The Strange Case of the House at Hollinport

By Russ

“It is absolutely necessary, for the peace and safety of mankind, that some of earth's dark, dead corners and unplumbed depths be let alone; lest sleeping abnormalities wake to resurgent life, and blasphemously surviving nightmares squirm and splash out of their black lairs to newer and wider conquests.”

			 -Howard Phillips Lovecraft: “At the Mountains of Madness”

 “There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world.”

		-J. R. R. Tolkien: “The Fellowship of the Ring” 

	I feel that I must at least make the attempt to set down in writing the events that preceded my fortuitous arrival here at the general hospital at Arkham. Already the details grow clouded and intertwined with those of my own imagining and madness claws at the fringes of my sanity. Soon I doubt that I will have the faculty to be able to tell the difference between reality and fantasy and that is to my benefit, for if what I think to be true is true, then only in madness, or death, can I find any hope of succor from what must inevitably come to pass. I will begin, as is only fitting, at the beginning.

***

	Other than allowing the inspections by such authorities as the law required, my late uncle's cottage had been kept sealed and undisturbed since his demise or I should rather say disappearance, for no body was ever found. It was a fine enough place if a bit ancient in its appearance. In fact it was ancient, or at least as ancient as any other of the old houses still standing in that part of the country. None still living knew the actual date of its construction, but local historians placed it at some time in the late seventeenth century. The heavy stone and mortar walls gave to it a formidable appearance.  The chimney was of the typical red brick but I have been told that this is a later addition and that the original house probably had little more than a hole in the roof to allow the smoke to pass.  The windows were also typical of the houses of the same period being composed primarily of large groupings of small panes set into a single frame. And although one might not expect it from the cottage’s outward appearance, the interior was entirely modern and included indoor plumbing and gas lines for which I was thankful. Everything worked and seemed to be in good repair. 

	All in all it was quite a windfall and one that was completely unexpected. You see, I did not know my Uncle Charles at all, even though he and I shared the same name. I was familiar with him only through old tales and in all my life never met the man. His reclusiveness was legendary among my family. For him to leave all his possessions and property to me was entirely beyond my own contemplation. Yet here I was, and since my own lack of financial prosperity had left me on the verge of homelessness, I welcomed such a gift even if tainted somewhat by the manner in which it was delivered to me, that being the loss of a family member. A little known member, but he was family just the same and such a loss is always a sorrowful thing. 

	The cottage, though small, was solidly built and held three rooms in addition to the kitchen and bath. One of the bedrooms had been converted to a library and row upon row of books lined the shelves.  Many of them were of the sort typically found in any well stocked library.  But there were others as well.  Strange, antiquated volumes penned by hand in odd scripts and bound in old leather.

	 The cottage itself stood slightly apart from the odd little town.  Hollinport was a curious place and more than a little antiquated in its own right with its weathered gables and gambrel roofs, jutting ridgepoles and cobblestone streets.  The walks were boarded instead of concrete (which has become the fashion) and where there were no cobbles or boards dirt had to suffice.  Everywhere one looked one could not help but notice the general feel of age and decay. In the poorer quarters of this inland village with its odd name, `Hollinport', (there was nothing approaching a river or bay for nigh on seventy miles), foul smells would arise from the gutters and drains. Even the small lake, little more than a pool really, produced a most unpleasant odor when the weather was hot.  It was only through what must have been the very last of my good fortune that the cottage sat squarely atop a cliff some two hundreds of feet in elevation above the town.  Here the winds prevailed from the east and kept the noisome odors of the town and its fetid lake at bay.

	It was the people though that were perhaps the most curious items in a town that was full of curious things. There must have been a colony of folk from a foreign land here at one time, for many of these people had similar attributes physically speaking in that they were, for the most part, of a shorter stature, even squat, and swarthy in appearance. Their faces were rough and dull looking save for their eyes which were bright and sparkled as if in delight from some secret mischief.  Most noticeable of all was the odd manner in which they traveled, a sort of awkward stumbling, shuffling gate. Though it seemed to work rather well as it moved them quickly from place to place. They spoke English well enough but in an exaggerated, nearly preposterous dialect the origin of which none were able, or perhaps willing, to say.  The degree to which it cluttered their speech seemed to vary widely from mild to incomprehensible.  The only consistency about it is that it is harsh and not at all pleasing to hear; that and the fact that none of these smallish dark folk were entirely without it.  Of course not all the folk of the town appeared this way, but of the more European types, they were few and almost never could be found out and about after dark when the swarthy ones commanded the streets. 

	I had been in the habit of taking evening strolls when I had first arrived and had even patronized a tavern and shared a pint or two with these odd inhabitants of this odd place. We drank and smoked and shared stories long into the nighttime hours.  Outwardly they seemed reasonably amiable, if a bit hot tempered.  But the longer I stayed among them, the more I felt as though I were being measured. For what I did not then know.  Their narrow gazes I found unsettling and I often felt as though I were the object of some secret jest I had not the wit to comprehend.  When I could endure it no longer I restricted myself from the taverns and spent my time strolling idly among the other cottages, houses and dwellings of the town.    It was not long before I could tell at a glance which type lived in which house. For in the evening and unto dark the houses of the swarthy ones were open and noisy though unlit while those of their more genteel neighbors were closed tight with curtains drawn and shutters closed. Doubtless their doors were bolted and locked as well.

	I had been in Hollinport nearly two weeks getting settled and making an inventory of my late uncle's belongings. It was at that time that I made a closer inspection of the library and among the many volumes of encyclopedias, almanacs and other reference works I found those large, leather-bound books.  They were written in a language that I could not decipher. It appeared to be eastern for the most part, though not like any I had ever seen before. They were certainly not Asian or Cyrillic characters. There was a faint resemblance to Arabic, yet it was not that either. Other volumes were there as well, in abundance in fact, all in the same strange script, all obviously antiquated though not all were in my uncle's hand.

	It was only after several more weeks of incessant study had passed that I discovered there were in fact two languages. Both were related to each other, yet each was distinct as a language unto itself.  Determined to begin a translation, I set about searching the library for a key by which I might unlock the secrets of these old texts.  Sadly, I never was to find it, for in my searchings I discovered my late uncle’s diaries and soon these occupied all my waking thoughts. I only wish now that I had set them aside and continued in my quest to break that antediluvian code. If I had, then perhaps things might not have gone as they did and I would not be sitting here now, waiting and ... but I fear I am digressing. Suffice it to say that I only wish I had not become...distracted.

	The diaries went back several years and were full of the stuff of ordinary life. It was a sad story, and one with which I was not at all familiar. It seems that he had lost his son at an early age. It appeared to be an accident of some kind, though he never specified the exact nature of the event.  Apparently his wife was involved to some extent and took all of the blame and guilt upon herself. She committed suicide the following year. I will spare any further details of this tragic tale save this one; that my uncle, in a state of the deepest depression, sold all that he had and sought refuge from the world in the cottage of the isolated village to which I had come. The details that follow his arrival are scanty. He made note of the weather, the gradually declining population of the more European folk and the rise of the numbers of the swarthy inhabitants. Indeed, it would seem that they were fairly scarce when he arrived, but that their population had been growing dramatically in the following years. I found this odd in that I felt certain that it was the funny darker folk who had been here the longer and the others who were the newcomers. But none of these discoveries were what led me to the nightmare in which I now find myself. 

