The Big Book of Ghost Stories

by Otto Penzler

  I would not go to the chateau alone. Never! I would go to the village below it, seek information concerning the girl and, if necessary, lead a good-sized posse up to that stronghold of dark evil and rescue her. That, anyhow, is what I thought at the time.

  Late the next afternoon I was in the train, chugging north to these mountains in the heart of which I now am. It was a muggy day, with the setting sun struggling rather unsuccessfully to burn its way through the thick clouds. I sat by the window of my compartment, gazing at the passing mountains, that became higher and more rugged as we sped on.

  In this little old train, each car was divided into a half-dozen compartments, each separate from the other. A door on each side lets you out at your station but is locked when the train is moving, while two seats, long enough for four persons each, run from door to door and face each other. There were only two old gentlemen in my compartment, sitting opposite each other by the door at the far end. They were pleasant, ordinary looking people, and I paid little attention to them, since they passed the time chatting together in Italian, which I do not understand.

  After an hour or two of the journey the conversation died down. I glanced over to see that the man on the same side as myself had fallen asleep where he sat, his limp body jogging up and down as the train bumped along. The gentleman opposite him, too, was blinking drowsily. They began to affect me. I turned back to view the scenery which, with the coming of darkness, was fast becoming gloomier. Higher and higher rose the sinister mountains, majestic and awe-inspiring. I sank back, half closing my eyes.

  Slowly, a queer sensation crept over me, making my body tingle. I steeled myself against it, for I recognised it. But it was strong now, stronger than I had ever known it. I kept my eyes on the window, desperately trying to force an impression of the passing scenery to register on my brain and crowd out the other. But the feeling grew stronger, silently seeping into my consciousness. Like the rhythmic sound of the train’s wheels, which was all I could now hear, it crept over me, as if to overpower me.

  I turned my eyes away from the scenery, back to the compartment in which I sat. The man who sat on the same side as myself slept peacefully, half reclining in his corner. I glanced at the man opposite him, and suppressed a shiver. His old, shrivelled, kindly face was turned toward me and he was looking at me. But those eyes that bulged out, staring at me, they were not his. They were huge, repulsive, and fixed on me intently in the silence of that compartment. He did not speak; he did not move. He simply gazed with a terrible unblinking stare.

  And now, while I sat there unable to make a sound, he commenced to move toward me. Grasping the edge of the cushioned seat with his aged hands, he started slowly sliding along, toward the seat directly opposite mine, where our knees must touch. I clenched my fists; I wet my lips. But I was helpless.

  The train gave a lurch. The man in the corner awoke. At the same time the other man’s body lurched sideways. He recovered his balance and commenced rubbing his eyes, and when he took his hands away, I saw only the kindly eyes of the old gentleman.

  His companion said something, obviously about their having dropped off to sleep, and they both laughed and went on with their conversation. But I sat there trying to regain my control, which I had nearly lost, and I alone knew what losing my control would mean now! Had I been dreaming, or were those his eyes? And if they were his eyes, looking through the kindly face of the sleeping old man, did it mean his power grew as I neared the fastness of his gloomy home? One more incident served to strengthen this belief in his growing power. It was an incident that unnerved me almost to the extent of giving up my plan.

  Late that afternoon we reached the village of Schio, nestled in the foothills of the Dolomites, where I learned that an automobile habitually met the evening train. This automobile served as a bus, driving along the highway that wound up through the mountains, past the small and infrequent hamlets. The car was a closed limousine and although there was room for three on the big seat, one of the old men insisted upon taking the pull-down seat facing his friend, so that we were placed rather similarly to our positions in the train. And thus we sat, the pull-down seat opposite me empty, and we sped along, down the straight road for five hundred metres and then commenced winding up the tortuous mountain path. The sky was still cloudy and the peaks that rose above us flung great shadows across the darkening valley. As we mounted, the road tunnelled more often through the rugged rock formations, sometimes only for the distance of a yard or so, at other times leaving us in utter darkness for some moments.

