by Cave, Hugh
"You have no right!"
"I have nothing to do with it."
Kermeff's mouth tightened in the midst of a guttural exclamation. He said very sharply: "What?"
"You would never leave here alive. Wait, and watch."
Kermeff s face whitened. Allenby, sitting just opposite him, looked sharply, furtively, at Paul and trembled visibly. He licked his lips. He said falteringly, in a whisper:
"Why did we come here?"
"To wait—and watch."
"But it is madness! That man—"
"That man is all you imagine," Paul said, "and more. You will see, before the night is over."
His voice choked off. He was aware of no sound behind him, no scuff of feet or suck of breath; only of a ghastly sensation that something, someone, was very close and gloating over him. He could feel eyes, boring through and through, with the awful penetrating power of acid.
Abruptly he swung in his chair. He found himself staring straight into Murgunstrumm's prognathous countenance, and the man's mouth was lengthened in a mocking grin. Not of humor, but of mocking hate. And the eyes were boring, unblinking, unmoving.
An instant passed while Paul returned the glare. Then Allenby cracked under the strain. Half rising, he said in a sharp, childishly shrill voice:
"What do you want? Don't glare like that, man!"
The grinning lips opened. Murgunstrumm laughed. It seemed no laugh at all; it was soundless, merely a trembling of the man's breath.
"I bring wine now, or later? Huh?"
Allenby relaxed, white, trembling. Paul turned, released from the binding clutch of that unholy stare, and looked mechanically, mutely, at his companions. Kermeff nodded slowly. Jeremy, with fists clenched on the table, said raspingly:
"Tell him to bring some wine, sir. We need it."
Murgunstrumm, without a word, limped back into the gloom. His boots scraped ominously, accenting every second beat as his crooked leg thumped under him. There was no other sound.
And the silence persisted for many maddening minutes. The massive structure seemed to have stopped breathing. Paul's voice, when he spoke at last, was a sibilant hiss, whispering into the shadows and back again like a thing of separate being.
"Your watch, Kermeff. What time is it?"
"Eleven," Kermeff said lifelessly.
"Seven hours," Paul muttered. "Seven hours until daylight. They will soon be returning."
"They?"
"The others. The inhabitants. The awful—"
Paul's voice died. He twitched convulsively, as if a hand had been clapped across his mouth. But it was no hand; it was a sound—a sound that jangled down from far above, from the blackness beyond the cracked ceiling, seemingly from the very depths of the night; a mocking, muffled laugh that hung endlessly in the still air, like the vibrating twang of a loose violin string. Then silence, dead, stifling. And then, very suddenly, a thin scream of utter terror.
There was nothing else. The sound lived and died and was not reborn. Silence, as of the grave, possessed the room. Then, violently, Kermeff flung back his chair and lurched to his feet.
"What was that?"
No one answered him. Jeremy was without motion, gripping the table with huge hands. Allenby sat like a man dead, stark white, eyes horribly wide and ivory-hued. The lamp's flame gutted the dark. Paul said mechanically:
"Sit down."
"What was it?"
"I was wrong," Paul mumbled. "The inhabitants have not all left. One—at least one—is here still."
"That scream! It was a girl! A girl!"
"A girl," Paul said in a monotone. "A girl in a flame-colored wrap. But we can do nothing. It is too late. It was too late last night, when she came here. It is always too late, here."
"What do you mean?"
"Sit down, Kermeff."
Kermeff floundered into his chair and hunched there, quivering. Muttering aloud, he clawed at his throat and loosened his shirt collar. His hands slid down jerkily, fumbling with the buttons of his coat.
But Paul's hand, darting forward with incredible swiftness, closed over the man's wrists, holding them rigid.
"No, Kermeff."
"What?"
"Keep your coat buttoned, if you love life. Have you forgotten what we did at the hotel?"
Kermeff faced him without understanding. His hands unclenched and fell away. "It is hot in here," he choked. "Too hot. I was going to—"
But another voice, soft and persuasive, interrupted him. Something scraped against the back of his chair. A long, deformed arm reached over his shoulder to place a tray with four glasses—thick greenish glasses, filled with brilliant carmine liquid—on the white cloth before him. And the voice, Murgunstrumm's voice, announced quietly:
"It be good wine. Very good wine. The meat'll be near ready, sirs."
