The Uncanny Stories MEGAPACK ™: 16 Classic Chillers

by Roy Vickers

  “Possibly he guessed at the deed, yes; but, being a weakling, said nothing for fear of implicating himself. It wasn’t proved.”

  The Host moved uneasily in his chair.

  “Do you mean to tell me that the mystery of the picture has never been cleared up?” he asked. “Could Arnaud have actually seen the murder from his window, and fixed it on the canvas?”

  The little French Judge shook his head.

  “Did I not tell you that his window faced front?” he replied. “No, that point has not yet been explained. It is beyond us!”

  He made a sweeping gesture, knocking over his liqueur glass; it fell with a crash on the parquet floor.

  The Bore woke with a start.

  “And did they marry?” he queried.

  “Who should marry?”

  “That artist-chap and the girl—what was her name?—Jehane.”

  “Monsieur,” quoth the little French Judge very gently and ironically, “I grieve to state that was impossible, Jehane being dead.”

  The Boy at the corner of the table stood up and threw the stump of his cigar into the fire.

  “I think Spiritualism is all rot!” he declared.

  THE MAILED FOOT, by Hermina Black & Edith Blair-Staples

  Chapter I

  The Room in the East Wing

  In spite of my modest success in journalism I am not an imaginative person. I can only manage to tell this story because the events are too vividly impressed upon my mind for me ever to forget them.

  In December of ninety-eight I was on my own in London, rather depressed and run down and looking forward to a lonely Christmas, when I unexpectedly ran across Owen Flaxham. We were at Magdalen together, where he was my special pal, but somehow when I came to town and took up scribbling and he came in for the baronetcy, we lost sight of each other—which was more the fault of circumstances than of either of us.

  Anyway, he was delighted to meet me again, and, on hearing that I was spending my Christmas alone, insisted that I should accompany him home the following day. I couldn’t do that, but I promised to follow him during the week. Accordingly I left Euston on Friday, arriving at Monorsfield in Cheshire some time after dark.

  Owen met me with a dog-cart, and we had a drive of six miles before we reached the house. On the way up I gathered, rather to my discomfort, that the place was packed; my host apologetically asked me if I would mind turning in with him for that night as the man who had my room was leaving in the morning. Of course I had no objection, and told him so.

  Flaxham Hall was a big, rambling sort of place, Elizabethan with the exception of the east wing, which was all that remained of what the building had originally been, and dated back to the tenth century. The house possessed some of the finest oak paneling it has been my lot to see, and was the ideal setting for a hundred ghost stories—the idea flashed into my head as I unpacked my bag, while Owen sat on one of the beds in his big, cheerful bedroom, and I turned to him laughingly, inquiring if they possessed a family spook.

  He nodded.

  “Yes—only for heaven’s sake don’t refer to it before the women! The Mater’s rather nervy just now. I’ll tell you about it later if you’ll remind me.”

  And, changing the subject, he proceeded to explain the difficulty they had had in installing electric light throughout the huge place.

  “There is only one part of the house without it now,” he finished. “But as there is only a single bedroom in the east wing, which is very seldom used, it really doesn’t matter. As a matter of fact, that room happens to be the one which, after tonight, you are going to occupy—a bit rough on you, old man!”

  “I don’t mind,” I retorted cheerfully. “I’ve never cultivated the vice of reading in bed, and when I’m once asleep I doubt if an earthquake would wake me.”

  I found Owen’s mother a delightful grande dame of the old school. His sister, Mrs. Dawson, was a member of the party, and I thought at once what an awfully pretty woman she was. But even on that first evening I noticed she seemed unhappy and ill at ease whenever her husband—who was a rich and delightful American—came near her. There was one other person who seemed uncomfortable—a lanky youth boasting the name of Mundy, who I afterwards found had occupied the room I was to have. But I never got a chance of speaking to him before he left—later I thought he might have had something illuminating to say.

  Chapter II

  Peril Invisible

  Next day we were out shooting from early morning. Owen’s man moved my things from his master’s room to my new quarters, and when I got in I found him waiting to escort me thither. One needed a guide, too! The room was quite apart from the rest of the sleeping accommodation. One had to traverse the whole length of the picture gallery before one reached it, and after dark the gallery was a weird enough place, lit as it was, at intervals, by dimly burning oil lamps, with portraits of dead and gone Flaxhams gazing solemnly down on one, and huge suits of armor looming out of the gloom. At the very end a short flight of stone steps led downwards to a small, square passage, and directly opposite an oak door studded thickly with nails gave access to my sleeping apartment. Seeing it, I ceased to wonder at the timid Mundy’s discomfort—for it was horribly isolated.

  The room itself was comfortable enough, with a blazing fire in the grate and plenty of big, wax candles in huge silver sticks burning on the mantel-piece and the big, old-fashioned dressing-table. Warm, red curtains were drawn over the high windows, and these, combined with a crimson carpet and a couple of comfortable armchairs, helped to dispel the gloom of the heavy oak furniture, and the great four-poster which stood against the wall in one corner with three steps leading up to it.

  I dismissed the man, and he seemed extraordinarily pleased at the idea of getting away. At the door he paused.

