by The Vampires
“Free, free at last,” she cried in her cracked voice as she moved away. He tried to stop her, but his movements were sluggish. He grasped the stone pillar for support. She paused in an archway and raised her thin hands with the long yellow fingernails.
“Free at last. You will not trap me again,” she cried. And she limped out of sight. Dazed, he hung onto the pillar to keep from falling, then staggered after her.
“Wait, wait,” he called. His own voice seemed to come from a distance. It was hard to move, like going through a deep swamp. He stumbled, caught himself, reached the wall, and using it for support he dragged himself to the archway where he had last seen her. It seemed to take ages before he got there. He peered in and a blaze of light startled him. He squinted, trying to make out what was ahead.
There were many candles set all over the large room in dozens of candelabra and wall scones. He had the impression of gold furniture—a golden couch and flowers of all kinds in dozens of vases, giving off rich perfume. “It was the throne room, a huge ornate place, filled with hundreds of burning candles and thousands of flowers,” Old Mozz had said.
And standing in the midst of the blazing candlelight and the banks of red, gold, and purple flowers was a shimmering golden object: a figure, a woman. He seemed to be seeing her through a mist, but as he staggered nearer he could see her more clearly. She was a beautiful young woman with long shining blonde hair, large luminous eyes, smiling red lips, gleaming white teeth. She was clad in a shimmering robe—“a shimmering robe that seemed to reveal yet conceal the perfect ivory body beneath.” Was she real, or like a mirage in the desert?
As he neared her, she moved gracefully behind a low table and she laughed, a low musical sound. He leaned on the table and, reaching across, touched her cheek lightly. It was smooth and soft, the skin of a young woman. She was real. Her eyes were bright, and her quick breathing and the rapid rise and fall of her bosom revealed excitement.
“Not too close,” she said, drawing away. “Where have you come from, mysterious stranger in the night?”
The room seemed to be turning. She was turning with it. If both would only stop for a moment. If he could get his hands on her, find some reality in this weird dream. He reached again and almost fell. His strength was draining from him. This time she reached him, and her touch was light as a butterfly.
“Let me help you. Come this way, poor man. You are so tired ... so tired.”
Her voice was a gentle whisper. She took his arm and led him slowly across the room as he clutched at furniture to keep from falling. He brushed against candelabra and vases as he went, leaving a trail of burning candles and flowers on the floor behind him. This amused her and she laughed as each fell.
“Oh, you poor man, so tired and weak. You need rest,” she whispered, and there was a promise of love and passion in her voice. He let her lead him, because her touch was gentle and her voice was soft with pleasure and promise. They reached an opening of some sort.
“One more step, precious man. One more step, mystery man of my dreams. One more step, lover.”
He took one more step and suddenly her touch was gone as he pitched into the night air, falling headlong to where he landed with a loud splash. Her light laughter followed him. Then all blacked out as he sank into the dark waters of the moat. Never trust a witch.
Sometime later, he opened his eyes. A voice was ringing in his ears, a young fresh voice, saying, “One more step, lover.” He looked up. A full moon was riding high overhead. He moved his head slightly, an effort since it throbbed and ached. A large figure was beside him. Pale eyes gleamed in the moonlight. A large tongue licked his hand. Devil.
He sat up slowly, moving his hands over his body, feeling for wounds or broken bones. None. He was soaking wet from head to foot. The moat ... he saw that he was sitting a few feet from the edge of the dark water. He dimly remembered falling in. Had he climbed out? He felt bruises on his forearm. He examined them. Devil’s teeth marks. He looked at the mud and grass at the edge of the moat, and understood. Devil had pulled him out. The rat chase had ended, and the wolf had found his master. Just in time, it seemed. He patted the big animal. Devil had saved his life.
