Shadows at Midnight.: The Maynard Sims Library. Vol 1

by Maynard Sims

  The chanting was soft, like an echo, gently lulling to the ear. Derbyshire pressed against the window, shielding his eyes with his hand so that he could see beyond the glass. The light from the moon shone onto the wet grass, glistening like crystal. The woods were a dark mass of shifting leaves, impossible to see into.

  Determined to find the culprits responsible for the disturbance, he went into the garden with a torch, and began to search. Several times he thought he saw a figure in the bushes, but when he looked closer there was no one there, just the wind. The sound became quieter while he stood there, and very soon it ceased altogether. He let the torch hang by his side as he looked into the darkness to confirm there was nothing to be seen. The rain had eased but the night was quite chill. By the edge of the grass he had cut, the torch was reflected on something shiny. At first he thought it was just water caught in the uncut grass, but when he bent to examine the ground he discovered a piece of tattered black material, smooth and soft, like old silk.

  Puzzled but untroubled, he walked back to the house, the material in his pocket. For some reason he glanced up at the window. In the dark passage there was a flickering light as if someone was holding a candle. Derbyshire ran upstairs, looked in each room and up and down the passageway. There was nothing, nor anyone to be seen. The light must have been a reflection from the moon distorted by the poor weather.

  Before going to bed he looked out of the window. The garden still appeared strange, and it had begun to rain heavily. Then he saw a group of people seeming to come out of the house. There were ten or eleven of them, mostly men, but they were dragging between them a finely dressed woman. Though the group was silent, the woman was struggling and screaming, catching her feet in the ground until several of the men pulled at her violently, tearing the hem of her black silk dress. From a stout oak a knotted rope was swinging in the wind. The men dragged the woman to the tree. While three held her, and the rope was attached, the others stood watching. The deed done, the group dispersed.

  Derbyshire looked nervously over his shoulder. When he looked out again the rain had gone, the normality of the garden had replaced it, a few damp brown leaves blowing across the grass. Then he saw, standing tall and proud, a woman dressed in a long black silk dress of no modern design. Shaken he gripped the window ledge as she walked calmly into the woods. He slept not at all that night, but stayed sitting in his room until morning. When morning came there was nothing but his recollection to evidence what he had witnessed. His medication was strong these days and he did not always trust his memory.

  The weather fell colder. Dark nights began to draw in, isolating the house. The trees in the woods formed a desolate barrier preventing any lights from the village slipping through. Derbyshire was content with his books and relaxation. He began his memoirs in a half-hearted fashion, satisfied with the life of rest he was leading, happy enough to be able to ignore nagging doubts and mystery. He took the newspapers to keep up with the world, but in truth the world's troubles were not his; he had all the comforts he required. For days at a time he remained in the house, seeing only his cleaning lady and the grocer. He could afford to deceive himself about the occasional occurrence.

  One evening there was a knock at the door. He was not expecting anyone, and he was disgruntled at being disturbed.

  It was the estate agent. "Good evening, sir. Just thought I would drop by to see how you are settling in."

  Derbyshire grunted: "Very kind; all part of the service?"

  "No, no, I was just passing and wondered if everything was all right."

  "Of course it is, why shouldn't it be? The house is quite adequate. Did you expect anything to happen?"

  The man laughed too quickly. "Good Lord no, been in the business too long that's my trouble, can't make my meaning clear any more."

  Derbyshire had a twinge of conscience about his abrupt manner and asked the man in for a drink. He hoped he would refuse but he didn't. As he entered the house the man made some remarks about the dog having the run of the place. With a dislike of most animals it was extremely unlikely that Derbyshire would keep a dog, and he told the man so.

  "That's odd then," the man said. "I wonder what made these?"

  He pointed to the front door, where a series of deep scratches had removed the weather resistant polish, and splintered the hard surface.

  "Looks like some poor thing was frantic to get in from the cold."

  Derbyshire fingered the scratches. "That's the first time I have seen them. Damned brute, pity I didn't catch it or else I should have seen it off with my gun."

  "Go in for hunting, do you?" the estate agent said as he settled into an armchair, a drink in his hand.

  "When I was abroad it was our main method of relaxation. Tiger, antelope, even shot a crocodile when I was stationed by the Nile."

  The conversation drifted generally for a few minutes, until the man noticed Derbyshire's growing impatience, and he stood to leave.

  "Well, I'm glad everything is all right," he said, as though there were more to say.

  "I see no reason why it shouldn't be," Derbyshire said firmly.

  "Not at all, no reason at all." Although it sounded as if he did know of a reason.

  "Come on," Derbyshire prompted. "You obviously have something you want to say. I don't shock easily, so you can unburden your secret."

  The man seemed relieved to speak freely. "It's just village gossip really, but the stories have been circulating for years."

  "What stories?" Derbyshire demanded.

  "You see the real reason the window was bricked in was that the previous owner claimed to have seen things. Figures coming towards the house. No-one from around here would tell what they knew, but the truth is there have been stories about this house going back a couple of centuries."

  "What stories, man?" Derbyshire all but shouted.

