Fighters of Fear

by Mike Ashley

  I was in two minds about telling Winnington of my interview, wondering whether the excitement into which it would throw him or his continued suspense would be the lesser of the two evils, and finally decided in favour of the former. I went up to his room when I got back, and plunged into the matter without preamble.

  “Winnington,” I said, “I have seen your divinity.”

  He was all agog in a minute, and I told him of my interview, suppressing only the nature of the illness, which I was in honour bound not to reveal. This, however, was the point he particularly wished to know, although he knew that I naturally could not tell him. Finding me obdurate, he suddenly raised himself in bed, seized my hand, and laid it to his forehead.

  “No, you don’t!” I cried, snatching it away, for I had by now seen enough of Taverner’s methods to know how thought-reading was done, but I had not been quick enough, and Winnington sank back on the pillowless bed chuckling.

  “Drugs!” he said, and breathless from his effort, could say no more; but the triumph in his eyes told me that he had learnt something which he considered of vital importance.

  I went round next morning to see Bellamy again. He was conscious, regarded me with sulky suspicion, and would have none of me, and I saw that my acquaintance with his household was likely to end as it had begun, at the pillar box.

  An evening or two later Mrs. Bellamy and I met again at the cross roads. She answered my greeting with a smile, evidently well enough pleased to have some one to speak to beside her boorish husband, for they seemed to know no one in the district.

  She commented on my solitary state. “What has become of the tall man who used to come with you to the post?” she enquired.

  I told her of poor Winnington’s condition.

  Then she said a curious thing for one who was a comparative stranger to me, and a complete stranger to Winnington.

  “Is he likely to die?” she asked, looking me straight in the face with a peculiar expression in her eyes.

  Surprised by her question, I blurted out the truth.

  “I thought so,” she said. “I am Scotch, and we have second sight in our family, and last night I saw his wraith.”

  “You saw his wraith?” I exclaimed, mystified.

  She nodded her auburn head. “Just as clearly as I see you,” she replied. “In fact he was so distinct that I thought he must have been another doctor from the nursing home whom you had sent over in your stead to see how my husband was getting on.

  “I was sitting beside the bed with the lamp turned low, when a movement caught my notice, and I looked up to see your friend standing between me and the light. I was about to speak to him when I noticed the extraordinary expression of his face, so extraordinary that I stared at him and could find no word to say, for he seemed to be absolutely gloating over me—or my husband—I could not tell which.

  “He was standing up straight, not his usual stoop.” (“So you have been watching him too!” I thought.) “And his face wore a look of absolute triumph, as if he had at last won something for which he had waited and worked for a very long time, and he said to me quite slowly and distinctly: ‘It will be my turn next.’ I was just about to answer him and ask what he meant by his extraordinary behaviour, when I suddenly found that I could see the lamp through him, and before I had recovered from my surprise he had vanished. I took it to mean that my husband would live, but that he himself was dying.”

  I told her that from my knowledge of the two cases her interpretation was likely to prove a true one, and we stood for some minutes telling ghost stories before she returned through the iron gates.

  Winnington was slowly pulling round from his attack, though as yet unable to leave his bed. His attitude concerning Mrs. Bellamy had undergone a curious change; he still asked me each day if I had seen her at the pillar box and what she had had to say for herself, but he showed no regret that he was not well enough to accompany me thither and make her acquaintance; instead, his attitude seemed to convey that he and she were partners in some secret in which I had no share.

  Although he was over the worst, his last attack had so pulled him down that his disease had got the upper hand, and I saw that it was unlikely that he would ever get out of bed again, so I indulged his foible in regard to Mrs. Bellamy, feeling sure that no harm could come of it. Her visits to the pillar box, what she said, and what I said were duly reported for the benefit of the sick man, whose eyes twinkled with a secret amusement while I talked. As far as I could make out, for he did not give me his confidence, he was biding his time till Bellamy took another overdose, and I should have felt considerable anxiety as to what he intended to do then had I not known that he was physically incapable of crossing the room without assistance. Little harm could come, therefore, from letting him daydream, so I did not seek to fling cold water on his fantasies.

