There Is a Graveyard That Dwells in Man

by There Is a Graveyard That Dwells in Man (retail) (epub)

  At dinner Apuleius was preoccupied and portentous, and actually drank nothing but water, a sure sign he was taking life seriously. I was preoccupied too. I knew perfectly well the Chief would have shoved down a formidable foot on the whole thing, but I wasn't the Chief, Apuleius had been given the run of the house and I had no authority to control his movements within it. All the same, looking back on it, I think I acted feebly and that I should have exercised a veto however arbitrary, and kept him out of that room that night. All I did was to employ persuasion, and quite ineffectually. “My dear Pelham,” he propounded, “this is a challenge I must accept. I have devoted much of my life to this crusade of safeguarding man from those black forces which, unknown to the blind and unpercipient, are forever striving and with ever increasing success to break down his resistance and shatter him. If I fully succeed tonight I shall cleanse that room and make it harmless, white and habitable again. I shall be very thankful if I can do the Chief this service.”

  “But supposing they are too strong for you?” I protested. “That energy may be more virulent and vicious than you reckon on.”

  “That is a risk I must take. So far I have always conquered them, and I can rally mighty forces to my aid. In this sign,”—and he touched the swastika on his forehead—“I shall conquer once again. Have no fears.”

  I must say he looked impressive, exalted, when he said this.

  After dinner he again disappeared for a while and I tried to do some more work, but of all jobs cataloguing a library is the most soporific. I dozed off and presently woke to find him standing before me. He had repainted the swastika, which gleamed somberly.

  “I am ready,” he declared, “and now I will rest for a while. I will enter that room at five minutes to midnight.”

  “What kind of ordeal do you think awaits you?” I asked. “Or do you mind telling me?”

  “The moment I enter that room I shall pronounce certain formulae, what you would loosely call incantations. I shall then, to use a military metaphor, entrench myself within a defensive ring and concentrate my whole spirit on rallying to my side the powers of white, the forces of salvation. They will come to me. Already the black forces will be concentrating upon me, the tension will increase every moment. Sometime the black will strike and the white will lash back, the grapple will be joined. When those dark forces have done their worst and been repelled, white will have been re-established in that room, the sting of evil, of destruction and of black will have been drawn. I shall be exhausted and soon pass into a coma from which I shall awake refreshed, hale and with added powers. And then we will enjoy our holiday together, my dear Pelham, and drink deep, having cleansed this lovely house of its ancient doom.”

  “I wish I could be with you in that struggle,” I said doubtfully. “It is unthinkable,” he replied forcibly. “It has taken me forty years to learn how to conduct this fearful quarrel. I could not extend that which protects me to you. You would be inevitably destroyed.”

  “Just killed?” I asked repressing a nervous and blasphemous itch to laugh.

  “More than that, though that for certain. You might never be seen again.”

  Now I will be frank, it did seem to me that already there was a tension, a sense of malaise in that great room where we were sitting. The wind had risen to half-a-gale and the rain had come with it. The old house seemed like a ship heaving at its moorings. The windows shook, the curtains stirred, the wind went roaring by. And really for the first time I knew old Apuleius to be a strange and formidable fellow and no figure of fun, and that that shining emblem on his brow might have more than a derisory significance. I grew very restless, the current stirring my nerves seemed to have had its voltage raised. I should have liked to have gone out into that storm and walked the tension down. Odd, distorting little pictures formed and vanished in my mind's eye; masks of evil, a flaming body hurtling through the sky, a ring of sultry fire, a dark stream of birds, a bloody sword. I shook myself and fetched a drink. Apuleius was sitting down now, motionless, his chin on his breast, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. And presently the clock chimed three times, it was a quarter to midnight.

  “No drink, Apuleius?” I asked, to break the silence.

  “No,” he replied. “Alcohol relaxes, and I require the utmost stiffening of my spirit. If I had known what was before me I would not have drunk at lunch.”

  “Then put it off till you've prepared yourself properly!”

