by Brian Lumley
“What?” he faintly called back, but he didn’t turn his head. He was staring down into the water, staring intently at something he saw there. His hand brushed aside weed—
“Carl!” I found my voice. “For God’s sake get out of it!”
He started then, his head and limbs jerking as if scalded, setting the plank to rocking so that he half slid off it. Then — a scrambling back to safety and a frantic splashing and paddling; and galvanized into activity I sprang from the window and raced breakneck downstairs. And Carl laughing shakily as I stumbled knee-deep in hated water to drag him physically from the plank, both of us trembling despite the burning rays of the new-risen sun and the furnace heat of the air.
“What happened?” I finally asked.
“I thought I saw something,” he answered. “In the pool. A reflection, that’s all, but it startled me.”
“What did you see?” I demanded, my back damp with cold sweat.
“Why, what would I see?” he answered, but his voice trembled for all that he tried to grin. “A face, of course — my own face framed by the weeds. But it didn’t look like me, that’s all…”
8.The Dweller
Looking back now in the light of what I already knew — certainly of what I should have guessed at that time it must seem that I was guilty of an almost suicidal negligence in spending the rest of that day upstairs on my bed, tossing in nightmares brought on by the nervous exhaustion which beset me immediately after the incident at the pool. On the other hand, I had had no sleep the night before and Carl’s adventure had given me a terrific jolt; and so my failure to recognize the danger — how close it had drawn — may perhaps be forgiven.
In any event, I forced myself to wakefulness in the early evening, went downstairs and had coffee and a frugal meal of biscuits, and briefly visited Carl in his studio. He was busy — frantically busy, dripping with sweat and brushing away at his canvas — working on his loathsome painting, which he did not want me to see. That suited me perfectly for I had already seen more than enough of the thing. I did take time enough to tell him, though, that he should finish his work in the next two days; for on Friday or at the very latest Saturday morning I intended to blow the place sky high.
Then I went back upstairs, washed and shaved, and as the light began to fail so I returned to my uncle’s notebook. There were only three or four pages left unread, the first dated only days before his demise, but they were such a hodge-podge of scrambled and near-illegible miscellanea that I had the greatest difficulty making anything of them. Only that feeling of a burgeoning terror drove me on, though by now I had almost completely lost faith in making anything whatever of the puzzle.
As for my uncle’s notes: a basically orderly nature had kept me from leafing at random through his book, or perhaps I should have understood earlier. As it is, the notebook is lost forever, but as best I can I shall copy down what I remember of those last few pages. After that and after I relate the remaining facts of the occurrences of that fateful hideous night — the reader must rely upon his own judgement. The notes then, or what little I remember of them:
“Levi’s or Mirandola’s invocation: “Dasmass Jeschet Boene Doess Efar Duvema Enit Marous.” If I could get the pronunciation right, perhaps … But what will the Thing be? And will it succumb to a double-barrelled blast? That remains to be seen. But if what I suspect is firmly founded … Is it a tick-thing, such as Von Junzt states inhabits the globular mantle of Yogg-Sothoth? (Unaussprechlichen Kulten, 78/16) — fearful hints — monstrous pantheon … And this merely a parasite to one of Them!
“The Cult of Cthulhu … immemorial horror spanning all the ages. The Johansen Narrative and the Pnakotic Manuscript. And the Innsmouth Raid of 1928; much was made of that, and yet nothing known for sure. Deep Ones, but… different again from this Thing.
“Entire myth-cycle … So many sources. Pure myth and legend? I think not. Too deep, interconnected, even plausible. According to Carter in SR, (AH ’59) p. 250-51, They were driven into this part of the universe (or into this time-dimension) by “Elder Gods” as punishment for a rebellion. Hastur the Unspeakable prisoned in Lake of Hali (again the lake or pool motif) in Carcosa; Great Cthulhu in R’lyeh, where he slumbers still in his death-sleep; Ithaqua sealed away behind icy Arctic barriers, and so on. But Yogg-Sothoth was sent outside, into a parallel place, conterminous with all space and time. Since YS is everywhere and when, if a man knew the gate he could call Him out…
“Did Chorazos and his acolytes, for some dark reason of their own, attempt thus to call Him out?
