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The next few days passed almost without incident. I say "almost" because I still had that odd sense of being watched and followed. Occasionally, I caught a brief glimpse of "fish faces," usually alone or in twos, lurking in the shadows or dodging furtively around corners, but as long as they kept their distance I was quite willing to adopt an attitude of "live and let live."
Don Ramiro had apparently left on a business trip to Mexico City, at least that's what his wife told me when I attempted to contact him. As for Rousseau, he was gone on some errand to Brownsville, so I was quite alone. The circumstances seemed conducive to renewing my acquaintance with Doña Tencha.
I found the curandera leaving a downtown yerbería, a shop specializing in herbs, candles, potions, and other tools of the sorcerer's trade. When she saw me, she greeted me cheerily.
"Buenas tardes, have they caused you any more problems?"
"No, Doña Tencha, they haven't. They haven't bothered me since that night, thanks to you perhaps."
"As I said, they know better than to mess with me," she laughed, "so, how can I help you now?"
"As you may have heard," I replied, "I am in San Facundo to study your legends and folk traditions. That's my profession. I am an anthropologist."
"An anthropophagist? Ha! Then you should get along fine with the frog-faces!"
I was almost as surprised by her darkly humorous word play as by her use of the epithet "frog-faces," so close to the pejorative that I had invented. Her association of anthropophagy with those repulsive people sent a shiver down my spine.
"Believe me, I have nothing to do with eating human flesh," I volunteered. "I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me some about local beliefs, you know, concerning magical and mystical practices." She eyed me slyly.
"What you really want, güerito, is to know what the frog-faces do up on El Tinieblo when they and their relatives from the sea call up their devil gods, is that not so?"
Her bluntness, and her insight, surprised me even more than previously.
I responded, "Do you know what happens there? Have you seen?"
"I have seen what I have seen," was her reply. "But," she continued, "to know and to understand, one must see for oneself."
I remained silent for a few seconds, trying to analyze her meaning. Was she suggesting that I attempt to spy on the rituals, no doubt hideous in nature, on my own, or was she inviting me to join her in such a dubious enterprise?
Presently, I spoke, "How do you suggest that I accomplish that?"
Once again, Tencha smiled slyly. "First, one must know when and how."
"That's logical," I responded, "but when and how can we get started?"
"We?" Her eyebrows rose in mock surprise.
"Why, yes. I am supposing you intend to show me the way. Otherwise I'll doubtless blunder into some trap they've set up to catch unwelcome intruders. You know, just as happened with the federales."
She emitted a low chuckle, "So then, you heard about the federales. No matter, eran una bola de pendejos."
"Which is exactly the reason I need your help if I am to learn what is going on up there. I don't want to end up a fool, much less a dead fool like them."
"Well," she laughed wryly, "you are going to need Tencha's help then."
Doña Tencha explained to me that the strange ones conducted their principal ceremonies at the time of the solar solstices and equinoxes, and lesser ceremonies at each dark-of-the-moon and full moon. She pointed out to me that the eve of the summer solstice, la noche de San Juan, was less than a fortnight away, and this should provide an excellent opportunity to observe the ritual in all its repulsive fullness. She also warned me that the "frog faces" and their sea-dwelling cousins would be especially on guard against intruders, as any profanation of the ceremony would incur the wrath of the Ancient Ones, and result in terrible punishments being meted out to the worshipers for their lack of vigilance.
"Take care that you say nothing," she warned, "not to your friend the gringuito, and especially not to Don Ramiro, for he is not entirely worthy of your confidence."
"Tell me about Ramiro," I prodded. "Is he in any way connected to the strange ones or the sea beings? The reason I ask is that he seems to have profound knowledge concerning their past and their origins. He also speaks almost reverently when he mentions 'Great Kutulli'."
She quickly traced a sign, not of the cross, with her hand then responded in an uncharacteristically somber tone, "Ramirito is not of those demons. His blood is free of that stain. Did you know that he is partly descended from the judíos? Nevertheless, his lineage was not of those who followed the book. They were only a few of the many judíos who came here to get away from the priests. The same was true of my people. Only a few agreed to mate with the sea demons, and give birth to monsters. It is from those matings, and later with the judíos that followed the book, that the frog faces come."
