Masterpieces of Terror and the Supernatural

by Marvin Kaye (ed. )

  It would be sensible once more to turn out the light; to withdraw to bed, between the sheets, if possible; to stand by, as before. But Maybury found that turning out the light, the resultant total blackness, were more than he could face, however expedient.

  Ineptly, he sat on the side of his bed, still trying to think things out, to plan sensibly. Would Bannard, after all this time, ever, in fact, return? At least during the course of that night?

  He became aware that the electric light bulb had begun to crackle and fizzle. Then, with no further sound, it simply failed. It was not, Maybury thought, some final authoritative lights-out all over the house. It was merely that the single bulb had given out, however unfortunately from his own point of view: an isolated industrial incident.

  He lay there, half in and half out, for a long time. He concentrated on the thought that nothing had actually happened that was dangerous. Ever since his schooldays (and, indeed, during them) he had become increasingly aware that there were many things strange to him, most of which had proved in the end to be apparently quite harmless.

  Then Bannard was creeping back into the dark room. Maybury’s ears had picked up no faint sound of a step in the passage, and, more remarkable, there had been no noise, either, of a turned key, let alone, perhaps, of a drawn bolt. Maybury’s view of the bulb failure was confirmed by a repetition of the widening and narrowing column of light, dim, but probably no dimmer than before. Up to a point, lights were still on elsewhere. Bannard, considerate as before, did not try to turn on the light in the room. He shut the door with extraordinary skill, and Maybury could just, though only just, hear him slithering into his bed.

  Still, there was one unmistakable development: at Bannard’s return, the dark room had filled with perfume; the perfume favoured, long ago, as it seemed, by the lady who had been so charming to Maybury in the lounge. Smell is, in any case, notoriously the most recollective of the senses.

  Almost at once, this time, Bannard not merely fell obtrusively asleep, but was soon snoring quite loudly.

  Maybury had every reason to be at least irritated by everything that was happening, but instead he soon fell asleep himself. So long as Bannard was asleep, he was at least in abeyance as an active factor in the situation; and many perfumes have their own drowsiness, as Iago remarked. Angela passed temporarily from the forefront of Maybury’s mind.

  Then he was awake again. The light was on once more, and Maybury supposed that he had been awakened deliberately, because Bannard was standing there by his bed. Where and how had he found a new light bulb? Perhaps he kept a supply in a drawer. This seemed so likely that Maybury thought no more of the matter.

  It was very odd, however, in another way also.

  When Maybury had been at school, he had sometimes found difficulty in distinguishing certain boys from certain other boys. It had been a very large school, and boys do often look alike. None the less, it was a situation that Maybury thought best to keep to himself, at the time and since. He had occasionally made responses or approaches based upon misidentifications: but had been fortunate in never being made to suffer for it bodily, even though he had suffered much in his self-regard.

  And now it was the same. Was the man standing there really Bannard? One obvious thing was that Bannard had an aureole or fringe of red hair, whereas this man’s fringe was quite grey. There was also a different expression and general look, but Maybury was more likely to have been mistaken about that. The pyjamas seemed to be the same, but that meant little.

  “I was just wondering if you’d care to talk for a bit,” said Bannard. One had to assume that Bannard it was; at least to start off with. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I was just making sure.”

  “That’s all right, I suppose,” said Maybury.

  “I’m over my first beauty sleep,” said Bannard. “It can be lonely during the night.” Under all the circumstances it was a distinctly absurd remark, but undoubtedly it was in Bannard’s idiom.

  “What was all that screaming?” enquired Maybury.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” said Bannard. “I suppose I slept through it. But I can imagine. We soon learn to take no notice. There are sleepwalkers for that matter, from time to time.”

  “I suppose that’s why the bedroom doors are so hard to open?”

  “Not a bit,” said Bannard, but he then added, “Well, partly, perhaps. Yes, partly. I think so. But it’s just a knack really. We’re not actually locked in, you know.” He giggled. “But what makes you ask? You don’t need to leave the room in order to go to the loo. I showed you, old man.”

