville Pike?”
Paul’s brow furrowed in thought. “I’m pretty sure there is. I’ve only been to Peltonville a few times, but I think I recall seeing one not far beyond the Beeton River bridge.”
“Oh, let’s push on then, Paul. It’s such a miserable night, the ride home wouldn’t be any fun at all with our clothes all clammy and cold as they are.”
“No sooner said than done!” He pulled the car back onto the blacktop highway. “It’s a good thing they paved over the old dirt road, isn’t it!”
The roadster’s tires hissed over the rain-swept blacktop. Now a few unseasonable hailstones were mixed with the drops. They clattered and bounced off the Hudson-Terraplane’s hood and began to accumulate on the road surface as well. Winds pushed the lightweight car sideways but Paul Carter’s skillful hands kept the roadster on a steady course. He reached to switch on the Stromberg-Carlson, but the lightning’s interference and the noise of the storm, which had now struck in its full fury, made it impossible to hear anything worthwhile. Paul switched the radio back off.
He felt Delia’s head resting on his shoulder and patted her hand with his own. Soon a sign appeared beside the highway, advertising Daniello’s Roadhouse two miles ahead. Paul pushed on. Shortly there was another sign. Daniello’s, it read, Steaks, Cocktails, Dancing to Willie Moore’s African Chili Seven.
Daniello’s Roadhouse was a pleasant-looking establishment built in the popular Tudor Revival style, with cream-colored stucco walls marked by half-timbered beams. At least, that was the way it appeared in the spotlights placed to illuminate its exterior. There was a neon sign on the roof, and the windows of stained diamond-glass showed an inviting amber color.
“We’re here, Delia.” Paul placed a gentle kiss on his sweetheart’s forehead.
Delia smiled up at him sleepily, then leaned away and stretched like a contented kitten.
The roadhouse door was made of heavy wooden planks and swung heavily on old iron hinges. Stepping inside, the couple were enveloped by the pleasant odors of hot, hearty cooking. They made their way to a lounge and found space for themselves on dark leather barstools. They could hear the sound of music coming from another room. Willie Moore’s African Chili Seven lived up to their name. A hot version of “Decatur Street Stomp” drifted into the lounge.
A red-jacketed bartender asked for their order. Paul ordered a hot toddy. Delia giggled and asked for a tequila sunset. The lounge was not crowded. A few couples sat at tables. The other barstools were mostly unoccupied. The bartender placed their drinks in front of Paul and Delia and remarked that they were fortunate to make it safely through the storm.
“Why is that?” Paul asked.
The bartender pointed over his shoulder. On the shelf behind him stood a cathedral-topped Capehart radio. “Can’t get anything now, but earlier the news said that the bridge was out. Beeton River’s rising and the bridge couldn’t stand the gaff.”
Paul and Delia lifted their glasses in a silent toast. Paul introduced himself and Delia to the bartender.
“Mustafa Cristopolous,” the bartender identified himself. Now Paul realized that his speech was unusual, more an oddity of intonation than an actual accent. His voice was deep and sounded like a truckload of gravel. “I am half Greek, half Turkish,” the bartender explained, “I was born in Izmir. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of that place.” His face carried the marks of past experiences. His nose had been broken more than once, an oddly appealing dimple marked the center of his chin and an old scar on one cheek had faded now but looked as if it had once been livid. The absence of hair on his skull was made up for by a huge black moustache.
“In the old country the Greeks hated me because I was Turkish and the Turks hated me because I was Greek. So I come to America. Here, everybody’s everything.”
“But what about the bridge?” Delia asked.
“Big storm,” Cristopolous growled. “The boss don’t like me playing the radio when the band is on, but I like to listen to news. I get stations from Springfield, Aurora, Littleton. News on the Springfield station says too much debris coming down the Beeton River, jammed up under the bridge, roadway cracked. They won’t even have crews there till after the storm is over.”
He looked toward the entrance of the roadhouse as if he could see outside. “How bad is it now?”
Paul said, “It got pretty nasty, Mustafa. Rain turning to hail.”
The big bartender nodded his understanding. Paul had finished his drink now, and Delia’s glass was mostly empty. Cristopolous asked if they wanted a refill but instead they left the lounge and moved to the dining room. The African Chili Seven were playing “Deep Bayou Blues.” Paul and Delia found a table and a waitress took their order. Paul asked for a sirloin steak. Delia asked for chicken. Both requested soup before their entrées.
While they ate, they discussed what to do next. Clearly there was no point in trying to return to Springfield. They would get as far as the bridge and have to wait for repairs to be made.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to continue on to Peltonville,” Paul announced.
