“You can’t,” I said dully. “You can’t do this to Gratia. She’s lovely. She...”
“That’s just the point!” Claude’s voice was a feverish whisper. “Lovely! She’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Think. Richard! Think what I could do with such loveliness. Think of a woman possessed of such beauty, and of my personality, my brain directing that beauty! A woman such as that could rule any man... a million men... an empire... a world!”
I struggled to keep my voice level. “I tell you, you can’t do it. I won’t let you. I know your ‘experiments’. I know what they did to Father and Tam! Well, you’re not going to hurt Gratia. Either you’ll let her alone or I’ll go to the police!”
“No, Richard,” he said softly. “You won’t go to the police. In a little while, you’ll grow calm; you’ll think. And, then, you’ll realize the truth of what I told you I about Gratia. She is entirely mine. She would never support any insane stories you might tell the authorities. On the contrary, if you should talk, she would readily agree with my testimony that you were quite mad.”
He went out, closing the door soundlessly behind him.
VI
THERE was nothing I could do. Like an outsider, I stood by and watched while Claude Ashur’s malignant genius slowly, inevitably reclaimed Inneswich Priory. By the end of the first week, I had grown to feel like some helpless intruder who has stumbled upon unspeakable horror and dares do nothing but turn his back. My nerves were like the strings of a sensitive instrument, keyed to the breaking point. Day by day I watched Gratia move through the gloom-infested hallways of the Priory; I saw the growing pallor of her gentle face; I saw the, sickly fear that lurked behind the shallow mask of her eyes. Time and again, I set out upon walks that I meant to end in the local constabulary, but, I could never escape the horrible rationality of Claude’s warning.
In the night, I would start awake, trembling on the brink of mad rage, as the pulsing of drums thundered through the cavern of the house; always, after such nights, there was a marked improvement, a new vitality in my brother, and Gratia seamed more wan, more silent than ever. I knew that the girl who drifted, wraithlike, from room to room, smiling obediently, adoringly at Claude, was not the real Gratia. I was convinced that she was controlled, that her voiceless devotion to Glaude was a manifestation of some hideous form of mesmerism. But, I had no way of proving my theory. It is probable that I should never have known the real Gratia Thane, had it not been for the fever.
It came upon Claude quite suddenly toward the middle of the third week. The day had been overcast and unpleasantly cold; a sea-dampness had seeped into, the massive Priory rooms, settling upon them a chill that no fire could dispel. Claude had spent the afternoon locked in his East Wing chamber, and when he appeared for dinner, it occurred to me that his wan face was tinted, with an unwonted flush; his eyes were red-rimmed and oddly ill-at-ease when they chanced to meet mine. More than once during the oppressive silent course of the meal I saw Gratia’s worried gaze seeking his. He didn’t look at her. Directly after dinner, he retired.
It was well past midnight before I drifted into a fitful doze; for hours, I had puzzled over the strange silence of my brother. Since that first night of his return, the evil in Claude had grown into a bold, bantering thing that throve on barbed innuendo and secret, poisonous laughter. I wondered what had caused the change. The answer came in the form of a misty presence that floated at my bedside, like some troubled spirit. I think I must have cried out at the touch of a cool hand on my arm, for soft fingertips pressed warningly against my lips. Breathing heavily, I stared up into the moon-washed loveliness of Gratia Thane’s face.
“Richard...” There was a timid urgency - in her throaty whisper. “Richard, you must come... I’m afraid... I...” She fought to still the trembling of her lips. “It’s Glaude I heard him moaning. It was horrible; He’s in his bedroom... and he won’t let me in... I’m afraid, Richard, he’s ill... I feel it... We... we've got to do something for him...”
As I watched the wide darkness of Gratia’s eyes, heard the mixture of anxiety and terror that throbbed in her voice, an odd thrill of hope shot through me. The girl who stood by my bed in that moment was no longer the will-less automaton I had come to knew. For the first time since I’d met her, Gratia Thane was honestly, tremblingly alive. Her palm was moist against mine as we made our way through the Cimmerean blackness of the upper hall; I cannot say how long we stood before the door of Claude’s bedchamber, listening, and scarcely breathing. I can only remember the sudden, terrified vise of her fingers on mine, when, from beyond the heavy oaken panels, there came a muted, agonized groan. I clutched the icy metal latch and twisted it sharply, throwing the ponderous door ajar.
