by John Burke
The stairs led into a cellar. In the far wall was an arch, through which a faint steam drifted across the cellar. It had a sulphurous smell, probably the breath of one of the county’s subterranean streams and wells.
Huddled in cages against the cellar walls were mice and rats, a quivering rabbit—and her own Katie.
Valerie stared incredulously.
Then she heard the sound of a groan from the space beyond the cellar. She tiptoed across the damp flagstones of the floor and peered through the arch.
The surface of the well seethed gently in the middle of a small cavern. Against one ragged, rocky wall a shape was huddled beneath a blanket. A lantern had been placed beside it, its yellow glow casting fantastic shadows and dancing apparitions through the wisps of sulphurous steam.
Franklyn was a gaunt silhouette, leaning on the sword he had taken from his collection. He might have been brooding here for an age, keeping a vigil or willing himself to some terrible deed.
As Valerie watched, Franklyn stooped and with one brusque movement threw the blanket aside.
Anna lay there. Her body shone with a green, scaly brightness. She stirred. A ripple ran down her body and her head twisted to show the eyes slanting back into the skull.
Franklyn raised the sword above his head. Valerie tried to scream but no sound would come.
The sword slashed down with savage force.
There was a scream. Not Anna’s and not Valerie’s. It came from the cellar and was like the violent howl of a madman, stabbing out towards Franklyn. It was enough to deflect his aim, so that the blade missed Anna by an inch.
Valerie lurched to one side. A lithe body sprang past her with demoniacal force. It was the Malay, carrying an oil lamp and swinging it as though it were a weapon. He launched himself at Franklyn. The two men met, the clash of the impact throwing them towards the bubbling pool. Franklyn tried to lift the sword again, but the Malay waved the lamp in his face. Franklyn ducked and lashed out. The lamp went flying.
The Malay screamed and went on screaming like some primitive warrior urging himself on to new feats of savagery. He clawed, bit, kicked . . . and Franklyn buckled before the onslaught.
Franklyn was the bigger man, but the Malay was possessed by a spirit of destruction. A great hierarchy of vengeful gods stood behind him and gave him strength. He went for Franklyn’s eyes, yelling hideous sounds that were not words but meaningless curses. They rocked on the edge of the terrible pool.
And Franklyn at last got a grip on the stabbing, kicking little man. There was a moment when they held on to each other and couldn’t move—their feet set, their legs and arms stiff, their bodies locked . . . And then the Malay was thrown clear, toppling on the edge of the sulphur pool and falling. There was one heart-stopping scream of fear and then the little man had gone, lost forever beneath the simmering surface.
The steam billowed out. At the same time there was a gout of flame which irradiated the whole cavern. A greedy tongue of fire licked across the rocky floor. The lamp which the Malay had swung at Franklyn was on its side, spilling a deadly blaze out into the confined space.
Fumes clutched at Valerie’s throat. She coughed and, in a panic, turned back towards the stone steps. Franklyn cried something after her. She raced for the staircase and heard him behind her. Fear drove her at a mad pace up the steps and out into the hall. She was clawing at the massive bolts on the front door when his arm came round her throat and drew her back.
“No,” he said in an impossibly level, reasonable voice. “Oh, dear, no. I’m sorry, but really . . .”
Valerie tried to fight free. He did not fight back; he simply held on to her with a grip that could not be loosened, and she felt herself being drawn towards that room in which he and Harry had talked. It was a lifetime ago.
Franklyn closed the door behind them and then released her.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
She thought of the flames licking across the cellar and had a picture of them making their way up the stairs, spreading and devouring. She cried:
“We’ve got to—”
“Sit down,” he said mildly.
It was absurd. The domineering, sour-visaged Doctor Franklyn had grown gentle and courteous. He had the air of a man quietly determined to maintain a front of decency and sweet reason no matter what hideous terrors exploded around him.
“The fire,” she said, trying to wave him away from the door. “The fire . . . those animals down there . . . and Anna . . .”
