It represented Mrs. Stone as I had seen her last in my dreams: old and withered and white-haired. But in spite of the evident feebleness of body, a dreadful exuberance and vitality shone through the envelope of flesh, an exuberance wholly malign, a vitality that foamed and frothed with unimaginable evil. Evil beamed from the narrow, leering eyes; it laughed in the demon-like mouth. The whole face was instinct with some secret and appalling mirth; the hands, clasped together on the knee, seemed shaking with suppressed and nameless glee. Then I saw also that it was signed in the left-hand bottom corner, and wondering who the artist could be, I looked more closely, and read the inscription, “Julia Stone by Julia Stone.”
There came a tap at the door, and John Clinton entered.
“Got everything you want?” he asked.
“Rather more than I want,” said I, pointing to the picture.
He laughed.
“Hard-featured old lady,” he said. “By herself, too, I remember. Anyhow she can’t have flattered herself much.”
“But don’t you see?” said I. “It’s scarcely a human face at all. It’s the face of some witch, of some devil.”
He looked at it more closely.
“Yes; it isn’t very pleasant,” he said. “Scarcely a bedside manner, eh? Yes; I can imagine getting the nightmare if I went to sleep with that close by my bed. I’ll have it taken down if you like.”
“I really wish you would,” I said. He rang the bell, and with the help of a servant we detached the picture and carried it out onto the landing, and put it with its face to the wall.
“By Jove, the old lady is a weight,” said John, mopping his forehead. “I wonder if she had something on her mind.”
The extraordinary weight of the picture had struck me too. I was about to reply, when I caught sight of my own hand. There was blood on it, in considerable quantities, covering the whole palm.
“I’ve cut myself somehow,” said I.
John gave a little startled exclamation.
“Why, I have too,” he said.
Simultaneously the footman took out his handkerchief and wiped his hand with it. I saw that there was blood also on his handkerchief.
John and I went back into the tower room and washed the blood off; but neither on his hand nor on mine was there the slightest trace of a scratch or cut. It seemed to me that, having ascertained this, we both, by a sort of tacit consent, did not allude to it again. Something in my case had dimly occurred to me that I did not wish to think about. It was but a conjecture, but I fancied that I knew the same thing had occurred to him.
The heat and oppression of the air, for the storm we had expected was still undischarged, increased very much after dinner, and for some time most of the party, among whom were John Clinton and myself, sat outside on the path bounding the lawn, where we had had tea. The night was absolutely dark, and no twinkle of star or moon ray could penetrate the pall of cloud that overset the sky. By degrees our assembly thinned, the women went up to bed, men dispersed to the smoking or billiard room, and by eleven o’clock my host and I were the only two left. All the evening I thought that he had something on his mind, and as soon as we were alone he spoke.
“The man who helped us with the picture had blood on his hand, too, did you notice?” he said.
“I asked him just now if he had cut himself, and he said he supposed he had, but that he could find no mark of it. Now where did that blood come from?”
By dint of telling myself that I was not going to think about it, I had succeeded in not doing so, and I did not want, especially just at bedtime, to be reminded of it.
“I don’t know,” said I, “and I don’t really care so long as the picture of Mrs. Stone is not by my bed.”
He got up.
“But it’s odd,” he said. “Ha! Now you’ll see another odd thing.”
A dog of his, an Irish terrier by breed, had come out of the house as we talked. The door behind us into the hall was open, and a bright oblong of light shone across the lawn to the iron gate which led on to the rough grass outside, where the walnut tree stood. I saw that the dog had all his hackles up, bristling with rage and fright; his lips were curled back from his teeth, as if he was ready to spring at something, and he was growling to himself. He took not the slightest notice of his master or me, but stiffly and tensely walked across the grass to the iron gate. There he stood for a moment, looking through the bars and still growling. Then of a sudden his courage seemed to desert him: he gave one long howl, and scuttled back to the house with a curious crouching sort of movement.
“He does that half-a-dozen times a day.” said John. “He sees something which he both hates and fears.”
I walked to the gate and looked over it. Something was moving on the grass outside, and soon a sound which I could not instantly identify came to my ears. Then I remembered what it was: it was the purring of a cat. I lit a match, and saw the purrer, a big blue Persian, walking round and round in a little circle just outside the gate, stepping high and ecstatically, with tail carried aloft like a banner. Its eyes were bright and shining, and every now and then it put its head down and sniffed at the grass.
I laughed.
“The end of that mystery, I am afraid.” I said. “Here’s a large cat having Walpurgis night all alone.”
“Yes, that’s Darius,” said John. “He spends half the day and all night there. But that’s not the end of the dog mystery, for Toby and he are the best of friends, but the beginning of the cat mystery. What’s the cat doing there? And why is Darius pleased, while Toby is terror-stricken?”