"Then, why not trust Ramiro?" I asked.
"Because, even though he is not of the demon line himself, he did have close friends among them in his youth. Even worse, he took one of their women as his lover and she bore him a son." She paused. "Today he professes shame for what he did as a young man, but his son still lives and runs with the other frog faces. As you know, blood is thicker than water."
Tencha's words left me with a reeling sensation in the pit of my stomach. I had come to both like and respect Don Ramiro, but the thought of this intelligent and fairly well educated man, whom I had considered a gentleman, taking one of those repulsive creatures as a lover filled me with disgust and loathing. I wondered how he could still face other human beings, knowing that his blood ran in the veins of one of those blasphemous abnormalities.
Tencha seemed to sense my reaction. "They have a way of messing with one's mind." Wrinkling her nose, she continued, "They can get inside your head when it serves them to do so. They can make real fools out of some people; probably that is what happened to Ramirito." After a pause she added, "Be careful they don't do it to you!"
Actually, I was far more concerned for the safety of my body than for what the strange beings might do to my mind. I have always prided myself on having a strong will capable of imposing a great deal of mental discipline. Poor Ramiro! He must have been a gullible youth, like so many, seeking new thrills and forbidden pleasures with no thought as to the outcome or consequences.
Tencha and I agreed to meet at the house of her nephew, who lived on a nearby ejido, shortly before sundown on the eve of the summer solstice. She instructed me to wear dark clothing and rubber-soled boots so as to minimize our risks of being seen or heard. In the meantime, she advised, it would be better if we had no contact so as not to arouse suspicion concerning our plans. Later that same day a small boy knocked at my door and presented me with a folded sheet of paper on which was drawn a map showing the way to the ejido and the house of Tencha's nephew. Now there was little to do but wait for the appointed day and hour.
In fact, I made good use of the intervening days and evenings delving into the many books that Rousseau had accumulated in his personal library. Most of these dealt with either the history and folklore of northeastern Mexico or themes related to magic, primitive religion, and demonology. In addition to the foregoing, and the previously mentioned volume of Al Azif, which for some reason I could not bring myself to read, the collection contained several loose leaf binders. One of these was filled with Xeroxed pages, made hastily, judging from the poor alignment, listed as the original 1839 Dusseldorf edition of Friedrich von Junzt's infamous Die Unaussprechlichen Kulten. Another contained several sheets of lined notebook paper covered with handwritten scribbling in Latin and drawings of strange hieroglyphs or sigils, with the legend "Excerpts from the Liber Ivonis" noted in English at the top of each page. There were also numerous other pages of notes written in some cryptic script with which I was not familiar. I wondered if those pieces were authentic or merely the spurious work of some crank. In view of the horrible revelations I found in their pages, I sincerely hoped the latter was true.
Presently, I found myself leafing through a crumbling volume titled Relación verdadera de las cosas de la Real Provincia del Nuevo Santander, published in 1783 by a Padre Vicente de Santa Maria, a priest of the Order of St. Francis, who had been allowed access to records of the earlier attempts at christianizing the native Indians of the province.
Father Santa Maria's chronicle covered more than two hundred years of regional history beginning with the earliest European exploration of the province shortly after Cortés' Conquest, and continuing up to the 1770's. The first part of the volume told a repeated story of frustrated attempts at conquest and settlement, failed missionary efforts, unrelenting resistance by fierce and warlike tribes, massacres and retaliations. As I leafed through the heavy volume I came upon a passage that caught my attention. The following is my own translation of the curiously archaic eighteenth century Spanish:
I felt a singular chill as I read these words written more than two centuries earlier. Here was clear documentation of the things Don Ramiro had told me.
The hot, dry, and windy days of June wore on inexorably. Rousseau returned around the middle of the month. He had been absent about twenty days, and I was beginning to feel concern lest some mishap had befallen him.
"So, what's new Carl?" I inquired. "I hadn't expected you to be away so long."
"I hadn't planned to be," he explained. "I had merely intended to make a quick trip to Brownsville to pick up some books I had ordered. While there, I received word that Doctor Giulio Tarentino from Milan would be speaking at a conference at the University of Texas in Austin."
"Tarentino?" The name of a respected colleague immediately aroused my interest. "I haven't seen him in more than three years. How is he?"
