By sheer instinct, Kincaid had managed to throw up an arm to protect his eyes but even through his eyelids, arm and clothing, was still left with spots dancing across his vision. He blinked furiously, trying to clear it, and was rewarded with the sight that would remained seared into his nightmares for the rest of his days.
Draped repulsively across the altar, where the young man’s body had been, was a great conglomeration of iridescent, pulsating globes and writhing tentacles which shone wetly in the light from the moon, now the only means of illumination but still far more than Kincaid wished. The thing was massive, easily the size of a small house, yet seemed to be confined somehow to an area only slightly greater than the dimensions of the altar and a height of a dozen or so feet above it. The measurements could not possibly add up, as if the thing was not only alien to nature but refused to obey its laws out of sheer contrariness. Kincaid’s tormented mind took note of this as the thing sat wetly squirming and, all around the circle, its worshippers dropped to their knees chanting “Iä! Yog-Sothoth!” over and over, their previous hymns forgotten. Even the formerly-unseen piper came forth from the shadows, tossing his bone-white and eerily-glowing instrument away, to fall prostrate before the monstrous deity.
The dancers kneeled also, presenting themselves to the horror before them, which seemed to appraise the pair with many hideous eyes before lashing out with dozens of tentacles to ensnare the man and pull him into its own writhing mass. Kincaid could bear no more, turning away and retching as the damp slurping and noisome odor from the thing finally overcame his mental wards. An instant later, he broke into a run back towards the edge of the clearing he had originally come from.
No one moved to impede him as he rushed headlong through the trees, heedless of the branches slapping his face and tearing at his clothing or the loose stones threatening to trip him. Somewhere in his mind, he knew this was what Wallace had seen and done those many full moons ago and he would later envy his friend’s apparent retreat into his own mind.
Kincaid ran faster, longer and harder than he had known he was capable of, and did not stop until he reached the home of Sherman Woolley. Not caring if he woke Woolley’s neighbors as well, he pounded on the door and lower windows until a light went on inside and the door swung open to reveal the older man in shirt and nightcap, carrying an oil lamp and wearing a scowl.
“Are you mad?” he hissed. “Come inside!” Not waiting to see if Kincaid followed, Woolley made to head back inside, but Kincaid grabbed the man’s sleeve, preventing his going.
“I may very well be!” Kincaid blurted out. “You must dress and come with me!”
Woolley jerked his arm away from Kincaid’s grasp, his scowl deepening. “It’s nearly four in the morning. I’m not going anywhere!”
Kincaid’s tone softened and his face contorted into a mask of desperation. “Please,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been to the altar again…”
“Good Lord!” Woolley cried. “You are insane!” He then demanded that Kincaid tell him of everything he’d witnessed, and the younger man promised to do so only if Woolley accompanied him back to the site on the hill. The former-teacher finally assented, his desire to hear those dark secrets outweighing his annoyance at being awakened or the inconvenience of an unplanned hike, and dressed quickly.
As they traveled, Kincaid told Woolley all that had occurred on the hill until the moment he fled, though he left out the goriest of details for propriety’s sake. Woolley was thrilled to have at last an account from someone with firsthand knowledge, though he pressed Kincaid time and again on the issue of whether he had really experienced what he saw or if it had merely been some intensely vivid dream. Kincaid admitted that he believed he had dozed for a time, but insisted that what he saw was real.
They arrived on the hill as the sun was just beginning its climb across the heavens and, both of them eager to be done with the thing one way or the other, climbed swiftly to the top. Woolley had never been to the altar personally, but tried to quell his excitement out of respect for what Kincaid believed had happened to him. In the clearing, none of the sinisterness of the night before was evident and Woolley dryly remarked on what a lovely morning it was shaping up to be.
