HORRORS!: Rarely-Reprinted Classic Terror Tales

by Unknown

  On a sudden there sprang up a moaning gust of wind; the eldritch skirling rose to a howl, the heavens opened – there came a flash of lightning, intense, blue. I saw the Horror shiver, bend, and sink down, the black water of the pool quiver. Then, even as I looked, above his head hovered something foul, something unspeakably awful, with vast leathery bat-pinions and hooked feet. Even as a cry of terror broke from me, struggling helplessly and unavailingly, he was enveloped in the shadow of the dark wings, caught up, and finally disappeared from sight into the black and howling vault above. With that, thunder crashed peal upon peal; there was a sound as of the world wailing in anguish, a sound as of demoniac laughter, triumphant and utterly vile...

  Something shrieked – shrieked and shrieked again above the clangour. I heard it, hear it still – then blindly, I turned and ran on and on, mile upon mile over the snow-bound moors...

  Notice having been brought to the doctor of an out-of-the-way village of a woman seen wandering about whose actions and strange appearance excited the suspicions of the villagers, I was certified and confined to an asylum as hopelessly mad. There are people who think I am still; are afraid to let me out, after having spent thirty years of my life behind high, imprisoning walls...

  Oliver? He was found – inexplicably burnt, and almost unrecognizable, his face scarred and scarred again as with great claws... Well, goodbye, goodbye, if you must go, thank you for coming to see an old woman like me. I'm quite sane, quite normal; only I behave strangely if I see a bat; I've forgotten why now, it's all going again...

  THE EXECUTION OF DAMIENS

  H. H. Ewers

  Sprawled in leather chairs they sat in the lobby of the Spa Hotel and smoked. Music drifted to them from the ballroom.

  Erhardt drew out his watch and yawned. "Late enough," he said. "They could stop now."

  At this moment the young Baron Grodel walked up. "I have become engaged, gentlemen!" he yapped.

  "To Evelyn Ketschendorff?" asked fat Dr Handl. "It took long enough."

  Congratu1ations, Cousin," cried Attems. "Wire Mother."

  But Brinken said: "Take Care, my boy! She has pinched, set, English lips."

  The handsome Grodel nodded: "Her mother was an Englishwoman."

  "I thought so," said Brinken. "Take care, my boy!"

  But the Baron did not listen; he placed his glass on the table, and ran back to the ballroom.

  "You don't like Englishwomen?" asked Erdhardt.

  Dr. Handl laughed; "Don't you know that? He hates all women with a bit of race and class; especially if they're English! Only fat, dumb, silly women find favour in his eyes – geese and cows."

  "Aimer une femme intelligente est un plaisir de pederaste!" cited Count Attems.

  Brinken shrugged his shoulders. "Whether it is just that, I don't know. Besides, it is not quite right to say that I hate intelligent women; if they have nothing else, they can appeal to me, too. It is those who have soul, feeling, fantasy that I fear in the affairs of love. Cows and geese are respectable animals: they eat corn and hay, and not their fellows."

  The others were silent, so he continued: "I can explain further, if you like. Early this rooming I went for a walk through the morning sun; there, in Val Madonna, I saw a pair of lovesick snakes – two steel-blue fat adders; each a metre and a half long. It was a pretty game. They glided between the stones, went back and forth, hissed at each other. At length they intertwined, and stood rocking on their tails, upright, closely embraced. The heads pressed against each other, the jaws opened wide, the forked tongues darted through the air. Oh, nothing is more beautiful than such nuptial play! The golden eyes shone – it seemed to me as if they both carried scintillating crowns on their heads!

  "Then they fell away from each other, exhausted by their wild play; lay there in the sun. The female soon recovered; slowly she moved towards the dead-tired bridegroom, seized him by the head, and devoured him, powerless as he was. Choked, choked, millimetre by millimetre, infinitely slowly she devoured the body of her mate. It was a frightful work; one saw how all her muscles worked to swallow the animal which was larger than herself. The jaws jerked almost from their sockets; she bent herself back and forth, drew her husband even deeper within. At last only his tail stuck out a hand's length from her mouth – farther he could not go. She lay plump, ugly, unable to stir."