Rousseau paused for a moment; he then replied softly, "He's dead."
"But . . . but how?" I stammered, deeply shocked.
"I traveled to Austin," Rousseau explained, " . . . drove instead of flying. The conference was still several days away, so I planned to spend some time at a resort nearby in the hill country. It's very pleasant there this time of year you know. There was a friend, a young woman, involved, but that's neither here nor there. At any rate, Tarentino wasn't scheduled to present his paper until the third day of the conference. As I suppose you know, he's been doing some very deep research into ancient cults and belief systems that parallels your own . . . "
"I would prefer to say 'complements'," I interjected.
"Okay, complements . . . , anyway, he was supposed to present a paper on some research he carried out recently in Brazil."
"Yes," I interrupted, "he was looking into a certain obscure cult of African origin rumored to still be practiced there."
"Obscure, but horrible," continued Rousseau. "Certainly not regular Candomblé or Makumba. As I was best able to gather, the cult in question practices some form of demonolatry complete with human sacrifice and God knows what else."
"From what other colleagues told me," I volunteered, "Tarentino believed the cult to be part of an extremely ancient pattern of beliefs and practices that date back to ancient Mesopotamia and beyond, to the very origins of humanity. In historical times the cult manifested itself in many guises, and in many parts of the world. We find it in the worship of Moloch, mentioned with such abhorrence in the Old Testament, and reflected in the unspeakable practices of the Carthaginians, whose sacrificial rituals dedicated to Baal Hammon caused such revulsion among the Greeks that they would not refer to them directly in their writings. The Roman destruction of Carthage was carried out, in part, to obliterate the very memory of that abominable cult from the face of the earth. Centuries later, we find the same pattern repeated in the mass ritual slaughters carried out by the Aztec priesthood."
"Tarentino was killed, you know." Rousseau's words abruptly shook me out of my lecture mode.
"Killed? How . . . ?"
"In Puerto Rico, while on his way to Austin," Rousseau stated somberly, adding, "He had returned to Brazil to attend the funeral of one of his research assistants there, who was also killed under strange circumstances. Ironic, isn't it?"
"How was he killed?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"In a very strange and horrible way," was my friend's reply. "He apparently was attacked by some animal while walking on the beach near his hotel. Whatever it was, it dragged him bodily into an adjacent wooded area and literally stripped the flesh from his bones. Strangely, there were no identifiable tracks, although there were some odd markings on the beach nearby . . . possibly large sea turtles the police said."
"I never heard of sea turtles coming out of the water to attack human beings," I responded.
"Nor I," agreed Rousseau. "The more superstitious among the locals were talking about the chupacabras, or so I was told."
My friend's description of Tarentino's death caused me to feel a deep, hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach. It sounded too much like the sacrificial practices of Kutulli's followers. The fact that Tarentino was killed while walking on the beach added another dimension of horror.
The morning of June 24th dawned hot, muggy, and overcast. I went out early to take my morning coffee and pan dulce, the delicious Mexican sweet bread that I had come to enjoy, at a small cafe near the plaza. Later, I took a casual stroll along the high banks of the San Facundo River. I did not return to the house until almost noon. The only person I found there was Alma, the middle-aged woman whom Rousseau had hired to cook for us. She also came in three times a week to tidy up the house.
"Have you seen Carlos?" I inquired.
"No," she answered. "The patrón was not here when I came, and I haven't seen him all morning."
His absence caused me no special concern. Rousseau often came and went without advising anyone. Personally, I knew that he was involved with a local peasant girl, though I had never met her, or even seen the two together.
Actually, I hoped that Rousseau would stay away for a few hours. That would facilitate my preparations for that night's planned adventure. I had no desire to give him any accounting concerning what Tencha and I planned to do. He would want to come along, and I strongly felt that more than three people would be very unwise. Besides, if Tencha found out that Rousseau was becoming too nosy she might want to cancel the whole expedition.
I carefully assembled the items I would be taking along: a mini-video camera and recorder with low light, high speed cassettes, good hiking boots, and a black combat knife. This last item amused me somewhat. Certainly, I have no skill in hand-to-hand combat. Nevertheless, I did not want to go into a situation of unknown danger completely unprepared to defend myself.
