The Rupa Book Of Scary Stories

by Ruskin Bond

  For answer I offered Warwick a cigarette, and, taking one myself, lighted both.

  "So far," I said, "with all your journalistic skill you've not got off the beaten track. Can't you improve?"

  He chuckled, blew a cloud of smoke, and once again tapped my knee in his irritating manner.

  "Your cynicism," he countered, "is but a poor cloak for your curiosity In reality you're jumping mad to know the end, eh?"

  I made no reply, and he went on.

  "Well, matters went on from day to day till Rhona became worn to the proverbial shadow. Thring wanted to send her home, but she wouldn't go. She owed a duty to her husband: she couldn't bear to be parted from her lover, and she didn't dare leave the two men alone. She was terribly, horribly afraid.

  "Macy grew more and more openly amorous and less restrained. Thring watched whenever possible with the cunning of an iguana. Then came a rainy, damp spell that tried nerves to the uttermost and the inevitable stupid little disagreements between Rhona and Thring—mere trifles, but enough to let the lid off. He challenged her——"

  "And she?" I could not help asking, for Warwick has, I must admit, the knack of keeping one on edge.

  "Like a blithering but sublime little idiot admitted that it was all true."

  For nearly a minute I was speechless. Somehow, although underneath I had expected Rhona to behave so, it seemed such a senseless, unbelievable thing to do. Then at last I found my voice.

  "And Thring?" I said simply.

  Warwick emptied his glass at a gulp.

  "That's the most curious thing in the whole yarn," he answered slowly "Thring took it as quietly as a lamb."

  "Stunned?" I suggested.

  "That's what Rhona thought: what Macy believed when Rhona told him what had happened. In reality he must have been burning mad, a mass of white-hot revenge controlled by a devilish, cunning brain: he waited. A scene or a fight—and Macy was a big, man-would have done no good. He would get his own back in his own time and in his own way. Meanwhile, there was the lull before the storm.

  "Then, as so often happens, Fate played a hand. Macy went sick with malaria—really ill—and even Thring had to admit the necessity for Rhona to nurse him practically night and day Macy owned his eventual recovery to her care, but even so his convalescence was a long job. In the end Rhona too crocked up through overwork, and Thring had them both on his hands. This was an opportunity better than he could have planned—it separated the lovers and gave him complete control.

  "Obviously the time was ripe, ripe for Thring to score his revenge.

  "The rains were over, the jungle had ceased wintering, and spring was in the air. The young grass and vegetation were shooting into new life: concurrently all the creepy, crawly insect life of the jungle and estate was young and vigorous and hungry too. These facts gave Thring the germ of an idea which he was not slow to perfect—an idea as devilish as man could devise."

  Warwick paused to press out the stub of his cigarette, and noticing that even he seemed affected by his recital, I prepared myself as best I could for a really gruesome horror. All I said, however, was, "Go on."

  "It seems," he continued, "that in Borneo there is a kind of mammoth earwig—a thing almost as fine and gossamer as a spider's web, as long as a good-sized caterpillar, that lives on waxy secretions. These are integral parts of some flowers and trees, and lie buried deep in their recesses. It is one of the terrors of these particular tropics, for it moves and rests so lightly on a human being that one is practically unconscious of it, while, like its English relation, it has a decided liking for the human ear: on account of man's carnivorous diet the wax in this has a strong and very succulent taste."

  As Warwick gave me those details, he sat upright on the edge of his easy-chair. He spoke slowly, emphasizing each point by hitting the palm of his left hand with the clenched fist of his right. It was impossible not to see the drift and inference of his remarks.

  "You mean——?" I began.

  "Exactly," he broke in quickly, blowing a cloud of smoke from a fresh cigarette which he had nervously lighted. "Exactly. It was a devilish idea. To put the giant earwig on Macy's hair just above the ear."

  "And then...?" I knew the fatuousness of the question, but speech relieved the growing sense of ticklish horror that was creeping over me.

  "Do nothing. But rely on the filthy insect running true to type. Once in Macy's ear, it was a thousand-to-one chance against it ever coming out the same way: it would not be able to turn: to back out would be almost an impossibility, and so, feeding as it went, it would crawl right across inside his head, with the result that——"

  The picture Warwick was drawing was more than I could bear: even my imagination, dulled by years of legal dry-as-dust affairs, saw and sickened at the possibilities. I put out a hand and gripped Warwick's arm.

