by Otto Penzler
Day faded. Its last gold shone above the distant hills. A gleaming path lay across the water. The gold dimmed, and died. Darkness began to fall. Shadows thickened within the walls of Troon.
Mrs. Burden got up from her chair, beckoned the doctor to the door of Lynneth’s room.
“You must leave things to me from this hour on. Keep your door fast bolted inside. Don’t open it, not even if you think you hear my own voice call. ’Twould be a trick of old Werne that—to get you out of here. For God’s sake, Doctor Dick, heed what I’m telling you. Stay inside until daylight comes. Bide with your lass here, if you want her to live, and want to live yourself.”
“If you’d only tell me what you’re up to, Mary! It’s horrible to shut you out, to leave you alone—with that devilish thing.”
“Eh, haven’t we talked enough o’ that? All the day long you’ve argued wi’ me, Doctor Dick, and I tell you mind’s made up. I’m old, too old to fear death. And I know things—things I can’t tell you, sir. Bolt the door—and leave it fast till daylight.”
Moving with sure unhurried purpose outside the bolted door, Mrs. Burden went to and fro among the shifting looming shadows. She had all prepared. She made no mistake.
There was only one way to shut out a damned soul. The cross itself. A cross of living flesh and blood.
In the wood-frame of the door, outside, four great hooks had been screwed in by Doctor Dick that day. Iron hooks that Mrs. Burden had brought prepared for her purpose, two at the top corners of the cross-piece, and one on either side of the door. From these hooks she hung four plaited loops of hair and hempen rope—two long loops from the top, two very short ones on either side.
She stood with back against door and slipped the long right-hand loop beneath her left armpit, and the long left-hand loop beneath her right armpit. Then, supported so that fatigue should not make her fall, she thrust her hands through the small handcuff loops on either side to keep her arms straight out from her body.
So she stood, a small light bird-like figure. Through the big roof-window, glimmering stars and rising moon showed her in the dusk, a human crucifix past which the Thing of Darkness might not go.
Facing Troon and its evil. Frail old body. Staunch old soul.
Daylight. Daylight and Lynneth had passed the crisis! She was safe. Doctor Dick opened the door. The light worn body of Old Mary hung there still.
It was an empty shrine, too old, too tired to survive the night’s long vigil and shock of battle—an empty shrine, but not marred, not touched by hurt or evil. The Thing of Darkness had left no shadow in the calm sightless eyes, no lines of terror or dismay on the peaceful worn face; only deep exhaustion. A victor fallen at the goal.
A victor. Yes, Doctor Dick knew that. For long minutes he looked at the frail triumphant figure, assurance of her victory deep in his heart; giving homage to the dead, giving thanks for her divine courage.
His eyes, blinded with tears, lifted to see something else at last. A hulking black-haired man stood against an opposite wall. As the doctor stared, red sunrise dyed the skylight window above, touched the ugly brutal figure with flame.
It shrank, quivered. Its purple lips opened in soundless rage. Its dark bulk glowed like molten metal. White-hot … sullen red … dissolving … writhing … twisting in the sun’s merciless fire to inhuman appalling decay—to a rag and wisp of a thing—to a shriveled black mummy that grinned in age-old death.
That too dissolved and was split like sand and running through an hourglass. It lay on the jade-green Chinese carpet, a drift of gray dust, last grim symbol of mortality.
The shadow-life that Werne had bargained for was finished. Soul, will, poisonous hate were blotted out. The blackest magic could perpetuate his borrowed existence no longer. The deepest hell could offer no shelter for his furious ghost. Werne—Thing of Darkness—was no more.
But the old house still fronts sea and sky hills. Troon—old Troon. Shell of death. Desolate. Betrayed.
