Salem, Oregon:

The black lettering on the white sign in front of the off-white building stated that it was the Oregon State Mental Institution. A well-kept lawn, whose green was vibrant in the early morning light, surrounded the sprawling, two-story building. The building faced the east and the light from the rising sun reflected in the windows on both floors.

Some of the patients were already outside sitting in lawn chairs located without pattern about the lawn. One patient, in particular, was sitting off by himself, on the south side of the building. He was facing the rising sun, which glinted off his light blond hair and reflected in his deep blue eyes. His eyes held a hint of intelligence and a smile played about his lips. His hands were folded loosely in his lap, laying upon the folds of the faded blue robe he wore.

Eric Moltone enjoyed the mornings much more than any other part of the day because the sun drove the shadows away. Moltone did not like shadows, but since it was still early in the morning, he could not remember why he did not like them. He was not even sure why he was here at the institution. Memories which seemed to haunt his nights were merely ghosts during the day.

* * *

Extract from the journal of Charles B. Griths:

July 19, 1973. I feel a slight sense of accomplishment and pride in the publication and reviews of the sixth collection of short stories to bear my byline. I cannot feel more so when I think of all the help She has given to me, with no question on my part about what my payment will be to her.

A sense of foreboding hovers over the house, especially as I work on my new story, „Shadow Love”. Maybe I should never have contacted Her, never have asked for Her help. As the days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years, the more Her presence seems to abide in the gloom and shadows.

For the past two years I have lived in total seclusion with the guard on the bridge gate and the Dobermans patrolling the island. But I still don’t feel entirely safe. I know that the price I will eventually have to pay will definitely be more than I have received from Her.

* * *

The Oregonian, July 13, 1973:

Charles B. Griths’ new collection from the Silver Scarab Press, Shadows of Evil, is all any true aficionado could ask for in the weird genre. The stories are not all one would expect from a single author utilizing a single theme—shadows—since they range from the hauntingly beautiful „Evening With My True Love” (concerning a man who falls in love with a were-cat), to the macabre „Anubis Comes Stalking” (about the opening of an Egyptian crypt), to the cosmic horror of „The Lurking Shadows” (which adds to the Lovecraftian Cthulhu Mythos).

Though each story touches on different aspects of the weird, running through each of them is the motif of shadows playing integral parts in Griths’ plot lines. It makes one wonder what kind of mind this man has, to be so obsessed with shadows. Griths has yet to consent to an interview even after the publication of this, his sixth collection. Maybe he has esoteric sources for his information concerning shadows that we know nothing about?

* * *

Douglas Island, Oregon:

Dave Southern walked back and forth in front of the gate guarding the bridge that led to Douglas Island. Ordinarily he would be in the small guard box, with the twin lights on top facing in opposite directions, located twenty feet from the gate. Today it was hot for October and his exposed skin was beaded with sweat. There wasn’t even a hint of a breeze. His job bored him, so he paced back and forth before the gate in an effort to relieve that boredom.

Southern had been working for C.B. Griths for the last two years. He worked an eight-hour shift—eight hours on, eight hours off, eight hours on, twenty-four hours off, and then he started all over again. Guarding the access to the bridge to the island was not a very demanding job, but it paid as much as a regular five-day-a-week job. He had every other day off, on which he went to the local health spa and worked out. With his physique on a six-foot-two-inch frame and naturally good looks, he didn’t have to worry about chasing women. They were attracted to him, even though they might not have anything in common with him at all. But he was afraid that if he didn’t work out at least three times a week, his muscular frame would turn to flab. And what beautiful girl wants to go out with a fat man?

He stopped in front of the gate and looked out over the trees that populated Douglas Island. The late afternoon sun was no longer visible, having dropped down the sky, hiding behind the trees. From the color of the western sky, Southern knew there was an hour, maybe an hour and a half, until sunset. That meant that there was at least two, two and a half hours until his relief showed up. Tomorrow he would have almost the whole day to sleep and lounge around and go to the health spa before his dinner date with Cindy Hinson.

Now, there was a doll! He had met Cindy three nights ago in the Carter’s Baytown Lounge. He found that besides being a fox, she could also carry on an intelligent conversation. She was definitely more intelligent than he was, Southern had realized, but maybe, just maybe, they could hit it off right. And, then, let things go where they will. He wouldn’t turn anything down if it was offered to him, that’s for sure.