  One night I was roused by a tap at my door and found the night nurse standing there. She asked me to come with her to Winnington’s room, for she had found him unconscious, and his condition gave her anxiety. I went with her, and as she had said, he was in a state of coma, pulse imperceptible, breathing almost non-existent; for a moment I was puzzled at the turn his illness had taken, but as I stood looking down at him, I heard the faint click in the throat followed by the long sibilant sigh that I had so often heard when Taverner was leaving his body for one of those strange psychic expeditions of his, and I guessed that Winnington was at the same game, for I knew that he had belonged to Taverner’s fraternity and had doubtless learnt many of its arts.

  I sent the nurse away and settled myself to wait beside our patient as I had often waited beside Taverner; not a little anxious, for my colleague was away on his holiday, and I had the responsibility of the nursing home on my shoulders; not that that would have troubled me in the ordinary way, but occult matters are beyond my ken, and I knew that Taverner always considered that these psychic expeditions were not altogether unaccompanied by risk.

  I had not a long vigil, however; after about twenty minutes I saw the trance condition pass into natural sleep, and having made sure that the heart had taken up its beat again and that all was well, I left my patient without rousing him and went back to bed.

  Next morning, as Winnington did not refer to the incident, I did not either, but his ill-concealed elation showed that something had transpired upon that midnight journey which had pleased him mightily.

  That evening when I went to the pillar box I found Mrs. Bellamy there waiting for me. She began without preamble:

  “Dr. Rhodes, did your tall friend die during the night?”

  “No,” I said, looking at her sharply. “In fact he is much better this morning.”

  “I am glad of that,” she said, “for I saw his wraith again last night, and wondered if anything had happened to him.”

  “What time did you see him?” I enquired, a sudden suspicion coming into my mind.

  “I don’t know,” she replied; “I did not look at the clock, but it was some time after midnight; I was wakened by something touching my cheek very softly, and thought the cat must have got into the room and jumped on the bed; I roused myself, intending to put it out of the room, when I saw something shadowy between me and the window; it moved to the foot of the bed, and I felt a slight weight on my feet, more than that of a cat, about what one would expect from a good-sized terrier, and then I distinctly saw your friend sitting on the foot of the bed, watching me. As I looked at him, he faded and disappeared, and I could not be sure that I had not imagined him out of the folds of the eiderdown, which was thrown back over the footboard, so I thought I would ask you whether there was—anything to account for what I saw.”

  “Winnington is not dead,” I said. And not wishing to be questioned any further in the matter, wished her good night somewhat abruptly and was turning away when she called me back.

  “Dr. Rhodes,” she said, “my husband has been in that heavy stupor all day; do you think that anything ought to be done?”

 
“I will come and have a look at him if you like,” I answered. She thanked me, but said she did not want to call me in unless it were essential, for her husband so bitterly resented any interference.

  “Have you got a butler or valet in the house, or is your husband alone with you and the women servants?” I enquired, for it seemed to me that a man who took drugs to the extent that Bellamy did was not the safest, let alone the pleasantest company for three or four women.

  Mrs. Bellamy divined my thought and smiled sadly. “I am used to it,” she said. “I have always coped with him single-handed.”

  “How long has he been taking drugs?” I asked.

  “Ever since our marriage,” she replied. “But how long before that I cannot tell you.”

  I did not like to press her any further, for her face told me of the tragedy of that existence, so I contented myself with saying:

  “I hope you will let me know if you need help at any time. Dr. Taverner and I do not practise in this district, but we would gladly do what we could in an emergency.”