For his part, Kincaid was relieved – despite the absolute reality it had seemed in the night, the chain of events he’d experienced must have been an insane dream after all. When Woolley wanted to examine the altar itself more closely, Kincaid agreed, now much lighter of heart than he had felt he’d ever be again. They looked the thing up and down, peering curiously and closely at its every surface, but there was no sign of the markings Kincaid had seen nor the blood stains that were to be expected, had any ritual taken place here mere hours earlier. Woolley seemed quite disappointed, but Kincaid was elated.
Together, the two men walked back towards Drummer. Woolley attempted to converse further about Kincaid’s dream, as he now knew it to be, but the younger man would have none of it – it was something best left in the realm of the night, a figment born of time spent in a strange place at an unusual hour and fueled by the murmurings of the unknown. He preferred, instead, to enjoy the beautiful day that was unfolding around them. Woolley was not entirely convinced, however, and declared his intention to investigate the site further – to which Kincaid smiled and sincerely wished him luck.
Near Woolley’s house, Kincaid thanked his new friend for the assistance and support provided during his short stay in Drummer and the pair pledged to keep in contact. Woolley also promised to provide updates on Ted Wallace as much as possible, for which Kincaid was grateful. A hearty handshake and more words of well-wishing followed then they separated as their paths diverged – Woolley to his home and Kincaid off to collect his belongings before boarding the bus that would return him to Lancaster and the swiftest path back towards the civilization he knew.
V.
The bus was exactly on time; Kincaid boarded and passed his quarter fare to the driver, who inquired about his stay in Drummer. With a smile, Kincaid replied that it was an interesting place to visit, but he could not imagine wanting to live there. The driver nodded uncomprehendingly and put the vehicle into motion, leaving Kincaid to take his pick of the mostly-empty seats.
The journey home was entirely uneventful, for which Kincaid was thankful, and by Monday afternoon he was walking the dusty road from Montville proper to his sorely-missed home. He had spent the previous days’ travel time ruminating on all that had occurred during his sojourn and lamenting the fate that had struck down poor Ted Wallace. He believed he understood now what had happened to his friend, but still could not entirely explain it. It was clear that there was something unknown and unusual about the altar, and that area in general, but presented with no clear evidence of real, physical happenings he knew he must concede that what he, and presumably Wallace, had seen was entirely in their own heads.
The mind was powerful, there was no doubt, and the absolute conviction with which the people of Drummer believed the tales they told had a kind of power of its own. Kincaid chuckled at his own temporary reversal of opinion in those night-haunted woods, utterly taken in by the things he had been told, and by what he had seen of the town, when his brain had assembled all of the pieces in the way that he must have subconsciously wanted them to be. In the darkness, under the stars, mired in drowsiness and exhaustion, the puzzle had fit together perfectly and horribly and Kincaid had no other choice but to believe in things that evaporated under cleansing daylight. Surely for Wallace, being much more deeply entrenched in the legends and lore of the region and therefore arguably more susceptible to their influence, such a process must have been infinitely stronger – only poor Ted never had the chance to once again see things in the pure light of day.
Upon returning to Montville, Kincaid endeavored to settle once again to his accustomed routines, throwing himself into the work commissioned by William Hillhouse, interrupted by the previous week’s events, and hoping to transition smoothly back to his e
veryday life. In one sense he was successful, as the Hillhouse genealogy was completed swiftly and greeted with great satisfaction by the client. In others, however, he failed utterly. Try though he might, he could not entirely put out of his mind the gruesome images he had seen in Drummer – whether real or not – and his sleep was plagued by nightmares as vivid as his dream on the hill, while his daytime thoughts continued to wander back to those ghastly, phantom devotees whose faith and deity had nearly shattered Kincaid’s sanity, as whatever images Wallace had seen had shattered his.
Time marched on and Kincaid coped as best he could; though it was obvious to others that something was wrong, he continued to deny it to himself in an effort to make it true. He spoke very little about his trip and before long, his friends and colleagues ceased asking, which made it easier for him to compartmentalize the events and lock them away. As such, he continued to function in a mostly-normal capacity and it was assumed by all, Kincaid included, that whatever was amiss would work itself out in its due course.
