The lone walker moved carefully down the muddy track that served as the Main Street. The young village was not yet urbane enough to afford the cobble streets of its far distant cousins along the sea coast. In places remnants of clay bricks poked through the puddles showing that there had been an attempt to pave the road. A season of winter and the rains of spring and summer had reduced most of the clay bricks adding their clinging grasp to the mud that choked the street. Rough hewn planking served as walkways at the front of the buildings but the street was left to the vagaries of the elements. Wane lights from windows tried fitfully to pierce the evening air, pale yellow squares and rectangles looking back impotently from the muddy ground. The buildings were made of timbers also rough hewn that had not seen a smoothing hand or coat of whitewash. They stood grey in the twilight. The few men that were out and about were huddled deep into their warm coats and fur cloaks as their horses plodded along the puddle littered streets. Each was in a hurry to reach his own destination and get out of the weather. The cold driven sleet did little to wash away the gloom that pervaded the young northern town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. It was a humble community founded on the trapping industry. And it did not seem the happy little community that the walker remembered from his last visit to the area. Yet it was not the weather that depressed the spirit so. There was an electric feeling of apprehension and anxiety present which the lone walker felt keenly. It felt like a dip into cold waters as he came into the town and made his way toward the lone inn. He stomped his feet on the planking to remove the dirt and mud and then moved to the front door.
As he entered the building he took of his long coat. He shook it with a snap; water cascading to the floor. This caused the regulars to start, their attention torn from their drinks. Fear sparkled wet gleams in their look as eyes darted first to the stranger and then to the door. The walker caught this with a casual glance but made no visible sign of noting it. He filed it away for future deliberation. He strode unconcerned to the counter.
“What’ll ye have, stranger?” the barman asked.
“If that’s meat stew I smell cooking I’ll have a bowl and a draught of mulled wine.”
“I’ll have to see your coin first,” the barman replied hesitantly.
Harlan Waters reached his hand quickly to a hidden pocket and dropped two coins on the bar. His feat of slight-of-hand kept anyone from seeing where the money came from and how much might be left behind. None seemed to take notice anyway. Their minds were preoccupied with other concerns apparently.
The wine appeared. Harlan sipped at it slowly. He tasted for drugs or poisons, his tongue trained to discern. He had enemies in all parts of the world even during times of peace. There were none present in the spiced wine. He waited patiently for his bowl of stew. While he waited another man came hurrying into the tavern. A haggard look of worry marked his simple features; a trapper by trade, no doubt. He had not the imagination to deal with his fears.
“’T is out there again!” he all but shouted to his cronies as he make his way to a table filled with locals. “It’s made off with little…” he stopped short when he spied the newcomer at the bar. He crossed to a chair and slumped into it ordering a stout from the bartender.
Harlan kept his glance casual but his mind was accepting every minute detail like a sponge, absorbing and processing. His bowl arrived and he retired to a far table off in a corner. He was quite a distance from the regular patrons. He finished his stew and called for another mug of warmed wine. He sipped at it slowly. He stared into the fireplace. To the other customers it seemed as if its warm, orange glow was lulling the visitor to sleep. Its leaping and crackling flames an intricate hypnotic ballet. Now and then, as the others watched, his head nodded, drooped and finally he seemed to drift off to sleep. His long legs stretched out beneath the table, his chin resting on his chest, arms folded over his broad chest. Convinced of his slumber the locals began to whisper in frightened tones. Their hushed conversation told of a horror that stalked unseen outside.
The man that had come precipitously into the bar was the first to speak. “It’s out there again, I tell you!” he began. His face was flushed with the knowledge he held. “It’s taken little Thomas Goodhouse! I had it from his father that the lad had gone out to fetch a bucket of water but never returned to the house. Thomas Senior went out to retrieve the lad and found the bucket smashed upon the ground and a pool of blood where young Tom’s steps ended in the mud.”
“Now, Quincy,” the barman admonished, “you know Young Tom is simple in the head. He probably slipped in the mud and hit his head. He’s probably wandering about again outside of his senses. Just like last winter when Thomas Senior found him in the barn speaking with the center post. Young Tom’ll be found. Mark my words.”
The grumbles showed that there was scant agreement for the barman among his patrons.
Quincy persisted. “You’re speaking out of turn, for you didn’t straight from the Goodhouse farm come. Nor did you see the bucket or splash of blood as have I with mine own eyes. I think you should be visiting Thomas Senior yourself, Master Webster, before ye be judging.” There was a murmur of agreement among those gathered. “But before you go, though, get me another stout, for if I be leaving here for home I’ll be needing more courage than I have to my name!”
