by Brian Lumley
“Huh!” Gogosu snorted. “Instinct!” But then, as he started in to tackle the chimney, he gave a chuckle. “Oh, let him go,” he said. “He’ll double back soon enough when the track runs out and the shadows start to creep. Mark my words, it won’t be long before he’s seeing wolves in every shrub—and by God, how he’ll hurry to catch up then!”
But he was wrong. An hour later when the way was steeper and the light beginning to fail, they reached the broad ledge of a false plateau and found Vulpe stretched out, chewing on a twig, waiting for them. He’d been there some time, it seemed. He nodded when he saw them, said, “The rest of the way’s easy.”
Gogosu scowled and Armstrong merely returned Vulpe’s nod, but Laverne was hot and angry. “Taking a bit of a chance there, weren’t you, George?” he growled. “What if you’d got lost?”
Vulpe seemed surprised by the testiness in his friend’s voice. “Lost? I … I didn’t even consider it! Fact is, I seem to be something of a natural at this sort of thing.”
Nothing more was said and they all rested for a few minutes. Then Gogosu stood up. “Well,” he said, “half an hour more and we’re there.” He bowed stiffly to Vulpe from the waist and added, “If youd care to lead the way … ?”
His sarcasm was wasted; Vulpe took the lead and made easy going of the final climb; they reached the penultimate crest just as the sun sank down behind the western range.
The view was wonderful: blue-grey valleys brimming with mist, and the mountains rising out of it, and smoke from the villages smudging the sky where the distant peaks faded from gold to grey. The four men stood on the rim of a pine-clad saddle or shallow fold between marching rows of peaks. Gogosu pointed. “Along there,” he said. “We follow the rising ground through the trees until we hit the gorge. There, where the mountain is split, set back against the cliff—”
“The ruins of the Ferenczy’s castle,” Vulpe anticipated him.
The hunter nodded. “And just enough light to settle in and get a fire going against the fall of night. Are we all ready, then?”
But George Vulpe was already leading the way.
As they went, the eerie cry of a wolf came drifting on the resin-laden air, gradually fading into mournful ululations.
“Damn me!” Gogosu cursed as he stumbled to a halt. He cocked his head on one side, sniffed at the air, listened intently. But there was no repeat performance. Unslinging his rifle from behind his back, he said, “Did you hear that? And can you credit it? It’s a sure sign of a hard winter to come, they say, when the wolves are as early as this.”
And turning aside a little from the others, he made sure his weapon was loaded …
III: Finders
IN THE HOUR BEFORE MIDNIGHT A MIST CAME UP THAT lapped at the castle’s stones and filled in the gaps between so that the ancient riven walls seemed afloat on a gently undulating sea of milk. Under a shining blue-grey moon whose features were perfectly distinct, George Vulpe sat beside the fire and fed it with branches gathered in the twilight, watched the occasional spark jump skyward to join the stars, and blink out before ever they were reached.
He had volunteered for first watch. Having slept through most of the day, he would in any case be the obvious choice. Emil Gogosu had insisted there was no real need for anyone to remain awake, but at the same time he had not objected when the Americans worked out a roster. Vulpe would be first and take the real weight of it, Seth Armstrong would go from 2:00 A.M. till 4:30, and Randy Laverne would be on till sevenish, when he’d wake Gogosu. That suited the old hunter fine; it would be dawn then anyway and he didn’t believe in lying abed once the sun was up.
Both Gogosu and Armstrong were now fast asleep: the first wrapped in a blanket and wedged in a groove of half-buried stones with his feet pointing at the fire, and the last in his sleeping bag, using his jacket wadded over a rounded stone as a pillow. Laverne was awake, barely; he had eaten too many of the boiled Hungarian sausages and too much of the local black bread; his indigestion kept burping him awake just as he thought he was going under. He lay farthest from the fire in the shadows of the castle’s wall, his sleeping bag tossed down on a bed of living pine twigs stripped from the branches of trees where they encroached on the ruins. Facing the fire, he was drowsily aware of Vulpe sitting there, his occasional motion as he shoved the end of this or that branch a little deeper into the red and yellow heart of incandescence.