He dropped his gaze and looked through the chain-link mesh of the gate at the bridge. The bridge was made entirely of wood planking and was approximately seventy feet long. He had seen times when the bridge was completely covered with water, but it was still as strong-looking as the day it was built. The road continued from the far end of the bridge into a dense stand of Douglas fir and thick underbrush that seemed to cover the entire island, except for a five- to ten-foot beach that encircled the island. He could see the wind moving the tops of the trees on the island and wished that there was some breeze where he was standing. But no such luck.

He stretched his muscular arms over his head, bunching the shoulder muscles up under his tight tee-shirt. As he lowered his arms back down, he heard a car approaching the gate. Turning, he walked back to the guard box and awaited its arrival. Ah, something to break the monotony, Southern mused.

The dirty-white Volkswagen pulled to a stop next to the guard box and a young man of about twenty-five climbed out of it. His blond hair was tousled with a single lock of hair hanging down over his forehead. Underneath it were eyes of deep blue and a strong nose and jaw. The young man walked up to him.

„Excuse me. Is this the way to Douglas Island?”

„Yes, it is. I’m sorry, though. I can’t allow anyone on the island except for deliveries of mail and supplies,” Southern replied cheerfully.

„There must be some mistake. Isn’t this the island where C.B. Griths lives?”

„Yes, it is, but he doesn’t receive visitors. He hasn’t received any in the entire two years that I’ve been working for him.”

„But I must demand that you allow me to see him!” the young man blurted out as he started for the gate.

Southern moved with a swiftness and grace that belied his huge size. He quickly approached the young man from behind. With his right hand he forced the man’s right arm up behind his back, and wrapped his other arm around his throat, exerting only a warning pressure. The less-muscular man struggled until he realized the futility of his actions. As Southern felt him relax, he released him from his grasp.

„I’m really sorry, mister. Like I said before, Mr. Griths doesn’t receive any visitors.”

„Isn’t there some way that I can get in touch with him?” the man pleaded as he rubbed his right shoulder.

„I’m afraid not, unless you contact him through the mail. Now, I’ll have to insist that you leave.”

„I’ll find some way to get on that island and see Griths,” the man touted. He turned away from Southern and moved back to his car with his shoulders back and his chin jutting forward.

„I wouldn’t advise that, mister. Mr. Griths has guard dogs—Dobermans—loose on the island. They have been trained to kill any strangers.”

The young man paused and looked at him a moment before he got into the small car and slammed the door. He started up the car, backed up in a semicircle, and meshed the gears as he tore off back down the road, tires spinning. The gravel and dust thrown up in his wake mingled with the fumes from the car’s exhaust, all but encompassing the small guard box.

Dave Southern looked at the retreating vehicle with a slightly puzzled look on his face. „Guess it takes all kinds,” he mumbled to himself, „but I have a funny feeling that I’m going to see him again sometime.” He flexed his arms, turned, and moved back into the guard box wondering what he could do to kill the next couple of hours until his relief showed up.

* * *

Salem, Oregon:

Noon at the Oregon State Mental Institution was the best part of the day for Eric Moltone. He could relax in the lawn chair and soak up the heat from the sun high overhead. He rarely slept at night. The nurses and doctors let him miss his noon meal and get the few hours of sleep his body had to receive in order to remain in a healthy condition.

Moltone hadn’t passed into a deep slumber yet, for his mind was still quite active. He knew where he was, but only had a dim idea of the reason for his commitment. There didn’t seem to be anything in his memory that would substantiate his being here. But the sun felt so good on his reclining body that he didn’t want to spoil his enjoyment of it by going inside and talking with Dr. Spranger.

As he drifted off into sleep he unconsciously rubbed his left triceps, where the duty nurse had inserted the needle of the hypodermic to administer his sedative to him.

* * *

Dr. Richard Spranger looked out of his office window at the slim figure reclining in the lawn chair. It amazed him that his patient was able to lay on his back without pain from the severe lacerations of his flesh. True, they were healing, but the sedative could not be the only answer. The subconscious mind would still move the body as the brain received responses from the damaged nerve endings. Could there be another answer? The man should have been crippled, but the lacerations didn’t seem to even bother him. It was as if something else was keeping him going until...until what?

Dr. Spranger had been the head psychiatrist at the Oregon State Mental Institution for the last ten years. Not bad for a man only fifteen years out of school. But his devotion to his job and his patients cost him his marriage three years ago. He occasionally thought of Lauren. God, but she had been beautiful, as well as intelligent. She wanted more attention than he was able to give her. His job was all consuming to him.