Master Webster refilled Quincy’s glass and the conversation picked up in another quarter of the front room. A man near the door picked up the thread. “For what did this horror seek out our little town? Are there not more Godless places than this for such a fiend to haunt?”
The friend who shared his table replied, “I’m thinking ours is not the knowing the ways of God or the Evil One.” Here he made a sign as if to keep off the Evil Eye. It was a superstitious affectation echoed by the others in the bar. “Chester, I’m thinking that this world is their chessboard and we’re naught but pawns and knights to be moved about to serve their fancy.”
Chester replied, “Then this fiend be like the Devil’s own bishop to threaten this God fearing town with its vile playing. And I think, good friend, Sandborn, that we had best be getting home to our families. We must protect them or suffer with them as best we can and if we must.”
There was a general murmur of assent from those assembled but no one made as if to make a move toward the door.
“Before anyone goes anywhere,” came a voice clear and calm, strident with inner strength, “I would like someone to tell me what is going on here.” The patrons jumped and looked to the table in the back corner. Harlan’s eyes were both alert and piercing. “I was to meet a friend at his home this evening,” he continued, “only to find his house deserted a week gone, and this town trembling in the wake of some monstrosity. To sit brooding about a fear only gives it more power and strength over you.” He paused glancing about the room, holding the gaze of each man within. “If you’ll not fight this thing, then inform me of what is known so that I may at least make the attempt. I’ll oust this shadow if ‘tis within my abilities.”
Master Webster cleared his throat, bolstering his own courage. “And who are you to be meddling in the affairs of others?” he asked.
“I am Harlan Waters. Be that answer enough?”
“Aye!” the barman replied, rebuked.
Truth to say Harlan Waters was a name quite notorious to most in this Northwest Territory, if not all of the colonies. Having played no small part in the War for Independence, and his adventures abroad, his reputation and exploits were even known and begrudgingly respected throughout Europe. In all tales, accurate or exaggerated, the one constant was his chivalry-like honor and moral code. The likes of this had not been seen since the knights errant of old. Even if half of the tales told were true he was quite an amazing man
The attendants of the inn looked upon him anew as if he had only now entered the place. He was not too tall, probably five foot nine or ten, nor was he thick thewed like some Roman statue. He was thin but trim and his muscles appeared hard as iron. He was clothed plainly; a loose woolen shirt was tucked into the trim black breeches. A wide leather belt held one pistol, a dagger and a rapier. Looking at him, at his inner confidence these were indeed all he would need. Simple calf-length boots adorned his feet. They were folded down to keep from restricting his legs. The inner boot held a hidden sheath that was as of now empty, its knife lost in a prior adventure.
He rose and crossed the room back to the bar. Grudgingly they told him of the terror that gripped their town. His eyes, more grey than blue, pierced them as they spoke, extracting from them the tale stripped of exaggeration.
“I guess you could account for the horror back to when the dark man first arrived,” Master Webster began. “He was from an eastern country, India or some such.”
“Aye, he was dark and mysterious,” Quincy added. “Eyes as black as coal, they were. Lifeless but he could peer right through you. See your bones, he could!”
“That he was,” the barman continued, “and though he was trim and young to behold those self same eyes seemed ancient and hoary. It was like they had seen more ages than his body. Or it was as if his spirit not bound to earth had lived in, or stolen a form younger than its original. Like he had borrowed or stolen the shell while the real soul was ousted for the nonce.
“He came to visit Master Brighton. Todd Brighton is a scholar of sorts. He is learned in most things left alone by other men. Oh, most of his knowledge is practical like but some I wouldn’t be whispering about on a dark and dreary night such as this, iffen ye catch my meaning. Todd is, or was, most kindly and friendly in his disposition towards others and welcomed this man from the Orient as if he were one of these fellows ye see sitting around here,” the barman indicated his customers. “I once asked him about his learnings and he said that, although they might be shunned by other scholars, the things he sought the knowledge of needed to be known by someone. Kind of a defense against the forces about which he studied.”
“E’en though this oriental was strange,” Chester took up the narrative, “and devious was his ways, Master Brighton took him into his home as if he were a good neighbor what one sees everyday.
“Todd and I got along right well enough and we’d sit together of an evening and chat long into the late hours. He is without a wife and would come to the inn most times for his meals. About the last time I saw him he confided in me that this man, Rajihab I think he said his name was, came to him for help. Master Todd had some knowledge, obscure or arcane that was needed to help his plight.
