Chapter Two
Evening, April 4th--
Brass was grateful for the new information and wanted to bring a few officers along with us on the foray to Enoch’s Hill. It took but short a while to collect two men and deputize them; my own oath from earlier in the year was still valid. Special Agent Stokes joined us and his eagerness left me feeling a sense of unease. He’d been attentive during our lunch, but now his concentration seemed to be entirely on the hunt itself. As he loaded the trunk of my Duesenberg with several shotguns and boxes of shells, I began to feel a serious sense of misgiving.
I attributed it to nerves—none of us truly comprehended what we were going up against, and history teaches that it’s far better to be over prepared than under. Nevertheless, by the time the men and Captain Brass climbed into their own vehicle and began to drive, I couldn’t help but feel a tingle at the back of my neck at the grim expression on Special Agent Stokes’ face.
He accompanied me in my car and our first few miles were silent. When I finally ventured to speak, He started, as if startled out of an inner contemplation.
“You seem exceedingly focused, Agent Stokes,” I ventured gently, and the younger man flashed me a brief smile in return.
“Yes sir I am at that. I’m merely considering that should we be facing a cult of some sort, we may not be . . . recognized as the authorities that we are, Professor. I’m fairly sure I can take care of myself, and that Captain Brass and his men are good, but to be honest, sir, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to be here with us.”
I frowned. First Sara, and now this—I felt a resentment well up in me, but Special Agent Stokes spoke again, his tone placating. “I mean no disrespect, sir, but Captain Brass and I are trained to protect and serve the public; if we should fall in the line of duty it’s part of our vocation, whereas if it happens to a distinguished civilian like yourself, it becomes a true tragedy.”
His words mollified me somewhat; I smiled benignly at him in all his youthful earnestness. “I appreciate your candor and your concern, Agent Stokes, but this isn’t the first time Captain Brass and I have dealt with . . . the unknown. Our little province here in Rhode Island often runs to the melancholy, and it’s difficult for newcomers to understand the humors that pervade our way of life. James Ezekiel Brass and I know our home ground, lad, and that can make a great deal of difference in the outcome tonight.”
He looked as if to argue with me, but thought better of it, and after a moment flashed me a rueful grin. “Back home we have a saying that fits I guess—‘To know the land, follow the coyote.”
I laughed at that, not realizing it would be a long time until I did so again. We followed Cut Crow road, passing the low gorse and nettle shrubs that lined the roads, keeping an eye on the red tail lights of Brass’s Packard 120 ahead of us. The road was uneven, and I had a time of it keeping the Duesenberg steady, especially when we turned and began to head along the dirt road that led to Enoch’s Hill.
It was a desolate place even in daylight, but here in the twilight it was awash in some nameless miasma that hung in the still air like a fog. I’m not a man prone to flights of fancy or nameless fears, nevertheless the mood now was somber. The coolness of night stretched out over the land, and with it came the eerie shadows of the trees, reaching out dark fingers across the road.
“Sure is . . . creepy,” Special Agent Stokes murmured uneasily. I felt it too, but I wanted to reassure him, so I gave a grunt. We were approaching the mound known as Enoch’s Hill; it rose along the horizon, uneven and irritating to the senses, a misshapen unsymmetrical tor. Brass’s car slowed ahead of us and stopped beside a stunted pine, twisted by the wind. I climbed out and we joined up, looking around cautiously.
“The road ends here, but I spotted some tire marks through the grass leading up towards the hill, so we’re on the right track,” Brass assured us, his voice low and tense. “We haven’t heard anything, but you know how these places are.”
I did indeed. The bogs and long stretches of wild land had the unnerving ability to play up tricks of the imagination, and even sensible folk avoided them after dark. Brass and his men were no fools, and stood grim-faced as Special Agent Stokes passed out the weapons to us. Each man checked his shotgun, and when all were in readiness, Brass took the kerosene lantern and led the way.
The wind was coming up now, in brief, surly gusts, and we moved along the dark, rutted tracks, no one speaking. Before us rose the stone knoll of Enoch’s Hill, named for an ancient settler of these parts, and kin to a family of queer, morose farmers who kept to themselves and rarely mingled with anyone from the neighboring towns. New England was full of such families; founded by flint-hard patriarchs and fueled by suspicion and tradition. The Eyretons, the Broughmans, the Sawneys—names that made the tongue flinch and the shoulder quiver.
