“Once he passed into New Hampshire, the letters got a bit farther apart – he’d been sending about one a week or so, which I gathered was the average length he spent in each place. Not really surprising, though; the north hills of New Hampshire aren’t too well-populated and I doubt there were many real post offices to be found. He’d only use those, you know. He didn’t trust a general store to pass along the mail of some stranger passing through. Even in this day and age, suspicion of outsiders runs deep in those kinds of places. There’s a real sense of tribalism in those isolated little communities that men like you and I just can’t truly grasp.
“Anyway, the last I heard from Ted, he was spending time in a place called Drummer and he said that he’d found not only some wonderful tales, but an actual physical remnant of some old culture. We’d talked about this supposed altar up there before he left, but I never guessed he’d really find it. Some time, when I’ve got a chance to get away, I’d like to see it for myself.”
Throughout this, Kincaid had been listening intently, but not hearing anything he deemed of importance. When Wilmarth mentioned Drummer, however, his instincts went wild and that part of the brain responsible for intuition matched up perfectly with the logical mind.
“Drummer, you say…” he began and explained to the academic how the letter he, too, had received from Wallace had been written during his stay in that village. He gave Wilmarth every detail Wallace had provided and, when the professor had a moment to digest it, finished by telling him how Wallace had promised to visit but never arrived.
“Yes, that is strange,” Wilmarth agreed. “He spoke very highly of you. Thought you and I would get along quite nicely, actually. Well, unfortunately, though,” he paused and cleared his throat, resuming in a tone drenched in awkwardness. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to end this. It’s getting rather late and we’ve talked long enough that I’ll end up having to explain this bill to the department head. Please do let me know if you hear from Ted, though. I’ll be as eager for news as I imagine you are.”
Kincaid thanked the professor once again for his time and promised to contact him as soon as he knew anything, then hung up the telephone and sat down to brood in the growing darkness.
The pieces he’d gathered fit together in a way Kincaid did not care for at all. Wallace not contacting him for extended periods was not wholly out of character; he had always been a bit self-absorbed and tended to throw himself fully into projects, as evidenced by his planned tour of New England’s remote corners. Staying out of touch with Wilmarth, however, was more worrisome – as Wallace’s mentor in the field of folklore, it would not benefit him any to keep quiet on that front. And perhaps strangest of all was Wallace’s abandoning of his possessions left behind in Mrs. Morrill’s house. In another man, this might not have been unusual, but Wallace was quite materialistic, especially in regards to the dozens of rare books and manuscripts he’d collected over the years and spent huge quantities of his family estate on. He had even, during their college days, managed to obtain a battered and rat-eaten copy of the Necronomicon, and the two of them had spent more than a few nights shivering with delightful fear as they translated the faded Latin script. There was no way Wallace would permanently leave his treasures by choice.
Kincaid sat in the dark, pondering, until well past midnight. Wallace had no family his friend was aware of; that no one had investigated his disappearance, as Kincaid was now convinced it was, for nearly two years proved that if Wallace had kin, they were not close, anyway. He didn’t know who his friend’s compatriots at the university might be beyond Wilmarth, and it was obvious from their discourse that the professor, while concerned, had a life and probably family of his own to worry about. That left Kincaid and Mrs. Morrill, the landlady, to worry about Wallace; he laughed sardonically at the woman’s telegram.
No, there was only Kincaid himself.
II.
A train of an older style carried Kincaid from Manchester, New Hampshire’s largest city, north to Lancaster. He was actually rather surprised to learn that the town had a train station, but it was explained by a fellow passenger that Lancaster’s main industry was lumber and that it was a necessity. Kincaid was more than glad to hear it, having imagined bumping along rustic back roads in some hired coach.
