The Hexer from Salem - The Tyrant from the Deep E-Book

Wolfgang Hohlbein

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: An Occult Fantasy Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 127

Beschreibung

In the night, clouds had risen from the sea - a dark, seething front that extinguished the full moon's pale glow and pelted the earth with a torrent of frozen rain. A gusty, ice-cold wind blew the rain sideways across the water's surface, ensuring the residents of this strip of coastline forgot it was high summer. That the nights should be warm.
The lake was like a black hole, swallowing all available light. Somewhere, not far from the boat, something dark and massive was starting to circle the small boat...

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

What is The Hexer from Salem?

The Author

Title

Copyright

The Tyrant from the Deep

Preview

What is The Hexer from Salem?

The Hexer from Salem, a novel series in the vein of H.P. Lovecraft, was created and written almost entirely by Wolfgang Hohlbein. The epic began in 1984 in a pulp-fiction series: Ghost-Thrillers from Bastei Publishing and later as a stand-alone series under The Hexer from Salem, before it finally became available in paperback and collectors editions.

The story takes place primarily in nineteenth century London, following the chilling adventures of The Hexer, Robert Craven and, later on, his son as they encounter the Great Aged — godlike creatures hostile to humans — and their representatives on earth.

The Author

Wolfgang Hohlbein is a phenomenon: With more than 200 books selling over 40 million copies worldwide, he is one of Germany’s most prolific fantasy writers. Hohlbein is well-known for his young adult books and above all his novel series, The Hexer from Salem.

Wolfgang Hohlbein

Episode 2: The Tyrant from the Deep

Translated by William Glucroft

BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

Digital original edition

Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

Copyright © 2016 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

Written by Wolfgang Hohlbein

Translation by William Glucroft

Cover design by Thomas Krämer

Cover illustration © shutterstock/creaPicTures

eBook production: Urban SatzKonzept, Düsseldorf

ISBN 978-3-7325-1352-9

www.bastei-entertainment.com

The Tyrant from the Deep

The lake was like a black hole, swallowing all available light. In the night, clouds had risen from the water — a dark, seething front that extinguished the full moon’s pale glow and pelted the earth with a torrent of frozen rain. A gusty, ice-cold wind blew the rain sideways across the water’s surface, which ensured the residents of this strip of coastline forgot it was high summer, when the nights should be warm.

The relentless rainfall muffled the rhythmic clap of the oars as they dipped into the water. Steve Cranton let go of them with an exhausted sigh, sat upright and stretched his arms. His back ached. They had been circling the small, round lake for nearly an hour and the boat was now laden with rainwater. The frigid water came up to his ankles, the cold creeping in though two layers of wool socks where the water pooled inside his rubber boots. Everything up to his knees was numb.

“Tired?” O’Banyon asked quietly. “I could take over for you …”

Cranton shook his head and grabbed hold of the oars again but kept his hands still and the oars motionless. The boat rocked lightly and, as if to answer O’Banyon’s question, the wind beat another spray of rain against them. Cranton shuddered as water dripped into his raincoat and ran down his neck with an icy chill.

“No,” he answered a little late. “I’m slowly seeing the futility of rowing in a circle and getting completely soaked. Let’s stop.”

O’Banyon laughed lightly. “You’re afraid,” he said.

Cranton shot back an angry glare. O’Banyon wasn’t more than a few feet from him but his face was just a dark, shapeless form before the even darker backdrop of the lake. The cloud cover was like an opaque ceiling.

“No,” Cranton snapped. “I don’t like feeling stupid, that’s all. They’re probably all sitting in Goldspie laughing at us.”

“You are afraid,” O’Banyon repeated, ignoring those last words. “It’s too late now, my friend.” He sighed and rummaged around in his raincoat for a moment before pulling out his tobacco pouch and pipe. Cranton looked on with a frown as he carefully packed the pipe despite the unceasing rain and lit a match, using his hand to block the wind. The tobacco caught but because of the rain was more smoke than fire. O’Banyon grunted something, shook the pipe out against the edge of the boat and put it away. Then he took out his pocket watch and lit a second match, trying to read his watch in the flickering light of the tiny flame.

“It’s time, anyway,” he said. “Midnight in a few moments.”

“And then it comes, I suppose,” Cranton tried sounding derisive but an undertone of fear denied him the desired effect. “The monster of Loch Shin, what a joke! These are stories you use to scare your children when they don’t want to sleep. Or fool clueless city folk.”

