The estate agent's was among the cluster of similar buildings at the western end of Bold Street. As we entered, I noticed again that the postcard advertising the houses by the lake was almost hidden in the upper corner of the window. I had meant to point this out to Cartwright, but that could wait until later.
'Oh, yes,' the estate agent said, looking up from a pile of brochures on the counter. 'You two gentlemen went to view the lakeside property… Well — does it interest you?' His look made it obvious what answer was expected, and Cartwright's 'Yes — where do I sign?' visibly startled him. In fact, he seemed to suspect a joke.
'£500 is the price on the repaired one, I think,' Cartwright continued. 'If you'd like to fix things up, I'll move in as soon as you give the word. I can't say it looks haunted to me, even if that does explain the price — still, so much the better for inspiration if it is, eh, Alan?'
He turned back as the man behind the counter spoke. 'I'll put the deal through for you, and drop you a line when it's done.'
'Thanks. Oh, just one thing—' a look of resignation crossed the other's face '—who left all the furniture?'
'The other tenants. They moved out about three weeks ago and left it all.'
'Well, three weeks is a bit long,' conceded Cartwright, 'but mightn't they still come back for it?'
'I had a letter about a week after they left,' explained the estate agent — they left during the night, you know — and he said they wouldn't come back even in daylight for the stuff they'd left! They were very well off, anyway — don't really know why they wanted to take a house like that in the first place—'
'Did he say why they went off in such a hurry?' I interrupted.
'Oh, some rigmarole that didn't make sense,' said the agent uncomfortably. 'They had a kid, you know, and there was a lot about how he kept waking them up in the night screaming about something "coming up out of the lake" and "looking in at the window." Well, I suppose that was all a bit harassing, even if he was only dreaming, but that wasn't what scared him off. Apparently the wife found the writer of this letter out about eleven o'clock one night a fortnight after they came — that's as long as they stayed — staring into the water. He didn't see her, and nearly fainted when she touched his arm. Then he just loaded everything there was room for into the car, and drove off without letting her know even why they were going.
'He didn't tell her at all, and didn't really tell me. All he said in the letter was that he saw something at the bottom of the lake, looking at him and trying to come up… Told me to try to get the lake filled in and the houses pulled down, but of course my job's to sell the place, not destroy it.'
'Then you're not doing it very well,' I remarked.
'But you said you'd rather have a haunted house,' protested the agent, looking hurt as if someone had tricked him.
'Of course I did,' Cartwright reassured him. 'Kearney here's just a bit touchy, that's all. If you let me know when everything's ready, I'll be happy to move in.'
Cartwright was not returning to London, and as I wanted to get back that day, he offered to run me across town to Lower Brichester Station. As we passed between the stores and approached the railway, I was deep in thought — thoughts of my friend's living alone in that twilit clearing ten miles outside Brichester. When we drew up in the taxi-rank, I could not leave him without yelling above the echoes of the station:
'Sure you don't want to look round a bit more before you come to live here? I don't much like the look of that place so far away from everything — might prey on your mind after a few weeks.'
'Good God above, Alan,' he remonstrated, 'you were the one who insisted on looking at all the houses when I wanted to leave. Well, I've got it now — and as for preying on my mind, that sort of place is just what I need for inspiration.' He seemed offended, for he slammed the door and drove away without farewell. I could only enter the station and try to forget that shrine of desolation in the mindless echoes of the terminus.
For some weeks afterwards I did not see Cartwright at all, and my job at the Inland Revenue was so exacting that I could not spare the time to call at his home. At the end of the third week, however, things slackened at my office, and I drove up from Hoddesdon, where I live, to see if he had yet left. I was only just in time, for two cars were parked outside his house on Elizabeth Street; in one was Cartwright and a number of his paintings while behind it his friend Joseph Bulger was bringing out easels, paints and some furniture. They were ready to move off as I arrived, but Cartwright stopped to talk for a few minutes.
'I've got rid of most of the furniture at this end,' he told me. 'Might as well use what that family left, but there were one or two things I wanted to keep. Well, it's a pity you can't call round at weekends any more — anyway, maybe you could come down at Christmas or sometime like that, and I'll write you when I get settled in.
Again I heard nothing from him for a few weeks. When I met Bulger on the street he told me that Cartwright had shown every sign of enjoyment when left in the lakeside house, and had announced his intention of beginning to paint that night, if possible. He did not expect to hear from Cartwright for some time, as once he began work on a picture he would let nothing distract him.
It was about a month later that he first wrote. His letter contained nothing extraordinary, yet as I look back on it I can see in almost everything intimations of things to come.
Thomas Cartwright,
Lakeside Terrace,
c/o Bold St Post Office,
Brichester, Glos.
3 October 1960
Dear Alan:
(Notice the address — the postman doesn't come anywhere near here, and I've got to go up to Bold Street every week and collect on a poste restante basis.)
