THE TOMB OF PRISCUS
by BRIAN MOONEY
FATHER SHEA! IT’S that Professor Calloway!”
My housekeeper, a widow from County Offaly, offered the telephone reluctantly, as if afraid that its touch would taint. Mrs. Byrne is a good soul but she disapproves of Calloway. She believes that he tempts me into bad ways.
“Roderick.” Calloway’s voice was abrupt. “Come on over. I’ve something to show you.” He hung up before I could answer.
During the course of—and, it must be said, because of—my long friendship with Professor Reuben Calloway, I have been involved in some bizarre and frightening experiences. The end result of this telephone call was to be the fearful tragedy at Lower Benhoe.
The morning was fine and held portent of a good summer. I was at a loose end and the drive to Southdown University would be a pleasant one, so I shrugged at Mrs. Byrne and went to find my jacket. The roads were fairly clear and the journey did not take long. Leaving my shoddy Land Rover in the visitors’ car park, I walked through the main quadrangle, warm in the sunshine and bordered by clumps of daffodils and other spring flowers, into the mellow brick building graced with high-mullioned windows and then along a wood-panelled hall until I came to my friend’s study. I gave a brief knock and entered.
As always, the room was a clutter of papers, books and periodicals heaped haphazardly over the furniture and floor. On a timeworn antique side-table rested a black Royal typewriter, itself almost a museum piece, with a partly-completed sheet of A4 Bond jutting from its platen. The windows were tightly sealed, the central heating turned high and the place reeked with the stale smell of Turkish tobacco. Calloway glanced up from a notebook and laid aside the fountain pen with which he had been making an entry.
He removed the gold-rimmed half-spectacles which he wore for reading and writing. “Ah, Roderick, there you are,” he grunted as if I had only been into the next-door office for a few moments rather than not having seen him for several months. “I thought you might appreciate an odd coincidence.”
We have been friends for many years, so I did not take offence at Calloway’s manner. Moving a pile of dog-eared essays from a chair, I sat opposite him and waited.
After making several additional notations in his book, he said, “Have a look at that while I pour you a coffee.” He flicked a sepia-tinted photograph across his desk to me. “Strong, black, no sugar, right?”
“Fine, thanks.” I took one brief look at the photograph and could feel my lip curling with distaste. “It’s... profane,” I said, casting it down.
“Yes, yes,” muttered Calloway, his tone impatient. “By our Christian standards, perhaps. But suspend prejudice, Roderick, suspend prejudice and take another look.” He placed a cup at my elbow.
I retrieved the print and studied it. It was old and creased, overexposed and badly faded, and yet somehow it remained powerfully disturbing. It showed a crucifixion. But not the holy one.
Calloway handed me a large magnifying glass. “This might help.” The crucifix itself was not the symbolic cross of Christianity but rather the true T-form favoured by the Romans. There was a bulky thing hanging from the horizontal bar, gross head slumped upon a barrel chest. I say thing deliberately; the age and condition of the photograph made the nature of the victim uncertain, there being both human and non-human aspects to that tortured form. After careful scrutiny of the head, the angle of which almost hid the features, I concluded that it was vaguely amphibian and I said so.
“It’s statuary, I take it,” was my comment. “Some piece of Satanic impedimenta?”
Calloway shook his head as he lit a Turkish cigarette. “Far from it,” he said. “That photograph was taken from the life. Or, to be more accurate, from the death.”
“Some unfortunate animal sacrificed at a Black Mass, then?”
“No,” replied Calloway. “You see there an Innsmouth hybrid. The photograph came from the archives of the American FBI. I take it that you’ve never heard of Innsmouth?”
