Gateway to Hell

by Dennis Wheatley

  The only sounds that broke the stillness of the night were the steady padding of the many marching feet and an occasional swift rustle in the undergrowth. Although little of it was visible, the forest teemed with life. Occasionally they glimpsed a boa-constrictor hanging head down from a low branch and, along others, a jaguar or wild cat crouched, its yellow eyes fixed and glowing as they caught the light from the torches.

  The tunnel was over a mile in length, then it debouched into the other clearing lit by bonfires they had seen from the aircraft. In the centre stood the ruin of what had evidently once been a large temple. Broad flights of steps led up to a pillared portico that was cracked and broken. The roof was gone, but there was no debris on the floor, and urns holding masses of orchids lined the walls.

  It had no resemblance to an Inca building and, indeed, it was several hundred miles outside the territory the Incas had occupied even when their Empire was at its maximum extent; but there was a definite suggestion of Egyptian architecture about it, and the Duke thought that it had probably been built by Atlanteans who had survived the deluge that had submerged their great island about 9600 B.C.

  The Prince and the chiefs of covens entered the temple while the mass of the people remained outside. At its far end there were two low doorways. Passing through one of them, the Prince and his entourage disappeared, except for El Aziz, who waited until the prisoners were brought forward then led them in and lined them up at right angles to one side of what had been the altar. In front of it lay a strange phenomenon. Instead of ancient stone covering the whole floor, there was an area about twelve feet square, formed of some other substance. It looked like a thick, leprous skin, with some form of life beneath it, for it slowly pulsed and undulated.

  While the prisoners were still looking at it with repulsion and dread, the multitude had been taking off their clothes outside the temple. Now they began to trickle in: tall and short, fat and thin, their naked bodies forming a motley mass ranging in colour from pink to coal black. There was no wind, and the humid atmosphere was so hot that many of them were still sweating from the march.

  When they had all assembled in the body of the temple, a trumpet sounded. It was the signal for the Prince, and those who had accompanied him to the rooms behind the altar, to return and take their places. He was now clad in flowing robes of white satin, on which were embroidered in black the signs of the Zodiac. Upon his proud head he wore a triple crown that resembled the tiara of a Pope. The other Satanic dignitaries had robes of varying colours, emblazoned with dragons, serpents, toads and other beasts associated with the Satanic cult. The Prince took up a central position in front of the altar, his assistants lined up on the far side from the prisoners of the square of crepitating skin. Silvia, now sheathed in skin-tight gold and wearing a black crown on her strawberry-blonde hair, placed herself facing the Prince, on the nave side of the sinister square.

  Silence fell. Suddenly the Prince lifted both his arms. A tremendous shout went up from the congregation. When its echoes had subsided, in a loud, clear voice he proceeded to intone a litany in Latin. The responses from a hundred and sixty-nine throats rolled through the ruin like thunder.

  The service went on and on. The prisoners thought it would never end. But, as it proceeded, the square of leprous skin became more and more agitated. It began to heave. Big, oily bubbles appeared on the surface. As they burst, a horrid stench filled the air. Gradually the repulsive crust broke up into scores of smaller pieces. From between them steam began to rise. Soon even the pieces were obscured by it. The whole square had become a Pit from which clouds of smoke were billowing upward.

  The Prince shrieked a last conjuration. Zazas, Zazas, Nasatanada, Zazas! The congregation repeated it three times. Then silence fell. Now, in the smoky mist, forms were perceptible. They were not solid, but transparent, yet their appearance was terrifying. Among them were human faces supported by bats’ wings, snakes with arms and claws, rats with eyes on stalks and two tails, toads with eyes as large as the rest of their bodies, mosquitoes as big as pheasants, winged swine that had only hind legs, grossly fat, undulating slugs that were armed with claws, three-foot-long phalli, women’s genitals in proportion on four legs, a griffin with webbed feet and a spiked tail, a lynx with two heads and a curved horn between them.

  These horrors, the prisoners knew, were the demons and demiurges that the Prince was raising out of Hell, to batten on all that was unclean down in the settlement, and drive the people there half crazy with fear.

  As they surged upward through the smoke and out through the open roof, an awed silence had grasped the whole community. Rex swung round on the Duke and cried:

  ‘Can we do nothing? Is there no way to stop it?’

  The Duke’s reply came clearly. Only one way. The Pit could be closed by a voluntary sacrifice. Someone who does not fear Satan must throw himself down into Hell.’ Drawing a quick breath, he added, “That could also save all of you.’ Next moment he had taken a quick step forward.

  ‘No!’ cried Richard. ‘No!’ and grasped one of his arms to pull him back, while Rex grabbed the other.

  Silvia was standing only a few feet away and had heard de Richleau’s words. Her face chalk white, she gave one swift glance at the prisoners, and shouted, ‘I brought you into this. I renounce Satan and all his works.’ Throwing up her arms, she hurled herself forward and through the smoke into the Pit.

  Instantly, there came an ear-splitting crash of thunder. Forked lightning streaked down from the sky. The walls of the temple began to rock. Simon grasped Miranda. He pulled her to him, so that her face should be buried in his chest and she should be spared the sight of the terrible things that were happening about them. Screams and curses rent the air. The scores of naked black, white and brown bodies of the congregation now formed a writhing mass. The lightning played among them, causing terrible havoc. Struck down or reeling about with terrible burns, they endeavoured in vain to escape. Some were crushed under falling masonry, others fell fainting to the floor. The twelve chiefs of covens on the far side of the Pit from the prisoners fared no better. Their robes on fire, their faces scorched, they fled screaming, only to trip and crash into the heaps of dead and dying that now filled the body of the temple.

