Beware The Beasts Read Online Free Page B

that a man even of his standing could not educate people hidebound by all manner of legend and lore simply by denying the existence of their beliefs.
    And before the day was out, there was, as might have been expected, old Hether. The vicar was obviously in no mood to see him, but there he was, coming as if he expected to be welcomed by open arms.
    "Hear the dogs last night?" asked Hether.
    "Who didn't?"
    "Thought you might have heard 'em. So did I. Thought it might put you to thinking a bit."
    "What fools these mortals be!" quoted the vicar pointedly.
    "Quite so," agreed Sir Basil cheerfully, producing an old leather book. "Brought you a book I thought you'd like to see. Picture of old Millham in it."
    The vicar took the book, glancing at its title: South Country Demonology . He opened it to the picture and gazed at the countenance of Nicholas Millham. He had instantly the singular sensation of looking upon someone familiar, but he could not place him. He frowned briefly before handing the book back.
    "That black dog beside him was supposed to be his familiar. Of course you're aware of the legend about practitioners of the black arts and their demon companions, who took odd forms, but quite often that of a black dog," old Hether went on.
    "I've seen that face somewhere before," said the vicar.
    "Then you've seen the book, too, eh?"
    "Oh, no."
    "Must have. This is the only place Millham's portrait occurs. Never been reprinted, as far as I know, and the book's rare."
    Their conversation was not pleasant.
    It was not until Sir Basil had gone that the vicar remembered where he had seen that strange gaunt face before - it was the face of the nocturnal watcher under the streetlight in the lane!
    "What a curious coincidence!" he thought. It was a pity that the vicar was conditioned to think in platitudes.
    That evening he made the mistake of working late in the church; though the work he had to do there could have been done any time, it was possible that the vicar obstinately pursued this course because Sir Basil Hether had none too subtly hinted that it might be well if the vicar stayed inside after dark.
    When he came out, on his way to the vicarage, he was immediately aware of the wild barking of the Millham dogs, the same mad volume of sound which had assaulted the usually quiet country darkness on the previous night. He was also uncomfortably conscious of being under surveillance and, looking around him from the comparative security of the church steps, he made out a figure standing at the entry to the churchyard just beyond. Because of what the vicar felt must be an optical illusion, it seemed to him that he could see the gate to the churchyard and an edge of one of the gravestones beyond showing directly through the figure of the man standing there. He thought briefly of old Hether's ridiculous hints, and reflected that in any case, it was rather late to be considering them.
    He went down the steps and up the lane to where the lights of the vicarage shone out. A man's voice was raised in a shout behind him, and he thought with a warm glowing how pleasant it was to hear the familiar voices of countrymen in the deepening darkness of nights - men in the fields, men on their way home, men with lanterns looking for lost lambs or calves. Even as he thought this, he was aware suddenly of the words that reached his consciousness. He could not believe the evidence of his own ears - a man's voice calling insistently, with a strangely ominous quality: "Here, Daemos! Here, Daemos!"
    Frightened now, he turned.
    He had a fleeting glimpse of a great black hound with red eyes bouncing toward him, its mouth slavering, its outline no less distinct than the aspect of earth seen dimly through its dark body - and behind it, coming, swiftly as the wind, the tall, black-cloaked stranger, his face demoniac in its saturninity, the face of the dead Nicholas Millham. Then the hound was upon him, and he went down with the furious wild barking of the