But that wasn’t the way Spranger had been raised during his formative years. He could still hear his father standing over him when he was ten years old, saying, „Richard, a job worth doing is a job worth doing well.” Such a ridiculous cliché, but he had adhered to it. It had guided him in everything that he set out to do, with one exception—his marriage.

God, I miss her! the doctor thought as he sighed, turned from the window, and went back to his desk and sat down. He went over his notes from his last talk with Eric Moltone, preparatory to talking with him again.

* * *

Salem, Oregon:

„Afternoon, Eric. How are you feeling?”

Eric Moltone had been sitting on the couch since two-thirty PM, waiting for Dr. Spranger to finish whatever he had been doing. He watched his fingers playing with one of the buttons of his shirt. After several minutes, he looked up at the doctor, his fingers continuing to move over the button.

„Fine, thank you,” Eric replied. „The sun really felt good today. I feel like I’ve slept for hours.”

„While you were outside today, did you think about anything that you would like to talk about now?”

He looked at the smooth face of the dark-haired doctor, who he assumed was younger than himself. He moved his eyes to the doctor’s—pale green, calm, patient, but with a hint of eagerness for his answer. His eyes moved over to the bookcase, where he could see a color photograph in a gilt frame in an alcove on a shelf, formed by upright books and a clock, a color photograph of a dark-haired girl with striking features. She couldn’t have been any older that he was...if he could only remember how old he was. He forced his gaze back on the doctor’s face.

„I’ve been having fragments of memory coming to me...but never in enough detail to recall how they relate to me. I recall meeting a man ...his name was...uh...C.B. Griths, I think. Does the name mean anything to you, Dr. Spranger? I...think he was a writer, and that he lived—I can’t remember the name, but I think that it was on an island—and it was located somewhere near Carter’s Baytown...”

Moltone stopped talking and looked toward the window. A frown creased Dr. Spranger’s face as he glanced over at the clock next to the picture of his ex-wife. Again he was perplexed at what was happening. Every day at exactly three o’clock, no matter how freely his patient had been talking, he would stop and look out the window. He wasn’t surprised by Moltone’s next statement, since it was the same each time—the last coherent and sane statement he would make for the remainder of the day.

„The shadows are lengthening and getting darker,” Moltone said in a soft voice, as his unfocussed eyes continued to look out of the window.

* * *

Douglas Island, Oregon:

Eric Moltone finished placing his clothes in the waterproof plastic bag, along with his shoes and his notebook. He zipped the black wet suit up the rest of the way and sat down on the sand to put on his swim fins. He pulled the wet suit’s hood up over the back of his head, tucking in the stray tufts of blond hair. He then stood up, picked up the bag, and attached it to his wet suit belt. He walked down to where the water of the Pacific Ocean gently lapped at the sandy shore. If it was not for Douglas Island, there would be waves breaking on the shore as the time for high tide approached.

He looked out toward the island. The things he had to go through to get his interviews. He had always succeeded before this and he wasn’t going to fail this time. He not only had to live up to his editor’s expectations, but the expectations of his younger brother, Marvin, as well. Marvin practically idolized his older brother and wanted to become a newspaper reporter just like Eric. (Well, he wasn’t really a newspaper reporter—he was just a book reviewer and did an occasional literary interview.) You establish an image and you have to live up to it. And Eric Moltone wasn’t living a false image. He worked hard at his job and the kudos came when they were due. He was known throughout the state for his critical evaluations of the books he reviewed and had interviewed several authors who had previously told others that they would not consent to be interviewed. After the first two interviews, his editor even consented to paying air fare to get interviews with authors living outside of the state. But he only had trouble getting to the authors that lived in Oregon. There must be something about the water ...

As he entered the cold water, he was thankful that the sky overhead was overcast with thick, heavy clouds, which obscured the full moon and stars. He could just barely see where the full moon was through the clouds. And he could see the light from the guard box on the land side of the bridge. Even though the spotlight shown on the bridge, the bridge was not illuminated from Moltone’s vantage point. A blacker bulk against the night sky denoted Douglas Island, three hundred and fifty feet out in the darkness, and the thin ribbon of black that was the bridge connecting the island to the mainland.

When the water came up to his waist, he squatted down to allow the cold water to enter the wet suit. Once it had warmed up to a comfortable level, he launched himself forward into the black water and began swimming toward the island with a strong, slow breast stroke. The plastic bag trailed along behind him from his wet suit belt where he had attached it. The water caressed his body with a hint of its coldness as he moved through it. He would stop periodically to check his bearings on the island and then continue his swimming. After thirty minutes of swimming, he finally noticed that the water had become shallow enough for him to touch the bottom.

