by John Burke
THE REPTILE
From the steaming jungles of Borneo to a remote Cornish village came the fiendish curse that turned a lovely young girl into a nameless horror
DRACULA–PRINCE OF DARKNESS
Blood mingles with ashes and so becomes a life-giving force to the evil desires of a vampire
RASPUTIN–THE MAD MONK
Hypnotist, seducer, libertine and drunkard—he ruled the Tsar’s court like a devil incarnate
THE PLAGUE OF THE ZOMBIES
Infamous Voodoo ritual casts its barbarous shadow over a village of “the undead”
The four films from the
House of Hammer
upon which this book is based, were cast, directed and produced as follows:
The Reptile
starred Noel Willman, Ray Barrett, John Laurie, Jennifer Daniel, and Jacqueline Pearce. Produced by Anthony Nelson Keys, directed by John Gilling
Dracula–Prince of Darkness
starred Christopher Lee, Barbara Shelley, Andrew Keir, Francis Matthews, Suzan Farmer, Charles Tingwell, and Thorley Walters. Produced by Anthony Nelson Keys, directed by Terence Fisher
Rasputin–The Mad Monk
starred Christopher Lee, Barbara Shelley, Richard Pasco, Francis Matthews, Suzan Farmer, Dinsdale Landen and Renee Asherson. Produced by Anthony Nelson Keys, directed by Don Sharp
The Plague of the Zombies
starred André Morell, Diane Clare, John Carson, Alex Davion, Jacqueline Pearce and Brook Williams. Produced by Anthony Nelson Keys, directed by John Gilling
Published 1967 by Pan Books Ltd,
Cavaye Place, London SW10 9PG
© John Burke, 1967
Printed in Great Britain by
Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk
This book shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The book is published at a net price and is supplied subject to the Publishers Association Standard Conditions of Sale registered under the Restrictive Trade Practices Act, 1956
CONTENTS
THE REPTILE
DRACULA–PRINCE OF DARKNESS
RASPUTIN–THE MAD MONK
THE PLAGUE OF THE ZOMBIES
The Reptile
1
The solicitor was an affable, vague little man with an incongruously deep voice. The dust of his office might have settled in his hair and turned his skin a faint yellow, but it had not affected his vocal chords. He intoned legal phrases as though they were lines from the Psalms. If he were a regular churchgoer, thought Harry Spalding, he must be a great asset to the choir or congregation.
“And I, Charles Edward Spalding,” he half sang, half recited in his rich bass, “being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath all that I possess to my brother, Harry George Spalding of His Majesty’s Grenadier Guards, such possessions to include such monies as I may have at the time of my death, and all my personal shareholdings and effects, such to include the cottage which I own in the village of Clagmoor in Cornwall, England, known as Larkrise.”
Harry glanced at Valerie, seated beside him. She had been staring gravely at the solicitor but now she turned her head slightly and smiled. It was a smile in which he read a shared amusement, and at the same time her sympathy for what lay behind the histrionic voice and the plodding words—sympathy for Harry’s sense of loss, the still incredible fact of his brother’s death.
And love. There was love in her smile, too. It blazed in the musty room and brought light into the place. She was so vivid and so alive that it was impossible to feel too gloomy; impossible, almost, to concentrate on the solicitor’s self-indulgent speech.
“Well, there we are, then,” said Mr. Beeding of Beeding, Beeding, Peregrine, and Beeding. He nodded with the satisfaction of one who has sung a splendid descant and finished absolutely in tune. “Dated the twenty-eighth of August 1901. Nearly a year ago. Duly witnessed, all in order. All very simple, quite straightforward. That is”—he chuckled resonantly and invited them to join him in his flippancy—“if you are Harry George Spalding of His Majesty’s Grenadier Guards. I take it you are?”
Harry donated the expected smile. “On temporary leave of absence.”
“To settle your brother’s affairs. Quite. Well then it all goes to you. Don’t expect too much, though. Your brother was not by any means a rich man.”
Harry thought ruefully that none of the Spaldings had ever distinguished themselves in business or in speculation. It did not worry him. Neither he nor Charles had ever counted on inheriting any great wealth from the other.
“His shareholdings,” said Mr. Beeding with a politely derogatory glance at a list pinned to the will, “were virtually worthless.”
“But there’s always the cottage.”
“Yes, there’s the cottage. Mind you, I’ve never seen it myself. I’ve no idea what it’s like—none at all. He had very simple tastes, your brother, you know. Lived very frugally, if I may say so.”
Valerie said quietly: “Our tastes are simple, too.”
The solicitor had looked at her in sharp, covert appraisal a couple of times since she entered the room with Harry. Now he took the plunge and asked:
“Are you thinking of living there too, Miss . . . er . . . mm?”
“Yes.”
“Until I’m recalled, that is,” said Harry.
“Both of you?” said Mr. Beeding. “Mm, yes. I see.”
He didn’t see at all. Harry, watching the droop of that disapproving lower lip, could not refrain from turning the screw just a fraction more. He said:
“If you mean we aren’t married, that is true, sir.”