And did they get this dweller in Him instead? And I believe I understand the reason for the pool. Grandfather knew. His interest in Nessie, the Lambton Worm, the Kraken of olden legend, naiads, Cthulhu … Wendy Smith’s burrowers feared water; and the sheer weight of the mighty Pacific helps keep C. prisoned in his place in R’lyeh — thank God! Water subdues these things …
“But if water confines It, why does It return to the water? And how may It leave the pool if not deliberately called out? No McGilchrist ever called It out, I’m sure, not willingly; though some may have suspected that something was there. No swimmers in the family — not a one — and I think I know why. It is an instinctive, an ancestral fear of the pool! No, of the unknown Thing which lurks beneath the pool’s surface…
The thing which lurks beneath the pool’s surface …
Clammy with the heat, and with a debilitating terror springing from these words on the written page — these scribbled thought-fragments which, I was now sure, were anything but demented ravings — I sat at the old desk and read on. And as the house grew dark and quiet, as on the previous night, again I found my eyes drawn to gaze down through the open window to the surface of the still pool.
Except that the surface was no longer still!
Ripples were spreading in concentric rings from the pool’s dark centre, tiny mobile wavelets caused by — by what? Some disturbance beneath the surface? The water level was well down now and tendrils of mist drifted from the pool to lie soft, luminous and undulating in the moonlight, curling like the tentacles of some great plastic beast over the dam, across the drive to the foot of the house.
A sort of paralysis settled over me then, a dreadful lassitude, a mental and physical malaise brought on by excessive morbid study, culminating in this latest phenomenon of the old house and the aura of evil, which now seemed to saturate its very stones. I should have done something — something to break the spell, anything rather than sit there and merely wait for what was happening to happen — and yet I was incapable of positive action.
Slowly I returned my eyes to the written page; and there I sat shivering and sweating, my skin crawling as I read on by the light of my desk lamp. But so deep my trancelike state that it was as much as I could do to force my eyes from one word to the next. I had no volition, no will of my own with which to fight that fatalistic spell; and the physical heat of the night was that of a furnace as sweat dripped from my forehead onto the pages of the notebook.
“… I have checked my findings and can’t believe my previous blindness! It should have been obvious. It happens when the water level falls below a certain point. It has happened every time there has been extremely hot weather — when the pool has started to dry up! The Thing needn’t be called out at all!
As to why it returns to the pool after taking a victim: it must return before daylight. It is a fly-the-light.
A haunter of the dark. A wampyre! … but not blood. Nowhere can I find mention of blood sacrifices. And no punctures or mutilations. What, then are Its “needs?” Did Dee know? Kelly knew, I’m sure, but his writings are lost…
“Eager now to try the invocation, but I wish that first I might know the true nature of the Thing. It takes the life of Its victim — but what else?”
“I have it! — God, I know — and I wish I did not know! But that look on my poor brother’s face … Andrew, Andrew … I know now why you looked that way. Bu
t if I can free you, you shall be freed. If I wondered at the nature of the Thing, then I wonder no longer. The answers are all there, in the Cthaat A. and Hydrophinnae, if only I had known exactly where to look. Yibb-Tstll is one such; Bugg-Shash, too. Yes, and the pool-thing is another …
“There have been a number down the centuries — “the horror that dwelled in the mirror of Nitocris; the sucking, hunting thing that Count Magnus kept; the red, hairy slime used by Julian Scortz — familiars of the Great Old Ones, parasites that lived on Them as lice live on men. Or rather, on their life force! This one has survived the ages, at least until now. It does not take the blood but the very essence of Its victim.
It is a soul-eater!
“I can wait no longer. Tonight, when the sun goes down and the hills are in darkness … But if I succeed, and if the Thing comes for me … We’ll see how It faces up to my shotgun!”
