The Lonely Shadows: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos by John Glasby

know. Whether the other was still alive or not, was something he might never know. He went back into the library, feeling the coldness in the room.
    It came as no surprise to him, when old Mr. Peters stepped through the wall and stood smiling down at him.

THE SEVENTH IMAGE
    There was a thin spatter of rain against the window. Down in the hall, the grandfather clock gave several desultory chimes; eight booming echoes that chased themselves up the winding stairs.
    Over by the window, Peter Kennet stared down at the darkening trees and pathways through the dull washing of rain. Night was moving through the sky with an ominous, relentless surge of racing storm clouds. A chill wind moaned drearily around the house, rattling the sash of the window with icy fingers. He turned away and then looked down again at the letter in his hands.
    But it still read the same, fingering little thrills of fear up and down his back, though he didn’t quite know why. The words seemed to thrust themselves at him, commanding attention, burning their way into his brain.
    And yet, on the face of it, it was nothing more than a very ordinary letter. He forced himself to read it again:
Dear Peter,
Remember we were talking about Arnold Kestro the other day during lunch? I gathered from what you said then, that he was a pretty elusive fellow to get to know. Probably this will surprise you then. I’ve managed to get myself an invitation to a dinner he’s giving tomorrow night.
He seemed to me to be quite a friendly person, nothing out of the ordinary, and not at all unusual. A little odd in his ideas perhaps, but that’s all.
I’ll be going down there about eight o’clock, but I’ll call in and see you on the way. Perhaps you’ll be able to tell me a little more about him before I go.
Regards,
James
    Savagely, Kennet crumpled the thin sheet of paper in his hand and flung it into the centre of the room. The fool! his mind yelled at him. The blind, utter fool!
    The writing looked simple and clear enough, but unlike many others, he was able to read between the lines, to see what lay at the back of it all. He lit a cigarette with a sudden flick of his lighter, and blew a ring of swirling smoke angrily into the air.
    Kestro! Arnold Kestro! The name sent a little shiver of apprehension through him. Probably the most infamous name in the whole history of the Black Art. And James Fisher was walking unwittingly, unbelievingly, into a hell from which there would be no return.
    It wasn’t that he had anything against Kestro, he told himself inwardly. All he knew about the man he had heard from others. Not once had he met him face-to-face. To look him straight in the eye and say to himself: This man is an enemy of all that is good and decent and sane in the world.
    Several years had passed now since he had first begun his single-handed campaign against these fiends in human guise who continued to prey on the frailty of Man. In the beginning, it had all been quite fascinating, even fun, this tampering about with the black forces of evil, the unknown.
    But the novelty and the fascination wore off in a hurry. When one saw the brutality and the misery and the horror that came with it. The madness and the sinister nightmare that existed on the Other Side.
    The hollow-eyed things that had once been men and women, meeting in tiny secret groups, away from their fellow creatures, shunning the light, mumbling their frenzied words of idolatry, indulging in mind-shuddering orgies of sheer bestiality. Sure it existed. And as long as it did, he would go on fighting it.
    Something had gotten him over the weary years. It was more than a battle now, it was a crusade. He could always tell himself that when everything else failed. When the madness and screaming fear and the panic came padding in on noiseless feet.
    Then it was necessary for someone to step in and say: Stop! This is enough! He smiled grimly to himself and turned back to the middle of the room. That was the magic