The Altar in the Hills and Other Weird Tales

by Brandon Barrows

  What?

  Alright, yes. Yes! I’ll try to calm down. Yes, thank you, a cigarette would be wonderful just now.

  Again? But I’ve already – oh, hello, Chief Constable. Yes, if it’ll put this thing to rest, if you’ll finally believe me, I’ll tell you the story, too.

  Let me start me by saying I am no archaeologist, pathfinder or even plain tomb raider, just so we are clear from the outset. I do consider myself an explorer, however, and am acquainted with a number of those in the aforementioned fields – but I myself confine my studies to the wealth of data such professionals accumulate. I do this not as an occupation, though I have had such successes as to bring me some small renown in certain circles. The station to which I was born allows me the freedom to pursue my avocation, and I am overall quite satisfied with my lot.

  Taking this into account, I was more than a bit surprised when I received the telegram from Rudolph Olcott. It read simply:

  YOUR ASSISTANCE REQUIRED. HANDSOME PAY. WILL ARRIVE ON 5TH MAY.

  It being the afternoon of the fourth, I was somewhat vexed. Even having not spoken to him in years, this seemed typical of the man. It was exactly like Olcott to assume his needs outweighed whatever plans I may have had. I have to admit, however, that the content of the message intrigued me.

  I had once considered Olcott a colleague, in the broadest sense of the word, but his cutthroat attitude towards scientific and academic achievement left a sour taste in my mouth. For Olcott, the glory of a new discovery or triumph far outweighed the thing itself and his desires were geared towards merely his own betterment, rather than those of mankind as a whole. There was no denying his skills or talent, though; as much of a glory hound as he was, none of his accomplishments were unearned. If he was demanding my assistance he must be onto something extraordinary, indeed.

  While men like Olcott travel the globe hunting forgotten treasures in hidden tombs and ruins, I prefer to remain safely in my little home here in Arkham, studying the things they bring back. I have no specific qualifications, no official training per se, but I have made it my life’s work to unlock the secrets left behind in words few living men can read. My delight is the myriad scraps of scrollwork, fragments of tablets, even photographs and rubbings from crumbling walls the world over which adventurers of all stripes bring back with them. In that capacity, I have made some few, small breakthroughs – enough that the name Elwood Upton would be recognized by those who share my passion.

  I spent the rest of that afternoon tidying up for my expected company and mentally running through various scenarios which would bring Olcott rushing to my doorstep.

  The fifth dawned wet and dreary, and so I forwent my accustomed morning stroll to the café on Garrison Street for breakfast. I also had no inkling of when Olcott might arrive and, as much as I disliked the man, I would be a very poor host indeed to leave him waiting in the rain for my return. I made a pot of coffee and some toast and occupied myself with the previous day’s half-read newspaper.

  Shortly before three o’clock, a frantic knocking on my door drove me from the comfort of my den, thoughts racing at the urgency it conveyed. It must be Olcott, I knew, but I couldn’t fathom what nervous energy could impel such frenetic rapping or what it portended. God, how I wish I’d never opened that door!

  But open it I did, to find Olcott standing huddled and soaking wet on my flagstones. I quickly ushered him inside, took his sopping greatcoat and woolen muffler and tried to take the small canvas knapsack slung over his shoulder, as well, but he would not part with it. Then I ushered him into the den, seating him in my own chair by the fire, before hurrying to find a towel. All the while, Olcott said not a word, but accepted my assistance mutely. When he was as settled as I could make him, I pulled up a chair beside his and asked if he had walked all the way from the other side of town in this storm and why, if so.

  Olcott started, as if just becoming aware he was not alone, and stared out of sunken, haunted eyes at me, causing me to shrink back unconsciously. I could scarcely believe that this was the same hearty adventurer I’d known, in years past, to bluster and boast his way through any occasion. Olcott’s features were recognizable, but only just; he’d lost the vitality and boldness that had characterized him, and they had been replaced with an air of sickliness and timidity that was palpable. His hair had gone gray and his skin, once bronzed from tramping around sun-soaked climes, had a pallor I did not associate with the living. I couldn’t imagine what had effected such a change.