  "Stop, man!" I cried hoarsely "For God's sake, don't say any more. I understand. My God, but the man Thring must be a fiend!"

  Warwick looked at me, and I saw that even his face had paled.

  "Was," he said meaningly. "Perhaps you're right, perhaps he was a fiend. Yet, remember, Macy stole his wife."

  "But a torture like that! The deliberate creation of a living torment that would grow into madness. Warwick, you can't condone that!"

  He looked at me for a moment and then slowly spread out his hands.

  "Perhaps you're right," he admitted. "It was a bit thick, I know. But there's more to come."

  I closed my eyes and wondered if I could think of an excuse for leaving Warwick; but in spite of my real horror, my curiosity won the day.

  "Get on with it," I muttered, and leant back, eyes still shut, hands clenched. With teeth gritted together as if I myself were actually suffering the pain of that earwig slowly, daily creeping farther into and eating my brain, I waited.

  Warwick was not slow to obey.

  "I have told you," he said, "that Rhona had to nurse Macy, and even when he was better, though still weak, Thring insisted on her looking after him, though now he himself came more often.

  "One afternoon Rhona was in Macy's bungalow alone with him: the house-boy was out. Rhona was on the veranda: Macy was asleep in the bedroom. Dusk was just falling: bats were flying about: the flying foxes, heavy with fruit, were returning home: the inevitable house rats were scurrying about the floors: the lamps had not been lit. An eerie, devastating hour. Rhona dropped some needlework and fought back tears. Then from the bedroom came a shriek. "My head! My ear! Oh, God! My ear! Oh, God! The pain!"

  "That was the beginning. The earwig had got well inside. Rhona rushed in and did all she could. Of course, there was nothing to see. Then for a little while Macy would be quiet because the earwig was quiet, sleeping or gorged. Then the vile thing would move or feed again, and Macy once more would shriek with the pain.

  "And so it went on, day by day. Alternate quiet and alternate pain, each day for Macy, for Rhona a hell of nerve-rending expectancy. Waiting, always waiting for the pain that crept and crawled and twisted and writhed and moved slowly, ever slowly, through and across Macy's brain."

  Warwick paused so long that I was compelled to open my eyes. His face was ghastly. Fortunately I could not see my own.

  "And Thring?" I asked.

  "Came often each day. Pretended sorrow and served out spurious dope—Rhona found the coloured water afterwards. He cleverly urged that Macy should be carried down to the coast for medical treatment, knowing full well that he was too ill and worn to bear the smallest strain. Then when Macy was an utter wreck, broken completely in mind and body, with hollow, hunted eyes, with ever-twitching fingers, with a body no part of which he could properly control or keep still, the earwig came out—at the other ear.

  "As it happened, both Thring and Rhona were present. Macy must have suffered an excruciating pain, followed as usual by a period of quiescence: then, feeling a slight ticklish sensation on his cheek, put up his hand to rub or scratch. His fingers came in contact with the earwig and its fi
ne gossamer hairs. Instinct did the rest. You follow?"

  My tongue was still too dry to enable me to speak. Instead I nodded, and Warwick went on.

  "He naturally was curious and looked to see what he was holding. In an instant he realized. Even Rhona could not be in doubt. The hairs were faintly but unmistakably covered here and there with blood, with wax and with grey matter.

  "For a moment there was absolute silence between the three. At last Macy spoke.

  " 'My God!' he just whispered. 'Oh, my God! What an escape!'

  "Rhona burst into tears. Only Thring kept silent, and that was his mistake. The silence worried Macy, weak though he was. He looked from Rhona to Thring, and at the critical moment Thring could not meet his gaze. The truth was out. With an oath Macy threw the insect, now dead from the pressure of his fingers, straight into Thring's face. Then he crumpled up in his chair and sobbed and sobbed till even the chair shook."

  Again Warwick paused rill I thought he would never go on. I had heard enough, I'll admit, and yet it seemed to me that at least there should be an epilogue.

  "Is that all?" I tentatively asked.

  Warwick shook his head.

