Haunts

by Stephen Jones

  We felt very different, Long and I, on as beautiful an April morning as you could desire; and Paxton also looked very different when we saw him at breakfast. “The first approach to a decent night I seem ever to have had,” was what he said. But he was going to do as we had settled: stay in probably all the morning, and come out with us later. We went to the links; we met some other men and played with them in the morning, and had lunch there rather early, so as not to be late back. All the same, the snares of death overtook him.

  Whether it could have been prevented, I don’t know. I think he would have been got at somehow, do what we might. Anyhow, this is what happened.

  We went straight up to our room. Paxton was there, reading quite peaceably. “Ready to come out shortly?” said Long. “Say in half an hour’s time?” “Certainly,” he said: and I said we would change first, and perhaps have baths, and call for him in half an hour. I had my bath first, and went and lay down on my bed, and slept for about ten minutes. We came out of our rooms at the same time, and went together to the sitting room. Paxton wasn’t there—only his book. Nor was he in his room, nor in the downstairs rooms. We shouted for him. A servant came out and said: “Why, I thought you gentlemen was gone out already, and so did the other gentleman. He heard you a-calling from the path there, and run out in a hurry, and I looked out of the coffee-room window, but I didn’t see you. ‘Owever, he run off down the beach that way.”

  Without a word we ran that way too—it was the opposite direction to that of last night’s expedition. It wasn’t quite four o’clock, and the day was fair, though not so fair as it had been, so that was really no reason, you’d say, for anxiety: with people about, surely a man couldn’t come to much harm.

  But something in our look as we ran out must have struck the servant, for she came out on the steps, and pointed, and said, “Yes, that’s the way he went.” We ran on as far as the top of the shingle bank, and there pulled up. There was a choice of ways: past the houses on the seafront, or along the sand at the bottom of the beach, which, the tide being now out, was fairly broad. Or of course we might keep along the shingle between these two tracks and have some view of both of them; only that was heavy going. We chose the sand, for that was the loneliest, and someone might come to harm there without being seen from the public path.

  Long said he saw Paxton some distance ahead, running and waving his stick, as if he wanted to signal to people who were on ahead of him. I couldn’t be sure: one of these sea mists was coming up very quickly from the south. There was someone, that’s all I could say. And there were tracks on the sand as of someone running who wore shoes; and there were other tracks made before those—for the shoes sometimes trod in them and interfered with them—of someone not in shoes. Oh, of course, it’s only my word you’ve got to take for all this: Long’s dead, we’d no time or means to make sketches or take casts, and the next tide washed everything away. All we could do was to notice these marks as we hurried on. But there they were over and over again, and we had no doubt whatever that what we saw was the track of a bare foot, and one that showed more bones than flesh.

  The notion of Paxton running after—after anything like this, and supposing it to be the friends he was looking for, was very dreadful to us. You can guess what we fancied: how the thing he was following might stop suddenly and turn round on him, and what sort of face it would show, half-seen at first in the mist—which all the while was getting thicker and thicker. And as I ran on wondering how the poor wretch could have been lured into mistaking that other thing for us, I remembered his saying, “He has some power over your eyes.” And then I wondered what the end would be, for I had no hope now that the end could be averted, and—well, there is no need to tell all the dismal and horrid thoughts that flitted through my head as we ran on into the mist. It was uncanny, too, that the sun should still be bright in the sky and we could see nothing. We could only tell that we were now past the houses and had reached that gap there is between them and the old martello tower. When you are past the tower, you know, there is nothing but shingle for a long way—not a house, not a human creature, just that spit of land, or rather shingle, with the river on your right and the sea on your left.

  But just before that, just by the martello tower, you remember there is the old battery, close to the sea. I believe there are only a few blocks of concrete left now: the rest has all been washed away, but at this time there was a lot more, though the place was a ruin. Well, when we got there, we clambered to the top as quick as we could to take breath and look over the shingle in front if by chance the mist would let us see anything. But a moment’s rest we must have. We had run a mile at least. Nothing whatever was visible ahead of us, and we were just turning by common consent to get down and run hopelessly on, when we heard what I can only call a laugh: and if you can understand what I mean by a breathless, a lungless laugh, you have it: but I don’t suppose you can. It came from below, and swerved away into the mist. That was enough. We bent over the wall. Paxton was there at the bottom.

