The Man Who Collected Machen and Other Weird Tales (7 page)

The ravages of the mould increased as it multiplied. As immeasurable time passed, countless galaxies bore the evidence of its all-conquering reign. Where there had been a multitude of worlds of differing aspects, of arid yellow deserts, of misty and scarred blue ice, of airless grey dust, now all were identical. All were blackened, their surfaces entirely smothered by the mould: canyons and mountains, plateaux and craters, cities and forests, ice and sand, even oceans (choked by a miasmal slime that conquered all incalculable depths). The mould flourished everywhere and anywhere. It mattered not if its habitat were a world of liquid methane or water, or a world roasting close to a star, or a world far flung out in space and frozen at absolute zero.

Astronomers on distant worlds looked on with dread at the development. Those that perceived it not, perished all the same. Multiform were the species of the universe, following different paths of evolution and modes of thought, though none were as the mould. But all those that looked outward at the universe felt wonder and terror, whether they were taloned crustaceans in a fungous jungle, cognisant machines of incredible technological complexity, or peace-loving sea mammals that gazed with dark eyes at the stars above the waters of an alien world. All knew the end was near and their kind would, ere centuries had passed, be consumed and then participate in the cosmic corruption of the mould.

One insignificant species amongst the many millions in the universe succumbed to the mould after vain attempts to resist its advance. This species, a nearly hairless race of anthropoids, habited the third planet orbiting an undistinguished star. The mould consumed the outer gas giants and the satellites of this solar system one by one. The simians watched with mounting terror as the spores drew inexorably nearer, moving unaccountably against the solar wind and turning the red desert planet in fourth orbit as black as the other outer worlds.

By the time the mould had reached the third planet’s only satellite the hairless apes were in turmoil. Their civilisation was on the brink of anarchy and they were close to destroying themselves. The light cast by the world’s moon at night was no longer white but a deathly grey, shading to black, and becoming dim. It bore the same affliction that had reigned throughout all those galactic regions the mould had conquered. There were morbid ape poets that wrote verses to the contagion and seemed to welcome the insidious nightmares that foretold complete assimilation. But other apes, vainglorious followers of science, who fired rockets into the heavens, watched the explosions that took place on their moon with desperate hope. The satellite bore a hellish aspect, utterly unfamiliar to them. The mould had rendered it terrifying: like decay in a corpse.

And when the spores finally filtered down onto their own world, there were many more explosions and scenes of horror amongst the hairless apes as they turned on themselves, blaming each other for the failure to resist what was, after all, inevitable.

And it was not long before the streets of their cities were thick with the mould, not long before black slime ran in the water, not long before the anthropoids found the first patches of black ichors on their skins. And then the endless dreams came, just before the mould completely consumed the helpless simians.

As soon as the star of that solar system was overrun and suffocated, the spores progressed onwards, their numbers always swelled by the exhalations of the solar systems consumed before. Across the unknown stellar gulfs spread the contagion, never once halted in its expansion. There were other civilisations that tried to resist its advance, but all perished in the end. The most advanced ones, who had cunning and the available means, elected to flee before the mould’s arrival. But even these were caught up with and consumed in the end. After aeons, all those that fled found that there was no longer anywhere left to hide.

The mould and its spores became omnipresent throughout the universe. The gas clouds and the gulfs of space were choked with spores. And yet the mould had not achieved its goal. Although the entire universe had been laid waste, and neither life nor thought existed, except for the mould and its exponential nameless dread, still it had not achieved the final petrifying vision that could terrify it into self-extinction.

And so the spores poured into those stars that had reached the final point of collapse, into the black holes scattered throughout the cosmos. The mould appeared in other universes and in every epoch across those other dimensions. It spread and adapted as voraciously as it had ever done, unchecked and irresistible, from the beginning until the end of all existence.

But the ultimate, petrifying vision could still not be glimpsed and the mould, now the supreme conqueror, dreamed on and on in its hideous majesty; doomed to re-experience its nameless dread forever; for it was the mould itself that was the ultimate horror and of itself it had never dreamed.

It groped futilely, as one in darkness gropes for the light, backwards and forwards throughout all space and time, until all that had been, and all that was to be, fell under its dominion. And there was to be no release from the nightmare.

Xapalpa

In order to reach the Mexican town of Xapalpa, you have to take a road that climbs upwards through the mountains. It is a tortuous road, one which winds like a serpent across the arid landscape, and which finally attains the level of the plateau and the mass of buildings clustered around the Xapalpa river. The terrain is famous for its huge volcanic rocks called the Piedrotas. They are located to the northwest of the town and jut out fantastically from the earth, in a multitude of bewildering geological formations. Such is their extreme antiquity, they have been worn down in places by centuries of wind and rain. From Xapalpa, one can see the Colima volcano to the south, the most active of all volcanoes in Mexico, as it almost continually puffs out sulphur smoke from its crater. One senses that it is a region of cosmic antiquity, and that man is no more significant here than any other of the insects that crawl in the dust.

Frank Mason tried not to let the impressive scenery all around distract him from the road ahead as he drove his black Cherokee Jeep towards Xapalpa. If he let his attention wander there seemed a good chance he’d wind up hurtling his vehicle into the scrubland below. He was in his early sixties, with a large paunch, a white moustache, and sun-reddened skin that never quite retained a tan. Since taking retirement from a Chicago bank four months ago he’d decided to retire to Mexico where his pension money would go further. His wife had died of a tumour on the brain when he was fifty-eight, he had no other family to speak of, and he liked to look at dark-skinned girls as he drank his daily quota of beer.