The wild howl that rent the stillness then, was not one of pain; it was the vicious snarl of an outraged animal. For one terrible instant, I beheld, thrown into ghastly relief by the moonlight which lay in a slimy pool upon Claude’s bedstead, the fever-bright eyes, the blotched skin, the raw scar-of-a-mouth that had uttered that fury-torn cry. I heard Gratia gasp. Then, violently, Claude Ashur turned from us, twisting in the bed until we could see nothing but the frail mound of his body beneath the covers.
“Get out! Get out of this room and stay out!”
“Claude... you’re ill... You’ve got to let us help you...” Gratia took a hesitant forward step.
“Stay away from me!” the voice commanded in a harsh whisper. “I told you not to come in here. I want to be left alone!”
I said levelly: “You’d better let me call Ellerby, Claude.”
“No! I don’t need a doctor! I don’t heed anyone! It’s nothing, I tell you. Just a recurrence of a fever I had in the tropics. It’ll pass. Just leave me alone! Alone!”
It was no different in the morning. Despite his wife’s, repeated entreaties, Claude stubbornly refused to let anyone enter his room. I stood by, silent, listening while Gratia begged him to be reasonable—to call in a doctor. He spoke only once in a quiet, desperate' voice. He instructed her to have his food left on trays outside the door; he told her everything would be quite all right in a few days. After that, there was no answer to Gratia’s anxious pleadings. There was only an occasional soft rustling beyond the bolted door, and the nauseous odor of putrefaction that seemed to grow more foul by the minute. As he always had, Claude Ashur won. We left him alone. The door to his hateful sanctuary remained closed for more than a week, and, as time passed, I began to entertain a strange hope that at once horrified and thrilled me. I began to wonder how it would be if that door never opened again.
That week was a jungle flower that blossomed with pitifully brief magnificence, in the midst of a fungus-choked swamp of evil. It was the only beautiful thing born of those final hideous days at Inneswich Priory. It was a brilliant tender touch of normalcy caught in a cesspool of malignant madness. For, in those few hours, I came to know the true Gratia Thane. Set free of the vile will that lay prisoner in that upper chamber, she became the girl I’d always known she must be; a gentle creature, full of gay laughter, and quiet tenderness; a carefree child who loved to run along the white stretches of the beach with the salt air brushing her cheek, and ruffling the bronze softness of her hair; a Gratia who, despite the lingering shadow of Claude Ashur, soon endeared herself to those villagers she chanced to meet on, the evening walks that became our habit. It was as though some dark curtain that had separated her from reality, that had let her see only Claude, had been lifted. And, watching the lovely aliveness of her face, listening to her warm laughter, feeling the excitement of her hand in mine, I knew that I was in love with my brother’s wife.
*
THE curtain fell again. As suddenly as I had found Gratia, I lost her. On the evening of the ninth day, Claude reclaimed his bride. Gratia and I had been playing backgammon in the library window seat; I remember the way the dying amber rays of the sun glinted in her eyes when she laughed almost tenderly at my run of ill-luck. And, I remember how the laughter d
ied, so abruptly, so completely. I looked up from the game and saw the blood drain from the warm mounds of her cheeks; the dark wells of her eyes grew suddenly shallow and secretive; her pallid lips moved, but no words came. A faint sibilant rustle made me start and turn my head. And, then, I saw it —standing in the gloom that shrouded the library threshold— the smiling, animated corpse that was Claude Ashur.
In that wasted visage, only the curled gash of the mouth and the pitted blazing eyes gave testimony to the corrupt flame of life that still burned within that fleshless body. The dry, achromatic skin of the massive forehead seemed swollen, and the hairline had receded markedly. The unwholesome brown splotches had disappeared, leaving the facial flesh seamed and sallow. A heavy, dark-colored scarf was muffled about his throat, and, (oddest of all, I thought), pale kidskin gloves covered his hands. From that day forward, I never saw Claude without them.
