As soon as he fell asleep, he experienced a hideous nightmare. He dreamed that a persistent scratching sound woke him up, that he arose, lit a candle and looked at the chest. The protruding finger showed just under the lid and this time it was galvanized with an excess of life. It twisted and turned, drummed, with its thick knuckle, scratched frantically with its flat black nail. At length, as if it suddenly became aware of his presence, it became perfectly still —and then very deliberately beckoned for him to approach. Flooded with horror, he nevertheless found himself unable to disobey. Setting down the candle, he slowly crossed the room like an automaton. The monstrous beckoning finger drew him on like some infernal magnet which attracted human flesh instead of metal.
As he reached the chest, the finger darted inside and the lid immediately lifted. Overwhelmed with terror and yet utterly unable to stop himself, he stepped into the chest, sat down, drew his knees up to his chin and turned onto his side. A second later the lid slammed shut and he heard the iron key turn in the lock.
At this point in the nightmare he awoke with a ringing scream. He sat up in bed and felt the sweat of fear running down his face. In spite of his nightmare —or because of it— he dared not get up and switch, on the light. Instead, he burrowed under the bed clothes and lay wide awake till morning.
After he had regained some measure of self composure, he went out for black coffee and then, instead of reporting to his job, rode across town to the modest home of a truck driver and mover whom he had hired at various times in the past. After some quite detailed and specific plans had been agreed upon, he paid the mover ten dollars and departed with a promise to pay him an equal amount when the job was done. After lunch, considerably relieved, he went to work.
***
He entered his room that evening with a confident air, but as soon as he looked around, his heart sank. Contrary to instructions, the mover had not picked up the chest. It remained in the corner, just where it had been.
This time Maax was more depressed than angry. He sought out a telephone and called up the mover. The man was profusely apologetic. His truck had broken down, he explained, just as he was starting out to pick up the chest. The repairs were nearly completed however, and he would absolutely be out to carry off the chest the first thing in the morning.
Since there was nothing else he could do, Maax thanked him and hung up. Finding himself unusually reluctant to return to his room, he ate a leisurely dinner at a nearby restaurant and later attended a movie; After the movie he stopped and had a hot chocolate. It was nearly midnight before he got back to his room.
In spite of his nightmare of the previous evening, he found himself looking forward to bed. He had lost almost an entire night’s sleep and he was beginning to feel the strain.
After assuring himself that the calamander chest was securely locked, he slipped the iron key under his pillow and got into bed. In spite of his uneasiness he soon fell asleep.
Some hours later he awoke suddenly and sat up. His heart was pounding. For a moment he was hot aware of what had awakened him—then he heard it. A furious scratching, tapping, thumping sound came from one corner of the room.
Trembling violently, he got out of bed, crossed the room and pressed the button on his reading lamp. Nothing happened. Either the electricity was shut off, or the light bulb had burned out.
He pulled open a drawer of the lamp stand, and frantically searched for a candle. By the time he found one and applied a match to its wick, the scratching sound had redoubled in intensity. The entire room seemed filled with it.
Shuddering, She lifted the candle and started across the room toward the calamander chest. As the wavering light of the candle flickered into the far corner, he saw the finger.
It protruded far out of the chest and it was writhing with furious life. It thrummed and twisted, dug at the chest with its horrible black nail, tapped and turned in an absolute frenzy of movement.
Suddenly, as he advanced, it became absolutely still. It hung down limp. Engulfed with terror, Maax was convinced that it had become aware of his approach and was now watching him.
When he was halfway across the room, the finger slowly lifted and deliberately beckoned to him. With a rush of renewed horror Maax remembered the ghastly events of his dream. Yet —as in the nightmare— he found himself utterly unable to disobey that diabolical summons. He continued on like a man in a trance....
***
Early the next morning the mover and his assistant were let into Maax’s room by the landlady. Maax had apparently already left for work, but there was no need of his presence since he had already, given the mover detailed instructions in regard to the disposal of the chest.
The chest, locked but without a key, stood in one corner of the room. The melted wax remains of a candle, burned to the end of its wick, lay nearby.
The landlady shook her head. “A good way to burn the house down,” she complained. "Ill have to speak to Mr. Maax. Not like him to be so careless.”
The movers, burdened with the chest, paid no attention to her. The assistant growled as they started down the stairs. "Must be lined with lead. Never knew a chest so heavy before!” "Heavy wood,” his companion commented shortly, not wishing to waste his breath.
"Wonder why he’s dumpin’ such a good chest?” the assistant asked later as the truck approached an abandoned quarry near the edge of town.
The chief mover glanced at him slyly. "I guess I know,” he said. "He bought it of Jason Kinkle. And Kinkle never told him the story on it. But he found out later I figure—and that’s why he’s pitchin’ it.”
The assistant's interest picked up. “What’s the story?” he asked!
They drove into the quarry grounds and got out of the truck.
“Kinkle bought it dirt cheap at an auction,” the mover explained as they lifted out the chest. "Auction of old Henry Stubberton’s furniture.”
The assistant’s eyes widened as they started up a steep slope with the chest. "You mean the Stubberton they found murdered in a...”