  You don’t need to be told that he was dead. His tracks showed that he had run along the side of the battery, had turned sharp round the corner of it, and, small doubt of it, must have dashed straight into the open arms of someone who was waiting there. His mouth was full of sand and stones, and his teeth and jaws were broken to bits. I only glanced once at his face.

  At the same moment, just as we were scrambling down from the battery to get to the body, we heard a shout, and saw a man running down the bank of the martello tower. He was the caretaker stationed there, and his keen old eyes had managed to descry through the mist that something was wrong. He had seen Paxton fall, and had seen us a moment after, running up—fortunate this, for otherwise we could hardly have escaped suspicion of being concerned in the dreadful business. Had he, we asked, caught sight of anybody attacking our friend? He could not be sure.

  We sent him off for help, and stayed by the dead man till they came with the stretcher. It was then that we traced out how he had come, on the narrow fringe of sand under the battery wall. The rest was shingle, and it was hopelessly impossible to tell whither the other had gone.

  What were we to say at the inquest? It was a duty, we felt, not to give up, there and then, the secret of the crown, to be published in every paper. I don’t know how much you would have told; but what we did agree upon was this: to say that we had only made acquaintance with Paxton the day before, and that he had told us he was under some apprehension of danger at the hands of a man called William Ager. Also that we had seen some other tracks besides Paxton’s when we followed him along the beach. But of course by that time everything was gone from the sands.

  No one had any knowledge, fortunately, of any William Ager living in the district. The evidence of the man at the martello tower freed us from all suspicion. All that could be done was to return a verdict of willful murder by some person or persons unknown.

  Paxton was so totally without connections that all the inquiries that were subsequently made ended in a dead end. And I have never been at Seaburgh, or even near it, since.

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  *

  The Door

  R. CHETWYND-HAYES

  RONALD CHETWYND-HAYES (1919-2001) was born in Isleworth, West London. Known as “Britain’s Prince of Chill,” in 1989 he was presented with Life Achievement Awards by both the Horror Writers Association and the British Fantasy Society.

  Chetwynd-Hayes’s first book was The Man from the Bomb, a science fiction novel published in 1959 by Badger Books. His subsequent novels include The Dark Man (aka And Love Survived), The Brats, The Partaker: A Novel of Fantasy, The King’s Ghost, The Curse of the Snake Cod, Kepple, The Psychic Detective, and World of the Impossible, while his short fiction has been collected in The Unbidden, Cold Terror, The Elemental, Terror by Night, The Night Ghouls, The Monster Club, A Quiver of Ghosts, Tales from the Dark Lands, The House of Dracula, Dracula’s Children, Shudders and Shivers, The Vampire Stories of R. Chetwynd-Ha
yes (aka Looking for Something to Suck), Phantoms and Fiends, and Frights and Fancies, among other titles.

  In 1976, Chetwynd-Hayes ghost-edited and wrote almost all of the material in the one-shot magazine Ghoul. He also edited the anthologies Cornish Tales of Terror, Scottish Tales of Terror (as Angus Campbell), Welsh Tales of Terror, Tales of Terror from Outer Space, Gaslight Tales of Terror, Doomed to the Night, Great Ghost Stories and Tales to Freeze the Blood: More Great Ghost Stories (both with Stephen Jones), along with twelve volumes of The Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories, and six volumes of the Armada Monster Book series for children.

  The author of two movie novelizations, Dominique and The Awakening (the latter based on Bram Stoker’s The Jewel of Seven Stars), Chetwynd-Hayes’s own stories have been adapted for radio, TV, and film, including The Monster Club, in which the author was portrayed by veteran actor John Carradine.

  “The Door” was one of five of the author’s stories used in the 1973 portmanteau film From Beyond the Grave, which featured Ian Ogilvy and Jack Watson. “It was a lovely idea,” Chetwynd-Hayes recalled. “The dialogue was all mine, and Lesley Anne Down made a very attractive appearance.”