I made my way up the line to walk beside Brass, and we strode together in silence for a few moments. Gradually he lifted his gaze from the darkness ahead of us and breathed in. Curious, I followed suit, but smelt nothing more than salt air and pine. He looked troubled.
“Smells of a rotted rose. Dank, but sweet.”
This was a disturbing development, and I spoke softly. “That will be the incense of the cult. We must be close.”
Brass nodded soberly and held the lantern higher. We were nearly at the foot of the hill now; it loomed over us in the darkness. One of the other men coughed a little and we all looked to him as he shook his head. “Lord, it stinks like an old bouquet on a grave,” he mumbled. The others nodded as I reached into my pocket and pulled my handkerchief out, holding it to my face. They followed suit, and in the pause we heard the low drum of chanting.
The hair on the back of my neck went up; I saw Brass’s fingers tighten on his shotgun. He gave a single nod and slowly led the way toward the sound, which grew louder as we followed it to the south side of the crag. The scent, which had eluded me earlier came through now, and I too breathed in the curious reek of mildew and rose as it hung heavily in the air. My handkerchief filtered out what it could, but the odor seeped in past the linen and I found myself growing faintly light-headed on it.
Brass slowed, his lantern swaying slightly and I looked beyond him to what appeared to be a low opening in a cave. There had been stories that such a cavern existed, and now proof visible stood before my eyes. A low red light came from it, like the glow of some infernal forge. The men around me shifted uneasily, and I could see doubt on their faces above their handkerchiefs.
Before any of us could say anything, and formulate some sort of plan, a low voice spoke out, and we all looked to the mouth of the cave from where it came. A robed figure strode out, not tall, but full of purpose, and clearly unafraid of us. I looked carefully but didn’t recognize the man at first. Then he pushed back his hood, and in the reflection of Brass’s lantern I saw a round shouldered man with short dark hair and tortoiseshell glasses blinking at us.
He didn’t look surprised to see us; next to me, Brass growled a little. “David Phillips—“
I blinked. “Phillips?” I knew that the meek head groundskeeper for Arkham University was an underestimated young man with a true talent for horticulture, but for him to be involved in this . . .
“The same, Captain Brass. We’ve been expecting you for a while now—“ came the man’s pleasant reply. “And Professor Grissom—the one other person who might make things difficult for us. How convenient to have you both here.”
His tone was mild, but his words implied a more sinister intent. Brass shifted his shotgun up, but the barrels of it wavered slightly. I confess I too was feeling dizzy at that point. David Phillips spoke again, a slight gloat in his tone. “I see you all have inhaled the perfume of our Great One. It’s difficult—nearly impossible to resist, you know. A few more deep breaths, gentlemen, and your wills shall break.”
I shook my head hard, despairing at his calm words, but feeling the insidious languor steal over me. The reek of rotting roses was stronger now, and other hooded figures slipped out from the cave, moving among us, collecting the shotguns from our unresisting grips. David Phillips nodded, pleased. He smiled, and in that gentle expression I saw an unearthly emerald gleam in his eyes.
“Excellent—take them to the inner sanctum,” he commanded in a low tone.
We tried to resist, but it was just as predicted; our wills had faded along with any serious resistance we might have made. I struggled, but faintly, and we were herded in, our hands bound before us with thin hemp rope of a strange green color. Inside, the cave was far larger than I expected, a regular cathedral hollowed out of the hill, and I had no idea if it was a natural formation, or if it had been hewn this way. The flickering red light we had seen came from torches mounted along the walls, the stone above each cut with a hole to allow the smoke to escape.
Would that *we* could escape! I vowed to keep my eyes open and see if there was any way in which it could be accomplished, but the more I saw, the more stunned I was as the depth and degree of evil here. The company inauspiciously numbered thirteen, all of them robed, their faces obscured by their hoods. Judging from the variety in sizes, I knew there were women among them.
The very unreality of the situation, along with the fumes, made all that followed seem unearthly, and nightmare-like. I and the others were led deeper in, towards what appeared to be a flat dais of polished green granite shot through with veins of red. It was an unsettling slab, and I thought immediately of the legends I had read. There were heavy silver rings mounted at the corners, and more disturbingly, a deep channel carved all around the outer edge of the surface, like a moat, about the width of two fingers.