“Then, about a fortnight ago, they both vanished. It was shortly afterward that this unseen, nameless horror began haunting our town. It never appeared openly to those of us who were strong of heart then. Instead it gibbered to our wives and children and then began to pluck them from us as they went about their daily chores in barn and field. It would appear in the corner of your eye but when you looked right at it would melt away like morning fog. And Master Todd and his guest have not been seen since. They have either been spirited away or have kept themselves locked in Brighton’s home.”
“This is a curious tale you’ve woven for me. A mystery I must unravel for it was Master Todd that I had come to see,” Harlan said. He looked at his empty mug and handed it to Webster. His request went unvoiced as the mug reappeared at his elbow refilled. “And he left no word of his disappearance?”
“Take me for a fool!” Webster exploded as he nearly dove beneath the bar. He could be heard searching for several long seconds from behind the counter. “He left a missive for you,” he explained as he rummaged about frantically. “Ah, H. S. Waters!” he said as he produced an envelope upon which was scrawled in Todd Brighton’s unmistakable hand, “H.S. Waters, Esq.” He handed it to Harlan.
“I would read this in private, if you would have an empty room to lease,” he told the inn keeper.
“We’ve plenty this time of year,” the barman replied. Webster put him up in a second story room as the customers reluctantly left the inn to make their way home. Each head was filled with wonder of the stories they had heard of the celebrity in their midst. Harlan thought, no doubt he would be the topic of conversation around the table of quite a few families this evening. He didn’t concern himself overly about it though. He was never one to dwell upon how others perceived him. Most often his reputation accomplished more than his actions.
With a tallow taper casting a weak glow over his room, aided only slightly by the small fire on his hearth, he lay on top of the blankets on his cot and studied the envelope in his hand. The writing upon it seemed deliberate and carefully penned, as did the writing upon the single parchment page within. It did not seem hurried or contrived. It was the usual unhurried scroll of Todd Brighton. It read:
My Friend, Harlan,
It is no doubt under strange circumstances with which you have received this letter. It could not be helped and for that I apologize.
Do not be alarmed about my absence upon your arrival. I have gone with an old friend, Rajihab from the Jhelum River in West Kashmir, to the settlements in our own west. We seek a remedy for an ailment that afflicts his village. His is a poorer region of Kashmir and his people are suffering without succor from their leaders. I think some of the natives in our west can mix an elixir that may be of benefit to his people.
My return will be after but a short interim. Please feel free to stay at my home, as I would have you do were I there right now.
Concern yourself naught over my endeavor as this will probably prove to be yet another mildly entertaining adventure to discuss over pipe and wine upon my return. No doubt you will have some insights to share upon any difficulties we may encounter and, looking back upon them I will invariably say, “Yes, Harlan, you have the right of it again,” as I inevitably do.
Until my return,
Your good friend,
Master Todd Brighton
Harlan was not overly excitable nor was he given to superstitious fears or needless worry. Yet the final paragraph stayed in his head, tolling like a church bell announcing a funeral. Somehow he felt that the next time he saw Todd Brighton it would be not under the best of circumstances.
Nightfall found Harlan resting but fitfully. It was not from any inner anxieties or fears. It was as if some alien presence was trying to intrude on his subconscious. Dreams flitted through his mind, insubstantial fog upon the lowlands but driven by gales, not allowed reposing in the hollows. Formless and etheral entities cavorted through his sleep. All throughout the night he was assailed by an uneasy feeling. This sixth sense told him that something totally not of this world had gained access to physical form and now roamed the countryside terrorizing the citizens.
Still and all, Harlan rested well. He was one of those hearty individuals who could store sleep like grain for a time when he would have to do without. Three or four minutes here and there would be the equivalent to a whole night’s rest for Harlan. To him cat naps throughout the night served to rejuvenate him as well as an entire night of rest.
He rose before his host and was already up and about the inn before Webster came down the stairs to open his doors. He found Harlan had already laid a large fire on the stone hearth and had swept and watered the planks that comprised his floor. The wooden trestles that served as tables and benches had been dusted and wiped down also. He was standing next to the mantle looking unconcerned when Webster entered the great room.
“If you cannot afford the lodgings,” Webster began timidly, “I would gladly put you up no charge.”
“That’s most kind, Master, but truth to tell I like to do a little work first thing after I rise. It gets the blood pumping and keeps me from getting soft. It limbers the muscles. Whether breaking camp or cleaning a common room of an inn, I like a little exertion in the morning.”
