He motioned to me to notice that the cats at the door had ceased their clamour, as if giving up the rats for
lost; whilst Nigger-Man had a burst of renewed restlessness, and was clawing frantically around the bottom of the large stone
altar in the centre of the room, which was nearer Norrys' couch than mine.
My fear of the unknown was at this point very great. Something astounding had occurred, and I saw that Capt. Norrys, a
younger, stouter, and presumably more naturally materialistic man, was affected fully as much as myself--perhaps because of
his lifelong and intimate familiarity with local legend. We could for the moment do nothing but watch the old black cat as he
pawed with decreasing fervour at the base of the altar, occasionally looking up and mewing to me in that persuasive manner
which he used when he wished me to perform some favour for him.
Norrys now took a lantern close to the altar and examined the place where Nigger-Man was pawing; silently kneeling and
scraping away the lichens of centuries which joined the massive pre-Roman block to the tessellated floor. He did not find
anything, and was about to abandon his effort when I noticed a trivial circumstance which made me shudder, even though it
implied nothing more than I had already imagined. I told him of it, and we both looked at its almost imperceptible manifestation
with the fixedness of fascinated discovery and acknowledgment. It was only this--that the flame of the lantern set down near the
altar was slightly but certainly flickering from a draught of air which it had not before received, and which came indubitably from
the crevice between floor and altar where Norrys was scraping away the lichens.
We spent the rest of the night in the brilliantly lighted study, nervously discussing what we should do next. The discovery that
some vault deeper than the deepest known masonry of the Romans underlay this accursed pile--some vault unsuspected by the
curious antiquarians of three centuries--would have been sufficient to excite us without any background of the sinister. As it
was, the fascination became twofold; and we paused in doubt whether to abandon our search and quit the priory forever in
superstitious caution, or to gratify our sense of adventure and brave whatever horrors might await us in the unknown depths. By
morning we had compromised, and decided to go to London to gather a group of archaeologists and scientific men fit to cope
with the mystery. It should be mentioned that before leaving the sub-cellar we had vainly tried to move the central altar which
we now recognised as the gate to a new pit of nameless fear. What secret would open the gate, wiser men than we would have
to find.
During many days in London Capt. Norrys and I presented our facts, conjectures, and legendary anecdotes to five eminent
authorities, all men who could be trusted to respect any family disclosures which future explorations might develop. We found
most of them little disposed to scoff, but instead intensely interested and sincerely sympathetic. It is hardly necessary to name
them all, but I may say that they included Sir William Brinton, whose excavations in the Troad excited most of the world in their
day. As we all took the train for Anchester I felt myself poised on the brink of frightful revelations, a sensation symbolised by
the air of mourning among the many Americans at the unexpected death of the President on the other side of the world.
On the evening of August 7th we reached Exham Priory, where the servants assured me that nothing unusual had occurred. The
cats, even old Nigger-Man, had been perfectly placid; and not a trap in the house had been sprung. We were to begin
exploring on the following day, awaiting which I assigned well-appointed rooms to all my guests. I myself retired in my own
tower chamber, with Nigger-Man across my feet. Sleep came quickly, but hideous dreams assailed me. There was a vision of a
Roman feast like that of Trimalchio, with a horror in a covered platter. Then came that damnable, recurrent thing about the
swineherd and his filthy drove in the twilit grotto. Yet when I awoke it was full daylight, with normal sounds in the house below.
The rats, living or spectral, had not troubled me; and Nigger-Man was quietly asleep. On going down, I found that the same
tranquillity had prevailed elsewhere; a condition which one of the assembled savants--a fellow named Thornton, devoted to the
psychic--rather absurdly laid to the fact that I had now been shewn the thing which certain forces had wished to shew me.
All was now ready, and at 11 a.m. our entire group of seven men, bearing powerful electric searchlights and implements of
excavation, went down to the sub-cellar and bolted the door behind us. Nigger-Man was with us, for the investigators found no
occasion to despise his excitability, and were indeed anxious that he be present in case of obscure rodent manifestations.
We noted the Roman inscriptions and unknown altar designs only briefly, for three of the savants had already seen them, and all
knew their characteristics. Prime attention was paid to the momentous central altar, and within an hour Sir William Brinton had
caused it to tilt backward, balanced by some unknown species of counterweight.
