“Enter in to us, Asmodeus! Enter in to your heritage! Were we not sold to you by the bond of blood by Salem Village two hundred and thirty years ago? In the deep forest you accepted us and made a pact with us. We forsook all other gods but you for you were the eternal will of man. Though we have slept for generations the ancient pact still holds. Under this rock lies the testimonial of the bones. The bones cry out to you, Asmodeus. We cry out to you.”
A murmur like a sigh swept through the cluster of attentive men.
“By the aching of the bones, we call upon your strength,” cried Westcott.
“By the aching of the bones, we call upon your strength,” murmured the men.
“By the secret head of the Sacred Goat, we call upon your strength,” the farmer cried again.
“By the secret head of the Sacred Goat, we call upon your strength,” repeated the men.
The litany went on.
“By the Black Book that our fathers owned we call upon your strength.”
“By the Black Book that our fathers owned we call upon your strength.”
“By the Hidden Face in the rock we call upon your strength.”
“By the Hidden Face in the rock we call upon your strength.”
“By the Cloven Hoof that walks in the darkness we call upon your strength.”
“By the Cloven Hoof that walks in the darkness we call upon your strength.”
“By the Lost Road that our fathers followed we call upon your strength.”
“By the Lost Road that our fathers followed we call upon your strength.”
“O Asmodeus, give me my purpose.”
“O Asmodeus, give me my purpose.”
Beads of perspiration stood out on Jeffrey Westcott’s forehead. His body shook violently. He cried loudly:
“Asmodeus! Janicot!”
A thin white froth appeared on his lips and his face writhed. The farmers before him were swaying from side to side excitedly and suddenly one of them, little more than a boy, screamed and fell upon the wet ground, his talon-like hands clutching at the black soil.
“Aie! Aie!” shouted the boy, his white face tossing from side to side and his eyes tightly closed. Westcott leaped from the rock and knelt for a moment by the boy. Then he lifted him up and bore him to the great stone, placing him beside the black book. The farmers surged forward, some of them moaning, all of them shaking as though in an intense ague. Their hands were outstretched and quivering.
Dreeme watched the ceremony with amazement, noting that Westcott by the power of his will, apparently, had lashed these people into a mystical fury that was close to the trance-state. They would believe whatever he had to say implicitly now for their individualities were lost and they were a mingled mob madness. The swiftness of the whole proceeding was the surprising part of it to the young doctor. Then he realized that these men had gathered here for some time, that an overpowering realization of helplessness inborn in their blood weakened their powers of resistance, and that Westcott’s powerful personality had sapped their independence and reason long before this. They were a poisoned and hysterical breed.
Westcott stood beside the possessed boy, his hand upon the heaving chest of the victim. He stared about the half-circle with glittering eyes, his yellow teeth—yellow as the flames of the lanterns—bared in a smile.
“He sleeps,” he said, indicating the boy, “he sleeps in the arms of the Master. Dagon is filled with the Master. The ground cries out and the bones tremble.”
Even as he spoke the scene darkened and a gust of wind blew so heavily that the lantern-flames behind their heavy glass protectors slanted sideways. It was like the descent of a sudden cloud, an abrupt eclipse in answer to Westcott’s solemn speech. For an instant it paralyzed the watching doctor and trembling chills, icy-cold, ran up and down his spine. He felt the surge of something huge and shapeless and black and irremediably evil, a presence that was beyond description and vision filling the hollow. A soft hand seemed to tap tentatively at his face and then, without warning, sharp talons clutched at the back of his neck. For an instant he dared not move. He fought fiercely with an intense desire to scream. Then, summoning every iota of his will power, he cautiously raised his hand and thrust back the thorny branch of the bush that the gust of wind had blown against his neck. A flood of relief poured through his tired wet body and as he felt the released blood throbbing through his arteries the gust of wind died away and the lantern-flames lifted their flattened spears of yellow. He thought to himself how easily the imagination could drive the nerves before it in riotous debacle. It was fear that was the great enemy, fear of the unknown, fear of the stronger will, fear of the old wife’s tales that thousands of years of self-preservation against mysterious phenomena had planted in the feeble mortal body. There was no safety in life except by the deliberate massacre of one’s fears. Well, he would throttle these unworthy spasms and surmount the horror of these cruel tricks. He fastened his entire intelligence again upon the scene before him.
The inanimate boy on the Devil’s Stone had ceased to breathe frantically. His bosom no longer rose and fell furiously. Instead of this he seemed to be quietly sleeping. Westcott, placing his arm beneath the boy’s head, raised the body to a sitting posture and the pale unconscious face with its closed eyes gazed out blindly upon the assembled farmers. For an instant Westcott’s hand rested lightly upon the boy’s white forehead. Then he said:
“Are you one with the Name?”
“With the Name,” answered the boy. His voice was high and clear.
“Is the Master with you?” went on Westcott.
“With me,” responded the boy.
“Is he saying things?” proceeded the farmer.
“Saying things,” repeated the boy.
The farmers listened avidly although they still swayed slowly from side to side and
