Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos (18 page)

The droning did not commence until we had left the wood. At first we scarcely heard it, it was so low, like the purring of gigantic engines far down in the earth. But slowly, as we stumbled forward with our burden, it grew so loud that we could not ignore it.

“What is that?” muttered Howard, and through the wraiths of fog I saw that his face had a greenish tinge.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “It’s something horrible. I never heard anything like it. Can’t you walk faster?”

So far we had been fighting familiar horrors, but the droning and humming that rose behind us was like nothing that I had ever heard on Earth. In excruciating fright, I shrieked aloud. “Faster, Howard, faster! For God’s sake, let’s get out of this!”

As I spoke, the body that we were carrying squirmed, and from its cracked lips issued a torrent of gibberish: “I was walking between the
trees looking up. I couldn’t see their tops. I was looking up, and then suddenly I looked down and the thing landed on my shoulders. It was all legs—all long, crawling legs. It went right into my head. I wanted to get away from the trees, but I couldn’t. I was alone in the forest with the thing on my back, in my head, and when I tried to run, the trees reached out and tripped me. It made a hole so it could get in. It’s my brain it wants. Today it made a hole, and now it’s crawled in and it’s sucking and sucking and sucking. It’s as cold as ice and it makes a noise like a great big fly. But it isn’t a fly. And it isn’t a hand. I was wrong when I called it a hand. You can’t see it. I wouldn’t have seen or felt it if it hadn’t made a hole and got in. You almost see it, you almost feel it, and that means that it’s getting ready to go in.”

“Can you walk, Wells? Can you walk?”

Howard had dropped Wells’s legs, and I could hear the harsh intake of his breath as he struggled to rid himself of his slicker.

“I think so,” Wells sobbed. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s got me now. Put me down and save yourselves.”

“We’ve got to run!” I yelled.

“It’s our one chance,” cried Howard. “Wells, you follow us. Follow us, do you understand? They’ll burn up your brain if they catch you. We’re going to run, lad. Follow us!”

He was off through the fog. Wells shook himself free, and followed like a man in a trance. I felt a horror more terrible than death. The noise was dreadfully loud; it was right in my ears, and yet for a moment I couldn’t move. The wall of fog was growing thicker.

“Frank will be lost!” It was the voice of Wells, raised in a despairing shout.

“We’ll go back!” It was Howard shouting now. “It’s death, or worse, but we can’t leave him.”

“Keep on,” I called out. “They won’t get me. Save yourselves!”

In my anxiety to prevent them from sacrificing themselves I plunged wildly forward. In a moment I had joined Howard and was clutching at his arm.

“What is it?” I cried. “What have we to fear?”

The droning was all about us now, but no louder.

“Come quickly or we’ll be lost!” he urged frantically. “They’ve broken down all barriers. That buzzing is a warning. We’re sensitives—we’ve been warned, but if it gets louder we’re lost. They’re strong near Mulligan Wood, and it’s here they’ve made themselves felt. They’re experimenting now—feeling their way. Later, when they’ve learned, they’ll spread out. If we can only reach the farm.…”

“We’ll reach the farm!” I shouted as I clawed my way through the fog.

“Heaven help us if we don’t!” moaned Howard.

He had thrown off his slicker, and his seeping wet shirt clung tragically to his lean body. He moved through the blackness with long, furious strides. Far ahead we heard the shrieks of Henry Wells. Ceaselessly the foghorns moaned; ceaselessly the fog swirled and eddied about us.

And the droning continued. It seemed incredible that we should ever have found a way to the farm in the blackness. But find the farm we did, and into it we stumbled with glad cries.

“Shut the door!” shouted Howard.

I shut the door.

“We are safe here, I think,” he said. “They haven’t reached the farm yet.”

“What has happened to Wells?” I gasped, and then I saw the wet tracks leading into the kitchen.

Howard saw them too. His eyes flashed with momentary relief.

“I’m glad he’s safe,” he muttered. “I feared for him.”

Then his face darkened. The kitchen was unlighted and no sound came from it.

Without a word Howard walked across the room and into the darkness beyond. I sank into a chair, flicked the moisture from my eyes, and brushed back my hair, which had fallen in soggy strands across my face. For a moment I sat, breathing heavily, and when the door creaked, I shivered. But I remembered Howard’s assurance: “They haven’t reached the farm yet. We’re safe here.”

