THE AVATAR STONE - A Tale of the Cthulhu Mythos

Every American horror writer, it seems, goes through a phase where they are fascinated by the powerful works of Howard Philips Lovecraft, the creator of the "Cthulhu Mythos".  I started reading Lovecraft's works in high school and loved them from the very first.  So it was only natural, as I wrote my short stories in college, that I make at least one attempt to imitate the master's style, and contribute a tale to the eerie legacy of Great Cthulhu . . . this one is pretty long, like THE DERELICT, so I'm going to break it in two.  As always, please comment and let me know what you think!

THE AVATAR STONE

By

Lewis B. Smith

(from the memoirs of VADM James Thompson, USN)

 

This story is dedicated to the memory of Howard Phillips Lovecraft,

the man who still inspires us all

 

(Editor’s Note:  I have been in the habit of reading Admiral Thompson’s journals and then writing a third-person account of the events concerned.  In this instance, however, Thompson’s own prose – written many years after the events described – was so superior to anything I could have come up with that I left it untouched except for some very minor editing here and there.)

 

          Hong Kong has long been my favorite port of call.  I have enjoyed numerous visits there, and once spent a fantastic month of leave prowling the bustling streets and narrow, shopfront alleys.  Hong Kong was also the place where the most terrifying incident of my adult life started (and my life is somewhat remarkable in the number of weird and horrible adventures it has contained).  It is of that horrible experience that I write now, and the years have not dimmed the stark fear it brought, or the nightmares which plague me to this day. 

          It was 1969, and I was for the first time holding the position of department head – operations officer, to be precise – on a warship.  It was a heady rush of responsibility for a man who had been a second-class gunner’s mate just a few years before.  The USS Davison, our old Destroyer Escort,  had been recalled to service in the escalating Vietnam War, and we had just finished three months’ worth of carrier escort and gunnery support off the coast of the Indochinese Peninsula.  Now we were pulling into Hong Kong for a well-earned three week port visit.

          Eager to do some shopping, I finished the last of the paperwork relating to our visit, gave the operations keys to the duty section leader, and hit the gangplank. I ignored the swarms of Lilith-eyed maidens plying their trade as close to the pier as the Shore Patrol would let them and headed for the Star Ferry to Kowloon to do some serious browsing.  I acquired early in life a fascination for artifacts of all sorts. As a boy, it was Indian arrowheads and Civil War relics; as a man, it was carvings and statuettes from every country I visited.  Today my home is a veritable museum of such artifacts.

          The best way to shop in Hong Kong is to get off the beaten track as quickly as possible.  I avoided the well-lit, garishly painted “sailor traps” and plunged into dark alleys with the fearlessness of the young and strong of limb.  Taking several quick turns and wandering down numerous side streets, I finally slowed my pace a bit and noticed a likely looking establishment on my left – a tiny shop precariously squeezed between a seedy motel and a pornographic bookstore. The windows were grimy, but I could see they were jammed with numerous bits of carved jade and ivory, as well as musty books, old records, and some mahogany bookends.  I pushed open the door, setting two tarnished brass bells ringing.  Would to God I’d gone drinking instead, with the other officers, or done my shopping on the other side of the bay!

          The proprietor came bustling out to greet me, and to my surprise, I saw he was British – a wizened old fellow with gigantic muttonchop sideburns and prominent yellow teeth.  Pinned to his threadbare waistcoat were several old and tarnished medals, among the British DSO and the French Medaille Militaire. A veteran of the First World War, I thought to myself.  His eyes took in my dress whites and lit up.

          “A Yank officer, bless me heart!” he cackled, rubbing his hands together.  “Ah, me dear sir, I’ve got many things to show ye!  Don’t get many Yanks in here – they all hit the bars and the brothels!”  His voice was smooth and mellow with age, and I thought he might be genuinely glad of some Caucasian company, not just eager to make a sale. 

“Is it books on the art of love ye’d be interested in?” he asked.  “I have here an old Chinese lithograph detailing over two hundred positions of -”

I interrupted him with a laugh.

 “If I was interested in that sort of thing I would have gone next door,” I told him.  Actually, I’d like to look at those old carvings in your window if you’d be so kind as to let me move those bookshelves out of the way.  I couldn’t see too clearly from outside, but it looks like you have some really nice jade and ivory pieces there.”

“By all means, Lieutenant, go ahead,” he replied.  I tuned out his chatter as I moved the shelves out of the way and slid back the dirty glass to reveal a jumble of carvings.  Dragons were much in evidence, the largest one about eight inches tall.  A nicely carved jade one caught my eye and I immediately pulled it out for a closer look.  It was badly cracked on the other side, though, so I returned it to the shelf and pulled out an ivory sailing ship.  At this moment a dusty old book which had been leaning against the corner fell outwards, revealing a dark green statuette behind it.  Ignoring the old man’s shouts to be careful with his merchandise, I pulled it out and held it up to the light.

It was a fascinating thing. The material was a very dark jade unlike any I’d seen before, but I only noticed that later.  The carving itself occupied all my attention at the moment.  A solid base perhaps four inches square, supported a hideous image, a pagan idol perhaps, grotesque and covered with tentacles and teeth.  On its back rested a pair of folded, bat-like wings, and a single burning eye leered at me from above a tooth-lined mouth.  Its outline was altogether bizarre, calling to mind some of the blasphemous Elder Beings painted by Webber to illustrate the only American edition of The Necronomicon.  Along the base of the statue were carved some very worn and obscure runes, completely strange to me, even though I had read numerous books of arcane lore during my studies at Miskatonic University two years before.  Overall, the squatting creature depicted in the carving bore features of squid, ape, and dragon, as well as some that were wholly alien.

Strangest of all, though, was a smooth, five-pointed, starlike object suspended from the creature’s neck by a fine gold chain.  This item was carved out of a light greenish-grey material much like soapstone but harder, and bore the faint pattern of seemingly random dots in its center.  The whole thing was so delicately crafted, down to the last detail – one could easily imagine it moving to a shambling, half-sentient life – not a pretty thought!

