hole than I have been at the sight of gory accidents.
I suggested that we both undertake an immediate search of the shack. If
the bat was still inside, we would find it and kill it.
He shook his head and moaned again. "It's no use. They can't stand
light. As soon as you lit the lantern, it got out."
He finally arose, bathed and bandaged the puncture on his foot and sank
back on his cot. He left the lantern lit and he lay there with his
eyes wide open. He looked so haunted and unhappy I wished I could say
something to cheer him up, but for the life of me I couldn't think of
anything that made sense.
I stayed awake for a while trying to figure out how the bat had
gotten in. But I had watched Hubbers inspect the interior of the
closely-screened building inch by inch a few hours before and I
couldn't think of a single corner or chink that he might have missed.
Finally sleep overcame me again.
When I got up the next morning, my host was sitting on the veranda. He
looked even worse than he had the night before. His face was ghastly,
really grey and drawn, and his eyes appeared feverish. I knew without
asking that he hadn't slept again after the vampire's attack.
After breakfast I suggested that he ask the pharmaceutical company to
transfer him to some other locality.
"I haven't enough strength left to go out in the jungle with the
gathering parties," he said. "And there isn't anything else."
He said nothing more. His tense agitation of the previous day appeared
to be changing into a sort of fatalistic apathy. I felt seriously
concerned about him and I wished I might help, but I didn't know what I
could do.
The party I was to accompany arrived by mid-morning and soon afterwards
I bid Cecil Hubbers goodbye. He wished me good luck and shook hands in
a perfunctory manner.
At the edge of the jungle I turned around. He was slumped down in his
chair on the veranda. All I could see of him was his pinched white face
under the brim of his immense cone-shaped hat. He didn't bother to wave.
Nearly two months passed before I returned to the settlement on my way
back to Cuyaba. I had separated from the government party several days
before and I arrived with my own Indian guides.
I immediately crossed to Cecil Hubbers' shack. He was not on the
veranda. I went up the three steps and rapped on the screen door. A
short swarthy man who looked part Indian and part Portuguese got up
from a cot inside and came to the screen. I asked for Mr. Hubbers.
"He's dead," the dark man said in good English.
Somehow I had expected it, but still I was startled.
"What happened?" I inquired bluntly.
The man rolled his thick shoulders as if explanations were distasteful
to him. "The little bat took too much blood," he said. "One morning
they found him dead on his bed."
"How horrible! I'm very sorry," I said. And I meant it.
There was something more I wanted to know. "Did they ever find out how
the bat got in?" I asked.
The man rolled his shoulders again. "It didn't get in," he said. "It
_was_ in--all the time. It was living in his hat."
I stared at him and I suspect my mouth fell open.
He nodded. "The bat clung by day in the top of Mr. Hubbers' funny big
hat. He never took his hat off except at bedtime; it was always dark
inside. At night the vampire came out and fed on him. After he was
dead, we found the bat asleep in the top of his hat, on the shelf. It
was a very fat bat and we killed it."
I stood there on the porch remembering Cecil Hubbers' huge
high-crowned, cone-shaped straw hat--the hat that left his head only
just before he crawled under his mosquito net at night.
In spite of the close moist warmth of that clearing, I felt myself
enveloped by an eerie chill.
"It's--unbelievable!" I murmured, half to myself.
The dark man turned from the door with a shrug. "He's dead!" he
grumbled.
THE SEVENTH INCANTATION
"Of these black prayers or incantations there be seven, three for
ordinarie charmes and aides, and the like numbere for the unholie and
compleat destruction of alle enemie. But of the seventh the curious in
alle these partes are warned. Let not the last incantation be recited,
unlesse ye desire the sight of moste aweful deamon. Although it be
said the deamon shews not unlesse the wordes be spake by the bloodie
altar of the Olde Ones, yet it were well to beware. For it be knowne
that the Saracen sorcerer, Mal Lazal, dide wantonlie chante the dire
wordes and the deamon dide come--and not finding a bloodie offering
did rage at the wizard and rende him exceedinglie. The life bloode of
a childe or chaste maid be best, yet a beaste, a goode ox or sheep, is
said sufficient. But beware lest the beaste be dead when the bloode be
taken, for then shall the deamon's rage be dire. If the offering be
well, the deamon shall give unholie power, so that the servant grow
riche and reache above alle his neighbors."
