Mystery & Suspense - Daily Short Stories
A Voice form the Pit - Bernard Capes
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- Duration:
- 8m
- Broadcast on:
- 18 Jul 2024
- Audio Format:
- mp3
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We spurred the old man in my year, and he put out a certain cold hand corded like melon rind, to stay me in the stumbling darkness, we were on a tilted table land of the mountain, and looking forth and below, the fire and echo crescent of the bay, where it swept towards Castle Mayor, seemed to rise up at me, as if it were a perpendicular wall, across which white grists of the waves flew like ghost moths. We skirted a boulder and came upon a field of sleek purple lava, sown all over with little lemon jets of silent smoke, which in their van and melancholy glow might have been the corpse lights of those innumerable dead whose stormstone was the mountain itself. Far away to the right, the great projecting socket of the crater flickered intermittently with a nerve of fire. It was like the glinting of the watchful eye of some vast crusarticine, and in the harsh and stupendous desolation seemed the final crown and expression of utter inhumanity. I started upon hearing the low whisper of my companion at my year. In the bay yesterday, the cineer saved my life. I give the cineer in return my life secret. He seized my right hand in his lift, with a cinewe clutch and pointed a stiff finger at the luminous bloods, see there and there and there he shrill. One floats and vapours like a spineless ribbon of seaweed in the water, another burns with a steady radiance, a third blares from its fissure, like a flame driven by the blowpipe. It is all a question of the undertron, and some may feel it a little and some a little more or a little less, but I will show you one that feels it not at all, a whole, a narrow shaft that goes straight down into the pit of the great hell and is cold as the mouth of a barbell. The bones of his face stood out like rocks against sand, and the pupils of his maniac eyes were glazed or fell into shadow as the volcano lightning spluttered. Suddenly he drew me to a broken pile of sulphur rock, lying tumbled against a ridge of the mountain that ran towards the crater. It lay, heaped, offused and fantastic ruin, and in a moment that old man leapt from me and was tugging by main strength, a vast fragment from its place. I leaned over his shoulder and looked down upon the hollow, revealed by the displaced boulder. It was like the bell of a mighty trumpet, and in the middle a puckered opening seemed to suck inwards as it were the mouth of some subterranean monster risen to the surface of the world for air. Quick, quick muttered ballo, this in your must place is here to the hole. With a little odd stir at my heart, I dropped upon my knees and leaned my head deep into the cup. I must have stayed thus for a full minute before I drew myself back and looked up at the old mountain here. His eyes gazed down into mine with mad intensity. Sir, sir, he whispered, what didst thou hear? I heard a long surging thunder ballo, and the deep shrill screaming of many gas jets. He panned down with livid face, cineo, it is the booming of the everlasting fire, and thou hast heard the voices of the damned. No, my friend, no, but it is a marvellous transmission of the uproar of hidden forces. He leapt to the shallow pit, listen and believe. He cried, and fannelling his hands about his lips, he stooped over the central hole. "Macko, Macko," he screeched in a piercing voice. Something answered back, what was it, a malformed and twisted echo, a whistle of imprisoned steam tricked into some horrible caricature of a human voice? "Paulo!" it seemed to wail, weak and faint with agony. "Liquera, liquera, paulo!" The old man sprang to his feet, and looking down upon me in a sort of terrible triumph, unsung a water flask from his belt, and pulling out the caulk, poured the cold liquid down into the puckered orifice, then I felt his clutch on my arm again. "He drinks," he cried, "listen and thou will't understand." I rose with a ghost of a laugh, and once more addressed my ear to the opening. From unthinkable depths came up a strange, gloating sound, as from a ravenous throat made my brimmed with ecstasy. "Paulo!" I cried as I rose and stood before him, and there was an admonitary note in my voice. "O feather me decide the balance. Be wear meddling with hidden thunders, or thou may set rolling such another normstone as that on which these corpse-fires are yet flaming." And he only answered me, set and deadly. "We of the mountains, Signor, know more things than we may tell of." End of a voice from the pit. Well, it sounds like the tenants at your rental property sure know how to throw a great party. You just wish they wouldn't throw so many parties, on Tuesdays, until 4 a.m. And if they could pay the rent on time, that would be nice too. Being a landlord can be stressful, but it doesn't have to be. 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