Something snapped in Kermeff's brain. Perhaps it was the shock of that naked arm, gliding so unexpected before his face. Perhaps it was the sight of the red liquid, thick and sweet smelling and deep with color. Whatever it was, he swung about savagely and seized the cripple's arm in both hands.
"That scream!" he shouted luridly. "You heard it! What was it?"
"Scream?"
"You heard it! Don't deny it!"
The innkeeper's mouth writhed slowly into a smile, a significant, guarded smile. And his lips were wet and crimson—crimson with a liquid which had only recently passed through them.
"It was the night, sir," he said, bending forward a little. "Only the night, outside. These be lonely roads. No one comes or goes."
"You are lying! That sound came from upstairs!"
But Murgunstrumm released his arm from the clutching fingers and slid backward. He was grinning hideously. Without a word he retreated into the shadows of the doorway and vanished.
And Kermeff, turning again in his chair, sat quite without motion for more than a minute. He gazed at the glasses of red wine before him. Then, as if remembering something, he lifted both his hands, palms up, stared fixedly at them, and mumbled slowly, almost inaudibly:
"His arm—his arm was cold and flabby—cold like dead tissue. . .
8. The Winged Thing
Murgunstrumm did not return. The four guests sat alone at their table, waiting. The room, with its pin points of groping, wavering, uncertain candlelight, was otherwise empty and very still. Paul, bending forward quietly, abnormally calm and self-contained now that the moment of action had arrived, said in a low voice:
"It is time to do what we came here to do."
Kermeff studied him intently, as if remembering all at once that they had come here for a reason. Allenby remained motionless, remembering other things more close at hand and more Tartarean. Matt Jeremy's fists knotted, eager to take something in their powerful grip and crush it.
"What do you mean?" Kermeff said warily.
"We must overpower him."
"But—"
"If I once get that filthy neck in my fingers," Jeremy flared, "I'll break it!"
"There are four of us," Paul said evenly. "We can handle him. Then, before the others return, we can explore this house from top to bottom."
"It won't take four, sir," Jeremy growled. "I'm just itchin' to show that dirty toad what two good human hands can do to him."
"Human hands?" It was Allenby interrupting in a cracked mumble. "Do you mean...?"
"I mean he ain't human, that's what! But when he comes back here, I'll—" Jeremy gulped a mouthful of red wine and laughed ominously in his throat—"I'll strangle him until he thinks he is!"
"Not when he first returns," Paul commanded sharply. "He suspects us already. He'll be on guard."
"Well, then—"
"Let him bring food. Then I'll ask him for—"
A sudden hissing sound came from Allenby's tight lips. Paul turned quickly. The door of the inner room had opened, and Murgunstrumm stood there, watching wolfishly, listening. He glared a moment, then vanished again. And presently, carrying a tray in his malformed hands
, he limped into view again.
He said nothing as he lowered the tray to the table and slid the dishes onto the white cloth. Methodically he reached out with his long arms and placed four cracked plates in their proper positions. Knives and forks and spoons, black and lusterless, as if removed from some dark drawer for the first time in years, clinked dully as he pushed them before each of his guests. Then he stood back, his fists flat and bony on the cloth.
"It ain't often we have visitors here no more," he said curtly, looking from one face to another with intent eyes. "But the meat's fresh. Good and fresh. And I'll be askin' you to hurry with it. Near midnight it is, and I'm wantin' to be closin' up for the night."
Kermeff lifted his knife and touched the stuff on his plate. It was steak of some sort, red and rare in brown gravy. The vegetables piled about it were thick and sodden and obviously very old.
Paul said abruptly: "You're expecting visitors?"
"Huh?"
"You're expecting someone to come here?"
The innkeeper glared. His eyes seemed to draw together and become a single penetrating shaft of ochre-hued luminosity.
"No one comes here, I told you."
"Oh, I see. Well, we'll hurry and let you go to bed. Fetch some bread, will you?"