“Well!” The twisted lips scarcely moved, but his soft, insinuating voice held all the old malicious humor. “This is a most touching little domestic scene...” Shifting in their sockets, the seering pin-points of fire ate into the wan softness of Gratia’s face. “I'm sure Richard has been a charming substitute, my dear, but really... Shouldn’t you be just a bit more enthusiastic about your husband’s recovery?”
With the hypnotic grace of a delicately-wrought puppet, Gratia rose from the window-seat; her pale hand brushed against the game-board, and several scarlet backgammon pieces spilled to the carpet. She didn’t notice them. Slowly, she crossed the dusk-dimmed room to where Claude stood. Her firm, bare arms went about his neck and, passionately, she kissed the ugly wound that was his mouth. For a long time, they stood embracing in the shadows, and all the while, over Gratia’s shoulder, my brother’s evil face smiled at me. That night, I heard the drums again.
I thought I’d had a nightmare. A moment before, the demoniac thrumming had been pounding against my eardrums, throbbing in the depths of the flighted Priory. But, when I started up from my sweaty pillow, peering into the dark that swarmed in upon me, abruptly, the sound was gone. 1 sat forward, taut and waiting. The silence was profound, limitless; the silence of the tomb. It was as though some titanic heartbeat had been suddenly stilled, I tried to relax. I passed a clammy hand over my forehead, and attempted a laugh. There was nothing but a dry rasping in my throat. Determinedly, I lay back; I told myself I was letting my nerves get the better of me.
It didn’t work; the longer I lay there, forcing my icy hands to stillness, listening tensely to every silken, uncertain whisper of the night, the more conscious I became of the caul of impending danger that had spread its slimy veil over Inneswich Priory. The silence was unnatural; it was the seething quietness of the demented killer before he strikes. Cursing my nerves, I threw back the counterpane and struggled into robe and slippers. Clammy air swirled about my bare ankles as I opened the bedroom door and ventured warily into the Stygian gloom of the corridor. Instinctively, I turned in the direction of the East Wing. Through the single massive casement of the upper hall, moonlight fell, making a pale, shadow-latticed desert of the floor. It was as I passed through that livid pool of moonglow that I saw her.
“Gratia!”
She seemed not to hear; as she came toward me from the shadows, her white gown murmured. It was like the warning hiss of a poisonous snake. I stared at the hueless angularity of her wasted face. The deep-set eyes burned into mine and the narrow slit that was her mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. Her tongue, pink and strangely pointed, flicked out to moisten dry lips: The mouth worked.
“Kill!” it whispered in the accented, venomous voice that didn’t belong to Gratia Thane. “I must kill... It’s the only way... The sure way... He could cause trouble... It’s best this way... Yes... He must be destroyed. Killed... Kill! Kill! Kill!”
I caught her wrist as a knife slashed downward toward my chest; razor-edged steel grazed my left cheek; I felt blood trickle along my jaw. It wasn’t easy to hold her; she struggled with a vicious strength that was out of keeping with the fragility of her body... with the power of a desperate madman. The colorless lips curled back from her teeth.
“You!” she hissed. “I must kill you! Kill! Destroy! Silence forever!”
“Gratia!” I shook her violently. “Stop it! You hear me? Cut it out!”
There was the flat, brutal slap of my hand across her hysteria-twisted face, and suddenly, she was still. Insane anger melted into bewilderment; her eyes widened and gained warmth and depth; the shadows faded. Gratia’s lips, pink and moist, trembled. For an instant, she could only stare; her terrified gaze moved from the flesh-wound of my face to the glinting blade of the knife she still held. She gasped. I saw her fingers open convulsively; the knife thudded to the floor. Again, our eyes met, and then she was in my arms.
“Richard... Rick, I didn’t mean to... I didn’t know what I was doing... He made me... It was the drums and his voice... Here... here in my head...”
The fresh perfume of her hair was in my nostrils; her cheek brushed, mine. Gently, she was wiping the blood from my face with the sleeve of her gown.
“It’s all right,” I murmured. “It’s all right now..."
I held her close again; her body was trembling. She cried. It was the soft, bewildering cry of a little girl.
