Weird Tales volume 28 number 03

by Wright, Farnsworth, 1888–1940

  "Ah, master, God is plenteous in mercy. If you but have the faith, sir, it shall make you whole."

  "Very good, had I lived as you have lived, Biggs." Then, after a pause, "Still, the cause is worthy, my heart is right and I shall approach the Throne. May God be merciful unto me, a sinner."

  "I hope it is not too late yet," faltered "Oh, if God would only call me

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  in four stead, that you might still do the good work that you find it in your heart to do, how gladly would I go." A deep sigh was his only answer.

  ALONG silence was finally broken by the sick man. But when he spoke, his voice was so strange and uncanny that the servant hastened dose and peered anxiously into the fever-flushed face of the sufferer.

  "Hiram—I must tell you—a secret," came in a laborious, almost sepulchral, whisper.

  Biggs came closer.

  "Bring a chair and sit down. I must talk to you."

  As the old servant again leaned forward, the sufferer hesitated; then with an obvious effort he began.

  "Hiram, I am going to give you some instructions which you must obey to the letter. Will you promise to keep them?"

  "I swear it, sir," with great earnestness.

  "Good! Now, if this fever seals my lips and the doctor pronounces me dead "

  "Please, sir," Biggs broke in, tears streaming down his furrowed cheeks, but his master continued in the same subdued voice, "Whatever happens, I am not to be embalmed—do you hear me?— not embalmed, but just laid away as I am now."

  "Yes, sir," in a choked voice, which fully betrayed the breaking heart behind it

  "And now, Hiram, the rest of the secret." He paused and beckoned Biggs to lean closer.

  "In my vault—in the mausoleum, I have had an electric button installed. That button connects with a silver bell. Lift up that small picture of Napoleon, there upon the wall."

  His hands trembling as with the palsy,

  Biggs reached out and lifted aside the picture hanging near the head of the bed, and there revealed the silver bell, fitted into a small aperture in the wall. Then, with a sob, he fell back into his chair.

  "Hiram"—in a whisper—"after they bury me, you are to sleep in this bed."

  With a cry, the old man threw out a horrified, expostulating hand. Catching it feverishly, the banker half raised himself in bed.

  "Don't you understand?" he cried fiercely. "I may not be dead after all. Remember grandfather! And Biggs—if that bell rings, get help—quick!"

  Suddenly releasing his hold, McMas-ters fell back limply among the pillows.

  All through the long night the faith-^ ful Biggs maintained a sleepless vigil, but the banker lay as immovable as a stone. When the rosy-cheeked dawn came peeping audaciously through the casements, Biggs drew the heavy curtains tightly shut once more.

  Not until the doctor's motor whirled away did the patient rouse from his lethargy.

  Apparently strengthened by his deep stupor he spoke, and Biggs stood instantly beside him.

  "What did the doctor say?"

  Biggs hesitated.

  "Out with it, I'm no chicken-hearted weakling."

  "Nothing much," admitted Biggs, sadly. "He only shook his head very gravely."

  "He doesn't understand this family malady any more than the old quack who allowed my grandfather to be buried alive," said McMasters almost fiercely.

  Biggs shuddered and put a trembling hand to his eyes.

  "What ails me, Biggs?" almost plaintively. "No one knows. This fever has

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  baffled the scientists for years. When you fall into a comatose condition they call it suspended animation. That's the best thing they do—find names for diseases. My family doctor doesn't have any more of an idea about this malady than you or I. The average physician is just a guesser. He guesses you have a fever and prescribes a remedy, hoping that it will hit the spot. If it doesn't he looks wise, wags his head—and tries something else on you. Maybe it works and maybe it doesn't. The only thing my guesser is absolutely sure of is that if I live or if I die, he will collect a princely fee for his services."

  Biggs remained statuesque during the pause.

  "Gad," McMasters broke out again testily, "if I fiddled around in my business like that I'd be a pauper in a month."

  "But the doctor says you're coming On," ventured Biggs.

  "Sure he does," answered the banker with a sneer. "That's his stock in trade. I know that line of palaver. Secretly, he knows I am as liable to be dead as alive when he comes again."

