Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992)

by David G. Hartwell (Ed. )

  deserted by my companions, I took my candelabra and

  continued my investigation of the house alone.

  The next floor was comprised mainly of bed and

  batlfrooms, but I found that one whole wing of the house

  (which formed the hollow square in which the courtyard

  lay) was one enormous room, the Long Gallery, as

  Gideon had called it. Down one side of this long, wide

  room—which would have done credit to any great

  country house in England— there were very tall windows, and opposite each window was a tall mirror, similar to the one downstairs- but long and narrow.

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  Between these mirrors stood the bookcases of polished

  oak, and piled on the shelves haphazardly were a myriad

  of books, some on their sides, some upside down in total

  confusion. Even a cursory glance was enough to tell me

  that the library was so muddled it would take me some

  considerable time to sort the books into subjects before I

  could even start to catalogue and value them. Leaving

  the Long Gallery shrouded in dust sheets and with the

  shutters still closed, I went one floor higher. Here there

  were only attics, and in one of them I came upon the gilt

  frame of a mirror and I shivered, for I presumed that this

  was the attic in which Gideon’s uncle had been found

  dead. The mirror frame was identical to the one in the

  blue salon but on a much smaller scale, of course. Here

  again were the satyrs, the unicorns, the griffons and

  hippographs, but in addition there was a small area at

  the top of the frame, carved like a medallion, in which

  were inscribed in French the words: "I am your servant.

  Feed and liberate me. I am you. " It did not seem to make

  sense. I closed the attic door and, chiding myself for

  being a coward, I locked it securely and in consequence

  felt much better.

  When I made my way downstairs to the blue salon, I

  was greeted with rapture by both dog and cat, as if I had

  been away on a journey of many days, and I realized that

  they were hungry. Simultaneously I realized that I was

  hungry too, for the excitement of arriving at the house

  and exploring it had quite made me forget to prepare

  myself any luncheon and it was now past six o’clock in

  the evening. So, accompanied by the eager animals, I

  made my way down to the kitchen to cook some food for

  us all. For the dog, I stewed some scraps of mutton, and a

  little chicken for the cat, both combined with some

  boiled rice and potatoes; they were delighted with this

  menu. For myself, I grilled a large steak with an assortment of vegetables and chose from the cellar an excellent bottle of red wine. When this was ready I carried it up to.

  the blue salon and, pulling my chair up to the fire, made

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  myself comfortable and fell on the food hungrily. Presently the dog and the cat, replete with food, joined me and spread out in front of the fire. I got up and closed the

  door once they were settled, for there was quite a cold

  draught from the big hall which, with its marble floor,

  was now as cold as an ice-chest. Finishing my food, I lay

  back contentedly in my chair, sipping my wine and

  watching the blue flames run to and fro over the chestnut

  roots in the fire. I was very relaxed and happy and the

  wine, rich and heavy, was having a soporific effect on me.

  I slept for perhaps an hour. Then, suddenly, I was fully

  awake with every nerve tingling, as if someone had

  shouted my name. I listened, but the only sounds were

  the soft breathing of the sleeping dog and the contented

  purr of the cat curled up on the chair opposite me. It was

  so silent that I could hear the faint bubble and crackle of

  the chestnut roots in the fire. Feeling sure I must have

  imagined a sound, and yet feeling unaccountably uneasy

  for no discernible reason, I threw another log on the fire

  and settled back in the chair to doze.

  It was then I glanced across at the mirror opposite me

  and noticed that in the reflection the door to the salon

  which I had carefully closed was now ajar. Surprised, I

  twisted round in my chair and looked at the real door,

  only to find it was securely closed as I had left it. I looked

  again into the mirror and made sure my eyes— aided by

  the wine— were not playing tricks, but sure enough, in

  the reflection the door appeared to be slightly ajar. I was

  sitting there looking at it and wondering what trick of

  light and reflection could produce the effect of an open

  door when the door responsible for the reflection was

  securely closed, when I noticed something that made me

  sit up, astonished and uneasy. The door in the reflection

  was being pushed open still further. I looked at the real

  door again and saw that it was still firmly shut. Yet its

  reflection in the mirror was opening, very slowly, millimeter by millimeter. I sat watching it, the hair on the

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  nape of my neck stirring, and suddenly round the edge of

  the door, on the carpet, there appeared something that at

  first glance I thought was some sort of caterpillar. It was

  long, wrinkled and yellowish-white in color, and at one

  end it had a long blackened horn. It humped itself up and

  scrabbled at the surface of the carpet with its horn in a

  way that I had seen no caterpillar behave. Then, slowly,

  it retreated behind the door. I found that I was sweating.

