Gateway to Hell

by Dennis Wheatley

  While he was ruminating on these hopes and fears, von Thumm, his head tilted towards his left shoulder, began to intone. He now spoke in Latin and recited the Lord’s Prayer backwards. The Mass proceeded in that language, the assistant priests uttering the responses. In due course, the Baron produced a Holy wafer from a gold, jewel-studded casket on the altar. Crying out, This is the body of the impostor, Jesus Christ,’ he spat upon it, threw it down, then urinated on it. His assistants followed suit. Crushing it under his heel, he said to Simon and Miranda:

  ‘Now we consummation of your marriage make. Take off your clothes.’

  Simon swung round towards Miranda. Before anyone could lay a hand on him he had whipped out the carving knife with which they had cut up the tinned food in the ruined church. At his movement, Miranda turned to face him. His arm flew up to bring the blade slashing down between her breasts.

  De Richleau, having impressed on Simon how great a sin it would be to kill himself, had thought no more of the matter. But he had also said that, given certain circumstances, the killing of another could be justified and, evidently, Simon had decided that, rather than allow Miranda to be defiled, he would kill her.

  She was within an ace of death when the Duke acted. It was as though those long-time friends of his on the Astral had shouted in one great chorus:

  ‘Now! Now is your chance! If you can kill von Thumm, you will be the master down there.’

  His right arm shot out from the shoulder. The first and second finger of his hand pointed at Simon. The Duke spoke no word. Simon was so placed that he did not even see the gesture. But, as though struck a violent blow from behind, his body turned in a quarter-circle. Caught by the light of the candle on the goat’s head, the steel blade flashed for a second, then it streaked down and half its length was buried in von Thumm’s chest.

  The assistant priests uttered wild cries of rage. Glasshill had been the nearest of them to von Thumm. As the Baron, his eyes glaring, his mouth agape, collapsed on to the altar steps, the big Negro sprang forward. He raised his fist to strike Simon to the ground. That gave Richard the chance for which he had been waiting. Jerking his home-made knife from beneath his coat, he drove the big sliver of glass with all its force into Glasshill’s liver. The Negro gave one awful scream and pitched forward on to the dying Baron.

  The shouts and cries had brought Miranda out of her trance. She cast one horrified look at the figure of Baphomet and the two men choking out their life blood on the altar step below it, then let out a terrified cry. Next moment she realised that she was half naked, made as if to put her hands up to cover her breasts, and fainted.

  The two young, naked acolytes dropped the censers they had been swinging and made a dash for the door. Silvia had turned and was also heading for it as fast as her long legs would carry her.

  The Duke did not even glance in her direction. There still remained to be dealt with the two fat priests of Satan: the long-haired Andean and the grossly-fat Babu. The Duke was praying desperately that, together, they would not rank in circles and squares a magical degree higher than his own. The Babu had already raised his left hand and opened his mouth to pronounce a conjuration. Instantly, de Richleau lifted his right hand, so that it pointed at him, and shouted:

  ‘Be silent!’

  The Babu’s thick lips wobbled uncertainly for a few seconds, then closed, and his arm fell to his side.

  Richard had turned his glass dagger in the fatal wound he had inflicted on Glasshill, and drawn it out. As he straightened himself, he could see over the Duke’s shoulder. The Andean was behind him. He had drawn a knife and was just about to stab de Richleau in the back. Richard gave a cry of warning. It came too late. The Duke heard it in time to make a sideways movement that saved his life, but the point of the knife pierced his left shoulder with such force that he was thrown forward on his face.

  The fat Babu’s face suddenly broke into a smile of triumph. He lifted his left arm again and opened his mouth to hurl a binding spell on the Duke’s companions. But Rex was within a yard of him. Raising his ‘leg of mutton’ fist, he struck the Babu a terrific blow on the side of his flabby jaw. His head snapped back and he went down like a pole-axed ox.

  With the agility of a panther, the Andean had gone down on one knee and raised his knife again, to finish off de Richleau. Richard flung himself forward bodily. His chest thudded into the kneeling man’s shoulder, deflecting the blow and sending him over sideways. Richard came sprawling on top of him. Like an eel, the Andean wriggled from beneath the body of his attacker, and came to his knees. Again his knife went up, this time to slash at Richard.

