Supernatural Horror Short Stories

by Flame Tree Studio

  It was more than two weeks after the last suicide that Bracquemont moved into the room. It was a Sunday. Bracquemont conscientiously recorded everything that happened to him in his journal. That journal now follows.

  * * *

  Monday, February 28

  I moved in yesterday evening. I unpacked my two wicker suitcases and straightened the room a little. Then I went to bed. I slept so soundly that it was nine o’clock the next morning before a knock at my door woke me. It was my hostess, bringing me breakfast herself. One could read her concern for me in the eggs, the bacon and the superb café au lait she brought me. I washed and dressed, then smoked a pipe as I watched the servant make up the room.

  So, here I am. I know well that the situation may prove dangerous, but I think I may just be the one to solve the problem. If, once upon a time, Paris was worth a mass (conquest comes at a dearer rate these days), it is well worth risking my life pour un si bel enjeu. I have at least one chance to win, and I mean to risk it. As it is, I’m not the only one who has had this notion. Twenty-seven people have tried for access to the room. Some went to the police, some went directly to the hotel owner. There were even three women among the candidates. There was plenty of competition. No doubt the others are poor devils like me.

  And yet, it was I who was chosen. Why? Because I was the only one who hinted that I had some plan – or the semblance of a plan. Naturally, I was bluffing.

  These journal entries are intended for the police. I must say that it amuses me to tell those gentlemen how neatly I fooled them. If the Inspector has any sense, he’ll say, “Hm. This Bracquemont is just the man we need.” In any case, it doesn’t matter what he’ll say. The point is I’m here now, and I take it as a good sign that I’ve begun my task by bamboozling the police.

  I had gone first to Madame Dubonnet, and it was she who sent me to the police. They put me off for a whole week – as they put off my rivals as well. Most of them gave up in disgust, having something better to do than hang around the musty squad room. The Inspector was beginning to get irritated at my tenacity. At last, he told me I was wasting my time. That the police had no use for bungling amateurs. “Ah, if only you had a plan. Then…”

  On the spot, I announced that I had such a plan, though naturally I had no such thing. Still, I hinted that my plan was brilliant, but dangerous, that it might lead to the same end as that which had overtaken the police officer, Chaumié. Still, I promised to describe it to him if he would give me his word that he would personally put it into effect. He made excuses, claiming he was too busy but when he asked me to give him at least a hint of my plan, I saw that I had picqued his interest.

  I rattled off some nonsense made up of whole cloth. God alone knows where it all came from.

  I told him that six o’clock of a Friday is an occult hour. It is the last hour of the Jewish week; the hour when Christ disappeared from his tomb and descended into hell. That he would do well to remember that the three suicides had taken place at approximately that hour. That was all I could tell him just then, I said, but I pointed him to The Revelations of St. John.

  The Inspector assumed the look of a man who understood all that I had been saying, then he asked me to come back that evening.

  I returned, precisely on time, and noted a copy of the New Testament on the Inspector’s desk. I had, in the meantime, been at the Revelations myself without however having understood a syllable. Perhaps the Inspector was cleverer than I. Very politely-nay-deferentially, he let me know that, despite my extremely vague intimations, he believed he grasped my line of thought and was ready to expedite my plan in every way.

  And here, I must acknowledge that he has indeed been tremendously helpful. It was he who made the arrangement with the owner that I was to have anything I needed so long as I stayed in the room. The Inspector gave me a pistol and a police whistle, and he ordered the officers on the beat to pass through the Rue Alfred Stevens as often as possible, and to watch my window for any signal. Most important of all, he had a desk telephone installed which connects directly with the police station. Since the station is only four minutes away, I see no reason to be afraid.

  * * *

  Wednesday, March 1

  Nothing has happened. Not yesterday. Not today.

  Madame Dubonnet brought a new curtain cord from another room – the rooms are mostly empty, of course. Madame Dubonnet takes every opportunity to visit me, and each time she brings something with her. I have asked her to tell me again everything that happened here, but I have learned nothing new. She has her own opinion of the suicides. Her view is that the music hall artist, Krause, killed himself because of an unhappy love affair. During the last year that Krause lived in the hotel, a young woman had made frequent visits to him. These visits had stopped, just before his death. As for the Swiss gentleman, Madame Dubonnet confessed herself baffled. On the other hand, the death of the policeman was easy to explain. He had killed himself just to annoy her.

  These are sad enough explanations, to be sure, but I let her babble on to take the edge off my boredom.

  * * *

  Thursday, March 3

  Still nothing. The Inspector calls twice a day. Each time, I tell him that all is well. Apparently, these words do not reassure him.

  I have taken out my medical books and I study, so that my self-imposed confinement will have some purpose.

  * * *

  Friday, March 4

  I ate uncommonly well at noon. The landlady brought me half a bottle of champagne. It seemed a meal for a condemned man. Madame Dubonnet looked at me as if I were already three-quarters dead. As she was leaving, she begged me tearfully to come with her, fearing no doubt that I would hang myself ‘just to annoy her’.