I slept restfully for part of the afternoon, a fact that surprised me considering my natural excitement over that night's planned adventure. About two hours before sundown I set out for my meeting with Tencha and her nephew, carrying my gear as inconspicuously as possible in a large all-purpose bag of plastic mesh, of a type frequently used by the "popular" classes in Mexico for groceries, clothing, or most anything else. I rode part of the way in a pesera, one of the small passenger vans that serve as public transportation in many Mexican towns and cities, then walked the remaining mile or so to the ejido where I was to meet my companions.
Checking my map, I soon located the house of Tencha's nephew. No one thereabouts seemed to notice me very much, though I am sure that the presence of any stranger, especially a foreigner, in such an isolated place immediately sets the grapevine in motion. Arriving at the house, a small oblong adobe structure with a thatched roof, I hailed the people inside. Immediately, a lean, swarthy man who seemed to be in his mid-twenties appeared in the doorway.
"A quién buscas?, Who are you looking for?" he demanded brusquely. I asked if he were, indeed Doña Tencha's nephew.
"Sí, lo soy," he replied. "You then, are the Americano she said was coming? Jijos! You do not know what you are getting yourself into, but sit down," he motioned to a log that served as a bench. "Mi tía Tencha will be coming ahorita."
"Ahorita," or soon, turned out to be nearly an hour. An elderly woman, perhaps the young man's mother in law, brought me a clay cup of manzanilla tea while his wife and two small children peered nervously out from inside the doorway. Tencha arrived just as the sun was dipping behind the low hills to the west.
"Have you been waiting very long?" she asked in a cheerful voice.
"Not too long," I lied. "When do we get started?"
"Not until the moon comes up," she replied. "But we don't want to get there until, maybe, an hour before midnight."
"You mean to El Tinieblo? I inquired.
"Sí," she replied. "In the meantime Juan Antonio and I have something to do, so try to make yourself comfortable."
She called out to her nephew, who emerged from the shack carrying a canvass bag slung over his shoulder, and some tools, or perhaps weapons, wrapped in burlap under his arm. I noticed that the bag was moving, as if something were squirming inside. My suspicion was confirmed when a bleating cry, almost like that of a little child, issued from the bag.
The two disappeared around the house, though I could still hear their voices chattering merrily in the distance. Soon, the voices faded in the darkness, and I was left alone, sitting on my lonely log. The old woman brought me more tea as I sat, listening to the sounds of the ejido settling in for the night, and the sounds of the night itself. The sky was still overcast, but I could imagine the stars shining brightly here on a clear night. How we city dwellers lose touch with the simple, yet profound beauties of nature!
Tencha and her nephew did not return until after nine o'clock. By now the overcast had lifted somewhat and a dull moon, nearly full, could be seen just above the eastern horizon.
"Is it time yet?" I asked impatiently.
"Sí," was Tencha's only reply, as she motioned with her hand toward an old Chevrolet pickup with faded light blue paint parked nearby. I sat in the bed of the pickup as we bumped and jolted along the unpaved ranch roads. Tencha and her nephew, who was driving, rode in the cab but, as the rear window had no glass, we were able to converse freely.
"How much further?" I asked.
"Just a little further to the highway," responded Tencha, "and then several kilometers to the road we take to El Tinieblo."
After a trip that seemed endless, perhaps because of my extreme discomfort, we arrived at the end of a narrow track that seemed to just stop in the middle of an extensive clump of mesquite.
"We walk from here," whispered Tencha, then muttered something to her nephew that I did not understand.
The nephew, Juan Antonio, turned to me and said, "You still have time to back out if you wish. This is going to be very dangerous."
"I've come this far," I replied. "I have no desire to back out now."
I knew that I was not being totally honest in this last statement, but my curiosity now exceeded the undeniable terror I felt at what lay before us.
Juan Antonio produced a small jar containing ground charcoal mixed with lard.
"Smear your face with this," he ordered.
I did as was instructed, as did both of my companions. This homemade camouflage paint, together with our dark clothing, made us nearly invisible as we made our way along a narrow path through the night-cloaked brush. Tencha and her nephew followed the path as though they were perfectly familiar with every rock, every abrupt turn. Not so myself. I frequently stumbled or became entangled in the thick chaparral as we made our way with no light other than what was provided by the pale gibbous moon.