Well, I've settled in here. It's very comfortable, except it's a bit inconvenient having the toilet on the third floor; I may have that altered one day — the place has been altered so much that more won't make any difference. My studio's upstairs, too, but I sleep downstairs as usual. I decided to move the table out to the back room, and between us we managed to get the bed into the front room, facing on to the lake.
After Joe left I went for a walk round. Took a glance into the other houses — you've no idea how inviting mine looks with all the lights on in the middle of those deserted shacks! I can't imagine anyone coming to live in them again. One of these days I really must go in and see what I can find — perhaps the rats which everyone took for 'ghosts.'
But about this business of haunting, something just struck me. Was what that family said they saw the first hint of the supernatural round here — because if it was, why are the other houses so dilapidated? It's all very well saying that they're so far away from everything, but they've been altered right and left, as you saw. Certainly at one time they were frequently inhabited, so why did people stop coming? Must tackle the estate agent about this.
When I'd finished peering round the houses, I felt like a walk. I found what looked like a path through the woods behind the house, so I followed it. I won't try that again in a hurry! — there was practically no light in there, the trees just went on into the distance as far as I could see, and if I'd gone much farther in I'd certainly have been lost. You could picture it — stumbling on and on into the dark, nothing to see except trees, closing in on every side… And to think those people brought a kid here!
Just finished my new painting. It shows these houses, with the lake in the foreground, and the bloated body of a drowned man at the edge of the water—Relentless Plague, I think. I hope they like it.
Yours, Thomas
P.S. Been having nightmares lately. Can never remember what they're about, but I always wake up sweating.
I wrote back an inconsequential reply. I deplored the macabre nature of his latest work — as I had always done — although, as I said, 'no doubt it will be appreciated for its technique.' I offered to buy anything he might be unable to get in Brichester, and made a few uninspired observations on life in Hoddesdon. Also,
I think, I remarked: 'So you're having nightmares? Remember that the business with the last owners began with their boy having dreams.'
Cartwright replied:
10 October 1960
You don't know how lucky you are, having a post-box almost on your doorstep! My nearest one's nearly four miles away, and I get out there only on my way to Brichester, on Mondays and Saturdays — which means I have to write letters on Monday morning (as I'm doing now) or Sunday, and collect the replies on Saturday up at Bold Street.
Anyway, that's not what I wanted to write to you about. I've gone and left some sketches in a cupboard in the studio of the Elizabeth Street house, and I was wondering if you could drop round there and perhaps drive up with them. If you can't, maybe you could call on Joe Bulger and get him to bring them up here. I'm sorry to be such a hell of a nuisance, but I can't do one of my paintings without them.
Yours, Thomas
My job was again very demanding, and I replied that I could not possibly leave town for some weeks. I could not very well refuse to contact Bulger, and on Wednesday evening on my way home from work I detoured to his house. Luckily, he had not left for his weekly cinema jaunt, and he invited me in, offering me a drink. I would have stayed longer, but my job was consuming even spare time, so I said:
'This isn't really a social call. I'm afraid I'm passing you a job which was detailed to me. You see, Cartwright wanted me to collect some drawings from his London studio in a cupboard, but my job's getting in the way — you know what it can be like. So if you could do it for me, and take a train down there with them..?'
Bulger looked a little reluctant, but he only said: 'All right — I'll try and save your face. I hope he doesn't want them in a desperate hurry — I'll be able to get them to him within the week.'
I got up to leave. At the door I remarked: 'Better you than me. You may have a bit of trouble in Elizabeth Street, because someone new's already moved in there.'
'You didn't tell me that before,' he protested. 'No, it's all right, I'll still go — even though I don't much like the idea of going to that lake.'
'How do you mean?' I asked. 'Something you don't like down there?'
Bulger shrugged. 'Nothing I could put my finger on, but I certainly wouldn't like to live down there alone. There's something about those trees growing so close, and that black water — as if there were things watching, and waiting… but you must think me crazy. There is one point, though — why were those houses built so far from everywhere? By that lake, too — I mean, it's hardly the first place you'd think of if you were going to build a row of houses. Who'd be likely to live there?'
As I drove back to Hoddesdon I thought about this. Nobody except someone seeking morbid inspiration, such as Cartwright, would live in such a place — and surely such people were not numerous. I planned to mention this to him in my next letter; perhaps he would discover something thus of why the houses had become untenanted. But as it happened, I was forestalled, as I discovered from his letter of the following Sunday.
16 October 1960
Well, Joe's come and gone. He couldn't get into my studio at first — the new people thought he made it all up so he could get in and steal the silver! Anyway, the Walkers next door knew him, so he finally got my sketches.
He was wondering why these houses were built in the first place. I don't know either — it never struck me before, but now I come to think about it I must find out sometime. Maybe I'll ask that estate agent about it next time I'm up Bold Street way. This may tell me why the places got so dilapidated, too. I get the idea that a band of murderers (or highwaymen, perhaps) could have operated from here, living off the passers-by; sort of L'Auberge Rouge stuff.