“Well then, let me set you up some breakfast free of charge in return.”
Their fare was simple biscuits, eggs, and thick slabs of bacon. They ate in silence and then Harlan inquired about the merchants in town. He needed some new clothing as it appeared colder weather was beginning to set in. Webster directed him to the proper shop and then Harlan took his leave, paying the inn keeper for his lodgings of the night. He told Webster as he parted, “I’ll be staying at Master Brighton’s while I try to dissolve this puzzle. You’ve been a good host, Master Webster. Feel free to stop out and visit of an evening if you’d like.”
The barman watched Harlan leave, doubt and wonder filling his head. He felt the town would be in for some exciting times. Yet for good or bad to come of it he couldn’t rightly say. But things were poised to change and soon.
Harlan made his way to the trader’s store the barman had directed him to. He purchased some spare clothing and blankets and a cloak. He paid in coins while the owner of the shop stared in open fascination. Before him stood what could only be considered a living legend. Tittering from the women folk issued from behind a curtain. Harlan could see them peeking at him even as he made his purchases. Harlan took his parcel and left the store, an indulgent grin coming slowly to his weathered features, making it look less hard, less cold.
A weak autumn sun had replaced the mists and drizzle of yesterday but the breeze was still cool. Harlan donned his hat and pulled his coat closer about his body. He briefly entertained the thought of renting a horse to ride out to Brighton’s. He had already been out there once by foot. It was only three miles from town and Harlan was no stranger to walking.
The countryside was rolling hills and forests and it already echoed the coming fall. The wind sketched wisps of charcoal grey clouds across the morning crimson sky. The rising sun caught at several of them, igniting them into patches of flaming gold cotton. Leaves fluttered by animated by some forgotten druidic spell. They caught desperately, angrily at the sky, fighting hopelessly the pull of gravity. Then spent they settled dying to the cold earth only to be reborn by the next passing gust. Arthritic limbs of barren trees groped skyward seeking escape from the hardening earth below. The ground, saturated with the rains of pre-winter had already lost its warmth and welcomed the covering blanket of frost that descended most evenings now.
The moon, bloated and ruddy mirrored the scarlet gold of the rising sun. A frigid chill replaced the cool of the wind for an instant as the night air still strove for one last hold upon the world before it finally retreated before the inevitable day. A single night bird on its way to its perch shrilled a final call before silencing.
Harlan’s swinging stride covered the ground at a good pace. He wasted no time meandering yet details were missed by his keen eye. The wide river that ran down from the distant Porcupine Mountains was dark blue and swollen from rains. It looked ominous. It cut through the hills and wound down through the woods continuing its course past the edge of the town. Sparse meadowland cut into the surrounding forestland let Harlan know these people were simple folk with little livestock. They made their living with the cutting of timber or trapping. Little of the land had been developed since his last visit to the area. What livestock they might keep was enough to supplement their larder.
The road he followed was seldom traveled. It was a relatively recent trail cut into the forestland from the town to Brighton’s. It was an open track but it had not been turned into muddy ruts by traffic. It climbed slowly at a small grade but already Harlan was a good height above the town and was able to look down on its modest sprawl. Off in the distance he could see the mill where the lumber was processed. Across town from that was the smoking shed for the trappers furs. Todd Brighton was indeed a friendly neighbor and good citizen but he also enjoyed his privacy. He treasured his solitude when he needed it. Harlan knew the route having traveled it already, yet today, even with the bright and friendly sunshine, there seemed to be something different, something unsettling about the countryside. There seemed to be an indistinct haze that hung like a pall over everything, an unearthly mist that had no physical substance. It settled in around him and accompanied him as he walked.
On the edge of his consciousness he became aware of indistinct whisperings and jabbering in a voice and tongue that was unrecognizable to him. Yet he could still understand the hideous content. Its meaning somehow forced its way past the barrier of the uncommon tongues and made itself known to the walker. It was a chilling voice that clung to the senses like a foul leech. It whispered at secrets better left unknown. Try as Harlan might he could not shut out the horrible portent of its yammering. Yet he felt, no, he knew that somehow his exposure to the occult in his past adventures had somehow opened up his mind to things like this. He had somehow become receptive to such as this. With a careful ear he began to listen to the spectral monologue in earnest.
