The Dark Boatman: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos

by John Glasby

  Table of Contents

  BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY JOHN GLASBY

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  DEDICATION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE DARK BOATMAN

  AUNT AMELIA

  THAT DEEP BLACK YONDER

  DUST

  THE KEEPER OF DARK POINT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY JOHN GLASBY

  The Dark Boatman: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos

  The Lonely Shadows: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos

  The Mystery of the Crater: A Science Fiction Novel

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1967, 1991, 2007 by John Glasby

  Copyright © 2012 by the Estate of John Glasby

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  DEDICATION

  For Morag

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JOHN STEPHEN GLASBY was born in 1928, and graduated from Nottingham University with an honours degree in Chemistry. He started his career as a research chemist for I.C.I. in 1952, and worked for them until his retirement. Over the next two decades, he began a parallel career as an extraordinarily prolific writer of science fiction novels and short stories, his first novels appearing in the summer of 1952 from Curtis Warren Ltd. under various house pseudonyms such as “Rand Le Page” and “Berl Cameron,” as was the fashion of the day. Late in 1952, he began an astonishing association with the London publisher, John Spencer Ltd., which was to last more than twenty years.

  Glasby quickly became Spencer’s main author, writing hundreds of stories and novels on commissions in several genres. Not only was Glasby required to switch back and forth from science fiction to supernatural stories (his preferred media), but also to Foreign Legion sagas, Second World War novels, hospital romances, crime novels, and westerns. He quickly amassed a large number of personal pseudonyms, the best known being “A. J. Merak,” under which name a number of his science fiction novels were reprinted in the 1960s in the United States.

  When his association with John Spencer eventually ended, he took the opportunity to sell a science fiction novel under his own name to Don Wollheim at Ace Books (Project Jove, 1971). Always a great fan of the work of H. P. Lovecraft, he then wrote a collection of Mythos stories for August Derleth at Arkham House. Derleth suggested extensive revisions and improvements, which Glasby duly followed, but then unfortunately died before the collection could be published, and the book was returned.

  Interested in astronomy since childhood, Glasby had joined the variable star section of the British Astronomical Society in 1958, and was made Director in 1965. He was elected a Fellow of the Royal Astronomical Society in 1960, and he published numerous textbooks and encyclopedias on astronomy and chemistry, the first being Variable Stars in 1968.

  During the early 1960s, Glasby wrote dozens of paperback westerns, all of which were reprinted in hardcover and paperback four decades later. Their success prompted the author to write new westerns, of which almost a dozen have appeared in recent years. Also revived were his 1960s “Johnny Merak” private eye novels, and Glasby continued to write new adventures of his Chandler-like hero.

  Following his retirement from I.C.I., Glasby returned to writing more supernatural stories in the Lovecraftian vein, and a number of his stories have appeared in American small press magazines and in Mythos anthologies edited by Robert M. Price. In recent years new supernatural stories have appeared in original collections edited by leading horror anthologist Stephen Jones, and in Philip Harbottle’s Fantasy Adventures collections (published by Wildside Press).

  His novelette, “Innsmouth Bane,” was featured in the second issue of H. P. Lovecraft’s Magazine of Horror. Glasby’s most ambitious Lovecraftian work was Dark Armageddon, as yet unpublished, a trilogy of novels that unifies and brings to a climatic conclusion Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos cycle.

  An all-new collection of ghost stories, The Substance of a Shade, was published in the UK in 2003, followed by The Dark Destroyer, a new supernatural novel, in 2005. In 2007 Glasby was adjudged the ideal choice to continue John Russell Fearn’s famous “Golden Amazon” series, and three authorized novels, Seetee Sun, The Sun Movers, and The Crimson Peril, have appeared to date. A fourth novel, Primordial World, is scheduled to appear in 2012.

  Several of the best of Glasby’s SF, supernatural, and detective titles are being published by the Borgo Press.

  John Glasby died on June 5, 2011, following a long and courageous battle with illness, during which time he continued to write with undimmed power.

  THE DARK BOATMAN

  When I received a letter from my late uncle’s solicitors informing me that, as the last of the family line, I had been left the old mansion overlooking the sea on the south coast of Cornwall, my first instinctive impulse was to ask them to advertise the place for immediate sale since I had no wish to cut myself off completely in such an isolated spot. I had visited my uncle on only one occasion in my lifetime, more than fifteen years before, and my memories of that visit were far from pleasant.

  I was seventeen at the time, and it had been late autumn with low cloud and an eternal mist sweeping in from the sea, making it impossible to see anything of the surrounding countryside. I had been a virtual prisoner within the ancient house for two whole weeks; and my uncle, who lived the life of a recluse, shunning all contact with the few neighbours he had, was not a fit companion for a youth. He had spent all of the day and most of the night poring over musty old tomes in the library which, though well-stocked with volumes, held only queer literature concerning myths and histories of races no more recent than the ancient Greeks.

