‘Yes,’ Mother was leaning over him, ‘the black draught will keep him still as a week old corpse till daybreak.’
‘When will you tell him?’
‘Not until he’s fourteen.’ Mother straightened up. ‘I think he’ll have a real bent for it then.’
‘Sure, ’e’s a natural,’ Aunt Matilda chuckled, ‘them green eyes. And the way his ears taper. He’ll be lording it over his own B.M. before you know it.’
Mother shut the door when she left but did not lock it, and Lionel lay awake and listened. There was much movement in the attic above; soft thuds with an occasional thump, and once a loud bang as though something heavy had been dropped on the floor. Two hours or more had passed before he decided it was safe to climb out of bed and approach the door. The black candle had been relit and its flickering flame fought the writhing shadows in a losing battle. Aunt Matilda, who must be sharing Mother’s bed, sent out reassuring snores, and even Mother confirmed her state of unconsciousness by a spasmodic snort.
Lionel took up the black candle and slowly mounted the stairs. He was not afraid, only tensed by excitement; at last he would know why he must not, or rather, should not, ‘go up them stairs’. The top landing was festooned with cobwebs, the floor carpeted by dust in which lay the imprint of Grandfather’s form, plus a long path along which the corpse had been dragged to the black-painted door. Lionel put his candle down, and pressed his ear to the keyhole.
Something was munching; there was a sharp crack followed by a sucking sound, then a soft ripping like thick felt being torn. Lionel peered through the keyhole, but it was pitch black inside, and he could not see a thing.
He did not mean to open the door, for commonsense told him such an action would be asking for trouble, but he could not help himself. His hand crept up to the handle of its own accord, the muscles in his wrist hardened, and then, before his brain had time to flash out a panic-inspired order, the handle turned and the door slid open. The candlelight attacked the inner darkness, and was at once repelled. A graveyard smell came to him, and with it memory of things which breed in old and forgotten tombs; life that is born of death corruption and must never see the light of day. He retreated a few steps, and the candlelight, grateful for this small respite, came with him. A soft padding thumping was approaching from the inner darkness, and a deep shadow shape turned to a dirty white. It was lean and tall, clad in a long gown made from unbleached linen shrouds; the face was green-white and shone with a soft luminous light; the eyes were white, pupilless pools, and it had no nose – only two holes. It shuffled out on to the landing, right into the circle of yellow light, and reaching out a skeleton hand, opened its black-toothed mouth:
‘Glug – glug.’
Lionel dropped his candle and ran; slipped down a few stairs, fell down the rest, and a bellowed: ‘Wassat?’ followed by the creaking of bed springs told him Aunt Matilda was awake. He looked upwards. The ‘Thing’ was holding the still lighted candle and peering down at him over the banisters; the mouth was open, expressing what could well be a grimace of pleasure. Whatever it used for a voice also suggested unholy satisfaction.
‘. . . Glug . . . glug . . .’
‘Satan’s knee britches!’
Aunt Matilda gripped his shoulder, then dragged him into Mother’s bedroom. The two women stared at him with fear-inspired rage.
‘You’ve been up there?’
Lionel nodded.
‘He’s seen young flesh,’ stated Mother.
‘Living flesh,’ added Aunt Matilda.
‘With warm blood in it,’ Mother nodded.
‘Tender meat.’
‘No gristle.’
‘A succulent morsel,’ Aunt Matilda licked her lips, ‘untouched by undertaker, juicy, such as ’e’s been looking for these past three hundred years.’
‘Satan preserve us,’ Mother made an X sign and the aunt quickly imitated her, ‘what shall we do?’
‘ ’And ’im over,’ replied Aunt Matilda without hesitation. ‘Now He’s seen, He’ll want.’
‘But – I can’t,’ Mother clutched Lionel to her ample bosom. ‘I can’t give Him my son.’
‘Do you want Him down here?’ The woman’s vast fat face was pitiless. ‘Do you want Him loose?’
‘No,’ Mother’s grip slackened. ‘No, that don’t bear thinking about, but Lionel’s me son, Matilda. Remember that, he’s me son.’
‘It’ll be a sacrifice,’ agreed Aunt Matilda. ‘There’s no denying, it’ll be a sacrifice.’ She froze and raised a hand. ‘What’s that? Hark, damn ye, hark.’
