The Altar in the Hills and Other Weird Tales

by Brandon Barrows

  Swallowing a bite of sandwich, Kincaid set down his plate. “I’m sure that’s true, sir, but you didn’t go to this trouble just to tell me that.”

  Woolley’s smile was replaced by a look Kincaid didn’t know how to interpret. “No,” he admitted, standing up to peek out of the curtain of the room’s only window. Securing the hanging once again, he returned to his seat. “This is a very small town, Mr. Kincaid. Just a village, really. Nothing is secret for long, I’m afraid, and your inquiries are upsetting people. I understand why you’re here – I had a similar conversation with your friend Mr. Wallace some time ago.”

  Kincaid’s heart leapt in his chest at this, the first real clue to his friend’s whereabouts, but Woolley held up a hand to forestall any interruption and resumed. “We really don’t get many visitors here, and few stay more than a couple of hours to conduct whatever business brought them, so I make every effort to meet and converse with those who do. People know this and I was told very early on about your visit and the questions you were asking people. The same goes for your friend. I found Mr. Wallace’s project quite interesting and helped him as much as I could – I thought it would be a wonderful distraction in my retirement.”

  Sensing something was expected of him, Kincaid said, “Retirement? You don’t seem quite-“

  “Old enough?” Woolley nodded in agreement. “Well, as I said, I’m not originally from Drummer. I was born near Burlington, Vermont and schooled in Boston. I spent the first half of my professional life teaching grammar school in various places around Massachusetts before being offered the job as schoolmaster here. It seemed like an adventure, at the time – a chance to open up the mental vistas of children with little opportunity for education. The first few years were just that, and very rewarding. But then the county decided there weren’t enough students to justify their paying for a school in every town and village, so my little school house was closed. Now students from four or five different communities are bussed to the district school in Lancaster.”

  Kincaid nodded politely, though he was eager to get back to the topic of his missing friend. Woolley took the hint and apologized. “I’m sorry; this isn’t germane to the present situation, is it? I do ramble sometimes.” Kincaid assured him it was quite all right, but invited Woolley to tell him more about Wallace and the altar.

  “Right. Yes, Wallace and the altar. Well, the altar,” he paused again, gathering his thoughts as his brows furrowed. “The altar – I’m not entirely sure what to tell you about it. It’s just a lump of stone up in the hills about six miles south of town, as far as I know. The townspeople have a lot of folklore about it – vague, evasive on details, of course, but singularly agreed upon that it is somehow evil. The thing was most definitely made by human hands – no natural phenomenon I’m aware of has ever created any sort of writing, illegible as it is, even by accident – but it hardly seems the thing that Indians of these parts would have built. The very few I’ve talked to tell stories similar to those the white folks have been telling for generations. That’s doubtless where they picked it up, but it’s somehow become more real to them than it perhaps should be. Everyone knows that unwholesome things happen up there around that altar on the full moon – but, of course, nobody has ever seen it, though they’ll swear a great uncle or a neighbor’s cousin or what have you has.

  “Now, I told all of this to your friend Ted Wallace, too, though in greater detail than I think you care about. He was very excited; said it was wonderful material for his paper he was writing. I did warn him, though, as I’ll warn you – if you choose to visit the altar, don’t let the villagers know. And for God’s sake, don’t take anything away from the site itself. Mr. Wallace took some charcoal rubbings of the thing, hoping to suss out whatever symbols people claimed to see, and LeMeiux, the hotelier whom you’ve doubtless met, damned near had a fit. He wouldn’t even allow Wallace back into his place with them and Wallace asked me to store them here for him until he was ready to leave town.”

  Kincaid leaned forward in his seat, his interest further piqued and temporarily forgetting his friend’s plight. “Do you still have them? I’d be curious to see, if so.”

  Woolley shook his head. “No. Wallace came and got them the day before he planned to leave.”

  “Planned?” That sounded ominous to Kincaid; a gnawing feeling grew in his belly, despite the meal he’d had. “What do you mean ‘planned’? He’s no longer in Drummer, is he? People wouldn’t keep him here against his will, even if he did disturb their little altar, or keep it from a worried friend come looking for him, if he chose to stay, would they?”

