Haggopian and Other Stories (31 page)

On the other hand…well, Millwright was not inexperienced in the darker mysteries. Black Magic, practised with a degree of discretion, and the various carefully edited works he had written in the same vein, had made life very easy for him for the past fifteen years. Now, though, he had to see for himself—or, at least, experience—this “proof” that these young men had offered him. Such proof would not be pleasant, the man called Nuttall had warned him. Well, very few magical or necromantic experiences were pleasant; but of course, Nuttall would hardly be willing to demonstrate the thing—whatever it was—if it were really dangerous…

They had not explained exactly what they believed they had released from its nether habitation, but possibly they did not know: They had told him, however, that they knew he was an “expert” in this sort of thing, which was why they had approached him for his help.

And now…there was one easy way to find out what the truth of the matter really was. Millwright returned to his study and into the presence of the olive-skinned man called Nuttall. He saw that his visitor was sweating in anticipation, though he still maintained the vestiges of self-assurance.

“All right, Mr. Nuttall,” Millwright said, closing the study door behind him. “Let’s have your demonstration.”

Nuttall’s Adam’s apple was visibly bobbing. “I have to stay right here,” he muttered, “beside the light switch, so that I can switch it on again. And you’ll need to hold my hand, I think, to really—appreciate—the thing. Are you ready?”

Despite his few remaining doubts regards the veracity of their story, the occultist nevertheless felt a thrill of unseen energies, weird forces, building in the air. He almost called a halt to the experiment there and then. Later, he wished that he had….

Instead, he nodded his readiness and, at that, Nuttall switched off the light.

In the brightly lit bathroom, huddled fearfully in one corner with his face screwed up in dread expectation, Alan Bart heard Millwright’s high-pitched scream and, seconds later, his sobbing accusations and vicious swearing. He knew then that Ray had “demonstrated”. Weak-kneed, he let himself out of the bathroom and made his way unsteadily back to the occultist’s study.

There he found what he knew he would find: the horror which he himself had experienced twice already. The two men, his friend Nuttall and the still steadily swearing, bulge-eyed occultist, were hastily removing their outer garments. All the while, they were frenziedly wiping at their faces, shaking their arms and hands and kicking their legs in a concerted effort to be rid of the viscous, clear jelly that covered them head to toe in shiny, gluey envelopes. This was the snail-trail, the residue of the Black One—the Filler of Space—He Who Comes in the Dark!—that creature or power of outer dimensions which only the purity of the light might disperse!

• • •

Nuttall sat wrapped in a towel, pale, drawn and shivering beside the warmth of a gas fire whose glowing logs looked so very nearly real. He and the occultist had showered to cleanse themselves of the obnoxious, slimy coverings and now Millwright sat, listening, while Bart explained the most intricate details of what had gone on before.

Bart narrated how he and Nuttall had stumbled across the means of drawing the horror of the jelly-substance through the fabric of alien dimensions to their own world; how they had discovered that light held this creature of darkness, this fly-the-light, at bay; and how thereafter, whenever they found themselves in darkness, the thing that lived and chittered in darkness would return to try to drown them in its exuded essence. At this mention, all eyes flickered towards that thick liquid which even now slimed the floor in stinking, drying puddles, that juice which not one of the three could as yet bring himself to touch or clear away.

“And you actually have a copy of
Mad Berkley’s Book
?” The shaken occultist asked, the silver tassels of his oriental dressing-gown moving to the shudders of his body.

“Yes, it belonged to Ray’s grandfather,” Bart agreed. “We’ve brought it with us.” He crossed the room to where his coat hung and tremulously removed from a large inner pocket a leather-bound volume in iron clasps. He handed the book to the occultist who opened it, studied its contents for a few moments, then snapped it decisively shut.

“Oh yes, that’s
Mad Berkley’s Book
all right. And, indeed, it’s in better condition than my own copy. Old Berkley’s believed to have combined all the worst elements of a score of esoteric volumes in this work—the
Necronomicon
, the
Cthaat Aquadingen
,
the German
Unaussprechlichen Kulten—
and, by God, I can readily enough believe it now! I myself have never used the book. I knew that a lot of the stuff Old Berkley put down on paper was damnably dangerous, of course, but
this
! This is a monstrous evil!”