He took off his swim fins when the water was only up to his chest and he walked in to the shore. At the very edge of the water he knelt down in the damp sand and tried scanning the island before him with the limited light of the moon through the cloud cover.

The beach of Douglas Island extended back from the shoreline for a distance of ten or twelve feet before it encountered the tree line. The trees started thickly at the high water mark of the beach, with their heavy branches hanging low over the underbrush. The underbrush didn’t appear that it would hamper either his progress or the patrolling of the Dobermans that the guard at the bridge had told him about.

He took a few minutes to pull off his wet suit, dry himself down with the towel he had brought, and put his dry clothes back on. He bundled the wet suit and the plastic back together and stuffed them under some underbrush right at the edge of the trees.

He moved into the tree line and through the underbrush as quietly as humanly possible. He stopped every few minutes to look around himself and listen. He saw nothing but the blackness of the night, interspersed with areas of a lighter shade of black that he assumed were the spaces between the trees and above the underbrush. He heard nothing but the quiet, no, the silence of the night—no birds, no animals, no insects, and...no Dobermans! Where were the dogs—he asked himself. They were supposed to be patrolling the island continually, according to that guy at the gate. Surely they had heard him moving through the underbrush or picked up his scent by now! Even if they had been on the other side of the island! But...there was nothing! There was just the sound in his ears of the soft beating of his heart and the rushing of his blood, which could be loud enough to mask any other sounds near him.

Even though he could barely see his hand in front of his face, the deeper he moved into the interior of the island, the deeper the blackness of the night seemed to become to him. It was as though his night vision had still not come to him, but had failed completely. „Sonofabitch!” he swore under his breath. The tree branch that he had walked into without seeing it brought one fact much closer to home. It was dark out here!

After thirty minutes of traveling through the thick stand of Douglas fir, he noticed that either his night vision was getting better or the darkness was brightening somewhat. And then he broke free of the clinging underbrush. As he steadied himself on nervous legs, he noticed that the clearing was inhabited by a large house crouching beneath a huge weeping willow tree. No lights were evident from his vantage point at the edge of the woods, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t somebody in the house.

He slowly circled the clearing, looking for any sign that the inhabitant of the house was awake and up. He also kept an ear tensed to pick up any sound of the dogs. There was neither. This must be my lucky day, he thought. I haven’t been discovered by the owner of the island and I haven’t been attacked by his man-eating dogs. Griths wasn’t going to like him being on his island, so there was no call to stir him up even more by waking him up out of a sound sleep. Eric crossed the clearing to the rear of the house and settled himself down near the back door, with his back to the structure’s rear wall. He would have to wait until daylight, which he estimated to be about two hours away, before he made his presence known to C.B. Griths.

* * *

Extract from the journal of Charles B. Griths:

September 23, 1973. I have completed Shadow Love finally, interspersed with two novelettes, Shadow Wine in the Sun and Ghoulishly, She Basked. I didn’t really expect Shadow Love to come out at thirty-five thousand words—too short for a book and too long to submit to a magazine. Guess it’ll have to be the feature story of my next collection, which I am going to call Darkness of the Dawn.

And that reminds me that in a little over five weeks from now it will be Hallowmass again—the sixth anniversary of my calling Her. She continues to provide me with ideas for stories, but, in a way, I’m getting tired of Her shadow motif. But could I have expected otherwise from Her?

The sun seems to stay in the sky less time than it used to, and there has been more overcast days this year than any year that I can remember. I have a feeling that this is to be the year. Funny, but it seems so easy to write that now.

* * *

Extract from Count de Hammais’ Sorcerie de Demonologie:

It has been said that Nyarlathotep is the messenger of the Great Old Ones, and, as such, is not imprisoned beneath the Elder Sign. Supposedly Nyarlathotep is the only Great Old One not so imprisoned, but there has been little mention of Nyarlathotep’s cousin, Mynoghra.

Mynoghra, she who is called the She-Daemon of the Shadows, is not imprisoned like her brethren, but it is unknown exactly what her status is since she doesn’t act as a messenger for the Great Old Ones. It is to be forewarned that if she is called, the opening can only be closed by the one who called her, since she is not imprisoned beneath the Elder Sign. The gateway must be closed after her. If this is not done, the caller and any that may be in close proximity may find that their lives are forfeit at her discretion.

