Public-domain ebook
The carnal god
by Speer, John R. (John Rawson); Schnitzer, Carlisle
Language: en250 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Short Stories·Science-Fiction & Fantasy
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #76623.
The opening · free to read
1. The Dreadful Face
On starless nights when the moon was obscured by the earth's shadow, Pierre Soret walked alone down the darkest and most deserted streets in London. He did this to avoid the people who might look into his face. His face! He shuddered, his pinched shoulders wrenching sharply with a bitter shrug. Could anyone call this mask, this unearthly mass of bubbling flesh, boiling and seething in his own blood, a face?
Pierre knew what always happened when people looked into his torture-shattered eyes. The sight of their horror sickened him. His memory ached with the sharpness of pain he had felt on those few occasions when some luckless persons had inadvertently seen, and halted, frozen momentarily with the intense horror and nausea that overwhelmed them, their faces graven with revulsion; a moment later to totter rapidly past him down the street, the tension of their feeling released with an effort that ended in a sob of hysteria and fear.
The route Pierre took upon these nights was always the same. With his long black opera cape and moth-eaten topper, he stalked through the streets like some villain from an old Drury Lane melodrama. "A quaint old man who has refused to leave his yesterdays," people might remark, if they did not see his face. Pierre gave no heed to the few people he passed, except to draw the cape quickly about his face if they approached him too near under the eery, fog-filtered glare of the street lamps.
At Nigh Street, Pierre's bent figure paused wearily before he started up the hill. A few yards from the corner, he paused again, staring at the yellow lines of light cutting the fog and issuing from the slit-like windows of the beautiful home of the Countess Donella Moonard. In the thick mists, the house, impressively large and of Egyptian architecture, resembled a temple of Black Magic veiled in oppressive incense. The yellow slits glowered steadily and ominously. What brilliance and exotic color lay within!
It was late, but not all of the Countess Moonard's guests had departed. This would be the first party of the new season; trust her to make it gay and unusual.
Pierre walked slowly forward, muttering to himself. His shoulders brushed the low, ivy-covered wall surrounding the estate. He was nearing the entrance to the garden. Above the gate in the wall, an ancient gas torch flickered, casting a ghastly light that might have come from the most ancient tombs along the Blue Nile.
"The fools!" he mumbled bitterly. "If I could only tell them what she really is!"
Within a few feet of the entrance, he paused again, resentfully. Was it his fault that the curse of many years before had made him an outcast from the very society that now applauded the brilliant Countess Moonard? He thrust back his cape. How good this musty dampness felt! For weeks he had not been outside his home. His lungs cried out in rebellion, cried greedily for deeper and deeper drafts of the refreshing breath of night. The Countess Moonard! His hatred flamed higher. Her guests ... fools! What would happen if he were to walk into that gay party scene, drop his cape from about his face, and tell them that----
Suddenly he paused; the pale, frightened face of a beautiful girl was confronting him in the dim flare of the gas torch. It was too late to draw the folds of his cape about his face. The girl had already seen the sickening sight, and a stifled cry rose from her lovely throat.
"Oh, Carl!" she stammered weakly, clutching the shoulder of the tall, handsome young man who stood beside her.
"Ruth! Dearest--what----?" The young man was puzzled until he saw Pierre's face.
Usually when Pierre saw that he had frightened someone with the sight of his horrible features, he turned and ran away, rather than suffer the indignity of an apology--but something about this girl made him linger. It was a small diamond-studded pendant that hung from about her slim white throat. In that, Pierre saw the unmistakable sign of death and despair that always cast its shadow upon the throats of the Countess Moonard's victims. The girl was marked!
From the girl's face, Pierre turned to the young man. He looked into his eyes and saw there the familiar terror that always spread across the faces of those who looked upon him.
A long moment of silence passed. The girl turned from him, covering her face with her hands and clinging tightly to the young man, who now stared at Pierre with growing inquisitiveness.
"I'm sorry," Pierre finally said.
The young man tried to look pleasant. He was an intelligent young doctor, and although the sight of Pierre had upset him, he was quickly regaining his poise.
"Sorry? What for?" he asked.
"My face, if it frightened you. It usually does." Pierre tried to smile.
"Oh, yes, of course!" Carl spoke with more assurance now. The girl on his arm was still trembling. Neither Carl nor the girl wore wraps; they had been wandering through the gardens of the Countess Moonard's estate in preference to dancing.
"Ruth, dearest, don't allow this to affect you." He patted her shoulder gently. "I say, old man, you gave her an awful fright. I don't wish to be unkind, but you really are enough to frighten anyone."
Curiosity was fast overcoming Doctor Carl Fielding's fear. He looked closer into Pierre's face.
"Are those boils or burns--or what? How long have you been afflicted this way?"
"Ten years."
"Indeed? It is rather difficult to see here in this poor light, but something should be done about your face. As a plastic surgeon, I would recommend that you----"
"Permit an operation?" Pierre interrupted. "Young man, modern surgery cannot do anything for my case."
"I disagree with you. Surely you would be willing to give me a chance? This must be horrible, going about frightening people. Or do you enjoy nearly scaring young women to death? My fiancée is still trembling!"
Carl removed a handkerchief from his pocket. "Here, Ruth, stop crying, and use this. The boogy man isn't going to get you. What am I going to marry anyway, a cry-baby?"
"I'm not crying!" she protested indignantly. "It was just the sudden shock of--well, you and I walking along, and then suddenly to----"
She turned to Pierre, but did not look directly into his face.
"Really I am sorry if I offended you."
"Oh, no, no; it is I who should apologize." Pierre's voice trembled with gratitude. "You are very kind--both of you. I was quite careless tonight. Usually I am more thoughtful of people. You see it is not pleasant to----"
He was looking at her throat. If this young man would listen! But no, it was impossible. No one would believe the story of the diamond pendant.
Pierre said stiffly: "I really thank you for your kindness, and I am sorry if I have spoiled your evening. Good night!"
He turned and started to hurry away.
"Oh, but wait a minute," Carl called to him. "I really meant what I said about your face. I think I can do something for you. Won't you take my card and call at my office? At least you can tell me what caused this awful affliction."
Pierre quietly accepted the card that was handed to him. He thrust it quickly into the pocket of his vest. Doctor Fielding noticed that the man's hands were as hideous as his face.
"You think you would like to know what afflicted me?" Pierre said with a trace of bitterness. "I wonder if you would believe me if I told you."
"I would have to," Carl answered.
Pierre waited a moment before he said abruptly: "I see you have been to the Countess Moonard's party. Do you know her well?"
"As well as most people know the mysterious Countess Donella Moonard," Carl laughed. "Does anyone really know her? Surely you are not acquainted with the Countess?"
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