  Simon had caught Miranda as she fainted and lowered her to the altar steps a few feet from where von Thumm was gasping out his life in agony. With one arm round Miranda’s shoulders, Simon was stroking her cheek and kissing her forehead, in an endeavour to bring her out of her faint. On hearing Richard’s cry, he looked up. A second later he heard de Richleau crash to the floor behind him. Swinging round he pulled himself away from Miranda to go to the Duke’s assistance. By then Richard had acted and the Duke was out of danger, but he himself was in imminent peril.

  Jumping across de Richleau’s prone body, Simon landed a kick on the side of the Andean’s cheek. He dropped his knife and heeled over. A second kick from Simon and the Andean fell sideways, his head hitting the floor. With a ferocity utterly alien to his nature, Simon continued to kick and kick and kick until the evil priest’s face was reduced to a mass of blood and pulp.

  For a few minutes nothing was to be heard in the temple but the sound of their panting, as they strove to get back their breath. Rex was kneeling by the unconscious Duke, anxiously examining his wound. As soon as he could speak, he gasped:

  Thank God! … It’s only a flesh wound … and not deep. The point of the knife struck his … shoulder blade. It was either hitting his head when he fell, or loss of blood that caused him to faint.’

  ‘All the same. I don’t like it,’ Richard said anxiously. ‘He’s bleeding badly, and at his age he can’t afford to lose a lot of blood.’ As he spoke, he ripped off his jacket, then began to unbutton his shirt. Pulling it off he handed it to Rex, and added, ‘Here, take this. Staunch the blood with it and we’ll bind the wound up.’

  Rex already had the Duke’s coat off. As he began to tear the coat-tail of Richard’s shirt into strips, Miranda gave a moan and opened her eyes. Simon bent over her again, took her hands in his and, sobbing with relief, murmured, Oh, my darling! Are you all right? Can you see me and hear me? Before, you acted so strangely. As though your mind wasn’t working.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ she murmured. ‘But I’m all right now. I … I only became fully conscious of what was going on round me when you stabbed that awful priest. Oh, Simon darling! How can I thank you for saving me from these beasts?’

  Smiling down at her, he confessed, ‘Nearly killed you instead, my precious. Had made up my mind to, rather than … well, seen you driven out of your mind. But we’re not out of the wood yet. That hell-cat Silvia got away. May be other priests up above. If so, she’ll be raising them against us by now.’

  Miranda shook her head. ‘Silvia’s not a hell-cat. It was she who hypnotised me, so that I wouldn’t know what was being done to me. Even if she is a witch, I’m sure she’s not deliberately evil. She’s in this thing for kicks.’

  As she was speaking, Miranda had got to her feet. Slipping out of his jacket, Simon helped her into it so that she could cover her breasts. Then he turned to look down at the Duke.

  There was a lot of blood on the floor that had run from the wound in his shoulder, and some of it had stained red the white hair on one side of his head. But Rex had managed to staunch the flow and, with Richard’s help, got a tight bandage round his shoulder and under his armpit. As they sat him up to get him back into his torn jacket, he came to. His grey eyes were still half-closed as he looked about him, and his head wobbled unsteadily. After a minute or so, he said in a husky whisper:
<
br />   ‘So help was sent us. Praise be, and … and we got the better of them. But … but I’m out of the game for the moment. I feel as weak as a kitten.’

  Between them they got de Richleau on his feet, and with his arms round the shoulders of both of them. Resolutely he began to walk forward, but they had to bear most of his weight. Simon and Miranda, their arms round each other, followed them out of the temple, across the circular ante-room beyond it and into the dimly-lit passage.

  They were reluctant to go upstairs, as to do so meant that they would be taking a big risk of running into Silvia and some of the Prince’s minions. But they knew that there were several ways out of the ancient fortress. To find one was far from easy, as the stone-walled passages formed a veritable maze, with many chambers on either side evidently once door less storerooms, opening off them. Several times they entered cul-de-sacs, that ended in a barrier of roughly-cut rock. At last they found a door which, when wrenched open, brought in a sudden cold draught and gave them a view of the star-spangled sky.

