by Mike Ashley
“Until,” his wife broke in, “the awful blizzard!”
He sighed. “By evening, we could feel it coming. It got so cold we couldn’t keep warm even in that tiny house. Our wood stove stayed red-hot but still the cold got in. We looked out and saw the snow piling up, driven by a blizzard wind. We went to bed finally, almost in desperation. And that night we saw—something.”
Leffing’s eyebrows arched. “Indeed!”
Pasquette frowned. “We were lying in bed, wide awake, with only the glow from the stove for light, when this—aura—of hate began to encircle us. It was worse than we ever remembered it. It was like some kind of pressure all around us. It built up—intensified—for what seemed hours. And all the time the blizzard got worse. The snow never let up and the wind howled and moaned around the house like some kind if living thing.”
He paused. “I don’t know just what time it was, but I’m sure it was well after midnight when we both noticed a kind of dim yellowish light becoming visible at one end of the house—not the bedroom but the adjacent living room. It looked like mist rising up off the flow. It swirled into a vague shape and swayed there, an inch or two above the floor. We were too petrified to speak at the time, but we both admitted later that the waves of hate and evil which we felt definitely came from this yellowish shape.”
Leffing’s eyes were alert with interest. “Can you describe this shape in any detail at all, Pasquette?”
Our client reluctantly shook his head. “It was too—amorphous. It seemed about four feet high and once—just for seconds—I thought I saw something like a face—all twisted up with rage. The thing seemed to keep flowing back into itself and swirling around. I don’t know how long it remained; it seemed like hours, but I imagine it was only a few minutes. In spite of our terror, both of us finally fell back on our pillows and—well, passed out—something between a faint and a sleep! That—thing—just kind of sapped our energies. I think we passed out from exhaustion as well as fright. When we came to, a grey dawn was filtering in. The blizzard was still raging. The snow and wind didn’t stop until late that afternoon.”
“I think you have described the incident very well,” Leffing commented. “Do you have anything to add to it, Mrs. Pasquette?” he inquired, turning to our client’s wife.
She hesitated. “I think not. My husband has told you all that I recall. I might add this: that misty, horrible thing reminded me—momentarily at least—of some type of evil, yellowish dwarf. Like my husband, I had the passing impression that just briefly the semblance of a face took shape within that swirling smoke—or whatever it was. The—face—wasn’t at all clear but”—she shuddered—“it was hideous and filled with malice.”
“Have there been similar incidents since the one you just described?” Leffing asked.
Pasquette resumed his role as spokesman. “Similar to some degree, but none as bad as that night. You see, we haven’t as yet had another blizzard up there. Heavy snows a number of times, but nothing like a real blizzard.”
Leffing put the tips of his long fingers together. “The—manifestation—always reappears when the area experiences a strong snowfall?”
Pasquette scrubbed his chin. “Well—yes. To some degree. It’s almost like a—what would you say?—mathematical equation. The greater—and more prolonged—the snowstorm—the stronger the manifestation. Even without any snow of course, we still have terrible dreams and that feeling of—pulsating hatred—never leaves the house entirely until the winter is over.”
Leffing leaned back in his favorite Morris chair and remained silent for some moments.
At length he sat forward. “I will accept the case. It has features which, if not unique, are at least intriguing!”
Pasquette sighed with satisfaction but in a moment his scowl returned and he cleared his throat. “About your fee, Mr. Leffing. We—”
Leffing cut him off with a wave of his hand’ “Do not concern yourself about it, Mr. Pasquette. My fees are always flexible.”
I groaned inwardly. I knew that Leffing would sometimes accept a case for almost nothing, if it interested him sufficiently. His indifference toward money provided me with good story material but frequently left him hovering on the brink of actual hardship.
Before the Pasquettes left, Leffing elicited some further information: the name of the former owner, the agency which had handled the house sale and so forth. None of these facts appeared to offer any solid leads and I said as much.
Leffing glanced at me quizzically. “You should know my methods by now, Brennan! Every avenue must be explored, no matter how unpromising it may appear.”
All the real estate agency could do was provide us with the name and address of the former owner, Mr. Charles Verton of Fairfield, Conn. The house had not been on their list until Verton decided to sell and turned the matter over to them. They knew nothing concerning prior owners.
After some difficulties, Leffing reached Verton by telephone and arranged for a visit.
One wintry evening we drove down to Fairfield; Verton lived in the select Black Rock residential area of the town, in a substantial frame house which appeared to have been newly renovated.
“A far cry,” Leffing commented as we rang the bell, “from the Pasquettes’ little home up in Comptonvale!”
Verton, a tall, muscular-looking man of middle age, with close-cropped grey hair and alert eyes, received us politely but without enthusiasm.
He revealed that he had bought the Pasquette house from the town of Comptonvale about three years before selling it. He described it as a “bloody mess.” He had spent the purchase price several times over, he added, in order to make the place habitable. He mentioned that he had never intended to make the little structure a permanent home. He went up to Comptonvale on weekends during the summer and in the fall and he used the small house as a sort of hunting lodge. He was ordinarily accompanied by four or five friends on his hunting expeditions. He admitted that the quarters were cramped, revealing that several of his friends began calling the house “the sardine shack.”
