Horror Express Volume Two

by Bentley Little

  When Reed returned to his room after dinner, a faint but pungent odour assailed his nostrils, reminding him of the smell of gasoline that hung in the air while people filled up their cars at gas stations. He puzzled over it for several minutes until it hit him: of course, the maid had been to his room to spray the insecticide. The smell was strongest at the place where he had seen the column of ants but he was pleased there was not an ant to be seen, not even a dead one. He felt chilly all of a sudden, and shut the window, noting that the mists that he had seen over the mountaintops had now rolled right across the landscape and had embraced the inn.

  He flopped on the bed, luxuriating as the raised cloth filaments on the candlewick bedspread nudged against his skin. He was more tired than he had thought. He decided to take a warm shower and call it a day. Then without warning the lights went out, and darkness enveloped him like the mist swirling outside.

  He had been in India long enough to understand that frequent power outages were a regular occurrence in Indian cities, but he had not expected one here up in the hills. He remembered the candles on the desk, and that there was a box of matches beside them. Obviously they were not there to create a romantic mood. He groped and located the two candles and the matchbox. The cheery soft orange light from the candles suited the room better than the electric lights. It was a good feeling.

  He took a candle and went to the bathroom for his shower. He was about to turn on the tap when he saw something that made him stand still, conscious of his heartbeat. Something was moving on the floor, something other than the shadows cast by the flame. He held the candle high and steady, and saw what it was. The freaking ants. They had returned, but to the bathroom this time, and they were marching with glee across the floor.

  Reed was both annoyed and dismayed. By the feeble flicker of the candlelight he could not tell whether the ants were red or black, big or small, harmless or not. Besides, how far could he trust an elderly Australian lady to be well versed on every insect that crept and crawled in India?

  Reed had put up with one frustration after another ever since he stepped out of the airplane that brought him to India. Now something snapped and a cold fury overcame him. He set down the candle, filled a mug with water and sloshed it on the floor. The surge carried most of the ants with it down the drain. The ones that were not caught were in utter disarray, scrambling about in consternation, turning tail, fleeing back into the crevice between the wall and the floor from where the column had emerged. Good, thought Reed with grim satisfaction, go and tell your buddies that it’s not healthy for them to troop out here.

  Refreshed by his shower, he was about to get into bed when he heard a series of soft, almost imperceptible taps at the window. He went to it and cautiously opened it, not really expecting to see anybody. He was on the upper story and who would climb a building in pitch darkness? He moved his candle around and saw nothing outside. A light breeze was blowing but the ghostly mists still hung around. Then he noticed that the windowpanes were loose within their frames. No doubt even a light breeze could rattle them.

  He got into bed, and as he drifted to sleep, trying to ignore the sporadic tapping, he thought that Mrs. Tattersall should just invent a ghost. This place had the atmosphere of a haunted house, and people could get spooked out without ever seeing an apparition. After all, he thought as he blew out the candles and remembered his conversation with the colonel, wasn’t it all in the mind?

  The day of his departure came all too soon. As he snapped the lock on his suitcase and awaited the arrival of the taxi, Reed grimly reflected on the good old saying: work and vacation don’t mix well. He had awoken on his second day to brilliant sunshine, and the following days had been the same, the days interspersed with crisp, clear moonlit nights. It was tough to parse through papers and plod through his voluminous scratching when the world beckoned him to hike and trek and just gambol with abandon.

  The colonel had kept his word and had taken him to Coonoor one day, showing him the wild, riotous chaos of the market and the town centre, and then the periphery - ’Upper Coonoor’ - where houses and cottages stood in sedate dignity, just as the entire town once did. It gave him more information to add to his thesis, even if the details eventually ended up as just a footnote. They stopped at Dolphin’s Nose, and try as he could, Reed could not see anything but rock. Just as he looked away, he saw the distinct shape of a dolphin’s head from the corner of his eye and he quickly turned back. But now he once again only saw jagged stone. He tilted his head this way and that, to see if his eyes would see the dolphin from a particular angle, but he had no luck. He gave up, instead enjoying the beauty of the woods, the streams and the foamy cascading water.

  He had good weather for the rest of his stay, but it had rained continuously on his last night at the inn, and the tapping on the window had resumed and kept waking him. And the day of his departure was overcast with clouds, although the downpour had stopped. Reed had never seen so many little cloud puffs dot the sky from horizon to horizon, patches of anxious blue sky peeping from between them.

  He got a mild shock when the taxi showed up – the driver was not the man who had brought him up to the inn. The taxi service had sent another man, one with a pinched face and overly oiled hair that stuck out like antennae on an insect’s head, and who insisted on exhibiting a dopey grin every few seconds. His English was not as good as the previous driver’s. Reed’s mistrust of the new man was almost immediate, but he had no choice. Oh well, he would be in Coimbatore city on the plains in a short while.