There now lay revealed such a horror as would have overwhelmed us had we not been prepared. Through a nearly square
opening in the tiled floor, sprawling on a flight of stone steps so prodigiously worn that it was little more than an inclined plane at
the centre, was a ghastly array of human or semi-human bones. Those which retained their collocation as skeletons shewed
attitudes of panic fear, and over all were the marks of rodent gnawing. The skulls denoted nothing short of utter idiocy,
cretinism, or primitive semi-apedom. Above the hellishly littered steps arched a descending passage seemingly chiselled from
the solid rock, and conducting a current of air. This current was not a sudden and noxious rush as from a closed vault, but a
cool breeze with something of freshness in it. We did not pause long, but shiveringly began to clear a passage down the steps. It
was then that Sir William, examining the hewn walls, made the odd observation that the passage, according to the direction of
the strokes, must have been chiselled from beneath.
I must be very deliberate now, and choose my words.
After ploughing down a few steps amidst the gnawed bones we saw that there was light ahead; not any mystic
phosphorescence, but a filtered daylight which could not come except from unknown fissures in the cliff that overlooked the
waste valley. That such fissures had escaped notice from outside was hardly remarkable, for not only is the valley wholly
uninhabited, but the cliff is so high and beetling that only an aeronaut could study its face in detail. A few steps more, and our
breaths were literally snatched from us by what we saw; so literally that Thornton, the psychic investigator, actually fainted in
the arms of the dazed man who stood behind him. Norrys, his plump face utterly white and flabby, simply cried out
inarticulately; whilst I think that what I did was to gasp or hiss, and cover my eyes. The man behind me--the only one of the
party older than I--croaked the hackneyed "My God!" in the most cracked voice I ever heard. Of seven cultivated men, only
Sir William Brinton retained his composure; a thing more to his credit because he led the party and must have seen the sight
first.
It was a twilit grotto of enormous height, stretching away farther than any eye could see; a subterraneous world of limitless
mystery and horrible suggestion. There were buildings and other architectural remains--in one terrified glance I saw a weird
pattern of tumuli, a savage circle of monoliths, a low-domed Roman ruin, a sprawling Saxon pile, and an early English edifice of
wood--but all these were dwarfed by the ghoulish spectacle presented by the general surface of the ground. For yards about
the steps extended an insane tangle of human bones, or bones at least as human as those on the steps. Like a foamy sea they
stretched, some fallen apart, but others wholly or partly articulated as skeletons; these latter invariably in postures of daemoniac
frenzy, either fighting off some menace or clutching other forms with cannibal intent.
When Dr. Trask, the anthropologist, stooped to classify the skulls, he found a degraded mixture which utterly baffled him. They
were mostly lower than the Piltdown man in the scale of evolution, but in every case definitely human. Many were of higher
grade, and a very few were the skulls of supremely and sensitively developed types. All the bones were gnawed, mostly by
rats, but somewhat by others of the half-human drove. Mixed with them were many tiny bones of rats--fallen members of the
lethal army which closed the ancient epic.
I wonder that any man among us lived and kept his sanity through that hideous day of discovery. Not Hoffmann or Huysmans
could conceive a scene more wildly incredible, more frenetically repellent, or more Gothically grotesque than the twilit grotto
through which we seven staggered; each stumbling on revelation after revelation, and trying to keep for the nonce from thinking
of the events which must have taken place there three hundred years, or a thousand, or two thousand, or ten thousand years
ago. It was the antechamber of hell, and poor Thornton fainted again when Trask told him that some of the skeleton things must
have descended as quadrupeds through the last twenty or more generations.
Horror piled on horror as we began to interpret the architectural remains. The quadruped things--with their occasional recruits
from the biped class--had been kept in stone pens, out of which they must have broken in their last delirium of hunger or
rat-fear. There had been great herds of them, evidently fattened on the coarse vegetables whose remains could be found as a
sort of poisonous ensilage at the bottom of huge stone bins older than Rome. I knew now why my ancestors had had such
excessive gardens--would to heaven I could forget! The purpose of the herds I did not have to ask.
Sir William, standing with his searchlight in the Roman ruin, translated aloud the most shocking ritual I have ever known; and
told of the diet of the antediluvian cult which the priests of Cybele found and mingled with their own. Norrys, used as he was to
the trenches, could not walk straight when he came out of the English building. It was a butcher shop and kitchen--he had
expected that--but it was too much to see familiar English implements in such a place, and to read familiar English graffiti there,
some as recent as 1610, I could not go in that building--that building whose daemon activities were stopped only by the dagger
of my ancestor Walter de la Poer.