Joe left this afternoon… Sorry for the break, but actually I just broke off writing because I thought I heard a noise outside. Of course it must have been a mistake. Nobody could possibly be out there at this time (11 p.m.) — Joe left about seven hours back — but I could have sworn that somebody was yelling in the distance a few minutes ago; there was a sort of high-pitched throbbing, too, like an engine of some sort. I even thought that there was something white — well, a few white objects — moving on the other side of the lake; but of course it's too dark to see anything so far off. Certainly a lot of splashing began in the water about the same time, and it's only just dying down as I write this.
I'd still like you to come down for a few days. Christmas is getting near — maybe..?
Yours, Thomas
I was rather disturbed that he should imagine sounds in such a lonely area, and said as much. Although I, like Bulger, did not relish the idea of going to that half-lit woodland lake, I thought it might be best for me to visit Cartwright when I could, if only so he could talk to me and forget his pocket of desolation. There was less work for me now at the Inland Revenue, but it would be some weeks before I could visit him. Perhaps Bulger's call had lessened his introspection a little, though from his latest imaginings it did not seem so. I told him of my proposed stay with him when I wrote that Thursday.
His reply which I received on the 25th I believe to be the first real hint of what Cartwright unwittingly brought on himself.
24 October 1960
Haven't had time to get down to Bold Street yet, but I want to find out about these houses all the more now.
However, that's not really why I wanted to write to you. Remember I kept on about these nightmares which I could never remember? Well, last night I had a series of long dreams, which I remembered on waking. They were certainly terrifying — no wonder I kept waking up sweating, and no wonder that kid kept screaming in the night if he had the same dreams! But what am I saying — that's hardly likely, is it?
Last night I went to bed around midnight. I left the window open, and I noticed a lot of — splashing and disturbance on the surface of the lake. Funny, that — there was hardly any wind after 6 o'clock. Still I think all that noise may have caused my dreams.
My dream began in the hall. I was going out the front door — seemed to remember saying goodbye to someone, who I don't know, and seeing the door close. I went down the steps and across the pavement round the lake. Why I can't imagine, I passed the car and began to walk up the Bnchester road. I wanted to get into Brichester, but not in any hurry. I had a peculiar feeling that someone should have driven me there… Come to think, that's the way Joe must have felt last week! He had to walk to Brichester, because I was right out of petrol and the nearest garage is a few miles down the road.
A few yards out of the glade I noticed a footpath leading off among the trees to the left of the road. That's the direct way to Brichester — at least, it would be if it kept on in its original direction — for the motor road curves a good deal. While I wasn't in a hurry, I didn't see why I should walk further than necessary, so I turned off the road on to the path. I felt a bit uneasy, heaven knows why — I wouldn't normally. The trees were very close and not much light got through, so that might have contributed to the feeling. It was very quiet, too, and when I kicked loose stones out of the way the sound startled me.
I suppose it must have been about fifty yards in that I realised the path wouldn't take me back to Brichester at all if it kept on the way it was tending. In fact, it was curving back to the lake — or at least following the lake shore, I'd guess with about twenty yards of forested ground between the path and the open shore. I went a few yards further to make sure; it was definitely curving round the lake. I turned to go back — and glimpsed a blue glow a little ahead. I didn't know what to make of it, and didn't particularly like the idea of going closer; but I'd time to spare, so I conquered this irrational fear (which normally I'd never feel) and went forward.
The path widened a little, and at the centre of the wider space stood an oblong piece of stone. It was about seven feet long, two wide and three high, and it was cut out of some phosphorescent stone which gave out the blue light. On top were inscribed some words too worn away to be legible, and at the foot of the writing the name 'Thos
. Lee' was roughly chipped. I wasn't sure whether it was a solid piece of stone or not — a groove ran round the sides about two inches from the top which might have denoted a lid. I didn't know what it was, but immediately I got the idea that there were others along the path. Determined to see if this were true, I walked away up the path — but with my determination was mixed an odd unaccustomed fear of what I was doing.
Twenty yards on or so I thought I heard a sound behind me — first a hollow sliding, then what sounded like measured footsteps following me. I looked back with a shiver, but the bend in the path blocked my view. The footsteps weren't coming very fast; I began to hurry, for oddly I didn't want to see who was making them.
Seventy or eighty yards, and I came into a second space. As I noticed the glowing stone in the centre a blind terror rose up in me, but I continued to stare at it. There came a muffling shifting sound — and then, as I watched, the lid of that stone box began to slide off, and a hand came scrabbling out to lever it up! What was worse, it was the hand of a corpse — bloodless and skeletal, and with impossibly long, cracked nails… I turned to run, but the trees were so thick-growing that it would have been impossible to flee through them quickly enough. I began to stumble back up the path, and heard those horribly deliberate footfalls close at hand. When a yellow-nailed hand appeared round a tree, gripping the trunk, I screamed hopelessly and awoke.
For a minute I considered getting up and making some coffee. Dreams don't usually affect me, but this one was terribly realistic. However, before I could attempt to hold my eyes open, I fell asleep again.
The Inhabitant of the Lake and Less Welcome Tenants Page 11
