THE HOUND CONTINUED

by

Lanny Maude




I couldn't do it. I tried—I wanted to—but I just couldn't do it. It's ironic that with my fascination with death and the grave, I couldn't bring my own life to an end. I dropped my revolver on the floor and cried quietly.

At some point I noticed the silence—other than my soft sobbing. I no longer heard the unearthly baying of the beastly ghoul that I was sure was after me. I turned to look at the window where I saw the first signs of dawn. Was I saved, or was my madness merely delayed for another day? Then it came to me. I knew what I must do.

I sailed that very day for England, which was fortunate. I know not if I would have survived another night in Holland. As it was, I was uncertain that my flight would be successful, but apparently that ghastly beast had to start its search anew when night fell.

Upon landing I traveled home—not to London, but to the ancient house on the moor that I had shared with St. John until he was murdered by the creature. I had destroyed by fire that blasphemous museum of horrors that we had built, but the library was still intact. That's why I returned. The library still held St. John's copy—now my copy, I suppose—of the Necronomicon.

I poured through that accursed tome, certain that I would find an answer. I especially read and re-read the sections regarding the corpse-eating cult of Leng, the master of which was intent on revenge against me. I searched for the knowledge of how to put down that horrid beast, or at least how to stop it. I studied through the night, not stopping for sleep or even for food. I almost lost all hope when I read the line, 'The Master is Death and of Death and therefore cannot die,' but I continued. The next day while cross referencing my notes I built a supposition. The creature must get its power from the jade amulet it carried. Not from possession, because St. John and I possessed it for a short time, but from its existence. I had to find a way to destroy the amulet. Unfortunately, I had lost my chance to grab it in the churchyard in Holland, so other plans were necessary.

I did what only a short time ago I would have thought the impossible—I returned to the museum. Oh, the destruction was nearly total. Anything that could burn, did. Almost everything else had been destroyed by the incredible heat. I carefully picked my way through the debris to the altar in the center. We had referred to it as the altar, although all we ever used it for was a preparation table. I cleaned the slab with my hands, not caring about the ash that was everywhere. It cleaned up well. I was able to see some of the gold veins twisting through the black marble. A piece of one corner had cracked away, whether from impact or heat I know not.

I delayed my most gruesome task by cleaning the museum. Maybe cleaning is the wrong word. What I did was to clear a path from the entrance to the altar. I also cleared some space from the altar to the back of the museum where I prepared a place to hide. With all else ready, I turned my attentions to the final preparation.

I disinterred St. John very carefully. The unrelenting damp of the moor had been unkind to both shroud and body, and it took all of my ghoulish skills to keep St. John wrapped until I could place him on the altar. Rather than attempt to unwrap him, I used my pen knife to cut the cloth from head to foot. I split apart the wrap, finally exposing all of St. John.

Seeing him brought back a flood of memories. Not just the horror of his death, but also the adventures and experiences we had shared. I felt badly about using him like that, and I apologized to him hoping that he could hear me and understand my plight. Finally, I retrieved my revolver then hid myself in the back of the museum.

I did sleep some, but my sleep was restless and tormented. Once I heard the baying I could sleep no more. I steeled myself for what I was about to do, and I promised myself that should my plan fail, I would use my revolver to blow out my brains.

The beast arrived in the night. The retinue of bats accompanying it remained outside, but the bony ghoul continued to the museum. I could peek out from my hiding place and as I did so I saw the thing. Seeing it ambulatory almost caused me to scream out and go mad. I think the only thing that saved me at that point was that I was already a bit mad, for could a sane person use the body of his dead friend in the way I was using St. John's? I saw that the beast was carrying the amulet in its claws.

The creature advanced, sensing that I was somewhere close, following the path that I had cleared. It came as far as the altar then stopped to look down at the body of St. John. This was it. This was where my plan worked or failed. I held my breath—not consciously; it just happened. Then the creature made the move for which I had been waiting. It set the amulet on the altar when it realized that it would take two hands to eat St. John.

It was at this point that I comprehended that I was going to Hell, as I listened to the horrible sucking sound when that beast pulled out one of St. John's arms from its socket. I will remember and relive that sound until my death, maybe even after. I was disgusted with myself for what I had allowed to happen to St. John's corpse. But I set aside my revulsion so I could finish what St. John and I had started in that Holland churchyard what seemed like a hundred years ago.

I jumped into action. I had cleared the path in such a way as to force the centuried ghoul to stand with its back to my hiding place. As it began to eat the arm, I moved into position behind it. I acted without thinking, for to think would have shattered my strained mind. I snatched the amulet from the altar and flew back away from the beast. It turned toward me and flung away the arm all in one movement. For a brief moment I was frozen when it opened its jaws to howl its displeasure at me.

I raised the revolver and fired—but not at the fiend in front of me. I fired at the amulet that I was holding in place on the floor. I should have planned that part better, for although my shot destroyed the amulet, the violent concussion of the bullet against the jade and the floor also tore apart my hand. I was too occupied to notice or to care, though, with watching to see if it was the power of the amulet that was animating the old ghoul. It had stopped howling when the amulet exploded but continued to look in my direction. Then I noticed the change. The glow was dimming in the thing's eye sockets. And I no longer heard the fluttering of the bats.

When the end came, it was sudden. The ancient skeleton collapsed on itself. One second it was standing. The next it was just a pile of bones on the floor. As I knelt there daring the grisly pile to move, I noticed the pain in my hand. I had managed to blow off my thumb and most of my fore finger, so I tore a large strip from my shirt to bind my hand. I'm not sure how long I stayed there on the floor. I was weak from loss of blood and tired from lack of sleep.

Eventually I left the museum. When I went, I took St. John with me—including what was left of his unfortunate arm. I placed him back in the garden. This time, instead of burying him with a devilish ritual, I sprinkled the ashes of that copy of the dreaded Necronomicon over him.

I've decided to leave—not just the house, but the whole country. I think I'll visit America. I remember St. John speaking of a place called Innsmouth. It sounded like it would be a wonderful place to live.





The Hound Continued is © 2002 Lanny Maude