For the third time, and with growing excitement, Emmet Telquist read
the faded words. They were contained in a crumbling and curious and
probably unique bound manuscript book which he had discovered quite
by accident some days before while shuffling through the dust-laden
packing crates which held his deceased uncle's library.
The book was entitled simply "True Magik", and the writer signed
himself "Theophilis Wenn." Quite possibly the name was a pseudonym;
certainly, judging by the contents, the rash author must have had
reason to keep secret his real identity.
The book was a veritable encyclopedia of devils' lore. There was
everywhere manifest a genuine and erudite scholarship which had been
lavished on a vast variety of esoteric and forbidden subjects. There
were detailed discussions on enchantments and possession, paragraphs on
vampirism and ghoul legend, pages devoted to demonology, witch worship,
and eldrich idols, notes on holocaust rites, unspeakable maculations
and fearsome full-moon sacrifices to the powers of pristine darkness.
Evidently the writer had been a necromancer of note. The style in
general was arbitrary and assured, betraying egoism and not a little
arrogance. There was no faint note of humor. Theophilis Wenn--or
whoever it was that disguised his true identity under that name--had
written in dire earnest. Of that there could be no doubt.
Emmet Telquist, the village outcast, the bitter misanthropic issue of
an infamous father and a mother who had died insane, regarded the book
as a sudden treasure, a secret storehouse of knowledge and power which
would enable him to compete with his more successful neighbors.
He had always been an outsider, a misfit, the subject of vindictive
local gossip and criticism. He had always felt himself more or less
allied to inhuman laws and agencies.
His uncle, the only relative he ever remembered, had been a sour,
black-hearted brooding old man who tolerated him only because of the
chores and errands which he performed. He never had had the slightest
doubt that his uncle would have disowned him utterly had he not been a
useful drudge. The bond of blood would have been meaningless to the old
man.
As a matter of fact, had it not been for his sudden and somewhat
mysterious death, the scoundrel probably would have seen to it that
his nephew inherited only black memories. But since no will had been
located, Emmet Telquist had gained possession of his uncle's rambling
farm house and such meager chattels as it contained.
But as he squinted eagerly at the quaint faded hand-writing of the
necromancer, Theophilis Wenn, Telquist began to believe that the
manuscript book was by far the most valuable item which his evil
relative had unintentionally put into his hands.
Furthermore, a number of matters which had always puzzled him in the
past became less baffling. He had often wondered about the peculiar
behavior of his uncle--his long absences from the house, especially at
night, the muttering and mumbling which frequently came from his room,
his unexplained sources of income.
With a sense of mounting suspense and expectation, he turned the pages
whereon the seventh incantation was inscribed. It was written in a
peculiar bluish-grey ink which seemed faintly phosphorescent. He did
not dare to read the words; he merely glanced at them, ascertaining
that they were what appeared to be merely a jumble of meaningless vowel
sounds frequently interspersed with the name "Nyogtha."
Grinning slyly to himself, he turned back the pages and reread the
paragraph which served as an introduction and explanation of the
incantations. Well he knew what Theophilis Wenn had in mind when he
referred to the "bloodie altar of the Old Ones"! He, Emmet Telquist,
had seen such an altar.
Although that had been years before when the swamp was not as nearly
impassable as it had since become, he had no doubt that he could locate
the accursed sacrificial cromlech. How well he remembered crawling
along the faint raised pathway which wound through the swamp! The
sudden, unexpected knoll, dark, somehow, even in the mid-day sunlight,
the circle of huge monoliths, the mound in the center, the enormous
flat slab on its top, rusty red with an unspeakable eldrich stain which
even the rains and winds of centuries could not blot out!
He had never spoken of his discovery to anyone. The swamp was a
forbidden place--ostensibly because of rumored quicksands and poisonous
serpents. But on more than one occasion he had seen old-time villagers
cross themselves when mention was made of the area. And it was said
that even hunting dogs would abandon the pursuit of game which fled
into its fastnesses.
