Fighters of Fear

by Mike Ashley

  “June 12. The Thing is growing bolder. Last night it entered the town hall, where nearly a thousand people were assembled and caused a panic. Three people were killed, not including one of our councilman, who fell a victim to the Thing. I am four more times a murderer! Can not heaven show me a way to put an end to this?

  “June 14. Michael Cummings, a psychical investigator, is here to run down the Terror. Will he succeed? I doubt it.

  “June 16. Another man has died.

  “June 18. Cummings and Dr. Bradley were here today. Do they suspect me of being concerned with this series of deaths? They are right; and yet how far from the truth! No human mind could ever conceive the awfulness of that. I was tempted to tell Cummings my whole story, but held back. What proof could I offer him? How convince him that I was not mad? Even the relief of confession is denied me, for I would not be believed.

  “June 30. Cummings is checkmating the Terror by means of the violet ray. Cummings’ work is only temporary, but it has given me an idea. The violet ray, sufficiently intensified can destroy a psychic force. I shall have the lead room fitted with violet lights; then lure the Thing there and destroy it.

  “July 3. Have begun work wiring the lead room. I must do the work myself, since I dare not bring an electrician here for fear of the Terror. So far it has not tried to attack me.

  “July 10. I have completed my task. But the Thing suspects something and will not go near the room. I can feel its tentacles groping for my mind, trying to read my thoughts. I think it would attack me if it dared, but for some reason it fears me; perhaps because I am its creator.

  “July 22. The Thing is becoming desperate through lack of food. I can feel that it is planning some bold move. Is it marking me for its next victim?

  “July 24. This is the last entry I shall ever make in this diary, and it is addressed to you, Dr. Bradley and Mr. Cummings. Tonight I was in town when the death-car arrived. I knew then that the thought-monster must be destroyed at once.

  “Nature always meets a vital emergency, and so she met this one. As I looked upon those four poor beings whose minds had gone to feed the thing I had created and whose lives had flickered out in the horror of what was happening to them, I saw clearly the one way to stop the havoc for which I was responsible.

  “When I telephoned you, I bade you wait half an hour before coming here in order that I might arrive ahead of you and put the first part of my plan into execution; for I feared that should I take you into my confidence beforehand, one of you, through distorted humanitarian motives, might attempt to stop my going through with my design.

  “This, then, is my plan. I shall go into the lead room with all mental guards down. The Thing has been particularly inimical to me lately and, finding me in that state, will follow me in. Then I will close the door on both of us. I do not think that the Thing will suspect; a hungry beast is seldom wary of traps. When the door is safely closed, I will turn on the violet lamps. By the time you arrive and reach the end of these papers, those lamps will have done the work for which they were designed.

  “You will find the lead room at the end of the hall on the first floor. Open the door carefully (it is not locked) and, if you receive the faintest intimation of an Intelligence beyond, slam it shut again and wait for the lights to complete their task. Mr. Cummings had better attend to this. If you receive no such intimation, you will know that the monster is dead and that the curse so unintentionally laid upon you all is lifted forever. In your charity, do what to you seems best with the other thing you will find there; the thing that will have been

  “JULIAN WALGATE.”

  As Cummings read the last sentence, Bradley made a dash for the door.

  “Not so fast,” Cummings called after him. “Where are you going?”

  “Going!” Bradley paused momentarily in the hall. “To that lead room, of course. The man is killing himself! Don’t you see it?”

  Deliberately Cummings placed the diary on the table. “If any harm was to come to Walgate,” he said, “the damage is already done. If not, a few minutes more in there can do him no harm, while our too hurried and careless entry may undo the work for which he was ready to pay the highest price in man’s power.”

  He passed the doctor and led the way down the hall, stopping before the last door. Slowly he turned the knob and pushed the door open a few inches. A bar of vivid purple light fell across his face.

  “Is it all right?” Bradley whispered, close behind him.

  “I think so.” Cummings opened the door a bit further. In the room beyond was an atmosphere of snapped tension; of climax that had passed.

