The Weird Fiction Megapack

by Various Writers

  “Don’t be frightened, Suzanne.” It was John’s solicitous voice, and it was followed by a quick movement from Suzanne’s side of the table.

  A sheet of blue-green light illumined the room for an instant, and Eric saw Suzanne struggling in her husband’s arms, one jeweled arm uplifted and in her hand a shining dagger.

  * * * *

  With a bound that was almost involuntary, Eric reached them and struck at the knife in Suzanne’s hand. It clattered to the floor. And as though the fury of the storm and Suzanne’s madness both were spent, the slashing rain and the lightning stopped abruptly, and Suzanne ceased to struggle.

  “Light the candles, Eric—quickly—on the mantel to your right! Suzanne is hurt!”

  In the candle-light, palely golden and swaying, Eric saw Suzanne slumped limply in John’s arms. The hem of her golden dress was redly wet and one cream-colored little shoe was fast becoming soaked with blood from a slash across the instep.

  “Let’s get her over to the window-seat, Eric. Do something for her!—Oh, sweetheart, don’t moan like that!” There was no question or reproach in John’s voice, only compassion.

  Eric took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves. His mouth was grimly set, his hands steady, his voice crisply professional. “Take off those shoes, John. She’ll be herself, then. I mean that she’ll be Suzanne—not a murderess of the Medicis. Take them off, John! They’re at the bottom of this.”

  “You mean—” John’s voice was breathless, his lips trembling.

  “I mean those hellish boots have changed Suzanne from a sweet and lovely girl to—well, do as I tell you. I’ll be back with gauze and some things I need.”

  When Eric hurried back, there were three servants grouped at the dining-room door. He spoke to them brusquely and they left, wide-eyed and whispering. Eric closed the door.

  While the wet leaves tapped against the windows and stars struggled through the clouds, Eric worked, silently, expertly, grimly, by the light of a flashlight held in John’s unsteady hands and the light of the flickering candles. The house lights were all snuffed out by the storm.

  “There,” Eric gave a satisfied grunt. The brothers stood looking at Suzanne, who seemed asleep. Her golden dress glimmered in the candle-light and the pearls were slipping from her dark hair. The Medici boots lay in a limp and bloody heap in a corner, where Eric had flung them.

  “When she awakes, I shouldn’t tell her about any of this, if I were you, John.”

  “There are things you haven’t told me, Eric, aren’t there? Things about—the Medici boots?”

  Eric looked steadily at his brother. “Yes, old fellow; and after I’ve told you, those boots must be destroyed. We’ll burn them before this night is over. We mustn’t move her now. We’ll go out on the terrace—it’s wet there, but the air is fresh. Did you smell—something peculiar?”

  For, as they passed the corner where the Medici boots lay slashed and bloody, Eric could have sworn that there came to him a horrid odor, fetid, hotly offensive—the odor of iniquity and ancient bloody death.

  THE LOST DOOR, by Dorothy Quick

  I have often wondered whether I would have urged Wrexler to come with me if I had known what Rougemont would do to him. I think—looking back—that even if I could have glimpsed the future, I would have acted in the same way, and that I would have brought him to Rougemont to fulfill his destiny.

  As the boat cut its swift way through the waters on its journey to France, I had no thought of this. Nor had Wrexler. He was happier than I had ever seen him. He had never been abroad before, and the boat was a source of wonder and enjoyment to him.

  I myself was full of an eager anticipation of happy months to come. It hardly seemed possible that only a week had elapsed since I received the cable that had made such a change in my fortunes:

  Your father died yesterday. You are sole heir, provided you comply with conditions of his will, the main one being that you spend six months of each year at Rougemont. If satisfactory, come at once.

  It was signed by my father’s lawyer.

  I had no sorrow over my father’s passing, except a deep regret that we could not have known the true relationship of father and son. At the death of my mother, my father had grown bitter and refused to see the innocent cause of her untimely passing. As a baby I had been brought up in the lodge of Rougemont, my father’s magnificent château near Vichy. When I reached the age of four, I had been sent away to boarding-school. After that, my life had been a succession of schools; first in France, the adopted land of my father, then England, and finally St. Paul’s in America.

