Haunts

by Stephen Jones

  William got up and walked towards the fireplace; he could feel the heat of the fire; a log settled and sent a shower of sparks rocketing up the chimney. An oval face with the dark beauty of a fallen angel, long, black hair that curled down to his shoulders, lace collar, blue velvet doublet, the epitome of a Restoration gentleman. The dark, terrible eyes watched him, and William pulled his gaze away, then walked to the window. The garden was a place of beauty, close-clipped lawns, islands of flowers, trees beyond, farther still, blue-crested hills.

  He turned and went over to the great desk; a quill-pen grew out of an ink-horn, a blue velvet-covered book lay upon the desk and his hand went down to open it, when…

  Footsteps outside, just beyond the windows, slow, halting steps, punctuated by an occasional dragging sound, like a lame old man who is trying to overcome his handicap; drawing nearer, and the room was becoming colder. William shivered, then overcome by an unreasoning fear darted towards the door. He opened it, went out, closed it carefully behind him, then went over and sat down behind his desk.

  He opened his eyes.

  Five minutes passed. William got up, moved very slowly towards the door, turned the brass knob, then pulled. A cupboard, eighteen inches deep, filled with shelves on which nestled stacks of typing paper, carbons, ribbons, the familiar materials of his trade. He shut the door, then opened it again, finally closed it with a bang before returning to his desk.

  He sat there for some time, then suddenly was seized by a fit of shivering that made his body shake like a dead leaf beaten by the wind. Gradually the spasm passed, leaving him weak, drenched with perspiration, but strangely at peace, like a man who has recently recovered from a brief, but serious illness. A dream, an illusion, or perhaps a rebellion on the part of an overworked imagination. What did it matter? It had been an experience, an exercise of the mind, and no writer worthy of his ink should be afraid of a journey into the unknown.

  He watched the door for the rest of the night, and the door stared right back at him. Once he thought the handle began to turn, and he waited with breathless expectancy, but it must have been an illusion caused by his overstrained eyes, for the door remained closed.

  The door became an obsession. His work was neglected, a bewildered agent telephoned at regular intervals, muttering dark threats about deadlines, broken contracts, and William tried to flog his brain back to its former production line, but to no avail. The door was always there, and with it the memory of a room; a study in blue, an anteroom to another age. “Next time,” he told himself, “I will go out through the great window, and walk across the garden and rediscover yesterday.”

  He sat by the hour with closed eyes trying to re-create the dream, willing himself back into that armchair, gazing up at the portrait over the mantelpiece, but the 20th century remained obstinately present, and several times he fell asleep. Rosemary was becoming worried.

  “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

  “No,” he barked the denial, his irritation growing each time the gentle inquiry was made. “Leave me alone. How am I to work?”

  “But you’re not working,” she persisted, “neither are you eating. William, this must stop.”

  “What?”

  “You and that damned door.” She glared at the door. “I do not pretend to understand, but ever since that lump of old wood came into this house, you haven’t been the same man. It scares me. William, have it taken out, let’s burn it in the boiler.”

  He laughed harshly and experienced a pang of fear at her suggestion, and saw the startled expression on Rosemary’s face.

  “Don’t worry so much. The truth is I’ve run dry, writers do occasionally. It’s happened before and the old brain has always started ticking over once it was good and ready. But it makes me a bit irritable.”

  “That’s all right,” she brightened up at once, “I don’t mind you being a bit testy, but you’re getting so thin. Are you sure that nothing else is bothering you?”

  For a mad moment he toyed with the idea of telling her about the room, the dream, then instantly discarded it. She would not understand or believe, so he kissed her gently and said, “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Then pack it in for a bit,” she pleaded, “and let me cook you a decent meal. One you will eat.”

  It was suddenly very important she be pacified, her mind be put at rest.

  “All right. I’ll give you a hand.”

  He helped her in the kitchen, was surprised to hear himself making small talk, while all the time his mind, his very soul hungered for the blue room and the fear that lurked in the garden. For that was the truth, and the realization burst upon him like a blast of light. The terror inspired by approaching footsteps, the heart-stopping, exciting horror of wondering what would come in through the great French windows, the craving for a new experience, even if fulfillment meant madness or worse.

  They ate in the kitchen, two young, beautiful people, as modern as Carnaby Street. He tall, lean, dark; she petite, blonde, blue-eyed. His dark, clever eyes watched her, and he smiled often.

  That night they retired to bed early, and long after Rosemary had fallen asleep he lay thinking about the room behind the door.

  “It does not exist,” he told himself, “maybe it did long ago, but not now. A bulldozer flattened the house, and only the blue room door remains. A flat piece of polished wood.”

  There was comfort in that thought, and presently sleep closed his eyes with soft fingers, and for a while he was at rest.

  *

  The room had not altered, the log fire still spluttered, the chairs were in the same position as on his last visit, and the blue journal lay upon the desk. William found he was dressed in his pajamas and his feet were bare.

  “I must have sleepwalked,” he whispered, “but now I am wide awake. This is not a dream.”

