Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (12 page)

As I stated in my last letter, we had been preparing to breach the stone trapdoor which so hindered our progress. On the morning of April 18, I instructed the men to attack the hinges and locking mechanisms of the door with pickaxes, but to no avail. Even Major Holtz’s great strength could not so much as dent the dark metal; he managed to break two pickaxes before I bade him cease. I spent the remainder of the day testing out various types of acid on the metal of the locks and the stone of the door itself. Both seemed curiously impervious to my chemicals and I was about to abandon hope when one of my last tests revealed the metal at least slightly vulnerable to strong hydrochloric acid.

It took nearly another day for me to bring a batch to the desired concentration of thirteen moles. We had to wear gas-masks and rubber gloves while handling the compound so toxic were its fumes. Although it was highly concentrated and even though I employed my entire supply, the locks refused to dissolve completely. After an entire day of effort we succeeded only in making the locks pock-marked and corroded like old iron—weakened, but not destroyed. Again we went at them with pickaxes, but still with no visible results. Whatever kind of eldritch metal was used in their construction, by God is it strong! Finally as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Major Holtz set upon the locks with a masonry block. This block must have weighed upwards of 250 kilograms. I have no idea how Major Holtz managed to lift it even one time, never mind the score or so times it actually took to finally shatter the stubborn locks.

Even though the hour had grown quite advanced, we unanimously decided that our enterprise could not wait until the light of dawn. Once again Major Holtz’s strength proved invaluable—I thank you for allowing him to accompany us. The mighty ring that allowed for the door to be opened could only be enticed to lift from the ground the barest fraction of an inch through the total application of his physical might. Once he had lifted it, we managed to jam a metal rod underneath it and prop it up.

Through the night we worked to construct a series of pulleys that would draw the trapdoor up with steel cables. We worked in shifts for two days until it was finally complete, and when it was, we required no less than the strength of all the men and two yaks to force the door to budge. We made several attempts with no visible success and I began to worry that something held the door shut from within. But then, on the eve of April 21, with a mighty groan and a crack like thunder, the door lifted from its jambs. Frantically, we tugged at the hoist until we had pulled it open and dropped it with an almighty bang onto its other side.

The lateness of the hour brought about a particularly black, moonless night—but the square of darkness gaping from the open trapdoor was blacker still. A smell like the grave issued forth from that nighted mouth, a putrid stench from the unknowable recesses of inner earth. It was tinged with an awful, clinging dampness that, I think, was even more horrible than the stench itself. Major Holtz later said that the stench reminded him of death; not the death of aeon-old mausoleums, but the fresh death of charnel killing fields. Yet he also said that he could detect nothing that resembled blood, but could pick up bare hints of odors which he could put no name to. He described these hints of other scents as akin to rot, but not rot in the common sense. It was almost as if, he said, the very stone and dirt beneath was not wholesome stone and dirt, but carrion flesh. I think that was when I first noticed that Saturn hung exactly over the trapdoor, shining balefully down upon us with a malice whose source I could not describe—but could not fail to notice.

No matter what rewards I promised, none of the men could be enticed to be the first to set foot into that hideous abyss. I suppose my ravenous curiosity got the best of me, for I seized an electrical torch and declared the men spineless and frightened women—I would make the plunge alone. Thank God for Major Holtz, for he immediately offered to accompany me and, appealing to the honor of the men, he enticed four to accompany us. Truly the pure blood of our Aryan forefathers sings in his veins.

Before descending, we decided to tie a rope to a nearby masonry block and uncoiled it behind us so that we could beat a hasty retreat if need be. We set up a radio—but this later proved in vain, for nothing but static was ever received on either end.

Crossing the mouth of the trapdoor, we descended a sort of irregular staircase that plunged drunkenly into the stygian depths. The walls were made of the same cyclopean blocks of soapy, greenish stone as the rest of the city. For the most part they were devoid of any markings whatsoever, but once or twice I thought the beam of my torch landed upon a bas relief of a cruel face or twisted figure—only to have it prove blank stone upon closer inspection. Above us the ceiling rose to such heights that, when I cast my beam upward, it vanished into the gloom long before reaching the top. Once or twice when looking upward I fancied that the cone of light from my torch illuminated things resembling leering, carven faces or inhuman statues protruding from the ceiling or walls, but whenever I took a second glance I was always proven false.