  “’Ope you’ll be comfortable, sir—you’ll find plenty more candles there if you want them”—pointing to a box on a side-table.

  I thanked him and he took himself off—I heard him hurrying through the gallery, and couldn’t help laughing at the rate at which he seemed to be going.

  Left alone, I remember glancing at the bed and thinking I should probably prefer to sleep on one of the chairs, but I had not much time for thought as the first gong had sounded some time back, and I had to rush into my clothes.

  When, after another jolly evening, I at length sought my lonely quarters it was past midnight. The fire was still burning cheerily, all the candles were lit, and I found Davis busy putting my things ready for the night. To my intense amusement, placed on a table near the fire was a tray containing whisky and soda, three or four magazines and an evening paper.

  “Looks as though you thought I was going to make a night of it, Davis,” I remarked.

  He explained with an air of absolute guilt:

  “Well, it’s a very cold night, sir—and Mr. Mundy, sir, ’e complained of the chilliness of the room—said ’e found it difficult to sleep—so I thought maybe you’d like a drink and a book or two. Anything else you want, sir?”

  There was nothing, so Davis went off with the same alacrity I had observed earlier. He turned back once at the door, opened his mouth as though to speak, appeared to think better of it, and bidding me a respectful “good-night,” vanished.

  As I undressed slowly I couldn’t help wondering what lay at the back of the man’s rather strange behavior, but as yet I cannot say I was in the least uneasy. Having got into my pajamas, I mixed myself a drink, swallowed half of it, and putting down my glass, picked up a candle and went over to examine the bed. It seemed all right—high, but comfortable, and I decided to patronize it after all. Then, as I descended from beside it, my eyes happened to fall on my watch, which I had placed on the dressing-table, and I saw that the hands pointed to one. At the same moment one boomed from the stable clock.

  Now, it’s
a very funny thing, for I hadn’t read “Hamlet” for years, but as the clock struck there suddenly flashed into my mind those very unpleasant words of the old bard’s:

  “’Tis now the witching hour of night, when churchyards yawn—”

  I found myself repeating it, when suddenly I heard someone coming along the gallery.

  My first thought was that either Davis was returning or Owen was coming to have a final chat, but I quickly grasped that the footfall was too heavy for either of them. I put down the candle I held and stood listening. The steps came on—measured, heavy; and as they drew nearer there was a distinct clang, just as though one of the old suits of armor that decorated the gallery was taking a midnight ramble. Still not nervous, and by this time sure that some mad fool downstairs had donned one of the suits of mail and contemplated playing a practical joke on me, I crossed to the door, softly locked and bolted it, and waited.

  The footfall approached steadily; then, as it reached the steps and came down them with a clang of metal, I was aware that I had somehow got into the middle of the room. To this day I have no recollection of moving.

  It was as if a mailed fist struck the door; without any warning the candles on the mantel-piece went out, and I found myself flat upon the floor, face upwards and unable to move hand or foot. At the same moment I knew that I was no longer alone.

  Though I knew I had locked the door, making it impossible for anyone to come in, there It was—and there was I, unable to move, not in the least alarmed, but devilishly annoyed! I could not turn my head, but I knew that whatever had entered was standing near the door, and that It was looking at me intently. Then It began to move—deliberately—round the room.

  I realized vaguely that, whatever its purpose, It was at present keeping almost against the wall, and not in the least impeded by the furniture. I lay and wondered, but strain my eyes as I would, I could see nothing. Then I understood what my visitor was doing. He—or It—whichever you like—was walking round and round the room slowly and in ever-smaller circles, for each time It reached the door I felt the presence nearer to me. Though by this time I felt distinctly uneasy, I had no feeling that my visitor was in the least antagonistic to me.

  Then, as It drew nearer and nearer, the sweat began to ooze from my pores, for I had a sudden horrible idea that It was standing beside me and contemplating stamping on my face. I held my breath, expecting every moment that a mail-encased foot would descend and crush me. There was a movement almost as though it were lifted for that purpose. Then to my amazement It turned and walked towards the door.

  It went the way It had come, echoing and dying away along the gallery. After it came a silence—intense, deadly; then to my relief I found that I could move. Springing to my feet I rushed to the door—it was still locked and bolted. For the first time my nerves got the better of me—I dared not look out to pursue that unknown horror.

  I dared not even put out the remaining candles, so I got hastily into bed and lay for some time listening for the return of my ghostly visitant. Then I dropped asleep and was awakened by Davis’ voice announcing my shaving water.

  Chapter III

  An Unwelcome Guest

  Getting up, I unlocked the door. The man came in, drew back the curtains, and with a deprecating glance at me inquired:

  “Sleep well, sir?”

  In the cold light of the December morning my experience of last night seemed absurd and impossible. I felt that to speak of it would be to have my sanity questioned so I replied cheerfully that I had slept very well, which seemed to relieve him. Having by this time placed everything to his satisfaction, he left me to my dressing.