  I glanced once more at the real door to assure myself that

  it was closed because, for some reason or other, I did not

  fancy having that caterpillar or whatever it was crawling

  about the room with me. The door was still shut. I took a

  draught of wine to steady my nerves and was annoyed to

  see that my hand was shaking. I, who had never believed

  in ghosts, or hauntings, or magic spells or any of that

  claptrap, was imagining things in a mirror and convincing myself to such an extent they were real that I was actually afraid. It was ridiculous, I told myself as I drank

  the wine. There was some perfectly rational explanation

  for the whole thing. I sat forward in my chair and gazed

  at the reflection in the mirror with great intentness. For a

  long time nothing happened, and then the door in the

  mirror swung open a fraction and the caterpillar appeared again, but this time it was joined by another and then, after a pause, yet another and suddenly my blood

  ran cold for I realized what it was. They were not

  caterpillars but attenuated yellow fingers with long black

  nails twisted like gigantic misshapen rose thorns. The

  moment I realized this the whole hand came into view,

  feeling its way feebly along the carpet. The hand was a

  mere skeleton covered with the pale yellow, parchmentlike skin through which the knuckles and joints showed like walnuts. It felt around on the carpet in a blind,

  groping sort of way, the hand moving from a bony wrist,

  like the tentacles of some strange sea anemone from the

  deep, one that has become pallid through living in
>
  perpetual dark. Then slowly it withdrew behind the

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  door. I shuddered for I wondered what sort of body was

  attached to that horrible hand. 1 waited for perhaps

  quarter of an hour, dreading what might suddenly appear from behind the mirror door, but nothing happened.

  After a while I became restive. I was still attempting to

  convince myself that the whole thing was an hallucination brought on by the wine and the heat of the fire, but without success. For there was the door of the blue salon

  carefully closed against the draught and the door in the

  mirror still ajar with apparently something lurking behind it. I wanted to walk over to the mirror and examine it, but I did not have the courage, I regret to say. Instead,

  I thought of a plan which, I felt, would show me whether

  I was imagining things or not. I woke Agrippa the dog

  and, crumpling up a sheet of the newspaper I had been

  reading into a ball, I threw it down the room so that it

  landed just by the closed door. In the mirror it lay just

  near the door that was ajar. Agrippa, more to please me

  than anything else for he was very sleepy, bounded after

  it. Gripping the arms of my chair, I watched his reflection in the mirror as he ran towards the door. He reached the ball of newspaper and paused to pick it up. And then

  something so hideous happened that I could scarcely

  believe my eyes. The mirror door was pushed open still

  further and the hand and a long white bony arm shot out.

  It grabbed the dog in the mirror by the scruff of its neck

  and pulled it speedily, kicking and struggling, behind the

  door. Agrippa had now come back to me, having retrieved the newspaper, but I took no notice of him, for my gaze was fixed on the reflection in the mirror. After a

  few minutes the hand suddenly reappeared. Was it my

  imagination or did it now seem stronger? At any event, it

  curved itself round the woodwork of the door and drew

  it completely shut, leaving on the white paint a series of

  bloody fingerprints that made me feel sick. The real

  Agrippa was nosing my leg, the newspaper in his mouth,

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  seeking my approval, while behind the mirror door, God

  knows what fate had overtaken his reflection.

  To say that 1 was shaken means nothing. I could

  scarcely believe the evidence of my senses. I sat staring at

  the mirror for a long time, but nothing further happened.

  Eventually, and with my skin prickling with fear, I got up

  and examined both the mirror and the door into the

  salon, but both bore a perfectly ordinary appearance. I

  wanted very much to open the door to the salon and see

  if the reflection in the mirror opened as well, but to tell

  the truth, I was too frightened of disturbing whatever it

  was that lurked behind the mirror door. I glanced up at

  the top of the mirror and saw for the first time that it

  bore the same inscription as the one I had found in the

  attic: I am your servant. Feed and liberate me. I am you.

  Did this mean the creature behind the door, I wondered?

  Feed and liberate me— was that what I had done by

  letting the dog go near the door? Was the creature now

  feasting upon the dog it had caught in the mirror? I

  shuddered at the thought. I determined that the only

  thing to do was to get a good night's rest, for I was tired

  and overwrought. In the morning, I assured myself, I

  would hit upon a ready explanation for all this mumbo-

  jumbo. So, picking up the cat and calling for the dog (for,

  if the truth be known, I needed the company of the

  animals), I left the blue salon. As I was closing the door I

  was frozen into immobility and the hair on my head

  prickled as I heard a cracked, harsh voice bid me "Bon

  nuit" in wheedling tones. It was a moment or two before

  I realized it was Octavius the parrot and went limp with

  relief.