An altar! I wanted to tell Captain Brass and Special Agent Stokes, but my tongue was numb from the acrid bite of the perfume around us. Helplessly I stared at it, aware of the sacrificial purpose of the stone when the five of us where pushed to our knees before it.
The soft voice of David Phillips came out again, from somewhere behind me. “Tonight, my brethren, we succeed—the host of Vulthoom will accept his pollination, and our Great One will finally take root. Too long he has lain dormant, dreaming in his thousand year prison on Mars,; too long he has been denied transplant to this planet, and the rightful place as head of all life here on Earth. We will be witness to his seeding and nourish his growth with the bone meal of these men.”
I shuddered at his words, aware of the death sentence within them, and looked to Brass next to me. He was pale and sweating, his pupils dilated and I suspected my own were as well. The other men looked just as drugged, and just as helpless. The voices around us rose in a low murmur and I shifted my gaze, looking to see what stirred the gathering.
I realized that in the deep shadows behind the altar stood the figure of a woman. Dimly, David Phillip’s words about a host and seeding came back to mind, and I pitied the unknown young victim for her part in this horrific ritual. With fresh determination, I began to look about in earnest, trying to find some way out of this nightmare.
The way in lay behind us; before us stood the altar and the cleft in the rock where the young sacrifice stood in the darkness. Since I was on the right most end of the kneelers, I could see another passageway there, almost hidden in the rock. Cool air came from it, and I deduced that it was another exit, towards the East.
I looked higher, and noted the jagged ceiling, with a long fissure passing overhead, and to my left, my fellow line of prisoners and the rest of the chamber. David Phillip spoke again, still in his deceptively pleasant voice. “Bring forth the Vessel of Vulthoom; She who will bear his Seed—“
Two robed figures moved to the shadows behind the altar and guided the victim out; I gave a low cry of pain upon seeing Sara, blank-faced and unaware of her fate. My beautiful Sara—she was in her slip, and even as we watched in horror, the robed attendants ripped it from her, exposing her sleek, pale flesh! The torch light reflected off the hideous altar, and sparkles flickered across her naked body.
I was in anguish; torn between watching her and wanting to turn away and spare her the humiliation! Impotently I struggled with my bonds as next to me, Brass did the same. A hard cuff across the back of his skull nearly knocked him to the floor. I glared up at the hooded figure next to David who had dealt the blow.
A stream of profanity the likes of which I had not thought myself capable of issued from my lips, terrible and wild. David Phillips merely frowned.
“Move them to the wall—nothing must interfere with the Pollination.”
I fought, but there were too many of them, and one by one we were unceremoniously dumped against the back wall. I struggled, but with every twist, the bond around my wrists tightened painfully, and I noticed for the first time that what I had thought was hemp was in fact a vine—and a living one at that. Bass slumped, semi-conscious, and the other men, Special Agent Stokes among them were still heavily under the sedation of the perfume in the air.
In despair I looked to Sara; she stood like the Goddess she was, passive and glorious in her nudity. David Phillips moved towards her and bowed.
“We welcome She who will bring the Glorious Vulthoom to full flower,” he murmured in admiration. His tone brought forth a fresh wave of anger in me, and I brought my wrists up to my mouth and bit the vine around them in an attempt to free myself.
The bitter taste of the vine washed the perfume from my senses and I worked my teeth harder against the tough fibers, feeling them slowly begin to part. The process meant I could no longer easily look at Sara, but since everyone else in the cavern was, my actions went unnoticed. I worked my jaws and managed to chew though enough of my bonds to thin them in the next few minutes, and with a hard tug, I snapped them.
My hands were free; my senses renewed for the moment. I longed to expectorate and free my mouth from the vile taste of the vine, but I knew it was the only thing keeping my head clear. I carefully looked around.
Sara was being bowed to by the assembled ground of hooded figures, who were chanting “Mars, Cykranosh, Djhibbis, Eibon! Ghlonghs, Morghi, Vulthoom!” with terrible enthusiasm, their voices melding in hideous harmony. She swayed slightly, and I blushed hard at the gleam on her bare skin, but I kept my head and looked further around the cavern.
As luck would have it, the shotguns had been stacked neatly along the wall just out of reach. I would have but one chance to grab one in the moment while the cult was readying Sara for her hideous fate. I slowly inched myself back, moving stealthily until my arm could reach back for the wooden stock of the closest weapon.