In the fourth week of July, Kincaid received a package wrapped in plain, brown paper and postmarked Lancaster, New Hampshire. Though there was no return address, he knew it had to have originated with Sherman Woolley and he was surprised to hear from the older man so soon. As they had agreed to keep in contact, particularly regarding the continued welfare of Ted Wallace, Kincaid felt a pang of fear at the thought that something further had happened to his friend, especially so quickly after Kincaid’s visit.
He unwrapped the parcel to find it contained a letter and a second, smaller package, also sheathed in brown paper. The interior bundle was oblong and about the length of a man’s forearm; Kincaid put it aside for the moment and perused the letter, which read:
July 16th, 1923
Dear Mr. Kincaid –
I trust you’ve returned home and to your life safely and satisfactorily and that this letter finds you exceedingly well. I suppose you had not expected to hear from me this soon and truthfully, I did not expect to have cause to write.
I imagine you will assume the worst upon receiving this but rest assured, to the best of my knowledge, your friend Mr. Wallace is still in as good a state of health as is possible. As promised, I have visited Mrs. Powell’s home weekly since your departure and, though she resents the intrusion, I know Mrs. Powell appreciates the concern you showed for her adopted “son”.
To the purpose of this letter, however – you will recall my plans to continue the investigations into our local mystery. While I have had very little luck in gaining additional information from any of the townsfolk, I have made extensive study of the altar itself and the area surrounding it and found a few things of interest, though none as striking as the visions you related to me.
Inspired by Mr. Wallace’s work and your own findings, I have decided to write a detailed history of Drummer and its own peculiar mythology. As I recall you are a writer and historian yourself, I would like to collaborate with you on this venture, at least to the extent of having you audit the body of evidence I have unearthed and perhaps editing drafts of the work when they are ready.
If you are not interested, I will understand and will take no offense as I realize that your visit to Drummer was hardly a pleasant one and that you may not wish to be reminded further of it. Before you make any decision, however, I ask that you at least examine the artifact I have included with this missive. I discovered it near the clearing where the altar resides, the day after your departure. It is, to date, the only thing I have found at the site other than the altar itself, but I think you will agree it is most compelling.
Whether you choose to write in return or not, I ask that you please post the enclosed item back to me and have included sufficient funds to do so. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Sherman Woolley
Kincaid’s brow furrowed as he read the letter. The fact that Wallace was, at least of its writing, still in relatively good health was welcome news but Woolley’s opening up of a scarcely-closed psychic wound was troubling. He knew the man had no intention of doing any harm but wished that Woolley had waited at least a while longer before trying to re-engage Kincaid regarding the ordeal that still plagued his sleep.
Still, he was curious as to what his northerly friend had discovered and hefted the smaller package from its resting spot on his desk. The wrapped object was not heavy and as he tore away the paper gently, for fear of damaging the thing, he became aware of a queasy feeling in his belly similar to that he’d experienced on that far away hill amidst untouched greenery.
As Kincaid peeled away the final layer, a shriek rose unbidden in his throat and he dropped the thing as if it were venomous. It crashed unceremoniously to the floor of his study where it lay, rocking gently back and forth, impelled by the momentum of its fall – a stark-white recorder, made of bone or ivory, and carved with queerly pigmented markings identical to those he had seen on the altar in the hills under the light of a full New England moon.
Suck It Up, Get It Done
Cement dust rained across my feet as I whacked my hammer into the crumbling wall where Marty, my supervisor, figured the blockage was and wondered how long it’d been since anyone “maintained” this area.
I’d been working sewer maintenance for the city of Boston about four months, but I was just now realizing there were literally miles of tunnels, even in the little territory of the old North End I’d been assigned. I doubted anyone had visited this one recently and it showed in the decaying walls and walkways.
