I went back to bed, convinced that I must have been dreaming or sleepwalking, or something of the sort, although I had never walked in my sleep, and almost never dreamed or remembered any dream. I could not sleep, and it occurred to me that I would do well to get up again, put on my bathrobe, and go out to the dining-room for a drink of water. The water stood, in earthenware “gugglets,” just beside a doorway that led out to a small gallery at the side of the house,—which stood on the corner,—in the wind, so as to keep cool. You’ve seen that, a good many times, even here, of course. On St. Martin we had no ice-plant in those days, nor yet, so far as I know, and everybody kept the drinking-water in gugglets and set the gugglets where the wind would blow on them and cool the water.
I took a glass from the sideboard, filled it, and drank the water. Then I opened the door just beside me, and stood looking out for a few minutes. The town was absolutely silent at that hour. There was no moon, and the streets were lighted just as they were here in Frederiksted before we had electricity, with occasional hurricane lanterns at the corners. The one on our corner was burning steadily, and except for the howling of a dog somewhere in the town, everything was absolutely quiet and peaceful, Mr. Canevin.
I went back to bed, and fell asleep immediately. At any rate I have no recollection of lying there hoping for sleep.
Then, immediately afterward, it seemed, I was awakened a second time. This time I was not sitting up when I came to my waking senses, but it did not take me very long to sit up, I can assure you! For the most extraordinary thing was happening in my bedroom. In the exact center of the room there stood a round, mahogany table. Around and around that table, a small goat was running, from right to left,—that is, as I looked toward the table, the goat was running away from me around to the right, and coming back at the left. I could hear the clatter of its little, hard hoofs on the pitch-pine floor, occasionally muffled in the queerest, eeriest way,—it sounds like nothing in the telling, of course,—when the goat would step on the small rug on which the table stood. I could see its great, shining eyes, like green moons, every time it came around to the left.
I watched the thing, fascinated, and a slow horror began to grow upon me. I think I swooned, for the last thing I remember is my senses leaving me, but it must have been a very light fainting fit, Mr. Canevin, for I aroused myself, and the room was absolutely silent.
I was shaking all over as though I had been having an attack of the quartan ague, but I managed once more to slip under the netting, reach for my bathrobe, and go over and turn up the night-light. I observed that the door of my bedroom was standing open, and I went through it and back to the dining-room, as I had done the first time. I felt very uncomfortable, shaken and nervous, as you may well imagine, but there in the next room I knew my husband was sleeping, and my poor old aunt on the other side of the hall, and I plucked up my courage. I knew that he would never be afraid, of anything, man or—anything else, Mr. Canevin!
I found that I must have been more upset than I had supposed, for the door out onto the small gallery from the dining-room, where I had stood the other time, was fastened, and half open, and I realized that I had left it in that condition, and I saw clearly that the young goat had simply wandered in. Goats and dogs and other animals roamed the streets there, even pigs, much as they do here, although all the islands have police regulations, and on St. Martin these were not enforced nearly as well as they are here on St. Croix. So I laughed at myself and my fears, although I think I had a right at least to be startled by that goat dancing about my bedroom table, and I fastened the door leading outside, and came back into my bedroom, and fastened that door too, and went back to bed once more. My last waking sensation was of that dog, or some other, howling, somewhere in the town.
Well, that was destined to be a bad night, Mr. Canevin. I remember one of my husband’s sermons, Mr. Canevin, on the text: “A Good Day.” I do not remember what portion of the Scriptures it comes from, but I remember the text, and the sermon too. Afterward, it occurred to me that that night, that “bad night,” was the direct opposite; a mere whimsy of mine, but I always think of that night as “the bad night,” somehow.
For, Mr. Canevin, that was not all. No. I had noticed the time before I returned to bed that time, and it was a little past one o’clock. I had slept for an hour, you see, after the first interruption.
When I was awakened again it was five o’clock in the morning. Remember, I had, deliberately, and in a state of full wakefulness, closed and fastened both the door from that side gallery into the dining-room, and the bedroom door. The jalousies had not been touched at any time, and all of them were fastened.