  The mansion itself had a history almost as long. Parts of it dated back to the time of the second William, and the more modern renovations were on the Gothic style, with long, gloomy corridors and narrow passages which intersected in such puzzling patterns that it was easy to lose one’s way in the labyrinthine maze, which extended from one wing to the other.

  Two things, however, conspired to force me to change my mind and move from my native Yorkshire to Cornwall. The first was my health, which had been deteriorating somewhat over the past four years; my doctor was of the considered opinion that the more salubrious nature of the Cornish weather would be more conducive to a return to better health than the windswept moors of Yorkshire. With summer approaching, the warmer climate would undoubtedly prove both beneficial and invigorating.

  The second reason was a further letter, which arrived six days after the first. Like the other, it came from my uncle’s solicitors, but inside was a second envelope with my name on it written in my uncle’s spidery script in the India ink I remembered him using.

  “My dear nephew,” he wrote. “By the time you receive this I will have departed this earth and as you are my only heir, there are certain points I must bring to your notice concerning the family mansion at Tormouth. These may appear strange to one unaccustomed to our ways, but I earnestly assure you they are not the product of a senile or deranged mind and must be followed implicitly. The duty of carrying them out now falls upon you and if it is of any consolation to you, as the only living Dexter, yours will be the final act in the tradition of the Dexters that has been carried on for more centuries than you would ever believe. You will find the key you seek in the concealed compartment of my desk. The opener is the left arabesque. But use it not until the time is right, unless you call over Him who comes only at the appointed hour. And how shall you know the time? That is given by the clock in the upper room. I adjure you to watch it closely, for no one knows t
he hour when the key must be used.”

  I read this strange letter several times, unable to make either head or tail of it. I was well aware I was the last in a long line of Dexters, that I could trace my lineage back, unbroken, for more than eighteen hundred years. But what was all this rigmarole about a key? A key to which lock? And as for keeping continuous watch on a certain clock, waiting for some particular preordained hour to strike—that made no sense to me at all. Nonetheless, the contents of the letter wetted my natural curiosity, and I knew that, whatever happened, I had to move into that ancient manor if only to satisfy myself as to the real reason behind my uncle having written such a bizarre epistle.

  I did not, however, intend to go alone; at least not until I had discovered all I could about the place and its curious secrets. I decided to ask a colleague of mine, Michael Ambrose, to accompany me. I knew him for a gifted antiquarian, well versed in ancient history and many of the old myths and religions. When I approached him, he accepted with alacrity, for he had read a great deal about my family history and the strange stories that surrounded the mansion on the cliffs.

  Accordingly, we both took the express to Penzance, arriving early in the evening on a glorious late spring day. My recollection of Tormouth was vague and prone to the inevitable inaccuracies associated with a brief memory of more than fifteen years before. However, we soon discovered there was no public transport which would take us there even at that early hour of the evening. There was, we learned, a bus that went out to Tormouth the next morning, although it might be possible to hire a car for our purpose.

  Since we were both anxious to reach the mansion as quickly as possible, we decided on the latter course and obtained directions to the nearest garage where we might obtain such transport.

  The garage proprietor seemed willing to hire us a car, several of which were available. But his demeanour changed dramatically when we mentioned our destination. Now he became oddly reluctant, maintaining that Tormouth was a place with an evil reputation, one that stretched back for more years than he could remember. No one knew for certain just what it was about the place that instilled such weird notions into people’s minds, but it was a tangible thing best not ignored.

  I forbore to tell him my name, for I had the feeling that much of the outside animosity and superstitious fear directed towards the village was primarily against my family, and mention of the name Dexter might be more than enough to make him refuse point-blank to provide us with a car.

  In the end, after much forcible argument, he agreed to let us have a decrepit vehicle, which, from its very appearance, did not look capable of taking us to our destination. However, since beggars could not be choosers, we were forced to accept his offer with as much grace as we could muster.

  Half an hour later, we left Penzance and took the road east, following the directions we had been given. Dusk had already settled over the countryside, and we drove in silence for almost half an hour, entering terrain that grew more barren and wild with every passing mile. Gripping the wheel, I peered intently through the dusty windscreen, searching for some sign of the signpost we had been told to watch out for. Several narrow tracks led off the road, but none of these were signposted, and were little more than rutted paths leading apparently nowhere across deserted moorland and low, rounded hills that brooded oppressively on the skyline.

  Then Ambrose suddenly called my attention to something lying half-hidden in the ditch by the side of the road. I immediately stopped the car and we both got out to examine it. It was an ancient battered signpost which had once been pointed off to the left; for there, less than five yards from where we stood, a track, somewhat wider than the others we had seen earlier, snaked towards the distant horizon. Ambrose went down on one knee and I heard his grunt of astonishment. The sign bore the legend Tormouth—5 miles in faded letters and I thought this was what he had seen.

  Then I looked to where he was pointing and saw the wooden post had not fallen through decay due to long years of standing in all sorts of weather. It had been deliberately axed through the base. Whether local inhabitants had committed this act to erase all reference to Tormouth, or the villagers themselves had done it to preserve their isolation, we could not tell. But as we got back into the car, we were both oddly disturbed by what we had found. Clearly, the garage proprietor had not exaggerated when he had spoken of the evil reputation Tormouth possessed.