  “No,” he replied, “it must be tonight.”

  “Look here,” I urged, “you realize there will only be a thin wall between us. If you're in any trouble bang on that wall and I'll come fighting.”

  “Have no fear,” he said, “all will be well.”

  “Yes, but if it isn't will you bang on that wall?”

  “In the last extremity I will, but it will not be necessary. And now the time has come.”

  We got up together. I took the tantalus of whiskey with me and a syphon. I had no intention of sleeping and I felt like some Scotch courage. The gale was now at its height, screaming wickedly round the house; a fit night for black and white, I thought, as we mounted the lightly creaking stairs. We parted without a word at the door of my room and Apuleius went on. Just before he opened that door he raised himself to his full height, touched the mark on his forehead, turned the handle and strode in. To this day I can see him there in my mind's eye as clearly as I did twenty-three long years ago. Then he disappeared, and I went in and closed my door. I sat down in an armchair, knocked back a big drink and tried to read. But I was half-listening all the time and couldn't concentrate. What was happening on the other side of that thin wall? I cursed the wind which waxed and waxed in venom drowning all small sounds. I could hear their straining timber roar as the great cedars fought the gale. The room seemed charged with a heightening tension. I had felt something like it before in the dynamo room of a great power station, when those smooth spinning cylinders seemed to charge and shake the air with the huge power they so nonchalantly and quietly engendered, a power that in its essence remains a mighty mystery to this day.

  I tried to visualize what Apuleius was doing. Sitting inside his magic circle, I supposed, murmuring his protective runes, straining to keep back that which strove to pass the barrier. I concentrated all my will upon it and presently I had the strangest illusion of my life. It was as though I was seeing into that room as though the wall had become almost transparent and I was gazing through its thinning veil. Apuleius was sitting there in the middle of the room surrounded by a faintly illuminated ring. His eyes were staring, his face contorted into an odious rictus, his mouth moving convulsively. On the carpet just outside the ring huge shadows were crouching, other shadows of dubious and daunting shape were leaning down the walls. All seemed to have their heads pointing at him. All the time the lighted ring grew slowly dimmer. Suddenly there came, repeated over and over again, that horrid cracking of giant fingers, the lights in my room flickered, reddened and sparked. And then there was a dazzling flash of lightning and a blast of thunder which went roaring down the gale. I could stand no more and leapt to my feet.

  Suddenly I heard Apuleius scream, once quickly, the second a piercing, drawn-out cry of agony. And then came a frenzied beating on the wall. I dashed out into the passage and flung open the door of the room. It was dimly lit, it was quiet, it was empty, the only movement, the slight stirring of the long, dark window curtains. I ran along to his room. Save for the little cardboard suitcase it was empty too. I shouted for him until Chumley came to investigate whether I had really gone crazy, or was merely very tight. He was wearing, I noted, a mink-collared dressing-gown over a pair of the Chief's most scintillating monogrammed silk pajamas.

  And on that mildly farcical note I will end the story of that night. For Apuleius was never seen again. Of course, most of the few people who cared in the least whether he was alive or dead believed he'd done a bunk for reasons not unconnected with the constabulary. He was soon forgotten for he had long c
eased to hit even the tiniest headlines. He had disappeared before and now he'd done it again. Good riddance! When the Chief heard my story he flew into a considerable fury though not with me, for he was a fair man and agreed it was not my function to control his guest and a man more than twice my own age. He wanted to believe the done-a-bunk theory naturally enough, but he realized it was dead against the weight of evidence. He had the room locked up and gave orders no one was to enter it without his or Ladyship's permission in the future.

  The years passed and so presently did the Chief, no doubt to put some ginger into celestial or infernal journalism. I got a very nice job in his organization for life, I hoped, but then came the war and I transferred my talents temporarily to the M.O.I. In 1941 I was for a time bomb-jolly through being flung out of bed and hard up against a wall when my Kensington house was next door to a direct hit. I had still kept in touch with Ladyship, then living very sensibly in a safe area, and one morning in June, 1944, she rang me up to say she had just heard Caston had been damaged by a fly-bomb and would I go down and see what had happened.