“Anna,” he said as though an echo had been struck. He put his head on one side, relishing it. Then the grief in his face was like a rush of blood. It thrust Valerie backwards like a physical force. “You know what you saw down there?” he said. “That vile thing . . . you know it was my daughter?”
“Anna,” she said weakly, still not believing.
“Yes. But not the Anna you know. Not the lovely girl who . . . who . . .” His voice broke. He was the man with bowed shoulders she had seen preparing to take the Japanese sword and do what he at last accepted had to be done. “Not that girl, Mrs. Spalding. A cruel parody. A loathsome . . . thing . . . using her body. She has been possessed by a devil. We don’t use such words nowadays, do we? But I say it was a devil. You saw her with your own eyes. You saw her—my daughter—and . . . oh, my God.”
He sagged and was on the verge of collapse. In spite of herself Valerie held out her arms, and when he just failed to fall forward into them she warily touched his elbow and guided him to a chair. He looked, bewildered, round the shelves which held books and ornaments, the grinning faces and the bestial faces and the tranquil faces of an alien antiquity.
Slowly, ruminatively, as though there were all the time in the world, he said:
“Her mother died in giving her life. She was my dearest possession. My only happiness. And they knew it. They knew it. They knew that this was the way to punish me.”
Valerie sank on her knees before him. “They?”
“Mrs. Spalding, I am a doctor of theology. My particular study has been the primitive religions of the Far East. I have travelled—India, Java, Sumatra, Borneo—and I have seen many things they wished me not to see. I have penetrated the deepest jungles, the foulest swamps. And everywhere I went, Anna was always with me; always at my side, never complaining, always cheerful, always devoted.” Franklyn shrank into his chair, reaching out into memory and plucking visions from the past into the present. “There was one religious cult which kept evading me. Like the leopard people of Africa, this was a secret society which guarded its secrets jealously, fanatically. The Ourang Sancto—the Snake People. You won’t have heard of them, Mrs. Spalding. Very few people have, outside Borneo . . . and there they would never dare speak of it for fear the outside world might discover their secrets. I set myself the goal of finding out. I would not be warned, and I would not be held back. It took a long time and a great deal of patience but I managed it; and I returned to Singapore to write up my investigations. A few weeks later Anna disappeared.”
He was talking hypnotically, not so much to Valerie as to himself, as though picking his way over a wilderness of things which had happened but ought not to have happened, which he would change if he were given the gift of his time over again.
“It happens too often in Malaya,” he said, listening to his own words and waiting for significant resonances. “I was angry, I was frightened . . . but I awaited the usual ransom note from bandits. Of course I would pay. My colleagues calmed me: money, they assured me, would solve everything and there was no need for me to worry about Anna’s safety.
“And then, without warning, Anna was returned. Three weeks later she was restored to me. She was unhurt and had no memory of what had happened to her. And then it all started . . .”
His eyes widened. He put his hands on the arms of the chair and seemed to be on the verge of pushing himself up, as she had once before seen him get to his feet. But he stayed where he was. “They had their revenge,” he said in
a dull, obsessed tone. “Anna was one of them. As soon as I realized what had happened I got her as far away from their sphere of influence as possible. I brought her here in the hope that it would weaken their hold—and because the sulphur streams could provide warmth for the house in winter. She needed the warmth. You see”—he shuddered almost as the creature in the cellar had shuddered, twisting from side to side—“every winter Anna sheds her skin. She goes into a deep sleep. The cold would kill her.”
“Yes.” Valerie nodded meaninglessly. The only sense in all this was the perverted logic of nightmare, in which all things were plausible. “Yes . . .”
“It was useless,” said Franklyn. “They followed me. I was not allowed a moment’s peace.”
“But surely—”
“She will die now,” he said. “It is probably better so.”
“No.” Valerie got to her feet and went towards the door. “All of us—Anna, yourself, and me—if we . . .”
She had no idea what solution she was going to offer, and in any case Franklyn gave her no time to finish. He sprang into sudden life and barred her way to the door.