  We turned off the road with a growing sense of trepidation. Now the surrounding countryside grew more sinister and somber in its overall aspect. The car lurched and slid over numerous potholes, and in places the thick, thorny branches slashed and tore at the vehicle on both sides.

  At times, the overgrown bushes assumed grotesque shadows in the approaching darkness, and I was forced to switch on the headlights in order to see the way, for there were many twists and turns ahead, and obstacles became more numerous so that avoiding action had to be taken quickly and decisively.

  We had not been more than two miles along the track when the mass of dark, ominous cloud we had noticed earlier swept down on us and it began to rain. Had it been possible to turn, I might have considered returning to Penzance and setting out again in the morning, for driving had now become extremely difficult. But it was all I could do to keep the car on the road, which was now rapidly worsening because of the rain. The aged wipers did little to keep the windscreen clear, and we were soon splashing through deepening puddles that stretched clear across the road.

  Then we crested a high hill and down below us, just visible, was the sea, and off to our right we made out a tiny cluster of dim lights, which told us we were approaching our destination. Now the smell of the sea was strong in our nostrils. Curiously, the state of the road improved. At some time, it had been surfaced, and the reason for this improvement soon became evident. Less than half a mile further on, the ground on our right dropped away steeply towards the rocky beach.

  In spite of the relatively new road surface I had to drive carefully now. The rough gravel was wet and slippery, and one wrong move could send us crashing over the cliff onto the waiting rocks below. In addition, the headlights were not powerful enough to penetrate far into the teeming rain.

  Finally, however, we headed down into the village and stopped halfway along the cobbled street. The place seemed utterly deserted. An air of abandonment lay over the low-roofed houses and crumbling stone jetty that thrust like a long tongue into the sea. The tide was out, and a mile or so offshore I could just make out twin pinnacles of black rock which stood up from the ocean like two mighty guardians offering a safe entry into the tiny harbour.

  Fortunately, I had no need to ask directions of any of the inhabitants. I well remembered the obvious dislike these folk had of my uncle and did not doubt this animosity would also be extended towards anyone of the hated name of Dexter. From what I could recall, there were many in the village who had regarded him as some kind of wizard, and although such a notion might have been laughed at by townsfolk, here such beliefs had always been strongly held.

  I started the car again and drove slowly past the shuttered windows fronting the street. At the end of the village there was a narrow road, which led in a series of tortuous bends to the mansion, which we were soon able to pick out as a gaunt, black silhouette against the skyline.

  The rain was still coming down in torrents as we drove through the tall metal gates and along the drive between huge oaks and elms, swinging around in front of the house.

  No lights showed in any of the windows. Overhead, tall Gothic turrets and spires showed against the dark sky. I heard Ambrose gasp as he caught sight of it for the first time, looming before us in a great spectral mass of age-old stone.

  I could guess at his feelings; I had felt them myself fifteen years before. As I have said earlier, my forebears had made various alterations to the original structure over the centuries, resulting in an oddly clashing conglomeration of architectural styles that had certainly not enhanced the overall appearance in any way
. Indeed, the only softening effect came from the thick layers of ivy along the walls, for time and weather had had the opposite effect; making the angular abutments and towers even harsher and starker in their general outline.

  We left the car parked in front of the main door, and hurriedly transferred our few belongings onto the porch, where I selected the correct key from the bunch I had received from the solicitors and threw open the door. Inside, we found a couple of lamps, for there was no electricity and in the yellow glow explored the nearer regions. The interior did not appear to have changed at all since my one and only previous visit. Apart from a thin layer of whitish dust, which covered everything, the place was just as my uncle had left it.

  The wide hallway with the wide staircase lead off of ground level at the far end; and the huge oak table in the middle of the stone floor, chairs arranged round the walls, the broad open fireplace and the few pieces of bric-a-brac my uncle had collected over the years; all blended into a familiar scene which struck me with the force of a physical blow, bringing back recollections of my unforgettable experiences one and a half decades earlier.

  An hour later, we had made ourselves reasonably comfortable. There were four bedrooms on the ground floor in the West Wing, and Ambrose and I had chosen a couple of these for ourselves. There was clearly a lot to be done before the place was fit to be lived in, but that would have to wait. Now that I had inherited the mansion and was master there, I intended to see that changes were made. Structurally, the building was very sound, but the interior was in urgent need of complete renovation and modernisation.

  We were both tired now. After eating a brief meal of cold meat that we had brought with us, we retired to our rooms. But weary as I was, I found it difficult to sleep. There was something odd about the place which I could not define. I was well aware that all old houses possess curious atmospheres which can be sensed strongly, particularly by those sensitive to such auras, and there were also my own remembrances of this place, which I had never thought to visit again. But it was something more than this; as if my uncle had never left this house, but some part of him still remained to ensure that I carried out those peculiar instructions he had outlined in his letter.