by Cave, Hugh
"Has she been here, Peter?"
"Yes."
"She is wicked. She wants you. Listen to me and let me tell you who she is."
Peter listened, and instead of hearing words he was a part of them. Yet the things she told him were things out of the past, shadowy and dim. He saw the woman named Morgu leading an unholy company along the road toward the village. He saw the village street choked with people who screamed in mortal fear as they fled from the approaching horror. Women sank to their knees in supplication; men fought like beasts. And in a doorway not far distant a woman crouched crying, and a small boy huddled against her legs. The boy was Peter Marabeck.
Now there were fires burning, and in the center of the village stood a flaming cross. The lovely woman and her unholy horde retreated, abandoning their victims. And days later, men sat and talked in a room in some village home. One was Peter's father, another, Dr. Menner. And Menner was saying quietly: "We must face the facts. Some of our people lie dead with the mark of the vampire upon them. Others will survive, but the mark is upon them also. We must isolate them until we can discover some cure for their horrible illness."
Now the scene was strange indeed, for men and women paced like caged animals in a cleared space in the forest. In all directions a high wall prevented their escape. It was night, and the occupants of the prison yard filled the darkness with animal cries of hunger; and out of the shadows near the locked gate crept the woman named Morgu, leading her unholy followers.
The guard fled in terror. The gate was drawn open. Out of the prison yard rushed snarling human things thirsting for blood! And later that same night the red-lipped woman led her strange pack to a huge rockbound chamber amid frowning quarry walls, and then went forth alone to satiate her own dark hunger.
"You see, Peter, she is evil . . ."
Peter shuddered. His wife's hand was cold in his, and her breath was cold, and on her throat the marks of vampire teeth were still visible. They would never die, those marks, because Jane herself could never die. She had returned to him as a creature of the night, but she was still his wife.
"Stay with me," he begged, and held her close to him, caressing her.
The warmth of his body comforted her, and she sighed contentedly. Her lips sought his, and his caressing hands fired her blood with an ardor more tempestuous, yet more gentle, than ever before. Her breath came swiftly.
Then there was another sound, and a lean gray shape was crouching in the shadows.
Terror drew a shriek from Peter's lips. He drew his wife closer to him, and she was trembling. Angry green eyes glared at them both. Peter lurched erect, dragging his wife with him, and suddenly where a quivering body had been pressed against him, there was no body. There were two sleek wolf-shapes battling horribly in the darkness.
It was a nightmare then. The two beasts, one grayish black, snarling, the other ivory-white and always on the defensive, circled warily, seeking an opening. They fought, leaping and slashing at each other in wild fury, and the room was a horror-chamber filled with sounds that came from no human lips.
When it was over, the larger, heavier beast staggered erect over its victim and uttered a ghastly howl of triumph. But then there were no wolves—no wolves at all. Instead, Peter Marabeck's wife lay lifeless and bleeding on the carpet, and the woman named Morgu stood beside her, arms outstretched and carmine lips parted, waiting for Peter to advance.
Peter stared at his wife and stumbled forward, but the voice of the other woman stopped him. He gazed into the woman's bottomless eyes. Her unholy loveliness held his gaze, and her lips whispered the question. "Whom do you love, Peter?"
"I love—you. You know that."
"Then come with me, Peter."
He went with her down the darkened staircase and through the lower rooms to the rear door. "You will be cold," he said foolishly, and it did not occur to him that she was already colder than the night itself.
He followed her. Where she was taking him he had no idea, nor did he care. "Only the night hours are worth living!" Morgu told him softly. "At night the world will be ours for the taking, when black winds sob in the heavens. We'll talk with Ahriman and the green-winged children of Nazora. We'll drink red wine with the mirth-master of hell!"
Side by side, he and she moved over snow-crowned fields, while the hours died behind them.
They came, after many hours of walking, to a spot where a narrow, virgin road wound into darkness impregnable, and presently they stood at the rim of an abandoned quarry. Smiling, the beautiful woman descended by means of a slippery, rock-hewn path. And at last, on the floor of the mammoth pit, she turned and held out her hands.
