Despite this, there was no warmth in the man. His eyes were chill flakes of blue ice, and his hands were wasted and transparent. He was always cold, except when he crouched by his hearth, watching oak-logs crackle and burn down to glowing coals of pulsing red.
The obsession of fire grew stronger as Gaunt aged.
He owned an advertising agency, but neglected it more and more. The burden of responsibility fell heavier on my shoulders, for I was the manager of the business. It would not have mattered if the firm had failed, for Gaunt was wealthy. Yet people spoke of him now as eccentric, and Diana and I talked together about it—but we could reach no real conclusion.
Diana was Gaunt’s daughter, and my fiancée, a slim, blond girl whose blue eyes were all warmth and sparkle. We had been engaged for a year. Gaunt neither approved nor disapproved; he simply ignored us. His emotions always were kept under lock and key, though I knew he had a very real affection for Diana.
Superficially there was nothing wrong. Despite Simon Gaunt’s skeletal appearance, he was in perfect health. Nor was his mind affected. The only thing was—he was abnormally and morbidly preoccupied with the cult of fire-worship.
His library was full of books on the subject. Sometimes he would talk to us about his theories—and they were wild enough.
“Flame is life,” he said once, his skull-like face reddened by the glow from the hearth. “The old religions were wiser than we. The ancient Persians knew the truth.”
Diana and I exchanged glances. “Fire was man’s first step toward civilization,” I said. “Certainly it—” Gaunt made an impatient gesture. “I am not speaking figuratively. Fire is life. The seeds of life came from the sun, and later from a molten earth. Fire is the crucible. Folk-lore hints at that, with its talk of fire elementals and salamanders—beings that can live in flame, are even part of it. I think,” he said somberly, “that I should die very quickly if I could not replenish my energy with fire.”
“You’re good for twenty years more at least,” I said, grinning. “Even on an iceberg.”
“Did you bring those new advertising accounts?” Gaunt said, abruptly changing the subject. “I should like to go over them with you.”
“They’re right here.” I took the papers from my briefcase. It was like old Simon to show these sudden flashes of interest in the business, which he usually ignored.
DIANA rose, went to Gaunt, and kissed the top of his head.
“I hate being bored,” she smiled. “Duke was going to take me to a dance tonight.”
“All right. I can go over these contracts alone.”
“You’re tired,” I said. “I’ll stay and help you. The dance can wait an hour or so.”
Diana wrinkled her nose at me and went to the door.
“I should ask Steve to take me,” she said. “But I’ll wait.”
“Okay,” I said helplessly. I didn’t like Steve Mallory. A young attorney, he and Diana had once been engaged, and I knew he still phoned her too often for my peace of mind, though I tried to be fair about it. Mallory was a bachelor, probably lonely—a good fellow, to give the devil his due. The fact that Diana wore my ring on her hand didn’t make me her boss.
Gaunt suddenly pushed back the papers and blinked at me.
“It’s Diana’s birthday next Sunday,” he said.
“I know. I’m buying her a—”
He fumbled in his pocket, and brought out his battered old pipe.
“I sent to New York for her present. Having it delivered at the shop, so she won’t see the package. Let me know when it comes.”
He puffed reflectively at aromatic tobacco.
“I’m going up to the lodge for a few days. Want to be alone.” There was the flash of a smile. “You’d be surprised at what I’m doing up there. Certain experiments—” He sobered. “Well, you’ll see. I’m trying something the ancient pyromancers used to do—materialize a fire-elemental. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? I’d have said the same myself a few years ago. But lately I think I’ve stumbled on something—”
“Yes?”
Gaunt looked at me keenly.
“Don’t try to be polite. You don’t believe in magic. Well—” He chuckled hoarsely. “We won’t talk about it. But don’t be surprised if I live to be a hundred—or more. Fire is imperishable. There’s such a thing as possession—you’ve heard of men possessed by demons. There’s also possession that isn’t diabolic—an elemental spirit dwelling in a human body, and endowing it with strength and energy. A fire-elemental—”
But he would say no more, and we fell to work on the contracts. Later, I repeated Gaunt’s words to Diana, and she shook her head worriedly.