I awoke with the most terrible impression of evil and horror: it was as though I stood alone in the midst of a hostile world, bent upon my destruction. It was the most dreadful feeling,—a feeling of complete, of unrecoverable, depression.
And there, coming through my bedroom door,—through the door, Mr. Canevin, which remained shut and locked,—was Armand Dubois. He was a tall, slim man, and he stalked in, looking taller and slimmer than ever, because he was wearing one of those old-fashioned, long, white night-shirts, which fell to his ankles. He walked, as I say, through the closed door, and straight toward me, and, Mr. Canevin, the expression on his face was the expression of one of the demons from hell.
I half sat up, utterly horrified, incapable of speech, or even of thought beyond that numbing horror, and as I sat up, Armand Dubois seemed to pause. His advance slowed abruptly, the expression of malignant hatred seemed to become intensified, and then he slowly turned to his left, and, keeping his face turned toward me, walked, very slowly now, straight through the sidewall of my bedroom, and was gone, Mr. Canevin.
Then I screamed, again and again, and Placide, my husband, bursting the door, rushed in, and over his shoulder and through the broken door I could see Julie’s terrified face, and my poor old aunt, a Shetland shawl huddled about her poor shoulders, coming gropingly out of her bedroom.
That was the last I remembered then. When I came to, it was broad daylight and past seven, and Dr. Duchesne was there, holding his fingers against my wrist, counting the pulse, I suppose, and there was a strong taste of brandy in my mouth.
They made me stay in bed all through the morning, and Dr. Duchesne would not allow me to talk. I had wanted to tell Placide and him all that had happened to me through the night, but at two o’clock in the afternoon, when I was allowed to get up at last, after having eaten some broth, I had had time to think, and I never mentioned what I had heard and seen that night.
No, Mr. Canevin, my dear husband never heard it, never knew what had cast me into that condition of “nerves. After he died I told Dr. Duchesne, and Dr. Duchesne made no particular comment. Like all doctors, and the clergy here in the West Indies, such matters were an old story to him!
It was fortunate for us that he happened to be passing the house and came in because he saw the lights, and could here Julie weeping hysterically. He realized that something extraordinary had happened, or was happening, in the rectory, and that he might be needed.
He was on his way home from the residence of Armand Dubois, there in the town. Dubois had been attacked by some obscure tropical fever, just before midnight, and had died at five o’clock that morning, Mr. Canevin.
Dr. Duchesne told me, later, about Dubois’ case, which interested him very much from his professional viewpoint. Dr. Duchesne said that there were still strange fevers, not only in obscure places in the world, but right here in our civilized islands,—think of it! He said that he could not tell so much as the name of the fever that had taken Dubois away. But he said the most puzzling of the symptoms was, that just at midnight Dubois had fallen into a state of coma,—unconsciousness, you know,—which had lasted only a minute or two; quite extraordinary, the doctor said, and that a little later, soon after one o’clock, he had shut his eyes, and quieted down,—he had been raving, muttering and tossing about, as fever patients do, you know, and tha
t there had come over his face the most wicked and dreadful grimace, and that he had drummed with his fingers against his own forehead, an irregular kind of drumming, a beat, the doctor said, not unlike the scampering footfalls of some small, four-footed animal.
He died, as I told you, at five, quite suddenly, and Dr. Duchesne said that just as he was going there came over his face the most horrible, the most malignant expression that he had ever seen. He said it caused him to shudder, although he knew, of course, that it was only the muscles of the man’s face contracting,—rigor mortis it is called, I think, Mr. Canevin.
Dr. Duchesne said, too, that there was a scientific word which described the situation,—that is, the possible connection between Dubois as he lay dying with that queer fever, and the appearances to me. It was not “telepathy,” Mr. Canevin, of that I am certain. I wish I could remember the word, but I fear it has escaped my poor old memory!
“Was it ‘projection’?” I asked Mrs. Du Chaillu.
“I think that was it, Mr. Canevin,” said Mrs. Du Chaillu, and nodded her head at me, wisely.
