Mirror of the Night

by E. C. Tubb

  They followed the noises down the stairs and along the lower passageway. They followed them out towards the kitchen and back towards the living room. There they waited, their faces ghastly in the red glow of the fire, while the sounds slowly faded from hearing.

  “They’ve gone!” Henry, pale and shaken, helped himself liberally to whisky. “The show’s over for tonight.”

  “Maybe.” Mark swallowed his portion of neat spirit and passed his hand across his face. He wasn’t surprised to find that it came away moist with perspiration. “What do you think of it, Henry?”

  “Supernatural phenomena,” said the thin man immediately. “Now don’t give me any more talk of loose boards and settling timbers, Mark. That could account for some noises, yes, but not those we’ve just heard.” He stared into his glass. “You know what it was we were listening to, of course?”

  “The re-enactment of a crime?”

  “Something like that. The first murderous blow, the bumping and shuffling as the killer dragged his victim down the stairs, the wheezing and gasping of a man half-mad with terror.” Henry drained his glass. “This house is haunted, Mark. There’s no getting away from it.”

  “All right, so it’s haunted.” Mark had recovered some of his courage with the combination of the warm fire and the whisky. “So what? Noises can’t hurt anyone, can they?”

  “Perhaps not, but the mental effects can. Didn’t you say that a servant girl cut her throat in the studio?”

  “She is said to have committed suicide, yes, but that has nothing to do with the haunt.”

  “You think not? You say yourself that she was said to have committed suicide, but suppose she didn’t? Or put it this way, suppose something played on her mind to such an extent that she killed herself while beneath the dominance of another power? Is that suicide? Or would you call it murder? Murder by someone long dead who still haunts this house with his foul presence?”

  “You’re serious!” Mark stared incredulously at his friend. “You really believe in all this rubbish about ghosts and haunted houses.”

  “I’ve seen things which would make the strongest sceptic change his mind,” said Henry sombrely. “I told you that I’d done a series of articles on haunted houses and, believe me, Mark, I never wrote half of what I could have done. I didn’t believe at first, how could I? But some things are too obvious to be ignored.” He looked seriously at his friend. “Take my advice, Mark. Get out of here while you are still sane and safe.”

  “I can’t.” Mark sat down and reached for the whisky. He frowned at it. Never a heavy drinker he seemed to be swallowing the stuff as though it were water. He shrugged and let the strong spirit burn his throat and warm his stomach. “Look, Henry, assuming that all you’ve said is true, that this house is haunted and that the spirits are malignant. Assume all that, yet still I can’t leave. I’ve no money to rent another place and the agent warned me that I can’t expect a refund. Like it or not I’m stuck here and by heaven this is where I’m going to stay. So the place is noisy, so what? For all I care it could be full of ghosts and demons. I won’t touch them if they don’t touch me. Live and let live, that’s what I say, and there’s plenty of room in this place for both the dead and the living.”

  “You’re drunk,” said Henry sharply. “You must be or you wouldn’t talk like that.”

  “I’m not drunk,” said Mark, and it was true. The whisky seemed to be having no effect on him at all. “I’m serious, more serious than before in my life. Forget what I said about ghosts and haunts. Let’s get down to the real reason why I can’t leave. Money isn’t the sole reason, I can share with friends as I have before. No, Henry, the real reason is something quite different.”

  Mark tilted the bottle again.

  “You said how good that painting is upstairs. I agree with you. It is good, one of the best things I have ever done. I shall do others, equally as good, better, and I know that the only place I can turn out work like that is here in this house.” He shrugged at Henry’s expression. “You should know what I’m talking about. Everything feels just right here. I work and I don’t notice the passage of time. I have no doubts, no reluctances, I just want to paint and paint and do nothing but paint. Six months of such concentration and I’ll be able to open my own exhibition. I don’t have to tell you what that could mean to mc, Henry.”

  “Fame,” said the thin man. “Money, a good reputation and plenty of commissions. Do more work like that thing upstairs and you’ll have the critics falling over themselves to praise you.”

  “That’s right,” said Mark simply. “So you see how it is impossible for me to leave this house now.”

  “But the ghosts?”

