Sir Fitzhugh was right, he knew it. There was a damnable influence issuing from the skull and the black brain within. It had caused Maitland to disregard the sensible warnings of his friend; it had caused Maitland to steal the skull itself from a dead man; it had caused him now to conceal himself in this lonely room.
He should call the authorities; he knew that. Better still, he should dispose of the skull. Give it away, throw it away, rid the earth of it forever. There was something puzzling about the cursed thing—something he didn't quite understand.
For, knowing these truths, he still desired to possess the skull of the Marquis de Sade. There was an evil enchantment here; the dormant baseness in every man's soul was aroused and responded to the loathsome lust which poured from the death's-head in waves.
He stared at the skull, shivered—yet knew he would not give it up; could not. Nor had he the strength to destroy it. Perhaps possession would lead him to madness in the end. The skull would incite others to unspeakable excesses.
Maitland pondered and brooded, seeking a solution in the impassive object that confronted him with the stolidity of death.
It grew late. Maitland drank wine and paced the floor. He was weary. Perhaps in the morning he could think matters through and reach a logical, sane, conclusion.
Yes, he was upset. Sir Fitzhugh's outlandish hints had disturbed him; the gruesome events of the late afternoon preyed on his nerves.
No sense in giving way to foolish fancies about the skull of the mad Marquis . . . better to rest.
Maidand flung himself on the bed. He reached out for the switch and extinguished the light. The moon's rays slithered through the window and sought out the skull on the table, bathing it in eerie luminescence. Maitland stared once more at the jaws that should grin and did not.
Then he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. In the morning he'd call Sir Fitzhugh, make a clean breast of things, and give the skull over to the authorities.
Its evil career—real or imaginary—would come to an end. So be it.
Maitland sank into slumber. Before he dozed off he tried to focus
his attention on something . . . something puzzling ... an impression he'd received upon gazing at the body of the police dog in Marco's room. The way its fangs gleamed.
Yes. That was it. There had been no blood on the muzzle of the police dog. Strange. For the police dog had bitten Marco's throat. No blood—how could that be?
Well, that problem was best left for morning too. . . .
It seemed to Maitland that as he slept, he dreamed. In his dream he opened his eyes and blinked in the bright moonlight. He stared at the table top and saw that the skull was no longer resting on its surface.
That was curious, too. No one had come into the room, or he would have been aroused.
If he had not been sure that he was dreaming, Maitland would have started up in terror when he saw the stream of moonlight on the floor— the stream of moonlight through which the skull was rolling.
It turned over and over again, its bony visage impassive as ever, and each revolution brought it closer to the bed.
Maitland's sleeping ears could almost hear the thump as the skull landed on the bare floor at the foot of the bed. Then began the grotesque progress so typical of night fantasies. The skull climbed the side of the bed!
Its teeth gripped the dangling corner of a bedsheet, and the death's-head literally whirled the sheet out and up, swinging it in an arc which landed the skull on the bed at Maidand's feet.
The illusion was so vivid he could feel the thud of its impact against the mattress. Tactile sensation continued, and Maidand felt the skull rolling along up the covers. It came up to his waist, then approached his chest.
Maitland saw the bony features in the moonlight, scarcely six inches away from his neck. He felt a cold weight resting on his throat. The skull was moving now.
Then he realized the grip of utter nightmare and struggled to awake before the dream continued.
A scream rose in his throat—but never issued from it. For Maitland's throat was seized by champing teeth—teeth that bit into his neck with all the power of a moving human jawbone.
The skull tore at Maitland's jugular in cruel haste. There was a gasp, a gurgle and then no sound at all.
After a time, the skull righted itself on Maitland's chest. Maidand's
chest no longer heaved with breathing, and the skull rested there with a curious simulation of satisfied repose.
The moonlight shone on the death's-head to reveal one very curious circumstance. It was a trivial thing, yet somehow fitting under the circumstances.
Reposing on the chest of the man it had killed, the skull of the Marquis de Sade was no longer impassive. Instead, its bony features bore a definite, unmistakably sadistic grin.
THE OBLONG BOX
EDGAR ALLAN POE
(American-International: 1970)
For our final story we turn almost full circle and return to the author who throughout the life history of the horror film genre has provided more material—and exerted a stronger influence—than anyone else: Edgar Allan Poe. Indeed as we have briefly traced the history of the genre through this hook, the presence of this extraordinary genius has hardly been missing from a single page. His methods of evoking horror have inspired many stories and films, while his tales retain their originality and inventiveness even today. Small wonder, then, that he should still head the list of contributors.
Even as 1 write these words in the spring of 1970 plans are already under way to bring no less than three more of his stories to the screen, not including The Oblong Box, which was only recently completed. It would be foolhardy to predict any falling off in the popularity of Poe-on-film. And as long as actors as talented as Vincent Price and Christopher Lee (who star together in The Oblong Box) are available to tackle the acting, there would also seem to be no danger that the horror film itself will in the future lose its appeal for the millions of fans around the world.
