“Modred and I were of like mind in these dark and pessimistic philosophies. And then we differed:
“I vowed to learn to understand these forces, so that I might combat them…
“Modred swore to do the same — so that he might control them.
“We escaped together one night… and separated. I never knew for certain whether Dr. Gerhard Modred survived the morass of mud and barbed wire and machine guns. Somehow I did make it through.”
Chance looked into the smoke of his cigar. After a moment he began again. “You know most of the rest. Later I became a student of the occult, of the paranormal — of the dark, undefined forces that move mankind and his world in defiance of all sane logic. The obsession drove me to strange places here and abroad, to study at the feet of madmen and geniuses. And as I searched through the shadows, I now and again encountered whispers of another demon-driven madman such as I — a sinister, masked creature who called himself Dread.”
Moore dragged on his cigarette and stared at him, listening in silence. He seemed to have aged a century that night — from the bitter, self-indulgent bon vivant who had sought death in the face of failure and self-pity, to a man cut adrift from all certainty who now clung to life with the hopeless tenacity of a castaway holding to his broken bit of wreckage in a growing hurricane. He had sought oblivion and found instead horror.
What wonder that his closest friend whom he had grown to hate had returned to him from the dead? What marvel that this man whom the world proclaimed a brilliant scientist talked to him now in sober tones of medieval witchcraft and elder sorceries, of creatures from time’s dawn and monstrosities of depraved science, of Carsultyal and Carcosa and those who dwelt there, of the Somme and Verdun and those who died there, of ancient grimoires and suppressed tomes of forbidden research, of fiends from blackest Hell and demons spawned by man himself.
The night was haunted with soulless horror, for Chance spoke to him of Dread. And Compton Moore could only listen and believe, for earlier he had examined the Luger’s magazine and found only seven bright bullets, and he knew that even in death there was no refuge from Dread.
The clatter of spurned gravel was a death-knell to her terrified senses. Kirsten bit her lips to stifle a scream. Polished bits of river gravel sifted down from on top of the boulder beneath which she crouched. Her keen nostrils caught an animal stench on the mountain air — then a sudden frantic scramble as something heavy slid down the smooth rock.
A black muzzle thrust into her refuge, foul breath and gnashing teeth inches from her cringing flesh. A fierce growling ululation deafened her. Kirsten screamed. The muzzle lunged closer.
Booted feet hit the gravel bar. “Hold him, Ben!” a hoarse voice yelled. “Hold him, boy!”
A beefy hand dragged at the Plott hound’s collar, pulling him back from the crevice. An unshaven face peered in at her. The eyes beneath the slouch hat were round and black and nearly as close-set as the double barrels of the ten-gauge shotgun whose muzzle replaced that of the hound at the opening.
“All right now!” The voice warned, undercutting the bearhound’s growl. “I reckon you’d best skin out of there!”
A human face was a relief to Kirsten — whose terror of the salamander outweighed all other fears. Friend, or one of Dread’s henchmen, mattered little in that instant of relief. The barrel of the shotgun gestured impatiently, and the girl obediently crawled out from her useless concealment.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” The mountaineer whistled — then hastily: “Begging your pardon, ma’am.”
Kirsten was glad at this touch of courtesy, for she was very conscious of the man’s open stare. Barefoot and tousled, the falling sun made witchery of her slim figure through the torn frock of thin green silk, as she emerged like a bedraggled woodsprite from beneath the boulders. The big mountain man, roughly dressed in flannel shirt, overalls, and boots, might have been an ogre from her native Harz Mountains. He could be worse than an ogre if so inclined, Kirsten reflected, grimly aware that this was a very lonely place.
But the mountaineer lowered his stare and touched his slouch hat in rough gallantry. There was a touch of grey in his slicked-back hair, and his face was big and square. “Begging your pardon for the fright I set you, ma’am,” he rumbled awkwardly. “I didn’t know what old Ben was onto.”
The bright black eyes studied her face. “Ma’am, I don’t allow as you’re any ghost since old Ben sure enough tracked you. But aren’t you Kirsten von Brocken?”
His puzzled tone reassured her. “Yes, I’m Kirsten von Brocken,” she smiled, pronouncing it “Kursten” as he did so as not to appear punctilious.
She stuck out her hand in the American fashion, and he clumsily shook it in his spade-like paw. The touch seemed to relieve his aloofness.
“My name’s Hampton Wells, Miss von Brocken,” he told her. “And I guess your folks’ll be pleased to know that you’re still alive, inasmuch as the papers all are saying you ain’t. Your picture’s in there right on the front page, though I don’t guess I’d of called your name right off if I hadn’t seen you drive up last night at Jack Martin’s store.”
Kirsten wondered who among the idlers he had been, puzzled at his talk of ghosts. “And I’m very glad you’ve found me, Mr. Wells. I’ve been hobbling about all day, quite lost. If there were search parties about, I’m afraid I wasn’t very helpful.”
There was shrewd intelligence in the eyes that studied her from beneath the hatbrim. “Weren’t no search parties, Miss von Brocken,” he said carefully. “There was sure enough two bodies found all burnt up in that wreck. They say one was John Chance and they say the other was you. Ain’t nobody been searching for you.”
He added: “Or nobody I guess you’d want finding you.”
Kirsten’s green eyes stared at him. She said nothing — poised like some wild creature uncertain which way to leap from the deadly danger she sensed was closing in upon her.
“There’s some mistake,” she stammered, knowing the evil that lurked behind the lies in the newspaper. “That wasn’t John Chance who was driving — it was a friend, John Wingfield. And there was no one else with us in the car…” Wells studied her for a long silent interval. The girl was in a frightened quandary. She was uncertain how much to confide. Would this stolid mountain man think her a raving fool if she dared be frank? Dared she trust him? And how much did Wells himself suspect of the evil that cast its dark shadow over these mountains?
Wells seemed to read her anxious thoughts. “Seems to me, Miss von Brocken,” he said gently, “like someone ain’t anxious that you be found. Maybe you know why that would be. I know about John Chance what they print in the papers, and I reckon could be a man like him would be interested in some of the things been happening around here lately.”
“Go on,” she prodded when he paused.
“Always assuming,” he carefully qualified. “But if someone didn’t want John Chance butting in on something… Well, I guess you could better tell me just what kind of accident that was last night, and maybe why hadn’t nothing been seen of Cullin Shelton since you went looking for him from Martin’s. So they pulled two bodies out of that wreck, and the sheriff is satisfied — but you tell me one wasn’t John Chance and you’re here to show the other one wasn’t you. Now then it follows that there’s someone who maybe don’t know that one of them ain’t Chance’s body — but who sure to God knows that the other one ain’t your body what was put there to find. And that somebody wouldn’t be planning on your showing up otherwise. And so, Miss von Brocken, you’d be well advised to take care just who you let find out you’re still alive…”