  He walked over to the door, opened it and stared into the gloom; a few yards away the outline of his desk shimmered softly, the door of his study was open, beyond was darkness. William closed the door, crossed the blue carpet and flattened his nose against the French windows. Back in his own world it was night, out in the garden it was sunset; long shadows lay across the smooth lawn, the trees were giant sentinels rearing up against the evening sky, and although it all looked beautiful and peaceful, there was something eerie about the scene. Suddenly William knew why. Nothing moved. There were no birds, the leaves did not stir, the flowers stood upright; it was as though he were looking at a three-dimensional picture.

  He shivered, then turned and walked over to the desk. The blue journal lay waiting, and he fingered the soft velvet cover before sitting down, then with a strange reluctance opened the book. Crisp parchment, about fifty pages he estimated, bound together; the first one was blank, serving as a flyleaf. He turned it slowly, then read the clear, beautiful copperplate inscription:

  AN EXPERIMENT IN DARKNESS BY

  BY

  SIR MICHAEL SINCLAIR, BART.

  of the county of Kent, Lord of the Manor of Clavering, written in this the twenty-second year of the reign of his gracious majesty, King Charles the Second.

  It took a great effort of will to turn the title page, for the room seemed suddenly to have become very cold, and the dying sun sent its last shafts of light through the window, making the shadows scurry like so many disturbed mice. But he had to read on; the page went over with a disturbingly loud crackling sound.

  PART 1.

  INSTRUCTIONS AS TO THE ENTRAPMENT OF THE UNBORN.

  Having kept myself aloof from the troubles of the preceding reign, I have devoted these many years to the pursuit of that knowledge which fools call evil, and from which, even those men that are dubbed wise, cover their faces, even as the night hides from the rising sun.

  To say that the knowledge I have confined to these pages is the unadulterated fruit of my own labors would not be true for I have been helped by the old masters, such as Astaste and his Book of Forbidden Knowledge, Conrad von Leininstein with his invalu
able Transformation of Living Matter Through Quickening Time, and many others. But I have gone beyond them, have made myself as a seething-pot, created an essence of bubbling truth such as no man has yet conceived.

  Men avert their eyes rather than meet my glance, for I wear my knowledge about me like a cloak; they whisper about me in corners, and there is much talk of witchcraft, and were I not who I am, I might fear the stake.

  I prepared me the room after many years and the expense of much blood, and the damnation of my soul should the Black One whose name must never be uttered ever assume power over me. I brought me slaves from the Africas; young persons whose disappearance would never be commented upon; although their screams have doubtless been heard, but such is the reputation of this house, the fools merely cross themselves and take to their heels. It was necessary to kill their body with a painful slowness, and draw off their soul or life essence while the blue room and all pertaining to it was imprinted upon their dying gaze. Thus did I make a karma or ghost room, kept alive by the life essence of those who had been sacrificed to it. But even as the body needs food, the earth needs fertilizing, so the room from time to time, must be fed. Many of the Africans have a poor lasting quality, the power fades and my soul trembles lest He be able to enter. Therefore, I prepared me the door, seeping it in blood that was still warm, and making it into a trap that will function for a brief spell in the time that has yet to come. I pray that this be not destroyed in the centuries yet unborn, for without it will I be unable to acquire that which is needful, and be lost for all eternity.

  The unborn must come in when the time is ripe, and should he be of the right mixture, then shall he give of his body and soul that I and the room may continue to be; or I will go forth beyond the door and find me a woman of his kind, which would be better, for a woman have a more lasting quality…

  William slammed the book closed and looked about him with sudden fear. A sound had disturbed him and for a moment he could not be sure what it had been. Then it came again—a slow, halting footstep, just beyond the French windows. William seemed to be frozen to his chair; he wanted to get up and run back to the safety of his own world; at the same time, there was an irritating curiosity to know who—what, would shortly come in through the window.

  Suddenly the overhead chandelier lit up; every one of its candles took on a yellow spear-shaped light, and beyond the window it was night, a black impregnable wall of darkness. But the slow, faltering footsteps continued to draw nearer, and it seemed as though the room shivered with fear at the approach of its dread master, for the coldness grew more intense, and William whimpered like a terrified puppy.

  The French windows opened and slowly a black figure emerged from the darkness and limped into the room. The scarlet-doublet was rotten with age, the blue velvet had long since lost its plume, the knee breeches were threadbare, the black boots cracked and down-at-heel, and He—It—had no face. Just an oval-shaped expanse of dead-white skin surrounded by a mass of bedraggled white hair.

  William screamed once, a long, drawn out shriek, then he was on his feet and racing for the door. He pulled it open, crossed the dark study in a fear-mad rush, barked his shins on a chair, then tore out into the hall, and up the stairs, to finally collapse on the landing where he lay panting and trembling like a hunted animal.

  Slowly he recovered, fought back the terror, mastered his shaking limbs, and marshaled his thoughts. He crawled forward and peered down through the banisters to the dark hall below. He could see the pale oblong that marked his study doorway. The door was still open. Then another more terrible thought exploded and sent slivers of fear across his brain. The door was open. What had he read in the blue-covered book?

