Henry Kuttner - The Book of Iod

Will Benson was next of kin to the dead Andreas Benson. If Will died, Doyle would be the inheriting legatee. Consequently, Doyle had come to Monk’s Hollow, and, with a gun in his pocket, had casually inquired about his cousin, taking pains to arouse no suspicion.

Will Benson was a recluse—and worse, men told Doyle over their beer. They whispered wild tales of what he did at night in his cabin, where drawn blinds hid unknown terrors from the eyes of the hardy prowler, and of ominous sounds that heralded a menace unknown.

But there were no more prowlers now, not since Ed Durkin, the saloon keeper, had come home one night talking about a smoky black horror that he said had squatted on the roof of Benson’s cabin, watching him with flaming eyes until he had ignominiously fled.

Doyle chuckled to himself, realizing that fantastic tales often grow up about a recluse. His task would be easier now, for there would be little danger of a chance that some passerby might hear the gunshot. He had taken the precaution of hiring a black roadster of a common make for his night’s journey, and his dark face was impassive as he steered the car along the rutted dirt road in the dusk.

Doyle’s face seldom betrayed his emotions, save by a slight tightening of his thin lips and a peculiar glazing of the cold gray eyes. He smiled, however, when the door of the cabin opened in response to his knock and a man stepped out on the porch. But it was not a pleasant smile.

Doyle recognized Will Benson from his photographs, although they had been taken nearly twenty years before. There was the same broad, high forehead, the same level stare of brooding dark eyes. The parenthetical lines about the mouth had grown deeper, and Benson’s thick eyebrows were drawn together in a puzzled frown; there were silver flecks about the temples. All at once his eyes lighted.

“Why—Al!” His voice was hesitant. “It’s Al, isn’t it? I didn’t know you at first.”

Doyle’s smile widened, but mentally he cursed his cousin’s memory. He had not been sure; he had not known whether Benson would remember him. Well, it could not be helped now. He had planned two courses of action; one would have to be discarded now in favor of the alternative plan. He put out his hand and gripped Benson’s with hypocritical cordiality.

“It’s Al, all right. Didn’t know whether you’d remember me. It’s been almost twenty years, hasn’t it? I was just a kid when I last saw you—aren’t you going to ask me to come in?”

An odd hesitancy was apparent in Benson’s manner. He frowned, then glanced almost furtively over his shoulder, then stood aside.

"Yes, of course. Come in.”

Benson double-locked the door, Doyle noticed, as his glance swept the room. Amazement gripped him. He stood there staring. The villagers had been right in naming this the Wizard’s House!

Dark hangings swathed the walls, their sable folds giving the chamber an elusive quality of spaciousness. Tables, chairs had been pushed back against the walls, and on the bare floor was traced an extraordinary design. Doyle searched his memory; then he recognized it—a pentagram, with its circles and six-pointed star, drawn in some substance that glowed with a faint greenish light.

About the pentagram at intervals stood intricately engraved lamps of silver metal, and within the design was a chair, a table on which a huge iron-bound book lay open, and a censer suspended from a tripod. The room of a wizard, indeed! Through Doyle went a little surge of petulant anger. What would such a fool do with old Benson’s fortune—should he inherit it? Probably waste it on mummery of some sort!

Another thought came to Doyle: Was the murder necessary? Would it not be easier to prove Benson insane? He put the unformulated thought from him. He dared not take risks. The gun was much the surer way.

Benson was watching him oddly. “Surprised, eh? Well, I guess it does look rather unusual at first. I’ll explain later. First, sit down and tell me about yourself—how you happened to come.”

He dragged a chair out from the wall. Doyle sank into it, drawing out his cigarette case.

“It’s a long story,” he said. “You’ve been out of touch with everything, haven’t you? Your grandfather and I were talking about you just the other day.”

He watched Benson keenly, but the man made no move. Apparently he had not yet learned of old Benson’s death.

“It started me wondering how—”

“Er—excuse me,” Benson broke in. “Would you mind not smoking?”

“Eh?” Doyle stared at him, then returned the cigarette to its case. “Of course.”

Apparently Benson felt the need of an explanation.

“I have a rather delicate—ah, experiment I’m working on. Even small things may endanger its success. I—I’m afraid you’ll think me a poor host, Al, but you really came at an inopportune time.”

He hesitated, and again came that curiously furtive glance over his shoulder.

“Had you planned on staying here tonight?”

Doyle was deliberately tactful. “Why, if you put it that way—I don’t want to intrude. I didn’t mean—”

“No. No, nothing like that,” Benson said hastily. "Only, I’ve started this experiment now, and I’ve got to finish it. Even now it’s dangerous—”

Doyle thought quickly. The man was obviously mad. What kind of nonsense was this “experiment”, anyway? But Doyle could not leave yet. He winked, and nodded meaningfully. “Expecting some company, eh, Will?”

Benson’s pale face flushed. “No,” he said. “You’re wrong there. It really is an experiment—and a dangerous one, believe me. Look here, Al. Can you go back to the village tonight—now— and come back tomorrow? I’m really awfully pleased to see you, but it’s—well, I can’t very well explain. These things always sound incredible at first. Think of it as a scientific experiment— with high explosives.”

“Lord, I’m sorry,” Doyle said quickly. “I’d be glad to go back, but I can’t. Something’s wrong with my car. I just managed to make it up here, and I’m no mechanic. Can’t we phone the village for somebody to pick me up?”

For a moment he held his breath. He did not believe Benson would have a telephone, but—

“I haven’t a phone,” Benson replied, gnawing at his lip. “You’re here now, Doyle, and I’m responsible for you. I’ll—there’s no danger, really, if you do as I tell you.”

“Of course. If you want me to, I’ll go in another room and read ‘til you’re finished. I—”

He paused, astonished at the curious look that came into Benson’s face.

“God, no! You stay with me! That’s the only place you’ll be safe. The—the—”

He looked quickly over his shoulder. Doyle saw that a thick, bluish coil of smoke was ascending from the censer.

“Come on!” Benson said urgently and Doyle rose, watched his cousin carry a chair within the pentagram. Slowly he followed.

From somewhere, Benson produced a candle, set it in a candlestick on the table. He extinguished the oil lamp that had illuminated the room, so that the only light came from the candle and the six silver lamps. Shadows crept in. Outside the pentagram a wall of darkness seemed to press forward, and the black hangings lent a disturbing air of measureless distances to the blackness. It was utterly silent.

“I’d already started this,” Benson explained. "And it’s something that can’t be stopped. It’s got to run its course. Sit down; you’ve got a long wait.”

He bent over the great iron-bound book on the table, turned a yellowed page. The volume was in Latin, Doyle saw, but he knew little of the language. The pale face of Benson, brooding over the book, reminded Doyle of some medieval magician working his sorcery. Sorcery! Well, the gun in his pocket was a stronger magic than the mumbo-jumbo of half-cracked fools. Still, he would have to humor Benson. The man had an awkward habit of glancing up quickly, and Doyle had no relish for a physical conflict. The first shot must be fatal.