  In all justice to my parent, I must admit he gave me every advantage except the affection I would have cherished. By his own wish, I had never seen him in life; nor would I see him in death, for a later cable advised me that the funeral was over and his body already at rest in the beautiful Gothic mausoleum he had had built in his lifetime, after the manner of the ancients.

  He had left me everything with only two injunctions, that a certain sum of money be set aside to keep the château always in its present condition and that I should spend at least half my time in it, and my children after me—a condition I was only too pleased to accept. All my life I had longed for a home.

  I cabled at once that I would sail. A return cable brought me the news that I had unlimited funds to draw upon. It was then that I urged Wrexler to come with me.

  * * * *

  Wrexler and I had been friends since the day when two lonely boys had been put by chance into the same room at school. We were so utterly unlike, it was perhaps the difference between us that held us together through the years. At St. Paul’s, and later at Princeton, Gordon Wrexler had always been at the head of his class, whereas I inevitably tagged along at the bottom. The contrast between us was expressed not only in the color of our hair and eyes, but also in our dispositions. My greatest gift from fate was a sense of humor, and I suppose it was this quality of mine that particularly appealed to Wrexler. It seems as though I was the only one who could lift him out of the despondency into which he often plunged. As the years passed, and his tendency to depression intensified, he came to depend more and more upon me, and we grew closer together.

  Strangely enough, the whiteness of his face and the gloom that exuded from him did not detract from his good looks. It only added to them. For the translucence of his skin made the thick, black hair that lay dose to his head all the darker, while at the same time it brought out the deep black of his eyes, and the firm cut of his lips.

  The night before we landed, we were standing on deck, at the rail, looking over the side straining our eyes for the first glimpse of the lights of Cherbourg, and Wrexler spoke of himself for the first time since we had left New York.

  “You know, Jim, for perhaps the only time in my life I feel at peace, as though something that I should have done long ago has been at last accomplished.”

  He was so solemn that I laughed a little. He stopped me suddenly: “It’s true—I’ve always felt an urge within me, a blinding force pushing me toward something that is waiting for me: where, I do not know; what, I have no idea. For the first time, it’s gone—that nameless urge that I knew not how to satisfy, and I feel that the call’s being answered.”

  With the usual inanity of people at a loss for words, I said the first thing that came into my mind: “Perhaps Rougemont has been calling you.”

  “You’ve no idea what a relief it is,” he continued, “not to feel constantly pulled with no way of knowing toward what, or how to go about answering the summons. I have often thought that I should take my life—that that was what was meant—” His voice trailed off.

  This time I was not at a loss for words. I started to read him a lecture that would have done credit to Martin Luther or John Knox. At the end of my harangue Wrexler laughed, a rare thing for him, and put his arm through mine.

  “All that’s gone now. Didn’t I tell you that at last in some strange way I am at peace?”

  *
* * *

  Rougemont’s towers were visible—long before we reached the great iron gates that had to be swung open to let us pass. For miles the great edifice dominated the landscape. The huge building had a soft, reddish tinge, from which I supposed it derived its name—Red Mountain. It was a fairy-tale palace perched on a mountain top. A great thrill went through me as I realized that this beautiful château was mine, and as we drove through the gates, up the winding road, through my own forest, the pride of possession swelled up in me and for the first time I began to understand why my father had never put his foot outside the great gates and the high wall that enclosed the acres that now belonged to me.

  As we drove on, up the winding, narrow road, over the drawbridge that spanned the moat, into the courtyard, I understood more and more. Here was everything: beauty such as I had never dreamed, forests stocked with game, running brooks full of fish, a lake, and farther off, a farm—I could glimpse its thatched roofs—to supply our wants. Rougemont was a world in itself.