My eyes were half-closed by the time I had finally scanned all that was written, of which the above is only a small part; and even having read it I had not fully taken it in. Rather, I had absorbed it automatically, without reading any immediate meaning into it. But as I re-read those last few lines, so I heard something, which roused me up from my lassitude and snapped me alertly awake in an instant.
It was music: the faint but unmistakable strains of a whirling pagan tune that seemed to reach out to me from a time beyond time, from a hell beyond all known hells …
9. The Horror
Shocked back to mental alertness, still my limbs were stiff as a result of several hours crouched over the desk. Thus, as I sprang or attempted to spring to my feet, a cramp attacked both of my calves and threw me down by the window. I grabbed at the sill … and whatever I had been about to do was at once forgotten.
I gazed out the open window on a scene straight out of madness or nightmare. The broken columns where they now stood up from bases draped with weed seemed to glow with an inner light; and to my straining eyes it appeared that this haze of light extended uniformly upwards, so that I saw a revenant of the temple as it had once been. Through the light-haze I could also see the centre of the pool, from which the ripples spread outward with a rapidly increasing agitation.
There was a shape there now, a dark oblong illuminated both by the clean moonlight and by that supernatural glow; and even as I gazed, so the water slopping above the oblong seemed pushed aside and the slab showed its stained marble surface to the air. The music grew louder then, soaring wildly, and it seemed to me in my shocked and frightened condition that dim figures reeled and writhed around the perimeter of the pool.
Then — horror of horrors! — in one mad moment the slab tilted to reveal a black hole going down under the pool, like the entrance to some sunken tomb. There came an outpouring of miasmal gases, visible in the eerie glow, and then—
Even before the thing emerged I knew what it would be; how it would look. It was that horror on Carl’s canvas, the soft-tentacled, mushroom-domed terror he had painted under the ancient, evil influence of this damned, doomed place. It was the dweller, the familiar, the tick-thing, the star-born wampyre … it was the curse of the McGilchrists.
Except I understood now that this was not merely a curse on the McGilchrists but on the entire world. Of course it had seemed to plague the McGilchrists as a personal curse — but only because they had chosen to build Temple House here on the edge of its pool. They had been victims by virtue of their availability, for I was sure that the pool-thing was not naturally discriminative.
Then, with an additional thrill of horror, I saw that the thing was on the move, drifting across the surface of the pool, its flaccid tentacles reaching avidly in the direction of the house. The lights downstairs were out, which meant that Carl must be asleep …
Carl!
The thing was across the drive now, entering the porch, the house itself. I forced cramped limbs to agonized activity, lurched across the room, out onto the dark landing and stumbled blindly down the stairs. I slipped, fell, found my feet again — and my voice, too.
“Carl!” I cried, arriving at the door of his studio. “Carl, for God’s sake!”
The thing straddled him where he lay upon his bed. It glowed with an unearthly, a rotten luminescence which outlined his pale body in a sort of foxfire. Its tentacles writhed over his naked form and his limbs were filled with fitful motion. Then the dweller’s mushroom head settled over his face, which disappeared in folds of the thing’s gilled mantle.
“Carl!” I screamed yet again, and as I lurched forward in numb horror so my hand found the light switch on the wall. In another moment the room was bathed in sane and wholesome electric light. The thing bulged upward from Carl — rising like some monstrous amoeba, some sentient, poisonous jellyfish from an alien ocean — and turned toward me.
I saw a face, a face I knew across twenty years of time fled, my uncle’s face! Carved in horror, those well remembered features besought, pleaded with me, that an end be put to this horror and peace restored to this lonely valley; that the souls of countless victims be freed to pass on from this world to their rightful destinations.
The thing left Carl’s suddenly still form and moved forward, flowed toward me; and as it came so the face it wore melted and changed. Other faces were there, hidden in the thing, many with McGilchrist features and many without, dozens of them that came and went ceaselessly. There were children there, too, mere babies; but the last face of all, the one I shall remember above all others — that was the face of Carl Earlman himself! And it, too, wore that pleading, that imploring look — the look of a soul in hell, which prays only for its release.