Success. I pulled the shotgun to me, sliding it along the rocky floor, realizing that my time was now limited. Already the members were guiding Sara towards the polished granite slab, and in a moment they would tie her down to it, there to await a doom I dared not contemplate.
At that moment I saw the rise of something else beyond the granite slab, and bit back a cry of shock and horror as the long tentacles rose up behind my beloved Sara. They were mottled green and red; repugnant fleshy limbs as thick as young trees and horribly animated; should I live to a hundred I will never forget the vile way they slithered and moved towards Sara, seeking out her innocent form as she stood before the unholy altar.
I snapped, and swinging the shotgun up, I fired one round high up overhead, hitting the fissure overhead and bringing down a hard avalanche of stone and sand upon us all. In the confusion, I leapt forward and seized Sara’s wrist, pulling her to me. The cult members shrieked and panicked, moving towards the tentacles in an effort to protect their unspeakable God Monster from the falling debris that was raining down. I looked to Brass and the others in an attempt to rouse them, but to my horror, the green vine bonds around their wrists had melded with the flesh, and as they opened their eyes to look at me, all I saw in them was the same emerald gleam that had so marked the glance of David Phillips.
They had been absorbed somehow; drained of their humanity by the rooted coils around their wrists.
Several of the cult members ran towards me, and I swung the shotgun upwards, firing once more to the widening split in the cavern roof. The second shot from the weapon hit harder, and the top of the cavern began to collapse in earnest now. Moving with desperate haste, I dragged the pliant Sara behind me towards the passageway hidden in the rock.
We plunged into the darkness since there were no torches here, and I felt the heavy rumble of the cave in behind us; the rush of hot air and screams and the wet squelch of crushed plant echoed in my ears. The next half hour was a nightmare of panic and blindness—I dared not let go of Sara’s wrist as I felt along the narrow tunnel in the cold stone of Enoch’s Hill with my free hand, trying desperately to find the way out, and praying that nothing would follow us.
Momentarily deafened, I had to rely on touch and smell to locate the thin traces of cool air that led in the right direction. Sara let me tug her along, neither resisting nor helping, but by the time we reached the blessed open stillness of night outside, she was starting to cough. I slipped off my coat and dressed her in it, stroking her hair and calling her name as I held her to me tightly.
She shook violently, and when she raised her face to mine I could see the horror and fear in her eyes, which mercifully stayed the same lovely shade of brown they had always been. No green tinted her gaze and I hugged her gratefully.
“Oh Gil!” she murmured in a broken sorrowful tone, and shook her head hard, “The others . . . ?”
“I don’t know,” I replied heavily, my heart aching for the loss of Brass, Special Agent Stokes and the two deputies.
We made our way widdershins around Enoch’s Hill and found the cars; Sara spoke of hers being further back along the road, and how she’d suffered a flat tire in an attempt to reach the site before us. Her pride had nearly cost her her life, but I was in no mood to chide her about it; not with the death of four men on my own conscience. Numbly we climbed into the Duesenberg and I drove us back to the main road.
My watch had stopped, but by the stars overhead I judged it to be nearly three in the morning; the dead, still, soulless time of night. Looking up through the windscreen I noted that Mars was unusually close, and shuddered.
November 24th—
Nine months have passed since the horrible events of Enoch’s Hill and the cult of Vulthoom came into our lives. Sara and I rarely speak of it, and yet it hangs over us always.
We left, she and I, fleeing Rhode Island and departing that same night. Fear drove us on—had we reported the cave in, misguided rescuers might have attempted to free the abomination under the stone. Brass and Stokes were reported missing, and after a few months the local papers dropped the story.
My own disappearance was barely a ripple in the academic world; I penned a polite notice of resignation and mailed it to the university on our way out of state, letting the chancellors know that I was pursuing my own line of study in Europe and that I would give them an address shortly.
This I have not done, nor do I intend to—not with the possibility of Vulthoom’s followers tracking us. Sara and I have made our way through the Southwest, and found a quiet town in the deserts of Southern Nevada.
There is little greenery here.
I have a comfortable fortune saved up, and the two of us have married. We read the papers carefully, and hold each other at night, finding comfort in our new lives. We have spoken about starting a family.
And late into the night, we both study the stars, and keep a close eye on Mars in the inky night sky.
