There was only one thing to do—turn sharply and dash back again, run headlong into the life that followed at his back, followed so closely too that now it almost touched him, pushing him in. And with reckless courage this was what he did. It seemed a fearful thing to do. He turned with a sort of violent spring, head down and shoulders forward, hands stretched before his face. He made the plunge; like a hunted creature he charged full tilt the other way, meeting the wind now in his face.
Good Lord! the glade behind him had closed up as well; there was no longer any path at all. Turning round and round, like an animal at bay, he searched for an opening, a way of escape, searched frantically, breathlessly, terrified now in his bones. But foliage surrounded him, branches blocked the way; the trees stood close and still, unshaken by a breath of wind; and the sun dipped that moment behind a great black cloud. the entire wood turned dark and silent. It watched him.
Perhaps it was this final touch of sudden blackness that made him act so foolishly, as though he had really lost his head. At any rate, without pausing to think, he dashed headlong in among the trees again. There was a sensation of being stiflingly surrounded and entangled, and that he must break out at all costs—out and away into the open of the blessed fields and air. He did this ill-considered thing, and apparently charged straight into an oak that deliberately moved into his path to stop him. He saw it shift across a good full yard, and being a measuring man, accustomed to theodolite and chain, he ought to know. He fell, saw stars, and felt a thousand tiny fingers tugging and pulling at his hands and neck and ankles. the stinging nettles, no doubt, were responsible for this. He thought of it later. At the moment it felt diabolically calculated.
But another remarkable illusion was not so easily explained. For all in a moment, it seemed, the entire wood went sliding past him with a thick deep rustling of leaves and laughter, myriad footsteps, and tiny little active, energetic shapes; two men in browny green gave him a mighty hoist—and he opened his eyes to find himself lying in the meadow beside the stile where first his incredible adventure had begun. the wood stood in its usual place and stared down upon him in the sunlight. There was the red house in the distance as before. Above him grinned the weather-beaten notice-board: “Trespassers will be prosecuted.”
Dishevelled in mind and body, and a good deal shaken in his official soul, the clerk walked slowly across the fields. But on the way he glanced once more at the postcard of instructions, and saw with dull amazement that the inked-out sentence was quite legible after all beneath the scratches made across it: “There is a short cut through the wood—the wood I want cut down—if you care to take it.” Only “care” was so badly written, it looked more like another word; the “c” was uncommonly like “d.”
“That’s the copse that spoils my view of the Downs, you see,” his client explained to him later, pointing across the fields, and referring to the ordnance map beside him. “I want it cut down and a path made so and so.” His finger indicated direction on the map. “The Fairy Wood—it’s still called, and it’s far older than this house. Come now, if you’re ready, Mr. Thomas, we might go out and have a look at it…”
THE KIT-BAG
When the words “Not Guilty” sounded through the crowded courtroom that dark December afternoon, Arthur Wilbraham, the great criminal KC,1 and leader for the triumphant defence, was represented by his junior; but Johnson, his private secretary, carried the verdict across to his chambers like lightning.
“It’s what we expected, I think,” said the lawyer, without emotion; “and, personally, I am glad the case is over.” There was no particular sign of pleasure that his defense of John Turk, the murderer, on a plea of insanity, had been successful, for no doubt he felt, as everybody who had watched the case felt, that no man had ever better deserved the gallows.
“I’m glad too,” said Johnson. He had sat in the court for ten days watching the face of the man who had carried out with callous detail one of the most brutal and cold-blooded murders of recent years.
The counsel glanced up at his secretary. They were more than employer and employed; for family and other reasons, they were friends. “Ah, I remember; yes,” he said with a kind smile, “and you want to get away for Christmas? You’re going to skate and ski in the Alps, aren’t you? If I was your age, I’d come with you.”