I know you’re thinking “the sewer? Sick!” but it’s not that bad – especially considering my prospects were pretty limited. I’m twenty-two so you’d think I’d have options, right? But all I got’s a GED and a pregnant girlfriend and this is a good job. It’s union and pays well – just gotta suck it up and get it done.
I took another swing at the wall hiding the pipe I needed to inspect and howled a little in surprise when the whole thing came tumbling down, throwing me off balance so I fell forward into the tunnel on the other side. Choking on dust and wiping my watering eyes, I thought Marty’s gonna shit a brick when a wet hissing sound – sorta like when you blow into a straw after your cup is empty – hit my ears. I nearly shit one myself, thinking I’d broken the pipe I was there to unclog.
My eyes were still stinging but I had to check the damage before getting Marty over here, so at least he couldn’t say I didn’t own up to it, and aimed my flashlight towards the sound. Man, I wish I hadn’t! I screamed and dropped my light, but fear of screwing up beat fear of what was in front of me cuz I picked it right back up and looked again.
The pipe was blocked, alright – by a hissing, stinking thing that reminded me of a little kid werewolf with mange. Its lower half was wedged in the pipe, but its upper half was piss-yellow and brown, hissing, wriggling desperately and swiping at me with unnaturally-long fingers ending in filthy-looking claws. It shrieked when I shone the light directly on it and I saw big, black eyes snap closed in a face more dog than human. I almost felt bad.
I called Marty on my walkie; he was pissed I interrupted lunch, but I said I had something I didn’t know how to handle. He asked if it could wait, I said probably not. He showed up fifteen minutes later, took a look in the hole, swore a little then said I’d done the right thing. He didn’t seem surprised or nothing, just annoyed.
I was glad someone was calm, cuz I was close to freaking out. Here was this… demon or something in the damned sewer! I asked if I should call the cops, but Marty gave me a sneer and, rummaging in his big toolbox, said, “We ain’t bothering them. This is just part of the job.”
“Part of the job?!” I’d signed on to fix pipes and stuff, not deal with monsters.
My eyes went wide as Marty pulled a big revolver from his box and handed it to me with a hard look. I took it, but said I didn’t know anything about guns. “What’s to know?” he asked. “Point and shoot.”
I’d had enough, and said so. Even the n
ew guy needs an idea of what’s going on. Marty actually seemed sympathetic, for once, and patted my shoulder. “Look, Sean,” he pointed towards the little squirmy thing still in the pipe. “That’s a ghoul – just a lil’ baby one, of course. These hills used to be chock full of ‘em and they’d run all around under the city. You’d hear about ‘em sometimes. Not much anymore, but once in a while you find one. They break into the pipes, looking for food I guess, and like it or not, anything that happens down here is part of our job. So – take care of it. Okay?”
I nodded, slowly. It did sort of make sense, even though I didn’t like it. I aimed at the critter and fired, the sound so loud in that little space you’d swear the roof would cave in. Marty hadn’t lied – it was easy, though the kickback made my elbow sore. He helped me pull the thing from the pipe, patch up the holes it’d made and recap it.
When we were done, he packed up his toolbox but as I tried to give him the gun he put up a hand and said, “Nah, you’re gonna need it.”
I must have looked at him funny cuz he pointed into the darkened tunnel and said, “Babies got mommas don’t they, dumbass?”
I sighed. Suck it up. Get it done.
The Thing That Remained
I’m not mad, I tell you! There’s evidence to prove what I say is true – you saw it yourselves! Right there in my own house, in my own guest bedroom – which I opened out of a sense of charity and decency, mind you; I didn’t have to – exactly as I found it this morning. I didn’t touch a thing, and I’ll swear it on anything you ask me to. Besides, what man could do such a thing!? Certainly not I – look at me! I’m no lay about and I stay in decent shape, but I’m no strongman. You’d need a simply unnatural amount of strength to do what was done to poor Olcott and anyway how do you account for the–
The Altar in the Hills and Other Weird Tales Page 5