Epigraph
A strange and thrilling story about a golden image
that was instinct with evil life, and the terrible
weird fire that burned with the cold of outer space.
1 The Dreadful Face
On starless nights when the moon was obscured by the earth’s shadow, Pierre Soret walked alone down the darkest and most deserted streets in London. He did this to avoid the people who might look into his face. His face! He shuddered, his pinched shoulders wrenching sharply with a bitter shrug. Could anyone call this mask, this unearthly mass of bubbling flesh, boiling and seething in his own blood, a face?
Pierre knew what always happened when people looked into his torture-shattered eyes. The sight of their horror sickened him. His memory ached with the sharpness of pain he had felt on those few occasions when some luckless persons had inadvertently seen, and halted, frozen momentarily with the intense horror and nausea that overwhelmed them, their faces graven with revulsion; a moment later to totter rapidly past him down the street, the tension of their feeling released with an effort that ended in a sob of hysteria and fear.
The route Pierre took upon these nights was always the same. With his long black opera cape and moth-eaten topper, he stalked through the streets like some villain from an old Drury Lane melodrama. “A quaint old man who has refused to leave his yesterdays,” people might remark, if they did not see his face. Pierre gave no heed to the few people he passed, except to draw the cape quickly about his face if they approached him too near under the eery, fog-filtered glare of the street lamps.
At Nigh Street, Pierre’s bent figure paused wearily before he started up the hill. A few yards from the corner, he paused again, staring at the yellow lines of light cutting the fog and issuing from the slit-like windows of the beautiful home of the Countess Donella Moonard. In the thick mists, the house, impressively large and of Egyptian architecture, resembled a temple of Black Magic veiled in oppressive incense. The yellow slits glowered steadily and ominously. What brilliance and exotic color lay within!
It was late, but not all of the Countess Moonard’s guests had departed. This would be the first party of the new season; trust her to make it gay and unusual.
Pierre walked slowly forward, muttering to himself. His shoulders brushed the low, ivy-covered wall surrounding the estate. He was nearing the entrance to the garden. Above the gate in the wall, an ancient gas torch flickered, casting a ghastly light that might have come from the most ancient tombs along the Blue Nile.
“The fools!” he mumbled bitterly. “If I could only tell them what she really is!”
Within a few feet of the entrance, he paused again, resentfully. Was it his fault that the curse of many years before had made him an outcast from the very society that now applauded the brilliant Countess Moonard? He thrust back his cape. How good this musty dampness felt! For weeks he had not been outside his home. His lungs cried out in rebellion, cried greedily for deeper and deeper drafts of the refreshing breath of night. The Countess Moonard! His hatred flamed higher. Her guests... fools! What would happen if he were to walk into that gay party scene, drop his cape from about his face, and tell them that——
Suddenly he paused; the pale, frightened face of a beautiful girl was confronting him in the dim flare of the gas torch. It was too late to draw the folds of his cape about his face. The girl had already seen the sickening sight, and a stifled cry rose from her lovely throat.
“Oh, Carl!” she stammered weakly, clutching the shoulder of the tall, handsome young man who stood beside her.
“Ruth! Dearest—what——?” The young man was puzzled until he saw Pierre’s face.
Usually when Pierre saw that he had frightened someone with the sight of his horrible features, he turned and ran away, rather than suffer the indignity of an apology—but something about this girl made him linger. It was a small diamond-studded pendant that hung from about her slim white throat. In that, Pierre saw the unmistakable sign of death and despair that always cast its shadow upon the throats of the Countess Moonard’s victims. The girl was marked!
From the girl’s face, Pierre turned to the young man. He looked into his eyes and saw there the familiar terror that always spread across the faces of those who looked upon him.
A long moment of silence passed. The girl turned from him, covering her face with her hands and clinging tightly to the young man, who now stared at Pierre with growing inquisitiveness.
“I’m sorry,” Pierre finally said.
The young man tried to look pleasant. He was an intelligent young doctor, and although the sight of Pierre had upset him, he was quickly regaining his poise.
“Sorry? What for?” he asked.
“My face, if it frightened you. It usually does.” Pierre tried to smile.
“Oh, yes, of course!” Carl spoke with more assurance now. The girl on his arm was still trembling. Neither Carl nor the girl wore wraps; they had been wandering through the gardens of the Countess Moonard’s estate in preference to dancing.
“Ruth, dearest, don’t allow this to affect you.” He patted her shoulder gently. “I say, old man, you gave her an awful fright. I don’t wish to be unkind, but you really are enough to frighten anyone.”
