by E. C. Tubb
Gregg rose from his examination of the limp form as voices sounded from beyond the door.
“Stap me, Jeffers, yer woman’s late. The hour is nigh and we dare wait no longer.”
“Martha must have had trouble with the stranger,” said Jeffers, and now his voice held a familiarity foreign to his status. “It could be that she lingers over the kill.”
“Curse the wench,” snarled the old man. “Killing that loon was bad enough, couldn’t ye control her hunger for blood, man? I’ve a mind to flay her with me whip when I get me hands on her. Stap me, Jeffers! Damme if I won’t!”
“She will be punished,” said the butler, and Gregg shivered to the venom in his voice. “If it wasn’t that we couldn’t do without her I’d have riddled her with silver long ago.” He laughed coarsely. “It would be a change from the gems ye used to hang around her neck.”
Both men laughed as if at a secret joke but there was nothing the slightest bit humorous in their laughter. Cautiously Gregg eased himself forward so that he could see into the room beyond the door. It was lined with mildewed brick, illuminated with many candles, and heavy with the smoke rising in writhing plumes from a brazier supported on an elaborate tripod.
Four people were in the room. The old man wore a robe scattered with stars and astrological symbols. Jeffers wore a robe of deep crimson. Gus was strapped to an oddly shaped chair, his head shaved, his face pale and relaxed in a drugged coma, a peculiar headdress on his naked scalp. Lorna, also unconscious, lay on a rough altar of hewn stone in the center of the room.
To Gregg she reminded him of someone prepared for a sacrifice and, as he listened, the old man’s words left no doubt as to the role she was to fill.
“A thin wench, Jeffers, but she must do. I’d hopes of the stranger but he was too strong. The male element would have clashed with the transmigration and I’ve no stomach for a battle of souls.”
“And he isn’t of the blood,” said Jeffers with the air of reminding the old man of something. “’twas in my mind that ye’d thought of taking him as he was. This loon is but a poor fish, good for scarce thirty years, and Martha is getting out of hand.” He muttered to himself and glanced at a clock hanging on one wall. “The hour draws nigh, master. Miss it and another year must pass.”
“We’ll not miss it,” said the old man. He lifted a goblet and drank eagerly at the contents. “’tis a thing I fear,” he muttered. “The loon is weak but he is young. I doubt me my powers to oust his soul and take over his body. Ye must aid me, Jeffers, aid me as ye wish to be aided in turn.” His little eyes gleamed like alien gems as he stared at the butler. “Ye need me, ye dog, as I need yer aid at times like these. But I alone know the trick of it and so ye must continue to serve me or rot in a grave. Forget not that or I’ll blast yer soul to the lowest pits of hell, aye, and do it if ye fail me from beyond the veil if I must.”
“Have I ever failed ye?” said Jeffers. “When ye came to me, a broken wastrel, ruined at gaming, did I not take ye in? Aye, and warned ye of Martha too? I well knew what she was and summoned her straight. Aye, she’d have sizzled in the fires had I not sheltered the two of ye.”
“I’ve paid ye well for that service,” snapped the old man. “The werewolf wench ye had for wife and I’ve given ye fine young bodies to live in when by rights ye should have rotted in hell.” He drank again. “Curse it! Me will’s made and the loon will receive all. Martha can take care of the rest and I’ll be distraught with grief at the loss of me family.” He chuckled with evil mirth. “Haste, man, the hour is on me. Act while I take the potion.”
He snatched up a goblet, drained it, and fell back into a chair. Jeffers caught up a headdress, the twin of the one Gus was wearing, and slipped it on the old man’s head. Turning he caught up a knife and advanced towards the woman.
Gregg stepped forward just as he was about to plunge it into her throat.
* * *
Gus groaned, cringed, opened his eyes and blinked at the face above him
“Gregg! Gregg, I…”
“Take it easy,” said the tall man. He was breathing hard and sweat glistened on his forehead. “It’s all over now.”