“By which you mean me,” O’Banyon said shaking his head. Cranton wanted to protest but O’Banyon stopped him with a quick gesture and continued to shake his head. “I don’t blame you, my friend. I suppose I’d think the same if I were in your place but you haven’t heard what I’ve heard.”

“Idle chatter of crazy people,” Cranton growled. “What’s it worth?”

“He described it!” O’Banyon answered with conviction. “More precisely than I ever could. You can’t make that up, Steve. I …”

Somewhere, not far from the boat, something rippled along the water’s surface. O’Banyon cut himself off mid-sentence, bolted upright and stared out with narrowed eyes at the all consuming blackness which smothered the lake. “What was that?”

“Your monster,” Cranton murmured, though his voice trembled even more than before.

O’Banyon ignored him. “It’s something,” he mumbled. “I can sense it clearly …” He looked out again for a few seconds then swung back around excitedly and waved his arms about. “The lamp!” he cried. “Quickly, Steve. The camera too!”

There was a soft tap along the bottom of the boat. Cranton lost his balance, slipped off the narrow bench and grabbed hold of the boat’s edge to break his fall. The small boat rocked as something soft, pliable but nevertheless intensely strong bumped against it. The water broke with hard claps and a wave smacked into the hull, spraying the two in a shower of icy lake water.

Cranton cursed and reached for the waterproof oil sack, grasping the equipment with his clammy fingers.

“Hurry up, Steve,” O’Banyon said impatiently. “There’s something out there. I can see it!”

The lake was suddenly overcome by a frenzy of noise. Wave after wave smacked against the boat at an ever faster rate and somewhere from the left close by, something dark and massive was moving over the water.

“The lamp!” O’Banyon demanded. “How long does it take?”

Cranton shifted with a grunt and handed O’Banyon the small, specially formed lamp, all the while his heart pounded and his gaze fixed on the surrounding darkness. He felt something. What it was exactly, he couldn’t say, but whatever it was, it was big.

“Goddamn it, Jeff. Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

O’Banyon had lifted the lamp’s glass lantern and was trying to light a match with his trembling fingers. The wind blew out the flame just as he put it into the lamp. His eyes darted across the sea and fixed on the black thing that had emerged from the darkness. Meanwhile, the boat was rocking wildly on top of the waves, slowly starting to turn. A new and eerie tone mixed in with the howl of the wind, a noise neither man had ever heard before, like a deep, intense breathing and a snort so powerful, both men trembled.

“Let’s get out of here,” Cranton said again. “Jeff, please!”

O’Banyon’s answer was another strike of a match, cradling the flame in his hand, finally getting the lamp to light.

Blinded, Cranton shut his eyes as the darkness was abruptly besieged by the lamp’s bright, white flash. O’Banyon blinked and with his left hand raised the lamp to eye level, while with his right he fumbled with the mirror contraption that would beam the light across the lake. A flickering, triangular cone of white brightness dashed over the surface. O’Banyon cursed, raising the lamp a bit higher and adjusting the mirror to emit a thinner, compact beam which extended fifty feet from the triangular light source. Something moved just where the light ended — something formless, black and gigantic. An unshakeable, unbelievably deep rumble rippled outwards, and for a moment, the light made out a bizarre shape in the darkness.

“Stop, Jeff. I beg you!” Cranton gasped.

“There it is,” O’Banyon blurted out. “I was right, Steve. Truman didn’t lie.” He moved about, clapped Cranton on the shoulder with his free hand and motioned with the lamp towards the lake. “Look, Steve! Truman wasn’t crazy! He was right! The creature really does exist. It’s real and …”

Cranton pushed his hand aside. “I don’t want to know!” he yelled. “I want to get out of here, nothing else! Goddamn it, Jeff. Don’t you get it?! This monster will kill us!”

O’Banyon looked back at him in confusion. He didn’t seem to be aware of the danger.

A new, especially strong wave hit the boat — so powerful, both men lost their balance and fell over each other.

Cursing, they got themselves back up. The boat continued rocking wildly, but somehow the lamp stayed lit. Its bright, white beam flashed across the lake like a thin, pale finger, drilling into the sky and then sinking back down again.

“My God, Jeff. No!”

Cranton’s scream was lost in a massive, trumpeting roar. The shadow at the end of the light emerged with monstrous force, exploding with black and gleaming scales, and leaped towards the men with violent speed.

