by E. C. Tubb
“Imagination.” Mark switched off the lights and led the way back into the bedroom. “The place is locked and aside from the four of us, empty. It must have been the contraction of the woodwork or something, old houses are full of noises.”
“Maybe.” Henry didn’t seem too sure of it. “But I’m glad that I’m not living here alone.”
Mark laughed.
He didn’t laugh the next night. He had had a hard day’s work, painting an abstract which he felt sure would turn out to be one of the finest things he had ever done, and it was late by the time he had cleaned his brushes and tidied up the studio. Cooking himself a meal took more time and it was quite dark by the time he managed to relax before a nice fire and open the pages of a book he had been wanting to read for a long time.
He had whisky too and, as he sat and read and sipped at his glass, he felt more contented than he had for years.
For too long now he had been on the move, shifting from flat to apartment, apartment to rooms, borrowing or begging the use of a studio or, when he was in funds, hiring one all to himself.
Sitting in the living room of his own house, toasting his feet at his own fire, his own studio waiting for him and the whisky mingling with the comfort of good literature, he congratulated himself on his decision. It would have been easy to have squandered the proceeds of his last sale as he had done so often before. Instead he had resisted temptation and, before he could change his mind, had bought the lease of this house. Now he had six months in which to do some serious work and to build up his bank account. Somehow Mark knew that he would be able to do it better here than anywhere else.
Someone blew down the back of his neck.
He had turned and his mouth was open to protest before the strangeness of what had happened had registered. He stared at the emptiness behind him, shrugged, and concentrated on his book.
Again the invisible something sent a stream of cool air against his spine.
“Draughts,” he said disgustedly, and moved his chair. He was pleased to discover that the move had apparently done the trick because the occurrence wasn’t repeated. He read for a while longer, finished his drink, then went up to bed.
He awoke bathed in perspiration.
A sound had woken him, he knew it as soon as he opened his eyes. It was a peculiar sound and it seemed to come from the direction of the studio. There had been something, a scream? And then a bumping, slithering noise similar to the one he had heard the night before.
It grew louder and coupled with it was the wheezing sound that had shaken Henry. Mark rose, gripped a poker, flung open the door and switched on the lights.
“What the Devil?” he snapped. “Who…”
He broke off staring at emptiness. The passageway, the stairwell and the landing was devoid of any living thing.
But the noises did not cease.
Even as he stared they neared him, passed him, and went thumping down the stairs to the lower regions, there to die away in silence. Mark stood listening to them. He was surprised to find that he was trembling and fought down an instinctive desire to run. Donning a dressing gown he went downstairs, switched on all the lights, built up the almost dead fire and took a stiff drink of whisky.
He was tired, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep. After a while, warmed by the alcohol, he went upstairs and dressed, then, picking up the poker, went on a search of the house.
He found nothing until he entered the studio.
At first he wouldn’t have noticed it but, warned by some subtle difference, he stared at the floor in close examination. Dim, but unmistakable on the bare boards was a fading stain, such as stain as could have been caused by spilled turpentine, or petrol, or…?
He didn’t let himself think of the possible alternatives.
The next morning he went to see the estate agent. The man was polite but firm and Mark brushed aside his protestations and came directly to the point.
“All right,” he said bitterly. “So you warned me and I insisted. So I’m stuck with the lease for the next six months and, whether I live there or not, I’ve got to pay the rent. I’m not arguing about that. I realize that I made a bargain and I’ll stick to it. But admitting all that, what the devil’s wrong with the house?”
“I don’t know,” said the little man soberly. “I’m not a believer in the supernatural and so I hesitate to say that it is haunted.” He shrugged. “Previous tenants haven’t been so reluctant.”
“They said the house was haunted?” Mark nodded. “They were right, it is. What I want you to tell me is how and why? What happened in that house?”
“A crime, I believe.” The agent was still cautious. “A murder I think, but it all happened a long time ago and I hardly think that any crime, no matter how horrible, could have left traces for so long a time.” He hesitated. “The last tenants, a married couple with a couple of children, stayed just one week. During that time they had two servants and the wife had a nervous breakdown. The tenants before them, an old man and his sister, left after three days. There was a colonel before that. An old army man who lived with his batman as his servant and the batman’s wife as his housekeeper. The batman and he had been together for thirty years and yet, one week after taking occupation, the man refused to stay a day longer. He left and the colonel left with him.”
“And before that?”
“A suicide,” admitted the agent. “A servant girl was found with her throat cut. The death happened in the studio and there was some scandal connected with the son of the house. That, incidentally, was not the original crime of which I spoke.”
“You’re sure that it was a suicide?”
“No doubt of it. The girl was worried and had spoken of ending it all before the children’s nurse. She was obviously deranged.”
“I see.” Mark frowned thoughtfully at the wall. “And the original crime?”
“Murder. The owner of the house, a partial invalid, went insane one night and killed his wife, his daughter and his son-in-law. He buried them in the cellar and then hung himself from a hook in the kitchen.”
“And the house has been haunted ever since.” Mark nodded. “Thank you.”
