Now that he was up closer, Kent could see that Roberts’ eyes had dark smudges beneath them that hadn’t been there before. “Talking may help,” he told Roberts gently. “And it may do some good.”
Roberts moved awkwardly in his swivel chair so that a great bar of sunlight fell across his features, enabling Kent to see more clearly the effects of nervous tension on his friend’s face.
Roberts made a hopeless gesture with his hands. “I hardly know where to begin.”
“Just tell it as you remember it,” Kent said.
“I’m a pretty sane, strong-willed person, as you know,” the artist said. “And this is something completely outside my experience. I don’t believe in the supernatural, but some while back I started hearing voices. I work a great deal in the studio, as you know, and the faint fret of the water beneath the building was very soothing at the beginning.”
Kent leaned forward in his chair as his friend broke off. “Yes?” he prompted. “And then, after a while, something happened?”
Roberts nodded. “You won’t believe this, but I started hearing voices, as though coming from the water.” He caught the other’s disbelieving glance. “I don’t mean actual voices. But they were sounding in my head. They were asking me to come down.”
“Down where?”
“Down below. Into the water. I know you will think me mad and that my experiences are the result of some mental aberration, but it isn’t so. I’m as sane you are.” He stared at Kent grimly. “You don’t believe me?”
Kent inclined his head. “Of course I believe you. But the strain of your long hours of work... Might it not be some mental stress...?”
“It’s not a mental problem. I went to see an eminent specialist in London, one of the most highly recommended in Europe. He gave me the most exhaustive tests and I spent several hours with him. He could find nothing wrong—no trace of pathological disease—and gave me a clean bill of health in every way.”
“Then what is the problem?” Kent asked slowly.
Roberts’ face was set in a hard mask. “Something terribly real. There’s something evil in this house which is reaching out to claim me for some purpose.”
Kent rose from the chair. “You can’t really mean that?” he said incredulously.
Roberts got up too. “I certainly do. This constant repetition in my head. Come to us. An invitation to what? It will really drive me mad if something isn’t done.” He sat down again abruptly. “Several times I opened the hatch and stared down into the water. There was nothing, of course, but the constant rush seemed like distorted laughter.”
Kent felt a sudden frisson of something he couldn’t clearly define. Not fear, but coldness as though his friend’s words had struck a chill to the soul, if such a thing were possible. Then he became businesslike. “Let’s go down below and look at this sinister hatch of which you speak.”
Roberts became agitated. “Please don’t say that. It may sound like provocation.”
Kent chose to ignore this extraordinary statement. He said nothing further, but followed his host down to the studio.
The room was a huge chamber and Kent had not seen it before in its final form. Though it was in close proximity to the water, it was quite warm as Roberts had installed central heating here also in case damp from the stream might affect his canvases.
There was an enormous wooden hatch, bound with iron bands, about six feet square, in the far corner. Owing to the huge weight, it was raised by a steel cable fastened to a metal ring, which ran through a pulley block bolted to a massive beam above and raised by a small metal windlass secured to the floor. The cable ran almost noiselessly through the pulley block as Roberts turned the handle of the windlass and then secured it with the brake as soon as it was fully open.
There was a sudden rush of cold air, mingled with various odours that Kent found difficult to place. It was true that the stream which ran foaming and clear about eight or ten feet below made a disturbing sound as it raced through, and such was its power that Kent could feel a faint vibration beneath his feet, as the water swirled round the piles which supported the building. He guessed that in the dim past flat-bottomed barges had rested beneath to take sacks of corn on board. Sunlight filtering through made a dappled surface of the wavelets below, and now and then the silver belly of a small fish slid in and out of view on its way downstream to the distant sea.
He turned to Roberts, the latter surveying him with a hopeful expression on his face. “I can see nothing unusual. A powerful surge round the building from time to time, but that is quite normal.”
“Ah, but you are never here at night,” Roberts said.
Kent gave him a blank look. “You don’t mean to say that you paint down here at night? I thought natural light was necessary for all artists?” He broke off at the expression on the other’s face.
“I do some of my best work at night,” Roberts said. Then he changed his manner to one more placatory. “What I mean to say is that I retouch portraits and so on, and make plans for future canvases.” And with that he turned on his heel and led the way upstairs.
Kent declined his friend’s invitation to tea. When he left the mill house he was a very troubled man.
VII
From Roberts’ Personal Diary.
Is Kent right and that I am becoming over-imaginative in being alone so long in this huge house?
Or am I going mad? God forbid. But these events, though somewhat intangible, are nevertheless real in the still of the night. Still of the night? I use the term loosely for, goodness only knows, the house is never silent. The creaking of the beams, the furtive movements as though there are muffled footfalls in various rooms, and the distant trickle of water. For in truth one can hear the stream quite clearly, especially at night as we sleep with the windows open in this current hot weather. And the voices! Dear God, the voices! For these insistent whispers in my ears seem to say: Come to us! The water is beautifully clear and cool. Stay with us in the rippling embrace of the flow, which has existed throughout all eternity. Iä! Iä! Cthulhu fhtagn!
I put my pillow over my ears, but the voices still continue, which proves that they are inside my head. Sweet Jesus, where will it all end? We could leave this place, but I am convinced these cursed voices would still continue to plague me. For I have heard them when staying in my London hotel. This agony cannot continue much longer...
VIII
For a fortnight Roberts worked furiously on a new painting, and his labours completely absorbed him for his dread fantasies seemed to fade away. He was more cheerful altogether when he met Kent for lunch at The Three Horseshoes, which was a great relief to his old friend.
In addition, Gilda had rung several times, once from Chicago and on another occasion from Washington. She was making the rounds of private art galleries and dealers and the prospects were extremely good.
Mrs Summers had also noted the change in her employer and was greatly relieved when Kent ran across her in the village one afternoon.
Kent had a book launch in London the following day, so he was not present when certain events unfolded. He stayed on for three more days with his fiancée and her family in St. John’s Wood.
The night he arrived back in the village it was quite late so he did not call on Roberts. Not that it would have made any difference to the outcome. Roberts had been in a good mood that brilliantly sunny day and had even attended a cricket match on the village green. But after dinner he felt some of the old malaise creeping over him. The housekeeper had long gone home and he could not settle to his accounts in the study.
It was a bright, clear night with the moon riding high, and he had the windows open to the faint breeze. Then suddenly, without warning, he felt the same insidious voices in his ears. Come to us! There is deep peace below. You are one of us and we are reclaiming you! It is good and peaceful where we are. We have slept for countless aeons and now we are gathering strength. Come down and be at peace for all time... Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah-nagl fhtagn!