In its ramblings the voice informed Harlan of the horror that had descended upon the little town like a shadow. It told Harlan of what had befallen his friend Brighton and the mysterious Rajihab. It kept with him as he moved through the crowding woods that closed in upon the trail. It kept pace with him all the way to Master Todd’s home and by the time he arrived he no longer felt repulsed by it as was his first reaction. He didn’t welcome its etheral company yet he no longer abhorred its cloying touch. Harlan didn’t encourage its embrace but he gave it simple acceptance. Finding it had no purchase in Harlan’s fears it flitted off to find a more hospitable host upon which it could feed. This thing’s nourishment was fear. After it had gone the sky seemed clearer, the sun brighter, the day friendlier.
Harlan entered the house for the first time. He explored the lower floor briefly before laying a fire on the hearth. Then he drew up a chair and sat next to the warming blaze and contemplated the lessons he had just learned. He sat thus for a few hours until his thoughts were ordered and perspective gave him insight. Finally he moved to investigate Brighton’s house.
The upstairs was a serene scene. Each room waited upon the return of the Master. Nothing was amiss here. The lower floor was swept clean but a find dust had begun to settle in the corners. In a pantry off of the kitchen Harlan found evidence that led him to believe that Todd Brighton had been held captive in his own home. At least until just recently he was an unwilling guest. This was in spite of what his letter might have said. Within was a chair nailed to the floor and about it hung lengths of hemp rope. Half empty crocks, jars and plates also told the tale that Rajihab had wanted his captive alive. Apparently he had been fed by hand. The acrid smell of soiled garments hung heavily in the air. The noisome odor of feces and urine was cloying in its intensity. On a counter Harlan found traces of a narcotic in a mortar. He did not need to taste the pestle lying next to it to know that was indeed a drug. No other conclusion could be drawn than Rajihab had fed the drug to Brighton in small doses until such time as Master Todd became manageable. Whatever purpose drove the oriental he had wanted the master of the house to be pliant of will.
Dusk was creeping over the country and peering into the window by the time Harlan girdled his sword and pistol and lit a lamp. He quietly left the house. A gibbous moon hung low in the sky and its light could be seen timidly through the spectral trees. The unseen horror could not be felt. Harlan reckoned that it was off terrorizing some other innocent.
Following the whispered hints and innuendoes given him by the gibbering wraith earlier, Harlan made his way to the entrance of the root cellar. It was located down a sharp incline next to the house. By its very nature it was dark and cold with the damp of the earth. Several of the stones lining the wall in the back were loose and were displaced to reveal the tunnel that stood hidden behind. A cool draught issued forth from the stygian dark with unwholesome decay. It was a breath from a carnal house. The hole was deep and black and the lamp did little to illumine its interior. Harlan unsheathed his sword and cautiously entered its maw.
The beginning of the tunnel had a few rough hewn steps in the dirt before it reached the floor. This slanted down slightly and the going was easy. But soon it became steeper the further he went. A moss covered wall passed beneath a hand held out to steady himself as the floor dipped even further and the stones beneath became damp and slippery
He couldn’t tell how long he had gone forward but the tunnel was straight and cut into the bowels of the earth at a good angle. He had descended far into the depths of the mountains before the slope ended. He was on a level course that ran straight a short distance. At its end he thought he could discern light, faint and feeble as it may be. He turned down the wick of his lamp until it was almost extinguished. Indeed there was some kind of illumination just ahead.
Unwilling to be burdened Harlan left the lamp burning low and set it upon the floor behind him. Cautiously he crept forward. Every nerve was straining. He now pulled the pistol out of his belt with his free hand. He firmed his grip on his sword.
An underground expanse of staggering size opened before him. Its open space was larger than the acreage the farm occupied above. It was lit by a curious yellow-green fungus that grew all over the sides and ceiling of the cavern. A waterway coursed down one side of the floor and toward its end Harlan could make out in the curious twilight a structure of some sort. Near this unnatural formation he could make out the movement of at least two beings.
Stooping into a crouch he inched his way along across the floor. It was uneven in places and he sought to take advantage of the natural cover. Even still, he froze when he thought one of the two had turned his way. He paused behind a large stalagmite and peered around it. He took extra care and inched around its curving surface until only one eye broke his cover.
The edifice was a low altar carved out of the living rock. Its striations of colored minerals told that it had at one time been a stalagmite of considerable girt and height. Now it stood about four feet high and a good six feet in diameter. Long ago someone had chiseled it down to its present state. Even now new stalagmites had begun to form along its edges.
