For half an hour he read aloud, drawing me a vivid picture of a prehistoric world—of creation itself, of strange races that had inhabited the earth before the Aryan race. But it was information that I could not use for fear of being laughed out of class, and I told him so when he had finished.
“Hopeless materialists, all of them!” he snorted. “Well, you at least will know about it, anyway. Do you want to hear more?”
I assented, and he took down a volume, the name of which I could not see. “I would like to light some incense,” he said, and suited action to the words. “It may help you to listen.”
I doubted it, but agreed. He sat down and began to read again—this time in a language unknown to me, though I am somewhat of a linguist. And as he read, and the pungent incense wafted through the room, I became drowsy.
But I do remember rising, through no volition of my own, and walking—walking toward the angle of the room that had so intrigued me earlier. And to my horror—and amazement—I seemed to pass through the solid walls. There was a moment of blackness, of unbearable chill—and then I opened my eyes on a vista which I am sure no mortal man had ever seen before.
It was a city—but what a city! Great domes rose all about me. Graceful minarets sent their spires toward the sky. But all about me was a feeling of an alien presence. And my shadow—my shadow was two! I faced about—and two suns hung in a cold, brassy sky.
Terror gripped me, but I forced it aside. I was somewhere in a strange universe—but the main concern of returning to my own planet drove all other thoughts aside—even scientific interest in this monstrous place.
As I began to prowl through the deserted streets, I noticed many things. The city was undoubtedly of great antiquity, and had been deserted for many years—perhaps centuries, for the great columns and balustrades had crashed down in many places.
And then, as I approached one building more stately and imposing than the others, I saw—it.
I have since learned that the thing is a shoggoth—a globular mass of protoplasm, fifteen feet in diameter—able to take any form it desires—created as a servant of certain races of the universe—strong—tenacious—indestructible—and worst of all—intelligent!
It must have been a guardian of that building, untold eons ago. For as I stood in paralyzed horror, it rolled toward me—throwing out tentacles as it did so.
It was almost upon me, pseudopods lashing out, before I could move. And as I leaped back, turned and fled, it followed—and its speed was a match for my own.
Where I ran, and for how long, I do not know. Time lost all meaning as I dodged and hid in that accursed city—with the thing dogging my heels. And it was sheer luck that led me finally onto that street of ruins.
A building had collapsed, and strewn its skeleton to the winds. But some trick of fate had flung pillars and walls in an arrangement that made my heart leap—an angle, the angle that had thrust me into this bizarre world!
The shoggoth was close behind me, and I had to act. The angle might not be the same, but I was trapped anyway—so I charged blindly at it.
There was the blackness, the cold—and I struck ground with a thud. I rolled, picked myself up—and then—oh god!—the shoggoth came crashing through, not five yards from me!
I was on a road leading to the city, and I ran with all my strength toward the friendly lights, with the thing not far behind me. But as I came under the first streetlamp it slowed its pursuit, and then turned and withdrew.
But it will track me down. In that strange other world, it had a job to do—to protect a certain place. I invaded that place, and must die—and it will carry out its task, though in another universe. Even now, I know that it is lurking somewhere near—disguised by its amazing ability of mimicry, waiting for me. It will search me out, even on top of the building where I am writing this.
I am resigned to death. But—after I am slain, what then? The monster is here—here! It cannot return to its own world. What will it do? What terror will it spread? What inconceivable, awful horror faces mankind? I shall never know.
LEGACY IN CRYSTAL
BY JAMES CAUSEY
AGATHA SIMMONS LEANED FORWARD EXPECTANTLY.
“How long, Doctor?”
The man at the bedside looked up in brief distaste. He consulted his watch professionally.
“I really can’t say,” he whispered. “Perhaps another half hour. Perhaps ten more minutes—” He blinked at her and recommenced fumbling in his bag.
Agatha was silent. She looked at Jonathan’s closed eyes. His breathing was barely perceptible now. She smiled.