Somehow, I had confidence in Howard. He realized that we were threatened by a new and unknown horror, and in some occult way he had grasped its limitations.

I confess, though, that when I heard the screams that came from the kitchen, my faith in my friend was slightly shaken. There were low growls, such as I could not believe came from any human throat, and the voice of Howard raised in wild expostulation. “Let go, I say! Are you quite mad? Man, man, we have saved you! Don’t, I say—let go of my leg. Ah-h-h!”

As Howard staggered into the room I sprang forward and caught him in my arms. He was covered with blood from head to foot, and his face was ashen.

“He’s gone raving mad,” he moaned. “He was running about on his hands and knees like a dog. He sprang at me, and almost killed me. I fought him off, but I’m badly bitten. I hit him in the face—knocked him unconscious. I may have killed him. He’s an animal—I had to protect myself.”

I laid Howard on the sofa and knelt beside him, but he scorned my aid.

“Don’t bother with me!” he commanded. “Get a rope, quickly, and tie him up. If he comes to, we’ll have to fight for our lives.”

What followed was a nightmare. I remember vaguely that I went into the kitchen with a rope and tied poor Wells to a chair; then I bathed and dressed Howard’s wounds, and lit a fire in the grate. I remember also that I telephoned for a doctor. But the incidents are confused in my memory, and I have no clear recollection of anything until the arrival of a tall, grave man with kindly and sympathetic eyes and a presence that was as soothing as an opiate.

He examined Howard, nodded, and explained that the wounds were not serious. He examined Wells, and did not nod. He explained slowly, “His pupils don’t respond to light,” he said. “An immediate operation will be necessary. I tell you frankly, I don’t think we can save him.”

“That wound in his head, Doctor,” I said. “Was it made by a bullet?”

The doctor frowned. “It puzzles me,” he said. “Of course it was made by a bullet, but it should have partially closed up. It goes right into the brain. You say you know nothing about it. I believe you, but I think the authorities should be notified at once. Someone will be wanted for manslaughter, unless”—he paused—“unless the wound was self-inflicted. What you tell me is curious. That he should have been able to walk about for hours seems incredible. The wound has obviously been dressed, too. There is no clotted blood at all.”

He paced slowly back and forth. “We must operate here—at once. There is a slight chance. Luckily, I brought some instruments. We must clear this table and—do you think you could hold a lamp for me?”

I nodded. “I’ll try,” I said.

“Good!”

The doctor busied himself with preparations while I debated whether or not I should phone for the police.

“I’m convinced,” I said at last, “that the wound was self-inflicted. Wells acted very strangely. If you are willing, Doctor.…”

“Yes?”

“We will remain silent about this matter until after the operation. If Wells lives, there would be no need of involving the poor chap in a police investigation.”

The doctor nodded. “Very well,” he said. “We will operate first and decide afterward.”

Howard was laughing silently from his couch. “The police,” he snickered. “Of what use would they be against the things in Mulligan Wood?”

There was an ironic and ominous quality about his mirth that disturbed me. The horrors that we had known in the fog seemed absurd
and impossible in the cool, scientific presence of Dr. Smith, and I didn’t want to be reminded of them.

The doctor turned from his instruments and whispered into my ear. “Your friend has a slight fever, and apparently it has made him delirious. If you will bring me a glass of water I will mix him a sedative.”

I raced to secure a glass, and in a moment we had Howard sleeping soundly.

“Now then,” said the doctor as he handed me the lamp. “You must hold this steady and move it about as I direct.”

The white, unconscious form of Henry Wells lay upon the table that the doctor and I had cleared, and I trembled all over when I thought of what lay before me: I should be obliged to stand and gaze into the living brain of my poor friend as the doctor relentlessly laid it bare.

With swift, experienced fingers the doctor administered an anesthetic. I was oppressed by a dreadful feeling that we were committing a crime, that Henry Wells would have violently disapproved, that he would have preferred to die. It is a dreadful thing to mutilate a man’s brain. And yet I knew that the doctor’s conduct was above reproach, and that the ethics of his profession demanded that he operate.

