By the time I had finished my rounds, picked up some books at the Dunnesmouth post-office and returned to dine at Wickford House, Peter Gaunt was gone. I ate a solitary meal, wondering at his absence, and wandered, afterward, into the library. A couple of other residents were there, arguing a point on Freud. I inquired for Gaunt. No one had seen him since mid-morning. I shrugged, poured a drink and tried to get interested in one of the new books. Perhaps it was a subconscious sense of uneasiness that distracted me. It had begun to rain again. Despite the fire, the library seemed gray and alien. I decided I needed rest and returned to my quarters early. I had closed the door behind me and lit a lamp before I spied the manila envelope just inside the sill. The note was brief, and written in a square, sure hand.
Dear Lambert: I leave Jeremy in your care knowing you won’t fail me. See that no harm comes to him, but I beg of you, ask no questions. Stay out of this affair. It is mine and must be left for my return.
It was signed simply: “Gaunt.” I stared at it for a long moment, then sighed. After all, it was his case; it could wait until he came back. Came back. I frowned. For a man who had wanted no vacation, he had certainly gotten under way quickly. And without a word to anyone. Odd…
I put the note on my desk and began undressing. The knot of my tie seemed unusually stubborn. I looked at my hands in the mirror. They were trembling.
“Nonsense!” I said it aloud. The word sounded flat and brassy, like whistling in the dark. I repeated it more convincingly. I was getting upset over foolish trifles, taken in by the weird jabberings of an out-and-out schizoid. I had to get hold of myself. Everything was all right… But even with the drapes drawn and electric heater going my sitting room seemed dark and filled with strange, restless thoughts…
***
I must have dozed. My neck felt stiff with nodding in the easy-chair. I stirred. Somewhere, a door was open, because a damp draught swirled about my ankles. The sobbing of the storm had dwindled, but now, even before I opened my eyes, I was aware of a hoarse pulsing sound, murmuring from a spot very near to me. I sat quite still and stared. Inside the open door of my chamber, crouched and rain-soaked, stood Jeremy Bone.
My nerves tightened sharply. It was an effort to keep my voice level.
“Well, Jeremy. Shouldn’t you be in bed? It’s past your time.”
His thick breathing throbbed in the stillness. The pendulous lower lip quivered; his eyes had a look of blank, frozen horror. The sane timbre of his words gave me a start.
“Doctor Lambert, I want you to lock me up.”
“Now, Jeremy. You wouldn’t like that.”
“You’ve got to lock me up,” he droned. “Oliver has won. I warned you he would, and he has. I’ve listened to him… and killed…” A raw sob caught in his chest. “I’ve killed Doctor Gaunt.”
I had started toward him; I came up short.
“You’re wrong, my boy. You wouldn’t hurt Doctor Gaunt. He’s your friend.”
“Yes… The bulbous head nodded dully. “…Like a brother. That’s why I had to do it, you see. I had to obey Oliver, like it says in the Mark of Clay… The chapel was so quiet… the organ crying, low and sad… I didn’t want to kill him. But, Oliver kept urging me… His neck was soft and easy to snap… and then, those gray marks on the flesh, and the organ going sour, like a dying man’s scream…”
“Jeremy,” I said steadily. “Listen to me. Doctor Gaunt has left on his vacation. In a little while, he’ll be back. You didn’t kill him. You’re only a boy; Gaunt is a powerful man!” “You don’t know the strength of Oliver. He speaks to me and my hands are like vises.”
“Try to understand, boy. Doctor Gaunt left me a note.”
“I wrote that note. After I throttled him, I thought I wanted to escape. Now, I know I can’t. It’ll always be somebody… When he whispers, ‘Kill,’ I’ll do his bidding.”
I swallowed; my throat felt tight. It was growing more difficult to keep the words calm.
“Now, Jeremy, you’re only upset because Doctor Gaunt has gone away. You need rest, and dry clothes. You shouldn’t go out in the rain. Jeremy…”
“You don’t believe me!” Bone said sharply. The frantic terror was back in his eyes. “I tell you, I must be locked up. I killed Gaunt! There will be others. It’s the truth… in the secret drawer of the chest… If you don’t lock me up, I’ll kill myself! I won’t let Oliver torture me any more! I swear it! I’ll hang myself in the bell-tower! I’ll…”
I had caught the fragile shoulders; Bone’s arms flung out wildly. He screamed. That was what brought Lowery. The attendant from Ward “A” sighed with relief at sight of the boy.
