The Keep ac-1

by F. Paul Wilson

  And so now he stood on the rim of the Black Sea, tapping his feet, drumming his fingers on the flat case, waiting for his battered vessel to finish fueling. He resisted the urge to rush over and give the owner a few swift kicks to hurry him up. That would be fruitless. He knew he couldn't rush these people; they lived at their own speed, one much slower than his.

  It would be 250 miles due north of here to the Danube Delta, and almost 200 more west from there overland to the Dinu Pass. If not for this idiot war, he could have hired an airplane and been there long before now.

  What had happened? Had there been a battle in the pass? The short-wave had said nothing of fighting in Romania. No matter. Something had gone wrong. And he had thought everything permanently settled.

  His lips twisted. Permanently? He of all people should have known how rare indeed it was for anything to be permanent.

  Still, there remained a chance that events had not progressed beyond the point of no return.

  THIRTEEN

  The Keep

  Tuesday, 29 April

  1752 hours

  "Can't you see he's exhausted?" Magda shouted, her fear gone now, replaced by her anger and her fierce protective instinct.

  "I don't care if he's about to breathe his last gasp," the SS officer said, the one called Major Kaempffer. "I want him to tell me everything he knows about the keep."

  The ride from Campina to the keep had been a nightmare. They had been unceremoniously trundled into the back of a lorry and watched over by a surly pair of enlisted men while another pair drove. Papa had recognized them as einsatzkommandos and had quickly explained to Magda what their areas of expertise were. Even without the explanation she would have found them repulsive; they treated her and Papa like so much baggage. They spoke no Romanian, using instead a language of shoves and prods with rifle barrels. But Magda soon sensed something else below their casual brutality—a preoccupation. They seemed to be glad to be out of the Dinu Pass for a while, and reluctant to return.

  The trip was especially hard on her father, who found it nearly impossible to sit on the bench that ran along each side of the lorry's payload area. The vehicle tipped and lurched and bounced violently as it raced along a road never intended for its passage. Every jolt was agony for Papa, with Magda watching helplessly as he winced and gritted his teeth as pain shot through him. Finally, when the lorry had to stop at a bridge to wait for a goat cart to move aside, Magda helped him off the bench and back into his wheelchair. She moved quickly, unable to see what was going on outside the vehicle, but knowing that as long as the driver kept banging impatiently on the horn, she could risk moving Papa. After that, it was a matter of holding on to the wheelchair to keep it from rolling out the back while struggling to keep herself from sliding off the bench once the lorry started moving again. Their escort sneered at her plight and made not the slightest effort to help. She was as exhausted as her father by the time they reached the keep.

  The keep ... it had changed. It looked as well kept as ever in the dusk when they rolled across the causeway, but as soon as they passed through the gate, she felt it—an aura of menace, a change in the very air that weighed on the spirit and touched off chills along the neck and shoulders.

  Papa noticed it, too, for she saw him lift his head and look around, as if trying to classify the sensation.

  The Germans seemed to be in a hurry, and there seemed to be two kinds of soldiers, some in gray, some in SS black. Two of the ones in gray opened up the rear of the lorry as soon as it stopped and began motioning them out, saying, "Schnell! Schnell!"

  Magda addressed them in German, which she understood and could speak reasonably well. "He cannot walk!" This was true at the moment—Papa was on the verge of physical collapse.

  The two in gray did not hesitate to leap into the back of the truck and lift her father down, wheelchair and all, but it was left to her to push him across the courtyard. She felt the shadows crowding against her as she followed the soldiers.

  "Something's gone wrong here, Papa!" she whispered in his ear. "Can't you feel it?"

  A slow nod was his only reply.

  She rolled him into the first level of the watchtower. Two German officers awaited them there, one in gray, one in black, standing by a rickety table under a single shaded light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

  The evening had only begun.

  "Firstly," Papa said, speaking flawless German in reply to Major Kaempffer's demand for information, "this structure isn't a keep. A keep, or donjon as it was called in these parts, was the final inner fortification of a castle, the ultimate stronghold where the lord of the castle stayed with his family and staff. This building"—he made a small gesture with his hands—"is unique. I don't know what you should call it. It's too elaborate and well built for a simple watchpost, and yet it's too small to have been built by any self-respecting feudal lord. It's always been called 'the keep,' probably for lack of a better name. It will do, I suppose."

  "I don't care what you suppose!" the major snapped. "I want what you know! The history of the keep, the legends connected with it—everything!"

  "Can't it wait until morning?" Magda said. "My father can't even think straight now. Maybe by then—"

  "No! We must know tonight!"

  Magda looked from the blond-haired major to the other officer, the darker, heavier captain named Woermann who had yet to speak. She looked into their eyes and saw the same thing she had seen in all the German soldiers they had encountered since leaving the train; the common denominator that had eluded her was now clear. These men were afraid. Officers and enlisted men alike, they were all terrified.

  "Specifically in reference to what?" Papa said.