  "The family who had the house built were of noble stock, but they had a darker side. Those were ignorant times, as I'm sure you don't need me to tell you, and many women were called witches for no good reason. Anyway, the story has it that, in a dispute over some land, a family from a neighbouring village spread rumours about the lady of this house, the upshot of which is that she was hanged as a witch."

  "I have spent much time abroad," Derbyshire told the man. "And have witnessed many strange and exotic deeds. Though apparently mystical at the time, there has always been a logical explanation for them when viewed in the cold light of day. I intend to treat your version of these local stories similarly."

  With that Derbyshire stood, and the estate agent made ready to leave. Derbyshire waited at the door as the man walked to his car. He had the key in the lock when they both saw something break from the cover of the woods. It looked like a large black wolf.

  "Run, man, run," Derbyshire shouted.

  The man turned and ran towards the house, the soft padding footsteps sounding behind him. He reached the house and Derbyshire slammed the door safely shut. Just as he did, it shook as a heavy weight crashed against it.

  "That explains the scratches," the man said, as he caught his breath. "Must have escaped from a zoo or something."

  "Let's take a better look at him," Derbyshire said.

  "You're surely not going to open the door."

  "From a window."

  They looked from all the downstairs windows but there was nothing there. Eventually they came to the passageway overlooking the garden. When he looked from the new window Derbyshire saw the same woman staring at the house. She was standing closer this time, about two hundred yards away. The estate agent had been left behind by Derbyshire's enthusiasm. When he caught up with him, the woman had returned to the darkly protective woods.

  "Gone," Derbyshire said. "It will be safe to go to your car now."

  Without warning, a few days later, the cleaning lady announced that she wouldn't be coming to the house any longer. This was followed by the grocer's regrets that Derbyshire's delivery was too far from his normal round to be w
orthwhile. Thus, stranded, Derbyshire had to fend for himself. After securing the house purchase he had bought a small car, which he had not yet had occasion to use. He would now have to drive each week to the village for his provisions.

  The first time he drove in he left it late in the afternoon, and only just caught the shop open. The grocer was embarrassed to see him, and conversation was minimal. As Derbyshire ticked the items off a list the grocer placed them quickly into a cardboard box, glancing at the clock each time. It was with almost audible relief that he placed the last packet into the box.

  Derbyshire drove home slowly. He was angered by the man's attitude. Even more angry at his own impotency in the matter. The car undulated between the lowland and the higher ground, towards the house. Darkness had fallen before he entered the woods. The road snaked through the trees preventing speed. About a mile from the house the car stopped. He turned the key, and pressed the accelerator, but the engine had died. A cursory glance under the bonnet revealed nothing obviously amiss. There was nothing for it but to walk the rest of the way. He left the provisions in the boot, locked the doors and began on foot.

  A mile is not a long way, but in the solitary darkness it can seem so. It was that time in early evening when darkness has not yet fully developed. A grey haze-like atmosphere diffused through the air, making the trees seem hostile. The scrabbling of squirrels in the branches became furtive rather than pleasing. The rustle of the ferns and leaves provoked anxiety instead of appeasement. He walked on, keeping to the road in preference to taking a short cut through the trees. He felt uneasy as he looked at the shifting mass of shadowed green, hiding unknown elements at such an hour.

  After walking for a few minutes he was breathing heavily, and despite the cold he was sweating. Suddenly he heard something crashing through the undergrowth to his right. He began to run. The sound of his heels on the tarmac reverberated in the disturbed silence. As he ran he heard twigs crack, and branches snap, as something rushed through the trees, keeping pace with him. At times it seemed to be running on two feet, then it seemed to drop to the ground and run with just as much speed, so that he was unsure if it was a person or an animal. Whichever, it was chasing him.

  Just as he thought he could run no further, the house came into view. He left the cover of the woods and ran across the grass to the front door. Behind him he heard the bushes thrust aside and he knew his pursuer was only a few yards away. The blood pounded in his head until it ached, his legs were heavy and his breath had dried away. A few feet from the door, a bony hand caught at his shoulder. Instinctively he flung out his arm and felt a soft yielding face flinch under the blow. It was distraction enough. The hand released its grip momentarily, and he rushed to the door, shutting it loudly behind him.

  He expected scratching at the door, but there was none. Not waiting to catch his breath he went to all the windows in turn, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was out there. He could see nothing. From each window he peered intently, but the emptiness of the gardens taunted him. Until, that is, he looked from the window at the back of the house. There, standing not more than one hundred yards from the house, was the woman in the black dress. She stood proudly, so defiant in aspect that Derbyshire averted his eyes, and after a short while went to bed aware that she remained staring at the house. He took a double dose of his prescription that night.

  The weather worsened. He retrieved his car during the daytime. It started immediately. The food he had bought lasted him more than a week, his disinclination to visit the village again prompting him to ration his meals to the minimum. Snow fell and melted quickly. The last leaves finally dropped from the trees, leaving the skeletal branches clutching vainly at the wicked wind.