  The high carved door was swung open as Wrexler and I got out of the car. Monsieur de Carrier, my father’s lawyer, advanced to meet us, a friendly smile on his Santa Claus countenance. I shook hands, introduced Wrexler as “a very good friend who is going to stay with me.”

  Monsieur Carrier’s face fell. Clearly Wrexler’s being with me was a disappointment. Nevertheless, he greeted him politely, as he ushered us in.

  That moment Rougemont took me to its heart and won me for its own.

  Imagine Amboise, or any of the great French châteaux, suddenly restored to itself as it was in the days of the Medici, and you have a small idea of Rougemont. For we had stepped out of the present into the past. Carrier, Wrexler and I were anachronisms; everything else was in keeping with the dead centuries. Even the servants were in doublet and hose of a sort of cerulean blue, with great slashes puffed with crimson silk.

  I think I gasped. At any rate, Monsieur Carrier saw my astonishment. “It is your father’s will, my boy. He always kept it so, and wore the costume of former days, himself. He greatly admired the first Francis. In your rooms you will find costumes prepared for you. For the last six months of his life, he was making ready for his son.” There was an odd sort of pride in Carrier’s voice.

  I remembered now that my father had written for my measurements. I had thought he meant to make me a present, but when time passed and I heard nothing, the incident had slipped from my mind. I looked at Wrexler, expecting to see some sign of amusement on his face, but he stood quietly looking at the tapestry that hung half-way up the grand stairway. There was a dreamy, far-away expression in his eyes.

  “May I speak before your friend?” Carrier asked.

  I nodded. The servants had already disappeared with our luggage. I threw myself down on a long, low bench, and Carrier sat opposite me.

  “You understood the terms of your father’s will, of course,” Carrier began, “that you must live here six months, but you did not know that you must live here, as he did, in the past. If you do not, then Rougemont goes to your father’s steward, with the same conditions—to be kept always as it is; with only a small sum set aside for you.”

  I said nothing. Driving along the road from Paris, it would have seemed fantastic, but here—under the spell of Rougemont—it seemed as though anything else would be impossible.

  * * * *

  Carrier went on, “You will be Grand Seigneur—Lord of the Manor, in the old style. You may have your guests if you like, but they too must conform with the rules.” Here he glanced at Wrexler, who still stood as though he were in a trance. “The other six months you are free to do as you please, spend what you like of the money not needed for Rougemont—that is, if you want to go anywhere else.”

  Evidently he had finished his speech. At the time I did not recognize the significance of his last words. “I am willing to submit to the conditions; only”—a sudden thought struck me—“I don’t want to lose all touch with the outside world. Can I go to Vichy—to get papers and so forth? I don’t suppose they had papers in Francis First’s time.”

  Monsieur de Carrier smiled. “My dear boy, your father didn’t wish to make a prisoner of you. You may go to Vichy if you like. But you must not be away from Rougemont more than twenty-four consecutive hours during the six months you are in residence.

  “So far as the papers, etc., are concerned, they will be at the lodge. There is also a telephone, and your own clothes will be kept there. After tonight, nothing of 1935 must come within these halls, but you are free to go to the lodge any time you want to. You can get in touch with me also, if you desire further information. De Lacy, the steward, will look out for you. He knows your father’s ways. Now permit me to congratulate you and say au revoir, my young friend.”

  Monsieur de Carrier got up on his stubby fat legs, made a little bow to me, another to Wrexler which went unheeded.

  I too arose. “It will seem strange, but I’ll do my best.”

  “One other thing,” Monsieur de Carrier was all of a sudden very grave. “In two weeks’ time you will be given a key. It unlocks a casket you will find in the library. In it you will find a message from your father. Adieu, my boy, I wish you well.”

  With a click of the heels and a friendly smile, he was gone.

  I turned to Wrexler. “What do you think of it?” I asked.

  Wrexler did not answer. He still stood gazing up at the stairway. The wide, marble steps curved upward. Along the sides, the intricate carving was beautiful in its lacy delicateness.