Murgunstrumm swept the table with his eyes. Mumbling, he limped away; and as he reached the doorway leading to the other room he turned and looked sharply back. Then he disappeared, and Paul said viciously, crowding over his plate:
"This time, Jeremy. As soon as he returns. If we fail—"
"Listen!"
There was a sound outside. The sound of a motor. It seeped into the room with a dull vibrant hum, growing louder. Out there in the road a car was approaching. Paul's hands clenched. If it were coming here—
He heard something else then. The shrill blast of a horn, just once. And then, from the inner room, Murgunstrumm came limping, one-two, one-two, one-two, with quick steps. He seized the lantern from its hook on the wall. He lit it and proceeded to the door, without a glance at the table.
Jeremy clutched the cloth spasmodically, ready to rise.
"No!" Paul cried in a whisper. "No! Not now!"
The door creaked open. Murgunstrumm scraped over the threshold. A breath of cold sweet air swept into the room, rustling the table cloth. The four men at the table sat quite still, silent, waiting.
There were voices outside, and the drone of the car's engine was suddenly still. Then footsteps crunched on the gravel walk and clicked on the stone flagging as they neared the door. An accusing, resentful voice, low yet audible, said thickly:
"That other car, Murgunstrumm? You have visitors?"
The innkeeper's reply was a whisper. Then, in a shrill feminine voice, lifted in mock horror, so typical of character that Paul could almost see the dainty eyebrows go up in assumed consternation:
"Goodness, what an odd hangout! I shan't stay here long. Why, I'd be thoroughly frightened to death."
Laughter—and then the door opened wider, revealing two figures very close together, and behind them the restive halo of Murgunstrumm's bobbing lantern. The man was in evening clothes, straight, smiling, surveying the room with slightly narrowed eyes. Certainly he seemed out of place here, where every separate thing reeked of age and decay. Yet something about him was not so incongruous. His eyes glittered queerly, with a phosphorescent force that suggested ancient lust and wisdom. And his lips were thick, too thick, curled back in a sinister scowl as he peered suddenly at the four men at the table, and nodded. Then, whispering something to his companion, he moved toward the flickering candle-points in the misty gloom.
The woman was younger, perhaps twenty, perhaps less. A mere girl, Paul decided, watching her covertly. The sort of girl who would go anywhere in the spirit of reckless adventure, who ridiculed conventions and sought everlasting excitement, fearing nothing and conquering all doubts with ready laughter.
And she was lovely. Her gown was of deep restless black, trailing the crude floor as she moved into the shadows. Her white wrap—ermine, it must be—was a blob of dazzling brilliance in the well of semidarkness which leaped out to engulf her.
To a remote table near the wall they went together, and their conversation was merely a murmur, containing no audible words. They leaned there close to each other, their hands meeting between them. And Murgunstrumm, flat against the closed door with the lantern fuming in his dangling hand, followed their movements with eyes of abhorrent anticipation—sloe eyes that seemed to be no part of the man himself, but separate twin orbs of malice.
Then it was that Jeremy, bending close over the table, said almost inaudibly: "Shall I go for him, sir? Them others won't interfere."
"No," Paul said quickly. "Wait."
Jeremy subsided, muttering. His hands knotted and unclenched significantly. Then he stiffened, for Murgunstrumm was groping over the floor toward them, swinging the lantern. Stopping just behind Paul's chair, the proprietor blinked sullenly into each man's face, and said harshly, nervously:
"Ye'll have to go."
"But we've only just been served. We haven't had time to—"
"Ye'll have to go. Now."
"Look here," Paul said impatiently. "We're not bothering your guests. We're. . . ."
He stopped. Gazing at Murgunstrumm, he saw something in the far part of the room that caused the words to die on his lips and made him recoil involuntarily. His hands gripped the table. Murgunstrumm, seeing the sudden intentness of his gaze, turned slowly and peered in the same direction.
There in the near darkness a door had opened noiselessly. It hung open now, and the threshold was filled with a silent, erect human figure. Even as the four men at the table watched it fearfully, the figure moved out of the aperture and advanced with slow, mechanical steps.