  "Nearly, but not quite," he said. "Rhona had ceased weeping and kept her eyes fixed on Thring—she dared not go and comfort Macy now. She saw him examine the dead earwig, having picked it up from the floor to which it had fallen, turn it this way and that, then produce from a pocket a magnifying-glass which he used daily for the inspection and detection of leaf disease on certain of the plants. As she watched, she saw the fear and disappointment leave his face, to be replaced by a look of cunning and evil satisfaction. Then for the first time he spoke.

  " 'Macy!' he called, in a sharp, loud voice.

  Macy looked up.

  "Thring held up the earwig. 'This is dead now,' he said—'dead. As dead as my friendship for you, you swine of a thief, as dead as my love for that whore who was my wife. It's dead, I tell you, dead, but it's a female. D'you get me? A female, and a female lays eggs, and before it died it——'

  "He never finished. His baiting at last roused Macy, endowing him with the strength of madness and despair. With one spring he was at Thring's throat, bearing him down to the ground. Over and over they rolled on the floor, struggling for possession of the great hunting-knife stuck in Thring's belt. One moment Macy was on top, the next, Thring. Their breath and oaths came in great trembling gasps. They kicked and bit and scratched. And all the while Rhona watched, fascinated and terrified. Then Thring got definitely on top. He had one hand on Macy's throat, both knees on his chest, and with his free hand he was feeling for the knife. In that instant Rhona's religious scruples went by the board. She realized she only loved Macy, that her husband didn't count. She rushed to Macy's help. Thring saw her coming and let drive a blow at her head which almost stunned her. She fell on top of him just as he was whipping out the knife. Its edge caught her neck. The sudden spurt of blood shot into Thring's eyes, and blinded him. It was Macy's last chance. He knew it, and he took it.

  "When Rhona came back to consciousness, Thring was dead. Macy was standing beside the body, which was gradually swelling to huge proportions as he worked, weakly but steadily, at the white ant exterminator pump, the nozzle of which was pushed down the dead man's throat."

  Warwick ceased. This last had been a long, unbroken recital, and mechanically he picked up his empty glass as if to drain it. The action brought me back to nearly normal. I rang for the waiter—the knob of the electric bell luckily being just over my head. While waiting, I had time to speak.

  "I've heard enough," I said hurriedly, "to last me a lifetime. You've made me feel positively sick. But there's just one point. What happened to Macy? Did he live?"

  Warwick nodded.

  "That's another strange fact. He still lives. He was tried for the murder of Thring, but there was no real evidence. On the other hand, his story was too tall to be believed, with the result—well, you can guess."

  "A lunatic asylum—for life?" I asked.

  Warwick nodded again. Then I followed his glance. A waiter was standing by my chair.

  "Two double whisky-and-sodas," I ordered tersely, and then, with shaking fingers, lighted a cigarette.

  Mrs. Raeburn's Waxwork

  BY LADY ELEANOR SMITH

  he rain, which had poured with a pitiless ferocity for so long upon the chimneys and roofs of the great manufacturing city, seemed at length to enclose the whole town within towering prison-walls of burnished steel. It was now afternoon; the short winter day was nearly over, and it had rained thus from dawn, would probably continue to rain throughout the night. A dark, wet dusk began to envelop the city like a sable blanket; the street-lamps sprang into life, looming ahead like the ghosts of drowned and weary daffodils, casting watery and trembling reflections upon the shining rivers that were pavements. There were few people walking the mournful streets, and those that were had to struggle and batter their way through sharp gusts of wind, bent double beneath dripping and top-heavy umbrellas.

  Such a one was Patrick Lamb, and so great was his hurry that more than once as he stumbled over an unperceived kerb he ran the risk of entangling both himself and his umbrella in the foaming, muddy torrents of the gutters beneath his feet. He had every reason to hurry; he was on his way to apply for a job, and he feared that unless he hastened he would be too late to secure this vacancy which meant so much to him.

  Turning at last into a dark and narrow street, he saw opposite to him a ramshackle building of yellow brick, from the roof of which swelled forth a glass dome encrusted with the dirt and soot of ages. A flight of shallow steps led to a swing door. This was his destination.

