by Robert Bloch
The little man yanked the bag away. Clutching it, he retreated as Kane bore down upon him furiously.
“Stop!” Woods cried. Hurling himself forward, he stepped between the two men, directly into the orbit of the descending blade.
There was a gurgle, then a thud, as he fell.
The scalpel clattered to the floor, slipping from Kane’s nerveless fingers and coming to rest amidst the crimson stain that seeped and spread.
The little man stooped and picked up the scalpel. “Thank you,” he said softly. “You have given me what I came for.” He dropped the weapon into the bag.
Then he shimmered.
Shimmered—and disappeared.
But Woods’ body didn’t disappear. Kane stared down at it—at the throat ripped open from ear to ear.
He was still staring when they came and took him away.
The trial, of course, was a sensation. It wasn’t so much the crazy story Kane told as the fact that nobody could ever find the fatal weapon.
It was a most unusual murder . . .
The Brood of Bubastis
I wish I did not have to write these lines. Still, before I seek forgetfulness in the black boon of death, I feel impelled to leave this final testament.
I owe it to my friends, who have never understood the metamorphosis of personality I underwent upon my return from England. Perhaps this will serve to explain my abhorrent and unnatural zoöphobia—feliphobia, rather. My quite inexplicable fear of cats caused them much anguish, I know, and for a while there was talk of a “nervous breakdown.” Now they shall hear the truth. I trust it clears up other points which may have puzzled them: my voluntary retirement to the country, the breaking off of all personal contacts and correspondence, and my brusk rejection of all their sympathetic advances. Here, then, is my final explanation to those I once knew and loved.
Here, too, I trust, is material of value to students of archeology and ethnology; perhaps the first example of ancient legends substantiated by the testimony of an eye-witness. I hope that it will prove useful.
On November twelfth of this last year, I sailed for England. My friends knew that I planned to visit my old college companion, Malcolm Kent, at his Cornwall estate. Malcolm had been a fellow-student of mine, and we had formed a close bond of friendship, cemented by our mutual interests in psychology, philosophy, and metaphysics.
I had a pleasant crossing, spiced with eager anticipation of the visit to come, for I had heard much of Malcolm’s fine old home. He had often spoken in detail of the ancient manor in which he dwelt, and reminisced at length upon his ancestral heritage. His was an old family, steeped in the archaic traditions of the past—a past filled with Celtic myths, Pictish legends, and still more remote fables of antique days. The countryside about his estate was deeply imbued with hoary and fantastic lore. He had recounted olden whispers of goblin-folk, the dark dwarfs and gnomes that burrowed in the bogs and swamps. Ghost tales and stories of furtive wizardries seemed to spring from the very twilight land itself. I looked forward to an interesting experience.
So, at first, it seemed to be. I was enchanted with the Cornish countryside; a region of mystic mountains, cloud-haunted hilltops, and purple peaks that towered above wild forest glens and green-grottoed swamplands. Here was a region rich in romance—the dark land of Irish, Saxon, Roman, and primitive pagan gods. Witches could walk in these woods, sorcerers sweep across these sullen skies on their satanic steeds. I was well pleased with the place.
I found in Malcom an agreeable host. He had not changed; the tall, fair-haired youth had become a mature man whose tastes still coincided harmoniously with my own. There was a world of wisdom in his pale blue eyes, and a warmth of welcome in his smile when first we met at the gate of his estate.
Together we walked up the long tree-spanned pathway which led to the door of his dwelling. Here I stopped for a moment to survey the imposing structure.
The Kent manor was a fine example of good old English architecture. It was large, with low, ivy-covered wings that jutted out on the sides; typically British solidness seemed to exude from the place.
Now I can think of it only with repulsion, for everything connected with that place is tinged with dread for me.
The interior was, I suppose, beautiful. Now I detest the thought of long, shadowed halls. I don’t like to let my mind dwell on the stone study, for it was there that the affair started.