He paused for a moment, his hands shaking terribly; then his eyes hardened as he turned them upon Nuttall by the gas fire. “You bloody fool! You’ve damned me with the same hideous curse! Didn’t you realise that once I had experienced that—thing—that I, too, would be subject to such visitations?”

Nuttall looked up, a shadow of his previous cynical control returning to drawn, haggard features. “I guessed it might be so, yes,” he admitted, then hastily went on; “but don’t you see it had to be this way? How else could I be sure you’d help us? Now that you’re in the same boat, you have to help. If you can…exorcise…this horror, then we’ll all be safe. At least you have an incentive…now!”

“Why, you damned young—” Millwright rose in a fury, but Bart caught at his sleeve.

“What use to fight about it, Mr. Millwright? Don’t you see that there’s no time for that? Sooner or later, unless we find…well…an antidote, one by one, accidentally, we’ll all be caught in the dark. When that happens…then…” Bart’s voice trailed ominously away as he left the sentence unfinished.

“But I don’t know of any ‘antidote’ as you put it,” the occultist rounded on him, his voice harsh.

“Then we’d better start looking for one right away,” Ray Nuttall snapped, the situation finally getting the better of his nerves. “Surely you have some idea of what the thing is? I mean, you’re the expert, after all. Are there no other occultists we can consult?”

“I know of three or four others in England of more than ordinary power, yes,” Millwright answered, pondering their problem. Then he shook his head. “No use to contact them, however. They wouldn’t help me. I might as well admit it right now—my reputation in occult circles is not good. I’ve used what I know of the dark powers to my own ends far too often for the liking of certain lily-livered contemporaries, I’m afraid. There are so-called ‘ethics’ even in matters such as these. The only men I know who might have helped—though even that is doubtful—have also fallen foul of some evil, I fear.

“You’ve heard of Titus Crow and Henri-Laurent de Marigny? Yes? Well, they disappeared together some months ago, when Crow’s home was destroyed in a freak lightening storm. That rules them out. No, if I’m to beat this thing, then I’m to do it on my own…but you two will help me. Now, we’ve much to do. There’ll be no sleep for us tonight. Personally, I doubt if I shall ever sleep again!”

II

With all the lights of the flat ablaze, midnight found the three in various attitudes of uneasy study. Millwright had heard their story through once more in all its detail before deciding on a definite course of action. At the mention of the newspaper article that quoted Millwright and had sparked off Nuttall’s interest in the progressive group, Fried Spiders, the occultist admitted that his only interest at the time had been in gaining publicity for his recent book on occult themes. In fact, he had never so much as heard the LP in question.

Millwright concluded that the two accidentally hit upon the perfect atmosphere and setting, leading up to the conjuration. Doubtless the soft drugs Nuttall had access to had helped bring about a proper connection with outside spheres, had contributed in forming a link, as it were, with alien dimensions. When the group had finished their few lines of intoned invocation, Nuttall had taken up the chant to its conclusion… And then came the Black One! Never guessing that any such visitation might actually occur, Nuttall had failed to take the traditional precaution of prisoning the horror in a pentagram.

And it
was
a horror! A thing with invisible, evil eyes that saw in the dark, with mouths and lips that sucked and slobbered. They had driven it off simply by switching on the light. If they had not…then soon they would have drowned in its hideous residual slime, the juices it exuded from alien agglutinous pores.

Having driven the thing off, they had thought that they were rid of it. However, later that night, after cleaning up, when Bart sought to leave Nuttall’s place to return home, out in the dark the thing had come to him again. He had barely been able to make it back to Nuttall’s door and the sanctuary of the blessed light within.

Now, unseen, the Black One waited for the summons of its beloved darkness, when it could return again with its sucking mouths to drown its liberators in loathsome slime. And now, too, it waited for Millwright…

The occultist was only too well aware of the horror of living with this nightmare—of never knowing when the lights might fail; the constant fear of accidentally knocking oneself unconscious and waking at night in a darkened room, or perhaps not waking at all! Now, at the midnight hour, tired as he was, he patiently turned the leaves of a great and anciently esoteric textbook, hopeful of finding some clue as to the nature of the thing his visitors had called up from the darker spheres.

