The Burrowers Beneath

by Brian Lumley

  3rd Sept.

  Crow gets into London airport some time this evening. His last letter, received yesterday, is full of excitement; something to do with his discovery at Miskatonic University of a book containing fragments in an ancient glyph with corresponding paragraphs in Latin. He mentions his great old clock (that weird, four-handed, chronologically impossible monstrosity which once belonged to my father), relating the fantastic configurations on its dial to this latest “Rosetta Stone” discovery of his. It’s plain he believes that he can now decipher the legend of the clock, perhaps even discover the thing’s purpose, for I’ve known for some time that he thinks the clock is in fact a space-time machine—a device come down from predawn days of extra-dimensional “magic”—literally a toy of the Elder Gods themselves, or of others like them.

  Crow’s excitement, his prescience in this matter, is hardly unfounded. I recall something he told me some years ago, or rather something at which he hinted, about a pair of burglars who broke into Blowne House one night—and who stayed! Apparently one of these gentlemen-of-the-night found a way to open up the clock, something Crow had never managed to do on his own, but thereafter my friend’s story was vague indeed. I recall him saying something about frightening dimensions, “a gateway to hideous times and spaces,” and his mention of “a lake of elder horror, where nightmare entities splash by a cloud-wave shore as twin suns sink in distant mists … .” I must remember to have him relate the story in full. I’m sure he mentioned something about his “visitors” vanishing into the clock! But there again, as I recall it, he was very reticent about the whole thing. In those days, though, we hadn’t shared so many horrors.

  There are other reasons, too, whereby Crow might just prove himself correct regarding the clock’s purpose and origin. I can still remember—though I was just a lad at the time, living away from my father—a curious affair involving an East Indian mystic; one Swami Chandraputra, I believe his name was, who also disappeared in strange circumstances connected with the clock. Titus Crow has researched all this and knows far more of such matters than me. It will be interesting to see just what he has dug up.

  XIV

  Winds of Darkness

  H. L. de M.

  11 The Cottages

  Seaton Carew, Co. Durham

  28th September

  Blowne House

  Dear Titus,

  Just a note to explain my absence should you try to contact me at home. I’ve been up here three days now, staying with friends, trying to recover from a rather severe attack of “The Morbids.” It was quite sudden—I simply decided one morning (Tuesday last) to get out of London for a bit. The fog and all depresses me. Not that it’s much better up here; the mist comes rolling off a sullen, dirty sea and … I don’t know … I seem to be more depressed than ever. I’ve had some funny thoughts about this mood of mine, I don’t mind telling you, though Britain is surely safe now—but in any case, I have my star-stone with me. I tried to talk to you before I left, but your telephone was out of order. I also tried calling you from up here, but—same story.

  I got your note before I left, though, and I’m delighted you’re finally cracking the code on that old clock of yours. I expect that by now you’ve just about got it beaten … ?

  Damned annoying thing, but Sunday night before I came up north I had a burglar! God-only-knows what he was after, but he gets full marks for stealth; quiet as a mouse! Took a few pounds, but I couldn’t discover anything else to be missing.

  I think I shall probably stay up here for a fortnight; perhaps I’ll take a run up to Newcastle next week and see how old Chatham’s antique shop is going. Last I heard he was doing quite well for himself.

  All for now; do drop me a line when you get the chance—

  Henri

  Blowne House

  1st October

  Henri-Laurent de Marigny, Esq.

  11 The Cottages

  Seaton Carew

  Dear Henri,

  Your note is in; I’m pleased we’re in touch again. Yes, my phone is on the blink—damned destructive hooligans, I should think! No sooner do I get the thing repaired than it’s kaput again!

  Strange that you should mention this depression of yours—I, too, have been feeling a bit under the weather—and what a coincidence, for I have also had a burglar! Same night as yours, too. There seems to be a glut of criminals in the city nowadays.

  Regarding that old “clock” of your father’s: I have, as you say, “cracked it,” I’ve got it beaten. It’s tremendously exciting! Night before last I actually opened the thing on my own for the first time. The whole front of the frame swings open on some principle of motion previously outside my knowledge, beyond human technology. There are no hinges, no pivots, and when it’s closed there’s not even a crack to show where a door might be! But that aside; if I’m correct, the clock will prove to be literally a door on fantastic worlds of wonder—whole worlds!—past, present, and future, to the very corners of space and time. The problem will be, of course, in controlling the thing. I am in the position of a Neanderthal studying the operational handbook of a passenger-carrying aircraft—except I have no handbook! Well, perhaps not so extreme, but it’s difficult enough by any standard.

  Had a letter from Mother Quarry—apparently she’s had one of her “visions”; says we’re both in terrible danger, you and I. I’d say she’s just a bit late, wouldn’t you? But she’s a dear really, and I often put a lot of faith in what she says.

  On your proposed trip up to Newcastle: there’s always the chance (remote I’ll admit) that Chatham has managed to find some stuff I asked him to look out for long ago, especially certain very old textbooks that Walmsley mentions in his Notes on Deciphering Codes, Cryptograms, and Ancient Inscriptions. I’d be obliged if you’d check this out for me.

  Yes, a trip sounds a good idea—I find I’ve a bit of a wanderlust on myself. I think I might take the car over to have a look at Stonehenge or Silbury Hill; I always find the contemplation of such monolithic relics calming somehow—though just why I shouldn’t be calm is hard to say. Nevertheless, as I said before, it’s true that I haven’t been feeling my best of late.

  All for now; best, as always,

  T. C.

  P.S. URGENT!