SOME years ago I engaged a passage from Charleston, S.C., to the city of New York, in the fine packet-ship Independence, Captain Hardy. We were to sail on the fifteenth of the month (June), weather permitting, and on the fourteenth I went on board to arrange some matters in my state-room.
I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a more than usual number of ladies. On the list were several of my acquaintances, and among other names I was rejoiced to see that of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist for whom I entertained feelings of warm friendship. He had been with me a fellow-student at C—
University, where we were very much together. He had the ordinary temperament of genius and was a compound of misanthropy, sensibility and enthusiasm. To these qualities he united the warmest and truest heart which ever beat in a human bosom.
I observed that his name was carded upon three state-rooms; and upon again referring to the list of passengers, I found that he had engaged passage for himself, wife and two sisters—his own. The state-rooms were sufficiently roomy and each had two berths, one above the other. These berths, to be sure, were so exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one person; still I could not comprehend why there were three state-rooms for these four persons. I was just at that epoch, in one of those moody frames of mind which make a man abnormally inquisitive about trifles, and I confess with shame that I busied myself in a variety of ill-bred and preposterous conjectures about this matter of the supernumerary state-room. It was no business of mine, to be sure; but with none the less pertinacity did I occupy myself in attempts to resolve the enigma. At last I reached a conclusion which wrought in me great wonder why I had not arrived at it before. "It is a servant, of course," I said, "what a fool I am not sooner to have thought of so obvious a solution!" And then I again repaired to the list—but here I saw distinctly that no servant was to come with the party; although, in fact, it had been the original design to bring one— for the words "and servant" had been first written and then oversco
red. "Oh, extra baggage to be sure," I now said to myself—"something he wishes not to be put in the hold—something to be kept under his own eye—ah, I have it—a painting or so—and this is what he has been bargaining about with Nicolino, the Italian Jew." This idea satisfied me and I dismissed my curiosity for the nonce.
Wyatt's two sisters I knew very well, and most amiable and clever girls they were. His wife he had newly married and I had never yet seen her. He had often talked about her in my presence, however, and in his usual style of enthusiasm. He described her as of surpassing beauty, wit and accomplishment. I was therefore quite anxious to make her acquaintaince.
On the day in which I visited the ship (the fourteenth) Wyatt and party were also to visit it—so the captain informed me—and I waited on board an hour longer than I had designed, in hope of being presented to the bride; but then an apology came. "Mrs. W. was a little indisposed and would decline coming on board until tomorrow, at the hour of sailing."
The morrow having arrived, I was going from my hotel to the wharf when Captain Hardy met me and said that, "owing to circumstances" (a stupid but convenient phrase) "he rather thought the Independence would not sail for a day or two and that when all was ready he would send up and let me know". This I thought strange, for there was a stiff southerly breeze: but as "the circumstances" were not forthcoming, although I pumped for them with much perseverance, I had nothing to do but to return home and digest my impatience at leisure.
I did not receive the expected message from the captain for nearly a week. It came at length, however, and I immediately went on board; the ship was crowded with passengers and everything was in the bustle attendant upon making sail. Wyatt's party arrived in about ten minutes after myself. There were the two sisters, the bride and the artist— the latter in one of his customary fits of moody misanthropy. I was too well used to these, however, to pay them any special attention. He did not even introduce me to his wife—this courtesy devolving, perforce, upon his sister Marian—a very sweet and intelligent girl who, in a few hurried words, made us acquainted.
Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled, and when she raised her veil, in acknowledging my bow, I confess that I was very profoundly astonished. I should have been much more so, however, had not long experience advised me not to trust, with too implicit a reliance, the enthusiastic descriptions of my friend the artist when indulging in comments upon the loveliness of woman. When beauty was the theme, I well knew with what facility he soared into the regions of the purely ideal.
The truth is, I could not help regarding Mrs. Wyatt as a decidedly plain-looking woman. If not positively ugly, she was not, I think, very far from it. She was dressed, however, in exquisite taste—and then I had no doubt that she had captivated my friend's heart by the more enduring graces of the intellect and soul. She said very few words and passed at once into her state-room with Mr. W.
My old inquisitiveness now returned. There was no servant—that was a settled point. I looked, therefore, for the extra baggage. After some delay, a cart arrived at the wharf with an oblong pine box, which was everything that seemed to be expected. Immediately upon its arrival we made sail and in a short time were safely over the bar and standing out to sea.
The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet in length by two and a half in breadth; I observed it attentively and like
to be precise. Now this shape was peculiar; and no sooner had I seen it than I took credit to myself for the accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion, it will be remembered, that the extra baggage of my friend the artist would prove to be pictures, or at least a picture, for I knew he had been for several weeks in conference with Nicolino; and now here was a box which, from its shape, could possibly contain nothing in the world but a copy of Leonardo's "Last Supper"; and a copy of this very "Last Supper", done by Rubini the younger, at Florence, I had known for some time to be in the possession of Nicolino. This point therefore I considered as sufficiently settled. I chuckled excessively when I thought of my acumen. It was the first time I had ever known Wyatt to keep from me any of his artistical secrets, but here he evidently intended to steal a march upon me and smuggle a fine picture to New York under my very nose, expecting me to know nothing of the matter. I resolved to quiz him well, now and hereafter.