  “Therefore I prepared me the door… making it into a trap that will function for a brief spell… or I will go forth beyond the door and find me a woman of his kind, which would be better, for a woman have a more lasting quality.”

  Rosemary! If Sir Michael was beyond the door, then he might be but a few feet away, hidden by the darkness, peering down at William with that face that was not a face, perhaps even moving silently towards the bedroom where Rosemary lay asleep.

  William got to his feet, stretched out a hand and groped wildly for the light switch. He found it, pressed, and the sudden light blasted the darkness, shattered it into splinters, sent the shadows racing for protecting corners, forced imagination to face reality. The landing was empty; the familiar cold linoleum, the white painted doors, the brown banisters, the stairs… William peered down into the hall. The landing light did not extend to more than halfway down the stairs, the hall was still in total darkness. It took great courage to descend the stairs, and a great effort of will to press the hall switch. Light, like truth, is all-revealing; the hall table was in its proper place, the carpet he and Rosemary had chosen with such care covered the floor, two prints still hung on the green-papered walls, and all doors were closed, save the one leading to his study; and standing in the opening was something extra—a bedraggled, nightmare figure with no face. Almost no face, for since William had seen it last, it had acquired a mouth. Two thin lines that opened.

  “Thank you,” the voice came as a harsh, vibrant whisper, “thank you very much.”

  For the first time in his life William fainted.

  *

  Rosemary was crying. Sitting by his bed sobbing, but when she saw his eyes were open, a smile lit up her face, the sun peeping through the rain clouds.

  “Oh, William, you’re awake. Thank goodness, when I found you down on the hall floor, I thought… Do you feel better now? The doctor said you have a slight concussion. Hit your head when you fell.”

  He felt very weak, and his head hurt, a dull ache. There was also a nagging fear at the back of his mind, trying to remind him of something he wanted to forget.

  “I feel fine,” he said, “great, simply great. What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Rosemary was wiping her eyes, “I guess you must have walked in your sleep, and fell downstairs. I did not find you until this morning, and you lay so still…”

  She began to cry again and he wanted to comfort her, but the nagging fear was coming out into the open, making him remember, causing him to shiver.

  “You must leave this house,” he tried to sit upright, “He is looking for someone—a woman who has…” he giggled inanely, “…who has a lasting quality.”

  “Oh, no,” Rosemary had both hands clutched to her mouth, staring at him with fear-filled eyes, “your poor head.”

  “I’m not mad,” William clutched her arm, “please believe me. He— It, I don’t know, but there is a room behind the door, and He made it—kept it alive and himself by the life essence—soul’s blood, of living people. I know the door is a trap, is only active for a little while at certain periods, and now happens to be one of them. I don’t know why sometimes I can go through, and at others I cannot, but it is so. But the point is, He—Sir Michael—has come through. He is on this side of the door. He wants a woman he can take back—make part of the room—take to pieces, tear soul from body, but you won’t die, you won’t be so lucky.”

  Rosemary ran from the room, raced down the stairs, and he heard the telephone receiver being removed; she was telephoning the doctor, convinced beyond all doubt he was mad.

  Perhaps he was, or at the very best a victim of a walking hallucination. He was suddenly very confused. He had lived off his imagination for years—it could have rebelled, manufactured a sleepwalking nightmare. After all his first “visit” had begun by him mentally building up the room item by item.

  He pretended to be asleep when Rosemary returned.

  The doctor said: “Run-down,” remarked sagely on the effects of overwork, strain, advised rest, wrote out a prescription, and then departed. William felt almost happy after his visit, quite willing to accept the certainty that his experience had been nothing more than a vivid and unpleasant dream. He would rest, stay in bed, then in a few days he and Rosemary would go away for
a long holiday, and during their absence a builder could remove the door. That was the sensible solution.

  “Sorry if I scared you,” he told Rosemary, “but I had such a horrible nightmare—a sort of two-part dream, and it seemed so real. We’ll go away when I feel fit.”

  She was delighted; chatted happily about where they should go, spent as much time as possible by his bedside, and left all the doors open when she went downstairs, so she could hear should he call out. The day passed and as the shadows of night darkened the windows, a faint chill of returning fear began to haunt his mind. Rosemary turned on the lights, drew the curtains, smiled at him, but there was an expression of unease in her eyes, and it was then he knew his hard-won peace of mind was merely self-deception.

  “Anything wrong?” He tried to make the question sound casual.

  “No,” she straightened the counterpane, “no, nothing.”

  “Tell me,” he whispered, fearful lest the very walls were listening, “please, tell me.”

  She averted her head.

  “It’s nothing, only silliness on my part. But—that door—it won’t remain shut. Every time I close it, the handle turns, and it opens.”

  “Then I was right, it was not a dream.”

  “Nonsense,” she was pushing him back onto the pillows, “the door is shrinking, the warm air is making it contract, that must be the answer. It must be.”