The three figures became statues; they looked at each other, mutely pleading for confirmation that the silence was absolute. But a stairboard creaked, a banister squeaked, then for a few moments there was nothing, a pause before the rack was turned another notch. Something bumped against the wall, then a short croaking cough, followed by a spluttering sigh; another stair protested – there was no doubt now, whatever lived in the attic was coming down.
‘What is it?’ Even now Lionel could not resist his craving for knowledge.
‘A Ghoul,’ snapped Aunt Matilda. ‘What did you suppose it was?’
‘A King Ghoul,’ Mother corrected. ‘You remember, Matilda, Grandmother always said it was a King Ghoul.’
‘Hark!’ Aunt Matilda glared her terror. ‘It’s trying to get in. Come on, we’ve got to barricade the door.’
Lionel watched the women manhandle the wardrobe into position, and tried not to see the door handle slowly turn, but he could hardly ignore the spluttering roar that proclaimed the Ghoul’s rage when it found the entrance barred. Mother and Aunt could do no more than make the X sign and mutter completely futile incantations, while the wardrobe was trembling in a most alarming fashion. Lionel could see only one other exit from the bedroom, and he decided to use it. Aunt Matilda glanced over one shoulder.
‘Here, Maud, the little perisher is getting out of the window.’
The descent for a ten-year-old was simple. The ivy was tough, well rooted into the mortar, and Lionel had used this natural ladder before. Once on the ground he looked up and decided Aunt Matilda was foolhardy to attempt the same feat. She was not built for it, but what with the shifting wardrobe and the appeasement morsel on the road to freedom, she really had not much alternative. The ivy parted company with the wall, and Aunt Matilda came down with a sickening thud. She lay quite still, but possibly she was not dead, only Mother settled the matter beyond doubt by climbing out on to the window sill and jumping down on to Aunt Matilda’s back. Lionel distinctly heard the spine snap, and wondered idly if Aunt’s head would wobble should it be possible for her to stand up.
‘See what you’ve done now,’ Mother complained, clambering to her feet. ‘Look at poor Matilda.’ She bent down and shook an unresponsive shoulder. ‘You all right, Matilda?’
Aunt Matilda did not, indeed could not, answer, but a voice from the bedroom window did its best.
‘Glug . . . glug . . .’
The Ghoul was leaning out of the window; its green luminous face gleamed like an over-ripe melon. Mother grabbed Lionel by the scruff of the neck and pushed him forward, while at the same time doing her best to lift him upwards, but the Ghoul was looking down at Aunt Matilda’s immense sprawling figure. He pointed with one chalk-white finger.
‘. . . Glug . . . glug . . .’
‘Oh!’ Mother relaxed her grip and Lionel twisted like an eel to break free. ‘Yes, of course. Never thought of that.’ She looked up at the Ghoul who was drooling with anticipation. ‘You get up them stairs and stay there, and we’ll let you have her when it’s right and respectable.’
‘Glug,’ the Ghoul pointed again.
‘Don’t be so greedy,’ Mother admonished. ‘It isn’t as though you haven’t anything to go on with. I mean to say, normally you would have had to wait a very long time for Matilda.’
The marble eyes moved slowly, then stopped when Lionel came within their vision, but Mother was fearless now she had, so to speak, a g
enerous amount of ammunition to hand.
‘No you don’t. You’ve had me father, and you’ll have me sister, but you’ll have to wait for me son. So get back up them stairs or I’ll throw a crooked cross at yer.’
This threat seemed to disturb the Ghoul for it jerked back from the window sill, and roared like a wolf.
‘A crooked cross,’ Mother repeated. ‘Now up with yer.’
The Ghoul withdrew, but with reluctance, for the luminous face peeped round the window frame twice, and the white eyes glared down at Lionel, while a black tongue licked grey lips.
‘Crooked crosses.’ Some of Mother’s new-found confidence was seeping away, and her voice squeaked.
The Ghoul went; they could hear his feet slouching up the stairs, then the attic door slammed, and Mother gave a vast sigh of relief.
‘That was a near thing, and it was all your fault. Look what’s happened to poor Matilda, and she not ready to take the steep path. Thank your dark stars she fell out of that window all the same. There’s enough to keep the Old One busy for a long time, to say nothing of what remains of poor Grandfather.’
‘What’s a crooked cross?’ asked Lionel.
‘A cross that’s crooked,’ Mother explained. ‘ ’E don’t like ’em,’ she shuddered, ‘neither do I. But they’s poison to a Ghoul.’
