The Dark Boatman: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos Read Online Free PDF Page B

ourselves a meal.
    Over dinner, we attempted to make sense out of the confusing information we had in our possession. Most of our talk, however, centred upon the cabalistic nature of the clock. Ambrose was of the opinion that it, and the key we had found, were the central clues to the entire mystery which seemed to hang over my family and, indeed, over the house itself.
    Having seen it for myself, I considered it was something best left alone, for I had not liked the look of the characters inscribed around the face, and I had the uncanny conviction I knew its purpose, yet I had never seen it before, nor even suspected its existence.
    “Of one thing I am certain,” Ambrose said, sipping his wine slowly. “It has the appearance of being ancient Greek in origin, judging by some of the characters. But I’m confident it predates the earliest Athenian culture by several thousand years.”
    “That’s impossible,” I argued. “For one thing, there were no such time-keeping devices as far back in time as that. And secondly, if we’re to believe what my uncle wrote, it still works, although in what fashion I don’t know. No driving mechanism could possibly remain in working order for that length of time. It would have rusted and crumbled into dust ages ago.”
    “Nevertheless, I’m convinced I’m correct.” Ambrose remained adamant in spite of the incontrovertible truth of my statement.
    “Even if you’re right,” I went on, “can you tell me what form of energy has kept it going for so long?”
    “There are more forces within the universe then you, or science, can even dream of,” he said enigmatically.
    There was clearly no point in arguing with him further, and we dropped the subject, turning instead to more mundane matters connected with my plans for the renovation of the house interior, until it was almost midnight and the fire in the hearth had dwindled to a heap of faintly glowing embers.
    That night, my sleep was unbroken by dreams for the first time since arriving in the house. Yet when I woke, it was with a sudden start. Something had woken me, for it was still pitch black outside the window and I lay for several minutes straining to pick out any untoward sound that might have subconsciously alarmed me.
    It is not uncommon for sleepers to be awakened by the abrupt stopping of a clock, by the sudden cessation of sound rather than by a sound itself. Thus it was with me. Complete and utter silence reigned within the house. But even as I grew aware of the singular fact that there was not the slightest creak or gust of wind to be heard—there did come a sound, one I was loath to identify, and yet knew to be the stirring of rushing water.
    I slid off the bed and went out of the room, pulling on my dressing gown.
    This time, I meant to awaken Ambrose in order to confirm the existence of that unnatural phenomenon I had witnessed the previous night. I knocked loudly on his door and, when there was no answer, flung it open. In the faint wash of moonlight I saw that his bed was empty, and the lamp that he kept on the bedside table was gone. That he had been in bed was obvious from the tumbled bedding.
    Where could he have gone this ungodly hour of the morning? The first possibility that came into my mind was that he had gone for a drink of water, for we had consumed three bottles of wine at supper. Then I recalled his strange, one might almost say morbid , fascination with the clock.
    I returned hastily to my room and lit my lamp. Enveloped in the yellow pool of light, I made my way cautiously up the stairs, treading carefully to make no sound. Arriving at the top, I paused to listen. I could hear nothing but that earlier noise, like a huge wave washing up some deep cavern, and all of the nightmarish terror I had felt in my dream came sweeping over me anew.
    Arriving at the end of the corridor I saw that my supposition had been correct. The secret door stood open, but as I approached, shining the light into the room,