"This is our home, my Peter."
Peter gazed about him and cared nothing. Heaven or hell, it was hers—and her home was his. Yet the scene was dimly familiar, and he thought suddenly of what his wife had told him, and was afraid.
But he had had no time for remembering. The vampire-woman led him rapidly over the quarry's white floor to where dark apertures invaded the far wall. Into one of these tunnels she went, with Peter following, and then the darkness was that of deepest night.
Hearing Peter stumble, the woman said to encourage him: "Soon you will be a creature of the dark, like me."
In the gloom her eyes had acquired a greenish lustre which made of her an animal-thing, strangely evil. But Peter followed her through labyrinthine passages, on and on, until they came to a large central chamber in which other animal eyes glowed also.
Now there was light, for above him a fissure extended narrowly, and moon-white gleamed through. All about him were men and women with evil faces, some clothed in ill-fitting garments, some naked. Baleful orbs examined him. An almost nude woman came close with parted crimson lips, and might have fallen upon him had not Morgu ordered her back.
In one corner of the cave another woman, limp and human and unconscious, hung in chains against the wall. Blood streamed from an incision in her throat; on the floor at her feet a man lay with mouth open to catch the trickling drops.
"These are my people," Morgu said. "Come!"
He followed her into a chamber where dozens of ancient wooden boxes lay side by side on the rock floor. The boxes were numbered, and filled with brown earth which reeked of decay. Then she led him still farther into the maze, to a smaller chamber where only two boxes lay, and where evil paintings hung from the walls.
Here a soft carpet covered the floor and moonlight stole through a niche in the ceiling; and on a table close beside a couch covered with blood-red silk, stood a red-lipped figure of Ahriman, the fiend of night, in bronze. And Morgu said, smiling: "This is my boudoir, beloved. Our boudoir. Your bed is beside mine. Love me, my Peter!"
Peter took her in his arms and placed her upon the couch. The scarlet sash covering her breasts loosened in his fingers, and her breasts were soft against him, pulsating with evil excitement. Every movement of her alluring body was a dark symphony as she clung to him, drawing him closer. His senses swam; blood boiled in his veins.
There in the seclusion of that strange boudoir he yielded utterly to the hypnotic lure of the woman's bottomless eyes, and to the whispering entreaties of her silken voice. Her lips found his and drew the soul from his heaving breast. Gypsum-smooth flesh quivered under the avid clutch of his fingers.
And when he lay back at last, the soft whisper of her voice made words. "It is not death, Peter. You will feel no pain—only ecstasy. For a day you will sleep; then when darkness falls again, we will go forth together—children of the night."
Without fear he watched her lips descend to his throat and felt the pressure of them. Her full breasts were heavy against him, and his arms were locked around her. And then, suddenly, the woman recoiled. A harsh cry jangled from her lips as she fell back, staring at something beyond him.
Peter turned violently and gazed upon a strange sight—upon a figure attired entirely in white, and upon a blazing torch held high in the apparition's uplifted hand. His eyes opened wid
e. Beside him, Morgu had covered her face in agony and was screaming, for the advancing flame was a cross, and was an accusing crimson symbol of powers greater than hers!
Straight toward the couch came the woman in white, seemingly without fear. And she was Peter Marabeck's wife. Screaming, Morgu leaped erect and ran half-naked to the doorway. The other, lowering her torch, said quietly: "Don't be afraid, Peter."
Peter whispered her name. Like a child he clung to her, mumbling a confession of what he had done—of what, even worse, he had been going to do. But his wife answered simply: "She is a fiend, Peter. Any man would have done the same."
Dazed, still sobbing, Peter allowed himself to be led from the room. The horrors about him were indistinct and misty. On all sides, the demons of Morgu's hungry clan advanced, only to fall back in terror from the glare of the burning cross. Then he stood at the entrance to the caves, and behind him in the darkness of the tunnel stood the woman of passion—the woman named Morgu—watching him with evil green eyes.