Presently, I realized that we were climbing. As we broke into a slight clearing in the chaparral I saw the black bulk of El Tinieblo rising up just before us. More ominously, I saw a dull reddish glow about the top, and seemed to hear a low, steady, but indistinct chanting carried on the wind. Tencha motioned for us to halt.
"It is starting now," she whispered very low. "The ritual will soon begin."
We continued our slow ascent. Nearly crawling now, we made our way around the side of the hill, gradually, very cautiously, moving closer to the summit. At length, we came to an outcropping of rocks which afforded us a view across the long, flattish top of El Tinieblo.
From this vantage point I could see seven bonfires burning in a more or less circular pattern with a much larger bonfire blazing in the center. Between the outer ring of fires and the central blaze I could see two concentric circles of shadowy figures, apparently squatting on their heels and chanting something in a low, rhythmic murmur as they swayed from side to side in time with their chanting. I started to whisper a question to Tencha, but she placed her hand over my mouth, making a sign with two fingers meaning to wait, then placed one finger to her lips in the universal sign of silence.
Time seemed suspended as we lay there on our bellies, peering out between the rocks and tangled undergrowth that concealed our position from whatever guards might be present. Hours seemed to pass before a howling, a drawn out ululation suddenly sundered the night air, faded, and rose twice again to a nerve shattering pitch. Tencha and her nephew both traced signs across their chests that were not of the cross.
Scarcely had the howling died away that another sound began to reverberate over the hill top, echoing across the dark planes and into the empty night sky beyond, the slow, steady, and deep throbbing of a huge, though unseen drum. The drumming seemed to be steadily increasing in decibels, rising gradually to a deafening crescendo, and was now accompanied by the whining, monotonous piping of unseen flutes.
Slowly, deliberately, the squatting figures rose, swaying, rising, and dipping horribly, in time with the drumming and piping. I could not make out many details of the dancers, though I could tell from their peculiar postures and movements that all but one of them were of the "strange ones." There, now dancing, now pausing, but always keeping close to two other figures, I made out the unmistakable form of Ramiro. A business trip to Mexico City? Most likely, his human wife actually believed it!
Presently, I became aware of other figures forming a third circle beyond the outer ring of bonfires. The latter participants in the strange ceremony had apparently come up silently after the drumming had started, filing in from the eastern slope of the hill, the slope that faced in the direction of the sea. I could barely repress a scream when I saw how those shadowy figures danced: they hopped, floundered, undulated in clumsy, hideous time to the music. I gave thanks to whatever gods might be for the night and shadows that partly concealed those horrors from my view.
The frenzy of the dancers increased as the drumming and piping grew in volume and intensity. Howls and other animal noises pierced the night air, and slowly transformed into a more organized sound . . . chanting, unintelligible at first, but gradually taking on a definite pattern of sounds:
"Ph-nglui mglw'nafh Kutulli R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."
The smoke from the blazing bonfires rose in swirling black billows, forming into a huge cloud that covered the whole portion of sky over El Tinieblo. I could see that the hellish oily black cloud seemed to be writhing and swirling as though driven by some hideous internal will of its own. It actually seemed to be trying to form itself into a shape. In the sky above us, highlighted by the reddish glow from the bonfires, I saw something like a face gradually taking shape, coagulating would be a more accurate description. From the black, bulbous head two burning red eyes glared at the scene below. Tendrils of smoke congealed into writhing tentacles that covered the lower portion of the diabolical face. Other, vaster tentacular shapes reached out into the night sky, completely overarching the hill and surrounding countryside.
The chanting grew louder and the dancing wilder, more frenzied.
Iwwaiy! Iwwaiiy! Ia! Ia! El! Elyon! Aduad! Adua- dua- duado! Ia! Ia! Kutulli fhtagn! Iwwaaaiiiiiiyyy! Ia! Ia!
I lay there, transfixed with horror and fascination, no longer cognizant of my two companions, only of that hellish shape that brooded above us.