  So it really must be Bannard, even though his eyes seemed to be a different shape, and even a different colour, as the hard light caught them when he laughed.

  “I expect I was sleepwalking myself,” said Maybury warily.

  “There’s no need to get the wind up,” said Bannard, “like a kid at a new school. All that goes on here is based on the simplest of natural principles: eating good food regularly, sleeping long hours, not taxing the overworked brain. The food is particularly important. You just wait for breakfast, old man, and see what you get. The most tremendous spread, I promise you.”

  “How do you manage to eat it all?” asked Maybury. “Dinner alone was too much for me.”

  “We simply let Nature have its way. Or rather, perhaps, her way. We give Nature her head.”

  “But it’s not natural to eat so much.”

  “That’s all you know,” said Bannard. “What you are old man, is effete.” He giggled as Bannard had giggled, but he looked somehow unlike Maybury’s recollection of Bannard. Maybury was almost certain there was some decisive difference.

  The room still smelt of the woman’s perfume; or perhaps it was largely Bannard who smelt of it, Bannard who now stood so close to Maybury. It was embarrassing that Bannard, if he really had to rise from his bed and wake Maybury up, did not sit down; though preferably not on Maybury’s blanket.

  “I’m not saying there’s no suffering here,” continued Bannard. “But where in the world are you exempt from suffering? At least no one rots away in some attic—or wretched bed-sitter, more likely. Here there are no single rooms. We all help one another. What can you and I do for one another, old man?”

  He took a step nearer and bent slightly over Maybury’s face. His pyjamas really reeked of perfume.

  It was essential to be rid of him; but essential to do it uncontentiously. The prospect should accept the representative’s point of view as far as possible unawares.

  “Perhaps we could talk for just five or ten minutes more,” said Maybury, “and then I should like to go to sleep again, if you will excuse me. I ought to explain that I slept very little last night owing to my wife’s illness.”

  “Is your wife pretty?” asked Bannard. “Really pretty? With this and that?” He made a couple of gestures, quite conventional though not aforetime seen in drawing rooms.

  “Of course she is,” said Maybury. “What do you think?”

  “Does she really turn you on? Make you lose control of yourself?”

  “Naturally,” said Maybury. He tried to smile, to show he had a sense of humour which could help him to cope with tasteless questions.

  Bannard now not merely sat on Maybury’s bed, but pushed his frame against Maybury’s legs, which there was not much room to withdraw, owing to the tightness of the blanket, as Bannard sat on it.

  “Tell us about it,” said Bannard. “Tell us exactly what it’s like to be a married man. Has it changed your whole life? Transformed everything?”

  “Not exactly. In any case, I married years ago.”

  “So now there is someone else. I understand.”

  “No, actually there is not.”

  “Love’s old sweet song still sings to you?”

  “If you like to put it like that, yes. I love my wife. Besides, she’s ill. And we have a son. There’s him to consider, too.”

  “How old is your son?”

  “Nearly sixteen.�
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  “What colour are his hair and eyes?”

  “Really, I’m not sure. No particular colour. He’s not a baby, you know.”

  “Are his hands still soft?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Do you love your son, then?”

  “In his own way, yes, of course.”

  “I should love him, were he mine, and my wife too.” It seemed to Maybury that Bannard said it with real sentiment. What was more, he looked at least twice as sad as when Maybury had first seen him: twice as old, and twice as sad. It was all ludicrous, and Maybury at last felt really tired, despite the lump of Bannard looming over him, and looking different.

  “Time’s up for me,” said Maybury. “I’m sorry. Do you mind if we go to sleep again?”

  Bannard rose at once to his feet, turned his back on Maybury’s corner, and went to his bed without a word, thus causing further embarrassment.

  It was again left to Maybury to turn out the light, and to shove his way back to bed through the blackness.

  Bannard had left more than a waft of the perfume behind him; which perhaps helped Maybury to sleep once more almost immediately, despite all things.