  The man looked around with quick, darting turns of his head and constantly roaming eyes and, after a moment, appeared to have satisfied himself that there was no danger, for he visibly relaxed. Not entirely, but enough to converse rationally, at least. He turned towards me, a weak half-smile on his lips, and said in a raspy voice barely more than a whisper, “Thank you for seeing me, El. I know we haven’t always been cordial to each other, but I knew you wouldn’t turn me down. You’re just too damned decent.”

  His use of such an address, when previously we’d simply been “Upton” and “Olcott” to one another, was yet another oddity but I nodded, unsure of what else to do, and repeated my earlier question.

  “Yes, I walked here. I couldn’t find a taxicab and I doubt one would have taken me, anyway. At least not the whole way here.”

  I didn’t understand and said so. When Olcott didn’t reply after several minutes, I stood and declared my intention to make a fresh pot of coffee to warm the both of us up. Before I could take a step, however, Olcott’s hand shot out and latched onto my wrist with a strength I wouldn’t have believed the emaciated form still possessed, preventing my leaving. I looked at the man, stunned, as he slowly released his grip, and asked me not to leave him alone.

  Assenting, I sat back down and said, “Well, then, at least tell me what this is about.”

  Olcott took a deep breath that ended in a hacking cough, but waved me off when I made to help by patting him on the back. “I’m alright, I’m alright,” he assured me, though his tortured-sounding lungs suggested otherwise. He cleared his throat for some time before continuing, but his voice was stronger than it had been when he did. “Look, El, I’m sorry to have come here without any real notice and I’m sorry to drag you into this, but I don’t know to whom else I can turn. I won’t lie, you’re not the first person I’ve been to, but your name kept coming up and it became obvious I had no choice. I’m hoping you’ll let bygones be bygones and at least try to help. And I meant what I said in that telegram – I’ll pay you any price you can name if you’re successful.”

  I told him I’d do my best, but that he still hadn’t explained what was going on and that I must know that before I agreed to anything. Olcott nodded, coughed a time or two and said, “I know I’m being vague, but I swear, it’s for your own sake. Some of the details… it’s best I don’t share them. But I wouldn’t ask you the favor I’m going to without giving you some idea as to why, so I’ll try to give you the broad strokes without filling in any details you don’t need.

  “You know what I’m about – all too well, I suppose, since it’s chiefly been the cause of whatever strife has existed between us in the past. I won’t apologize for that, I’ve lived my life the way I wanted to, same as anyone else. It has lead me to my current predicament, though, so maybe there’s something to be said for your reservations – but, anyway…

  “About three years ago, I was dining at the Explorer’s Club in New York when Horatio Sandring, don’t know if you’ve heard of him, approached and asked if he might join me. I was reluctant, as the man’s not exactly top shelf and has a bit of a reputation as a fibber, but I relented so as not to make a scene. I expected him to try and regale me with some wild tale spun from whole cloth, but instead, he got rather conspiratorial and first made me swear to tell no one what he was about to share with me. It was an easy promise to make as I had no intention, at the time, of spreading any of his little stories. Now, I almost wish I hadn’t, but I am a man of my word, so
I won’t. Suffice it to say, it involved a ruin Sandring had somehow discovered, but hadn’t the courage to explore beyond a bit of poking around the surface. It had the sound of truth to it, with details I doubt he has the imagination to concoct and I was intrigued. I wrung the location of it from him: deep in a hidden valley in Indochina.