The boat pitched upwards. Another wave struck it, tore one oar away and sent the end of the other swinging like a club. Cranton screamed as the flat side of the oar hit the back of his head, again sending him flying forward. O’Banyon also let out a fearful cry, as he tipped backwards. The lamp fell, its light spun over the lake as it hit the edge of the boat. The flame went out with a hiss.

At the last fraction of a second, the light revealed a violent, nightmarish outline.

O’Banyon could no longer say what happened thereafter or in what order. Something hit the boat, smashing it like a toy. He screamed, heard Cranton nearby yelling, and, choking on water himself was thrown into the lake and pulled with great force under the water. He sucked in an instinctive breath of air and with all his might tried to swim away from where the boat was sinking. His heart pounded, and it felt like a steel wheel was laid on his chest, slowly pushing down. Blind with fear, he reached out. He broke through the surface of the water and took in as much air as he could.

The lake boiled around him. The moonlight suddenly pierced through a gap in the clouds, basking the lake in its brilliant, silver light as if an invisible director had pulled the clouds aside like a stage curtain to reveal the horrifying scene.

O’Banyon struggled to swim several feet towards the shore, taking in more water as a new wave pounded him, dragging him into its wake. He looked back with a gasp.

The boat was gone. The lake, just seconds earlier as smooth as a solid mirror, had turned into a chaos of foamy waves and seething movement. There wasn’t the slightest trace of Cranton or the thing that had hit and sunk their boat.

O’Banyon took a deep breath, turned back around and swam with all his strength to land. The water was freezing and he could feel his strength failing him with each passing moment. By the time he finally touched the weedy lakebed, he could hardly pull himself out of the water.

The gray-haired Irishman laid there a moment, trembling, his heart still pounding. Darkness was creeping in, threatening to overtake his consciousness; his left leg was throbbing in increasing pain. He propped himself up on knees and elbows, crawled just out of the water and collapsed again. His breath was wheezy and irregular as he turned onto his back and looked once more towards the water.

The moon continued to bathe Loch Shin in cold light. The water’s surface was calm again, except for pieces of wood and equipment here and there. Then right in the middle where the thing had emerged from, several shimmering air bubbles had risen up, growing larger and larger until they burst.

O’Banyon lifted himself up, his nerves frayed, and got to his feet within a few seconds. He stared restlessly at the lake. The water had an oily sheen, and for a moment he sensed a massive, dark form beneath its surface. But it was only a shadow the moonlight cast across the clouds.

“Steve?” he called out. His voice trembled, and the howling wind seemed to answer with a derisive shrill.

It was the only answer he got.

O’Banyon looked around uncertainly. Everything in him was shouting to turn around and leave this horrible place as fast as possible. However, Steve Cranton wasn’t just his hired hand, but his friend. He couldn’t just abandon him.

With shaking knees, he staggered back to the shore. Keeping a few inches from the water’s edge, he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted. “Steve! Answer me! Where are you?”

Again, the gusty wind was the only reply. O’Banyon took a few steps into the water, until ankle deep in the lake’s muddy floor. He called out in increasing desperation for Cranton.

Something brushed his foot. O’Banyon, startled, lurched back then laughed nervously. It was only a boot the waves had brought in and it swayed now in the silt.

Only a boot …?

It was Cranton’s boot, O’Banyon recognized with a start. His eyes wide in shock, he stared blankly at the black, rubber boot for a good ten or fifteen seconds before his trembling fingers reached for it.

It was then he noticed something strange. The boot was too heavy …

O’Banyon let out a piercing cry as he realized that Cranton’s boot wasn’t empty …

The coach came to a hard stop, shook me out of my improvised straw bed and knocked me against Bannerman’s sailor. We spent the next few seconds untangling ourselves. Only then could I right myself and, still drowsy and bleary eyed, have a look around.

The sun was up, which meant we must have traveled the whole night. The last thing I remembered was dusk — and the cold, which had crept over the land despite it being summer. I must have slept for ten hours and still I felt the lethargy of only a few minutes rest.

“We’re here,” a deep voice said, disrupting my thoughts. I looked around confused then fixed on Bannermann for a moment, who looked back with a good natured grin then I shifted my view ahead. Our driver was slumped over on the narrow seat, wrapped in a half-dozen blankets, looking at us with a mixture of impatience and poorly concealed amusement. Our shabby appearance was probably worth a humorous reaction.

“We’re here,” the driver said again, this time underscoring his words with a gesture. The path split just a few yards ahead — to the left, onwards into the barren hills we had already come through, to the right, you could just make out a thin, blue line far off to the east.