  Outside was a small stone terrace, from which a flight of worn steps led down. As they went towards them they could see the airstrip below, because it was lit up. That it should be lit in the middle of the night alarmed them, for it suggested that the Prince had left in an aircraft and was shortly expected back.

  The stairs were too narrow for three people abreast, so Richard led the way down, while Rex picked up the Duke in his strong arms and carried him. As they descended, they saw that there was now only one aircraft on the strip, which confirmed their supposition that the Prince had flown off in the other.

  They were about halfway between the bottom of the staircase and the ‘plane when a figure emerged from a nearby hut. In the glare of the arc lights they could be seen as clearly as though they were upon a brightly-lit stage. The squat figure was a man in Andean costume. He halted abruptly and gave a loud shout. His words were Chiquito, the language of the Bolivian Indian, so they did not understand them; but, obviously, he was calling on them to halt. His voice had barely ceased to echo in the still night air before he had pulled a pistol from its holster and was pointing it at them.

  Simon still had the carving knife with which he had killed von Thumm, and Richard his glass dagger. But the man who was holding them up was a good twenty paces away—much too far off for them to attempt to rush him. Inwardly they groaned In two minutes they could have been in the ‘plane and an another five in the air. To have come so near to escaping and now to be marched back and locked up until the Prince returned was a most bitter pill to have to swallow.

  Through their minds raced sickening thoughts of what now lay before them. When he learned that four of his principal henchmen had been slain, the Prince’s fury and malice would know no bounds. They would pray in vain for an easy death, but they knew him to be merciless. He would extract the last quiver of agony from their mutilated bodies before they slid into the peace of death.

  It was only a matter of seconds after the challenge rang out when de Richjeau cried. ‘Rex! Put me down.’

  Rex did as he was bidden, but kept a hold on the Duke, in order to support him. For the second time that night de Richleau extended his right arm, with the first and little fingers of his hand thrust out; but this time the movement was slower and cost him a big effort.

  The effect of his gesture made them catch their breath. Invisible power streaked from his pointing hand at the man who was holding them up. There came a burst of flame, followed by a loud report. De Richleau had exploded the bullets in the magazine of the pistol. What remained of the weapon dropped from the man’s shattered hand. With a shriek, he reeled away, blinded and bleeding, to fall backward on the ground.

  But the effort had taken the Duke’s last remnant of will power and physical strength. He suddenly sagged in Rex’s arms. His bloodstained head fell forward, and he again became unconscious.

  Now fearful that the sound of the explosion would bring other retainers of the Prince on the scene. Rex, carrying the Duke, ran towards the little aircraft. Richard raced him to it and yanked the door open. Between them they got de Richleau into it and sat him on one of the rear seats. Miranda and Simon scrambled after them and the latter closed the door.

  Rex switched on the light and looked down at the instrument panel. With a curse, he announced, ‘Nothing like enough gas to get us to the coast. What’ll we do?’

  ‘Couldn’t fly through the mountains during the night, anyhow,’ Simon said quickly. Take us down to that church near Potosi. Well be safe there.’

  ‘What then?’ Rex snapped. ‘No gas to be got there. Well be stranded, and at any time that bloody Prince will be after us.’

  ‘Fly us to the Sala,’ Richard suggested swiftly. ‘Von Thumm and his chums came up here for the wedding; so it’s unlikely we shall meet with any opposition. We can refuel on the airstrip and take off again at first light.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Rex threw back, and switched on the engine.

  ‘Get her off! Get her off quickly!’ Simon shouted. Glancing through the window he had seen three men who had just come out of the hut, running across the tarmac towards the ‘plane, and one of them had a Sten gun. They’re after us!’ he cried. ‘Get her off, or we’ll all be riddled with bullets.’

  Rex revved up the engine for a moment, then the ‘plane ran forward. As it lifted there came a burst of fire. A spate of bullets ripped into the tail of the aircraft. It shuddered, dipped steeply, then lifted again. They were off.