“People are beginning to talk about Dad. He’s made no secret of his theories. And—well, such a hobby can’t be healthy.”
IT wasn’t. A few days later, Gaunt went up to his private lodge in the mountains, alone, as usual. That was on a Friday—the 13th—bringing unexpected bad luck to me.
Gaunt went to the mountains—and I went to the hospital!
I was on my way to see him and driving too fast—an unfortunate habit of mine. The first thing I knew, a car swung out of a side street into my path. There was a crash.
Then I woke up in an atmosphere of ether, with a nurse taking my pulse. It wasn’t anything serious, but cuts and a broken rib or two kept me tied to the hospital bed—so I wasn’t present when Diana, with Steve Mallory, drove to the lodge and found Simon Gaunt’s body.
Botulism was the answer—food poisoning. There was an open tin of meat paste in the kitchen, and analysis proved that it carried the fatal toxins of decay. The brand was a new one, just recently put on the market, and Gaunt was addicted to meat paste sandwiches. His last one had been fatal.
Mallory told me about it, mentioning that the lodge had some unusual equipment, gadgets that would have looked in place in the den of some medieval alchemist. There were carefully-labeled bottles of herbs, powders, oily-looking liquids; devices that were a designer’s nightmare; curious out-of-print books on fire-magic.
Eccentricity—nothing more. I thought that, then.
I was in the hospital for a month. During that month, Steve Mallory saw Diana almost every day—and at last Diana gave me back my ring.
“I’m sorry, Duke,” she said. “We decided long ago that we should be honest with each other, if—”
“It’s Mallory, isn’t it?” I asked. “Yes. He’s been so—so kind, so good . . . You see, Duke, this is the first real trouble I’ve ever had. And I find myself turning to Steve. Just as I used to, before we—”
So that was that. There was no use trying to argue, of course. I lay back on my pillows and wondered when they’d let me out of the hospital.
Then Don Albertson came into the picture. He was Diana’s cousin, but, years ago, he and Simon Gaunt had quarreled bitterly over some trivial matter. Now, however, he spent most of his time with Diana.
He was a short, round-faced fellow with an unruly thatch of red hair and a loose grin. I thought him stupid and as talkative as a magpie when he visited me at the hospital.
“So you’ll be out of here tomorrow,” he said. “That’ll be swell. Just in time for the big party at the lodge.” I stared at him.
“Party? What—”
He grinned, rather nervously. “Didn’t you know? There was one clause in old Gaunt’s will that was pretty screwy. Once a year Diana’s got to go to the lodge and perform a sacrifice to Ahriman.”
“Sacrifice!”
“Not what you’re thinking of. I saw the directions—a lot of screwy ritual stuff about burning magic powders on an altar and chanting incantations to elementals. Diana’s got to do it on Walpurgis Night—which is two days off.”
“Good Lord!” I said. “Her father died less than a month ago, and—well, it sounds pretty morbid to me. Can’t you stop her? A thing like that doesn’t mean anything.”
ALBERTSON lit a cigarette.
“It did to the old man—and Diana realizes that.
I told her it was foolish, but she insists it’s the least she can do for her father, now that he’s dead. However, I see what you mean. It’d be plenty depressing, so I had Diana let me handle it. I invited a lot of people, and we’re going to throw a real party. Drinks and music and dancing—”
I stared at him, utterly astounded. The man’s lack of good taste was appalling.
“Does Diana know what you’re doing?”
“She left it in my hands,” he said blandly. “I can really manage a party. Got it all fixed up. The big stunt’s going to be a treasure hunt—clues and everything.”
“You can’t dance on Gaunt’s grave that way,” I said. “Nobody would come.”
“I invited my friends,” he said—and then I noticed, as he leaned closer, that there was a strong odor of liquor on his breath. Later I was to learn that drunkenness was Albertson’s continual state. No sober man would have planned such a thing.
I picked up the phone. Albertson lifted his eyebrows.
“Diana’s out of town. Won’t be back till just before the party. She went to Chicago with Mallory and his father on some legal business. I don’t even know where they’re staying.”