	It seemed that during his fourth year in the cottage my uncle discovered a cave of sorts hidden away in the cellar behind a stack of musty crates and trunks.  How it was that he had not discovered it before I do not know.  It was certain that he had known of these items being here, for they were with the house when he purchased it from the estate of the deceased owner.  He had even inspected them and found only clothes and other personal items belonging to the former owner.  These he donated to charity and gave them no further thought.  But he had never looked behind this collection of artifacts, and it was not until he first began to hear the sounds that he paid any attention at all to that dark space.

	According to the diaries, one night, a year, perhaps two, (the dates are not clear), before his disappearance, my uncle fancied that he heard the faint, rhythmic pounding of drums and the thin, wavering sound of discordant flutes coming from somewhere below the cottage.  He believed, quite naturally, that it must have been coming from the town and so on the following morning paid its residents a visit in order to ascertain the nature of the music.  Yet to his surprise, none of the inhabitants acknowledged hearing a thing.  He made inquiries at the local constabulary but to no avail.  He visited all of the inns and taverns that he frequented and many of the other establishments of Hollinport as well, but none would admit to having noticed any sounds out of the ordinary.  Indeed, my uncle felt that several of the folk were being deliberately disingenuous in their denials.  He was certain that some of them at least had indeed heard those strange sounds.  Yet even under his most relentless questioning none would speak openly of them or admit to hearing anything at all.  He reported that thereafter, when he would visit the town for food and other sundries, that he was regarded by the fairer denizens with furtive glances and suspicious looks.  The dark folk however seemed to regard him with sardonic amusement and often made cruel jokes at my uncle’s expense.  People would no longer speak to him on the streets after the manner of most ordinary folk and he began to receive the distinct impression that he or, at the very least, his questions, were no longer welcome.  But rather than cause my uncle to abandon his search for this queer sounding music, he became inspired to redouble his efforts.  
	
	It was then that he examined those texts that I have already mentioned and began his researches into them.  I must state that I am not now, nor have I ever been, a student of linguistics.  Most of the entries on this subject are entirely beyond my understanding.  My uncle however, possessed a thorough knowledge of the language arts and was himself no minor scholar in that field having published a number of articles in his earlier, happier years on Sanskrit, Aramaic, as well as the Egyptian and Mayan glyphs.  He spent vast amounts of his time studying the writing and listening for that peculiar music.  The sounds themselves seemed to come at odd intervals, though usually during the small hours when the world was dark and its inhabitants lay sleeping safely behind their locked doors and shuttered windows.  It was during these hours that my uncle would sit waiting for the sound to commence.  Each time the music began he would take his lantern and endeavor to follow that sound to its origin.  It was in this way that he discovered that the sounds came not from the village below, but from the very ground beneath the cottage!

	According to his notes, my uncle made a thorough survey of all the land about his home.  Yet try as he might, he could not locate any place where the sound seemed more distinct, and therefore closer, or at least more accessible, than any other place around the hard knob of rock upon which the cottage was built.  It wasn’t until he was down in the cellar searching about for a can of fuel with which to replenish his lantern that he made a surprising discovery.  The odd drumming had begun once again.  As he descended the steps into the cellar my uncle noticed, indeed he could hardly have done otherwise, that the sounds he had been hearing were here unmistakably clearer.  He lifted high his flickering lamp and carefully traversed the circumference of that damp hole.  This was when he discovered that to which I have already alluded, that the incessant throbbing came most clearly into his hearing when he approached the stacks of old crates and trunks, or rather, from behind them.  According to the entry in his diary he moved the debris aside and slowly pushed the lamp into that dark recess which had hitherto lain unknown to him.  His own words read as follows: 

	“I stood there transfixed and listened to the mindless piping amid the rhythmic beating of drums.  I say mindless but that is not entirely true.  It only sounded mindless in the beginning, but as I lingered there I began to pick out lunatic patterns and discordant harmonies that seemed to repeat themselves at regular intervals.  At length the sounds began to conjure in my mind half-forgotten scenes that had not passed through my imagination since boyhood.   Strange vistas opened before me of lost cities and forgotten treasures.  Visions of Atlantis, El Dorado and Shangri-La paraded before my unseeing eyes, calling to me, taunting me.  How long I remained entranced I do not know, but when I finally roused myself from that reverie and returned to the upper floors the sun was already passing its zenith and beginning the long descent to the horizon.  I knew then that I must find some way down to the source of those maddeningly hypnotic notes.”

	From this point on the entries gradually become less coherent until, near the end, they descend into a wild, maniacal ranting about a nightmarish world of forbidden, subterranean pools; sick, greenish flames, and Stygian grottos shrouded in phosphorescent mist.  He spoke of limitless voids, living, breathing shadows and bloated, disembodied eyes watching him wherever he went.  It is clear that my uncle did in fact make his way to, or at least near, the source of the music though how he came there he does not in his journals say.  And it is equally clear to me that at the last his mind, still weakened, I suppose, by the terrible losses of his wife and son, was insufficient to fully grasp the magnitude of what it was that he beheld there, deep within the cold, lightless pores of the earth.  Few, if any of the remaining entries make any sense to me even now, having seen what I have.  But there is one entry, one which I would give everything to be able to forget, one which I would sacrifice even my life to have never seen.  It was a short entry, only three words standing alone upon an otherwise blank page.  Those three words were “The Hollin Gate”. 

	Three words.  I thought nothing of them at the time, for I was suddenly and powerfully seized by the hideous thought that even now my uncle might still be alive!  Alive and wandering mindlessly through the nether most caverns of this hidden realm.  The likelihood of his survival was scant to be sure, but how could I not pursue even this slimmest of possibilities?  Were we not of the same blood? All my upbringing called out to me to search for him.  It would be nothing less than immoral to do otherwise.  But, unlike my uncle, I could not do it alone.  I resolved at once to go into town and alert the constable.  I would bring him here and show him my discoveries.  I would drag him bodily if need be and then, once he was convinced, we would gather up such townspeople as we might and set out with a rescue party in search of my lost uncle, or all that remained of him. 

	I drove the narrow, twisting track from the cottage to Hollinport as quickly as I dared.  The road was dirt and the traction poor for a race such as I was running, yet run it I did and as dusk was approaching I arrived at the edge of town.  

	And stopped.

	I can honestly say that in all my life I have never smelt anything more foul or wretched than I did on that evening.  The malignant stench of that miserable "lake” permeated every single inch of the town.  The bile rose in my throat and my stomach writhed in sickening revulsion.  

	I put the old truck in gear and began to drive slowly through what seemed to be a completely deserted Hollinport.  I kept the windows closed and placed a heavy rag over my mouth and nose, but it did little good.  As I moved further into the village I began to notice other strange things.  It had been a week, perhaps more, since I last came to town for provisions.  I had become so thoroughly consumed with the investigation of those strange books and my uncle’s diaries that the passage of time was forgotten.  It might have been a week or a month since I last came to Hollinport.  I could not say.  Yet however long it might have been, what I saw there now both astonished and terrified me.   It was true that many of the dwellings of Hollinport had been in poor repair.  The paint was peeling on most of the structures and there were signs of general decay scattered all about the town.  Still, many of the houses and even some of the shops were obviously well maintained.  One house in particular I admired to the point that I would go out of my way to pass it whenever I was about.  It was a lovely Colonial Era two-story house, impeccably painted with a handsome, even whimsical cottage garden planted in the front yard and a crisp, white picket fence surrounding it.  The windows had clean white shutters on either side and the glass was kept so perfectly clear that it seemed I could reach right through into the interior rooms.  But no more.  The fence and shutters were ripped apart and splintered into kindling.  The windows, all of them, were smashed and sparkling shards of glass littered the yard.  Strange graffiti was scrawled across the front of the house and the garden had been almost completely uprooted.  The door was open and tilted at an impossible angle as if it had been ripped from its hinges by great force.