  Captain Woermann finally spoke. "Professor Cuza, during the week we have been here, eight men have been murdered." The major was glaring at the captain, but the captain kept on speaking, either oblivious to the other officer's displeasure, or ignoring it. "One death a night, except for last night when two throats were slashed."

  A reply seemed to form on Papa's lips. Magda prayed he would not say anything that would set the Germans off. He appeared to think better of it. "I have no political connections, and know of no group active in this area. I cannot help you."

  "We no longer think there's a political motive here," the captain said.

  "Then what? Who?"

  The reply seemed almost physically painful for Captain Woermann. "We're not even sure it's a who."

  The words hung in the air for an endless moment, then Magda saw her father's mouth form the tiny, toothy oval that had come to pass for a grin lately. It made his face look like death.

  "You believe the supernatural to be at work here, gentlemen? A few of your men are killed, and because you can't find the killer, and because you don't want to think that a Romanian partisan might be getting the better of you, you look to the supernatural. If you really want my—"

  "Silence, Jew!" the SS major said, naked rage on his face as he stepped forward. "The only reason you are here and the only reason I do not have you and your daughter shot at once is the fact that you have traveled this region extensively and are an expert on its folklore. How long you remain alive will depend on how useful you prove to be. So far you have said nothing to convince me that I have not wasted my time bringing you here!"

  Magda saw Papa's smile evaporate as he glanced at her, then back to the major. The threat to her had struck home.

  "I will do what I can," he said gravely, "but first you must tell me everything that has happened here. Perhaps I can come up with a more realistic explanation."

  "For your sake, I hope so."

  Captain Woermann told the story of the two privates who had penetrated the cellar wall where they had found a cross of gold and silver rather than brass and nickel, of the narrow shaft leading down to what appeared to be a blind cell, of the rupture of the wall into the corridor, of the collapse of part of the floor into the subcellar, of the fate of Private Lutz and of those who followed
him. The captain also told of the engulfing darkness he had seen on the rampart two nights ago, and of the two SS men who somehow had walked up to Major Kaempffer's room after their throats had been torn out.

  The story chilled Magda. Under different circumstances she might have laughed at it. But the atmosphere in the keep tonight, and the grim faces of these two German officers gave it credence. And as the captain spoke, she realized with a start that her dream of traveling north might have occurred at just about the time the first man had died.

  But she couldn't dwell on that now. There was Papa to look after. She had watched his face as he had listened; she had seen his mortal fatigue slip away as each new death and each bizarre event was related. By the time Captain Woermann had finished, Papa had metamorphosed from a sick old man slumped in his wheelchair to Professor Theodor Cuza, an expert being challenged in his chosen field. He paused at length before replying.

  Finally: "The obvious assumption here is that something was released from that little room in the wall when the first soldier broke into it. To my knowledge, there has never been a single death in the keep before this. But then, there has never before been a foreign army living in the keep. I would have thought the deaths the work of patriotic"—he emphasized the word—"Romanians but for the events of the last two nights. There is no natural explanation I know for the way the light died on the wall, nor for the animation of ex-sanguinated corpses. So perhaps we must look outside nature for our explanation."

  "That's why you're here, Jew," the major said.

  "The simplest solution is to leave."

  "Out of the question!"

  Papa mulled this. "I do not believe in vampires, gentlemen." Magda caught a quick warning glance from him—she knew that was not entirely true. "At least not anymore. Nor werewolves, nor ghosts. But I've always believed there was something special about the keep. It has long been an enigma. It is of unique design, yet there is no record of who built it. It is maintained in perfect condition, yet no one claims ownership. There is no record of ownership anywhere—I know, for I spent years trying to learn who built it and who maintains it."

  "We are working on that now," Major Kaempffer said.

  "You mean you're contacting the Mediterranean Bank in Zurich? Don't waste your time, I've already been there. The money comes from a trust account set up in the last century when the bank was founded; expenses for maintenance of the keep are paid from interest on the money in the account. And before that, I believe, it was paid through a similar account in a different bank, possibly in a different country ... the innkeepers' records over the generations leave much to be desired. But the fact is there is no link anywhere to the person or persons who opened the account; the money is to be held and the interest is to be paid in perpetuum."

  Major Kaempffer slammed his fist down on the table. "Damn! What good are you, old man!"

  "I'm all you have, Herr Major. But let me go further with this: Three years ago I went so far as to petition the Romanian government—then under King Carol—to declare the keep a national treasure and take over ownership. It was my hope that such de facto nationalization would bring out the owners, if any still live. But the petition was refused. The Dinu Pass was considered too remote and inaccessible. Also, since there is no Romanian history specifically connected with the keep, it could not be officially considered a national treasure. And finally, and most importantly, nationalization would require use of government funds for maintenance of the keep. Why should that be wasted when private money is doing such an excellent job?

  "I had no defense against those arguments. And so, gentlemen, I gave up. My failing health confined me to Bucharest. I had to be satisfied with having exhausted all research resources, with being the greatest living authority on the keep, knowing more about it than anyone else. Which amounts to absolutely nothing."