At that moment I remembered the rather horrible detail of my dreams when I saw through the gate, just where the cat was now, the white tombstone with the sinister inscription. But before I could answer the rain began, as suddenly and heavily as if a tap had been turned on, and simultaneously the big cat squeezed through the bars of the gate, and came leaping across the lawn to the house for shelter. Then it sat in the doorway, looking out eagerly into the dark. It spat and struck at John with its paw, as he pushed it in, in order to close the door.
Somehow, with the portrait of Julia Stone in the passage outside, the room in the tower had absolutely no alarm for me, and as I went to bed, feeling very sleepy and heavy, I had nothing more than interest for the curious incident about our bleeding hands, and the conduct of the cat and dog. The last thing I looked at before I put out my light was the square empty space by my bed where the portrait had been. Here the paper was of its original full tint of dark red: over the rest of the walls it had faded. Then I blew out my candle and instantly fell asleep.
My awaking was equally instantaneous, and I sat bolt upright in bed under the impression that some bright light had been flashed in my face, though it was now absolutely pitch dark. I knew exactly where I was, in the room which I had dreaded in dreams, but no horror that I ever felt when asleep approached the fear that now invaded and froze my brain. Immediately after a peal of thunder crackled just above the house, but the probability that it was only a flash of lightning which awoke me gave no reassurance to my galloping heart. Something I knew was in the room with me, and instinctively I put out my right hand, which was nearest the wall, to keep it away. And my hand touched the edge of a picture-frame hanging close to me.
I sprang out of bed, upsetting the small table that stood by it, and I heard my watch, candle, and matches clatter onto the floor. But for the moment there was no need of light, for a blinding flash leaped out of the clouds, and showed me that by my bed again hung the picture of Mrs. Stone. And instantly the room went into blackness again. But in that flash I saw another thing also, namely a figure that leaned over the end of my bed, watching me. It was dressed in some close-clinging white garment, spotted and stained with mold, and the face was that of the portrait.
Overhead the thunder cracked and roared, and when it ceased and the deathly stillness succeeded, I heard the rustle of movement coming nearer me, and, more horrible yet, perceived an odor of corruption a
nd decay. And then a hand was laid on the side of my neck, and close beside my ear I heard quick-taken, eager breathing. Yet I knew that this thing, though it could be perceived by touch, by smell, by eye and by ear, was still not of this earth, but something that had passed out of the body and had power to make itself manifest. Then a voice, already familiar to me, spoke.
“I knew you would come to the room in the tower,” it said. “I have been long waiting for you. At last you have come. Tonight I shall feast; before long we will feast together.”
And the quick breathing came closer to me; I could feel it on my neck.
At that the terror, which I think had paralyzed me for the moment, gave way to the wild instinct of self-preservation. I hit wildly with both arms, kicking out at the same moment, and heard a little animal-squeal, and something soft dropped with a thud beside me. I took a couple of steps forward, nearly tripping up over whatever it was that lay there, and by the merest good-luck found the handle of the door. In another second I ran out on the landing, and had banged the door behind me. Almost at the same moment I heard a door open somewhere below, and John Clinton, candle in hand, came running upstairs.
“What is it?” he said. “I sleep just below you, and heard a noise as if— Good heavens, there’s blood on your shoulder.”
I stood there, so he told me afterwards, swaying from side to side, white as a sheet, with the mark on my shoulder as if a hand covered with blood had been laid there.
“It’s in there,” I said, pointing. “She, you know. The portrait is in there, too, hanging up on the place we took it from.”
At that he laughed.
“My dear fellow, this is mere nightmare,” he said.
He pushed by me, and opened the door, I standing there simply inert with terror, unable to stop him, unable to move.
“Phew! What an awful smell,” he said.
Then there was silence; he had passed out of my sight behind the open door. Next moment he came out again, as white as myself, and instantly shut it.
“Yes, the portrait’s there,” he said, “and on the floor is a thing—a thing spotted with earth, like what they bury people in. Come away, quick, come away.”
How I got downstairs I hardly know. An awful shuddering and nausea of the spirit rather than of the flesh had seized me, and more than once he had to place my feet upon the steps, while every now and then he cast glances of terror and apprehension up the stairs. But in time we came to his dressing-room on the floor below, and there I told him what I have here described.
The sequel can be made short; indeed, some of my readers have perhaps already guessed what it was, if they remember that inexplicable affair of the churchyard at West Fawley, some eight years ago, where an attempt was made three times to bury the body of a certain woman who had committed suicide. On each occasion the coffin was found in the course of a few days again protruding from the ground. After the third attempt, in order that the thing should not be talked about, the body was buried elsewhere in unconsecrated ground. Where it was buried was just outside the iron gate of the garden belonging to the house where this woman had lived. She had committed suicide in a room at the top of the tower in that house. Her name was Julia Stone.
Subsequently the body was again secretly dug up, and the coffin was found to be full of blood.
THE BATS, by David Anderson
“Bats? In the middle of Vancouver?”
“Straight above your head.” Rev. Brent Gilson transferred his coffee mug from right hand to left and pointed upwards with a chocolate-smudged index finger.