  The car broke down when they were barely a quarter of the way downhill. Reed fumed from the backseat while the driver kept turning the ignition on and off as he struck the dashboard with his fists with angry mutters. Finally he turned back and stammered something with his dopey grin. Reed strained to catch what the man was trying to say. Did he just say something about getting his pet troll? Surely not. But the thought of trolls, whether a pet or a wild one, made Mrs. Tattersall and her chatter about ghosts spring to his mind. The driver repeated his statement and Reed got it. Oh, petrol. That’s what they called gasoline in India. They had run out of gas. He berated the driver for his total lack of responsibility, but the driver only wrung his hands and kept up a series of abashed grins as he told Reed he would quickly run to the next town and fetch a can of petrol.

  ‘So you’re leaving me here by myself and taking off to get gas - petrol?’ Reed was angry now. When they reached Coimbatore, he would give the taxi service a blasting they wouldn’t easily forget.

  ‘Just fifteen minutes, saar, town just down there, petrol bunk just down there.’ The man gesticulated down the side of the cliff as though he planned to jump off and glide through the air to fetch the fuel. Then he broke into a quick trot and disappeared round the bend, and Reed was alone in the stalled car on the mountainside. Fifteen minutes was likely to mean an hour if he was lucky. He got out of the car and strolled down the mountain road, gazing at the tops of the distant peaks.

  When he first heard the sound, he had no idea what it was. His instincts told him that it was not a sound natural to the hillside. The sound grew louder and he glanced up the slope in the direction from where it seemed to originate. What he saw chilled his heart. A torrent of water was tumbling down the hillside - not Law’s Falls or St. Catherine’s Falls, but a brand new waterfall that the devil was birthing before his very eyes. A flash flood! He saw a tree give way, its trunk snapping from the solid punch of the muddy water. Worse, although he could see that its course was erratic, the water seemed to be heading unerringly towards where he was standing.

  His reflexes took over; he started running. If the water took him with it, he would end up at the bottom of the mountain like a broken reed. In the momentum of his run, amid his panic and agitation, his head went back and he looked skywards, and he froze down to his bone marrow, sucking in his breath, wondering whether his eyes were playing a most obnoxious trick on him. For every cloud in the sky had changed shape, and each
one looked like an ant. Some clouds, caught in the orange glow of the setting sun--a sun he could not see because it was behind the mountain - looked like red ants, the slate grey clouds like black ants. Some looked baleful, some impassive. And they seemed to have marched around and arranged themselves in the sky in a grand spiral, a concentric circle with its vortex here on the ground, and he in the middle of it.

  Fear gave his muscles a strange new power, propelling him forward; making him run like his very life depended on it. He threw a glance at the sky again, and saw nothing but innocuous fluffy clouds. But he kept running. And the roar of the descending water kept ringing louder in his ears as he ran.

  Priya Sharma

  THE ORCHARD HUNTERS

  July 27th 1892

  I wrote to Kitty again today. As I handed it to the first mate, Marcus raised an eyebrow at me. He is so trusting of the natives but not of our fellow Englishmen. When I pressed him on the point he muttered something about colonial savages and I pretended not to understand his meaning.

  It pains me to admit Marcus is correct. Our captain is a prime example. He is slovenly and eyes the half naked native women. Captain Dawkins is the colour of mahogany and it makes him appear dirty. I despair. We are among the ungodly and the fallen and all because of a damned flower.

  August 1st 1892

  The town’s chaplain met the steamer on the jetty. I am no religious zealot but Christianity is an English duty that should be practiced with English moderation. Still, I am relieved to be met by a man of the cloth, even if he is only a Welsh one. When I said as such to Marcus he became very cold with me.

  August 2nd 1892

  The chaplain held a dinner this evening in our honour. It was attended by some desperate looking missionaries, the chaplain’s wife and our Captain Dawkins of The Liberty.

  ‘An orchid?’ Our host was incredulous.

  Out here, in darkest Africa, there was no way he could know that orchids had set the English gentry aflame.

  ‘At the request of Lord Huntley of Cheshire.’

  Maria, the servant, spilt some wine upon the tablecloth. The chaplain chided her. There was perspiration on her neck and one of the buttons on her uniform was missing.

  ‘Are orchids so dangerous that it requires two of you?’ The chaplain’s wife was sharp. The rest of the company tittered nervously. She must rule them with an iron rod.

  Marcus was engaged in chewing the tough fowl before us, so I explained.

  ‘Lord Huntley thought it prudent to send a pair of men for a greater chance of success. It is perilous out here, among the snakes and crocodiles.’

  ‘An expensive venture.’

  I ignored this vulgarity from Dawkins. My ambitions are finer than that.

  Later, Marcus and I sat on the veranda after the others had gone to bed. Our cigar smoke filled the pools of lamp light.

  ‘So Philip, is she worth all this?’ His cigar glowed as he sucked on it.

  Damned impertinence. He was referring to Kitty. I suppose the time for correcting him is long past. My father was too generous with him, more than owning to the orphaned nephew of my governess, and now Marcus is accustomed to taking liberties. I went to Eton and Marcus to South Africa with a gold expedition. Since our return to Carfax we are over familiar strangers and he ignores my attempts to put our relationship on a proper footing. My father’s dying wish was that our governess, and Marcus after her, have lifelong use of a cottage by the river at Carfax. I can never wholly be rid of him.

