Collected Stories (4.1)

by R. Chetwynd-Hayes

The countess did not come down until dinner time the following day, and Gore, whose curiosity was now tinged with a feeling of unexplainable dread, eyed her ravaged face anxiously. Outwardly, at least, she was calm; a black dress draped her slim form, and a matching scarf covered the whole of her head, being tied in a know under her chin. She ate little, but drank much, emptying glass after glass of fiery Tuscan wine that Gore found barely palatable. The wine brought no colour to her cheeks, but it loosened her tongue, played havoc with her usually precise English.

  "So, little Chu-Chu, you worry about me. Greselda say you worry a lot, want to call doctor. That is true, yes?”

  "I was concerned about you,” Gore nodded, and rather to his surprise, realised he spoke the truth. “If you are ill, you should see a doctor."

  "You know nothing about it”, she shouted at him, her eyes blazing.

  "Careful, Madam," Greselda warned.

  "Why for I be careful? He already damned. He no talk."

  Greselda shrugged and continued to watch Gore, with, he suddenly realised, an amused, half-pitying expression.

  The countess drank in quick succession two more glasses of wine, then her head came up so that the curls of her wig danced

  "Greselda get out."

  "As Madam commands." The woman quietly left the room, but as she turned to close the door her eyes met Gore's over the countess’s muffled head, and now the amused, pitying expression was unmistakable.

  "So," the countess belched and drank some more wine, "you worry about me. Can it be that you have some regard for me that is not entirely dependent on my cheque book? If so, it would not be for the first time. Pity and love are twin sisters. One can hardly tell one from the other. Why do you not speak, my Chu-Chu?"

  Gore did not know why he could not speak; could not explain the cold paralysing numbness that was rising up from his feet, so that he could not move a muscle; was not, in a few moments, able to flicker an eyelid. But his eyes could see, even if they could not as yet relay to his brain, what they saw. But somehow the countess was changing. Then she spoke again.

  "This wine. I drink, it goes down to my tummy, and there it enters my blood, and the heart, it pumps up to my head and my brain - it becomes woozy, and cares for nothing anymore. But this good wine, it do not stop there, it goes higher, and lots of other little brains becomes woozy, and..." She leant a little further over the table, and spoke in a loud whisper "... they begin to wriggle."

  Gore could not move, could not speak, but his heart had the power to race, to thud, to almost choke him, and his eyes could see the scarf-covered head.

  It was heaving slightly. Like a pool of spilt milk, rippled by a gentle wind, little waves of silk rose and fell; just over her forehead a tapering peak grew upwards, eased the scarf back, then sank down again. A hole came into being, and from it a tiny strand of auburn hair tumbled out. The scarf was alive now, jumping, writhing, the knot under her chin tightened, her cheeks squeezed inwards, and her head assumed an egg-shaped appearance. The auburn wig was escaping from under the scarf, twisting, jerking, seemingly angry at its confinement; then the countess whispered again.

  "I would not allow Greselda to cut them any more. The pain is too great, and they grow stronger every time.”

  A tiny, diamond-shaped head came from under the wig, it wriggled down over her forehead, then flicked a minute forked tongue. Another slithered out over her left temple, closely followed by another, and then another, until she had a nightmare fringe of finger-thin snakes, coiling, twisting, waving, and glaring with microscopic blood-red eyes.

  "You still worry for me?"

  Slowly she untied the knot under her chin, and jerked the scarf away. Then, her teeth bared in a mirthless grin, she raised both hands, and removed the wig. They all reared up and waved their heads. Rooted in red, boil-like bulges, they had blue-veined skins, lightly covered with delicate golden hair; those at the front were thin, and averaged some four inches in length, while those further back were thicker, much longer, and overlay the short, stubby ones that coated the skull base, and hung down over the neck.

  The wine the countess had consumed was beginning to have its affect. The entire hideous mop was threshing wildly, several heads were fighting among themselves, others were becoming hopelessly entangled, and the countess picked up a carving knife.

  “Chu-Chu," she presented the knife to him, handle foremost, "be a good boy - cut my hair."

  He sat, a motionless statue, paralysed in every limb, unable to move his head or close his eyes, but his lips could still part, and he screamed. One long-drawn-out scream.

