by Andre Norton
A village girl of very limited formal education—one without any claim to easy manners, certainly nothing beyond the very ordinary. It would appear to anyone that Lady Lyle would consider her the last person to cultivate. Looking back now, Gwennan could hardly believe that it had been only three weeks since she had first walked into the treasurehouse the Lyles had so long made their headquarters. She had seen much there since, marveled at all those grey stone walls sheltered. Each room she had been invited to enter had been a new revelation—such as the library with more ancient maps, older books—even illuminated parchments which had been freely unrolled for her to marvel over—volumes so old that they had been fastened with locks of rust-pitted iron or tarnished silver. A drawing room with glass walled cases, chests, cabinets—holding great and small rarities so crowded together that it was difficult to distinguish one from the other. She had been fascinated, completely captivated—yes—enchanted in the old sense of that word.
Though in fact she had never been given much time to do more than attend to Lady Lyle herself, her attention claimed fully by her hostess every time she passed through that fortress-like doorway. She answered questions, was skillfully drawn out to talk. It was never until she was once more free of that house that she even realized how skillfully and fully details of her life had been confided to Lady Lyle, and how very little of her hostess she ever learned in return.
There had been questions about her parents—and for those she had had little straight answers. Miss Nessa, as Gwennan had early learned, had possessed very little liking for the man her much younger sister had married. He was a footloose wanderer Miss Nessa had insisted in a few rare outbursts. That he and his wife had died in the far southwest on their way to some foolish piece of desert exploration was no more than was to be expected. She had done her duty in accepting the child of that misalliance and making very sure that Gwennan was not encouraged in any ways which approached such shiftlessness.
From that patchy knowledge of her own origin, Gwennan had been led, by astute and compelling conversation, to enlarge on her private interests. Finding for the first time someone who shared, or seemed to, her secret and timid attempts to learn things which no one in the village would understand, Gwennan talked and talked—sometimes, she was sure afterwards, uncomfortable with a sense of shame, far too much—being too assertive. It was as if when she was with the mistress of Lyle House she was being offered a key which would unlock a door she had long sought.
Luckily, for she still distrusted and disliked him, Tor Lyle was not there. He had vanished without any explanation on his kinswoman’s part shortly after Gwennan’s first visit. Probably he had departed on one of those journeys to which men of his blood were so addicted. Lady Lyle appeared in no way to miss him.
Tor Lyle. Gwennan slid down farther on her pillow support—she knew she had no talent for social graces. Everytime she had met him she had been more and more painfully aware of her failing. Not only that she was physically plain, overgrown, awkward, a nonentity, but he mocked her silently. She was also very sure that he disliked his aunt’s continued interest in her. However, it was also plain that Lady Lyle was ruler in that household and only her desires were of importance.
So—well, even if it ended tomorrow and Lady Lyle would be gone also, she had had this much—so much to think about. She was—
Gwennan stiffened, sat tense, one hand going to her mouth, her eyes wide. The storm had blown itself away to a distant muttering now. But the window was still tightly closed. Then how could she hear that—a strange shuffling as if feet never quite lifted from the ground broke into those branches so carefully banked just last week about the foundations of the house as insulation against the winter—the generations-old system the village followed from fall until spring. She turned her head slowly. Fear was with her again—stronger—weakening—flooding her mind, affecting even her body. The window—a square of dim light—
There—
Gwennan could not move, to draw the shallowest of breaths was an effort. She learned then that there is a terror so great that the edges of it mercifully cloud the mind. Maybe she actually blacked out for a moment—she could never afterwards be sure. Slowly she became conscious of her sweating body rigid and chill, her hands gripping the edge of the quilt so tightly that her fingers ached.
Red—red eyes! Yes—she was sure of the eyes. The head in which they were set—that remained only a hazy, darkish mass. But those eyes—like the coals of a hearth fire blazing steadily—fastened on her. She shivered, her body yielding to the ice of pure terror. Horror—a hatred so raw it was never meant for any human being to front, that—all of that—was in those flame eyes!
