THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS

by Frederick Cowles

  II

  I called on Professor Rutter, as he had suggested, a day or so before I was due to leave Cambridge. For all his sinister reputation there was nothing very remarkable about his quarters. I think I half expected to find a stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling, a crystal on the desk, and a black cat sitting on his shoulder. Instead, the rooms were comfortably and even lavishly furnished, and reflected the taste of a man who knew a lot about art and liked to be surrounded by beautiful things.

  ‘Well, young man,’ he greeted me. ‘Has a job materialised yet?’

  I confessed that I had nothing in view, and was afraid that it would mean Jamaica and the coffee plantation.

  ‘And you don’t want to go to Jamaica. That’s very evident. Now, I have been thinking matters over, and have decided to offer you a post which may be more to your liking. I require a companion-secretary—somebody with good nerves and no objection to travel. Do you understand German?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied eagerly. ‘I was at school in Germany for five years, and I have a fairly good knowledge of the language.’

  ‘Good! I have some research in hand which will take me to the Austrian Tyrol within a few weeks, and it is essential that my secretary should be a German scholar. Now, let me make this clear to you. The job will not be without a spice of danger. My quest is for something of occult interest, and we may come up against the supernatural. I am confident that I shall be able to protect you as well as myself, or I would not offer you the position. How does it appeal to you?’

  To say that I was astounded by the Professor’s offer is to put it mildly. I knew practically nothing about his pet subject, but I was willing to tackle anything that might mean adventure. And I was also confronted by the prospect of being out of work and putting my father to further expense, which he could ill afford. Here was a chance to be able to go home with the welcome news that I had secured a position to step into immediately. The upshot was that I very gratefully accepted the Professor’s offer, and found myself engaged as companion-secretary at a salary of £200 a year, with all expenses paid. We drank a glass of sherry to seal the bargain, and my new employer suggested that I should take a fortnight’s holiday and then be ready to accompany him to the Tyrol.

  I returned to St Emeran’s as Professor Rutter’s secretary at the end of June, 1929. It appeared that we were not to go abroad for at least a week as there were several things to be done before the Professor could leave Cambridge. For the first two or three days I was engaged upon ordinary routine correspondence, the correcting of proofs of articles for American magazines, and the paying of accounts for goods supplied during the term. Then, early one morning the Professor entered the room where I was working and placed a dirty piece of vellum on the desk.

  ‘There!’ he exclaimed in an excited voice. ‘There is the reason for our trip to the Tyrol. This document was written by a monk of St Dichul’s Abbey in 1414. Read it through and make a translation for future use.’

  Although the manuscript was short it was difficult to decipher. At some time it had been damaged by water and some of the characters were blurred. Also it was written in an old German dialect which was new to me. At last I had the translation finished and felt that it fairly conveyed the meaning of the original. It read:

  I, Otto von Unterzein, monk of the Order of St Bruno in the abbey of Our Lady and St Dichul, do declare that the Pearl of Zello was given into my keeping by Brother Waldibrandt of Stams, together with that which is the guardian of the pearl.

  During the late wars I did write to the Emperor and offer to help him by the means that is to my hand. But my proposals found no favour with him. Instead there was a commission appointed to inquire into my state and the conduct of this house. For they hold (and perhaps rightly so) that such power as I have claimed can come only from Satan, and that he who possesses the Pearl of Zello must call Satan master.

  So, lest all should be discovered, I have taken Brother Kilian into my confidence, and together we have made a secret place in the old well to the north of the church. Therein we have hidden the pearl and its guardian, and placed a secure lock upon the entrance. Let those who seek beware.

  For the better security of this secret place I have directed that, should any ill befall me, the key shall be placed within my tomb. When the master shall come (as come he must) to find the jewel, he shall open my grave and therein shall the key be ready to his hand.

  Later in the day the Professor returned and approved the translation.

  ‘And now,’ he said, settling into a chair. ‘I suppose you are wondering what it is all about?’