Before leaving Montville he’d contacted his client, William Hillhouse, and begged a deadline extension, citing the need to clear up a personal problem and offering a discount on the service that he could ill-afford. Hillhouse blustered and made a show of being disappointed with Kincaid’s “lack of commitment and professionalism,” but it was obvious that he was secretly pleased with the idea of paying less than previously agreed for his vanity project. In the end, he magnanimously granted Kincaid’s request and wished him well on his journey.
Two days by rail from Montville to Manchester were followed by another day ending in Lancaster, putting Kincaid within proverbial throwing distance of Drummer, thirty some-odd miles further east into the hills. He spent the night in an elderly, but comfortable, hotel on the main drag where he learned both that a bus route traveled between Lancaster and Drummer and, from the guest register, that Wallace had stayed here for a single night the day after his letter had been written.
Morning saw Kincaid waiting for the bus bright and early, his single traveling bag in hand, though disappointed when he learned from the driver that Drummer was the second stop on the line and that he must sit through a trip somewhat north, to the town of Littleton, before the route swung back towards the southeast and his goal. Three hours of jouncing ride along bumpy roads, past dense and mostly-untouched New England greenery, brought him to the little village; a parting warning from the driver left him with the knowledge that the bus only ran this way three times a week. It being Wednesday, if Kincaid missed the Friday pick up, he would be stuck until Monday or have to find his own way back to civilization. Kincaid nodded his understanding and bid the driver safe travels.
The day was warm and sunny and the time shortly after noon; Kincaid stretched his cramped legs, back and arms and took in the sights around him. The village was quaint and seemed to have a slightly dreamy quality – as if it was not so much a real place as what he’d imagined such a place would look like. A few villagers passed by him on the hard-packed dirt street and seemed mildly curious, if not actively inquisitive. A young couple, in response to his inquiry, directed him a street over to the Drummer Hotel, the only public lodgings in the area.
He found the place situated between an apparently-permanently closed up cobbler shop on one side and a private residence on the other and across from the church that gave the street its name. The church seemed to be the best-kept building in the village, as is often the case in such places. By contrast, the Drummer Hotel was an ancient affair with a sagging gambrel roof and peaked gables and appeared it could have pre-dated the settling of the area, it was so old. Had there been any other option, he would not have trusted to stay under that decrepit roof.
Kincaid entered the shabby lobby, placing his bag on the floor by the desk, and looked around for anyone who appeared employed there. No bell was in sight, but cautious calls of “hello” eventually brought an elderly man in a faded uniform out of the back room, who deigned to ask under what name he’d like to register.
“Bertram Kincaid,” he answered, utterly unprepared for the response.
“Kincaid?!” the old man spat, his formerly bored countenance transforming into one of disgust. “Finally come back heah, have ye?”
Kincaid was confused and said so, pleading ignorance at the man’s meaning and explaining that he had never before set foot in New Hampshire, much less the village of Drummer. The old man fished a grimy pair of spectacles from somewhere beneath the counter and squinted at Kincaid.
“My mistake, then. My mistake.” He pushed the register towards the younger man. “Take my advice, though – don’t go ‘round this town proclaiming ye’self a Kincaid if ye plan to stay longuh than it’d take fuh fo
lks to run ye out.”
Kincaid signed his name and asked, “Why is that?”
“Nevah you mind!” the clerk snapped as he grabbed the heavy book from Kincaid’s grasp.
Kincaid made to protest, asking if he might peruse the book for the name of a friend who’d visited some time ago, but was refused. The old man tossed a key onto the desk and disappeared into the back area without another word, leaving Kincaid to find his room on his own. He had heard many things about these rustic New Englanders, chiefly that they were simple and superstitious, but friendly. It seemed only the former statements were true.
He lifted his solitary bag and turned towards the corner of the lobby where a narrow flight of stairs creaked its distress at his every step upwards. The key he’d been unceremoniously presented with was engraved with the number four and the room it matched was not hard to find. It seemed there were only four total and Kincaid’s was the last on the right, down a dismal, dusty corridor which showed no signs of having recently hosted any life of a higher order than dust mites.
