The Dark Boatman: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos (2 page)

Then Ambrose suddenly called my attention to something lying half-hidden in the ditch by the side of the road. I immediately stopped the car and we both got out to examine it. It was an ancient battered signpost which had once been pointed off to the left; for there, less than five yards from where we stood, a track, somewhat wider than the others we had seen earlier, snaked towards the distant horizon. Ambrose went down on one knee and I heard his grunt of astonishment. The sign bore the legend
Tormouth—5 miles
in faded letters and I thought this was what he had seen.

Then I looked to where he was pointing and saw the wooden post had not fallen through decay due to long years of standing in all sorts of weather. It had been deliberately axed through the base. Whether local inhabitants had committed this act to erase all reference to Tormouth, or the villagers themselves had done it to preserve their isolation, we could not tell. But as we got back into the car, we were both oddly disturbed by what we had found. Clearly, the garage proprietor had not exaggerated when he had spoken of the evil reputation Tormouth possessed.

We turned off the road with a growing sense of trepidation. Now the surrounding countryside grew more sinister and somber in its overall aspect. The car lurched and slid over numerous potholes, and in places the thick, thorny branches slashed and tore at the vehicle on both sides.

At times, the overgrown bushes assumed grotesque shadows in the approaching darkness, and I was forced to switch on the headlights in order to see the way, for there were many twists and turns ahead, and obstacles became more numerous so that avoiding action had to be taken quickly and decisively.

We had not been more than two miles along the track when the mass of dark, ominous cloud we had noticed earlier swept down on us and it began to rain. Had it been possible to turn, I might have considered returning to Penzance and setting out again in the morning, for driving had now become extremely difficult. But it was all I could do to keep the car on the road, which was now rapidly worsening because of the rain. The aged wipers did little to keep the windscreen clear, and we were soon splashing through deepening puddles that stretched clear across the road.

Then we crested a high hill and down below us, just visible, was the sea, and off to our right we made out a tiny cluster of dim lights, which told us we were approaching our destination. Now the smell of the sea was strong in our nostrils. Curiously, the state of the road improved. At some time, it had been surfaced, and the reason for this improvement soon became evident. Less than half a mile further on, the ground on our right dropped away steeply towards the rocky beach.

In spite of the relatively new road surface I had to drive carefully now. The rough gravel was wet and slippery, and one wrong move could send us crashing over the cliff onto the waiting rocks below. In addition, the headlights were not powerful enough to penetrate far into the teeming rain.

Finally, however, we headed down into the village and stopped halfway along the cobbled street. The place seemed utterly deserted. An air of abandonment lay over the low-roofed houses and crumbling stone jetty that thrust like a long tongue into the sea. The tide was out, and a mile or so offshore I could just make out twin pinnacles of black rock which stood up from the ocean like two mighty guardians offering a safe entry into the tiny harbour.

Fortunately, I had no need to ask directions of any of the inhabitants. I well remembered the obvious dislike these folk had of my uncle and did not doubt this animosity would also be extended towards anyone of the hated name of Dexter. From what I could recall, there were many in the village who had regarded him as some kind of wizard, and although such a notion might have been laughed at by townsfolk, here such beliefs had always been strongly held.

I started the car again and drove slowly past the shuttered windows fronting the street. At the end of the village there was a narrow road, which led in a series of tortuous bends to the mansion, which we were soon able to pick out as a gaunt, black silhouette against the skyline.

The rain was still coming down in torrents as we drove through the tall metal gates and along the drive between huge oaks and elms, swinging around in front of the house.

No lights showed in any of the windows. Overhead, tall Gothic turrets and spires showed against the dark sky. I heard Ambrose gasp as he caught sight of it for the first time, looming before us in a great spectral mass of age-old stone.

I could guess at his feelings; I had felt them myself fifteen years before. As I have said earlier, my forebears had made various alterations to the original structure over the centuries, resulting in an oddly clashing conglomeration of architectural styles that had certainly not enhanced the overall appearance in any way. Indeed, the only softening effect came from the thick layers of ivy along the walls, for time and weather had had the opposite effect; making the angular abutments and towers even harsher and starker in their general outline.

We left the car parked in front of the main door, and hurriedly transferred our few belongings onto the porch, where I selected the correct key from the bunch I had received from the solicitors and threw open the door. Inside, we found a couple of lamps, for there was no electricity and in the yellow glow explored the nearer regions. The interior did not appear to have changed at all since my one and only previous visit. Apart from a thin layer of whitish dust, which covered everything, the place was just as my uncle had left it.

The wide hallway with the wide staircase lead off of ground level at the far end; and the huge oak table in the middle of the stone floor, chairs arranged round the walls, the broad open fireplace and the few pieces of bric-a-brac my uncle had collected over the years; all blended into a familiar scene which struck me with the force of a physical blow, bringing back recollections of my unforgettable experiences one and a half decades earlier.

An hour later, we had made ourselves reasonably comfortable. There were four bedrooms on the ground floor in the West Wing, and Ambrose and I had chosen a couple of these for ourselves. There was clearly a lot to be done before the place was fit to be lived in, but that would have to wait. Now that I had inherited the mansion and was master there, I intended to see that changes were made. Structurally, the building was very sound, but the interior was in urgent need of complete renovation and modernisation.

We were both tired now. After eating a brief meal of cold meat that we had brought with us, we retired to our rooms. But weary as I was, I found it difficult to sleep. There was something odd about the place which I could not define. I was well aware that all old houses possess curious atmospheres which can be sensed strongly, particularly by those sensitive to such auras, and there were also my own remembrances of this place, which I had never thought to visit again. But it was something more than this; as if my uncle had never left this house, but some part of him still remained to ensure that I carried out those peculiar instructions he had outlined in his letter.