Nevertheless, it fascinated me, and I was determined to add it to my collection.  I asked the old man where he’d gotten it.  For a moment, he studied it, and then spoke slowly.

“That’s about the oldest thing in my shop, by my reckoning.  I guess it were nigh on thirty years ago that a Chinese fisherman brought that piece in – said he’d dredged it up in his nets in the South China Sea.  I did a little research and found that stretch o’ocean floor has been submerged for twenty million years. Could be it fell off’n a passing ship, though.  Ugly enough, ain’t it?  The fisherman let me have it for a song – he said it were jinxed; for no sooner had he dredged it up than a storm came along that pretty near swamped his old trawler.  Said he seen things in the water during that storm that didn’t look like no fish the gods ever put there, too!  Me, I don’t put no stock in it, but I still don’t like the thing.  I’ll let’chee have it for five American dollars.”

I was prepared to pay five times that for it, so I gave him the money without haggling, picked up a few other items of interest, and went on back to the ship to stow them in my locker before joining some of the other officers and the Captain at a popular pub.  I promptly forgot about the statue until the day after we put out to sea, when I invited my good friend, Lieutenant (j.g.) Waite, up to my stateroom to view all my purchases.  He was an intelligent young officer who had graduated from Miskatonic while I was studying naval history there after my first tour in ‘Nam.  A solid officer with a good head for maneuvers and tactics, he would’ve gone far in the service had it not been for the events that followed.

His family originally hailed from Innsmouth, a half-deserted old ghost town on the Massachusetts coast with many dark stories connected to it.  He’d taken me up there once to show me his ancestral home, but had refused to answer any of my questions as to why his family had suddenly left eighty years before.

He was looking with some indifference at the other pieces when I pulled the unique statue out with a flourish.  He glanced at it, and then paled, his stare growing into an uncomfortable silence.

“What’s wrong, Daryl?” I asked him when he had not spoken for at least a full minute.

“Where did you get that thing?” he asked in a low voice.

“A tiny little antique shop way off the beaten path,” I said.  “I always shop away from the well-known areas – you get better deals that way!  It looks like something straight out of the Necronomicon, doesn’t it?” I asked with a laugh, although few people ever spoke of that hellish volume with a smile.

He looked at me strangely.

“You couldn’t have said it better,” he said.  “It should be safe, though – as long as the Elder Sign remains attached.”

It was my turn now to give him a strange look.

“Elder Sign?  What on earth are you talking about?” I asked.

“Jim,” he said with a sigh, “I am one of the few people who has read the Miskatonic’s copy of the Necronomicon from cover to cover.  I’ve also seen the ancient Pnakotic Fragments that are kept under lock and key, and I’ve even read the Cultes de Ghoules.  My professors let me study that far because they knew my family was under the Innsmouth curse, and we had to protect ourselves.   Look at this!”

He reached under his T-shirt and pulled out a fine gold chain, with an identical, although somewhat smaller, soapstone star hanging from it.

“I think you read a bit too far into those creepy old books, my friend,” I said.  “Even the professors at Miskatonic are now admitting that the whole Chtulhu myth cycle is just a primitive, ancient religion and nothing more. Look!”

I removed the chain from the idol’s neck and shoved it into his hands.

“See?” I said.  “Nothing! You’re getting way too worked up over a hunk of carved jade, Daryl!” 

Actually, I did feel something – was it a slight lowering of the room’s temperature, or just the scent of dead fish wafting in from the sea?  Whatever it was, I was not going to admit to noticing it in front of my nervous companion. He did not calm down, but instead grew more agitated.

“Fool!” he snapped.  “Put that back!  I tell you, I recognize the runes on this statue.  They are from the Pnakotic manuscripts, and they go farther back than all recorded history!  Old professor MacDonald even said that they may predate our species.   God, the shopkeeper was lucky they didn’t get separated all these years.  Please, Jim, put it back!”

“OK, OK,”  I said in exasperation, taking the statue from his hands and trying to slip the chain back over its malformed neck.  The touch of the cold stone startled me – or was it, as I originally thought, that the stone abomination had actually squirmed in my grasp for a split second? No matter the cause, the result was the same – I dropped both statue and star to the deck.  The heavy jade image landed on top of the soapstone star and crushed it to fragments.  Waite cried aloud in anguish.

“It has destroyed the Sign! After all these years, it is free again!”

“Daryl, you yo-yo,” I laughed.  “I just dropped them both and the statue landed on top, that’s all. Don’t get so upset over nothing.  This little monstrosity is a carved hunk of rock and nothing more!”

“I hope you’re right,” he said with a shudder.  “But for your own safety, and my peace of mind, put this on it.”  He drew his own soapstone star from around his neck and deliberately placed it over the idol’s.  Again I got the very brief impression of movement, of the myriad tentacles squirming in horrible unison. Judging from my friend’s expression of disgust, he felt it too.  But when I picked up the statue and returned it to my locker, I only felt the smooth, age-polished stone.

Waite left my quarters shortly afterwards, and we put Hong Kong Harbor far behind us.  We were both busy with our respective jobs – we were scheduled for a month of intensive radar and weapons drills before returning to hour homeport in Yokosuka, Japan for upkeep.  But little by little, rumors filtered back to me – conversations between enlisted men before they were aware of my presence, finally even whispers in the wardroom when Waite came in for supper.  The lieutenant was looking strange, and acting even stranger.

His eyes, always large, had begun to bulge noticeably, and he never seemed to shut them anymore.   He was also losing his hair, and some sort of scaly eczema was developing on his back, according to his roommate, Ensign Landry.

“And you should have heard him screaming in his sleep the other night!” said the garrulous young Texan. “Some words in a language I’d never heard before, and don’t want to hear again!  It was weird!  Do you think he might have some sort of drugs stashed away somewhere?”

“That’s enough!” interrupted Captain Collins.  He was a tough officer, stern and fair, with little tolerance for gossip.  “Lieutenant j.g. Waite is having some medical problems, a recurring skin condition, nothing more.  If there is any scuttlebutt going around contrary to that, it’s up to you officers to squelch it, not perpetuate it!” He fixed each of us with an icy stare at that last phrase.

