Twenty
years, my son, while all of that time you had grown to hate me and to
spit at my name. Not until your aunt's death have you called yourself a
Duryea.... And now you come to me at my bidding, and say you love me as
a son should love his father. "Perhaps it is God's forgiveness for everything. Now, at last, we shall
be together, and that terrible, unexplainable past will be buried for
ever...."

He put his handkerchief back into his pocket and walked slowly to his
son. He dropped to one knee, and his hands gripped Arthur's arms. "My son, I can say no more to you. I have told you the truth as I alone
know it. I may be, by all accounts, some ghoulish creation of Satan on
earth. I may be a child-killer, a vampire, some morbidly diseased
specimen of _vrykolakas_--things which science cannot explain. "Perhaps the dreaded legend of the Duryeas is true. Autiel Duryea was
convicted of murdering his brother in that same monstrous fashion in the
year 1576, and he died in flames at the stake. François Duryea, in 1802,
blew his head apart with a blunderbuss on the morning after his youngest
son was found dead, apparently from anemia. And there are others, of
whom I cannot bear to speak, that would chill your soul if you were to
hear them. "So you see, Arthur, there is a hellish tradition behind our family. There is a heritage which no sane God would ever have allowed. The
future of the Duryeas lies in you, for you are the last of the race. I
pray with all of my heart that providence will permit you to live your
full share of years, and to leave other Duryeas behind you. And so if
ever again I feel that presence as I did in Duryea Castle, I am going to
die as François Duryea died, over a hundred years ago...."

He stood up, and his son stood up at his side. "If you are willing to forget, Arthur, we shall go up to that lodge in
Maine. There is a life we've never known awaiting us. We must find that
life, and we must find the happiness which a curious fate snatched from
us on those Lombard sourlands, twenty years ago...."




2


Henry Duryea's tall stature, coupled with a slenderness of frame and a
sleekness of muscle, gave him an appearance that was unusually _gaunt_. His son couldn't help but think of that word as he sat on the rustic
porch of the lodge, watching his father sunning himself at the lake's
edge. Henry Duryea had a kindliness in his face, at times an almost sublime
kindliness which great prophets often possess. But when his face was
partly in shadows, particularly about his brow, there was a frightening
tone which came into his features; for it was a tone of farness, of
mysticism and conjuration. Somehow, in the late evenings, he assumed the
unapproachable mantle of a dreamer and sat silently before the fire, his
mind ever off in unknown places. In that little lodge there was no electricity, and the glow of the oil
lamps played curious tricks with the human expression which frequently
resulted in something unhuman. It may have been the dusk of night, the
flickering of the lamps, but Arthur Duryea had certainly noticed how his
father's eyes had sunken further into his head, and how his cheeks were
tighter, and the outline of his teeth pressed into the skin about his
lips. *       *       *       *       *

It was nearing sundown on the second day of their stay at Timber Lake. Six miles away the dirt road wound on toward Houtlon, near the Canadian
border. So it was lonely there, on a solitary little lake hemmed in
closely with dark evergreens and a sky which drooped low over
dusty-summited mountains. Within the lodge was a homy fireplace, and a glossy elk's-head which
peered out above the mantel. There were guns and fishing-tackle on the
walls, shelves of reliable American fiction--Mark Twain, Melville,
Stockton, and a well-worn edition of Bret Harte. A fully supplied kitchen and a wood stove furnished them with hearty
meals which were welcome after a whole day's tramp in the woods. On that
evening Henry Duryea prepared a select French stew out of every
available vegetable, and a can of soup. They ate well, then stretched
out before the fire for a smoke. They were outlining a trip to the
Orient together, when the back door blew open with a terrific bang, and
a wind swept into the lodge with a coldness which chilled them both. "A storm," Henry Duryea said, rising to his feet. "Sometimes they have
them up here, and they're pretty bad. The roof might leak over your
bedroom. Perhaps you'd like to sleep down here with me." His fingers
strayed playfully over his son's head as he went out into the kitchen to
bar the swinging door. Arthur's room was upstairs, next to a spare room filled with extra
furniture. He'd chosen it because he liked the altitude, and because the
only other bedroom was occupied.... He went upstairs swiftly and silently. His roof didn't leak; it was
absurd even to think it might. It had been his father again, suggesting
that they sleep together. He had done it before, in a jesting,
whispering way--as if to challenge them both if they _dared_ to sleep
together. Arthur came back downstairs dressed in his bath-robe and slippers. He
stood on the fifth stair, rubbing a two-day's growth of beard. "I think
I'll shave tonight," he said to his father. "May I use your razor?" Henry Duryea, draped in a black raincoat and with his face haloed in the
brim of a rain-hat, looked up from the hall. A frown glided obscurely
from his features. "Not at all, son. Sleeping upstairs?" Arthur nodded, and quickly said, "Are you--going out?" "Yes, I'm going to tie the boats up tighter. I'm afraid the lake will
rough it up a bit." Duryea jerked back the door and stepped outside. The door slammed shut,
and his footsteps sounded on the wood flooring of the porch. Arthur came slowly down the remaining steps. He saw his father's figure
pass across the dark rectangle of a window, saw the flash of lightning
that suddenly printed his grim silhouette against the glass. He sighed deeply, a sigh which burned in his throat; for his throat was
sore and aching. Then he went into the bedroom, found the razor lying in
plain view on a birch table-top. As he reached for it, his glance fell upon his father's open Gladstone
bag which rested at the foot of the bed. There was a book resting there,
half hidden by a gray flannel shirt. It was a narrow, yellow-bound book,
oddly out of place. Frowning, he bent down and lifted it from the bag. It was surprizingly
heavy in his hands, and he noticed a faintly sickening odor of decay
which drifted from it like a perfume. The title of the volume had been
thumbed away into an indecipherable blur of gold letters. But pasted
across the front cover was a white strip of paper, on which was
typewritten the word--INFANTIPHAGI. He flipped back the cover and ran his eyes over the title-page. The book
was printed in French--an early French--yet to him wholly
comprehensible. The publication date was 1580, in Caen.