Free Necroscope 4: Deadspeak by Brian Lumley Page A

“My castle is not shown. Just a blank space. Well, that’s understandable enough. Gloomy old place. It’s like I said: they’d like to forget it. Legends? You don’t know the half of it!” And a moment later: “Ahhh! he jerked back in his seat and clutched at his forehead with both hands.
    “Jesus!” cried Laverne. “Is he OK?”
    “OK, yes … OK!” said Emil Gogosu. And to Vulpe: “Now I remember, Gheorghe. It was … Ferenczy!”
    Vulpe’s bottom jaw, and those of his friends, fell open. “Jesus!” said Laverne again, this time in a whisper.
    “The Castle Ferenczy?” Armstrong reached over and grabbed the hunter’s forearm.
    Gogosu nodded. “That’s it. And that’s the one, eh?”
    Vulpe and the others fell back in their seats, gaped at each other; they acted bewildered, confused or simply astonished. But at last Vulpe said, “Yes, that’s the one. And you’ll take us to it? Tomorrow?”
    “Oh, be sure I will—” said Gogosu,”—for a price!” And he looked at Vulpe’s hands where he’d spread them on the table, holding down the map. Vulpe saw where the hunter was looking but this time made no attempt to hide his hands away. Instead, he merely raised an eyebrow.
    “An accident?” the old Romanian asked him. “If so, they patched you up rather cleverly.”
    “No,” Vulpe answered, “no accident. I was born like this. It’s just that my parents always taught me to hide them away, that’s all. And so I do, except from my friends …”
    Because of the mountains, the sun seemed a little late in rising. When it did it came up hot and smoky. At eight-thirty the three Americans were waiting for Gogosu on the dusty road outside the inn, their packs at their feet, peaked caps on their heads with tinted visors to keep out the worst of the sun. The old hunter had told them he’d “collect” them here, at this hour, though they hadn’t been sure exactly what he’d meant.
    Randy Laverne had just drained a small bottle of beer and put it down to one side of the inn’s doorstep when they heard the rattle and clatter of a local bus. These were so rare as to be near-fabulous; certainly the arrival of one such demanded a photograph or two; Seth Armstrong got out his camera and started snapping as the beaten-up bus came lurching out of the pines and down the serpentine road towards the inn.
    The thing was a wonderful contraption: bald tyres, bonnet vibrating to a blur over the back-firing engine, windows bleary and fly-specked. The driver’s window was especially bloody, from the eviscerations of a thousand suicided insects; and Emil Gogosu was leaning out of the folding doors at the front with a huge grin stamped on his leathery face, waving at them, indicating they should get aboard.
    The bus shuddered to a halt; the driver grinned, nodded and held up a roll of brown tickets; Gogosu stepped down and helped the three strap their packs to running-boards which went the full length of this ancient vehicle. Then they were aboard, paid their fare, collapsed or were shaken into bone-jarring seats as the driver engaged a low gear to let the one-in-five downward slope do the work of his engine.
    George Vulpe was seated beside Gogosu. “OK,” he said, when he’d recovered his breath, “so where are we going?”
    “First the payment,” said the hunter.
    “Old man,” Vulpe returned, “I’ve this feeling you don’t much trust us!”
    “Not so much of the “old”—I’m only fifty-four,” said Gogosu. “I weather easy. But even so, I didn’t get this old without learning that it’s sometimes best to collect your pay before the fact! Trust has nothing to do with it. I don’t want you falling off a mountain with my wages in your pocket, that’s all!” And he burst into laughter at Vulpe’s expression. But in another moment:
    “We’re going down to Lipova where we’ll pick up a train to Sebis. Then we’ll try to hitch a ride on a cart to Halmagiu village. And then we start climbing!