Fin
Brass was grateful for the new information and wanted to bring a few officers along with us on the foray to Enoch’s Hill. It took but short a while to collect two men and deputize them; my own oath from earlier in the year was still valid. Special Agent Stokes joined us and his eagerness left me feeling a sense of unease. He’d been attentive during our lunch, but now his concentration seemed to be entirely on the hunt itself. As he loaded the trunk of my Duesenberg with several shotguns and boxes of shells, I began to feel a serious sense of misgiving.
I attributed it to nerves—none of us truly comprehended what we were going up against, and history teaches that it’s far better to be over prepared than under. Nevertheless, by the time the men and Captain Brass climbed into their own vehicle and began to drive, I couldn’t help but feel a tingle at the back of my neck at the grim expression on Special Agent Stokes’ face.
He accompanied me in my car and our first few miles were silent. When I finally ventured to speak, He started, as if startled out of an inner contemplation.
“You seem exceedingly focused, Agent Stokes,” I ventured gently, and the younger man flashed me a brief smile in return.
“Yes sir I am at that. I’m merely considering that should we be facing a cult of some sort, we may not be . . . recognized as the authorities that we are, Professor. I’m fairly sure I can take care of myself, and that Captain Brass and his men are good, but to be honest, sir, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to be here with us.”
I frowned. First Sara, and now this—I felt a resentment well up in me, but Special Agent Stokes spoke again, his tone placating. “I mean no disrespect, sir, but Captain Brass and I are trained to protect and serve the public; if we should fall in the line of duty it’s part of our vocation, whereas if it happens to a distinguished civilian like yourself, it becomes a true tragedy.”
His words mollified me somewhat; I smiled benignly at him in all his youthful earnestness. “I appreciate your candor and your concern, Agent Stokes, but this isn’t the first time Captain Brass and I have dealt with . . . the unknown. Our little province here in Rhode Island often runs to the melancholy, and it’s difficult for newcomers to understand the humors that pervade our way of life. James Ezekiel Brass and I know our home ground, lad, and that can make a great deal of difference in the outcome tonight.”
He looked as if to argue with me, but thought better of it, and after a moment flashed me a rueful grin. “Back home we have a saying that fits I guess—‘To know the land, follow the coyote.”
I laughed at that, not realizing it would be a long time until I did so again. We followed Cut Crow road, passing the low gorse and nettle shrubs that lined the roads, keeping an eye on the red tail lights of Brass’s Packard 120 ahead of us. The road was uneven, and I had a time of it keeping the Duesenberg steady, especially when we turned and began to head along the dirt road that led to Enoch’s Hill.
It was a desolate place even in daylight, but here in the twilight it was awash in some nameless miasma that hung in the still air like a fog. I’m not a man prone to flights of fancy or nameless fears, nevertheless the mood now was somber. The coolness of night stretched out over the land, and with it came the eerie shadows of the trees, reaching out dark fingers across the road.
“Sure is . . . creepy,” Special Agent Stokes murmured uneasily. I felt it too, but I wanted to reassure him, so I gave a grunt. We were approaching the mound known as Enoch’s Hill; it rose along the horizon, uneven and irritating to the senses, a misshapen unsymmetrical tor. Brass’s car slowed ahead of us and stopped beside a stunted pine, twisted by the wind. I climbed out and we joined up, looking around cautiously.
“The road ends here, but I spotted some tire marks through the grass leading up towards the hill, so we’re on the right track,” Brass assured us, his voice low and tense. “We haven’t heard anything, but you know how these places are.”
I did indeed. The bogs and long stretches of wild land had the unnerving ability to play up tricks of the imagination, and even sensible folk avoided them after dark. Brass and his men were no fools, and stood grim-faced as Special Agent Stokes passed out the weapons to us. Each man checked his shotgun, and when all were in readiness, Brass took the kerosene lantern and led the way.
The wind was coming up now, in brief, surly gusts, and we moved along the dark, rutted tracks, no one speaking. Before us rose the stone knoll of Enoch’s Hill, named for an ancient settler of these parts, and kin to a family of queer, morose farmers who kept to themselves and rarely mingled with anyone from the neighboring towns. New England was full of such families; founded by flint-hard patriarchs and fueled by suspicion and tradition. The Eyretons, the Broughmans, the Sawneys—names that made the tongue flinch and the shoulder quiver.