  ‘Well,’ I admitted, ‘so far it sounds rather incomprehensible to me. Who was Otto von Unterzein, and what was the Pearl of Zello?’

  ‘Otto, my dear chap,’ Rutter replied, ‘was exactly what he says he was—a monk of St Dichul’s Abbey, near Schwaz. The Pearl of Zello was, or maybe is, a jewel believed to have been discovered by the Persian astrologer Zello, and said to endow its wearer with a variety of occult powers—such as the secret of the transmutation of metals, the art of healing, and the ability to locate hidden treasure. Otto, who was certainly a master of the black arts, obtained the pearl from a monk of Stams and, very unwisely, allowed it to be known that he was the possessor of the jewel. The commission, of which he speaks in the document, adjudged him guilty of witchcraft and sorcery, and he was condemned to death. So far as I can ascertain he was beheaded. But, before his trial, he managed to conceal the pearl in a secret place, and it is there I hope to find it.’

  ‘Surely,’ I exclaimed, ‘you do not believe the story. Why, the document was written over five hundred years ago.’

  ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that the pearl existed, and, for all we know, still exists. I am confident that we shall find it in the well of the monastery—in the very place where Otto concealed it.’

  ‘And what will you do with it if you find it there?’

  ‘Ah! That remains to be seen. Many occultists are of the opinion that the jewel was not a pearl at all. There is perhaps some rational explanation of the strange powers it was credited to possess. I shall not be at all surprised to find that it is nothing more nor less than a piece of radium.’

  ‘There is some mention of a guardian,’ I pointed out to him.

  ‘Yes. I suppose I ought to take that seriously, and I have given some thought to the matter. It may be simply some puppet made to scare the ignorant: it may have been an animal: and, although I think it most unlikely, there is a remote possibility that Otto was sufficiently skilled to create an elemental to guard the treasure.’

  Two days later we left Cambridge on our way to Innsbruck.

  III

  There was still a little snow lingering on the summits of the mountains, but the weather was warm and sunny and the valleys were gay with flowers. We took rooms in a small hotel at Innsbruck, and spent a day or so exploring that delightful town. I had never been there before, but Rutter knew it well, and was able to show me all the sights. He took me to see King Arthur’s statue in the Hofkirche, the Grasser reliefs on the Goldene Dachl, the Tyrolese Art Museum, and the remarkable series of fountains in the streets and parks. We also made several excursions into the mountains and visited some interesting castles and monasteries. But a week passed before we hired a car and, with the Professor at the wheel, drove out to St Dichul’s Abbey.

  I had already discovered that the monastery had been suppressed about a hundred years ago, when it became the property of the Steesmer family. They had never taken any interest in it, and allowed the buildings to decay. We had interviewed Count Anton von Steesmer, and the Professor had explained that he wished to carry out some antiquarian researches at the abbey. The Count readily gave permission for us to visit the place and also to make any excavations the Professor deemed necessary. Of course he was kept in ignorance of Rutter’s real interest in the deserted monastery, and thought we intended to construct an architectural plan of the buildings. He said there w
as a resident custodian, and suggested we might like to stay with the man in the abbey guest house for a few days. This suited us admirably, and the Count promised to write to the caretaker and instruct him to prepare rooms for our accommodation.

  The first sight of St Dichul’s was depressing. A more gloomy group of buildings I have never seen. The grey walls were overgrown with some dull green creeper, only half of the church tower remained standing, and the rusty gates had fallen from their broken hinges. We drove into a dismal courtyard, and the noise of the car disturbed hundreds of rooks which were nesting in the ruins. Their hoarse cries made a weird chorus of welcome.

  The only sign of human occupation was a thin wisp of smoke ascending from the chimney of a building near the gate. This, presumably, was the guest house. I alighted and banged on the door. After some minutes shuffling feet approached, bolts were drawn, a chain loosed, and a white face appeared as the door swung open. It gave me a shock, for it was the countenance of a man who lived under the shadow of a terrible fear.