  Poor sweet old place! The doodle had dived clap in the middle of the courtyard which had, of course, enclosed the blast—and that was that. Those Tudor houses were lightly built of delicate brick and lots of glass, so Caston was no more. Center block pulverized, right wing still collapsing by stages when I arrived. My old left wing just a great mountain of debris, bricks, beds, furniture, pictures, clothes—an incredible chaos spangled everywhere with that lovely old glass. The rescue squads were digging in the center wing for the bodies of the caretaker and his wife. A bulldozer and cranes rolled up while I was there. I climbed up the monstrous and pathetic pile feeling sad and full of memories. On the summit I picked up a piece of canvas and, turning it over I was being regarded by the palest eyes which ever stared from a woman's face above a long, thin streak of scarlet. I threw it down again, that was not the sort of souvenir I relished. As I did so, I saw something glitter from between two broken bricks. I pulled it out and there was a sea-green jade ring on the splintered bone of a fleshless finger. I got the rescue men to dig around there, but we found nothing more.

  That ring is on the desk beside me as I write these words. It is lovely beyond all telling. How it happened to be where I found it is, as I have told you, a matter for you to decide.

  The Death Mask

  HD Everett

  “Yes, that is a portrait of my wife. It is considered to be a good likeness. But of course she was older-looking towards the last.”

  Enderby and I were on our way to the smoking-room after dinner, and the picture hung on the staircase. We had been chums at school a quarter of a century ago, and later on, at college; but I had spent the last decade out of England. I returned to find my friend a widower of four years’ standing. And a good job too, I thought to myself when I heard of it, for I had no great liking for the late Gloriana. Probably the sentiment, or want of sentiment, had been mutual: she did not smile on me, but I doubt if she smiled on any of poor Tom Enderby's bachelor cronies. The picture was certainly like her. She was a fine woman, with aquiline features and a cold eye. The artist had done the features justice—and the eye, which seemed to keep a steely watch on all the comings and goings of the house out of which she had died.

  We made only a brief pause before the portrait, and then went on. The smoking-room was an apartment built out at the back of the house by a former owner, and shut off by double doors to serve as a nursery. Mrs Enderby had no family, and she disliked the smell of tobacco. So the big room was made over to Tom's pipes and cigars; and if Tom's friends wanted to smoke, they must smoke there or not at all. I remembered the room and the rule, but I was not prepared to find it still existing. I had expected to light my after-dinner cigar over the dessert dishes, now there was no presiding lady to consider.

  We were soon installed in a couple of deep-cushioned chairs before a good fire. I thought Enderby breathed more freely when he closed the double doors behind us, shutting off the dull formal house, and the staircase and the picture. But he was not looking well; there hung about him an unmistakable air of depression. Could he be fretting after Gloriana? Perhaps during their married years, he had fallen into the way of depending on a woman to care for him. It is pleasant enough when the woman is the right sort; but I shouldn't myself have fancied being cared for by the late Mrs Enderby. And, if the fretting was a fact, it would be easy to find a remedy. Evelyn has a couple of pretty sisters, and we would have him over to stay at our place.

  “You must run down and see us,” I said presently, pursuing this idea. “I want to introduce you to my wife. Can you come next week?”

  His face lit up with real pleasure.

  “I should like it of all things,” he said heartily. But a qualification came after. The cloud settled back over him and he sighed. “That is, if I can get away.”

  “Why, what is to hinder you?”

  “It may not seem much to stay for, but I—I have got in the way of stopping here—to keep things together.” He did not look at me, but leaned over to the fender to knock the ash off his cigar.

  “Tell you what, Tom, you are getting hipped living by yourself. Why don't you sell the house, or let it off just as it is, and try a complete change?”

  “I can't sell it. I'm only the tenant for life. It was my wife's.”

  “Well, I suppose there is nothing to prevent you letting it? Or if you can't let it, you might shut it up.”