I made my way up the line to walk beside Brass, and we strode together in silence for a few moments. Gradually he lifted his gaze from the darkness ahead of us and breathed in. Curious, I followed suit, but smelt nothing more than salt air and pine. He looked troubled.
“Smells of a rotted rose. Dank, but sweet.”
This was a disturbing development, and I spoke softly. “That will be the incense of the cult. We must be close.”
Brass nodded soberly and held the lantern higher. We were nearly at the foot of the hill now; it loomed over us in the darkness. One of the other men coughed a little and we all looked to him as he shook his head. “Lord, it stinks like an old bouquet on a grave,” he mumbled. The others nodded as I reached into my pocket and pulled my handkerchief out, holding it to my face. They followed suit, and in the pause we heard the low drum of chanting.
The hair on the back of my neck went up; I saw Brass’s fingers tighten on his shotgun. He gave a single nod and slowly led the way toward the sound, which grew louder as we followed it to the south side of the crag. The scent, which had eluded me earlier came through now, and I too breathed in the curious reek of mildew and rose as it hung heavily in the air. My handkerchief filtered out what it could, but the odor seeped in past the linen and I found myself growing faintly light-headed on it.
Brass slowed, his lantern swaying slightly and I looked beyond him to what appeared to be a low opening in a cave. There had been stories that such a cavern existed, and now proof visible stood before my eyes. A low red light came from it, like the glow of some infernal forge. The men around me shifted uneasily, and I could see doubt on their faces above their handkerchiefs.
Before any of us could say anything, and formulate some sort of plan, a low voice spoke out, and we all looked to the mouth of the cave from where it came. A robed figure strode out, not tall, but full of purpose, and clearly unafraid of us. I looked carefully but didn’t recognize the man at first. Then he pushed back his hood, and in the reflection of Brass’s lantern I saw a round shouldered man with short dark hair and tortoiseshell glasses blinking at us.
He didn’t look surprised to see us; next to me, Brass growled a little. “David Phillips—“
I blinked. “Phillips?” I knew that the meek head groundskeeper for Arkham University was an underestimated young man with a true talent for horticulture, but for him to be involved in this . . .
“The same, Captain Brass. We’ve been expecting you for a while now—“ came the man’s pleasant reply. “And Professor Grissom—the one other person who might make things difficult for us. How convenient to have you both here.”
His tone was mild, but his words implied a more sinister intent. Brass shifted his shotgun up, but the barrels of it wavered slightly. I confess I too was feeling dizzy at that point. David Phillips spoke again, a slight gloat in his tone. “I see you all have inhaled the perfume of our Great One. It’s difficult—nearly impossible to resist, you know. A few more deep breaths, gentlemen, and your wills shall break.”
I shook my head hard, despairing at his calm words, but feeling the insidious languor steal over me. The reek of rotting roses was stronger now, and other hooded figures slipped out from the cave, moving among us, collecting the shotguns from our unresisting grips. David Phillips nodded, pleased. He smiled, and in that gentle expression I saw an unearthly emerald gleam in his eyes.
“Excellent—take them to the inner sanctum,” he commanded in a low tone.
We tried to resist, but it was just as predicted; our wills had faded along with any serious resistance we might have made. I struggled, but faintly, and we were herded in, our hands bound before us with thin hemp rope of a strange green color. Inside, the cave was far larger than I expected, a regular cathedral hollowed out of the hill, and I had no idea if it was a natural formation, or if it had been hewn this way. The flickering red light we had seen came from torches mounted along the walls, the stone above each cut with a hole to allow the smoke to escape.
Would that *we* could escape! I vowed to keep my eyes open and see if there was any way in which it could be accomplished, but the more I saw, the more stunned I was as the depth and degree of evil here. The company inauspiciously numbered thirteen, all of them robed, their faces obscured by their hoods. Judging from the variety in sizes, I knew there were women among them.
The very unreality of the situation, along with the fumes, made all that followed seem unearthly, and nightmare-like. I and the others were led deeper in, towards what appeared to be a flat dais of polished green granite shot through with veins of red. It was an unsettling slab, and I thought immediately of the legends I had read. There were heavy silver rings mounted at the corners, and more disturbingly, a deep channel carved all around the outer edge of the surface, like a moat, about the width of two fingers.