  By this time the Professor had joined me and, in his fluent German, introduced us. The custodian bowed and smiled a welcome. In a thin, rasping voice he replied that he had received a message from the Count and all was in readiness for our stay.

  ‘You will, I am sure, excuse the roughness of the accommodation,’ he said. ‘I am quite alone here, and it is not often that visitors come this way. Fires have been burning in the rooms for two days, so I think you will find them well aired and passably comfortable.’

  He collected our bags from the car and led the way up a flight of stairs to two large rooms with a communicating door. They were very barely furnished, and the beds looked as if they had been there since monastic days.

  The old fellow, whose name, so he told us, was Hans Steingel, seemed loath to leave us. I noticed that, every now and again, he glanced over his shoulder as if expecting someone to be following him. Once he appeared to be listening, and I thought I heard the sound of a low laugh from some distant corner of the house. At last we managed to get rid of Hans with the promise that we would be down to a meal within half an hour.

  ‘Did you notice that man?’ asked the Professor as soon as the door had closed. ‘He’s haunted by something or somebody, and simply aching for the fellowship of human beings.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘He’s certainly afraid of something. Although why a nervous man should live in such a desolate place is more than I can understand.’

  We washed, unpacked our bags, and proceeded downstairs to the dining-room. This proved to be a long vaulted apartment, furnished with a massive refectory table. Hans had done wonders in the provision of a meal. There was roasted fowl, with potatoes and beans: stewed apples and cream: a goat’s milk cheese, and a large jug of cool lager beer. The Professor insisted that the custodian should eat with us, so Hans, with that easy grace which distinguishes the Tyrolese peasant, took his place at the table. He became more cheerful under the influence of the food or the company. Yet all the time he seemed to be listening. Occasionally he glanced over his shoulder, and once I saw him cross himself surreptitiously. Rutter also noticed the man’s fears, and at last he said, ‘What is troubling you, Hans?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Nothing, I do assure you,’ stammered the man. ‘I am of rather a timid disposition and the least noise alarms me.’

  ‘Then you ought not to live alone in this gloomy place,’ said the Professor. ‘It’s enough to get on anyone’s nerves and cannot be healthy for a timid man.’

  ‘But I cannot leave,’ explained Hans. ‘My people were servants to the monks before the abbey was suppressed, and since then there has always been a Steingel as custodian. When I die it will end, for I have no son to carry on the tradition. But, whilst I am alive, I must remain here.’

  The Professor left it at that, but I could see that he was far from satisfied. Later he explained to Hans that it might be necessary for him to disturb one of the graves in the abbey church. The old chap took it very calmly until Rutter casually mentioned that the tomb he proposed to open was that of Otto von Unterzein. I have never seen such a change come over a man. His pale face went almost green, and he sprang from the chair.

  ‘No, no!’ he cried. ‘Do not touch him, I implore you. If you release him from the tomb there will be no rest.’

  ‘Nonsense, my good man,’ said the Professor sharply. ‘I have the Count’s permission to do anything I wish, and it is essential that I should open von Unterzein’s grave. Why should you trouble about a man who has been dead for five hundred years?’

  ‘Dead,’ repeated the terrified custodian. ‘Perhaps he is dead . . . and yet he is alive. It is he who prowls about this place, always looking for something he can never find.’

  ‘Then the house is haunted?’ queried Rutter.

  ‘Yes. It is haunted by a headless monk who sometimes weeps and sometimes laughs. I don’t know which is the more terrible—the laughing or the weeping. My father, who looked after the abbey for nearly sixty years, told me it was the spectre of Otto von Unterzein, a monk who sold his soul to the devil.’

  ‘Do you think that the opening of the tomb will make the haunting worse?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. But I am frightened of the consequences of such an act. Until now he has done no harm. He walks in the church, in the cloisters, and in this very house, and usually disappears by the old well. Perhaps, if you open his grave, he will take some vengeance upon us.’