When I shook my head he continued, “Little wonder, really. You won’t find it listed in any tourist guide, nor in any atlas. It’s neither a place nor a history that the American authorities have any pride in. In fact, they did their best to wipe a chunk of Innsmouth from the map, although they were not entirely successful.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and took a sip of coffee. “Innsmouth is a small port in Massachusetts. The story, as slowly pieced together by interested parties, is this: many years ago, certainly long before the American Civil War, Innsmouth seafarers began to trade with a peculiar race of Pacific islanders. It transpired that these islanders had been interbreeding with... something else, something inhuman, something from the ocean depths.”
“It’s supposed to be impossible for different species to interbreed,” I interrupted.
Calloway held up a big hand to still my protest. “Perhaps in the normal course of nature,” he said. “But we are not talking of normality here. Anyway, in time some of the Innsmouth people located an Atlantic colony of these sea things and began to interbreed in their turn. The resulting hybrids, at birth, were human, or near enough to human as to make no difference. However, around about middle life they would begin to change, firstly into what you see in that photograph... and then into something much worse.”
Calloway hauled himself from his large swivel chair and waddled to the window, to stand staring out across the sunlit campus. “In the past, Roderick, you have heard me allude to the so-called Ancient Ones.” He turned, pointing to the photograph. “Beings such as the Innsmouth creatures are worshippers and servants of those terrible old gods. I won’t tell you of their rituals other than to say that they are vile beyond imagination.”
He returned to his desk, reaching for his cigarette case. “Sometime in the late twenties, the Federal authorities got wind of what was happening at Innsmouth and agents were despatched to deal with the situation. They were ruthless but not quite thorough. Many Innsmouth dwellers escaped.
“A number of them went into the sea, an environment to which the physical change particularly suited them. Others were not fully metamorphosed and the sea was therefore effectively barred to them as sanctuary. Some sought refuge inland. The thing in the picture was caught by a band of farmers, who held a lynching party. The Innsmouth people were not popular with their near neighbours.”
“Lynching is wicked in any circumstances,” I said. “But crucifixion... why, that’s even more barbaric than hanging or shooting.”
“For all that they were living in the 20th century, the people in that part of Massachusetts were a very superstitious lot,” Calloway said. “The area had been recognised as a hotbed of witchcraft and black magic for very many years. A lot of locals had a peasant wisdom about how to deal with the abnormal. I think that the lynch mob guessed crucifixion would be far more efficacious than hanging. And after the picture was taken, the corpse was incinerated.
“The intention was to ensure complete destruction. There was no attempt to conceal the killing. The farmers were quite open with the federals about what had happened and handed over the photograph without quibble. The press got wind of it, but unlike the authorities they got short shrift from the lynchers. New Englanders tend to be close-mouthed, even today; back then the preponderance of strange events on their homeground tended to reinforce rather than relax their natural reticence.
“That photograph is the sole remaining evidence and it exists only because somebody filched it from the records before they were destroyed as part of a general cover-up. It was sent to me by an American colleague who knows of my interest in such matters.”
“I assume that the authorities did nothing about the lynching?” I asked.
Calloway shook his head, fleshy jowls wobbling. “Why should they? The locals had only done what the government was bent on doing—a little more brutally, perhaps, but to the same end. Well, Roderick, you must be wondering what all this is leading to?”
I nodded.
“You mentioned a coincidence,” I reminded him.
With a smug grin, Calloway pushed three more photographs towards me. This time they were coloured Polaroid prints.
The first was of a low stone portal, deep set into what looked like an earthen tunnel. The camera, probably a simple one, had been held some distance from the doorway, and while I could make out that there were vague shapes upon the jambs and indistinct marks upon the lintel, even with the magnifying-glass they were not clear.
The second and third Polaroids showed the opposing jambs. Each had an identical relief carving, depicting a crucifixion very similar to that shown in the American photograph. In both carvings, something undoubtedly batrachian was portrayed. Bulging eyes stared straight forward, great loose mouths twisted in sneering hatred.
“I’m hooked,” I said. “Tell me more.”
