The Altar in the Hills
and Other Weird Tales
by
Brandon Barrows
This book is a collection of works of fiction. All characters, names, places and events portrayed are fictional or are used in an imaginary manner to entertain.
Copyright © 2013 – 2014 Brandon Barrows, all rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced without the express written consent of the author and publisher, except for brief quotations for reviewers’ purposes. The scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author and publisher is unlawful and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for supporting authors’ rights.
“Suck It Up, Get It Done” first appeared in the 01 Publishing book anthology Whispers from the Abyss, October 2013.
“Seeker in the Dark” first appeared in the Cruentus Libri Press book anthology Another 100 Horrors, May 2013.
Published by Raven Warren Studios.
www.ravenwarren.com
Cover art and design by George Cotronis.
www.ravenkult.com
First edition: January, 2014.
ISBN:
Dedicated to HPL for opening my eyes
and to Elby for believing in me, even when I didn’t deserve it.
Table of Contents
The Altar in the Hills
Suck It Up, Get It Done
The Thing That Remained
Seeker in the Dark
Perchance a Dream
Lewis
Through the Ether
About the Author
The Altar in the Hills
I.
The entire sequence of events began, as is often the case, with the most innocuous of acts – in this instance, the delivery of the daily post.
Around ten-thirty in the morning on the 15th of June, 1923, Bertram Kincaid of Montville, Connecticut was at his writing desk, beginning the initial outline of a short treatise on the genealogy of one of the town’s most well to do families, the Hillhouses, and commissioned by the same. The town, having been established as a separate entity from the larger New London community in large part by the efforts of James Hillhouse a century and a half earlier, remembered him fondly as the family and town’s founding patriarch. His descendants and heirs had made much of that reputation and goodwill in the generations since and the current patriarch, William, intended to give back to the community by furnishing certain prominent citizens with the knowledge of exactly how important his family was. He needed assistance with a way to do so, however, since his own knowledge of any field beyond the spending of inherited money was severely limited.
Kincaid was exactly the man for this sort of work. Slightly past the quarter century mark in age, he retained the boyish looks he’d been praised for throughout childhood and a keen interest in history that he’d found no real outlet for since leaving behind the University of Connecticut with a diploma earned in less than three years. He had no desire to return to the world of education, either as instructor or student, but found his degree in history of little use for anything else. Thus, while earning a meager living contributing newspaper articles to various publications, strictly on a freelance basis, he gladly took up any sort of paying work that would allow him to put to use his research skills and delve into new areas of study, even those as mundane as the history of someone else’s family.
Kincaid’s study, a modest chamber on the southern side of his small, but cozy home, overlooked his garden, radiant with late spring and early summer blossoms. The open window wafted their fragrance through the room, gently rustling the stacks of research material Kincaid had organized by decades and individual Hillhouses. The knock on the front door of the house, on the opposite side of the building, broke him from the sort of happy trance he had fallen into while engrossed in his work and it was only with reluctance that he pulled himself away, rising from his desk at the second set of rapping noises.
Passing into the front hallway, Kincaid reached the door just as the knocking ceased and opened it to find his postman, Mr. Feeney, turning away to head back down the short pathway leading to the road. Upon hearing the door open, however, he paused and Kincaid asked what he could do for him.
The older man walked the few steps back to the house, a yellowed envelope in hand. “Oh, Mr. Kincaid. Thought you weren’t home. This is for you,” he said, handing his delivery to Kincaid, who turned it over in his hands, feeling the slightly grimy texture and trying to examine the nearly-unreadable return address.
“What happened to this letter, if I may?”
Feeney nodded, his eyes on the flagstones. “Well, that’s why I knocked ‘stead of just dropping it in the box, sir. The thing’s been lost, up at the big sorting facility in Boston, and the postmark’s nearly two years old so the postmaster asked me to offer our apologies personally and make sure it got to you this time.”
Kincaid had had only scant interaction with the postman, but he knew that Feeney had been performing his duties on this route for over a decade and had always seemed a conscientious sort. His awkwardness and apparently-sincere contrition served to convince the younger man of Feeney’s, and the whole of the United States Postal Service’s, regret for the error.
Smiling and reaching out to shake Feeney’s hand, Kincaid assured him of his understanding and thanked him for his diligence and thoughtfulness in bringing the epistle directly to him. The postman seemed much relieved and headed back off to the rest of his appointed rounds, nodding and smiling, satisfied of correcting someone else’s error. Kincaid closed the door and returned to his work space.
Back in his study, the young writer cleared away a spot on his battered oaken desk to examine the letter with greater detail. The paper did, indeed, look as if it had spent a great deal of time in some forgotten, dusty corner growing brittle and yellow. Water stains had smeared and obscured the return address at some point so that nothing concrete could be discerned, though the postmark was stamped Lancaster, New Hampshire and dated August 4th, 1921. The missive was addressed to “Master Bertram Kincaid” in an elaborate, almost old-fashioned handwriting that spoke both of education and a hint of pomposity and gave Kincaid his best clue as to with whom it had originated.
