Weird Tales/Volume 7/Issue 5/Bat's Belfry

by August William Derleth

Bat's Belfry——by

August W. Derleth

A man in a suit looks upon a pile of skeletons.

"The rock gave way, and I found
myself in a vault with about a
score of skeletons."

The following letter was found among the papers of the late Sir Harry Everett Barclay of Charing Cross, London.

June 10, 1925.

My dear Marc:—

Having received no answer to my card, I can only surmise that it did not reach you. I am writing from my summer home here on the moor, a very secluded place. I am fondling the hope that you will give me a pleasant surprize by dropping in on me soon (as you hinted you might), for this is just the kind of house that would intrigue you. It is very similar to the Baskerville home which Sir Arthur Conan Doyle describes in his Hound of the Baskervilles. Vague rumors have it that the place is the abode of evil spirits, which idea I promptly and emphatically pooh-poohed. You know that in the spiritual world I am but slightly interested, and that it is in wizardry that I delight. The thought that this quiet little building in the heart of England's peaceful moors should be the home of a multitude of evil spirits seems very foolish to me. However, the surroundings are exceedingly healthful and the house itself is partly an antique, which arouses my interest in archeology. So you see there is enough to divert my attention from these foolish rumors. Leon, my valet, is here with me and so is old Mortimer. You remember Mortimer, who always prepared such excellent bachelor dinners for us?

I have been here just twelve days, and I have explored this old house from cellar to garret. In the latter I brought to light an aged trunk, which I searched, and in which I found nine old books, several of whose title pages were torn away. One of the books, which I took to the small garret window, I finally distinguished as Dracula by Bram Stoker, and this I at once decided was one of the first editions of the book ever printed.

At the cessation of the first three days a typical English fog descended with a vengeance upon the moor. At the first indication of this prank of the elements, which threatened completely to obscure the beautiful weather of the past, I had hauled out all the discoveries I had made in the garret of this building. Bram Stoker's Dracula I have already mentioned. There is also a book on the Black Art by De Rochas. Three books, by Orfilo, Swedenborg, and Cagliostro, I have laid temporarily aside. Then there are also Strindburg's The Inferno, Blavatsky's Secret Doctrine, Poe's Eureka, and Flammarion's Atmosphere. You, my dear friend, may well imagine with what excitement these books filled me, for you know I am inclined toward sorcery. Orfilo, you know, was but a chemist and physiologist; Swedenborg and Strindburg, two who might be called mystics; Poe, whose Eureka did not aid me much in the path of witchcraft, nevertheless fascinated me; but the remaining five were as gold to me. Cagliostro, court magician of France; Madame Blavatsky, the priestess of Isis and of the Occult Doctrine; Dracula, with all its vampires; Plammarion's Atmosphere, with its diagnosis of the Gods of peoples; and De Rochas, of whom all I can say is to quote from August Strindburg's The Inferno, the following: "I do not excuse myself, and only ask the reader to remember this fact, in ease he should ever feel inclined to practise magic, especially those forms of it called wizardry, or more properly witchcraft: that its reality has been placed beyond all doubt by De Rochas."

Truly, my friend, I wondered, for I had good reason to do so, what manner of man had resided here before my coming, who should be so fascinated by Poe, Orfilo, Strindburg, and De Rochas—four different types of authors. Fog or no fog, I determined to find out. There is not another dwelling near here and the nearest source of information is a village some miles away. This is rather odd, for this moor does not seem an undesirable place for a summer home. I stored the books away, and after informing my valet of my intentions to walk some miles to the village, I started out. I had not gone far, when Leon decided to accompany me, leaving Mortimer alone in the fog-surrounded house.

Leon and I established very little in the town. After a conversation with one of the grocers in the village, the only communicative person that we accosted, we found that the man who had last occupied the house was a Baronet Lohrville. It seemed that the people held the late baronet in awe, for they hesitated to speak of him. This grocer related a tale concerning the disappearance of four girls one dark night some years ago. Popular belief had and still has it that the baronet kidnaped them. This idea seems utterly ludicrous to me, for the superstitious villagers can not substantiate their suspicions. By the way, this merchant also informed us that the Lohrville home is called the "Bat's Belfry". Personally I can see no connection between the residence and the ascribed title, as I have not noticed any bats around during my sojourn here.

My meditations on this matter were rudely interrupted by Mortimer, who complained of bats in the cellar—a rather queer coincidence. He said that he continually felt them brushing against his cheeks and that he feared they would become entangled in his hair. Of course, Leon and I went down to look for them, but we could not see any of them. However, Leon stated that one struck him, which I doubt. It is just possible that sudden drafts of air may have been the cause of the delusions.

This incident, Marc, was just the forerunner of the odd things that have been occurring since then. I am about to enumerate the most important of these incidents to you, and I hope you will be able to explain them.

Three days ago activities started in earnest. At that date Mortimer came to me and breathlessly informed me that no light could be kept in the cellar. Leon and I investigated and found that under no circumstances could a lamp or match be kept lit in the cellar, just as Mortimer had said. My only explanation of this is that it is due to the air currents in the cellar, which seem disturbed. It is true a flashlight could be kept alight, but even that seemed dimmed. I can not attempt to explain the later fact.

