Mysteries of the Worm

by Robert Bloch

  I could not look away, but I did not wish to. These jewels were fascinating.

  Dimly came Weildan’s voice. I half felt him tugging at my shoulder.

  “Don’t look.” His voice was absurd in its excited tones. “They aren’t—natural stones. Gifts of the gods—which’s why the priest had them replaced for eyes as he died. They’re hypnotic . . . that theory of resurrection . . .”

  I half realized that I brushed the man off. But those jewels commanded my senses, compelled my surrender. Hypnotic? Of course they were—I could feel that warm yellow fire flooding my blood, pulsing at my temples, stealing toward my brain. The torch was out now, I knew, and yet the whole chamber was bathed in flashing yellow radiance from those dazzling eyes. Yellow radiance? No—a glowing red; a bright scarlet luminance in which I read a message.

  The jewels were thinking! They had mind, or rather, a will—a will that sucked my senses away even as it flooded over me—a will that made me forget body and brain alike in an effort to lose myself in the red ecstasy of their burning beauty. I wanted to drown in the fire; it was leading me out of myself, so that I felt as though I were rushing toward the jewels—into them—into something else—

  And then I was free. Free, and blind in darkness. With a start I realized that I must have fainted. At least I had fallen down, for I was now lying on my back against the stone floor of the cavern. Against stone? No—against wood.

  That was strange. I could feel wood. The mummy lay in wood. I could not see. The mummy was blind.

  I felt my dry, scaly, leprously peeling skin.

  My mouth opened. A voice—a dust-choked voice that was my own but not my own—a voice that came from death shrieked, “Good God! I’m in the mummy’s body!”

  I heard a gasp, the sound of a falling shape striking the rocky floor. Weildan.

  But what was that other rustling sound? What wore my shape?

  That damned priest, enduring torture so that his dying eyes might hold hypnotic jewels god-given for the hope of eternal resurrection; buried with easy access to the tomb! Jeweled eyes had hypnotized me, we had changed forms, and now he walked.

  The supreme ecstasy of horror was all that saved me. I raised myself blindly on shriveled limbs, and rotting arms clawed madly at my forehead, seeking what I knew must rest there. My dead fingers tore the jewels from my eyes.

  Then I fainted.

  The awakening was dreadful, for I knew not what I might find. I was afraid to be conscious of myself—of my body. But warm flesh housed my soul again, and my eyes peered through yellowed blackness. The mummy lay in its case, and it was hideous to note the empty eye-sockets staring up; the dreadful confirmation afforded by the changed positions of its scabrous limbs.

  Weildan rested where he had fallen, face empurpled in death. The shock had done it, no doubt.

  Near him were the sources of the yellow luminance—the evil, flaring fire of the twin jewels.

  That was what saved me; tearing those monstrous instruments of transference from my temples. Without the thought of the mummy mind behind them they evidently did not retain their permanent power. I shuddered to think of such a transference in open air, where the mummy body would immediately crumble into decay without being able to remove the jewels. Then would the soul of the priest of Sebek indeed arise to walk the earth, and resurrection be accomplished. It was a terrible thought.

  I scooped up the jewels hastily and bound them into my handkerchief. Then I left, leaving Weildan and the mummy as they lay; groping my way to the surface with the aid of illumination afforded me by matches.

  It was very good to see the nighted skies of Egypt, for dusk had fallen by this time.

  When I saw this clean dark, the full nightmare force of my recent experience in the evil blackness of that tomb struck me anew, and I shrieked wildly as I ran across the sand toward the little tent that stood before the opening.

  There was whisky in the saddle-packs; I brought it out, and thanked heaven for the oil lamp I uncovered. I must have been delirious for a while, I fancy. I put a mirror up on the tent wall, and stared into it for a full three minutes to reassure myself as to identity. Then I brought out the portable typewriter and set it up on the table slab.

  It was only then that realized my subconscious intention to set down the truth. For awhile I debated with myself—but sleep was impossible that evening, nor did I intend to return across the desert by night. At last, some elements of composure returned.