  I studied the curtain cord once again. Would I hang myself with it? Certainly, I felt little desire to do so. The cord is stiff and rough – not the sort of cord one makes a noose of. One would need to be truly determined before one could imitate the others.

  I am seated now at my table. At my left, the telephone. At my right, the revolver. I’m not frightened; but I am curious.

  * * *

  Six o’clock, the same evening

  Nothing has happened. I was about to add, ‘Unfortunately’. The fatal hour has come – and has gone, like any six o’clock on any evening. I won’t hide the fact that I occasionally felt a certain impulse to go to the window, but for a quite different reason than one might imagine.

  The Inspector called me at least ten times between five and six o’clock. He was as impatient as I was. Madame Dubonnet, on the other hand, is happy. A week has passed without someone in #7 hanging himself. Marvelous.

  * * *

  Monday, March 7

  I have a growing conviction that I will learn nothing; that the previous suicides are related to the circumstances surrounding the lives of the three men. I have asked the Inspector to investigate the cases further, convinced that someone will find their motivations. As for me, I hope to stay here as long as possible. I may not conquer Paris here, but I live very well and I’m fattening up nicely. I’m also studying hard, and I am making real progress. There is another reason, too, that keeps me here.

  * * *

  Wednesday, March 9

  So! I have taken one step more. Clarimonda.

  I haven’t yet said anything about Clarimonda. It is she who is my ‘third’ reason for staying here. She is also the reason I was tempted to go to the window during the ‘fateful’ hour last Friday. But of course, not to hang myself.

  Clarimonda. Why do I call her that? I have no idea what her name is, but it ought to be Clarimonda. When finally I ask her name, I’m sure it will turn out to be Clarimonda.

  I noticed her almost at once…in the very first days. She lives across the narrow street; and her window looks right into mine. She sits there, behind her curtains.

  I ought to
say that she noticed me before I saw her; and that she was obviously interested in me. And no wonder. The whole neighborhood knows I am here, and why. Madame Dubonnet has seen to that.

  I am not of a particularly amorous disposition. In fact, my relations with women have been rather meager. When one comes from Verdun to Paris to study medicine, and has hardly money enough for three meals a day, one has something else to think about besides love. I am then not very experienced with women, and I may have begun my adventure with her stupidly. Never mind. It’s exciting just the same.

  At first, the idea of establishing some relationship with her simply did not occur to me. It was only that, since I was here to make observations, and, since there was nothing in the room to observe, I thought I might as well observe my neighbor – openly, professionally. Anyhow, one can’t sit all day long just reading.

  Clarimonda, I have concluded, lives alone in the small flat across the way. The flat has three windows, but she sits only before the window that looks into mine. She sits there, spinning on an old-fashioned spindle, such as my grandmother inherited from a great aunt. I had no idea anyone still used such spindles. Clarimonda’s spindle is a lovely object. It appears to be made of ivory; and the thread she spins is of an exceptional fineness. She works all day behind her curtains, and stops spinning only as the sun goes down. Since darkness comes abruptly here in this narrow street and in this season of fogs, Clarimonda disappears from her place at five o’clock each evening.

  I have never seen a light in her flat.

  What does Clarimonda look like? I’m not quite sure. Her hair is black and wavy; her face pale.

  Her nose is short and finely shaped with delicate nostrils that seem to quiver. Her lips, too, are pale: and when she smiles, it seems that her small teeth are as keen as those of some beast of prey.

  Her eyelashes are long and dark; and her huge dark eyes have an intense glow. I guess all these details more than I know them. It is hard to see clearly through the curtains.

  Something else: she always wears a black dress embroidered with a lilac motif; and black gloves, no doubt to protect her hands from the effects of her work. It is a curious sight: her delicate hands moving perpetually, swiftly grasping the thread, pulling it, releasing it, taking it up again; as if one were watching the indefatigable motions of an insect.

  Our relationship? For the moment, still very superficial, though it feels deeper. It began with a sudden exchange of glances in which each of us noted the other. I must have pleased her, because one day she studied me a while longer, then smiled tentatively. Naturally, I smiled back. In this fashion, two days went by, each of us smiling more frequently with the passage of time. Yet something kept me from greeting her directly.

  Until today. This afternoon, I did it. And Clarimonda returned my greeting. It was done subtly enough, to be sure, but I saw her nod.

  * * *

  Thursday, March 10

  Yesterday, I sat for a long time over my books, though I can’t truthfully say that I studied much. I built castles in the air and dreamed of Clarimonda.

  I slept fitfully.

  This morning, when I approached my window, Clarimonda was already in her place. I waved, and she nodded back. She laughed and studied me for a long time.

  I tried to read, but I felt much too uneasy. Instead, I sat down at my window and gazed at Clarimonda. She too had laid her work aside. Her hands were folded in her lap. I drew my curtain wider with the window cord, so that I might see better. At the same moment, Clarimonda did the same with the curtains at her window. We exchanged smiles.

  We must have spent a full hour gazing at each other.

  Finally, she took up her spinning.

  * * *

  Saturday, March 12

  The days pass. I eat and drink. I sit at the desk. I light my pipe; I look down at my book but I don’t read a word, though I try again and again. Then I go to the window where I wave to Clarimonda. She nods. We smile. We stare at each other for hours.