Yesterday, Leon, who is a devout Catholic, took a few drops from a flask of holy water, which he continually carries with him, and descended into the cellar with the firm intention of driving out, if there were therein ensconced, any evil spirits. On the bottom of the steps I noticed, some time ago, a large stone tablet. As Leon came down the steps, a large drop of the blessed fluid fell on this tablet. The drop of water actually sizzled while Leon muttered some incantations, in the midst of which he suddenly stopped and fled precipitantly, mumbling that the cellar was incontestably the very entrance to hell, guarded by the fiend incarnate, himself! I confess to you, my dear Marc, that I was astounded at this remarkable occurrence.

Last night, while the three of us sat together in the spacious drawing room of this building, the lamp was blown out. I say "blown out" because there is no doubt that it was, and by some superhuman agency. There was not a breath of air stirring outside, yet I, who was sitting just across from the lamp, felt a cool draft. No one else noticed this draft. It was just as if someone directly opposite me had blown forcibly at the lamp, or as if the wing of a powerful bird had passed by it.

There can be no doubt there is something radically wrong in this house, and I am determined to find out what it is, regardless of consequences.

(Here the letter terminates abruptly, as if it were to he completed at a letter date.)

The two doctors bending over the body of Sir Harry Barclay in Lohrville Manor at last ceased their examinations.

"I can not account for this astounding loss of blood, Dr. Mordaunt."

"Neither can I, Dr. Greene. He is so devoid of blood that some supernatural agency must have kept him alive!" He laughed lightly.

"About this loss of blood—I was figuring on internal hemorrhages as the cause, but there are absolutely no signs of anything of the sort. According to the expression of his features, which is too horrible for even me to gaze at——"

"And me."

"——he died from some terrible fear of something, or else he witnessed some horrifying scene."

"Most likely the latter."

"I think we had better pronounce death due to internal hemorrhage and apoplexy."

"I agree."

"Then we shall do so."

The physicians bent over the open book on the table. Suddenly Dr. Greene straightened up and his hand delved into his pocket and came out with a match.

"Here is a match, Dr. Mordaunt. Scratch it and apply the flame to that book and say nothing to anyone."

"It is for the best."

 

Excerpts from the journal of Sir Harry E. Barclay, found beside his body in Lohrville Manor on July 17, 1925.

June 25—Last night I had a curious nightmare. I dreamed that I met a beautiful girl in the wood around my father's castle in Lancaster. Without knowing why, we embraced, our lips meeting and remaining in that position for at least half an hour! Queer dream that! I must have had another nightmare of a different nature, although I can not recall it; for, upon looking in the mirror, this morning, I found my face devoid of all color—rather drawn.

Later—Leon has told me that he had a similar dream, and as he is a confirmed misogynist, I can not interpret it. Strange that it should be so parallel to mine in every way.

June 29—Mortimer came to me early this morning and said he would not stay another instant, for he had certainly seen a ghost last night. A handsome old man, he said. He seemed horrified that the old man had kissed him. He must have dreamed it. I persuaded him to stay on these grounds and solemnly told him to say nothing about it. Leon remarked that the dream had returned in every particular to him the preceding night, and that he was not feeling well. I advised him to see a doctor, but he roundly refused to do so. He said, referring to the horrible nightmare (as he termed it), that tonight he would sprinkle a few drops of holy water on himself and that (he stated) would drive away any evil influence, if there were any, connected with his dreams. Strange that he should attribute everything to evil entities!

Later—I made some inquiries to-day and I find that the description of the Baronet Lohrville fits to every detail the "ghost" of Mortimer's dream. I also learned that several small children disappeared from the countryside during the life of the last of the Lohrvilles;—not that they should be connected, but it seems the ignorant people ascribe their vanishing to the baronet.

June 30—Leon claims he did not have the dream (which, by the way, revisited me last night), because of the potent effect of the holy water.

July 1—Mortimer has left. He says he can not live in the same house with the devil. It seems he must have actually seen the ghost of old Lohrville, although Leon scoffs at the idea.

July 4—I had the same dream again last night. I felt very ill this morning, but was able to dispel the feeling easily during the day. Leon has used all the holy water, but as tomorrow is Sunday he will get some at the village parish when he attends mass.

July 5—I tried to procure the services of another chef this morning in the village, but I am all at sea. No one in the town will enter the house, not even for one hundred pounds a week, they declare! I shall be forced to get along without one or send to London.

Leon experienced a misfortune today. Riding home after mass, his holy water spilled almost all from the bottle, and later the bottle, containing the remainder of it, fell to the ground and broke. Leon, nonplussed, remarked that he would get another as soon as possible from the parish priest.

July 6—Both of us had the dream again last night. I feel rather weak, and Leon does, too. Leon went to a doctor, who asked him whether he had been cut, or severely injured so as to cause a heavy loss of blood, or if he had suffered from internal hemorrhages. Leon said no, and the doctor prescribed raw onions and some other things for Leon to eat. Leon forgot his holy water.

