It had come heavily, noiselessly, out of the front bedroom. A hunchbacked hulk of it, that straightened and showed itself as tall and powerful as Pursuivant.
The judge knew amazement, complete but rational. Even in the half-light, he made out only a silhouette, roughly human, vague at the edges—clothed or naked, he could not say. As before, a faceless head lifted itself on broad shoulders. Only the fingers of the hand were distinct. They spread, advanced. Thus his eyes summed up, while he kept reciting the exorcism, down to its end:
“—all evil return from him and his unto you and yours, in the name of the Trinity.”
It blundered forward, clutching.
The doorway was no place to fight in, not even if the foe were normal. Pursuivant retreated, quickly and lightly for all his bearlike weight. Behind him, Scrope had run whimpering to the back door, tried to tear it open without unlocking.
“Come on!” Scrope was crying. “We’ll get out of here!”
“Wait!” called Pursuivant in reply. “Look!” And Scrope paused and turned back.
“The thing’s gone,” said Pursuivant. “It vanished before my eyes as I retreated.”
He clasped his big hands behind his back, scowling. Something was wrong here; absolutely unconventional—for there is a certain unconventionality about demons and their ways.
How often did the old books say that the best way to quell a specter is to face it dauntlessly? Yet here was the exact reverse. The foe had faded only when he and Scrope fled. He glared at the empty hall, as though to read there an answer to the enigma.
But the hall was not empty. In it was another pale suggestion of shape, slender this time. And the softer voice he had sensed in the bedroom:
“Again—again—”
It, too, vanished.
Scrope drew alongside of Pursuivant, peering. “Judge, were you and I seeing things? Both of us?”
Pursuivant actually grinned, and shook his tawny head. “No chance of that, Scrope. People who see things don’t see the same things at the same time.”
“Group-hypnotism,” began Scrope, as though the word might be a comfort, but again Pursuivant gestured a demur.
“I believe in many strange things, Scrope, but not in that. Don’t go back into the hall. Sit here, in the kitchen. I begin to understand—to guess, at least.”
They sought their chairs. Pursuivant faced the door.
“The old familiar situation, worn threadbare by writers of fantasy,” he pronounced. “The murdered one haunts the place of his destruction.” He stared hard into the hallway, wondering if he had really seen a stir of movement there. “Anyway, it’s here—spiteful and harmful, able to attack—”
“That’s right,” nodded Scrope, sighing. “He appeared to me, then you, then to both of us.”
“Which brings us to point number two. The spell is going to work.”
Scrope glanced up in almost prayerful eagerness. “You’re sure?”
“Not quite sure of anything in life or death, but this thing’s desperate. It’s trying to fight us. I gather, from what you tell me, that it never manifested itself so strongly before—”
Scrope was nodding eagerly. “Sure. It’s been around here, a sort of edgy atmosphere that drove my house-boys away—but nothing like this. As you say, it’s playing the game for keeps now.”
“It’s in danger.” replied Pursuivant, his blue eyes remaining fixed on the hallway. “So are we. But it’s alone in its fight, and we have friends.”
“Friends?” echoed Scrope.
“I saw another shape, or near shape. Twice. It doesn’t threaten. It pleads. It wants us to go ahead and win.”
Scrope gazed at Pursuivant. “I think I saw it, too. But if it’s a ghost—”
“Don’t you realize that a ghost might want release? And others beside the Hessians found a tragic death here. Two women, didn’t you say—I heard a voice ask for the final repetition of my spell. Again, it said.”
“We-ell—” began Scrope uncertainly.
“The spirits of those two women are here, too,” said Pursuivant confidently. “The evil of the place is too strong to let them escape, even though they’re dead.”
“Judge!” gasped Scrope, very pale. He swallowed twice, and continued: “You realize something? If anything happens to us—”
“Exactly,” agreed Pursuivant, very steadily. “We’d be caught, too. For all eternity. I realize it perfectly. That is why we must push this thing through to the end—and win.”
He rose once again and went to the door. Foot on the sill, he leaned ever so narrowly in. Then he drew quickly back, like a spectator from the cage of an angry beast.