“But then we won’t get back to Springfield until tomorrow at the soonest,” Delia complained. “What will people think? Mother and Dad will be beside themselves. And all our friends, Paul — do you think it’s right?”
“I don’t know.” Delia frowned. “It’s not as if we were married.” Then, “Do you think there’s an inn at Peltonville? If we got two rooms it might be all right. And if there’s a telephone, I could call Mother and Dad and explain what happened.”
“A good idea, darling, but in a storm like this one, if the bridge is out, you can be sure that the telephone lines are down, too. I’m sorry. But if your parents really love you and trust you, they’ll stand by you. As for anyone else — well, we’ll just have to see it through.”
As they were leaving the roadhouse they stopped to speak with Mustafa Cristopolous once again. Paul asked how much farther it would be to Peltonville, and whether Mustafa thought the road would be drivable now. The bartender said it was only another dozen miles, and the road was a good one.
“I’m worried about the hail, though,” Paul explained.
Cristopolous shrugged his massive shoulders. “Life is risky.” He paused, then added, “But you be careful. Some bad things happen in Peltonville.”
“What bad things?”
“Just bad things. There is an old synagogue there, people do not go any more. Good people, I mean. Good people have mostly left Peltonville. You be careful, Paul and Delia.”
Cristopolous had remembered their names. Paul found small comfort in that. He asked, “What do you mean by that — about the synagogue, I mean.”
A weary smile creased the bartender’s battered features. He leaned across the polished mahogany and lowered his voice. “Did I tell you, I am myself a Jew?” He looked around as if worried that he might be overheard. “One more reason I left Europe. Bad enough to be both a Turk and a Greek. Being a Jew as well — that was enough to make everybody hate me. Here in America — well, no place is perfect, is it?” He nodded toward the African Chili Seven. “They still have to struggle. But if they were in Greece or in Turkey, they would have it far worse.”
Paul was still concerned about the Peltonville synagogue. He pressed Cristopolous for information. Cristopolous told him that he had once been a member of the congregation. It was called Temple Beth Shalom — the House of Peace. But the old rabbi had been forced to leave and a new leader took control. The old rabbi, Yacoub ben Yitzak, Jacob son of Isaac, replaced by Yeshua ben Yeshua, Joshua son of Joshua.
Ben Yeshua was a kabalist. He introduced ancient Hebrew magic into the synagogue. Its name had been changed to Temple Beth Mogen, House of the Star. The old congregants had all left Peltonville, those who had not mysteriously disappeared before they could get away. Cristopolous was one of the lucky ones, he had avoided Peltonville ever since. Other Jews had come from far away to replace them and fill the ranks of Temple Beth Mogen.
“It’s very bad, Paul. If you go to Peltonville, be very careful.”
Once they were back in the car and Paul had the engine warming up, Delia turned toward him, the reflected light of the sign on Daniello’s Roadhouse showing her worried expression. “Do you think we can make it to Peltonville, Paul?”
“There are other patrons. They didn’t look too worried to me.”
“But there’s something else.”
Paul turned and took her in his arms, comforting her. “What, sweetheart? Are you still worried about your reputation? I promise, I’ll stand by you whatever they say.”
“No, it isn’t that, Paul. It’s — remember those lights, those eyes, I thought they were. And that weird sound. They were real, you know. I could tell you didn’t believe me, I know you too well to be fooled. There was something there.”
“Oh, yes. A giant spider, was it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was. Maybe something else. But there was something there, something alive. Oh, I don’t like it. I don’t know what it is, but I know it isn’t nice at all.”
Paul leaned back and looked into Delia’s eyes. “If there was a monster loose in these woods, don’t you think we’d have heard about it? Wouldn’t there be stories in the Springfield Courier or reports on the radio? That’s just the kind of thing they love to report. It’s a nice change from weddings and Rotary Club meetings and high school basketball games. You haven’t read anything about a monster, have you?”
“No,” she admitted. “But still — I saw those lights and I heard that sound. You don’t have to believe me but I know it was real, Paul, I know it!”
“Really, Delia — on a night like this, you were halfway asleep, we’d been listening to that spooky radio program, your imagination was playing tricks on you.”
“But what about that evil rabbi? That whole story about the Jewish synagogue in Peltonville. I’ve been in a synagogue in Springfield. My friend Rebecca was married in a synagogue, I was in the wedding. It was a beautiful service. I don’t see how it could be evil, any more than a regular church could be evil, but Mr. Cristopolous didn’t seem to be making that up.”
