What am I to think?-- Can it be that the story I have been reading was written by my poor friend here, and under the influence of delirium?-- Impossible! Besides they all assure me, that from the fatal night of his arrival he never left his bed -- never put pen to paper. His very directions to have me summoned from England were verbally given, during one of those few and brief intervals in which reason seemed partially to resume her sway. Can it then be possible that-? W--? where is he who alone may be able to throw light on this horrible mystery?-- No one knows. He absconded, it seems, immediately after the duel. No trace of him exists, nor, after repeated and anxious inquiries, can I find that any student has ever been known in the University of Leyden by the name of Francis Somers.
There are more things in heaven and earth
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy!
Jasper John: The Spirit of Stonehenge
from SINISTER STORIES
Henry Walker, 1930
***
'So you have moved from your old home; I was rather surprised to hear,' I said to Ronald Dalton.
He nodded his head. 'We were very sorry to go, but nothing would have made us stay after what had happened. I know I did not tell you but then we have not spoken of it more than is necessary, even to old friends.'
We were sitting in the twilight of a June evening. Outside the rain dripped from the trees, from the roof, from the windows for there had been a dreadful thunderstorm.
'I would like to tell you what happened, if you care to listen' Ronald said abruptly.
I had been rather hoping he would, for he was a matter-of-fact man, and my curiosity had been stirred by the papers' accounts of the strange way one of their guests had committed suicide. So he started in his earnest way, which lent conviction to the story.
My brother made great friends with Gavin Thomson in London. The first time I saw him was when he came to stay with us for a week. His great hobby was to dabble about in excavations, and, as his father had left him enough to live comfortably, he was able to indulge his taste.
He was a good-looking boy, about twenty-nine, dark and manly. Though only young, he had made quite a name for himself already, even with the professors. There were tales of his living among the Bedouins, an unheard-of thing for a white man to do. But it was difficult to make him talk of his exploits.
I took to him, as my brother had done he had such a magnetic personality. He told us he had been reading up all the old books on Stonehenge which he could get hold of. The Druid theory fascinated him, and he was anxious to study some facts first-hand.
He asked us if we had ever heard of elementals then laughed, and said we were not to be afraid that he was possessed by them. We asked him what the things were, for beneath his light manner I saw that he was really serious about them. He told us that they were a sort of ugly evil spirits, which had never had a form. Their one object was to find a human body in which to reside. They were supposed to have a certain power over human beings in places where great evil had prevailed.
Quite abruptly he stopped, and began talking about the moon's rays on the dolmen at Stonehenge, and a peculiar theory he held, of which we understood nothing. I think he meant to puzzle us and make us forget.
Now and then he descended to our level when he explained that the Druids were fond of conducting their ceremonies at certain times of the moon. 'That is why I have to do so much of my work at night,' he said. We had given him a latchkey so that he could come in when he liked. He told us that he was on the verge of a great discovery which would make history.
After a fortnight's stay he left us to do some work in Brittany, but not before he had covered many sheets with writing. In three months he was back again. He looked gaunt and ill, and his eyes were sunken and bright with fever. We begged him to rest that night, but he would not hear of it, and when he spoke of Stonehenge his eyes gleamed in a strange manner.
When he had gone out into the night I went up to his room to see if there was everything that he could want. There were books everywhere one lay on the table, the place was marked with something. I opened it at the place and a knife lay snugly between the pages. It was curved, and of pure gold. I knew enough to know that it was a copy of a sacrificial knife ; the edge was so sharp that I cut my finger rather badly.
Curiosity aroused, I looked at the page, and this is what I read:
'Though the day of the Druids is now long passed and the cries of their victims no longer haunt the night and the altar stone has ceased to drip blood, yet it is dangerous to go there when the sacrificial moon is full. For the Druids, by the blood they shed, their vile sacrifices and fellowship with the devil, attracted forces of evil to the place. So it is said that shapeless invisible horrors haunt the vicinity and at certain times crave a resting place in a human body. If once they enter in, it is only with difficulty that they are evicted.'
The book was many centuries old. I looked at the other books they were all on the same subject. Gavin seemed to be quite crazy about it. I told my brother, and he said that he thought poor Gavin was overstrung. 'Perhaps he is possessed by an elemental,' he said, and we both laughed. Next night we resolved to follow him. When he went out as usual, the dog, to our surprise, jumped into the car. Gavin threw him out with a force that surprised us, and bade us call him back. We endeavoured to do so, but the animal seemed demented he ran after the car like a mad thing, and both were soon lost in the distance.
