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September 1st, 1939
Lima
Peru, South America
“Yes, of course I believe you now. I just don’t friggin’ understand any of it.” Richard took a long draw on a cigarette before tossing the butt into the street, then hefted the heavy bag from one shoulder to another.
Wilkins lifted his suitcase and dropped it into the trunk of the waiting car with a grunt. “Don’t assume I understand any of this, either. I’m simply relieved you don’t think I’m going insane. Hells, I’m bloody relieved. Now I don’t think I’m going insane.”
Richard dropped the bag into the car, hefted another from the hotel’s luggage cart atop it, and slammed the trunk closed. “I just don’t get it. How can a fancy rock cause... whatever that was?”
Wilkins squeezed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I don’t know, but we’re going to find out. Let’s stop by the telegraph office one last time before we go to the harbor.”
“Waste of time. I’m telling you, that kid on the bike got butchered, along with the rest. Your letter never made it to your friend in England.”
“It can’t hurt to check one last time.”
They climbed into the car and told the driver to take them to the telegraph office. As it was near the harbor, it was not out of the way. They rode through the city in silence, taking advantage of a final chance to enjoy the scenery. Two-story buildings lined the main avenue. Modern concrete edifices mingled with older brick buildings from the last century, all punctuated by the occasional colonial structure of stone with ornate design elements. A mixture of motorcars and horse-drawn coaches traveled the road, and pedestrians lined the sidewalks as the citizenry went about their daily business.
Wilkins couldn’t help but wonder at the innocence of those daily routines and pondered whether he and Richard would enjoy such blissful ignorance ever again. After what he had experienced over the last six weeks, he wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. Would life ever be the same? Would these chilling visions continue to haunt him?
As they neared the harbor, the press of the urban sprawl gave way and the massive eighteenth-century fortress, which dominated the harbor, loomed into view. Originally built to ward off pirates, it had become another relic of a bygone time. Long-cold cannons kept a silent watch over manicured parks and gardens. People gathered at the main gate, visitors waiting for the first tour of the morning to begin. What once was a dominate extension of military might was little more than a curiosity, although it stood as a testament to the ambition and determination of the Spanish conquerors who established the city so long ago.
The car pulled in front of a row of small shops. A cafe on the corner was bustling already, and the smell of fried breads and bacon mingled with the pungent salt air drifting in from the sea. Richard stayed in the car while Wilkins went inside. This was already their tenth visit to the office, and the American had long ago given up on any hope of the trips bearing fruit.
A small brass bell jingled as Wilkins opened the door, and the telegraph clerk smiled in greeting. “Back again, Mister Chapman?” the older man asked in passable English. Accustomed to visiting tourists from America, being a fluent speaker of the language was an asset in his profession.
“One last time, Eduardo. We’re boarding a ship this morning for the states. I wanted to check before we left, though.”
“You’re in luck, then. I’ve been watching for your name, and a message arrived just this morning.” Eduardo grinned as he slid the yellow telegraph card across the counter.
Shocked to actually find a message waiting for him, Wilkins hesitated. Was it providence that it should arrive with so narrow a margin before their departure, or simply coincidence? He reached out with a trembling hand and took up the card, adjusting his glasses as he gazed at the simple text.
Artifact unfamiliar. Sketches unclear. Please render more detail. Will investigate further. Advise of travel plans. —Benjamin Mathers
Wilkins shook his head and breathed a deep sigh. He was overjoyed his package had reached the professor, but dismayed by the response. He had held out hope that Mathers would recognize something of the object. He could not return to the site to obtain more detailed sketches. Rather, he would not.
“Would you like to send a reply?” Eduardo asked, concern writ across his face.
“Yes, please,” Wilkins said, still staring at the professor’s words. He took the new card and pen that was proffered and scrawled his own hasty message in reply.
Ship to LA, rail to NY. Bound for England. Site was known, but feared. Dried flowers—evil spirits. Troubling events. Must know more. —Wilkins Chapman
“I hope this isn’t too long,” Wilkins said as he slid the card back to the clerk.