  Clair the cat drowsed peacefully in my arms, but

  Agrippa needed some encouragement to accompany me

  upstairs, for it was obvious that he had never been

  allowed above the ground floor before. At length, with

  reluctance that soon turned to excitement at the novelty,

  he followed me upstairs. The fire in the bedroom had

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  died down, but the atmosphere was still warm. I made

  my toilet and, without further ado, climbed into bed

  with Agrippa lying on one side of me and Clair on the

  other. I received much comfort from the feel of their

  warm bodies but, in addition, I am not ashamed to say I

  left the candles burning and the door to the room

  securely locked.

  The following morning when I awoke I was immediately conscious of the; silence. Throwing open the shutters, I gazed out at a world muffled in snow. It must have been snowing steadily all night, and great drifts had piled

  up on the rock faces, on the bare trees, along the river

  bank and piled in a great cushion some seven feet deep

  along the crest of the bridge that joined the house to the

  mainland. Every windowsill and every projection of the

  eaves were a fearsome armory of icicles, and the sills

  themselves were varnished with a thin layer of ice. The

  sky was dark grey and lowering so that I could see we

  were in for yet more snow. Even if I had wanted to leave

  the house, the roads were already impassable, and with

  another snowfall, I would be completely cut off from the

  outside world. I must say that, thinking back on my

  experiences of the previous night, this fact made me feel

  somewhat uneasy. But I chided myself and by the time I

  had finished dressing, I had managed to convince myself

  that my experience in the blue salon was due entirely to a

  surfeit of good wine and an overexcited imagination.

  Thus comforting myself, I went downstairs, picked up

  Clair in my arms, called Agrippa to heel and, steeling

  myself, threw open the door of the blue salon and

  entered. It was as I had left it, the dirty plates and wine

  bottle near my chair, the chestnut roots in the fire burnt

  to a delicate grey ash that stirred slightly at the sudden

  draught from the open door. But it was the only thing in

  the room that stirred. Everything was in order. Everything was normal and I heaved a sigh of relief. It was not until I was halfway down the room that I glanced at the

  mirror, and I stopped as suddenly as if I had walked into

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  a brick wall and my blood froze, for I could not believe

  what I was seeing.

  Reflected in the mirror was myself with the cat in my

  arms, but there was no dog at my heels, although Agrippa

  was nosing at my ankles.

  For several seconds I stood there thunderstruck, unable to believe the evidence of my own senses, gazing first at the dog at my feet and then at the mirror with no

  reflection of the animal. I, the cat and the rest of the

  room were reflected with perfect clarity, but there was no

  reflection of Agrippa. I dropped the cat on the floor (and

  she remained reflected by the mirror) and picked Agrippa u
p in my arms. In the mirror I appeared to be carrying an imaginary object in my arms. Hastily I picked up the

  cat and so, with Clair under one arm and an invisible dog

  under the other, I left the blue salon and securely locked

  the door behind me.

  Down in the kitchen I was ashamed to find that my

  hands were shaking. I gave the animals some milk (and

  the way Agrippa dealt with his, there was no doubt he

  was a flesh-and-blood animal) and made myself some

  breakfast. As I automatically fried eggs and some heavily

  smoked ham, my mind was busy with what I had seen in

  the blue salon. Unless I was mad— and I had never felt

  saner in my life— I was forced to admit that I had really

  experienced what I had seen, incredible though it

  seemed and indeed still seems to me. Although I was

  terrified at whatever it was that lurked behind the door

  in the mirror, yet I was filled with an overwhelming

  curiosity, a desire to see whatever creature it was that

  possessed that gaunt and tallow hand, yellow and emaciated arm. I determined that that very evening I would attempt to lure the creature out so that I could examine

  it. I was filled with horror at what I intended to do, but

  my curiosity was stronger than my fear. So I spent the

  day cataloguing the books in the study and, when

  darkness fell, I again lit the fire in the salon and cooked

  myself some supper and carried it and a bottle of wine

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  upstairs and settled myself by the hearth. This time,

  however, I had taken the precaution of arming myself

  with a stout ebony cane and this gave me a certain

  confidence, though if I had thought about it, what use a

  cane was going to be to me against a looking-glass

  adversary, Heaven only knew. As it turned out eventually, arming myself with the stick was the worst thing I could have done and nearly cost me my life.

  I ate my food, my eyes fixed on the mirror, the two

  animals lying asleep at my feet as they had done the night

  before. I finished my meal and still there was no change

  in the mirror image of the door. I sat back sipping my

  wine and watching. After an hour or so the fire was