Then the light won its unseen, unsung battle. Almost upon me, suddenly the dweller seemed to wilt. It shrank from the light, turned and flowed out of the room, through the porch, back toward the pool. Weak with reaction I watched it go, saw it move out across the now still water, saw the slab tilt down upon its descending shape and heard the music fade into silence. Then I turned to Carl…
I do not think I need mention the look on Carl’s lifeless face, or indeed say anything more about him. Except perhaps that it is my fervent prayer that he now rests in peace with the rest of the dweller’s many victims, taken down the centuries. That is my prayer, but…
As for the rest of it:
I dragged Carl from the house to the Range Rover, drove him to the crest of the rise, left him there and returned to the house. I took my uncle’s prepared charges from his study and set them in the base of the shale cliff where the house backed onto it. Then I lit the fuses, scrambled back into the Range Rover and drove to where Carl’s body lay in the cool of night. I tried not to look at his face.
In a little while the fuses were detonated, going off almost simultaneously, and the night was shot with fire and smoke and a rising cloud of dust. When the air cleared the whole scene was changed forever. The cliff had come down on the house, sending it crashing into the pool. The pool itself had disappeared, swallowed up in shale and debris; and it was as if the House of the Temple, the temple itself and the demon-cursed pool had never existed.
All was silence and desolation, where only the moonlight played on jagged stumps of centuried columns, projecting still from the scree- and rubble-filled depression, which had been the pool. And now the moon silvered the bed of the old stream, running with water from the ruined pool— And at last I was able to drive on.
10. The Unending Nightmare
That should have been the end of it, but such has not been the case. Perhaps I alone am to blame. The police in Penicuik listened to my story, locked me in a cell overnight and finally conveyed me to this place, where I have been now for more than a week. In a way I supposed that the actions of the police were understandable; for my wild appearance that night — not to mention the ghastly, naked corpse in the Range Rover and the incredible story I incoherently told — could hardly be expected to solicit their faith or understanding. But I do not understand the position of the alienists here at Oakdeene.
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br /> Surely they, too, can hear the damnable music? — that music which grows louder hour-by-hour, more definite and decisive every night — the music which in olden days summoned the pool-thing to its ritual sacrifice. Or is it simply that they disagree with my theory? I have mentioned it to them time and time again and repeat it now: that there are other pools in the Pentlands, watery havens to which the thing might have fled from the destruction of its weedy retreat beside the now fallen seat of the McGilchrists. Oh, yes, and I firmly believe that it did so flee. And the days are long and hot and a great drought is on the land …
And perhaps, too, over the years, a very real curse has loomed up large and monstrous over the McGilchrists. Do souls have a flavour, I wonder, a distinctive texture of their own? Is it possible that the pool-thing has developed an appetite, a taste for the souls of McGilchrists? If so, then it will surely seek me out; and yet here I am detained in this institute for the insane.
Or could it be that I am now in all truth mad? Perhaps the things I have experienced and know to be true have driven me mad, and the music I hear exists only in my mind. That is what the nurses tell me and dear God, I pray that it is so! But if not — if not…
For there is that other thing, which I have not mentioned until now. When I carried Carl from his studio after the pool-thing left him, I saw his finished painting. Not the whole painting but merely a part of it, for when it met my eyes they saw only one thing: the finished face, which Carl had painted on the dweller.
This is the nightmare which haunts me worse than any other, the question I ask myself over and over in the dead of night, when the moonlight falls upon my high, barred window and the music floods into my padded cell:
If they should bring me my breakfast one morning and find me dead — will my face really look like that?
Back Row
I did my share of back-row necking way back when in my teens. And sometimes I got lucky and didn’t stop at the neck! More I daren’t say because I don’t want to spoil my clean-cut image. Oh, and a PS: this is the closest I get to breaking the promise I made in my introduction. So, just in case, have a bucket handy …