  He was isolated and lonely. Shunned by the villagers he had originally imagined himself having to make excuses to avoid, he felt humiliated. Twenty years absence had proved too much for the friends he had visited while in London. They were polite to him but they could not disguise their embarrassment, and the lack of things to say made each visit more awkward than the last. He had at first been happy in the house, content to idle away his hours in relaxation.

  Years before retirement he had convinced himself that work was all he needed in life. Not for him the anxieties of marriage, nor the demands of close friendship. His work was interesting, and, with no other purpose, he had become more than interested in it. When retirement came he felt more deserted than any husband without his wife. The house jollied him and brought some new dimension to his thoughts. Now his solitude was intensified by fear. His caress of mortality sullied by the shout of finality.

  Tinged with loneliness and a sense of unease, he sat as the days passed, waiting for some further threat to his life. As he sat alone in his study he waited for a scratching at the door, or a tapping at the window, at first with dread, but as the days dragged on he felt an anticipation build up within him, until he began to imagine noises in the house or movement in the gardens, and to welcome their distraction. Then gradually the realisation came to him that his death was slowly approaching. The fear he felt ebbed away, the anticipation left him, to be replaced by an acceptance. The knowledge that the events in and around the house were a prelude led him to a close understanding.

  One day he looked from the new window expecting to see the woman staring at the house. She wasn't there. It was strangely silent, the silence adding to his disappointment. He turned and looked about him. The curtains suddenly billowed out and caught him, trapped against the smooth glass. A cold draught blew on his neck, entangling the curtains around him. As he pushed to free himself he saw, coming along the passage, the woman dressed in the black dress. Her flesh was wrinkled, white and peeling, the dress tattered and filthy, yet she walked calmly with the dignity of nobility.

  Before she reached him she dropped onto all fours and bounded along the passage. With a hideous snarl she leapt at him, and fingers like sharp claws tore his chest. As he felt the foul breath at his throat he flung his arm wildly. There was a rush of cold wind from the house as cheated death seemed to whistle along the passage and out through the broken window.

  NON OMNIS MORIAR

  "Tell me about your adventure with the four-poster," I said to John Cuthbertson the other night at our club.

  He puffed on his meerschaum thoughtfully. "Who told you about that?" he said at last.

  "Jennings," I said. "Didn't give me any details, just suggested I ask you to tell me about it."

  "Trust old Jennings, probably found it most amusing. Very well then, I'll tell you about the four-poster, I know I shan't get any peace until I do. But let me say it was no adventure for me, I can assure you. It was a most peculiar experience, one I have no explanation for; you must form your own opinion."

  He took another draw on his pipe, then began.

  "As you know, I travel all over the country, visiting antique fairs, and auctions of various kinds. I make it a rule to arrive a day early for these affairs. This habit allows me to view the sale items the day before the auction begins. Over the years I have adopted several hotels in various parts of the country and invariably stay at one of them when I am in that area. For instance there are The Bull in Oxford, and The Regency in Chelmsford, to name only two. The incident you wish me to describe occurred at The Imperial in Adenbridge.

  "Despite its grand name The Imperial is a small, friendly hotel, one of the finest in west Suffolk. It is run by a husband and wife team, Wilfred and Joan Amory. Through the years I have formed quite a friendship with them, and it is a source of great regret to me that I shan't be staying there again. The service is superbly efficient, and Joan Amory's Coq au Vin melts in the mouth.

  "I arrived at the hotel at lunchtime, to be given a warm welcome and a hot meal. After lunch I joined my hosts for a drink at the bar. As we talked I could sense that Joan was holding something back, there was something she was bursting to tell me, but they had obviously decided on a plan of action that she was trying hard to keep to. To relieve her suffe
ring I let her show me to my usual room, finishing my drink rather sooner than I wished.

  "She pushed open the door and waited for my reaction. I stood in the doorway, speechless. It was a large room, and since my last visit it had been freshly decorated in tasteful floral wallpaper. But the reason for Joan's excitement, and for my reticence, was the most hideous four-poster bed I have ever seen. Incongruous to the rest of the furniture, it dwarfed everything else in the room. It was a huge, square, mahogany structure of indiscernible age or pedigree. The woodwork was elaborately carved with interwoven snakes and ivy leaves, which ran along each post, and the hangings and canopy were of a heavy, deep red brocade. On the endboard was carved a Latin inscription, which I took to be a motto of whichever family had originally owned the monstrosity.

  "Joan Amory was evidently eager to hear my opinion of the bed. She fussed around it, smoothing the brocade unnecessarily. `It's certainly unique,' I said, rather lamely. She took this as a compliment and consequently spent the next ten minutes telling me how they had obtained the bed at the auction of a large estate over Halburgh way. I remembered the occasion, and thanked Heaven I had been otherwise engaged at the time. Apparently the original owner of the bed had died in it, under peculiar, not to say suspicious, circumstances, although she did not seem to have enquired into what those circumstances may have been. She finished by announcing proudly that I was to be the bed's first occupant in its new home, which given the fate of the occupant last to have slept in it was not, perhaps, the most tactful of offers. Nevertheless, I told her it was a privilege and she left the room smiling, convinced I approved of her taste in furniture.