  Henri: drop everything and get back down to London as quickly as you can. We’re both either blind or daft—or both! WE’VE BEEN GOT AT, the two of us, and it’s a race against time now. I haven’t the time to write more, and telephoning now will be no use for there are powers ranged against us. I must catch the post and then I’ll have to be at the renewal of my protections. Oh, and you can throw away that damned “star-stone” of yours! I’ll explain all when I see you, but WASTE NO TIME IN RETURNING TO LONDON!

  T. C.

  ADDENDUM

  The foregoing fourteen chapters of this work (the last of which, Chapter XIV, I have constructed myself from letters discovered in the ruins of Blowne House following London’s “freak storm” of 4th October) were penned and put together in their present order by Mr. Henri-Laurent de Marigny, who introduces himself amply in the body of the work as the son of a great American mystic, as a collector and dealer in antiques, and lately as a member of the Wilmarth Foundation. The manuscript—complete apart from the preface, chapter titles, and headings, which I have appended for their obvious relevance—accompanied the letters in a locked metal box which Titus Crow had labeled and addressed to me.

  The manuscript in its entirety should stand as an admirable if in parts sketchy record—to say nothing of a warning to present members of the Foundation—of de Marigny’s and Crow’s involvement prior to and following my first meeting with them (so amply chronicled), and their subsequent membership within the Foundation.

  Strangely, I feel little concern over the apparent end of the affair; I have a feeling that for Crow and de Marigny it is not the end. As corroborative evidence in support of this feeling of mine, I offer the final note which Crow left for me in the metal box—a
note which I found atop the other documents and manuscripts when the British police delivered the box to me earlier this year:

  Peaslee, the storm gathers.

  This note, I feel, will be brief—and I think I know which of the CCD has been given the final honor, that of removing de Marigny and myself from the surface of the Earth.

  God, but Henri and I have been fools! You’ll see from the two letters here that we had ample warning: the first feelings of increased depression following those staged break-ins, “burglaries” which served one and only one purpose, the removal of our protective star-stones and their replacement with useless duplicates; the unreasonable urgings to visit places which even Wendy-Smith had warned of as being dangerous since a time God-only-knows how long ago in the past—Stonehenge, Silbury Hill, Hadrian’s Wall at Newcastle (you’ll need to have another look at Britain, Peaslee!); the plan to split us up and deal with us separately, de Marigny up north and me in London. Oh, there’s been enough of warnings!

  I don’t know how I tumbled it, really. I think it must have been Mother Quarry’s letter of warning—and she was so right! How by all that’s holy have they managed it, eh, Peaslee? How did they contrive to steal our star-stones? De Marigny thinks he has the answer, and possibly he’s right. He reasons that our “burglars” were not truly dupes of the CCD (or the Cthonians specifically), as we have come to understand such; that they were in fact genuine burglars, but that the CCD had implanted in each of their minds the merest germ of a notion to rob us—to steal the star-stones! The rest, of course, would be easy; typically weak-willed moronic types, such as we’ve already had to deal with, would have been used to deliver false, duplicate stones into the hands of the rather more clever criminals, possibly with some story or other to reinforce the previously implanted belief in the value of the real things. A further mental jab at the minds of these criminals and … and the rest would be up to them!

  But whichever way it was done, Peaslee, the storm gathers now and I haven’t much more time. I have renewed my protections around Blowne House—the Tikkoun Elixir, the chant against the Cthonians (the V. V. Incant.), and certain other “occult” devices, but I know of no positive charm against this!

  De Marigny is with me and we are facing the thing together. The storm rages outside; strange winds tear at the house and lightning flashes ever brighter. A few moments ago the radio mentioned the “local storm” on the outskirts of London. Good Grief, but they don’t know the half of it!

  It is Ithaqua, of course. Not the Wind Walker himself, but his minions, elementals of the air, ranged against us from all corners of the sky. They mean to have us, Peaslee, make no mistake—and yet … there is a chance. It’s a pretty slim chance, but one we may be forced to—

  Not much time now, Wingate. Three times the house has been struck. I have seen trees ripped up by their roots from the garden. The howling is indescribably ferocious. The windows are being blown in one after the other. I hope to God old Harry Townley is saying one for us now! He should be able to see Blowne House from his place.

  I tried to get around to the British Museum earlier; if I remember right you left a number of your star-stones there … ? But in any case, my car has been sabotaged—it’s patent They still have their followers here in England, Wingate—and of course the phone is out of order again.

  That last blast of lightning!

  Shapes form beyond the broken windows … they are fighting to be in … de Marigny is solid as a rock … the clock stands open and greenly illumined from within … this is our way out, but God-only-knows where it may lead … Randolph Carter, grant I have the formulas right … don’t despair, Wingate, and keep up the fight.

  The roof—

  My hopes for the two comrades are further bolstered by the fact that, despite the incredible extent of the damage to Blowne House, the bodies of the two were nowhere to be found in the ruins—which to me is hardly surprising. It only remains for me to say that during that “freak storm” Crow’s ancient clock seems likewise to have vanished; for no single trace of that—conveyance?—could be found, neither a splinter nor even the tiniest fragment; and I think I know what Crow meant when he wrote: “ … this is our way out, but God-only-knows where it may lead … .”

  Wingate Peaslee

  Miskatonic University

  4th March 19—

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  THE BURROWERS BENEATH

  Copyright © 1974 by Brian Lumley.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  Tor Books on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  eISBN 9781466818378

  First eBook Edition : March 2012

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lumley, Brian.

  Titus Crow, Volume One / Brian Lumley.

  p. cm.

  “A Tom Doherty Associates book.”

  Contents: v. 1. The burrowers beneath.

  ISBN 0-312-86867-7

  1. Crow, Titus (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Fantastic fiction, American. 3. Horror tales,

  American. I. Title.

  PR6062.U45A6 1997

  823’.914—dc20

  96-33984

  CIP