Paul shook his head. “Old world superstitions, Delia. Just look at the man. He’s had a hard life. Heaven knows what terrible experiences he must have had in Europe. He was lucky to get out of there and come to America, from the things that are going on now. I don’t think he was making it up either, but his head is so full of wild folktales, he could believe anything.”
He turned on the headlights and backed the Hudson-Terraplane away from the roadhouse. In moments the little car was back on the highway. The storm had passed, the moon was bright and a black sky was dotted with colorful, distant stars that glittered like ice crystals in candlelight. The combination of moonlight, starlight and the roadster’s headlamps showed the surface of the roadway, now white with crusted hailstones.
Paul reached to switch on the little car’s radio. He twirled the tuning knob. On the Springfield and Aurora frequencies there was only hissing and crackling, but he managed to pick up a signal from Peltonville. He shook his head. “Is that music? Chanting? I can’t understand a word of it. And it all sounds so weird.”
Delia said, “I think it’s Hebrew. The service at Rebecca’s wedding was partly in Hebrew. I don’t know what it means, of course, but that sounds like the service.”
Paul tried to get a stronger signal but the best he could do was a faint chanting in an exotic tongue. He reached to turn off the radio but before he could do so the chanting faded into the background. Over it there came a hissing, piping, scraping noise, followed by the sound of voices exclaiming in ecstasy.
Even though the storm had passed, there was another flash of greenish lightning that seemed to come from all directions at once. The Hudson-Terraplane’s engine sputtered into silence that was broken by an ear-shattering boom of thunder. Paul and Delia clutched each other’s hands in alarm, then Paul managed a nervous chuckle. He grasped the steering wheel of the roadster and mashed down on the self-starter switch.
The little car’s engine coughed once, then roared back to life. The orange light behind the radio’s tuning dial glowed but there was no sound so Paul switched it off. He threw in the clutch, put the roadster in gear and set it to moving.
When they passed the Peltonville city limit Paul read the welcoming sign and population figures. Based on his recollection of his last visit he’d thought that Peltonville was bigger than the number indicated. Perhaps the latest census figures had shown a loss of population. Then he thought of Mustafa Cristopolous’s words about Peltonville:
Some bad things happen in Peltonville … Just bad things. There is an old synagogue there, people do not go any more. Good people, I mean. Good people have mostly left Peltonville. You be careful, Paul and Delia.
It was hard for Paul or Delia to tell much about the character of Peltonville as the little roadster rolled into the downtown area. Every building seemed to be dark. Small houses in the style of the previous century loomed to left and right, but apparently Peltonvilliers retired early, for only the jagged silhouettes of the residences could be seen
outlined against the backdrop of the night sky.
“Can you tell what time it is?” Paul asked.
Delia found the flashlight they had used earlier and shone its beam against her Elgin wristwatch. “It’s 10:30,” she announced. “I guess they keep going at Daniello’s Roadhouse but people in Peltonville don’t stay up.”
After a few blocks lined by small retail shops the Hudson-Terraplane’s headlamps picked out a building with a darkened marquee extending over the crumbling sidewalk. Paul pulled the car to the curb and Delia shone the flashlight on the sign.
Peltonville Inn, it read.
“Well, that’s straightforward enough,” Paul commented. “Let’s see if they can put us up for the night.”
“Paul.” Delia took his arm.
He looked at her, waiting to hear what she had to say.
“Paul, you know I love you, dear. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Of course, Delia. You shouldn’t even have to ask. But — what’s the matter?”
“Well — ” She looked down. “Well, I’d really love to stay with you tonight. It would be — thrilling, Paul. But I know it would be wrong. I don’t want to disappoint you, but would you mind if — if we took two rooms, dear?”
Paul shook his head. “Of course not. What sort of fellow do you think I am?”
He climbed out of the Hudson-Terraplane, walked around the car and opened Delia’s door. “Come, darling, let’s see what the management has to say to two poor travelers with no luggage to show for themselves!”
As Paul helped Delia from the car he realized that her breath was freezing in the air, as was his own. The wind had reversed its direction and brought the unseasonable storm back over Peltonville, or perhaps this was merely another front in a series. In any case, the wind had begun to howl unpleasantly and hail was battering both travelers.
Paul and Delia hustled to a place of shelter beneath the marquee of the Peltonville Inn. The hotel was dark. Turning back toward the street they observed that the town had not yet converted its street lamps to electric power from the older gas illumination. A few fixtures flickered feebly despite the icy wind that swept the street.
The Doom That Came to Dunwich Page 11