	More troubling still, that house was not alone.  Block after block I found more of the same.  In one place an entire two-story house had been virtually dismantled, its furnishings lying scatted and broken in the street.  I have seen many different photographs of tornadoes and their devastation and this was shockingly similar in its degree.  A house here, two there destroyed completely, with three in between left entirely untouched.  But this was not the work of any tornado, of that I was certain.  For as I surveyed the damage the thought occurred to me that not a single one of these houses belonged to those strange swarthy folk.

	I could feel the hair rising on the back of my neck.  I stepped hard on the throttle of the old truck, no longer wishing to see anymore of this wanton destruction and fearing deep inside that if I lingered I might just find other, worse things hidden beneath the wreckage.  I drove frantically through the deserted streets desiring only to make it safely to the office of the Constable. 

	Even the downtown was deserted.  Closed shops and barred windows lined the cobblestone streets.  Not a single tavern appeared to be open, nor did the bank, general store, post office or Hollinport’s only movie house.  This was the center of town.  This was the heart.  This is where people came to shop, relax, be entertained, and take care of all manner of business.  I watched as an old newspaper drifted aimlessly across the square.  The fountain in the park was quieted and the grounds empty. Not even a pigeon adorned the top of the old weathered statue.  The clank and rattle of the truck over the cobbles was the only sound I heard and as I pulled up in front of the Constabulary and shut off the engine all was silent.  And with that silence came the unmistakable sensation that Hollinport was dead.

	I entered the office cautiously, taking care to look in all directions for even the barest hint of life in the town.  There was none.  The office itself seemed to be in good order.  Upon my first arrival in Hollinport I spent a fair amount of time with the Constable.  Papers needed to be signed and forms filled out before I could legally take possession of my uncle’s estate.  The Constable was also a notary and had more than a passing knowledge of what forms needed to be filled, filed, stamped, approved and by whom.  A more efficient and organized individual I have never met.  The orderly stacks of papers still sitting upon the edge of the desk attested to that fact as did the cages which were locked and neatly prepared in the event that any new guest might wish to find a night’s lodging.  Or even if they did not.  The chair was pushed into the hole beneath the desktop.  The rifle case, though still locked, stood empty and gun belt which hung over the back of the constable’s chair was missing as well.  I looked for any sign of where the constable might have gone, a note, a memo, something.  But there was nothing. I slapped my head.  Of course!  Had I not just passed through a morass of debris and destruction?  I was a fool, or greater than one.  The entire population of a town, even one the size of Hollinport does not simply vanish into thin air.  It was only natural that the Constable and his deputies were out either with the townsfolk, wherever they might be gathered or investigating the wreckage or both.  How could I not have understood this from the first?  I went to the phone and turned the handle for the operator, surely she would know either the location of the Constable or one of his deputies, but what answered me was no voice, or rather no human voice.  Instead of the calm, clear tones I expected to hear, there came a harsh, lurid laughter.  “Number please.” the voice croaked and then all was silent.  

	Stricken, I slammed the phone back into its cradle.  At once it began to ring though I dared not answer.  My world crashed and my mind began to reel.  “What was happening!” my brain shrieked at me.  A town shattered; people gone; malevolent, laughing, inhuman voices on the phones?  I fought the overpowering urge to flee that place long enough to leave a note to the constable expressing the dire urgency of my need.  I implored him to come to the cottage as soon as he was able.  I threw the note upon the desk and then ran in a panic from the office to my truck and escaped poor, dead Hollinport for the safety of my cottage high up on the rock.

	I entered the cottage with relief and securely bolted and fastened the locks on all the doors.  I pulled closed all the shutters, lit every lamp and set a blaze going in the hearth.  Now I needed a drink.  I pulled the rye from the shelf and poured first one glass, then another and finally a third and took a seat in the study.  The strong drink helped to calm my nerves and, once I could think more clearly, I determined that I should make preparations to leave as soon as the Constable arrived...if he ever should.  Of that possibility I now began to doubt.  It did not matter.  The walls were thick and the shutters strong and secure.  I believed that I was safe here in the cottage.  It would take more than simple skill with a hairpin to unlock those heavy oaken doors and to break them down would require a Herculean degree of strength, so sturdy were they made.  If the Constable did not arrive I would take matters into my own hands and go in search of my uncle alone.  If the constable arrived, he could follow me; I would mark a trail.  I was quite sure that I knew the location of this mysterious “gate” and had no doubt that I could at least make a preemptory investigation of what lay behind it.  If I found nothing then upon my return I would drive to the next county and there alert the state authorities.  Even if they thought my theory about my uncle to be implausible, I held no doubt that they would be interested to learn of the situation in Hollinport.  

	I gathered together all the items that I thought I might need.  A lantern, a flask of kerosene, a length of rope, some matches, a canteen filled with water and placed them in a small rucksack.  I did not plan to be long in my searching, not while I was alone at any rate.  Satisfied that I was sufficiently prepared, I retired to the living room and sipped a cup of tea while I waited.  Half an hour passed...an hour, and then two.  No word from either the constable or one of his deputies. The cottage possessed a phone and though I was loath to attempt its use I forced myself.  Silence.  Very well then, I was decided.  I rose and lifted a small pack onto my back and, with a lantern in one hand and a pocket revolver in the other I descended the stairs to the cellar to see for myself what lay in that space behind the crates.

	The cellar was damp and cold and musty.  The light of my lantern seemed feeble even though I turned the flame as high as I could.  I went down the stairs carefully and as soon as I reached the landing my eyes fell upon that same stack of crates, trunks and boxes that my uncle had written about.  There was a fair sized gap in the middle of them, one large enough for a man to pass and so, my lamp held protectively before me and my finger on the trigger of the small pistol, I entered the space behind the crates and…

     Nothing.  It was a hole or more precisely, a recess in the cellar wall.  It was a place that might once have been used to store wine or smoked meats.  The “cave”, if one could call it that, ran some six to eight feet beyond the walls and stood roughly eight feet high and a little wider.  Then a faint glimmer caught my eye at the far end of the recess.  I raised the lantern higher and urged myself closer for a better look.  It was a flicker of silver, nothing much, only the merest hint.  But it was there never the less, flickering in the wavering light of the lamp.  I rubbed my hand across it and dirt fell away from the wall.  There, in the solid stone and in characters of the purest silver that I have ever seen, was engraved a familiar, unreadable script and beneath it, scrawled across the surface of the rock as if scratched with a knife were the words; “Hollin Gate” and beneath it a single word in English script: “Mellon“.  Moreover, if I listened closely I was certain that I could hear, as if from a great distance, the thin piping of discordant flutes and the rhythmic pounding of drums.  I raised my hand to the gate and…

	A sound!  I spun about, my gun ready.  The torch swung wildly sending strange, misshapen shadows playing insanely across the walls and floor in a macabre dance.  Motionless amid that frenzied array of dark and light stood a short, squat figure. 

	“Careful with that y’ fool!”  He barked in a harsh, croaking voice, thick with the accent of an unnamed land.  “Der’s ye want ter git us both kilt?”

	Unable to speak, I shook my head.

	“V’ry well then, put thet thing away or bitter yet, give it me.”

