The A. Merritt Megapack

by Abraham Merritt

  The Breton stopped laughing, abruptly, he said: “So?” and again, slowly: “So! But they are not theories, Dr. Bennett. They are discoveries. Or, rather, rediscoveries of, let us say, unorthodox science.” The veins in his forehead were twitching; he added, with an indefinable menace: “If it is truly I who have opened your eyes—I hope to make your conversion complete.”

  I saw that Lowell was looking at de Keradel with a strange intentness. The Demoiselle was looking at Bill, the little devilish lights flickering in her eyes; and I thought that there were both malice and calculation in her faint smile. There was an odd tension about the table—as of something unseen, crouching and ready to strike.

  Helen broke it, quoting dreamily:

  Some there be that shadows kiss.

  Such have but a shadow’s bliss—

  The Demoiselle was laughing; laughter that was more like the laughter of little waves than anything else. But there were undertones to it that I liked even less than the subtle menace in her smile—something inhuman, as though the little waves were laughing at the dead men who lay under them.

  De Keradel spoke rapidly, in a tongue that I felt I ought to recognize, but did not. The Demoiselle became demure. She said, sweetly: “Your pardon, Mademoiselle Helen. It was not at you that I laughed. It was that suddenly I am reminded of something infinitely amusing. Someday I shall tell you and you too will laugh—”

  De Keradel interrupted her, urbane as before: “And I ask your pardon, Dr. Bennett. You must excuse the rudeness of an enthusiast. And also his persistency. Because I now ask if you could, without too great violation of confidence between physician and patient, inform me as to the symptoms of Mr. Ralston. The behavior of this—this shadow, if you will call it so. I am greatly curious—professionally.”

  Bill said: “There’s nothing I’d like better. You, with your unique experience may recognize some point of significance that I have missed. To satisfy professional ethics, let us call it a consultation, even though it is a postmortem one.”

  I had the fleeting thought that Bill was pleased; that he had scored some point toward which he had been maneuvering. I pushed my chair back a little so that I could see both the Demoiselle and her father. Bill said:

  “I’ll start from the beginning. If there is anything you want me to amplify, don’t hesitate to interrupt. Ralston called me up and said he wanted me to look him over. I had neither seen nor heard from him for a couple of months; had thought, indeed, that he was on one of his trips abroad. He began, abruptly: ‘Something’s wrong with me, Bill. I see a shadow.’ I laughed, but he didn’t. He repeated: ‘I see a shadow, Bill. And I’m afraid!’ I said, still laughing: ‘If you couldn’t see a shadow you certainly would have something wrong with you.’ He answered like a frightened child.

  “‘But, Bill—there’s nothing to make this shadow!’

  “He leaned toward me, and now I realized that he was holding himself together by truly extraordinary effort. He asked: ‘Does that mean I’m going crazy? Is seeing a shadow a common symptom when you are going insane? Tell me, Bill—is it?’

  “I told him that the notion was nonsense; that in all probability some little thing was wrong with his eyes or his liver. He said: ‘But this shadow—whispers!’

  “I said: ‘You need a drink,’ and I gave him a stiff one. I said: ‘Tell me exactly what it is you think you see, and, if you can, precisely when you first thought you saw it.’ He answered: ‘Four nights ago. I was in the library, writing—’ Let me explain, Dr. de Keradel, that he lived in the old Ralston house on 78th Street; alone except for Simpson, the butler, who was a heritage from his father, and half a dozen servants. He went on: ‘I thought I saw someone or something slip along the wall into the curtains that cover the window. The window was at my back and I was intent upon my letter, but the impression was so vivid that I jumped up and went over to the curtains. There was nothing there. I returned to my desk—but I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that someone or something was in the room.’

  “He said: ‘I was so disturbed that I made a note of the time.’”

  “A mental echo of the visual hallucination,” said De Keradel. “An obvious concomitant.”

  “Perhaps,” said Bill. “At any rate, a little later he had the same experience, only this time the movement was from right to left, the reverse of the first. In the next half hour it was repeated six times, always in the opposite direction—I mean, from left to right, then right to left and so on. He laid emphasis upon this, as though he thought it in some way significant. He said: ‘It was, as though it were weaving.’ I asked what ‘It’ was like. He said: ‘It had no shape. It was just movement—No, it had no shape then.’ The feeling of not being alone in the room increased to such an uncomfortable pitch that shortly after midnight he left the library, leaving the lights burning, and turned in. There was no recurrence of the symptoms, in his bedroom. He slept soundly. Nor was he troubled the next night. By the day following he had almost forgotten the matter.