  It was just before we passed through the longest of these tunnels, that one of my companions, with whom I had laughingly attempted to carry on a conversation in two languages, offered his friend and myself a cigarette. We took them, and all three of us lit up. Just then the car shot into that long dark tunnel. Everything was as dark as pitch, and the sound of the engine roared hollowly around us. For all that, we continued our half-successful attempt to make ourselves understood in French and Italian, shouting to one another in the direction of the jerking cigarette ends.

  Finally, we gave it up as a bad job, and I settled back in my seat, and suddenly felt my scalp tingle with fear. Before we drove into the tunnel there had been three of us inside the car, smoking cigarettes. Now, as I sat back, I could see the glowing ends of four cigarettes. The fourth was directly opposite myself, and from it came the queer pungent odour of the dead Austrian’s cigarettes.

  I clapped my hands to my eyes, fighting back the fear that possessed me, and when I removed them, we had shot out into the light of the dying day. Dim as it was, I could see that the seat before me was empty, and there were but three lighted cigarettes.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, forcing myself to believe that it was the hallucination of an overwrought brain. Then my attention was attracted by the man beside me, tapping my shoulder. He was looking round in a puzzled fashion, shaking his head in annoyance. “Fuma!” he exclaimed. “Dové?”

  I shrugged my shoulders, but once more my heart shrank, for he, too, had smelt it. Had he, then, gained that much more power, the power of materializing to a degree where he could actually sit smoking in the darkness, as we penetrated further into his silent country?

  As the shadows deepened, as night slowly blotted out even the bare rocks that we shot by, until only the leaping headlights of the car showed the lonely road we traversed, I struggled with a terrible fear: the fear of the supernatural, the fear of a horrible, unknowable death. If only I could have known how much more terrible than my wildest fears would be the doom that awaited me. If only I had followed that inner voice which whispered: “Turn back. Turn back!” As it was, I had not reached a decision when the speeding car slowed down and stopped. The driver turned and pulled down the little window.

  “Ecco, signore!” he said, looking at me, “here is where you get off.”

  Instinctively, I glanced beyond the car to where the powerful searchlights shot down the road a hundred yards. On the left of the road was a sheer drop into the black valley far below: on the right rose the perpendicular rocks, bare and rugged, with gnarled, leafless growth springing out of them and shining vividly in the glare. A hundred yards beyond, a small break in the right hand wall of rocks showed a path gently falling away until it was swallowed by the shadows. That path, I knew, led around the deserted mountainside to the great old chateau.

  I got out and yanked my suitcase from under the seat and, with a smile, held out my hand to my companions. But when I noted their expressions, as they saw where I was getting off, I think that the smile left my lips.

  “Non è buono,” said one; and I read fear in his large, old eyes. “It is not good! Down beyond that mountain pass is a terrible——” He had stretched out his hand, pointing along the little road. But suddenly his friend scowled, and immediately his hand dropped. With feigned smiles, but suspicion in their eyes, they said goodbye. After all, I reasoned, what did they know about me, who I was, or what I was doing here?

>   A moment later, the car started up, gathered speed, and the two powerful lights shot ahead of it farther and farther away, until finally the machine whirled around a corner and was lost to sight altogether. For a moment I stood silently gazing into the darkness where it had disappeared, feeling very much alone, feeling my heart heavy with a foreknowledge of evil. Already, in that dark valley, I seemed to sense that Mind, motionless, silent, but pervading this gloomy country with the calm of undisputed power. I had to go on, ever closer to its stronghold, passing under its very windows, before I could reach the village.

  “But what can he do if you don’t go in the chateau?” I muttered as I picked up my suitcase and started off. At that moment I was mighty certain that I would not go inside without a dozen other men. Taking my flashlight in my free hand, I headed along the road and turned down the path that led through the mountain pass.