* * *

Douglas Island, Oregon:

The slamming of the screen door jolted Eric Moltone out of his sleep. He had slumped over, away from the door, and had now jerked himself back up to a sitting position.

„What are you doing on my island?” growled Griths as he grabbed the blond-headed young man by the shoulders and began shaking him.

Moltone ran his hands over his face trying to get his mind working again through the spiderwebs of sleep. He looked around himself, up at the sky, and then at the man standing over him. Through his bleary, sleep-filled eyes he saw a man in his early forties, with dark brown hair graying at the temples.

„What time is it?” he asked the older man through a sandpapery mouth.

„Three in the afternoon,” the reply came somewhat gruffly.

„You’re C.B. Griths?”

„Yes, I am.”

Moltone struggled to his feet to find that Griths was at least three inches shorter than his own five feet ten inches.

„Come in the house, young man, and tell me what you are doing on my island.”

Looking around himself once more, Moltone asked, „Where’re the dogs?”

Griths stared at him for a few minutes, then looked around the clearing himself. He looked back at Moltone. „Now that’s a good question, son. I let them out last night, but they weren’t around this morning when I called them for breakfast.”

Griths opened the screen door, placed his hand on Moltone’s shoulder, and gave him a slight shove into the interior of the house. He looked around the clearing one more time before he entered the house, letting the screen door slam behind him.

* * *

Salem, Oregon:

Eric Moltone looked around his padded cell as the two attendants—John Robins and Philip Carson—helped him into his straitjacket. He didn’t mind too much, for they were just doing their jobs. He surprised himself by being able to remember their names. It was getting so hard to think coherently. „Time go fast,” he mumbled to the attendants, but they acted as if he hadn’t said anything to them or himself. „John’s here. Phil’s here. You’re both here and sun’s set?”

There was no doubt in the back of his mind concerning their ability to incarcerate him in the heavy canvas jacket. They had worked here for some time and had become experts in putting people into the jacket. And there wasn’t anything that he could do about it, even if he had wanted to do something. Robins and Carson cinched down the thick straps that held his arms firmly to his body, and fastened the buckles on the back of the jacket. They inspected their handiwork before they left the cell. As they closed the door, Robins said „Happy Halloween.”

As the sound of the door locking behind the attendants echoed in the windowless, padded cell, Moltone furtively looked around himself once again. He was searching in all the corners for the barest hint of a shadow. There were none. The bright overhead light dispelled all the shadows in the room, except for his own shadow that reposed beneath him. That shadow did not bother him, though. It wasn’t very dark, rather a dim shadow...not like the shadows he was looking for...the ones he didn’t want to find. He felt safe—as long as the light was on. And they had conceded—as always—to his request that the lights remain turned on when it was dark outside. With it on the empty cell was peaceful...

* * *

Douglas Island, Oregon:

Griths ushered Moltone into his study. As Moltone wandered around the book-lined study, he was amazed that there were no books of weird fiction. There were books on general fiction—a very small section—but the vast majority of what appeared to be several thousand books were nonfiction. It appeared that Griths had been successful without ever knowing what had been written in the field of weird fiction. Moltone was truly amazed!

Griths offered him some brandy and Moltone mumbled his acceptance. He took the proffered brandy snifter and sat down in the middle of the sofa. Griths sat down in a leather-upholstered chair. For the next few hours Griths asked Moltone about his intentions, his background, his present employment, and his aspirations. Moltone did not think a police detective could have found out more about him than Griths did. Finally, Griths changed the subject, as Moltone nervously finished the last of his brandy.

„So you’re the young man who wrote the review of Shadows of Evil for The Oregonian?” Griths asked the young man. When Moltone nodded his head, he continued, „I really enjoyed that review of yours. And I’m glad that you enjoy reading my stories, as evidenced by your review.

„I did chuckle over your suggestion that I might have esoteric sources for my information about shadows. However, that wasn’t as far from the truth as you might suspect.” Griths paused as he finished the remaining brandy in his snifter. „Have a little more brandy?”

Griths arose, took the snifter from Moltone’s hand, and went over to the liquor cabinet, where he picked up an uncapped bottle of brandy and refilled their glasses. As he turned to replace the bottle, he glanced through the window facing to the west and noticed that the sun had set behind the trees. Moltone turned and looked out of the window. Dusk was already settling over the house in the clearing and the shadows at the edge of the clearing were starting to deepen.

„If you will forgive me,” Griths began, and then paused. He took a healthy draft from his brandy snifter, swallowed the brandy with a gulp, and then took a deep breath. „I have to attend to something—something that has to be done this night of all nights. Excuse me.”