  ‘Well, I suppose you must do something to distinguish yourself from all her other admirers,’ he smirked, ‘but there are far easier quests she could have sent you on.’

  ‘How dare you! She is devoted to her father’s happiness. I can only hope she will be as devoted to mine.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied and I ignored his innuendo.

  I have always found orchids faintly indecent. That Lord Huntley pursues them with such passion disconcerts me. My own father was for the manly occupations of hunting and fishing. To be embroiled in this scheme for botanical glory is too ridiculous.

  We smoked in silence. The river was below us, its movements so languid that it was almost motionless. Ripples fanned out on its surface, a sinuous curve sliding on the water as if on oil and then it was gone.

  August 3rd 1892

  We make plans for the interior. I hope Marcus is as good as Huntley thinks or how else are we to find the damn thing?

  Marcus is an odd sort. He pretends to care for nothing but something distasteful happened earlier. We were walking in the grove and came upon Dawkins who had the servant girl, Maria, against a tree. He had her by the throat, his other hand fumbling with his breeches. I turned away, not seeing that it was my business that Dawkins had fallen so low as to consort with servants, but Marcus had already pulled his pistol and pressed it to Dawkins’ temple.

  ‘Put her down.’

  Dawkins spat at Marcus. Tobacco stained spittle landed on his cheek. I’d have blown his brains out for that.

  ‘Put her down,’ Marcus repeated. ‘What makes you think you have the right?’

  Dawkins’ head was bowed with the pressure of the barrel tip. When he released Maria, Marcus struck him with the pistol butt, bloodying his noise.

  We walked away in silence. Marcus set his lips in a thin line when he looked at me, as if I were the one with some native against a tree and not the captain.

  August 4th 1892

  Last night I dreamt I was with Maria. My head was between her breasts. This damn country is infecting me.

  August 15th 1892

  We have made camp. Marcus has given me his word that his priority will be Huntley’s elephant orchids, although he is collecting others. From what Marcus has intimated he did well in South African gold but is keen to try botany, where there is fame and money to be had. As a boy he was always outdoors with his notebooks, annotating his sketches in Latin.

  I miss Kitty. I remember how gracious she was when I brought her roses. We stood in her father’s conservatory surrounded by rare blooms. Her waist is a mere hand span.

  August 16th 1892

  This climate is stifling. The humidity is awful. My shirt is perpetually damp.

  As I shaved at my camp table earlier I had the watercolour of the elephant orchid propped up before me. It is a study from the Royal Society’s collection, taken before it died. I was trying to memorise the three petals, each one wrinkled, delicate shades of grey that became a pink flush at its heart.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Marcus stood behind me. He has forgone shaving for beard, which he trims.

  I scraped my razor over my upper lip and rinsed it in the bowl, adding more lather and whiskers to the mix.

  ‘We go west towards the ruins.’

  I was irritated. He keeps me informed as an afterthought. He spends all his time with the natives and has already learnt much of what our interpreter, a foundling from the mission, knows of their language.

  ‘Are there orchids there?’

  ‘In the graveyard.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An elephant graveyard.’ He grinned. ‘Everyone’s assumed the natives call it the elephant orchid because of its looks but no-one’s bothered to ask. It grows from elephant skulls.’

  I pulled a face.

  ‘It’s something about brain matter they like.’

  The ghoulish flower will be my undoing.

  August 20th 1892

  I was cleaning my rifle by the fire last night. Marcus had just returned from a sortie. Outside the circle of light, the darkness was full. This country crawls and teems with monsters of all sizes, things that bite and tear without mercy. I saw something that stopped my heart. Two circles reflected the firelight blinked at me. I turned the gun on it and took the safety catch off. It made a harsh, metallic sound.

  ‘Philip.’ Marcus was at my side, gun in hand.

  It padded closer, materialising in pieces in the firelight. A face, whiskered and spotted. A broad, power
ful chest. Enormous paws. A twitching tail.

  ‘She’s beautiful.’ Marcus had her in his sights but didn’t fire.

  A growl rumbled from deep inside her. Her mouth was full of pointed knives. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, not settling but not advancing either. I held my breath and waited. She retreated, so I shot her.

  Marcus is a strange man. Willing to kill an English captain but he hasn’t spoken to me since I killed the leopard last night.

  Later -

  The natives met with Marcus and the interpreter earlier. They all squatted down in a ring, talking for hours, pointing at me from time to time.

  Marcus came over, his mouth set in the hard line which I suppose is his way of showing me that I’ve displeased him. As if a care for his good opinion.

  ‘It’s no good. They’re leaving.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The leopard.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘What the blazes do you think they have tattooed on their chests? It’s the tribe spirit. She was a good omen and you shot her.’

  I suppose the squared toothed creature looked a little like a cat.

  August 21st 1892

  We now only have the interpreter to direct us and he is not as familiar with this region as our guides. As the natives departed, Marcus asked me for a second time if I wouldn’t go with them.