After half an hour we followed on the same road. It was a lovely night, warm, with the sky full of scudding clouds which every now and then hid the face of the moon and dimmed its light. Some little way off we left the car and started to walk across the grass. Tall and gaunt the dolmen stood out where the moon-light touched them. Somehow to me they looked unaccountably sinister, as if they longed to fall and crush one. "We were still some way off when we saw a figure steal out from one of the great stones. In the dim light it looked like a misty wraith. I heard my brother draw in his breath sharply. "It stopped before the altar stone, which was deeply in the shadow. Something flashed in the light—a knife; then it seemed from the stone itself came the most ear-splitting howl of agony. "The moon went behind a cloud; we fled, stumbling over the wet grass, and in our haste missed the car. At last we found it, and, tumbling in, drove off at a great pace. When we got back again Gavin was already in bed and had to come down to open the door. He was too tired to notice anything wrong, and we just said that we had been for a drive. "Next day, after rather a sleepless night, we were heartily ashamed of our weakness, and firmly resolved to follow Gavin again that night. All day he seemed very absorbed and dreamy, and talked only about the discovery that he was going to make. "An hour after he had left we were on his track. This time there was no moon, but we had an electric torch. I soon caught sight of Gavin; he was kneeling by the altar stone. It was reassuring to see his tweed-clad figure. We came up right behind, but he did not turn his head. Then I put my hand on his shoulder, but he did not move. He was unconscious. I raised his head and the light fell on glazed eyes, for he was dead. We laid him on the altar stone seeking for a spark of life, but all in vain. There was blood on his shirt and the hilt of a little knife stuck out. There he lay on the sacrificial stone with hair dishevelled, white upturned face and glassy eyes, while above towered the great stones, seeming to rejoice that once again homage had been paid by a sacrifice of blood. Queer shadows danced in the light of the lamp which my brother held in shaking hands. We stood with bowed heads in the presence of those great monuments; tombstones that would have done honour to a king. Then we gathered courage and took the body to the car. And
Stonehenge let us go, content that once again its stones were wet with blood. It was an unconsidered thing we did, in that, and it might have led us into trouble; but we found a letter written by Gavin and his will which he had made, so we were freed from all blame or share in the matter. He said that the first few nights of his excavations at Stone-henge he had been unassailed and in a perfectly normal st
ate of mind. Then a strange change came over him, so that at times he almost seemed to have lived there years before and to know all manner of secrets. Then it was that the desire to do the most dreadful things came over him. He questioned if he were mad or if it was the spirit of Stonehenge demanding a victim. The idea of elementals occurred to him, for he had been reading much about them of late. At last he tore himself away and went to Brittany to bury himself in work. Wit-Stonehenge called him back, and he seemed to lose all power over himself. At last, after many sleepless nights, he came back, as he had known that he must. Then, one night he had seen a dog lying on the altar stone, and an irresistible desire to kill overpowered him. After the blood was shed he felt a strange joy and deep contentment, but some-thing told him that he was being watched, so he took the body and ran to the car. He had discovered a short cut across the grass which cut off many miles, so that was how he got home before us. Next morning he awoke with the blood lust strong within him; he felt that if anything would come upon him at the Stones he must kill. All day he fought it. At times he would be filled with disgust at his thoughts, then fall to devising a plot to lure us to our fate. When we had mentioned our coming, a cold fear had seized him, but his words died in his throat when he tried to warn us. Then all the good that was in him seemed to make one last stand. He knew there was one way out—to offer a sacrifice of blood, and the victim to be himself. So that night he had offered his life as an unsound mind,' was brought in. Suspicion was lifted from us, but afterwards Bob and I went away from the horrible place. No one spoke. We sat in dead silence when he had finished. Then the gong rang, and we arose and knocked the ashes from our pipes.
Jasper John: The Seeker of Souls
from SINISTER TALES
Henry Walker, 1930
***
It was in a deathly silence that we awaited the coming of the hour that would release the evil thing. I heard someone cough, and it echoed through the house. The clock ticked away the minutes with a grim satisfaction, and my neighbour breathed in a noisy fashion. But for once I was grateful for both sounds; they were something ordinary and commonplace, belonging to everyday life. The moonlight streamed in at the window, making little pools of silver here and there on the walls and floor.
A clattering whirl of machinery, and the clock in the tower commenced to strike the hour. Every stroke of the chimes reverberated through the house. Dead silence for a moment after the last note had quivered away. Then a door banged and there was the sound of shuffling footsteps out in the passage; a strange cry, half animal, half human, but of something enraged. For three nights it had aroused even the deepest sleepers from their slumbers.
The thing, whatever it was, started coming down the passage, 5 banging at the doors as it did so. What was it - man or beast? We only knew that it was horribly evil and paralysed the bravest of us with fear. Inside was darkness save where the moonlight; pierced it, and outside, beyond the door, the unknown, the feared. Not for life itself would I have dared to open the barrier which stood between us.
I looked at John. He had sat up in bed. A shaft of moonlight struck him, and I saw his eyes were fixed and staring; he shook like an aspen.
‘My God, man, what is it?’ His voice was strained and seemed torn from him in the horror of the moment.
But I had no explanation to offer, nor much taste for conversation, so remained silent.
After a time the thing outside grew tired of wandering and returned to its room. A wave of relief swept over us; we felt that since the hour had struck we had been very near to something from hell, something fiendish and very powerful.
