The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories, Volume Two

by James D. Jenkins

  ‘What the hell!’

  Reginald sat upright, and instantly Mr Hawkins retreated and took refuge under a chair, where he crouched, growling and watching his master with a terrible intensity.

  ‘Susan!’ Reginald called out, ‘what the hell’s wrong with this dog?’

  Susan came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel, her face creased into an expression of amused enquiry.

  ‘So far as I know, nothing. Why?’

  ‘Well, look at him.’ Reginald pointed at the snarling dog, who backed farther away under the chair until all that could be seen was a pair of gleaming eyes and bared teeth. ‘Anyone would think I was Dracula’s mother looking for her feeding bottle. I say, you don’t suppose he’s got rabies, do you?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’ Susan crouched down and called softly: ‘Mr Hawkins, come on boy.’

  Mr Hawkins ran to her, his tail wagging feebly, and he whimpered when she patted his head and stroked his soft coat.

  ‘Poor old chap, has the heat got you down? Eh? Do you want nice walkies? Eh? Nice walkies?’

  Mr Hawkins displayed all the signs of intense pleasure at this prospect, and performed a little dance of pure joy.

  ‘He’s all right,’ Susan said, straightening up. ‘It must have been your face that put him off.’

  ‘Well, he put the fear of God into me,’ Reginald rose. ‘He hasn’t been normal since I arrived. Perhaps we ought to take him to a vet.’

  ‘Nonsense, he’s fine.’ Susan went out into the hall and the dog scampered after her. ‘It must have been the heat that got him down. Do you think I need a coat?’

  ‘No, go as you are and shock the natives.’ Reginald grinned, then frowned when he saw a six-inch-long mark that marred her right shoulder. ‘No, come to think of it, perhaps you’d better put on a jacket or something. It may be chilly before we get back.’

  She took a thin satin shawl down from the hall stand.

  ‘I’ll wear this. There isn’t a breath of wind, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a storm before morning.’

  Mr Hawkins was flattened against the front door, and when Reginald opened it, he growled low in his throat before scampering madly along the garden path and out through a hole in the hedge. Reginald smiled grimly as he closed the door and followed Susan towards the gate.

  ‘There’s something bothering that damned dog.’

  Out in the narrow road Susan took his arm and they walked slowly under a steel-blue sky.

  ‘Don’t be so silly. He’s frisky. Just heat and sex.’

  ‘Ah!’ Reginald nodded. ‘I know then how he feels. What a combination.’ They left the roadway, climbed a stile and walked ankle-deep through lush summer grass, as the dying sun painted the far-away hillsides golden-brown. Mr Hawkins raced happily back and forth, sniffing at rabbit holes, saluting trees, reliving the days when his forebears acknowledged neither man nor beast as master, and Susan sighed.

  ‘Heaven must be eternity spent in walking through an English field at sunset.’

  ‘And hell,’ Reginald retorted, ‘must be eternity spent in a tube train during the rush hour.’

  They walked for a few minutes in silence; Susan adjusted her shawl, and Reginald watched her, a tiny frown lining his forehead.

  ‘Susan, did something really . . . ?’

  ‘Did something really what?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’

  ‘No, tell me. What were you going to say?’

  ‘It wasn’t important.’ He patted the hand that lay on his arm. ‘Just a passing thought.’

  The sun had set when they once again walked up the garden path, and a full moon lit up the cottage and surrounding countryside, painting the red-bricked walls, the neat little garden, with a cold silver hue. Susan was laughing softly, and Reginald was frowning; he looked tired and drawn.

  ‘Honestly, you must admit it was funny.’ She inserted the latch-key, then opened the door and led the way into the hall. ‘That little girl . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’ve been through it three times before,’ Reginald snapped, but his irritability only provoked further laughter.

  ‘But . . .’ She opened the living-room door and switched on the light. ‘But in front of a crowd of beer-boozy layabouts this little mite pointed at you and said . . .’ For a moment Susan could not continue, then she wiped her eyes . . . and said, “Ugly man making faces at me.” ’

  ‘All right,’ Reginald glared at Mr Hawkins, who was watching him from under the table. ‘All right, so it was funny. Let’s forget it, shall we?’