An altar! I wanted to tell Captain Brass and Special Agent Stokes, but my tongue was numb from the acrid bite of the perfume around us. Helplessly I stared at it, aware of the sacrificial purpose of the stone when the five of us where pushed to our knees before it.
The soft voice of David Phillips came out again, from somewhere behind me. “Tonight, my brethren, we succeed—the host of Vulthoom will accept his pollination, and our Great One will finally take root. Too long he has lain dormant, dreaming in his thousand year prison on Mars,; too long he has been denied transplant to this planet, and the rightful place as head of all life here on Earth. We will be witness to his seeding and nourish his growth with the bone meal of these men.”
I shuddered at his words, aware of the death sentence within them, and looked to Brass next to me. He was pale and sweating, his pupils dilated and I suspected my own were as well. The other men looked just as drugged, and just as helpless. The voices around us rose in a low murmur and I shifted my gaze, looking to see what stirred the gathering.
I realized that in the deep shadows behind the altar stood the figure of a woman. Dimly, David Phillip’s words about a host and seeding came back to mind, and I pitied the unknown young victim for her part in this horrific ritual. With fresh determination, I began to look about in earnest, trying to find some way out of this nightmare.
The way in lay behind us; before us stood the altar and the cleft in the rock where the young sacrifice stood in the darkness. Since I was on the right most end of the kneelers, I could see another passageway there, almost hidden in the rock. Cool air came from it, and I deduced that it was another exit, towards the East.
I looked higher, and noted the jagged ceiling, with a long fissure passing overhead, and to my left, my fellow line of prisoners and the rest of the chamber. David Phillip spoke again, still in his deceptively pleasant voice. “Bring forth the Vessel of Vulthoom; She who will bear his Seed—“
Two robed figures moved to the shadows behind the altar and guided the victim out; I gave a low cry of pain upon seeing Sara, blank-faced and unaware of her fate. My beautiful Sara—she was in her slip, and even as we watched in horror, the robed attendants ripped it from her, exposing her sleek, pale flesh! The torch light reflected off the hideous altar, and sparkles flickered across her naked body.
I was in anguish; torn between watching her and wanting to turn away and spare her the humiliation! Impotently I struggled with my bonds as next to me, Brass did the same. A hard cuff across the back of his skull nearly knocked him to the floor. I glared up at the hooded figure next to David who had dealt the blow.
A stream of profanity the likes of which I had not thought myself capable of issued from my lips, terrible and wild. David Phillips merely frowned.
“Move them to the wall—nothing must interfere with the Pollination.”
I fought, but there were too many of them, and one by one we were unceremoniously dumped against the back wall. I struggled, but with every twist, the bond around my wrists tightened painfully, and I noticed for the first time that what I had thought was hemp was in fact a vine—and a living one at that. Bass slumped, semi-conscious, and the other men, Special Agent Stokes among them were still heavily under the sedation of the perfume in the air.
In despair I looked to Sara; she stood like the Goddess she was, passive and glorious in her nudity. David Phillips moved towards her and bowed.
“We welcome She who will bring the Glorious Vulthoom to full flower,” he murmured in admiration. His tone brought forth a fresh wave of anger in me, and I brought my wrists up to my mouth and bit the vine around them in an attempt to free myself.
The bitter taste of the vine washed the perfume from my senses and I worked my teeth harder against the tough fibers, feeling them slowly begin to part. The process meant I could no longer easily look at Sara, but since everyone else in the cavern was, my actions went unnoticed. I worked my jaws and managed to chew though enough of my bonds to thin them in the next few minutes, and with a hard tug, I snapped them.
My hands were free; my senses renewed for the moment. I longed to expectorate and free my mouth from the vile taste of the vine, but I knew it was the only thing keeping my head clear. I carefully looked around.
Sara was being bowed to by the assembled ground of hooded figures, who were chanting “Mars, Cykranosh, Djhibbis, Eibon! Ghlonghs, Morghi, Vulthoom!” with terrible enthusiasm, their voices melding in hideous harmony. She swayed slightly, and I blushed hard at the gleam on her bare skin, but I kept my head and looked further around the cavern.
As luck would have it, the shotguns had been stacked neatly along the wall just out of reach. I would have but one chance to grab one in the moment while the cult was readying Sara for her hideous fate. I slowly inched myself back, moving stealthily until my arm could reach back for the wooden stock of the closest weapon.
