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August 14, 1939
Lima
Peru, South America
After spending the better part of the day jostled about in the back of the carriage, Richard and Wilkins spent the night in a small town halfway to Lima. A hired motorcar took them the rest of the way into the city, thankfully with a much smoother ride. More so than this, Wilkins was thankful there had been no other inexplicable events pertaining to the stone idol during their journey.
Having settled into a proper hotel in the city, the two men booked passage on the first ocean liner bound for America. As befit the fortune of the expedition, it was not expected in harbor until the first of September. Resigned to spending the better part of the month waiting, the men whiled away their time in the hotel’s lounge or visiting several sites of historical interest in the city.
Historical interest, Wilkins thought as he huffed. His mustaches fluttered despite being drenched in sweat. A group of American tourists jostled around him to get a better view of the main bedroom of the Casa de Aliaga, the onetime home of Francisco Pizarro. Despite the beautiful furnishings and artwork of the urban mansion, the anthropologist found the attraction to be plebeian, at best.
“How much do you think they want for this bust?” Richard asked, eying a sculpture which was surely of some notable public figure important to the recent history of the nation.
“I’m quite sure it isn’t for sale.” Wilkins wiped sweat from his brown with a linen handkerchief. “Honestly, Richard, this is a historical site, not an art gallery.”
“Everything has a price,” Richard said, still studying the marble statue.
“We’re wasting our time.” Wilkins stuffed the sodden rag back into his coat pocket. “All you want is to buy what is not for sale, and I’m bored by these pedestrian displays. We should be trying to learn more about the idol, not gawking at collections of sixteenth-century objets d’art.”
Richard turned on him and placed his hands on his hips. “And what is it you suggest we do with our time? We still have another week until our ship sails for Los Angeles.”
“I don’t know about you, old chap, but I’m going to head to the national library. There must be something there about whatever culture created the idol and the ruin. Some lost jungle tribe, perhaps.” Wilkins trailed off, the possibilities already turning over in his mind.
“Fine, but you’re on your own. I’m going to see about exploring some of the local pubs.”
They left the Casa de Aliaga together, well short of completing the guided tour. After reaching the main avenue, Richard continued down the road toward a busy commercial district full of shops, restaurants, and—most importantly—pubs. Wilkins crossed over to the Plaza de Armas de Lima. Admiring the beautifully wrought fountain in the center of the city’s main square, his mind wandered back to the dais from the ruin. Central to the chamber, much as the fountain was central to the plaza, it was hard not to think of the grotesque carvings upon both the flagstones and plinth. His gaze was lost upon the trumpeting angel topping the central spire of the fountain, and he was not paying attention to where he was going.
Wilkins gasped as he bumped into a young woman, nearly sending both sprawling into the waters of the pool at the base of the fountain. “Um... lo siento,” he stammered with a thick English accent.
She said something he couldn’t understand, but was smiling.
Obviously not upset, he decided to ask her for help in finding his destination. He knew he was close, but one wrong turn in the city full of tall buildings and he could easily become lost. “Perdone, señorita. La biblioteca?” he said in the best Spanish he could muster.
She smiled and gestured down the next street as she let out a string of instructions too fast for Wilkins to understand. Seeing the baffled look on his face, she gestured down the street again, then sharply hooked her thumb to the right.
Finally understanding, Wilkins smiled and nodded. “Gracias.”
He dodged between cars as he crossed the street, and within minutes was standing in front of the National Library of Peru. The two-story brick building was over a hundred years old. Windows lined a second story that jutted slightly out over the first, and a simple plaque stood by the main entrance. Wilkins pushed the door open and made his way inside, instantly feeling at home among the musty smell of old books. He had noticed it didn’t matter if one were in Oxford, New York, or Lima; collections of books always had the same welcoming aroma.
Wilkins wandered between the stacks aimlessly, enjoying the peaceful respite before he delved into the mystery of the idol. He noticed conspicuous gaps on the shelves and recalled that not sixty years prior, the city was the center of a battle between the peoples of Peru and Chile. During the conflict, that very library had been occupied by Chilean soldiers who looted the building of almost every last tome. The number of books in the library surprised Wilkins, considering the recent tragedy, and he thought he might pay the director a visit to compliment him on his efforts in rebuilding the collection.
The Englishman finally settled into a dusty corner of the second floor under a hanging sign that read Historia. A small desk was situated against one wall beneath the arched windows, cascaded with ample sunlight to supplement the simple desk-top lamp. Wilkins set down his briefcase and withdrew a notebook and pen, then scoured the shelves for something which might help him in his hunt for answers.
Hours later, he removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. He had barely half a page of scrawled notes, and dozens of books lay piled atop the desk. While fluent in Latin and well-versed in various ancient pictographic languages, Wilkins had only a passing familiarity with Spanish.
He had poured over every book on the desk, barely comprehending a quarter of the words on each page. He skimmed for key words he thought might relate to his search. Even then, he found scant few mentions of any ancient cultures native to the region other than the Inca. He had even resorted to perusing books of mythology and local folk tales. The only fruit of his labor was a mention of a lugar de oscuridad—a place of darkness.
