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Acolyte, v. 2, issue 1, whole no. 5, Fall 1943
Page 20
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By what supreme effort I did tear my eyes and mind away, I shall never know. I do not remember it. I only remember the frantic escape up that last ten feet of slope...of something surging soundlessly behind, something that touched my ankle as I squeezed through the broken rectangle into the tomb...and the awful sodden sound of it hitting, seconds too late, with a sort of squish like a heavy wet spnge against a wall... There remained one more thing to be done. Out of the tomb I fled, across the graveyard and into the ravine. I knew now what I was searching for, and I found it despite the darkness. I found it, well concealed in a little gulley behind masses of bush and vine -- the other end of that passage. I saw the iron-barred gate across the tiny entrance, probably placed there by Lyle Wilson himself. It now stood open with a snap-lock hanging from it. Just inside the gate I could dimly see Lyle Wilson, a crouching figure, rapt and listening. He had heard my revolver shorts, he had heard my screams -- and then silence. Now he began another of those low chants that gradually rose in volume to a jubilant paean of praise. I could not have remembered the words even if I had wanted to. They were hardly even articulate words. I saw him accompany it with an unholy little ritual and dance that ordinarily would have sickened me to the soul; but already I was beyond that. He didn't hear or see me until I had leaped forward to swing that gate shut upon him and snap the lock. The most horrible part of it was that his chant didn't even stop as he rushed at me, clawing, with a whitish sort of foam around his mouth. He crashed into the gate, tugged furiously at it...and then his chant turned into a sickening gurgle of terror as he quite suddenly realized what was going to happen. He sank down just within the tunnel, grovelling in stark fear. I think his mind snapped, for soon his cries reverted again to an incoherent gibberish, like the memory of a horrible language long dead. I waited there only until I was very sure I heard -- coming swiftly nearer down the tunnel -- that surging, primordial horror. -o0o- I have destroyed, of course, the book which Bruce was reading on that last night. And I, myself, may someday forget most of those excerpts at which I glanced. But never the one which read: "...whomsoever be attracted unto Them (by ye nefarious ynfluence wych They project when invoked), doth remain forever a part of Them, nott deade, but newe and oddly bodied, instructing ye very grounde...." I have said it was ten seconds that were ten eternities, therein the darkness of that passage, but my mind was numbed then. It is the horrible remembering later... If there be gods, I pray to them to set my brain at rest. And as surely as there be things of evil, I pray to them to let me forget. But neither prayer is answered, so I must still remember that writhing, surging thing of iridescent evil, all shapes and yet shapeless . . . that primal, quasi-amorphous thing that moved as worms move ... that sightless mass, not complete of itself, but with the power to draw men to it. That much I could forget. That much would not make me dream, or wake up screaming with an awful fear of the dark. But those dim faces that peered from out of it; that were now eternally part of it, still horribly alive and wide-eyed with the terrible anguish of knowing . . .those human faces could not speak, could only implore in silent agony that I destroy them and this thing that should not be . . . those distorted faces enmeshed and enfolded in the confluent parts of that blasphemous thing, those faces among which I saw, dimly but surely, that of my friend, Bruce Tarleton. . . . Leonard Marlow, 5809 Beechwood Ave., Indianapolis 1, Indiana, is contemplating a "review" fanzine, which will concentrate on publishing reviews of all fantasy published in non-fantastic periodicals, as well as reviews of the fan and pro fields. He is anxious to hear from anyone who is willing to contribute regular reviews to this project. FTL -- 20 --
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By what supreme effort I did tear my eyes and mind away, I shall never know. I do not remember it. I only remember the frantic escape up that last ten feet of slope...of something surging soundlessly behind, something that touched my ankle as I squeezed through the broken rectangle into the tomb...and the awful sodden sound of it hitting, seconds too late, with a sort of squish like a heavy wet spnge against a wall... There remained one more thing to be done. Out of the tomb I fled, across the graveyard and into the ravine. I knew now what I was searching for, and I found it despite the darkness. I found it, well concealed in a little gulley behind masses of bush and vine -- the other end of that passage. I saw the iron-barred gate across the tiny entrance, probably placed there by Lyle Wilson himself. It now stood open with a snap-lock hanging from it. Just inside the gate I could dimly see Lyle Wilson, a crouching figure, rapt and listening. He had heard my revolver shorts, he had heard my screams -- and then silence. Now he began another of those low chants that gradually rose in volume to a jubilant paean of praise. I could not have remembered the words even if I had wanted to. They were hardly even articulate words. I saw him accompany it with an unholy little ritual and dance that ordinarily would have sickened me to the soul; but already I was beyond that. He didn't hear or see me until I had leaped forward to swing that gate shut upon him and snap the lock. The most horrible part of it was that his chant didn't even stop as he rushed at me, clawing, with a whitish sort of foam around his mouth. He crashed into the gate, tugged furiously at it...and then his chant turned into a sickening gurgle of terror as he quite suddenly realized what was going to happen. He sank down just within the tunnel, grovelling in stark fear. I think his mind snapped, for soon his cries reverted again to an incoherent gibberish, like the memory of a horrible language long dead. I waited there only until I was very sure I heard -- coming swiftly nearer down the tunnel -- that surging, primordial horror. -o0o- I have destroyed, of course, the book which Bruce was reading on that last night. And I, myself, may someday forget most of those excerpts at which I glanced. But never the one which read: "...whomsoever be attracted unto Them (by ye nefarious ynfluence wych They project when invoked), doth remain forever a part of Them, nott deade, but newe and oddly bodied, instructing ye very grounde...." I have said it was ten seconds that were ten eternities, therein the darkness of that passage, but my mind was numbed then. It is the horrible remembering later... If there be gods, I pray to them to set my brain at rest. And as surely as there be things of evil, I pray to them to let me forget. But neither prayer is answered, so I must still remember that writhing, surging thing of iridescent evil, all shapes and yet shapeless . . . that primal, quasi-amorphous thing that moved as worms move ... that sightless mass, not complete of itself, but with the power to draw men to it. That much I could forget. That much would not make me dream, or wake up screaming with an awful fear of the dark. But those dim faces that peered from out of it; that were now eternally part of it, still horribly alive and wide-eyed with the terrible anguish of knowing . . .those human faces could not speak, could only implore in silent agony that I destroy them and this thing that should not be . . . those distorted faces enmeshed and enfolded in the confluent parts of that blasphemous thing, those faces among which I saw, dimly but surely, that of my friend, Bruce Tarleton. . . . Leonard Marlow, 5809 Beechwood Ave., Indianapolis 1, Indiana, is contemplating a "review" fanzine, which will concentrate on publishing reviews of all fantasy published in non-fantastic periodicals, as well as reviews of the fan and pro fields. He is anxious to hear from anyone who is willing to contribute regular reviews to this project. FTL -- 20 --
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