  The air was heavy; the sky overcast; above and below me the whole world was a black void through which I walked alone. Ahead of me glowed the small circle of flaring light cast by my torch and visible, I imagine, for miles across the valley. It was difficult going as the path became smaller until it degenerated into a mule path, winding around the mountains, a path which I immediately recognized as the one I had stumbled onto that damnable night two years before. This I kept to, feeling the utter desolation of the country around me, hearing the metallic click of my heels as they knocked against the loose stones, and the hollow echo of each step. Then, suddenly, I realised I was hearing another sound, similar to the one I was making. I lifted my flash, and the light shot up the path. An old peasant was in front of me, headed in the same direction as myself. His back was bent, and in his hand he held a stout stick which he used as a cane. By the snail-like speed of his advance and the cautious way he felt the ground before he took a step, I knew that he was blind. Before I had taken three steps, I knew his keen ears had heard me; for he halted, half turned and, drawing himself up, pressed against the overhanging rocks to let me pass.

  I hurried on, until, just before reaching his side, I was struck with astonishment. I saw that he was taller than myself while, despite his aged appearance, his toil-worn body was extremely powerful.

  “God be with you,” I said in the Provençal dialect, that being my nearest approach to Italian.

  “God be with you.” His reply, low and gruff, was with a German guttural. It rumbled hollowly in the still air around us, lifeless as his cold, lifeless eyes that stared unseeingly into the darkness beyond.

  As I passed him my hand inadvertently brushed his smock, and an odd quiver shot through my entire body. Clenching my teeth to force myself to be calm, I strode on. For a minute I could hear nothing but the clink of my heels and the clatter of the pebbles they disturbed. Then I heard him turn and recommence his journey after me. But now, instead of the slow, cautious pace, his step had quickened.

  Tap … tap … tap. The sound of that stick on the stones sent a weird, hollow echo across the deep, still valley beside us. Tap … tap … tap. It hurried after me with incredible speed. And I, hurrying my own pace, felt my heart growing heavy within me. Somehow, I seemed to know that in that blind man was centred the malign influence that meant the end. Somehow, I felt it was not a man following me, but a fiend in man’s form!

  I sped around a bend on the run and saw, straight ahead of me, a lone, black turret, outlined like an evil sign against the sky. I had reached the chateau.

  The sound of the man following me was lost behind the bend in the cliff as I made my way toward that dark building. In its place I heard the moaning of the rising wind, sighing through the invisible trees above me, and I hurried on. Somehow, I felt that if I could pass that chateau before the blind man caught up, I would be able to continue safely on to the village. I broke into as fast a run as the narrow, treacherous path would allow. Nearer, nearer the chateau; and then …

  Tap … tap … tap. He had rounded the bend. I whirled my light around and saw his bent body moving jerkily toward me. He stopped; not because of the light, which he could not see, but because his keen ears told him I was standing still. He straightened his bent body and peered forward, his sightless eyes turned in my direction. For all the world he looked like a beast, scenting its prey. Then he bent over and started again, and God! the speed with which he now approached me was something more than human. It was as if he, too, felt that all was lost to him should I pass the chateau.

  I ran along the path that led around the back of the building to the village. I reached the chateau, hearing him come closer and closer. I sped alongside the wall—nearly passed it. Then, suddenly, I tripped and fell. He was almost upon me. My head in a whirl, with only the thought of escaping in my mind, I jumped up, saw a big door beside me and, pulling it open, I ran inside. Standing on my toes, scarcely breathing, I waited in terrible silence and blackness while, slowly, the horrible realisation dawned upon me that I had entered the chateau where the fiend himself was waiting for me.

  Meanwhile, the old man neared the door; he was moving stealthily now. Even had I not been able to hear the low tap, tap, tap of his stick, I would have known of his approach by the subtle horror that crept over me. Who was this old man? It was not he, that I knew. More likely it was some strong-bodied, weak-minded peasant that the fiend was able to enter and control.

  Tap, tap, tap … tap … tap … tap.

  He halted, directly beside the door, and listened. Though we were separated by the thick, closed door, I could almost see him standing there, listening for my tell-tale sound. Then, although I could neither see nor hear anything, I knew the door was slowly opening.

