Black Moon

by Seabury Quinn

  Every stage trick of the charlatan was evident as Bradley prepared for the séance. Lights were turned off in the drawing-room and the adjoining hall, the guests were seated round the wall in a wide circle, with hands joined, and Doris Thorowgood took her place at the piano, softly playing Abide With Me. Bradley seated himself at a small table with a nickel-plated paper-knife held upright in his hand. At his request de Grandin played a flashlight’s ray upon the knife so that it stood out in the darkness like a lighted tower at night.

  “No one is to speak or move until I give permission,” cautioned Bradley, gazing fixedly at the knife-point gleaming in the dark.

  Silence settled on the room. From the hall outside we heard the pompous, slow tick of the tall clock; softly, softer than the clock-tick, barely audible to us, came the piano’s notes:

  I fear no harm with Thee at hand to bless,

  Ills have no weight and tears no bitterness;

  Where is death’s sting, where, grave, thy victory? . . .

  The paper-cutter wavered, swayed from right to left, and dropped to the floor with a light tinkle. Bradley’s eyes closed and his head, leaned back against the chair, fell a little sideways as the neck muscles relaxed.

  And in that instant pandemonium broke loose. The music from the hallway banged fortissimo in the syncopated strains of Satan Takes a Holiday, and from Doris Thorowgood there came a laugh as eery as the blindfold-gropings of a lost mind; a wild, high-mounting burst of mirth that seemed to froth and churn and boil, then change from merriment to torture and geyser up into a stream that rose, flickered like a flame of torment, went up and up until it seemed no human throat could stand its strain, then dropped again until it was a chuckle of indecent glee.

  Bradley was on his feet, hugging himself in sudden agony, his tortured face turned up to the groined ceiling, and with a crash as deafening as a thunder-clap every piece of fragile porcelain in a wall-cabinet was dashed down to the floor as though a giant broom had swept it from the shelves.

  Then from the hall, foul as a suspiration from a charnel house, a gust of wind came sweeping, incredible, filthy, furious as a cyclone. I retched at it, I heard the man next to me give a gasp and then a gagging choke. This was no mere fetor, it was the very noisome breath of Death, charged with the rottenness of putrefaction stored up since the first beginnings of mortality.

  “Lights, lights, pour l’amour d’un bouc!” I heard de Grandin shout.

  But there were no lights. When Thorowgood shook off his lethargy of disgust and pressed the wall-switch, a sharp click sounded, but the room remained as black as Erebus, and meanwhile filthiness unnamable, illimitable terror and disgust, filled the house to stifling overflowing. Coughing, strangling, almost fainting I stumbled to a window and wrenched at it. The sash was firmly set as if built in the masonry.

  “In nomine Domini conjuro te, sceleratissime, abire ad tuum locum!” de Grandin’s conjuration sounded, not loud, but with a force of earnestness more compelling than a shout. Then crash! he hurled a flower-bowl through the window. The shattered glass sprayed outward not more from his missile than from the pressure of the nameless, obscene filthiness that filled the house to inundation, and I gasped great lungfuls of revivifying air as a drowning man might fight for precious breath.

  From the hallway the piano sounded, beating out its rhythm with the heavy, unaccented tone of an electric mechanism, and in accompaniment to the cacophony of beaten keys and tortured strings the wild, demoniac peals of laughter gushed from Doris’ lips.

  “Mademoiselle Doris, stop it, I command you!” de Grandin ordered sharply, but still the music sounded stridently, still she laughed like a witch-thing delighted at the success of some hell-brew she had concocted.

  “Ha, so? Then this must be the way of it!” He gave her a resounding slap on the right cheek, then turned his hand and struck the other check a stinging blow.

  The treatment was effective, for she raised her hands from the piano and held them to her smarting face, hysteria gone before the stimulus of sudden pain.

  “One regrets heroic measures,” he apologized as she looked at him in hurt wonder, “but there are times when they are necessary. This was one of them.”

  Bradley had fallen on his back and lay quaking spasmodically, hands pressed against his midriff, little buzzing noises sounding from his throat, as though he breathed through some obstruction.