“Still here,” he reported. “Ready for us. It, too, knows that the showdown’s at hand.”
Scrope studied the doorway, eyes and lips hard. “I’ve got a theory. It stays in that part of the house, the middle part. Might it live in the cellar?”
“Why?” asked Judge Pursuivant.
“Because the cellar—the old basement—lies only under the bathroom and the hall and that guestroom, with only a bit lapping under parts of the kitchen and—”
“By thunder, you have it!” interrupted Pursuivant excitedly.
While Scrope stared, the judge fished his pen from his vest pocket. He began to sketch, on the table-top.
“See here,” he lectured as he drew. “Your house is sprawling—great big rooms, making a wide base, like this.” He outlined a square. “And the cellar is rather centrally located, so.” He marked in a smaller rectangle, which took a middle slice of the square.
“Yes. That’s about like it,” nodded Scrope. “What are you getting at?”
“Don’t you see, man?” cried Pursuivant, almost roughly. “That basement shows the limits of the old house—narrow and high, just as this new one is broad and low. The spirit haunted the old place. Your house takes in that original territory, and some new ground as well.”
He threw down the pen. “You’re only half haunted, Scrope.”
Understanding dawned into the little man’s face. He sprang to his feet. He began a glad jabber:
“That changes everything. We’re safe. If we don’t go in there—”
“Oh, but we’re going in there.”
Scrope looked wide-eyed, scared. Pursuivant elaborated:
“The last recital of the spell will take place right in that thing’s den—right on his own dunghill, so to speak. We’ll destroy him forever, where he can’t seek refuge from us.”
* * * *
Again an hour was passed. The two rose from their chairs in the kitchen.
“It’s time,” said Scrope, looking at his wrist watch. “Judge, must I come in there with you?”
“You must,” Pursuivant assured him. “Into that front bedroom. The creature must face his final exorcism.”
He walked to to the hall, and in. Scrope kept close behind, on feet that sounded amazingly heavy for so small a body. They stood together in the hall’s dimness.
It was no longer the hall, new and narrow and fresh-painted in light color. It was a corner of something else.
Despite the gloom, Pursuivant could see plainly that the walls had somehow fallen away. He stood as in a wide and ruinous apartment, with shattered windows extending almost to the high ceiling. The half-rotted floorboards were strewn with rubbish, like plaster fallen away from ancient laths. Wind—there was surely wind here, in the very center of Scrope’s snug home. Yes, wind, blowing through the cracks in this big wrecked place to which they had somehow been wafted.…
“Judge,” breathed Scrope, “I know. This is the old mill—it looked like this before they tore it down—”
“Quiet,” bade Pursuivant. He moved in the direction where he remembered the front bedroom’s door to be. It was before him now—he felt its knob under his hand though he could not see it. Hinges creaked. They could walk farther into the room that had been part of the razed mill.
Again things were changed to their eyes.
<
br /> A sort of blue-green light, such as filters down to the bottom of deep water, showed them spacious floor, high ceiling, great windows—but no more in ruins. The room was suddenly fresh, solidly built, a room for living. Painted plaster, broad white sills and jambs, some furry pelts spread like rugs—and furniture. Even in the weird soft glimmer, Pursuivant knew valuable antiques when he saw them. Yonder table was such—dark, stout, gleaming. The chairs, too. The table was spread with white linen, set with silver and china. And somebody—something—was seated there, as if to eat.
The Hessian—of course. Or what had been the Hessian.
It faced them across the table. Now Pursuivant knew where the watery glow come from.
That semi-shape exuded it, like touchwood. He could dimly make out a clarification of outline and detail—a dress coat of ancient British style, powdered hair, elegance strangely out of place upon such a brute body. The most light came from around the head, which still did not have a face.
Pursuivant began to recite once more:
“All ye evil spirits, I forbid you this man’s bed, his couch—”
The blue light dimmed. The shape rose and came toward them.
“Scrope,” muttered Pursuivant, between phrases of his formula. “Lights—turn them on—”
He put himself where the approaching shape would find him. “I forbid you, in heaven’s name—” he continued.