He shuddered. His wife held the blazing torch aloft, and together they climbed the narrow, twisting path to the quarry's rim. There his wife turned and said: "I love you, Peter."
She pressed the torch into his hand, and her lips found his. "I love you, but now I must leave you. Take this torch and go home. When night comes again, my beloved, come to my grave in the cemetery."
"Yes," Peter said.
"And bring a knife, Peter. A silver knife."
Then she was gone, and across the white snow a sleek, wolf-like shadow-shape raced away, turning at the top of the first moonlit rise to look back at him.
The cellar of Peter Marabeck's house was filled with a grating clamor, and Peter stood at a workbench, trundling a grindstone. Hours had passed since his return home, but his wife had said to bring a knife, and the knife must be silver . . . .
Dr. Markham had been waiting for him. "So you've come at last," Markham had said, scowling blackly. "It's about time! I had to get Menner's body out of here myself!"
Peter was sorry about that, but now he had other things to think of. The sun would set soon, and he must tramp down the valley road to the cemetery. Jane would be there, waiting . . . .
The grindstone sang a throaty accompaniment to his thoughts, while the edge on the knife grew keener.
Later, shivering a little from the cold, he closed the door behind him and went out. A leaden gloom diffused the fading reflections of the sun, and it would be a dark night, he thought, with gray clouds scurrying across the sky. There would be no moon.
He came to the cemetery and looked all about him and was afraid. But he went on and stood at last beside the stone which marked his wife's grave. Humbly he knelt, and wiped the slab with his bare hand, and gazed at the words carved there. They were his own words, saying simply: DEAREST JANE, MY WIFE.
And then Jane came.
She stood before him, smiling, with her arms outstretched. The same thin gown revealed her exquisite loveliness, and she seemed not to feel the chill night air. "I knew you would come, Peter," she said softly. "I knew you would not be afraid."
He thought: "No, I'm not afraid. Morgu is all I'm afraid of, and Morgu will surely not come for me tonight." Aloud he said: "You told me to bring a knife . . ."
"Yes, Peter. But first take me in your arms. Hold me. It will give you courage."
He crushed her against him and realized vaguely that there were two kinds of love, a good kind and an evil. This kind was good. Her body fused with his and became warmer, and when his hand sought the soft curve of her waist he was gentle despite the yearning that surged through him. Strangely, he seemed warmed by the pressure of satin-soft flesh, though there was no warmth in it. And suddenly he asked a question which had troubled him many hours.
"Last night, dearest, when you held the cross, why was it that you—that you were not—?"
"That I was not destroyed by it, Peter? I don't know. But when I prayed for help to save you, it was because I loved you. Hers was not my kind of love; it was bestial hunger. Do you fear death, Peter?"
"No," he said truthfully.
"Do you fear dying?"
"No."
"Did you bring the knife?"
He took the knife from his pocket and showed it to her. Then she said almost inaudibly: "There are two ways for us to be together, my beloved. There is the way of that woman named Morgu, but it is a way of sin and there is no happiness in it. The other way means peace and love, but you will need courage —and faith."
"I have faith," he answered.
"Then—" Standing there, she half uncovered her pale breasts and turned her lips to his. No word passed between them as they embraced for the last time. Then she whispered softly: "It will not hurt me, Peter. A moment's pain and I will have died the real death. Then, if your love for me is greater than fear, you can join me."
She closed her eyes and waited, and for many minutes Peter stood rigid, fighting the terror that threatened to engulf him. He closed his eyes and prayed, and then his left hand sought her cool flesh. His right, gripping the knife, rose higher—and trembled.
"I can't do it!" he moaned.
"If you love me, Peter. . . ."
Shuddering, he drove the blade home, and the silver point sank deep into the tender hummock of her breast, and blood welled from the wound. Her lips parted in sudden pain. Her eyes opened wide.
"Brave Peter!" she whispered.
Then her body crumpled, and she lay lifeless in the snow. And with a low cry, Peter fell to his knee beside her. His hands clawed at the knife and pulled it loose. Sobbing, he pressed his lips to hers and knew that she was dead.