“You must stay here, Mrs. Spalding.”
“But”—surely she could smell smoke, surely the flames must by now be raging through the cellar—“the place is on fire!”
“Fire?” said Franklyn vaguely. He thought about this, then nodded. “Yes, it will keep her warm. Dear Anna. Poor Anna. It will warm her.”
She realized that his mind had gone. The acceptance in his features, so different from the bleakness of his anger, was the acceptance of one who no longer had any arguments to propound or confute. He was mad. He could take no more.
As though to emphasize his indifference, he turned away and began to collect some of the smaller curios from his shelves, lining them up on a table in the middle of the room.
Valerie waited until he was selecting pieces from a shelf in the far corner, and dashed for the door.
He was too quick for her. His hand closed on hers as she grabbed for the door-knob.
“Mrs. Spalding.” He sounded genuinely pained. “I did tell you that you must, must stay. Didn’t I? I’m sure I did. You can’t leave yet.”
He turned the key in the door and pocketed it.
Valerie kept a grip on herself. She mustn’t panic and she mustn’t enrage him. Now he was mild and slow, a quite changed Franklyn. But he might turn from a gentle, ruminative madness to one of towering rage. If she were to escape she must plan and be patient and not be frightened.
Yet while he plodded around the room, taking down this piece and that, nodding philosophically over the little collection he was amassing on the table, the fire must be sweeping through the cellars.
From a drawer he took a large leather bag and tipped his treasures into it. Smiling affably, he said:
“I’m afraid I shall have to leave you locked in.”
“You can’t!”
“You have nothing to fear.” The words were soothing but she knew that there was no significance in them. He was not concerned with her other than as a nuisance to be avoided as far as possible—an interfering woman to be placated and then left. He was making vague noises at her as he would have made them to a dog, wanting only to be out of the house and off into the night of forgetfulness. “Your husband,” he said cheerfully, “is sure to come looking for you soon.”
He took out the key, let himself out, and closed the door behind him. She heard the key rasp in the lock, but could not tell whether he had taken it away with him.
And then she heard another sound. There were no footsteps going away from the door . . . nothing . . . only a muffled sigh. And then Franklyn said: “Anna . . . ?” And he said it again. And even through the door Valerie heard the wild venomous hiss. And again Anna’s name on her father’s lips, but this time screamed . . . and screamed again.
Then the gentlest of thuds against the door, and a sliding, slithering sound. And silence.
Until the key turned in the lock again.
10
The handle of the door turned slowly. Valerie watched it, wanting to turn and run—but to where?
The door opened.
Valerie backed away a pace and jarred against the table. She steadied herself and still could not take her eyes off the door.
Anna came in.
It was a beautiful face and a deadly face. The movements of the slim, splendid body were smooth and sinuous, almost musical in their unbroken flow—smooth and delicate and savage.
Valerie groped round the table. Her hand touched the back of her chair and she used it to guide her away towards one wall. Her shoulder came up sharply against one of the shelves, and a fragile piece of porcelain rang a clear, gentle note.
Anna’s mouth opened. She appeared to be smiling. Her lips drew back and her forked tongue flashed and danced its mad, derisive little dance.
Valerie said helplessly: “Anna . . . if we can get out of here . . . if we can . . . we . . .”
Anna slid round the table and came on, her head stabbing and seeking, her fangs bared.
There was a sudden thunderous knocking at the front door.
Valerie’s voice surged up like a wild thing from her strangled throat. “Here,” she was yelling: “here—help me! In here!”
Anna bent, straightened, and lashed out like a broken spring. Her head plunged, she hissed, and there was a sharp, searing pain in Valerie’s throat. She cried out once, then fell, and was only dimly aware of Anna recoiling and slithering, writhing away across the room.
At the same time there was the crash of glass. One of the windows showered inwards. Cool air blew across Valerie’s face as she tried to get up to her knees.
“Cold,” cried a mournful, wailing voice. It was Anna, twisting away in a contortion of pain. “So cold . . .”