  “That night he dined out and came home about eleven o’clock. He went into the library to go over his mail. He told me: ‘Suddenly I had the strongest feeling that someone was watching me from the curtains. I turned my head, slowly. I distinctly saw a shadow upon the curtains. Or, rather, as though it were intermingled with them—like a shadow cast by something behind. It was about the size and shape of a man.’ He jumped to the curtains and tore them away. Nothing was behind them nor was there anything beyond the window to cast a shadow. He sat down again at the table, but still he felt eyes upon him. ‘Unwinding eyes,’ he said. ‘Eyes that never left me. Eyes of someone or something that kept always just past the edge of my field of vision. If I turned quickly, it slipped behind me, was watching me from my other side. If I moved slowly, just as slowly did it move.’

  “Sometimes he caught a flickering movement, a shadowy flitting, as he pursued the eyes. Sometimes he thought he had caught the shadow. But always it faded, was gone, before he could focus it. And instantly he felt its gaze upon him from another quarter.

  “‘From right to left it went,’ he said. ‘From left to right…and back again…and back again and again…weaving…weaving…’

  “‘Weaving what?’ I asked, impatiently.

  “He answered, quite simply: ‘My shroud.’

  “He sat there, fighting until he could fight no more. Then he sought refuge in his bedroom. He did not sleep well, for he thought the shadow was lurking on the threshold; had pressed itself against the other side of the door, listening. If so, it did not enter.

  “Dawn came, and after that he slept soundly. He arose late, spent the afternoon at golf, dined out, went with a party to the theater and then to a night club. For hours he had given no thought to the experience of the night before. He said: ‘If I thought of it at all, it was to laugh at it as childish foolishness.’ He reached home about three o’clock. He let himself in. As he closed the door he heard a whisper—‘You are late!’ It was quite plain, and as though the whisperer stood close beside him—”

  De Keradel interrupted: “Progressive hallucination. First the idea of movement; then the sharpening into shape; then sound. Hallucination progressing from the visual field to the auditory.”

  Bill went on, as though he had not heard: “He said the voice had some quality which—I quote him—‘made you feel the loathing you do when you put your hand on a slimy slug in a garden at night, and at the same time an unholy desire to have it go on whispering forever.’ He said: ‘It was unnamable horror and perverted ecstasy in one.’

  “Simpson had left the lights burning. The hall was well lighted. He could see no one. But the voice had been reality. He stood for a few moments fighting for control. Then he walked in, took off hat and top-coat, and started for the stairs. He said: ‘I happened to look down, and over the top of my eyes I saw a shadow gliding along about six feet ahead of me. I raised my eyes—and it vanished. I went slowly up the stairs. If I looked down at the steps I could see the sha
dow flitting ahead of me. Always at the same distance. When I looked up—there was nothing. The shadow was sharper than it had been the night before. I thought it was the shadow of a woman. A naked woman. And suddenly I realized that the whispering voice had been that of a woman.’

  “He went straight to his room. He passed the door. He looked down and saw the shadow still those two paces before him. He stepped swiftly back and into the room, closing the door and locking it. He switched on the lights and stood with his ear against the door. He said: ‘I heard someone, something, laughing. The same voice that had whispered.’ And then he heard it whisper—‘I will watch outside your door tonight…tonight…tonight…’ He listened with that same alien mixture of horror and desire. He lusted to throw open the door, but the loathing held back his hand. He said: ‘I kept the lights on. But the thing did what it had promised. It watched all night at my door. It wasn’t quiet though. It danced…I couldn’t see it…but I know it danced…out there in the hall. It danced and weaved…right to left…left to right and back again and again…danced and weaved till dawn outside my door…weaving…my shroud, Bill…’

  “I reasoned with him, much along your lines, Dr. de Keradel. I went over him thoroughly. I could find, superficially, nothing wrong. I took specimens for the various tests. He said: ‘I hope to God you do find something wrong, Bill. If you don’t—it means the shadow is real. I think I’d rather know I was going crazy than that. After all, craziness can be cured.’