The solicitor’s face sagged still farther. The twentieth century was hardly begun, but Mr. Beeding obviously had the direst doubts about it. Young people today . . . !
“However,” said Harry, taking out his watch and looking at it, “that will be remedied in exactly three hours and fifteen minutes from now.”
The solicitor beamed. “Well, how nice. How delightful. May I be the first to . . . er . . . um . . . well, probably not the first, if your arrangements are so far advanced, but let me anyway . . . mmm . . .”
“Thank you,” said Valerie.
“But you do realize that this cottage has only two rooms—a bedroom and a sitting-room? And from the details I have”—he rustled through the sheaf of papers on his desk—“I would venture the opinion that the conveniences aren’t really . . . er . . .” He waved a sheet of paper and put it down again. “Were you thinking of making it a permanent home?”
Harry had no wish to tell this withered little husk of a man the story of his life and problems. Further, he had no wish to imply that his brother’s death had solved one of those problems: the shock of the loss was greater than any advantage that could possibly accrue. And yet it was true that the cottage came as a godsend at just this moment in time. His army pay was no fortune, and although Valerie had sworn that she did not care where or how she lived so long as she could be his wife, there had been obvious practical difficulties. Now at least he could offer her a home, however small. Later they might be able to satisfy grander ambitions, but here and now the cottage would have to do.
He said: “We’d like to move in tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We can catch the morning train.”
“Well . . .” The solicitor’s wavering opinion of them took another downward plunge. He lived in a world of caution and double caution, of surveyors and caref
ul investigations, of slow movement because fast movement often caused one to trip over an unforeseen obstacle. Even as a young man it was unlikely that Mr. Beeding had ever been impetuous, and in his present profession there was no doubt that impetuosity was the gravest of all sins. “You’d better have the key, then,” he said reluctantly. He dug into a drawer of his desk and took out a small leather pouch. Then he fussed through the papers before him. “Legally, of course, there are one or two formalities to be cleared up. Mm. Certain documents . . . let’s see, the deeds are here . . . I’ll have to make application for . . . mm. Strictly speaking you ought not to move in at once, but I’m sure that in the circumstances nobody will . . . mm.” He stood up, handed over the key, and nodded with a benevolence which was genuine in spite of his reservations. “And if there’s anything else I can do or anything you want to ask—”
“There is one thing, sir.”
“That is?”
“Have you any idea how my brother died?”
Mr. Beeding looked upset. The help he had offered was general rather than personal, and he had not really expected to be taken up on it anyway. “Why?”
“When I last saw him he was as fit as I am.”
“The report said it was—um—heart failure.”
“He was as strong as an ox.”
“Even the heart of an ox has been known to fail.” Mr. Beeding grinned, then wiped the grin off his face and assumed an expression of grave detachment. “It is of course not my province, however. May I suggest an early visit to his physician to ascertain the facts. And now”—he had decided that enough was enough—“once more, my congratulations to you both.”
They shook hands and left.
When they were outside, Valerie took a deep breath of fresh air.
“I was afraid I was going to sneeze. All those ancient files crumbling to pieces—and that tickling sort of smell . . . I’m sure I was breathing nothing but decayed paper and cardboard!”
He took her arm and hailed a hansom.
“The air in Cornwall will be a lot better.”
Valerie nodded eagerly. Her grey eyes sparkled and her lips parted as she looked up at him. “Larkrise,” she said, and then tried the word over again as though savoring it on her tongue: “Larkrise. It does sound pretty, doesn’t it?”
“Clagmoor Heath doesn’t sound quite so appetizing.”
“We’ll love it,” she said firmly.
They drove away. Harry put her down at the house of her aunt, where she was staying before the wedding. The aunt, like Mr. Beeding, didn’t approve of modern ways of doing things and had been appalled by Valerie’s decision to accompany Harry to the solicitor’s on her wedding morning. Now there was only a brief time left before the ceremony—but to both Harry and Valerie it was far too long.
The best man was a fellow officer. Harry had hoped that his brother would be standing beside him on this great occasion, but fate had decreed that Charles should never even meet Valerie. The thought weighed on Harry’s mind for a few moments, and again he wondered how Charles could possibly have died so suddenly, without warning, without apparent reason—Charles, so few years older than himself and so rational and civilized in his ways; and then Valerie came into the church and he put every other thought aside.
They spent the night at a London hotel. It was in a quiet street in Bloomsbury, and they felt very far away from anyone they knew and from the whole noisy, busy world; and very close together. Valerie’s shy grace was transformed into frank, responsive passion. In the morning Harry was almost tempted to suggest that they stay here for another week or so: their room had become a place of magic and they were reluctant to give it up. But the cottage was waiting for them, and quite apart from the expense of staying on in London there was the bustle and clamor of the daytime hours. The distant countryside would be more rewarding, more relaxing.