This was no dream. Out there in the night hunched something which was not of a normal world. Bears had been reported seen in the woodlands—even a cougar had been sighted last year—This was no animal—it was more—apart from anything she knew—or could sanely believe in.
Gwennan uttered a small sound, close to a moan. The unknown creature was watching her—it must be—she was fully exposed to sight by the light of the lamp. She listened for more crackling of the foundation brush, for the sound of splintering glass as it broke its way in to her. That—that thing was a hater. She had no doubt of that.
How long Gwennan huddled there waiting for attack to follow she did not know. At first she could not even move, the threat of the eyes held her motionless. Then, making the greatest effort she had ever known in her life, she started to crawl down the other side of the bed, as far as she might get from the window. Afraid to try to stand lest her legs buckle under her, she reached one of the bedposts, clung to it.
The telephone—help—She tried to think, as, with a second great surge of effort, she made herself look away from the window. To reach the phone she would have to get across the short hall, into the kitchen which was also, country-fashion, the sitting room.
Gwennan crumpled forward, on hands and knees now. She put all her strength into crawling across the cold floor, winning inches at a time. Then the darkness of the hall enfolded her. She had to heave herself up to claw at the latch of the kitchen door before she could fall through into that other room, still warmed by a well-banked wood fire.
Sobbing for breath, she used the edge of the much worn old sofa as a support, lurched from that to the chair by the small window table. Collapsing into that, her hands shook so she could not at once drag the phone to her. Nor could she at first discipline her fingers to dial—making three vain tries before she managed in the dark the combination which meant an emergency call.
“Sure was somethin’ out there all right, Gwen—smashed all those branches under the window flatter’n a wheat cake. No rain did that, and I never heard of no bear comin’ this far into town—not in years anyhow.” Deputy Hawes leaned against the table while Gwennan poured a second brimming mug of coffee. “Trouble is the ground’s just too hard hereabouts since that last frost—even after the rain—to show us a good print. Sam is goin’ to bring over the dogs come sunup. What gets me is that stink—never smelled anything to match it before. ‘Nough to churn a man’s insides crossways, that is. Never heard as bears stunk like that—worse’n any skunk as got his dander up. You know, Gwen, t’aint safe maybe you livin’ here all alone. Kinda cut off, too. The Newton place is a good bit away and there’s that there big hedge between you, cuttin’ off a good sight of your place. You can’t even see their house—” He gestured at the window where the gray light of morning showed now.
“An’ if we’ve got a bear roamin’ around—”
Gwennan pulled her flannel robe tighter about her throat. She had made a great effort and regained outward control before Ed Hawes had arrived. At least he had not seen her near-reduced to idiocy as she had been earlier. He was two years older, but they had ridden together on the school bus to the high school at the center. Ed Hawes did not possess much in the way of imagination as she well knew, but perhaps that was a quality one was better off without in the present in
stance.
She had been most careful in her report. The red eyes—yes—but she had kept quiet about the abject terror those had awakened in her and the feeling of utter evil which she had afterwards recognized as part of that fear. Now she was thankful that there did remain physical traces of the prowler and she had not been wrong in calling for aid against something which was not — Not what? Gwennan refused to allow herself to follow that train of thought.
“Why would a bear look into a window?” she wondered aloud.
“Well, now, that maybe ain’t as queer as you’d think, Gwen. Some bears are curious. I heard of one two summers ago that prowled around a camp up near Scott’s woods—gave a tourist a scare when he poked his head in to watch her dress just as calm as you please. Could be it was attracted by your light and just took a look-see. Sam’s hounds, they’ll pick up its trail—They are smart dogs. Mighty good coffee, Gwen, I’m obliged. Got to call in from the car now. I’ll wait around for Sam—gettin’ so much lighter now maybe I can see somethin’ more myself. That stink—that’s what really gets me. Bears maybe ain’t rose bushes but they don’t never smell that bad!”