  I switched on my light and felt my way down a long corridor. Under my feet was a thick plush carpet that I knew must deaden the sound to even his keen ears. I followed it until finally I stepped into the huge entrance hall where, far ahead of me, I could see the grand staircase rising above my circle of light, into the darkness of the landing. I tip-toed on till I was about a dozen feet from the door; then I turned about, and what I saw caused the flashlight to slip from my fingers while I stifled a shriek. The ghostly figure of the old man was advancing silently toward me, and it was surrounded by a strange, unearthly light. Now he reached the end of the corridor; he felt around; he seemed to know he stood at the opening to the main hall. Then he straightened his strong body. His sightless eyes turned in my direction, and he listened. How tense a moment it was. For a long time we faced each other, neither moving a muscle, while he waited for the slightest sound, like a spider ready to pounce upon its prey. I felt my heart pound within me until it seemed he must hear it. If only I could pass him. If I could slip into that corridor again, I could flee from the chateau. I would be safe.

  He was standing just inside the doorway, about ten feet from me. Clenching my fists, scarcely daring to breathe, I started tip-toeing toward the corridor. Nearer I moved to him, my eyes always on his face. Then, just as I came abreast of him, I felt my heart shudder. For, while I watched him, I was suddenly aware of a horrible transformation. Those eyes, till now bleary and sightless, could see me.

  With an exclamation, I broke into a run; but before I had taken three steps, I felt a sharp blow on the back of my head as he hurled his heavy stick after me. Half dazed, I staggered back, and fell into his strong arms.

  How shall I explain the sensations of my stunned mind? I offered no resistance, partly because of the blow that had weakened me, but partly, too, because I knew there was no hope. And, limp and half alive, I felt those arms, supernaturally strong now, lift me like a babe. In a state approaching coma, I knew I was being carried up a flight of stairs, up another and along a black corridor. I knew I was in a darkened room now, and I felt myself gently laid on the floor, alongside another body which, without even seeing it, I knew to be that of the dead Graf, untouched by time, and lying in exactly the same position in which it had fallen, two years before.

  Strong fingers bound me with a thick cord in the darkness; bound me so that I could move ne
ither hand nor foot. Then my helpless body was rolled on its side, till I knew I was face to face with the Count, a foot away.

  As my head cleared, I heard the old man rise in the darkness. His work was done, and he left the room. I heard him patter down the stairs. The sound of his feet died away in the distance. Far, far below me now, I could hear his stick feeling its blind way along the pebbles of the path beneath the windows. It grew fainter, fainter … and then all was still as death.

  I lay there, wondering if this was the end planned for me—to die of starvation beside the body of the man I had killed; or had that fiendish mind evolved some scheme for punishment, even more horrible?

  Then I knew I was not alone. Somewhere in that room, he was watching me. That terrible, sinking sensation, that ghastly pulling at the heart, which I knew so well, had come over my body stronger than ever before. And then, finally, I understood.

  Having led the old man safely away, he had left that borrowed body; and now, for the first time, his evil spirit had re-entered his own body and, lying outstretched alongside me, he was gazing at me through those dead eyes, stronger than ever now, for his own body offered no resistance such as another’s would. He did not move; he made no sound. But I knew those dead eyes gazed into mine, steadily, unblinkingly.

  I felt that faintness steal over me; noises commenced humming, in my ears, growing louder. I clenched my fists and fought against it. I forced visions of far away, safe Paris to my mind. I was sitting at the Café de la Paix. Street lamps, lighted music halls were around me. Glaring headlights of a thousand automobiles flashed across the square, while the cars honked their ways through the masses of people who were shouting, laughing, singing. What did I care for dark valleys and mystic chateaux, still and deserted? They were all so far away …

  Ah, no they weren’t. I lay bound hand and foot in one, and in the tomb-like blackness and silence of this room, those poisonous eyes bored into mine, weakening me. Nausea crept over me. Grey specks flashed across my vision like an endless hurricane. Something rang, rang, RANG, like a terrible gong of death. And all the time I felt that terrible strain, as if my heart were being pulled out of me.