The Compleat Crow by Brian Lumley Page A

heavy book to its shelf, he stumbled back to his bed and collapsed onto it. In that same position, spread-eagled and face down, he fell asleep; and that was how he stayed for the next four hours.
     

     
    Crow came awake slowly, gradually growing aware that he was being addressed, aware too of an unaccustomed feeling of cold. Then he remembered what had gone before and his mind began to work a little faster. In the darkness of the alcove he opened his eyes a fraction, peered into the gloom and made out two dim figures standing to one side of his bed. Some instinct told him that there would be more of them on the other side, and only by the greatest effort of will was he able to restrain himself from leaping to his feet.
    Now the voice came again, Carstairs’ voice, not talking to him this time but to those who stood around his bed. “I was afraid that the wine’s effect was weakening—but apparently I was wrong. Well, my friends, you are here tonight to witness an example of my will over the mind and body of Titus Crow. He cannot be allowed to go away this weekend, of course, for the time is too near. I would hate anything to happen to him.”
    “So would we all, Master,” came a voice Crow recognized. “For—”
    “For then I would need to make a second choice, eh, Durrell? Indeed, I know why you wish nothing to go amiss. But you presume , Durrell! You are not fit habitation.”
    “Master, I merely—” the other began to protest.
    “Be quiet!” Carstairs hissed. “And watch.” Now his words were once more directed at Crow, and his voice grew deep and sonorous.
    “Titus Crow, you are dreaming, only dreaming. There is nothing to fear, nothing at all. It is only a dream. Turn over onto your back, Titus Crow.”
    Crow, wide awake now—his mind suddenly clear and realizing that Harry Townley’s counter-hypnotic device was working perfectly—forced himself to slow, languid movement. With eyes half-shuttered, he turned over, relaxed and rested his head on his pillow.
    “Good!” Carstairs breathed. “That was good. Now sleep, Titus Crow, sleep and dream.”
    Now Garbett’s voice said: “Apparently all is well, Master.”
    “Yes, all is well. His Number is confirmed, and he comes more fully under my spell as the time approaches. Now we shall see if we can do a little more than merely command dumb movement. Let us see if we can make him talk. Mr. Crow, can you hear me?”
    Crow, mind racing, opened parched lips and gurgled, “Yes, I hear you.”
    “Good! Now, I want you to remember something. Tomorrow you will come to me and tell me that you have decided to stay here at The Barrows over the weekend. Is that clear?”
    Crow nodded.
    “You do want to stay, don’t you?”
    Again he nodded.
    “Tell me you wish it.”
    “I want to stay here,” Crow mumbled, “over the weekend.”
    “Excellent!” said Carstairs. “There’ll be plenty of wine for you here, Titus Crow, to ease your throat and draw the sting from your eyes.”
    Crow lay still, forcing himself to breathe deeply.
    “Now I want you to get up, turn back your covers and get into bed,” said Carstairs. “The night air is cold and we do not wish you to catch a chill, do we?”
    Crow shook his head, shakily stood up, turned back his blankets and sheets and lay down again, covering himself.
    “Completely under your control!” Garbett chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “Master, you are amazing!”
    “I have been amazing, as you say, for almost three and a half centuries,” Carstairs replied with some pride. “Study my works well, friend Garbett, and one day you too may aspire to the Priesthood of the Worm!”
    On hearing these words so abruptly spoken, Crow could not help but give a start—but so too did the man Durrell, a fraction of a second earlier, so that Crow’s movement went unnoticed. And even as the man on the bed sensed Durrell’s frantic leaping, so he heard him cry out: “ Ugh! On the floor! I trod on one! The