Johnson laughed shortly. He was a young man of 26, with a delicate face like a girl’s. “I can catch the morning boat now,” he said, “but that’s not the reason I’m glad the trial is over. I’m glad it’s over because I’ve seen the last of that man’s dreadful face. It positively haunted me. That white skin, with the black hair brushed low over the forehead, is a thing I shall never forget, and the description of the way the dismembered body was crammed and packed with lime into that—”
“Don’t dwell on it, my dear fellow,” interrupted the other, looking at him curiously out of his keen eyes. “Don’t think about it. Such pictures have a trick of coming back when one least wants them.” He paused a moment. “Now go,” he added presently, “and enjoy your holiday. I shall want all of your energy for my Parliamentary work when you get back. And don’t break your neck skiing.”
Johnson shook hands and took his leave. At the door he turned suddenly.
“I knew there was something I wanted to ask you,” he said. “Would you mind lending me one of your kit bags? It’s too late to get one tonight, and I leave in the morning before the shops are open.”
“Of course; I’ll send Henry over with it to your rooms. You shall have it the moment I get home.”
“I promise to take great care of it,” said Johnson gratefully, delighted to think that within 30 hours he would be nearing the brilliant sunshine of the high Alps in the winter. the thought of that criminal court was like an evil dream in his mind.
He dined at his club and went on to Bloomsbury, where he occupied the top floor in one of those old, gaunt houses in which the rooms are large and lofty. the floor below his own was vacant and unfurnished, and below that were other lodgers whom he did not know. It was cheerless, and he heartily looked forward to a change. the night was even more cheerless: it was miserable, and few people were around. A cold, sleety rain was driving down the streets before the keenest east wind that he had ever felt. It howled dismally among the big, gloomy houses of the great squares, and when he reached his rooms, he heard it whistling and shouting over the world of black roofs beyond his windows.
In the hall he met his landlady, shading a candle from the drafts with her thin hand. “This come by a man from Mr. Wilbr’am’s, sir.”
She pointed to what was evidently the kit bag, and Johnson thanked her and took it upstairs with him. “I shall be going abroad in the morning for ten days, Mrs. Monks,” he said. “I’ll leave an address for letters.”
“And I hope you’ll ‘ave a merry Christmas, sir,” she said in a raucous, wheezy voice that suggested spirits, “and better weather than this.”
“I hope so too,” replied her lodger, shuddering a little as the wind went roaring down the street outside.
When he got upstairs, he heard the sleet volleying against the windowpanes. He put his kettle on to make a cup of hot coffee and then set about putting a few things in order for his absence.
“And now I must pack—such as my packing is.” He laughed to himself and set to work at once.
He liked the packing, for it brought the snow mountains so vividly before him and made him forget the unpleasant scenes of the past ten days. Besides, it was not elaborate in nature. His friend had lent him the very thing—a stout canvas kit bag, sack-shaped, with holes around the neck for the brass bar and padlock. It was a bit shapeless, true, and not much to look at, but its capacity was unlimited, and there was no need to pack carefully. He shoved in his waterproof coat, his fur cap and gloves, his skates and climbing boots, his sweaters, snow boots, and earmuffs; and then on the top of these he piled his woolen shirts and underwear, his thick socks, puttees, and knickerbockers. the dress s
uit came next, in case the hotel people dressed up for dinner, and then, thinking of the best way to pack his white shirts, he paused a moment to reflect. “That’s the worst of these kit bags,” he mused vaguely, standing in the center of the sitting room, where he had come to fetch some string.
It was after ten o’clock. A furious gust of wind rattled the windows as though to hurry him up, and he thought with pity of the poor Londoners whose Christmas would be spent in such a climate, while he was skimming over snowy slopes in bright sunshine and dancing in the evening with rosy-
cheeked girls—ah! That reminded him; he must put in his dancing pumps and evening socks. He crossed over from his sitting room to the cupboard on the landing where he kept his linen.
And as he did so, he heard someone coming softly up the stairs.