So long. She had waited so terribly long for her cousin’s estate. He must be well past eighty. In the past, she had been dimly afraid he would outlive her as he had all his other relatives.
But now—
“I must get some water.” The doctor’s voice intruded upon her thoughts. “For the solution—”
He went to the door, fumbling with his hypodermic needle.
Agatha did not hear him. She was gazing around the great gloomy bedroom. At the shades, drawn.
Behind the doctor, the door closed. The prone figure in the big four-poster bed stirred.
“Impatient, Agatha?”
She gave a little start. Jonathan Miles had raised himself on one elbow, with an effort.
He was staring at her, his thin, dark face mocking.
“Why—no, Jonathan. I was only hoping you’d get well soon.”
“Hah!” The old man cackled with laughter. “Me get well soon! You know, you remind me of a buzzard, Agatha. Waiting for me to die. A pity, too. That auto accident. Mashed ribs… complications. I bet I would have outlived you, too—”
He broke off, lips still moving. Agatha frowned, then as she noted his breathing become slower, more fluttery, she restrained a smile.
No one knew how Jonathan Miles had acquired his vast fortune. He had always been a scholar, delving into out of the way places in far-off lands. A dabbler in archaeology. Suddenly, in his middle years, he had struck it rich. Now, in the declining years of his life, he had lived all alone, a gloomy old recluse in a dark old house, spurning all efforts of his relatives to visit him.
Agatha’s gaze flicked avidly around the room. This old house—everything, would be hers soon.
She glanced at a ring on Jonathan’s finger. A rather big diamond, that. Jonathan Miles followed her avid gaze keenly. He chuckled.
“Ah, but you’re a greedy woman, Agatha.”
“Why, I—”
“I don’t like greedy women.”
Agatha was silent. For the fortune soon to be hers, she could well endure a few insults.
Then she blinked. For Jonathan was fumbling with the ring on his finger, and he was handing it to her.
“Here, Agatha.” His smile was vaguely mocking. “Take this. A little token of my esteem. No, don’t thank me—”
He made a feeble gesture and sank back on his pillow.
“You’d take it after I’m dead, anyway—so I give it to you now.”
“Jonathan! Really, I had no idea of—”
“Keep the ring,” Jonathan said softly. “It has helped me—a great deal.” His shoulders rippled with silent laughter.
Agatha stared at the ring. It was not a diamond. A large rosy crystal, gleaming lambently in the dim light. Set in a massive base of silver with strange symbols carven on it.
“What do you mean, Jonathan—helped you?”
Her cousin did not seem to hear her. He was staring at the ceiling. His lips were trembling. “My soul,” he whispered. “I’m afraid the bargain wasn’t… quite… just.”
“What?”
No answer.
Agatha looked at him. Jonathan’s eyes were closed.
He was not breathing.
Agatha drew a deep breath and went to the door.
Walter Simmons, standing in the parlor, saw his wife emerge from the bedroom. He blinked guiltily, and quickly hid his cigar.
“
Walter! He’s dead. Dead, you hear? This house—his money. All ours.” She was jubilant.
“Uh—fine,” said Walter, though inwardly he flinched at his wife’s callousness.
The doctor came back from the kitchen, his hypodermic filled. “What’s this? Did you say he was—”
“Dead,” said Agatha, and hardly could restrain her morbid pride in possession of the house until the doctor had completed the necessary formalities and departed.
Walter Simmons heard the front door slam behind the physician and felt quite sorry for him, having to deal with Agatha in her present mood.
“Walter!” His wife’s voice was shrill.
“Yes, dear.”
His wife sniffed suspiciously. “Cigar smoke. How often have I told you—”
“I’m sorry,” Walter said nervously.
“Well, let’s see. There’s this living room—ghastly old place. Gloomy. We’ll have chintz curtains put in instead of those dreadful black drapes. The whole place needs remodeling. Maybe we’ll sell it… later.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Of course you’ll quit your bookkeeping job,” mused Agatha. “We’ll live here for the time being.”