  “I said: ‘You’re not going back to your house. You’re going to stay at the Club until I’ve gotten my reports. Then, no matter what they show, you’re going to hop on a boat and take a long trip.’

  “He shook his head: ‘I’ve got to go back to the house, Bill.’

  “I asked: ‘Why, for God’s sake?’

  “He hesitated, puzzled distress on his face; he said: ‘I don’t know. But I’ve got to.’

  “I said, firmly: ‘You stay here with me tonight, and tomorrow you hop on a boat. To anywhere. I’ll let you know about the tests and do my prescribing by radio.’ He replied, still with that same puzzled look: ‘I can’t go away now. The fact…’ he hesitated…’the fact is, Bill…I’ve met a girl…a woman. I can’t leave her.’

  “I gaped at him. I said: ‘You’re going to marry her? Who is she?’

  “He looked at me, helplessly: ‘I can’t tell you, Bill. I can’t tell you anything about her.’

  “I asked: ‘Why not?’

  “He answered with the same puzzled hesitation. ‘I don’t know why I can’t. But I can’t. It seems to be a part of—of the other in some way. But I can’t tell you.’ And to every question that touched upon this girl he had the same answer.”

  Dr. Lowell said, sharply: “You told me nothing of that, Dr. Bennett. He said nothing more to you than that? That he could not tell you anything more about this woman? That he did not know why—but he could not?”

  Bill said: “That—and no more.”

  Helen said, coldly: “What amuses you so, Demoiselle? I do not find anything in all this that is humorous.”

  I looked at the Demoiselle. The little orchid sparks were alive in her eyes, her red lips smiling—and cruel.

  CHAPTER VI

  KISS OF THE SHADOW

  I said: “The Demoiselle is a true artist.”

  There was a small, tense silence around the table. De Keradel broke it, harshly:

  “Exactly what do you mean by that, Dr. Caranac?

  I smiled: “All true artists are pleased when art attains excellence. Story telling is an art. Dr. Bennett was telling his perfectly. Therefore, your daughter, a true artist, was pleased. A perfect syllogism. Is it not true, Demoiselle?”

  She answered, quietly:

  “You have said it.” But she was no longer smiling, and her eyes said something else. So did de Keradel’s. Before he could speak, I said:

  “Only tribute from one artist to another, Helen. Go on, Bill.”

  Bill went on, quickly:

  “I sat and reasoned with him. Betimes, I gave him several stiff drinks. I related some famous cases of hallucination—Paganini, the great violinist, who at times thought he saw a shadowy woman in white stand beside him playing her violin while he played his. Leonardo da Vinci who thought he saw and spoke with the shade of Chiron, wisest of all the Centaurs, who tutored the youthful Aesculapius—dozens of similar instances. I told him he had become a companion of men of genius and that it was probably a sign of something like that breaking out on him. After awhile he was laughing. He said: ‘All right, Bill. I’m convinced. But the thing for me to do is not to run away from it. The thing for me to do is meet it and knock out.’ I said:

  “‘If you feel you can, that’s the one thing to do. It’s only an obsession, sheer imagination. Try it tonight, anyway. If it gets a bit too thick, call me up on the ’phone. I’ll be right here. And take plenty of good liquor.’ When he left me he was quite his old self.

  “He didn’t call me up until next afternoon, and then asked what I had heard about the specimens. I replied that what reports I had received showed him perfectly healthy. He said, quietly: ‘I thought they would.’ I asked what kind of a night he had had. He laughed, and said: ‘A very interesting one, Bill. Oh, very. I followed your advice and drank plenty of liquor.’ His voice was quite normal, even cheerful. I was relieved, yet felt a vague uneasiness. I asked: ‘How about your shadow?’ ‘And plenty of shadow,’ he said. ‘I told you, didn’t I, that I thought it a woman’s shadow? Well, it is.’ I said: ‘You are better. Was your woman shadow nice to you?’ He said: ‘Scandalously so, and promises to be even scandalouser. That’s what made the night so interesting.’ He laughed again. And abruptly hung up.

  “I thought: ‘Well, if Dick can joke like that about something that had him terrorized to the liver a day ago, he’s getting over it.’ That, I said to myself, was good advice I gave him.

