by Lamb, Hugh;
‘That last two weeks Luella she had a dreadful hard time, I guess. She was pretty sick, and as near as I could make out nobody dared go near her. I don’t know as she was really needin’ anythin’ very much, for there was enough to eat in her house and it was warm weather, and she made out to cook a little flour gruel every day, I know, but I guess she had a hard time, she that had been so petted and done for all her life.
‘When I got so I could go out, I went over there one morning. Mrs. Babbit had just come in to say she hadn’t seen any smoke and she didn’t know but it was somebody’s duty to go in, but she couldn’t help thinkin’ of her children, and I got right up, though I hadn’t been out of the house for two weeks, and I went in there, and Luella she was layin’ on the bed, and she was dyin’.
‘She lasted all that day and into the night. But I sat there after the new doctor had gone away. Nobody else dared to go there. It was about midnight that I left her for a minute to run home and get some medicine I had been takin’, for I begun to feel rather bad.
‘It was a full moon that night, and just as I started out of my door to cross the street back to Luella’s, I stopped short, for I saw something.’
Lydia Anderson at this juncture always said with a certain defiance that she did not expect to be believed, and then proceeded in a hushed voice:
‘I saw what I saw, and I know I saw it, and I will swear on my death bed that I saw it. I saw Luella Miller and Erastus Miller, and Lily, and Aunt Abby, and Maria, and the Doctor, and Sarah, all goin’ out of her door, and all but Luella shone white in the moonlight, and they were all helpin’ her along till she seemed to fairly fly in the midst of them. Then it all disappeared. I stood a minute with my heart poundin’, then I went over there. I thought of goin’ for Mrs. Babbit, but I thought she’d be afraid. So I went alone, though I knew what had happened. Luella was layin’ real peaceful, dead on her bed.’
This was the story that the old woman, Lydia Anderson, told, but the sequel was told by the people who survived her, and this is the tale which has become folklore in the village.
Lydia Anderson died when she was eighty-seven. She had continued wonderfully hale and hearty for one of her years until about two weeks before her death.
One bright moonlight evening she was sitting beside a window in her parlour when she made a sudden exclamation, and was out of the house and across the street before the neighbour who was taking care of her could stop her. She followed as fast as possible and found Lydia Anderson stretched on the ground before the door of Luella Miller’s deserted house, and she was quite dead.
The next night there was a red gleam of fire athwart the moonlight and the old house of Luella Miller was burned to the ground. Nothing is now left of it except a few old cellar stones and a lilac bush, and in summer a helpless trail of morning glories among the weeds, which might be considered emblematic of Luella herself.
A Psychological Experiment
RICHARD MARSH
Reputedly inspired by the success of DRACULA, THE BEETLE (1897) by Richard Marsh (1847-1915) is probably the only work by this prolific and talented author of which most people will have heard. Yet Marsh wrote over seventy successful books in the Victorian era and these were printed and reprinted right up into the 1920s.
Richard Marsh started his writing career at the age of twelve, selling stories to boy’s magazines, and he wrote for a living as soon as he was able. His work spanned detective stories, humour, adventure tales and ghost stories.
In the space of three years, Marsh published his best four collections of weird short stories, starting with MARVELS AND MYSTERIES and THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN, both in 1900, and the next two years publishing BOTH SIDES OF THE VEIL (1901) and BETWEEN THE DARK AND THE DAYLIGHT (1902).
A Psychological Experiment’ comes from THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN, and is a neat little story (some might say too neat) of mounting terror with some very odd things going on.
I
The conversation had been of murders and of suicides. It had almost seemed as if each speaker had felt constrained to cap the preceding speaker’s tale of horror. As the talk went on, Mr. Howitt had drawn farther and farther into a corner of’the room, as if the subject were little to his liking. Now that all the speakers but one had quitted the smoking-room, he came forward from his corner, in the hope, possibly, that with this last remaining individual, who, like himself, had been a silent listener, he might find himself in more congenial society.
‘Dreadful stuff those fellows have been talking!’