Curiosity was fast overcoming Doctor Carl Fielding’s fear. He looked closer into Pierre’s face.
“Are those boils or burns—or what? How long have you been afflicted this way?”
“Ten years.”
“Indeed? It is rather difficult to see here in this poor light, but something should be done about your face. As a plastic surgeon, I would recommend that you——”
“Permit an operation?” Pierre interrupted. “Young man, modern surgery cannot do anything for my case.”
“I disagree with you. Surely you would be willing to give me a chance? This must be horrible, going about frightening people. Or do you enjoy nearly scaring young women to death? My fiancée is still trembling!”
Carl removed a handkerchief from his pocket. “Here, Ruth, stop crying, and use this. The boogy man isn’t going to get you. What am I going to marry anyway, a cry-baby?”
“I’m not crying!” she protested indignantly. “It was just the sudden shock of—well, you and I walking along, and then suddenly to——”
She turned to Pierre, but did not look directly into his face.
“Really I am sorry if I offended you.”
“Oh, no, no; it is I who should apologize.” Pierre’s voice trembled with gratitude. “You are very kind—both of you. I was quite careless tonight. Usually I am more thoughtful of people. You see it is not pleasant to——”
He was looking at her throat. If this young man would listen! But no, it was impossible. No one would believe the story of the diamond pendant.
Pierre said stiffly: “I really thank you for your kindness, and I am sorry if I have spoiled your evening. Good night!”
He turned and started to hurry away.
“Oh, but wait a minute,” Carl called to him. “I really meant what I said about your face. I think I can do something for you. Won’t you take my card and call at my office? At least you can tell me what caused this awful affliction.”
Pierre quietly accepted the card that was handed to him. He thrust it quickly into the pocket of his vest. Doctor Fielding noticed that the man’s hands were as hideous as his face.
“You think you would like to know what afflicted me?” Pierre said with a trace of bitterness. “I wonder if you would believe me if I told you.”
“I would have to,” Carl answered.
Pierre waited a moment before he said abruptly: “I see you have been to the Countess Moonard’s party. Do you know her well?”
“As well as most people know the mysterious Countess Donella Moonard,” Carl laughed. “Does anyone really know her? Surely you are not acquainted with the Countess?”
Pierre did not answer his question, but said directly: “Young man, I will accept the invitation to call at your office. I never go about in the daylight, but if you would be there sometime in the——”
“Make it tomorrow evening. I’ll be there until midnight,” Carl said quickly.
“Very well, but I do not come because I think that you can do anything for me.”
He looked at Ruth again. Self-consciously she put her hands to her throat.
Pierre added significantly: “Perhaps I may be able to help you. If there are no stars or moonlight, I will call on you.”
“I don’t understand. What does the absence of stars and moonlight have to do with your calling on me?”
“I will explain that later. If I may offer a word of advice to the young lady, I am sure I might save both of you from——” Pierre faltered. So much to explain, so much that was unexplainable! How could he hope that these two young people would believe him?
“You were about to say——?” Ruth looked interested.
“You have made a foolish bargain with someone. The price you will pay is too high. But it grows late, and I am sure there is little I can say to you just now. Perhaps I have said too much already. Until we meet again, I bid you good evening!” Pierre removed his hat, and bowed in a low sweeping movement.
Ruth could not restrain her gasp of horror as she saw the man’s head. It was scarred and smelled strongly of burning hair. He had forgotten that he should not remove his hat. Mumbling an embarrassed apology, Pierre hurried into the darkness beyond the gate.
“Carl, did you see his hair? The man looked as if he had been horribly burned!” Ruth cried when he was gone.
“The most awful-looking man I have ever seen. All your fault too; you would insist on walking in the night air. Why did we have to walk all the way around the garden? The Countess’ parties always do this to you, Ruth. They give you the craziest ideas.”
“Then you do remember what she prophesied tonight!” Ruth exclaimed. “Really, isn’t it uncanny? Tonight the Countess told me that I would take a new step in my life; something would happen that would change everything for me. She said it would begin with a horrible fright. And I was frightened, Carl. Do you suppose——”
“Suppose nothing!” Carl replied with some exasperation. “The Countess and her fake prophecies are without weight to me. You women are always falling for the ways of some old crone with a crystal or a deck of cards in her hand. Besides, she may have planted that old man in our path tonight just to make her claims more convincing. How do we know but that all of that horrible appearance was not just so much clever make-up?”
