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Acolyte, v. 2, issue 1, whole no. 5, Fall 1943
Page 9
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HORROR AT VECRA by Henry Hasse -o0o- ...an ancient evil that will not die, but draws men, soul and brain. The pale stars peering fearfully down remember whence it came. The very darkness where They wait doth shudder at a Name... ---Monstres and Their Kynde. -o0o- Now, after twelve years, vague reports are issuing again from the vicinity of Vecra. As yet they are little more than rumors, but they have served to awaken the remote horror in my brain---horror, for I now realize I must have failed, a dozen years ago, when I stood there on that brink of madness for a few hell-filled seconds. I used dynamite then--enough of it, I thought--and believed that was the end. Now I can only wonder if this is the same evil, or some spawn of it that will never die. Perhaps even now it is not too late. I have kept silence, but now I shall tell my story and if I cannot then enlist aid, I will myself... But lest I become too incoherent, I had best begin on that day a dozen years ago. Bruce Tarleton and I were returning to Boston from a two-week camping trip. Bruce was driving, and before very long I began to suspect that he had taken the wrong fork back at North Eaton; though he maintained a stolid silence as the dirt road became gradually narrower and ruttier. I had a disquieting feeling that it was luring us on and on into this strange New England back-country. Our way twisted through gloomy stretches of forest where limbs hung low over the road--they seemed strangely gnarled and misshapen. Queer patches of colorless vegetation pressed in upon us. We crossed narrow wooden bridges whose loose planks rumbled beneath us as the car rolled slowly over them. We dipped into shallow valleys where the evening sunshine seemed oddly depressing and not as bright as it should be. For the most part these valleys seemed barren and rock-strewn, but after a while we came upon occasional poorly tilled fields and square, ungainly, unpainted farmhouses. These were set upon slopes far back from the road, reminding me of nothing so much as dead thing sprawled there in that unhealthy sunshine. Neither of us had spoken much since leaving North Eaton, but I somehow got the impression that Bruce was secretly enjoying all this. At last we rumbled across a rickety wooden bridge, followed the turn of the road to the right, and with startling suddenness found ourselves in a little village. My first impression was one of surprise that it should be there at all; then, without exactly knowing why, I knew that I loathed the place. "I guess this is Vecra," Bruce said, almost to himself. "How do you know that?" He turned and looked at me queerly. "Huh? Why, the sing--at the other end of the bridge back there. Didn't you see it?" I looked at him suspiciously. No, I hadn't seen it; and I thought that was strange, because for the last twenty miles I had been watching for some such sign of a town. But I didn't say anything---instead, I looked about me. Vecra had evidently been at one time a more prosperous town than present indications showed. A score of frame houses lined each side of the road that was the main street; but now most of them were desolate, empty and weather-beaten, long since fallen into a state of sad decay. Only in a scattered few did we see pitiful enough signs of habitation, as oil lamps gleamed meagerly in the approaching dusk. Those lamps seemed no more meager than our own gloomy situation. Apparently the only way out of this forsaken country was back along the road we had travelled, and the prospect of retracing that route at night did not appeal to me! We stopped at what appeared to be the general store, to inquire where we might stay overnight. A small, bent, leathery old man shuffled toward us as we entered. I took an immediate dislike to him. Maybe it was his suspicious black eyes that peered -- 9 --
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HORROR AT VECRA by Henry Hasse -o0o- ...an ancient evil that will not die, but draws men, soul and brain. The pale stars peering fearfully down remember whence it came. The very darkness where They wait doth shudder at a Name... ---Monstres and Their Kynde. -o0o- Now, after twelve years, vague reports are issuing again from the vicinity of Vecra. As yet they are little more than rumors, but they have served to awaken the remote horror in my brain---horror, for I now realize I must have failed, a dozen years ago, when I stood there on that brink of madness for a few hell-filled seconds. I used dynamite then--enough of it, I thought--and believed that was the end. Now I can only wonder if this is the same evil, or some spawn of it that will never die. Perhaps even now it is not too late. I have kept silence, but now I shall tell my story and if I cannot then enlist aid, I will myself... But lest I become too incoherent, I had best begin on that day a dozen years ago. Bruce Tarleton and I were returning to Boston from a two-week camping trip. Bruce was driving, and before very long I began to suspect that he had taken the wrong fork back at North Eaton; though he maintained a stolid silence as the dirt road became gradually narrower and ruttier. I had a disquieting feeling that it was luring us on and on into this strange New England back-country. Our way twisted through gloomy stretches of forest where limbs hung low over the road--they seemed strangely gnarled and misshapen. Queer patches of colorless vegetation pressed in upon us. We crossed narrow wooden bridges whose loose planks rumbled beneath us as the car rolled slowly over them. We dipped into shallow valleys where the evening sunshine seemed oddly depressing and not as bright as it should be. For the most part these valleys seemed barren and rock-strewn, but after a while we came upon occasional poorly tilled fields and square, ungainly, unpainted farmhouses. These were set upon slopes far back from the road, reminding me of nothing so much as dead thing sprawled there in that unhealthy sunshine. Neither of us had spoken much since leaving North Eaton, but I somehow got the impression that Bruce was secretly enjoying all this. At last we rumbled across a rickety wooden bridge, followed the turn of the road to the right, and with startling suddenness found ourselves in a little village. My first impression was one of surprise that it should be there at all; then, without exactly knowing why, I knew that I loathed the place. "I guess this is Vecra," Bruce said, almost to himself. "How do you know that?" He turned and looked at me queerly. "Huh? Why, the sing--at the other end of the bridge back there. Didn't you see it?" I looked at him suspiciously. No, I hadn't seen it; and I thought that was strange, because for the last twenty miles I had been watching for some such sign of a town. But I didn't say anything---instead, I looked about me. Vecra had evidently been at one time a more prosperous town than present indications showed. A score of frame houses lined each side of the road that was the main street; but now most of them were desolate, empty and weather-beaten, long since fallen into a state of sad decay. Only in a scattered few did we see pitiful enough signs of habitation, as oil lamps gleamed meagerly in the approaching dusk. Those lamps seemed no more meager than our own gloomy situation. Apparently the only way out of this forsaken country was back along the road we had travelled, and the prospect of retracing that route at night did not appeal to me! We stopped at what appeared to be the general store, to inquire where we might stay overnight. A small, bent, leathery old man shuffled toward us as we entered. I took an immediate dislike to him. Maybe it was his suspicious black eyes that peered -- 9 --
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