Mr. Howitt was thin and he was tall. He seemed shorter than he really was, owing to what might be described as a persistent cringe rather than a stoop. He had a deferential, almost frightened air. His pallid face was lighted by a smile which one felt might, in a moment, change into a stare of terror. He rubbed his hands together softly, as if suffering from a chronic attack of nerves; he kept giving furtive glances around the room.
In reply to Mr. Howitt’s observation the stranger nodded his head. There was something in the gesture, and indeed in the man’s whole appearance, which caused Mr. Hootch to regard him more attentively. The stranger’s size was monstrous. By him on the table was a curious-looking box, about eighteen inches square, painted in hideously alternating stripes of blue and green and yellow; and although it was spring, and the smoking-room was warm, he wore his overcoat and a soft felt hat. So far as one could judge from his appearance, seated, he was at least six feet in height. As to girth, his dimensions were bewildering. One could only guess wildly at his height. To add to the peculiarity of his appearance, he wore a huge black beard, which not only hung over his chest, but grew so high up his cheeks as almost to conceal his eyes.
Mr. Howitt took the chair which was in front of the stranger. His eyes were never for a moment still, resting, as they passed, upon the bearded giant in front of him, then flashing quickly hither and thither about the room.
‘Do you stay in Jersey long?’
‘No.’
The reply was monosyllabic, but, though it was heard so briefly, at the sound of the stranger’s voice Mr. Howitt half rose, grasped the arm of his chair, and gasped. The stranger seemed surprised.
‘What’s the matter?’
Mr. Howitt dropped back on to his seat. He took out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead. His smile, which had changed into a stare of terror on its reappearance, assumed a sickly hue.
‘Nothing. Only a curious similarity.’
‘Similarity? What do you mean?’
Whatever Mr. Howitt might mean, every time the stranger opened his mouth it seemed to give him another shock. It was a moment or two before he regained sufficient control over himself to enable him to answer.
‘Your voice reminds me of one which I used to hear. It’s a mere fugitive resemblance.’
‘Whose voice does mine remind you of?’
‘A friend’s.’
‘What was his name?’
‘His name was – C – C – Cookson.’
Mr. Howitt spoke with a perceptible stammer.
‘Cookson? I see.’
There was silence. For some cause, Mr. Howitt seemed on a sudden to have gone all limp. He sat in a sort of heap on his chair. He smoothed his hands together, as if with unconscious volition. His sickly smile had degenerated into a fatuous grin. His shifty eyes kept returning to the stranger’s face in front of him. It was the stranger who was the next to speak.
‘Did you hear what those men were talking about?’
‘Yes.’
‘They were talking of murders.’
‘Yes.’
‘I heard rather a curious story of a murder as I came down to Weymouth in the train.’
‘It’s a sort of talk I do not care for.’
‘No. Perhaps not; but this was rather a singular tale. It was about a murder which took place the other day at Exeter.’
Mr. Howitt started.
‘At Exeter?’
‘Yes; at Exeter.’
The stranger stood up. As he did so, one realised how grotesquely unwieldy was his bulk. It seemed to be as much as he could do to move. The three pockets in the front of his overcoat were protected by buttoned flaps. He undid the buttons. As he did so the flaps began to move. Something peeped out. Then hideous things began to creep from his pockets – efts, newts, lizards, various crawling creatures. Mr. Howitt’s eyes ceased to stray. They were fastened on the crawling creatures. The hideous things wriggled and writhed in all directions over the stranger. The huge man gave himself a shake. They all fell from him to the floor. They lay for a second as if stupefied by the fall. Then they began to move to all four quarters of the room. Mr. Howitt drew his leg under his chair.
‘Pretty creatures, aren’t they?’ said the stranger. ‘I like to carry them about with me wherever I go. Don’t let them touch you. Some of them are nasty if they bite.’
Mr. Howitt tucked his long legs still further under his chair. He regarded the creatures which were wriggling on the floor with a degree of aversion which was painful to witness. The stranger went on.