  At that moment, however, I was alarmed for my friend. His attitude was rigid, and his eyes were glassy. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Wrexler!”

  My action galvanized him to life. “Another minute and she would have reached the last step! Now she is gone.”

  This was madness! There had been no one there. I said as much.

  Wrexler turned and faced me. “But there was,” he said eagerly, “the most beautiful girl I have ever seen, all done up in some old costume: great, wide skirts, little waist, and a high lace collar. She had bronze curls, great blue eyes and the loveliest face! I saw her immediately when we came in. She looked at both of us, but she smiled at me!”

  I was in a quandary. Until now I had not given the staircase more than a perfunctory glance. For all I knew, she might have been one of the servants, peeping to see her new master. To Wrexler, impressionable, strange creature that he was, the one glance might have so registered on his mind that he kept on seeing her; for certainly she had not been there when I looked. It seemed best to make light of the whole matter.

  “Anyway, she’s gone now. At least I can explain the costume. I take it you didn’t hear Carrier’s announcements?”

  Wrexler shook his head. I proceeded to enlighten him.

  Instead of teasing me about the strange conditions my father’s will had imposed upon me, he was enthusiastic about the idea. “It’s the one period in history that has always interested me! Jim, we’re in luck! Imagine stepping back into Medici France for six months, shutting out the world! Who knows but that Catherine herself may have stayed here, or Marguerite de Valois—the Marguerite of Marguerites! Beautiful, but no more beautiful than that girl on the stairs. I can hardly wait to see her again.”

  I heartily hoped that he would see her, and that she was not entirely a creature of his imagination. If she was real, I too was eager to meet her.

  Wrexler interrupted my thoughts.

  “I feel as though I had come home,” he said. “I’m crazy to explore. Let’s go shed these ugly things and begin to really live. Why, it’s been this I’ve been waiting for! It’s lucky we’re the same size.”

  * * * *

  Out of his irrelevance, I gathered the trend of his thought. “I wonder where we go,” I began.

  Almost as though he had heard my words, a tall, commanding figure stepped into the hall. He was attired richly in damask of a lovely, soft blue with the same slashes of crimson that the servant livery had shown
, but in this case of finer material. He was a handsome man of about thirty-four. His beard was pointed and he had a small mustache. His long legs were encased in silken hose and he wore a dagger thrust through his belt.

  “De Lacy, at your service, my lord,” he announced as he made a deep bow.

  I extended my hand, somewhat at a loss to know how to greet my father’s steward, who was clearly a man of some importance and who, but for me, would be owner of Rougemont.

  Instead of shaking hands, he dropped on one knee and kissed my hand—a proceeding which embarrassed me very much.

  On my motioning him to rise, he did so with a lithe grace; “I suppose you want to change your strange clothes, my lord, and see your quarters?”

  I nodded and introduced Wrexler. De Lacy bowed, “Monsieur Wrexler would like to be near you?” Then he added, “We have some twenty or thirty suites, my lord.”

  Wrexler said he would prefer to be close at hand, and together we followed de Lacy up the marble stairway into a new world.

  Wrexler was at ease immediately in his doublet and hose. The rich, embroidered garments seemed to suit him as modern clothes never did. He looked handsomer than ever. He also told me that the costume of the Medici was becoming to me, and truly when I caught a glimpse of myself mirrored in the pond—for the château did not possess a large mirror—I was not ill pleased with the result. But, by the end of the week, I still felt strange in my new attire, whereas Wrexler from the beginning wore his as if to the manor born.

  But I anticipate. That first night we donned two of the outfits which the valet whom de Lacy introduced to me had put out. Our own clothes disappeared, and much to my annoyance, with them my cigarettes.

  * * * *

  We ate dinner in state, upon a raised dais at one end of a great hall. At either side below us were long, narrow tables filled with people. Dressed also in keeping with the period, they made a wonderful picture and comprised, I supposed, my court or retinue. De Lacy presented me to them with a flourish, and they all filed by and kissed my hand, then went to their places.