  "Was there no stick or stone?" cried Dr Handl.

  "What for?" said Brinken. "Should I punish her? Nature, after all, is the devil's work, not God's – Aristotle already said that. No, I seized the tail sticking out of the mouth and drew the miserable lover out of his too gluttonous idol. They lay then half an hour next to each other in the sun: I would like to know what they thought the while. Then they crept into the bushes, he to the left, she to the right; for even a snake-lady cannot eat her spouse twice. But perhaps the poor fellow, after this experience, will take care when he wanders again awooing."

  "That was nothing out of the ordinary," said Erhardt; "every female spider devours her male after the mating."

  Brinken continued, "The mantis religiosa, the Worshipper-of-God, doesn't wait first for the end. You can observe this here on the Adriatic island every day. She skilfully turns her neck round, seizes with her terrible pincers the head of the lover seated upon her, and calmly begins to consume him – in the midst of the mating. Nowhere, gentlemen, will you find more atavism in mankind than in sexual life. I, for my part, have no use for the soulful paroxysms of the most beautiful houri, who suddenly discloses herself as a snake, spider, or Worshipper-of-God."

  "I have never met one!" remarked Dr Handl.

  "That doesn't mean that you may not meet her tomorrow," answered Brinken. "Have a look at the anatomy collection of any university: there you will find crazier combinations of atavistic monstrosities than the fantasy of the average man could picture. You can find in human shape the entire animal kingdom. Many such creatures live seven years, twelve years, and still longer. Children with a hare-lip, with a split palate, with tusks, and those with pigs' heads; children with webs between all their fingers, between their arms and their legs, with a frog's mouth, or frog's head, or frog's eyes; children with horns on their heads, not only stag's horns, but with the pincer horns of a stag-beetle. If you can see such monstrous atavisms everywhere, is it to be wondered at that a few singular characteristics of this or that animal be repeated in human soul life?

  "When you see such wild atavism everywhere, is it astonishing that some peculiar qualities of this or that animal should also be found in human souls? It is only remarkable that we don't stumble over them more often; but the reason may lie in that no one speaks willingly about them. You can associate intimately with a family for years without learning that one of the sons is a complete cretin put away in some institution."

  "Granted!" said Erhardt. "But still you haven't explained your grudge against dangerous women. Tell us, who was your Worshipper-of-God?"

  "My Worshipper-of-God," said Brinken, "prayed to God every morning and every evening, and even succeeded in getting me to pray with her. Don't laugh, Count, it is literally as I say. My Worshipper-of-God went twice every Sunday to church, and to chapel every day. Three days a week she visited the poor. My Worshipper-of-God–"

  He interrupted himself, mixed a whisky, and drank. Then he continued:

  "I was just eighteen years old, an undergraduate on my first vacation. During my years at school and at university my mother always sent me abroad for my holidays – she believed it good for my education. This time I was staying in England with a schoolmaster in Dover, where I was thoroughly bored. By chance I made the acquaintance of Sir Oliver Bingham, a man of forty, who invited me to visit him at his place in Devonshire. I accepted at once, and departed with him a few days later.

  "Bingham Castle was a magnificient country seat; four hundred years or more in the possession of the family. There was a large and well-cultivated park with golf-links and tennis-courts; a little river, where row-boats lay, flowed through t
he grounds. Two dozen hunters in the stables. And all this at the disposal of the guests. It was the first time I had enjoyed English hospitality with its liberality; my youthful joy was boundless.

  "Lady Cynthia was the second wife of Sir Oliver. He had two sons by the first marriage; both were at Eton. I perceived at once that this wife was a wife only in name. Sir Oliver and Lady Cynthia lived side by side as two complete strangers; between them there was nothing but an extremely careful and often somewhat unnatural politeness, which, nevertheless, was scarcely forced. Inborn and acquired convention helped both easily over all stiles.

  "Not until much later did I understand that Sir Oliver, before he presented me to his wife, had intended to warn me. At that time I did not notice it. He said: 'Look here, my boy! Lady Cynthia, now see – well, take care of yourself!' He could not quite speak openly what he thought; and, as I said, I did not understand him.