A long time he lay there, while the blood from her pierced breast stained his clothes. Then, staggering, he stood over her and plunged the blade into his own body.
Agony forced a low moan from his drawn lips. The hilt of the knife remained protruding from his chest but he did not fall. The pain terrified him. Then, behind him, his own name was spoken aloud.
"Peter!"
He turned blindly. Death was but a matter of moments, and he would have fallen had his body not stiffened involuntarily at what he saw. There, close to him, stood the woman named Morgu, nearly naked and exotically beautiful. Her arms were extended toward him and her eyes were magnets drawing him forward.
For a moment only, Peter realized the frightful consequences. He was dying. If those alluring carmine lips fastened on his throat before death came, the gulf between him and the woman who lay dead in the snow would be forever unbridged, and he would be a creature of the night, evil and vile and lonely.
Then his eyes widened with desire. He stumbled forward, oblivious even to the agony that surged within him. Morgu's arms coiled sinuously about him and her near-naked body quivered in his mad embrace.
Pain and passion raged in Peter's racked body. The woman was even more nearly naked now; his frenzied fingers had torn at the scarlet sash from her breasts until it hung only by shreds. Her questing mouth fastened on his and seemed to drain the agony from within him, draining his life also. Triumph blazed in her glowing eyes.
He clung to her, and held himself erect with strength born of passion. Then the agony inflicted by the suicide knife became unbearable and he sagged to the snow, limp and unconscious and perilously close to death.
Morgu, snarling in triumph, flung herself upon him, seeking his throat. It was the end, then. He knew it was the end. Those sharp teeth would imbed themselves in his neck and draw blood, and then no power in heaven or hell could release him.
He moaned the name of his wife and closed his eyes to blot out the impending horror. And then, from behind a tall gray headstone ten paces distant, an indistinct form stepped suddenly into the open. A tongue of flame split the darkness. A shrill report, like the bark of a dog, smothered every other sound.
The woman stiffened over her victim. Her hands went to her own throat, and a low cry, almost inaudible, choked on her lips. She struggled convulsively to rise, then crumpled
horribly and fell backward into the snow.
From his hiding-place in the shadows, Peter's savior came slowly forward. A revolver was clenched in one hand; the other hand, clenched, held more bullets in readiness. The revolver was an ancient one, with the sign of the cross engraved upon its barrel—and the bullets were silver.
The man was Dr. Markham.
Grimly he strode to Peter's prone body and looked down. His gaze passed to the woman and he shuddered, for the nude body, beautiful no longer, was slowly and horribly disintegrating and was the body of an ugly hag.
In silence Dr. Markham lifted Peter Marabeck's body from the snow and placed it beside the body of Peter's wife. The other had not changed, even in death. The upturned face, pale and lovely, was still smiling.
Markham placed the two bodies side by side and reverently spread his coat over them. Then he turned, and of the woman named Morgu nothing remained but a grim dark stain on the snow.
"Finished," Markham muttered. "Finished at last—thank God. It will be an easy matter now to destroy the others . . . ."
For a moment he stood motionless, his hands folded and his face uplifted in an attitude of prayer. Then, with a last glance at the two silent forms in the snow, he went away.
Maxon's Mistress
I had not seen Maxon in three years—not, indeed, since we had schooled together at Harvard. When I encountered him, therefore, in Westhaven, on that morning of Friday, the fourteenth of October, I was astounded into gasping his name and thrusting out my hand. In doing so, I received the surprise of my life, for he stared at me coldly a moment and then seized my arm in trembling fingers, and said in a whisper:
"Not Maxon, John. Not here. It's Brown."
I gaped at him in open-mouthed astonishment. There he stood, Peter Maxon, the man with whom I had had more than one grand time in college, and whom I had openly envied during the years following our graduation—there he stood, peering around him furtively as if he were a criminal, and then frowning into my face and saying huskily: "Not Maxon, John! It's Brown!"