He’d retired to the colonial town of San Miguel de Allende, but it had been overrun by other retired gringos, and, noticing a sense of resentment creeping into the service provided by the indigenous inhabitants (or so he suspected; paranoia had long been one of his defining traits), he thought he might scout around for another town in which to live; one more noticeably eager and grateful for American spending power. He’d taken Spanish classes after first arriving in San Miguel, and his grasp of the language had improved considerably. However, he may have been better off had he remained mostly monolingual, like so many other gringos there. Much of the time he was alone in cantinas and restaurants, and he always had an ear cocked for slighting references to his nationality, eavesdropping on conversations, unconsciously seeking to confirm his own prejudices.

He also disliked the other Americans who had come down south. He tried to avoid them as best he could. They were continually seeking free financial advice from him, often under the guise of friendship. Moreover, they reminded him of his clients from the bank in Chicago and he had no wish to be reminded of the past at all. New arrivals at San Miguel were the worst offenders, and there were more and more of them as the months went on.

Mason’s Jeep passed by the woods overlooking Xapalpa. The greenery was dotted with log cabins that housed tourists. It was more expensive to stay up in the woods than to stay in the centre of Xapalpa, and only worth the extra expense if one’s stay consisted of quad-bike driving, horse riding, paragliding, or some other sporting activity liable to end in a broken neck.

He parked just outside the main square, on Avenida Hidalgo, which was dominated by the church of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Constructed from local red brick in 1970, its single tower with its white cupola blended in harmoniously with the rest of the village. All of the little houses had whitewashed fronts, red-shuttered windows, and red-tiled roofs that sloped towards narrow cobbled streets. Many of the pavements were elevated above the level of the road, and small flights of steps at regular intervals assisted pedestrians making their way up and down the winding hills upon which Xapalpa had been constructed. During the day the sun was fierce, but at night, such was its altitude, the temperature dropped markedly and many houses were equipped with fireplaces and chimneys. Poor Indio children, dressed in bright garb, would ply their trade selling bundles of kindling in the streets, or by approaching people sitting in the shade of the wooden loggias surrounding the garden in the town centre.

The sun was going down by the time Mason had crossed the square, his long shadow trailing behind him, and he entered the little cantina on Avenida Obregon. It was deserted except for the owner, who was polishing the glasses with his apron. Mason sat down at the table of the three inside closest to the doorway, and took in his surroundings.

The outside of the bar counter was decorated with old wooden rifles and military sabres, and there were a number of photographs of revolutionary heroes hanging on the surrounding walls. Emiliano Zapata stared down sternly in an eternally frozen black and white moment. A couple of lamps, whose electric bulbs were housed in nicotine yellow glass, hung from the deep blue ceiling.

Finally the owner made his way over from behind the counter to Mason’s table. He had brought no menu, and so Mason anticipated that he was expected to know what he
wanted to drink sight unseen. He ordered a beer, one that was dark rather than clear, and after the owner had brought the icy cold bottle over to him, he took a swig from it and settled back into his chair. The old man had been indifferent towards Mason, scarcely paying him any attention at all, and had not even bothered to greet him with a friendly “
buenas tardes
”. However, some ten minutes later, when another customer entered, one of the locals, he was effusive with his welcome. Fraternity was something money could not buy. The new arrival stood at the counter for a while, and Mason was conscious of the fact that, all the time whilst he was chatting with the owner, the man was regarding Mason from the corner of his eye.

Mason was not sure whether he was being sized up as a possible target for free drinks, or whether the stranger was just naturally curious, or wary, about the gringo who had decided to drink in this particular watering hole. It was very strange, Mason thought, the way that the Mexicans could sniff out a gringo even before he’d opened his mouth. It wasn’t just a matter of clothing or skin colour. There were many pale-skinned folk in Mexico (guerritos or blondies, they were called) and all the clothes Mason owned now had been purchased here.

His mind apparently made up, the stranger came over to Mason’s table, uttered a greeting, and then sat down, without asking permission to do so. Evidently he felt that Mason was a guest at the table, and indeed, within the cantina itself.

“
Here on vacation, eh my friend?” he said, removing the tall straw hat with a frayed brim from his head. His hair was jet-black and oiled. Despite his being nearly the same advanced age as Mason, the colour seemed natural. His creased fingers played around the half-empty glass of ice mixed with Chivas whiskey he’d placed on the table in front of him.

Mason responded in fluent Spanish, and said no, he lived in Mexico, and was looking at a number of small towns in the State of Jalisco with a view to finding somewhere more affordable and to his taste than where he was living at present.

The stranger grinned. He continued to speak in English, but whether as a courtesy to Mason or in deliberate disregard for the American’s command of Spanish, it was not possible to tell. He introduced himself as Paco Maldonado, offered a “
salud
, friend” and tapped his rapidly emptying glass against Mason’s bottle of beer. The American was suddenly conscious of the fact that, although they were approximately the same age, the difference in their physical conditions was very marked. Mason was a flabby, unfit man who had spent his whole life working behind a desk or else driving a car from one place to another. Maldonado, conversely, had a deep leathery tan gained from decades of outdoor work. His body was sinewy and muscular, and his calloused hands and chipped fingernails told of stresses greater than meeting deadlines and tapping away at a keyboard.

“
There is house, cheap, I think you like,” Maldonado said, “very close from here. It is good, but not I think if you easily have fear. A gringo, like you, stayed there once. Now there is no-one.”

Twilight in Mexico does not last long. The sun disappears quickly and night arrives within a few minutes, as if the darkness is impatient to take hold, having been kept waiting for too long by the day. Mason glanced away from Maldonado’s fixed gaze and looked beyond the doorway to the now dark street outside.

“
The house, friend, is—how you say—‘haunted’, but I think you are not a man who believes in phantoms, no? You see no reason to fear the dead.”