After what seemed an eternity we finally reached a level surface. We found ourselves in a network of chambers, each so vast that even if they were fully lit, men standing on both sides would not be visible to each other. Lengthy exploration proved that these chambers were hexagonal in configuration and each one abutted another so that they formed a perfect honeycomb. I found this geometric arrangement to be, if you can believe it—reassuring. I must confess that I had half expected some unimaginable perversion of geometry wholly beyond the ability of the human mind to grasp.

Grand arches rose to adjoin each chamber with the other, arches so high that they made the Arch de Triumph seem positively dwarfish in comparison! Sometimes, when the darkness did not press in quite so close, I could illuminate impossibly high-groined ceilings with the feeble beam of my electric torch. The walls, ceilings, and arches were all composed of that same soapy, green stone and utterly devoid of markings or ornamentation. In later rooms I was thrilled to discover the mangled, twisted remains of machinery. Imagine! In a place whose age counted in the thousands—machinery!

We found apparatuses which must have been stoves, waste disposal units, filtration systems, automated elevators, and lighting fixtures. But we also found networks of crystal tubes and bulbs which may have been used for some unimaginable alchemical purpose—or something else entirely. We found arcane cylinders which stretched beyond our view, metal globes that hung in a lattice of magnetized filaments, interlocked rings that seemed to describe the orbit of planets—or at least I fancied they did. What ancient civilization was this that could manufacture such marvels? If we could but decipher it, unravel its secrets—how the world would tremble before Germany’s might!

Of all that remained, however, none was small enough to be easily transported without pack animals or mechanical aid; in short, the entire underground demesnes was, except for rubble, entirely devoid of portable contents. It was almost as if whatever men—if they had been men—who once lived there, departed with the entirety of their belongings. But most disturbing of all is what I have yet to tell you: I have previously mentioned that each device we encountered was in a state of utter disrepair—but I did not mention that this was due in no part to the passage of aeons and the natural decay wrought by time. Each item, each gleaming edifice, each irreplaceable wonder of lost centuries, had been destroyed with what was undoubtedly deliberate violence. I cannot even begin to speculate upon what sort of doom fell upon this nameless place.

As we progressed deeper into the chambers, we discovered scorch marks on the walls, cracked stone, and clustered arrangements of small pits which could have only been bullet-holes. Curious it was that we even found bullets in some places, deformed, but obviously of contemporary design. I admit to feeling a great sense of unease when I realized that these bullets must have been fired by members of the Soviet expedition. Eventually we stretched what rope we had to its utmost. Unwilling to allow this minor inconvenience to halt our dizzying plunge into that dark chest of wonders, I asked for two volunteers to return to the surface for more rope. Grenadier van Austen and Grenadier Isaacson raised their hands. Instructing them to return quickly, I sent them on their way.

In order to save batteries, I ordered the electric torches to be switched off periodically. In that absolute midnight, the ticking of my pocket-watch was like the clamor of a locomotive. After waiting for nearly an hour, we began to grow agitated. The men we’d sent to get more rope should have returned by then. Although I wished fervently to continue our delving, I knew that without more rope, we would be liable to get lost. Becoming entombed forever within that pitchy crypt was hardly a prospect I relished.

Angry that van Austen and Isaacson had been too afraid to return, I reluctantly ordered the group to begin following the rope back out to the surface. We activated our torches and made quick progress through the tangled heaps of machinery and interlocking chambers. Soon we reached the staircase and regained the surface. The seven men we had left behind waited for us there. I demanded to know what happened to the two cowards we’d sent up earlier, but my questions elicited only blank stares. The men guarding the entrance professed that we were the first and only to emerge from the abyss. Of van Austen and Isaacson, there had been no sign.