That night, after finishing my watch, I woke up to see Waite standing over me, his eyes seeming to glow softly in the dark.  I called his name softly, but he did not acknowledge me.  Moving slowly and deliberately, like a sleepwalker, he moved to my open locker.  I scarcely recognized the man I’d sat and talked to just a few days before.  His eyes, in addition to the unnatural glow, were bulging hideously and seemed to have grown, if such a thing were possible.  His hair was indeed thinning, and I could see the scaly eczema creeping up the back of his neck, giving him a bizarre, almost reptilian look.

He stared over at me for a moment or two to see if I was asleep (my eyes were in the shadows and he couldn’t tell I was watching him), and then he took the statue from my locker and lifted the star-stone from its neck.  He held the thing in front of him, and then paused.  For a moment his appearance returned to normal, and he blinked twice.  Then that strange otherness imposed itself once more, and he dropped the necklace to the floor and ground it under his heel.  With a final glance at me, he replaced the statue and left my stateroom.

Afterward, the cool air and the gentle rocking of the ship overpowered my senses, and I lapsed into a strange dream of titanic underwater cities, and fishlike beings that swam through them, paying homage to the great Elder Gods from outside, who slumbered still in the deeps of the sea.

When I awoke at 0600 hours, I felt strangely drained.  The smell of rotting fish seemed to pervade the entire ship.  Listlessly, I stumbled down the passageway towards the showers, towel in hand.  Then, suddenly, an ear-splitting scream jerked me fully awake. 

I ran down to Waite’s stateroom, whence the cry had come, and found the Captain and the Chief Corpsman straddling the struggling, bug-eyed form of my friend.  Of the talkative ensign who shared his stateroom, a ripped and bloodied corpse was all that remained.  Blood was everywhere – except on Waite’s struggling form.  When he saw me, he threw off the Captain and the Chief and grabbed me by the shoulders.

“The statue!” he screamed.  “You must destroy it – it is an avatar – aaggh! N’gai yog rl Cthulhu vor R’lyeh! They are pulling at my mind – the Deep Ones calling!  I had to destroy the sign – they told me to.  I tried to fight, but they are too strong!  Throw the image overboard and they will subdue it – it’s your only hope!  Already he wakes! Look at poor Landry – do you think I did that to him?  It came in here and ripped him up as I watched . . . it MADE me watch.  Read the sixth chapter of the Necronomicon – it will tell you how to lay the avatar to rest once it has been awakened.  But it calls to Great Cthulhu – and God pity us all if he should answer!  Professor MacDonald – he knows! He has read the accounts of the last time Cthulhu awoke. Throw the statue over the side – the Deep Ones can put it to rest.  NO!! I am not – I will not!  Aaargh!  Yog-Sothoth, HELP ME!”

I trembled to hear my friend invoke the name of that hideous deity, but then an even greater horror rooted me to the spot.  As the three of us watched, frozen in terror, a hideous transformation shook Waite’s body.  With a ripping sound that echoes in my nightmares to this day, the skin of his face tore away.  His bulging eyes, huge and fishlike, now stared at us in agony from a green, scaly face.  Rows of sharklike teeth glittered in his gaping mouth, and he reached his hand towards me – a hand that was already sprouting long claws and growing webs between the fingers.  His back hunched and his arms seemed to shrink as his legs grew longer and more powerful.  The back of his khaki trousers ripped apart, revealing a long, scaly tail.

We all stood there, stunned, unable to move.  Then Daryl Waite – or what had once been Daryl Waite – gave me a last, tortured look and spoke one more time.

“He awakes!  They call me to join them! The Elder Sign – use it!” 

I shall never forget those tortured, croaking syllables as long as I live.  As soon as he finished speaking, he left the room in a motion that I can only describe as a hop.  That sudden move broke the paralysis that held us.

“After him!” cried Captain Collins.  He scrambled out the hatch, and we followed, but Waite’s froglike gait outdistanced us rapidly. He headed straight for the ladder that led topside, bowling over a terrified messcook, and emerged from the skin of the ship onto the deck.  With the three of us on his heels, he reached the lifeline and vaulted over it into the sea.  I reached the rail first, and wish to this day that I hadn’t.  For there were others in the water, waiting to meet him, even more shocking and alien in their form than he had become.  They helped him swim away after fixing us with their hellish glares for a moment first.

The Captain gave me a long, hard glance as they disappeared into the deep.

“I don’t know how much you know about this, Mister Thompson,” he said in a grim voice, “but you are going to tell me everything.”

So after we had hastily concocted a story to tell to the crew, we went to the Captain’s cabin and I gave him the full story – my buying the statue, Waite’s wild words when he first saw it; and his sneaking visit to my cabin the night before.   Then I gave him my theory.

“Sir, I’ll confess my knowledge of arcane lore is nowhere near what Waite’s was, but I think I have an idea of what it is that he was trying to prevent.  Have you ever heard of the Innsmouth Curse, or the Cthulhu cult?”

“I do recall some wild tales, years ago, about folk from Innsmouth breeding with things from the sea,” he said reflectively.  “That story’s been circulating up and down the Massachusetts coastline for a century or more, but I never held any truck with it. Although, come to think of it, I ran across a classified report in the COMSUBLANT archives years ago when I was shredding old documents.  A submarine fired a spread of torpedoes into a reef near Innsmouth to ‘sanitize a severe biological hazard’ back in the thirties.  I never really connected the two stories before, though.  Now as far as the Kthew-whatchamacallit goes – that sounds like bad Latin to me.”

Then I filled him in on the scant lore I recalled from glancing through the musty, ill-preserved copy of the Necronomicon at the Miskatonic Library, and what I knew by rumor of the Pnakotic manuscripts.