  As I went down the shrubbery path I thought over what she had told me. Taking into consideration that Winnington had been in a trance condition between two and two-thirty, I felt certain that what she had seen was no fantasy of her imagination. I was much puzzled how to act. It seemed to me that Winnington was playing a dangerous game, dangerous to himself, and to the unsuspecting woman on whom he was practising, yet if I spoke to him on the matter, he would either laugh at me or tell me to mind my own business, and if I warned her, she would regard me as a lunatic. By refusing to admit their existence, the world gives a very long start to those who practise the occult arts.

  I decided to leave matters alone until Taverner came back, and therefore avoided deep waters when I paid my evening visit to Winnington. As usual he enquired for news of Mrs. Bellamy, and I told him that I had seen her, and casually mentioned that her husband was bad again. In an instant I saw that I had made a mistake and given Winnington information that he ought not to have had, but I could not unsay my words, and took my leave of him with an uneasy feeling that he was up to something that I could not fathom. Very greatly did I wish for Taverner’s experience to take the responsibility off my shoulders, but he was away in Scotland, and I had no reasonable grounds for disturbing his well-earned holiday.

  About an hour later, as I had finished my rounds and was thinking of bed, the telephone bell rang. I answered, and heard Mrs. Bellamy’s voice at the end of the line.

  “I wish you would come round, Dr. Rhodes,” she said. “I am very uneasy.”

  In a few minutes I was with her, and we stood together looking at the unconscious man on the bed. He was a powerfully built fellow of some thirty-five years of age, and before the drug had undermined him, must have been a fine-looking man. His condition appeared to be the same as before, and I asked Mrs. Bellamy what it was that had rendered her so anxious, for I had gathered from the tone of her voice over the phone that she was frightened.

  She beat about the bush for a minute or two, and then the truth came out.

  “I am afraid my nerve is going,” she said. “But there seems to be something or somebody in the room, and it was more than I could stand alone; I simply had to send for you. Will you forgive me for being so foolish and troubling you at this hour of the night?”

  I quite understood her feelings, for the strain of coping with a drug maniac in that lonely place with no friends to help her a strain which I gathered, had gone on for years—was enough to wear down anyone’s courage.

  “Don’t think about that,” I said. “I’m only too glad to be able to give you any help I can; I quite understand your difficulties.”

  So, although her husband’s condition gave no cause for anxiety, I settled down to watch with her for a little while, and do what I could to ease the strain of that intolerable burden.

  We had not been sitting quietly in the dim light for very long before I was aware of a curious feeling. Just as she had said, we were not alone in the room. She saw my glance questing into the corners, and smiled.

  “You feel it too?” she said. “Do you see anything?”

  “No,” I answered, “I am not psychic, I wish I were; but I tell you who will see it, if there is anything to be seen, and that is my dog; he followed me here, and is curled up in the porch if he has not gone home. With your permission I will fetch him up and see what he makes of it.”

  I ran downstairs and found the big Airedale, whose task it was to guard the nursing home, patiently waiting on the mat. Taking him into the bedroom, I introduced him to Mrs. Bellamy, whom he received with favour, and then, leaving him to his own devices, sat quietly watching what he would do. First he went over to the bed and sniffed at the unconscious man, then he wandered round the room as a dog will in a strange place, and finally he settled down at our feet in front of the fire. Whatever it was that had disturbed our equanimity he regarded as unworthy of notice.

  He slept peacefully till Mrs. Bellamy, who had brewed tea, produced a box of biscuits, and then he woke up and demanded his share; first he came to me, and received a contribution, and then he walked quietly up to an empty armchair and stood gazing at it in anxious expectancy. We stared at him in amazement. The dog, serenely confident of his reception, pawed the chair to attract its attention. Mrs. Bellamy and I looked at each other.

  “I had always heard,” she said, “that it was only cats who liked ghosts, and that dogs were afraid of them.”

  “So had I,” I answered. “But Jack seems to be on friendly terms with this one.”