Tearing open the fragile envelope, Kincaid drew out a single piece of paper, thrice-folded and covered front and back with dense lines of small, neat script, and flattened it on his desk. The temporary address scrawled at the top of the letter confirmed his suspicions. It read:
Theodore Wallace
c/o Drummer Hotel
9 Church Str.
Drummer, New Hampshire
August 3rd, 1921
Master Bertram Kincaid
44 Cottonwood Lane
Montville, Connecticut
My dear Bert –
It’s been some time since I’ve written, though I did receive your letter this past Christmas and have simply not found the time to respond; churlish, I know, but I hope you won’t hold it against me.
Life has been hectic with studies at the University and especially with work progressing apace on my master’s thesis. Professor Wilmarth has taken me a bit under his wing and helped direct my researches to the proper areas of study. As you know, I’m working on a paper analyzing the integration of the old native pagan beliefs, still found in pockets around our own good old New England, with the formalized belief systems of the various Christian denominations settlers brought with them from Europe. It’s really fascinating stuff, trying to determine what tidbit came from where and Wilmarth’s extensive (though amateur, according to his own assessment) knowled
ge of New England folklore has been invaluable in focusing my work.
I’ve spent the last four months traveling to corners of Maine and New Hampshire, visiting villages scarcely changed from their founding, interviewing people who barely know it’s the twentieth century, much less have entered it. There’s a treasure trove of untapped history in these places, Bert. This is the real New England – raw and rough, with people who not only survive, but thrive away from the modern comforts we’ve grown so used to. And the things they tell me, why they’re positively arcane. Some of the stories, tales they believe as firmly as they know the sky is blue, seem so utterly naïve you’d think this was Europe in the Dark Ages, rather than the Industrial Age of the United States. Well, I suppose you’ll read all about it when my thesis is published, as I’m sure it will be.
But I’m digressing a bit from the real reason I’m writing. As you probably saw, I’m writing this from a little hamlet in the north of New Hampshire called Drummer. It’s not terribly far, as the crow flies, from Lancaster, where I’ll have to head to mail this tomorrow or the next day and maybe soak up a bit of civilization before moving on. If I recall correctly from our school days together, your own people hail from this general neck of the woods a few generations back.
I came here chasing a story about some sort of heathen altar built up in the hills that old Cotton Mather makes passing reference to in his Magnalia Christi Americana, though basically just to say good Christians should keep their distance. I couldn’t find any other mention of it in Miskatonic’s library and when I mentioned it to Wilmarth, the fact that even he knew very little about it piqued my interest a good deal. Well, the folks here are quaint, to say the least, and mostly friendly though it took more than a bit of coaxing to get any information at all about this hunk of stone.
They don’t get many visitors and mentioning the thing just shut everyone down at first – fearing the thing is regarded as the healthiest attitude towards it. Once they warmed up to me, with the introduction of a sympathetic local, I at least found out its location and took a little visit up there myself, though I couldn’t see what the big to do was. It’s certainly man-made, but it’s not covered in Satanic script or anything and the area it’s in is really quite pleasant. Supposedly it’s a different story under the light of a full moon; they tell me it becomes a demon-haunted place where the foulest of rituals are practiced. Nobody who’d talk to me has seen anything for themselves, of course – it’s just one of those things they take as a given. I’ve been here over a week now and I haven’t decided if I’ll stay to find out the truth for myself, though the full moon is coming up in a few days or so.
Well, Bert, old boy, I should be wrapping this up. I’m sorry if I bored you with my scribblings, but I did owe you a letter and being so close to your homeland made me feel even guiltier.
I hope this letter finds you well and busy enough that my lack of writing didn’t sour you on your old chum Ted. I plan to spend a couple weeks traveling down through Vermont, on Wilmarth’s advice, and on my way home to Arkham, I’ll take the long way around and circle down to you for a visit. If all goes to plan, I’ll be seeing you sometime in mid-September and I’ll be sure to bring along a jug of that hard cider I know you love.
With warmest regards,
Theodore Wallace
While reading, Kincaid couldn’t help but smile. Ted Wallace was a friend from his college days who’d gone on to pursue further study at the prestigious Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts, and before long become what was known as a career student. Over the course of the last several years and a few dozen letters, interspersed with rare visits, Kincaid had watched as Wallace changed his educational focus from literature to history, to philosophy, to theology and now, apparently, to some hybrid of all those disciplines. From the tone of the letter, he was quite enjoying it, too, and Kincaid hoped his friend had found whatever information he’d been looking for.