  Yesterday afternoon, at six o’clock, I grew anxious. The twilight came early, bringing with it something like anguish. I sat at my desk. I waited until I was invaded by an irresistible need to go to the window – not to hang myself; but just to see Clarimonda. I sprang up and stood beside the curtain where it seemed to me I had never been able to see so clearly, though it was already dark.

  Clarimonda was spinning, but her eyes looked into mine. I felt myself strangely contented even as I experienced a light sensation of fear.

  The telephone rang. It was the Inspector tearing me out of my trance with his idiotic questions.

  I was furious.

  This morning, the Inspector and Madame Dubonnet visited me. She is enchanted with how things are going. I have now lived for two weeks in room #7. The Inspector, however, does not feel he is getting results. I hinted mysteriously that I was on the trail of something most unusual.

  The jackass took me at my word and fulfilled my dearest wish. I’ve been allowed to stay in the room for another week. God knows it isn’t Madame Dubonnet’s cooking or wine-cellar that keeps me here. How quickly one can be sated with such things. No. I want to stay because of the window Madame Dubonnet fears and hates. That beloved window that shows me Clarimonda.

  I have stared out of my window, trying to discover whether she ever leaves her room, but I’ve never seen her set foot on the street.

  As for me, I have a large, comfortable armchair and a green shade over the lamp whose glow envelopes me in warmth. The Inspector has left me with a huge packet of fine tobacco – and yet I cannot work. I read two or three pages only to discover that I haven’t understood a word. My eyes see the letters, but my brain refuses to make any sense of them. Absurd. As if my brain were posted: ‘No Trespassing’. It is as if there were no room in my head for any other thought than the one: Clarimonda. I push my books away; I lean back deeply into my chair. I dream.

  * * *

  Sunday, March 13

  This morning I watched a tiny drama while the servant was tidying my room. I was strolling in the corridor when I paused before a small window in which a large garden spider had her web.

  Madame Dubonnet will not have it removed because she believes spiders bring luck, and she’s had enough misfortunes in her house lately. Today, I saw a much smaller spider, a male, moving across the strong threads towards the middle of the web, but when his movements alerted the female, he drew back shyly to the edge of the web from which he made a second attempt to cross it. Finally, the female in the middle appeared attentive to his wooing, and stopped moving. The male tugged at a strand gently, then more strongly till the whole web shook. The female stayed motionless. The male moved quickly forward and the female received him quietly, calmly, giving herself over completely to his embraces. For a long minute, they hung together motionless at the center of the huge web.

  Then I saw the male slowly extricating himself, one leg over the other. It was as if he wanted tactfully to leave his companion alone in the dream of love, but as he started away, the female, overwhelmed by a wild life, was after him, hunting him ruthlessly. The male let himself drop from a thread; the female followed, and for a while the lovers hung there, imitating a piece of art. Then they fell to the window-sill where the male, summoning all his strength, tried again to escape. Too late. The female already had him in her powerful grip, and was carrying him back to the center of the web. There, the place that had just served as the couch for their lascivious embraces took on quite another aspect. The lover wriggled, trying to escape from the female’s wild embrace, but she was too much for him. It was not long before she had wrapped him completely in her thread, and he was helpless. Then she dug her sharp pincers into his body, and sucked full draughts of her young lover’s blood. Finally, she detached herself from the pitiful and unrecognizable shell of his body and threw it out of her web.

  So that is what love is lik
e among these creatures. Well for me that I am not a spider.

  * * *

  Monday, March 14

  I don’t look at my books any longer. I spend my days at the window. When it is dark, Clarimonda is no longer there, but if I close my eyes, I continue to see her.

  This journal has become something other than I intended. I’ve spoken about Madame Dubonnet, about the Inspector; about spiders and about Clarimonda. But I’ve said nothing about the discoveries I undertook to make. It can’t be helped.

  * * *

  Tuesday, March 15

  We have invented a strange game, Clarimonda and I. We play it all day long. I greet her; then she greets me. Then I tap my fingers on the windowpanes. The moment she sees me doing that, she too begins tapping. I wave to her; she waves back. I move my lips as if speaking to her; she does the same. I run my hand through my sleep-disheveled hair and instantly her hand is at her forehead. It is a child’s game, and we both laugh over it. Actually, she doesn’t laugh. She only smiles a gently contained smile. And I smile back in the same way.

  The game is not as trivial as it seems. It’s not as if we were grossly imitating each other – that would weary us both. Rather, we are communicating with each other. Sometimes, telepathically, it would seem, since Clarimonda follows my movements instantaneously almost before she has had time to see them. I find myself inventing new movements, or new combinations of movements, but each time she repeats them with disconcerting speed. Sometimes I change the order of the movements to surprise her, making whole series of gestures as rapidly as possible; or I leave out some motions and weave in others, the way children play ‘Simon Says’. What is amazing is that Clarimonda never once makes a mistake, no matter how quickly I change gestures.

  That’s how I spend my days…but never for a moment do I feel that I’m killing time. It seems, on the contrary, that never in my life have I been better occupied.

  * * *