by W.S. Lacey
“Whether by sheer bad luck or poor timing, or because Odd had masterminded the whole thing, Webley and his men found themselves always a step behind him. After nearly an hour of searching, they were hot on his trail when they came to the main entrance.” Mr. Harris pointed out the gatehouse window. “There, they were told that he had received a visitor and they at once made a mad dash back to his room. After the fact, they recorded feeling a vague and unjustified dread. Odd was, after all, not known to be violent and had never attempted to escape. The only thing out of the ordinary was the inexplicable door.
“When they came to his room they found it shut and somehow barricaded. They could hear Odd and his visitor inside and soon put their shoulders to the door. Odd’s voice rose and fell in a constant, unintelligible stream as they battered it down. Just as the door splintered and gave way, those present were aware of a sudden strangeness; there was a nearly imperceptible stir in the air and at least two doctors later remarked that they had heard a low rushing sound.
“They found him standing in the middle of the room, holding a small red book in his hand. They quickly subdued him and, after he had been dragged away, began to search for his caller. The search was short and fruitless. Dr. Webley was obligated to call the police and, not long after, the asylum was the focus of the ‘scandal of the vanished woman’.”
“Adelard Odd’s visitor was a woman?” Spender asked.
“Yes, the only trace they ever found of her was a shoe in Odd’s room. He was interrogated vigorously as to her whereabouts and the circumstances of her disappearance but kept his silence. It seemed that he would carry his secrets to the grave and it was to be a short journey, at that. He fell ill and wasted away at an astonishing rate, dying in agony at the stroke of midnight one night, with only a nurse and an armed guard there to hear his last words.”
“What did he say?” asked North.
“Well, I said that they were there to hear his last words, not that they actually did. The nurse had just stepped out of the room, you see, and the guard had fallen asleep. He called out and woke the guard who attempted to aid him in his final throes. His death would have seemed to have been the end of it, had it not been for Dr. List.
“In the months following Odd’s death, a fair number of the doctors gave their notices for various reasons. As the asylum’s staff dwindled, Dr. Webley found it necessary to find replacements. I believe that he was on the verge of accepting Dr. List sight unseen when he invited him to the asylum for a meeting. There are many people who fear disreputability more than death and I would not hesitate to number the late Dr. Webley among them; still, the captain will go down with his ship and he no doubt believed that he could still scrub clean the asylum’s escutcheon.
“The day of his arrival, before Dr. Webley ever set eyes on him, List wandered off through the grounds. An orderly saw him enter Odd’s room and rushed to intercept him, to no avail. Dr. List vanished as if he had never existed and with him vanished any hope of the asylum being able to continue. After all, no one wants to work in a place where walking through the wrong door is liable to cause them to be wiped off the face of the earth.
“In the absence of Adelard Odd, Dr. Webley was certain that it was that door in his room that was responsible. Even as his patients were shipped elsewhere and the last of his staff regretfully tendered their resignations, he hired men to remove the door and, if necessary, the entire room to excise the curse that had taken up residence there.” Mr. Harris stood and went to the window. “Do you see how one wing of the asylum seems to be sinking slightly?” The asylum sprawled out on either side of the main entrance and Spender and North could see that one side was markedly lower, lending to the overall impression of dilapidation. “If you look closely, you might see a large crack running from the foundations all the way to the roof.”
“How did it happen?” North said.
“One of the men on the crew that Dr. Webley hired put a pry bar behind the frame of Odd’s Door. He died violently and the entire building shuddered before splitting apart. That was the end; Dr. Webley left the next day, locking the gates behind him.
“The asylum remained undisturbed for ages. I do believe that, when Mr. Webley provided me with this situation, I was the first living soul to set foot on the grounds in nearly seventeen years.” Mr. Harris smoothed out the front of his trousers and sighed heavily. “I suppose you understand now, how important it is to stay well away from that door. I’ll take you up to the entrance. When you’ve finished, you can find me here at the gate house.”
“You’re not coming with us?”
“I’d get in the way of your finding of facts, color your perceptions, and, as I mentioned before, it really is incredibly creepy. I’ll take it on good faith that you won’t sneak into the Broken Wing to have a look at Odd’s room.” Here Mr. Harris looked at them with such a conspiratorial air that he was nearly winking. This would have been rather insulting had it not been for the fact that Spender and North were planning to do just that.
The wind had dropped off and the walk back up to the asylum entrance was almost pleasant. As Mr. Harris left them at the doors, North thought that he saw a suspicion of sunlight warming and piercing the cloudy sky.
“In we go,” Spender said.
“No turning back,” North said. With a soft and despairing creak, the door gave way and Spender and North entered the asylum.
Chapter Two
The outdoors had begun to encroach on the front hall. A few dry leaves were scattered about the floor and a pronounced draftiness suggested that, somewhere, a window or skylight had been broken. They heard the flutter of beating wings and, looking up, saw a sparrow perch just below the weathered cornice.
As they walked down the corridor, listening to the asylum’s sighs and grumblings as it shifted on its foundations, North reflected that he had never seen a place quite like it. Anyone who has explored an abandoned house will know the strange feeling he was struck with. It was, he thought, like being in a shrine or a monument, like walking through a bodiless mausoleum. The first cell they came to had a bed frame, a wardrobe, and a small desk with a chair beside it. They went in after a moment’s hesitation and Spender opened the wardrobe. Inside, there was a single black coat and a large pile of mothballs, all covered with a fine layer of dust.
“Someone’s left their coat in here,” he said.
“After twenty years, I don’t think they’ll be missing it,” North said. “Look, there’s something in this desk.” The top drawer of the desk did have a folded piece of paper in it. North opened it and read
“Dear Madame, I have been told that the Mr. Unwin with whom I have passed many pleasant evenings does not exist. After reflecting on this for some time from the vantage point of my cloistered life here, I have come to the conclusion that it would be wise to acquiesce. I feel that Mr. Unwin will forgive my ill-mannered denial of his existence, if only because doing so will result in my freedom. I have always found Mr. Unwin to be exceedingly understanding in such matters.
“If you will be so kind as to write a short note to him explaining my situation, I would be very grateful. Please place the note in an empty milk bottle and leave it in the pantry. It will be sure to reach him there. With Humility, Your Nephew, Charles.”
“How very extraordinary,” Spender said.
After returning the letter to the desk, they returned to the corridor where they continued on, made a left, and went up two flights of stairs. Presently, North stopped short.
“That’s probably safe to cross.” They had come to the crack. Years of rain and snow had faded and weathered the floor and walls around it, and the sun, which had finally broken through, filtered down into the corridor. Cautiously, they approached it and, looking up, were able to see a tiny patch of sky.
“Probably,” Spender said. One ungainly large stride brought them over the crack and there, hanging slightly ajar, was the door to Odd’s room. Its panels were a mass of craquelure and, as Spender te
ntatively pushed it, he was surprised that it swung open silently.
Odd’s room was bare. A single window looked out on the asylum’s front drive and let the sunlight fall over the windowsill and across the floor. Spender and North noticed that the room was almost unnaturally hushed and still. The Door stood in the middle of the right hand wall, seeming very sinister despite its ordinary, even mundane, appearance. North was aware of a feeling of dreadful anticipation that grew stronger and stronger until Spender stepped forward and the floorboards creaked underfoot.
“Two people, North,” Spender said. “How do you think he did it?” North followed him, staying slightly behind and looking back to the corridor. “I wonder if it’s locked.” As if in a reverie, Spender reached forward and turned the knob. North averted his eyes, only looking up when he was sure that Spender had not been stricken blind or worse.
“It’s empty;” he said, “that Harris said there was a wall covered in symbols.” Spender let out his breath.
“Well, that’s that. I suppose this is Wood’s room.” They went through the door, which North thought was not really sinister after all, and poked around in Wood’s room, finding, among other things, a hat rack with a pair of galoshes hanging from it and a framed mirror with a plaque reading ‘Eustace Wood, his reflection’. All the tension and mystery had gone so, with relief and disappointment, they went out into the corridor, down the stairs, and back through the front hall.
The wind had stopped and the sun must have come out in full force, as the hall was flooded with light. They went out, squinting, into an unexpectedly warm day, thinking that the fine weather might have drawn Mr. Harris out of the gatehouse. They looked, but could not see Mr. Harris; in fact, they couldn’t see the gatehouse. The leaf filled fountain was gone, replaced by sparse dry grass. Both Spender and North stopped short, as does someone who suddenly realizes that he must have made a wrong turn. North bemusedly turned in a circle.
“What is this?” The gate, the wall, and the cypress trees were gone, replaced by a wide expanse of hard packed dust or sand with small, intermittent patches of parched long grass and weeds. The sun blazed high in a cloudless sky. Spender felt a jump in his stomach and he looked back to make sure the asylum hadn’t disappeared as well.
“How did he ever?” he trailed off.
“One wonders,” North said very quietly.
“There seems to be a crest over there,” Spender said, pointing, “let’s go take a look around.”
As they made their way to the small hill, North lost his shoe. It was not that it fell off so much as North’s foot kept moving and the shoe stayed where it was, allowing his foot to pass right through it. Spender stopped and looked back. At that moment, North’s watch fell through the bottom of his pocket and lay glinting on the dust. As North looked up in dumb confusion, he suddenly began to sink into the earth, almost as if his body and the ground had suddenly ceased to interact with each other. He had time to say “Oh!” before he sank completely out of view.
Spender ran to the spot and kicked at the ground, which, he would later admit, was a bit silly and futile. “North!” he shouted, “Roger!” For a time, he paced back and forth, occasionally waving his arms and yelling. He started back for the asylum, stopped, and sat down on the ground. He had gotten dust in his eye and the whole situation was ludicrously strange and frustrating. After feeling helpless for a good long while, Spender stood and dusted off his trousers. After picking up North’s shoes, watch, and pocket oddments, he straightened up, picked a direction, and began walking away from the asylum.
#
He had never before seen such a vast and featureless wasteland. After walking for a good part of the day, the asylum had diminished to a speck. In all other directions, the horizon was a distant hazy line broken only by a shimmering mirage. With his jacket over his shoulder, Spender kicked a stone along and wondered. How had Adelard Odd done this and why? Did the others who vanished suffer the same fate as North? What had happened to North? Spender imagined a horrible death, crushed and smothered under tons of dark, airless dirt.
He sent the stone skittering along the ground and decided that it would be better to think of other things, things like cold lemon squash and a comfortable chair. The sun beat down on his shoulders as it moved with obdurate slowness from its zenith.
#
The sun, which had sunk to the horizon and gleamed orange-red through the dust laden air, was shining directly in Spender’s eyes such that he wished he had decided to go in the other direction. The air had grown cool and he had put on his jacket, thinking that perhaps he would lie down and sleep for a while. One place, he reasoned, was as good as another here and he didn’t much like the idea of trying to rest in the heat of the day. On the other hand, he hadn’t seen a sign of life or water all day. He decided at last that he would keep going, in the hopes that he would be able to make his way out of the interminable wasteland before he died of thirst.
Just as the last flash of sunlight dipped below the horizon, Spender stopped abruptly. He felt that there was something large directly behind him. He slowly turned and found that a large leafless tree had materialized at his heels. Although this was, by his count, the third impossible thing he had seen that day, it did not fail to unnerve him. Turning back around, he almost ran into another tree which had appeared, like the first one, out of nothingness. Spender heard a whispering of a noise and saw a dark flicker out of the corner of his eye. With witting apprehension, he looked around and saw a great many trees where none had been a moment before. He became aware that he was standing in deep shade.
A lightness in the sky where the sun had set was Spender’s only point of reference and it was with great difficulty that he made it out through the mass of bare branches that were silhouetted against the dusk. Even the ground seemed different, though it was still strangely bare of brush or grass. He now found himself in the depths of a boundless weird wood.
Chapter Three
Spender had been picking through the wood, which was not untowardly dense, when he found himself standing on a path. In spite of its improbably geometrical zigzags, he discovered that it went in roughly the same direction he had been going. He had most likely been walking parallel to it for some time, he thought, if it had not just popped out of the æther as the forest had. Although it was much easier going, an eerie feeling that crawled up the back of his neck made him go back into the trees.
At once, he heard something that sounded like a rock hitting a tree trunk. It was the first sound he had heard in the wood and he stopped, listening intently. He went on and had not gone more than ten paces when he heard branches snapping off the trees. Something, very large by the sound of it, was coming his way. His heart in his mouth, Spender darted to the biggest nearby tree and pressed up against it. In a moment, a great monstrous Thing came thumping through the trees, snuffling and searching as its giant flanks brushed against the tree trunks. Spender held his breath and listened, wide eyed. A creature that prowled through a sudden forest at night and seemed to be hunting him was not the sort of creature he wanted to be found by. Looking down, he realized that he was still carrying North’s shoes. When the snuffling head seemed to swing one way, he threw one of the shoes the other as hard as he dared. It landed high in a tree some way off in a clamor of breaking twigs. The Thing wheeled around and crashed off, leaving Spender to creep away while breathing as quietly as he could.
#
Throughout the long night the Thing dogged his trail. Spender heard it lumbering along, sometimes to his left, sometimes to his right and sometimes, frighteningly, seeming to be ahead of him. He no longer moved in a straight line or stayed in one place; instead he dashed from tree to tree. Branches hung like pale specters in the air and, on those occasions that he paused to look around and steel his nerve, the whole forest seemed to be floating in the black night.
Twice more the Thing came awfully close. Each time he drew it off, once with North’s other shoe and once with his own wat
ch. He considered getting on the path and trying to run but thought better of it. The Thing was horrifically fast for its size and he still did not dare contemplate what would happen if it caught him. As Spender staggered, exhausted, through the wood, he thought that he could see the night sky fading to a light grey. As the trees were tinged with the first hint of dawn, he realized that he could no longer hear the Thing and had not for some time. He looked at North’s watch, but it had stopped. Glancing around, he carefully and stiffly sat down and leaned against a tree.
He did not know that he had fallen asleep until he was woken up by toppling over. Pebbles and stones were casting long thin shadows in the light of the morning sun; with the break of day, the weird wood had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. With weary disgust, Spender took off his jacket and, balling it up, made a serviceable pillow. After pausing for a moment of quiet desperation, Spender turned his back to the sun and sleep overcame him.
#
He awoke in the heat of the day, hungry and with a tortuous thirst. After walking for a while, he tried sucking on several pebbles (thinking fleetingly of Demosthenes) but found that he was still thirsty, only now with a gritty mouth. On top of that, he was full of aches and pains, as anyone who has ever slept on the bare ground might have guessed. Still, the adventure and novelty of walking through such a barren and desolate place was not lost on him. It was far better, he reflected, than being torn to bits and eaten by a Thing or dropping down into the earth. It was, perhaps, even better than contending with Mr. Webley. He briefly wondered how Mr. Harris had got on before returning to his ever present thoughts of shade and a cold drink.
#
Spender had whistled a few dozen of his favorite tunes before his mouth became too dry, at which point he embarked on an attempt to remember, in chronological order, every embarrassing thing he had ever done. It did not make for a particularly pleasant time and he fervently wished that he had brought something to do. It was late in the day when his shoelace broke, his shoes not being well suited for two days’ hard hiking. He was hunkered over his shoe tying a knot when a shadow fell across him. He looked up.