The room was a rear one, with a single, grimy window facing out of the back of the building towards a copse of dense conifers that, despite the noonday sun, managed to cast the area behind the hotel in deep shadow. The space was furnished with cheap, filthy pieces that were probably old before Kincaid’s birth. He sighed. Humble as his own home was, it seemed a palace compared to this sad affair; he consoled himself with the idea that he would be gone from this place within a few days.
Forgoing unpacking his scant luggage, Kincaid secured the door to the room once more and headed back down to the lobby to find some sort of luncheon before beginning his investigation into the possible location of his friend and the strange doings Wallace had alluded to. Once on the first floor, however, there was no sign the hotel clerk had returned from whatever hole he was hiding in and Kincaid’s polite calls, then mild shouts, went unanswered. Unable to do anything more than shrug impotently, he pushed open the wobbly double doors of the hotel and stepped out of that dreary place back into the wholesome sunshine.
In the packed-dirt street, only a very few people could be seen going about their business, mostly of an older age who were likely retired. Kincaid wondered what occupations were available for younger people in this area, so far from any convenient place of employment. He didn’t imagine very many traveled to Lancaster on a daily basis, and he had seen no businesses in town beyond the hotel and the closed cobblers.
A passerby easily three times Kincaid’s age, stooped but cheerful, provided directions to the general store where, he said, the younger man would find the only lunch counter in town. Glad to have found an amicable soul after his experience with the hotel clerk, Kincaid thanked the man, shook his hand and introduced himself. At this, the septuagenarian recoiled as though struck and his countenance closed off as if Kincaid’s introduction had been the foulest of insults. The man turned on his heel and tottered off as quickly as he was able, ignoring Kincaid’s shock and entreaties to return. Whatever negativity was attached to the name “Kincaid” in these northern hills seemed not to be confined to the hotel clerk. Kincaid resolved, if at all possible, to be tighter lipped about his full identity.
Finding the general store easily with the directions given, Kincaid was greeted at the door by a heavyset, middle-aged fellow sweeping the wooden porch. The shopkeeper, after welcoming him to the town warmly, sent him to the back of the store where a morose girl of about sixteen, bearing a strong resemblance to the proprietor, took his order and swiftly prepared for him a simple sandwich of salt meat and an excellent local cheese. While he ate, Kincaid attempted to engage the girl in conversation about the area, but earned nothing more than the occasional grunt in response and soon gave up.
Finishing his meal, Kincaid took the bill slip the girl had slapped down on the counter to the cash register by the door, where the owner had taken up station. Kincaid paid for his meal, as well as purchasing a box of crackers and more native cheese to sustain him in the evening, as he had doubts of obtaining dinner at his hotel. Through their transaction, the storekeeper said barely a word beyond the minimum needed to conduct the business and Kincaid wondered at this change of attitude from the friendliness the man had exhibited barely twenty minutes earlier. As Kincaid exited the building, he noticed the Drummerian who’d directed him here leaning against the side of the building and knew. The old man narrowed an eye and spit a phlegmy wad into the dirt a few paces in front of the hapless young man, then turned and disappeared into the alleyway.
Word traveled fast, apparently, and if he was honest, Kincaid was not surprised. There couldn’t be more than a couple of hundred residents of Drummer, and in a place as insular as this, what one decided was true was generally upheld by his kith and kin, especially when the target was a stranger with a name of dubious local reputation. Still, both the old fellow and the storekeeper were of an older generation; surely there must be people about not so set in their ways and perhaps more open-minded. He shook his head to clear away the unpleasant experience and made his way up the street towards a cluster of buildings he’d yet to explore.