  “WHY A DOOR?” Rosemary asked. “I mean to say, the house has a full complement of perfectly satisfactory doors.”

  William continued to run his hands over his latest acquisition, his eyes alight with that glow of pure pleasure that is peculiar to the ardent collector.

  “I liked it,” he explained, “besides it is very old. Three hundred years, if a day.”

  “But it doesn’t match the paintwork or anything,” Rosemary protested, “and it’s-so heavy.”

  She was right, of course. The door was massive; made of solid walnut, fully four feet wide and seven feet high, the panels embossed with an intricate pattern that seemed to grow more complicated the longer it was examined. It had a great tarnished brass knob on the left side, and four butt hinges on the right.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Rosemary asked after a while. “Hang it on the wall?”

  “Don’t be so silly.” William tapped the panels with his knuckles. “I’m going to put it to its proper use. You know that cupboard in my study? Well, it’s dead center in the wall opposite my desk; I’ll get the builders to take away the old door, enlarge the aperture, and hang this one in its place.”

  “A great thing like that as a cupboard door!” Rosemary gasped.

  “Then,” William went on, “I’ll hang a large 16th-century print on either side, a couple of crossed swords over the top, and the result should be pretty impressive.”

  “Like a museum,” Rosemary observed.

  “It will inspire me,” William nodded slowly, and Rosemary, with a woman’s inconsistency thought he looked very sweet. “It must be French polished of course, and the lock burnished and then lacquered.”

  “Where did you find it?” Rosemary asked.

  “At Murray’s. You know, the demolition people. Old Murray said it came from a 16th-Century manor house he knocked down last year. I can’t wait to see the door in position, can you?”

  “No,” Rosemary said doubtfully, “no, I can hardly wait.”

  *

  The builders made an awful mess, as she knew they would, but when the job was finished, and of course the study had to be completely redecorated, the effect was certainly very impressive. The entire wall was covered with red wallpaper, and in the exact center was the door, now resplendent with polish, the brass knob and hinges gleaming like gold, giving the impression that behind must lie a gracious drawing room instead of an eighteen-inches-deep stationery cupboard. On either side hung a Rembrandt print, each one housed in a magnificent gilt frame, and over the door were two crossed sabers with shining brass hilts. William sat behind his desk, his face wearing the look of a man well satisfied with the world and all it contained.

  “Wonderful,” he breathed, “absolutely marvelous.”

  “Well, as long as you’re satisfied.” Rosemary frowned, and puckered her lips into an expression of faint distaste. “Frankly I’m not certain I like it.”

  “What!” William scowled his displeasure. He liked people to share his enthusiasm. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It looks very nice and original,” Rosemary admitted, “but somehow…” she paused… “it’s rather creepy.”

  “What utter rot.”

  “Yes, I suppose it must sound that way, but I can’t help wondering what lies behind.”

  “What lies…!” William stared at his wife with growing amazement. “You know what lies behind, an ordinary stationery cupboard.”

  “Yes, I know, and you don’t have to shout at me. I keep telling myself it is only a door and behind is a shallow cupboard lined with shelves, but I can’t really believe it. I mean, cupboards don’t have grand doors like that, they have cheap ply-paneled ones covered with layers and layers of old paint, and they’re sort of humble. If they could talk, they’d say: ‘I’m a cupboard door, and I don’t pretend to be anything else.’ But that thing …” She jerked her head in the direction of the large door. “That wouldn’t say anything. Just stare at you and wait to be opened by a butler.”

  “What an imagination,” William pointed to his typewriter, “you ought to be doing my job. But you’re right. I never thought about it. A door must take on the character of the room it guards, in the same way a face assumes the character of the brain behind it. Now…” He got up, walked round the desk, and moved over to the great gleaming door. “What kind of room do you suppose this once guarded?”

  “A big one,” Rosemary said with conviction, “yes, I’d say a big room.”

  “A reasonable deduction,” William nodded, “large door, large room. What else?”