What he was not aware of was the insidious change coming over his friend, the gradual submersion of Vulpe’s mind in a strange reverie, the pseudo-memories which passed before his eyes, or limned themselves in the eye of his mind, like ghostly pictures superimposed on the flickering flames. Nor could he know of the hypnotic vampiric influence which even now wheedled and insinuated itself into Vulpe’s conscious and subconscious being.
But when a branch burned through and fell sputtering into the heart of the fire, Laverne knew it and started more fully awake. He sat up … in time to see a dark shadow pass into even greater darkness through a gap in the old wall. A shadow that moved with an inexorable, zombielike rigidity, like a sleepwalker, its feet causing eddies in the lap and swirl of creeping mist. And he knew that the shadow could only have been George Vulpe, for his sleeping bag was empty where it lay crumpled against a leaning boulder in the glow of the fire.
Laverne’s mind cleared. He unzipped himself from his bed, sought his climbing shoes, and pulled them on. With fingers which were still leaden from sleep, he drew laces tight and tied fumbling knots. Still rising up from his half sleep, he nevertheless hurried. There had been something in the way George moved: not furtive but at the same time silently … yes, like a sleepwalker. He’d been that way, sort of, all day: sleeping through the journey, not entirely with it even when he was fully awake. And the way he’d climbed up here, like it was something he did every Friday morning before breakfast!
Passing close to Gogosu and Armstrong where they lay, Laverne thought to wake them … then thought again. That would all take time, and meanwhile George might easily have toppled headfirst into the gorge, or brained himself on one of the many low archways in the ranks of tottering walls. Laverne knew his own strength; he’d be able to handle George on his own if it came to it; he didn’t need the others and it would be a shame to rouse them for nothing. So he’d take care of this himself. The only thing he mustn’t do, if in fact George was sleepwalking, was shock him awake.
Careful where he stepped through the inches-deep ground mist, Laverne followed Vulpe’s exact route, passed through the same gap in the wall, and moved deeper into the ruins. They were extensive, covering almost an acre if one took into account those walls which had fallen or been blasted outwards. Away from the sleepers and the firelight, he switched on a pocket torch and aimed its beam ahead. The ground rose up a little here, where heaps of tumbled stones stood higher than the lapping mist, like islands in some strange white sea.
In the torch beam, caught in the moment before he passed behind a shattered wall, George Vulpe paused briefly and looked back. His eyes seemed huge as lanterns, reflecting the electric light. George’s eyes … and the eyes of something else!
They were there only for a single moment, then gone, blinking out like lights switched off. A pair of eyes, low to the ground, triangular, feral … A wolf?
Laverne swung his beam wildly, aimed it this way and that, crouched down a little, and turned in a complete circle. He saw nothing, just ragged walls, mounds of stones, empty archways, and inky darkness beyond. And a little way to the rear, the friendly glow of the campfire like a pharos in the night.
They’d made a wise choice not to start exploring this place in the twilight; it was just too big, its condition too dangerous; and maybe Laverne had been mistaken to leave the others sleeping.
But … a wolf? Or just his imagination? A fox, more likely. This would be the ideal spot for foxes. There’d be room for dens galore in the caves of these ruins. And hadn’t Gogosu mentioned how the locals wouldn’t shoot or hunt the f
oxes who raided from up here? Yes he had. So that’s what it had been, then, a fox …
… Or a wolf.
Laverne had a pocketknife with a three-inch blade; he took it out, opened it up, and weighed it in his hand. Great for opening letters, peeling apples, or whittling wood! But in any case better than nothing. Christ! Why hadn’t he shaken the others awake? But too late for that now, and meanwhile George was getting away from him.
“George!” he whispered, following on. “George, for Chrissakes! Where the hell are you?”
Laverne reached the corner of crumbling wall where Vulpe had disappeared. Beyond it lay a large area silvered by moonlight, which might once have been a great hall. On the far side, behind a jumble of broken masonry and shattered roof slates, the silhouette of a man stood outlined from the waist up. Laverne recognised the figure as George Vulpe. Even as he watched, it took a step forward and down in that stiff, robotic way, until only the head and shoulders were showing. Then another step, and the head might be a round boulder atop the pile; another and Vulpe had vanished from sight.