He sat quietly for a moment. He was still dizzy; his head ached, his mouth was dry, his stomach queasy. He remembered the mist, that sweet-sick smell of dying flowers, the walls and ceiling turning. Had some kind of natural effluvium from an unknown fungus in the stones poisoned the air? Or a man-made gas, some sort of nerve gas intended to kill him? And those extraordinary scenes in the chambers—had they really happened? First, the old hag chained to the stone pillar, moaning and wailing and calling his name. Then the weird kiss, the chains falling off as if by magic, accompanied by a clap of thunder. The musty scent, the parchmentlike skin. Yes, he could remember all that.
And that second scene of the room ablaze with candles and flowers. And that fantastic transformation from hag to beauty ... he could still hear her laughter and her soft voice whispering, “one more step, precious man. One more step, lover.” Then the pitch into space and the cold water of the moat. He could recall his last thought as he hit the water—never trust a witch.
It was all like the old legend. He had freed the witch of Hanta with a kiss and given back what his ancestor had taken away three hundred years before—her freedom, her youth, and her beauty. Had it all been a dream, a drug-induced hallucination? He had a fantastic thought. Had this been the true purpose behind the plague of vampires, all the scares, the attacks, the murders? All arranged by the ancient, chained witch to draw him from the Skull Cave in the Deep Woods—to lure him thousands of miles into the decaying cellars of Hanta to free her with a kiss? He shook himself. A ridiculous notion.
He lay back and rested in the grass, breathing deeply of the fresh night air as strength flowed back into his body and his head cleared. It all had to be a kind of drugged nightmare inspired by the old Phantom Chronicle and these ancient ruins. But wait, he told himself, those children of Piotr as well as others had claimed to have seen the witch in this place. Had they all gone through a similar drugged experience, or was it all imagination?
Now look, he told himself almost angrily, stop woolgathering and think straight. If there was some sort of nerve gas in the corridor, how did it get there. From fungus in the walls? Or man-made? And that earlier business in the torture chamber, the wax dummy in the coffin. Who had arranged that? And what on earth did vampires have to do with a witch? That combination had always puzzled him. What had happened to Chief Peta after he fled? Was he back in his office gulping brandy? If so, he might have told the story to his angry aide, Sergeant Malo, which would bring him roaming about in the ruins. Too many questions. It was time to get back into the ruins and get some answers. He started to get to his feet, feeling automatically for his guns in their holsters. The guns were * gone.
Had they fallen into the moat when he fell? Possibly. They were not held too tightly in the holsters in order to permit a fast draw. Whatever was waiting inside these ruins, it would be wiser to have his guns back. He must try to find them. He still had his slim flashlight. He turned on the narrow beam briefly to find the marks on the muddy shore where Devil had dragged him from the water. As the wolf watched, he stepped into the dark water at this point. There was a steep drop-off. He looked up and could see the opening in the wall from which he had fallen. This would be the place. He dove into the water, remembering his ancestor’s words about the moat, “swarming with various small and loathsome things, some with tentacles. . . His ancestor had “dispatched several bolder creatures with my dagger . . The Phantom still had his knife, tucked in his boot, and drew it in case he was attacked. But nothing came his way. Perhaps by this time, nothing survived in the old moat.
He dove down some ten or twelve feet below the surface and explored the muddy bottom with his hands. Though he found many objects—bottles, pieces of carved stone, some metal utensils perhaps of another age, and other things the nature of which he could no
t guess—there were no guns. He made repeated attempts, but in vain. As he felt about in the muck, he moved a heavy stone. Some material or fabric that was under the stone floated up.
He finally returned to the surface, giving up the-search. Possibly in the daylight, he could find the guns if they were there. But perhaps they weren’t there at all. Had they fallen out in the room above? Or had the witch taken them? He remembered her brushing against him. He sat on the bank, soaking wet and chilled by the cold night air. He couldn’t wait for daylight. What had to be done must be done quickly. The vampires, whoever they were, must know about him. They’d left the dummy and the lighted torches. They must have seen Chief Peta flee.
Some cloth was sticking to his wet leg, probably the stuff that had floated up from the bottom when he moved the stone. He pulled it off absently. It was nothing of interest to him. His mind was elsewhere. But there was something familiar about this stuff ... a certain rough wrinkled texture. And something else like grass or string. He hurriedly shone his light on the wet clump, then unfolded it and smoothed it out. For a moment, his mind reeled.