Ron Norrison stared up at the ceiling. Coffee-time after the Sunday morning service at Firview Church was turning out to be more informative than usual. “Are you sure?”
“I was surprised too, Ron, I’d assumed it was mice making the noises. But yes, we have bats up there in the roof space. Good thing we’re Presbyterians and don’t have a belfry, or they’d be in there too.” Rev. Gilson chuckled at his own joke. “According to the expert from City Hall, they’ve migrated up from South America due to global warming.”
“So how do we get rid of them?” Ron asked, still peering cautiously at the ceiling.
“That’s the problem: I don’t think we can. Bats are a protected species in British Columbia. They use their razor sharp teeth to get in, and once they’re here we just have to put up with them.”
“That doesn’t seem right.”
Rev. Gilson smiled ruefully. “It’s political correctness gone mad, if you ask me,” he replied, “And I say that as a keen environmentalist. But the regulations are clear: no poisoning, no gassing, no trapping and relocating allowed.”
“We’ll just have to block their entrance hole.”
Rev. Gilson shook his head. “That’s also against regulations.”
Ron’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding me?”
“Sadly, no. It’s the law.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to get used to our new residents,” Ron sighed.
* * * *
“The smell is appalling, like ammonia,” Irene said, putting down the mop and holding her nose, “I don’t know how I’ll get this place ready for Sunday morning.”
Ron stood next to the church caretaker and sniffed the air for himself. “Phew, what a stink,” he agreed. “It must be the bat urine. And there’s a musty smell from the droppings too.”
“Catches the back of your throat, doesn’t it?” Irene replied. “See those urine stains on the pulpit seat? They just won’t come off.”
“They’re all over the pews too,” Ron added, “If only we could plug that hole in the roof.” He peered into the baptismal font, saw that the metal was pitted from bat urine, and wondered how it could ever be used again. The majestic old Bible on the communion table was the same: open at Psalm 23, its pages were splattered and stuck together with musty bat droppings.
“If people were coming in here and harming our building like this,” he observed, “you would say it was criminal damage.”
Irene nodded. “I believe in protecting wildlife,” she said, “but surely we have rights as well as the bats. I’ve been ill lately and I’m convinced it’s contact with the droppings.”
Ron recalled the guidelines that the City Hall inspector had left behind. They were crystal clear all right. Rev. Gilson had pinned the information sheet on the church notice board for everyone to see:
“It is an offence for anyone intentionally to kill, injure or handle a bat, to disturb a roosting bat, or to damage, destroy or obstruct access to any place used by bats for shelter, whether they are present or not. It is illegal to be found in possession of a dead bat. Bats and their habitats are protected under City By-Laws and Provincial conservation regulations. Penalties include fines of up to $25,000 and/or six months’ imprisonment.”
The injustice of it was making Ron increasingly frustrated and annoyed. In any other country the law would be ignored as foolish and bats banned from churches. He took one more look at the ruined Bible and began to get very angry indeed.
* * * *
Ron turned the key in the lock and entered the side door of the church. Closing the door hurriedly behind him, he switched on his flashlight and shone it on the keypad on the wall. He reckoned he had about thirty seconds to deactivate the alarm system before it went off. It was well past midnight and if he triggered the alarm at this time of night it would certainly raise some eyebrows and set congregational tongues wagging.
His fingers tapped lightly over several digits and the red light changed to green. Realising he’d been holding his breath, he slowly expelled it and tried to calm the thumping in his chest.
He dared not switch on any lights; it would attract too much attention in the neighbourhood. His small flashlight seemed pitifully inadequate as he shone its pencil thin beam into the stagnant darkness all around him. The task before him was daunting but he told himself that it was necessary. He’d searched his conscience over and over again during the last few days and come to the
same conclusion each time: unjust laws could be morally disobeyed.
His plan was a simple one and shouldn’t take long to carry out. He went down two steps into the tiny kitchen and rummaged under the sink. The items he was looking for were still there, just as they had been when he’d checked before going home on Sunday evening. Now, two days later, he was about to put them to good use.
He pulled out a cardboard box containing a large assortment of old-fashioned spring trigger mouse traps.
* * * *
The space between the ceiling and the roof extended over the office and kitchen area, not over the sanctuary itself. Getting into it would be easy enough: there was a small rectangular hatch on the ceiling outside Rev. Gilson’s office. Ron shone the flashlight down the basement stairwell and slipped down to fetch a step ladder from the storage room below.
He lugged the metal ladder up the stairs, placed it beneath the hatch, grabbed the box of traps and clambered up. The hatch cover was stiff from long disuse and at first it wouldn’t open, but when he applied both hands and pushed harder it came free with a noisy thunk. The box went up first, then he placed the flashlight awkwardly in his mouth and pulled himself up into the roof space. According to the internet research he’d done, at this time of night the bats should be flying around outside, hunting for food, and this certainly seemed to be the case. He hoped they wouldn’t find much and would come back nice and hungry.
The Vampire Megapack: 27 Modern and Classic Vampire Stories Page 35