His smile faded, however, when he remembered that this letter had been dated nearly two years ago and that the promised visit had never occurred. Kincaid had, indeed, written to Wallace around Christmas of ’20 and again that following summer with no response to either note. It actually had vexed him somewhat, for a while at least, but Kincaid had gotten on with his own life and assumed his friend would write back in good time. It was slight comfort to know that Ted had responded, eventually.
Kincaid briefly considered composing a written response but, after the delay of Wallace’s letter in reaching him, decided instead on a telegram. He telephoned the local Western Union office, dictating a brief message asking his friend to get in touch at his earliest convenience, directed to his Arkham address. Afterwards, Kincaid tried to return to work on his commission, but found his mind too disorganized and opted for a walk into town.
He set out for the town proper, distracted by thoughts of various scenarios that could have befallen his friend and did his utmost to dismiss the most outrageous ones. As comparatively wild as the areas Wallace had visited were, they were still contained within the wholesome and sane regions of long-settled New England, not some forgotten South American or African jungle. Kincaid forced himself to laugh at his own foolishness whenever the increasingly ridiculous visions appeared to him and the other diners at the little cafeteria on Union Street cast sideways glances at him each time.
Returning to his home around three in the afternoon, Kincaid was surprised, but pleased, to find a telegram envelope pinned to his doorway. He’d expected no response for at least a day or two; apparently his note had not only found Wallace, but perhaps jolted him into realization of his own rudeness at ignoring a supposedly good friend. Despite himself, Kincaid grinned as he tore open the small, yellow envelope, anticipating yet another apology for the lack of communication. It died as quickly as his eyes absorbed the scanty message.
REGRET TO INFORM - WALLACE ABSENT SINCE SPRING ’21. NO FORWARDING ADDRESS. WHO CAN COLLECT HIS BELONGINGS?
PATRICIA MORRILL
Mrs. Morrill was Wallace’s landlady, whom Kincaid had met on a couple different occasions while visiting Arkham. The fact that she’d not seen or heard from Wallace since around the time, according to his letter, he’d begun his travels was worrying and the fact that she seemed only concerned with being rid of his things left behind was angering, if only briefly. Kincaid decided he couldn’t blame her on that front, however; Wallace was her renter, not her child, and he supposed she had tenants come and go on a regular basis. Best not to become too attached and so forth.
Realizing he’d been standing on the doorstep for some time, Kincaid let himself inside and quietly closed the door behind him, gears churning in his mind. Before this morning, he hadn’t thought about Ted Wallace in months; now, worry over his fate threatened to consume him. It was an odd thing how old allegiances, regardless of how long dormant, could come to the forefront again as strong as ever. He and Ted had once been the best of friends all through school and even after; until Wallace’s disappearance, they remained close despite the distance and relative infrequency of contact.
Kincaid caught himself at the thought of Wallace as having “disappeared.” The idea had crept into his mind without his notice and he didn’t care for it, much as the evidence available to him pointed in that direction. He shook his head slightly, as if to cast the offending concept away, and he headed towards his study. He stopped at the door, however, and instead turned back the way he’d come, entering the front room where he dialed a long distance telephone call before he could dwell on the cost or the absurdness of his worry.
The operator connected him to Miskatonic University, where he asked the switchboard girl to kindly connect him with Professor Albert Wilmarth of the English department. She informed him that Wilmarth did not have his own telephone line, but took a message and assured Kincaid that she would have the professor call him when he had time. Thanking her, Kincaid disconnected and returned, once again, to his study where he spent a fruitless hour attempting to wor
k on the Hillhouse family history.
The passing of another ninety minutes found Kincaid gazing out of the window near his desk, admiring how the setting sun cast a splendid array of golden light and crisp shadows through the spread of his garden, when the ringing of the telephone broke his half-dreaming reverie. He leapt from his seat and made his way to the front room with considerable haste, lifting the ‘phone’s receiver before the second ring had quite finished.
“This is Kincaid,” he answered and exchanged some minor pleasantries with Professor Wilmarth, thanking him sincerely for taking the time to return his call before explaining his concern for Wallace after receiving the delayed letter.
Wilmarth confided that he, too, held concerns for Wallace but unfortunately had not heard anything from his erstwhile protégé in some time, either.
“We discussed his travel plans in great detail,” he continued. “Ted seemed quite pleased I was able to suggest specific places for him to conduct his research and together we made a list of villages and towns in out of the way places that I considered best-suited to the kind of things he wanted to hear about.
“He set off in mid-April and made a stop in Kingsport, a bit north of here, before taking a train up to Portland where he hired a car so as to more freely explore the interior. Maine’s got quite a few little hamlets scattered about that only rarely have outside contact, and I know he found a few gems up there; he sent me notes whenever he passed through a town with a real post office, and they were all very excited. From what he told me, it seemed like he was having the time of his life.
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