Already anticipating the power which would ultimately be his, Emmet
Telquist began to formulate plans. He would not make the mistake of
the unfortunate Saracen sorcerer, Mal Lazal. Although he did not quite
dare to take the necessary steps to secure a human sacrifice, "a childe
or chaste maid", a sheep should be relatively easy to obtain. He could
steal one at night from any of the several village flocks. He knew all
the woods and lanes and would be safely away with his prize long before
the loss was discovered.
The night before the advent of the full moon, he slipped into a nearby
pasture where sheep were grazed and made away with a fine fat ewe,
shoving and dragging it over a stone wall and then leading it off along
circuitous back roads and grass-grown lanes.
The next day he paid a stealthy visit to the environs of the forbidden
swamp, exploring the rank underbrush until he discovered the start of
the faint trail down which he had stolen years before. Although it was
partially obliterated by a thick growth of sedges, vines and lush swamp
grass, there were indications that deer used it occasionally. Probably
patience would be required to force a way through, but at least the
path should not be impassable.
Carefully noting its location, he returned home and completed his
preparations for the evening.
Shortly before eleven o'clock he crept into the shed where he had
tethered the ewe and led it forth into the moonlight.
The countryside was steeped in a bewitching silver light. He
experienced no difficulties in reaching the swamp and after some little
searching located the narrow trail.
But as he plunged into the shoulder-high grass, the tether tightened
in his hand. The ewe strained against the rope, its eyes suddenly wild
with fright.
Cursing, he scrambled around and kicked it brutally. It bolted forward
a few yards and stopped. Grimly determined, he tightened the tether
until it cut through the ewe's wool into its hide.
He made progress by the foot and by the inch. The ewe had to be dragged
and shoved at regular intervals. And as he penetrated toward the
heart of the swamp, the increasing height and thickness of the lush
undergrowth made passage more difficult.
Moonlight filtered down eerily among the trees and on all sides
treacherous pools gleamed silver-black in the shadowy darkness.
Occasionally hidden watchers stared at him out of the depths and
quite often enormous toads hopped into the path and regarded him with
their amber eyes. They seemed to be devoid of fear, almost as if they
considered the swamp their special domain and deemed him incapable of
harming them. He began to imagine there was something vaguely malignant
about them. He had never seen them so large before, nor in such
numbers. But probably that was merely because they were left unmolested
in the swamp to breed and develop without encountering the artificial
obstacles which would inevitably prevail in any less shunned area.
As he pushed into the heart of the swamp, the gathering silence became
oppressive. The ordinary night sounds ceased altogether and only his
own strained breathing broke the silence. The ewe became more obstinate
than ever; all his strength was required to drag it along. It appeared,
he imagined, to sense the fate which awaited it.
Suddenly, so suddenly that he nearly cried aloud in astonishment, the
underbrush ended and he was standing at the base of the unhallowed
knoll.
It was just as he had remembered it--huge menhirs standing in a rough
circle about a central mound upon which lay a large flat slab of a dark
hue which did not match the color of the surrounding monoliths. Over
all a shadow seemed to fall, and yet when he glanced upward he saw that
the full moon stood directly overhead.
Shaking off the sense of dread which closed upon him, he started up
the lichen-covered slope. But now the ewe sank upon its forelegs and
he was obliged to drag it inch by inch toward the circle of megaliths.
He rather welcomed the exertion however, for it freed his mind of the
nameless fear which the cromlech aroused in him.
By the time he had dragged the sheep alongside the ring of boulders, he
was nearly exhausted, but he dared not pause to rest, for he knew that
delay would be his undoing. He already had a wild desire to leave the
ewe and rush back through the toad-infested swamp to the familiar outer
world.
Quickly slipping off the sheep's tether, he bound its legs firmly
together and with a tremendous heave shoved it onto the rust-colored
sacrificial slab.
Rejecting an almost uncontrollable impulse to flee, he unsheathed the
hunting knife which he carried and drew from his pocket the curious
bound manuscript book, "True Magik" by Theophilis Wenn.
He had no difficulty in locating the strangely sinister seventh
incantation, for in the bright moonlight the unusual bluish-grey ink in
which the characters were inscribed seemed actually luminous.