“Cthulhu himself was a tremendously destructive water elemental,” I explained.  “Sort of a Poseidon from outer space, who dwelt on a great island city long ago, and was worshipped by ancient humans, and possibly other races, as a god.  The Great Old ones, a race from beyond the stars, managed to sink the island of R’lyeh where Cthulhu slept and imprison him there forever, using the star-shaped stones called Elder Signs.  But at certain times, when the stars are right and certain sacrifices are made, or if an avatar awakens, the sunken city rises.  Then Great Cthulhu can be awakened from his slumber to terrorize the world again.  That last part is mostly conjecture, because I didn’t read that portion of the Necronomicon very closely.”

The Captain looked at me with a skeptical air. I was racking my brain, trying to remember every bit of arcane lore about the Cthulhu Mythos I had ever heard, but I had hit my limit.

“My advice would be to contact Professor MacDonald at the Miskatonic,”  I told him.  “He knows more about this stuff than anyone alive.  If we just throw the stone overboard, the Deep Ones Waite told us about might silence it – and they might not.  They worship Cthulhu, according to some legends, but they also fear him.  I don’t want to take the risk.  We have to lock the stone up, though – it might come to life and kill again.”

“You don’t think Waite killed Landry, then?” he asked.

“No way,” I replied.  “There was no blood on his hands or on his body.  Besides which, there is not a man aboard strong enough to do that to another man with his bare hands.  That statue must be linked in some way to the life of Cthulhu himself.  We’ve got to find it and stop it.”

“Maybe if we search through Waite’s personal gear we’ll find something else to throw a little light on the situation,” said the Captain.

“Good idea, sir” I said, and we went to his stateroom.  The body of Ensign Landry had already been removed and stored in the reefer decks.

His personal belongings were few, and they revealed little to us.  I had almost despaired of finding anything useful when the CO began twirling the dial of Waite’s personal safe.

“Waite and I, and the Weps Boss, are the only ones with the combo to this,” he said.  “It contains all the classified ASW publications and maybe some of his papers as well.”

Captain Collins’ guess was correct, for behind the thick, plastic-bound publications was a small wooden chest with a note on the top that read:

TO BE OPENED BYTHE CAPTAIN ONLY IN THE EVENT OF MY DISAPPEARANCE AT SEA UNDER UNUSUAL CIRCUMSTANCES. SHOULD I DIE IN COMBAT OR DUE TO ROUTINE MISHAP, PLEASE SHIP TO MR. ARHTUR WAITE, 766 FEDERAL STREET, ARKHAM, MASS.

“It sounds almost as if he were expecting this,” Collins said, looking at me.

He took the key which was taped to the side of the box and opened it.  Inside was a long document entitled “Observations on the Innsmouth Phenomena”, laboriously typewritten many years ago, judging from the weathered look of the pages.   As the CO lifted it from the box, I saw to my wonder another object lying beneath it.  It was another one of the star-shaped Elder Signs!

“He could’ve protected himself with this,” I mused.  “I wonder why he didn’t.”

“The manuscript looks like it was typed up fifty years ago,” said Collins.  “He may not have even known the sign was in there, or he may have forgotten about it.  Or maybe . . .” his face grew sad, and I asked what he was thinking.

“If those things were pulling at his mind, he might have deliberately blocked out the knowledge of it so we would have a weapon to fight back with.  If that’s true, I find my respect for Mr. Waite growing,” he concluded.

“However it got here,” I said excitedly, “with it we can silence the avatar and cast it into the sea!”

“You’re right!” he said.  “Let’s go!”

We ran down the passageway to my stateroom. As we rounded the corner, Collins stopped short with a grimace.  Leading from the door of my room and on down the corridor was a trail of stinking green slime mixed with bright red blood. I ran to the door and looked in, already fearing what I would find.  There lay my bunkmate, Lieutenant Harris, the ship’s navigator, his body torn asunder and scattered across the room.  Hardened as I was by a rough combat tour in Vietnam three years earlier, I still gagged at the sight of Harris’ head tossed into one corner, his eyes staring blankly at us.  What horror had they seen in their last few seconds of life?

Collins grabbed my arm and dragged me from the sickening sight. 

“We must follow its trail!” he snapped, and I nodded in mute agreement. But before leaving, I stepped into the room and retrieved one article from my locker – my regulation U.S. Navy Officer’s Saber.   I took the greenish Elder Sign and carefully rubbed it up and down the blade, and said what I can only call a prayer to the Great Old Ones who came from outside before the earth’s crust had fully cooled. 

“If any memory of you yet lingers in the desolate places you once inhabited, help me destroy this abomination you once controlled!” I said.  With that, I left the pitiful remains of my fellow officer and followed my Captain.

The trail of green slime came to a sudden halt in the next passageway.  Looking up, I saw that the grill which covered a large ventilation duct had been ripped away, and the remnants of the creature’s foulness dripped from the torn edges. I looked at the CO, and he gave me a grim smile.

“We’ll have to warn the crew,” he said.

This Week - the Exciting Conclusion of THE DERELICT!!

Last week I posted the first half of a vampire story that I wrote over 25 years ago.  It's a marvelous, creepy tale strongly reflective of the hundreds of hours I spent aboard the USS Lockwood while serving in the U.S. Navy.  This week I add the frightful conclusion of THE DERELICT!

(WARNING:  If you did not read last week's post, scroll down and read it first!  Otherwise you are starting the story in the middle!)

Thompson looked up, his face grim.  “There is one last entry here,” he said.  “It’s just a few lines.”

February 9 – I woke to find that he had gotten in and killed them all.  He was standing over me, only the cross in my hand had kept me from joining my shipmates.  Or perhaps he intended it thus – that I should be the only living man left on a damned ship full of corpses.  He laughed, but I am the victor, for now he will perish from his own hunger.  Perhaps in his final throes he will be driven to consume himself – that would be justice indeed!

The men were silent. Thompson looked at each of them in turn, but no one spoke.  In the distance, the last fiery sliver of the red sun dipped below the horizon.

Finally the Chief Corpsman broke the silence.

“Captain, logic would dictate that we search the CO’s cabin next.  Perhaps his logs will tell us the truth about what happened here,” he said.