“In a chest!” the mover finished for him. "This chest!”
Neither spoke again until they set down the chest at the edge of a steep quarry shaft.
Glancing down at the deep water which filled the bottom of the shaft, the mover wiped the sweat from his face. “A pretty sight they say he was. All doubled up and turnin’ black. Seems he wasn’t dead when they shut him in though. They say he must have tried to claw his way out! When they opened the chest, they found one of his fingers jammed up under the lid, near, the lock! Tried to pick the lock with his fingernail, it looked like!”
The assistant shuddered. "Let’s be rid of it then. It’s bad luck sure!”
The mover nodded. "Take hold and shove.”
They strained together and in another second the calamander chest slipped over the edge of the quarry and hurtled toward the pool of black water far below. There was one terrific splash and then it sank from sight like a stone.
"That’s good riddance and another tenner for me,” the mover commented.
Oddly enough however, he never collected the tenner, for after that day Mr. Ernest Maax dropped completely out of sight. He was never seen nor heard of again. The disgruntled mover, never on the best of terms with the police, shrugged off -the loss of the tenner and 'neglected to report the disposal of the chest. And since the landlady had never learned the mover’s name, nor where he intended taking the chest, her sparse information was of no help in the search.
The police concluded that Maax had gotten into some scrape, changed his name, and effected a permanent change of locale.
The Hunt
(1958)
As he entered the cold, dimly lighted waiting room of the railroad station at Newbridge, Mr. Oricto decided it was the most desolate place in the world. Everything depressed him: the harsh overhead lights, the cold stone floor, and the blackened uncomfortable benches.
Except for himself, the station appeared to be deserted. Frowning,
he set his bag on the floor and sat down. He was late and his train was late. He would have to make the best of an hour's delay. It was a dismal prospect.
Small of frame, nervous and middle-aged, he experienced a disquieting sensation of isolation, of vulnerability, as he glanced around the big barren room. Ordinarily his rather large ears and pendulous cheeks gave him a comical appearance, but now he looked merely pathetic.
He was aware of an inexplicable feeling of apprehension. He could not account for it. Newbridge was a reasonably large town, there must be people moving about in the station area.
But it was quite late and — Suddenly he froze. Someone standing in the shadows at the far end of the room was watching him. This person was leaning against the back of one of the benches, head on arms, and he appeared to be examining Mr. Oricto with curious intensity.
Mr. Oricto's heart began pounding between his frail ribs. He stared back fearfully, repelled yet fascinated.
Although his eyes started to water, he was unable to withdraw his gaze. As he watched, the object of his unwilling scrutiny moved along the bench and drifted into the light.
For some reason, which he dared not analyze, Mr. Oricto was seized with near panic. To a casual observer there might have been little in the other's appearance to warrant such a reaction. The man was neatly groomed. He was even smaller in frame than Mr. Oricto. A disinterested party would have concluded there was nothing at all remarkable or noteworthy about him. He might even be called nondescript.
But Mr. Oricto found him appalling. The stranger's questing eyes, his look of lean muscularity, and his restless, head-lifting mannerism were alarming in themselves. His quick, concentrated interest in Mr. Oricto was scarcely short of terrifying.
Without thinking, without even waiting to weigh the result of his action, Mr. Oricto grabbed his bag and hustled toward the platform door. He almost, but not quite, ran.
Hurrying to the very end of the platform, he set down his bag and looked back. He saw no one.
His heart gradually slowed in its beat. He expelled a long shaken sigh. How timid and jittery he had suddenly become! He really must get a grip on himself. He had lost sleep lately; his nerves must be a bit frayed. The stranger had probably wanted to strike up a conversation, nothing more.
But while he reasoned with himself, some secret part of him remained chilled and frightened. He could not bring himself to leave the far end of the platform.
A few drops of rain struck his face. Staring around, he saw that there was no one in sight in any direction. The station might as well have been located in the middle of a wilderness. Glancing at his watch, he realized that he still had forty minutes to wait.
Rain came down harder, drumming against the wooden walk boards. A skimpy length of roof covered that portion of the platform adjacent to the waiting room, but it ended yards from the place where Mr. Oricto was standing.
As the rain increased he began inching back toward this roof. He was almost under its sheltering edge when he saw the stranger standing just outside the waiting room doors. Mr. Oricto had not seen him come out; he had not noticed the doors swing open. But there he was, nevertheless.
Mr. Oricto stopped instantly, stricken with renewed trepidation. The lean stranger made no move toward him, but Mr. Oricto was convinced that he was being subjected to a sly and inimical scrutiny.
In spite of cold sheets of rain flung by a rising wind, he hurried once again to the far end of the station platform.
The rain came down in torrents, soaking through his clothes, running down his face in rivulets. He felt sure that the stranger, standing dry under the platform roof, was vastly entertained by his predicament. Once he thought he heard a soft chuckle, but perhaps it was only the wind.
He could not reason with himself. His unwelcome platform companion had not actually made a single overt and hostile move or comment, yet his mere presence imbued Mr. Oricto with marrow-deep dread. The bone-chilling fear could not be analyzed away; it seemed tangible, a pregnant menace that filled the station platform like a black pall.