  The door opened, and Greselda came in carrying her kidney-shaped dish and cut-throat razor; she walked calmly over to the countess, and laid the dish down upon the table.

  "Do not be so foolish, Madam," she said in English, "let me cut them off. You know if I don't, they will grow right down to your waist "

  The still statue that was Gore opened its mouth and screamed again.

  "He does not love me," the countess said sadly. "I thought he did. But he has broken his poor little sanity."

  Greselda gathered up a bunch of snakes in her left hand, then applied the razor.

  The countess and Gore screamed together.

  Don't Go Up Them Stairs

  (1971)

  Grandfather said he was never to go upstairs.

  By “upstairs” he meant, of course, the second flight, the uncarpeted treads that led to the gable attic. His mother also stressed this unquestionable order in no uncertain terms: “Never, never, go up them stairs.”

  These were the first words he learnt to utter when still in the pram stage, not all at once of course. First it was: “Nev-er,” that drooled off his baby tongue, then: “Go-o-o,” followed by: “’em stai-r-rs”, in a few months. “Mama” came afterwards, “Dadda” was never an issue — he was dead.

  Lionel was ten before he began to consider the implication of this order. He could go to school, go to the pictures, go to visit Aunt Matilda, who lived two miles away, but he could never — not if he lived to a hundred — go upstairs to the attic. It was like Adam being told he must keep off apples. One day he approached his mother when she was in the midst of jam making.

  “Why?" he asked.

  “Why not?’ she snapped, being in that kind of mood.

  “Why can’t I go upstairs to the attic?"

  Her plump face turned to the colour of unbaked pastry, so that the veins in her cheeks looked like streaks of strawberry jam.

  “What did you say?”

  Lionel’s courage evaporated, and he muttered, “Nothing”, but it was too late, he was seized by his shirt collar and dragged into the presence of his grandfather who was dozing before the living room fire.

  “He asked me why,” his mother gasped in a voice that could scarce be heard.

  “Why!” Grandfather’s faded old man’s eyes gleamed with fear, his mouth sagged as though he were about to cry, then he was on Lionel, cuffing him about the ears, but without much force, for he was very frail.

  “You-don’t-ask-why.” He screamed the words, and Mother admonished tearfully, “Careful, Dad, you’ll do yourself an injury,” whereupon the old man returned to his chair panting like a worn-out steam engine.

  “Never ask why again,” he nodded weakly, “just never go up them stairs.”

  This outburst must have hastened the work done by umpteen years (no one knew how old Grandfather was), for one morning, just over a week later, Mother found grandfather dead in his bed. Two men came and put him in a coffin, which was laid on two trestles in the front, to-be-used-only-on-special-occasions, room. Strange uncles and aunts, the existence of whom Lionel up to that time never suspected, came to pay their last respects. There was much drinking of grocer’s sherry and munching of biscuits; Lionel, scrubbed, brushed, and imprisoned in a tight black suit, sipped his lemonade, and wondered why they had all come so early, after all the funeral was not for two days yet. Aunt Matilda was there, a vast bundle o
f lavender and old lace, for she weighed all of eighteen stone; her false teeth were continually slipping which gave her a somewhat sardonic, amused expression, not at all in keeping with the occasion.

  “How’s you like to stay with yer old auntie?” she enquired, after ruffling his hair, an operation which irritated him exceedingly.

  “All right,” he conceded with reluctance.

  It so happened he was spared this particular ordeal; news came some two hours later that a branch of the Tabernacle of Divine Wrestlers had burnt Aunt Matilda’s cottage down. Mother looked particularly worried and tried to palm him off on the other uncles and aunts, but with no success.

  “Give him a black D-R-A-U-G-H-T,” advised Aunt Matilda, who seemed in no way put out by the destruction of her home, “’e’ll never hear a thing.”

  They both overlooked the fact that Lionel could spell.

  Mother was not a good actress. The next day she made continual and loud comments, stating he looked poorly, and how much good a nice basin of broth would do him, if consumed just before bedtime. She also unwisely added how well he’d sleep afterwards. When she was outside hanging up the washing Lionel inspected the kitchen. Apart from minced chicken, onions and chopped vegetables, there was a quantity of black powder in a white envelope. This he washed down the sink, and substituted black pepper in its place, then ran back to the living room just as Mother came back with her empty washing basket.