Thompson grinned.  “I would be less nervous about following your suggestion if the sun had not just set,” he said.  “Let me radio the ship first.”

He thumbed the handset and spoke quickly into the mike, using the ship’s code name.

“Rubberneck, this is rubberneck one, over,” he said.

“Rubberneck here,” Branch’s voice crackled back.  “Everything OK, sir?”

“Not really, Tom,” he replied.  “We have just discovered that the crew of this ship was destroyed by an exceptionally virulent epidemic.  There is a chance that the source of infection is still onboard, and we are going to investigate.  If you don’t hear from us in one hour, get the Hawkins out to a safe range and blow this rotten tin can out of the water.  That’s an order!”

“Is it that serious, Jim?” asked Branch after a moment’s hesitation.

“If it is still active, it is quite capable of destroying the Hawkins and everyone aboard her,” Thompson told him.

“Then get the hell out of there and we’ll blow her away immediately,” the XO replied.  “It’s ridiculous to take chances with your lives.”

“I have to be sure,” Thompson said.  “We’ll be in contact.”

He shut off the radio, cutting off his exec’s furious protests.  He turned to the men of the rescue party, looking them each gravely in the face.

“There is no need for all of us to risk being attacked,” he said.  Chief McAllister and I will be the only ones to go into the cabin.  The rest of you will wait in the passageway until we give you the all-clear.  Mister Robbins, do you remember where the CO’s quarters are on this class of warship?”

“Aye, Captain, I think I can steer us in the right direction,” replied the engineer.  “We’ll need to go forward a bit, and then into the skin of the ship.  There may be a hatch just below the signal bridge that will bring us into the right passageway, although it’s been a while since I studied World War Two era ship schematics.”

They advanced carefully, for even though the aged wooden deck seemed pretty well-preserved, there was no telling when a rotten spot might send them plunging through to the dark spaces below.  They found a hatch leading inward at what seemed to be the right point and entered.   The passageway was slimy with algae, and a skeleton lay sprawled a few feet inside.  They went up two levels, carefully testing their weight on the rusty metal ladders as they climbed, and came out in a passageway that stretched across the beam of the ship.  There were two doors on the left that led up to the bridge and down to CIC, respectively, and two others that bore plaques designating them as “CO Cabin” and “XO Cabin,” respectively.  Thompson and McAllister moved forward.

“Everyone wait outside,” he said.

The door was jammed shut by rust and corrosion, so Thompson backed up a step and lashed out with his booted foot in a strong karate kick.  The aged wood splintered and gave, and a foul odor spilled out from the sealed cabin like liquid from a burst jar.  The two men gagged, and then as the air cleared they moved forward into the dark room.  Thompson shone his flashlight about, revealing a sparsely furnished room with a single bunk against the far bulkhead.  Laid out horizontally on the bunk with his hands crossed on his breast was the dried corpse of a man in the uniform of a naval Lieutenant Commander.  Blood stained the front of the shirt in several places, but the corpse was undamaged.  Long canines protruded over the shriveled lower lip, and the facial expression radiated such utter evil that both men recoiled in disgust.  But the man was undeniably dead, and Thompson breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that. Beneath the leathery skin, little more than a skeleton remained.  

A bare desk with two drawers occupied one corner, and in one of the drawers was a small leatherbound volume.  As McAllister continued to examine the corpse, Thompson picked up the book and flipped through it.  As he suspected, it was the diary of Captain Hazelwood.  He glanced through it quickly, noting that it seemed to confirm the XO’s opinion that Hazelwood had been a fanatical madman.  After the corpsman finished examining the body, they went out to the passageway to relieve the nervous crewmen.

“He’s dead, so far as we can tell,” Thompson said.

There were collective sighs of relief from the men.  A few pressed forward to see into the room, but the rest stayed back.  Thompson was looking at the few books atop the Captain’s desk.  All but one of them were standard WWII works on navigation, enemy ship recognition, and tactics.  But lying a little apart from the others, still open, was a large, battered black book.  It smelled rotten, as if its leaves were made out of festering human skin.  Thompson had seen its like once before, kept under lock and key at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts.   It was the English translation of the Necronomicon, the insane ravings of the mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred.  Or were they so insane? He reflected as he recalled the horror of the sunken island he had encountered some fifteen years before.

“Captain,” called Robbins, bringing him out of his reverie. “Do you want us to begin testing for salvage feasibility?”

“Yes,” Thompson replied.  “Take HT2 Evans and three men and go forward.  See if the bow looks solid enough to take a towing cable and if not go aft and try the stern.  It looked pretty firm, as I recall.  Doc, you come with me.  We’ll search the bridge, logroom, and ship’s office for all the records we can find so the Navy can close the books on this one at last.  Chief, go topside and tell the Hawkins that the contamination source is no longer active, and that we are going to try to salvage her.  Let’s move, men!”

As they exited the cabin, no one noticed that the withered, clawlike hand of Captain Hazelwood was no longer positioned exactly as it had been.  With the infinite patience of pure evil, it had begun to move.

BMC Lorenzo lit a cigarette after he got the message off to the ship.  Just his luck, to get stuck lugging the heavy PRC-40 radio around this stinking derelict. And here they were, grown men all, scared silly by the thought of vampires!  He had never liked horror movies anyway, except for all the skin they showed in them nowadays.  Death and sex, the two great lures to get people to the box office!  He preferred straight sex in his movies, he thought with a grin, recalling the flick he and the other chiefs had been watching when he’d been called away on this screwy salvage detail.  So intent was he on his pornographic imaginings that he never heard the hatch behind him as it slowly opened.  Not until the bony claw grasped his shoulder and spun him about did he realize his danger, and the it was too late.  His last conscious thought was of how inappropriate the gleaming yellow fangs looked in that brown leathery face.  Then the fangs descended, and Chief Lorenzo’s last gurgling cry mingled with the lapping of the wave against the side of the dead warship.