“I know it wasn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do, Carl.” She smiled at him. “I believe everything the Countess has told me. But, come, dearest, we must be returning to the party.”
She took his hand, and turned back to the garden. Carl followed reluctantly.
“Ruth, I wish you would give up your devotion to the Countess and her mad religion, or whatever it is. I don’t like it. You’ve changed since you have taken her so seriously. First thing I know you’ll be a convert to her—oh, what do you call it—moon worship?”
She stopped and turned to him; her voice was strange and final in its tone. “Carl, I am already a convert. The religion of Moonere has given me everything I want in life. Soon I will take the sacred vows of its followers.”
“You can’t. I won’t have it, I tell you. Oh, Ruth, surely you can’t believe in this preposterous, this unnatural faith? I don’t know what hellish power the Countess may have over you; but I do know that it isn’t natural for a normal girl, reared as you have been, suddenly to accept a faith that even a heathen would sneer at! And I’m going to——”
Carl was interrupted by the unheralded appearance of one of the Countess Moonard’s swarthy-skinned Egyptian servants. The man, tall and sinisterly handsome, was dressed like all the Countess’ menials; he wore the brief, exotic attire of a slave in an ancient court or temple. The servant bowed his head and made a peculiar sign which Ruth seemed to understand.
“The Countess desires to see you, most lovely maiden of the Temple of Moonere,” the servant said solemnly.
“Maiden of the temple of Moonere!” Carl could not restrain his disgust. “You tell your mistress I am taking Ruth home; and that if she wants to see anyone about her insane religion, she may consult me.”
The servant did not answer him, but his eyes narrowed into slits of cruelty and hatred. His lips curled contemptuously.
“Nilathar, I will follow you to the priestess,” Ruth said, ignoring Carl’s threat to take her home.
“Ruth!” Carl pulled her to his side. “I’m not going to let you stay here alone. You’ve got to listen to me.”
The servant broke Carl’s grasp about Ruth’s wrist, and pushed him from her.
“No one is to restrain a maiden of the temple when the priestess calls,” he said, standing between Ruth and Carl.
“Why, you——” Carl lunged at the Egyptian, who quickly drew a knife. The blade pressed against Carl’s vest, and seemed only too eager to press further. The servant smiled in mock courtesy.
“The guests are departing. The Countess sends you her regrets, for she is retiring with her faithful maidens,” the servant said coldly. “Your coat and hat will be brought to you.”
Carl was furious, but a length of glittering steel in obviously adept and determined hands is a deterrent to the most courageous, and will instill restraint and judgment in the most foolhardy. What perplexed Carl also left him with a feeling of helplessness—Ruth’s apparent lack of consideration of his danger. This was not like the girl he had known since his early childhood; the girl who would have fought like a tigress anyone who might have threatened Carl. Now she ignored him entirely, as if it meant nothing to her that his encounter with the servant might have proved fatal for him. He turned to make one final plea to Ruth. She was gone.
When his coat and hat were brought to him, he took them and said with an ironic smile, “Tell the Countess I am overwhelmed with her hospitality. She must call on me some day.”
Beneath the surface of Carl’s polite departure swirled an undercurrent of bewildered resentment. There was nothing natural about Ruth’s acceptance of the faith of Moonerism, whatever that was. Carl’s thoughts of the entire evening moved rapidly back to the hideous old man they had met at the garden entrance; he recalled his words of advice to Ruth: “You have made a foolish bargain with someone. The price you will pay is too high.”
That old man must have sensed Ruth’s intention to follow this strange religion; he knew more about the Countess Moonard than he pretended. But what? Nothing about the entire evening made sense. Ruth had become a stranger to him, a beautiful stranger. The characterization seemed significant, though in what way he could not fathom. Ruth had always been an attractive girl, but recently he had found her beauty violently compelling. And tonight, the strange new depths of her beauty had made him marvel; it was a beauty of coldness and austerity, and it frightened him. Ruth, the Ruth he knew, was and must be beautiful, but never cold, never cruelly elusive.
Something was happening to Ruth, something that was taking her away from him. And that was not permissible. Carl Fielding did not allow what he loved and wanted to be taken away from him. The Countess had something to do with it, and he would fight her; but he must learn something about her, the strange power she exercised over Ruth and the other converts.
Carl settled restlessly back into the interior of his car, musing over the strange events of the evening. Who might know anything about the Countess Moonard, other than her converts, whose lips were always sealed with secrecy?
Although it was a slim hope, there was his old friend, Inspector Chadwick of Scotland Yard. Perhaps the eccentric detective would be able to assist him.