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The Mantle of Graag“Not exactly the Hartley you expected to see, eh?” I gasped, staggered back; the thing I saw struck me like a swift blow to the solar plexus; I reeled for breath while something crawled and crawled up and down my neck. Then a myriad of voices shrilled inside my brain: It can’t be! It can’t be! He—it—stood before me, trying to smile. It reached out with claw-like hands in the old gesture I had known; then the hands fell away. The shrunken lips writhed and the voice came to me as from a distance. I was dreaming—it must be a nightmare! “Come in, Harvey.” I followed the thing that had been Frank Hartley into the hallway I knew so well, down to the quiet, luxurious room at one end of the apartment. Unchanged, quaintly carved furniture lay before me with its wealth of barbaric wrappings: Oriental rugs, tapestries, and exotic bric-a-brac. Over the fireplace, the full-length painting of Hartley, executed years back by an artist acquaintance. The mummy sank into Hartley’s favorite chair, extended to me the familiar box of tobacco, a weird composition of blends mixed with incense, a concoction which effectively curtailed consumption save for a few choice friends who shared the mixer’s exotic tastes. I struggled for composure, bluing the air with scented smoke. “Remember Roche, Harvey? Roche, Klarner, and Paulsen?” “Yes,” I muttered. “Of course. I’ve read enough of Roche and Klarner’s opi, seen Paulsen’s splendid drawings. Always intended to correspond with them but never got around to it. You recall I asked you several times for their addresses. Where are they now?” “Dead,” he croaked. “All dead. Paulsen went first, then Klarner. Roche got tired of waiting for . . . them . . . and took poison. He always was more practical than the rest of us. If I were less of a fool. . . .” Silence. Then: “But you will want to know what happened. . . . It all began when Hank invited Roche, Paulsen, and myself up to his hunting lodge in Maine for an extended weekend. Paulsen had just gotten his divorce and wanted something to take his mind off personal troubles; Roche was well enough ahead of the editors to take it easy for a while, and I decided I could do with a change. So we packed, climbed aboard Klarner’s one-lung vintage of ’20, and motored it to Maine. En route, Hank told us about the place he’d picked up for a ridiculously low figure. Nicely secluded, not more than a quarter-mile from the main highway—a glorified snake-track through the woods, in other words—and a fairly traversible path running in. It was not far from a reasonably large, secluded lake and there were several excellent beaches there replete with that special quality of white sand you find only in Maine.” “I was in Maine just about that time,” I interrupted. “Had no idea you were about. But go on. . . .” “Well, it turned out that Hank had obtained the place but had never spent any time there. Just been around once or twice to see if all was in livable shape, then closed it up. So he was as unprepared as any of us for what happened. It’s hard to describe. If I were writing one of my own weird tales, it would be simple. But this was different. No tangible signs of anything, of any kind. No wind howling, or the like. But something in that place got under our skin the very first night, and we couldn’t shake it off. We didn’t see, hear, or smell anything. No odd dreams. But it grew on us, grew so that we began looking around the corners, tapping the walls for hidden panels and the like. Hank said he wished Lovecraft could have spent some time there; he could have made a real description of the place, made his readers feel just as we felt, and work up to a terrific climax to boot. After the fourth night, we were just about to admit that it had us whipped. We felt damned sheepish feeling this way about nothing when we all spent most of our existence conjuring horrors on paper. But you can’t fight nerves that won’t lie still. The fifth night we had something of a storm; lightning struck the chimney and tumbled a load of bricks down into the fireplace. It was when we were clearing out the mess the next morning that we found the book.” His voice stopped. For a moment he sat staring into empty space. His skeletal frame twitched convulsively. “Strange,” he whispered. “I can feel them, but there is no pain. No more pain. But I can feel . . . them.” “What is it, Frank?” He shuddered. “Wait . . . where was I? . . . oh, yes, the book. It was a very ordinary-looking thing. Quite old yellowed pages, old print; completely in Latin. The former owner had scribbled a lot of notes in the flyleaves, partly translation, partly comments. Sometimes there were large question marks in reference to certain paragraphs, notations referring to certain pages in other books. . . . the Necronomicon and Song of Yste principally. The trouble was that none of us read Latin very well, but from what we could make out it was definitely a book on the old lore—things that Roche, Klarner, and I paraphrase in our