I don't know how I got to shore, but
I did, and I lay there in the shadow of the galley, choking and
gagging, but afraid to cough. It wasn't altogether dark, and I could
see those dreadful things with people hanging over their shoulders,
carrying them along a narrow ledge close to the water's edge, heading
inland. I thought maybe you were one of those limp bodies; and I--I
almost died of fright. After a while the last one had gone, and the
light went out. Then I heard another pair of feet moving over the
rocks. Corio, I suppose. The sound died--and I was alone. "That place was awful, Cliff. The blackness almost drove me mad. I
wanted to scream, but I was afraid to. Some terrible weight seemed to
be crushing my lungs. If I followed those undead things, they might
capture me, but it seemed worse to stay there in that dreadful dark. "I got out of there somehow, though it seemed to take hours. Then I
didn't know what to do. I stood at the edge of the dead forest trying
to decide; trying, too, to keep myself from shrieking and
running--anywhere. Then Corio's horn blew again--a sound, Cliff, worse
than anything I've ever heard. It--it was a wicked sound, promising to
fulfill every foul desire that ever tainted a human mind. It repelled,
yet it lured irresistibly. And--I answered!" She stopped, and buried her face in her hands. After a moment she went
on. "The sound stopped just as I found myself crawling on hands and
knees up the stone stairway on the other side. Another started--that
awful groaning--music--but it didn't draw me. I ran down the steps and
scurried away like a rabbit trying to find a place to hide. "After a while I came back--I thought you must be in there--and I
climbed up to the window. And--and--Cliff, it's hellish!" Her eyes, boring into his, widened in the same rigid terror he had
seen in them when he joined her. "We could go back to the cove and get away on the _Ariel_, Vilma,"
Cliff said stonily. "And if you think we should, we will. But--I
brought our friends here, and--well, I want to get them out if I can." With an effort Vilma nodded. "Of course. We can't do anything else." He released her and stepped up to the wall. "I'm going to see what's going on in there," he said. "You wait here
till I come down." In sudden dread Vilma seized his arm. "No, Cliff. I couldn't stand
waiting here alone. I'll go with you." He nodded understandingly. And together they began climbing the
precipitous wall, fitting hands and feet in step-like crevices that
made progress fairly rapid. Soon they were crouching on a wide stone
ledge, clinging to thin, rusted bars, staring into the black castle. _3. The Steps of Torture_

A gigantic hall lay before them, a single chamber whose walls were the
walls of the castle, whose arched ceiling rose far above them. Directly below their window a stone platform jutted from the wall,
spreading entirely across the chamber. A stone altar squatted in the
center of the platform, a strangely phosphorescent fire smoldering on
its top. And from the altar descended a wide, wide stairway ending in
the middle of the hall. All this Cliff saw in a single sweeping
glance; afterward he had eyes for nothing save the lethal horror of a
mad, mad scene, revealed by the dim radiance of the altar fire. Behind the altar stood five huge figures clad in long, hooded cloaks
of scarlet. The central figure had arms raised wide, his cloak spread
like the wings of some bloody bird of prey; and from his lips came a
guttural incantation, a blasphemous chant in archaic Latin, in time
with the wheeze of the buried organ. Now his arms dropped, and he was
silent. From the room below came a concerted whine of ceremonial devotion, a
hollow, hungry wail. It rose from the bloodless lips of strangely
assorted human figures ranging down the center of the long stairway in
two facing columns. A hundred or more there must have been,
representing half as many periods and countries, according to their
strange and ancient costumes. Men in the armor of medieval Persia--the
crew of the black galley; yellow-haired Vikings; hawk-faced Egyptians
with leather-brown skins; half-naked islanders; red-sashed pirates
from the Spanish main; men of today! And about all, like the dampness
that clings to a tombstone, hovered a cloud of--death! The undead! Cliff's gaze roved over the tensely waiting columns, then leaped to
the foot of the stairs. There, cowering dumbly like sheep in a
slaughter-pen, were his friends from the _Ariel_. All clothing had
been stripped from them, and they stood waiting in waxen, statuesque
stiffness. He saw then that three others lay prone before the stone
altar, naked and ominously still. And far down at the very end of the hall stood Leon Corio, draped in a
hooded cape of unbroken black, a glint of silver in his hand--his horn
of drugging sounds. Now, as though at a silent command, a girl left the group and began to
mount the stairs, as those motionless three must have mounted! Vivacious Ann--she had been the life of Cliff's yacht party; but now
she was--changed. Her blanched face was rigid with inexpressible
terror despite the semi-stupor which numbed her senses. Her nude body
glowed like marble in the dim light. Horribly, her feet began their
climb with a little catch step suggested by the moaning chant of that
cracked organ note. She reached the first of the undead, and Cliff saw light glint on a
knife-blade. A crimson gash appeared in the flesh of her thigh; and
dead lips touched that wound, drank thirstily. The girl strode on,
blood gleaming darkly on the white skin. A second drank of the crimson
flow--a third--and the blood ceased gushing forth. Another knife flashed--and lips closed again and again on a redly
dripping wound. And the girl with the unchanging pace of a robot
climbed the stairway to its very top--climbed while fiendish corpses
drank her life's blood--climbed, to sink down on the altar. One of the red-clad figures stooped over her, lifted her, buried long
teeth in her throat--and Cliff saw his face.... His own face paled,
and talons of fear raked his brain. Those others on the stairs--they
were abhorrent, zombies freed from the grave. But this monster! A
vampire vested with the lust and cruelty and power of hell! He lowered her, finally, and she sank down, lay still, beside the
other three. Another began the hellish climb, a giant of a man with a thickly
muscled torso. Cliff knew him instantly; and his heart seemed to stop. Leslie Starke! They'd played football together. A brave man--a
fighter. He mounted the stairway with the same little catch step, the
same plodding stiffness. No resistance, no struggle--only a hell of
fear on his face. The marrow melted from Cliff Darrell's bones. What--what could he do
against a power that did _that_ to Les Starke? He tried to swallow,
but the saliva had dried on his tongue. He wanted to turn to Vilma,
but he could not wrench his eyes from the frightful spectacle. Up the stone steps Starke strode.