“What happened?” Gus dropped his head into his hands and shook as from a fever. “We had wine at dinner, I remember that, then everything went misty and…and...”
“You were drugged.”
“Was I? But why?”
“Your grandfather was old, older than you know, and Jeffers was not a young man. It was easier to get you and Lorna down here while you were unconscious. Also, he had his own reasons for wanting you in a drugged sleep.”
“Drugged,” said Gus dully. “That accounts for it.” He shivered again. Horrible!” He looked up and stared about him. “Where are we?”
“In a cellar beneath the house. A tunnel runs from it to the coppice outside the gates. I came along it and was just in time to prevent something rather unpleasant happening.”
“Unpleasant?”
“Very.” Gregg stared thoughtfully at the young man. “As soon as you feel better we’ll carry Lorna upstairs out of here. I can’t carry her myself, I was hurt a little in a fight with Jeffers. He had a knife.”
“Did he?” Gus blinked, then suddenly life and awareness flashed into his eyes. “Gregg! That’s grandfather over there sitting in that chair. And that’s Lorna, and Jeffers! What’s the matter with Jeffers?”
“He’s dead,” said Gregg tightly. “I killed him in self-defence. Your grandfather is dead, too, but I wasn’t responsible for that. Martha, the woman you thought was Jeffers’ wife, is lying in the tunnel. I shot her with the fowling piece.”
“Shot her? You murdered her?”
“I shot at a wolf,” said Gregg. “The same wolf who killed those two men and Tony. I shot at her with a gun loaded with silver. Lucky for me as it happened or I would have been killed too. Silver is the one thing with which to kill werewolves like she was.” He put out his hand as Gus half-rose from his chair. “Don’t try to see her. She isn’t a pleasant sight. She died before becoming wholly human again.”
“Incredible,” Gus shook his head and looked at the tall man at his side. “I think I’m going mad, Gregg. What is all this about?”
“You’re still dazed from the drug, Gus,” said Gregg. “In a way I’m glad of it. You can hear what I’m saying, maybe even understand it, but it won’t be as shocking as it would be if you were normal. I think we’d better start with the man you called your grandfather.”
“Called?”
“Yes. He might have been for all I know, but he was one of the most evil men who ever lived. Jeffers told me a lot before he died.” Gregg shrugged. “He made the mistake of going for the knife again afterwards and so I had to kill him. I don’t regret it. He was as rotten and as evil as the old man.”
He paused, fumbled for cigarettes, lit a couple and passed one to Gus.
“A long time ago, how long I don’t know but certainly back in the Regency period, your grandfather, or the man who had taken over his body, became mixed up with black magic. He met Martha, a werewolf, and through her Jeffers, who was an adept. The old man had done some experimenting on his own account and had stumbled on a discovery that he was shrewd enough to keep his own. Briefly, he had found a way to control the transmigration of souls.”
“I’ve heard of that,” said Gus. “I read about it in a book grandfather loaned me. Isn’t it based on the theory that souls can move from body to body?”
“Not quite but that’s near enough. Anyway, your grandfather found out how to exchange his old, worn-out body for a new one. He had to obey certain conditions. His own body had to be at the point of death so that the affinity of his soul with his body was weak. He had a drug that, literally, killed him. It freed his soul from his body without causing it to go into the hereafter as normally it would have done. He used this drug on himself and another one, not as strong, on the victim. Then, by means of the headdresses, spells, human sacrifice and other things,
which I don’t know and don’t want to know, he forced out the occupying soul and took possession of a new body. He needed an assistant to help him and so he used Jeffers. They helped each other and God knows how many poor devils they’ve dispossessed in their time.”
“Incredible,” said Gus again. He frowned. “Are you telling me the truth, Gregg?”
“Yes. You don’t have to believe me but you will after you see what is out in the tunnel. Another thing, didn’t the fact that your grandfather used old English strike you as odd? He only did it when excited or forgetful, a relic of his old days, but it betrayed him for what he was.”
