Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations by Eric J. Guignard (Editor)
Authors: Eric J. Guignard (Editor)
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winds whispering of the secrets lying just below our feet. Tomorrow we construct a mighty lever to pry the trapdoor open. I doubt that this night will find me asleep for even an instant, such is my state of anticipation.
Your Ob’d Servant
Dr. Werner von Eichmann PhD. M.D.
April 26, 1939
Herr Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel:
As I stated in my last letter, we had been preparing to breach the stone trapdoor which so hindered our progress. On the morning of April 18, I instructed the men to attack the hinges and locking mechanisms of the door with pickaxes, but to no avail. Even Major Holtz’s great strength could not so much as dent the dark metal; he managed to break two pickaxes before I bade him cease. I spent the remainder of the day testing out various types of acid on the metal of the locks and the stone of the door itself. Both seemed curiously impervious to my chemicals and I was about to abandon hope when one of my last tests revealed the metal at least slightly vulnerable to strong hydrochloric acid.
It took nearly another day for me to bring a batch to the desired concentration of thirteen moles. We had to wear gas-masks and rubber gloves while handling the compound so toxic were its fumes. Although it was highly concentrated and even though I employed my entire supply, the locks refused to dissolve completely. After an entire day of effort we succeeded only in making the locks pock-marked and corroded like old iron—weakened, but not destroyed. Again we went at them with pickaxes, but still with no visible results. Whatever kind of eldritch metal was used in their construction, by God is it strong! Finally as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Major Holtz set upon the locks with a masonry block. This block must have weighed upwards of 250 kilograms. I have no idea how Major Holtz managed to lift it even one time, never mind the score or so times it actually took to finally shatter the stubborn locks.
Even though the hour had grown quite advanced, we unanimously decided that our enterprise could not wait until the light of dawn. Once again Major Holtz’s strength proved invaluable—I thank you for allowing him to accompany us. The mighty ring that allowed for the door to be opened could only be enticed to lift from the ground the barest fraction of an inch through the total application of his physical might. Once he had lifted it, we managed to jam a metal rod underneath it and prop it up.
Through the night we worked to construct a series of pulleys that would draw the trapdoor up with steel cables. We worked in shifts for two days until it was finally complete, and when it was, we required no less than the strength of all the men and two yaks to force the door to budge. We made several attempts with no visible success and I began to worry that something held the door shut from within. But then, on the eve of April 21, with a mighty groan and a crack like thunder, the door lifted from its jambs. Frantically, we tugged at the hoist until we had pulled it open and dropped it with an almighty bang onto its other side.
The lateness of the hour brought about a particularly black, moonless night—but the square of darkness gaping from the open trapdoor was blacker still. A smell like the grave issued forth from that nighted mouth, a putrid stench from the unknowable recesses of inner earth. It was tinged with an awful, clinging dampness that, I think, was even more horrible than the stench itself. Major Holtz later said that the stench reminded him of death; not the death of aeon-old mausoleums, but the fresh death of charnel killing fields. Yet he also said that he could detect nothing that resembled blood, but could pick up bare hints of odors which he could put no name to. He described these hints of other scents as akin to rot, but not rot in the common sense. It was almost as if, he said, the very stone and dirt beneath was not wholesome stone and dirt, but carrion flesh. I think
Your Ob’d Servant
Dr. Werner von Eichmann PhD. M.D.
April 26, 1939
Herr Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel:
As I stated in my last letter, we had been preparing to breach the stone trapdoor which so hindered our progress. On the morning of April 18, I instructed the men to attack the hinges and locking mechanisms of the door with pickaxes, but to no avail. Even Major Holtz’s great strength could not so much as dent the dark metal; he managed to break two pickaxes before I bade him cease. I spent the remainder of the day testing out various types of acid on the metal of the locks and the stone of the door itself. Both seemed curiously impervious to my chemicals and I was about to abandon hope when one of my last tests revealed the metal at least slightly vulnerable to strong hydrochloric acid.
It took nearly another day for me to bring a batch to the desired concentration of thirteen moles. We had to wear gas-masks and rubber gloves while handling the compound so toxic were its fumes. Although it was highly concentrated and even though I employed my entire supply, the locks refused to dissolve completely. After an entire day of effort we succeeded only in making the locks pock-marked and corroded like old iron—weakened, but not destroyed. Again we went at them with pickaxes, but still with no visible results. Whatever kind of eldritch metal was used in their construction, by God is it strong! Finally as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Major Holtz set upon the locks with a masonry block. This block must have weighed upwards of 250 kilograms. I have no idea how Major Holtz managed to lift it even one time, never mind the score or so times it actually took to finally shatter the stubborn locks.
Even though the hour had grown quite advanced, we unanimously decided that our enterprise could not wait until the light of dawn. Once again Major Holtz’s strength proved invaluable—I thank you for allowing him to accompany us. The mighty ring that allowed for the door to be opened could only be enticed to lift from the ground the barest fraction of an inch through the total application of his physical might. Once he had lifted it, we managed to jam a metal rod underneath it and prop it up.
Through the night we worked to construct a series of pulleys that would draw the trapdoor up with steel cables. We worked in shifts for two days until it was finally complete, and when it was, we required no less than the strength of all the men and two yaks to force the door to budge. We made several attempts with no visible success and I began to worry that something held the door shut from within. But then, on the eve of April 21, with a mighty groan and a crack like thunder, the door lifted from its jambs. Frantically, we tugged at the hoist until we had pulled it open and dropped it with an almighty bang onto its other side.
The lateness of the hour brought about a particularly black, moonless night—but the square of darkness gaping from the open trapdoor was blacker still. A smell like the grave issued forth from that nighted mouth, a putrid stench from the unknowable recesses of inner earth. It was tinged with an awful, clinging dampness that, I think, was even more horrible than the stench itself. Major Holtz later said that the stench reminded him of death; not the death of aeon-old mausoleums, but the fresh death of charnel killing fields. Yet he also said that he could detect nothing that resembled blood, but could pick up bare hints of odors which he could put no name to. He described these hints of other scents as akin to rot, but not rot in the common sense. It was almost as if, he said, the very stone and dirt beneath was not wholesome stone and dirt, but carrion flesh. I think
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