Robbins led his party of men forward of the rusting gun turret.  The bow of the ship was heavily crusted over with rime and rust, and he doubted it would be strong enough to take a towing cable.  Nevertheless, he took his scraper and began flaking away at the corruption of time. To his surprise, he hit solid steel only a few millimeters beneath the corrosion. 

“They built them to last in those days, Evans,” he said.

“If you say so, sir,” replied the Hull Technician.  “From up here where I am, it looks like solid rust all the way through!”

“Hmmm,” mused Robbins.  “Seaman Davis, you’re better with a scraper than I am.  You and Evans scrape down to the metal every meter all the way around the bow and see how thick the rust is, and then we’ll go below decks and try the same thing on each level, all the way down to the keel.  I’m going up to talk to Mr. Watson on the radio about what kind of line we’ll need to tow this tub.”

“No escort, sir?” asked Gunner’s Mate Smith.

The engineer laughed.  “Captain’s ghost stories got you spooked, Smitty?” he asked.

“Something awful happened here, sir,” replied the young enlisted man.  “Even if it was forty years ago, I’ll be glad when we are out of here.”

“Whatever it was, Gunner, it’s long gone now,” said the engineer.  “And even if it wasn’t, your bullets wouldn’t do much good against it, if that diary is true.”

As he walked off, neither he nor the busy seamen heard the faint, mocking laughter that echoed from the shadows behind them.

Gunner Smith was very nervous.  He had seen just about every vampire movie ever made, from “Nosferatu” to “The Hunger,” though it had cost him dear in nightmares.  But the thought that such things might actually be real was not something he could handle.  As the two men behind him scraped at the rusty hull, he stared across at the bright lights of the Hawkins illuminating the derelict and wished he were safe in his bunk aboard the ship, without all the deep shadows and their accursed secrets thronging at his back.   He turned and faced the bridge of the ghost ship to see if he could see Lieutenant Robbins up on the bridge wing.  Neither he nor the Chief was visible.  Then, from the deep shadows by the gun mount, a slow moving figure began to emerge.

“Lieutenant?” he asked nervously.  Not a sound.  “C’mon, sir, don’t try to spook me!”

The men behind him chuckled at the laugh Robbins was obviously having at Smitty’s expense.  Then the figure emerged from the shadows, and Gunner’s Mate Smith screamed. The other men looked up in shock as three consecutive shotgun blasts ripped the still fabric of the night. Still the nightmare figure came on, its withered talons catching the terrified seaman by the neck.  The shotgun fell from nerveless fingers. 

Although his gorging on the Chief had begun the restoration of Hazelwood’s body, he was still a terrifying sight – brown, leathery skin stretched taut over a skull that seemed lit from within by corpse-candles. But the rich, sweet blood of Lorenzo had had restored strength to those ancient sinews, and his fangs gleamed carious and yellow in the faint light from the distant ship.  Evans and Davis looked on in shock as those fangs sank into Smith’s throat and pulled out again, bringing with them a large chunk of flesh.  Blood spurted out in a dark, rich fountain, and the undead creature caught it in his mouth with a sigh of insatiable hunger.

Evans charged, swinging the steel paint scraper in a blow that would have fractured a man’s skull.  The vampire caught his wrist in mid-swing, and wrenched his arm back so hard it tore from its socket.  Still clutching Smith’s corpse, Hazelwood lowered his mouth to the spurting stump even as Evans eyes glazed over in the realization of his death.

Davis cowered in the shadow of the ship’s prow, praying not to be noticed.  He thought the sucking and slurping sounds would never end.  Finally, when all was silent except for the noise of the sea, he opened his eyes.

The monster stood before him, much revived, but still corpselike in appearance.  The voice that spoke to him was harsh and grating, like the door of a long-disused crypt opening.

“I would not want you to feel left out,” said Captain Hazelwood with a ghastly smile.

Davis went mad.

Lieutenant Robbins stepped out onto the bridge wing, wondering where on earth Chief Lorenzo had gotten off to. Stepping forward, he stubbed his toe on something hard and metallic.  He jumped around on one foot, cursing, then shone his flashlight down onto the offending object.  There, smashed beyond recognition, was the PRC-40 radio set the Chief had been carrying. As he knelt to survey the damage, he saw a few spots of crimson on the ancient wood next to it.  A worried frown creased his face. Something was seriously wrong here!

He stood, shining his light onto the water, wondering what was going on.  Something caught his beam, something white and ghastly.  Then the swirling sea brought the object bobbing towards him, and the engineer gasped as he recognized the body.  In death, the grizzled features of Chief Lorenzo were almost childlike.

Robbins swore and ducked back into the ship.  Climbing down the ladder from the bridge, he went to the open door of the CO’s cabin and shone his light on the coffin-like bunk.  It was empty.

To his credit, Robbins’ next thought was of the men he had left behind. Then, as the shotgun blasts from the ship’s foc’sle echoed through the night, he recalled his words to Smith.  Crying aloud in fear and anger, he turned and ran for the hatch leading outside.  The slime on the ancient deck slid beneath his feet, and he fell.  His head connected with the rusty metal bulkhead, and he remembered no more.

Down in the ship’s office, Thompson and McAllister tried to keep from gagging on the stench of rotten paper.  A few of the old ship’s logs were still legible, and among them was what Thompson had hoped to find – a copy of the complete ship’s roster, dated just a few days after the Lawton had left port on its final, ill-fated mission.  He handed it to McAllister, who stuffed it into his medical bag.  At long last the families of those who had perished so long ago would have some definite word on the fate of their loved ones, and maybe even bodies to bury, Thompson, whose only brother’s body still lay somewhere amid the jungles of Vietnam, envied them just a little bit for that.  Pushing these thoughts from his mind, he turned to the Chief Corpsman.

“Let’s go,” he said.  “The prize crew can get the rest in the morning.”

They quickly completed a cursory inspection of the logroom and picked up a copy of the engineer’s log that was lying open, and then left.  Climbing one level, they emerged in the passageway by the bridge and were stopped cold by the sight of Robbins’ prone form.  McAllister and Thompson rushed to his side.