Gregg sighed and dragged at his cigarette. His thin face seemed haunted and his eyes were ringed with black. Not to Gus or to any living soul would he ever tell of the frenzied begging and pleading, the disclosures, the promises and temptations held out to him by the man known as Jeffers. Nor would he tell of the horrible tensions in the air, the twitching of the old man, the ghastly revelations of what he finally knew to be the truth.
Gus was too weak for such knowledge, it was better that both he and Lorna should remain ignorant. Gus would have his money, the money the old man had willed to him thinking that be would have it to spend when in his new body.
Gregg could only hope that the young man would make good use of it.
As for him?
For him there was still work to do. Still evil to wipe out in the world. That would be later, now he had to decide what to tell the police, how to protect the innocent and throw the blame on the guilty. He frowned as he saw the expression on Gus’s face.
“What are you thinking of?”
“Something I thought I dreamed while under the drug,” said Gus slowly. “Something which makes me certain what you have told me is the truth.”
“Yes?”
“I thought that I heard a voice, it was grandfather’s voice, and it was wailing as it seemed to move away from me at incredible speed. It begged and pleaded and sounded as though he was desperate with fear.”
“His soul,” said Gregg. “Cast lose from his body and unable to find a new home. Anything else?”
“Nothing but laughter,” said Gus, and shivered. “Horrible laughter.” He looked at Gregg. “Devil’s laughter.”
THE ARTIST’S MODEL
The estate agent was strangely reluctant and Mark began to lose his patience.
“Look,” he said deliberately. “You have a house advertised to let and I want to lease it. It is for let, I suppose? You have your sign hanging outside which says so.”
“Yes,” admitted the agent. He was a thin, dried up little man with a nervous expression and weak eyes. “That would be Fairlawns. On the corner of Maple Avenue and Sherbourne Street. Yes, sir. I know the house.”
“Well then. How much for a six-month lease?”
“I honestly can’t recommend that property, sir,” said the agent, and Mark stared at him in amazement. To hear an agent telling a prospective customer that any property he had on his books wasn’t to be recommended was something that didn’t happen every day. Mark was intrigued.
“What’s wrong with it? Drains?”
“The sanitation is perfect, sir,” said the agent indignantly. He looked down at his hands. “I have other properties far superior and…”
“I want Fairlawns,” said Mark curtly. He was abrupt and knew it and thought it best to explain. “I’m a painter, an artist, and I noticed that there is a good daylight with a northerly aspect. Am I correct in assuming that there is a studio?”
“There is a studio,” admitted the agent. He hesitated and Mark spoke quickly before he could continue.
“What’s wrong with the property then? Is it haunted?” He said it as a joke but, when he saw the little man’s expression, he realized that he had come nearer to the truth than he guessed. The agent tried to dismiss the idea with a shrug.
“Haunted? Well, that depends. I will admit that I’ve had a lot of trouble with that particular property, that is why I do not recommend it, but I would hesitate to say that it was haunted.”
“So you’ve had trouble?” Mark was amused. A big, healthy extrovert he didn’t believe in ghosts or goblins and the idea of living in a reputedly haunted house intrigued him. “What sort of trouble?”
“Nothing specific,” said the agent quickly. “There have been complaints of noises, an oppressive atmosphere and, I believe, there is a rumour connected with a certain crime committed there long ago.” He smiled, a man-of-thc-wor1d smile. “I only tell you this to warn you in case you should be dissatisfied. I’m afraid that any lease you may take on the premises would be irrevocable. The rent is small but, if for any reason you wish to break the period of your tenancy, I’m afraid that I will not be able to allow you to void the agreement.”
“So if I take it then I’m stuck with it.” Mark nodded. “Fair enough. The place is furnished, I understand. Is that so?”
“It is.”
“Good. Then I’ll move in right away. If we can close the deal…?”
Later, sitting in one of the fat, ugly, overstuffed armchairs in the living room, Mark began to wonder who had been the shrewdest between them, the agent or himself. True, the rental had been so cheap that it would have been a crime to refuse the lease, but there was something about the house vaguely disturbing even in the strong light of late afternoon.
