Dark Conflict

by John Glasby

  The air in the room was a thick, almost liquid substance, intensely cold, and with a pungent smell that cloyed the back of his nostrils, making him feel sick inside. A tremor passed over him. The thing with the hideous mask was coming towards them, casting an aura of evil before it.

  Blake was screaming thinly at the top of his voice, gibbering strange words that made little sense as he tried to pray and the words came out all wrong. Whatever it was, the creature seemed awfully sure of itself, moving forward with a firm tread, hands reaching out towards him, ready to clutch and grip.

  If it breathed, he could not hear it as it shambled forward, hunched up, the moonlight glistening a little on the half-naked body. The eyes seemed to be gazing past him and yet he knew that they were not; in reality the thing’s whole attention was on him. Almost as though it knew that whatever it had to fear, it would come from him and not Blake.

  But it did not seem to be an intelligent attention that was fixed upon him. He had the horrified impression that it was the unreflecting, unthinking attention of someone who does not think but trusts to a higher power to do all the thinking for him.

  The mask was a truly hideous creation. The feathers of the plumed headdress ruffled a little as though a wind had caught them, but there was no wind in the room. He threw a swift glance towards the windows, and his mind went suddenly blank as he saw that they were already half-open and the thing outside was climbing into the room.

  Hell glared redly out of its slitted eyes. This, he thought with what was left of his failing mind, was the evil messenger which Caltro had sent. Fear was a loud voice shouting inside his brain. Madly, he plucked the crucifix from around his neck and held it out in front of him, raising it high above his head. He felt something thrusting down against his arm, trying to push it down against his side and there seemed to be some malevolent force reaching out from the darkness near the window, trying to drown out the faintly glittering light of the crucifix in his trembling fingers.

  Desperately, his lips moved, shaping the words of the Lord’s Prayer, but most of the words refused to come. Everything seemed to be jumbled up inside his head, making no sense at all.

  Voices were murmuring against his ear. Chanting words that didn’t make sense, although he had the impression that he had heard them somewhere before and ought to know their meaning.

  He shook his head several times to clear it. There appeared to be a thin ray of brilliance emanating from the crucifix as he held it up and the crushing pressure eased a little. He could feel his nerves tautening, stretching themselves to breaking point. Almost, he thought, he could detect Caltro’s harsh, ominous laughter hanging in the air over his head.

  The stumbling, loathsome thing at the window suddenly uttered a harsh shriek of diabolical rage as the beam from the cross pulsed more strongly and struck it. The lights near the ceiling flickered again and began to increase in brilliance.

  After a moment, he realized that he was praying softly and steadily under his breath, mouthing the words from shaking lips. He started sharply; then took a tight grip on his mind. He had the feeling that the creature near the window, filled with an eager, hungry evil, was fading slowly.

  The impulse to turn and run for the door exploded within him and became an urge which he had to fight hard to control, but some latent protective sense combined with the fear of what would happen once he turned his back on these creatures, prompted him to stay there and face them squarely and let matters take their own course.

  The thing remained there for the best part of five minutes as far as he could judge; then faded slowly away into smoke. The moonlight flooded into the room in the same instant that the lights came on fully; and when he looked down at his feet again, it was simply the body of Simon Merrivale that lay there, breathing heavily and harshly.

  The mask and headdress lay on the floor near the couch where they had always been since Sims had laid them down. Madly, he sucked in a harsh, sobbing breath and felt the pressure in his chest ease a little. He remained perfectly still for several seconds, fighting to regain control of his raging emotions.

  His whole body shook and tingled with that strangely terrifying palpitation which comes after a close escape from some dreadful disaster or after awaking from a terrible nightmare.

  Blake sat slumped on the couch, his face buried in his hands. His body was shaking uncontrollably. Finally, he said haltingly:

  ‘Hell, I never want to go through anything like that again. It was horrible!’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll try again, not tonight anyway.’ Nayland sat down beside him, allowing his entire body to go limp. It was as though all of the strength had been drained from him so that it would have been impossible for him to have stood upright even if he had wanted to.

  ‘What about Simon?’

  ‘I think he’ll be all right in the morning. They’ve made their play and it’s failed. If they decide to try again, they’ll try something different the next time. By then, we’ll be prepared for them.’

  A shiver passed through him and he sat there for a long moment until he had full control of himself again. Then he stood up, went over to the small table and poured two glasses from the decanter. Handing one to Blake, he said thinly, ‘Here, drink this, it’ll bring back some of the life into your body.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The other nodded and drained his glass in a single gulp. ‘I needed that.’

  Nayland sipped his drink slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, the mask intruded upon his vision and he felt more strongly than ever before, that the key to most of the mystery lay with it, rather than with this man, Caltro. If only he knew the history of such a hideous relic.

  Chapter Six – The Voodoo Curse

  It was almost nine o’clock the following morning when Nayland had the first of his visitors. By that time, Merrivale had been removed to one of the bedrooms upstairs and appeared to be sleeping soundly.

  Blake had brought in two cups of black coffee a moment before Sims arrived in the doorway and announced: ‘There’s a — gentleman — says he’d like to have a word with you if it’s convenient, sir.’