	He stood there, and I watched as he put out his hand to receive my revolver.  And I was about to hand it to him when I noticed a slight upturning at the corners of his oversized mouth and the greedy narrowing of his hungry, yellowed eyes and I thought better.  I slipped the revolver into my pocket.

“I think I’ll keep it.”  I managed to say.

“Suit yersef.”  He said and then asked, “Now what’s this all about?”

	I stared at the figure standing before me.  He was wearing the olive green uniform of the Chief Constable though the clothes were many sizes too large for him.  The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up exposing his filthy, claw-like hands and the pants were tied up with a piece of rope.  The cuffs were turned up exposing his bare, misshapen feet, but not far enough and the lower end of the britches were stained and dirty as if they had been dragging along the ground.  A brass constable’s star dangled comically from his shirt.  But the gun belt, the one the other chief constable had worn, fit all to well.

	“Well speak up damn ye!”  He barked, shocking me from my reverie.  “I’ve not got all day.  There’s a situation in town ye ought to be knowing since ye’uz there.” 

	I ignored the question.  “Where’s the Chief?” I asked, fearing to hear the answer.

“Gone.”  The fellow croaked impatiently.  

“Gone? Gone where?”  I asked.

At those words the little creatures face contorted in the very image of rage and utterly perfect malice.  

“HE’S GONE DAMN YER EYES! GONE, GONE AND GONE!”  He shrieked as he hopped from one foot to the other. “Gone and left me alone to handle all this mess! An’ wi’out as much as a please or thank you!  ’Ow should I know where?  ’E’s... just... GONE!” 

	I retreated a step from the sheer violence of his deranged fury and slipped my hand into my pocket.  His eyes caught the movement and he calmed himself at once.

“Nah, nah, no need fer thet.“  He said, composing himself.  “Pardun ef ah scairt ye.  T’s bin a hard’un t’day, but ah haven’t a need t’tell ye thet.  Now how ken ah help ye?  Th’ note set a thing or two about yer uncle?”

	I nodded, not sure what to make of this new constable.  I dared not ask him about the former Chief again else his anger extend beyond mere words and take on a more potent aspect.  And more dangerous, perhaps even lethal.

	“Have yer fowend him?”  He asked.

	I shook my head.  “I think I know where he might have gone though.”  I said cautiously.

	His face brightened somewhat at that news.  “Did ye now?  An where mightn’t that be?”

	“In here.”  I said, and showed him to the rear of the cave and again that unusual music came drifting up to me.  

	As soon as he saw the strange lettering he scowled and stepped back.

	“In there?  Ah’d say he’s lost feriver then.”

	For me to say that I was surprised at such a response would be a gross understatement.

	“You know of it then? The Hollin Gate?”  I asked.

	“Aye,” he said, then immediately reversed himself.  “I mean nah, not ‘t tall.”

	“Which is it?  Do you know of it?  Or not?” 

	I could see the anger building in him once again.

	“Both ye idiot!  Whad d’yer think?  All of uz who lives here ‘as heerd the tales.  But that’s all ’t was.  Kiddie tales and sleeper bye stories.  Ah never’d a-thought ’t was real.”

	“How did you get in here?”  I asked.  

	“The door ‘uz open’t.” he said.

	“Open?  But I locked them all.”

	“Ahm tellin yer it uz open!”  He said.

	“But I thought...”

	“Yer thought wrong.”	

	The silence that descended as we stared at one another was more than uncomfortable and for the first time, though not the last, I began to wish that I had never heard of Hollinport or my uncle or the Hollin Gate.  I shall regret for whatever time I may have left my coming to this accursed place, sleeping in this damnable cottage with its infernal books or walking abroad in that poor, blighted town.  I had been impoverished before I had come here, that much is true, but I had, for the most part, been happy.  I remember wondering if I ever would be again.

	"G'wan then, open th' door. Lit's get this over an dun `ith," the Constable said, and for reasons I cannot explain, I obeyed. It was as if for a single moment I had no will of my own, only that of my frightful companion. I placed my hand against the door and pressed hard, but it did not budge an inch. I tried it again and again nothing happened. I made the attempt a third time, leaning against it with my shoulder and driving hard with all my strength but it would not be moved.

	"It is stuck shut." I muttered.

	"Nonsense, try it again!" he ordered, but I paused and studied the gate instead, looking for some key or hint of how to unlock this mysterious portal. The strange script was less than useless. I ran my hand across the engravings again and read the words my uncle had 
scratched there.

	"Open sesame," I muttered aloud. The joke was lost on my companion. "The Hollin Gate, that much is easy enough to understand, but tell me, uncle, what is meant by mellon?"

	No sooner had the word passed my lips than the strange engravings flared a brilliant silver and briefly illuminated the alcove in which we stood. The constable shrank back with a howl and covered his eyes. Nearly the entire surface of the door was covered with grime and dirt, but even so I could clearly see that the writing ran up both sides of the portal and formed an arch across the top. Stylized trees with branches entwined around silvered columns marked the gate’s edges and strange glyphs in the shapes of stars and crowns and other things were represented amidst it all. It was beautiful and utterly incongruous with the nature of the music that teased me just within the edge of my hearing. 

	As with my uncle before me, strange visions filled my head. Visions of a people so strange and fair that the lowest of them would seem as fairy kings and queens were they among even the greatest of us today. Images of marvelous dwelling places built high among the branches of colossal trees, towering citadels amid shining cities of the purest white flowed through my mind. I knew then that I was seeing true sights that had passed away and been forgotten long, long ago. Vanished races of an ancient people; indescribable in their beauty who waxed and grew strong and then faded long before the raising of the pyramids, the building of Stonehenge or the founding of Rome or Ancient Babylon. Then, to my dismay, the vision passed and was replaced by the smooth and silent motion of that arcane door as it divided evenly and the two halves swung toward me. The writing vanished leaving only shadows, the flickering of my feeble lamp, and the dim memory of what once was and is no more.  

	As soon as the doors were fully opened the queer little man let out a yelp that I can only describe as gleeful. "Halooooooo!" he cried as he rushed past, looking this way and that and then dashing off into the darkness. Before I could persuade my feet to move he came scuttling back to the door with a pair of timbers, one over each shoulder. Timbers so large that a strong man would find them difficult to carry, yet he managed the task with ease. The first he propped against one of the open doors of the gate, careful, it seemed, to refrain from touching any part of it with his body. He then laid the other lengthwise across the threshold so that if the one were to fall the door would still remain open. 

	“Yer’d not want uz t’ git stuck in there like yer uncle now would ye?” he croaked.

	I shook my head.  It was a sensible precaution.  But his avoidance of touching even the smallest part of the door puzzled me.  What possible harm could come of that?  I surmised that it must be a superstition peculiar to this place and these people.  Had he not said after all that the Hollin Gate was the subject of bedtime stories and children's tales?   And was I not more than a little reluctant to place even a single foot in that dark passage?  I studied the queer man and then the yawning aperture that lay before me.  This was where my uncle had gone, I was sure of it.  If I were to find him I would need to pass this way as well.  I could not escape the troubling feelings that my swarthy companion produced within me, but perhaps it was nothing more than my own prejudices coming to the surface.  The outward appearance of these folk, even under the best of circumstances, was hardly attractive and their behavior often bordered upon rudeness, even hostility.  But here, in the gloom of the cellar, it was positively frightening.  Still, this one had never threatened me nor, aside from his recent tirade, made any gesture or spoken any word that indicated he was here for anything other than to assist me in the finding of my uncle; an assistance that I had in fact requested, though I did not, at the time, realize just who I was requesting it from.  Would it not be only natural and fitting that, should the existing constable retire or depart town, (there was no reason for him to have informed me of this since our acquaintance was merely professional and I could in no way honestly claim him as a friend), his replacement come from the majority of its inhabitants?  I was being superstitious and silly.  I would go with him through the gate. 