‘About this murder at Exeter, which I was speaking of. It was a case of two solicitors who occupied offices together on Fore Street Hill.’
Mr. Howitt glanced up at the stranger, then back again at the writhing newts. He rather gasped than spoke.
‘Fore Street Hill?’
‘Yes – they were partners. The name of one of them was Rolt – Andrew Rolt. By the way, I like to know with whom I am talking. May I inquire what your name is?’
This time Mr. Howitt was staring at the stranger with wide-open eyes, momentarily forgetful even of the creatures which were actually crawling beneath his chair. He stammered and he stuttered.
‘My name’s – Howitt. You’ll see it in the hotel register.’
‘Howitt? – I see – I’m glad I have met you, Mr. Howitt. It seems that this man, Andrew Rolt, murdered his partner, a man named Douglas Colston.’
Mr. Howitt was altogether oblivious of the things upon the floor. He clutched at the arms of his chair. His voice was shrill.
‘Murdered! How do they know he murdered him?’
‘It seems they have some shrewd ideas upon the point, from this.’
The stranger took from an inner pocket of his overcoat what proved, when he had unfolded it, to be a double-crown poster. He held it up in front of Mr. Howitt. It was headed in large letters, ‘MURDER! £100 REWARD.’
‘You see, they are offering £100 reward for the apprehension of this man, Andrew Rolt. That looks as if someone had suspicions. Here is his description: Tall, thin, stoops; has sandy hair, thin on top, parted in the middle; restless grey eyes; wide mouth, bad teeth, thin lips; white face; speaks in a low, soft voice; has a nervous trick of rubbing his hands together.’ The stranger ceased reading from the placard to look at Mr. Howitt. ‘Are you aware, sir, that this description is very much like you?’
Mr. Howitt’s eyes were riveted on the placard. They had followed the stranger as he read. His manner was feverishly strained.
‘It’s not. Nothing of the sort. It’s your imagination. It’s not in the least like me.’
‘Pardon me, but the more I look at you the more clearly I perceive how strong is the resemblance. It is you to the life. As a detective’ – he paused, Mr. Howitt held his breath – ‘I mean supposing I were a detective, which I am not’ – he paused again, Mr. Howitt gave a gasp of relief – ‘I should feel almost justified in arresting you and claiming the reward. You are so made in the likeness of Andrew Rolt.’
‘I’m not. I deny it! It’s a lie!’
Mr. Howitt stood up. His voice rose to a shriek. A fit of trembling came over him. It constrained him to sit down again. The stranger seemed amused.
‘My dear sir! I entreat you to be calm. I was not suggesting for one moment that you had any actual connection with the miscreant Rolt. The resemblance must be accidental. Did you not tell me your name was Howitt?’
‘Yes; that’s my name, Howitt – William Howitt.’
‘Any relation to the poet?’
‘Poet?’ Mr. Howitt seemed mystified; then, to make a dash at it, ‘Yes; my great-uncle.’
‘I congratulate you, Mr. Howitt, on your relationship. I have always been a great admirer of your great-uncle’s works. Perhaps I had better put this poster away. It may be useful for future reference.’
The stranger, folding up the placard, replaced it in his pocket. With a quick movement of his fingers he did something which detached what had seemed to be the inner lining of his overcoat from the coat itself – splitting the garment, as it were, and making it into two. As he did so, there fell from all sides of him another horde of crawling creatures. They dropped like lumps of jelly on to the floor, and remained for some seconds, a wriggling mass. Then, like their forerunners, they began to make incursions towards all the points of the compass. Mr. Howitt, already in a condition of considerable agitation, stared at these ungainly forms in a state of mind which seemed to approach to stupefaction.
‘More of my pretty things, you perceive. I’m very fond of reptiles. I always have been. Don’t allow any of them to touch you. They might do you an injury. Reptiles sometimes do.’ He turned a little away from Mr. Howitt. ‘I heard some particulars of this affair at Exeter. It seems that these two men, Rolt and Colston, were not only partners in the profession of the law, they were also partners in the profession of swindling. Thorough-paced rogues, both of them. Unfortunately, there is not a doubt of it. But it appears that the man Rolt was not only false to the world at large, he was false even to his partner. Don’t you think, Mr. Howitt, that it is odd that a man should be false to his partner?’