  “If there are any I’ll have to learn to live with them.” Mark forced himself to chuckle. “I’ll manage.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Henry. “Look. I tell you what I’ll do. First I’ll check the history of this place and find out all I can. Then there is a man I know, a medium, who has been helping me to write those articles. I’ll see what he can suggest. I’ll have this film developed, not that I suppose it will do a bit of good, and then we’ll have a conference to decide what’s best to be done.” He looked at his friend. “I know how you feel, Mark, but no matter how good your paintings may become, they aren’t worth the loss of your sanity.”

  “I’ll watch it,” promised Mark grimly. “When will you be back again?”

  “As soon as I can. I’ll stay here the rest of the night, of course, and then I’ve got to go up north on a story. I’ll contact the medium and find out what I can and be back say in three days’ time. Will you be able to hold out for that long?”

  “Three days? Of course.”

  “Good. Let’s finish the bottle and turn in. I’ll be seeing you next in three days’ time.”

  Henry was wrong.

  The three days passed and he didn’t return but Mark didn’t miss him. He seemed now to be living in a peculiar dream state impossible to describe and one in which he felt nothing in the way of fear. During the day he worked like a man possessed and, at night, he slept like a log. He didn’t hear the noises any more because he had found a way to numb his ears.

  He went to bed drunk every night.

  He wondered at times for his hunger after alcohol. He had never been a heavy drinker, the odd cocktail and rare party had always satisfied his desire for alcohol, but now he seemed to crave it more than food itself. The living room became filled with empties and his breath, if he could have smelt it, reeked of whisky.

  He neglected himself too. He forgot to shave and rarely washed and there seemed to be something the matter with his breathing. He wheezed as though he suffered from asthma and slobbered as he talked to himself as he walked around the empty house.

  He paid no attention to any callers who knocked on the door. He paid no attention to anything but his work and the mounting desire for whisky. He bought it at night, slipping out into the freezing streets and returning laden with bottles and, without bothering with glasses, he gulped the neat spirit directly from the bottle.

  And he painted as he had never painted before.

  * * *

  Henry, who called two weeks after the promised time, hardly recognized the bearded, swaying figure who opened the door as that of the once-trim and always clean Mark.

  “Mark! What’s happened to you?”

  “Happened?” Mark passed a hand dazedly before his eyes. “Nothing. Who are you?”

  “Don’t you know me?” Henry pushed his way into the living room and looked around him at the mess and grime. “I’m Henry, your friend. Surely you remember me?”

  “Henry?” Mark appeared to think about it. He thought for a long time. “Three days,” he said suddenly. “Have three days passed already?”

  “Almost three weeks have passed,” said the thin man grimly. “I had an accident, a car knocked me down and I wasn’t allowed to move for ten days. I’m still weak but I had to see you. What’s going on? Why are you look
ing as you do?”

  “I’m all right.” Mark licked his lips and reached for a bottle. “Leave me alone.”

  “No. I’m coming back tonight with that man I told you about. He’s promised to help and he feels sure that we can get to the bottom of this mess.” Henry stared at Mark. “Look after yourself. Better still, come with me. You need a shave and a bath and a decent meal. Get your coat.”

  “No.”

  “Get your coat, Mark!” There was iron command in the thin man’s voice and, after a moment of hesitation, the artist obeyed. He seemed to be acting in a stupor, like a man far gone in sleep who, even though he is not aware of it, performs the routine tasks of the day without real consciousness of what he is doing. Silently he obeyed Henry and donned his overcoat. The thin man grabbed his arm and led him from the house.

  Two hours in a Turkish bath restored Mark to a clean and decent condition. He was shaved. Bathed, and refreshed by the steam and massage. He left the baths with a ravenous appetite and, over a thick steak, listened to Henry’s rapid conversation.

  “I’ve found out about the house. It was originally owned by a painter, the same man who went insane and killed his wife and family. He turned out some good work and he used a model, a girl by the name of Amelia. Amelia vanished one day, no one saw her go or knew anything about her and Prentice, that was the painter’s name, said that she had left him after a quarrel and had gone abroad.” Henry signalled to the waiter to fetch more food.