  And as he finished speaking there came a chuckle of low laughter from the corner of the room near the fireplace. The Professor was up in a moment and had darted over to the spot. But there was nothing to be seen.

  ‘It is possible,’ said Rutter some time later, after Hans had left us, ‘that a place like this is haunted by thought-forms. A thought-form cannot harm anybody, although it can be very disturbing. The real danger is from the earth-bound spirit of an evil man, and friend Otto was certainly no saint.’

  We retired to bed soon after eleven o’clock. It was a lovely night and I stood by the window admiring the ruined, ivy-mantled tower of the church. Suddenly I saw something move by a low wall which appeared to be the coping of a well. It was the figure of a black-robed monk without a head, and, as I watched, it slowly disappeared.

  IV

  After breakfast the following morning the three of us, armed with crowbars, made our way to the abbey church. Once it must have been a noble building and, even in its decay, the fine proportions were impressive. The choir stalls had been removed, and birds had made their nests in the carved niches of the high altar. A broken crucifix looked strangely forlorn above the pulpit, and some of the statues had fallen from the chancel screen.

  Hans seemed to have plucked up courage and was in fairly good spirits. He led us up the aisle and into the ambulatory, where he pointed out a flat tombstone inscribed: OTTO VON UNTERZEIN 1415, R.I.P. The slab was covered with green lichen and the plaster around it had crumbled to dust. The Professor inserted his crowbar under one corner of the stone and directed me to do the same on the other side. Within a few minutes we had levered it aside and revealed a shallow cavity containing a leaden coffin. I had never before assisted at an exhumation, and found it rather a gruesome business. But Rutter was quite unconcerned, and even whistled the air of a popular dance tune as he began to prise open the coffin lid. His gay melody turned to a whistle of surprise when he saw what the shell contained. By all rights of natural law the body of the monk should have decayed long ago, but there, wrapped in the fragments of a black monastic habit, was the perfectly preserved corpse of a man of forty or forty-five. I say perfectly preserved, but this is hardly true. The head, instead of being upon the shoulders, was held in the dead hands. I remembered then that Otto von Unterzein had been beheaded.

  Poor Hans’s courage had evaporated, and he was whimpering with fright. I felt more than a little shaken, but the Professor seemed quite unperturbed.

  ‘A clever example of medieval embalming,’ he remarked.
‘Otto must have been a person of some importance. And now for the key.’

  He bent down and searched the coffin in a business-like manner, and at last discovered a small scroll of vellum.

  ‘Where the devil is that key?’ he muttered. ‘It must be here somewhere. Open this thing, Evans, and see if there’s any writing on it. It may provide a clue.’

  I took the strip of parchment and unrolled it. There was some faded writing in a mixture of Latin and old German, but it was not difficult to make out.

  ‘ “Let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth,” ’ I read aloud. ‘ “The lock is fast: the key is as the words of my mouth before they are uttered.” ’

  The Professor snatched the vellum from my hand and verified the translation.

  ‘Not much of a puzzle about that,’ he said. ‘I expect it means that the key is in Otto’s mouth.’

  With brutal callousness he lifted the decapitated head and attempted to force the jaws apart. At first they resisted his efforts, and then he gave an extra hard tug and the lower part of the face broke away. At the same time the whole head seemed to crumble to pieces, and something fell to the ground with a metallic clang. Hardly pausing to throw the fragments of bone back into the coffin, Rutter pounced upon the metal object and held it up in triumph. It was a bronze key.

  By this time Hans had collapsed upon a stone seat which encircled a pillar and was weeping with terror. I made some attempt to arrange the corpse in a decent manner, and then the Professor and I replaced the coffin lid and levered the heavy stone back into position. It fell with a heavy thud and, as the echo died away, a ghastly shriek rang through the building.

  ‘Oh, God help us,’ screamed the poor custodian, making the sign of the cross.