The inquiry was unheeded. Mr. Howitt was gazing at the crawling creatures which seemed to be clustering about his chair.
‘Ring the bell!’ he gasped. ‘Ring the bell! Have them taken away!’
‘Have what taken away? My pretty playthings? My dear sir, to touch them would be dangerous. If you are very careful not to move from your seat, I think I may guarantee that you will be safe. You did not notice my question. Don’t you think it odd that a man should be false to his partner?’
‘Eh? – Oh! – Yes; very.’
The stranger eyed the other intently. There was something in Mr. Howitt’s demeanour which, to say the least of it, was singular.
‘I thought you would think it was odd. It appears that one night the two men agreed that they would divide spoils. They proceeded to do so then and there. Colston, wholly unsuspicious of evil, was seated at a table, making up a partnership account. Rolt, stealing up behind him, stupefied him with chloroform.’
‘It wasn’t chloroform.’
‘Not chloroform? May I ask how you know?’
‘I – I guessed it.’
‘For a stranger, rather a curious subject on which to hazard a guess, don’t you think so? However, allowing your guess, we will say it was not chloroform. Whatever it was it stupefied Colston. Rolt, when he perceived Colston was senseless, produced a knife – like this.’
The stranger flourished in the air a big steel blade, which was shaped like a hunting-knife. As he did so, throwing his overcoat from him on to the floor, he turned right round towards Mr. Howitt. Mr. Howitt stared at him voiceless. It was not so much at the sufficiently ugly weapon he was holding in his hand at which he stared, as at the man himself. The stranger, indeed, presented an extraordinary spectacle. The upper portion of his body was enveloped in some sort of oilskin – such as sailors wear in dirty weather. The oilskin was inflated to such an extent that the upper half of him resembled nothing so much as a huge ill-shaped bladder. That it was inflated was evident, with something, too, that was conspicuously alive. The oilskin writhed and twisted, surged and heaved, in a fashion that was anything but pleasant to behold.
‘You look at me! See here!’
The stranger dashed the knife he held into his own breast, or he seemed to. He cut the oilskin open from top to bottom. And there gushed fo
rth, not his heart’s blood, but an amazing mass of hissing, struggling, twisting serpents. They fell, all sorts and sizes, in a confused, furious, frenzied heap, upon the floor. In a moment the room seemed to be alive with snakes. They dashed hither and thither, in and out, round and round, in search either of refuge or revenge. And, as the snakes came on, the efts, the newts, the lizards, and the other creeping things, in their desire to escape them, crawled up the curtains, and the doors, and the walls.
Mr. Howitt gave utterance to a sort of strangled exclamation. He retained sufficient presence of mind to spring upon the seat of his chair, and to sit upon the back of it. The stranger remained standing, apparently wholly unmoved, in the midst of the seeming pandemonium of creepy things.
‘Do you not like snakes, Mr. Howitt? I do! They appeal to me strongly. This is part of my collection. I rather pride myself on the ingenuity of the contrivance which enables me to carry my pets about with me wherever I may go. At the same time you are wise in removing your feet from the floor. Not all of them are poisonous. Possibly the more poisonous ones may not be able to reach you where you are. You see this knife?’ The stranger extended it towards Mr. Howitt. ‘This is the knife with which, when he had stupefied him, Andrew Rolt slashed Douglas Colston about the head and face and throat like this!’
The removal of his overcoat, and, still more, the vomiting forth of the nest of serpents, had decreased the stranger’s bulk by more than one-half. Disembarrassing himself of the remnants of his oilskins, he removed the soft felt hat, and, tearing off his huge black beard, stood revealed as a tall, upstanding, muscularly-built man, whose head and face and neck were almost entirely concealed by strips of plaster, which crossed and recrossed each other in all possible and impossible directions.