We had dined well, and Malcolm suggested we retire and chat before the fire. After perfunctorily discussing trivial matters of our recent years, our conversation ebbed.
It was then that I sensed in Malcolm a peculiar hesitancy of manner. At first I ascribed it to a vague embarrassment on his part. I admit that I was gazing about me with great curiosity.
I noted that his library on occultism had been greatly augmented since his first interest in it, during college. The walls were solidly shelved with books bearing unmistakable earmarks of the mantic arts. The skull on the mantel was a rather affected touch, I thought, though there was a genuine note of weirdness in some of the paintings and tapestries. But my intent scrutiny of these things, I felt, could not wholly explain his air of eagerness. He was nervous, his eyes ever on the floor as I gazed about the room. It was almost as though he wanted me to see certain things without his telling me; as though this place had some secret to impart of which he dared not speak.
At length I grew impatient. The silence, the dim luminance of candles and fire, all affected my nerves.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he replied, easily. Too easily!
“Aren’t hiding any bodies around here, are you?” I forced jocularity.
“No, of course not.” He smiled, then leaned forward, earnestly.
“Are you still as interested in the occult as you used to be?” he asked.
Something in the intent tone of his voice warned me.
“Well, to tell the truth, I haven’t studied much lately. Writing, you know, takes up pretty near all my time. And then, too, we got to a certain stage where ordinary work must cease. I can’t get the use of the more advanced books.”
“I have them,” Malcolm said, carelessly indicating his shelves. “But that’s not the point. Are you still interested?”
“Yes,” I replied.
Was it fancy, or did his eyes light up with a disturbing gleam? Did a look of triumph cross his face?
“I think that I have something of importance to tell you,” he began, slowly. “But I warn you, it may prove shocking. So if you’d rather we talked of something else—”
“Go ahead,” I murmured. “Let’s have it.”
For a long moment he averted his head. He seemed to be nerving himself to speak; his glance avoided mine again, as though attempting to conceal some hidden fear. It may have been a trick of the candlelight, but when he looked up, that queer glitter again shone in his eyes. When at last he spoke, his voice was very low.
“Very well, then. I shall tell you the truth—all of it. It will be wise for me to do this, perhaps. I don’t like to bear the knowledge alone any longer.”
Then, as I sat silent, he began his tale, and for the next hour I was transported to a world of mad imagination. While he spoke, it seemed as though the very shadows on the wall crept closer to listen.
I heard him out. Afterward the words seemed to blur in my brain, so that I forgot many of his statements and remembered only their loathsome effect on me. Perhaps it is just as well, for at the time those stark, shuddery sentences moved me overmuch. The general details of his story, however, remain clear.
For the past two years Malcolm had become intensely interested in neighborhood folk-lore. Time hung heavy on his hands, and his obscure studies impelled him to seek practical explanations of local legends. His questioning of the country people had brought to light much that was fascinating. He corroborated what he heard from them by reading archeological treatises, and there was much in ethnology and anthropology regarding the an
cient days and the tribes then settled here. He read of Druidic times, and correlated his readings with certain still-current fables telling of olden rites in the glades of oak. He rode across the countryside to view remains of menhirs and partly-standing altars ascribed to the priests of this primal cult.
He learned of Roman invasions and Roman gods, and had repeated to him the fable of Maximus Lupus, whom a dragon devoured on the midnight moor. The fantastic stories of Little People were substantiated in country folk-lore, and from then on he delved deeply into the demonology of many races and a score of centuries. Sea-serpents haunted the gloomy coasts, and mermaids shrilled a siren song above the storm. Kelpies and leprechauns croaked from bog and tarn, while certain peaks and hillside caves were reputed to be the abode of the dread trolls, dwarfs, and unfriendly small dark folk of pre-Pictish days. Witch rites, the Black Mass, the Damned Coven—all seemed to have their place in the history of the countryside. Such myths offered a wide field for investigation.