It was a kind of mask, the sort one. might wear to a costume party. It was a mask that covered the entire head like a sack, and it had long stringy white hair attached to it. Even in its collapsed, soaked condition, it was clearly the mask of an old woman with wrinkled yellowish grainy skin like parchment. The eyeholes were empty, but it was easy to visualize the glittering eyes behind them. It was the face of the ancient witch of Hanta.
Chapter 16
The Phantom felt such relief he almost laughed aloud. The world was making sense again. He had been weakened and drugged by some kind of gas. But the rest had been no dream. The “old witch” had been chained to the stone pillar, had shed her hag disguise and disgarded it in the moat, reappearing as the beautiful young vision. What a stunt! But why? Who was doing all this? Obviously, someone who knew the legend of the Phantom and the witch of Hanta. Someone who knew about the “blood-drinking demons” of that faraway time.
He was beginning to see the picture. Those men—Hans and the others from that big shiny car—trying to scare away the farmers and get their land cheaply, using the old superstitious fears of vampires for the purpose. That all appeared to be a fact, but it all seemed too easy. Big corporations, even unethical ones, did not ordinarily use such weird methods. They had more normal ways of persuasion such as mortgages, foreclosures, or the simple roughhouse tactics of hired goons. Why all this vampire mumbo-jumbo? And why create such fear of the witch of Hanta-Hunda. Was it to keep people away from these ruins? How did that fit in with the land grabbers? Too many questions.... It was time to find some answers.
He got up and walked along the moat, looking for a stone path across it. Devil moved silently at his side. As he reached the pile of stones that served as a bridge, there was a shot. A bullet whizzed past near him. Instantly, he dropped to the ground. Devil flattened in the grass. The Phantom was not hit, but he was outraged. He knew that sound. The bullet had been from one of his own guns. They were not in the muck at the bottom of the moat. All of his diving and probing in that filthy water had been wasted. The “witch” had taken his guns. He had a memory of that beautiful young face as he had last seen her. Were his guns in her hands now?
He watched the full moon as it traveled silently across the sky. There was a bank of clouds ahead, and the moon sailed into them like a galleon into a fog. The sky darkened. He jumped to his feet and sped over the bridge into the rains. Two more shots whizzed close as he ducked behind a broken wall. Whoever was shooting was no beginner. Even in the dark and at a gallop, those bullets had barely missed him.
He crawled along the broken wall, Devil following closely. From the direction of the gunshots, he knew he had cover here. The night remained dark as he ran in a crouch from wall to boulder to pillar to rock heap. For one moment, the moon revealed him by peeking through the cloud cover, and once more the gun fired, hitting the stone two inches above his head. How infuriating to be hunted with his own gun! His faithful weapon that had served him so well in numerous tight spots. It was almost as if it had betrayed him. He grinned at that thought. I’d better get this whole business settled, he told himself, before I go balmy, blaming my gun.
He was near the front of the ruins, where he had first entered. In the distance on the roads, in that same patch of moonlight, he saw the little jalopy of Chief Peta parked, it seemed, ages ago. Then the chief had not driven away. In his panic, had he not stopped to get in the car? The Phantom thought back. Yes, he had given the ignition key to him when they got out. Or had the chief failed to escape from the ruins? That was a worrisome thought. Had they caught him?
He reached the old stone staircase and went down to the iron door. It was half-open. Whoever was tending this place had grown careless. Or maybe they were no longer worried about visitors. He moved silently down the familiar dark corridor, passed the cell that served as his hideout, and went on toward the light that now flickered in the distance. As he and Devil approached the torture chamber, they heard voices. Several mocking, one desperate. There seemed to be no effort at secrecy now. The place was wide-open. He peered around a corner to look into the big chamber and was astonished at the scene.