  “Up, man, up!” de Grandin cried, seizing him beneath the arms and dragging him up to his feet. “So! Bend over!” He bent the choking fellow forward almost as if he were a swimmer overcome by water, signaled me to hold his head between my hands, and struck him sharply on the back between the shoulders with the heel of his left hand. With the first two fingers of his right hand he traced a cross against the man’s bent back, and murmured something in swift Latin of which I caught but a few words: “. . . Deus, in nomine tuo . . . exorcizo uos . . . uade retro, Satanas . . .”

  Bradley gave a tortured choke, like one about to strangle, and from his lips there came what seemed to be a puff of smoke. But it was no light ethereal vapor, for it plummeted to the floor and hit the polished oak with a soft slap, almost like the smacking of an open hand. For a moment it lay there like a little cone of swirling vapor, or, perhaps a pile of fine-ground powder, but suddenly it appeared to take on semblance of a shape not well defined, but vague and semi-formed, like a mass of colloid substance, or a jelly-fish which had been brought up from the bay. It was hard to define it, for it seemed to shift its outline, flowing, quivering, ever changing, now resembling a splash of albumen, now drawing in upon itself until it was almost a perfect circle, then lengthening until it seemed to be an ovoid.

  The thing disgusted me. It seemed like some great spider tentatively stretching out its claws in search of prey. De Grandin seemed to realize its potency for evil, too, for while he kept the beam of the flashlight upon it and muttered Latin conjurations at it through clenched teeth, I noticed that he stood well back from it, as though he feared that it might spring at him. But it did not spring. Rather, it seemed at somewhat of a loss which way to go or what to do until, as if it formed quick resolution, it rolled as swiftly as a drop of mercury released from a thermometer to the shattered window, mounted to the sill so quickly that we had difficulty following its movement, and disappeared into the night.

  “What was it?” I asked rather shakily. “I never saw a thing like that before—”

  “Parbleu, you have not missed much amusement!” the Frenchman answered. “I cannot tell you what it was, my friend, but I know that it was very evil. It was that which killed the poor young Meadows—I would not give a centime for the life of anyone whom it attacked.”

  “It seemed to come from Bradley’s throat—”

  “Perfectly. Had we not acted quickly—and been lucky—it would have possessed him completely.”

  “Possessed? You mean in the Biblical sense?”

  “Précisément, nothing less; our institutions for the insane are filled with people similarly afflicted.”

  “Something’s choking me,” moaned Bradley. “It’s in my throat—”

  “Non, it is no longer there,” de Grandin soothed. “You feel the secondary pains, my friend. You fainted but you are all better, now. I should prescribe a glass of brandy. Indeed, I think that I shall join you in the medicine.”

  “THEN YOU’VE NO IDEA what it could be?” I asked as we prepared for bed.

  “On the contrary, I have several. When I first heard Monsieur Thorowgood’s account of these strange happenings I was inclined to think he might be right in attributing the so-called phenomena to the servants’ superstition or to human agencies. Even the murder of the stable boy might fit in with such a theory. Then this Thaddeus Bradley one accosted us, and I had the idea. ‘This person doubtless is a charlatan,’ I tell me, ‘but he has played at spiritism for a long time. The claims of spiritualism are debatable, to say the least. I have had a wide experience with the occult, but I would not say that it
is possible for so-called mediums to get in contact with the spirits of the dead at will. On the other hand, I am convinced that there are many entities, both formed and unformed, who wish to break the barriers between the human and the super-human, or sub-human. For such as these the average medium is a gateway to desire. When he or she is entranced and off guard they enter through the breach left by his absent consciousness, usually with dire results to mankind. Also, although the usual medium is an arrant fraud, the very atmosphere in which he lives is favorable for such spirit-raids. I had no idea this Bradley could evoke the spirit which has worked his mischiefs in this place, but if I could make him go into the mummery of a séance we could get, perhaps, a glimpse of what we are opposed to. Conditions were ideal. Bradley focused all attention on himself, and every mind was intent on some manifestation of the otherworldly. The bars were down, the frontier was unguarded—if some malignant spirit hovered round the house and sought to force an entrance, this was his ideal opportunity. Eh bien, he recognized it!

