But it was no easy sleep, for here moved creatures of nightmare. Slow of foot they laboured across the gravel drive, the ghastly dragging of their feet echoing over the empty estate. Low murmurings accompanied their progress, hoarse whispers and lamenting sobs. For they belonged not here, these spawn of ancient evil, and yet their tasks they must perform.
The slow ungodly procession trailed onward, keeping ever to the shadows beneath the ivy-hung walls. Now they neared the gate to the Professor’s garden and stood together swaying and murmuring.
Within the Professor’s study the three men waited tensely. They too had heard the midnight chimes. Pooley stood with his back to the wall, wielding a poker. The Professor himself was on the edge of his chair, book in hand. Omally supported himself upon the fireplace; the decanter was empty and he was dangerously drunk.
Long minutes ticked away upon the mantelclock, its pendulum swung its gilded arc and the three men held their breath.
Suddenly there came a rattling upon the window, a repeated and urgent tapping. Pooley shifted the poker from his sweating palm and wiped his hand upon his trousers.
The Professor said, “Who is there?”
“Is that you, Professor?” came a voice. “Omally with you? I’ve brought a crate of beer over. Open up.”
“It’s Neville,” said Pooley, breathing a monumental sigh of relief and flinging his poker to the carpeted floor. “What’s he doing here?” Jim crossed the room to throw back the curtains.
The Professor leapt to his feet and barred his way. “Stop, Jim,” said he in a desperate voice, “do not open the curtains.”
“But it’s Neville, he can pass the drink in through the iron screens, be reasonable.”
The Professor held up his hand and shook his head. “Neville?” said he loudly. “What is the name of your father?”
Pooley turned helplessly to John Omally. “What sort of question is that, I ask you?”
There was no sound. “Neville?” called the Professor again, but there was no reply.
“He’s gone,” said Jim. “What I would have given for a cold beer.”
Suddenly the knocking and rattling began again with renewed vigour, a voice rang out. “Help, help, let me in will you, I’ve got to use the phone.” It was the voice of Old Pete. “Please open up, you must help me.”
“Something’s wrong there,” said Jim, “open those curtains.”
“My dog,” wailed the voice, “a bloody lorry’s run down Chips, let me in, I must phone for help.”
“For pity’s sake,” said Pooley, “open the curtains.”
The Professor would have none of it. “Stand your ground, Jim,” he said sternly. “Put your hands over your ears if you do not wish to hear it, but make no move towards the curtains.”
“But you’ve got to do something, let him in.”
The Professor turned to Omally. “If he makes one step towards those curtains strike him down.”
Jim threw up his arms in defeat. “Wise up, Pooley,” said Omally. “Don’t you see, old Pete isn’t out there, it’s a trick.”
The Professor nodded his old head. “First temptation through Neville, then an appeal for pity, what next? Threats, I should imagine.”
Pooley had little time to mull over the Professor’s words before a deafening voice roared from the garden, “Open up these windows or I’ll smash the bastards down.” This time it was the voice of Count Dante’s most accomplished adept in the deadly arts of Dimac. “Open up in there, I say, or it will be the worse for you!”
Pooley threw himself into a chair. “If it is all right with you chaps I should prefer to simply panic now and have done with it,” he said.
Archroy’s voice slowly faded, still uttering threats, and the three men were left alone once more.
“Do you think that’s it then?” Omally asked, tottering to the nearest chair.
The Professor’s face was grave. “I should hardly think so, I suspect that their next attempt to gain entry will be a little less subtle.” In that supposition the Professor was entirely correct.
Omally twitched his nostrils. “What’s that smell?”
The Professor’s eyes darted about the room. “It’s smoke, something is burning.”
Pooley pointed helplessly. “It’s coming under the study door, we are ablaze.”
“Ignore it,” said the Professor. “There is no fire, the doors are shuttered and bolted, nothing could have entered the house unheard.”
“I can see it with my own eyes,” said Pooley. “Smoke is something I can recognize, we’ll all be burned alive.”
“I don’t see any flames,” said the Professor, “but if the smoke bothers you so much.” He stepped forward and raised his hands; of the syllables he spoke little can be said and certainly nothing written. The smoke that was gathering thickly now about the room seemed suddenly to suspend itself in space and time and then, as if a strip of cinema film had been reversed, it regathered and removed itself back through the crack beneath the door, leaving the air clear, although still strangling in the tropical heat.
“That I have seen,” said Pooley, “but please do not ask me to believe it.”
“A mere parlour trick,” said the Professor matter-of-factly. “If our adversaries are no more skilful than this, we shall have little to fear; it is all very elementary stuff.”
“It is all sheer fantasy,” said Jim, pinching himself. “Shortly I shall awake in my bed remembering nothing of this.”
“The clock has stopped,” said Omally pointing to the silent timepiece upon the mantelshelf.
The Professor took out his pocket watch and held it to his ear. “Bother,” he said, giving it a shake, “I must have mispronounced several of the minor convolutions. Give the pendulum a swing, will you John?”
Omally rose unsteadily from his chair and reached towards the mantelshelf. The alcohol, however, caused him to misjudge his distance and he toppled forward head first into the fireplace. Turning on to his back in an effort to remove himself from the ashes Omally suddenly let out a terrified scream which echoed about the room rattling the ornaments and restarting the mantelclock.
Not three feet above, and apparently wedged into the chimney, a hideous, inhuman face snarled down at him. It was twisted and contorted into an expression of diabolical hatred. A toothless mouth like that of some vastly magnified insect opened and closed, dripping foul green saliva upon him; eyes, two flickering pinpoints of white light; and the entire horrific visage framed in a confusion of crimson cloth. The sobering effect upon Omally was instantaneous. Tearing himself from his ashy repose he leapt to his feet and fell backwards against the Professor’s desk, spilling books and screaming, “Up the chimney, up the chimney.”
“I don’t think it’s Santa,” said Pooley.
Omally was pointing desperately and yelling, “Light a fire, light a fire!”
Pooley cast about for tinder. “Where are the logs, Professor? You always have logs.”
The Professor chewed upon his knuckle. “The shed,” he whispered in a trembling voice.
“We’ll have to burn the books then.” Omally turned to the desk and snatched up an armful.
“No, no, not the books.” Professor Slocombe flung himself upon Omally, clawing at his precious tomes. The broadshouldered Irishman thrust him aside, and Pooley pleaded with the old man. “There’s nothing we can do, we have to stop them.”
Professor Slocombe fell back into his chair and watched in horror as the two men loaded the priceless volumes into the grate and struck fire to them. The ancient books blazed in a crackle of blue flame and from above them in the chimney there came a frantic scratching and clawing. Strangled cries rent the air and thick black smoke began to fill the room. Now the French windows burst assunder with a splintering of glass and the great curtains billowed in to a blast of icy air. The burning creature’s hooded companions beat upon the shuttered metal screen, screeching vile blasphemies in their rasping inhuman voices. There was a crash and the creature descended into the flames, clawing and writhing in a frenzy of searing agony.