He stood still a moment on the landing to listen. It was Mrs. Monks’s step, he thought; she must be coming up with the last mail. But then the steps ceased suddenly, and he heard no more. They were at least two flights down, and he came to the conclusion that they were too heavy to be those of his bibulous landlady. No doubt they belonged to a late lodger who had mistaken his floor. He went into his bedroom and packed his pumps and dress shirts as best he could.
The kit bag by this time was two thirds full and stood upright on its own base like a sack of flour. For the first time he noticed that it was old and dirty, the canvas faded and worn, and that it had obviously been subjected to rather rough treatment. It was not a very nice bag to have sent him—certainly not a new one or one that his chief valued. He gave the matter a passing thought and went on with his packing. Once or twice, however, he caught himself wondering who it could have been wandering down below, for Mrs. Monks had not come up with letters, and the floor was empty and unfurnished. From time to time, moreover, he was almost certain that he heard a soft tread of someone padding around over the bare boards—cautiously, stealthily, as silently as possible—and, further, that the sounds had been lately coming distinctly closer.
For the first time in his life he began to feel a little creepy. Then, as though to emphasize this feeling, an odd thing happened: as he left the bedroom, having just packed his recalcitrant white shirts, he noticed that the top of the kit bag lopped over toward him with an extraordinary resemblance to a human face. the canvas fell into a fold like a nose and forehead, and the brass rings for the padlock just filled the position of the eyes. A shadow—or was it a travel stain? for he could not tell exactly—looked like hair. It gave him rather a shock, for it was so absurdly, so outrageously, like the face of John Turk, the murderer.
He laughed and went into the front room, where the light was stronger.
That horrid case has gotten on my mind, he thought; I shall be glad of a change of scene and air. In the sitting room, however, he was not pleased to hear again that stealthy tread upon the stairs and to realize that it was much closer than before, as well as unmistakably real. And this time he got up and went out to see who it could be creeping around on the upper staircase at so late an hour.
But the sound ceased; there was no one visible on the stairs. He went to the floor below, not without trepidation, and turned on the electric light to make sure that no one was hiding in the empty rooms of the unoccupied suite. There was not a stick of furniture large enough to hide a dog. Then he called over the banisters to Mrs. Monks, but there was no answer, and his voice echoed down into the dark vault of the house and was lost in the roar of the gale that howled outside. Everyone was in bed and asleep—everyone except himself and the owner of this soft and stealthy tread.
My absurd imagination, I suppose, he thought. It must have been the wind after all, although—it seemed so very real and close, I thought. He went back to his packing. It was by this time getting on toward midnight. He drank his coffee and lit another pipe—the last before turning in.
It is difficult to say exactly at what point fear begins, when the causes of that fear are not plainly before the eyes. Impressions gather on the surface of the mind, film by film, as ice gathers on the surface of still water, but often so lightly that they claim no definite recognition from the consciousness. Then a point is reached where the accumulated impressions become a definite emotion, and the mind realizes that something has happened. With something of a start, Johnson suddenly recognized that he felt nervous—
oddly nervous; also, that for some time past the causes of this feeling had been gathering slowly in his mind, but that he had only just reached the point where he was forced to acknowledge them.
It was a singular and curious malaise that had come over him, and he hardly knew what to make of it. He felt as though he was doing something that was strongly objected to by another person, another person, moreover, who had some right to object. It was a most disturbing and disagreeable feeling, not unlike the persistent promptings of conscience: almost, in fact, as if he was doing something that he knew to be wrong. Yet, though he searched vigorously and honestly in his mind, he could nowhere lay his finger upon the secret of this growing uneasiness, and it perplexed him. More, it distressed and frightened him.
“Pure nerves, I suppose,” he said aloud with a forced laugh. “Mountain air will cure all that! Ah,” he added, still speaking to himself, “and that reminds me—
my snow glasses.”
He was standing by the door of the bedroom during this brief soliloquy, and as he passed quickly toward the sitting room to fetch them from the cupboard, he saw out of the corner of his eye the indistinct outline of a figure standing on the stairs, a few feet from the top. It was someone in a stooping position, with one hand on the banister and the face peering up toward the landing. And at the same moment he heard a shuffling footstep. the person who had been creeping around below all this time had at last come up to his own floor. Who in the world could it be? And what in the name of heaven did he want?