  They stepped across the threshold. And then they became aware that the room still held a living occupant. From the far corner, his clothing wrinkled and torn, his hair and trim Vandyke beard in disarray, there shambled toward them a helpless, mindless idiot!

  LORD CARRUTH & GERALD CANEVIN IN

  THE SHUT ROOM

  HENRY S. WHITEHEAD

  Henry St. Clair Whitehead (1882–1932) was a deacon in the Episcopal Church and from 1921–1929 was archdeacon of the Virgin Islands in the Caribbean. He served there during the winter of each year, returning to the United States during the summers, when he did much of his writing. Most of his adventure stories and weird tales are set in the Caribbean and several show a serious understanding of voodoo or obeah. The majority of his stories appeared in Weird Tales where he became one of the most popular writers. Several stories featured Gerald Canevin, who first appeared in “The Projection of Armand DuBois” (1926). Canevin mostly listens to stories by others or is a witness to events. Rarely does he actually investigate a mystery directly, though there are a few such cases when he does, like “The Black Beast” (1931). There are two stories, though, set in London and which feature Canevin alongside Lord Carruth, and Carruth is the genuine article. In both the following story and “The Napier Limousine” (1933) Canevin and Carruth join forces to solve bizarre events.

  IT WAS SUNDAY MORNING AND I WAS COMING OUT OF ALL SAINTS’ Church, Margaret Street, along with the other members of the hushed and reverent congregation, when, near the entrance doors, a hand fell lightly on my shoulder. Turning, I perceived that it was the Earl of Carruth. I nodded, without speaking, for there is that in the atmosphere of this great church, especially after one of its magnificent services and heart-searching sermons, which precludes anything like the hum of conversation which one meets with in many places of worship.

  In these worldly and “scientific” days it is unusual to meet with a person of Lord Carruth’s intellectual and scientific attainments, who troubles very much about religion. As for me, Gerald Canevin, I have always been a church-going fellow.

  Carruth accompanied me in silence through the entrance doors and out into Margaret Street. Then, linking his arm in mine, he guided me, still in silence, to where his Rolls-Royce car stood at the kerbstone.

  “Have you any luncheon engagement, Mr. Canevin?” he enquired, when we were just beside the car, the footman holding the door open.

  “None whatever,” I replied.

  “Then do me the pleasure of lunching with me,” invited Carruth.

  “I was planning on driving from church to your rooms,” he explained, as soon as we were seated and the car whirling us noiselessly towards his town house in Mayfair. “A rather extraordinary matter has come up, and Sir John has asked me to look into it. Should you care to hear about it?”

  “Delighted,” I acquiesced, and settled myself to listen.

  To my surprise, Lord Carruth began reciting a portion of the Nicene Creed, to which, sung very beautifully by All Saints’ choir, we had recently been listening.

  “Maker of Heaven and earth,” quoted Carruth, musingly, “and of all things visible and invisible.” I started forward in my seat. He had given a peculiar emphasis to the last word, “invisible.”

  “A fact,” I ejaculated, “constantly forgotten by the critics of religion! The Church has always recognised the existen
ce of the invisible creation.”

  “Right, Mr. Canevin. And—this invisible creation; it doesn’t mean merely angels!”

  “No one who has lived in the West Indies can doubt that,” I replied.

  “Nor in India,” countered Carruth. “The fact—that the Creed attributes to God the authorship of an invisible creation—is an interesting commentary on the much-quoted remark of Hamlet to Horatio: ‘There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.’ Apparently, Horatio’s philosophy, like that of the present day, took little account of the spiritual side of affairs; left out God and what He had made. Perhaps Horatio had recited the Creed a thousand times, and never realised what that clause implies!”

  “I have thought of it often, myself,” said I. “And now—I am all curiosity—what, please, is the application?”

  “It is an occurrence in one of the old coaching inns,” began Carruth, “on the Brighton Road; a very curious matter. It appears that the proprietor—a gentleman, by the way, Mr. William Snow, purchased the inn for an investment just after the Armistice—has been having a rather unpleasant time of it. It has to do with his shoes!”