  ‘But you should have seen your face. I thought for a moment you were going to be sick.’

  Reginald slumped into a chair and absentmindedly rubbed his left shoulder.

  ‘Say, ugly face, you don’t want anything else to drink after all that beer, do you?’

  ‘No, and cut it out.’

  ‘Come on, now.’ She sat on the arm of his chair. ‘Where’s your sense of humour? She was only a little thing, and probably tired out. I mean to say, you weren’t really making faces at her, were you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Well then, why so grumpy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He spoke softly, ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘Let’s go to bed,’ she whispered, ‘and dream away the dark-footed hours.’

  ‘Yup.’ He rose, then smiled down at her; she slid an arm about his neck and laid a soft cheek against his own.

  ‘You are the most beautiful man in the whole world,’ she said.

  He nodded.

  ‘I guess you’re right at that.’

  Their laughter mingled when he carried her up the stairs, and Mr Hawkins stood in the hallway and watched their ascending figures with worried eyes.

  The curtains were drawn back, the soft moonlight kept shadows at bay, and they lay side by side and waited for the silence to summon sleep.

  ‘Think of all the bunny-rabbits peacefully asleep in their burrows,’ she whispered.

  ‘Or think of them eating Farmer Thing-a-bob’s cabbages,’ he murmured.

  She giggled.

  ‘Are you sleepy?’

  ‘Somewhat.’

  ‘Why do you insist on sleeping on the right hand side of the bed?’

  ‘That’s a darn fool question.’ He stirred uneasily and widened the space between them. ‘Because it’s man’s prerogative, I guess.’

  There was a full minute of blessed silence.

  ‘Darling, if you must hold my hand, don’t press so hard.’

  His voice came from the half world where sleep and consciousness hold an even balance.

  ‘I’m not holding your hand.’

  ‘But, darling, you are, and you must cut your nails.’

  ‘Stop blathering and go to sleep.’

  Suddenly her body began to thresh wildly, and her cry of protest rose to a terrified scream.

  ‘Reginald, what are you doing? No . . . oh, my God!’

  For a second he imagined she must be playing some silly joke, that this was a not very subtle way of informing him she was not prepared to sleep, then the violent threshing of her legs, the choking gasps, made him sit up and fumble frantically for the light switch. As lamplight blasted darkness, hurled it back against the walls, she leapt from the bed and stood facing him, gasping, massaging her throat, staring with fear-crazed eyes. He was dimly aware of a faint smell, sweet, cloying, like dead flowers.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He climbed out of bed and she backed to the wall, shaking her head.

  ‘Keep away from me.’

  ‘What the hell . . . ?’

  He moved round the foot of the bed then stopped when he saw her expression of terror deepen. At that moment, truth reared up in his brain, but he ignored it, crushed it under the weight of his disbelief, and he whispered:

  ‘You know I would do nothing to hurt you.’

  Her whisper matched his and it was as though they were in some forbidden place, afraid lest
a dreaded guardian heard their voices.

  ‘You tried to choke me. Awful hands with nails like talons, and a foul breath that I can still smell.’

  He could scarcely utter the next words.

  ‘Could that have been me?’

  The awful fear on her face was dreadful to watch, and truth was uncoiling again, would not be denied.

  ‘Then – who was it?’

  ‘Get back into bed,’ he urged. ‘Please, I will sit on a chair. I won’t come near you, I promise.’

  The beautiful eyes still watched him as she moved to obey, but the moment her hand touched the pillow, she recoiled.

  ‘The smell – the stench, it’s still here.’

  They went downstairs and seated themselves in the living-room, far apart, like strangers who may never meet again, and his voice bridged the great gulf that separated them.

  ‘There was a woman on the train. She said she was a medium.’ She waited for his next words as though they were venomous snakes being offered on a silver tray.

  ‘She said I had an elemental attached to my left shoulder. Apparently it is feeding off me, growing stronger by the minute. ’

  Susan did not move or betray the slightest sign she had understood or even heard what he said.

  ‘A few hours ago, I guess, we would have laughed at the very idea.’ Reginald was staring at the empty fireplace, even giving the impression he was addressing it rather than the silent girl who sat clutching her dressing-gown with white fingers. ‘It would have been a great giggle, a funny story to tell our friends over a drink. Now . . .’