Johnson caught his breath sharply and stood stock-still. Then, after a few seconds hesitation, he found his courage and turned to investigate. the stairs, he saw to his utter amazement, were empty; there was no one. He felt a series of cold shivers run over him, and something around the muscles of his legs gave a little and grew weak. For the space of several minutes he peered steadily into the shadows that congregated around the top of the staircase where he had seen the figure, and then he walked fast—almost ran, in fact—into the light of the front room; but hardly had he passed inside the doorway when he heard someone come up the stairs behind him with a quick bound and go swiftly into his bedroom. It was a heavy, but at the same time a stealthy, footstep—the tread of somebody who did not wish to be seen. And it was at this precise moment that the nervousness he had hitherto experienced leaped the boundary line and entered the state of fear, almost of acute, unreasoning fear. Before it turned into terror there was a further boundary to cross, and beyond that again lay the region of pure horror. Johnson’s position was an unenviable one.
“By Jove! That was someone on the stairs, then,” he muttered, his flesh crawling all over; “and whoever it was has now gone into my bedroom.” His delicate, pale face turned absolutely white, and for some minutes he hardly knew what to think or do. Then he realized intuitively that delay only set a premium upon fear; and he crossed the landing boldly and went straight into the other room, where, a few seconds before, the steps had disappeared.
“Who’s there? Is that you, Mrs. Monks?” he called aloud as he went, and he heard the first half of his words echo down the empty stairs, while the second half fell dead against the curtains in a room that apparently held no other human figure than his own.
“Who’s there?” he called again in a voice unnecessarily loud and that only just held firm. “What do you want here?”
The curtains swayed very slightly, and, as he saw it, his heart felt as if it almost missed a beat; yet he dashed forward and drew them aside with a rush. A window, streaming with rain, was all that met his gaze. He continued his search, but in vain; the cupboards held nothing but rows of clot
hes, hanging motionless; and under the bed there was no sign of anyone hiding. He stepped backward into the middle of the room, and, as he did so, something all but tripped him up. Turning with a sudden spring of alarm he saw—the kit bag.
Odd! he thought. That’s not where I left it! A few moments before it had surely been on his right, between the bed and the bathtub; he did not remember having moved it. It was very curious. What in the world was the matter with everything? Had all of his senses gone queer? A terrific gust of wind tore at the windows, dashing the sleet against the glass with the force of a small gunshot, and then fled away, howling dismally over the waste of Bloomsbury roofs. A sudden vision of the English Channel the next day rose in his mind and recalled him sharply to realities.
“There’s no one here at any rate; that’s quite clear!” he exclaimed aloud. Yet at the time he uttered them he knew perfectly well that his words were not true and that he did not believe them himself. He felt exactly as though someone was hiding close to him, watching all of his movements, trying to hinder his packing in some way. “And two of my senses,” he added, keeping up the pretense, “have played me the most absurd tricks: the steps I heard and the figure I saw were both entirely imaginary.”
He went back to the front room, poked the fire into a blaze, and sat down before it to think. What impressed him more than anything else was the fact that the kit bag was no longer where he had left it. It had been dragged closer to the door.
What happened afterward that night happened, of course, to a man already excited by fear and was perceived by a mind that had not the full and proper control, therefore, of the senses. Outwardly, Johnson remained calm and a master of himself to the end, pretending to the very last that everything he witnessed had a natural explanation or was merely delusions of his tired nerves. But inwardly, in his very heart, he knew all along that someone had been hiding downstairs in the empty suite when he came in, that this person had watched for his opportunity and then stealthily made his way up to the bedroom, and that all he saw and heard afterward, from the moving of the kit bag to—well, to the other things that this story has to tell—were caused directly by the presence of this invisible person.
The First Algernon Blackwood Megapack: 36 Classic Tales of the Supernatural Page 16