  “Shoes?” I inquired; “shoes!” It seemed an abrupt transition from the Nicene Creed to shoes!

  “Yes,” replied Carruth, “and not only shoes but all sorts of leather affairs. In fact, the last and chief difficulty was about the disappearance of a commercial traveller’s leather sample-case. But I perceive we are arriving home. We can continue the account at luncheon.”

  During lunch he gave me a rather full account, with details, of what had happened at The Coach and Horses Inn on the Brighton Road, an account which I will briefly summarise as follows:

  Snow, the proprietor, had bought the old inn partly for business reasons, partly for sentimental. It had been a portion, up to about a century before, of his family’s landed property. He had repaired and enlarged it, modernised it in some ways, and in general restored a much run-down institution, making The Coach and Horses into a paying investment. He had retained, so far as possible, the antique architectural features of the old coaching inn, and before very long had built up a motor clientele of large proportions by sound and careful management.

  Everything, in fact, had prospered with the gentleman-innkeeper’s affairs until there began, some four months back, a series of unaccountable disappearances. The objects which had, as it were, vanished into thin air, were all—and this seemed to me the most curious and bizarre feature of Carruth’s recital—leather articles. Pair after pair of shoes or boots, left outside bedroom doors at night, would be gone the next morning. Naturally the “boots” was suspected of theft. But the “boots” had been able to prove his innocence easily enough. He was, it seemed, a rather intelligent broken-down jockey, of keen wit. He had assured Mr. Snow of his surprise as well as of his innocence, and suggested that he take a week’s holiday to visit his aged mother in Kent and that a substitute “boots,” chosen by the proprietor, should take his place. Snow had acquiesced, and the disappearance of guests’ footwear had continued, to the consternation of the substitute, a total stranger, obtained from a London agency.

  That exonerated Billings, the jockey, who came back to his duties at the end of his holiday with his character as an honest servant intact. Moreover, the disappearances had not been confined to boots and shoes. Pocket hooks, leather luggage, bags, cigarette cases—all sorts of leather articles went the way of the earlier boots and shoes, and besides the expense and annoyance of replacing these, Mr. Snow began to be seriously concerned about the reputation of his house. An inn in which one’s leather belongings are known to be unsafe would not be a very strong financial asset. The matter had come to a head through the disappearance of a commercial traveller’s sample-case, as noted by Carruth in his first brief account of this mystery. The main difficulty in this affair was that the traveller had been a salesman of jewellery, and Snow had been confronted with a bill for several hundred pounds, which he had felt constrained to pay. After that he had laid the mysterious matter before Sir John Scott, head of Scotland Yard, and Scott had called in Carruth because he recognised in Snow’s story certain elements which caused him to believe this was no case for mere criminal investigation.

  After lunch Carruth ordered the car again, and, after stopping at my rooms for some additional clothing and other necessities for an overnight visit, we started along the Brighton Road for the scene of the difficulty.

  We arrived about four that Sunday afternoon, and immediately went into conference with the proprietor.

  Mr. William Snow was a youngish, middle-aged gentleman, very well dressed, and obviously a person of intelligence and natural attainments. He gave us all the information possible, repeating, with many details, the matters which I have already summarised, while we listened in silence. When he had finished:

  “I should like to ask some questions,” said Carruth.

  “I am prepared to answer anything you wish to enquire about,” Mr. Snow assured us.

  “Well, then, about the sentimental element in your purchase of the inn, Mr. Snow—tell us, if you please, what you may know of the more ancient history of this old hostelry. I have no doubt there is history connected with it, situated where it is. Undoubtedly, in the coaching days of the Four Georges, it must have been the scene of many notable gatherings.”

  “You are right, Lord Carruth. As you know, it was a portion of the property of my family. All the old registers are intact and are at your disposal. It is an inn of very ancient foundation. It was, indeed, old in those days of the Four Georges, to whom you refer. The records go back well into the sixteenth century, in fact; and there was an inn here even before registers were kept. They are of comparatively modern origin, you know. Your ancient landlord kept, I imagine, only his ‘reckoning’; he was not concerned with records; even licences are comparatively modern, you know.”