Eduardo’s face screwed up in thought, then he nodded. “It shall be fine, Mister Chapman. Is there anything else I might help you with today?”
“Actually, there is,” Wilkins said as he drew forth the small green book from his coat pocket. “Would it be too much trouble to read a few lines of this book and tell me what they say?” He opened to volume to the passage which had caught his interest and held it out.
“No trouble at all,” Eduardo said with his usual smile. As he read over the pages, his features turned downward as concern crept across his face. He closed the book and placed it back on the counter. “This seems to be a local legend of some sort, but one I’ve not heard of. It says: ‘A place of darkness lies in the jungle’s heart, where demons wait for any who might disturb the gate to the underworld.’”
Wilkins’s eyes grew large. “Are you sure underworld is the proper translation?”
“Without a doubt. Inframundo, it says. Underworld.” Eduardo glanced down at the two telegraph cards. “Pardon my... how do you say? Lack of protocol? But it sounds like you’ve gotten mixed into some nastiness, no?”
Wilkins thumbed through his wallet, drawing forth what he had left of the colorful Peruvian currency. He slid the entire stack across the counter, despite knowing it was far more than would be required to send the message. “Nastiness,” he murmured. “Yes, I suppose you could call it that.” Without waiting for Eduardo to protest the overpayment, he slid the professor’s message into his coat pocket along with the book and walked out of the telegraph office.
* * *
September 8, 1939
Aboard the Sun Angel
The Pacific Ocean, off the coast of Mexico
Wilkins grasped the iron rails, knuckles white with tension. The sea air whipped through his hair, bringing with it the smell of brine and all the life of the ocean. The ship lurched over another wave, and he held tight to keep his footing. As the lumbering behemoth settled back down, he leaned over the rail and retched. It felt like the entirety of his being was coming out of him.
“Still haven’t gotten your sea legs yet?” Richard asked. The American was leaning casually against the rail, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes. His customary leather jacket was absent, and he seemed to be enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.
Wilkins pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. “Not quite.”
“Well, we should be there soon. Another day or two.”
“None too soon, if you ask me.”
“You know...” Richard looked over the side of the ship into the rolling waves below. “Now would be as good a time as any to get rid of that damned idol. We should toss it into the ocean and be done with it.”
Wilkins shook his head. “There’s too much we don’t know about it. Too many unanswered questions.”
“Are you trying to save the world, or can you simply not stand not having all the answers?” Richard asked.
Wilkins mulled over the question, but wasn’t sure which was true. “I might argue for both, considering—”
A sudden scream interrupted their discourse.
Their eyes met, and Wilkins was sure the same thought was passing through both their minds: The idol. They ran toward the upper passenger cabins, in the center of the top deck upon which they had been standing. Richard pushed open the elegant wood door to the inner corridor with no hesitation and took off ahead of his less athletic colleague. Wilkins saw him draw the revolver from his hip, which he had taken to wearing at all times since the incidents in Peru. A woman burst from a cabin and ran down the hall toward the two men.
Richard wrapped his arms around the woman and stopped her flight. “What is it? What happened?”
The woman struggled in his grasp, finally breaking free and running from him without a word. Wilkins stood aside to let her pass. She was weeping as much in sorrow as in panic, her red eyes swollen as a river of tears ran down her mascara-streaked face.
He caught up with Richard, and the two crept toward the cabin from which the woman had fled. Strange sounds emanated from the chamber; a sloshing of water combined with the tearing of flesh. The latter stopped suddenly as they grew near, then heavy thuds like the clomping of hooves sounded on the wooden deck.