Standing between it and Harlan was the individual who could only be the evil one from Kashmir, Rajihab. To the oriental’s left was the shape of nightmare. It was a physical presence yet its form seemed to shimmer in and out of existence as Rajihab spoke to it in fevered and arcane whispers. His quiet tones seemed forced, as if he feared discovery. Yet his fearful glances were constantly seeking a dark corner farther into the dark cavern. His speech was not in any single language but consisted of several that Harlan easily recognized. The pronunciation of most was broken, as if the dark man wasn’t well versed in them. Yet chanting and singing continued as the dark oriental pursued his ends. Beyond the two was a pile showing how the two had survived down here over the past few weeks. Those unfortunates captured above had been used by them for food. Hatred steeled Harlan’s nerves and turned his will to iron.
The Hindu was calling upon his “goddess” to give stronger physical raiment to the creature next to him, a being he called a rakshasa. To pursue his goddess’ evil tasks he needed a familiar of substantial power and strength. Part of this came from the fear of the villagers above and as Rajihab chanted it was pulled down to the monster. It was becoming darker and larger, becoming more solid.
Harlan moved to get a better vantage point and he could see behind the two. Lying on the altar was Todd Brighton. He was bound hand and foot stretched flat on his back. His thrashing efforts of freeing himself were weak and futile. There was a muddled cloud to his eyes, and it was evident that he was under the influence of some vile substance. Still he seemed aware that something horrible lay in store for him and struggled weakly. Other than this he was still clothed and didn’t appear to be physically abused. There was a ceremonial knife lying on the altar next to Brighton and Harlan had no delusions about its purpose. It lay there threatening.
About the altar stood carved statues and laid embroidered coverings. Harlan recognized some as belonging to Brighton from when he had last visited the man. Others he assumed the oriental had brought with him. Rajihab must have spent the better part of the week preparing the place for this ceremony. There was a sinister purpose to the arrangement and placement of all the paraphernalia. Harlan didn’t spend any time trying to decipher their reason or understand their design. His eyes were riveted upon the Kashmir fakir as he reached out and gripped the knife.
He raised the knife above Brighton’s helpless form and then Harlan exploded into action. Yelling like a native he rounded the rock and taking a quick aim shot the man in the shoulder. The dark man dropped the knife and fell to his knees. His arm was useless. It hung limp and he couldn’t grip the knife. His good hand covered the wound. Harlan gave him a quick glance and saw that the oriental seemed to be trying to shush the adventurer to silence. He was motioning absurdly for Harlan to be quiet. Harlan didn’t pay much attention to him. The man was either insane or the wound had addled his reason and wits. Instead he charged to close with the dark form that hovered over Todd and stood next to spell weaver.
Sticking the now spent pistol back into his belt he swung his sword at the monstrosity as he closed with it. He was nearly pulled from his feet, his balance gone awry, as he felt his blade pass through the fiend with no resistance. Recovering his balance he was able to dodge the blow the creature aimed at him as it took a swipe. Its talons caught his coat and raked ribbons into it. Harlan was astonished. Another swing and his shirt shredded as blood oozed from shallow wounds beneath. So, the thing could hurt even if he couldn’t hurt it! Four streaks crossed his chest and the pain brought clarity of mind and steeled his nerves for a battle.
He roared in anger and pain. This drew a new gasp from Rajihab. Harlan swung his blade again only to see how futile his sword was against this supernatural foe. He gave into the rage that was beginning to erupt. He started to cut at the fiend wildly. His blade was alive; a whistling, dancing, lethal humming bird in the air. Every now and then he could feel in his mind, rather than actually hear, the beast’s bellow of pain and anger. He pressed his attack anew with more method than madness. He observed that when he struck the head and breast of the beast, where the creatures mind and heart might be, this was where it seemed most vulnerable.
Harlan did not battle unscathed, though. The beast’s claws had practically shredded the clothing from his back and he dripped blood from more than a score of wounds; both minor and serious. His hands were becoming slippery from the gore and he was hard pressed to keep a grip upon is weapon.
He switched his sword to his left hand after avoiding a vicious swipe, pausing for the briefest of moments to wipe his palm on his breeches. Then he began to struggle anew. Some portion of his mind was aloof, detached. Apart from the melee and watching the battle from an objective point of view he noticed that aside from his grunts and belabored breathing they fought in an eerie silence. The scraping of feet on the stone floor was the only sound in the vast cavern.
The struggle was beginning to wear upon him. The strange lighting, the half corporeal form of his foe, and the unnatural silence in which they fought made it all seem a surreal dream. Long minutes appeared to stretch into hours. Harlan could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his breathing came in ragged, forced gasps. He knew his body’s limitations and realized he must have been in combat for quite some time.
