The Horror Megapack_ 25 Classic and Modern Horror Stories ( PDFDrive )

defenses erected by Vauban—or perhaps something much more ancient, and
conceived by no honest engineer.
Crane now crept through the mists until a whiff of stale tobacco warned him of
a watcher’s presence.
He rose and boldly stalked toward the lunette. A jet of light flared in his face,
blinding him. He was challenged in French.
“I’ve got to see the émir at once!” Crane bluffed, using a plausible Arabic title
that would flatter anyone of lower rank.
The sentry protested. The émir was not to be disturbed. The ceremony had
started. Crane shrugged and offered him the silver peacock.
“Hurry, idiot!” growled Crane. “Tell him I’m here!”
The flash shifted toward the silver token. The drawn pistol was holstered and
an empty hand reached for the symbol. And then Crane’s bludgeon cracked
down. The guardian collapsed. Crane caught him and the flashlight.
The fellow was wearing a gown, and a hood from which hung a mask to conceal
his face. Crane donned the disguise. This was no time for qualms.
The memory of that mangled girl nerved his arm. He raised the pistol, smashed
down with the barrel. Then he picked his way down a narrow casemate inclining
sharply into the earth.
Furtive flashes of his light guided Crane. He descended a stairway of archaic
masonry, crumbled treads whose rubbish litter had been swept against the walls.
A splash of fresh blood guided him.
Finally there was an indirect glow ahead. Drums were thumping, and voices
muttered in eerie rhythm. Some satanic ritual was in progress.
Reasonably, Crane should now notify the police; but that brained sentry left
him with no retreat. More than ever, his story had to be good.
He halted at the jamb of an arch opening into a vaulted chamber illuminated by
flickering wax tapers. Its circular walls were pierced with other arches that led to
further and darker crypts.
Upward of a score of scarlet-robed and hooded figures were informally
gathered in groups. They sat on low wooden tripods the size of coffee tables.
Their muttered conversation was low-voiced and unintelligible, but Crane sensed
the tension that gripped them, felt their awe and soul-stabbing anticipation.
There was one, tall and commanding, who strode from group to group. Redmasked
faces jerked abruptly upward at his approach.
But most revealing of all was the blank arch opposite Crane. Stretched out on a
massive block of stone lay a woman, bound hand and foot: Diane, recaptured for