Another figure appeared from the cabin, stunningly beautiful and shockingly horrible all at once, so much of both as to baffle the senses. Slender arms reached out to either side of the corridor, fully exposing the lurid curves of a naked woman. Instead of hair cascading from her head, a mass of green and black seaweed writhed about her as if she were beneath the ocean. A fine sable fur covered her slender belly and wide hips, and grew thicker upon her legs. Her powerful thighs gave way to equine legs ending in the hooves which had heralded her march into the hall. Water rushed about the legs from the ankle down, self-contained within several feet of her as if held in place by some unseen barrier. Most horrific of all was the blood smeared across her face, arms, and torso.
The creature opened its mouth, emitting an ear-piercing screech. Innumerous rows of needle-thin teeth ran about the gaping maw. They flexed of their own accord, as if in anticipation of another feeding. The amalgamation of horse and woman charged at the men. Wilkins screamed—in retrospect, possibly quite louder than the woman had—as Richard fired the entirety of his revolver’s load into the creature’s chest. It collided with them both, bowling them over onto the narrow deck between the bulkheads.
Wilkins’s eyes were still shut tight as he fell, clutching himself in some fool hope of preserving his life. Water cascaded over him as he toppled to the ground, and tendrils of aquatic vegetation wrapped about his lower limbs with a strength and ferocity that shocked him. He gasped, and the cascading waters of the sea to rushed into his throat and lungs. He struggled to cough, but only inhaled more of the brine as it rushed into his nostrils. He kicked his legs in a frenzy, trying to free himself from the clutches of the creature.
Fortune finally favored him as he coughed and spat a mouthful of water onto the deck. He drew a deep, ragged breath of air and pushed himself above the tide. Opening his eyes, he saw the small pool receding toward a central point. There, only a mass of misshapen flesh run through with seaweed remained of the creature.
Richard sat near it, the barrel of the revolver in his hand. The handle, and most of the American himself, were covered in splatters of blood. As the water cascaded inward, the strange lump of tissue and plant-life shrunk as well, until there was no evidence left of the event save for the dampness left in its wake and the blood covering Richard.
He dropped the gun to the ground and sat panting, his eyes locked upon the point where the creature’s remains had finally disappeared. Remembering the sounds from the cabin and the creature’s bloody entrance, Wilkins pushed himself to his feet and stepped past Richard. He shambled down the corridor, supporting himself with both arms. Rounding the entry to the cabin in question, he immediately turned away. Inside were the remains of a man, presumably the screaming woman’s husband or companion. His throat and belly had been torn open, and it looked as if the creature had already devoured most of what once resided within him.
* * *
“That’s one hell of a story,” the captain of the Sun Angel said as he looked over the bloody remains in the cabin. Wilkins had recounted the creature’s attack, and stood off to one side with a kerchief held over his face to block out the stench of death and the indescribable odor left in the wake of the creature’s passing.
“I still say you should have made something up, or said we got here too late to see anything,” Richard whispered as he leaned in over Wilkins’s shoulder.
In any other circumstance, Wilkins might have agreed with his friend. But among the company of sailors—who were by nature a superstitious lot—a fantastic story would serve them better than a dubious one. Should they be caught lying, they might be considered to have been party to a murder. Should they tell an unbelievable tale, it would be just one more fish story. Considering this, in addition to having the testimony of the dead man’s hysterical widow to back them up, there seemed little to be gained from fabricating a lie.
A thin man with red hair and a face covered in freckles emerged from the cabin. He wore the uniform of one of the ship’s crew and had been inspecting the interior of the cabin. “Sounds like a selkie to me, Captain,” he said in a thick Irish accent.
“A what?” Richard asked.
“A selkie,” the sailor said. “It’s an old Irish legend. Half woman. Half horse. All nasty. Seduces men and then does such as this to them.” He gestured to the disemboweled man.
The captain rubbed his eyes and ran a hand through the white beard covering his face. “In all my years at sea, I’ve seen some strange things and heard stranger. This has to top it all.”
“Would you be needing anything further from us, Captain?” Wilkins asked, feeling keen to take his leave of the gruesome scene.
“No, I suppose not,” the old captain said. “Don’t go wandering off when we pull into harbor. I’m sure the port authorities will want to have a word with you.”