Walter Simmons nodded meekly. Ever since their marriage ten years ago he’d led a dog’s life. Do this. Do that. Don’t smoke cigars in the house. You know they’re bad for my asthma. Now Agatha would have all the money. His life would be worse than ever…
He saw her tall, ungainly figure move about from doorway to doorway, criticizing, exclaiming, planning.
Walter sighed and went into the study. It was a huge dark place, with queer paintings on the walls. Near the center of the room was a dusty desk piled high with books.
Walter looked at these books. Old they were, crumbling with mildew. He paused, fascinated. He opened one book which was lying on the desk, closed. He frowned.
“Greek,” he murmured disgustedly. He’d had four years of it in college. Squinting, he tried to decipher some of the words sprawling blackly across the pages…
Walter Simmons turned very pale. He shut the book quickly, and moved away from the desk where he stood for a moment, rubbing his hands suspiciously as if something had contaminated them.
Presently, fascination overcame his horror, and he stepped forward, looking at the book. But he did not touch it. His lips moved as he tried to decipher the faded dark words on the cover.
“The Nec—Necro—” he blinked. Cautiously, he turned the cover and looked at the first page.
Small and precise, the scrawl read:
Greek Trans. Abdul Alhazred.
Walter Simmons did not look into the book again. He remembered what he had read, and shivered.
He glanced at the other books. One caught his eye.
De Vermis Mysteriis. Prinn.
There was a little slip of white paper thrust in the middle as a bookmark. Gingerly, he opened it. He frowned. It was in Latin, of which he knew little, and there were penciled translations upon the sides. On the piece of paper was scrawled:
Trans. E103—
Never accept a gift from a necromancer or demon. Steal it, buy it, earn it, but do not accept it, either as a gift or legacy.
The word legacy, was circled in red pencil.
Walter Simmons stared at some of the strangely shaped hieroglyphics just beneath the notation. He licked his lips.
He looked around the huge dark study, and suddenly got out of there—fast.
* * *
“WAL—TER!”
“Yes, dear,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow as he stepped into the living-room. Agatha looked at him sharply.
“Here I tell you about how I’m going to redecorate this place, and I turn around and you’re off browsing somewhere. Fine thing, I must say…” She paused in mid-sentence.
“Did you hear something?”
Walter swallowed uneasily. “No, I—”
The sound was repeated. The faint tinkle of the doorbell.
Walter and Agatha stared at each other.
“Probably the doctor,” sniffed Agatha, brushing back a lock of straggly brown hair. “Phoned the undertaker, probably, to take the body away.”
Walter answered the door. He blinked nearsightedly and stepped back.
The stranger standing in the doorway bowed. He was tall, and impeccably clad in striped trousers and tails.
Walter stared entranced at his flourishing auburn beard.
“Good afternoon.” Their visitor straightened and stepped into the room, smiling disarmingly at Agatha.
Agatha stifled a faint feeling of apprehension. “What do you want?”
“I?” The man smiled—oddly, it seemed to Walter. “I was wondering about Jonathan. Is he—”
“He’s dead,” said Agatha. “Passed away ten minutes ago.”
“What a pity. Ten minutes, eh? I hardly expected him to last so long. Exceeded his time by a good three hours. Ah, well. Hardy fellow Jonathan. I—ah—decided I’d stop by and see what the delay was.” One hand stroked his long beard absently.
Walter Simmons took a step backwards. There was a strange shine to this fellow’s eyes he did not like, nor the way he kept looking about the big house, almost—reflectively.
“What’s your name, anyway?”
“My name?” The man’s eyes glowed. “Sat—never mind. Never mind. I managed Jonathan’s—legal affairs for him.”
“Legal affairs?”
“Certainly. It was largely through me, Madame, that Jonathan acquired all his money… this house.” His eyes flicked around the room briefly, fixed themselves upon the crystal ring on Agatha’s left index finger.
“Ah!”
“What’s wrong?” inquired Agatha uncomfortably.