  "Oh, sir, you aren't going to die!"

  "Thafs what I'm afraid of, Biggs. But they'll call me dead and go ahead and embalm me and make sure of it"

  "Oh, sir, I wish "

  "Now remember, Biggs," broke in the sick man, "shoot the first undertaker that tries to put that mummy stuff in my veins."

  "I understand perfectly, sir," answered Biggs, fearful lest the other's excitement might again give him a turn for the worse.

  "I know I'm apparently going to pass away. My father and grandfather both bad this cussed virus in their veins, and

  I don't believe either of them was dead when he was pronounced so!"

  "Well, if by any chance—that is, if you," began Biggs desperately, "if you are apparently—dead—why not have them keep your body here in the house for a time?"

  "Convention, formality, custom, hidebound law!" the banker fairly frothed. "The health authorities would come here with an army and see that I was buried. No, Biggs, I've got a fine crypt out there, all quiet and secure, good ventilation, electric lights, like a pullman berth—and a push-button. That precludes all notoriety. It's secret and safe. The electrician who installed the apparatus died four years ago. So you and I, alone, possess this knowledge."

  "Don't you think someone else should know of it too? Your attorney, or "

  "No, Biggs. If I really am dead I don't want anyone to write up my eccentricities for some Sunday magazine sheet. And if I do come back, then it will be time to tell the gaping public about my cleverness."

  "I wish you weren't so—so cold-blooded about it all, sir."

  "I have always hit straight from the shoulder, Hiram, and I'm facing this death business as I'd face any other proposition. I'm not ready to cash in, and if I can cheat the doctors, undertakers, lawyers, heirs, and chief mourners for a few more years, I'm going to do it. And don't forget poor old granddad. He might have been up and about yet had be but used my scheme."

  Biggs turned away, sick at heart. 11 was too terrible beyond words. To him his religion was as essential as daily bread. Death was the culmination of cherished belief and constant prayer. As his years declined he had faced the inevitable day with simple faith that when the

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  summons came he would go gladly, like him "who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams." With throbbing heart he listened for another torrent of words that would still further stab his sensitive soul; for he had loved and revered his master from his youth up.

  But no words came. He wheeled about The massive head had fallen limply among the pillows. Pallid lips were trying to form sentences without result. Then the great body seemed to subside immeasurably deeper into the covers and a death-like stillness fell upon the room.

  Intuitively feeling that his master was worse than at any previous relapse, Biggs made every effort to revive him, gently at first, and then by vigorously shaking and calling to him in a heart-broken, piteous voice. But to no avail. The heavy figure looked pallid and corpse-like under the snowy sheets.

  Loag hours dragged by, and still the lonely old servant sat mutely beside the bed, only aroused, at last, by the peremptory, measured call of the telephone bell.

  "Yes," said Biggs in a quavering voice. "Oh yes, Doctor Meredith, Master's resting easy. Don't think you'll need to come until tomorrow."

  *TB keep them away as long as I can," he muttered, as he slippe
d back to his vigil. 'Xjod grant—maybe hell come back—and take up the work of the Master, so long delayed. Oh God! If Thou woukkt only take me in his stead!"

  Sleeping fitfully, Biggs sat dumbly through an interminable night, but the new day brought no reassuring sign from the inert form. The stillness was appalling. The other servants were quartered in a distant part of the mansion and only came when summoned. Again Biggs assured the physician that he could gain nothing by calling, and another awful

  night found him, ashen and distraught, at the bedside. Sometime in the still watches he swooned and kindly nature patched up his shredded nerves, before consciousness once more aroused him. But the strain was more than he could bear. So when the anxious specialist came, unbidden, he found a shattered old watchman who broke down completely and babbled forth the whole mysterious tale, concealing nothing but the secret of the tomb.

  In a coffin previously made to order, they laid the unembalmed remains of Judson McMasters in the family mausoleum, and the world which had felt his masterful presence for so many years paused long enough to lay a costly tribute on his bier and then went smoothly on its way.

