The Cave of Murdered Men, a fantasy by W. Benson Dueling from Weird
Tales Magazine, December nineteen twenty four. This is a LibriVox recording. All
LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer,
please visit LibriVox dot org. Read by Dale Growthman, The Cave of Murdered
Men by W. Benson Dueling. A chill penetrating wind made the place insufferable
for any but the dead. Wet mossy substance clung to the rocky walls,
floor and ceiling. Several corked bottles of ancient wines lay on the rock hewn
table. Fungus and spider like webbing almost concealed the jade green of the glass.
Bats flew about horribly, shrieking and thudding as their insect ridden wings struck
against the mossy cavern walls. A speckled snake hissed a call of warning to
a hunger mad rat. The place was dedicated too by and for the dead.
What life existed there was low life, starved life, pestilent life.
The dead were there, The murdered men were there in a body, men
who had been poisoned, men who had been hung, men who had hung
themselves, men who had been cut by a saber or pierced by a rapier,
men who had dined with borgia. They were all there, and there
they must stay until their murders were avenged. They sat about the cave in
pensive melancholy, Their long black cloaks hung in tatters about their bony frames.
Several of them carried sabers. One had a monocle wedged in his eye socket,
another held a leafless rose in his hand. They sat about and talked
in whispers that harmonized strangely with the eerie whispering of that biting wind. Tales
were told, tales of blinded faith, tales of money left in trust,
tales of stock markets, tales of roulette wheels, tales of love, and
tales of mad orgies. Now and then, as a drinking story was told,
a parched tongue touched thirsty lips, weary eyes wandered to the fungus covered
wine bottles that they could not touch, and back again to the faces of
thirsty comrades. A door in the wall of the cavern, a door of
solid onyx with a knob of Lapis Lazuli. The door to the outside world
swung open. A figure entered and seated himself at the table. There was
an expectant silence. After a moment, he raised his head. There was
sorrow in his eyes. I have been avenged, he said. I will
go now, another will take my place. He raised a bottle from the
table, broke the neck against the rock with a long sweeping motion of his
bony arm, and drank deeply. I drink, he murmured, to your
new comrade. He faded into nothingness. A figure rose and gathered his tattered
cloak about him. The onyx door swung open. He nodded to his comrades
and was gone. The light canoe bobbed up and down with the turbulent waters
of the swiftly moving river. A pale, gray haired man seated in the
stern guided the fail craft as well as possible in the swiftly moving tide.
He glanced over his shoulder to see if the thing still followed him. It
was there, true enough, a few yards behind. He paddled more fiercely.
Would he never shake the thing? It had been with him for the
last month. It had trailed him through the streets of a big city.
It had followed him when he sought relief from it and his thoughts to his
country villa. It had stared over his shoulder when he played at cards.
It had spoiled his putts on the golf course. It had laughed with him
at the musical comedy. It had cried with him at the tragic opera.
He did not know what or who it was, but he knew that it
worried him. It bore fifty one strange, abstract resemblances to the man he
had murdered so many years ago. It could not be Radnor. Radnor was
dead. A kingfisher swooped low and away with a bright flash of color.
An owl gave a melancholy hoot from the thick foliaged shore. The thing behind
him gave a hollow laugh, a laugh that blended strangely with the unseasonable wind.
He raised his hand nervously to his hair. It had been glossy black
three weeks ago. It was a dull gray. Now. A chill,
not of the night wind seemed to freeze the marrow in his bones. He
laughed a discordant laugh in answer to the thing. He glanced back again and
again. His eyes were staring strangely. There was a queer light in them,
a light not so much fear as madness. The thing was gaining on
him, there was no doubt of that. Perhaps it would like a drink
from the silver flask in his pocket. He would fool it. There was
only enough for one. He would make for the shore. That was the
thing to do. The bow of the light canoe turned gently to the right.
In a moment, it was caught in the churning current. The man
in the stern stood bolt upright. The canoe swirled round and round, then
sailed out into space over the falls in a fifty foot drop to the angry
rocks below. The man saw just before he dropped that the thing behind had
gone. The onyx door swung open and closed again. A man in a
tattered cloak walked to the table and seated himself. There was an expectant silence.
He took a bottle from the table, broke the neck, and drank
deeply. I drink, he said to your new comrade. The End of
the Cave of Murdered Men by W. Benson Dweling