  I typed this screed.

  Now, then, the tale is told. I have returned to my tent to type these lines, and tomorrow I shall leave Egypt for ever behind me—leave that tomb, after sealing it again so that no one shall ever find the accursed entrance to those subterranean halls of horror.

  As I write, I am grateful for the light which drives away the memory of noisome darkness and shadowed sound; grateful, too, for the mirror’s reassuring image that erases the thought of that terrifying moment when the jeweled eyes of Sebek’s priest stared out at me and I changed. Thank God I clawed them out in time!

  I have a theory about those jewels—they were a definite trap. It is ghastly to think of the hypnosis of a dying brain three thousand years ago; hypnosis willing the urge to live as the suffering priest’s eyes were torn out and the jewels placed in the sockets. Then the mind held but one thought—to live, and usurp flesh again. The dying thought, transmitted and held by the jewels, was retained by them through the centuries until the eyes of a discoverer would meet them. Then the thought would flash out, from the dead, rotted brain to the living jewels—the jewels that hypnotized the gazer and forced him into that terrible exchange of personality. The dead priest would assume man’s form, and the man’s consciousness be forced into the mummy’s body. A demoniacally clever scheme—and to think that I came near to being that man!

  I have the jewels; must examine them. Perhaps the museum authorities at Cairo can classify them; at any rate they’re valuable enough. But Weildan’s dead; I must never speak of the tomb—how can I explain the matter? Those two stones are so curious that they are bound to cause comment. There is something extraordinary about them, though poor Weildan’s tale of the god bestowing them is too utterly preposterous. Still, that color change is most unusual; and the life, the hypnotic glow within them!

  I have just made a startling discovery. I unwrapped the gems from my handkerchief just now and looked at them. They seem to be still alive!

  Their glow is unchanged—they shine as luminously here under the electric torch as they did in the darkness; as they did in the ruined sockets of that shriveled mummy. Yellow they are, and looking at them I receive that same intuitive prescience of inner, alien life. Yellow? No—now they are reddening—coming to a point. I should not look; it’s too reminiscent of that other time. But they are, they must be, hypnotic.

  Deep red now, flaming furiously. Watching them I feel warmed, bathed in fire that does not burn so much as it caresses. I don’t mind now; it’s a pleasant sensation. No need to look away.

  No need—. . . Do those jewels retain their power even when they are not in the sockets of the mummy’s eyes?

  I feel it again—they must—I don’t want to go back into the body of the mummy—I cannot remove the stones and return to my own form now—removing them imprisoned the thought in the jewels.

  I must look away. I can type. I can think—but those eyes before me, they swell and grow . . . look away.

  I cannot! Redder—redder—I must fight them, keep from going under. Red thought now; I feel nothing—must fight . . .

  I can look away now. I’ve beaten the jewels. I’m all right.

  I can look away—but I cannot see. I’ve gone blind! Blind—the jewels are gone from the sockets—the mummy is blind.

  What has happened to me? I am sitting in the dark, typing blind. Blind, like the mummy! I feel as though something has happened; it’s strange. My body seems lighter.

  I know now.

  I’m in the body of the mummy. I
know it. The jewels—the thought they held—and now, what is rising to walk from that open tomb?

  It is walking into the world of men. It will wear my body, and it will seek blood and prey for sacrifice in its rejoicing at resurrection.

  And I am blind. Blind—and crumbling!

  The air—it’s causing disintegration. Vital organs intact, Weildan said, but I cannot breathe. I can’t see. Must type—warn. Whoever sees this must know the truth. Warn.

  Body going fast. Can’t rise now. Cursed Egyptian magic. Those jewels! Someone must kill thing from the tomb.

  Fingers—so hard to strike keys. Don’t work properly. Air getting them. Brittle. Blind fumble. Slower. Must warn. Hard to pull carriage back.

  Can’t strike higher case letters anymore, can’t capitalize, fingers going fast, crumbling to bits, dust fingers going must warn against thing magic sebek fingers grope stumps almost gone hard to strike.

  damned seebek sebek mind all dust sebek sebe seb seb seb se s sssssss sss . . .