  “By his force he made Mademoiselle Doris pliant to his will. By the psychoplasm generated by the concentrated thought of all the company he assumed a sort of form and solidarity, and forced himself right into Bradley’s throat. Had we not expelled him he would have found asylum there, fed and fattened on the poor man’s physiopsychic substance, gained strength, and, like the fever germ which generates in one body, kills its host, then fares forth for more killing, would in time have issued from poor Bradley’s corpse to wreak more havoc in the world.”

  “You think we’ve overcome it—whatever it is?”

  “That would be a foolish boast at this time. I fear we have but started our campaign. We have balked, but not defeated it. Tomorrow, or the next day, or perhaps the next, we shall come to grips with it.”

  “You think it may be a malignant ghost, a murderer’s, perhaps?”

  “It may be, but I do not think so. I have met with such as that upon occasion, and usually they have a sort of pseudo-substance of their own. This one had not, but had to build himself a form of psychoplasm. As yet he is not very strong. He has not the staying power. His strength, by which his capacity for evil is bounded, flows and ebbs, like the tides. Whether he will grow too swiftly for us—”

  “Then you think that it’s an—”

  “An elemental? Bien oui. I think that this is what for want of better nomenclature we call a ‘spirit,’ but it has never lived in human form. Evil, spiteful and dangerous it unquestionably is, but as yet it is evil discarnate. Should it become completely carnate our work will be that much more difficult.”

  “You’ve referred to psychoplasm several times. Just what is it?” I asked.

  “Tiens, what is electricity? We know how to produce it, we can harness it to our needs, we recognize its results when we see them, but we have no definition for it. So with psychoplasm. It is something like the animal magnetism to which Mesmer attributed his success at hypnotism. It seems to be of nervous origin and physiologically connected with the internal secretory organs. As nearly as we can define it, it is an all-penetrating, imponderable emanation which normally is dissipated quickly, but under certain conditions can be stabilized and energized by the intelligence of the living, or by discarnate intelligence. Often, but not always, it is luminous, the spirit-light we see at séances. Less often—grâce à Dieu!—it can in favorable conditions be made the vehicle to transmit force. It was through concrescence of this emanation that they which attacked Bradley became visible. But one wonders—”

  He broke off, staring straight before him.

  “What is it?”

  “Where, by what means, did it get the necessary force to kill the Meadows boy?”

  “Why—”

  He waved my suggestion aside, and continued, speaking slowly, as though he thought aloud. “Tenez, we have more cause for worry. The psychoplasm which is loosed at every séance is the product of the minds of everybody present. It is put forth as a force.

  “It leaves the body and the mind. Then what becomes of it? Is it reabsorbed? Perhaps. But does one reabsorb the very psychoplasm he put out? There is the question. We cannot surely say. Once it leaves its power house, or reservoir, it is beyond control of him from whom it emanated. It is quite likely to be seized and directed by”—he checked the possibilities off on his fingers—“stronger wills in the circle at the séance, lower, baser forms of discarnate intelligence, or by true ghosts, the spirits of ex-humans. Mademoiselle Doris was intent upon her music; she was also in a neutral state of mind, half doubting, half expecting something, though she knew not what. Certainly she was not intent on guarding from outside assaults. Thus she was an ideal prey for some mischievous thought-form.”

  “Great heavens, you think she was possessed, then?”

  “No-o, neither possessed nor obsessed.”

  “What’s the difference? I always thought the terms synonymous.”

  “By no means, not at all. In possession the demon steals the possessed’s mind and personality. It is like vampirism, except the vampire animates a corpse; the possessing demon takes a living body from which he has forced its rightful occupant, and uses it for his own ends. In obsession the malignant spirit uses both mind and body of his victim, crippling or misdirecting the mentality, but not entirely ousting it.