“Take my advice and call it off,” I urged. Albertson only winked at me and went out. I lay back, feeling vaguely nauseated. If I could get in touch with Diana, I knew she’d call off this gruesome party—but there was no way for me to reach her, though I put in a long distance call to Chicago.
The next day I was released from the hospital, cured, and tried out my car, which had been repaired. It seemed in good condition. But I didn’t sleep well that night.
The next evening I drove to the lodge.
Early as I was, I wasn’t early enough. Don Albertson and his gang—a dozen of them, men and women—had taken possession. They were engaged in getting intoxicated, and greeted me with whoops of joy.
“Sit down and listen,” Albertson urged. “Have a drink. I’m just reading Simon’s instructions.”
“Where’s Diana?” I asked.
“Not here yet . . . Listen.” He struck a pose. “Here’s what the old boy wrote . . . ‘It is my belief that after my death, I shall live again through the power of fire—’ ”
It was the same argument I had heard so often from Simon Gaunt himself. Albertson droned on:
“Here’s the interesting part. ‘On each Walpurgis Night, I wish my daughter, Diana, to perform the ancient ceremony of Ahriman on the altar I have erected at my mountain lodge. First burn the following herbs . . . and so on . . . reading the ritual to be found hereunder . . . Place the body of a black cock on the coals of the altar, and throw upon it these sacred powders . . .’ ”
I looked around the lodge’s big room. The wall-paper was curious, carrying a design of magical symbols—pentagrams, zodiacal markings, and the like. From overhead, spiders dangled from oak beams. They had spun fast. A small crucible stood in one corner, and there were racks upon racks of extraordinary instruments, and shelves of books. Against the wall stood a block of an altar, made of dull metal, with a bowl scooped out of the top. I walked over to examine it. Tracks on the floor showed where it had been moved. It was light enough, being hollow, to shift easily.
In the room was a chemical odor, mixed with a faint incense, aromatic and vaguely stifling. I heard Albertson say:
“I’ve got the herbs and stuff all ready—even brought along a black cock. But we can’t make magic yet. ’Tisn’t time.”
CHAPTER II
The Dead Return
I HEARD a car draw up in front.
Diana came in, followed by Steve Mallory, a big, bronzed man, with level blue eyes and a tight smile. Behind him was his father, a dry, withered husk of a man, with all the moisture burned out of him by age—a bald, sardonic giant. But now there was little of his bigness left save the skeleton, on which shrunken skin hung in folds.
I saw the surprised disapproval on their faces. Even Albertson noticed it. He went hurriedly to Diana and drew her aside. They talked for a time—and at last I saw the girl nod, though she frowned. I caught a few words.
“. . . Can’t let me down now, Diana . . . my friends . . . Thought it’d cheer you up . . .”
I was talking to Steve Mallory.
“I tried to stop this. Tried to get in touch with you. I wish Diana’d order this gang of drunks to leave!” Mallory scowled. “Yeah—”
His father broke in, his voice sardonic:
“She won’t. She’s too soft. Doesn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings.”
I caught Diana’s eye as she headed for the back door, and followed. The Mallorys were at my heels. We stepped out through the porch, and the door slammed shut, muffling the tinny music of the radio. The sun was going down behind the mountains; at our feet a long slope reached toward the lake. Trees cast long shadows around us.
“Listen, Diana,” I said. “Give me the word and I’ll throw those tramps out.”
“Thanks, Duke,” she smiled, rather wanly. “But it really doesn’t matter. Dad can’t be hurt by anything now. Let them stay. They’re all broke, Don says, and—well, let them have their fun.”
“Let’s get off where we can’t hear that radio,” Steve Mallory said harshly. He took Diana’s arm and led her off into the twilight.
I lit a cigarette. Abruptly it was night. The sun was gone, and darkness came on with a rush. Curiously, it was not at all cold—almost oppressively hot.
Presently I walked down toward the pier that stretched out into the lake. I heard footsteps, and Albertson came up behind me.
“Duke,” he said nervously, “was Diana mad?”
“No.” My voice was annoyed.
“Where is she?”
“Out on the pier,” I said, pointing. “With Steve. Leave them alone.”