What I did venture to enter was the low Saxon building, whose oaken door had fallen, and there I found a terrible row of ten
stone cells with rusty bars. Three had tenants, all skeletons of high grade, and on the bony forefinger of one I found a seal ring
with my own coat-of-arms. Sir William found a vault with far older cells below the Roman chapel, but these cells were empty.
Below them was a low crypt with cases of formally arranged bones, some of them bearing terrible parallel inscriptions carved in
Latin, Greek, and the tongue of Phrygia. Meanwhile, Dr. Trask had opened one of the prehistoric tumuli, and brought to light
skulls which were slightly more human than a gorilla's, and which bore indescribable ideographic carvings. Through all this
horror my cat stalked unperturbed. Once I saw him monstrously perched atop a mountain of bones, and wondered at the
secrets that might lie behind his yellow eyes.
Having grasped to some slight degree the frightful revelations of this twilit area--an area so hideously foreshadowed by my
recurrent dream--we turned to that apparently boundless depth of midnight cavern where no ray of light from the cliff could
penetrate. We shall never know what sightless Stygian worlds yawn beyond the little distance we went, for it was decided that
such secrets are not good for mankind. But there was plenty to engross us close at hand, for we had not gone far before the
searchlights shewed that accursed infinity of pits in which the rats had feasted, and whose sudden lack of replenishment had
driven the ravenous rodent army first to turn on the living herds of starving things, and then to burst forth from the priory in that
historic orgy of devastation which the peasants will never forget.
God! those carrion black pits of sawed, picked bones and opened skulls! Those nightmare chasms choked with the
pithecanthropoid, Celtic, Roman, and English bones of countless unhallowed centuries! Some of them were full, and none can
say how deep they had once been. Others were still bottomless to our searchlights, and peopled by unnamable fancies. What, I
thought, of the hapless rats that stumbled into such traps amidst the blackness of their quests in this grisly Tartarus?
Once my foot slipped near a horribly yawning brink, and I had a moment of ecstatic fear. I must have been musing a long time,
for I could not see any of the party but the plump Capt. Norrys. Then there came a sound from that inky, boundless, farther
distance that I thought I knew; and I saw my old black cat dart past me like a winged Egyptian god, straight into the illimitable
gulf of the unknown. But I was not far behind, for there was no doubt after another second. It was the eldritch scurrying of
those fiend-born rats, always questing for new horrors, and determined to lead me on even unto those grinning caverns of
earth's centre where Nyarlathotep, the mad faceless god, howls blindly to the piping of two amorphous idiot flute-players.
My searchlight expired, but still I ran. I heard voices, and yowls, and echoes, but above all there gently rose that impious,
insidious scurrying; gently rising, rising, as a stiff bloated corpse gently rises above an oily river that flows under endless onyx
bridges to a black, putrid sea. Something bumped into me--something soft and plump. It must have been the rats; the viscous,
gelatinous, ravenous army that feast on the dead and the living.... Why shouldn't rats eat a de la Poer as a de la Poer eats
forbidden things? ... The war ate my boy, damn them all ... and the Yanks ate Carfax with flames and burnt Grandsire Delapore
and the secret ... No, no, I tell you, I am not that daemon swineherd in the twilit grotto! It was not Edward Norrys' fat face on
that flabby, fungous thing! Who says I am a de la Poer? He lived, but my boy died! ... Shall a Norrys hold the lands of a de la
Poer? ... It's voodoo, I tell you ... that spotted snake ... Curse you, Thornton, I'll teach you to faint at what my family do! ...
'Sblood, thou stinkard, I'll learn ye how to gust ... wolde ye swynke me thilke wys? ... Magna Mater! Magna Mater! ... Atys ...
Dia ad aghaidh's ad aodann ... agus bas dunach ort! Dhonas's dholas ort, agus leatsa! ... Ungl ... ungl ... rrrlh ... chchch ...
That is what they say I said when they found me in the blackness after three hours; found me crouching in the blackness over
the plump, half-eaten body of Capt. Norrys, with my own cat leaping and tearing at my throat. Now they have blown up
Exham Priory, taken my Nigger-Man away from me, and shut me into this barred room at Hanwell with fearful whispers about
my heredity and experiences. Thornton is in the next room, but they prevent me from talking to him. They are trying, too, to
suppress most of the facts concerning the priory. When I speak of poor Norrys they accuse me of a hideous thing, but they
must know that I did not do it. They must know it was the rats; the slithering, scurrying rats whose scampering will never let me
sleep; the daemon rats that race behind the padding in this room and beckon me down to greater horrors than I have ever
known; the rats they can never hear; the rats, the rats in the walls.
previous