  Magda bristled at her father's constant use of "I." She had done most of the work for him. She knew as much about the keep as he. But she said nothing. It was not her place to contradict her father, not in the presence of others.

  "What about these?" Captain Woermann said, pointing to a motley collection of scrolls and leather-bound books in the corner of the room.

  "Books?" Papa's eyebrows lifted.

  "We've started dismantling the keep," Major Kaempffer said. "This thing we're after will soon have no place left to hide. We'll eventually have every stone in the place exposed to the light of day. Then where will it go?"

  Papa shrugged. "A good plan ... as long as you don't release something worse." Magda watched him casually turn his head toward the pile of books, but not before taking note of Kaempffer's startled expression—that possibility had never occurred to the major. "But where did you find the books? There was never a library in the keep, and the villagers can barely read their names."

  "In a hollow spot in one of the walls being dismantled," the captain said.

  Papa turned to her. "Go see what they are."

  Magda stepped over to the corner and knelt beside the books, grateful for an opportunity to be off her feet even for a few minutes. Papa's wheelchair was the only seat in the room, and no one had offered to get a chair for her. She looked at the pile, smelled the familiar musty odor of old paper; she loved books and loved that smell. There were perhaps a dozen or so there, some partially rotten, one in scroll form. Magda pushed her way through them slowly, allowing the muscles of her back as much time as possible to stretch before she had to rise again. She picked up a random volume. Its title was in English: The Book of Eibon. It startled her. It couldn't be ... it was a joke! She looked at the others, translating their titles from the various languages in which they were written, the awe and disquiet mounting within her. These were genuine! She rose and backed away, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste.

  "What's wrong?" Papa asked when he saw her face.

  "Those books!" she said, unable to hide her shock and revulsion. "They're not even supposed to exist!"

  Papa wheeled his chair closer to the table. "Bring them over here!"

  Magda stooped and gingerly lifted two of them. One was De Vermis Mysteriis by Ludwig Prinn; the other, Cultes des Goules by Comte d'Erlette. Both were extremely heavy and her skin crawled just to touch them. The curiosity of the two officers had been aroused to such an extent that they, too, bent to the pile and brought the remaining texts to the table.

  Trembling with excitement that increased with each article placed on the table, Papa muttered under his breath between calling out the titles as he saw them.

  "The Pnakotic Manuscripts, in scroll form! The duNord translation of The Book of Eibon! The Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan! And here—Unaussprechlichen Kulten by von Juntz! These books are priceless! They've been universally suppressed and forbidden through the ages, so many copies burned that only whispers of their titles have remained. In some cases, it has been questioned whether they ever existed at all! But here they are, perhaps the last surviving copies!"

  "Perhaps they were forbidden for a good reason, Papa," Magda said, not liking the light that had begun to shine in his eyes. Finding those books had shaken her. They were purported to describe foul rites and contacts with forces beyond reason and sanity. To learn that they were real, that they and their authors were more than sinister rumors, was profoundly unsettling. It warped the texture of everything.

  "Perhaps they were," Papa said without looking up. He had pulled off his outer leather gloves with his teeth and was slipping a rubber cap onto his right index fingertip, still gloved in cotton. Adjusting his bifocals, he began leafing through the pages. "But that was in another time. This is the twentieth century. I can't imagine there being anything in these books we couldn't deal with now."

  "What could possibly be so awful?" Woermann said, pulling the leatherbound, iron-hasped copy of Unaussprechlichen Kulten toward him. "Look. This one's in German." He opened the cover and flipped through the pages, finally stopping near the middle and reading.

  Magda was tem
pted to warn him but decided against it. She owed these Germans nothing. She saw the captain's face blanch, saw his throat working in spasms as he slammed the book shut.

  "What kind of sick, demented mind is responsible for this sort of thing? It's—it's—" He could not seem to find the words to express what he felt.

  "What have you got there?" Papa said, looking up from a book whose title he had not yet announced. "Oh, the von Juntz book. That was first published privately in Düsseldorf in 1839. An extremely small edition, perhaps only a dozen copies..." His voice trailed off.

  "Something wrong?" Kaempffer said. He had stood apart from the others, showing little curiosity.

  "Yes. The keep was built in the fifteenth century ... that much I know for sure. These books were all written before then, all except that von Juntz book. Which means that as late as the middle of the last century, possibly later, someone visited the keep and deposited this book with the others."

  "I don't see how that helps us now," Kaempffer said. "It does nothing to prevent another of our men"—he smiled as an idea struck him—"or perhaps even you or your daughter, from being murdered tonight."

  "It does cast a new light on the problem, though," Papa said. "These books you see before you have been condemned through the ages as evil. I deny that. I say they are not evil, but are about evil. The one in my hands right now is especially feared—the Al Azif in the original Arabic."

  Magda heard herself gasp. "Oh, no!" That one was the worst of all!

  "Yes! I don't know much Arabic, but I know enough to translate the title and the name of the poet responsible for it." He looked from Magda back to Kaempffer. "The answer to your problem may well reside within the pages of these books. I'll start on them tonight. But first I wish to see the corpses."