THE HOUSE OF THE NIGHTMARE
Edward Lucas White
IT IS HIS HISTORICAL novels that Edward Lucas White (1866–1934) regarded as his most important work, but he is remembered today for his horror stories, which he claimed came to him in dreams and nightmares. Born in Bergen, New Jersey, he attended Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore and spent the rest of his life in that city, mainly as a teacher at the University School for Boys, where he taught from 1915 to 1930. He wrote a history book, Why Rome Fell (1927), in addition to the historical novels El Supremo: A Romance of the Great Dictator of Paraguay (1916), The Unwilling Vestal: A Tale of Rome Under the Caesars (1918), Andivius Hedulio: Adventures of a Roman Nobleman in the Days of the Empire (1921), and Helen (1925). His magnum opus was to be a giant utopian science fiction novel, Plus Ultra, which he began in 1885, destroyed, and began anew in 1901; at an estimated half-million words, it was never published.
While he wrote enough supernatural and fantasy fiction to fill two volumes, The Song of the Sirens and Other Stories (1919) and Lukundoo and Other Stories (1927), only two stories are much read today, the present one and “Lukundoo,” one of the great classics of horror fiction. In this chilling tale, an African witch doctor casts a curse on an explorer who begins to find his body covered with pustules, which he quickly notices are the heads of tiny African men who viciously gesticulate and threaten him. He cuts off their heads but they relentlessly emerge anew, causing him to kill himself. The author, a longtime sufferer of migraine headaches, also committed suicide, on the seventh anniversary of his wife’s death.
“The House of the Nightmare” was originally published in the September 1906 issue of Smith’s Magazine; it was first collected in Lukundoo and Other Stories (New York, Doran, 1927).
The House of the Nightmare
EDWARD LUCAS WHITE
I FIRST CAUGHT SIGHT of the house from the brow of the mountain as I cleared the woods and looked across the broad valley several hundred feet below me, to the low sun sinking toward the far blue hills. From that momentary viewpoint I had an exaggerated sense of looking almost vertically down. I seemed to be hanging over the checker-board of roads and fields, dotted with farm buildings, and felt the familiar deception that I could almost throw a stone upon the house. I barely glimpsed its slate roof.
What caught my eyes was the bit of road in front of it, between the mass of dark-green trees about the house and the orchard opposite. Perfectly straight it was, bordered by an even row of trees, through which I made out a cinder side path and a low stone wall.
Conspicuous on the orchard side between two of the flanking trees was a white object, which I took to be a tall stone, a vertical splinter of one of the tilted lime-stone reefs with which the fields of the region are scarred.
The road itself I saw plain as a box-wood ruler on a green baize table. It gave me a pleasurable anticipation of a chance for a burst of speed. I had been painfully traversing closely forested, semimountainous hills. Not a farmhouse had I passed, only wretched cabins by the road, more than twenty miles of which I had found very bad and hindering. Now, when I was not many miles from my expected stopping-place, I looked forward to better going, and to that straight, level bit in particular.
As I sped cautiously down the sharp beginning of the long descent the trees engulfed me again, and I lost sight of the valley. I dipped into a hollow, rose on the crest of the next hill, and again saw the house, nearer, and not so far below.
The tall stone caught my eye with a shock of surprise. Had I not thought it was opposite the house next the orchard? Clearly it was on the left-hand side of the road toward the house. My self-questioning lasted only the moment as I passed the crest. Then the outlook was cut off again; but I found myself gazing ahead, watching for the next chance at the same view.
At the end of the second hill I only saw the bit of road obliquely and could not be sure, but, as at first, the tall stone seemed on the right of the road.
At the top of the third and last hill I looked down th
e stretch of road under the over-arching trees, almost as one would look through a tube. There was a line of whiteness which I took for the tall stone. It was on the right.
I dipped into the last hollow. As I mounted the farther slope I kept my eyes on the top of the road ahead of me. When my line of sight surmounted the rise I marked the tall stone on my right hand among the serried maples. I leaned over, first on one side, then on the other, to inspect my tyres, then I threw the lever.
As I flew forward, I looked ahead. There was the tall stone—on the left of the road! I was really scared and almost dazed. I meant to stop dead, take a good look at the stone, and make up my mind beyond peradventure whether it was on the right or the left—if not, indeed, in the middle of the road.