“He’s OK, Captain,” the corpsman said. “Just a nasty bump on the skull, maybe a mild concussion.”  He broke open a capsule and waved it under Robbins’ nose.  The engineer’s face twitched a couple of times, and then his eyes flew open.

“Vampire!” he shrieked as he recognized Thompson.  “Still alive!  Evans! Smitty!”  He tried to get up, and would have run out to the foc’sle then and there had not the two men caught him firmly under the arms and restrained him.

“Captain,” said BM2 Cox, who had ferried them over to the derelict after Corbin had refused, “the bunk in the CO’s cabin is empty.”

“Shit!” exclaimed Thompson, lapsing into his enlisted vocabulary as he felt the old fear rising in him again.  He forced his pulse to slow down, and then spoke again.  “Everyone stick together and pray to whatever you hold sacred.  Cox, you and the Chief help Mr. Robbins.  First we’ll see if Chief Lorenzo is all right, then we will -”

“Lorenzo’s dead,” said Robinson in a groggy voice.  “Throat torn out.  I found the radio smashed and saw his body in the water, then I ran to see about the men I left up forward . . . must have slipped and fell then . . . that’s the last thing I remember.”

Thompson paused for a few seconds to think.  He then slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small silver crucifix, similar to the one they had found on the body of the Lawton’s XO.  His experience had taught him that it was wise to carry a talisman of holiness on him at all times.

“Chief, you take this,” he said.  “All of you wait here for five minutes, and if I am not back by then, you get back to the whaleboat and head for the Hawkins.  When you get aboard, tell the XO to blow this rotten tub out of the water with HE rounds.  Make sure nothing is left afloat!  If that damned bloodsucker gets onboard our ship, we could all wind up like these poor bastards. I’m going to see if any of the men up forward are still alive.  Remember, five minutes, no more!”

“Sir, won’t you be needing this more than us?” asked McAllister, holding out the crucifix.

Thompson grinned, that same grin that had won the loyalty of every sailer he had ever commanded.

“Don’t worry about me, Chief, I am far from defenseless,” he said.  “I’ve faced worse than this, if you can believe it!”

He turned and left them quickly, before his resolve could fade.  The Corpsman breathed a silent prayer for his Captain, and then looked at his wristwatch as the beam of Thompson’s flashlight disappeared around the corner.

Thompson eased out of the hatch that led onto the foc’sle of the ship and shone his light forward.  The rusting five inch gun mount loomed out of the darkness like the carcass of some ancient dinosaur, old and corrupt, that had outlived its kin by so many years that all memory had faded, and then died at last.  He walked across the deceptively firm wooden deck and made his way around the gun. Shining his beam forward, he saw all he needed to know.  The dead eyes of the three crewmen stared back at him accusingly, and he felt the same guilt he always felt.  Surely he could have saved them somehow!  He bowed his head and prayed a brief prayer for their souls, and then turned to leave.

He was not at all surprised to see the tall figure blocking his path, but the voice still unnerved him when it spoke.  It was low and mocking and evil, the voice of a Lazarus resurrected from hell, brimming with evil secrets meant to drive the living insane.  He forced himself to listen to its words.

“You must be the Captain,” it said.  “Only a leader would come to see about his men . . . alone.  You need not fear – my thirst is slaked, for now.”  A ghastly smile crossed the undead face.

“I do not fear you, thirsty or otherwise, Hazelwood,” said Thompson, fighting to keep his hatred for this monster in check.  “You’re just one vampire stuck in the middle of nowhere – and I’m your only ticket out of here.  You won’t kill me – not until you pump me for information, anyway.”

A hideous look of anger crossed the undead face, and then passed as Hazelwood realized the truth of what he had said.  Then he laughed, a hideous sound, the cackle of a rabid rooster in hell.

“You have accurately summarized my predicament, Captain,” the vampire said.  “I have long since lost track of the years that have passed since I drank the blood of my last crewman – I consumed them too quickly in my rage against the faithless executive officer!  You don’t know how many nights I stood alone in the pilot house, waiting for a ship to hove into view, feeling my body waste away, until finally I laid down in the only coffin I had, to await discovery.  I sold my soul to the dark ones for one more chance to strike at my enemy.  You are that chance, Captain.”  The vampire’s eyes glowed in the dark with a hellish fire.  “I read the thoughts of that last crewman of yours before I consumed him.  I know the kind of weapons your ship carries.  You will take me within striking range of Japan, and launch every missile in your arsenal. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ – Ha! The world will feel the fury of Thaddeus Hazelwood, and tremble! Take me to your ship, Captain James Thompson!!”

For a moment the compulsion in that voice was so strong that Thompson’s will nearly broke.  For a moment he started to turn around and lead the monster to where his men were still waiting – but the act of motion brought him back to himself, and he turned back to face the creature, allowing himself a long laugh of pure merriment that blew the compulsion away like a spring breeze sweeping last autumn’s leaves aside.

“Like hell I will,” he said between laughs.  “You’re a little behind the times, bloodsucker!  It’s 1985 – Japan was defeated forty years ago and is now our strongest ally in the Pacific.  If you think I am going to let a reanimated mummy like you use my ship to strike at a friendly nation, you’ve got another thing coming!”

Thompson had never encountered a vampire before, but he had encountered enough other creatures of darkness to know that it was fear which provided their power over men, not blood or flesh or darkness.  He glanced at his watch, and saw that six minutes had passed.  As if on cue, the roar of the motor whaleboat’s engine cut through the stillness of the calm ocean night.  The hideous anger rose again in Hazelwood’s eyes as he realized what that sound meant.

“It’s just you and me now, bloodsucker,” said Thompson grimly.  “But not for long.  As soon as those men get to my ship, they will convey my order to the XO to blow this derelict out of the water with incendiary shells.  You’re going to die the true death at last, Captain Hazelwood.”