At first the more reputable of such dubious authorities sufficed him, but his way led him ever into wilder and more fantastic wisdom. He managed to borrow Ludvig Prinn’s almost legendary Latin edition of De Vermis Mysteriis, and in that cryptic repository of nightmare knowledge he found much over which to ponder perplexedly.
That was several months ago. Since then he had returned the volume—it was the property of the British Museum—but had made a number of notes from it. Among these scribblings was an almost incredible statement which greatly excited his fevered fancy.
Since then he had checked the facts in established archeology texts and books on the subject of race-migration. They echoed the truth. Substantially, the theory was simple: the Egyptians had once colonized Cornwall!
According to the fragmentary allusions Malcolm had discovered, the strange dark peoples of Africa had sailed up the coast lands in their Phenician-built galleys. This much was known from the wrecked remnants of several craft unearthed on desolate and sand-swept shores. Later and even more startling advances had been made during the investigation of numerous primitive, abandoned mines dotting the local heaths. These had been previously ascribed to early Gaels, but the familiar symbols and ideography of ancient Egypt were unmistakably inscribed on the rock walls of the deeper chasms. Most of the mines bore traces of having been hastily abandoned, thus accounting for their discontinuance.
Comparison with accounts of early navigation did much to substantiate the theory. The fleets of Egypt sailed to the Orient; why not westward as well?
Malcolm put forth these ideas in tones of such profound eagerness and agitation that I was tempted to inquire as to his particular interest in them.
He told me, intensely, and at length. For two definite reasons he was interested. First—there was one of those Egyptian mines in this very neighborhood.
He had stumbled across it quite by chance, during a walk along the moors. Upon descending the outer rim of a precipitous cliff, he had noticed faint remnants of a definite pathway around a ledge. Upon following the trail out of curiosity he found himself standing before a deep, cavernous indentation in the wall of the ledge. Half obscured by weeds and branches, an aperture yawned inward, seemingly leading to the very bowels of the earth below the moor. He cleared away enough of the debris to wriggle through, and discovered a long, slanting tunnel that stretched blackly before him. Flashlight in hand, he had entered. There was a musty fetor in the darkness, an odor of furtive decay. Dust danced about his feet as he floundered on. The burrow widened, until a Cyclopean maze of inner passages confronted him. Here he had turned back, as his torch was failing fast, but not before he had seen certain unmistakable hieroglyphic designs in the archaic style of Egypt.
He had deferred his return until I arrived. Now we could go together.
“But,” I interjected, “I think this is a task for reputable authorities. Why not publish your findings and invite a group of recognized savants to aid you in the project?”
He demurred. We had best go alone, until we were really certain of the extent and importance of our discovery. I saw his point, and agreed.
“Didn’t you mention having a second reason for your moodiness?” I asked.
He again avoided my glance. “Never mind that now. It’s getting late. I’ll tell you tomorrow, when we get there.”
It was a long walk across the moor in that misty, early morning fog. Malcolm and I both grunted under our burden of food, torches, and other apparatus. Groping in gray gloom, we skirted the steep edge of a seaward cliff until Malcolm found the proper path. Then we began our descent. Hanging in space, I heard the roar of the mist-obscured surf from far below, and the brisk breeze sent spray to sting my face and hands. Amidst the shrill, mocking cries of the gulls, we clambered along the narrow ledge until it broadened sufficiently to permit of more casual passage. At last Malcolm turned to me and indicated the spot for which we searched.
There was the tunnel, just as he had described it—a black cleft in the rock; a thin opening that looked as though it were scratched in the stone by a gigantic claw of some ogreish monster. The hole was deep and black, and as I contemplated it I received my first definite impression of uneasiness.
I have never liked the dark places beneath the earth. The sight of caves and tunnels brings a train of almost atavistic recollection. I instinctively associate such burrows with death and graves. And too many unwholesome legends seem to cluster around caverns. Perhaps it is a relic of primitive times, but caves in my mind always conjure up a vision of mythical dragons and vast, lumbering beasts; of black, half-animal races of troglodytes; of vaults and catacombs given over to the dead. And this sinister slit in the ageless rock looked oddly unnatural. Consequently I paused before it, suspicion mounting within me.