“These creatures, these ‘Deep Ones’ as they have sometimes been called, are incredibly ancient,” said Calloway. “There is evidence that throughout history various races have had some contact with them. Sumerian and first dynasty Egyptian priests certainly knew of them, as did the Chinese of the Hsai and Shang dynasties.”
“But you’re talking of periods of—what?—between five and six thousand years ago!”
Calloway shrugged. “I have seen artefacts which suggest that our palaeolithic ancestors knew of the Deep Ones. They could well antedate mankind.”
He went to light another cigarette and with a muttered imprecation hurled an empty matchbox at an already overflowing waste-basket. There was a pause while he scrabbled through desk drawers. At last he found a fresh box and relaxed. “Generally, Roderick, these beings have shunned the human race, not through fear but because they can afford to await the return of their hideous gods. They have a longevity beyond our ken, and they limit their contact with mankind to those who worship them.” Calloway rose to refill my coffee cup. As he poured he said, “Those Polaroids were taken a couple of days ago, at an archaeological dig a few miles from Hastings, and I received them first post today.” He set down the fresh coffee and took a sheet of paper from the jumble on his desk. “This letter was with them.” The paper was cheap, obviously ripped from a rough jotter pad, but the handwriting was elegant. The letter read:
My dear Calloway,
I’m in luck. After some years of fruitless requests I have been granted permission to excavate a site at Lower Bedhoe in Sussex.
The previous landowner, a stubborn old devil called Sir Peter Grensham, would not allow any research into the site but his heir and only living relative is an Australian with flourishing business interests in his own country. He does not want to come to England and intends to sell off his UK interests in due course. In the meantime, he granted leave to dig and my team started work there several weeks ago.
There is a small stone circle at the site together with a barrow and I judge both to be contemporary with Stonehenge. Now here is a curious thing, Calloway. We have made our way into the mound and have found the entrance to a sepulchre which I swear is Roman. There is considerable work to be done, for the tomb’s entrance is blocked by an enormous stone. I hope to break through in the near future.
Apart from the anomaly of there being an apparently Roman tomb in a British barrow, there are some weird carvings at the tomb’s entrance. Knowing of your interest in oddities, I enclose photographs.
I have not seen their like before and I am hoping that you might be able to shed some light. Why not come over and see them first-hand? I will be grateful for any help you can give.
Yours sincerely,
Alaric Wayt
“Wayt was once a member of staff at Southdown,” explained Calloway. “Some years ago, though, he inherited a small fortune and is now able to pursue his profession free of any academic institute. Like many academics, Wayt is probably less open-minded than he would pretend—note the way he refers to my occult knowledge as an ‘interest in oddities.’ They all choose similar euphemisms. Wayt will want me to explain the carvings to him. At this time, I have no intention of doing so.”
“Why?”
“Because if I do so, when he publishes his findings about this dig, he will very properly attribute the explanation to me. The ensuing deluge of scorn would pour upon my head and not his. Academics are every bit as bitchy as actors.
“That apart, Roderick, how would you like to take a drive into Sussex to look at an ancient tomb?”
***
We arrived at the site of Wayt’s dig during the early afternoon. The journey along the coast road from Southdown had been a pleasant one and it was only when we at last reached Lower Bedhoe, which was about half-a-mile inland, that we encountered any difficulty. The local people were reluctant to direct us to the dig.
Lower Bedhoe was a very small village, little more than a main street with several short side roads off and some scattered cottages in the countryside about. In common with many English villages of its kind, it had a green and a duckpond, around which stood an early Norman church, a pub and—most unusual these days—a working smithy. There was a village store-cum-post office and an old two-roomed school from which could be heard the chatter of small children.
We asked for directions first at the store. The proprietor, a small man with shrivelled, prune-like cheeks, said, “A bad business that dig, gentlemen. I wouldn’t be doing you any favours by telling you how to get there. Good day to you.” He turned to serve a customer, obviously dismissing us.