	I stepped through the opening.  All was dark within that portal and a foul odor rose up to meet me.  In the cold lamplight I could see before me a wide staircase ascending to an impenetrable darkness.  Fear gripped me as I slowly advanced upon those singular steps, carved seemingly from the living stone.  Living, the word is a mockery, for nowhere about me did I have any sense of any living thing at all.  At the landing I stopped and gasped; for there before me, as clearly as if they were only just made, were the prints of booted feet.  These could have only belonged to my uncle.   I had not been wrong.

	“Ah!  This ‘ud be iz trak then.  Come, et uz git on withit, time is growing short!” my strange companion said, and then began to move on up the stairs.
  
“Wait!”  I called out to him.  He stopped and turned.

“I wish to thank you for your help, but I do not even know your name.”

“Thangz?  Nah need fer any thangz.  An as fer name, I am called Yrch! “ He barked, and then fell into a fit of laughter of the most appalling sort.   I was not amused.  We went forward. The Constable went in the fore as I was too timid of heart to face those gaping shadows myself.  Above the steps there was a passage which we entered.  Here the flame of the lamp burned even dimmer than before and I feared that it might give out entirely.  It did not however and, with “Yrch”, (a bizarre name but somehow fitting), in the lead, we followed my uncle’s tracks.

	For hours we marched through that place of shadow and foreboding.  Ever in the lead was Yrch, bent low and studying the floor for any glimpse of my uncle’s passing.  No more did he speak of a lack of time or a need to return to the village that had been entrusted into his keeping.  Indeed, he spoke not at all and led me on at a pace that would suggest he was as anxious to see what lay before us as I was fearing it.  The flame of the lantern had by now burned so low that it was of almost no avail at all other than to provide me with some minimal source of comfort.  I could scarcely see my guide, for that is how I had begun to think of him, and how he could read any trail in that gloom I will never know.  It was almost as though he had passed this way before, so unerringly did he lead me.  

	Down twisting passages and up balustrade stairways we went, often having to reverse our direction.  It appeared that some titanic upheaval, likely eons ago, had destroyed vast portions of this underground complex of caves, tunnels, chambers and halls.  But even in the wreckage I could see the remnants of what could only have been a great city deep beneath the ground.  Pieces of massive columns and chunks of shattered arches lay strew across the floor of once titanic halls.  Bits of murals depicting scenes strange yet fair to look upon rose up majestically from behind piles of rubble. All were carefully worked with a skill the world has not seen since those forgotten elder days, nor, I think, will it ever again.  Finally the lamp expired and we were plunged into a world of pitch darkness, unrelenting and fathomless.  Here Yrch stopped and took from me the length of rope I had brought.  One end he fastened securely about my waist and with the other tied to himself and we continued upon our trek.  

	I could discern from the diminishing echo of our footfalls that we had once again left the larger caverns and were now moving within one of the smaller passages which seemed to be wending its way ever deeper.  The air was rank and heavy with the smell of nameless, unseen things that lay hidden within the hollows and catacombs that branched away from the tunnel.  For once I was grateful that I could not see.  It seemed however, that Yrch was having little trouble at all as he moved us smoothly along through those holes within the rock.  From time to time I would ask him if he could still read my uncle’s path and always he would reply; “Aye!  Now hush yersef, ther be thengz a-sleepin’ here that’d be best left undisturb’d” and on we would go.

	Finally I could take it no longer.  My feet were blistered, my muscles ached and I was weary to my very bones.  “I must rest Yrch!” I cried.

  	Yrch stopped and I heard him drop softly to the floor.

“Vry well th’n.  We  uz’ll stop here fer a rest.”  And he spoke no more.

	I followed his example and set myself down on the floor of that dark tunnel.  But to my surprise, instead of repellant cold and damp that I had been expecting, the floor was dry and nearly warm to the touch.  Indeed, the air around me was considerably warmer than it had been when we first entered this labyrinth.  It was my last thought.  I must have fallen asleep at that very moment, for my next recollection is of Yrch tugging firmly on the rope and urging me to my feet.  In a daze I followed him.  I no longer wondered whether or not he was following my uncle’s trail.  In fact I believed he was not.  It was obvious to even the dullest mind that Yrch had something more than a mere passing familiarity with these caves. He had traversed them before, of that I now had little doubt.  Still, he was my only guide, my only hope of finding a route of escape from this nightmarish shadow-world far beneath the skin of the earth.  Survival now became my principle concern.  I still wished to discover the ultimate fate of my uncle, but instincts as old as the caves through which we now walked began to assert themselves as we moved ever onward, and deeper.

	As we moved downward I gradually became able to discern a subtle lightening of the caverns.  Somewhere ahead, perhaps not far, was a source of light.  The ever present music played a little louder now and there was rising stench that was not wholly unfamiliar to me.  My guide continued to lead me, nimbly picking his way along and the darkness began to recede, I could begin to make out his form.  I was not heartened by what I saw.  I at first hoped it was some combination of a trick of the light and my over-taxed mind.  But as the light grew it became apparent that what I was now seeing was all too real.  Instead of that odd, scuttling walk that was characteristic of Yrch’s folk, he now went along on all four limbs nearly as often as went on two.  His arms appeared to have lengthened until, even when he stood bolt upright, which was rare, they nearly reached nearly below his knees and long, thin fingers with wicked claws instead of nails hung at their ends.  His shoulders had hunched and his skin had taken on a sickly grayish/green cast.  His back was still to me and I could not see his face as my mind tried to absorb these hideous changes in his aspect.  Absorb them, even now the thought makes me laugh, insanity would have been easier to take and would have spared me that which was to come.

	The light continued to grow as we plunged deeper into the earth.  Soon I began to hear sounds other than our own.  At first I thought it was laughter or a celebration of some kind.  Then it stopped, leaving only that disquieting melody and… something else… something on the very edge of my hearing that I could not discern.  Yrch crept along, carefully now, as if unwilling to disturb some sacred rite and I followed in the same manner.  Beyond him I could see an opening illuminated by a reddish glow.  And as we approached the chanting began.  Soft and low it was in the beginning, a slow, rhythmic uttering of strange sounds, words perhaps, in an unknown tongue.  It began to build in volume and pace, rising like a grotesque tide, full of secret, misshapen things that live only in the uttermost depths where light never comes.  It rose to a thunderous, crashing, wave of sounds no wholesome ear would ever wish to hear.   I saw that Yrch was joining in that obscene chorus and when he reached the opening of the tunnel he lowered himself to his knees and placed his forehead against the floor.   He seemed oblivious to me now.  I untied the rope from my waist and moved ahead to the mouth of the tunnel.