“This—this doesn’t look like a mine to me,” I said. “However primitive, I don’t see how ore could be carried up the cliff, and the opening is too narrow. I don’t like it. Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”
Malcolm smiled. It was a peculiar smile, tinged with sardonic amusement.
“I’m not mistaken,” he said. “And it isn’t a mine. I know that. But it all ties up with the second reason for my moodiness which I promised to explain. I’d better tell you before we go in.”
He spoke. It was a strange place to impart such a secret; on a fog-wrapped ledge half-way between sea and sky, before a dark doorway to the inner earth. But the secret was fitting for such a scene as this.
“I lied to you last night,” Malcolm said, calmly. “I didn’t tell you all I studied, or all I found out. There’s more, much more, behind this visit than a mere glimpse of ancient times.”
He paused. “Have you ever heard of Bubastis?” he asked.
“Bubastis?” I was a little puzzled. “Why, yes. Old Egyptian city, wasn’t it? And isn’t there a god, Bubastis—Bast, or Pasht, they call it?”
“Yes.” Again that puzzling smile. “Bubastis, or Bast, was the cat-goddess of Egypt during the days of the Pharaohs. According to the proper myth-cycle, Bubastis was the daughter of Isis. The temples of the goddess were located separately in the cities of Bubastis and Elephantine.”
“What are you getting at?” I was frankly bewildered; he told me this with such an air of grave importance, and his recurring smile was baffling. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that we are now entering the new temple of Bubastis,” he said. “Don’t gape at me! If you’ve read Prinn’s Saracenic Rituals chapter, or the Roman contemporary historians, you must know that Elephantine and Bubastis were destroyed. It is hinted that the Priests of Bast were blaspheming against the reigning religions, and their sacrifices were atrocious. Finally an army was sent against their cities and the temples were ravished. But—and this is important—the priests were said to have vanished; escaped somewhere, with their acolytes. They came here.”
“To Cornwall?”
“Exactly. That’s why those stupid fools were deceived by the mines. Most of them were blinds—with hollow
shafts leading to temples beneath.”
“But what were they trying to do?”
“The renegade priests knew black arts. Their worship was perverted. Bast was a ghoul-goddess, remember, and her feline fangs must know blood. And besides, the priests were experimenting. Somewhere in the old Daemonolorum it is written that there was a sect of Egypt which believed literally in their gods; believed that Anubis, Bast, and Set could assume human form. That is to say, that the cat-goddess could be brought to life. And there were wise men in those days; science and biology were not unknown. It is the belief of savants that the priests of Bast were mating animals and humans in an attempt to create a hybrid—a hybrid with the attributes of their deity. For this they were expelled, and they fled here.”
Malcolm went on.
“Clever, clever priests! Here, in the safety of the under-earth, they rebuilt their shattered fanes. With slaves and devotees they continued their experiments. I know that within this very moor are treasures far greater than those of the Pyramids or temple tombs. That’s what we’re going to see now. I don’t want any meddling experts to gain the credit. It’s a secret you and I alone must know.”
He could not help but see my face.
“Don’t be afraid, I’ve been here many times, no matter what I told you. I know the way. It’s wonderful, I tell you.”
He pushed me through the cleft, and we wriggled into darkness.
The torch-glow guided me through the fissure and into a long, sloping passage where I could once more stand erect. Wading through dust, we walked between narrow, carefully chiseled walls for what seemed an interminable time. Already the nightmare aspects of this whole strange adventure were deadening all rational thoughts. Now Malcolm led the way, through twisted burrows that stretched like hollow tentacles of some unseen horror ahead. Walking deep in the ageless earth, beneath a moor! With every step, my time-sense faded away, until I might easily believe that we had left centuries behind and were again in primal days.