  “I think it must have been a beautiful room. Sinister maybe, cold, but beautiful. A big expanse of carpet, a great fireplace, high blue walls, a big window with an old-world garden beyond… blue velvet chairs. I think it would have been a room like that.”

  “Could well be,” William nodded again, “a large drawing room that hardly changed with the years. There again, it might have been a picture gallery—anything. Tell you what, I’ll ring up Murray and find out what he can tell me.”

  “A big room,” Rosemary murmured, more to herself than to her husband, “I’m certain it was a large drawing room. Certain.”

  *

  “Good morning, Mr. Seaton, what can I do for you?”

  “About that door I bought,” William pressed the telephone receiver closer to his ear, “I wondered if you could tell me something about the house from where it came.”

  “The house?” Murray sounded a little impatient. “Clavering Grange you mean. An old place down in Kent. The last owner, Sir James Sinclair, died recently and the chap who inherited—Hackett was his name—had no use for it, falling to pieces it was, so he sold the lot to a building contractor. We had the job of clearing the site. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, my wife and I wondered what sort of room went with such a fine door. I suppose you wouldn’t know?”

  Murray chuckled. “Matter of fact I do. It came from the blue drawing-room. A great barn of a place with a ruddy great fireplace. Very grand in its day I’m sure, but was a bit of a mess when we came to drive our bulldozer through it. You know, damp, the paper peeling from the walls. Can’t tell you much else.”

  “Well, thanks anyway. My wife was right, she thought it was a large drawing room, and strangely enough, she guessed it was blue.”

  “You don’t say? What do you know about that? Must be psychic or something.”

  “Probably something,” William laughed. “Well, thanks again. “Bye.”

  “So,” William spoke aloud, “we have established a blue drawing-room should be behind you, but there isn’t, is there ? Only a horrible little cupboard, so you had better get used to your reduced circumstances, and be mighty grateful you didn’t finish up as firewood.”

  The door ignored him.

  *

&
nbsp; William often worked late into the night, finding the peace and quiet of the small hours conducive to creative thinking. Usually there was a feeling of serene contentment when he settled down in his old chair, heard the muted roar of a passing car, and let his brain churn out a steady flow of dialogue. But once the door was installed he found his attention was apt to wander to it, or rather to what had once lain behind it. The blue room. Grand old country houses seemed to go in for that kind of thing. Blue rooms, red rooms, yellow rooms. Presumably if one had a lot of rooms, it was as good a way as any to identify one from the other. Also, decorating must be greatly simplified. Blue walls, blue hangings, carpet, upholstery—William chuckled to himself—there was really no limit. Why not have blue flowers just outside the great window, or perhaps a little blue creeper that completely surrounded the window and in fact gently tapped the glass panes on a windy night. He must get old Jem to cut it back.

  William sat upright, dropped his pen, and frowned. Who the blazes was old Jem? It was all very well having a powerful, cultivated imagination, but he must keep it under control. But still… He stared at the door thoughtfully; there was a certain rather eerie satisfaction in creating an imaginary world for the door to guard. William lay back in his chair and half closed his eyes. First of all the room; it must be reconstructed properly. You open the door, walk onto a thick, extremely beautiful, blue carpet, clearly made to measure, for it stretches from wainscoting to wainscoting, and in front of that great fireplace with its roaring log fire, is a dark blue rug. So much for the floor, now the furniture. Situated some six feet back from the fireplace is a settee, at least so William supposed it to be, for it had a high back and a round arm on each side, would seat possibly four people at one time, and was covered with blue brocade. Six matching chairs were placed around the room, and William sank down onto one. It was very comfortable. He examined the walls. Blue of course, but the covering appeared to be some kind of material, embossed with dark blue flowers, and there were several pictures in blue velvet-edged frames. Indeed this is a blue room. Or it was. Funny this obsession for blue. What kind of man had he been … or was? There was a portrait of him over the mantelpiece, painted when he was a young man; his face still clean, not yet scarred by lines of debauchery and evil, but the eyes … By God and all his saints, the eyes…