He went out and Gwennan hurried to her bedroom to dress. With Ed around she was emboldened to go to the window. Yes, the branches beneath it were crushed by something which had weighed a good deal. The terror was gone, leaving behind it a dull anger, a little for her own complete breakdown, and the rest for the thing which had caused it.
Shrugging into her coat and pulling a scarf about her head she went out. The smell! She swallowed hurriedly as she rounded the corner of the house. It was that same disgusting stench she had met once before—on the night she had first visited Lyle House. Had that thing been abroad then? If so, she had been lucky not to meet it!
Though the branches were crushed down there were no marks on the ground except one or two shapeless, scuffed places. And the odor was such she could not make herself go any closer to observe those.
A pickup truck came noisily up the road and she heard the excited barking of the hounds. As it drew to a stop beside the patrol car, Sam Grimes got out, spoke to Ed, and then dropped the back end of the truck and whistled out the three dogs who yapped and milled about, nosing into the drifts of leaves. He slipped on leashes and drew them through the gate towards the house.
He did not get far. The excited yapping changed abruptly, became a howling. While the dogs pulled back, dropped to their haunches, straining away with the same determination as Sam showed in urging them on. He shouted commands and the howling stopped—becoming a whining complaint such as Gwennan had never heard any animal voice before. The hounds dropped belly-low to the ground as Sam continued to jerk at the leashes and pull them inside the fence. Then he could not get them to move at all, and his face was red as he loosed a vocabulary which contained a number of words that were untranslatable as far as Gwennan was concerned.
“You, Pete!” He looped the ends of two of the leashes over the nearest fence pale, and concentrated on the largest and oldest of the three hounds. “Get on your feet! What in Black Hell is the matter with you, boy? Come on!”
A fierce tug brought the hound perhaps a foot farther on. Then it flung up its head and the howl it gave was so quavering and wild that Gwennan believed some fear had driven the animal mad. Sam looked down to where it crouched belly flat once more and his expression changed from one of exasperated anger to bewilderment.
He went down on one knee and ran his hand gently along the hound’s shaking body.
“All right, boy—it’s all right! Take it easy, Pete.” He looked up from the dog to Ed.
“It sure ain’t right—somethin’ ain’t right. I never saw ‘em act this way before. Bear—they know bear—and no bear would make old Pete here turn a hair—he’d sniff up a bear trail as quick as he’d scratch him a flea. But—” He raised his head and turned it a little, drew a deep breath before his face screwed up in disgust. “That there stink ain’t bear. Ed, I don’t know what was around here, but I’m tellin’ you straight—that it weren’t no bear!”
“What then?” the deputy challenged him. “Just look over there at that window—the branches all smashed down that way. Something stood up there and looked in at Gwen. It was too dark for her to see much—just red eyes, she said, and something black.”
For the first time Sam turned his attention to Gwennan. He stared at her for a long moment as if in some puzzlement of his own.
“Looked at her with red eyes,” his voice was lower and had lost its earlier indignation. “That don’t sound good. It’s been a long time—”
“What has?” Ed wanted to know. Sam was old enough to be his father. Mr. Grimes was close to Miss Nessa’s age if she had lived, as Gwennan knew.
“Since the Black Devil came around,” Sam returned. “You young folks probably never heard tell of that. Old times it was and people forget—mostly they want to when it’s something bad. Happened when my grandpa was a tad hardly big enough to tote in kindlin’ the last time there was any trouble. Two—three times this thing came—usually when there was a big storm with plenty of lightning. It scared one woman clean to death. She had a bad heart and it looked through the window at her. Least that’s what they say happened—her daughter heard her screech and came runnin’ just in time to see her ma fall and somethin’ with red eyes drop down outta sight. The menfolks went huntin’—no good tracks—nothin’ they could latch onto. But it weren’t no bear then and it ain’t no bear now. You ain’t goin’ get any help from my hounds, Ed. An’ if you have the sense the Lord gave a goose you ain’t goin’ round stirrin’ up nothin’ as is better left alone.”