  Nayland looked up in surprise. His first thought was that Caltro had decided to take matters into his own hands and had come in person in an attempt to get Merrivale back. But he dismissed the idea almost immediately. It was unlikely that the other would play into his hands in this way.

  ‘Did he give his name, Sims?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m afraid not. He merely said that you wouldn’t know his name, but that what he has to say to you will be vitally important and will possibly have some bearing on certain events which may have happened during the past few days.’

  ‘That’s curious.’ Nayland fingered his chin and looked puzzled. ‘It certainly sounds as though he knows something of what’s been happening although I’ve no idea who he can be.’

  ‘He isn’t — English, sir,’ put in Sims quietly. ‘He’s an African.’

  ‘An African! You mean a Negro?’

  ‘Exactly, sir.’

  Nayland nodded. ‘I think you’d better show him in right away, Sims,’ he said suddenly. He turned to Blake.

  ‘This may be important. If he’s come here for the reason I think he has, we may be one step further towards solving this devilish mystery.’

  There was a sudden movement in the doorway. Nayland glanced up. The man who stood there, although dressed in modern European clothes, seemed ill at ease in them and Nayland had the impression that, even here, he would have looked more at home in the tribal costume of the men of the African interior.

  He was tall for a native, with a cultured, intelligent face but his eyes had a purpose more important merely than looking and seeing. Except to a person of considerable self-assurance, they could have been intolerable whenever he chose to make them so.

  At the moment, however, they were amiable but filled with an expression of worried anxiety.

  ‘Mr. Nayland?’ he said hesitantly, stepping forward into the middle
of the room.

  ‘That’s right,’ Nayland said slowly. ‘I understand you wanted to see me about something important.’

  The man seemed to draw back like a well-trained leopard and Nayland felt a strange, unaccountable shiver course through him as he remembered the men he had seen before in the dark jungles. Men who became animals at the night of the full moon, took on the hideous shape that slid through the undergrowth among the black shadows after their victims, ripping and clawing and murdering.

  ‘I tried to get in touch with a man called Merrivale,’ explained the other, sitting in the chair that Nayland indicated, ‘but unfortunately, that was impossible. I attempted to see him several times during the past few weeks, but always I was told that he was not at home to callers. Once, I met a man named Caltro there and then I knew why he wouldn’t see me.’

  ‘At the moment, although Mr. Merrivale is here in this house, I’m still afraid you won’t be able to see him. But if there is anything we can do to help you —’

  ‘I think I understand,’ said the other slowly. ‘I have had the feeling that he is in great danger from these people but it would seem he has a will of his own and does not take too kindly to advice, even that which is well-meaning. Perhaps he does not know the terrible power of the forces he is dealing with.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ interrupted Nayland impatiently, ‘but supposing you tell us where you fit into this mystery.’

  ‘I have come here all the way from Africa to take back something of great value which was stolen from my tribe. It must be returned to them or terrible evil will follow in its wake. I beg of you to help me to find it.’

  ‘And what makes you think I have it?’

  ‘Because I don’t think you can help it. You have Mr. Merrivale here. Then I am sure that the mask and headdress of Shabaka, the greatest of our witchdoctors is with you. Tell me, Mr Nayland,’ he leaned forward and his voice dropped to an almost confidential whisper: ‘Has anything strange happened while that headdress and mask have been in his possession?’

  ‘Some things have occurred — yes,’ admitted Nayland. ‘Are you trying to tell us that these are to be attributed to something supernatural connected with these things?’

  ‘Ah, so you have seen something.’ There was a note of triumph in the other’s voice. ‘It is as the Council prophesied before they sent me, Chalka, to bring back the sacred mask and headdress.’

  ‘We saw something that, so far, we haven’t been able to explain,’ interrupted Blake, stirring uneasily in his chair.

  ‘But you are still skeptical,’ observed the other. ‘Mr. — ?’

  ‘Blake. Just let’s say that I have a scientific mind.’

  ‘I rather think that you’ll find some things in this world which cannot be answered by science, Mr. Blake.’

  ‘Are we to understand that you know what this thing can do?’

  Before their visitor could reply, Nayland asked tersely, ‘Before you answer that, I’d like to ask you how you’ve managed to trace Mr. Merrivale. At the moment, the only suggestion I can make is that you’re part of this cult yourself, hoping to get it back for this man Caltro. You say your tribal council asked you to find it and take it back to Africa but we’ve no proof of that.’

  The other spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘What proof can I give you? I know nothing of this man Caltro. It took me over a year to discover that it had been sold to the owner of a shop in London. I offered to buy it from him but the price he asked was far more than any money I had. I tried to get more but when I returned he told me it had been bought by a man named Merrivale. It was not too difficult to find him through the telephone directory.’

  The native looked at each of them with a disconcerting gaze. ‘But in answer to your question, Mr. Blake, I think I ought to begin at the very beginning,’ he went on, ‘and then perhaps you will be able to see why it is so important that I take these sacred relics back to my tribe. Only then will the curse cease.