  “All this was a long time ago, well before the War, about 1935 as far as I can make out. The actual crime took place a year later in 1936. The suicide occurred in 1954. The house was empty for a long time after that and, during the last few years, has had a succession of tenants, none of whom have stayed more than a couple of weeks at the most.”

  Henry stared hard at Mark.

  “Prentice was a peculiar man. He wore a beard, nothing strange in that, of course. Most artists did at that period, but he was an exceptionally heavy drinker and given to fits of violent rage. He had a chest complaint, asthma, I think, and he used to wheeze all over the house.”

  “Asthma?” Mark frowned. “What are you getting at, Henry?”

  “When I first saw you,” said the thin man deliberately, “I hardly knew you. You had a beard, stank of whisky, and wheezed as though you had asthma.” He paused, staring down into his coffee cup. “I’d take a bet that you must have looked as much like Prentice as it is possible for one man to resemble another.”

  “Do you know what you’re saying?” Mark stared at his friend. “You’re saying that this ghost, call it what you like, actually began to dominate me so that I resembled it. Does that make sense to you?”

  “Yes. You didn’t see yourself as I saw you. And another thing. There is a lot of difference between three days and three weeks. Yet you seemed surprised to find that three days had passed so swiftly. To me you looked like a somnambulist, a sleepwalker. You didn’t recognize me, you didn’t even ask me into the house, you looked more like an animal than a man, and you wheezed as though you had asthma.” Henry pushed aside his empty cup. “I’ve known you for years, Mark. You've never suffered from asthma in your life. To mc there is only one answer.”

  “Domination by a ghost?”

  “Yes.”

  “Impossible!” Mark rubbed his freshly shaven chin. “It is, isn’t it? Impossible I mean. Such things couldn’t happen.”

  Henry shrugged.

  It was late when they returned to the house. Mark, for some reason, had tried to delay their return but as Henry explained he was expecting the medium and wanted to be there to welcome him.

  The medium, when he did arrive, disappointed Mark by his sheer ordinariness. He was an elderly man, slightly stooped and almost bald. He reminded the artist of a fussy maiden aunt he used to have and, as he set down a small suitcase and looked around the living room, Mark began to doubt that he had any real power at all.

  Henry thought differently.

  “You’ve read the history of the house Mr. Edwards,” he said. “This is Mark Thorpe, the occupier. I have told him of you and he is eager for assistance. Incidentally, those films I took turned out to be quite blank.”

  “Naturally,” said Edwards dryly. “We haven’t yet devised an emulsion to register the presence of supernatural phenomena. I expected nothing else.” He stared at Mark. “Are you a sceptic?”

  “I used to be,” admitted the young man. “But now I’m not so sure. There is something wrong with this house that’s obvious. It could be ghosts or it could be something else. I’m keeping an open mind.”

  “Spirits, if you please,” said Edwards primly. “The term ‘ghost’ is too open to ridicule. Unfortunately, there is nothing the slightest bit amusing about the machinations of earth-bound spirits or elemental forces.” He glanced around the room again. “May I see over the house?”

  “Certainly.” Mark led the way on a tour of inspection. In the studio he stared at the dull stain on the floor but said nothing. Edwards, his eyes half-closed, crossed the room and stood over it.

  “Hate,” he whispered. “Hate and a terrible fear. There is something gravely at fault in this house.”

  “You’ve been working,” said Henry. He stared at the completed canvasses. “And that same girl again and again in different poses.”

  “Which girl?” Mark frowned as he looked at the heap of finished paintings. They all carried the same figure but, as Henry had remarked, each time in a different pose. The girl with the same expression of desperate urgency and lurking fear. It was hard for Mark to believe, as an artist, that be had painted them without a model. It was still harder for him to believe that he had painted them at all for he had no recollection of having done so. He mentioned the matter to Henry who nodded and conversed for a long time with the medium.

  Edwards, after a final look round, led the way downstairs.

  “We shall hold the séance in this room,” he stated calmly. “The studio contains the greatest violence but this room is redolent with malignity. If you permit me to use the table, Mr. Thorpe?”