  Not so with the faithful Biggs. Ensconced in his master's bedroom, he nightly tossed in troubled sleep, filled with the jangling of innumerable electric bells. And when—on the tenth night, after he had been somewhat reassured that all was well—he was suddenly awakened by a mad, incessant ringing from the hidden alarm, a deathly weakness overcame him and it was some time before he was able to drag his palsied body from the bed. With fumbling, clumsy fingers he tried to hasten, but it was many minutes before he tottered, half dressed, out of the room. And as he did so, his heart almost stood still, then mounted to his throat as if to choke him.

  "Biggs!"—a voice—McMaster's voice was calling.

  He staggered to the head of the wide, massive stairway and looked down. There stood the banker, pale, emaciated, but smiling.

  And then, as from an endless distance, came more words:

  "I forgot to tell you that I had a trap-

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  doot in the end of the casket. When you didn't answer the bell, I found I could come alone."

  With an inarticulate cry, Biggs stretched out his trembling arms.

  "My Master, I am coming now." Then he swayed, stumbled, clutched feebly at the rail and plunged headlong to the foot of the stairs, a crumpled, lifeless form.

  Vhe r

  ecret of Kralits

  By HENRY KUTTNER

  A story of the shocking revelation that came to the twenty-first Baron Kralitz

  I AWOKE from profound sleep to find two black-swathed forms stand-mg silently beside me, their faces pale blurs in the gloom. As I blinked to deal my sleep-dimmed eyes, one of them beckoned impatiently, and suddenly I realized the purpose of this midnight summons. For years I had been expecting it, ever since my father, the Baron Kralitz, had revealed to me the secret and the corse that hung over our ancient house. And so, without a word, I rose and followed my guides as they led me along the gloomy corridors of the castle that had been my home since birth.

  As I proceeded there rose up in my mind the stern face of my father, and in my ears rang his solemn words as he told me of the legendary curse of the House of Kralitz, the unknown secret that was imparted to the eldest son of each generation—at a certain time.

  "When?" I had asked my father as he lay oa his death-bed, fighting back the approach of dissolution.

  "When you are able to understand," he had told me, watching my face in-

  tently from beneath his tufted white brows. "Some are told the secret sooner than others. Since the first Baron Kralitz the secret has been handed down "

  He clutched at his breast and paused. It was fully five minutes before he had gathered his strength to speak again in his rolling, powerful voice. No gasping, death-bed confessions for the Baron Kralitz!

  He said at last, "You have seen the ruins of the old monastery near the village, Franz. The first Baron burnt it and put the monks to the sword. The Abbot interfered too often with the Baron's whims. A girl sought shelter and the Abbot refused to give her up at the Baron's demand. His patience was at an end—ycai know the tales they still tell about him.

  "He slew the Abbot, burned the monastery, and took the girl. Before he died the Abbot cursed his slayer, and cursed his sons for unborn generations. And it is the nature of this curse that is the secret of our house.

  "I may not tell you what the curse is.

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  Do not seek to discover it before it is revelled to you. Wait patiently, and in due time you will be taken by the warders of the secret down the stairway to the underground cavern. And then you will learn the secret of Kralitz."

  As the last word passed my father's lips he died, his stern face still set in its harsh lines.

  Deep in my memories, I had not noticed our path, but now the dark forms of my guides paused beside a gap in the stone flagging, where a stairway which I had never seen during my wanderings about the castle led into subterranean depths. Down this stairway I was conducted, and presently I came to realize that there was light of a sort—a dim, phosphorescent radiance that came from no recognizable source, and seemed to be less actual light than the accustoming of my eyes to the near-darkness.

  I went down for a long time. The stairway turned and twisted in the rock, and the bobbing forms ahead were my only relief from the monotony of the interminable descent. And at last, deep underground, the long stairway ended, and I gazed over the shoulders of my guides at the great door that barred my path. It was roughly chiseled from the solid stone, and upon it were curious and strangely disquieting carvings, symbols which I did not recognize. It swung open, and I passed through and paused, staring about me through a gray sea of mist.