He had never met the Pasquettes until the agency arranged for the closing. He appeared honestly mystified by the difficulties the new owners were experiencing.
After a reflective minute, he shrugged. “All I can say is that the place was infernally hard to heat in the autumn. And usually we didn’t sleep too well. But I put that down to the fact that there were so many of us crowded together in there—not really room enough for the whole gang to stretch out comfortably.”
As we drove back toward New Haven, Leffing glanced up at the wintry night sky. “I fear, Brennan, I shall have to spend some time in Comptonvale. Verton’s sparse information does not move us ahead very far. You will be able to accompany me?”
I nodded vigorously. “Tomorrow if you like.”
“Make it the following day. I’ll telephone Pasquette tomorrow and ask him to arrange accommodations for us somewhere in Comptonvale.”
We started out for Comptonvale two days later under blue skies. The weather was moderate for mid-December.
As we drove north however, the blue skies became overcast and a sharp wind arose.
We arrived in Comptonvale in time for lunch at the town’s only inn, The Crestfield Arms, where Pasquette had already reserved rooms for us. The Crestfield Arms was an old clapboarded sprawling sort of building with creaky floor boards and drafty halls. Central heating had been installed, but I became convinced that at least half the heat slipped away through the ancient building’s countless crevices.
After lunch we drove out to see the Pasquettes. Their tiny house was several miles from the center of town.
They welcomed us warmly. It was evident that the cloudy skies and rising wind were already beginning to make them nervous.
The Pasquette house was indeed undersized but neat as the proverbial pin. The pot-bellied stove threw out a generous amount of heat.
After a somewhat cursory—or so it seemed to me—inspection of the premises,
Leffing sat down in the living-room.
Pasquette shook his head in frustration. “Now that you’re here, everything seems fine. Wouldn’t you know!”
“There have been no new—manifestations?” Leffing asked.
“Not since we got back. Just the bad dreams—and no worse than usual.
“A storm appears to be slowly building up,” Leffing observed. “Suppose we make arrangements now to exchange lodgings some time before it starts to snow!”
The Pasquettes eagerly acceded to the suggestion. It was agreed that as soon as it was obvious that a storm was about to begin, the Pasquettes would take over our rooms at The Crestfield Arms and we in turn would move into their little house.
We drove back to the inn, spent the rest of the afternoon prowling about the town and returned for dinner. There were only a few people in the dining room, and we secured a table near the large open fireplace. The meal was served in a leisurely informal manner; the food was plain but carefully prepared and substantial.
As we sipped a liqueur after dinner, Leffing nodded toward the fireplace. “At the rate those sparks are rushing up the chimney, a storm is settling in.”
He was right. The next morning we awoke to white skies and an icy wind. By lunch time a few flakes were beginning to sift against the windows.
When we drove out to the Pasquettes at midafternoon, the flakes were falling more thickly—not large feathery flakes, but small hard ones that clicked audibly against the car windows.
The Pasquettes were packed and ready to leave when we arrived. They appeared both hopeful and apprehensive.
Mrs. Pasquette, in particular, seemed worried. “If anything happened to you, we could never forgive ourselves,” she told Leffing.
He touched her shoulder reassuringly. “Have no fears, Mrs. Pasquette! We are merely about our business. I feel confident we can cope with whatever arises!”
Everything had been made ready for us. There was fresh bed linen, ample provisions, plenty of firewood stacked up, and the telephone was in perfect working order—at least at the moment.
After watching our clients drive off through the snow, we sat down near the stove. “The place seems normal enough,” I commented. “It will be a bit—embarrassing—if nothing whatever occurs!”
“If nothing whatever occurs,” Leffing pointed out, “that in itself will provide a clue.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Leffing.”
“It will indicate,” he continued, “that the manifestation, or whatever you choose to call it, has some personal relationship with the Pasquettes.”
I remained skeptical. “If there is any manifestation.”
“Well, we shall see. I scarcely think, however, that our clients would fabricate the entire series of events. I cannot see what earthly—or unearthly—purpose such a fraud would serve.”
After a light supper, we sat in the living-room and talked in desultory fashion. Snow continued to fall steadily; a frigid wind blew against the house.
As we sat on, a subtle feeling of uneasiness began to imbue me. I experienced a vague but mounting sense of apprehension. I felt as if the atmosphere in that small house was beginning to create a kind of pressure, almost imperceptible at first, but soon unmistakable in its intensity.
I glanced across at Leffing, who sat silent and motionless.
I shifted restlessly in my chair. “I think it’s—beginning.”
Unmistakably,” he replied quietly. “I suggest we move into the bedroom, as the Pasquettes would probably do.”
After turning out the living-room lights we retreated into the bedroom. Leffing sat on one side of bed; I on the other. The pot-bellied stove in the living-room emitted an eerie red glow.
We sat without speaking while snow clicked against the window panes. Freezing blasts of wind buffeted the house at intervals.
The sense of pressure grew stronger. At length I began to feel acutely uncomfortable. An atmosphere of sustained hostility entered the house. In my own mind I identified this hostility with the increasing severity of the storm which raged outside, but I knew this was not actually the case. The storm merely set the stage, as it were. The hostility had its origin in some other phenomenon.