Into what? A hole or half-choked stairwell? Where did the idiot think he was going? How did he know where he was going? “George!” Laverne called again, a little louder this time; and again he went in pursuit.
Beyond the pile of rubble, there where a small area of debris had been cleared away down to the original stone flags of the floor, a hole gaped blackly, descending into the bowels of the place. At one end of the hole or stairwell a long, narrow, pivoting slab had been raised by means of an iron ring and now leaned slightly out of the perpendicular away from the space it had covered. Laverne flashed his torch into the gap, saw stone steps descending. Carried on a stale-tasting updraft came a whiff of something burning, mingled with musk and less easily identified odours; glimpsed in the darkness down below, the merest flicker of yellow light, immediately disappearing into the unknown depths.
The paunchy young American paused for a brief moment, but the mystery was such that he had to follow it up. “George?” he said again, his whisper a croak as he squeezed down into the hole.
After that … it was easy to lose track of time, direction, one’s entire orientation. Moreover, the pressure spring in Laverne’s torch had lost some of its tension; battery contact was weak, which resulted in a poor beam of light that came and went; so that every so often he had to give the torch a nervous shake to restore its power.
The stone steps were narrow and descended spirally, winding round a central core which was solid enough in itself. But outwards from the spiral all was darkness and echoing space, and Laverne hated to think how far he might fall if he slipped or stumbled. He made sure he did neither. But how would George Vulpe be faring, sleepwalking in a place like this? If he was sleepwalking …
Finally a floor was reached, with evidence of a fire or explosion on every hand in the shape of scorched and blackened walls and fallen blocks of carved masonry; and here a second trapdoor slab; then more steps leading down, ever down …
Occasionally Lavern would see the flaring of a torch—a real torch—down below at some undetermined depth, or smell its smoke drifting up to him. But never a sound from Vulpe, who must have known this place extremely well to negotiate its hazards so cleanly and silently. How he could possibly have known it so well was a different matter. But Laverne felt his anger rising commensurate to the depths in which he descended. Surely he and Seth Armstrong were the victims of a huge joke, in which Gogosu was possibly a participant no less than Vulpe? Ever since last night when they’d met the old hunter, it had been as if this entire venture were preordained, worked out in advance. By whom? And hadn’t George been born here? Hadn’t he lived here—or if not here exactly, in Romania?
And finally Vulpe’s descent into the black guts of this place, when he thought the others were asleep … what little “surprise” was he planning now? And why go to such elaborate lengths anyway? If he’d known of this place and been here before—as a boy, perhaps—couldn’t he have let them in on it? It wouldn’t have been any the less fascinating for that.
“The Castle Ferenczy!” Laverne snorted now to himself.
“Shit!” And how many leu had Vulpe coughed up, he wondered, to get old Gogosu to play his part in this farce?
Very angry now, he stepped down onto a second floor, where he paused to call out more loudly yet, “George! What the fuck are you up to, eh?”
His cry disturbed the air, brought down rills of dust from unseen heights and ceilings. As its echoes boomed out and came back distorted and discordant, Laverne nervously explored the place with the smoky, jittery beam of his torch.
He was in the vaults, the place of frescoed walls, many archways, centuries-blackened oaken racks, urns, and amphorae, festoons of cobwebs, and layers of drifted dust. And there were footprints in the dust, quite a few of them. The most recent of these could only be Vulpe’s. Laverne followed the direction they took—and ahead caught a glimpse of flaring torchlight where it lit the curve of an archway before disappearing.
You bastard! Laverne thought. You’d have to be deaf not to know I’m back here! You’ve got a hell of a lot of explaining to do, good buddy! And if I don’t like what you have to—
From above and behind, on the stone stairs where they wound up into darkness, there came the soft pad of feet and a softer whining. A pebble, disturbed, came clattering down the steps. Then all was silence again.
Shaking like a leaf, suddenly cold and clammy, Laverne aimed his torch up the stairwell. “Jesus!” he gasped. “Jesus!” But there was nothing and no one there. Or perhaps a shadow, drawing back out of sight?