Holding the book in one hand and the knife ready in the other, he began
to repeat the jumble of unintelligible sounds.
As he read, the syllables appeared to exert some unearthly influence
upon him, so that his voice rose to a savage howl, a high-pitched
inhuman ululation which penetrated to the farthest depths of the swamp.
At intervals his voice sank to low gutturals or a thin sibilant hiss.
And then, at the last enunciation of the oft-repeated word, "Nyogtha",
there reached his ears as from a vast distance a sound like the rushing
of a mighty wind, although not even a leaf stirred on the surrounding
trees.
The book suddenly darkened in his hand and he saw that a shadow had
fallen across the page.
He glanced up--and madness reeled in his brain.
Squatting on the edge of the slab was a shape which lived in nightmare,
a squamous taloned thing like a monstrous gargoyle or a malformed toad
which stared at him out of questing red eyes.
He froze in horror and a sudden rage flamed in the thing's eyes. It
thrust out its neck and an angry hiss issued from its mottled beak.
Emmet Telquist was galvanized into action. He knew what the thing
wanted--life blood.
Raising the knife, he advanced and was about to plunge it downward
into the sheep when a new horror seized him.
The ewe was already dead. The unspeakable presence which squatted
beside it had already claimed it. It had died of fright. Its eyes were
glazed and there was no indication that it still breathed.
Remembering Theophilis Wenn's warning, "beware lest the beaste be
dead", Emmet Telquist stood like a stone statue with the knife still
upraised in his hand.
Then he dropped it and ran.
Darting between two menhirs, he plunged down the knoll and raced toward
the swamp trail.
Lifting its scaly neck, the presence on the slab looked after him and
finally, hissing in fury, bounded off the stone and leaped in pursuit.
One terrible shriek rang out and presently the thing hopped back onto
the slab, holding in its bloody beak a dangling lifeless form, a
fitting sacrifice.
KILLER CAT
It had occurred to him quite suddenly and he had acted on the impulse
before there was time to ponder the matter.
He had the little paper open and was slipping the barbital powder into
a glass when the idea first came to him. For a half minute he just
stood there while his heart beat faster. Then he dumped in three more
of the powders and walked to the bedroom where his Aunt Martha lay
softly moaning. She swallowed the drug without even opening her eyes
and one hour later she was dead. It was as simple as that.
Dr. Myerbron assured him that her heart had given out, showed no
surprise and even hinted that he had expected her demise long before.
Dennis Stonegate was no calloused murderer. Far from it. After the
funeral when he had finally moved into his aunt's house for good, he
assured himself on that point.
He had, he told himself, acted through mercy. His aunt was suffering;
Dr. Myerbron had tacitly admitted more than once that she would not
recover; and certainly a few weeks or even months could make little
difference to the semi-conscious invalid. Better to relieve her of
suffering rather than permit her to linger and perhaps undergo worse
tortures later on when her last powers of resistance were spent.
He repeated this to himself so often he finally came to believe it.
But secretly he knew otherwise. Some small insistent chamber in his
brain kept whispering the truth. The truth was he had grown tired of
waiting.
At first all seemed to go well. Now that he was relieved of a certain
measure of responsibility, he began to enjoy life. Of course, for a
time, he had to put on a sober countenance when he left the house in
the morning. And he had to act properly subdued on certain occasions.
But that was easy enough. He even prided himself a little on his acting
ability. Sometimes he played the part so well he could feel himself
becoming melancholy. And then he would laugh, struck by the irony of
the situation. His Aunt Martha had never meant very much to him. She
had merely been an obstacle to be removed.
The first time the cat annoyed him he dismissed the incident without
further thought. It was a big black Persian with a silky plume of a
tail and luminous yellow eyes and it had been his aunt's favorite pet
for years.
One night after he had mashed some sardines in its dish, he became
irritated when, instead of running up to eat, it drew back and spit at
him. But he merely shrugged and went back to the paper.
The next day it again refused to eat. He speculated, idly, assumed that
it was undergoing a disorder, or distemper, or whatever it was that
cats undergo, and forgot the matter.