  He flung open the door and was immediately confronted by a turnstile, near which sat a seedy-looking man in an ill-fitting uniform not unlike that of a fireman.

  "Sixpence, please," said the man, and whistled through his teeth.

  Patrick Lamb shook his head.

  "No.... I'm not a visitor. I have an appointment with Mr. Mugivan, the manager."

  "Ah—ha," said the attendant knowingly, and showed him into a tiny slice of a room filled with papers, files, account-books and dust. Here sat Mr. Mugivan, a fat, podgy man with thick legs and a face like a tomato.

  "Good afternoon," said Patrick Lamb hesitatingly, "I hear that you have a vacancy here for an—an attendant."

  Mr. Mugivan stared for a moment at the young man's sallow, rather long face, at his deep-set grey eyes and slender, puny body.

  "Who told you so?"

  "My landlady, in Bury Street. She knew the last man you had here."

  "And what made you come?"

  "Necessity. I'm in need of work. I was stranded here a week ago with a theatrical company."

  There was a silence. Mr. Mugivan suddenly laughed, looking at his visitor rather defiantly with little red-rimmed eyes that were not unlike the eyes of a pig.

  "Rather a come-down, isn't it, for an actor to find himself minding Mugivan's Waxworks?"

  "That doesn't matter—sir. And, if you'll only let me, I'll mind them damn well."

  "It's long hours," said the proprietor, still speaking contemptuously. "Nine in the morning till seven at night. An hour for lunch and an hour for tea. Two pounds a week—and the attendant has to wear a uniform. An actor wouldn't fancy that, would he?"

  "Maybe I'm not an actor," said Patrick Lamb.

  Mr. Mugivan spat upon the floor.

  "I'll give you a trial, anyhow. What's your name?"

  Patrick told him.

  "Well, Lamb," and the proprietor creaked himself out of his chair, revealing incidentally that he wore carpet slippers and had bunions, "come with me and I'll show you Mugivan's Beauties before you go. You can start to-morrow morning."

  Obediently Patrick followed his new employer through the turnstile, which was swung round obligingly by the other attendant, down a narrow white-washed tunnel into a large apartment.

  "Ever seen figures before?" inquired Mr. Mugivan
.

  "Waxworks? Not since I was a kid."

  "Hall of Monarchs," said Mr. Mugivan, sucking his teeth with a deprecating sound.

  The room in which they found themselves was bare and vault-like; here, too, the walls were white-washed; the floor was covered with a red drugget, and in the middle of the room was placed a sofa upholstered in shabby crimson plush. Yet although bare the room was not empty, but crowded, crowded with a pale throng of mute and stiff and silent figures. They stood in groups, a dais to each group, and were protected from the public by a red cord which imprisoned them, like sheep in a pen, so that had they wished they could not have strayed, but must for ever remain captive. There they stood and would no doubt stand throughout the ages, these tinsel kings and queens, Plantagenets and Stuarts, Tudors and Hanoverians, calm and blank and dreadfully remote, pallid of cheek and glassy of eye, indifferent to all who passed by to gape at them—a host of waxen princes, all dead, many of them forgotten, terribly isolated in their garish splendour, uncannily galvanised into a crude semblance of life that yet denied them even the elements of life, leaving them fixed, frozen and staring, while the dust thickened upon their cheap and fusty robes of purple and sham ermine.

  Opposite the door through which they had come was another door leading to yet another chamber. Mr. Mugivan led the way.

  "Curiosities and Horrors," he explained carelessly. They passed through the second door.

  Here was another room, replica of the first, but more dimly lit, more melancholy than even the Hall of Monarchs, since the illumination that winked upon this dreary scene was greenish, ghastly, such a light as might have been expected to proceed from a sconce of corpse candles. Here were more massed ranks of still, impassive figures, paler these than the monarchs in the dim grotto of their melancholy chamber, and more repellent perhaps because their stiff, indifferent bodies were clothed in the garments of everyday and borrowed no majesty from princes' robes, however sham. A skeleton gleamed white in one corner of the room, there was a stuffed ox with six legs, a tiny waxen midget and a giant of local fame. Save for these the room was peopled only with men who had killed and who had paid the penalty for killing. A throng staring before them, expressionless, rigid, mask-like, brooding perhaps upon their crimes.