  "Sir Oliver was a real country gentleman of the old style, as you may find in a hundred English novels: Eton, Oxford, sport and a little politics. He took pleasure in his estate and was a capable farmer. Everybody at Bingham Castle loved him – men, women and animals. He was a powerful blond, brown and healthy, large and open-hearted. For his part he loved no less those around him, and demonstrated this kind of rural love more especially and rather indiscriminately to the younger female servants. This happened without the slightest hypocrisy and quite obviously: Lady Cynthia alone seemed not to notice it.

  "It was this unconcealed faithlessness to his wife which deeply grieved me. If ever a woman, it seemed to me, had earned the full and implicit love of a man, she was this Lady Cynthia; if ever adultery was a treacherous and repulsive crime, so it was against this woman.

  "She must have been about twenty-seven years old. If she had lived during the Renaissance in Rome, or Venice, one would see her portrait today in many a church. I never saw another woman who was so like a Madonna. She wore her gold-shimmering brown hair parted in the middle. Her features were of perfect regularity. Her eyes seemed to me like seas of amethyst dreams; her long, narrow hands were of an almost transparent whiteness; her throat, her neck – ah, it seemed to me as if this woman were scarcely earthly. You never heard her step. It was as though she floated through the rooms.

  "No wonder I fell in love. At this time I wrote sonnets by the dozen; at first in German, then in English. They were probably extremely poor – but if you could read them now, gentlemen, you would certainly be able to picture, from their minute descriptions, Lady Cynthia's unusual beauty and at the same time my state of soul.

  "And this woman was deceived by Sir Oliver, who did not even give himself the trouble to conceal the fact. I couldn't prevent it, I had to hate him. He noticed that; once or twice he attempted to speak to me about it, but he could not find the right opening.

  "I never saw Lady Cynthia laugh – nor weep. She was unusually silent; like a shadow she glided through the park and the house. She did not ride, nor play golf, nor did she indulge in any sport. Neither did she ever trouble herself with the household; this was left entirely to the old butler.

  But, as I have said, she was very religious – attended church regularly and visited the poor of three villages. She said grace before every meal. Every morning and every evening she went into the castle chapel and knelt down to prayers. Never did I see her read a paper, and seldom a book. On the other hand, she embroidered a great deal, made laces, rosepoint and edging. At times she sat at the piano in the music-room, played also the organ in the chapel. While she plied her needle she would often sing softly, almost always a simple folk-tune. Only many years later did it occur to me how absurd it was that this woman, who had never had a child, should prefer to sing cradle-songs. At the time I took it for dreamy wistfulness, which I found fascinating.

  "Our relationship was determined from the first day: she was the mistress, and I was her obedient page, hopelessly enamoured, but very well behaved. At times she let me read to her – Walter Scott's novels. She suffered me about her while she played or sewed, and she often sang for me. At mealtimes I sat next to her. As Sir Oliver was often away, we were frequently alone. Her sentimentality had taken possession of me: she seemed to be sorrowing silently over something; and I held it to be my duty to sorrow with her.

  "Often late in the afternoon she stood at the narrow window of the tower room. I could see her from the park: sometimes I went into the room at this hour. A boyish shyness kept me from speaking; I crept on tiptoes down the stairs into the garden, hid myself behind a tree, and sent longing glances to the window from the distance. She would stand there a long time, not moving. Often she would clench her hands, and a quiver would fly over her face; but the deep, amethyst eyes would stare out motionless. She seemed to see nothing, her glance sped over trees and bushes strangely possessed.

  "Once, I know, I dined alone with her at night. We talked long after the meal, then went into the music room. She played for me. It was not the music which made me flush; I stared at those white hands, those fingers which were not human. As she finished, she half turned to me. I seized her hand, bent over it, and kissed her finger-tips. At this moment Sir Oliver walked in. Lady Cynthia, polite as always, wished him good evening. Then she went out.