As we sat on, the aura of animosity closed in upon us like something palpable. Although the house became colder and colder, I could feel perspiration on my forehead. The pressure strengthened until it appeared to wash over us in waves of pure hatred—a hatred which seemed weirdly impersonal, mindless, almost infantile—and yet deadly.
Loosening my shirt collar, I looked over at Leffing. I was about to speak when I saw that he was staring intently at a particular spot in the living room.
Following the direction of his gaze, I at first saw nothing. But as I continued to watch, a faint yellowish glow became visible. It had the semblance of a dim reflection which arose from the floor itself. For a few minutes it was no larger than the flame of a candle, but by no means as concentrated. Although it remained dim and diffused, it slowly grew in size. At length it seemed to swirl up from the floor like an eddy of yellow smoke lifted by the wind. Maintaining an erratic but still discernible circular motion, it gradually grew in stature and sharpened in outline until it bore a repellent resemblance to some kind of amorphous but active and living entity. And there was no doubt in my own mind that the pulsations of rage and hatred which now seemed to fairly pound at us, originated in this hideous yellow shape which had slowly materialized.
As we continued to stare at it, transfixed, the manifestation’s circular motion slowly continued until the thing finally stood a good four feet in height.
Wind-driven snow hammered at the house; a fearful chill settled into the very marrow of my aching bones. Strangely enough, I felt that this indescribable cold emanated from the unearthly thing before us and not from the storm outside.
Leffing made no comment, nor did he move in his chair, but I knew that he was appraising our unwelcome “guest” with an all-observant intensity of which I was incapable.
As we watched on, the swirling shape moved more slowly, and as its motion lessened, it coalesced until there gradually grew visible the monstrous caricature of something which might once have been human—a ghastly, hunched, spindly limbed thing with the mockery of a face which expressed such hatred, rage, and suffering as I never hope to witness again.
Even Leffing gasped with horror as that frightful countenance momentarily consolidated to mirror the churning hell within.
Shifting, slowly circling, blurring at intervals, it swayed there before us, an apparition escaped from hell, the full force of its hatred and fury now focussed directly upon us.
For a few heart-stopping seconds, I felt that I might faint and that as I lay helpless the raging yellow shape would be upon me.
Just as I grew convinced that I was incapable of enduring the malignant thing’s pulsations for one minute longer, its outline and features began to blur more frequently. Its hideous face dissolved back into a sort of greasy yellow smoke; its sticklike limbs disappeared and very gradually it diminished in height until at length it literally ebbed away into the floor.
I lay back in my chair, trembling with a cold which was not physical in origin. I felt weak and exhausted, as if every last trace of energy had been wrung out of me, nerve by nerve and fibre by fibre. I believe that if the house had caught fire, I could not have moved to save myself.
Long minutes passed before Leffing spoke. “I believe we have seen the last of it for this night. The thing has succeeded in sapping our strength to an alarming degree. I suggest we attempt to get some sleep.”
Neither of us cared to lie down on the bed. We lay back in our chairs and tried to sleep. I dozed at intervals, tormented by tenuous but terrifying nightmares.
The dirge of the wind never ended; all night long drifts of snow grew deeper around the house.
Dawn was grey and grudging but we welcomed it. We awoke in a house which had grown frigid and this time there was an obvious phy
sical cause: the fire in the pot-bellied stove had nearly gone out.
Nursing the embers carefully, we soon had the stove glowing again. A few minutes later we sat down to a breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee. I felt that I might survive after all.
“What do you make of it?” I asked as we sipped our second cup of coffee.
Leffing looked out at the blowing snow. “The house has obviously become the focus point for an entity of peculiar but dangerous malignancy. At this phase I have no idea of its origin or intent. I believe, however, that, consciously or otherwise, it does possess vampiric tendencies—not in the traditional sense, but in the sense that it tends to draw into itself the vital nervous energies of others. This probably sustains and strengthens it. Small wonder the Pasquettes look so peaked and worn!”
A few minutes later the Pasquettes telephoned and were relieved to learn that we had survived the night with nothing more than jangled nerves and depleted energies. Leffing arranged to meet them at the inn as soon as the town plow had cleared the roads.
Appearing about mid-morning, the road crew not only plowed the main highway but cleared a path right to the Pasquettes’ door. We drove off without difficulty. It was still snowing, but the biting wind had finally subsided into occasional gusts.
In our rooms at The Crestfield Arms, Leffing described the events of the night to the Pasquettes in matter-of-fact fashion.
“I strongly urge you,” he told the harassed couple, “to remain here at the inn until I have cleared up this diabolical business.”
The Pasquettes wearily agreed. After lunch they drove off to get some clothes and gear from their house. They had already engaged a room at the inn.
We had dinner with them that evening. Leffing steered the conversation into casual channels until after the meal. Inevitably at that point, we returned to the topic which had brought us together in the first place.
The Pasquettes could add very little to what they had previously told us. The encounter which Leffing and I had experienced paralleled in large measure previous experiences of their own.