After Griths had left the room, Eric Moltone thought about his host. When Griths had awakened him that afternoon, his first impression of Griths was that of a man that brooked no interference with his life-style. This did not correlate with the sensitivity exhibited in the man’s writing. Thinking about Girth’s writing, Moltone realized that he had been with Griths for the past four hours or so and he had not even thought about his reason for coming to Douglas Island—his interview with C.B. Griths. He didn’t really know a lot about Griths, except that his first collection of horror stories, Darkness at Noon, was published by The Silver Scarab Press of Albuquerque, New Mexico, a little over a year ago. Its publication was met with resounding acclaim. This was not unusual, because the stories in the collection were brilliant. What was unusual was that prior to the publication of that first collection, no one had ever heard of Griths, neither professional editors nor small press editors. He had come out of nowhere and became a rising star in the weird fiction field.

Moltone stood up and walked over to the windows in the west wall of the study. Pulling the curtains aside, he looked through them and noticed that the light in the clearing was becoming brighter with each passing minute. He realized that Griths must be turning on the lights in each of the rooms upstairs. Five minutes later the illumination from the house continued brightening the clearing as Griths turned on the lights in the rooms downstairs.

Several minutes later Griths strode back into the study with an armful of large candles. He proceeded to distribute these in various places around the room in sconces, which Moltone had not noticed before now. Griths then went around the room, lighting the candles. When he had finished lighting them, he looked at Moltone and said, „Well,...that takes care of that.”

And then all the lights went out.

* * *

The (Carter’s Baytown) Review, November 1, 1973:

Last night our fair city was plagued with a complete power failure stemming from unknown causes. The failure occurred just after sunset and lasted for approximately fourteen hours, creating quite some confusion to the populace.

When the telephone at the power station wasn’t answered, the police were sent to check it out. They found the three members of the night shift in a heavy sleep, which took them an hour to be brought out of. When they were finally awakened they could not explain why there had been a power failure.

Investigations are still being conducted to ascertain the causes of the power failure.

* * *

Extract from the journal of Charles B. Griths:

October 31, 1973. The lights went out shortly after sunset, but the emergency generator started right up and relit the house. There was no further problem until ten minutes ago when the generator went out. I have lit all of the candles that I placed here in the study shortly before sunset.

I don’t wish to relinquish my daily habit of entering something in this journal, even though I have an unannounced visitor—one Eric Moltone—in the house. He is currently sitting in my easy chair drinking my brandy and reading a carbon copy of my story, „Shadow Love”, while I enter these words.

Earlier this year I had the premonition that this is the year that She asks for Her payment for services rendered. And now that the day has arrived, I wish there were some way I could undo what I have done. True, I have received monetary rewards and literary recognition, but what are these to me if I can no longer enjoy them?

This would never have happened if I had not come across the Frenchman’s book and the Arab’s book. One, without the other, and contact would never have been established. And, then, I was deceived, for She came in the guise of a beautiful woman—lovely, enchanting, exotic...deadly. It was only recently that I perused The O’Khymer Revelations at the library of the University of Nyingtove, and found out what Her true appearance is—Mynoghra, the She-Daemon of the Shadows, dark cousin to the Mighty Messenger, Nyarlathotep.

If this is truly the night that She will come, I hope She doesn’t bring the Hell-Hounds with her!

* * *

Extract from The O’Khymer Revelations:

Mynoghra is the dark cousin of Nyarlathotep. She is unbound by the Elder Sign or the Star-Stones from M’lha. She goes where She wills on membranous wings, unfettered and unbound. Her alien visage is enough to turn a man’s mind to solid stone—leering inhuman eyes, tentacled hair, a mouth opening that encompasses all eternity. Even though She may grant favors to the unwary, She is truly a She-Daemon of the Shadows.

And accompanying Her are the Hell-Hounds, the abominable spawn of Her mating with Shub-Niggurath. Though little is known about the Hell-Hounds, they bear some alien relationship to the Hounds of Tindalos, but are unbound by the non-angles of our man-made universe.

* * *

Extract from the journal of Charles B. Griths:

October 31, 1973 (continued). Have looked in vain through de Hammais’ book and Ibn el-Badawi’s Kitab Rasul al-Akbarin. I can find nothing that will tell me how to close the gateway. Since it is open, She can come through at any time She desires. I have to close it...I have to close it!

