A Tale of Astral Vengeance
The Black Castle
By Marc R. Schorer and August W. Derleth
The black castle high up on the cliff stood solitary and lone, silhouetted against the moon. By day the castle was prominent, but by night, in the full moonlight, it was much more so. It stood in relief; there were no trees, only a few shrubs that grew along the irregular sides of the mountain. To the fore the cliff was sheer, and, topping this declivity, the ominous structure looked malefically down upon the little village of Cheveaux. The village was completely enveloped in shadow, for the moon had not yet risen to a sufficient height to diminish the broad shadow of the mountain. Every soul in the peaceful village was in repose under the pleasing mantle of darkness upon it. The village was like a picture by an artist: all in darkness save a few thin wisps of smoke spiraling from several chimneys and rising until they were caught in the light of the moon streaming down upon the plain from above the castle, then dispersing and vanishing into the crisp air.
In sharp contrast to the calm of the exterior a grim drama was being enacted within the castle. In a large room in one of the turrets of the château the aged Count de Cheveaux sat at a ponderous oaken table. The moon cast a patch of light upon the floor, which, aided by the flickering gleam of the flambeaux in their brackets on the table and the fitful light from the flames of the fire in the grate, served to light up a portion of the room.
The room was almost bare. The walls, save for a coat-of-arms above the fireplace and a faded portrait of an ancient ancestor of the de Cheveaux exactly opposite it, were devoid of ornamentation. The painted figure in the portrait gazed with great dignity at the coat-of-arms as if in approval. The floor likewise was bare of decoration. A few cumbersome chairs situated at the two entrances of the chamber gave the room an atmosphere of heaviness, of gloom. The firelight played upon a great skin stretched out upon the stone floor before the grate, and the gleaming teeth in the head of the pelt shone malevolently. The sputtering flambeaux on the table disclosed the count's pale features and made evident the extreme agitation that held him in its grasp. His face twitched oddly and his hands trembled; he looked as if he were suffering from the palsy. He was writing, but not of his own volition, for his hand moved steadily and unhesitatingly across the parchment upon the table, while his glaring eyes were fixed with fierce intensity upon the lines of writing. There were no sounds in the room save the crackling of the flames in the grate, the scratching of the pen upon the parchment, and the occasional eery sputtering of the flambeaux.
Suddenly the hand quavered and ceased its motion; and the count seized the opportunity to re-read what had been written. His throat became dry and a violent trembling