  “Mademoiselle Doris is nervous and high-strung, selfish, emotional, shallow, inclined to be erratic. When the spirit form attempted to invade her consciousness she gave way physically at once, and played a strain of wild and mocking music, as it bade. Mentally, she closed the bulkheads of her consciousness by going off into hysteria. Obsession has this much in common with hypnotism, it must have a mind on which to operate. No one can hypnotize an idiot or lunatic, neither can an idiot be obsessed. A person in the grip of hysteria is practically insane; therefore she was safe for the time being. But if he comes back to attack her while her mind is off its guard in sleep, or when she is controlled by evil thoughts, as in a fit of anger—eh bien, we may find our task a more complex one.”

  “But do we know it was hysteria and not possession?” I persisted. “That awful, ghoulish laugh and the expression on her face seemed scarcely human—”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Your question is well put, my friend. But did not you notice how she came back to her senses when I slapped her in the face?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts, if you will be so kind. In the possessed state the victim is unconscious of deeds done and words said. Thus far your case is good, but it is also true that one possessed is markedly insensitive to pain. The demon sitting at the wheel can feel no pain inflicted on the body he possesses; alors, we find a state of anesthesia in the possessed or obsessed. Hot objects may be handled with impunity, electric shocks are not felt.

  “But was it so with Mademoiselle Doris? Non. I did not strike her hard, although I struck her sharply. Had she been truly possessed I might have beat her till her face was bloody, yet she would not have ceased her playing or her diabolic laughter. You see?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. What’s our next move?”

  He patted back a yawn. “At present, mon vieux, I have a rendezvous with Morpheus. Á bientôt.”

  BEACHWOOD HOSPITAL WHERE DAISY Mullins’ broken clavicle was mending was a private institution with no wards and only about a hundred beds. As we strode along the corridor amid the faint but all-pervading atmosphere of antiseptics, drugs and shut-in humanity, I reflected Thorowgood had not been niggardly in providing treatment for his injured maid.

  “Queer thing about that girl,” said Doctor Broemel as he piloted us down the hallway, “she’s not in much pain—it’s just a simple fracture and it’s healing beautifully—but her nerves are shot to pieces. She hardly speaks except to keep imploring us for a night nurse. That’s absurd, of course. She doesn’t need a night nurse any more than I need feather dusters on my heels. Of course, a tumble down a flight of stairs is quite a shock, but she should be well out of it by now. She’s been
here five days, and besides the broken clavicle and some slight contusions on the head she’s as sound as a nut.”

  “Does she give reasons for desiring a night nurse?” de Grandin asked.

  “No, she doesn’t. Just keeps saying she’s afraid to be left alone—with four nurses within twenty feet of her! Queer things, women patients.”

  “You are imparting information to us?” de Grandin answered as we stopped before the door to Daisy’s room.

  The place was all white tile and white enamel, with a narrow bed of spotless white. Daisy Mullins was half propped to a sitting posture, one hand strapped across her chest, a band of white gauze wound around her injured head, another bandage drawn beneath her chin to hold the first one firm. Somehow, with the wimple-like white cloths about her head and face, she had the look of a young nun, a nun carved out of tallow. Her cheeks seemed absolutely bloodless, so did her lips; her eyes seemed far too large for her countenance, and though they were light blue they seemed dark and cavernous against the pallor of her face. She glanced at us without interest. Indeed, I could not say she looked at us at all. Rather, it seemed, she was trying to see something just beyond her range of vision, and feared with desperate fear that she might sight it. It would be hard to make her tell us anything, I thought.

  De Grandin laid the flowers and the huge box of bonbons he had brought upon the bedside table, and stood gazing at her for a moment. Then, with his quick, infectious smile, “Mademoiselle, we have come to ask your help in fighting it,” he announced.

  The fear in her was suddenly a live thing, writhing like a wounded snake behind her eyes. “It?” she echoed in a whisper.

  “Precisely. It. We cannot call it him or her; it is a thing—a very naughty thing, but we shall beat it, with your help.”

  “You can’t fight it, it’s no use. How can you fight a thing that you can’t even see?”

  “Ah, that is what you think, but you do not know me. I am a very clever person. I have neither fear of it nor doubt that I can conquer it, but I need your help. Will you not give it to me?”