I must have been speaking out loud, for my visitor is looking at me in a very strange manner. I would have liked to have sent him back to the mainland, but I couldn’t vouch for his safety in the darkness. He probably wouldn’t be safe anywhere on the island—even inside this house—when She comes.

Oh, my God! The candles! They’re being extinguished one by one, plunging the study into darkness! I hear the flapping of wings above the house. Could it be She already? It must be She, it’s midnight! And that other sound...could it be the...

* * *

A non-specific area in interdimensional space:

She glided gently through the blackness on her membranous wings, riding the solar winds from the black stars, searching for the exit from her dark dimension. She knew that it was only a matter of time—and she had all eternity—before she would find the opening between her dimension and the dimension of the entities that called themselves...what was it? Humans? Yes, that was it. Humans. The opening was distinguishable from the blackness around her by being a lighter shade of black. It was not light enough to endanger her existence in her natural form, but light enough for her to home in on the opening unerringly.

She knew that the time was near. She had made a pact with the entity and the time of payment was near. Her thoughts dwelt on the ecstasy that awaited her on the other side of the opening. She did not need to feed, but the life force of the entities was so...delicious! And her spawn liked it, too, as well as the fluids.

This time she would not have to alter her form as she had had to do previous times. Her form in the entity’s dimension was vastly different than that in her own dimension, but it wouldn’t be the same manifestation that the entity had perceived the times before this. Those times it had been necessary for physical contact to take place before communication could be brought about. This time there would be no need for communication. She absently wondered if her true form would seem as repellent to the entity as its did to her.

There! There was the opening. Actually, it was not really an opening, as such, but a rip in the fabric of space-time. But whatever one wanted to call it, it was close and she headed toward it, gliding through the „ether” of her own dimension. It was still open and it could only be closed by the one who had called her and...But she must not even think His name or even of Him!

As she passed through the opening, interdimensional electrical charges raced back and forth through her form, disrupting, distorting, altering, changing, and shrinking it. With a wrench in the fabric of space-time, she was through the gateway and drifting down to the night side of the blue and green and white globe beneath her.

Below her stood the stone structure on the land mass, surrounded by the non-sentient plants. Above her roiled the gaseous masses, obscuring those hideous little points of light that she detested out of an inner fear. She heard the sound of her offspring coming through the opening behind her. The time was now!

* * *

Douglas Island, Oregon:

Eric Moltone burst out of the door of the house in the clearing as if the hounds of Hell were right behind him. And he didn’t disbelieve the possibility of that occurring after what had taken place within the house. The scream that had been wrenched from the throat of Griths still echoed through his mind. As the screen door banged back into place, he raced through the darkness, across the clearing and, entering the trees, headed in the direction of the mainland—he hoped!

A deeper blackness than the darkness surrounding him emanated from the house and followed him. Its speed was unimpaired by the trees as much as they slowed down Moltone. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the blackness moving toward him and tried to increase his efforts for even more speed.

A sound came to his ears as of the baying of hounds and the flapping of wings—and it definitely wasn’t the sound of the Dobermans that were supposed to be patrolling the island! But he knew what was following him could make him as dead as the Dobermans, except the Dobermans wouldn’t take his soul like that...thing...had seemed to take the soul of his host, Charles B. Griths. At least Moltone thought that was what it would sound like if someone’s soul was wrenched out of his body. If he believed in the existence of the soul. The events that had occurred within the house were etched into his mind, as if the lights had been on, instead of being off. After the...thing...had finished its attack on Griths before his eyes, dropping Griths to the floor a dried-up husk of what once was a human being, it had then turned on him...

As he ran through a thick stand of underbrush he put his foot down on something...and it kept going. The underbrush had concealed a rotting log. Trying to regain his balance, the toe of his other shoe caught on the log and he fell forward through the underbrush, tearing some of it out of the ground. He crashed into one of the Douglas firs that inhabited the island, the contact with the tree knocking the breath from his lean body.

As he struggled up to his hands and knees, gasping for breath, a series of sharp pains lanced through his back, starting at his shoulders and ending at his waist. He inhaled deeply and screamed, unthinkingly, hoping the pain would go away, but it erupted again, anew. He had to get off this damn island, a deeper part of his mind yelled at him. He felt the wetness running from his shoulders down his back. Through the pain he regained his feet and plunged on through the trees and underbrush for what seemed like hours. The baying of hounds and the flapping of wings continued to follow him.