  “There is nothing legal to prevent me!” The emphasis was too fine to attract notice, but I remembered it after.

  “Then, my dear fellow, why not? Knock about a bit, and see the world. But, to my thinking, the best thing you could do would be to marry again.”

  He shook his head drearily.

  “Of course it is a delicate matter to urge upon a widower. But you have paid the utmost ceremonial respect. Four years, you know. The greatest stickler for propriety would deem it ample.”

  “It isn't that. Dick, I—I've a great mind to tell you rather a queer story.” He puffed hard at his smoke, and stared into the red coals in the pauses. “But I don't know what you'd think of it. Or think of me.”

  “Try me,” I said. “I'll give you my opinion after. And you know I'm safe to confide in.”

  “I sometimes think I should feel better if I told it. It's—it's queer enough to be laughable. But it hasn't been any laughing-matter to me.”

  He threw the stump of his cigar into the fire, and turned to me. And then I saw how pale he was, and that a dew of perspiration was breaking out on his white face.

  “I was very much of your opinion, Dick: I thought I should be happier if I married again. And I went so far as to get engaged. But the engagement was broken off, and I am going to tell you why.

  “My wife was some time ailing before she died, and the doctors were in consultation. But I did not know how serious her complaint was till the last. Then they told me there was no hope, as coma had set in. But it was possible, even probably, that there would be a revival of consciousness before death, and for this I was to hold myself ready.

  “I dare say you will write me down a coward, but I dreaded the revival: I was ready to pray that she might pass away in her sleep. I knew she held exalted views about the marriage tie, and I felt sure if there were any last words she would exact a pledge.

  “I could not at such a moment refuse to promise, and I did not want to be tied. You will recollect that she was my senior. I was about to be left a widower in middle life, and in the natural course of things I had a good many years before me. You see?”

  “My dear fellow, I don't think a promise so extorted ought to bind you. It isn't fair!”

  “Wait and hear me. I was sitting here, miserable enough, as you may suppose, when the doctor came to fetch me to her room. Mrs Enderby was conscious and had asked for me, but he particularly begged me not to agitate her in any way, lest pain should return. She was lying stretched out in the bed, looking already like a
corpse.

  “‘Tom,’ she said, ‘they tell me I am dying, and there is something I want you to—promise.’

  “I groaned in spirit. It was all up with me, I thought. But she went on. ‘When I am dead and in my coffin, I want you to cover my face with your own hands. Promise me this.’

  “It was not in the very least what I expected. Of course I promised. “‘I want you to cover my face with a particular handkerchief on which I set a value. When the time comes, open the cabinet to the right of the window, and you will find it in the third drawer.’ “That was every word she said, if you believe me, Dick. She just sighed and shut her eyes as if she was going to sleep, and she never spoke again. Three or four days later they came again to ask me if I wished to take a last look, as the undertaker's men were about to close the coffin.

  “I felt a great reluctance, but it was necessary I should go. She looked as if made of wax, and was colder than ice to touch. I opened the cabinet, and there, just as she said, was a large handkerchief of very fine cambric, lying by itself. It was embroidered with a monogram device in all four corners, and was not of a sort I had ever seen her use. I spread it out and laid it over the dead face; and then what happened was rather curious. It seemed to draw down over the features and cling to them, to nose and mouth and forehead and the shut eyes, till it became a perfect mask. My nerves were shaken, I suppose; I was seized with horror, and flung back the covering sheet, hastily quitting the room. And the coffin was closed that night.

  “Well, she was buried, and I put up a monument which the neighbourhood considered handsome. As you see, I was bound by no pledge to abstain from marriage; and, though I knew what would have been her wish, I saw no reason why I should regard it. And, some months after, a family of the name of Ashcroft came to live at The Leasowes, and they had a pretty daughter.

  “I took a fancy to Lucy Ashcroft the first time I saw her, and it was soon apparent that she was well inclined to me. She was a gentle, yielding little thing; not the superior style of woman. Not at all like—”