Titus Crow [1] The Burrowers Beneath by Brian Lumley Page B

monotonously buzzing tones of horror. And they were in my mind exactly as they had been in Wendy-Smith’s document:
    Ce’haiie ep-ngh fl’hur G’harne fhtagn,
    Ce’haiie fhtagn ngh Shudde-M’ell.
    Hai G’harne orr’e ep fl’hur,
    Shudde-M’ell ican-icanicas fl’hur orr’e G’harne.
    As the thing finally faded away and disappeared, I shook my head and numbly moved back over to my bedside table to pick up the cardboard box and feel its weight. I examined the box minutely, still more than half asleep. I honestly do not know what I expected to find, but I found nothing. All was as it had been the night before.
    I washed, shaved, and dressed, and had hardly returned from mailing the parcel of eggs to Professor Peaslee from a local post office - all done very lethargically - when the telephone rang. It was quite insistent, clamouring like mad, but for some reason I hesitated before picking it up to put the receiver timorously to my ear.
    ‘De Marigny? It’s Crow here.’ My friend’s voice was urgent, electrical.
    ‘Listen. Have you sent off the eggs yet?’
    ‘Why, yes - I just managed to catch the morning post.’
    ‘Oh, no!’ he groaned; then: ‘Henri, do you still have that houseboat at Henley?’
    ‘Why, yes. In fact, it’s been in use until recently. Some friends of mine. I told them they could have it for a week just before I went to France. They’re off the boat now, though; I got the key back in a little parcel in last night’s mail. But why?’ Despite my question I felt oddly listless, growing more disinterested by the second.
    ‘Pack yourself some things, Henri, enough to live with decently for a fortnight or so. I’ll pick you up within the hour in the Mercedes. I’m just loading my stuff now.’
    ‘Eh?’ I asked, completely uncomprehending, not really wanting to know.
    ‘Stuff?’ The mists were thick in my mind. ‘Titus’ - I heard myself as if from a hundred miles away - ‘what’s wrong?’
    ‘Everything is wrong, Henri, and in particular my reasoning! Haven’t you heard the morning news or read the newspapers?’
    ‘No,’ I answered through a wall of thickening fog. ‘I’m just up. Slept badly.’
    ‘Bentham is dead, de Marigny! The poor devil - a “subsidence” at Alston. We’re going to have to drastically revise our thinking. The houseboat is a godsend.’
    ‘Eh? What?’
    ‘The houseboat, Henri! It’s a godsend! Like Sir Amery said: “They don’t like water.” I’ll see you within the hour.’
    ‘Titus,’ I gropingly answered, barely managing to catch him before he could break the connection, ‘not today, for God’s sake! I … I really don’t feel up to it. I mean … it’s a damned nuisance - ‘
    ‘Henri, I -‘ He faltered, amazement in his voice; then, in a tone full of some strange understanding: ‘So, they’ve been at you, have they?’ Now he was deliberate and calm. ‘Well, not to worry. Be seeing you.’ And with that the line went dead.
    I don’t know how much later it was when the infernal banging came at my door, and the ringing at my doorbell, but for quite a long time I simply ignored it.
    Then, despite an urge to close my eyes and go back to sleep where I sat in my chair, I managed to get up and go to the door. Yawningly I opened it - and was almost bowled over as a frenzied figure in black rushed in.
    It was of course Titus Crow - but his eyes were blazing in a strange and savage passion completely alien to his character as I had previously known it!
    That is Not Dead
    (From de Marigny’s Notebooks)
    ‘De Marigny!’ Crow exploded as soon as he was inside and had the door shut behind him. ‘Henri, you’ve been got at!’
    ‘Eh? Got at?’ I sleepily replied. ‘No such thing, Titus -I’m tired, that’s all.’ Yet despite my odd lethargy I was still slightly curious. ‘How do you mean, “Got at”? By whom?’
    Quickly taking my arm and leading me, half dragging me to my own study, he answered: ‘Why, the burrowers beneath,