Strong hands seized him, hands as cold as marsh ice. He had a sense of filth and ferocity being hurled at him. He fought back.
Judge Keith Pursuivant was big, strong, and cunning, but here was his match. It worked those cold hands to his throat, striving to shut off his breath and the words he spoke. He heard it panting and snarling, like the unknown animals of which one dreams. His own fists struck for that featureless face, battering it backward upon its cloudy shoulders, but the thing wrestled closer and closer, trying to throttle him.
“The lights—won’t work!” Scrope was screaming. He struck a match, set it to a scrap of paper he whisked out of his pocket. This little torch he held aloft.
The rosy light dominated the blue, and Scrope saw plainly the thing that Pursuivant grappled. He screamed louder and dropped the blazing paper. It floated side-wise, into some sort of a wall hanging. A stronger flame leaped up. Pursuivant caught the hard, chill wrists of his enemy and tore himself free.
“—unto you and yours, in the name of Trinity!” he finished.
Then he wheeled abruptly, seized and lifted Scrope, and hurried him away. They found themselves in the parlor, the room they had known before. Behind them flames gushed and roared, like a blast furnace.
Scrope, set on his feet again, seemed ready to faint. Pursuivant shook sense and steadiness back into him.
“Come on,” he ordered. “Keep moving. Outside. This place is burning like a wicker basket.”
They reached the outside, and Pursuivant let Alvin Scrope lean against a tree for support. He himself hurried to the double garage. He started and brought out first one, then the other of the cars, parking them at a point safe from any flying sparks or embers.
He returned to his companion. The flames now burst from the open parlor windows, licking at the clapboards and shingles outside. Snow fell but scantily, barely enough to make a hissing in the heat.
Scrope shook himself, like a dog coming out of water. He was getting command over his fear-crumbling spirit.
“Hadn’t we better get to a phone somewhere?” he suggested. “There’s a volunteer fire department in town—”
“No,” said Pursuivant. “No fire departments. Let that house burn to the ground.”
“To the ground?” Scrope’s face looked stronger in the red light. “Yes, of course. You’re exactly right. No more ghosts after fire. I can build again.”
“Build, and be at peace. Let it burn, I say. We’ll drive the cars to Scott’s Meadows and stay at the little inn there. And tomorrow you can come and stay with me at my home until you catch hold of your affairs again.”
“Thanks. I will.”
They fell silent. In the darkness, no longer so chilly, came a rustle of passing. A semi-shape—two semi-shapes—glided swiftly by, like puffs of smoke from the house.
Thank you, Pursuivant felt gentle cries of joy, more in his heart than in his ears. Thank you—
They were gone.
Scrope, too, had been aware of that passing. “I guess,” he ventured, “that the spirits of those poor women are set free.”
From the heart of the red rage of flame that now possessed all the house came suddenly a sound—a shout, a roar, a scream—recognizeable as human and masculine.
Scrope faltered and swore. “That—was the Hessian?”
“It is what was the Hessian,” agreed Pursuivant, gazing at the fire.
Another peal of sound. Full of horror—full of agony.
“Why does he stay?” quavered Scrope. “Those others thanked us for setting them free—why does he hang on there until he’s burned clear loose from—” He broke off. “I know,” he said, gaining command of himself again.
Pursuivant turned toward him. “What, then?”
“The women were killers—yes. But they killed for a good purpose. They knew they’d find some kind of happiness now that they’re not held here. But,” and Scrope, too, faced the fire, “the other thing has nothing like that to expect. He hangs onto the burning den. Because, when he leaves, it’ll be for—for—”
“Something much worse,” finished Pursuivant for him.
Once again the suffering voice mounted up and shook the night. Then it died to a wail, a rattle, it died to nothing. It was silent.
The flames flapped like banners of victory. They seemed cleaner and more joyous.
Pursuivant and Scrope suddenly shook hands.
ABOUT JULES DE GRANDIN
Jules de Grandin is a fictional occult detective created by Seabury Quinn for Weird Tales. Assisted by Dr. Trowbridge (serving the same narrative purpose as Dr. Watson), de Grandin fought ghosts, werewolves, and satanists in over ninety stories between 1925 and 1951.