There were a half-dozen men dressed in the black out fits of the vampires—capes, big broad hats kerchiefs masking their eyes, fangs protruding from their lips. A half-dozen torches burned on the walls. The black clad figures were crowded about a device. It was the big metal and wood frame known as the rack. Lying flat on his back on the tilted frame was Chief Ivor Peta.
His hands were tied by the wrists to a cylinder above his head. His legs were tied by the ankles to a cylinder below his feet. One of the black-clad figures was slowly, inch by inch, turning a big wheel that revolved the two cylinders. The effect of this was to stretch the victim, in this case Chief Peta. This torture device, a relic of the Middle Ages, had been used by inquisitors in many nations to extract information. If the stretching continued, the arms and legs were pulled out of their joints—a most horrible and painful torture ending in death. The black-clad figures were using the old device for its old purpose.
“Who was Mr. Walker?” said one in a heavy, guttural voice.
“I don’t know. I told you I don’t know,” cried Chief Peta in pain.
“Don’t lie. He came from that place, Bangalla. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you send for him?”
“No, no, I never heard of him.”
“Do you know Walker is not his name?”
“No, no. Stop!”
“We won’t stop until you tell us the truth.”
“I told you.”
“You told us nothing. Stop faking or we’ll pull you apart,” said the spokesman brutally. “Do you know what Mr. Walker is called?”
“Called?”
“What does the word Phantom mean to you?”
“Phantom? Ghost?”
“The truth, Peta, the truth.”
The black-clad man at the wheel gave the crank another turn and Peta screamed in agony. The Phantom had heard enough.
In three huge strides, he was among them, his iron fists flailing like triphammers. His sudden appearance caused an uproar. Some of the black-clad figures fled at the first sight of him. Others tried to fight, drawing long knives or guns. His first target was the spokesman. Next the man at the crank. Both fell like stones. Bones cracked as he flung two more men against the stone Wall. Suddenly, the shouting and panic was over. There were groans from the fallen men, moans from Peta, and the sound of distant running feet.
With quick slices of his knife, the Phantom freed Peta and helped him off the rack. He had reached him in time. No bones were broken. But the chief was exhausted and trembling.
“They caught me before I could ... before I could— “Before you could get away.”
“Yes. What were those devils doing to me?”
“Stretching you on an old torture ins
trument.”
“All about you. Why do they—do they—?”
“Care?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll find out, Chief Peta. Right now, let’s find out who they are.”
He pulled off the hat, kerchief, and fangs of the heavyset spokesman. The chief stared at him.
“Why, that’s Gunda, my third cousin.”
Gunda was the proprietor of the tavern. He’d felt the Phantom’s fist the night before.
“Your third cousin. Hmm, blood is thicker than water; evidently, it is not thicker than dirt.”
“Dirt?”
“Land or whatever these hoodlums are after. Let’s have a look at this dandy. He was turning the crank, stretching you. He seemed to enjoy it. I heard him. Want to guess who he is?”
Peta stared with wide eyes as the Phantom removed the hat, kerchief, and fangs of the rack operator.
“Sergeant Malo!” said Peta in utter amazement.
Malo was conscious. He stared at them with angry eyes and obscenities dribbled like bile from his mouth.
“Yes, surprised me too. I thought he was just nasty. He’s certainly that, but he’s also involved with this gang.” “Gang? WTiat gang?”
“That’s what we have to find out. Is Malo related to you, too?”
“Him? No,” said Peta, contemptuous toward his assistant for the first time. “He’s not even from Koqania. He’s a foreigner,” he added, with all the scorn of a man whose people had lived in the same valley for a thousand years.
“And you made him your assistant?”
“He had good training. He was an officer in the military police of his country. We are farmers here. Such experience is rare,” said Peta. Now that he was sober and over his fear, the Phantom saw that Ivor Peta was no fool, but a solid man trying to do his job.
Peta seemed to read his thoughts.
“I guess I looked like an idiot to you. I’m not a drinker, not used to it and couldn’t hold it. But all this business had me out of my mind.”