My trance was suddenly broken by another sound, a scream, unmistakably human, that seemed to embody the very sum of all anguish and terror. I shifted my vision to seek out the source of that nightmare scream and saw a pale figure, completely naked, being dragged into the circle of celebrants next to the central bonfire. Straining my eyes to discern the unfortunate fellow's features, I was stricken with a sudden sensation of horror beyond my ability to describe. The naked man who was being dragged into the place of sacrifice was my friend Carl Rousseau!
I wanted to call out, to do something, anything, to help my friend. Impossible! I was paralyzed, perhaps with terror, or perhaps simply overwhelmed by the enormity, the utter indescribable horror of what was happening. Rousseau was roughly thrown into the circle before the fire. Immediately, I saw a slimy, glistening black tentacle envelop him and snatch him up before the thing hovering in the sky far above us. The tentacle held the tiny white figure before the red eyes for a moment, as though the hellish entity were examining it. Seconds later, the writhing anemone-like appendages extending in a mass below the eyes seized the pitiable flailing body and thrust it into the gaping black maw that served as a mouth. A scream that was no longer human, of utter horror, pain, and madness, rent the night from far above. I stared, absolutely fixated with horror, as the thing's eyes, two searing red coals suspended in an amorphous blob of bulbous blackness, seemed to survey the scene below, fixing its gaze first on one place, then on another.
The towering black monstrosity seemed to swell in size, taking on more substance and density, as other shadowy entities, impossible to describe, filled the air, flitting and undulating about the enormous black mass of tentacles that I knew must be Kutulli. Without warning the slimy growth of appendages around the mouth spread apart, revealing again the hellish gaping maw that had consumed poor Rousseau. From that dripping hole issued a sound such as I pray no human being will ever again have to hear. I totally lost control of my senses.
I remember nothing of what happened after that, nor do I know what happened to Tencha or Juan Antonio. Even such techniques as hypnotic regression and memory enhancement drugs have failed to make me recall the aftermath of that abominable night. The records show that I wandered onto an ejido many miles from El Tinieblo on the morning of June 30th, nearly a week after the Feast of St. John. The peasants immediately summoned the state judicial police to come pick up the crazy Americano, who babbled incoherently about the "Ultimate Blackness beyond all time and space," and the abominations that dwell there. The Mexican authorities only took time to verify my identity from papers they found on my person and quickly turned me over to American consular personnel in Matamoros. From there I was transported to a psychiatric hospital in Houston where I remained for several months, being discharged when I was deemed stable enough to not pose a danger to myself or others.
In spite of my continued insistence, all efforts to trace Rousseau, or at least verify his fate, have led to dead ends, providing no meaningful answers. Mexican government records indicate that my unfortunate friend renewed a permit to enter the country over one year ago, but no further records of his presence in Mexico exist. State Department officials also confirm that a number of persons were interviewed in San Facundo, but that none admitted to any recollection or knowledge of either Rousseau or myself. Apparently, those officials are dismissing the whole affair as the delusion of a severely disturbed mind.
The administration at the university has been very understanding, placing me on extended leave of absence with pay until I feel fit to resume my teaching and research. My learned colleague Levinson, Dean of the Graduate School of Social Sciences, has even suggested that I take a long vacation to the New England coast, where, he assures me, in such a beautiful and restful setting I would experience a speedy convalescence. Personally, I would not go near the seashore for any inducement.
More than anything else I would like to put the experience, with all its hideous memories and implications, behind me, but I fear I will not be allowed even that solace. The strange sense of being watched and followed, which I felt so acutely in San Facundo, has returned. More ominously, I have several times noticed shadowy hunched figures, figures that walk with an odd shuffling gait. They often lurk near my residence as nightfall approaches. What are they watching and waiting for? I strongly fear that my escape from the horror of El Tinieblo was only temporary.
I sleep with difficulty now, and always with an element of dread, for with sleep come dreams of that horrible other night and what I saw, especially of that last dreadful image that seared itself into my brain at the very moment I lost consciousness. After the hellish black abomination, the Thing called Kutulli, devoured Rousseau, after It trumpeted its hideous screech of triumph to the cosmos, It once again directed its gaze downward, fixing on the very spot where I lay hidden. What I saw reflected in those hideous red orbs, clearly, in spite of the intervening distance and the swirling black smoke, was my own face, twisted and mad with horror.
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Created: May 3, 2003; Updated: August 9, 2004