  ‘There are certain legends of my tribe connected with the mask and headdress. They tell of a time when Shabaka was alive, the most powerful witchdoctor in the country. Some say that he traded with the Evil Ones to gain the knowledge for his spells, none of which could be broken. When he was killed, by treachery, he laid a curse on his mask and headdress. A voodoo, if you like.

  ‘You see,’ he went on, ‘I have lived among my people for most of my life, except for five years which I spent in this country. I learned many things here, but nothing to explain the things I have seen back in the jungle.’

  ‘I, too, have seen strange things in the jungle,’ said Nayland. ‘I’m inclined to believe what you’ve told us. If you could only tell us just what these curses are and how we may be able to counter them . . .’

  The native looked across at him without smiling.

  ‘When the moon is full, anyone coming into contact with the mask and headdress becomes transformed into Shabaka. Some believe that he actually lives again, projecting his mind and body into that of his victim, awaiting his time to wreak vengeance on those who destroyed him. But now these relics are in England, a long way from my village. Nothing can stand against him while he occupies the body of one of his victims. And the spell cannot be broken until these sacred relics are returned to my tribe.

  ‘Unfortunately, while here, he has met an evil power which may be greater than his own. He must kill me before I can return these artifacts. The sacred shrine in my village has only been used for good since he was destroyed. He knows the mask and headdress can be destroyed if they are simply placed upon it by the present witchdoctor. Whether he seeks this man Caltro, of whom I have heard a little, as an ally, or will try to kill him, I do not know. But he will use any means to gain possession of this black magic which Caltro has.’

  ‘But that’s impossible. A man who’s been dead for so many years coming alive again.’ Blake uttered a harsh laugh but there was no humour in it.

  ‘No, Richard, not impossible,’ said Nayland gently. ‘It’s we who are impossible. Impossible because we still retain our inflexible outlook on these supernatural phenomena, refusing to see further than those things our scientific instruments can measure and see and weigh.

  ‘But there are other things in this world that we can’t see or measure. The mysteries of the occult for example. You know, the occult is the biggest, damnedest slice of midnight blackness there is. It’s there all the time, watching and waiting, altering and touching us in subtle ways that we don’t recognize. Or if we do, we never believe them.

  ‘I’m remembering now what we saw last night just before we discovered Merrivale in the hallway at his home — that creature which came out of the room at the top of the stairs and vanished at the bottom. That must have been this witchdoctor, Shabaka, in Merrivale’s body, horribly transplanted there by the curse on these things.’

  ‘You mean this curse could affect these things even after all this time?’ asked Blake dubiously.

  ‘I think some of the records have shown that destructive forces from that mysterious ‘other side’ have persisted for hundreds of years. There are numerous instances in the records, most of them well-authenticated.’

  ‘And you think we’ve run up against one of them in this voodoo?’

  ‘Exactly. I’m inclined to believe Chalka’s story. Especially after what we saw last night.’ Nayland turned to the native. ‘One thing you haven’t told us. Africa is a big place. Exactly where is your village?’

  ‘I live in a small village called Obondo. It is situated more than two hundred miles from the coast.’

  Nayland shrugged. ‘I never heard of it.’

  ‘Perhaps if you have a large-scale map of Africa I can show you.’

  Pointing towards the bookcase, Nayland said, ‘You’ll find one there, Richard.’

  Returning a few minutes later, Blake placed the map on the table. Chalka studied it intently for a full minute, then said: ‘It is not marked here but nevertheless I can assure you it exists.
I’ll show you exactly where it is.’ Taking the pen that Nayland handed to him, he marked a small cross on the map before straightening up.

  ‘Then if you have the headdress here, perhaps you would return it to me and there will be no more curses on anyone unfortunate enough to come into contact with it,’ said Chalka.

  Nayland shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Indecision was strong within him. What the other had said had possessed a ring of truth, but the relics did not belong to him and he hardly felt justified in handing them over like this. This was something that required earnest consideration. He paused as another thought struck him. There was just the possibility that this was another trick employed by Caltro to get Merrivale back into his power again.

  What if this man wasn’t who he said he was? It was quite feasible that he was someone working for Caltro, probably someone from the Inner Circle itself, wanting to use the mask for their own evil purposes.

  So he gave it to Chalka all trusting and once they had it in their possession, they would use it to destroy Simon’s mind completely and then there would be no escape for him.

  ‘I’ll have to speak to Mr. Merrivale first,’ he said, hedging. ‘But I’m sure that once I’ve explained the position to him, he’ll be only too glad to co-operate. If you could come back here this evening some time, about nine o’clock?’

  The other got to his feet. There was a strange look on his face but he merely said gravely: ‘Very well; at nine o’clock. But I earnestly implore you not to be foolish and try to dabble in things that are best left alone. If this force is liberated, it can be a terrible thing. Death can come in many horrible ways. Mr. Nayland.’

  Stephen wasn’t sure whether that last remark about death had been intended as a warning or a threat. There was nothing on the other’s face to indicate which it had been.

  He waited until Chalka had left, then returned to the living room. Blake looked at him with an expression of mild surprise on his face.