  I stood upon a gentle slope that fell away into the fog-hidden distance, from which came a pandemonium of muffled bellowing and high-pitched, shrill squeak-ings vaguely akin to obscene laughter. Dark, half-glimpsed shapes swam into sight through the haze and disappeared again, and great vague shadows swept overhead on silent wings. Almost beside

  me was a long rectangular table of stone, and at this table two score of men were seated, watching me from eyes that gleamed dully out of deep sockets. My two guides silently took their places among them.

  And suddenly the thick fog began to lift. It was swept raggedly away on the breath of a chill wind. The far dim reaches of the cavern were revealed as the mist swiftly dissipated, and I stood silent in the grip of a mighty fear, and, strangely, an equally potent, unaccountable thrill of delight. A part of my mind seemed to ask, "What horror is this?" And another part whispered, "You know this place!"

  But I could never have seen it before. If I had realized what lay far beneath the castle I could never have slept at night for the fear that would have obsessed me. For, standing silent with conflicting tides of horror and ecstasy racing through me, I saw the weird inhabitants of the underground world.

  Demons, monsters, unnamable things! Nightmare colossi strode bellowing through the murk, and amorphous gray things like giant slugs walked upright on stumpy legs. Oeatures of shapeless soft pulp, beings with flame-shot eyes scat-terred over their misshapen bodies like fabled Argus, writhed and twisted there in the evil glow. Winged things that were not bats swooped and fluttered in the tenebrous air, whispering sibilantly— whispering in human voices.

  Far away at the bottom of the slope 1 could see the chill gleam of water, a hidden, sunless sea. Shapes mercifully almost hidden by distance and the semi-darkness sported and cried, troubling the surface of the lake, the size of which I could only conjecture. And a flapping thing whose leathery wings stretched like a tent above my head swooped and hovered for a moment, staring with flam-

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  36$

  ing eyes, and then darted off and was lost in the gloom.

  Aad all the while, as I shuddered with fear and loathing, within me was thi
s evil glee—this voice which whispered, "You know this place! You belong here! Is it not good to be home?"

  I glanced behind me. The great door had swung silently shut; and escape was impossible. And then pride came to my aid. 1 was a Kralitz, And a Kralitz would not acknowledge fear in the face of the devil himself!

  I stepped forward and confronted the warders, who were still seated regarding me intently from eyes in which a smoldering fire seemed to burn. Fighting down an insane dread that I might find before me an array of fleshless skeletons, I stepped to the head of the table, where there was a sort of crude throne, and peeted closely at the silent figure on my right.

  It was no bare skull at which I gazed, but a bearded, deadly-pale face. The curved, voluptuous lips were crimson, looking almost rouged, and the dull eyes stared through me bleakly. Inhuman agony had etched itself in deep lines on the white face, and gnawing anguish smoldered in die sunken eyes. I cannot hope to convey the utter strangeness, the atmosphere of unearthliness that surrounded him, almost as palpable as the fetid tomb-stench that welled from his dark garments. He waved a black-swathed arm to the vacant seat at the head of the table, and I sat down.

  This nightmare sense of unreality! I seemed to be in a dream, with a hidden part of my mind slowly waking from sleep into evil life to take command of my faculties. The table was set with old-fashioned goblets and trenchers such as had not been used for hundreds of years. There was meat on the trenchers, and red

  liquor in the jeweled goblets. A heady, overpowering fragrance swam up into my nostrils, mixed with the grave-smell of my companions and the musty odor of a dank and sunless place.

  Every white face was turned to me, faces that seemed oddly familiar, although I did not know why. Each face was alike in its blood-red, sensual lips and its expression of gnawing agony, and burning black eyes like the abysmal pits of Tartarus stared at me until I felt the short hairs stir on my neck. But—I was a Kralitz! I stood up and said boldly in archaic German that somehow came familiarly from my lips, "I am Franz, twenty-first Baron Kralitz. What do you want with me?"

  A murmur of approval went around the long table. There was a stir. From the foot of the board a huge bearded man arose, a man with a frightful scar that made the left side of his face a horror of healed white tissue. Again the odd thrill of familiarity ran through me; I had seen that face before, and vaguely I remembered looking at it through dim twilight.