“Sure,” Albertson said hesitantly. “Sure . . .”
I started back toward the house, stumbling over the pump that stood beside the path. I fell on hands and knees, cursing under my breath, and simultaneously!” heard Diana’s soft, choked cry.
I sprang up, searching for her in the dimness. But it wasn’t Diana I saw. Not twenty feet away—
Simon Gaunt stood watching us.
It was no illusion. It was Simon Gaunt, dressed in his burial clothes, with a dead, passionless face that held no emotion whatsoever. He stood there in the dark, and looked at us.
HOW could we see him—in the dark?
His body was like a lamp. A lamp in which hell-flamed burned!
A core of fire seemed to shimmer within him. He loomed against the dark like a—a shining shadow of light. Despite myself, I could not repress the crawling thing that rippled down my spine.
I heard Albertson’s shrill cry, heard footsteps pounding. Instantly I was. racing at his heels. The shining thing had not moved. Its eyes, I saw, were luminous. Around the black pupils they glowed like white, intensely hot flame.
Albertson’s silhouette momentarily blotted out part of the figure. Something, red and withering, gushed-out like the very heart of fire. Albertson cried out, flung up an arm to protect his face. And then the—the thing was gone.
A flashlight’s beam rayed out from behind me, playing over the gnarled boles of oaks that stood here and there on the lawn. Albertson was crouching down, scrubbing at his face, making a hoarse, inarticulate sound deep in his throat. Beyond him, I could see nothing—only shadows, and the white cone of light, as it played like a revealing pencil here and there.
There was no place where the creature could have hidden. The trees were far apart, and there was no shelter close enough for it to have reached. It might have climbed—
No. The flashlight danced over oak-limbs as its holder walked cautiously forward.
“Is it up there?” Steve said.
I tilted back my head, staring.
“No. I don’t see anything.”
The white ray flickered about. Quite obviously, there was nothing in the trees.
Then the others were with us, Steve Mallo
ry, holding the light, scowling in angry bewilderment; his father, Aaron Mallory, helping Diana, with a lean arm about her waist. She was whispering:
“It was Dad. I saw him—”
My face felt curiously hot, as though flame had breathed upon it. “Let’s get in the house,” I said abruptly. “There’s nothing out here.” I moved aside a little, but Diana already had seen what I was trying to hide. The flashlight dwelt on scorched footprints that were burnt into the tall grass.
Mallory sucked in his breath and knelt down. His probing forefinger touched the withered outline, and grass crumbled, brittle as glass, under his hand. I said irritably:
“Stop playing detective and get Diana in the house! She’s not made of iron!”
“I’m going to look around here a bit.” Mallory said. His father didn’t speak, but he didn’t follow us in, either. When we opened the porch door, music struck us in the face, and the laughter of half-drunk couples. Diana headed for a bedroom.
I switched on the porch light. Albertson, his round face strained, bent to examine his hands under the glow.
“Burned,” he said. “See?”
THE finger-tips were red and inflamed.
“What was it?” I asked in an undertone.
“I don’t know. I touched that thing, and it—burned like fire.”
“I saw a flame—”
“Well, there was that, too. I haven’t seen old Simon for years. Was that—like him?” Shock had sobered Albertson.
“Exactly like him,” I said shortly, and pushed past him into the big room, through dancing couples. None of that gang, of course, knew what had happened outside. I went into Gaunt’s bedroom, lined as it was with books. Albertson followed me.
There was something oppressive about this little room. A dead, stifling, hot silence that filled it unpleasantly. Albertson was examining the books.
“This is—very curious,” he said, in his shrill voice. “I’ve done some research in magic, and Simon has a lot of unusual stuff here.” He found a vellum-bound book, flipped it open, and found a place. “Listen to this: ‘The salamander is a symbol by which we know them. In the fires of creation they dwell; their blood is as flame, and they move invisibly like burning shadows. Yet they may be commanded to dwell within the body of a man, and their life is endless. Though the flesh shall die, the fire-elemental lives on, giving to that flesh a fiery rebirth—’ That’s the angle, eh? Gaunt was on the track of eternal life, the old chimera.”
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