Nuttall and Bart were similarly employed, albeit with lesser works of reference. Only the dry rustles of flipped pages, the occasional muttered curse as a promising stream of research went dry and the ticking of Millwright’s wall-clock disturbed the silence. Their task seemed impossible; and yet by morning, through sheer diligence and hard work—engendered of a dreadful fear—they had learned much of the horror that even now stalked the dark places and awaited them hungrily. Though what they had discovered had only served to increase their terror.

This creature, being or power, had been known in the predawn world to the earliest Black Magicians and Necromancers. Records had come down even from predeluge Atlantis of “The Night Thing”— “The Black One”—”The Filler of Space”— “Bugg-Shash the Terrible”—a demon whom Eibon of Mhu Thulan himself had written of as being:

One of the darkest Beings of the Netherworld, whose Trail is as that of a monstrous Snail, who hails from the blackest Pits of the most remote Spheres. Cousin to Yibb-Tstll, Bugg-Shash, too is a Drowner; His lips do suck and lick; His Kiss is the slimy Kiss of the hideous Death. He wakes the very Dead to His Command, and encased in the horror of His Essence even the worm-ravaged Lich hastens to His Bidding…

This from that tome so carefully scrutinized and guarded from the view of his two assistants by Millwright.

And from Feery’s
Notes On The
Cthaat Aquadingen
—though Millwright had warned that Feery’s reconstructions and translations were often at fault or fanciful in their treatment of the original works—Bart had culled the following cryptic information:

Lest any brash or inexperienced Wizard be tempted to call forth one of ye Drowners—be it Yibb-Tstll or Bugg-Shash—this Warning shall guide him & inform him of his Folly. For ye Drowners are of a like treacherous & require even ye most delicate Handling & minutest Attention to thaumaturgic Detail. Yibb-Tstll may only be controlled by use of ye Soul-searing Barrier of Naach-Tith, & Bugg-Shash may only be contained in ye Pentagram of Power. Too, ye Drowners must be sent early about ye Business of them, which is Death, lest they find ways to turn upon ye Caller. Call NOT upon Bug-Shash for ye sake of mere idle curiosity; for ye Great Black One, neither Him nor His Cousin, will return of His own Accord to His Place, but will seek out by any Means a Victim, being often that same Wizard which uttered ye Calling. Of ye two is Bugg-Shash most treacherous & vilely cunning, for should no Sacrifice or Victim be prepared for His Coming, He will not go back without He takes His Caller with Him, must needs He stay an hundred Years to accomplish His Purpose…

Nuttall supplied the smallest contribution towards their knowledge of the horror lurking in the darkness. This fragment was from a heavy, handwritten tome whose title had been carefully removed from its spine by burning with a hot iron—and it
was
a fragment. Of the Filler of Space, the book related only this:

Bugg-Shash is unbearable! His lips suck; He knows not defeat but brings down His victim at the last; aye, even though He follows that victim unto Death and beyond to achieve His purpose. And there was a riddle known to my forefathers:

What evil wakes that should lie dead,

Swathed in horror toe to head?

“That’s from the
Necronomicon
!” Millwright cried when, towards dawn, Nuttall found this piece and read it aloud in the brightly lit study. “It is Alhazred!” The occultist snatched the book from the other’s hands to pore eagerly over the page—then threw it down in disgust.

“Only that,” he grumbled, “nothing more. But it’s a clue! This book is simply a hodge-podge of occult lore and legend, but perhaps the Mad Arab’s
Necronomicon
—in which I’m sure those lines have their origin—perhaps
that
book contains more on the same subject. It’s certainly worth a try. Fortunately, the blacker side of my reputation has not yet reached the authorities at the British Museum. They recognise me as an ‘authority’ in my own right—as a genuine scholar. Through them, I have access to archives forbidden to most others. I admit that these scraps we’ve found worry me…horribly! But we must remember that every magical conjuration has its dangers. So far in this business I have—well, I’ve escaped justice, so to speak. Yes, and I hope to do so again.