July 9—The dream again. Leon had a different nightmare—about an old man, who, he said, bit him. I asked him to show me where the man had bitten him in his dream, and when he loosened his collar to show me, sure enough, there were two tiny punctures on his throat. He and I are both feeling miserably weak.

July 15—Leon left me today. I am firmly convinced that he went suddenly mad, for this morning he evinced an intense desire to invade the cellar again. He said that something seemed to draw him. I did not stop him, and some time later, as I was engrossed in a volume of Wells, he came shrieking up the cellar steps and dashed madly through the room in which I sat. I ran after him and, cornering him in his room, forcibly detained him. I asked for an explanation and all he could do was moan over and over.

"Mon Dieu, Monsieur, leave this accursed place at once. Leave it. Monsieur, I beg of you. Le diable——le diable!" At this he dashed away from me and ran at top speed from the house, I after him. In the road I shouted after him and all I could catch of the words wafted back to me by the wind, were: "Lamais——le diable——Mon Dieu——tablet——Book of Thoth." All very significant words, "Le diable" and "Mon Dieu"—"the devil" and "my God"—I paid little attention to. But Lamais was a species of female vampire known intimately to a few select sorcerers only, and the Book of Thoth was the Egyptian book of magic. For a few minutes I entertained the rather wild fancy that the Book of Thoth was ensconced somewhere in this building, and as I racked my brains for a suitable connection between "tablet" and Book of Thoth I at last became convinced that the book lay beneath the tablet at the foot of the cellar steps. I am going down to investigate.

July 16—I have it! The Book of Thoth! It was below the stone tablet as I thought. The spirits guarding it evidently did not wish me to disturb its resting place, for they roused the air currents to a semblance of a gale while I worked to get the stone away. The book is secured by a heavy lock of antique pattern.

I had the dream again last night, but in addition I could almost swear that I saw the ghosts of old Lohrville and four beautiful girls. What a coincidence! I am very weak today, hardly able to walk around. There is no doubt that this house is infested not by bats, but by vampires! Lamais! If I could only find their corpses I would drive sharp stakes through them.

Later—I made a new and shocking discovery today. I went down to the place where the tablet lay, and another rock below the cavity wherein the Book of Thoth had lain gave way below me and I found myself in a vault with about a score of skeletons—all of little children! If this house is inhabited by vampires, it is only too obvious that these skeletons are those of their unfortunate victims. However, I firmly believe that there is another cavern somewhere below, wherein the bodies of the vampires are hidden.

Later—I have been looking over the book by De Rochas and I have hit upon an excellent plan to discover the bodies of the vampires! I shall use the Book of Thoth to summon the vampires before me and force them to reveal the hiding place for their voluptuous bodies! De Rochas says that it can be done.

Nine o' clock—As the conditions are excellent at this time I am going to start to summon the vampires. Someone is passing and I hope he or she does not interrupt me in my work or tell anyone in the town to look in here. The book, as I mentioned before, is secured by a heavy seal, and I had trouble to loosen it. At last I succeeded in breaking it and I opened the book to find the place I need in my work of conjuring up the vampires. I found it and I am beginning my incantations. The atmosphere in the room is changing slowly and it is becoming intolerably dark. The air currents in the room are swirling angrily, and the lamp has gone out . . . . I am confident that the vampires will appear soon.

I am correct. There are some shades materializing in the room. They are becoming more distinct . . . . there are five of them, four females and one male. Their features are very distinct. . . . They are casting covert glances in my direction. . . . Now they are glaring malevolently at me.

Good God! I have forgotten to place myself in a magic circle and I greatly fear the vampires will attack me! I am only too correct. They are moving in my direction. My God! . . . . But stay! They are halting! The old baronet is gazing at me with his glittering eyes fiery with hate. The four female vampires smile voluptuously upon me.

Now, if ever, is my chance to break their evil spell. Prayer? But I can not pray! I am forever banished from the sight of God for calling upon Satan to aid me. But even for that I can not pray . . . . I am hypnotized by the malefic leer disfiguring the countenance of the baronet. There is a sinister gleam in the eyes of the four beautiful ghouls. They glide toward me, arms outstretched. Their sinuous, obnoxious forms are before me; their crimson lips curved in a diabolically triumphant smile. I can not bear to see the soft caress of their tongues on their red lips. I am resisting with all the power of my will, but what is one mere will against an infernal horde of ghouls?

God! Their foul presence taints my very soul! The baronet is moving forward. His mordacious propinquity casts a reviling sensation of obscenity about me. If I can not appeal to God I must implore Satan to grant me time to construct the magic circle.

I can not tolerate their virulence . . . . I endeavored to rise but I could not do so. . . . I am no longer master of my own will! The vampires are leering demoniacally at me. . . . I am doomed to die . . . . and yet to live forever in the ranks of the Undead.

Their faces are approaching closer to mine and soon I shall sink into oblivion . . . . but anything is better than this . . . . to see the malignant Undead around me. . . . A sharp stinging sensation in my throat. . . . My God! . . . . it is—— . . . .