  The Sorcerer’s Jewel

  This story seems to reflect many others, like a jewel with many facets. We cannot help, in a later day, being reminded of Lovecraft’s “From Beyond”, to which the story perhaps owes a conscious debt, and, perhaps fortuitously, to Frank Belknap Long’s “The Hounds of Tindalos”, where we read of awful entities from other dimensions pursuing their prey through interdimensional angles. Note also the similarity of theme to two Lovecraft revisions, “The Trap” (with Henry S. Whitehead) and “The Tree on the Hill” (with Duane Rimel). The whole story may be said to depend on the observed relation between the words “oculist” and “occultist”, a classic case of the suggestive slippage of language made much of by Deconstructive critics.

  The Sorcerer’s Jewel

  by Robert Bloch

  By rights, I should not be telling this story. David is the one to tell it, but then, David is dead. Or is he?

  That’s the thought that haunts me, the dreadful possibility that in some way David Niles is still alive—in some unnatural, unimaginable way alive. That is why I shall tell the story; unburden myself of the onerous weight which is slowly crushing my mind.

  But David Niles could do it properly. Niles was a photographer; he could give the technical terms, perhaps explain coherently many things that I do not pretend to understand. I can only guess, or hint.

  Niles and I shared a studio together for several years. It was a true partnership—we were both friends and business associates. This was peculiar in itself, for we were dissimilar types, and with widely divergent interests. We differed in almost every particular.

  I am tall, thin, and dark. Niles was short, plump, and fair. I am naturally lazy, moody, inclined towards introspection. Niles was always tense with energy, high-spirited, volatile. My chief interests, in latter years, have leaned towards metaphysics and a study of occultism. Niles was a skeptic, a materialist, and above all, a scientist. Still, together we formed an integrated personality—I, the dreamer; Niles, the doer.

  Our mutual business association, as I have already intimated, lay in the field of photography.

  David Niles was one of the most brilliant personalities in the domain of modern portrait photography. For several years prior to our association he had done salon work, exhibiting internationally and creating a reputation which brought him a considerable income from private sittings.

  At the time of our meeting he had become dissatisfied with commercial work. Photography, he argued, was an art; an art best nourished by serious, solitary study unimpeded by the demands of catering to customers. He therefore determined to retire for a year or so and devote himself to experiment.

  I was the partner he chose for the work. He had lately become a devotee of the William Mortensen school of photography. Mortensen, of course, is the leading exponent of fantasy in photography; his studies of monstrosities and grotesques are widely known. Niles believed that in fantasy, photography most closely approximated true art. The idea of picturing the abstract fascinated him; the thought that a modern camera could photograph dream worlds and blend fancy with reality seemed intriguing. That’s where I came in.

  Niles knew of my interest in the occult, knew that I had made a study of mythology. I was to serve as technical adviser on his subject matter. The arrangement pleased us both.

  At first Niles limited himself to studies in physiognomy. With his usual thoroughness, he mastered the technique of photographic makeup and hired models whose features lent themselves to the application of gargoylian disguises. I handled the matter of checking over reference works, finding illustrations in old books of legends to use in devising suitable makeup.

  Niles did a study of Pan, one of a satyr, and a Medusa. He became interested in demons, and we spent some time on his Gallery of Fiends series; Asmodeus, Azaziel, Sammael, and Beelzebub. They were surprisingly good.

  But for some reason or other, Niles was not satisfied. The quality of the photographs was excellent, the posing effective, the characterization superb. And still Niles did not feel that he was achieving his goal.

  “Human figures,” he stormed. “Human faces are, after all, only human faces, no matter how much you cover them up with grease-paint and putty. What I want is the soul of Fantasy, not the outward aping.”

  He strode up and down the studio, gesticulating in his feverish manner. “What have we got?” he demanded. “A lot of stupid horror-movie faces. Amateur Karloffs. Kid stuff. No, we must find something else.”

