Free The Lower Deep by Hugh B. Cave Page A

I had to swim. Something was forcing me. And somehow I knew I was swimming out, away from land, to keep some kind of—of appointment."
    "How did you get ashore?"
    "Something—some fish, I suppose—struck at me. That broke the spell or whatever it was, and I stopped swimming. Then while I was treading water, confused, not knowing what to do, I heard drumming. You know—voodoo drums. That told me where land was, and I swam toward it like a madman."
    "Were you far out? I mean, did it take you long to reach shore?"
    "Oh, my God," Henninger moaned again. "I was so far out, I thought I would never get back. When I stumbled up onto the beach at Anse Douce, I was absolutely exhausted and had to lie there until I recovered. Then I walked up and down searching for my pajamas. I must have been wearing them when I left this room, don't you see? But I couldn't find them. Evidently I took them off somewhere else. So I had to walk home naked."
    "Where did this fish, or whatever it was, bite you?" Steve wondered if his frown betrayed his suspicions. "What part of your body?"
    Henninger stood up and put his left foot on the chair, brushing the sheet aside to bare his leg to the knee. "See for yourself, Doctor."
    Something with teeth had certainly attacked the man, Steve had to admit as he examined the patch of lacerations, four or five inches in diameter, on Henninger's calf. It was nothing to be alarmed about now—simple first aid would take care of it—but to be swimming in deep water at night, far from land, and suddenly feel that sort of tearing at one's leg must have been truly frightening. "Let me bandage this for you, Paul."
    "It's not bleeding now, is it, Doctor? But if you . . . there's a first-aid kit in the bathroom cabinet."
    Steve went for the kit and put on a bandage. "I'll run along," he said then. "After what you've been through, you need to sleep awhile, Paul."
    "If I dare go to sleep," Henninger sighed while hobbling to the bed.
    "Do you have anything to help you?"
    "Pills, you mean? I'd be afraid to use them!"
    "I see what you mean. Anyway, you'll hardly need any for the rest of tonight. You're exhausted. I'll look in on you first thing in the morning."
    "Thank you." The fat man worked himself into a fetal position on the bed and pulled the sheet over him. "Thank you for helping me, Doctor. Believe me, I'm grateful."
    On his way out of the room Steve again felt the rustling of the spilled salt, if it was salt, under the soft soles of his moccasins, and again found himself frowning down at the floor. But Paul Hennin ger's untidiness had nothing to do with tonight's wild adventure, he was sure. There had to be, as Tom Driscoll kept insisting, something very sinister going on here at the Azagon.
    What the hell was it? And who was behind it?
    Deep in thought, he climbed the stairs to his room. Five minutes to four, his watch said now. He hung up his dressing gown and pajamas—somehow it seemed important to do that after the clutter of Henninger's quarters—and got dressed. Flashlight in hand, he departed.
    His destination being the hotel beach, which seemed the likeliest place for the manager to have begun that weird nocturnal swim, he went out the front door and down the driveway.
    The beach was deserted, of course. During the day you might find some of the patients here, now and then even an off-duty member of the staff, but at this hour the crabs owned the place. The beam from his flashlight picked them out—slow-moving, otherworld weirdies that fled like phantoms when the light touched them. The smell of the sea was cleaner and sharper at night, too. I should do this for the fun of it now and then, Steve thought. Not just when I have to.
    He walked along only a few feet from the water's edge, sweeping a broad section of the sand with his light. The beam picked out lumps of coral of assorted shapes and sizes, creating a fantasy world of shadows as it struck them. It hovered briefly over clumps of seaweed that just