The White Hands and Other Weird Tales

by Mark Samuels

  ***

  Just before two o’clock that afternoon Jack wandered over to the open window and looked out, resting his forearm on the hot frame. For a split second he felt a twinge of pain in his eyes as his pupils contracted to adjust to the brightness outside. Everything was so quiet and still; the street was deserted. Looking towards the end of the road he could see ripples of heat distorting the objects in the distance, their images buckled by the seemingly liquid air rising off the pavement and tarmac.

  Through the shifting haze he saw a figure making its way towards the house, becoming ever more distinct as it approached. There was no doubt about who it was; only Ben Gibbs would be wearing a jumper in this heat. It was a relief to see that he did not look obviously insane, though his expression was alarming. He was furious.

  Jack met him at the front door, followed Ben into the study, then went to retrieve cans of beer from the fridge. He returned from the kitchen reluctantly and for many minutes they drank in silence. Ben did not seem inclined to relax. From time to time he ran his fingers through his hair, as he had the night that Verna had disappeared.

  ‘Ben,’ Jack spoke carefully, no longer able to contain his impatience. ‘What’s this all about? That stuff you wrote in the letter, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Ben insisted, ‘do you ever watch old black and white movies and think about what you’re seeing? Those dead actors and actresses playing the same parts over and over again? Aren’t they a little like ghosts? Don’t some people think that that’s what ghosts are, images doomed to replay events, stuck in one place, haunting that place?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘No? Perhaps you don’t.’

  Jack said nothing. Ben continued:

  ‘You remember that time I came to see you, to tell you about Verna and all those other men? I didn’t know at the time that I’d never see her again.’

  ‘I remember, Ben.’

  ‘I seem to remember that you suggested that she might have left the country; gone to Hollywood in one last attempt at stardom, probably with her latest conquest?’

  Jack nodded uncomfortably.

  ‘It destroyed me,’ Ben continued. ‘I was so depressed. I drank too much, losing myself for weeks at a time. Even after I’d given up trying to find her, any mention of her caused me such pain . . .’

  ‘I stuck by you. We’re friends.’

  ‘Ha!’ he fairly spat at Jack, who cowered deep into his chair and fearfully took another sip of his drink.

  ‘I’ve never got over her. I’ve plodded on in my ordinary life, never re-married. What a waste of a life.’

  ‘I gave you as much support as I could.’

  ‘And we never discussed Verna.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because we were friends? Because you knew how much it would hurt me?’

  Jack was silent.

  ‘You know I’ve been watching her in that film, Black as Darkness? When she appeared on the screen she began to talk to me. I don’t know whether the words on the soundtrack were the dialogue she was scripted to say, but I could see she was speaking directly to me. Now and again she even looked at me. There’s hatred in her eyes, Jack.’

  ‘Ben, this is all in your imagination.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Why would she hate you?’

  ‘It’s not me,’ he laughed. ‘It’s you she hates.’

  Jack cringed further back, his face full of fear and desperation. Ben studied him.

  ‘Why? That’s what I couldn’t work out . . . at first. I’ve been watching it for days, trying to work it out.’

  ‘Destroy the video. We’ll get you some help . . .’

  ‘Yesterday I smashed the television and tore the video to pieces. But it’s too late. She’s coming after you. She told me all about that night, Jack.’

  Jack stared out into the brilliantly sunlit street outside, reluctant to look at his old friend. He didn’t believe any of the rubbish about Verna speaking to Ben. But, somehow, Ben had found out what he’d done. He made himself look at the other man:

  ‘You know what happened?’

  ‘I do, but I want to hear it from you.’

  Jack took a few moments to compose himself. In a way, he felt relieved.

  ‘I’ve never been able to forget. You hammered on my door at three in the morning. How you didn’t wake her I don’t know. I’d got drunk and ended up in bed with her, or she had seduced me. I don’t know . . .’

  ‘But why? You were my friend. And you said you hated her!’

  ‘I know, I know. The worst of it was that it was her very devilry, the thing that so repelled me, that drove me to it. It was a kind of black desire. I wanted to sink down into her pantherish embrace and be damned.’

  ‘And . . .’ Ben demanded.

  ‘You talked about all the men she’d had, as she slept upstairs in my bed! I felt so bad that I resolved to put a stop to it. Once you’d left I went upstairs and flung her out. She was disbelieving, then enraged, and she flew at me. . . . I never saw her again. . . .’

  ‘I told you, I know everything. She told me . . .’

  ‘What did she tell you?’ Jack asked, very slowly and deliberately.

  ‘That you hit her, and told her that she had to leave me for good.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Jack was shaking with rage. ‘And did she tell you that she just grinned at me? She was going to tell you. ‘Oh no,’ she hissed, ‘I think he ought to know what his precious friend is like. Let’s see how he reacts when he finds out what a treacherous hypocrite you really are. How do you think he will feel when he finds out that both his wife and his best friend are heartless betrayers?’ ‘

  ‘Oh yes, she told me. You pushed her down the stairs.’

  ‘She was lying there, at the bottom, half-unconscious . . . she looked so quiet and peaceful . . . I strangled her.’

  Jack Wells was shivering uncontrollably. He could not believe that he had managed to drag her still-warm, surprisingly heavy body into his car . . . had not known at first where he was going, or where he would hide her, but a sick inspiration had come and he had thought of the one place where no one would find it. A fresh grave in the cemetery, right on top of the coffin. It was perfect. After all, what better concealment for a leaf than in a forest? God, it had rained and rained . . .

  Jack got up from the chair and walked unsteadily to the window. The sunlight still streaming into the room felt uncomfortably hot on his sweating face. He looked down the deserted street and into the heat haze in the distance.

  A figure was making its way along the pavement towards the house.

  Even in the hot air currents, its form did not waver. As it drew nearer, he saw that it was monochrome. She was dressed in a long raincoat and wet hair hung lankly across her lowered face. Her long white fingers twitched at her side. There was something all too familiar about the voluptuous shape and cat-like tread.

  Jack grasped the window frame and his heart felt as if it had stopped beating.

  She moved almost in slow motion, yet the rate of her advance seemed monstrously swift. When she reached the foot of the steps that led to the front door Jack could see the fiendish hate in her eyes. As she opened her mouth and soundlessly screamed there was a crackling in the background, like an old film soundtrack, mingled with the sound of whispering voices. And in the final moments just before she reached him, all the colour in the world seemed to drain away, as the rain began to fall.