“What are you going to do?” The agent shifted restlessly in his chair. “I don’t wish to be hard and perhaps it may be possible to arrange something. Some other property perhaps?”
“No.” Mark grinned down at the little man. “Don’t worry about me. As far as I know ghosts have never hurt anyone. I’m not afraid and, to be frank, I can’t afford to leave the place. I’ll make out.”
The agent didn’t seem as hopeful as the young man.
Mark was thoughtful as he returned home. Deep within himself he didn’t believe in ghosts and, as he felt the weak winter sun on his face, the possibility that he had leased a haunted house seemed ridiculous. The noises could be easily explained as resulting from natural reasons, settling floorboards, old structural members subsiding a little; a dozen perfectly sane reasons for what he had heard.
The tale of the murder and suicides he believed but discounted. He knew that London had seen much crime during its long history and, if every scene of crime were to result in a haunted locality, then the world would be populated with more ghosts than living persons. No, the tales, while interesting, could have no real bearing on the odd happenings in the house.
He grinned and, buying himself a couple of bottles of whisky, went home and settled down to work.
He worked through the day and it was late evening by the time he decided to finish. He was surprised to find it so late, he had worked with an unusual smoothness and ease, the paints seeming to flow from his brush, the lines and planes of the abstract taking their own position in the elaborate composition he had in mind. He blinked at the surrounding shadows, unable to understand why he hadn’t noticed the fading light earlier, then, putting away his brushes, he stepped back and looked at the painting.
His scrutiny was broken by a thunderous rap from the front door.
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br /> It was Henry. The thin man shivered and almost ran into the living room where he waited impatiently while Mark lit a fire.
“This place is like an ice box,” he complained. “Where’s the whisky?”
“On the table,” said Mark. He turned from the leaping flames and stared at his friend. “Any particular reason for this visit?”
“Need there be?” Henry grinned as he sipped at his glass. “I thought that you’d like some company. If you don’t want me to stay, say so and I’ll get out.”
“Don’t be a fool,” grinned Mark. “Naturally I want you to stay. Eaten yet?”
Henry hadn’t and so Mark fixed a meal for the both of them. By the time they had eaten it was dark and Mark drew the heavy curtains over the windows and built up the fire. Despite his skepticism, he was glad of Henry’s company. Though he kept reminding himself that he didn’t believe in ghosts, yet he shrank from a repetition of the odd noises that had woken him the previous night. The conversation turned on various people they both knew and, finally, what he had learned from the estate agent.
“So the house is haunted.” Henry nodded as though he had expected the news all along. “I thought so and that, in a way, is why I am here.”
“To ghost hunt?”
“Something like that.” Henry grinned. “I suggested doing an article for my newspaper, you know the sort of thing, odd happenings and inexplicable hauntings. I’ve already done one on Borham Abbey and Glamis Castle and I thought it would be a good idea to include a typical suburban residence to offset the stately homes.” He grinned again. “After all, everyone expects the big houses to be haunted, usually with the headless corpse of some Cavalier or some maiden chained up to die by a wicked uncle, but not many people ever suspect that an ordinary house could be haunted too.”
“Nonsense!” Mark poured himself another drink. “This house isn’t haunted. Noises, yes, but that’s about all. All old houses creak a little, more so when they are empty and at night. I’ll bet that if I was to fill each room and warm the house throughout, it wouldn’t creak at all.”
“Maybe.” Henry didn’t sound convinced. “Anyway, I take it that you’ve no objection to my writing you up and making a few investigations?”
“None at all. Where do you want to start?”
“I’ll get the history of the place from the old records and newspapers. The crime you spoke about would have made the headlines and so should the suicide. That part is easy, how many tenants, how long did they stay, what they said to neighbours and friends, some personal interviews if possible, and sworn statements as to odd happenings.”
“In other words a scientific examination of a legend.” Mark was amused. “And the odd noises?”
“We’ll tackle those tonight.” Henry pulled paper bags from his pocket. “Look, I’ve brought some things which might be of use. A camera loaded with infra-red film that will enable us to take pictures in the dark. Some thread to seal the doors and to put across the stairs so that anyone playing tricks will leave signs. A stethoscope so that we can locate the sounds if they are within the woodwork, and a couple of candles in case the lights go out.”
“What you should have brought,” said Mark easily, “was a can of beetle-killer and a spray. I’d take twenty to one that all the noises can be accounted for by woodworm or the deathwatch beetle. That and settling of the timbers.”
“Something tells me that you protest too much,” said Henry dryly. “Have a good night’s sleep last night?”
“About the same as the night before.”
“So the noises awoke you, did they? Anything else happen?”
“Nothing, just a draught from the window.”
“Draught? With those heavy curtains?” Henry shook his head. “Try again.”
“It must have been a draught because when I changed position it vanished.” Mark hesitated, then decided against telling Henry of the odd stain in the studio. Anyway, it had faded completely away and he could think of a couple of reasons why it had appeared in the first place, a leak in the roof, something he had spilled; he decided to ignore it.