  Shifting uncomfortably, Woolley didn’t immediately answer. He let out a great sigh and met Kincaid’s eye with his own. “Mr. Kincaid, that’s … complicated to answer.”

  Worry and sudden anger got the best of Kincaid, who leapt to his feet and shouted, “Damn your complications! Where is Ted Wallace?!”

  With a soothing manner practiced from years of teaching, Woolley calmed Kincaid and when both were once again seated, and the younger man civil, said, “I believe I can arrange to show you, but you will have to trust me.”

  Kincaid’s anger began to rise again. “Trust you? How can I when you’ve known this whole time!? Is the entire town in on this cruel joke?”

  Woolley sighed again. “I know it’s difficult, but please, try. You’ve had a very long day, and there’s nothing we can do tonight, anyway.” Woolley rose and Kincaid did the same. “Go back to the hotel, Mr. Kincaid, and try to get some rest. I will come see you tomorrow afternoon and if I am successful, at least some of your questions will be answered.”

  Kincaid protested, but Woolley was firm; nothing would happen tonight. Angry, frustrated and disappointed, but realizing there was no point in further antagonizing the one ally he’d found, Kincaid accepted Woolley’s assurances and returned to the hotel, where he flopped down onto the ancient, sagging mattress and immediately dropped off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  III.

  Kincaid woke early the next morning, his body aching from the insufficient bedding, and refreshed himself as much as he was able by splashing his face, head and shoulders with the sulfurous-smelling water from the ancient porcelain sink in the dismal bathroom down the hall from his room. After dressing and breakfasting on his supply of cheese and crackers, he went downstairs to discover with surprise the sour-faced landlord sitting behind the desk reading a newspaper. Inquiring of the man where coffee and a newspaper of his own might be obtained, Kincaid was rewarded with a grunted suggestion that he try wherever he had come from before invading the hotelman’s peace and quiet. With a small sigh of frustration, Kincaid thanked the man anyway and decided to try the general store where he’d found lunch the day before.

  His reception was no warmer at the Drummer Grocery and Dry Goods, though he was at least able to obtain a cup of coffee. Newspapers were to be found, as well, but after learning they were all several days old, he declined, paid for the beverage, purchased a sandwich for his mid-day meal and departed.

  Woolley had said the evening before that he would visit at the hotel sometime in the afternoon. Presented with the choice of remaining in that dreadful pile or exploring the area, Kincaid had little trouble in deciding. Since there was nothing to see in the town that he had not already, he struck out in the general direction that Woolley had indicated he could find the mysterious altar that was at the heart of all this trouble.

  Following a weather-worn and ill-maintained road south, Kincaid hiked into the gently rolling hills through pine, fir and birch trees, progressing slightly, but steadily, higher as the road grew fainter and fainter before disappearing altogether. The day was warm and pleasant, though the sun was partially hidden by a light cloud covering for which Kincaid was grateful; he was not dressed for this kind of activity. He regretted not bringing along a water supply, though he relished the fresh air, the crunching of leaves and needles under his shoes and the singing of the birds in the trees all aroun
d him. He hadn’t realized how sick of spirit he’d become, even after less than twenty-four hours in Drummer, and felt a measure of refreshment enter his mind, body and soul.

  A couple of hours’ tramping southwards brought him to a steeper incline than he would have guessed was to be found after traversing the gentle hills all morning. The trees had thinned somewhat and a narrow trail between sizeable rock fragments led further up. Kincaid turned back the way he’d come and gazed out over the little valley he hadn’t realized Drummer sat in, the town itself just barely visible through the trees. Fifteen minutes’ rest and half of his sandwich later, Kincaid began the more arduous climb before him.

  The rocky path proved somewhat easier to mount than was expected and Kincaid made good time, reaching the summit in less than thirty minutes. At the top, he was presented with a sort of wooded plateau into which the trail he’d been following continued. Only a short distance into the woods, however, the foliage opened up to reveal a small glade, the center of which was dominated by the altar Kincaid had come to see.