  “Circumstances prevented me from using the information until last year, however. It had been some time since I’d sojourned in the Orient, but my contacts were still good and putting together an expedition wasn’t much of a chore. The trip in was fairly uneventful – I found the place relatively easily with Sandring’s directions and it was much as he’d described, though it was located in a very out-of-the-way place that I doubt any white man has much explored; I’ve yet to find it named on any map. The local porters I’d hired got nervous as we entered the valley, but they forged ahead with some prodding. The ruin itself was built into the living stone of a small mountain, about a third of the way up, and was of an architectural sort that doesn’t correspond to anything I’ve ever seen of Oriental building of any known people. I could not even begin to guess its age. The façade had crumbled, but the entrance was not hard to find, it still being open from when Sandring had dug it out, and the interior seemed quite sound.

  “There was a main chamber, dominated by a kind of circular platform that was too big to be an altar, but might have once held some sort of ceremonial kit. Branching off from that room, there were six small side chambers and a long corridor leading deeper into the mountain itself. A quick search of the side chambers revealed nothing of interest. The final corridor was blocked off only a short ways in by a heavy door sporting intricate ornamentation which struck me as vaguely sinister, and a kind of stone mechanism very much like a bank vault’s dial. Sandring hadn’t mentioned this, and it amused me to think that in his cowardice he hadn’t even come this far. What, after all, is the point of adventuring if you’re too fearful to take chances? But I digress.

  “That great, stone lock gave me some trouble, despite its age and relative simplicity. I kept listening for tumblers, but could hear none. I’ve still no idea how I managed, but after a few hours of messing about with it, I got the thing open. When I did, a gust of insufferably-rank wind almost knocked me over, blowing out of the blackness from that timeless vault. My native hands, who had been milling around restlessly all the while I worked, finally broke and ran then. The two white men who’d come with me, an Englishman who resides in Hong Kong and a Frenchman born in the colony, urged me not to proceed any further. The locals had good instincts, they said, and if they would not go on, neither should we. I dismissed this as foolishness, of course, and to their credit the men abided by my decision.

  “We ventured down into the tunnel, covering our mouths and noses to avoid the worst of the stench, and lighting our way with electric torches. We must have marched through the darkness for a good mile or more, the whole way past strings of nonsense symbols like I’d never seen carved into the walls and I found them interesting enough to have taken a few sheets of charcoal rubbings for later study. Eventually, we came to a chamber about half the size of the main one. We searched it all around, but other than a huge, circular stone slab in the center, there was nothing – no treasure, no artifacts, no way to continue on. The stench had grown all the more powerful the deeper we went and I realized immediately it was coming from beneath that mammoth stone disc. Again against the wishes of my men, I decided we had to have it up; I hadn’t come this far for nothing. At this they balked and no amount of threatening or cajoling would change the Frenchman’s mind, but my faithful Englishman helped me lever it aside after retrieving our tools.”

  Olcott’s story was cut off by a choking fit that seemed to wrack his entire body. The strain of so much talking was becoming evident. I, however, was literally on the edge of my seat. I had heard many of his tales in the past, but this seemed to have none of the boastful exaggerations of his others. I doubt I could have been more excited had I actually been in that far-off pit of darkness. I waited until he got himself back under control and urged him to continue.

  He began again, a bit unsteadily at first, but quickly regaining his momentum. “So, we levered the thing aside, surprised at its relative lightness compared to its size, only to face further disappointment – there was nothing inside. The hole it covered was not deep, perhaps three and a half feet, but the smell was positively nauseating. My companion stated that he was leaving and I could join him or not, but he could not stand the smell any longer. I relented and followed, bitterly cursing the fact that Sandring’s instincts had been correct, probably for the first time in his life.

  “In the more wholesome air of the outer chamber, the smell was much dissipated, but still present. To this, we attributed a clinging quality and changed our clothes before gathering as much gear as the two of us could carry and setting back out. Despite vigorous washing at the earliest opportunity, the smell continued to haunt us throughout our return trip through the jungle – sometimes faint and sometimes strong, but always present.