	There before me stood a great, cavernous hollow in the earth.  Red flames erupted from enormous fissures in the ground and molten rock ran up and then trickled away, back into that furnace of the earth’s creation.  There was no great artistry here.  No fluted columns or intricate murals.  Only crude steps and narrow, carved ledges running along the walls were visible to show that any work had been performed here at all.   All around the sides of this... this... this very amphitheater of perdition, were dark holes, recesses by the thousands as if this were some hellish honeycomb of fire and rock.  And there, in the midst of it all, towering malevolent and godlike stood the object of this infernal congregation.  A beast.  A demon or devil I know not which, for my mind will not allow me to recall it fully.  It was enormous, wreathed in fire and clothed in shadow it stood, unmoving, amongst this titanic throng of worshippers.  All around it there were gathered Yrch’s folk by the tens of thousands, and more were filling the cavern every minute.  They chanted and danced and sang and cavorted until the rhythm had gone and all that remained was a vast, angry sea of noise.  The cavern continued to fill until they could move no more and instead swayed back and forth.  More were trying to enter, how many I cannot guess at.  All around the edges of the great cavern the passages were choked with them.  And as they became full, more could be seen filling the black holes I have already spoken of until, like the lodge seats at some obscene playhouse, every hole was filled with a writhing, squirming mass.  Then the thing raised its colossal arms and the din was silenced.  The fires of the earth receded and in a voice like the thunder of a thousand raging storms it spoke.  What is said, the words, the language, any of it, I could not say.  But the brief speech, seemingly only a few words was met with thunderous approval and a resumption of that insane celebration.  
	
	My mind was reeling as I stood transfixed, staring at that unholy assembly.   I thought that I had seen all that there was to see then.  I was wrong.  The beast raised his arms higher and great, hollow tympanis began to sound, reverberating through the stone.  The Demon thrust his hand into one of the many filled apertures and withdrew it, a mass of writhing, squirming figures in his hand.  Even as he held them their hair and clothing began to scorch and smolder.  Then he flung them, screaming, among the jeering crowd at his feet.  I knew then what had happened to the “other” folk of Hollinport.  And as those accursed masses fell upon them in their savage delight I turned away, sickened and horrified.

	Yrch appeared then at my side.  I saw him clearly now, though it hardly affected me after the scene that I had just witnessed.

	“Cum a’lng now,” he croaked.  “Yer still wanner see what happened to yer uncle dunt ye?

	I stared into those luminous yellow eyes, they had become catlike and feral and his mouth had widened and stretched and was full of long pointed teeth.

“No!  NONONONONO!” My mind shrieked at me, but no word did I utter.  I looked at that blasphemous feast below and then back to my guide.

“Nah, nah, nah,” he said, casting his own covetous glance toward the scene.  “Not thet, not fer yer uncle.  He ‘uz too good fer thet.  He uz of the blood, like you ‘uz.  Fer thet, yer gets th’ special treatment, on’y th’ bist fer th’ likes o’ you uz. Especially you, fer you uz th’ last of ‘em.”

	“The last?” I wondered.  The last of what?  And what did he mean by “of the blood?”  I did not wish to go with him.  I wished only to feel once more the clean warmth of the sun on my face and the taste of fresh air in my lungs.  I only wished to be rid of this accursed place forever.  But where to go?  How could I ever hope to find my way back up through those countless halls and tunnels and flights of stairs?  My only hope lay with Yrch.  Clearly he had no intention of leading me anywhere save to my doom.  But he might make a mistake, might, by some chance of fortune, indicate to me how I could regain the surface of the world once again and warn all who would listen of what dark, evil things lay hidden within its deepest recesses.  I had to go with him, it was my only hope now.  A slim one, but I would cling to it as a drowning man clings to a thin reed.  He need make but a single mistake, just one...  I slipped my hand around my revolver.

	“And what of them?” I asked, pointing to the tumultuous mass.  “Will they let us pass?”

	“Ah them, not t’worry,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “ I knows the secret, olden ways.  I knows ALL the ways.”  

	Yrch seemed to think this of some importance that it somehow set him above the others of his kind, though that would be no great feat.  Never had I seen a kind of intelligent life as low as these miserable creatures.  There was nothing wholesome or redeeming about them in the least.  If I could extinguish them all I would and with out the slightest degree of guilt or remorse. 

Yrch’s gun belt dropped to the floor.  

N’ need fer thet ‘ny longer,” he croaked. 

 	I eyed the weapon greedily.

“G’wan, take it if’n et makes ya feel better, fer all the good it might do ye.”

	I considered it, then thought better.  It was large and cumbersome and would only weaken me further.  I had used the last of my water some time back in the tunnels, and food I did not bring.  It would be nothing short of the greatest folly to seek either of those two items here in these caverns.  And in truth, I did not believe that any firearm, however powerful, would rescue me from this place.  I declined.

“Lead on,” I said, and Yrch moved off with me following.

	We went through a series of short tunnels until we came upon a single stair that stretched away above and below beyond the range of my vision.  Unlike the others, which we had descended, these were lit at intervals by braziers of stone and burned with a low red flame.  I examined one and recognized the smell of Kerosene.

“Yer Uncle’s werk,” Yrch said.  “Moe than like he expected to find ‘iz way back!”  Yrch laughed wildly at that and together we began our long descent.

	One might have expected Yrch's words to have a chilling effect upon me, but the horror and anguish of the hideous scene I had only just witnessed still afflicted me and I scarcely paid them any heed at all.  It was all that I could do to hold to just the barest thread of my tattered sanity.  There was within me an almost insurmountable urge to cast myself from that precipice and seek the release of thoughtless oblivion.  But something, be it instinct, fear, both or neither, prevented me.   

	It was a long winding stair with neither rail nor landing upon which to lean or rest.  Ever downward we went and again I lost all track of time.  We did not stop as we made the descent and my legs began to grow numb. The voices from that terrible cavern had long faded and still we went down with that strange music as our only accompaniment.  Neither Yrch nor I spoke as we followed the steps, it was all that either of us could do to continue to tread this path without falling.  And to fall here would mean the end for the both of us.  Several times we tried to stop, but the steps were too shallow and sitting proved to be nearly as difficult as walking so on we went.  Yrch said that it was called the “endless stair“, and I was beginning to believe he was right when I fancied that I heard the subtle lapping of water as if of a pier or beach.  When at length we reached the landing the both of us collapsed upon the ground and fell deeply asleep to the gentle sound of water and the ever-present harmonies of some other world.  

	When I awakened I found an unearthly panorama laid out before my eyes.  We sat upon a small, lonely knob of earth set against an immeasurable wall of rock that ran straight and smooth away from us in all directions until the ends passed out of sight and knowledge.  Up that wall ran the staircase until it too disappeared from sight.  I saw also that it continued down, vanishing below dark, viscous waters.  Perhaps it was endless after all.  Away from the wall, in all directions there stretched an oily sea the color of midnight which few, if any mortal eyes have ever seen.  Here and there among the gentle swells there floated a kind of weed or grass of type unknown, which shone with sickly green phosphorescence.  They floated aimlessly upon the waves of that darkling sea, patches of lurid color stretching from horizon to horizon.   High overhead stars, or what I took for stars, burned bright and clear.  There was no rising or setting of the sun and moon to mark the passage of days.  The stars remained in their place high above and did not move.  It was as if time was counted differently here or, perhaps, was not counted at all.  There was no breeze or wind, no lonely calling of gulls, no sound what so ever save for the lapping of the waves, the beating of my heart and the subtle haunting of that incessant music.

	A little ways apart from us was a small stone pier and tied to that pier was a rowboat.  It was barely large enough for both Yrch and myself, but he did not seem to mind and entered it at once.  As I joined him he pulled a pair of oars from the bottom of the small craft and, setting them in place, he began to row.  How he navigated the boat I do not know.  But as he had in the caves, he seemed to have no doubt of which direction to point us.  There was a deep orange star sitting low on the horizon and I assume he used that as a mark by which to steer.   The prow of the little craft remained pointed unerringly toward it and we moved quickly and silently across the surface of the sea, though it drew no closer.