  The thing was of hexagonal shape, the corners worn smooth by the passage of time and the badgering of the elements. It was a bit more than four feet in height, about as long, but only half that distance wide. Unbidden, the thought that it was near perfect a platform for a human body sprung to mind and Kincaid shivered, despite the warmth of the day and his own exertions. The top surface of the altar was rough and pitted from the beating wind and weather had given it and, walking around to examine it from all angles, Kincaid noticed that though the sides were in better shape than they had a right to be, they, too, were in less than pristine condition. While not especially knowledgeable in such areas, Kincaid decided that the altar must be several thousands of years old if it was a day, but despite that, the hunk of stone seemed more a curiosity than an object of terror and he clucked his tongue at the foolishness of old New England superstition.

  Sitting cross-legged on the ground several feet away from the altar, Kincaid rested his elbows on his knees and studied it further, all the while going over the past few days’ events and the pieces of information he’d obtained. While he sat, the clouds overhead came together enough to obscure the sun, plunging the little clearing into shadow. When they parted again a moment later, a beam of light landed squarely on the altar; simultaneously Kincaid was struck by something Woolley had said the night before. The retired teacher had made mention of illegible writing on the stone, but Kincaid – despite a fairly close scrutiny – had seen nothing even remotely of the sort.

  Leaping to his feet, Kincaid approached the altar slowly, half-squatting as he circled it, and made an even closer study than he had already. As before, however, he saw no evidence of any sort of writing, symbols, hieroglyphics or anything that did not appear to be either an ancient tool mark from the thing’s original construction or damage from natural processes. He stood back up and, rubbing his chin in thought, decided to question Woolley further on this point. The man held at least some answers, of that Kincaid was sure, and this was only one item that needed further clarification. He had also had no chance to ask about the mystery of the Drummerians’ aversion to his surname, and he made mental note to bring this up, as well.

  Kincaid returned to his seat at the edge of the clearing and closed his eyes in thought. Wallace had said in his letter that the altar lay in a pleasant area, and Kincaid could not deny there was a great deal of charm to these wooded hills, but he could not agree entirely. There was something more than a bit ominous about this piece of carved stone that did not belong in this place or time. Opening his eyes again, he checked his pocket watch, which showed half-past eleven; Kincaid decided he had better start back towards Drummer, for fear of missing Woolley’s visit, though he was reluctant to depart this place so soon. He hated leaving mysteries unsolved, but had to admit to himself that this was not one he could unravel on his own.

  Returning to town, Kincaid found the way down to be easier and faster going than the way up and made good time, reaching the Drummer Hotel at half past one. He washed the stains of his excursion away with more of the hotel’s foul-smelling water and changed into his spare clothing, just finishing as a knock sounded on the door to his room.

  He was not surprised to find Woolley in the hallway, though the man’s nervousness was unexpected. After exchanging greetings, Woolley invited Kincaid to follow him outside, explaining that while he had made the arrangements as promised, they must hurry before “she” changed her mind. Kincaid, perplexed, asked whom he meant but Woolley had gone silent. The younger man was irritated, but chose not to push his benefactor; Woolley was the only one who had aided him, and he could not risk upsetting or insulting the man.

  They traveled by foot for a distance of a little more than a mile, following the road heading east out of town until coming to a small house, set back a short ways from the road and surrounded by well-tended vegetable gardens and a low, white-washed fence. The whole effect was of a house that did not quite belong to its environment, but it was a pleasant setting, nonetheless.

  Pausing at the end of the walkway leading to the building, Woolley placed a hand on Kincaid’s arm and spoke at last. “Watch yourself in here, Mr. Kincaid. I say this to you as a friend – she is fiercely protective and will not hesitate to make trouble for you, if she perceives you as doing so for her or those she claims as her own. Whatever she asks, just agree, whatever she says, just take as Gospel and thank your lucky stars she agreed to this meeting. It was no small task obtaining her assent, I assure you.”