“Thank the Lord! We’ve been looking all over for him since noon.”
He gripped Bone in powerful arms.
“All right, laddiebuck. Easy does it. No more of your running off and disappearing.”
I said hoarsely, “You’d better use the sheets.”
Lowery nodded; he and several others carried the floundering form from the room. Jeremy Bone’s maniacal wail echoed back along the corridors. “I’ll kill myself! I warn you… I didn’t want to hurt Gaunt. There mustn’t be any more like him!” The words withered; I heard a heavy door clang shut. Then, only silence.
I turned back to my room. Tousled and bathrobed, Wickford filled the doorway.
“What the devil is this, Lambert?”
Between sips of brandy, I told him. His cheeks puffed out “Absurd! Why, I’ve a note from Gaunt, saying he was leaving…”
“So have I. The boy claims he wrote it.”
Wickford made a derisive sound.
‘That’s what comes of humoring their fantasies. Only makes them worse.”
I gulped the last of the drink. “Then you think there’s nothing to it? All this talk of the Mark of Clay and the teakwood chest? This story of murder?”
“Fantasy,” Wickford said. “Pure and simple. We must break the boy of these imaginative flights. Orthodox treatment; that’s the answer. Gaunt’s method was getting rather out-of-line. That’s why I wanted you to take over.”
“But…”
“No ‘buts,’ my dear fellow. Take my word. It’s all schizophrenic fantasy.”
I wanted to believe him. It was the logical, safe answer. I watched Wickford pad off, yawning and self-satisfied, to his quarters, and wondered why I could not be as sure as he. I could still hear the shrill reverberations of Jeremy Bone’s screams. I closed my door and locked it. Somewhere, outside, wind cried through naked branches. Even the quilted coverlet did not keep me from shivering. That night, I slept very poorly. A nameless apprehension lay like frozen fear at the pit of my stomach. But, the expected blow did not fall that night. Nothing happened until the following Saturday.
Then, Fothering discovered the thing in the Chapel.
***
Like Peter Gaunt, young Fothering was something of an artist at the keyboard; their mutual interest in organ music had made them fast friends, and, between them, they supplied the tonal background during Sunday services at the Chapel. With Gaunt gone on vacation, it was only natural that Fothering should take over; only natural that he should go to the Chapel on Saturday evening to run through the selections he planned to render the next day. But, what he found crushed in the gloom and cobwebs behind the gilded organ-pipes was far from natural. It was a hulk of bone and clothes and decomposing flesh. The eyes pushed wildly from their bluish sockets; the skin of the face had gone black. It seemed impossible that this putrid mass was all that was left of Peter Gaunt.
Cold sweat pocked Wickford’s red face. He mopped it with a handkerchief. His fat mouth worked soundlessly. Fothering swayed; his face had lost all color; he turned away and retched. The thing on the floor grinned up at me hideously. I fought back nausea and stooped. Even in dim light filtered through stained-glass windows, I could see the purple puffiness of the throat. There were the marks of two thumbs on either side of the windpipe. They were gray, and flaked away drily when my fingers
brushed them. I felt words thick on my tongue.
“The Mark of Clay…”
Wickford’s breath caught on a snag; he tried to sound gruff, assured.
“Nonsense. You’re on the wrong track, Lambert. That boy couldn’t have done it. It doesn’t make sense.”
I stood erect. “It does, if you believe in Oliver.”
Wickford only stared.
“Gaunt believed. He warned us the boy wasn’t mad. He said Bone’s fear had a real cause… Remembered words chanted in my head. “The secret of the chest… yes, Jeremy said that… Perhaps the answer is in the cask.”
“I tell you, it’s impossible. Why should this boy want to murder Gaunt? And how could he manage to strangle a grown man?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. But one thing is certain. Jeremy Bone can’t be left loose. He tried to tell me there would be others like Gaunt. We’ve got to restrain him… now, before it’s too late.”