  Bathed, shaved, and dressed, the events of last night receded more than ever. The experience I had undergone seemed such an absolute impossibility that I grew more and more certain I had eaten something which had caused a bad attack of indigestion, and so brought about the nightmare through which I had passed. In fact, it seemed so silly that I decided not to speak of it to a soul. I must have looked pretty bad though, for my hostess—herself pale and apparently not in the easiest frame of mind—remarked on my appearance with solicitude, inquiring if I had slept badly, and if I were sure that I found the room comfortable. Somehow it suddenly flashed across me that she had a very shrewd idea of what actually was the matter, and it was on the tip of my tongue to ask her when I remembered Owen’s request and held my tongue. I told her I had slept fairly well, and, with the same relief I had noted in Davis, she turned to the perusal of her morning’s mail. She and Owen and I were the only people at the breakfast-table—the others having gone off skating.

  Presently my hostess handed a letter across to her son with a rather worried glance.

  “From Godfrey, dear—he is coming down today!”

  Owen frowned.

  “The deuce he is! Where are you going to put him?”

  She hesitated.

  “There is not a room vacant—I am afraid he will have to go in with you.”

  Owen’s frown deepened.

  “I call it pretty cool of him to turn up like this! He might guess we’d be full up—I’ve half a mind to wire and put him off!”

  “I don’t quite see how we could do that,” his mother replied gently, though she seemed no more pleased than he at the advent of this unexpected guest.

  Flaxham glanced at the letter he held with a vexed laugh.

  “No more do I—the blighter hasn’t even given us an address!” She rose, gathering together her letters.

  “That settles it, then. He will have to come, and he must make the best of our lack of accommodation.” And with that she left the room.

  Flaxham remained, moodily knocking his spoon against his empty coffee-cup. After a moment’s hesitation I said:

  “You don’t seem overpleased at the prospect of this uninvited guest, old man.”

  “I’m not,” he retorted frankly. “To tell you the truth, George, he’s a sort of cousin of ours—a man I can’t stick at any price. He’ll turn up with his man and a pile of luggage, and treat the place as though it belonged to him.”

  It was then that an overwhelming impulse prompted me to say: “Why not let him have my room? I don’t mind where you put me.” The words were out almost before I knew it, but Owen looked at me with relief in his eyes.

  “That’s awfully good of you, George, but it seems a shame to turn you out again. Of course, you’d come back to me—I’d miles rather have you share my room than Godfrey, if you really don’t mind?”

  “Not a bit,” I cut in. “Only too delighted—I’ll go and get my things together now.” But he assured me Davis would see to all that and went away to tell his mother what we had arranged, leaving me delighted at the chance of clearing out of that uncanny room. I tried to soothe my conscience by the fact that even had my nocturnal visitor been an actuality he was quite harmless—with the exception of jarring one’s nerves rather. Besides, there was almost the chance that it had been nothing but a dream, though somehow this theory didn’t seem to wear very well. For a moment I did think of telling Owen, but I decided I should only be laughed at for my pains. Afterwards I could not help feeling that a mightier power than mere fear of ridicule sealed my lips.

  Chapter IV

  Undercurrents

  About tea-time Mr. Godfrey Leyton arrived. He was one of the best-looking fellows I’ve ever set eyes on—big and broad-shouldered, with dark, curling hair—but he’d a beastly cruel mouth. Almost as soon as he arrived he went over and seated himself beside Mrs. Dawson—we were all gathered in the great, oak-paneled hall, Lady Flaxham dispensing tea—and kept her in more or less intimate conversation for some time. I thought she seemed ill at ease with him, though once or twice I caught them exchanging glances that, if I’d been Dawson, I should have taken decided objection to. I couldn’t help wondering if the estrangement between
husband and wife had anything to do with this very prepossessing cousin.

  After dinner that evening I left the others to their bridge and their games and retired to the study—a small room at the back of the library to write a letter which I particularly wished to catch the morning’s post. I was feeling jumpy and off color and had a beastly headache, no doubt the result of my disturbed night. Anyway, I didn’t feel much like returning to the crowd in the hall; so, having finished my letter, I switched off the light and, selecting a comfortable arm-chair, prepared for a quiet smoke.

  I must have dozed off, for when I woke, though the room was still in darkness, I was aware of two other occupants besides myself. I was just about to call out to know who was there when a woman’s voice exclaimed:

  “What do you want, Godfrey? You’re making me most unhappy! Suppose my husband should come?”

  “No fear of anyone coming in here if we don’t put on the light,” replied her companion—and I realized that it was Mrs. Dawson and young Leyton.

  Here was a nice situation! Whatever they had to say to each other had no interest for me, but I had paused long enough to make them imagine I was deliberately eavesdropping. I decided to remain where I was, sticking my fingers in my ears, until they chose to go on their way, but before I had time to do this Leyton spoke again, and his tone made me decide to listen. I always have had a soft spot for a damsel in distress.

  “As for unhappiness, Cecily, you have caused me enough. I came down here especially to have a talk with you.”

  “It was most unkind of you” she interrupted. “You know that ever since Jack found that letter of yours he has suspected me. Please, Godfrey, go away tomorrow! You are only making things worse.”

  “It was about your letters that I wanted to see you, Cecily. You wrote asking me—”

  “Yes, yes!” she exclaimed eagerly. “You did as I asked? You destroyed them?”