since before the giant lizards plodded through the warm slime of a young land. Both divers turned to the pit and stared into the darkness. Then they saw it! Something was moving, rising from the pit. Even dimly, it was a sight no sane mind could behold for long.

Hariss, who was closest to the pit, uttered something like a death gurgle and dropped his torch in panic. Howard grabbed Bill's arm and launched himself upward, pulling the patrolman along with him. Almost immediately, there was an explosion of motion in the water. Something hit Hariss with a force that nearly sent both men tumbling. He went limp instantly. Howard ignored it, tightened his grip on his partner, and kept pushing upwards.

The water was churning and seething all around him now. A rushing roar fought with the endless screeching to fill the deep with horror. Fowl black shapes snapped at him out of the cloud of bubbles, then slithered over him,trailing a phosphorescent slime from their jowls. Something bit one of his flippers, tugged for a moment, then darted away with half its prize. A fanged little horror screeched in his face. It struck at him, missed his face, but buried itself in his shoulder. There it hung for a moment, sucking his blood in great slurping gulps. Howard flailed at it with his torch.

After what seemed an eternity the thing released him, and with a strong kick he was suddenly in the clear. The thing did not seem to be following him up any longer. But it didn't matter. Howard Phillips had been tainted for life. He wanted to scream, or cry like a baby, or shout in rage. How many twisted, slimy nightmare hydra heads had he seen? Hundreds? Thousands? Oh, God! Some of them were still dripping gore that was recognizable as having been human once. If only he had gone blind the instant before he saw that chaos of churning, writhing, screeching, fanged nightmares so that he might never know that such things really existed!

There was nothing but pain now. He knew that he was going up much too fast, but that didn't matter. His arms and legs felt like dead weight, far too heavy to move without great effort. But still he struggled upwards.

The water seemed red now. One shoulder was numb from holding onto Bill and dragging him along, the other was burning as if acid had been injected into his wound. His blood was on fire. Huge colored spots danced before his eyes. But nothing mattered except getting to the surface.

At last his head broke the water. He would have cried if he had the strength. He half spit, half yanked the respirator out of his mouth and gasped the cool night air. His whole body cried out in pain. He hurt deep inside. He vaguely remembered Hariss and pulled him to the surface.

Now a blinding light shone on them. It came from somewhere towards the shore. From the same direction came the sound of an boat engine gurgling to life. Howard laughed breathlessly, drunkenly. "We made it," he coughed. "Hey, we made it." He shook Hariss by the shoulders, then turned him around to see if he was alright.

It was a mistake. For Bill Hariss, who last month had become the proud father of a baby girl, and who had gone down into the deep dark to do his duty despite overwhelming fear, had no face left.

Howard Phillips was still screaming when strong hands pulled him from the water.

A week after he was released from Saint Elizabeth Hospital, Howard Phillips was committed to the State Center for the Criminally Insane. He died there less than six months later.

There are now large signs posted every few hundred yards along the shores of Bottomless Lake. The signs read: LAKE CLOSED! No Boating. No Fishing. No Swimming. By order of the Newt County Sheriff.

Beneath one of these signs, someone who had seen only a dim vision of the truth had written: "Here Arnold Phillips sleeps with the Devil. May God have mercy on our souls."

***

There is a lake in distant Zan,

Beyond the wonted haunts of man,

Where broods alone in hideous state

A spirit dead and desolate;

A spirit ancient and unholy,

Heavy with fearsome melancholy,

Which from the waters dull and dense

Draws vapours curst with pestilence.

Around the banks, a mire of clay,

Sprawl things offensive in decay,

And curious birds that reach that shore

Are seen by mortals nevermore.

(The opening lines of "The Nightmare Lake" by H.P. Lovecraft)

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