  Could the absurd conversation with Bannard have been a dream? Certainly what happened next was a dream: for there was Angela in her nightdress with her hands on her poor head, crying out “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” Maybury could not but comply, and in Angela’s place, there was the boy, Vincent, with early morning tea for him. Perforce the light was on once more: but that was not a matter to be gone into.

  “Good morning, Mr. Maybury.”

  “Good morning, Vincent.”

  Bannard already had his tea. Each of them had a pot, a cup, jugs of milk and hot water, and a plate of bread and butter, all set on a tray. There were eight large triangular slices each.

  “No sugar,” cried out Bannard genially. “Sugar kills appetite.”

  Perfect rubbish, Maybury reflected; and squinted across at Bannard, recollecting his last rubbishy conversation. By the light of morning, even if it were but the same electric light, Bannard looked much more himself, fluffy red aureole and all. He looked quite rested. He munched away at his bread and butter. Maybury thought it best to go through the motions of following suit. From over there Bannard could hardly see the details.

  “Race you to the bathroom, old man,” Bannard cried out.

  “Please go first,” responded Maybury soberly. As he had no means of conveying the bread and butter off the premises, he hoped, with the aid of the towel, to conceal it in his skimpy pyjamas jacket, and push it down the water closet. Even Bannard would probably not attempt to throw his arms round him and so uncover the offence.

  Down in the lounge, there they all were, with Falkner presiding indefinably but genially. Wan though authentic sunlight trickled in from the outer world, but Maybury observed that the front door was still bolted and chained. It was the first thing he looked for. Universal expectation was detectable: of breakfast, Maybury assumed. Bannard, at all times shrimpish, was simply lost in the throng. Cécile he could not see, but he made a point of not looking very hard. In any case, several of the people looked new, or at least different. Possibly it was a further example of the phenomenon Maybury had encountered with Bannard.

  Falkner crossed to him at once: the recalcitrant but still privileged outsider. “I can promise you a good breakfast, Mr. Maybury,” he said confidentially. “Lentils. Fresh fish. Rump steak. Apple pie made by ourselves, with lots and lots of cream.”

  “I mustn’t stay for it,” said Maybury. “I simply mustn’t. I have my living to earn. I must go at once.”

  He was quite prepared to walk a couple of miles; indeed, all set for it; The automobile organisation, which had given him the route from which he should never have diverged, could recover his car. They had done it for him before, several times.

  A faint shadow passed over Falkner’s face, but he merely said in a low voice, “If you really insist, Mr. Maybury—”

  “I’m afraid I have to,” said Maybury.

  “Then I’ll have a word with you in a moment.”

  None of the others seemed to concern themselves. Soon they all filed off, talking quietly among themselves, or, in many cases, saying nothing.

  “Mr. Maybury,” said Falkner, “you can respect a confidence?”

  “Yes,” said Maybury steadily.

  “There was an incident here last night. A death. We do not talk about such things. Our guests do not expect it.”

  “I am sorry,” said Maybury.

  “Such things still upset me,” said Falkner. “None the less I must not think about that. My immediate task is to dispose of the body. While the guests are preoccupied. To spare them all knowledge, all pain.”

  “How is that to be done?” enquired Maybury.

  “In the usual manner, Mr. Maybury. The hearse is drawing up outside the door even as we speak. Where you are concerned, the point is this. If you wish for what in other circumstances I could call a lift, I could arrange for you to join the vehicle. It is travelling quite a distance. We find that best.” Falkner was progressively unfastening the front door. “It seems the best solution, don’t you think, Mr. Maybury? At least it is the best I can offer. Though you will not be able to thank Mr. Bannard, of course.”

  A coffin was already coming down the stairs, borne on the shoulders of four men in black, with Vincent, in his white jacket, coming first, in order to leave no doubt of the way and to prevent any loss of time.

  “I agree,” said Maybury. “I accept. Perhaps you would let me know my bill for dinner?”

  “I shall waive that too, Mr. Maybury,” replied Falkner, “in the present circumstances. We have a duty to hasten. We have others to think of. I shall simply say how glad we have all been to have you with us.” He held out his hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Maybury.”