I did not wait for more of Wickford’s stubborn protests. I brushed past Fothering and out into the mist-clotted night. The journey across the grounds seemed endless. Behind, in its musty tower, the Chapel bell tolled with the shifting wind. Wickford puffed at my heels, cursing his foul luck. I hurried along the corridors toward Ward “A”. My hands felt like ice a numb chill fingered along my spine. Somehow, even before I tried it, I knew the door to Jeremy Bone’s dormitory would be locked.
Wickford blinked at me; the self-possession was gone; he waved plump hands. “Well, don’t just stand there! Break it down!”
I lunged against the thick panels; something gave and splintered. The fourth thrust did it. The door slammed open and I plunged into the room. Moonglow bled on the pallid walls. In its comer, Jeremy Bone’s cot was empty, its linen undisturbed. I started toward it. A low inane giggle brought me up short I turned to find Swan sitting on the edge of his bed, smiling emptily at Wickford. The cretin’s head lolled to one side. His voice was a sing-song keeping time with the distant carolling of the Chapel bell.
“Listen to the chimes, the chimes are ringing, ding, dong, ding…”
“Swan,” I said sharply. “Where’s Bone? When did he leave?”
The pale eyes focussed on me.
“Ding, dong. Jeremy said you would come… He locked me in… No more Oliver… Ding, dong… No more Gaunts… the secret of the chest.”
“The chest,” Wickford echoed in a toneless voice.
I snapped on the light and made for Jeremy Bone’s cot; in the shadow beneath it, covered with a mildewed blanket, lay the teakwood casket. I drew it out; the lock was a simple affair. After a moment, the lid sprang open. I stared. The box was empty. A foul stench issued from it like a cloud of grave-dust. I fumbled anxiously.
“He said there were papers… something about a secret drawer…”
***
On the lid of the chest, carved in dark wood, there was a gorgon mask; my fingers brushed it; the head turned with a muffled click and, simultaneously, at the base of the casket, a shallow compartment slid into view. The sickly odor had grown overpowering; it seemed to rise from the tiny leather-bound book that lay on the bottom of the hidden drawer. The jaundiced pages crackled at the touch. The print was archaic and minute. I read the title page. “Night Terrors by Bartholomew Humphrey, Being An Accurate Account Of Evidence Garnered By The Author & Concerning Veritable Case Histories Which Support The Theory That Hydras, Ghosts, Gorgons, Chimaeras And Such Night-Things Do Truly Exist.”
The pages fluttered dustily; a clammy musk clung to my fingers. As if from habit, the book fell open at a place near its heart, set off by a red velvet marker on which some Victorian hand had embroidered the name: “Bone.” Wickford pressed closer, reading over my shoulder. The words of the heading crawled slimily across the page:
THE CURSE OF THE MARK OF CLAY
“According to certain obscure documents in the archives of the New English hamlet of Dunnesmouth, there dwelt in that town, in the year 1603, a woman named Hester Titus. Sprung from a family of ill-repute, much mistrusted because of her secretive ways and physical ugliness, Hester Titus was known to consort with one William Bone, a taciturn, sardonic individual suspected by more than one of black magic and unholy witchcraft. Tried for the kidnapping and murder of a young girl in the community, William Bone was found guilty and burned at the stake. As his vile oaths died in cries of agony, Hester Titus broke through the watching crowd, screaming that they could never kill ‘her husband,’ for she bore in her the seed of his kind, and would hereafter give birth to the child of William Bone.
“In the ensuing months, this woman led a secret solitary existence, avoided by the God-fearing folk of the Village. Only at the final moments of her accouchement was a midwife induced to attend her. This midwife afterward related a strange and terrible story. Hester Bone, in supreme agony, had given birth to twins. The one child, named Solon, strong and lusty with the saturnine look of his father even at birth; the other boy was born dead; curled in a pitiful ball, his tiny form was covered with bruises. Tears of blood stained his swollen cheeks. In the midwife’s own words: ‘God help us, it was as if Solon strangled his weaker brother to death, before they even saw the light of day!’ And thus, Solon Bone was branded a prenatal murderer.
“Hester Bone reared her child in something approaching complete solitude. Witnesses who, in passing the decadent Bone farm, glimpsed the boy during his formative years, told yarns of his singular grotesqueness. Tremendous head, the body of a weakling, and the huge muscular hands of a powerful man: so they described Solon Bone. Swiftly, he became half-legendary in the bleak countryside of Dunnesmouth.
