A. Merritt
The Face in the Abyss
Published by Good Press, 2020
EAN 4064066410353
Table of Contents
A NOVELETTE—COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE
CHAPTER I. OUT OF THE HAUNTED HILLS.
CHAPTER II. SUARRA OF THE GOLDEN SPEARS.
CHAPTER III. THE EYES OF THE SNAKE MOTHER.
CHAPTER V. THE THING THAT FLED.
CHAPTER VII. “COME BACK—GRAYDON!”
CHAPTER VIII. THE FACE IN THE ABYSS.
CHAPTER IX. “I AM GOING BACK TO HER!”
A NOVELETTE—COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE
INTRODUCTION
AND now the readers of Argosy-Allstory Weekly come once again to their old favorite, A. Merritt, who flashed like a shooting star across the pages of All-Story Weekly in the issues of June 22, 1918, and from February 1, to March 22, 1919, illuminating that most classically fantastic of all stories, THE MOON POOL, which was afterward brought out in book form and accepted in England, France, and America as equal to the best imaginative work of H. G. Wells or that older master, the late Jules Verne; after which he rose to greater heights in his serial that appeared under the title of THE METAL MONSTER.
In these two works Merritt struck an entirely new note, rich in imagination, the wondrous possibilities of science, and the fine balance of human interest and narrative charm. In every chapter he struck the cosmic chords of superlative invention. Letters from all over the world asking for further work from the pen of Merritt came to this office.
He has recently been induced, or, to be perfectly frank, he has again taken up his pen of his own volition and made another contribution entitled THE FACE IN THE ABYSS, which is published in this issue in full on the pages which follow.
We know of no more kaleidoscopic imagination among living writers. Merritt possesses not only a transcendental vision but the power to put in words the scenes that unfold and come full winged shimmering with light from the cathedral of his mind.
Chapters(not individually listed)
2. SUARRA OF THE GOLDEN SPEARS
3. THE EYES OF THE SNAKE MOTHER
CHAPTER I.
OUT OF THE HAUNTED HILLS.
IT has been just three years since I met Nicholas Graydon in the little Andean village of Chupan, high on the eastern slopes of the Peruvian uplands. I had stopped there to renew my supplies, expecting to stay not more than a day or two. But after my arrieros had unlimbered my luggage from the two burros, and I entered the unusually clean and commodious posada, its keeper told me that another North American was stopping there.
He would be very glad to see me, said the innkeeper, since he was very ill and there was no other Americanos in the hamlet. Yes, he was so ill that he was, to tell me all the truth, certain to die, and it would beyond doubt comfort him much to have a fellow countryman with him when that sad moment came. That is, he added, if he were able to recognize a fellow countryman, since all the time the señor had been at the posada he had been out of his mind with fever, and would probably pass away so.
Then with a curiously intense anxiety he implored me to stay on until death did come; a matter, he assured me, that could be one of only a few days—maybe hours.
I bluntly asked him whether his desire for me to remain was through solicitude for my ailing countryman or through fear for himself. And after a little hesitation he answered that it was both. The señor had come to the village a week before, with one burro and neither guides nor arrieros. He had been very weak, as though from privations and long journeying. But weaker far from a wound on his neck which had become badly infected. The wound seemed to have been made by either an arrow or a spear. The señor had been taken care of as well as the limited knowledge of the cura and himself permitted. His burro had been looked after and his saddlebags kept scrupulously closed. But I could understand that questions might be raised after the señor’s death. If I remained I could report to the authorities that everything possible had been done for the señor’s comfort and testify that none in Chupan was responsible for his injuries.
This did not sound very convincing to me, and I said so. Then the worthy inn keeper revealed what actually was in his mind. The señor, he said, had spoken in his ravings, of dreadful things, things both accursed and devilish. What were they? Well—he crossed himself—if I remained I would no doubt hear for myself. But they had even greatly disturbed the good cura, despite that he was under the direct protection of God. The señor had come, so his ravings indicated, from a haunted place—no less