  The registers were produced, a set of bulky, dry-smelling, calf-bound volumes. There were eight of them. Carruth and I looked at each other with a mutual shrug.

  “I suggest,” said I, after a slight pause, “that perhaps you, Mr. Snow, may already be familiar with the contents of these. I should imagine it might require a week or two of pretty steady application even to go through them cursorily.”

  Mr. William Snow smiled. “I was about to offer to mention the high points,” said he. “I have made a careful study of these old volumes, and I can undoubtedly save you both a great deal of reading. The difficulty is what shall I tell you? If only I knew what to put my finger upon but I do not, you see!”

  “Perhaps we can manage that,” threw in Carruth, “but first, may we not have Billings in and question him?”

  The former jockey, now the boots at The Coach and Horses, was summoned and proved to be a wizened, copper-faced individual, with a keen eye and a deferential manner. Carruth invited him to a seat and he sat, gingerly, on the very edge of a chair while we talked with him. I will make no attempt to reproduce his accent, which is quite beyond me. His account was somewhat as follows, omitting the questions asked him both by Carruth and myself.

  “At first it was only boots and shoes. Then other things began to go. The things always disappeared at night. Nothing ever disappeared before midnight, because I’ve sat up and watched many’s the time. Yes, we tried everything: watching, even tying up leather things, traps! Yes, sir—steel traps, baited with a boot! Twice we did that. Both times the boot was gone in the morning, the trap not even sprung. No, sir—no one possibly among the servants. Yet, an ‘inside’ job; it couldn’t have been otherwise. From all over the house, yes. My old riding-boots—two pairs—gone completely; not a trace; right out of my room. That was when I was down in Kent as Mr. Snow’s told you, gentlemen. The man who took my place slept in my room, left the door open one night—boots gone in the morning, right under his nose.

  “Seen anything? Well, sir, in a manner, yes—in a manner, no! To be precise, no. I can’t say that I
ever saw anything, that is, anybody; no, nor any apparatus as you might say, in a manner of speaking—no hooks no strings, nothing used to take hold of the things—but—” Here Billings hesitated, glanced at his employer, looked down at his feet, and his coppery face turned a shade redder.

  “Gentlemen,” said he, as though coming to a resolution, “I can only tell you the God’s truth about it. You may think me barmy—shouldn’t blame you, if you did! But—I’m as much interested in this ’ere thing as Mr. Snow ’imself, barrin’ that I ’aven’t had to pay the score—make up the value of the things, I mean, as ’e ’as. I’ll tell you’so ’elp me Gawd, gentlemen, it’s a fact—I ’ave seen something, absurd as it’ll seem to you. I’ve seen—”

  Billings hesitated once more, dropped his eyes, looked distressed, glanced at all of us in the most shamefaced, deprecating manner imaginable, twiddled his hands together, looked, in short, as though he were about to own up to it that he was, after all, responsible for the mysterious disappearances; then finally said:

  “I’ve seen things disappear—through the air! Now—it’s hout! But it’s a fact, gentlemen all—so ’elp me, it’s the truth. Through the air, just as if someone were carrying them away—someone invisible I mean, in a manner of speaking—bloomin’ pair of boots, swingin’ along through the bloomin’ air—enough to make a man say ’is prayers, for a fact!”

  It took considerable assuring on the part of Carruth and myself to convince the man Billings that neither of us regarded him as demented, or, as he pithily expressed it, “barmy.” We assured him, while our host sat looking at his servant with a slightly puzzled frown, that, on the contrary, we believed him implicitly, and furthermore that we regarded his statement as distinctly helpful. Mr. Snow, obviously convinced that something in his diminutive servitor’s mental works was unhinged, almost demurred to our request that we go, forthwith, and examine the place in the hotel where Billings alleged his marvi I to have occurred.