  That evening all the uncles and aunts came back and a red-faced man who had been introduced as Uncle Arthur arrived with a wheelbarrow filled with bricks. Mother in a loud stage whisper told him to put them round the back, adding, quite unnecessarily, that “little jugs had big eyes”. Then they all sat round and watched Lionel drink his broth.

  “Lucky boy,” bellowed Aunt Matilda, “I only wish somebody would make me some nice broth."

  “Luvly stuff.” Uncle Arthur smacked his lips. “Makes me mouth water, it does.”

  It is extremely doubtful if their appreciation would have lasted beyond the first sip; the pepper had made the broth very hot, and Lionel's mouth felt sore by the time he had emptied the basin.

  “Feel sleepy, son?" enquired Mother.

  “Yes," lied Lionel.

  Everyone gave a sigh of relief, and there was quite a procession to escort him to bed. He was tucked in, kissed a disgusting number of times, then they all trooped out, but Lionel had a suspicion someone was posted outside his door, if not indeed peering through the keyhole, to report progress. He closed his eyes and even snored in what he hoped was a realistic manner. The door creaked open, footsteps tip-toed across the room, and Lionel was gently shaken.

  “You asleep, son?” asked Mother.

  Lionel snored even louder, and fought down a traitorous sneeze.

  “Is 'e off?" enquired Aunt Matilda’s voice from the doorway.

  “Like a tombstone,” Mother replied. “He’ll be under for eight hours at least.”

  They left him and locked the door, unmindful that a rim lock has screws on the inside which are easily removed by a penknife, a present from Grandfather last Hallowe’en.

  There was an awful lot of bumping in the front room, and the door was obligingly ajar. Two uncles were lifting Grandfather out of his coffin, and after they had laid him on the floor, they began to fill the coffin with bricks which Uncle Arthur was passing through the open window. The entire family, if they were related, were attired in strange costumes. Mother and all the aunties wore tall black tapering hats, and long matching dresses, while the uncles were naked, save for a knee-length black apron. Presently the coffin was filled with bricks and Uncle Arthur, after climbing in through the window and closing it after him, started to screw down the lid, while everyone else intoned a dirge that sounded to Lionel something like this.

  "Grandfather was with us, long, long, long,

  Now he has gone, gone, gone,

  Where did he go, go, go?

  Down where the dark river flow, flow, flow.

  Now his body is dead, dead, dead,

  But the Black One must be, fed, fed, fed.

  Give him meat to munch, munch, munch,

  And lovely bones to crunch, crunch, crunch.”

  Uncle Arthur had finished screwing the lid back, and they lifted Grandfather, who looked very frail and cold in his white flannel nightgown, and laid him on the coffin. They now joined hands and danced round the corpse, this time singing a rather gay little tune that sounded rather like “Knees Up Mother Brown.”

  "Upstairs we all must go,

  He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho,

  All must be done just so-so,

  He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho.

  Do we fry his liver, braise his lights?

  He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho.

  Bake his kidneys, stew his tripes,

  He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho.

  No, the Black One likes 'em raw,

  He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho,

  He’s waiting for us behind the door,

  He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho.

  Now together let us sing,

  He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho.

  Black one's dinner we do bring,

  He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho."

  The dancers took a much needed rest; Aunt Matilda was puffing and panting in a most alarming manner; Uncle Arthur was leaning on Grandfather’s feet, until Mother gave him an angry push that sent him sprawling. Lionel would have laughed if it had not been for their eyes. Even when they were singing their silly little ditty their eyes were bright — glazed with horror; smiles were grimaces, mouths twitched, hands trembled. Uncle Arthur clambered to his feet, then looked upwards in one revealing glance. Everyone repeated the movement; Aunt Matilda gave utterance.

  “We must go up.”

  Lionel fled, ran up the stairs silently on bare feet, to take refuge in his bedroom and listen behind his unlocked door. There came the tramp of feet, the thump-thump of the heavily laden, the creak of protesting stairboards, and something moved in the room above. A slithering, followed by a soft bumping, then as the procession on the stairs began to intone yet another dirge, whatever was above started to dance.