  Baffled, Kincaid had no chance to ask the questions on his mind as Woolley stepped smartly to the door and wrapped lightly with his knuckles. A moment passed before the portal creaked open to reveal a small, neatly dressed, and extremely elderly woman who nevertheless emanated a sense of power, confidence and control. This was her domain – let one forget that at his own peril!

  Woolley smiled broadly and nodded politely while gesturing towards Kincaid. “Mrs. Powell, this is the young man we spoke of earlier.”

  Kincaid stepped forward and extended a hand in greeting, but was met only with a hard, appraising stare from the woman. She looked long and fiercely at him, but just when he feared she would find him somehow wanting, she stepped back and threw the door to her home open wide, muttering, “Alright, in with you, then, if you’re coming.”

  Woolley thanked the woman profusely and gestured for Kincaid to precede him. The young man did so, and entered the abode under the watchful gaze of its mistress, careful to wipe his feet on the mat by the door. This earned him an approving nod from Mrs. Powell, but left him under no pretenses of having won her over.

  The house was as small as it appeared from the outside, sparsely decorated and seeming to consist of two rooms on the ground floor – a sitting room and a kitchen – with a narrow staircase at the end of the hall leading upwards. Towards this Mrs. Powell hobbled, leading the men to the bottom and jerking a thumb upwards. “The room on the left, Woolley. The opposite’s mine and if I so much as suspect that door’s been touched, you’ll regret it ‘til your dying day.” The man thanked her again for her time and generosity then led the way upstairs, Kincaid bringing up the rear.

  The second floor of the house was barely half the size of the first, and the sharply sloping ceiling gave it a cramped feeling that made Kincaid somewhat claustrophobic. Woolley stood by the door to the left of the stairs, a hand on the knob, and the other held up to give Kincaid pause. The look on the man’s face seemed genuinely sorrowful to Kincaid and for an instant, he did not want to know what was on the other side of that portal.

  “Mr. Kincaid, I warn you – what you’re going to see will not be easy. Steel yourself.” So saying, Woolley opened the softly creaking door and stepped aside for Kincaid.

  The room was as small as Kincaid had expected, and dominated by an old-fashioned post bed which took up more than half of it. Sunlight peeked through a single small window opposite the door, insufficient to light the room beyon
d the bare necessity to navigate the space. Seated in a rocking chair, staring out of the window, was a crumpled figure that made no indication it was aware of the intrusion.

  Unsure of how to proceed, Kincaid greeted the figure and moved slowly closer, extending a hand in greeting and introducing himself. The person in the chair continued to face away from him and Kincaid could glean few details beyond the pale, sickly complexion and the rampant growth of beard that the half-hidden face sported. A creaking floorboard startled him until he realized it was only Woolley entering the room.

  The former-teacher gently brushed past Kincaid, saying, “I think we’ll have to help him turn.” He squeezed behind the rocking chair and, warning the occupant he was doing so, gently altered its direction until both were facing Kincaid. The young man’s jaw dropped as his heart did the same.

  “Ted!” he cried out and sank to his knees before his friend, who still made no acknowledgement he was aware of his guests. Kincaid took Wallace’s hands in his own, disturbed by the brittleness of the skin and the bird-like lightness of the digits, and looked the damaged man in the eye, searching for any hint of recognition. He found none.

  Turning to Woolley, Kincaid’s face wore a look of anguish that the older man felt nearly as keenly as the guilt he felt for not adequately warning his new friend. “What’s – what has happened to him?” Kincaid asked, choking on the words.

  Woolley shook his head sadly, avoiding Kincaid’s gaze. “His neck was broken. Your guess is as good as mine as to how. He was found near the hill where the altar lies, the morning he had planned to move on from Drummer. It was early in the day and the men who discovered him surmised that he had tripped in the darkness and fallen, perhaps while running – which would account for the force he evidently fell with.”

  Kincaid was beside himself, a mixture of sorrow and rage churning in his belly. “Even if that was so, if this was merely an accident, why is he still here? Why did no one track down anyone who knew him and could take him home?”