“The trouble with you, Henry,” he said, “is that you are determined to find something supernatural about this house. I…” He broke off, staring at his friend. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Henry was shivering and his hand, as he lifted his glass to his lips, trembled so that the rim struck against his teeth and made little clicking sounds. “I thought that I saw something, never mind what, but it must have been the firelight or something.”
“You saw something?” Mark turned and scanned the room. “What? Where?”
“Against the wall.” The whisky seemed to have calmed the thin man. “I had the impression of a ghastly face peering at me. I could see it as plain as I see you now, horrible, repulsive!” He shuddered again.
“It’s the pattern of the wallpaper,” soothed Mark. “With the firelight throwing shadows you could imagine any sort of thing you pleased.” He rose and slammed his hand hard against the wall. “See? Just a solid wall. Have another drink and calm yourself.”
Henry obeyed the suggestion. Mark joined him and, by the time a distant church clock was striking the hour of midnight, both men, while not tight, yet had had enough to drink to make them laugh at trifles and ignore all their innermost fears.
“Well?” Henry set down his empty glass again. “Let’s get on with the investigations. As far as I remember the noises started from the studio and continued down the stairs towards the cellar. I suggest that we go up to the studio now, wait for the performance to begin, then follow the sounds downstairs until they fade. Agreed?”
“A good idea.” Mark rose and led the way upstairs, Henry seemed to have forgotten his equipment because he didn’t bother about winding thread across the stairs and it was only when they were settled in the studio that he brought out the camera.
“I suppose that we should have the lights out in order to use this,” he said dubiously. The studio was dank and chill and the effects of the whisky were wearing off.
“Did you switch off the stair lights?”
“Yes.” Mark didn’t look at his friend, he was staring at a spot on the floor. The stain, so faded and vague during the day, now looked like a horrible, freshly spilled pool of blood. He was about to call Henry’s attention to it when his friend whistled.
“I say, Mark! This is good! Who is the girl?”
“What girl?” Mark frowned as he looked towards Henry. The thin man was staring at the unfinished painting, his eyes expressing his admiration. “What are you talking about?”
“Your painting, of course.” Henry pointed towards it. “Who did you use for a model? It isn’t Monica and it isn’t Sally. Did you find a new one?”
“I didn’t use a model,” said Mark shortly. “That’s an abstract, a painting to reveal mood rather than an actual image.” He crossed the floor and stood beside Henry. “And there’s no girl in it. I…”
He broke off, staring and, as he looked, he became conscious of a peculiar tension tightening the skin along his spine.
Because Henry had been right.
There was a girl.
But Mark had never seen her before in his entire life.
At first he didn’t see her, then as his eyes adjusted focus, she seemed to leap into life and vitality. A young girl with a heart-shaped face and a crushed rose for a mouth. Long, dark hair rippled across her shoulders and her slender throat was clasped by a thin chain bearing an oddly shaped pendant. The pendant was in the form of a pair of clasped hands and Mark had never seen one like it. But it was the expression on the face that arrested his attention.
The girl stared from the canvas with a pitiful entreaty and a desperate urgency. Her eyes, soft brown pools of hidden emotion, were wide and strained as if she were trying to convey a message by the sheer force of her personality. So great was the impression that Mark almost expected her to speak. He blinked and, suddenly, the image of the girl’s face was
gone, lost in the slanting planes and sharp angles of the abstract. He stared again, letting his eyes change focus, and immediately she was staring at him again with the same desperate urgency.
“It’s the finest thing you’ve ever done,” said Henry, and the tone of his voice was wholly devoid of mockery. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It has to do with the change of viewpoint, I suppose. One minute you see nothing but the apparent abstract, the next you sec the girl’s face. A sort of optical illusion.” He looked at the painter. “How did you manage to get that effect, Mark?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Mark. “It wasn’t intentional. I was concentrating only on the abstract, that girl, whoever she is, was painted quite unconsciously.”
“You should do more painting while unconscious, then,” said Henry with a weak attempt at humour. “I…” He broke off, his skin turning a dirty white, and his eyes, behind their thick lenses, were wide and shocked as if he had received a terrible blow.
Mark felt it too and, as he stood listening, he felt the small hairs on the back of his neck bristle and his heart begin to pound madly against the wall of his chest.
Something was in the studio!
They couldn’t see it but the sounds were plain. A bump, a long, shuddering sigh, then a horrible slobbering sound mixed with a liquid gurgling. It seemed to come from the empty air and it was loudest above the spot where the stain, now a ghastly pool of crimson wetness, stretched across the boards.
For a long moment both men stood as if petrified, then as the sounds began to leave the studio and progress down the passageway towards the stairs, they moved into action. Switching off the lights Mark flung open the door and Henry, his hands trembling, operated the camera. He pointed the lens towards the sounds and snapped several exposures of his infra-red film. Finished, he sprang towards the light switch and, in the harsh glare, the horrible sounds seemed even worse than they had in the darkness.
Because there was not the slightest sign of anything that could have made them.