“Perhaps fifteen years after the birth of William Bone’s son, the first of a series of peculiar local murders took place. The victim, a boy who had once or twice attempted to befriend Solon Bone, was found at the bottom of a dried-up cistern, his face bloated by strangulation, and on his throat, a series of gray dusty fingerprints that seemed like nothing but the mouldering clay from some ancient grave. It was not until the third monstrous crime had been committed that the citizens of Dunnesmouth rose in arms and descended on the Bone farmhouse.
“They found the body of the woman, Hester, crammed in the blackened fireplace. She had been throttled. A party of irate men cornered the boy in the attic; he babbled strange stories of how his twin haunted him, forcing him to kill others as he had killed that brother. His hands were those of, the murderer, stained with the clay of death, and leaving their hellish mark on the throats of his victims. As Solon Bone spoke, he seemed to reach a frenzied pitch, until finally, pointing at a dim corner of the attic, he screamed, ‘It’s him! He wants me to kill again!’
“There are extant statements signed by witnesses to the horrible scene, to the effect that as the boy cried, there appeared in that dark comer a liquescent shining thing that slowly formed the twisted crying form of Solon Bone’s twin brother. An instant later, when the boy dove for one of his captors, and caught the charge of a shotgun in the chest, that unnatural being faded and was gone, never to be seen again.
“Yet, this was not the last of the Mark of Clay. It would appear that through succeeding generations the family of Bone—as if damned by the godless practices of their ancestor—were cursed by the recurrence of these unholy twins. More than one successor of William Bone has caused the prenatal death of his brother, and throughout his hellish life, borne upon his murdering hands the foul stains of graveyard clay.”
***
Silence enveloped the room like a pulsing membrane. I could hear Wickford’s hoarse breathing. Across the grounds rolled the melancholy rhythm of the bell in the Chapel tower. Swan’s head lolled back and forth, keeping time. He chanted idiotically:
“Ding, dong, hear the bell, ding, dong, ding, dong… Wickford shook his shaggy mane.
“Impossible. The boy was a weakling; Gaunt was a man in the prime of life… alert, powerful…
He stopped short. His gaze had fallen on the teakwood chest. He bent and drew from the
drawer a folded sheet of yellowed paper. He opened it and stared with widened eyes. The words were a dry croaking in his throat.
“Birth certificate. County of Dunnesmouth. Born this day, December 13, 1930, twin sons, to James and Letitia Bone. One boy was called Jeremy, the other, dead at birth, bore the name Oliver…”
He blinked at me dully.
“But, I tell you, Lambert, it’s fantastic! Sheer lunacy!” I was not listening. Somehow, suddenly, all I could hear was the monotonous, “Ding-dong,” that tolled from Swan’s thick tongue. Somewhere at the back of my brain a dark memory slithered into glaring light. An hysterical voice screeched: “I warn you! I won’t let him torture me any more! No more Oliver. No more Gaunts. I swear, I’ll hang myself in the tower!”
I said, “Good Lord!” I spun toward the door.
Wickford blurted: “What the devil?…”
“The belfry,” I told him. “That’s where he’ll be! Don’t you remember? What he said?…”
The pink mouth fell open. By the time I reached the corridor, Wickford was pounding at my heels. I believe I have never since run as swiftly as I did that night. I stumbled. I heard Wickford cursing the brambles by the Chapel gate. Every throb of the bell was like a white-hot needle driven through my eardrums. I rushed through the gloomy sanctuary, twisting behind the organ, into a tiny vestry. The door to the tower was ajar; the ladder was ancient and strung with cobwebs. A cold draft slithered down the shaft. The trap door was open; now, the clangor of the bell was like slow thunder.
I halted abruptly; Wickford was right behind me. I didn’t speak. I only pointed. In the darkest reach of the belfry tower, an eerie shifting brilliance slowy took on form. Curled at the heart of an amoebic oval, we saw a tiny naked child; its blind features, exquisitely wrought, were warped in ancient agony; blood-red tear drops stained the closed eyelids. The phosphorescence wavered and blurred; a wail, as if of some defeated power of darkness, shrilled through the tower. The vision bled into surrounding night; at last, only a pinpoint of malevolent silver light gleamed. Then, nothing. The Chapel bell tolled on.
Clay Page 16