As the train made its way out of London and settled to the long journey down into the West Country, Harry knew the decision had been the right one. Valerie had brought a magazine to read on the train, but when the houses fell away and the green fields began to flow alongside the track she let the periodical fall to her lap and stared out of the window. A gentle half-smile plucked occasionally at her lips, and every now and then she glanced at her husband. There was a deep, unspoken communion between them. And he sensed how happy she was to be leaving the city and yielding herself up to the hills and fields, no matter how lonely they might be. Now they had each other, neither of them could ever know loneliness again.
As the train roared over the Saltash bridge, with the Tamar twisting below, Valerie yawned and stretched like a cat.
As though to echo her, a plaintive mewing came from the basket on the seat beside her.
Valerie patted the top of the basket. “Nearly there.”
Her avowed reason for bringing Katie the cat with her had been that they might have to face a plague of mice or rats, since the cottage had been empty for quite a little while. But even if it could have been proved that there were no vermin in the place, Harry suspected that Katie would nevertheless have accompanied them. She had been Valerie’s pet for over a year, and although there was no reason to suspect Valerie’s aunt of planning any cruelty towards the animal once the girl had gone, she would not have given it the attention and affection to which it was accustomed. So Katie was heading for Cornish rats and mice—or, in their absence, for regular helpings of Cornish cream.
Harry wondered what Valerie would have said if he had forbidden her to bring the cat. He looked across the compartment at her profile as she contemplated the landscape—a profile gentle yet confident, yielding yet in its own way sweetly determined. Not that he would have wanted to ban the cat. As an officer he had already learnt the folly of issuing unnecessary orders. It was unthinkable, he thought dreamily, that he and Valerie should ever fail to see eye to eye on everything.
The train slowed. At the junction they had to change to a small, grubby little coach hauled by a puffing engine which Trevithick would surely have recognized as a near relative of his own device.
Although bathed in sunshine, the countryside now looked alien and forbidding. There were few roads, and those that curled in close to the railway were not inviting: they did not stay long, but trailed away up a gaunt hillside as though to lead the unwary traveller towards the haunts of old Celtic gods. The noisy, smoky engine was an intruder. The railway had cut a swathe through the land, but it was allowed here only on the understanding that it remained small and unobtrusive, creeping along at a snail’s pace and not whistling or letting off steam too arrogantly.
It jolted to a halt beside a brief stretch of wooden platform with a hut made of rough planks. A sign announced that this was Clagmoor Heath.
Steam from the engine sighed and drifted over a narrow, rock-choked stream as Harry and Valerie got out. As soon as Harry had closed the compartment door, the tiny train puffed on its way. One felt that it might vanish into the sombre moors and never be seen again. It seemed somehow improbable that at the end of the line there was a perfectly ordinary terminus and an ordinary town filled with ordinary people.
Harry went into the hut. One side had been partitioned off and there was a window in the wall to serve as a ticket office. The window was covered by a wooden shutter at the moment. Harry knocked on it and knocked again, but there was no reply.
“Anyone there?”
His voice resonated in the boards and died away. Outside, on the far side of the track, a bird began to sing; but that was his only answer.
Valerie went to the end of the platform and looked along the road leading away from the station. It was little more than a lane. Like so many of the roads they had seen during the last part of their journey, it curled secretively round a hill and disappeared. Beyond that hump of land, presumably, was the village.
“Looks like we’re out of luck,” said Harry. The stillness was somehow alive with sounds just beyond the range of hearing. The grass stirred, tiny creatures r
ustled below the boarding of the platform, and the rails seemed still to be singing with the vibration of the train. Harry put his arm round Valerie’s shoulders and nodded towards the dusty lane. “I’m afraid it means a walk, darling.”
“Is it far, do you think?”
He took a map from his grip and unfolded it. The twisting route of the lane was clear enough. “A couple of miles,” he said. “Do you think you can manage?”
“But the luggage . . . ?”
Harry took their cases and carried them into a shadowy corner of the bleak waiting-room. He was not happy at the idea of them standing here, neglected and unguarded, but would have been even less happy carrying them two miles or so into the village.
“We’ll send for it when we get there,” he said resolutely.
“All right. But”—Valerie picked up the cat basket—“I’m not leaving Katie behind.”
Harry took the basket from her and led the way down the slope at the end of the platform.
Along the lane nobody stirred. There was no sign of anyone working in the fields, and no wagon or trap passed them on the way. Beyond the hill there was another slope, concealing the eventual destination of the lane. A wayside cross with its strange wheel head looked pagan rather than Christian. A faint breeze sighed through its blank eyes. Behind it, a hump on the crown of the hill had the squat menace of a neolithic tomb—a tomb from which, in the right conditions, in moonlight and shifting cloud, something old and sinister might still rise from the dead.
Harry shivered. Valerie glanced at him. He did not know whether she had communicated her own uneasiness to him or whether he had been the first to respond to this chill atmosphere. It was absurd. He was a soldier, not an imaginative, feebly melodramatic poet. The sun was warm on his brow and it was ridiculous that he should at the same time feel cold seeping into his bones.
As they turned yet another bend, the sun in the west struck a brilliant spark of light from something that shone gold against the sky. It was the weather vane on a church tower less than a quarter of a mile ahead of them.