  “Back in civilization, we parted ways, and I decided to take a brief vacation in Europe before heading back home. Only a few days into my sea voyage, however, the clean scent of the salt and spray began to take a backseat to that noisome one I thought I’d left behind in the jungle. I’d had whiffs of it before then, but I had thought these a sort of sense memory. That was clearly not the case, however, when crew and other passengers of the liner I was aboard began to comment. It wasn’t much longer before I was put off the ship, left to find my own way.

  “Everywhere I went it was the same. It was a long, hard trip overland until I finally reached the relative-modernity of Asia Minor and could take a train the remainder of my journey to the French coast. The whole way there, however, that damnable stench followed and before long… things began to happen.”

  I shook my head in puzzlement, but did not interrupt, hoping he would elaborate. I was not disappointed.

  “I know how that sounds, but I swear it is no figment of the mind. By the nature of my travels, I was moving nearly constantly, striving to return to the environs I knew. When I stopped for more than a night or two, at most, the smell would grow very strong and it would be accompanied by doings that could not be explained. It started with sounds in the night – sibilant whisperings with no discernible source or the rattling of windows as if something attempted entry. If I moved on, the stench subsided, as if I left it behind me, though it never quite disappeared, and the sounds would mostly stop.

  “Then one night, shortly after I crossed the border into Turkey, I twisted an ankle after tumbling over a stone in the dark and cracked my head. I awoke in the home of a farmer who had found and taken me in. He explained that I had been senseless the whole previous night and most of the day. The stench was nearly overpowering; the farmer made no comment on it, but I apologized nonetheless and made to excuse myself, thanking him for his hospitality, only to discover that my ankle was in no fit state to support me, much less carry me the distance I needed it to. The man was most gracious, especially to a stranger; he refused to let me leave and offered his home for as long as I needed it. He said he, too, had once been on hard times and he understood my plight.” Olcott laughed bitterly at this, surprising me, before continuing. “It was kind of him, and I am thankful, but he paid the price for that kindness in a way I can never repay.

  “Loathe as I was to remain, it seemed I had no choice and consented to one more night. The farmer seemed pleased, and he and his wife bandaged my ankle and prepared me a simple meal. They offered me a bath, perhaps making a subtle judgment on the smell they must have assumed came from my body, but I declined and instead went back to bed, falling into an uneasy sleep.

  “That night, I was awakened by the clattering shutters of the little farmhouse and a noxiousness so strong it brought tears to my eyes. The building was only two rooms, and I wondered how the farmer and his wife were able to continue sleeping; if the noise had not a
wakened them, surely the smell must have. I crept from my bed and to the flimsy door that separated the halves of the building, opening it as quietly and cautiously as possible. A fetid wind identical to that in a far-off Oriental jungle assaulted my senses and blew the door wide open, nearly colliding with me, and revealing the answer to my questions – by the moonlight streaming in from the now-unshuttered windows, I saw that the poor souls who had taken pity on a helpless wanderer were dead, their devastated bodies smashed against the thin straw mattress which they slumbered upon after giving me their own bed’s use, and dripping with a rank, yellowish ichor.

  “In that moment, my mind broke – I fled the place in a senseless terror which did not dissipate until I was halfway to the city of Ankara, where I finally boarded a train bound for Europe a week later, with no memories between that instant and that of my grisly discovery. Had I not elected to sleep fully clothed, even continuing to wear my rucksack due to my almost-constant movement over the previous weeks, I would have been left with nothing at all – such was my single-minded determination to simply get away from that place as quickly as possible.

  “The train trip was long and I had ample time to reflect on the past and present. I had suspected since before leaving Indochina that the ancient vault I had broken the seal of had not been meant to foil and keep intruders out, but rather to keep something in. The signs had been there nearly from the start and I, blind, heedless fool that I am, had blundered into something I could not understand and had unleashed horror on the world. The Turks were the first victims I had seen with my own eyes, but who knew how many dead had been left in my path? The idea ate at my soul and since then I haven’t stayed in one place for more than a few hours, in terror at what might befall those around me.”