In my bewilderment I put on the highest speed. The machine leaped forward; everything I touched went wrong; I steered wildly, slewed to the left, and crashed into a big maple.
When I came to my senses, I was flat on my back in the dry ditch. The last rays of the sun sent shafts of golden-green light through the maple boughs overhead. My first thought was an odd mixture of appreciation of the beauties of nature and disapproval of my own conduct in touring without a companion—a fad I had regretted more than once. Then my mind cleared and I sat up. I felt myself from the head down. I was not bleeding; no bones were broken; and, while much shaken, I had suffered no serious bruises.
Then I saw the boy. He was standing at the edge of the cinderpath, near the ditch. He was so stocky and solidly built; barefoot, with his trousers rolled up to his knees; wore a sort of butternut shirt, open at the throat; and was coatless and hatless. He was tow-headed, with a shock of tousled hair; was much freckled, and had a hideous harelip. He shifted from one foot to the other, twiddled his toes, and said nothing whatever, though he stared at me intently.
I scrambled to my feet and proceeded to survey the wreck. It seemed distressingly complete. It had not blown up, nor even caught fire; but otherwise the ruin appeared hopelessly thorough. Everything I examined seemed worse smashed than the rest. My two hampers, alone, by one of those cynical jokes of chance, had escaped—both had pitched clear of the wreckage and were unhurt, not even a bottle broken.
During my investigations the boy’s faded eyes followed me continuously, but he uttered no word. When I had convinced myself of my helplessness I straightened up and addressed him:
“How far is it to a blacksmith’s shop?”
“Eight mile,” he answered. He had a distressing case of cleft palate and was scarcely intelligible.
“Can you drive me there?” I inquired.
“Nary team on the place,” he replied; “nary horse, nary cow.”
“How far to the next house?” I continued.
“Six mile,” he responded.
I glanced at the sky. The sun had set already. I looked at my watch: it was going—seven thirty-six.
“May I sleep in your house tonight?” I asked.
“You can come in if you want to,” he said, “and sleep if you can. House all messy; ma’s been dead three year, and dad’s away. Nothin’ to eat but buckwheat flour and rusty bacon.”
“I’ve plenty to eat,” I answered, picking up a hamper. “Just take that hamper, will you?”
“You can come in if you’ve a mind to,” he said, “but you got to carry your own stuff.” He did not speak gruffly or rudely, but appeared mildly stating an inoffensive fact.
“All right,” I said, picking up the other hamper; “lead the way.”
The yard in front of the house was dark under a dozen or more immense ailanthus trees. Below them many smaller trees had grown up, and beneath these a dank underwood of tall, rank suckers out of the deep, shaggy, matted grass. What had once been, apparently, a carriage-drive, left a narrow, curved track, disused and grass-grown, leading to the house. Even here were some shoots of the ailanthus, and the air was unpleasant with the vile smell of the roots and suckers and the insistent odour of their flowers.
The house was of grey stone, with green shutters faded almost as grey as the stone. Along its front was a veranda, not much raised from the ground, and with no balustrade or railing. On it were several hickory splint rockers.
There were eight shuttered windows toward the porch, and midway of them a wide door, with small violet panes on either side of it and a fan-light above.
“Open the door,” I said to the boy.
“Open it yourself,” he replied, not unpleasantly nor disagreeably, but in such a tone that one could not but take the suggestion as a matter of course.
I put down the two hampers and tried the door. It was latched but not locked, and opened with a rusty grind of its hinges, on which it sagged crazily, scraping the floor as it turned. The passage smelt mouldy and damp. There were several doors on either side; the boy pointed to the first on the right.
“You can have that room,” he said.
I opened the door. What with the dusk, the interlacing trees outside, the piazza roof, and the closed shutters, I could make out little.
“Better get a lamp,” I said to the boy.
“Nary lamp,” he declared cheerfully. “Nary candle. Mostly I get abed before dark.”
I returned to the remains of my conveyance. All four of my lamps were merely scrap metal and splintered glass. My lantern was mashed flat. I always, however, carried candles in my valise. This I found split and crushed, but still holding together. I carried it to the porch, opened it, and took out three candles.