Growing weak and beginning to tire he made a desperate lunge aimed at the creature’s head. His trusted steel snapped into two with a piercing twang. Again Rajihab cringed at the noise. About three inches of blade remained of Harlan’s sword. Still far from despair he flung the hilt at the creature’s eyes and was rewarded to see it flinch. Then he grappled with it bare handed. He flailed at it now more desperate than ever. Its feel was like that of wet, decaying moss. Yet at its core he found a more solid purchase. A pulsing consistency like that of soft clay gave beneath his fingers and he tore at its essence even as it clawed at his back. He had to fight to stay conscious, controlling his pain as he stubbornly refused to give up. His mind fogged even as his vision blurred and it was long moments before he realized he was clutching at nothing. Either he had defeated the foul thing, or more likely, it had retreated before him to some limbo or nether Hell that had spawned it.
Harlan took a brief moment to regain his breath before he caught up his hilt and stumbled to the altar. Sawing at the rawhide thongs he used the blade to free Brighton from his bonds. In the hurried, fevered rush toward the exit of the cavern it was uncertain who supported whom. The two reached the tunnel before Harlan even thought of looking back to see what had befallen the dark oriental, Rajihab. The evil one was cowering beside the altar with his eyes fixed not upon the two fleeing forms but upon a point at the back of the underground cavern. Harlan followed his stare and noticed clearly for the first time the low opening on the opposite end. It was curiously worn smooth as if it had been used with frequency at one time.
Harlan paused and listened. Besides their ragged breathing he could hear strange soft tittering. It was a mingled sound as if from a multitude of voices. It issued from the dark hole’s interior. Harlan decided he needn’t wait any longer and taking up the lantern he had left behind he helped hurry Brighton up the steep tunnel to the root cellar. Then he half carried the exhausted form back into his house and laid him on the floor before his own hearth. He rekindled the smoldering embers back into a roaring blaze.
After he had dressed his wounds and donned some fresh clothes he looked to his friend. Brighton was in a far better condition that Harlan. His infirmity was only due to the narcotics the oriental had forced upon him. He was made secure and comfortable next to the hearth and then Harlan left to gather supplies as he thought he would need. Then he made his way back down the odious tunnel. He was a haggard and quiet individual by the time he emerged again into the fresh air of the outer world. The sun was already painting the eastern sky in pastel shades of crimson. Any lesser man, he knew, would have slipped into madness or delirium at what he had discovered down there. Indeed, only past experiences and his history of occult knowledge helped him to accept the abnormal aberrations he had seen.
He staggered back into Todd’s home and nearly passed out before the fire next to Brighton’s resting form. Calling the last reserves of his will he got Todd upstairs to bed and then found a room for himself. He did not bother to undress and was asleep before his form was fully laid down.
It was a shocked and concerned Webster who looked in on Brighton two days later. The once vibrant scholar of mid thirties now looked as if he were approaching his fifties. Harlan had visited the barman the day before and told most of what had befallen him. He also pressed the barman to visit Brighton to help the healing process. Friendly faces and pleasant conversation were what the man needed most to speed up his recovery.
Now Harlan and Webster were standing besides the ruins of the root cellar. Todd was taking a nap indoors. It was with difficulty that Webster found his voice again, after witnessing firsthand the changes that had come over his friend.
“So how was it you knew about the underground hell pit?”
“Well,” Harlan replied, “when I first came to understand the rakshasa’s mutterings I learned that the Ojibwa were not the first inhabitants of this peninsula.”
“And what is a rakshasa?” Webster interrupted.
“A rakshasa is a demon or evil spirit from India. They feed on human flesh. They can be shape changers or magicians. They can appear as humans, dogs, or large birds. Their real form is a large hair covered woodsman. They can make themselves invisible. I half suspect Rajihab may have been a more advanced one also, altering his form to that of a friend of Master Brighton. This monster’s ramblings hinted at a civilization far older than Rome itself living around here. It also teased at many a secret, whispering half-truths and lies couched in reality. When it grew frustrated at my lack of fear and my inattention it started whispering about the cavern and Rajihab. I think it was trying to scare me with the truth, instead of falsehoods. I began to listen in earnest instead and learned of the oriental’s plans. I’m afraid those that were taken earlier, well, there is no hope of rescue for them, but they are beyond torture and pain now.
