The Carnal God

A strange and thrilling story about a golden image that was instinct with evil life, and the terrible weird fire that burned with the cold of outer space.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales June 1937. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

1. The Dreadful Face

On starless nights when the moon was obscured by the earth's shadow, Pierre Soret walked alone down the darkest and most deserted streets in London. He did this to avoid the people who might look into his face. His face! He shuddered, his pinched shoulders wrenching sharply with a bitter shrug. Could anyone call this mask, this unearthly mass of bubbling flesh, boiling and seething in his own blood, a face?

Pierre knew what always happened when people looked into his torture-shattered eyes. The sight of their horror sickened him. His memory ached with the sharpness of pain he had felt on those few occasions when some luckless persons had inadvertently seen, and halted, frozen momentarily with the intense horror and nausea that overwhelmed them, their faces graven with revulsion; a moment later to totter rapidly past him down the street, the tension of their feeling released with an effort that ended in a sob of hysteria and fear.

The route Pierre took upon these nights was always the same. With his long black opera cape and moth-eaten topper, he stalked through the streets like some villain from an old Drury Lane melodrama. "A quaint old man who has refused to leave his yesterdays," people might remark, if they did not see his face. Pierre gave no heed to the few people he passed, except to draw the cape quickly about his face if they approached him too near under the eery, fog-filtered glare of the street lamps.

At Nigh Street, Pierre's bent figure paused wearily before he started up the hill. A few yards from the corner, he paused again, staring at the yellow lines of light cutting the fog and issuing from the slit-like windows of the beautiful home of the Countess Donella Moonard. In the thick mists, the house, impressively large and of Egyptian architecture, resembled a temple of Black Magic veiled in oppressive incense. The yellow slits glowered steadily and ominously. What brilliance and exotic color lay within!

It was late, but not all of the Countess Moonard's guests had departed. This would be the first party of the new season; trust her to make it gay and unusual.

Pierre walked slowly forward, muttering to himself. His shoulders brushed the low, ivy-covered wall surrounding the estate. He was nearing the entrance to the garden. Above the gate in the wall, an ancient gas torch flickered, casting a ghastly light that might have come from the most ancient tombs along the Blue Nile.

"The fools!" he mumbled bitterly. "If I could only tell them what she really is!"

Within a few feet of the entrance, he paused again, resentfully. Was it his fault that the curse of many years before had made him an outcast from the very society that now applauded the brilliant Countess Moonard? He thrust back his cape. How good this musty dampness felt! For weeks he had not been outside his home. His lungs cried out in rebellion, cried greedily for deeper and deeper drafts of the refreshing breath of night. The Countess Moonard! His hatred flamed higher. Her guests ... fools! What would happen if he were to walk into that gay party scene, drop his cape from about his face, and tell them that----

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