A week or so later however, the cat's actions began to annoy him. He
remembered then that so far as he could recall it had eaten almost
nothing he had set out for it since his aunt's death.
Even then, the affair did not really bother him much. It was just an
irritant in the back of his mind.
Nevertheless, some time later he had an experience which definitely
upset him. There was certainly nothing very unusual about it--and he
felt a little like a fool at times when he realized how he permitted
the incident to prey on him.
He had gone to bed late and had had a vague but unpleasant dream. It
seemed that he was lying somewhere in the darkness unable to move,
pinned down by a deadly paralysis, a smothering weight. He awoke
suddenly drenched with sweat and saw two yellow eyes staring into
his own. For just a moment he was on the verge of a scream; then he
remembered the cat and felt at once relieved and rather angry. The
beast was lying flat on his chest and made no move until he swung his
arms and swept it roughly to the floor. It sprang toward the door,
turned once and scurried down the hall.
The next morning he laughed at himself. The cat had often slept on his
aunt's bed and had happened to climb up on his for a cozy place to
spend the night.
He felt uneasy though, when he recalled how wide-awake the cat had been
when he opened his eyes.
For well over a week nothing further happened to upset him. The cat
skulked out of sight most of the time.
Then he had an experience which thoroughly frightened him and he
determined to get rid of his aunt's old pet.
Again he had a dream. Again he was in darkness. And this time he was
being smothered. He was rigid, unable to stir, struggling to breathe,
and there was no air to be had. He awoke as before, suddenly, cold with
sweat, and felt his spine tingle when he realized that something soft
and black was pressed firmly against his face. He sat up violently and
groped wildly for the switch. Something plopped on the floor just as
light flooded the room and then the cat paused at the door as before,
turned its yellow eyes on him and disappeared.
He sat still for some minutes, while his head whirled. He was
frightened and shocked at the things which he dared not admit to
himself and now a determined rage took possession of him.
The next day did not shake his determination. He brooded about the cat
and purposely planned his work so that he could leave early.
He let himself in quietly, entered the kitchen and picked up the iron
poker, and then softly started down the cellar stairs. It was here the
cat usually hid itself when it sensed his approach.
Pressing the light switch at the bottom, he quickly crossed toward the
coal bins. He had left some wooden crates piled near a window in one
of the bins and now in the light he saw the cat's yellow eyes shining
behind the bottom slats.
Springing toward the crates, he swung the poker viciously. The bottom
crate collapsed with a rending of brittle wood and the whole pile
lurched off balance. As he stepped back to avoid being struck, the cat
shot past.
Cursing, he started after it, but his foot caught on a crate and he
fell headlong. He jumped up, white with rage, and rushed into the open
cellar. Dust billowed out from the bin and he could not see the cat.
He stood back, glaring around the cellar, and waited for the dust to
settle. His foot felt hot however, and glancing down he was shocked to
see his shoe wet with blood. A nail must have penetrated his ankle and
cut a vein. Thoroughly unnerved now, he dropped the poker and hurried
upstairs.
He bathed his foot, dressed it and at length sat back, weak with
nervous exhaustion. But now he was more determined than ever. Before
another day had passed he would kill the cat.
Although his foot grew sore, his wound was not really serious, and the
next day he went to work as usual. A black mood seemed to settle on
him however, and finally he found it impossible to concentrate on the
various details which required his attention. He felt that until the
cat was destroyed, his peace of mind would never be regained.
Towards mid-day he complained of a violent headache, excused himself,
and hurried homeward.
Making sure that all the windows were closed and all the doors locked,
he began a slow and systematic search of the house. He started in the
garret and worked downward.
By the time he descended to the cellar a half hour had passed and his
patience was nearly exhausted. He poked through the coal bins, inwardly
cursing the elusive beast, and then smashed each crate in turn to
eliminate every possible hiding place.
As he mounted to the garret a second time some portion of his anger
gave way to a feeling of faint but persistent dread. He was positive
that the cat had been locked in the day before.
He began the search again, ferreting in every conceivable corner,
overturning baskets, scouring the closets, even jabbing the poker in
amongst his aunt's clothing hung in a dusty hall store room.