  They sat opposite each other for the remainder of the dark hours. Once, Mr Hawkins howled from his chosen place in the empty hall. They ignored him.

  Reginald found the card in his jacket pocket and read the inscription aloud.

  MADAME ORLOFF

  Clairvoyant Extraordinary

  15 Disraeli Road,

  Clapham, London, S.W.4.

  He dialled the telephone number at the foot of the card and waited; presently a voice answered.

  ‘Madame Orloff, Clairvoyant Extraordinary, messages from beyond a speciality, speaking.’

  Reginald cleared his throat.

  ‘My name is Reginald Warren. I don’t suppose you remember me – we met on a train yesterday . . .’

  ‘Yes, indeed I do.’ The voice took on a joyful tone. ‘You’re the man with the nasty little E. I expect you want me to get cracking on the ’orrible little basket.’

  ‘Well,’ Reginald lowered his voice, ‘last night it tried to strangle my wife.’

  ‘What’s that? Speak up, my dear man. It did what?’

  ‘Tried to strangle my wife,’ Reginald repeated.

  ‘Yes, I expect it did. I told you it was a homicidal. Now look, stay put, I’ll have to belt down there. It’s a bit of a bind because I had two table-tapping sessions and one poltergeist on the books for this afternoon. Still, it can’t be helped. Let me have your address.’

  Reginald parted with his address with the same reluctance that he would have experienced had he given up his soul.

  ‘The Oak Cottage, Hawthorne Lane, Hillside, Surrey.’

  ‘Right.’ The cheerful voice had repeated the address, word by word. ‘Be with you about three. I wouldn’t eat too hearty if I were you. He seems to be putting on weight if he’s been up to his little tricks so soon. You may have a materialization, although I doubt it at this stage. His main objective is to get inside you. Take over. Follow me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Reginald swallowed, ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good man. See you at three. Can I get a cab at the station?’

  ‘No, but I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘Not on your nelly.’ The voice assumed a shocked tone. ‘He’ll most likely try to run you off the road if he knows I’m coming. I’ll hire a car – and add the cost to my bill, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Reginald agreed, ‘anything at all.’

  Madame Orloff arrived at five minutes past three; she crossed her fingers and waved at Mr Hawkins, who promptly made a bolt for the stairs.

  ‘Poor little dear,’ she sighed. ‘Animals always spot them first, you know. Animals and some small children. Now let’s have a butcher’s.’

  She put on her spectacles and studied Reginald with keen interest.

  ‘My, my, we have grown. Yes indeed, he’s sucking up the old spiritual fluids like a baby at its mother’s breast.’ She bent forward and sniffed, looking rather like a well-fed bulldog who is eagerly anticipating its dinner. ‘Pongs too, don’t he?’

  ‘How did it become attached to me?’ Reginald asked, aware that Susan was watching their visitor with an expression that was divided between horror and amazement. ‘I mean, I was all right up to yesterday.’

  ‘Been in a tube train lately?’ Madame Orloff asked. He nodded.

  ‘Thought so. That damned Underground is packed with them during the rush hour. I once saw a bank clerk with six of ’em clinging to him like limpets, and he picked up two more between Charing Cross and Leicester Square. Wouldn’t listen to me, of course.’

  She turned her attention to Susan, who cringed as the heavy figure came towards her.

  ‘You’re a pretty dear, and sensitive too, I fear. You must watch yourself, poppet, keep off animal foods – and I should wear a sprig of garlic if I were you. They can’t stand garlic or clean thoughts. Think clean and religious thoughts, dear. Try to picture the Archbishop of Canterbury taking a bath. Now . . .’ She rolled up her sleeves. ‘Let’s see if we can get ’im dislodged. Sit yourself down, lad. No, not in an easy-chair, this plain straight-backed one is the ticket, and angel-love, will you draw the curtains? Light is apt to put me off me stroke.’

  Reginald was seated on a dining-room chair, the sunlight was diffused through blue nylon curtains, and the room looked cool, peaceful, a place where one might doze away the years. Susan whimpered.

  ‘I’m frightened. Don’t let her do it.’