“We are ready,” said Dr. Smith. “Lower the lamp. Carefully now!”

I saw the knife moving in his competent, swift fingers. For a moment I stared, and then I turned my head away. What I had seen in that brief glance made me sick and faint. It may have been fancy, but as I stared at the wall I had the impression that the doctor was on the verge of collapse. He made no sound, but I was almost certain that he had made some horrible discovery.

“Lower the lamp,” he said. His voice was hoarse and seemed to come from far down within his throat.

I lowered the lamp an inch without turning my head. I waited for him to reproach me, to swear at me perhaps, but he was as silent as the man on the table. I knew, though, that his fingers were still at work, for I could hear them as they moved about. I could hear his swift, agile fingers moving about the head of Henry Wells.

I suddenly became conscious that my hand was trembling. I wanted to lay down the lamp; I felt that I could no longer hold it.

“Are you nearly through?” I gasped in desperation.

“Hold that lamp steady!” The doctor screamed the command. “If you move that lamp again—I—I won’t sew him up. I don’t care if they hang me! I’m not a healer of devils!”

I knew not what to do. I could scarcely hold the lamp, and the doctor’s threat horrified me.

“Do everything you can,” I urged, hysterically. “Give him a chance to fight his way back. He was kind and good—once!”

For a moment there was silence, and I feared that he would not heed
me. I momentarily expected him to throw down his scalpel and sponge, and dash across the room and out into the fog. It was not until I heard his fingers moving about again that I knew he had decided to give even the damned a chance.

It was after midnight when the doctor told me that I could lay down the lamp. I turned with a cry of relief and encountered a face that I shall never forget. In three-quarters of an hour the doctor had aged ten years. There were dark hollows beneath his eyes, and his mouth twitched convulsively.

“He’ll not live,” he said. “He’ll be dead in an hour. I did not touch his brain. I could do nothing. When I saw—how things were—I—I—sewed him up immediately.”

“What did you see?” I half-whispered.

A look of unutterable fear came into the doctor’s eyes. “I saw—I saw.…” His voice broke and his whole body quivered. “I saw … oh, the burning shame of it … evil that is without shape, that is formless.…”

Suddenly he straightened and looked wildly about him.

“They will come here and claim him!” he cried. “They have laid their mark upon him and they will come for him. You must not stay here. This house is marked for destruction!”

I watched him helplessly as he seized his hat and bag and crossed to the door. With white, shaking fingers he drew back the latch, and in a moment his lean figure was silhouetted against a square of swirling vapor.

“Remember that I warned you!” he shouted back; and then the fog swallowed him.

Howard was sitting and rubbing his eyes.

“A malicious trick, that!” he was muttering. “To deliberately drug me! Had I known that glass of water.…”

“How do you feel?” I asked as I shook him violently by the shoulders. “Do you think you can walk?”

“You drug me, and then ask me to walk! Frank, you’re as unreasonable as an artist. What is the matter now?”

I pointed to the silent figure on the table. “Mulligan Wood is safer,” I said. “He belongs to them now!”

Howard sprang to his feet and shook me by the arm.

“What do you mean?” he cried. “How do you know?”

“The doctor saw his brain,” I explained. “And he also saw something that he would not—could not describe. But he told me that they would come for him, and I believe him.”

“We must leave here at once!” cried Howard. “Your doctor was right. We are in deadly danger. Even Mulligan Wood—but we need not return to the wood. There is your launch!”

“There is the launch!” I echoed, faint hope rising in my mind.

“The fog will be a most deadly menace,” said Howard grimly. “But even death at sea is preferable to
this
horror.”

It was not far from the house to the dock, and in less than a minute Howard was seated in the stern of the launch and I was working furiously on the engine. The foghorns still moaned, but there were no lights visible anywhere in the harbor. We could not see two feet before our faces. The white wraiths of the fog were dimly visible in the darkness, but beyond them stretched endless night, lightless and full of terror.

Howard was speaking. “Somehow I feel that there is death out there,” he said.

“There is more death here,” I said as I started the engine. “I think I can avoid the rocks. There is very little wind and I know the harbor.”

“And of course we shall have the foghorns to guide us,” muttered Howard. “I think we had better make for the open sea.”