‘Now,’ she squared her shoulders, ‘you must go and fetch Uncle Arthur.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘I’m going to tell you, ain’t I? Go down through the village and you reach the cross roads where yer Great-Aunt Bridget is buried, you’ll see a sign post which says, TO DEVIL’S WOOD. Follow the footpath till you come to DEAD MAN’S BRIDGE; cross, and two hundred yards further on you’ll find HANGMAN’S CORNER. Turn left, and yer Uncle’s cottage is on the right. Got that?’
Lionel nodded.
‘Right. Tell Arthur what’s happened, and say he’s to get here pronto. Off you go, and look out for ’is cat. Don’t get familiar with it.’
Lionel ran through the village, and the full moon watched him run. He walked through Devil’s Wood and felt strangely at home in the eerie gloom; Dead Man’s Bridge was a narrow wooden structure that creaked when he crossed it, and Hangman’s Corner was marked by the ruins of an old gibbet Uncle Arthur’s cottage was almost hidden under a dark canopy of large trees, and as Lionel pushed open the wicket gate an immense black cat emerged from the shadows, and after arching its back, spat at him.
‘Crooked crosses,’ Lionel experimented.
The cat spat again, then turned and was off; a black streak that was soon lost in the deep darkness. Lionel went up the garden path and tapped on the weatherbeaten door. The door flew open and Uncle Arthur faced him, a bulky figure outlined against the dim candlelight that illuminated the room beyond. Lionel tried to see what was in the room, but Uncle Arthur kept bobbing about, so he was left with the impression of toads in bottles and a heap of old bones.
‘Must be trouble,’ Uncle Arthur commented, ‘otherwise Maud would never have sent you.’
‘The Ghoul came downstairs.’ Lionel thought it wise to be brief. ‘Aunt Matilda fell out of the window, she’s dead, Mother said get there pronto.’
‘Satan!’ Uncle Arthur took a deep breath. ‘Let’s get going.’ He peered into the darkness. ‘Lucifer!’
The black cat appeared and glared at Lionel. Uncle Arthur slammed his front door.
‘Curse loud, curse deep,
All those who try to peep.’
The cat swore and took up a position on the doorstep. Uncle Arthur swept Lionel up into his arms, and after muttering some words that the boy was unable to hear, jumped forward. The return journey was accomplished in no time at all. Uncle Arthur may have run, but more likely he flew. Hangman’s Corner was gone in a flash; Dead Man’s Bridge did not creak when they passed over; Devil’s Wood was a blur of startled trees, the village was barely reached before it was left behind, and there was Mother standing by Aunt Matilda’s recumbent form.
‘What kept yer?’ she snapped.
‘Out of practice.’ Uncle Arthur was indeed a little breathless. ‘Let’s get her inside. Can’t afford to waste time now the Old One has remembered the way downstairs.’
Mother nodded again, then together they carried Aunt Matilda indoors, and laid her out on the front room table.
‘She’s going to take a bit of getting upstairs,’ Uncle Arthur observed.
‘But it’ll be worth the effort.’ Mother wiped her forehead on Aunt Matilda’s skirt. ‘The Old One will sleep for years after her.’
‘I dunno,’ Uncle Arthur shook his head doubtfully, ‘he’s seen young meat.’
‘Serve him right,’ she glared at Lionel, ‘if he hadn’t gone up them stairs, Matilda would still be brewing her black stew with the worst.’
Next day Grandfather’s brick-filled coffin was interred in the village churchyard, although popular opinion maintained the cross roads was the right and proper place, and that evening the undertaker put Matilda in her narrow box. Uncle Arthur went round to the builder’s yard for another barrow-load of bricks, while Lionel pondered on the problem of crooked crosses. He decided to question Uncle Arthur.
‘It’s like this, young ’un,’ he sat down on the wheelbarrow handle, ‘when you’ve been initiated a cross of any kind is bad medicine, but a crooked cross is fatal. If I just sees one, I goes all squeezy in me stomach.’
‘What’s init . . . ?’
‘Initiated? That’s when you takes an oath of allegiance to Old Nick. A Ghoul of course is worse off than us warlocks. I mean to say, he’s from down under, and a crooked cross would liquefy him. That’s why the Old One is in your Mother’s attic. Years and years ago he used to haunt the churchyard, but people got wise and began putting crooked crosses on their tombstones. But in an initiated house, he’s as safe as if he was in the dark place itself. Get me?’