stories. Oh, don’t mistake me; it’s not all Lovecraft’s invention, you know. He changed a few names, and added his own details. But the sources are genuine enough. “We found a real treasure in a few closely written pages stuck near the back. They were by the nameless builder of this lodge, the owner of the book. There was reference to a grisly thing he had done some twenty years before—” “Wait!” I cried. “This lake of which you speak: Was it shaped roughly like a hand with five inlets to correspond to fingers? Was there a huge rock on the beach a short distance from a large cave? Were you some fifteen miles or so from a dilapidated little village popularly known as the hamlet of the dog?” “Yes,” he answered. “How did you know?” “I’ve been there, too,” I replied. “I’ve been all around that district, seen the lodge, explored the cave, and talked with an old fellow they call the Captain. He tells a story of what happened there twenty years back.” “Then you know of the treasure . . . of Graag?” “Graag? That was the name of the man . . . the wizard who built the lodge. It must have been his book you found. But I never heard of any treasure—” “The reference was in those written pages we found stuck in the book. There was a ritual to be performed. We really didn’t believe a treasure would be found buried in the cave, but we thought there might be something of interest there. Some base for a few horror tales. Roche talked us into going through with the ritual. We learned the signs and made the marks prescribed. Then we went out and dug in the spot mentioned by Graag. Nothing was found after a half-hour and we were just about to strike out for the lodge when Paulsen’s spade struck something metallic. He became very much disturbed at this, wanted to get away, but Roche insisted we unearth whatever it was. Paulsen became increasingly nervous . . . he had read much more of the book than we . . . and began to mutter about something he called the Other, the thing that Graag had called for his sorceries. But we smiled at this and Roche forced the chest open with his pick.” Hartley’s lips trembled. “It . . . it was a worm, a large white worm in the chest lying on silken padding. When Klarner touched it, the thing crumbled away into dust. We were puzzled, but Paulsen was beside himself with terror. He muttered things about the scourge of the white worm, and the mantle of Graag. It was dark there, just enough light came from our hand-lamps to see what we were doing. “Suddenly Paulsen screamed out something and pointed behind us, toward the cave’s mouth. We looked; saw nothing. Paulsen went off his head at this and began to babble about a fourth figure and rave about the mantle of Graag until Klarner quieted him with an uppercut. We carried him back and left the place the following morning. Paulsen never recovered from the shock of what he thought he saw, died after about two weeks in delirium. Then one night I got a call from Klarner. The man was positively gibbering with terror; I couldn’t make out what he said. Something again about the mantle of Graag. Next day a special delivery package came for me. It was the book. And with it, a long letter from Klarner. After I read that letter, I burned both it and the book Never saw Klarner alive again; I’m glad of that. “The letter told everything . . . about the Other, what must be done when the sorcerer is about to die and the Other must be allowed to return. It tells of the rituals of burial of the worm, and the protective curse of the sorcerer over the earthly remains of the Other, that curse that is known as the mantle of the sorcerer. And it told further of what happens to all who violate the remains, what happens to all who are present whether or not they take part in it.” His voice raised in pitch. “The worm! The worm! The mantle of Graag fell on all of us. On Paulsen, but he died from the sheer insane terror before they found him. On Klarner: He knew what the mantle of Graag means. On Roche: He took poison before they could reach him . . . and on me. They have found me, too.” He rose quickly. “Harvey,” he whispered, “get out. Get out quick before you see! It has come; they have made a place for it. Get out while you’re still sane, and goodbye, Harvey; you won’t see me again!” He seized me, pushed me roughly into the hall. “Goodbye, Harvey, now leave quickly!” Something of the terror he felt flowed into my soul. I did not wait to inquire further. As my hand fell on the doorknob, I half turned, looked back. I wish to God I hadn’t! I did not read the newspapers the next day, but I know they couldn’t describe how Hartley was found. They dared not tell the truth. I knew because I saw. . . . Later I verified his story—his words about the Other, about the casting of the mantle, and the doom awaiting all present when the tomb of the Other is violated. You see, Paulsen was not mad when he screamed about a fourth figure, standing apart from the others, at the mouth of the cave that night. I was that figure. |
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