“In its yammering I learned that there was once a portion of this ancient society that had lived here. After some catastrophic event they found the caverns underground and moved into them out of fear for their continued existence. I’ve seen evidence of these people elsewhere. I think they were from Europe. There was some sort of cataclysm that separated them from home and they had to survive here. Whatever happened, it was so long ago that by Columbus’ time we forgot all about this continent. What it was, massive volcano, falling stars, ice age, it matters not. Rajihab had learned of the caverns and sought to gain power using the forgotten gods and demons of these people. Apparently Todd knew of the cavern and sought to explore it’s depths but didn’t know where the entrance might be. How ironic he built his root cellar at its very doorstep. Be that as it may, this rakshasa whispered of the tunnel and I knew if I dealt with this miscreant I would not only rid your town of its shadow but would also find and rescue Master Todd.”
The barman considered this for a while. Then he asked, “And what did you find when you once again traveled the bowels of Earth?”
“Well, I returned, as I told you earlier, to see about Rajihab and to decide whether I should take him back to the light of the real world or to seal him down there for all time. When I got to the floor of the cavern again I could find no trace of him. So I looked about for a bit, just to satisfy my curiosity.
“There was evidence of many people living down there at one time. Fire pits I found whose unburned fuel of wood had long ago been embraced by minerals and turned to stone. You should have seen them. It was as if someone had taken considerable time to sculpt them out of the living rock. There were foundations for homes I found also. But the material used for the buildings has disappeared. There were even food stuffs left behind that had weathered the time as did the firewood.
“Utensils were lying about discarded. More advanced than the primitive tools of the Ojibwa about here. They appeared Celtic in design and made of copper or bronze. But they lay in piles like refuse. It was as if they were discarded because their owners no longer cared, or more likely knew how to use them. Looking about I got the impression the people that had entered Earth’s bosom had regressed from a society of people to savagery and eventually lost their mantle of civilization that they once may have worn.
“My examinations were interrupted when I chanced across the trail of blood I knew had come from the bleeding shoulder of the oriental. At first the drops appeared as if the man had wandered about the cavern randomly. Drips fell here and there as he meandered. Then there was a large pool as if he had dropped from weakness or had forced to the floor for some reason. Here it continued on as a wide smear as if he had been dragged over the floor towards the dark opening he seemed to be fearful of earlier.
“I hesitated about following and stood there in indecision when I heard a soft mewling sound come from within. It was followed by a shriek that could only have come from Rajihab and then there was a scuffling and the sound of running feet. As I watched the oriental broke from the opening but fell to the floor the minute he exited the dark hole. He looked up and saw me and screamed for succor, clawing the air with his good hand. He was as one mad; foam flecked his chin and insanity shown in his wide staring eyes. I took a step toward him but something pulled him back into that hole before I could finish my pace. One final scream pierced the cavern and then was cut short.
“I decided then that my curiosity could be sated on better interests and left the cavern as quickly as my tired body was able. I looked not back as the tittering returned and grew louder. Its author was drawing near. And the noise was joined by others as if a multitude had gathered below. I made my way straight to the opening where I had placed several powder kegs. I tipped one over, knocked out its bung, then ran a line from my powder flask up the grade as I retreated to the root cellar. As I struck flint to steel to ignite it I caught movement at the end of the tunnel. I brought my flame to life and then ran out the cellar and across the yard to get as far away from the blast as possible. I had glanced up as the burning powder illumined the tunnel and lit by the glow was a face I will remember for all ages!”
Webster was afraid to voice his question but his curiosity would not be denied. “What was it like?”
“It was almost like that of a salamander or newt. Like one you’d find under a log, yet not as such. It was dark skinned, almost black, and it was mottled with grey spots. It seemed wet and slimy as its eyes bulged from their sockets, rheumy and weak, yet totally evil in intent. Its mouth was long and thick with flabby lips and its nose was nonexistent. Yet as loathsome and lizardine as it was, it was had definitely been human at one time. Its mouth tried in vain to shape words that once must have graced its civilization’s vocabulary yet all that came out was that infernal tittering. Still there was a dark intelligence within those hateful eyes.”
They looked over the expansive collapse in Brighton’s land where the earth had crashed down on the cavern below after its roof was destroyed. The crater would eventually fill with water, they were both confident, and Brighton would have a good sized lake on his farm.
Webster was quiet for a long time. Then he said, as if to comfort himself, “But you blew the tunnel and sealed them to their fates. Hopefully they were all buried below.”
“Aye, that I pray also,” Harlan replied. “And yet, I’m thinking about that other tunnel on the other side of the cavern and where it might lead. Are there more caverns down there? Are they strung along like a string of pearls? And will we be safe now that they know we are up here? In wonder!”
Where Arkham Massachusettes meets the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