The man was in black and white, the contrasting black and white of evening attire. But there was nothing immaculate about him. His hair was rumpled, crawling crudely about his flat forehead. His chalk-colored face was a mask, fixed and expressionless. He walked with the exaggerated stride of a man seeped, saturated with liquor. His eyes were wide open, gleaming. His lips were wet and red.
And there was something else, visible in ghastly detail as the lantern light fell upon it. A stain marred the crumpled whiteness of his stiff shirt-front—a fresh glistening stain of bright scarlet, which was blood.
He stood quite still, staring. For an instant there was no other movement in the room. Then, mumbling throaty words, Murgunstrumm placed the lantern on the table and cautiously advanced to meet him.
And then Paul and the others heard words—guarded, strangely vague words that for all their lack of meaning were nevertheless hideously suggestive, significant and, to Paul, who alone understood them, the ultimate of horror.
"You have finished?" Murgunstrumm demanded eagerly.
The other nodded heavily, searching the cripple's face with his eyes.
"I am finished. It is your turn now."
Trembling violently, Murgunstrumm reached out an unsteady hand to claw the man's arm.
"Now?" he cried hungrily, sucking his lips. "I can go now?"
"In a moment. First I would talk to you. These strangers here .. .”
But Paul heard no more. The table quivered under his hands and lurched suddenly into him, hurling him backward. A harsh, growling cry came from the other side of it; and then, all at once, someone was racing to the door. It was Allenby, utterly unnerved by what he had just seen, and seeking desperately to escape.
And he was quick, amazingly quick. The door clattered back on its hinges before any other inmate of the room moved. Arms outflung, Allenby clawed his way through the aperture, shouting incoherently. And then Paul was on his feet, lurching forward.
"Stay here!" he cried to Jeremy, who would have followed him. "Hold Kermeff!"
The threshold was empty when he reached it. He stopped, bewildered by the vast darkness before him. Vaguely he saw that Murgunstrumm and the creature in black a
nd white, standing in the middle of the room, were quite motionless, watching every move. Then he stumbled over the sill, into the gloom of the path.
Nothing moved. The clearing was a silent black expanse of shadow, flat and empty under its pall of decayed atmosphere. The air was cold, pungent, sweeping into Paul's face as he swayed there. High above, feeble stars were visible.
Blindly Paul ran down the driveway, staring on either side. He stopped again, muttering. There was no movement anywhere, no sign of the man who had fled. Nothing but night and cold darkness. And a low-hanging winding-sheet of shallow vapor, swirling lazily between earth and heaven.
But Allenby had to be found. If he escaped and got back to the Rehobeth Hotel, he would use Henry Gates' phone to summon help. He would call the police at Marssen. He would lead a searching party here. And then everything that mattered would be over. The madhouse again. And Ruth would never be released from the asylum at Morrisdale.
Savagely Paul slashed on through the deep grass, moving farther and farther from the open door of the inn. Allenby had not reached the road; that was certain. He was hiding, waiting for an opportunity to creep away unobserved.
Paul's lips whitened. He glanced toward the car. The car—that was it. The key was still in the lock. Allenby knew it was. Paul stood stock still, watching. Then, smiling grimly, he deliberately turned his back and moved in the opposite direction.
Without hesitating, he blundered on, as if searching the reeds for a prone figure which might be lying there. A long moment dragged by, and another. There was no sound.
And then it came. A scurrying of feet on the gravel walk, as a crouching figure darted from the shadows under the very wall of the house. An instant of scraping, scuttling desperation, as the man flung himself across that narrow stretch of intervening space. Then a sharp thud, as the car door was flung back.
Paul whirled. Like a hound he leaped forward, racing toward the road. The motor roared violently, just ahead of him. The car door was still open. Allenby was hunched over the wheel, struggling with the unfamiliar instruments.
And he was fiendishly quick, even then. Too quick. The car jerked forward, bounding over the uneven surface. Like a great black beast it swept past the man who ran toward it, even as he reached the edge of the road. Then, with a triumphant roar, it was clear.