  "Sir Oliver had seen my movement, he also saw my excited eyes, which cried aloud how it stood with me. He strode up and down the room once or twice with long strides, suppressing with difficulty a few good curses. Then he came to me, clapped me on the shoulder, said: 'For Heaven's sake, my boy, take care! I tell you – no, I beg you, beseech you – take care. You–'

  "Here Lady Cynthia returned to the room to fetch her rings, which she had left on the piano. Sir Oliver broke off abruptly, squeezed my hand strongly, bowed to his wife and went out. Lady Cynthia came to me, slipped, one after another, her rings on her fingers. Then she held out both her hands to me for a goodnight kiss. She said not a word, but I felt what she commanded. I bent down and covered her hands with hot kisses. She let me hold them long, finally she freed herself and left.

  "I had a feeling that I had committed a grievous wrong to Sir Oliver, as if I were in honour bond to tell him about it. It seemed to be easier to do it in writing; so I went into my room and sat down at the desk. I wrote one letter, two letters, three letters; each seemed more stupid than the other. At length I decided to speak to him, so I went out to look for him. To avoid losing my courage again, I ran up the steps as fast as I could; before the door of his smoking-room, which was wide open, I suddenly stopped. I heard voices in there: first the jovial, somewhat broad laugh of Sir Oliver, then a woman's voice."

  "'But, Sir Oliver...' said the voice.

  "'Go on, don't be a little fool,' laughed Sir Oliver, 'don't take on so.'

  "I turned on the spot, crept down the steps. It was Millicent's voice – that of one of the parlourmaids.

  "Two days later, Sir Oliver went to London. I remained alone at Bingham Castle with Lady Cynthia.

  "At this time I was in wonderland, in an Eden that the Deity created for me alone. It is difficult to describe the witchery of the dream in which I lived. I tried to describe it in a letter to my mother. When I visited her, a few months ago, she showed me the old letter, which she had faithfully preserved. The envelope bore on the back the words 'I am very happy!' The letter itself contained this astonishing gush of feeling: 'Dear mother: you ask how I feel, what I do? Oh, mother! Oh, mother, mother!' And a dozen times more, 'Oh, mother!' Nothing more.

  "With these words, of course, one might express the deepest pain, the wildest despair, as well as the extremest delight; but something superlative it must be!

  "I remarked early in the morning when Lady Cynthia went into chapel, which lay a short distance from the castle by the side of a stream. Then I waited until she came out, and accompanied her to breakfast. One morning she made a sign; I understood it, without her having to speak. I followed her, therefore, into the chapel; she knelt to pray, and I knelt behind her. From that time I always went with h
er into the chapel. At first I did nothing but stare at her; but, gradually, I did what she did – prayed. Just imagine, gentlemen, I praying – a German student! And surely a heathen! I don't know what or to whom I prayed; but it was some sort of thanksgiving for so much happiness and a shower of burning wishes for this woman.

  "I rode a good deal; somehow or other my foaming blood had to calm down. Once I had ridden out fairly early, lost myself in the country, and was in the saddle for many hours. When at last I found my way back to the castle a raging thunderstorm broke, a regular cloud-burst. I came back to the stream and found the wooden bridge washed away; to get to the nearest stone bridge I would have had to make a considerable detour. I was wet through as it was, so I jumped into the swollen stream. I got across, though I had considerably overestimated the strength of my worn-out mare, and was carried downstream a good way.

  "Lady Cynthia awaited me in her sitting-room. I hurried, therefore, to my room, bathed and changed. Perhaps I looked a little tired; at all events, she insisted that I should lie on the couch. Then she sat beside me, stroked my forehead, and sang:

  Rockaby, Baby, on the tree-top–

  When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,

  When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

  Down will come baby, cradle and all!

  "She stroked my forehead and sang; it was as though I lay in a magic cradle, which hung on the high bough of a tree. The wind blew and sang, and my cradle rocked in the breezes. If only the bough does not break! I thought.

  "Well, gentlemen, my bough broke; and I fell down, hard enough. At any time Lady Cynthia would give me her hands – but only her hands. I trembled for her shoulders, her forehead – oh! of her lips I dared not think. I never spoke about it, but my glances offered her my heart and my soul – everything, every day and every hour. She took everything, and gave me her hands.