* * *

Douglas Island, Oregon:

Dave Southern glanced through the windows of the guard box, hoping nobody would be there. He had been daydreaming—at night, yet—about his date with Cindy Hinson on his day off. He had never had such an incredible time before with a woman. And they didn’t even have sex! By the time the evening was half over he knew that they were opposite sides of the same coin, that they were meant to travel through life together. He had heard his friends talking about love at first sight, but he had never believed in it himself. But now he was not so sure.

Southern looked toward the island when he heard the baying of the hounds.

„What the hell?” Dave Southern said to himself. „That sure isn’t the Dobermans.”

And then he heard the screams. He turned, startled by the screams coming from the island, and looked down the bridge to where the road disappeared into the trees. He stood there for fifteen or twenty minutes to see if the screams would be repeated. When they weren’t, he turned and walked back to his guard box.

„None of my business what the old man does on his island.”

As he entered his required hourly report in the log book, the screams were repeated. This time they sounded as if they were coming closer. Southern hesitated, a subtle hook of fear catching at the lower portion of his conscious mind, before gathering his courage and stepping out of the guard box. He reached up and wiped the sweat off of his upper lip with the back of his right hand. He then dropped his hand to his side and rubbed it against his trousers.

He left the guard box and walked over and stood in front of the locked gate, looking through the chain-link mesh down the length of the bridge. His eyes darted back and forth as he searched the entire length of the bridge. Two-thirds of the way down the bridge he noticed something moving. Now he could hear the movement of whatever it was. Something was coming toward him down the bridge and it was getting closer with each second. A blackness seemed to flow out of the woods and onto the end of the bridge. It stopped when it entered the light cast upon the bridge from the guard box. Whatever it was, it didn’t like the light. It retreated back into the woods. His attention was again focused upon the thing moving down the bridge toward him. Unconsciously, Southern moved backward one step at a time.

When the moving object collided with the locked gate, Dave Southern’s right hand had moved down to his holstered automatic pistol. Whatever it was, if it came through the gate, he was going to blow it away. He stopped with the pistol halfway out of the holster as he recognized the blond-headed young man from two days before, hanging by his fingertips from the gate’s mesh, great sobs wracking his body.

As the young man dropped from the gate to the ground, Southern broke out of his horror-induced lethargy, reholstered the automatic, and moved toward him. One of the twin lights over the guard box illuminated the young man and Southern could see that the back of the young man’s shirt had been shredded. He assumed, from the amount of blood on his back, that the skin and muscle beneath it were in the same condition as his shirt. Without even thinking about it, he knew that no Dobermans had done that to the man’s back.

First aid not being one of the requirements for his job, he ran back to the guard box and telephoned the police to send an ambulance.

* * *

Salem, Oregon:

...so peaceful with the naked light bulb over his head, dispelling all the shadows he dreaded from the padded cell. Not that he had ever seen one of the other shadows in his cell. His own pale shadow was like a friend to him, mimicking his movements, and never initiating its own movements.

He wondered what time it was. Thoughts began racing through his mind, each one as elusive as the one before it. Eric Moltone managed to stay one of his thoughts and concentrated on its contents, turning it over and over until he realized what it was. A shudder raced up his back and set the hairs on the back of his neck to standing on end.

My God! he thought to himself. What did John say when he closed the cell door? What day is it? Unless it,is...that day! He finally remembered that John had said „Halloween.” And if it is All Hallow’s Eve, then it must be close to midnight. It had been one full year since he had met C.B. Griths. Yes, he could remember who Griths was now. It had been one year since his flight through the woods on Douglas Island to escape from...from what? What had happened on the island that his mind would not let him remember? Was it really that terrible?

The overhead light brightened momentarily and Eric looked up at it. Then it went out, plunging the padded cell into complete darkness. A far-off sound came to him of baying hounds and the flapping of wings.

Eric Moltone’s eyes widened as he looked around the cell for someplace to hide. Of course, there was no place to hide in a padded cell. He had to meet it in the open and he didn’t want to be all trussed up like this. He began struggling within the confines of his straitjacket. After a few minutes he became aware of the futility of his efforts. All of the missing pieces of his memory leapt into his waiting mind, coruscating in and around each other, confusing him. He latched out at one of the swirling memories—held on to it—looked for a related memory and grabbed onto that one—again and again, until the memories started to make some coherent sense. And with complete memory once again his, his mind began shutting down, again, fleeing from the horror of his memories.

He strained his face toward to ceiling and screamed to the unfeeling gods that had abandoned him. „No!” he wailed. „Please—Mynoghra spare me, please!”