“I’m scared Rick, I’m so-scared! He’s doing something to me... He’s…” She shook her head frantically and clung to me. “Don’t let him... Please... You won’t let him! Promise you won’t let him...”
“No.” My voice sounded flat and hard in my own ears. “He won’t hurt you... He won’t hurt you ever again...”
“The triumph of true love!”
*
BITTER, weighted with sarcasm, the softly spoken words seemed to tear Gratia from my arms. Standing on the edge of the shadows, his eyes slitted in their blue-black wells, the desiccated flesh of his face more livid than ever in the moonlight, Claude Ashur laughed.
“You can’t have her. You know that, don’t you, Richard? I’ve tried to be patient with you; but, I’m afraid you’ve interfered, once too often. You see, Gratia is more than a woman and wife to me. She’s my very life; my only hope of survival. I’ll never let you take that hope from me...”
He had begun to move slowly toward me through the moonlight; each stride had a
fluid, evil grace that was almost feline. The brilliant gaze flashed to where Gratia stood, then back to me. Again, briefly, that loathsome smile toyed with the corners of his mouth.
“You don’t quite understand, do you, my dear brother? You’re wondering how Gratia could be my sole hope of survival. No matter. It’s better that you never know. We don’t want to trouble your sensitive mind on your last night in this life. Indeed, no! We want you to be at peace. We want you to be ready —for death!”
What happened then I cannot clearly remember;, the murderous violence of those few minutes returns only in disparate, snatches. I recall the maniacal force of Claude’s lunge, the cold, bony vise of his fingers closing on my windpipe. I think I heard Gratia scream. That pale, hateful face was horribly close to mine; his putrid breath hissed, hot against my skin. I remember crashing backward under the impact of his charge. Darkness and moonlight spun in my head. I thought my lungs would burst. Then, by some desperate, instinctive twist of the body, I was free. Wind rasped in my chest. I had Claude crushed between me and the damp stone wall. My fingers damped in his hair, jolting his head forward and back viciously. When his skull pounded against the stone for the third time, his frenzied grasp relaxed. He slid to the floor at my feet, twitched once, and was still.
He wasn’t dead. With the brilliant eyes shuttered by blank, purplish lids, the pale waste of his face had every aspect of death, but, under my searching hand, his evil heart still pounded feebly. Mechanically, possessed of a strange, decisive calm, I bound him hand and foot with the heavy sash-cords of the window-drapes. I carried him to his room and laid him on the huge antique bedstead. I locked him in.
Grati
a, had stopped crying, but her hand was cold and trembling in mine, as we descended through chill darkness to the library. I talked, then. I told her gently that there was nothing more to be afraid of; I. said it was all over now. I built a fire and poured drinks for both of us. And, the whole time, a single, inescapable thought coursed with harrowing persistence beneath my outward calm. I knew that, for the safety of everyone concerned, there was only one place for Claude Ashur: the State Asylum for the Criminally Insane. When I had finished my drink, I made two telephone calls. I asked Dr. Ellerby and the police to come to Inneswich Priory as quickly as possible.
VII
IT WAS all handled very quietly. None of the facts got into the papers. The few reporters whose editors sent them to cover the trial were refused admission. They returned, disgruntled, to their respective phone booths and dictated brief, barren items that only hinted at the abominable truth; these articles, if printed at all, were mercifully swallowed by some obscure corner of an inner page. For a while, the newspaper men tried another, angle. They spent a good deal of time in the Tavern at Inneswich; they asked questions. They learned nothing. The people of the village, perhaps out of respect for the memory of my father, 'met all inquiries with a cold stare and locked lips. So, the loathsome secret of Inneswich Priory, the shame that had scummed the name of Ashur, remained hidden beyond a barrier of clement silence.
The only formal charge against Claude Ashur was one of assault with intent to kill. I stood in the witness box and muttered the details of his attempt on my life. That was all I had to do. The alienists did the rest. It wasn’t difficult. It was simply a matter of subjecting Claude to countless cross-examinations; of recording the awed, reluctant testimony of various villagers who knew of my brother’s "oddity"; of questioning the timid, uneasy man who was Dean of Men at Miskatonic University, and reading a letter from one Henry Boniface, who had taught Claude Ashur to paint.
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