  “Still, I felt that vague uneasiness. It grew. A little later I rang him up, but Simpson said he had gone out to play golf. That seemed normal enough. Yes—the whole trouble had been only a queer evanescent quirk that was righting itself. Yes—my advice had been good. What—” Bill broke out suddenly—“What Goddamned fools we doctors can be.”

  I stole a look at the Demoiselle. Her great eyes were wide and tender, but deep within them something mocked. Bill said:

  “The next day I had more reports, all equally good. I called Dick up and told him so. I forgot to say I had also instructed him to go to Buchanan. Buchanan,” Bill turned to de Keradel, “is the best eye man in New York. He had found nothing wrong, and that eliminated many possibilities of cause for the hallucination—if it was that. I told Dick. He said, cheerfully: ‘Medicine is a grand science of elimination, isn’t it, Bill? But if after all the elimination you get down to something you don’t know anything about—then what do you do about it, Bill?’

  “That was a queer remark. I said: ‘What do you mean?’ He said: ‘I am only a thirsty seeker of knowledge.’ I asked, suspiciously: ‘Did you drink much last night?’ He said: ‘Not too much.’ I asked: ‘How about the shadow?’ He said: ‘Even more interesting.’ I said: ‘Dick, I want you to come right down and let me see you.’ He promised, but he didn’t come. I had a case you see that kept me late at the hospital. I got in about midnight and called him up. Simpson answered, saying he had gone to bed early and had given orders not to be disturbed. I asked Simpson how he seemed. He answered that Mr. Dick had seemed quite all right, unusually cheerful, in fact. Nevertheless, I could not rid myself of the inexplicable uneasiness. I told Simpson to tell Mr. Ralston that if he didn’t come in to see me by five o’clock next day I would come after him.

  “At exactly five o’clock he arrived. I felt a sharp increase of my doubt. His face had thinned, his eyes were curiously bright. Not feverish—more as though he had been taking some drug. There was a lurking amusement in them, and a subtle terror. I did not betray the shock his appearance gave me. I told him that I had gotten
the last of the reports, and that they were negative. He said: ‘So I have a clean bill of health? Nothing wrong with me anywhere?’ I answered: ‘So far as these tests show. But I want you to go to the hospital for a few days’ observation.’ He laughed, and said: ‘No. I’m perfectly healthy, Bill.’

  “He sat looking at me for a few moments silently, the subtle amusement competing with the terror in his over-bright eyes—as though he felt himself ages beyond me in knowledge of some sort and at the same time bitterly in fear of it. He said: ‘My shadow’s name is Brittis. She told me so last night.’

  “That made me jump. I said: ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  “He answered with malicious patience: ‘My shadow. Her name is Brittis. She told me so last night while she lay in my bed beside me, whispering. A woman shadow. Naked.’

  “I stared at him, and he laughed: ‘What do you know about the Succubi, Bill? Nothing, I at once perceive. I wish Alan were back—he’d know. Balzac had a great story about one, I remember—but Brittis says she really wasn’t one. I went up to the library this morning and looked them up. Plowed through the Malleus Maleficarum—’

  “I asked: ‘What the hell is that?’

  “‘The Hammer Against Witches. The old book of the Inquisition that tells what Succubi and Incubi are, and what they can do, and how to tell witches and what to do against them and all of that. Very interesting. It says that a demon can become a shadow, and becoming one may fasten itself upon a living person and become corporeal—or corporeal enough to beget, as the Bible quaintly puts it. The lady demons are the Succubi. When one of them lusts for a man she beguiles him in this fashion or another until—well, until she succeeds. Whereupon he gives her his vital spark and, quite naturally, dies. But Brittis says that wouldn’t be the end of me, and that she never was a demon. She says she was—’

  “‘Dick,’ I interrupted him, ‘what’s all this nonsense?’ He repeated, irritably: ‘I wish to God you wouldn’t keep on thinking this thing is hallucination. If I’m as healthy as you say, it can’t be—’ He hesitated. ‘—But even if you did believe it real, what could you do? You don’t know what those who sent the shadow to me know. That’s why I wish Alan were here. He’d know what to do.’ He hesitated again, then said slowly: ‘But whether I’d take his advice…I’m not sure…now!’