Enquiries of other inhabitants met with varying negative attitudes. At best there was an indifferent shrugging of shoulders coupled with a refusal to answer, at worst there were several instances of open hostility. The blacksmith and the publican were both exceptionally aggressive. Perhaps if I had been readily identifiable as a priest our reception might have been more polite, but I was casually dressed.
At length we drove out of the village and within a mile or so stopped to hail a labourer working in a field. He ambled over with grudging step to see what was wanted. When I asked him where we could find the site his eyes squinted with suspicion.
“You two diggers?” he demanded.
“What?”
“You gonna help them out there with the diggin’ up of things best left to rest?”
Calloway leaned across to offer the man a cigarette. “We’re with the Department of the Environment,” he said. “We want to check the legality of what they are doing there.”
The man’s demeanour changed. He accepted the cigarette with dirty, stubby fingers, lit it and puffed with enjoyment. “Good for you, mister! You go and slap some kind of order on them if you can. Dunno if what they’re doin’ is legal or not but it ain’t right, that’s for sure.
“Drive on the way you’re goin’, maybe half to three-quarters of a mile, you’ll come to a double bend. Round that on the left you’ll see a youth hostel set back a few yards. Couple hundred yards more, there’s an old track leading off the road. Turn there an’ you’ll see two hills, a small one in front of a big one. Dad and his Lad, we call them round here. Them diggin’ fellers have got a camp in between the two. You get rid of them, mister. Us folks here’ll thank you right enough.” He touched the peak of his tattered cap and went back to his work.
“Interesting,” commented Calloway as I engaged first gear to drive on. “I’ve heard of digs fermenting bad feeling among primitive peoples but never in a place like this.”
The instructions proved accurate and very soon we were approaching a rise which could only be the Lad. It was not so much a hill, more of an intrusive lump on the landscape, perhaps about as high as a two-storey house. Behind that was a far larger hill, one hundred and fifty feet or so, crested by thick woodland. The little valley separating the hills was filled with a colourful miscellany of tents, ranging from the smallest of modern lightweights to a well-worn canvas affair so big as to be almost a marquee. I stopped the Land Rover, applying the handbrake firmly.
“There’s Wayt,” said Calloway, pointing to where two
men stood at a trestle table set up in front of the marquee.
The elder of the two, a broad man of medium height with a mane of white hair, gave a cheery wave and came to greet us. “Calloway! Pleased that you could make it.”
“Hello, Wayt,” said Calloway. “This is my friend, Father Shea. He’s here because his vehicle is more suited to this terrain than is my old Rolls.”
“Good to know you, Shea,” said Wayt, his handshake firm. He gestured towards the crew-cut younger man, who called out “Hi there!” with a strong American accent. “That’s my right-hand, Ken Porter. Ken’s a research student from Wisconsin University. You wouldn’t believe that he’s my fellow countryman, would you?”
“You surprise me,” I said. Wayt’s own deep tones were very British.
“I was born in the States, Father Shea,” the archaeologist explained. “My parents died when I was very young. I was brought to England by a distant cousin of my father’s and was raised here.”
“Your letter suggests that you’re feeling very pleased with yourself,” said Calloway.
“Most assuredly,” acknowledged Wayt. “I’d almost despaired of ever getting a crack at this place. I’m delighted that the new Sir John was more amenable than the old fellow. The locals seem a tad miffed, though.”
“We noticed,” was Calloway’s dry comment. “Where is the site?”
“Behind the larger hill. There’s a small plateau just before you reach the coastal cliffs. I’ve got about a dozen enthusiastic youngsters up there right now, all beavering away. Ken and I just came down to update our chart. Have a look.”
Wayt took us to the trestle table which was covered with a large site diagram picked out on graph paper. “This is the barrow,” said Wayt, pointing. “The tomb’s entrance is here, facing inland. You’ll see that there are a dozen stones making up the circle and here, nearest to the cliff, is a flat stone which was probably a sacrificial altar.”
Shadows Over Innsmouth Page 30