  Maybury was compelled to travel with the coffin itself, because there simply was not room for him on the front seat, where a director of the firm, a corpulent man, had to be accommodated with the driver. The nearness of death compelled a respectful silence among the company in the rear compartment, especially when a living stranger was in the midst; and Maybury alighted unobtrusively when a bus stop was reached. One of the undertaker’s men said that he should not have to wait long.

  The writings of NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE (1804—64) might well be described as still-life studies of morality and corruption. His plots develop with glacial slowness, yet in spite of their static quality, they manage to cast a curiously compelling spell upon the patient reader. Allegory is often employed by Hawthorne, but his ethical polemic never interferes with the story; both interweave masterfully to produce climaxes of towering potency, such as the death of the judge in The House of the Seven Gables. I considered including the latter piece in this anthology, but it is an episode that must be read in context to be fully appreciated. Instead, I have chosen the less familiar “The Christmas Banquet,” which has a similar “feel.”

  The Christmas Banquet

  By Nathaniel Hawthorne

  “I have here attempted,” said Roderick, unfolding a few sheets of manuscript, as he sat with Rosina and the sculptor in the summer-house—“I have attempted to seize hold of a personage who glides past me, occasionally, in my walk through life. My former sad experience, as you know, has gifted me with some degree of insight into the gloomy mysteries of the human heart, through which I have wandered like one astray in a dark cavern, with his torch fast flickering to extinction. But this man, this class of men, is a hopeless puzzle.”

  “Well, but propound him,” said the sculptor. “Let us have an idea of him, to begin with.”

  “Why, indeed,” replied Roderick, “he is such a being as I could conceive you to carve out of marble, and some yet unrealized perfection of human science to endow with an exquisite mockery of intellect; but still there lacks the last inestimable touch of a divine Creator. He looks like a man; and, perchance, like a better specimen of
man than you ordinarily meet. You might esteem him wise; he is capable of cultivation and refinement, and has at least an external conscience; but the demands that spirit makes upon spirit are precisely those to which he cannot respond. When at last you come close to him you find him chill and unsubstantial—a mere vapour.”

  “I believe,” said Rosina, “I have a glimmering idea of what you mean.”

  “Then be thankful,” answered her husband, smiling; “but do not anticipate any further illumination from what I am about to read. I have here imagined such a man to be—what, probably, he never is—conscious of the deficiency in his spiritual organization. Methinks the result would be a sense of cold unreality wherewith he would go shivering through the world, longing to exchange his load of ice for any burden of real grief that fate could fling upon a human being.”

  Contenting himself with this preface, Roderick began to read.

  In a certain old gentleman’s last will and testament there appeared a bequest, which, as his final thought and deed, was singularly in keeping with a long life of melancholy eccentricity. He devised a considerable sum for establishing a fund, the interest of which was to be expended, annually, forever, in preparing a Christmas Banquet for ten of the most miserable persons that could be found. It seemed not to be the testator’s purpose to make these half a score of sad hearts merry, but to provide that the stern or fierce expression of human discontent should not be drowned, even for that one holy and joyful day, amid the acclamations of festal gratitude which all Christendom sends up. And he desired, likewise, to perpetuate his own remonstrance against the earthly course of Providence, and his sad and sour dissent from those systems of religion or philosophy which either find sunshine in the world or draw it down from heaven.

  The task of inviting the guests, or of selecting among such as might advance their claims to partake of this dismal hospitality, was confided to the two trustees or stewards of the fund. These gentlemen, like their deceased friend, were sombre humourists, who made it their principal occupation to number the sable threads in the web of human life, and drop all the golden ones out of the reckoning. They performed their present office with integrity and judgement. The aspect of the assembled company, on the day of the first festival, might not, it is true, have satisfied every beholder that these were especially the individuals, chosen forth from all the world, whose griefs were worthy to stand as indicators of the mass of human suffering. Yet, after due consideration, it could not be disputed that here was a variety of hopeless discomfort, which, if it sometimes arose from causes apparently inadequate, was thereby only the shrewder imputation against the nature and mechanism of life.