At intervals the rain slackened. In these brief periods of respite, Mr. Oricto shook his soaked hat, mopped the water from his face, and generally attempted to regain some small measure of dignity.
In one of these intervals, as he drew his handkerchief from his face, he was horrified to observe that the stranger had left his post near the waiting room doors and advanced halfway down the platform toward him.
He stood petrified with fear. The stranger inched forward, moving his feet very slowly, very deliberately. His small head, thrust forward on a rather long neck, was pointed at Mr. Oricto like an arrow. His eyes held Mr. Oricto's in an unwavering stare.
Mr. Oricto wanted to bolt away, to leap from the platform and run blindly down the railroad tracks. That was one thing he had always been good at — running. But his legs might as well have been jelly, they could not respond to the panicky prompting of his will.
He opened his mouth to scream. Just then there was a sudden sweep of lights, a subdued roaring, and his train rushed into view around a curve.
The stranger hesitated. For one nightmare instant he seemed about to lunge forward. Then he straightened up, turned, and strolled back toward the waiting room.
Never in his life had Mr. Oricto been so overjoyed to see a train arrive. He ran toward the track, grateful, inexpressibly relieved, blessing the steel behemoth sent out of the night to save him.
As he swung aboard, he shot a quick look in both directions. With immense relief, he saw that no one else appeared to be getting on.
The train did not stop long in Newbridge. It was a virtual express to Porthaven, and Newbridge was an unimportant stop along the way, the last stop, in fact, before Porthaven. By the time Mr. Oricto got his bag in the overhead rack, the train was once again rushing through the rainy night.
He sprawled in his seat, feeling weak, chilled, and exhausted. Never before had he experienced such nameless fear, such acute and overpowering apprehension. He did not dare to think what might have happened if the train had not arrived when it did.
The conductor came through the otherwise empty car, took his ticket to Porthaven, gave him a lingering, puzzled look, and passed through to the next car.
The relative warmth of the train coupled with his sense of escape lulled him a little. He lay back with his eyes closed. Gradually his heart stopped hammering, he began to breathe normally again.
Rain cascaded against the train windows, blurring the few lights that cut the outside darkness.
Mr. Oricto roused himself. Probably get the devil of a cold, he reflected. Well, he'd read that one should drink a lot of water for a cold. He got up, shakily, and stood in the aisle, appalled at his weakness. Making his uneven way to the water cooler, he filled a paper cup with water. After drinking three cupfuls, he swung around to return to his seat.
He stopped in his tracks. The lean stranger was lounging in a seat halfway down the car. His countenance bore an amused expression but his eyes drilled into Mr. Oricto's like needles of steel.
For a panic-filled second Mr. Oricto almost yielded to an urgent impulse. He wanted to whirl about and rush through the forward cars until he had put as much distance as possible between himself and his pursuer.
A few unaffected cells of his frightened brain assured him that he would look ridiculous. What would the conductors think? The other passengers? And what about his bag lying there in the rack? It held some of his treasured possessions. Was he going to abandon it because an unpleasant stranger was rude enough to keep staring at him?
Reluctantly, crowding down his panic, he returned to his seat. Part of his brain was still screaming at him to run, to flee while there was time; but once back in the seat, he could not bring himself to move.
Rain sluiced against the windows. Colored lights made occasional brief kaleidoscopes, and then solid darkness closed in again.
Mr. Oricto sat as if paralyzed. He dared not turn his head, but he could f
eel the probing gaze of the other on the back of his neck. A cold shudder corkscrewed down his spine.
If only the conductor would return!
Fighting off a feeling of hypnotic helplessness, which seemed to be seeping into every fiber of him, he tried to plan ahead.
When the train neared Porthaven, he would quickly take his bag and hurry to the door. He would leap off the train as soon as it entered the station, perhaps even before it stopped. Then he would run. He had no qualms about it now. He would run, furiously, unashamedly, through the station, across the street, and around the corner where a taxi should be waiting. Once inside the taxi, he would be safe. He would offer the driver extra money to speed away at a fast rate. A few minutes later he would be secure in his rooms.
Once his plans were formulated, he felt better. Then a new idea struck him and fear returned. Did he imagine it, or was the other actually reading his thoughts? Was everything going on in his head quite apparent? Were those unwavering eyes drilling right through his skull into the secret area of his mental processes?
Mr. Oricto felt that they were. Growing fear harried him, yet he could think of no alternate plan. He would have to depend on his speed, on his fleetness afoot. There was a good chance that he would make it.
As the train neared Porthaven, he got up and lifted his bag from the rack. He stood trembling as the express shot toward the station. He knew the other's eyes were fastened on him. A wave of panic, of terrifying weakness, swept over him.
Will power alone drove him on rubbery legs to the train door. The station slid into view. He was down the metal steps. He leaped. The inertia of the moving train spun him around. Fighting to hold his bag and maintain his balance, he did a grotesque little jig.
Straightening out of it, he glanced fearfully up the platform. The lean stranger had already left the train. He was coming swiftly down the boardwalk.
Collected Stories and Poems Page 5
