Other occult accoutrements mentioned in this story include La Tres Sainte Trinosophie, actually a treatise on alchemy attributed to the long-lived Comte de Saint Germain, and “the monstrous Ishakshar”, the carven artifact in Arthur Mac hen’s “The Novel of the Black Seal.”
One more thing: One can hardly read this story without imagining it illustrated, as for some lost issue of Creepy, by Steve Ditko. It cries out for Ditko! It actually reads like a script intended for his realization. And who else could do it justice?
First publication: Strange Stories, June 1939.
Alvin Doyle came into the Wizard’s House with a flat, snub-nosed automatic in his pocket and murder in his heart.
Luck favored him in that he had been able to trace down his cousin, Will Benson, before the executors of old Andreas Benson’s estate had found the trail. Now fortune was still on his side. Benson’s cabin was in a little canyon two miles from the village of Monk’s Hollow, and the superstitions of the villagers would not allow them to go near there by night.
Will Benson was next of kin to the dead Andreas Benson. If Will died, Doyle would be the inheriting legatee. Consequently, Doyle had come to Monk’s Hollow, and, with a gun in his pocket, had casually inquired about his cousin, taking pains to arouse no suspicion.
Will Benson was a recluse—and worse, men told Doyle over their beer. They whispered wild tales of what he did at night in his cabin, where drawn blinds hid unknown terrors from the eyes of the hardy prowler, and of ominous sounds that heralded a menace unknown.
But there were no more prowlers now, not since Ed Durkin, the saloon keeper, had come home one night talking about a smoky black horror that he said had squatted on the roof of Benson’s cabin, watching him with flaming eyes until he had ignominiously fled.
Doyle chuckled to himself, realizing that fantastic tales often grow up about a recluse. His task would be easier now, for there would be little danger of a chance that some passerby might hear the gunshot. He had taken the precaution of hiring a black roadster of a common make for his night’s journey, and his dark face was impassive as he steered the car along the rutted dirt road in the dusk.
Doyle’s face seldom betrayed his emotions, save by a slight tightening of his thin lips and a peculiar glazing of the cold gray eyes. He smiled, however, when the door of the cabin opened in response to his knock and a man stepped out on the porch. But it was not a pleasant smile.
Doyle recognized Will Benson from his photographs, although they had been taken nearly twenty years before. There was the same broad, high forehead, the same level stare of brooding dark eyes. The parenthetical lines about the mouth had grown deeper, and Benson’s thick eyebrows were drawn together in a puzzled frown; there were silver flecks about the temples. All at once his eyes lighted.
“Why—Al!” His voice was hesitant. “It’s Al, isn’t it? I didn’t know you at first.”
Doyle’s smile widened, but mentally he cursed his cousin’s memory. He had not been sure; he had not known whether Benson would remember him. Well, it could not be helped now. He had planned two courses of action; one would have to be discarded now in favor of the alternative plan. He put out his hand and gripped Benson’s with hypocritical cordiality.
“It’s Al, all right. Didn’t know whether you’d remember me. It’s been almost twenty years, hasn’t it? I was just a kid when I last saw you—aren’t you going to ask me to come in?”
An odd hesitancy was apparent in Benson’s manner. He frowned, then glanced almost furtively over his shoulder, then stood aside.
"Yes, of course. Come in.”
Benson double-locked the door, Doyle noticed, as his glance swept the room. Amazement gripped him. He stood there staring. The villagers had been right in naming this the Wizard’s House!
Dark hangings swathed the walls, their sable folds giving the chamber an elusive quality of spaciousness. Tables, chairs had been pushed back against the walls, and on the bare floor was traced an extraordinary design. Doyle searched his memory; then he recognized it—a pentagram, with its circles and six-pointed star, drawn in some substance that glowed with a faint greenish light.
About the pentagram at intervals stood intricately engraved lamps of silver metal, and within the design was a chair, a table on which a huge iron-bound book lay open, and a censer suspended from a tripod. The room of a wizard, indeed! Through Doyle went a little surge of petulant anger. What would such a fool do with old Benson’s fortune—should he inherit it? Probably waste it on mummery of some sort!
Another thought came to Doyle: Was the murder necessary? Would it not be easier to prove Benson insane? He put the unformulated thought from him. He dared not take risks. The gun was much the surer way.
Benson was watching him oddly. “Surprised, eh? Well, I guess it does look rather unusual at first. I’ll explain later. First, sit down and tell me about yourself—how you happened to come.”
He dragged a chair out from the wall. Doyle sank into it, drawing out his cigarette case.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “You’ve been out of touch with everything, haven’t you? Your grandfather and I were talking about you just the other day.”
He watched Benson keenly, but the man made no move. Apparently he had not yet learned of old Benson’s death.
“It started me wondering how—”
“Er—excuse me,” Benson broke in. “Would you mind not smoking?”
“Eh?” Doyle stared at him, then returned the cigarette to its case. “Of course.”
Apparently Benson felt the need of an explanation.
“I have a rather delicate—ah, experiment I’m working on. Even small things may endanger its success. I—I’m afraid you’ll think me a poor host, Al, but you really came at an inopportune time.”
He hesitated, and again came that curiously furtive glance over his shoulder.
“Had you planned on staying here tonight?”
Doyle was deliberately tactful. “Why, if you put it that way—I don’t want to intrude. I didn’t mean—”
“No. No, nothing like that,” Benson said hastily. "Only, I’ve started this experiment now, and I’ve got to finish it. Even now it’s dangerous—”
Doyle thought quickly. The man was obviously mad. What kind of nonsense was this “experiment”, anyway? But Doyle could not leave yet. He winked, and nodded meaningfully. “Expecting some company, eh, Will?”
Benson’s pale face flushed. “No,” he said. “You’re wrong there. It really is an experiment—and a dangerous one, believe me. Look here, Al. Can you go back to the village tonight—now— and come back tomorrow? I’m really awfully pleased to see you, but it’s—well, I can’t very well explain. These things always sound incredible at first. Think of it as a scientific experiment— with high explosives.”
“Lord, I’m sorry,” Doyle said quickly. “I’d be glad to go back, but I can’t. Something’s wrong with my car. I just managed to make it up here, and I’m no mechanic. Can’t we phone the village for somebody to pick me up?”
For a moment he held his breath. He did not believe Benson would have a telephone, but—
“I haven’t a phone,” Benson replied, gnawing at his lip. “You’re here now, Doyle, and I’m responsible for you. I’ll—there’s no danger, really, if you do as I tell you.”