  The flight down to the settlement in the Sala entailed an agonisingly anxious twenty minutes’ flight through the moonlit mountains; but, in all, took only three-quarters of an hour. During this time de Richleau came round, but he was very weak, and his friends were very anxious about him. At the Sala airstrip the lights were on and, as usual, Rex brought the ‘plane down in a perfect landing. Four aircraft were parked on the strip, but No one was about. Richard and Simon climbed out and lowered de Richleau to them. Two minutes later, all five of them were on the ground.

  Suddenly they caught sight of a solitary figure walking towards them. ‘Not to worry,’ Richard said in a low voice. ‘We’ll tell him that the Prince sent us down here, and take a meal off them in the house. That will kill time till we can fly off again.’

  He had hardly finished speaking when the face of the man who was approaching was lit up by a beam from one of the pylon lights. The hearts of all of them jumped, then sank. It was the Prince.

  His voice was sharp with anger, he cried, ‘So you thought you would cheat me, eh?’ Then he raised both his hands above his head. ‘Down on your knees, all of you. Get down!’

  For an agonising moment the muscles of their calves were seized with cramp, then the strength drained from them, and they sank to their knees.

  18

  Caught in the Toils

  Unprotesting, humiliated, despairing, they knelt in a little group beside the aircraft. The Prince had halted ten feet away from them. Through Simon’s quick mind, then through Richard’s slower one, there drifted the thought that they had weapons. As had been clearly demonstrated less than an hour ago by de Richleau, when he had caused the gunman’s pistol to blow up in his face, anyone possessing enough occult power could protect himself from physical harm if he knew he was going to be attacked. But taken by surprise, as von Thumm and Glasshill had been, they were just as vulnerable as other people. If then the Prince came close enough, there was a possibility that he could be knifed before he had a chance to defend himself.

  Alas for their embryo hopes. The Prince caught the vibration made by their thoughts and said sharply, ‘Mr Aron, Mr Eaton. You are armed. Throw your weapons at my feet.’

  Reluctantly they took out their knives and threw them on to the tarmac within a yard of him. He looked down at them and frowned. ‘A carving knife and a spearhead of glass partly wrapped in a bloodstained towel. What is the meaning of this blood?’

  No one answered him, so he snapped, ‘Come! Tell me everything, and qu
ickly. I was too occupied to overlook you earlier tonight. It was not until a quarter of an hour ago that my sixth sense suddenly told me that you were on your way here. What happened? The wedding! The girl, Miranda, is with you; so it could not have taken place. How did you escape? Whom have you killed? Van Ryn, I make you spokesman for your party. Speak now! A full account! Attempt to hide nothing, or I will send fire to consume your testicles.’

  The horrible threat was redundant. Rex needed no telling that they were at the Prince’s mercy and that by no means could he be prevented from learning very shortly all that had taken place that night in the Satanic temple. As briefly as he could, he related the events which had led up to their escape.

  The Prince heard him out in silence, but even in the artificial light they could see that his face was going livid. When silence fell again, he glared at them for a moment, then screamed, ‘Von Thumm, Glasshill, Kaputa and Pucara. All dead! Four of my best lieutenants. By Lucifer, you shall pay for this. By Ashtaroth, Memon, Theutus and Nebiros, oh! how you shall pay.’

  His fury was such that he was shaking and had clearly lost control of himself. De Richleau watched him with lack-lustre eyes, sadly registering the fact that this was a moment when, had he been his normal self, he could have overcome their enemy. But the wound in his shoulder was throbbing madly, and that made it impossible for him to concentrate.

  They heard the sound of swift footsteps, then caught sight of a figure pounding down the slope from the headquarters house. A minute later the curly-headed Benito came to a halt beside the Prince. He made a swift obeisance, then panted:

  ‘My Prince. I hears yo’ shout; so I come runnin’.’

  The Prince ran his tongue over his now pale lips, then replied hoarsely, ‘These heretics have taken advantage of my absence from the fortress to strike us a savage blow. But the Lord of Eternity is not mocked. He has cast them back into my hands. For their crime they shall spend an hour in torment for every hair on their heads. I have subdued them. They are now powerless. Take them to the house and put them in the cellar with those others.’