He replaced his glasses and dug through the stack for the book in which he found the term. It was a thin volume of contemporary vintage, composed almost entirely of local folklore, ghost stories, and wives’ tales. From an academic perspective, it was as dubious a source as one could find.
Wilkins flipped open the book and sighed. It was the closest he had come to answers. The passage was only a few pages long. From what he could decipher, it told of a temple in the mountains which was considered to be the home of the devil by the local villagers. This must refer to the site we visited, he thought.
He looked over his shoulder, not believing the thought that was running through his mind. To steal a book from a library was as close to an act of sacrilege as one of an academic persuasion could come. On the other hand, he had to know more about what was in it. He had tried to ask the library attendants for a translation, but their grasp of English was hardly better than his of Spanish.
With a deep breath, he grasped his notebook with the same hand that held the thin green book and shoved them both into his briefcase. Tossing his pen in after them haphazardly, he folded the flap over and pulled the straps tight on the bundle. There, he thought, it’s done.
* * *
A fetid swamp covered the landscape, pockets of dry land few and far between. Spindly trees rose on stilt-like roots from the waters, their branches reaching out so wide as to create a solid ceiling of broad, black leaves. Steam rose from the water to be trapped under the canopy, creating a thick fog that roiled against itself in the still air. Strange sounds drifted through the mist. They could have been the leaves brushing against each other, but sounded more like whispers. There was almost a melody to the sound, but it was a discordant tune which no human throat could possibly hope to recreate.
The water swirled in places, as if stirred by some unseen hand. Slender shapes broke the surface and submerged so quickly they could not be identified. The whispers in the mist overpowered the faint splashing of these forms in the murky depths.
A steady rhythm beat. Rather than the dull thud of a drum, it sounded more like the sharp crack of a rock against desiccated bones. It grew in volume as it grew in tempo. Faster and louder it beat, until it overpowered all other sounds. The waters writhed in a frenzy, and the black forms slithered over each other to escape the quagmire.
* * *
August 23, 1939
Wilkins bolted upright and screamed. His fingers grasped about him, hoping to find some purchase of solidarity or some weapon with which to defend himself. His legs kicked frantically as he struggled to escape. Whatever lay beneath his hands gave way as if designed to surrender to the slightest pressure. His legs felt trapped, and he realized his entire body was being smothered by some formless thing that had spread itself atop him. His throat grew raw as he screamed and writhed, still struggling for the escape he knew was not to come.
The door burst open, and Richard charged in with his revolver in his hand. He looked around, ran into the washroom, then walked back in slowly with the weapon lowered. “Honesty Wilkins, you aren’t going to make a habit of this, are you?”
Wilkins looked down to see the feather duvet of the hotel bed covering his legs. The blankets were in a disarray from his thrashing feet, and each hand held a clump of sheet. “I wasn’t here,” he mumbled.
Richard walked back to the broken door and flipped the light switch on the wall. “Well, I don’t know where you think you were, but I’m pretty sure you’ve been right there all night.”
Wilkins blinked back against the sudden illumination and threw the covers off. He felt blindly across the bedside table for his glasses. Instead, he felt a stone object which seemed too warm to the touch. He blinked again and squinted at the object under his hand, and the vague shape of the screaming idol came into dull focus before his eyes.
He shrieked in shock and pushed the statuette away, dropping it onto the floor with a loud thud. “No, it’s not possible!”
Richard slumped into an armchair and sighed. “What isn’t possible? That I haven’t locked you up in the asylum yet?”
“No. It’s not possible this thing was on the nightstand. It was packed away in the satchel, and that locked firmly in the armoire.”
“You must be mistaken. Maybe you took it out for a better look before you fell asleep.”
Wilkins threw his feet off the bed and, finally finding them, slid his glasses on. “I haven’t taken it out since we left Puerto Ocapa. I’m telling you: It wasn’t there last night.”
Richard rolled his eyes and huffed in exasperation. “I’m really getting tired of this. We’ve been working together for years, and I’ve never seen you get so bent out of shape over anything. What you’re saying doesn’t even make sense.” Richard stood and stomped across the room to pick up the idol. As he kneeled and grasped the object, he froze, his eyes glassed over and dull as if the life had fled his body altogether.
“Richard?” Wilkins whispered. “Are you okay?”
After nearly a minute of silence, whatever hold the idol had on the American ended. He dropped it and fell to his hands and knees, gasping for air as if he had not been breathing the entire time.
“What did you see?”
Richard rocked back and sat on the floor. He patted himself all over frantically until he found his cigarettes. With trembling hands, he placed one of the slender cylinders into his mouth, opened the top of his lighter, and struck the flint wheel. Sparks flew, but the wick refused to catch the flame. Again and again he tried, but to no avail. He pulled the insides from the casing, turned it over, and water poured from it onto his lap.
“Damn it, man! What did you see?” Wilkins insisted.
Richard looked up from the water soaking his lap. “I didn’t see anything. I was drowning.”