“That ring. Believe it or not, I gave that to Jonathan. It—helped him, a great deal.”
“Oh,” snapped Agatha. “You gave it to him. Well, it’s mine now, see? He gave it to me.”
“Gave it to you?” The stranger’s shoulders shook silently, and he made a laughing face, though no sound came forth. “My, but that’s good. Lively fellow, Jonathan. Always did have a sense of humor. Well, I always give warning…”
“Warning?”
“Yes. That ring. It’s Jonathan’s. It really should remain with him, you know.”
“If you’re trying to threaten me—”
“No indeed, I assure you.” Again came that strange smile, and one hand stroked the brown flowing beard. “And this house was in the contract we made. It was to be taken too…”
Walter Simmons was not listening. He was staring, aghast, at the man’s head. At the two little curls of hair jutting up just off his brow.
Like two horns.
And that shadow on the wall behind him. It had a very disconcerting shape, indeed.
Agatha had, however, regained her self-composure. “What do you want here?”
“Nothing—now.” Their visitor smiled urbanely at them both and bowed. “I have it. Good day.”
They both stood mute as he crossed to the front door. He opened it. He went out.
“Well!” said Agatha. “I never! Trying to scare me into getting rid of this ring. Walter. Go see which way he went.”
Uncomfortably, Walter went to the window, looked out. The stranger was nowhere in sight.
* * *
“The lawn’ll have to be changed,” said Agatha.
Walter nodded, silently. He was wondering why the lawn outside the house was so parched and sere.
Jonathan’s funeral had been yesterday.
“As soon as possible,” Agatha had told the undertaker. Well, thought Walter, the undertaker had certainly been obliging. He wished disconsolately for a cigar.
Agatha stared at the house possessively. “We’ll go ahead to the bank tomorrow, and see what he had in his vaults,” she mused.
“But—” Walter found himself saying desperately. “I—I don’t think it would look good, Agatha. So soon after the funeral…”
“Don
’t be so childish. Of course it’ll look all right. And I’m having the remodelers start in tomorrow.”
Walter sighed and looked up at the old house, looming huge and gaunt in the gathering dusk. Like an old, empty skull, he thought. The windows like two dark eye-sockets, the door like—
He stopped thinking. He seized Agatha by the arm.
“Look!”
Agatha stared. Her mouth dropped open, and then she started screaming shrilly for firemen, police, anyone—to come and save her house. Her beautiful house.
The house was on fire.
It was no use. The firemen squirted streams of silver water against it, long into the night. Agatha bothered the firemen interminably, until finally a cop shoved her back into the crowd with the gruff admonition to, “Keep back, lady. We’re doin’ all we can.”
Walter stood back in the crowd, watching the blaze. Great gouts of flame mounting crimson and splendid against the night sky. The screaming of sirens in the distance. The wild confusion…
Walter could not help smiling. He remembered what he had seen in that book on Jonathan Miles’ desk.
Such a book as that should very well be destroyed. Walter thought of these things, and how he could not possibly live in this house now, and he was glad.
* * *
But afterwards, on the homeward drive, he did not feel so glad. Agatha kept wailing, and alternately blaming him, the firemen, and their strange visitor of three days ago.
“It’s all your fault. You know it is. You dropped a cigarette or something on the rug and it caught fire—” She paused again for breath.
“But Agatha, I didn’t—”
“Shut up!” Walter cowered back behind the wheel, and was silent.
“Or maybe,” said Agatha ominously, “it was that fellow who said he was a lawyer. The one with the beard and the funny smile. I bet he did it. Just ’cause I wouldn’t give him this ring.”
Walter was silent. Their visitor had said something about Jonathan. Having his little joke. Giving the ring to Agatha. And that odd crystal set in it.
“Well, anyway,” Agatha said with an air of apparent unconcern. “The bonds in his safe-deposit box at the bank are safe. Three quarters of a million worth, so the executors said.
Acolytes of Cthulhu Page 18