It was, thought Mark, the old furniture and the slight smell of must and decay filling the unused rooms. He had made a tour of inspection and found the place ideally suited to his needs, a good studio with a wonderful north light and a kitchen large enough to prepare a banquet. He had already picked out a bedroom for himself and, as far as he was concerned, the rest of the house could gather dust and cobwebs.
He was gazing at the old, large-patterned wallpaper when a sudden knock came at the door. Rising, he walked into the hall, opened the door, and frowned down the empty street. He was still frowning when he heard a knock on the back door. Leaving the front door open he walked through the house and struggled with the rusty bolt fastening the back door. He opened it and stared blankly at a deserted area. While he was still staring another knock echoed from the front door. He closed the back door, bolted it, and ran towards the front of the house. He reached the street just as a series of sharp raps sounded from the back door.
That was the beginning.
The explanation, of course, was children playing tricks and trying to frighten him. Mark knew how swiftly news gets around any local area and all the children in the vicinity must have believed in the haunted house and probably thought it fun to tease him.
Henry agreed with him. Henry was a tall, thin, gangling man with large ears and a trick of peering over the tops of his spectacles. He worked in a newspaper office and always seemed to have plenty of spare time. He sipped his whisky and listened to Mark’s explanation then shrugged and drank some more whisky.
“Kids get up to all manner of devilment,” he agreed. He had just arrived from work and was still annoyed at his inability to find the house after dark. He looked at the ugly furniture and hideous wallpaper and shivered.
“What’s the matter?” Mark had lit a fire, it was early winter, and in the warm glow the room didn’t seem too bad at all. Henry shivered again.
“Draught, I suppose. It seemed as if someone was blowing down the back of my neck.” He looked distastefully around the room again. “You’ve got odd tastes, Mark. Do you mean to tell me that you like it here?”
“It’s cheap,” said Mark curtly. “Far cheaper than a flat and the rent of a studio, more convenient too. I can work as and when I please and should turn out some good paintings during the next few weeks. With luck I’ll sell them and raise enough money to take that trip to Milan I’ve always wanted.”
Both men started as a knock sounded at the door then, after a moment’s hesitation, Mark went to answer it. He returned with two girls and they helped themselves to drinks and warmed themselves at the fire.
“It’s
simply wonderful.” Monica, blonde, slim, pretty and a part-time artist’s model, looked at the Victorian furnishings of the room. Sally, small, dark, also a model when she wasn’t working in an office, agreed with her. Henry, either because of the company or the whisky, admitted that the house could be made pretty comfortable in time. He also added that, as Mark had just moved in, they should have a house-warming and he and the artist went out to buy more drinks. It was well past midnight when they all decided to retire.
As the house had more rooms than Mark could possibly use on his own it was a simple matter lo fix accommodation. The beds probably needed airing and the rooms still smelt of dust, but they were used to roughing it and made light of the difficulties.
The two girls shared one room and Henry shared Mark’s. They shouted good night to each other, switched off the lights and, shortly, were all fast asleep.
Mark awoke to feel something pressing down against his mouth. He jerked, twisted, and Henry muttered a warning to be quiet.
“There’s someone in the house.” he whispered. “Listen!”
Mark listened. He could hear a peculiar creaking sound, a shuffling as of something heavy being dragged over the floor, and a horrible slobbering sighing noise as of a man desperately short of breath but terrified lest he make a sound. Silently the big man rose from the bed and opened the door.
For a long moment he stood in the chilly passageway, his ears strained as he listened to the odd noises. Behind him Henry thrust a poker into his hand and, both similarly armed, the two men went out into the darkness. Mark felt for and found the light switch and, pressing it down, threw the landing and stairwell into brilliant illumination.
“Nothing there!” Henry frowned as he stared down the deserted stairs. “Funny, I could have sworn that I heard someone walk past the room.”