Entering the room, where I found the boy standing just where I had left him, I lit the candle. The walls were white-washed, the floor bare. There was a mildewed, chilly smell, but the bed looked freshly made up and clean, although it felt clammy.
With a few drops of its own grease I stuck the candle on the corner of a mean, rickety little bureau. There was nothing else in the room save two rush-bottomed chairs and a small table. I went out on the porch, brought in my valise, and put it on the bed. I raised the sash of each window and pushed open the shutter. Then I asked the boy, who had not moved or spoken, to show me the way to the kitchen. He led me straight through the hall to the back of the house. The kitchen was large, and had no furniture save some pine chairs, a pine bench, and a pine table.
I stuck two candles on opposite corners of the table. There was no stove or range in the kitchen, only a big hearth, the ashes in which smelt and looked a month old. The wood in the woodshed was dry enough, but even it had a cellary, stale smell. The axe and hatchet were both rusty and dull, but usable, and I quickly made a big fire. To my amazement, for the mid-June evening was hot and still, the boy, a wry smile on his ugly face, almost leaned over the flame, hands and arms spread out, and fairly roasted himself.
“Are you cold?” I inquired.
“I’m allus cold,” he replied, hugging the fire closer than ever, till I thought he must scorch.
I left him toasting himself while I went in search of water. I discovered the pump, which was in working order and not dry on the valves; but I had a furious struggle to fill the two leaky pails I had found. When I had put water to boil I fetched my hampers from the porch.
I brushed the table and set out my meal—cold fowl, cold ham, white and brown bread, olives, jam, and cake. When the can of soup was hot and the coffee made I drew up two chairs to the table and invited the boy to join me.
“I ain’t hungry,” he said; “I’ve had supper.”
He was a new sort of boy to me; all the boys I knew were hearty eaters and always ready. I had felt hungry myself, but somehow when I came to eat I had little appetite and hardly relished the food. I soon made an end of my meal, covered the fire, blew out the candles, and returned to the porch, where I dropped into one of the hickory rockers to smoke. The boy followed me silently and seated himself on the porch floor, leaning against a pillar, his feet on the grass outside.
“What do you do,” I asked, “when your father is away?”
“Just loaf ’round,” he said. “Just fool ’round.”
“How far off are your nearest neighbours?” I asked.
“Don’t no neighbours never come here,” he stated. “Say they’re afeared of the ghosts.”
I was not at all startled; the place had all those aspects which lead to a house being called haunted. I was struck by his odd matter-of-fact way of speaking—it was as if he had said they were afraid of a cross dog.
“Do you ever see any ghosts around here?” I continued.
“Never see ’em,” he answered, as if I had mentioned tramps or partridges. “Never hear ’em. Sort o’ feel ’em ’round sometimes.”
“Are you afraid of them?” I asked.
“Nope,” he declared. “I ain’t skeered o’ ghosts; I’m skeered o’ nightmares. Ever have nightmares?”
“Very seldom,” I replied.
“I do,” he returned. “Allus have the same nightmare—big sow, big as a steer, trying to eat me up. Wake up so skeered I could run to never. Nowheres to run to. Go to sleep, and have it again. Wake up worse skeered than ever. Dad says it’s buckwheat cakes in summer.”
“You must have teased a sow some time,” I said.
“Yep,” he answered. “Teased a big sow wunst, holding up one of her pigs by the hind leg. Teased her too long. Fell in the pen and got bit up some. Wisht I hadn’t a’ teased her. Have that nightmare three times a week sometimes. Worse’n being burnt out. Worse’n ghosts. Say, I sorter feel ghosts around now.”
He was not trying to frighten me. He was as simply stating an opinion as if he had spoken of bats or mosquitoes. I made no reply, and found myself listening involuntarily. My pipe went out. I did not really want another, but felt disinclined for bed as yet, and was comfortable where I was, while the smell of the ailanthus blossoms was very disagreeable. I filled my pipe again, lit it, and then, as I puffed, somehow dozed off for a moment.
