"Hubble's Field. That’s the problem, isn’t it? The locals think the disappearances will start again, and they’ll be next. And it will be Phillips who starts it all up. Hell keep his new allies, the yuggya?, well sated with their blood in return for who knows what rewards?"
"Very astute, Jacob Maitland. I see I was right about you. What you have outlined is but the beginning of sorrows that will ensue if our friend Phillips is not stopped straightway. For I am convinced that he was lured out to his uncle's property in order to continue the old sorcerer's terrible work. My guess is that, while his vampiric allies had no concerns beyond ensuring a fresh supply of human sacrifices, Hiram Stokely had rather bigger things in mind, things hard for a sane mind to conceive of, though I have a few guesses.
"It would be a complex plan entailing much effort. His devil’s bargain caught up with him before he could finish his tasks. More than likely, Professor Copeland had thrown Stokely's plans awry by forcing him to part with certain crucial volumes he required. You saw how eager his nephew Phillips was to regain them. Somehow, perhaps through the lingering psychic influence in the house itself, young Phillips has been enlisted to carry old Hiram’s blasphemous schemes to their completion. At least that is my fear."
"What of the Indian?" asked Maitland, suddenly recalling how strange his presence had seemed. "Is it no more than Phillips having to go outside the town for help?"
"Would that it were so, friend Jacob. In that case, one would still have to ask why Phillips would trouble himself to locate an Indian, of the Hippaway tribe, I believe. There are none of them to be found in a radius of many miles nowadays. I cannot imagine there would be one on the list of any nearby employment agency. Especially not for such work. His name is the real signal. Does it strike a familiar note with you?"
Maitland rose, put one fist to his hip, touching the index digit of the other hand to his chin, unconsciously striking the contemplative pose. "Yes ... yes, it does, now that you mention it, though I was sure at the time I’d not heard the outlandish jumble before."
“No, it would be something you have heard, or rather read, since your visit."
About to give up on the game, Maitland suddenly turned a quarter circle to face him and, with light dawning in his eyes, he almost spoke, then grabbed up the typescript and began shuffling through the pages. "Here it is! The old devil is named for the Place of the Conqueror Worm. E-choc-tah in the tongue of the Hippaway. Hubble's Field. Good Christ! Why would anyone ...?"
Zarnak had stood to his feet now and was shaking the pile of pages together to even up their edges once more. "It is a very old legacy, Jacob. Our local burying ground, Hubble’s Field, is only one of many such honey-combed horrors. The children of Ubb, Lord of Maggots and Corruption, are active the world over, as many traditions attest. The holy city Jerusalem, now part of the British Mandate of Palestine, had once been a center of the cult of Yog-Sothoth, and it was erected in olden times next to an unclean place of Ubb. The Bible curses that place as Tophet, Gehenna, and Akeldama, the Field of Blood. Of it Isaiah writes, 'the worm dieth not and the fire is never quenched.' The demon Ubb eventually seduced Solomon to his fealty, whose great treasures and sorcerous powers are well known, though their true source remains unsuspected. In return, Solomon caused Ubb’s cult to be established in the Jerusalem temple itself, where it remained till the reforming zeal of King Josiah swept the whole gallery of abominations away."
Zarnak fell silent as the shadow of his man Akbar Singh loomed against the pebbled glass window. The occultist lifted his valise and motioned for Jacob Maitland to precede him. Maitland had not planned on any outings today, but he felt he had little choice but to accompany the strange and almost spectral figure to his waiting sedan. All were silent as the tall Sikh, whose turbaned head brushed the ceiling of the automobile, made the nightblack vehicle glide through the urban jungle like a panther on the prowl.
SEVERAL hours later, the road-weary Maitland found himself standing in the entrance hall of number 13 China Alley, the dwelling of Anton Zarnak. The master of the house himself had quietly disappeared for the moment, and the wide-eyed guest handed his coat to Akbar Singh, who seemed to him as improbable a manservant as the old Indian Echoctaqus.
Poor Maitland scarcely knew whether he stood in an embassy of some Far Eastern empire or in a compact and overflowing museum whose collection of exotica far surpassed anything the museum of the Sanbourne Institute had to show. Beneath his feet lay the huge skin of a white Siberian tiger. Suits of gilded armor stood to either side of a door frame, and their make suggested no conventional armorial style, no particular country or era he knew. He strained to read the small placard mounted on the base of one and thought he made out the odd word "Nemedian."
Everywhere his eyes met wonders. From the walls of the corridor mounted animal heads gazed glassily at one another. One was avian, though far too large to represent any ordinary species of bird; the other had to be some kind of boar, but it had altogether too many tusks. He caught sight of what he first took to be a stuffed bat, but closer inspection showed it to be a flying reptile of an unknown type. In a daze, Maitland stepped closer and extended a finger. Yes, the stitching was that of the taxidermist, not of the toy maker.
The gentle touch of the mighty hand of Akbar Singh brought him to his senses once again. He shook his head and followed the direction the giant indicated and soon found himself sinking into a plush chair facing that of Anton Zarnak, who sat with his hands together, like a tripod, his goateed chin resting on their apex. On the desk before him was an old book.
Zarnak took it up, saying simply, "Let me read you something."