The Dark Boatman: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos by John Glasby Page A

hound with the red, glaring eyes which had been reported at various spots in the county, frightening lonely travellers after dark and in more recent times, that terrible affair at Cornforth Abbey, now a fire-blackened ruin. To most people, these old myths were considered ridiculous, gross distortions of still earlier tales, handed down by word-of-mouth at glowing firesides whenever the winds howled off the moors and the blizzards swept over the bleak domed hills. But the deeper I had delved into them, the more I had become convinced that behind all of these wild fantasies there lay a germ of truth which, for the most part, lay hidden so far back in time that it might never be revealed. There were old gods here long before the Romans or the invading Danes stepped upon the wild shores, and the people in those days worshipped strange beings who have no modern counterparts, but who, according to the more superstitious folk, have not died, but still exist in deep caverns and in undersea caves well below the low-water mark.
    The local train I took from Newcastle arrived in Wisterton a little after six o’clock, and as I walked out of the tiny station into the street, I found several cars drawn up against the curb along with a handful of taxis. Nowhere was there any sign of my uncle. Hesitating for only a moment, I was on the point of heading for one of the waiting taxis when a tall, thin-faced man approached me and enquired whether I was Ernest Oliver. After being assured that I was, he explained that my uncle had been detained on urgent business, and had asked him to meet me and drive me out to the small village of East Wisterton, which was apparently some five miles from Wisterton. It was, he indicated, a long enough journey, and the cost of taking a taxi would indeed be prohibitive.
    As we drove out of the town, taking the road along the rugged coast, he explained that he was a business acquaintance of my uncle, and that he had already heard a lot about me, even to the point of knowing why I had relinquished my post at the university to come to this desolate spot on the coast. After a long, somewhat tiring train journey, I found it distinctly refreshing to be able to sit back and relax and listen to the other as he described several of the landmarks which showed themselves clearly on the skyline to the west. The nearness of the strangely domed hills, topped by thick copses, now intruded more pronouncedly on my consciousness, and I realised that I had not been mistaken in my belief that here were strange, primal, and time-touched things, incredible and alien, which in spite of the late afternoon sunlight brought a little shiver to my body.
    All that I had learned of this county welled up inside me as I stared out of the window of the car, striving to read something into the signs I saw all about me. Here and there, narrow lanes branched off the main road and vanished in leafy mystery on either side, while deep green labyrinths loomed on top of us at every bend in the road. We passed few cars on the way and after fifteen minutes or so, rounding a steep bend, we came within sight of the sea once more, far below us, while in the distance, the sunlight touched the white, spectral finger of a lighthouse standing on a rocky headland thrusting out into the sea.
    But as we began the breathtaking descent towards East Wisterton, a tiny cluster of whitewashed houses about a mile distant, I noticed something that attracted my attention oddly, although I could not define the reason for it. Less than a quarter of a mile from the village there stood a two-storey house, which seemed unusually large and elegant for its situation. Even from that distance I could see that it was no longer occupied. There was a general air of stagnation and decay about it that was unmistakable.
    Several of the windows appeared to be broken, for they did not reflect the sunlight as most of the others did, and there was a tantalising air of familiarity about it, which