 	Not faraway a shape broke the surface, only for a moment, then vanished again leaving only a faint eddy where it had appeared.  I was about to speak when Yrch placed a single, terrible finger to his lips and motioned for me to be silent.

	“Nah, yer don’y uz want ta speak, nor make any sound.”  He whispered.  “Ther’s things here that’uz older then th’ sun and stars.  Hungry thengz that’d give no care if t’wer a man or a Yrch they’uz about to eat.  Been here since th’ begin I suspec’s.  Be here at th’end too.” 

	I nodded.  For even now, sunk in the uttermost depths of my despair, I still valued my life.  However much longer it might be fated to continue, continue I wished it to do and so I remained silent and lost myself in thought.  All I really wanted to know was why.  Why me?  Why my uncle?  Why here and why now?  I was the “last of the blood”?  What did that mean, and why the charade in the cellar when he just as easily could have ambushed me, tied me up and carried me down at least as far as the stair?

	I did not realize that I had spoken aloud, but a stern warning from Yrch and a sudden swirl in the water beside the boat attested to it.

	“Hush ye idiot!”  He leaned close and whispered in a voice so low that even though he was but a few scant inches away I could barely discern the words.  “Yer uz get us both kilt”.

	“Queshuns, queshuns, queshuns and more queshuns,” he muttered.  “’Ts alluz th’ same with you humans.  Well, worry no more.  All yer queshuns are about to be answered.”  And he gave me that unsettling leer that passed for his smile.

	We traveled long upon that sea.  I slept for a time.  I dreamt of my uncle and my father and saw them not as they were, but instead as kings of a fallen land.  Fabulously arrayed they were in shining gold and glittering gems; they held themselves tall and proud but upon their faces they wore expressions of sorrow and defeat.  

	When I opened my eyes again the great wall of stone had vanished behind the horizon and before us lay an island.  All bare and devoid of features save for a single arch across which a simple gate of iron was laid.  And one thing more.  Lying there upon the ground, stiff and cold, was the lifeless figure of my missing uncle.  A small round hole was visible in the side of his head and in his hand he held a large caliber revolver.  I would tell you that I wept.  I would tell you that I sank to my knees and cried out in grief and dismay.  I would tell you that I begged forgiveness of whatever gods there may be and pleaded for the safe release of his immortal soul.  But I cannot tell you these things as I did not do any of them.  That I was saddened is true, even grieved.  But I had seen, as I suspected my uncle had before me, too many hideous things, I had traveled too many dark roads and suffered too many unhallowed revelations for this sorry discovery to reduce me to that level of grief.  It could not, for I had surpassed it long ago.

	I simply knelt and laid my hand upon his forehead and bade his spirit safe journey.  Then I arose and turned to face that singular arch; for what other reason could I have been brought here were it not for this?  And as I did, there came rising up to meet me, that selfsame music that had plagued me since the beginning of this macabre journey.  Clear and strong it came and I heard it in all its malevolent glory.   I stood before that simple structure and looked beyond it to where nothing lay at all.  Not even the motionless stars were visible beyond that arch.  Only this simple iron gate now stood between myself and the limitless, incalculable gulf of the Great Void,  fathomless, empty and eternal.

	They tell me that I am safe now, that no harm can come to me here on the fifth floor, (the mental ward), of the general hospital at Arkham.  It is a bright, clean place with large windows and fine, white lights.  The lights comfort me somewhat.  For the past week that I have been here they have allowed me to keep a small night light in my room next to my bed.  It is not bright, but it keeps the shadows at bay, and that is well.  The medication they give to me allows me to sleep without dreaming and that is better, for when I was allowed to sleep of my own accord the other patients found my screams too disturbing.   During the day I am questioned at length by the doctor.  He is a kind man and seems genuinely concerned for my well being, but he does not understand me.  He does not understand anything.  An orderly is always present in the event that I become violent, as is a pretty, young nurse who carries with her a syringe, for the same reason.  They do not understand either.  How could they?  But they will.  Soon.  I have seen the papers and read the articles.  All across the country things are moving now.  Dark things, ancient things that have through the long ages of man been locked safely away but are now free and hungry and full of wrath. And it is my fault, for as I...

	...stood there, looking into that unimaginable emptiness, I realized that it was not in fact entirely empty.  Lurking there amid the infinite silence was  something.  Something older than man, older than the earth and stars, older even than the cosmic abyss and all of creation.  This had existed before that, before time, before... everything.  I could feel its mind seeking, searching for a way of escape from its prison, for that is what this place was, a vast, boundless, inescapable prison.  I knew that once, long ages ago there had been a watch set upon this place.  A watch that was supposed to stand forever and ever and ever.  But the road to hell, they say, is paved with good intentions and the watch failed.  Perhaps they had confidence that their gate would hold, perhaps they simply grew weary and left after they tarried here through the long ages.  I do not know.  I only know that they are gone and the watch is no more and none are now left to keep it.  And it suddenly occurred to me that I was the last of the wardens; the last of the blood.  

	Then it touched me, or rather its mind touched my mind and it came sweeping upon the arch, a monstrous avalanche of loathing and hate and self-pity; a mind as vast as eternity and filled with little more than the thirst for vengeance and retribution.  And there, coalescing in the darkness, bloated and corpulent, floated two gangrenous, swollen eyes.  I think I screamed then, I do not remember.  There is much that is no longer clear to me.  I do remember feeling a strong will wrap itself around my own and compel me to open the gate, or at least attempt it.  But I was “of the blood” and there rose up within me a strength of which I had not been aware until that very moment.  It flooded me with courage and determination and it contended with, and overcame the attack.  The music ceased then and there arose a tremendous howl from that emptiness.  I could feel the earth shake beneath my feet and hear the rattle of the gate upon its hinges.  The arch shuddered and rocked but held fast until that noise subsided.  Over and over this... being, for I have no other word to describe it, over and over it hurled itself at the gate.  Each time the hinges would creak and the arch would rock but always they held.  After a time the entity withdrew and considered me.  And then, in my mind it spoke.  Not in words, but in pictures.

	I was shown a time when my family was strong and proud and noble.  We were great kings, fair and just rulers of a mighty world.  Arthur, Caesar and Alexander;  Hector, Solomon and The Pharaohs, these were my fathers and before them, in lands long forgotten and in times past beyond reckoning we were greater and even more magnificent than all of these.  And then I was shown myself; poor, pitiable, small and insignificant.   This was how far we had fallen.  When once we were mighty kings and great lords, now we were reduced to poverty and wishful thinking for hopes of a better life.  I knew there was no escape for me now.  How could I hope to prevail here?  For I am a man alone, miserable and weak.  I was shown all the iniquities, real and perceived, that I had suffered, that my father had suffered and his father before him.  How unfairly we were treated, how our possessions were taken from us and how others had profited from our loss.  I was filled with anger and wrath at these images.  I longed for retribution.  And it was given to me, or rather shown how I might gain it.  How I could once again restore my family to its rightful place among the mighty.  Nations would quaver and bow down before us once more.  The wicked and the unjust would tremble at the merest sound of our voices!  We could liberate the world and restore to it the splendor of old!  Oh how my heart longed for such a thing.  And all that I needed do to achieve it was open a small, insignificant iron gate.

