Read Online Lord of the Hollow Dark by Kirk Russell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kirk Russell
Tags: Fiction.Horror
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rescucitation I may possess do not extend so far.
In the case of the late Lord Balgrummo, supposing that he might be successfully summoned, perhaps no one would seem more fitted for that conjuring than myself, my early association with him considered. Yet I respectfully remind you once more that such an attempt might be perilous both for you and for me. Balgrummo was a formidable being. Again, quieta non movere. Why take by the ears some canine mordante ?
Although I am not privileged to be wholly privy to your designs, good Master, it seems to me that the rituals you presumably have planned for our present company in the Lodging might be carried out, at large profit to yourself, without any need of proceeding to the extremes which have excited your fancy. After all, we have here a collection of dupes and dolts, as well satisfied with legerdemain as with true spirits from the vasty deep.
Finally, if you will forgive my saying so, Master, I am interested in keeping my skin whole. The arm of the law is longer far in Scotland than it is in certain countries of Asia and Africa, and I have dodged out of enough tight corners in both of those continents. Excuse the pusillanimity of an old man, and think on the Greek truth of hubris. I confess that I grow uneasy as to what may be at the back of your powerful mind. Men have been hoist by their own petards in this house before now.
Trusting that my well-intended suggestions may be received in the spirit intended, and that they may not abate the warmth of our profitable friendship, I remain your obedient servant,
There was no signature. But scribbled hastily at the bottom of this page was a note:
Sweeney, despite all this, he is going forward with everything projected. You have your work to do for him, and I have mine. You are not permitted to leave the policies. There is a chart of the Priory drains, and he knows that I possess it; you will have to try.
There was one more sheet of notepaper. At its head was written, “The Final Chorus from ‘Fragment of an Agon.’” There followed some lines of verse. What was this about waking “in a sweat and a hell of a fright,” and the hangman waiting, and “perhaps you’re dead,” and “hoo ha ha”? Then a notation from the Archvicar, “This occurred to the original Sweeney. Guard the horned gates.”
Sweeney swore, crumpled up the last sheet of paper, and flung it into the grate. Salary or no salary, he would leave these kooks tomorrow. But now he had to get a few hours’ sleep. He kept the light on.
Sweeney had set out to find Marina’s room, but somewhere he had taken a wrong turning. There were no doors at all in this passage, and no windows. It grew narrower and narrower, so that his shoulders brushed the stone walls on either side; it seemed to have no end. These walls were clammy with something-could it be moss?-and he shivered in his pajamas. And perhaps you’re alive and perhaps you’re dead. Hoo ha ha. Hoo ha ha.
At last he emerged into a broad space. It was no house at all. It was a cave! His right foot splashed into a rock pool, with a small stalagmite rising from the edge of it. Hoo, hoo, hoo.
Then the knocking began. They were coming, the file of them, a torchbearer at their head. Where might he hide? There was an irregular recess, like the interior of an ear, beyond the little pool, and he shrank into it. Knock knock knock.
As they came on, so slowly, those with pickaxes and mattocks knocked upon the walls, knock knock knock. The file entered the cave. Like him, they were lost.
Behind the torchbearer limped a red-bearded man. His head was splendid, and he had a powerful torso with a breastplate upon it. But he was so bandy-legged as to be almost a dwarf. One arm, a bloodstained bandage wrapped round it, hung useless at his side.
Two wild-eyed men, barefoot and nearly naked, came behind him, bearing a sort of litter. On it lay a waxen-faced woman, her hair falling over the edge of the litter, her eyelids
In the case of the late Lord Balgrummo, supposing that he might be successfully summoned, perhaps no one would seem more fitted for that conjuring than myself, my early association with him considered. Yet I respectfully remind you once more that such an attempt might be perilous both for you and for me. Balgrummo was a formidable being. Again, quieta non movere. Why take by the ears some canine mordante ?
Although I am not privileged to be wholly privy to your designs, good Master, it seems to me that the rituals you presumably have planned for our present company in the Lodging might be carried out, at large profit to yourself, without any need of proceeding to the extremes which have excited your fancy. After all, we have here a collection of dupes and dolts, as well satisfied with legerdemain as with true spirits from the vasty deep.
Finally, if you will forgive my saying so, Master, I am interested in keeping my skin whole. The arm of the law is longer far in Scotland than it is in certain countries of Asia and Africa, and I have dodged out of enough tight corners in both of those continents. Excuse the pusillanimity of an old man, and think on the Greek truth of hubris. I confess that I grow uneasy as to what may be at the back of your powerful mind. Men have been hoist by their own petards in this house before now.
Trusting that my well-intended suggestions may be received in the spirit intended, and that they may not abate the warmth of our profitable friendship, I remain your obedient servant,
There was no signature. But scribbled hastily at the bottom of this page was a note:
Sweeney, despite all this, he is going forward with everything projected. You have your work to do for him, and I have mine. You are not permitted to leave the policies. There is a chart of the Priory drains, and he knows that I possess it; you will have to try.
There was one more sheet of notepaper. At its head was written, “The Final Chorus from ‘Fragment of an Agon.’” There followed some lines of verse. What was this about waking “in a sweat and a hell of a fright,” and the hangman waiting, and “perhaps you’re dead,” and “hoo ha ha”? Then a notation from the Archvicar, “This occurred to the original Sweeney. Guard the horned gates.”
Sweeney swore, crumpled up the last sheet of paper, and flung it into the grate. Salary or no salary, he would leave these kooks tomorrow. But now he had to get a few hours’ sleep. He kept the light on.
Sweeney had set out to find Marina’s room, but somewhere he had taken a wrong turning. There were no doors at all in this passage, and no windows. It grew narrower and narrower, so that his shoulders brushed the stone walls on either side; it seemed to have no end. These walls were clammy with something-could it be moss?-and he shivered in his pajamas. And perhaps you’re alive and perhaps you’re dead. Hoo ha ha. Hoo ha ha.
At last he emerged into a broad space. It was no house at all. It was a cave! His right foot splashed into a rock pool, with a small stalagmite rising from the edge of it. Hoo, hoo, hoo.
Then the knocking began. They were coming, the file of them, a torchbearer at their head. Where might he hide? There was an irregular recess, like the interior of an ear, beyond the little pool, and he shrank into it. Knock knock knock.
As they came on, so slowly, those with pickaxes and mattocks knocked upon the walls, knock knock knock. The file entered the cave. Like him, they were lost.
Behind the torchbearer limped a red-bearded man. His head was splendid, and he had a powerful torso with a breastplate upon it. But he was so bandy-legged as to be almost a dwarf. One arm, a bloodstained bandage wrapped round it, hung useless at his side.
Two wild-eyed men, barefoot and nearly naked, came behind him, bearing a sort of litter. On it lay a waxen-faced woman, her hair falling over the edge of the litter, her eyelids
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