Jules de Grandin and Dr. Trowbridge lived in Harrisonville, New Jersey. De Grandin was a French physician and expert on the occult and a former member of the French Sûreté, who resembled a more physically dynamic blond, blue-eyed Hercule Poirot. Often, the supernatural entities in the mysteries are revealed not to be supernatural at all but the actions of insane, evil, and depraved human beings.
Jules de Grandin in “THE JEST OF WARBURG TANTAVUL,” by Seabury Quinn
1
Warburg Tantavul was dying. Little more than skin and bones, his face like a mask of parchment drawn drum-tight across his skull, crisscrossed with myriad wrinkles so small and fine and near together that they made shadows instead of lines, he lay propped up with pillows in the big sleigh bed and smiled as though he found the thought of dissolution faintly humorous.
Even in comparatively good health, the man was never prepossessing. Now, wasted with disease, that smile of self-sufficient satisfaction mingled with malignant glee upon his face, he was nothing less than hideous. The eyes, which nature gave him, were small, deep-set, and an oddly terrifying shade of yellow; calculating, cruel and ruthless as the yellow orbs of a crafty and ill-natured cat. The mouth, which his own thoughts had fashioned through the years, was wide and thin-lipped, almost colorless, and even in repose was always tightly drawn against his small and queerly perfect teeth. Now, as he smiled, a flickering light, lambent as the quick reflection of an unseen flame, flared in his yellow eyes, and a hard white line of teeth showed on his lower lip, as though he bit it to hold back a chuckle.
“And you’re still determined that you’ll marry Arabella?” he asked his son, fixing his sardonic, mocking smile upon the young man’s face.
“Yes, Father, but—”
“No buts, my boy”—this time his chuckle came, low and muted, but at the same time sharp and glassy-hard—“no buts. I’ve told you I’m against the match, and th
at you’ll rue it to your dying day if you should marry her; but”—he paused, and the breath rasped in his wizened throat—“go ahead and marry her, if you will. I’ve said my say and warned you—heh, heh, my boy, never say your father didn’t warn you!”
He lay back on his piled-up pillows for a moment, swallowing convulsively, as though to force the fleeting life-breath back; then, abruptly: “Get out,” he ordered. “Get out and stay out, you poor fool; but remember what I’ve said.”
“Father,” young Tantavul began, taking a quick step toward the head of the bed, but the look of concentrated fury mixed with hatred which flashed up in the old man’s tawny eyes halted him in midstride.
“Get—out—I—said!” his father snarled; then, as the door closed softly on his son:
“Nurse—hand—me—that—picture.” His breath was coming slowly, now, in shallow, labored gasps, but the claw-like fingers of his withered hand writhed in a gesture of command, pointing to the silver-framed photograph of a woman which stood upon a little table in the bedroom window-bay.
He clutched the portrait which she handed him as though it were some precious relic, and for a minute let his yellow eyes rove over it. “Lucy,” he whispered hoarsely, and now his words were thick and indistinct, “Lucy, they’ll be married, ’spite of all that I have said—they’ll be married, Lucy—d’ye hear?” Thin and high-pitched as a child’s, his voice rose to a shrill and piping treble as he grasped the picture’s heavy silver frame and held it level with his face. “They’ll be married, Lucy, my dear, and they’ll have—”
Abruptly as a penny whistle’s note is stilled when no more air is blown in it, old Tantavul’s cry was hushed. The picture, still grasped in his hands, fell to the tufted coverlet with a soft and muffled thud, the man’s lean jaw relaxed, and he slumped back on his pile of pillows with a shadow of the mocking smile still showing in his glazing eyes.
Etiquette requires that the nurse await the doctor’s confirmation at such times; so, obedient to professional dictates, Miss Williamson stood beside the bed until I felt the dead man’s pulse and nodded; then, with the skill of years of practise, she began her offices, bandaging the wrists and jaw and ankles, that the body might be ready when the representative of Martin’s Funeral Home came to convey it to the operating-room.
The Occult Detective Megapack: 29 Classic Stories Page 79