  And then the explanation flashed into my mind. If the invisible presence were Winnington, whom Mrs. Bellamy had already seen twice in that very room, then the dog’s behaviour was accounted for, for Winnington and he were close friends, and the presence which to us was so uncanny, would, to him, be friendly and familiar.

  I rose to my feet. “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I will just go round to the nursing home and attend to one or two things, and then we will see this affair through together.”

  I raced back through the shrubberies to the nursing home, mounted the stairs three at a time, and burst into Winnington’s bedroom. As I expected, he was in deep trance.

  “Oh you devil!” I said to the unconscious form on the bed, “what games are you up to now? I wish to Heaven that Taverner were back to deal with you.”

  I hastened back to Mrs. Bellamy, and to my surprise, as I re-entered her room I heard voices, and there was Bellamy, fully conscious, and sitting up in bed and drinking tea. He looked dazed, and was shivering with cold, but had apparently thrown off all effects of his drug. I was nonplussed, for I had counted on slipping away before he had recovered consciousness, for I had in mind his last reception of me which had been anything but cordial, but it was impossible to draw back.

  “I am glad to see you are better, Mr. Bellamy,” I said. “We have been rather anxious about you.”

  “Don’t you worry about me, Rhodes,” was the reply. “Go back to bed, old chap; I’ll be as right as a trivet as soon as I get warm.”

  I withdrew; for there was no further excuse for my presence, and back I went to the nursing home again to have another look at Winnington. He was still in a state of coma, so I settled down to watch beside him, but hour after hour went by while I dozed in my chair, and finally the grey light of dawn came and found his condition still unchanged. I had never known Taverner to be out of his body for such a length of time, and Winnington’s condition worried me considerably. He might be all right, on the other hand, he might not; I did not know enough about these trances to be sure, and I could not fetch Taverner back from his holiday on a wild goose chase.

  The day wore itself away, and when night found Winnington still in the same state I decided that the time had come for some action to be taken, and went to the dispensary to get the strychnine, intending to give him an injection of that and see if it would do any good.

  The minute I opened the dispensary door I k
new there was someone there, but when I switched on the light the room stood empty before me. All the same, a presence positively jostled my elbow as I searched among the shelves for what I required, and I felt its breath on my neck as I bent over the instrument drawer for the hypodermic syringe.

  “Oh Lord!” I said aloud. “I wish Taverner would come back and look after his own spooks. Here, you, whoever you are, go on, clear out, go home; we don’t want you here!” And hastily gathering up my impedimenta, I beat a retreat and left it in possession of the dispensary.

  My evil genius prompted me to look over my shoulder as I went down the passage, and there, behind me, was a spindle-shaped drift of grey mist some seven feet high. I am ashamed to admit it, but I ran. I am not easily scared by anything I can see, but these half-seen things that drift to us out of another existence, whose presence one can detect but not locate, fill me with cold horror.

  I slammed and locked Winnington’s door behind me and paused to recover my breath; but even as I did so, I saw a pool of mist gathering on the floor, and there was the creature, oozing through the crack under the door and re-forming itself in the shadow of the wardrobe.

  What would I not have given for Taverner’s presence as I stood there, helplessly watching it, syringe in hand, sweating like a frightened horse. Then illumination suddenly burst upon me; what a fool I was, of course it was Winnington coming back to his body!

  “Oh Lord!” I said. “What a fright you gave me! For goodness’ sake get back into your body and stop there, and we’ll let bygones by bygones.”

  But it did not heed my adjuration; it seemed as if it were the hypodermic syringe that attracted it, and instead of returning to its physical vehicle, it hung round me.

  “Oh,” I said. “So it is the strychnine you are after? Well then, get back into your body and you shall have some. Look, I am going to give your body an injection. Get back inside it if you want any strychnine.”

  The grey wraith hung for a moment over the unconscious form on the bed, and then, to my unspeakable relief, slowly merged into it, and I felt the heart take up its beat and breathing recommence.