Read Online The Lower Deep by Hugh B. Cave - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hugh B. Cave
Tags: Horror
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see."
"For you to leave would offend them."
It had gone on too long, Steve decided. Nadine would be arriving any minute now and he had to be outside in the road, not here in the compound behind a closed gate. "Compère, tell me. Are you saying you mean to stop me from opening that gate and walking out of here?"
"It will not be I, m'sié. It will be the loa."
" They will stop me?"
"Yes, m'sié. Or punish you."
"Well"—Steve exhaled an elaborate sigh—"it's a chance I'll have to take, then. Because I'm expected back at the Brightman, and that's where I'm going."
He stepped forward.
Though scarcely seeming to move, the gatekeeper was suddenly in front of him on widespread legs, blocking his way. Those big, long-fingered hands left the man's hips and reached forward to grasp Steve's shoulders.
No man did that to Steve Spence, at a voodoo ceremony or anywhere else. Especially after Steve had patiently made every effort to explain matters. Freeing himself with a twist of his hips, he made a fist of his right hand and drove it home just under the keeper's rib cage. Then as the fellow doubled over, the heel of Steve's left hand cracked down on the back of his neck and sent him sprawling. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
There was no lock on the gate. It swung open when Steve pushed it. With a "Sorry, compère, but I had to do that," he walked out of the compound.
Almost.
Actually, he was through the gate but still in the strip of scrub growth between the gate and the road when the pain took him. The sentry could not have caused it, even if he had been conscious; Steve was well beyond his reach. What happened was like a lightning strike, or being belted under the heart with a sledgehammer.
The explosion of agony caused him to stumble and stagger while he grabbed at his groin with both hands in a struggle to keep going. He could not keep going, though—at least not on his feet. His knees buckled and he fell flat, facedown, and lay there hearing himself moan in torment as the pain coursed through him like a flame in his bloodstream. Then his mind screamed at him to get away from the fence, the compound behind it, the gate, and the man who had been guarding it, because all of them together must somehow be responsible for what was happening to him.
Willing himself forward again, he began to crawl. He crawled through the last of the scrub and reached the road and collapsed again. There, hearing the sound of a car engine, he feebly raised his head.
Down the road a pair of headlights approached through the deepening dusk. Was it Nadine? Just in time to help him? Dreading what he might see, he willed himself to look back at the gate. Its keeper still lay there on the ground, unmoving. No one else was there.
The headlights stopped, and he saw Nadine running toward him. It was the last thing he remembered until he came out of a coma five days later at the hospital.
After dragging him to the Jeep and getting him away from La Souvenance, Nadine had stopped a little distance down the road and given him some kind of first aid, he heard later. Then she had completed the return trip to the Brightman at a speed that should have caused the death of them both. There Tom Driscoll had taken over.
With Tom's skill and Nadine's round-the-clock nursing, they had pulled him through.
No one, then or since, had ever explained what happened to him when he defied the rules and walked out of that voodoo gate. Nor had anyone ever explained why a voodoo houngan, so grateful for having his life saved that he would invite an outsider to attend such a service, had allowed such a thing to happen. Perhaps, as the gatekeeper had suggested, the loa themselves had been offended, in which case maybe even a powerful houngan could not have intervened.
At least, he had learned one thing. Voodoo was not what the stick-a-pin-in-a-doll writers said it was. It was real and powerful and frightening.
You played games with it at your peril.
7
W
"For you to leave would offend them."
It had gone on too long, Steve decided. Nadine would be arriving any minute now and he had to be outside in the road, not here in the compound behind a closed gate. "Compère, tell me. Are you saying you mean to stop me from opening that gate and walking out of here?"
"It will not be I, m'sié. It will be the loa."
" They will stop me?"
"Yes, m'sié. Or punish you."
"Well"—Steve exhaled an elaborate sigh—"it's a chance I'll have to take, then. Because I'm expected back at the Brightman, and that's where I'm going."
He stepped forward.
Though scarcely seeming to move, the gatekeeper was suddenly in front of him on widespread legs, blocking his way. Those big, long-fingered hands left the man's hips and reached forward to grasp Steve's shoulders.
No man did that to Steve Spence, at a voodoo ceremony or anywhere else. Especially after Steve had patiently made every effort to explain matters. Freeing himself with a twist of his hips, he made a fist of his right hand and drove it home just under the keeper's rib cage. Then as the fellow doubled over, the heel of Steve's left hand cracked down on the back of his neck and sent him sprawling. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
There was no lock on the gate. It swung open when Steve pushed it. With a "Sorry, compère, but I had to do that," he walked out of the compound.
Almost.
Actually, he was through the gate but still in the strip of scrub growth between the gate and the road when the pain took him. The sentry could not have caused it, even if he had been conscious; Steve was well beyond his reach. What happened was like a lightning strike, or being belted under the heart with a sledgehammer.
The explosion of agony caused him to stumble and stagger while he grabbed at his groin with both hands in a struggle to keep going. He could not keep going, though—at least not on his feet. His knees buckled and he fell flat, facedown, and lay there hearing himself moan in torment as the pain coursed through him like a flame in his bloodstream. Then his mind screamed at him to get away from the fence, the compound behind it, the gate, and the man who had been guarding it, because all of them together must somehow be responsible for what was happening to him.
Willing himself forward again, he began to crawl. He crawled through the last of the scrub and reached the road and collapsed again. There, hearing the sound of a car engine, he feebly raised his head.
Down the road a pair of headlights approached through the deepening dusk. Was it Nadine? Just in time to help him? Dreading what he might see, he willed himself to look back at the gate. Its keeper still lay there on the ground, unmoving. No one else was there.
The headlights stopped, and he saw Nadine running toward him. It was the last thing he remembered until he came out of a coma five days later at the hospital.
After dragging him to the Jeep and getting him away from La Souvenance, Nadine had stopped a little distance down the road and given him some kind of first aid, he heard later. Then she had completed the return trip to the Brightman at a speed that should have caused the death of them both. There Tom Driscoll had taken over.
With Tom's skill and Nadine's round-the-clock nursing, they had pulled him through.
No one, then or since, had ever explained what happened to him when he defied the rules and walked out of that voodoo gate. Nor had anyone ever explained why a voodoo houngan, so grateful for having his life saved that he would invite an outsider to attend such a service, had allowed such a thing to happen. Perhaps, as the gatekeeper had suggested, the loa themselves had been offended, in which case maybe even a powerful houngan could not have intervened.
At least, he had learned one thing. Voodoo was not what the stick-a-pin-in-a-doll writers said it was. It was real and powerful and frightening.
You played games with it at your peril.
7
W
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