When, at length, I did fall into an uneasy doze it was to be assailed by troubled dreams in which I seemed to be standing in some great subterranean cavern where a vast, thunderous cataract plunged into a bottomless abyss; and in the foreground, on a rocky ledge, stood my uncle pointing an admonishing finger at me and shouting words which I could not hear above the endless roar of the water falling into the terrifying chasm.

When I woke, it was grey dawn and I was sweating profusely. I threw off the coverlet and dressed hurriedly, feeling an unaccustomed chill on my body. Ambrose was awake and had lit a fire in the hearth.

Over breakfast, Ambrose plied me with questions concerning my immediate plans. I had to confess that so far, I had given but scant thought to them, waiting to see what state the house was in before deciding what needed to be done and in what order things could reasonably be carried out. After some discussion, we decided to drive into Penzance that morning, where I wished to visit my late uncle’s solicitors, and Ambrose would approach various architects with a view to one coming out to Tormouth to look over the place and draw up plans for its modernisation. Ambrose would also purchase provisions, sufficient to last us for some time, for I doubted if we would be able to obtain any in the village.

The weather had turned fine and sunny once more as we drove through Tormouth and we were acutely aware of the sullen glances of the few people abroad on the street. But our spirits rose a little as we left the sea behind and progressed across the bare moorland. By the time we arrived in Penzance, the sun was hot and there was not a cloud in the sky.

Leaving Ambrose, I searched out the offices of Poulton and Forsythe, the solicitors, where I was shown into the office of Andrew Forsythe, a small, balding man in his late fifties who received me courteously and ushered me to a chair. Even though he had probably been expecting me to call sometime, it seemed my presence there made him distinctly uneasy.

“I trust you received the letter your uncle wrote just before he...died,” he said, placing the tips of his fingers together and staring at me over the fleshy pyramid.

I assured him I had, and mentioned the strange contents.

“I’m afraid I can’t enlighten you on that subject. To be quite honest, I had very little to do with your uncle. He was, as you know, a man of, shall we say, peculiar, habits. He had no visitors I know of, staying quite alone in that house on the cliffs. I think I should also warn you that the inhabitants of the village will not take too kindly to your arrival. They’re a clannish and highly superstitious lot, and unfortunately this is no recent thing.”

I must have looked at him in surprise, for he went on hurriedly: “From the records which are still extant, the Dexters have lived there for nearly a thousand years, and wild rumours concerning them have circulated throughout the surrounding countryside for almost as long as that.”

“What sort of rumours?” I asked. Forsythe’s expression had given me pause.

“Oh, the usual kind of thing one comes across in isolated communities such as this.” Forsythe tried to appear offhand about the subject, but this was belied by the look of gravity on his face. “The family was suspected of sorcery during the Middle Ages, but, curiously, no action seems to have been taken against them in spite of the infamous witchcraft trials, which took place elsewhere.”

The news did not surprise me. My family had always kept itself to itself, and it was inevitable that, in such circumstances, such suspicions should be levelled against them. When Forsythe made no move to embellish his remarks, I changed the subject.

“Now that I’ve taken over the house and property, there are a number of changes I wish to make. I trust there are no legal reasons why I should not do so.”

“None of which I am aware,” he assured me. “Indeed, from what little I’ve seen of the house, it has always struck me that the lack of modern amenities is something which should be rectified as soon as possible.”

“Then I shall do that without delay,” I told him.

He nodded in acquiescence. “I consider that to be a wise move,” he said.

After a pause, I got up to take my leave of him but, as I did so, another thought struck me, born of the sudden recollection of how he had paused oddly when he had mentioned my uncle’s death.

“I wonder if you could tell me where my uncle is buried. I’d like to see the grave.”

The look he gave me at that moment sent a strange feeling of apprehension through me. For several seconds, he seemed to have difficulty in answering me. It was evident my question had somehow disconcerted him.

Finally, he said harshly, “I’m afraid I’m not in a position to do that, Mr. Dexter.”

“Why not?” I asked indignantly. “Surely he must have been buried somewhere. There was no reference to him having been cremated.”

“The point is, I’ve no information as to where he was buried. I merely received the news that he had died, and the estate was to pass to you as his only living relative.”

“Do you know if there is a family vault?” It had suddenly occurred to me that this was the only possible answer. “And, if so, who carried out the ceremony?”

“I presume there must be one somewhere, but as to its whereabouts, I’m afraid I’m totally ignorant.”

I was utterly astonished and made no attempt to hide it. “Then how can you be so sure he’s dead?”

“Oh, there’s no doubt about that.” He spoke with an enforced calmness in an attempt to quieten my ruffled composure. I also got the impression he would not welcome any further questions on this particular subject. That there was a mystery here I did not doubt. But it was equally obvious I would gain little, or no, further information from him.

I decided I would have to make further, and more detailed, enquiries. My first attempts ended in failure. I ascertained the names and addresses of all the undertakers in Penzance, and visited each in turn enquiring about my uncle, but the response was the same in every case. There had been no interment at Tormouth, and my uncle’s name was not known to any of them.

I then sought out the offices of the
Penzance Gazette
where, after some deliberation, the editor gave permission for me to peruse the back copies of the newspaper
.
I soon came across a small notice detailing the death of my uncle, but apart from the name, address and date, there were no additional details given in the brief insertion. It was all very strange; almost as though, apart from this brief reference, he had never existed.