Sam gathered in the leashes and returned his now subdued and silent dogs to the truck, his determination to be gone made plain in every line of his body. Without another word he jumped the dogs into his vehicle and drove away.
Ed Hawes watched him go, apparently speechless in sheer surprise.
“Now—what made him go on that way?” he demanded perhaps more of the world at large than of Gwennan. “I never heard no story of any Black Devil—an’ it ain’t like Sam to go makin’ up such foolishness. I’ve got to see the sheriff about this, Gwen. But I’ll wait if you want to close up the house—see you wherever you want to go.”
Gwennan shook her head. “I don’t think it will be back—at least in daytime, Ed. Give me a chance to think about it—”
He looked undecided.
“Don’t like to go off an’ leave you here alone this way. I’ll stop by the Newtons’ anyway. This is a mighty lonely place when you come to think about it. Though we ain’t never had reason to worry about that before.”
“I’m not worried now,” she assured him. “I’ll be all right, Ed.” She looked at her watch. “This is an early day at the library anyway. I’ll get my breakfast and go right in there—plenty to do before I open up. But,” she hesitated a moment before she continued, “I don’t think Sam was making up any story. I’m going to look through some of the old papers and records—perhaps ask around. If the sheriff knows anything, Ed, do tell me.”
“Sure thing, Gwen. At least that stink is kinda fadin’ out. Too bad if it hangs around your place. Still I sort of hate to leave you alone—”
“Nonsense!” Her old sense of independence was reviving. “I’m fine now. Maybe it was a cougar, Ed. I’ve heard some of them are pretty large and a cat’s eyes do shine at night.”
He shook his head. “That ain’t no cat smell either. I’m gettin’ the sheriff out here as soon as I can. He had to go to Haversville last night—be back this morning, he thought.”
As she watched Ed drive away she wondered if she had been too bold for her own good. But the rising wind was blowing away that noisome stench and the morning light was reassuring. The house looked so much as usual as she went toward the kitchen door that she could hardly understand now what had made her so abjectly afraid. Once more she stopped to look at the flattened brush. The scuff-marks she had sighted earlier were now hidden
by wind-carried leaves and she doubted if the unknown could ever be trailed. Certainly not by those hounds.
Black Devil—she frowned as she made toast and brought out a jar of blackberry jam. Black Devil—Black Dog—there were myths and legends of such. She had read collections of folktales about things which appeared and disappeared—which had no earthly counterpart yet were seen by sometimes quite reputable witnesses. Just as the UFO reportings piled up to be puzzled over, so there were these other alien manifestations—strange animals—if they were animals—which appeared, trailed, sometimes even attacked human beings—only to vanish completely when a hunt for them was systematically organized.
There was that book suggesting such sightings had been discovered in England to occur most often along the ley lines—that mysterious net of magnetic force channels which was suspected to cover most of the world, though only in England had such been seriously charted. The map at Lyle House showed similar lines to encompass the three stones. Animals—monsters—otherworld beings—who slipped through the gateways the force of the leys might open—It was wild—and yet stranger things had been proven true.
Gwennan set down the coffee pot and started for the phone—to call Lady Lyle, eager to share this new possibility. Then, hand on the dial, she paused. It had been so plain lately that the mistress of Lyle House was not well. Her maid had called Gwennan only last night to put off a planned dinner. No, she must not trouble her friend now.
It was apparent that whatever illness had struck at the mistress of Lyle House had, in just the short time Gwennan had known her, developed swiftly and most seriously. She had dared once to ask Lady Lyle if she had seen a doctor and had been quickly assured that her hostess was under treatment—the statement uttered in such a way as to warn her that any further expression of concern was an intrusion.