I became quite unnerved by this, but Major Holtz quickly enlisted two of the bravest men and made a return descent through the trapdoor. He was gone nigh two hours and we had quite begun to fear the worst when, just as Saturn ascended to its highest point within the ebon firmament, he stumbled back out with his companions. Despite his best efforts, he had not been able to detect the barest hint of the two vanished men.

On only a few occasions have I ever seen Major Holtz visibly display fear or unease, such is his degree of emotional mastery and exposure to horrors of war. This was one of those occasions. He professed to have heard a distant pounding from somewhere in the deep, somewhere far beyond where we had thus far dared to travel. A pounding not unlike some huge, slippery bulk against a stone barrier.Since then, I have made sure that all teams sent to explore the chambers below stay together at all times and are well armed. This may seem a foolish precaution, but it makes the men feel slightly less apprehensive when they can touch the cold steel of a revolver on their belt. So far we have had no further disappearances. Nor has anyone reported hearing anything else unusual during his time underground. I can only deduce that van Austen and Isaacson became lost and are still down there, wandering alone in the darkness. Hourly, we hope to see them reemerge alive and well from the depths, but the trapdoor only yawns wide in a mocking imitation of a laughing mouth; in my heart, I know that they will never be seen again on this earth. Please send my regards to their families. Van Austen was a bachelor, but Isaacson had a wife and family, I think.

At nights, I stay up late and gaze at the stars because my sleep is brief and shallow when it comes—if it comes at all. No one else reports hearing that hideous pounding, but I swear, it keeps me nightly from my slumber. On the rare occasion that I manage to close my eyes long enough to dream, I find them filled with imagery of the most dreadful nature. Twisted, rubbery, slimy, grasping appendages that constrict me unmercifully. Boiling glacial skies and the hint of a distant black tower or castle flung up against even blacker mountains. Some of this imagery is not new to me, I feel as if it has lurked in the corners of my eyes ever since I beheld that accursed tome, the
Torzul Balceor
.

Your Ob’d Servant

Dr. Werner von Eichmann PhD. M.D.

October 1, 1939

Herr Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel:

Major Josef Müller reporting:

I write concerning the disappearance of your comrade Dr. Werner von Eichmann.

As per your orders and those of the Führer, my platoon traveled along the route indicated, following in the steps of Dr. von Eichmann’s expedition after he departed from Nazyvaevsk, five months prior. We found Dr. von Eichmann a few miles outside of Marblehead, half-dead from frostbite and suffering dreadfully from exposure. He was alone.

At the sight of fellow Germans, Dr. von Eichmann erupted into relieved hysterics. He refused all food and took only a hurried swallow of water before bursting into a torrent of half-formed words and syllables that tumbled over each other in their haste. He described an impossible tale of an ancient, chthonic city filled with fantastic technology. He described how he and his men explored the haunted cockles of that place for twenty-six days, hauling up wondrous device after wondrous device. I will relate his tale to you, Herr Generalfeldmarschall, but it certainly must be a work of fiction invented by his starved and dehydrated brain.

On the twenty-sixth day of exploration, von Eichmann and his men discovered a gleaming artifact of oblong configuration and roughly the size of a man. Just as he began directing its removal, a hideous pounding thundered through the catacombs. It echoed from the walls so that it came from all directions at once. One of the men, Grenadier Jack Neihoff, grew so terrified that he fled screaming into that labyrinth of nighted corridors. The men tried to go after him, but von Eichmann stopped them since such pursuit would in all likelihood be foolhardy and futile at best. At worst . . . at worst was something they dared not imagine.

After nearly a minute, the pounding tapered off to a series of regular, dull thumps. The lowered volume reduced the noise’s proclivity to echo and allowed the men to infer its source to be the room immediately adjacent to them. Of course, given the way Dr. von Eichmann describes the size of the nameless city’s rooms, it must have taken them considerable time to cross into the next chamber. What caused them to investigate the source of that dreadful pounding rather than flee outright, I will never know. Dr. von Eichmann could only guess that, perhaps, some sort of madness had come over them in that hellish abyss.