  The Duke’s eyes were on the Prince. His features were handsome no longer. In seconds he had aged fifty years. His cheeks had sunk, teeth fell from his gaping mouth, his hair had become white and sparse. The Papal diadem tilted and slid from his head. It crashed on the altar stones, rolled forward and into the Pit. Next moment, as though suddenly pushed by an unseen hand the Prince staggered, lurched forward and followed it.

  A terrible storm had arisen. Thunder continued to boom and lightning to strike, but now the scene was obscured by torrents of water gushing down from the heavens. Drenched to the skin, the friends huddled together, their minds still bemused by the holocaust that was taking place round them.

  After ten minutes the tempest ceased as suddenly as it had begun. When the steamy atmosphere caused by the downpour had cleared, the friends could see that they were the only survivors. The body of the church was a mass of tangled corpses. Arms, legs, heads, were twisted into grotesque positions; but not a muscle was moving.

  Rex gazed gloomily at the Pit. Too late, he was wondering whether he could not have endeavoured to prevent Silvia from sacrificing herself. Wisps of mist were still rising from it. One larger than the others began to take form. His eyes starting from his head, he seized de Richleau’s arm and cried:

  ‘Look! Look!’

  They all stared in the direction he was pointing. The misty form was the figure of a woman. It began to give out a bright radiance. As it drifted upward, the features became clear. They were those of Silvia, serene and smiling. There came a great peal of trumpets, and her spirit was lost to sight above their heads.

  ‘Bless her!’ exclaimed Rex fervently. ‘Bless her for her courage. And God be thanked that she cannot have suffered for long.’

  The D
uke nodded. ‘The Lords of Light are far away; but they miss nothing, and they could not ignore such an act as hers.’

  Richard had not grudged the time he had given to the search for his good friend Rex, and had accepted with fortitude the perils into which it had brought them. But, during these many weeks, he had frequently thought with longing of his beloved Marie-Lou.

  Turning, he pointed in the direction of the tunnel through the forest, and said, ‘Not much more than a mile away there are a score of aircraft for us to choose from. Come on, chaps. Time to go home.’

  A Note on the Author

  DENNIS WHEATLEY

  Dennis Wheatley (1897 – 1977) was an English author whose prolific output of stylish thrillers and occult novels made him one of the world’s best-selling writers from the 1930s through the 1960s.

  Wheatley was the eldest of three children, and his parents were the owners of Wheatley & Son of Mayfair, a wine business. He admitted to little aptitude for schooling, and was expelled from Dulwich College, London. In 1919 he assumed management of the family wine business but in 1931, after a decline in business due to the depression, he began writing.

  His first book, The Forbidden Territory, became a bestseller overnight, and since then his books have sold over 50 million copies worldwide. During the 1960s, his publishers sold one million copies of Wheatley titles per year, and his Gregory Sallust series was one of the main inspirations for Ian Fleming’s James Bond stories.

  During the Second World War, Wheatley was a member of the London Controlling Section, which secretly coordinated strategic military deception and cover plans. His literary talents gained him employment with planning staffs for the War Office. He wrote numerous papers for the War Office, including suggestions for dealing with a German invasion of Britain.

  Dennis Wheatley died on 11th November 1977. During his life he wrote over 70 books and sold over 50 million copies.

  Discover books by Dennis Wheatley published by Bloomsbury Reader at

  www.bloomsbury.com/DennisWheatley

  Duke de Richleau

  The Forbidden Territory

  The Devil Rides Out

  The Golden Spaniard

  Three Inquisitive People

  Strange Conflict

  Codeword Golden Fleece

  The Second Seal

  The Prisoner in the Mask

  Vendetta in Spain

  Dangerous Inheritance

  Gateway to Hell

  Gregory Sallust

  Black August

  Contraband

  The Scarlet Impostor

  Faked Passports

  The Black Baroness

  V for Vengeance

  Come into My Parlour

  The Island Where Time Stands Still

  Traitors’ Gate

  They Used Dark Forces

  The White Witch of the South Seas

  Julian Day

  The Quest of Julian Day

  The Sword of Fate

  Bill for the Use of a Body

  Roger Brook

  The Launching of Roger Brook

  The Shadow of Tyburn Tree

  The Rising Storm

  The Man Who Killed the King

  The Dark Secret of Josephine

  The Rape of Venice

  The Sultan’s Daughter

  The Wanton Princess

  Evil in a Mask

  The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware

  The Irish Witch

  Desperate Measures

  Molly Fountain

  To the Devil a Daughter

  The Satanist

  Lost World

  They Found Atlantis

  Uncharted Seas

  The Man Who Missed the War

  Espionage

  Mayhem in Greece

  The Eunuch of Stamboul

  The Fabulous Valley

  The Strange Story of Linda Lee

  Such Power is Dangerous

  The Secret War

  Science Fiction

  Sixty Days to Live

  Star of Ill-Omen

  Black Magic

  The Haunting of Toby Jugg

  The KA of Gifford Hillary

  Unholy Crusade

  Short Stories

  Mediterranean Nights

  Gunmen, Gallants and Ghosts

  This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader

  Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,

  London WC1B 3DP

  First published in 1970 by Brook-Richleau Ltd.

  Copyright © 1970 Dennis Wheatley

  All rights reserved

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  The moral right of the author is asserted.

  eISBN: 9781448212675

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