Next morning, as usual, we gathered round the breakfast table, and the host looked round at the black-rimmed eyes. I remember everything: the silver vase on the table, filled with red roses, the shining tea-cups and the tense atmosphere.
Three nights of terror were telling on us all. Philip, as host, found our silence jarred on his nerves. Suddenly and irritably he broke out:
‘Anyhow, that thing does no harm knocking on the doors, and I must beg you all to keep it from the servants. The other wing will be inhabitable in a few days, and then we will move over there. In the meantime, if anyone is afraid, he is welcome to go. I don’t want to keep anyone against his will.’
We were all sorry for him, and somehow it seemed like rats leaving a sinking ship to desert now, though afterwards we wished we had possessed the courage. If anyone had spoken we others would have joined with him, but no one wished to be the first.
It was bad luck for Philip. The place had taken his fancy; a fine, rambling old castle with good fishing and shooting, it was just what he wanted. The view was superb, for it stood high in the hills.
When he had taken it Philip had heard whisperings of ghosts and strange doings; but what Englishman could believe those things? Owing to pressing circumstances of the impoverished family who owned it, the purchase money had been paid in advance.
When the castle was up for sale only one wing was ready for occupation, and none of the servants’ quarters. However, we were none of us averse to roughing it with daily helps when it was a question of first-class fishing. So, when Philip had offered the invitation, it had been eagerly accepted.
At last breakfast drew to a close, and Philip made a sign to me to follow him. He took me into the shrubbery and, sitting down on a stump, took out his pipe.
‘No one is likely to bother us here,’ he said. ‘Now, Peter, I want you, as my greatest friend, to help me to get to the bottom of this. We are going to explore the haunted room in daylight while the others are busy with their letters.’
‘I am your man,’ I answered, with a laugh.
‘Well, let’s get to work then. I have the key of the side door.’
He got up and started fumbling about until he found a door hidden away amongst the ivy. The hinges were rusty and gave a heavy groan as we pushed it open. I followed Philip up a steep staircase until we came on to the passage, just by the haunted room. He took a big key from his pocket, and the lock turned without a sound.
‘Better to keep it shut,’ he said. Then, without the slightest misgiving, we stepped inside.
It was a beautiful room, with costly things, but what struck me was that everything was twisting; the legs of the furniture were carved like snakes. Then my eyes wandered to the tapestry. The same design there: serpents wrought in gold, with gleaming red and green eyes, worked on a black ground, with here and there the face of a grinning devil.
It was a beautiful, dreadful room; that was the puzzling part. There was a strong smell of damp fungus and bad, rotting things, though the sun streamed in at the window and there was no sign of mildew. It was uncanny and fascinating, the way everything twisted and writhed. There was not a breath of wind, but the bed hangings moved in a sinuous fashion, like the coils of a snake.
The actual furniture consisted of a four-poster bed, a writing- table, a few chairs and a huge cupboard. The windows were stained glass with a border of leaded panes.
It came to me suddenly, as I stood gazing, that, terror of terrors, MY SOUL WAS BEING STOLEN AWAY; the spirit of the room was tearing it from me. I knew that I must fight as I had never fought before. The devils were trying to get it from me. The knowledge of what it meant gave me strength; in my imagination I saw the whole army of Dante’s inferno arrayed against me.
In silent horror I struggled to get out of that room. I had seen the war through; but that was fighting against flesh and blood; this against spirits. Then the awful thing that happened was that one half of me wanted to stay frantically. I fought against it. I suppose that the evil in my nature joined with the evil in that room to betray me to the devils.
My feet seemed as if they had leaden weights attached, my tongue was powerless, and I felt like a helpless child in the grip of a giant. But I hoped that strength would be given me to resist, and I dared not yield to despair.
How long the agony endured I do not know, for it seemed as if the power of that room wou
ld draw me to itself as a straw in a whirlpool; but in the end I won through. It was a wonderful moment when I was out in the passage again.
Then I saw through the open door that Philip was still in the room, and experiencing the same horror. His face was white and so set that it was more like a death mask than that of a human being. I tried to call, to help him, but all power was taken from me; I was helpless. So I stood there in mortal fear, gazing and gazing. Then he was out in the passage and the door of the unholy room banged to.
The tension released, we sank down in utter exhaustion. I heard Philip’s heavy breathing coupled with my own for a few minutes; then he made a sound between a sob and a groan, and I found the tears coursing down my face.
Fortunately no one came that way. It was fully lunch-time before we had recovered ourselves. There was a thick white streak in Philip’s hair which had not been there before. We told them at lunch that we had been down the river together, and had to go through a good amount of chaff before returning empty- handed.
That afternoon a party had been planned, and we had to go. I expect that it was best for us, though we found it very difficult to listen to the idle chatter round us. I had a talk with Philip about moving before that night, but the only accommodation was cottages, and we lacked the courage to give the word to pack. It would only be a few days more until the other wing was ready.
THE SUPERNATURAL OMNIBUS Page 51