The withered face had worked itself into a fit of rage as he spoke.  When he uttered those last words, the vampire sprang.  Thompson was prepared.  He had gradually moved around the creature as he spoke, so that the aft end of the ship was behind him.  Then he had slowly, imperceptibly dropped his body into the fighting stance the Okinawans called sanchin-dachi, bringing every muscle in his well-toned body into full tension.  When the monster leaped for his throat, Thompson gave a full-throated kiai and fired a powerful front kick with his right foot.  The vampire was much stronger than he, but it did not weigh nearly as much.  The force of the kick sent Hazelwood flying backwards, and Thompson turned quickly and sprinted for his life.    He reached the passageway leading inside the ship and barred it shut with a dogging iron as best he could, and then ran on into the blackness of the ghost ship, trusting his instincts to lead him to the only place of safety he could think of.  He heard the screech of tortured metal behind him as the vampire tore the steel door off its hinges.  He ducked through a hatch and pounded down a rusted ladder, and then made his way aft.  In a few moments, he found the hatch he was looking for.  The rosary beads they had tied it shut with might have kept the vampire out, but they were not proof against Thompson’s desperate strength.  He wrenched the door open, sending beads flying, and darted across the body-littered floor. He came to the figure he was looking for, and knelt reverently beside it.

“Sorry about this,” he said, “but you’re out of his reach now.  I’m not!” he lifted the silver cross from the body of the Lawton’s executive officer and turned. Even as he did, the nightmare figure of the vampire appeared in the hatch he had just come through.

“Out of my reach, Thompson?” Again that malevolent laugh sounded.  “We shall see about that!”

The vampire waved his arm and spoke in a language Thompson did not understand, although it was horribly reminiscent of some of the more arcane chants in the Necronomicon. The mess decks were lit by a ghastly green light, and groans sounded from every corner as the bodies of the long-dead crewmen of the Lawton came back to life.  Fear rose like black bile in Thompson’s throat, choking out his resistance.  A few feet from him one of the withered corpses stood and opened its eyes.  A hideous pale light, utterly corrupt, shone from them.  Thompson cowered against the bulkhead.

“Now!” shouted Hazelwood with unholy glee. “Kill him!  By the power of the Black Master I command you!”

To this day, James Thompson cannot say what compelled him to look down at that moment. But look down he did, and at his feet he saw the body of the long-dead executive officer, unmoving, unawakened from his eternal rest.  Even in death, he defied his undead captain.

The fear in Jim’s heart died like an insect beneath his feet, crushed to lifelessness by a stronger force.  Even as the talons of the first zombie clutched at his throat, he raised the silver crucifix and cried aloud:

“NO!!! In the name of Almighty God, whom you mock by your very existence, I forbid this!  Release these men from your power, and trouble me no more!”

Blinding white light exploded from the cross, driving every shadow from the room.  The green corpse light was extinguished, and the zombies fell in their tracks like rotting sacks full of dry sticks. Holding the cross before him like a torch, Thompson advanced to meet his foe.  The vampire stood his ground until the Captain had advanced more than halfway across the room, then it melted into a black shadow and poured out through the doorway where it had entered.

Thompson quickly mounted the ladder he and his men had originally entered the mess decks through and made his way aft.  As he emerged onto the fantail, he was nearly blinded by the lights from the Hawkins illuminating the ghost ship.  Over the gentle lapping of the waves, he heard a sound that he had heard a hundred times before – the mechanical clank and purr of the five inch gun mount’s motors as they swiveled the weapon to lock onto its target.  He made his way to the rail and braced himself to leap when the radio at his waist crackled to life.

“Captain!” came Branch’s worried voice.  “If you are aboard, jump for it! I’m about to give the order to fire!”

Thompson picked up his walkie-talkie and thumbed the button.

“I’m all right, Tom.  Give me a minute to get my shoes off and I’ll swim for it.  Make sure this thing burns from the waterline up!”

“Aye aye, sir!” Branch replied. “One minute and counting – now get out of there!”

Seconds were vital now. Thompson kicked off his heavy work boots and laid down the radio.  He stood on the edge of the deck bracing himself for the shock of the  cold water, when suddenly a cold hand grasped his shoulder.

“No, Thompson,” the voice of Hazelwood hissed in his ear.  “You shall die the true death with me!”

Jim pivoted and saw the ghastly face inches from his own. Something throbbed in his right fist, and suddenly he remembered the cross which he still clutched there. For the second time that night, Thompson laughed in the face of the monster.

“I don’t think so!” he said, punching with all his might.

The power blazed up in him again as his fist tore through the ancient cloth, leathery skin, and snapping ribs.  Hazelwood’s face locked into a rictus of agony as that horrible fire seared his insides.  Thompson could feel the undead heart beating against his hand in its horribly mockery of life.  He opened his fist and grasped it, forcing the cross to touch the vampire’s lifewell. He raised his arm, the grisly figure impaled on it.  There was an explosion of white light, outlining every muscle and bone in the vampire’s body.  Then the corpse of Captain Thaddeus Hazelwood collapsed into ashes.  Thompson dropped the cross onto the pile of pathetic remains with a prayer that perhaps a tortured soul could find piece.  Then he dove into the water. Just before the icy waves enclosed him, he saw a blossom of fire from the Hawkins’ five inch gun.

 

Thompson gulped the hot coffee as if he could never get enough heat into his body.  Branch sat in the chair next to his bunk, looking at him speculatively.

“Do you really think Admiral Collins will buy this vampire story?” he asked.

Thompson smiled; the smile of one who has many secret memories.

“He’ll have little choice.  He and I have pounded a few wooden stakes in our time,” he said.

Seeing the look of puzzlement on his XO’s face, Thompson chuckled aloud. But before he was done, the sound resolved itself into a gentle snore. Tom Branch covered his captain with a blanket and shut the door very softly behind him on his way out.

A few pieces of flotsam still drifted where the derelict had gone down in fiery ruin.  Among them was a withered body, still wrapped in the shreds of a naval uniform. Had anyone been there to look, they might have seen that the collar device was a tiny cross.  Chaplain MGarth’s empty eye sockets stared up at the stars as he drifted with the current.  After a while, with a sound that might have been a sigh of relief, the body disappeared beneath the waves.