One thing, however, annoyed me not a litde. The box did not go into the extra state-room. It was deposited in Wyatt's own, and there, too, it remained, occupying very nearly the whole of the floor—no doubt to the exceeding discomfort of the artist and his wife—this the more especially as the tar or paint with which it was lettered in sprawling capitals emitted a strong, disagreeable and, to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odour. On the lid were painted the words— "Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New York. Charge of Cornelius Wyatt, Esq. This side up. To be handled with care".
Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, of Albany, was the artist's wife's mother, but then I looked upon the whole address as a mystification, intended especially for myself. I made up my mind of course that the box and contents would never get farther north than the studio of my misanthropic friend in Chambers Street, New York.
For the first three or four days we had fine weather, although the wind was dead ahead, having chopped round to the northward immediately upon our losing sight of the coast. The passengers were consequently in high spirits and disposed to be social. I must except, however, Wyatt and his sisters, who behaved stiffly, and I could not help thinking uncourteously to the rest of the party. Wyatt's conduct I did not so much regard. He was gloomy, even beyond his usual habit-in fact he was morose— but in him I was prepared for eccentricity. For the sisters, however, I could make no excuse. They secluded themselves in their state-rooms during the greater part of the passage and abso-
lutely refused, although I repeatedly urged them, to hold communication with any person on board.
Mrs. Wyatt herself was far more agreeable. That is to say, she was chatty; and to be chatty is no slight recommendation at sea. She became excessively intimate with most of the ladies and, to my profound astonishment, evinced no equivocal disposition to coquet with the men. She amused us all very much. I say "amused"— and scarcely know how to explain myself. The truth is, I soon found that Mrs. W. was far of-tener laughed at than with. The gentlemen said little about her, but the ladies, in a little while, pronounced her "a good-hearted thing, rather indifferent-looking, totally uneducated and decidedly vulgar". The great wonder was how Wyatt had been entrapped into such a match. Wealth was the general solution—but this I knew to be no solution at all, for Wyatt had told me that she neither brought him a dollar, nor had any expectations from any source whatever. "He had married," he said, "for love, and for love only; and his bride was far more than worthy of his love." When I thought of these expressions on the part of my friend, I confess that I felt indescribably puzzled. Could it be possible that he was taking leave of his senses? What else could I think? He, so refined, so intellectual, so fastidious, with so exquisite a perception of the faulty, and so keen an appreciation of the beautiful! To be sure, the lady seemed especially fond of him— particularly so in his absence— when she made herself ridiculous by frequent quotations of what had been said by her "beloved husband, Mr. Wyatt". The word "husband" seemed for ever—to use one of her own delicate expressions—for ever "on the tip of her tongue". In the meantime, it was observed by all on board, that he avoided her in the most pointed manner and for the most part shut himself up alone in his state-room, where, in fact, he might have been said to live altogether, leaving his wife at full liberty to amuse herself as she thought best in the public society of the main-cabin.
My conclusion, from what I saw and heard, was that the artist, by some unaccountable freak of fate, or perhaps in some fit of enthusiastic and fanciful passion, had been induced to unite himself with a person altogether beneath him, and that the natural result, entire and speedy disgust, had ensued. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart-but could not, for tha
t reason, quite forgive his incommunicativeness in the matter of the "Last Supper". For this I resolved to have my revenge.
One day he came upon deck and, taking his arm as had been my
wont, I sauntered with him backwards and forwards. His gloom, however (which I considered quite natural under the circumstances), seemed entirely unabated. He said little, and that moodily and with evident effort. I ventured a jest or two and he made a sickening attempt at a smile. Poor fellow!—as I thought of his wife, I wondered that he could have heart to put on even the semblance of mirth. At last I ventured a home thrust. I determined to commence a series of covert insinuations or innuendoes about the oblong box—just to let him perceive gradually that I was not altogether the butt or victim of his little bit of pleasant mystification. My first observation was by way of opening a masked battery. I said something about the "peculiar shape of that box" and, as I spoke the words, I smiled knowingly, winked and touched him gently with my fore-finger in the ribs.
The manner in which Wyatt received this harmless pleasantry convinced me at once that he was mad. At first he stared at me as if he found it impossible to comprehend the witticism of my remark, but as its point seemed slowly to make its way into his brain his eyes in the same proportion seemed protruding from their sockets. Then he grew very red—then hideously pale—then, as if highly amused with what I had insinuated, he began a loud and boisterous laugh, which, to my astonishment, he kept up with gradually increasing vigour for ten minutes or more. In conclusion he fell flat and heavily upon the deck. When I ran to uplift him, to all appearance he was dead.
I called assistance and with much difficulty we brought him to himself. Upon reviving he spoke incoherently for some time. At length we bled him and put him to bed. The next morning he was quite recovered, so far as regarded his mere bodily health. Of his mind I say nothing, of course. I avoided him during the rest of the passage by advice of the captain, who seemed to coincide with me altogether in my views of his insanity, but cautioned me to say nothing on this head to any person on board.
The ghouls Page 45