THE PEOPLE OF PAN
Originally published in Weird Tales, March 1929.
I, Gerald Canevin of Santa Cruz, have actually been down the ladder of thirteen hundred and twenty-six steps set into the masonry of the Great Cylinder of Saona; have marveled at the vast, cathedral underground on that tropical island; have trembled under the menacing Horns of the Goat.
That this island, comparable in area with my own Santa Cruz, and lying as it does only an overnight’s sail from Porto Rico’s metropolis, San Juan, quite near the coast of Santo Domingo, and skirted almost daily by the vessels of the vast Caribbean trade—that such an island should have remained unexplored until our own day is, to me, the greatest of its many marvels. Through his discovery, Grosvenor is today the world’s richest man. How, under these conditions, it could have been inhabited by a cultured race for centuries, is not hard, however, to understand. The cylinder—but the reader will see that for himself; I must not anticipate. I would note that the insect life has been completely reestablished since Grosvenor’s well-nigh incredible adventure there, I can testify! I received my first (and only) centipede bite while on Saona with Grosvenor, from whose lips I obtained the extraordinary tale which follows...
“But,” protested Grosvenor, “how about the lighthouse? Isn’t there anybody there? Of course, I’m not questioning your word, Mr. Lopez!”
“Automatic light.” The Insular Line agent spoke crisply. “Even the birds avoid Saona! Here—ask Hansen. Come here, will you, Captain?”
Captain Hansen of the company’s ship Madeleine came to the desk. “Vot iss it?” he asked, steely blue eyes taking in Charles Grosvenor.
“Tell Mr. Grosvenor about Saona, Captain. You pass it twice a week on your run to Santo Domingo. I won’t say a word. You tell him!”
Captain Hansen lowered his bulk carefully into an office chair.
“It iss a funny place, Saona. Me, I’m neffer ashore there. Nothing to go ashore for. Flat, it iss; covered down to de beach with mahogany trees—millions of mahogany trees. Nodding else—only beach. On one end, a liddle peninsula, and de automatic light. Nobody iss dere. De Dominican gofferment sends a boat vunce a month with oil for de light. Dat’s all I could tell you—trees, sand, a dead leffel; nobody dere.”
The captain paused to light a long black cigar.
Grosvenor broke a silence. “I have to go there, Captain. I am agent for a company which has bought a mahogany-cutting concession from the Dominican government. I have to look the place over—make a survey. Mr. Lopez suggests that you put me ashore there on the beach.”
“Goot! Any time you made de arrangement here in de office, I put you on shore dere, and—I’ll go ashore with you! In all de Seffen Seas neffer yet did I meet a man had been ashore on Saona. I fink dat yost happens so. Dere iss noddings to go ashore for; so, efferybody sails past Saona.”
The captain rose, saluted the agent and Grosvenor gravely, and moved majestically toward the narrow stairs which led to the blazing sidewalk of San Juan below.
It required two weeks in mañana-land for Grosvenor to assemble his outfit for the sojourn on Saona. He was fortunate in discovering, out of work and looking for a job, a Barbadian negro who spoke English—the ancient island tongue of the buccaneers—and who labored under the name of Christian Fabio. Christian had been a ship’s steward. He could cook, and like most Barbadians had some education and preferred long, polysyllabic words.
The Madeleine sailed out of San Juan promptly at three one blazing afternoon, with Grosvenor and Christian aboard.
Grosvenor had asked to be called at six, and when he came on deck the next morning the land off the Madeleine’s starboard side was the shore of Saona. The Madeleine skirted this low-lying shore for several hours, and Grosvenor, on the bridge deck, scanned the island with the captain’s Zeiss glass. He saw one dense mass of mahogany trees, dwarfed by perspective, appearing little more impressive than bushes.
At eight bells Captain Hansen rang for half-speed, and brought the Madeleine to anchor off a small bay skirted by a crescent of coconut palms. Greensward indicated the mouth of a freshwater stream, and for this point in the bay Captain Hansen steered the ship’s boat, in which he accompanied Grosvenor and Christian ashore. They were followed by another and larger boat, loaded to the gunwales with their supplies.