Success. I pulled the shotgun to me, sliding it along the rocky floor, realizing that my time was now limited. Already the members were guiding Sara towards the polished granite slab, and in a moment they would tie her down to it, there to await a doom I dared not contemplate.
At that moment I saw the rise of something else beyond the granite slab, and bit back a cry of shock and horror as the long tentacles rose up behind my beloved Sara. They were mottled green and red; repugnant fleshy limbs as thick as young trees and horribly animated; should I live to a hundred I will never forget the vile way they slithered and moved towards Sara, seeking out her innocent form as she stood before the unholy altar.
I snapped, and swinging the shotgun up, I fired one round high up overhead, hitting the fissure overhead and bringing down a hard avalanche of stone and sand upon us all. In the confusion, I leapt forward and seized Sara’s wrist, pulling her to me. The cult members shrieked and panicked, moving towards the tentacles in an effort to protect their unspeakable God Monster from the falling debris that was raining down. I looked to Brass and the others in an attempt to rouse them, but to my horror, the green vine bonds around their wrists had melded with the flesh, and as they opened their eyes to look at me, all I saw in them was the same emerald gleam that had so marked the glance of David Phillips.
They had been absorbed somehow; drained of their humanity by the rooted coils around their wrists.
Several of the cult members ran towards me, and I swung the shotgun upwards, firing once more to the widening split in the cavern roof. The second shot from the weapon hit harder, and the top of the cavern began to collapse in earnest now. Moving with desperate haste, I dragged the pliant Sara behind me towards the passageway hidden in the rock.
We plunged into the darkness since there were no torches here, and I felt the heavy rumble of the cave in behind us; the rush of hot air and screams and the wet squelch of crushed plant echoed in my ears. The next half hour was a nightmare of panic and blindness—I dared not let go of Sara’s wrist as I felt along the narrow tunnel in the cold stone of Enoch’s Hill with my free hand, trying desperately to find the way out, and praying that nothing would follow us.
Momentarily deafened, I had to rely on touch and smell to locate the thin traces of cool air that led in the right direction. Sara let me tug her along, neither resisting nor helping, but by the time we reached the blessed open stillness of night outside, she was starting to cough. I slipped off my coat and dressed her in it, stroking her hair and calling her name as I held her to me tightly.
She shook violently, and when she raised her face to mine I could see the horror and fear in her eyes, which mercifully stayed the same lovely shade of brown they had always been. No green tinted her gaze and I hugged her gratefully.
“Oh Gil!” she murmured in a broken sorrowful tone, and shook her head hard, “The others . . . ?”
“I don’t know,” I replied heavily, my heart aching for the loss of Brass, Special Agent Stokes and the two deputies.
***
*** ***
We made our way widdershins around Enoch’s Hill and found the cars; Sara spoke of hers being further back along the road, and how she’d suffered a flat tire in an attempt to reach the site before us. Her pride had nearly cost her her life, but I was in no mood to chide her about it; not with the death of four men on my own conscience. Numbly we climbed into the Duesenberg and I drove us back to the main road.
My watch had stopped, but by the stars overhead I judged it to be nearly three in the morning; the dead, still, soulless time of night. Looking up through the windscreen I noted that Mars was unusually close, and shuddered.
***
*** ***
November 24th—
Nine months have passed since the horrible events of Enoch’s Hill and the cult of Vulthoom came into our lives. Sara and I rarely speak of it, and yet it hangs over us always.
We left, she and I, fleeing Rhode Island and departing that same night. Fear drove us on—had we reported the cave in, misguided rescuers might have attempted to free the abomination under the stone. Brass and Stokes were reported missing, and after a few months the local papers dropped the story.
My own disappearance was barely a ripple in the academic world; I penned a polite notice of resignation and mailed it to the university on our way out of state, letting the chancellors know that I was pursuing my own line of study in Europe and that I would give them an address shortly.
This I have not done, nor do I intend to—not with the possibility of Vulthoom’s followers tracking us. Sara and I have made our way through the Southwest, and found a quiet town in the deserts of Southern Nevada.
There is little greenery here.
I have a comfortable fortune saved up, and the two of us have married. We read the papers carefully, and hold each other at night, finding comfort in our new lives. We have spoken about starting a family.
And late into the night, we both study the stars, and keep a close eye on Mars in the inky night sky.
Fin