Kincaid spent the rest of the afternoon, and the early part of the evening, fruitlessly. Undertaking a systematic exploration of the village, going down one side of each of the town’s four streets then back up the other, he discovered that Drummer was not nearly as empty as it had first appeared. Regardless of where he encountered natives, however – the feed store, a small volunteer firehouse, a building that passed as a town clerk’s office, even a few private residences that he dared to knock on the doors of – or to what degree of friendliness people at first exhibited, at the explanation of his reasons for visiting Drummer they became immediately taciturn. The mere mention of the mysterious altar, or even the visit of his friend Wallace, brought out the rustics’ distrust so powerfully, it could not be overcome by any amount of reasoning, cajoling or pleading. And though he was careful not to give his surname to anyone, Kincaid suspected those Drummerians who would not speak to him at all, or became abusive when he approached them, had been informed of exactly who he was, or at least was thought to be. Perhaps word did not spread quite so quickly as Kincaid had feared, but all the same he knew that it would not be long before all avenues in Drummer were closed to him. That knowledge was mightily disheartening.
Trudging back towards his hotel just after dusk, his way lit by the nearly-full moon which shone high above and an electric torch he carried, Kincaid was surprised by a hushed voice that called to him by name from the porch of a darkened house a short distance away. Turning on his heel, he shined the torch towards where the voice had come from, revealing a well-dressed, bespectacled and bookish-looking man in his late middle age who threw up his hands at the sudden glare and cried out in surprise. Kincaid pointed the light down a bit, but warily kept his distance and asked by whom he was being addressed.
The other man squinted, his eyes still dazzled, and opened the door to the house, waving a hand to indicate Kincaid should follow him. Kincaid was naturally hesitant, his experiences in Drummer so far disinclining him towards trusting anyone here. After a moment’s pause, the older man came down off of the porch and offered his hand in greeting to Kincaid. “My name is Sherman Woolley, Mr. Kincaid, and I understand your reluctance but, please – someone will see us.” Kincaid considered for another half moment, then nodded and followed Woolley inside.
Woolley secured the door behind them then moved further into the house, leaving Kincaid to follow once again. The interior of the little house was in a late colonial style, and tastefully decorated with framed maps of the New England states and small paintings done in an amateur, but not untalented hand. It seemed very much like a home Kincaid could imagine himself living in and he felt at once at ease, despite having just met his host. The picture he was already forming of Woolley was of a man of breeding and intellect, and he hoped fervently that he was not wrong.
Kincaid followed Woolley to the end of the front h
all and a small sitting room, where Woolley lit an oil lamp and offered his guest a seat in a worn, but comfortable-looking chair. Kincaid sat, but Woolley remained standing, looking as if he’d forgotten something. Evidently putting it aside he asked, “Can I offer you something to drink, Mr. Kincaid? A bite to eat, perhaps?” Kincaid shook his head and politely refused, but Woolley pressed. “Are you certain? Your dining options are severely limited. I’m just an old bachelor, but I do alright around the kitchen, if I say so myself.”
Kincaid found himself warming up to his host quickly and assented gratefully. Woolley excused himself to another part of the house and returned a few minutes later with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. As he poured for the both of them, Woolley said, “I apologize very much for the cloak and dagger way I’ve invited you in, Mr. Kincaid, but I fear it was necessary.”
Kincaid tried his tea, enjoying the faint taste of jasmine. “I hate to ask why, as I think I can guess.”
Woolley nodded and sipped his own drink. “I’m sure you can. I am an outsider, too, though I’ve lived here for a number of years. Still, people find some of my ‘fancy ways’ suspect; being seen to openly associate with someone they’ve deemed undesirable would make my life unnecessarily difficult, so you have my apologies again for the clandestineness.
“For all that, folks around here are not bad people, let me assure you. Not at all; they are the veritable salt of the earth. But they are, I’m afraid, very much set in their ways and as superstitious as an old New England community can be. Were you not who you are, and here for the reasons you are, you would find Drummer a very different place to visit, though perhaps not as interesting.” He smiled.
The Altar in the Hills and Other Weird Tales Page 2