Outside the room there was a splintering sound. Then the door rocked as someone smashed a shoulder against it.
“Valerie!”
“In here,” she croaked desperately.
The door shuddered again. Another few panes of glass tinkled to the floor, and Tom Bailey was framed in the jagged outline of the broken window. His way was blocked by iron bars on the inside.
“Cold!” moaned Anna.
She shrank in on herself. As Tom kicked more glass out of the way and the wind howled in, she whipped into a coil and sank to the floor.
The door gave way. Harry stumbled in and threw himself down beside Valerie.
“My darling . . .”
There was a pain in her shoulder but it wasn’t spreading. Her head was clear. She struggled up.
“Harry, I’m not hurt. Why? I’m . . . not hurt.”
“Get her out, before it’s too late,” Tom bellowed from the window.
Smoke billowed in through the door from the hall. Harry took Valerie’s hand and together they walked into the acrid fumes. From below there was a mad shrieking and caterwauling. A few little furry creatures scuttered up from the cellar. The cage doors must have sprung open. But there must be others. There was Katie.
Valerie said: “I’ve got to go down.”
The smoke stung her throat and made her eyes stream. Blindly she groped her way against a rising wave of heat. Flames licked out across the cellar as she reached it, and Harry was bellowing in her ear. She paid no attention. Maddened, he groped out through the choking fumes, and she heard his hands smack into a cage door. He understood at once. They wrenched doors open and heard maddened little animals leap out and squeal away. She tore at one cage after another until Katie’s anguished screeches drew her closer. Then she opened the door and grabbed the cat.
“All right!” Harry was shouting. “All right—we’ve got to go!”
They were coughing and weeping. Fire belched in a great fury after them as they fumbled their way back up the steps. Katie dug claws into Valerie’s arm but she was hardly aware of them.
In the unholy light they saw Franklyn’s body slumped beside the door of his sanctum. The m
outh was twisted into a grimace. Harry grunted as though recognizing this, and pulled Valerie along with him.
“He’s gone,” he said. “Gone.”
Black smoke rolled over the blackening, distorted features.
Tom was waiting impatiently at the front door.
“Hurry—the whole building could go up any minute.”
They tripped over the weeds, floundered away from the house towards the plantation, and stopped in the shade of the trees.
There was little to be seen. A deep, incongruously inviting glow burned red beyond two or three of the windows, but at first there was no sound and no other indication of anything wrong. Then there was a faint, ominous creaking. A humming sound swelled into a roaring, crackling pulsation. One of the windows reddened too violently to be welcoming; and at last a great flame licked out into the night.
Valerie clutched Harry’s hand.
“How did you know—what made you come?”
“You can thank Tom for that,” said Harry grimly. “He came to see you and report. And you weren’t there. And I was awake, wondering where you’d got to.”
The windows were all ablaze with horrifying speed. The dark hulk of the house became bright. Flames twisted in the wind like the twisting shape of Anna. The cold that had struck her down gave way to a scorching heat that would swallow up the last traces of her and her father.
Instinctively Valerie strained forward as though to hurl herself back into the house. But there would be no rescue missions: there was no point in rescuing that poor accursed creature. Harry held firm, and the three of them watched as smoke and flame reached up towards the night sky.
Fire was purifying the neighborhood. The terrible spell would be burnt away.
“What I can’t understand,” said Valerie in a subdued voice almost drowned by the roaring inferno, “is why I’m not hurt. She . . . she struck me—but there hasn’t been any effect.”
“She killed her father,” said Harry.
“Yes, but—”
“A snake can’t strike twice in that time,” said Tom. “Not to do any damage, that is.”
Valerie stared into the mounting flames until her eyes ached. Then she turned away, and Harry’s firm hand on her arm guided her back towards the cottage. The landscape was illuminated by the blaze. Tomorrow she would study it in sunlight. Tomorrow and all the days after that, she would learn to know the land from which at last a curse had been lifted.
