Haggopian and Other Stories

I bedded him down in my guest-room, by which time all I wanted to do was get to my own bed for an hour or two; but about 4.00 p.m. I was awakened from uneasy dreams to find him on the telephone, his voice stridently urgent. As I went to him he put the phone down, turned to me haggard and red-eyed, his face dark with stubble. “She’s stabilised,” he, said, and: “Thank God for that! But she hasn’t come out of shock—not completely. It’s too deep-seated. At least that’s what they told me. They say she could be like it for weeks…maybe longer.”

“What will you do?” I asked him. “You’re welcome to stay here, of course, and—”

“Stay here?” he cut me short. “Yes, I’d like that—afterwards.”

I nodded, biting my lip. “I see. You intend to go through with it. Very well—but there’s still time to tell the police, you know. You could still let them deal with it.”

He uttered a harsh, barking laugh. “Can you really imagine me telling all of this to your average son-of-the-sod Hartlepool bobby? Why, even if I showed them that…the place below; what could they do about it? And should I tell them about my plan, too? What!—mention dynamite to the law, the local authorities? Oh, yes, I can just see that! Even if they didn’t put me in a straight jacket it would still take them an age to get round to doing anything. And meanwhile, if there is something down there under the farm—and Bill, we know there is—what’s to stop it or them from moving on to fresh pastures?”

When I had no answer, he continued in a more controlled, quieter tone. “Do you know what old Carpenter was doing? I’ll tell you: he was going down there in the right seasons, when he heard the bell ringing—going down below with his shotgun and blasting all hell out of what he found in those foul black tunnels! Paying them back for what they did to him and his in Innsmouth. A madman who didn’t know what he wrote in those diaries of his? No, for we’ve seen it, Bill, you and I. And we’ve heard it—heard Dagon’s bell ringing in the night, summoning that ancient evil up from the sea.

“Why, that was the old man’s sole reason for living there: so that he could take his revenge! Taciturn? A recluse? I’ll say he was! He lived to kill—to kill them! Tritons, Deep Ones, amphibian abortions born out of a timeless evil, inhuman lust and black, alien nightmare. Well, now I’ll finish what he started, only I’ll do it a damn sight faster! It’s my way or nothing.” He gazed at me, his eyes steady now and piercing, totally sane, strong as I had rarely seen him. “You’ll come?”

“First,” I said. “there’s something you must tell me. About June. She—her looks—I mean…”

“I know what you mean.” His voice contained a tremor, however tightly controlled. “It’s what makes the whole thing real for me. It’s proof positive, as if that were needed now, of all I’ve suspected and discovered of the place. I told you she wouldn’t leave the farm, didn’t I? But did you know it was her idea to buy Kettlethorpe in the first place?”

“You mean she was…lured?”

“Oh, yes, that’s exactly what I mean—but by what? By her blood, Bill! She didn’t know, was completely innocent. Not so her forebears. Her great-grandfather came from America, New England. That’s as far as I care to track it down, and no need now to take it any further. But you must see why I personally have to square it all away?”

I could only nod.

“And you will help?”

“I must be mad,” I answered, nodding again, “—or at best an idiot—but it seems I’ve already committed myself. Yes, I’ll come.”

“Now?”

“Today? At this hour? That would be madness! Before you know it, it’ll be dark, and—”

“Dark, yes!” he broke in on me. “But what odds? It’s always dark down there, Bill. We’ll need electric torches, the more the better. I have a couple at the farm. How about you?”

“I’ve a good heavy-duty torch in the car,” I told him. “Batteries, too.”

“Good! And your shotguns—we’ll need them, I think. But we’re not after pheasant this time, Bill.”

“Where will you get the dynamite?” I asked, perhaps hoping that this was something which, in his fervour, he had overlooked.

He grinned—not his old grin but a twisted, vicious thing and said: “I’ve already got it. Had it ever since I found the slab two weeks ago and first went down there. My gangers use it on big landscaping jobs. Blasting out large boulders and tree stumps saves a lot of time and effort. Saves money, too. There’s enough dynamite at the farm to demolish half of Harden!”

David had me, and he knew it. “It’s now, Bill, now!” he said. And after a moment’s silence he shrugged. “But—if you haven’t the spit for it—”

“I said I’d come,” I told him, “and so I will. You’re not the only one who loves a mystery, even one as terrifying as this. Now that I know such a place exists, of course I want to see it. I’m not easy about it, no, but…”

He nodded. “Then this is your last chance, for you can be sure it won’t be there for you to see tomorrow!”

IX: Descent Into Madness