That night Lionel sat on the side of his bed and thought the matter out.
‘I’m not initiated,’ he said aloud.
He finally made a crooked cross out of a bent bed spring.
The Ghoul upstairs had been quiet for the past two days; having an after-dinner nap, Lionel supposed. Mother, worn out by the need to keep an eye on Lionel, and still blissfully unaware of the uses a penknife can be put to, was snoring. He crept downstairs clutching his crooked cross in one hand.
A black candle, large enough to last the entire night, burnt by Aunt Matilda’s coffin. She looked far from peaceful, for her teeth were bared, and this grimace gave Lionel the idea he needed. But the teeth were tightly clenched, and his penknife had to be inserted to force them apart so that the little crooked cross could be pushed in over the stiffened tongue. Once open the mouth was reluctant to close again, and Lionel had to upper-cut Aunt Matilda with his small fist before he could safely retire to bed.
It was offering night again. Uncle Arthur brought along his barrow-load of bricks; Aunt Matilda was lifted out of her coffin (no mean task), and the family danced and sang.
‘Old One, Old One, here we come,
Bringing goodies for your tum,
Fat Matilda, plump and white,
Succulent flesh, the kind you like.
Sup well, eat your fill,
There’s plenty here, and no bill,
Rump, sirloin, liver, lights,
Kidneys, breasts, and unstewed tripes.
Suck the marrow from the bones,
Chew the gristle, spit out the stones,
Have the brains on breadless toast,
Prepare the topside as a non-heat roast.
Five-toed trotters on a stick
Her wishbone will make a fine toothpick,
Haunch of Matty, what a treat,
Munch, munch, munch, such lovely meat.’
All this advertising had brought the Ghoul into active, feet-stomping life. The ceiling shook, the lamp trembled, and Lionel could scarce control his glee when he joyfully anticipated what was to come.
&
nbsp; It took a lot of effort to bring Aunt Matilda up the stairs, and there was certainly no breath left for further singing. They had a brief rest on the landing outside Lionel’s door, and Uncle Arthur could be heard swearing.
‘He’s very active up there,’ he said after a while.
‘He’s always a bit frisky before meat,’ another uncle suggested.
‘You don’t suppose,’ Mother hesitated, ‘he’ll come out before we come down?’
‘ ’Course ’e won’t,’ Uncle Arthur replied, without, however, much conviction, ‘I mean, he never has.’
The journey upwards continued. Lionel heard the shuffling footsteps move over the ceiling to the attic door. Aunt Matilda was dumped on to the upper landing, then there was a mad scramble as the family poured down the stairs; once safely in the hall, they huddled together and chanted the final dirge.
‘Old One, Black One, listen please,
From our fears, you must give us ease,
Come not down, stay up there,
And we’ll all give a hearty cheer.’
The attic door opened, and Aunt Matilda was dragged across the floor. When the door slammed the cheer was not very hearty, little more than an overgrown sigh, then the family retired to the front room for some well-deserved celebrating, while Lionel sat on his bed to listen.
There was much rattling and bumping, as though a vast collection of bones were being cleared to one side. Then came some soft bumps, a few flops, a moist flap, and one mighty crash, then a series of cracking sounds: Lionel giggled, and said aloud, ‘You wait – you just wait.’
He waited for a long time. Downstairs Uncle Arthur was singing an obscene song and the rest of the family seemed to be dancing. Then the Ghoul grunted; an enquiring, almost disbelieving growl, that must have been heard in the front room, for Uncle Arthur was stopped on a high note, and the dancing ceased.
The scream began as a whistle. Like an overheated whistling kettle it grew in volume, became an ear-splitting shriek, rose up to a bellowing roar, then reached full maturity as a roof-raising, rasping scream. The ceiling shook, there was a mighty crashing, thrashing; a terrifying bouncing, as though countless very large lead balls were being tossed about. Then a shuddering crack streaked across the ceiling, a lump of plaster fell down on to the dressing table, another crack appeared, then another. Lionel crouched down by his bed, and as an afterthought, crawled under it. The room rained plaster, something crashed down on to the bedside rug, and Lionel stared into the empty eye sockets of a bleached skull; a couple of thigh bones followed, then a gleaming shoulder blade; something soft and floppy flapped on to the bed, and Lionel decided not to think about it.
The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories Page 2