  So the next phase was modeling clay. I was handy here, for I had a rudimentary knowledge of sculpture. We spent hours on composing scenes from an imaginary Inferno; constructing bat-winged figures that flew against bizarre, other-worldly backgrounds of fire, and great malignant demons that squatted and brooded on jagged peaks overlooking the Fiery Pit.

  But here, too, Niles could not find what he was looking for.

  One night he exploded again, after finishing a set. With a sweep of his arm, he smashed the papier-mâché set and its clay figures to the floor. “Hokum,” he muttered. “Peep-show, penny-dreadful stuff.”

  I sighed, getting set to listen patiently to a further tirade.

  “I don’t want to be the Gustave Doré of photography, or the Sime, or even the Artzybasheff,” he said. “I don’t want to copy any style. What I’m after is something original, something I can claim as absolutely individual.”

  I shrugged. Wisdom had taught me to keep my mouth shut and let Niles talk himself out.

  “I’ve been on the wrong track,” he declared. “If I photograph things as they are, that’s all I’m going to get. I build a clay set, and by Heaven, when I photograph it, all I can get is a picture of that clay set—a flat, two-dimensional thing at that. I take a portrait of a man in makeup and my result is a photo of a man in makeup. I can’t hope to catch something with the camera that isn’t there. The answer is—change the camera. Let the instrument do the work.”

  I saw his argument, and conceded its validity.

  The following few weeks Niles’ existence was a frenzy of experimental activity. He began to take montage shots. Then he worked with odd papers, odder exposures. He even reverted to the Mortensen principles and employed distortion—bending and twisting the negative so that prints showed elongated or flattened figures in nightmarish fashion.

  An ordinary man’s forehead, under these methods, would register as being hydrocephalic; his eyes might appear as bulging beacons illumined by insane lights. The perspective of nightmare, the nuances of oneirodynia, the hallucinative images of the demented were reproduced by distortion. Pictures were shadowed, shaded; portions blocked out or moulded into weird backgrounds.

  And then came a night when Niles again paced the floor, tracing a restless path through piles of torn-up prints. “I’m not getting it,” he murmured. “I can take a natural subject and distort it, but I can’t actually change its content. In order to photograph the unreal, I must see the unreal. See the unreal—Good Lord, why didn’t I think
of that before?”

  He stood before me, his hands twitching. “I studied painting once, you know. My instructor—old Gifford, the portrait man—hung a certain picture in his studio. It was the old boy’s masterpiece. The painting was of a winter scene, in oils; a winter scene of a farmhouse.

  “Now here’s the point. Gifford had two pairs of spectacles; one sensitive to infra-red, the other to ultra-violet rays. He’d show a guest the winter scene, then ask him to try on the first pair of spectacles and look again. Through the glasses the picture showed the same farmhouse on a summer day. The second pair of lenses gave a view of the farmhouse in autumn. He had painted three layers, and the proper lenses each showed a different picture.”

  “So what?” I ventured.

  Niles talked faster, his excitement increasing.

  “So this. Remember the war? The Germans used to camouflage machine gun nests and field batteries. They did it quite elaborately; painting the guns with leafy hues and using artificial plant formations to cover them up. Well American observation posts employed ultra-violet lenses in field glasses to spot the camouflaging. Through the glasses the natural leaves showed up in entirely different colors in comparison to the artificially painted ones, which lacked ultra-violet pigment.”

  “I still don’t see the point.”

  “Use ultra-violet and infra-red lenses in photography and we’ll get the same effect,” he almost shouted.

  “But isn’t that just an extension of the ordinary color-filter principle?” I asked.

  “Perhaps. But we can combine them with reground lenses of various types—lenses that will distort perspective in themselves. So far we’ve merely distorted form, shape. But with both color and form distorted, we can achieve the type of photography I’m striving for—fantasy, pure and simple. We’ll focus on fantasy and reproduce it without tampering with any objects. Can you imagine what this room will look like with its colors reversed, some of them absent completely; with the furniture shapes altered, the very walls distorted?”