	I reached for the handle and turned it...					

	 ...but it was locked.  

	Then, slowly rising, building as would a gathering storm, I began to feel the unbridled fury of Melkor, the mighty and the accursed called Morgoth Bauglir, the Power of Terror and of Hate.  I recoiled in fear from that door, The Door of Night, through which he was thrust in countless leagues of ages gone by.  The black sea rolled and the ground rumbled at the force of his malice and wrath.  Only the stars, frozen for all time high above my head remained still.  Yrch cried out and sought to bury himself in the earth as Morgoth raged impotently against the walls of his prison.  I staggered away and fell upon my back and looked up at those stars and yet again became astonished.  For one of the stars began to move.  Across the sky it sailed, as if it were a great ship bearing a light brighter and more pure than any that had come before it.  And I saw that indeed it was a ship, a ship steered by a mighty captain and as he drew closer the wailing of Morgoth diminished and those eyes began to fade.  Then the light of that ship was poured down upon the gate and me. 

	As I looked on, a figure departed that ship and stood before me, a man it seemed, but one such as the world has not seen since the elder days.  Tall he was, and marvelous, clad in bright mail and stern of countenance and he shone with the light of the heavens from which he had come.  In his hand was a sword and as he stood before me I pressed my head to the ground in obeisance and awaited his judgment.  “Behold!“ he cried and I raised my head and saw revealed to me then Morgoth as he truly appeared, bound with chains and collared with a beaten crown.  The great captain lifted his sword and light poured from it and cyclopean walls, nearly invisible, were unveiled before me running from both sides of the gate and on into infinity, for these are the Walls of the World and through them no living man may pass save by the will of One.  I rose to my feet and stood there looking on and as I did this great lord bowed to me and returned to his ship saying, “Long have we slept peacefully behind our walls, but this day has our folly been revealed to us and we shall sleep no more.  You have done no harm and Melkor, for that is the name he was given among us, is secure.”  Then he returned to his ship and departed, disappearing among the many points of light in the sky.  And with the passing of that light the walls faded and Melkor shrank away, back into the void where he is fated to remain until the passing of all things.

	“Yer worthlez human.”  Came a harsh croak from behind me,  “Yer’uz done and ruint ‘t all!”

	I turned and saw Yrch coming at me, his hideous face twisted into a bitter snarl.  He came quickly and thrust at me with both of his outstretched arms.

	I punched him in the nose.  

	Yrch fell to the ground, a thick, sticky, black ichor running from nostrils.  I withdrew my revolver and leveled it at him.

“Why?”  I asked,  “Why would you seek to unleash that upon the world?”  I gestured toward the locked gate.  

“A-cuz t’is our time you stupid human!” Yrch spat.  “He ‘uz supposed t’ lead uz to reclaim our own.  Long wuz we a-waitin’ fer thiz day.  Fer th’ endless night to fall once’t again.  Now we’uz’ll ‘ave t’do it alone.”

“Then why me?” I asked.  “If you can do this thing without his help, then surely you don’t need me.”

“A-cuz a th’ curse ye fool!”  He snarled.  “The curse laid upon t’gates.  Only the hand o’ him that had the blood o’ th’ old ‘uns could open ‘em.  Yer uncle, he knew.  He ‘uz a smart ‘un.  He uz read th’books an alluz closed th’ gate behind him.”

“But you were already out, and so were the others.”

“QUESUNS! QUESHUNS! QUESHUNS!  D’ ye never quits askin’?  Those ’uz already out side the gate could no more pass in as those inside could pass out of  ’em.  We could’na lay hand upon ’em.  I come out wi’ yer uncle, but he alluz closed the gate behind him.  But not you, not you.  An this time I blocked ‘em open.”

Yrch began to laugh and rose to his feet.

“Now we’uz can come and go as we please.  An there be none left thet can stop uz.”

My blood froze at those words.  The accursed Hollin Gate.  And I had let him block it open.

“None but you uz thet is,” he said, and stepped toward me, grinning.

	I fired my revolver.  Once, twice, three times into his head and chest.  He fell and lay still.  I went to him and lifted his broken body and cast it into those black waters where it floated for a moment, then a single thick tentacle rose out of that abyss, wrapped itself around the floating body and dragged it away beneath the surface.

	My uncle I buried there on the island, and there he shall remain until all of the dead are called forth at the last reckoning.

	Myself I put into that boat and began to row.  I had no clear idea of which direction to take save away from that accursed gate.  Already the music that I had heard was rising once more, as it always would until Melkor or Morgoth, name him as you like, passed away and out of time and space.  I rowed for what seemed an eternity upon those dark waters and at length, when the last of my strength was spent and I was without either food or water and with no sign of land was in sight, I resolved to end my time in this world and without another thought, cast myself from the boat and into the timeless depths of the sea.

	I awoke upon the shores of the rank pool in Hollinport.  Strong arms were lifting me and carrying me away.  I was laid down upon a stretcher and given water and wrapped in a blanket.  Voices asked me who I was and how I came to be there.  I told them.  I told them of the cave in the cellar and of Yrch and his queer folk.  I told them of the caverns and tunnels that ran beneath the earth and though it nearly drove me mad to do so, I told them of the Great Amphitheater and what I had witnessed there.  I told them of my journey down the endless stair and the trip in the boat and of the gate at the Wall of the World and when I had finished they smiled indulgently and gave me a shot.  They told me I was safe now and not to fear.  I begged them to let me return to the cottage and close that door in the cellar before it becomes too late.  They told me not to worry.  They have found the door and even now men with guns are exploring those caverns that lie behind it.  Relax they say, all will be well.

	And so now I am here, in the mental ward.  I have been here a week they tell me, but I cannot verify this as I have only been aware for three days.  As I have already related, each day they ask me questions, and each day I answer them.  The doctor seems quite concerned with what he terms “my episode”.  He is fascinated by the details that I give to him and will often question me at length about the most minor of these.  Always I answer him with the truth.    When I am not with him he tells the other doctors that I am the most “complete case” that he has ever seen.  He thinks that I do not hear him, but I do.  I can hear many things now.  I can hear the doctors refer to me with words like “delusional” and “psychotic”.  I can hear them discuss the terms of my internment and dosages how much voltage to use should it become necessary.  I can hear other things as well.  I can hear the screaming and the gunshots from the neighboring streets.  I heard them before, on the outskirts of town while the doctor was questioning me.  I said this to him.  He merely nodded his head and said, “go on”.  I can hear the sobbing of a nurse outside in the hall and the hysterical laughter of an orderly as he steps away from the window.  At least he is on the right floor.  I can hear the shattering of glass and the sound of laughter that is harsh and bitter and cruel.  It is a sound I know well.

	The doctor has left the office now, a nurse summoned him somewhere.  Where I do not know or even care.  I have returned to my place in the day room.  The room with the bright lights and the large windows.  I like it here.  The lights comfort me somewhat.  A pretty, young nurse sits in the corner and weeps.  She has a syringe dangling from her arm.  She will be fine I think.  Others rush past, nurses, doctors, orderlies and patients.  On their faces are looks of disbelief.  And fear.  But mostly disbelief.  I understand, I wore that same look once.  All about me now there is chaos.  I can hear the widows breaking and the doors giving way on the floors below.  I can hear their screams and the sound of cruel harsh laughter. But most of all I hear the music of strange discordant piping and the thin sound of wavering flutes and beneath it all the incessant pounding of those infernal drums... drums, drums in the deep.  

	They are coming.

The End