  “Help yourself,” said Mark. He was growing thirsty and craved a drink of whisky. He rubbed his chin and seemed to be troubled by the lack of hair. Edwards glanced at him then sat down at one end of the table. Henry sat at his right hand and Mark at his left. They joined hands and Edwards relaxed.

  “We are going to conduct a séance,” he said quietly. “In a little while you will put out the lights and we will sit and wait for the manifestations to appear. When they do I shall go into a trance. While in that state I shall act as a medium by which the troubled spirits may communicate if they so wish. I myself will know nothing of what is going on.”

  He paused and nodded to Henry.

  “The lights?” The thin man rose and switched them off. Darkness, lit only by the red glow of the fire, filled the room. Henry sat down again and Mark felt his cold fingers slip within his own.

  “There is no need for fear,” whispered Edwards. “No matter what you see or hear remember that nothing can hurt you if you refuse to permit it to. It is a hard thing for a spirit to gain permanent dominance over a living creature. It is impossible if that creature will fight back and trust to the powers of light and understanding. We are here tonight to discover why this house is troubled by the souls of the departed.”

  He breathed quietly and evenly.

  “Silence now. I feel that the manifestations arc about to begin.”

  Silence descended on the room and, aside from the faint sounds of the fire, the house became as quiet as a grave. Mark felt something brush against his cheek and something else, cold and horrible, played against the back of the neck. His muscles twitched and then, from the upstairs studio, came the ghastly sighing, the thumping, the slobbering and wheezing they had heard before.

  Edwards stiffened, then seemed to slump like an empty sack. His breathing grew ragged, uneven horribly loud in the silence.

  “Spirits that dwell in this h
ouse speak to me. Spirits that dwell in torment speak to mc. Spirits that are bound and are not free speak to mc. This I command.”

  The voice, still recognizable as belonging to Edwards, drifted into silence, the words seeming to float like smoke about and out of the silent room. For a moment nothing happened and then, with shocking abruptness, a harsh grating croak spilled from the little man’s mouth.

  “You call! Who calls? Who would speak with genius?”

  “You are spirit once known as Prentice?” Henry spoke and Mark was amazed at the firmness of his voice. He himself felt as weak as water, an inward cringing as an often-beaten dog would cringe at the approach of its master.

  “I am.” The horrible voice tittered.

  “You are free?”

  “What is freedom?” Even in the distorted tones Mark could hear the cynicism. “What has anyone to offer but what I have?”

  “You are bound by a curse or an undiscovered evil deed,” said Henry. “There is that upon your soul which will not give you rest. “I…”

  “Beware!” A different voice spoke from the mouth of the medium. A thin voice, high and unmistakably that of a girl. “Leave this evil place. He is cruel! Cruel! Alas! Must I wail in torment for eternity before someone frees my soul?”

  “Who are you?” Mark strained forward towards the source of the voice and hardly felt Henry’s fingers dragging him back. “Tell me, who are you?”

  “Amelia… Amelia… Amelia…” The voice faded and vanished beneath a man’s harsh laugh. It returned for a moment, harsh with desperation. “Find me… for the love of God find me and give me a Christian burial… my soul… my heart… my faith…”

  The voice faded and Edwards moaned as though suffering a terrible convulsion. He stirred, groaned, and when he spoke it was in his normal voice.

  “It is over. Lights please.” He blinked in the harsh glare. “If one of you has a little brandy? Thank you.” He sipped at the flask Henry handed to him. “That’s better. Were we successful?”

  “I think so.” Rapidly Henry told him what had happened. “Amelia was the model, of course. Prentice must have killed her and hidden her body in the house. Unburied, she remained at the scene of the crime and haunted Prentice until he went insane and killed his family and himself. That was an even worse crime for, unwittingly, she had caused the death of innocent people. So, for her punishment, she has to stay earth-bound with him and, every night, they re-enact the scene of the crime. The servant who cut her throat may have been dominated by Prentice even as Mark was.” Henry frowned down at his fingertips. “What we need to do in order to free the house of these unhappy spirits and to release them is to find the body of Amelia and give it Christian burial. That will free her, for basically she is innocent of all wrong, and Prentice will go straight to hell to meet the fate he deserves.”