Laverne stumbled across the stone-flagged floor of the great room, through an archway, and into other rooms beyond it. His ragged breathing and muffled footfalls seemed to echo thunderously, but he made no effort to be silent. He must shorten the distance between Vulpe and himself right now and find out exactly what the bastard was doing down here! The glow of Vulpe’s torch came again, and the resinous stench of its burning; Laverne plunged in that direction, through drifts of dust, salts, and chemicals where they lay spilled on the floor, until …
… This room was different from the others. He paused under the archway prior to entering, cast about with his weakening beam.
Mouldy tapestries on the walls; a tiled floor inlaid with a pictorial mosaic which illustrated some strange, ancient motif; a desk thick with dust, laid out with books, papers, and other writing implements. A massive fireplace and chimney breast—and the flickering glow of a naked flame coming down out of that fireplace! George Vulpe had stepped … inside there?
Finding not a little difficulty in breathing, Laverne gasped: “George?” He quickly crossed the room and stooped a little to aim his feeble beam of light up under the low arch of the fireplace. In there, fixed in a bracket in the rear wall, he saw Vulpe’s smoky, flaring torch … but no Vulpe.
A hand fell on Laverne’s shoulder!
“Jesus God!” he cried out as adrenaline pumped and he snapped erect. The back of his head crunched into collision with the keystone of the arch over the fireplace; he reeled away across the room, and for a moment Vulpe was trapped in his torch’s beam; the other stood there silent as a ghost, his hand still reaching out towards him.
Laverne went to his knees on the floor, clutched at the back of his head. His hand came away wet with blood. Sick and dizzy, he kneeled there. He was lucky he hadn’t brained himself! But anger quickly replaced his pain. He found his orientation, again aimed his torch where last he’d seen Vulpe. But Vulpe—sleepwalker, clown, asshole, or whatever he was—wasn’t there. Only a fading flicker of yellow fire from within the chimney breast.
Laverne staggered to his feet. He found his knife lying where he’d dropped it close to the chimney. He closed it and put it away. He wouldn’t need a knife for the beating he was going to give “Gheorghe” Vulpe. And when he was done with him, the bastard could find his own way back out of here—if he had the strength for it!
/> Steadier now, gritting his teeth, Laverne went again to the fireplace. He ducked inside and at once saw the rungs in the back wall of the flue. From up above he heard sounds: the echoing scrape of shoes, a low cough. And: What goes up, he thought, must come down! Maybe he should wait right here for the idiot. Except that was when Vulpe screamed!
Laverne had never heard a scream like it. It followed close on a nerve-rending grating sound—like massive surfaces of rock sliding together—and rose to a vibrating falsetto crescendo before shutting off at highest pitch. And as its echoes died away, they were followed by a glottal gurgling and gasping. Vulpe was going, “Ak … ak … ak … ak,” as if choking: a sort of slow death rattle. Laverne, his hair standing on end, didn’t actually know what a death rattle sounded like, but he felt that if the sound were suddenly to speed up to ak-ak-ak-ak, then that would be his friend’s last gasp!
“Oh, Jeeesus!” he whined, and drove himself clattering up the rungs and through the flue to the place where it curved through ninety degrees to become a passage. Twenty or twenty-five paces ahead, there lay Vulpe’s torch still flickering fitfully and giving off black smoke where it teetered on the rim of a trench cut in the stone floor to the right of the passageway.
But of Vulpe himself … no sign. Only the choking, agonised “Ak … ak … ak” sounds, which seemed to be coming from the trench.
“George?” Laverne hurried forward—and came to an abrupt halt. Beyond the guttering brand, where neither its light nor his own torch beam could reach, triangular eyes floated in the darkness, unblinking, unyielding, unnerving.
Laverne wasn’t an especially brave man, but he wasn’t a coward either. Whatever the creature was up ahead—fox, wolf, or feral dog—it wouldn’t much care for fire. He lumbered forward, snatched up the smouldering torch, and waved it overhead to get it going again. A whoosh of flame at once rewarded his efforts and the gathering shadows were driven back. Likewise the creature along the passageway; Laverne caught a glimpse of something grey, slinking, canine, before it was swallowed up in gloom. He also caught a glimpse of something in the trench—