The trees, seen now close at hand, were much larger than they had appeared from the ship’s deck. A fortune in hardwood stood there, untouched it seemed for centuries, ready for the cutting.
As soon as the stores were unloaded, Captain Hansen shook hands gravely with Grosvenor, was rowed back to his ship, and the Madeleine was immediately got under way and proceeded on her voyage. Long before the taint of her smoke had faded into nothingness in the blazing glare of the tropic sun, the two marooned inhabitants of Saona had pitched their tents and were settled into the task of establishing themselves for several weeks’ sojourn.
Grosvenor started his explorations the next morning. His map of the island was somewhat sketchy. It did not show the slight rise toward the island’s center which had been perceptible even from shipboard. Grosvenor’s kit included an aluminum surveyor’s transit, a thermos-flask of potato soup—one of the best of tropical foods—and the inevitable mosquito net for the noon siesta.
He started along the line of the stream, straight inland. He was soon out of sight and hearing of his camp in a silence unbroken by so much as the hum of an insect. He found the trees farther inland, in the rich soil of centuries of undisturbed leafage, better grown than those nearer the sea. As they increased in size, the sun’s heat diminished.
Grosvenor walked along slowly. The stream, as he had expected, narrowed and deepened after a few rods of travel, and even a short distance inland, rinsing out his mouth with an aluminum cupful of the water, he found it surprisingly cool. This indicated shelter for a great distance and that the island must be very heavily forested.
A quarter of a mile inland he set up his transit, laid out a square and counted the trees within it. The density of the wood was seventeen percent greater than what the company had estimated upon. He whistled to himself with satisfaction. This promised a favorable report. He continued his walk inland.
Four times he laid out a similar square, counted the trees, measured the circumference of their bases a little above the ground, estimated their average height. The wood area became steadily denser.
At twelve-thirty he stopped for lunch and a couple of hours’ rest. It would take him less time to walk back because he would not have to stop to lay out his squares.
He drank his potato soup, ate two small sandwiches of sharp Porto Rico sausage, and boiled a cupful of the stream water over a sterno apparatus for tea.
Then he stretched himself out on the long grass of the stream’s bank under his mosquito netting. He drifted easily into sleep, to the accompaniment of the stream’s small rustlings and the sough of the tr
ade wind through the millions of small mahogany leaves.
He awakened, two hours later, a sense of foreboding heavily upon him. It was as though something weird and strange had been going on for some time—something of which he was, somehow, dimly conscious. As he started, uneasily, to throw off the net and get up, he noticed with surprise that there were no mosquitoes on the net’s outer surface. Then he remembered Captain Hansen’s remarks about the dearth of animal life on the island. There was rarely even a seagull, the captain had said, along the island’s shore. Grosvenor recalled that he had not seen so much as an insect during his five hours on the trail. He threw off the net and rose to his feet.
The vague sense of something obscurely amiss with which he had awakened remained. He looked curiously about him. He listened, carefully. All was silent except for lithe dying breath of the trade wind.
Then, all at once, he realized that he was missing the sound of the little stream. He stepped toward it and saw that the water had sunk to a mere trickle. He sat down; near the low bank and looked at it. There were the marks of the water, more than a foot higher than its present level.
He glanced at his watch. It was three-thirteen. He had slept for two hours, exactly as he had intended. He might have slept the clock around! Even so, twenty-six hours would hardly account for a drop like this. He wound his watch—seven and one-half twists. It was the same day!
He looked at the water again. It was dropping almost visibly, like watching the hour hand of a huge clock at close range. He stuck a twig at its present level, and started to roll up his net and gather his belongings into a pack. That finished, he lit a cigarette.
He smoked the cigarette out and went to look at his twig. The water was half an inch below it. The many slight sounds which make up the note of a brook were muted now; the little trickle of water gave off no sound.
The Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK™, Vol. 1: Henry S. Whitehead Page 3