  ‘Hush, dear.’ Madame Orloff twisted her head round. ‘We must dislodge the basket, or he’ll be at your throat again, as sure as a preggers cat has kittens.’

  She put a large beringed hand on either side of Reginald’s head, and closed her eyes.

  ‘I don’t follow the usual formula, so don’t be surprised at anything I might say. It’s just ways and means of concentrating me powers.’

  She began to jerk Reginald’s head backwards and forwards while intoning a little rhyming ditty in a high-pitched voice.

  ‘Black, foul thing from down below,

  Get you hence, or I’ll bestow

  A two-footed kick right up your bum

  That’ll make your buttocks come through your tum.’

  She writhed, jerked, made the amber beads rattle like bones in a box, all the while jerking Reginald’s head and pressing down on his temples, then gave vent to a roar of rage.

  ‘No you don’t, you black-hearted little basket! Try to bite, would you? Get out, out – out – out . . .

  ‘Get right out or I’ll bash your snout,

  Go right under, or get your number,

  No more kicks, or you’ll pass bricks,

  No more crying, it’s no use trying,

  Out-a-daisy, you’re driving me crazy.’

  Madame Orloff snatched her hands from Reginald’s head and flopped down in a chair, where she sat mopping her sweat-drenched face with a large red handkerchief.

  ‘Must have a breather, dear. Strewth, he’s made me sweat like a pig. I’ve tackled some ’ard ones in me time, but he takes the biscuit.’ She clenched her fist and shook it in Reginald’s direction. ‘You can grin at me like a cat that’s nicked the bacon, but I’ll get your measure yet.’ She turned to Susan. ‘Get us a glass of water, there’s a dear.’

  Susan ran from the room, and Madame Orloff shook her head.

  ‘You’ll have to watch that one. She’s hot stuff, attracts ’em like flies to cow dung, if you get my meaning. She’s soft and pliable, and they’ll slid
e into her as easy as a knife going into butter. You back already, dear? Mustn’t run like that, you’ll strain something.’

  She drank greedily from the glass that Susan handed her then rubbed her hands.

  ‘Thirsty work this. Well, as the bishop said to the actress “let’s have another go.” ’

  She got up and once again took Reginald’s head between her hands. Her face wore an expression of grim determination.

  ‘Now, dear, I want you to help me. Strain. That’s the word, dear. Strain. Possession is rather like having constipation. You have to strain. Keep repeating “Old Bill Bailey” to yourself. It’ll help no end. Ready?’

  Reginald tried to nod but was unable to do so due to Madame’s firm hold, so he muttered, ‘Yes’ instead.

  ‘Right – strain.

  ‘Nasty horsie that’s had no oats,

  This little bunny ain’t afraid of stoats,

  (Strain man – Old Bill Bailey)

  Coal black pussy, he’s no tom,

  He’s had his op, so get you gone.’

  Madame raised her voice to a shout, and a large blue vase on the mantelpiece suddenly crashed onto the tiled hearth.

  ‘Strain – Old Bill Bailey – come on, we’ve got ’im! Out – out – get yer skates on . . .

  ‘Out of the window, out through the door,

  There’s no marbles here, he’ll keep you poor,

  Don’t grind your teeth . . .’

  A chair went tumbling across the floor, books came hurling from their shelves, a rug left the floor and wrapped itself round the ceiling lamp, and a cold wind tugged at the window curtains. Madame Orloff lowered her voice, but it was still clear, unexpectedly sad.

  ‘Lonely wanderer of the starless night,

  You must not stay, it is not right,

  Blood is for flesh, and flesh is for blood,

  We live for an hour, then are lost in the flood

  That sweeps us away into fathomless gloom,

  We spend eternity in a darkened room.’

  ‘Please stop!’ Susan’s voice was lost amid the howling wind, but Madame Orloff’s cry of triumph rang out.

  ‘Strain – strain . . . he’s coming out. Aye, he’s coming out as smooth as an eye leaving its socket. He’s fighting every inch of the way, but old Ma Perkins was one too many for him. Out you go, my beauty, out you go, down to the land where black mountains glow with never-quenched fire, and white worms crawl from the corrupt earth, even as maggots seethe from a carcass on a hot afternoon. Go . . . go . . .’