  "Black One, Black One, here we come,

  Bearing something for your old turn,

  Grandad's ripe and ready now.

  Come out quick, and get your chow."

  The ceiling shook, a picture moved, and the noise above became a patter of sheer joy. Grandfather and his escort passed Lionel’s door and carried on up the second flight. Lionel waited. There was a bump on the top landing, the family came running downstairs so fast someone slipped and tumbled down the last few steps; the dancing ceased and a heavy tread crossed the ceiling. The murmur of subdued voices below indicated the family were waiting also, and Lionel gently pulled his door open and peered out. A black candle was burning on the bottom stair of the second flight. It spluttered, and gave out a thin plum of white smoke, then the door of the attic creaked open and a strong draught blew the candle out. The family chanted again as Lionel closed his door.

  "Ugly Black One up above,

  Accept this offering with our love.

  But come not down, stay up there.

  And we'll remain just where we were."

  There was a terrible silence, and Lionel knew, even if he did not understand, that some very important decision would be reached during the next minute. Downstairs someone began to cry, then Uncle Arthur swore; both sounds were frozen when a crash made the banisters tremble, followed at once by a swift dragging, a taking-away; but Lionel knew it was Grandfather being pulled into the attic, for the sound continued on over his ceiling. A door slammed, and the family sent their sigh of relief shivering up the stairs.

  They all dispersed shortly afterwards, save for Aunt Matilda and Mother. Lionel had only just screwed the lock back into place when he heard them coming up the stairs; he got into bed and turned over on to one side, shutting his eyes tight when the key turned.

  “Is he still asleep?’ Aunt Matilda's whisper was a muted shout. “Is he still under?’

  “Yes," Mother wa
s leaning over him, “the black draught will keep him still as a week old corpse till daybreak."

  “When will you tell him?’

  “Not until he’s fourteen.” Mother straightened up. “I think he’ll have a real bent for it then.”

  “Sure, ’e’s a natural," Aunt Matilda chuckled, “them green eyes. And the way his ears taper. He’ll be lording it over his own B.M. before you know it.”

  Mother shut the door when she left but did not lock it, and Lionel lay awake and listened. There was much movement in the attic above; soft thuds with an occasional thump, and once a loud bang as though something heavy had been dropped on the floor. Two hours or more had passed before he decided it was safe to climb out of bed and approach the door. The black candle had been relit and its flickering flame fought the writhing shadows in a losing battle. Aunt Matilda, who must be sharing Mother’s bed, sent out reassuring snores, and even Mother confirmed her state of unconsciousness by a spasmodic snort.

  Lionel took up the black candle and slowly mounted the stairs. He was not afraid, only tensed by excitement; at last he would know why he must not, or rather, should not, “go up them stairs". The top landing was festooned with cobwebs, the floor carpeted by dust in which lat the imprint of Grandfather’s form, plus a long path along which the corpse had been dragged to the black- painted door. Lionel put his candle down, and pressed his ear to the keyhole.

  Something was munching; there was a sharp crack followed by a sucking sound, then a soft ripping like thick felt being torn. Lionel peered through the keyhole, but it was pitch black inside, and he could not see a thing.

  He did not mean to open the door, for commonsensc told him such an action would be asking for trouble, but he could not help himself. His hand crept up to the handle of its own accord, the muscles in his wrist hardened, and then, before his brain had time to flash out a panic-inspired order, the handle turned and the door slid open. The candlelight attacked the inner darkness, and was at once repelled. A graveyard smell came to him, and with it memory of things which breed in old and forgotten tombs; life that is born of death corruption and must never see the light of day. He retreated a few steps, and the candlelight, grateful for this small respite, came with him. A soft padding thumping was approaching from the inner darkness, and a deep shadow shape turned to a dirty white. It was lean and tall, clad in a long gown made from unbleached linen shrouds; the face was green-white and shone with a soft luminous light; the eyes were white, pupiless pools, and it had no nose — only two holes. It shuffled out on to the landing, right into the cirle of yellow light, and reaching out a skeleton hand, opened its black-toothed mouth: