The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack

by Elliott O'Donnell

  This idea—the idea of being found out—with all its consequences, rose before her. Her exhausted imagination could find nothing to oppose it, nothing to relieve the feeling of depression which took possession of her, and she almost felt remorse when she threw herself into her carriage. It was a very dark night, cold and windy, and she was only too thankful to nestle close into the soft cushions at her back, and bury her face in the warm fur of her costly wrap. For some minutes she remained absorbed in thought; but it was not long before the monotonous rumble, rumble of the carriage produced a sensation of drowsiness, from which she was rudely awakened by the sound of a cough. Glancing in the direction from whence it came, to her utmost dismay and astonishment she saw, seated in the opposite corner of the vehicle, a young man of good, if somewhat peculiar appearance, and extremely well dressed. Madame Mildau instantly took in all the disadvantages of her situation, and, overwhelmed by the imprudence of her conduct, exclaimed in a tone in which dignity and terror struggled for mastery, “Sir, what audacity!”

  “Yes, indeed, what audacity!” the stranger replied, affecting to be shocked. “What pride! What a love of display!” and he rolled his big eyes at her and bared his teeth.

  “But, sir,” Madame Mildau cried in horror, concluding that the unknown was a madman, “this is my carriage. I beg you will depart—I beseech you—I command you. I will summon my servants.”

  “That will be a vain waste of valuable breath,” replied the young man coolly. “You may call your servants—but there is only one, and he is mine. He will not answer you.”

  “Where am I, then? How infamous!” exclaimed Madame Mildau, and she burst into tears. “Oh, how cruelly punished I am!”

  “It is true, madame, you will be punished for having been agreeable, gay, and brilliant to-night without the consent of your husband; but at present he knows nothing about it, for at this moment he reposes in the sleep of the just, confident that you are enjoying the same repose close to him. As to yourself, madame, why this fear? You will have nothing to dread, I assure you, from my indiscretion; but, as you may be aware, there is no fault, however small, that has not its expiation. Nay, do not weep. Am I so ugly? Why should you dread me so, madame? I am a great admirer of your charms, desirous to know you better. Nay, have no suspicions as to my morality—I am no profligate. I came to the ball to-night for quite another purpose.”

  “Sir, I understand you. You are employed by my husband. A spy! Detestable!”

  “Stop, madame,” the stranger said, laying his hand gently on hers. “Debase not the dignity of man by imagining for one instant that there is anyone who would lend himself so readily to act the odious part you impute to me. I am no spy.”

  “In Heaven’s name, then,” Madame Mildau exclaimed, “what brings you here? What do you want? Who are you?”

  “One at a time, madame,” the young man ejaculated. “To begin with, it was those diamonds of yours—those rings on your soft and delicate fingers, those bracelets on your slender rounded wrists, that necklace and pendant on your snowy breast, and over and above all that splendid tiara on your matchless hair. It was the sight of all those bright and gleaming stars that attracted me, just as the light of a candle attracts a moth. I could not resist them.”

  “Then you—you are a robber!” stammered the lady, ready to faint with terror.

  “Wrong again!” the young man said; “I admire your jewels, it is true, but I am no thief.”

  “Then, in mercy’s name, what are you?” demanded the lady.

  “Well!” the stranger replied, speaking with a slight snarl, “I am a man now, but I shall soon change.”

  “A man and will soon change?” Madame Mildau cried; “oh, you’re mad, mad—and I’m shut up in here with a lunatic! Help! help!”

  “Calmly, calmly,” the stranger exclaimed, lifting her hands to his lips and kissing them. “I’m perfectly sane, and at present perfectly harmless. Now tell me, madame—and mind, be candid with me—why don’t you love your husband?”

  “How do you know I don’t?” Madame Mildau faltered.

  “Tut, tut!” the young man said. “Anyone could see that with half an eye. Besides, consider your conduct to-night! Answer my questions.”

  “Well, you see!” Madame Mildau stammered, having come to the conclusion that even if the man were not mad it would be highly impolitic to provoke him, “I’m so much younger than he is. I’m only twenty-three, whereas he is forty-five. Besides, he detests all amusements, and I love them—especially dances. He is too fat to——”

  “Are you sure he is fat? Will you swear he is fat?” the stranger asked, grasping her hands so tightly that she screamed.

  “I swear it!” she said, “he is quite the fattest man I know.”

  “And tender! But no, he can’t be very tender!”

  “What questions to ask!” Madame Mildau said. “How do I know whether he is tender! Besides, what does it concern you?”

  “It concerns me much,” the young man retorted; “and you, too, madame. You asked me just now a question concerning myself. Your curiosity shall be satisfied. I am a werwolf. My servant on the box who took the place of your employé is a werwolf. In an hour the metamorphosis will take place. You are out here in the Wood of Arlan alone with us.”

  “In the Wood of Arlan!”

  “Yes, madame, in the Wood of Arlan, which is, as you know, one of the wildest and least frequented spots in this part of the Tyrol. We are both ravenously hungry, and—well, you can judge the rest!”

  Madame Mildau, who regarded werwolves in the same category as satyrs and mermaids, was once more convinced that she had to deal with a lunatic, but thinking it wisest to humour him, she said, “I shouldn’t advise you to eat me. I’m not at all nice. I’m dreadfully tough.”

  “You’re not that,” the young man said, “but I’m not at all sure that the paint and powder on your cheeks might not prove injurious. Anyhow, I have decided to spare you on one condition!”

  “Yes! and that is?” Madame Mildau exclaimed, clapping her hands joyfully.

  “That you let me have your husband instead. Give me the keys of your house, and my man and I will fetch him. Did you leave him sound asleep?”

  “Yes!” Madame Mildau faltered.

  “In other words you drugged him! I knew it! I can read it in your eyes. Well—so much the better. Your foresight has proved quite providential. We will bind you securely and leave you here whilst we are gone, and when we return with your husband you shall be freed, and my man shall drive you home. The key?”

  Madame Mildau gave it him. With the aid of his servant—a huge man, well over six feet and with the chest and limbs of a Hercules—the stranger then proceeded to gag and bind Madame Mildau hand and foot, and lifting her gently on to the road, fastened her securely to the trunk of a tree.

  “Au revoir!” he exclaimed, kissing her lightly on the forehead. “We shan’t be long! These horses go like the wind.”

  The next moment he was gone. For some seconds Madame Mildau struggled desperately to free herself; then, recognizing the futility of her efforts, resigned herself to her fate. At last she heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs and the rumble of wheels, and in a few minutes she was once again free.

  “Quick!” the stranger said, leading her by the arm, “there’s not a moment to lose. The transmutation has already begun. In a few seconds we shall both be wolves and your fate will be sealed. We’ve got your husband, and, fortunately for you, he is as you described him, nice and plump. If you want to take a final peep at him, do so at once; it’s your last chance.”

  But Madame Mildau had no such desire. She moved aside as her husband, clad in his pyjamas and still sleeping soundly, was lifted out of the vehicle and placed on the ground, and then, hurriedly brushing past him, was about to enter the carriage, when the young man interposed. />
  “On the box, madame. We could not find you a coachman—you must drive yourself; and as you value your life, drive like the——”

  But madame did not wait for further instructions. Springing lightly on the box, she picked up the reins, and with a crack of the whip the horses were off. A minute later, and the wild howl of wolves, followed by a piercing human scream, rang out in the still morning air.

  “That’s my husband! I recognize his voice,” Madame Mildau sighed. “Ah, well! thank God, the man wasn’t a robber. My diamonds are safe.”

  CHAPTER XII

  THE WERWOLF IN SPAIN

  Werwolves are, perhaps, rather less common in Spain than in any other part of Europe. They are there almost entirely confined to the mountainous regions (more particularly to the Sierra de Guadarrama, the Cantabrian, and the Pyrenees), and are usually of the male species. Generally speaking the property of lycanthropy in Spain appears to be hereditary; and, as one would naturally expect in a country so pronouncedly Roman Catholic, to rid the lycanthropist of his unenviable property it is the custom to resort to exorcism. Though they are extremely rare, both flowers and streams possessing the power of transmitting the property of werwolfery are to be found in the Cantabrian mountains and the Pyrenees.

  And in Spain, as in Austria-Hungary, precious stones—particularly rubies—not infrequently, and often with disastrous results, attract the werwolf.

  The following case of a Spanish werwolf may be taken as typical:—

  In the month of September, 1853, a young man, one Paul Nicholas, arrived from Paris at Pamplona, and took up his abode at l’Hôtel Hervada.

  He was rich, idle, sleek; and the sole object of his stay at Pamplona was the pursuit of some little adventure wherewith he might be temporarily employed, and whereof perchance he might afterwards boast. Well, in the hotel there had arrived, a day or two before Monsieur Nicholas, a young and beautiful lady, the effect of whose personal attractions was intensified by certain mysterious circumstances. No one knew her; she had no one with her—not even a servant to be bribed—and although eminently fitted to shine in society, she went neither to the opera nor the dance. As may be readily understood, she was soon the sole topic of conversation in the hotel. Every one talked of her rare beauty, elegance, and musical genius, and immediately after dinner, when she retired to her room, many of the guests would steal upstairs after her, and, stationing themselves outside her door, would remain there for hours to listen to her singing.

  Paul Nicholas’s head was completely turned. To have such a neighbour, with the face and voice of an angel, and yet not to know her! It was enough to drive him wild. At last, to every one’s surprise, the mysterious lady, apparently so exclusive, permitted the advances of a very commonplace, middle-aged gentleman with hardly a hair on his head and a paunch that was voted quite disgusting.

  The friendship between the two ripened fast. In defiance of all conventionality, the lady took to sitting out late at night with her elderly admirer, and, with an absolute disregard of decorum, accompanied him on long excursions. Finally, she went away with him altogether. On the occasion of this latter event every one in the hotel heaved a sigh of relief, saving Paul.

  Paul was disconsolate. He stayed on, hovering about the places she had most frequented, and hoping to see in every fresh arrival at the hotel his adored one come back. His pitiable condition gained no sympathy.

  “Silly fellow!” was the general comment. “He is desperately in love! And with such a creature! What an idiot!”

  But Paul’s patience was at length rewarded, his devotion apparently justified, for the lady returned, unaccompanied; and so great was the charm of her personality that within two days of her reappearance she had completely won back the hearts of her fellow-guests. Again every one raved of her.

  Meanwhile, Paul Nicholas became more enamoured than ever. He bought a guitar, and composed love lyrics—which he sang outside her door, from morning till night, with all that wealth of tenderness so uniquely expressible in a human voice—but it was all in vain. For the lady, whose name had at last leaked out—it was Isabelle de Nurrez—had yielded to the attentions of another stout, middle-aged gentleman, with whom in due course she departed.

  This was too much even for her most ardent admirers. Every guest in the hotel protested, and petitioned that she might not be readmitted.

  But mine host shook his head with scant apology. “I cannot help it,” he said. “The lady pays more for her rooms than all the rest of you put together, so why should I turn her out? After all, if she likes to have many sweethearts, why shouldn’t she? It is her own concern, neither yours nor mine. It harms no one!”

  And some of the guests, seeing logic in their landlord’s views, remained; others went. As for Paul, he was immeasurably shocked at the bad taste of his adored one; but he stayed on, and within a few days, as he had fondly hoped, the fickle creature returned—and, as before, returned alone. It was then that he resolved on writing to her. With a crow-quill almost as fine as the long silky eyelashes of Isabella, on a sheet of paper whose border of Cupids, grapes, vases, and roses left little—too little—space for writing, he indited his letter, which, when completed, he sealed with a seal of azure blue wax, bearing the device of a dove ready for flight. And so scented was this epistle that it perfumed the entire hotel in its transit by means of a servant (well paid for the purpose) to mademoiselle’s room. Again—this time for an endless amount of trouble and expense—Paul was rewarded. When next he met mademoiselle, and an opportune moment arrived, she looked at him, and as her lovely eyes scanned his manly, if somewhat portly figure, she smiled—smiled a smile of satisfaction which meant much. Paul Nicholas was in ecstasies. He hardly knew how to contain himself; he sighed, radiated, and wriggled about to such an extent that the attention of every one in the place was directed to him; whereupon Mlle de Nurrez turned very red and frowned. Paul’s expectations now sank to zero; for the rest of the day he was almost too miserable to live. But Mlle de Nurrez, no doubt perceiving him to be truly penitent for having so embarrassed her, forgave him, and on his way to dinner he received a note in her own pretty handwriting giving him permission to make her acquaintance without any further introduction. The way thus paved, Monsieur Paul Nicholas, overjoyed, lost no time in seeking out the lady. She was singing a wild sweet song as he entered her sitting-room, and her back, turned to the door, gave him an opportunity of observing, as she leant over her guitar, the most exquisite shoulders and the prettiest-shaped head in the world. With graceful confusion she rose to greet him, and her long eyelashes fell over eyes black and brilliant as those that awakened the furore of two continents—the eyes of Lola Montez. She was dressed in white; her rich dark hair was held in place with combs of gold; her girdle was of gold, and so also were the massive bracelets on her arms, which—so perfect was their symmetry—might well have been fashioned by a sculptor.

  Monsieur Paul Nicholas, with the air of a prince, escorted her to the dining-room; and over champagne, coffee, and liqueurs their friendship grew apace. Some hours later, when ensconced together in a cosy retreat on the terrace, and the fast disappearing lights in the hotel windows warned them it would soon be prudent to retire, Mlle de Nurrez exclaimed with a sigh:—

  “You have told me so much about yourself, whilst I—I have told you nothing in return. Alas! I have a history. My parents are dead—my mother died when I was a baby, and my father, who was a very wealthy man—having accumulated his money in the business of a cork merchant which he carried on for years in Portugal—died just six months ago. He was on a voyage for his health in the Mediterranean, when he formed an acquaintance with a young Hindu, Prince Dajarah who soon acquired unbounded influence over him. My father died on this voyage, and—God forgive my suspicions!—but his death was strange and sudden. On opening his will, it was found that all his property was left to me—but only on the condition that I ma
rried Prince Dajarah.”

  “Marry a black man! Mon Dieu, how terrible!” Paul Nicholas cried.

  “You are right. It was terrible!” Mlle de Nurrez went on. “And if I refused to marry Prince Dajarah, he, according to the will, would inherit everything. Well, Prince Dajarah was persistent; he declared that it was my duty to marry him, to fulfil my father’s dying wish. It was in vain that I implored his mercy—that I told him I could never return his affections. And at last, finding that upon Prince Dajarah neither remonstrance nor reproach had any effect, I fled to a town some ten miles distant from this hotel, taking with me what money and jewellery I possessed.

  “Alas! he soon discovered my whereabouts, and with the sole object of continuing his persecution of me, speedily established himself in the house—which, unfortunately for me, happened to be vacant—next to mine. My money is nearly exhausted, I have no resources, and unless some one intervenes, some one brave and fearless, some one who really loves me, I shall undoubtedly be forced into a marriage with this odious wretch. Heavens, the bare idea of it is poisonous! You remember the two men who paid such marked attentions to me a short time ago?”

  Paul Nicholas nodded. His emotion was such he could not speak.

  “They both imagined they were in love with me. They swore they would confront the black tyrant and kill him; but when they were put to the test—when I took them and pointed him out to them—they went white as a sheet, and—fled.”

  “Why torture me thus?” Paul Nicholas cried. “Tell me—only tell me what it is you want me to do!”

  “Do you love me?”

  “More than my life.”

  “More than your soul?”

  “More than my soul.”

  “Will you save me from a fate more horrible than death?”