Dead of Night

2. Night-Fear

Dona Teresa twisted her hands together. “Doctor, there is nothing the matter with me. It is my uncle, Don Sebastian de Rivera. We are the last survivors of an old California family of Hispanic origin. Ever since my parents died when I was a child, Don Sebastian has been my guardian and my dearest friend. Now he is suffering in the grip of some terrible thing—some hideous curse—I come to you for aid. No one else can help; my uncle forbids it.”

“Indeed? And what is the problem?”

Dona Teresa lowered her head, veiling lustrous dark eyes behind thick lashes. “It sounds ridiculous—he is afraid of the dark.”

When Zarnak made no response, the young woman continued in a rush of words. “He has not always been so! When I was much younger, he owned immense lands in southern California, in Santiago County. He was a gentleman rancher, as our family has always been for many, many generations. He was tall, strong, a veritable lion of a man, afraid neither of God, man or devil.”

“And now?” Zarnak prompted softly. The girl raised eloquent eyes to his.

“Now he is an old man, although still in his prime— a shuddering coward who hides from the dark; gaunt, wasted, bent—old before his time. Stooped as if under the burden of some terrible and nameless guilt—”

“You say that your uncle is afraid of the dark. Can you be more precise?”

She twisted her hands together nervously. “It was our priest who bade me visit you—Father Xavier of—”

“I know him well; an excellent man, and a fine priest. Pray continue.”

“It began about seven years ago. I was scarcely more than a child at the time. You must understand, Doctor: Our family has ranched our ten thousand acres since the days of the first Spaniards. We raise sheep, cattle, grain. My uncle was a veritable bull of a man; I have seen him kill a rattlesnake with his bare hands; once, he slew a grizzly with what you call a Bowie knife. Never in his life did he taste the bitterness of fear; now, he cowers behind shut curtains when night falls, trusting to the blaze of a thousand lights to keep the night away—”

Zarnak meditated briefly. “Has your uncle consulted a physician? A—psychiatrist?”

“The family doctor prescribed nostrums, tonics, a vacation. My uncle, Don Sebastian, despises analysts. He considers them little more than witch-doctors.”

“I am little more than a witch-doctor,” remarked Anton Zarnak with a slight smile. “But please go on; tell me more. Any detail that springs to mind may be of help, offering a clue—”

“I think that it began when my uncle opened an old Indian burial mound which has stood on our property for more centuries than we have owned the land,” said Dona Teresa. “I believe that it was supposed to have been built by a tribe called the Mutsune, long since extinct,

at least in California. It was only after this intrusion upon the sanctity of the ancient dead that my uncle began to—change.” Something leapt to life and alertness behind Zarnak’s impassive gaze at this mention of the Mutsune burial mound. He made a brief note on the pad in his small, precise hand.

“Was anything of interest discovered in the mound?” he asked. The girl shrugged listlessly. “I don’t know—perhaps an anthropologist might find these things of interest or value. It was the tomb, I believe, of some old Mutsune shaman or ghost-doctor or medicine man, whatever you wish to call them. My uncle found clay pots of corn, scattered beads, shellwork, bones. The shaman was well preserved, almost like an Egyptian mummy. The remains, I recall, fell to dust when opened and exposed to the air.”

“Was anything else found in this tomb?”

“Jewelry of hammered copper—silver bracelets studded with uncut but polished turquoises—there was an odd pectoral pendant, carved of black volcanic glass—”

“Obsidian? That is interesting,” commented Zarnak.

“It was some months after opening the mound that my uncle began to display peculiar tendencies to avoid the dark. Within a year, he abruptly sold all of our land to a rival rancher and brought me here into the east. I had hoped we would relocate to San Francisco, a city that I love; but, no, we must put the breadth of the entire continent between us and our ancestral home, it seemed. We took a town house on a lovely tree-lined street off Park Avenue, and have lived in seclusion ever since.”

“While your uncle’s health has declined?”

“In seven years, he shrank and dwindled into an old man, frail and fearful. It is not a physical thing, I am sure; the family doctor assures me that it is merely nerves. As I have mentioned, he refuses to consult a psychiatrist. Even a priest; I am a good Catholic, I hope. My uncle is indifferent to the Church; he supports it but rarely attends. He has not been to confession in more years than I can remember. Sometimes, I fear for his soul.”

“Tell me more about his fear of the dark.”

“It sounds absurd and childish, doesn’t it? But to him the peril is horribly real. In the daylight hours he is normal enough, takes meals with me, talks, even jests. But when twilight nears, Uncle commands the servants to close the drapes over every window, and to light every light. Then he retires to his own quarters. He is armored against the darkness by powerful electric lamps contrived in such a manner that no corner is shadowy. He detests even shadows. And he lives in constant dread of a power failure; every room of the house contains dozens of candelabra and flashlights with fresh batteries. It is a fearful thing to see a grown man cower before night-fears—”

“How does your uncle pass his time?”

“In research; he digs through old, moldering books; he writes to scholars all over the world, he is in constant touch with great libraries—to be honest, sir, I have no notion of the nature of his research. We never talk of it—but he is horribly afraid of something —it is almost as if my uncle had somehow incurred the wrath of some demon of the darkness, and clings with frail hands pitifully to the light.”

Zarnak made a small notation in his careful hand.

“What became of the relics which your uncle discovered in the Indian burial mound?” he asked quietly.

“He has them with him. Keeps them in his rooms. He clings to them, seems to cherish them,” said the girl.

“I see. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

Dona Teresa thought for a moment. “Perhaps, Doctor, but whether it’s of any value or not—anyway, before Uncle sold the ranch, we had a priest staying with us. He was of pure Indian blood, of a race descended from the Mutsunes. I’ll never forget how violently agitated he became when he discovered that Uncle had disturbed the mound, and brought the artifacts to light—he was transfixed with horror, as if of a sacrilege or the exposure of some dreadful danger.”

“Was there any one of the artifacts in particular that seemed to alarm him?” inquired Zarnak.

The girl considered. “Yes; the tablet or pectoral of black obsidian. I remember how he stared at my uncle in frozen shock, and what he said. It was—‘You dared expose this thing to the light of day?’ And then he went into a sort of Indian chant, repeating one name or phrase over and over, swaying to the rhythm of the sound.”

“Can you recall what the phrase was?”

The young woman shuddered. “I certainly can! It made a frightful impression on me at the time. Three sounds, repeated over and over —‘Zoo, Chee, Khan … Zoo, Chee, Khan …

Zarnak made a notation, then rose and pulled a bell cord.

“I will visit you and your uncle tomorrow morning. It might be better for you not to address me as ‘Doctor’, since Don Sebastian seems adverse to such; while I have a doctorate in psychology, I am not a practicing analyst. Best, however, not to arouse his emotions. Introduce me merely as an antiquarian and amateur collector of antiquities; you may have seen my small collection and it will be no lie. My Rajput servant, Ram Singh, will call you a cab. Good evening.”

Once the young woman had left, Zarnak studied his notes with a thoughtful expression on his sallow visage.

Under the name she had repeated, which he had written down in phonetics, he added a brief notation.

Zulchequon?