The Magic Cottage

by James Herbert

  When we gazed upward again, most of the stars had disappeared behind seeping black clouds. It looked as if there'd been a power cut in the sky.

  I've no idea what time it was when the screams woke us.

  We both shot upright in bed as though activated by the same spring. There was just enough light to make out Midge's outline and I felt her hands clutching fearfully at me.

  "Oh God, Mike, what was that?"

  "I'm not sure—"

  The screams came again, high-pitched and terrible, impossible to tell whether they came from man or woman. I scrabbled for the bedside lamp, nearly knocking it over before finding the switch to flick it on. We were both naked and Midge lost no time in pulling on her nightshirt while I reached for my robe. We made it to the door together.

  I'll admit it, though: I hesitated just a fraction before opening that door. The screams sent an iciness through me that seemed to reach down and frost my testicles. I turned my shudder into action by twisting the handle.

  With no barrier between us, the sounds were even more intense and scary.

  A lamp was on in the round room, Kiwi kneeling on the floor beside it: she was staring horror-struck at a crouching figure on the far side of the room. That crouching figure was Bob, his face even more horror-struck, ugly and disfigured, like one of those stone gargoyles you find jutting from cathedral ramparts. What made his appearance all the more shocking was that he was white. I mean it—totally white. From his face down to his chest and stomach. Down to the waistband of his pyjama legs. Even his arms. Not just pale, or ashen, but white.

  He was looking toward the open doorway leading to the stairs, and his eyes were wider than seemed possible. His jaw was dropped almost to his throat, his mouth a huge gaping hole, now his screams no more than dry scratchy sounds.

  I ran to him, calling his name as if that might drag him back from the madness that was evident in his stare, skidding to my knees before him. His hands, like stiffened claws, were held up to his face as though to block out a nightmare vision; but still his eyes stared insanely from behind bent fingers. He was trembling, the movement jerky stiff, his body somehow brittle.

  "Bob, what is it? Calm down and tell me what's wrong!"

  He didn't seem to hear; he tried to push himself further into the curved wall, bare feet scuffing at the carpet. I pulled at his wrists and they were like juddering steel rods, impossible to move. Somewhere in the background I could hear loud sobbing, and I hoped Midge was tending to Bob's girlfriend—I had enough to cope with without offering any comfort there.

  "Bob, for Chrissake take it easy!"

  I shook his shoulders, although I was almost afraid to touch their milky whiteness, and he flinched violently. I persisted though, matching his strength with a roughness of my own. This time I grasped his hands and wrenched them down, moving my head close so that he was forced to look at my face.

  Maybe I should have realized there and then what part of the problem was, because despite the room's soft light his pupils were small, contracted, as though affected by bright sunshine. And there was a glassiness to his stare that overlaid the horror expressed there; I'd observed that same faraway look over the years on the faces of several acquaintances who'd gone beyond cannabis.

  But the atmosphere was too charged, too frighteningly potent, for me to take cognizance of that right away. I kept my voice soothing and controlled as I reasoned with him.

  "There's nothing happening to you, Bob, everything's okay. You've had a bad dream, that's all. Or maybe you heard something that scared you. Was it the bats? We didn't tell you we had bats in our belfry, did we? They scare the hell out of me sometimes and I'm used to 'em. C'mon now, Bob, we're all here and nothing's gonna hurt you.

  I felt slightly foolish coaxing him like this, but it really was as though I had a terrified child on my hands.

  For a brief moment, his eyes managed to focus on mine, and that seemed to help a little. He stopped struggling against me and tried to speak, but still that rasping sound emerged. He was having difficulty in closing his mouth to form words.

  I looked away for a second to see how the others were and wished I hadn't. The round room somehow wasn't the same. Oh, everything was in place, the furniture hadn't changed, the carpet wasn't a different color, nor were the drapes: but I was somewhere else. Everything was cold— without touching I knew that everything was tomb-cold— and everywhere there were shadows where they shouldn't have been. And the musty, damp smell was back. I thought I saw bubbling fungi on the curved walls, but the shadows were too deep, too obscuring, to be sure. And the room was growing smaller, the walls closing in so slowly that I couldn't be certain, even when I blinked my eyes and looked again, I couldn't be sure, couldn't measure it. The shrinkage had to be imaginary, had to be! The mustiness clogged my throat, making it difficult to breathe.

  Kiwi was wailing, Midge kneeling beside her with an arm around the blonde's shoulders, doing her best to calm her and having about as much success as I was with Bob. Kiwi was trying to tell us something, but I could only understand a few choked phrases here and there:

  ". . . thirsty . . . he . . . went downstairs . . . oh my God, I heard him scream . . . he saw someone down . . . there . . ."

  More than enough for me to catch the drift, and centipedes fresh from the freezer crawled up my spine. Somehow I guessed what had confronted Bob in the kitchen.

  Fingernails raking my chest returned my attention to my buddy lying propped against the wall, and I grasped his wrist to stop the painful scratching. His head was shaking like a palsied man's and his other hand was pointing generally toward the open doorway—I say generally because his arm was moving wildly, barely able to maintain any sure direction.

  But I followed his gaze rather than his pointing arm, mesmerized by the stark insanity in his eyes: it was like following the dotted line in a cartoon, from eyeball to object.

  There was no light on in the hallway, but a pale glow came from the bend in the stairs; from the kitchen itself, in fact. BOD must have switched on the light down there.

  The room, seen only in the periphery of my vision, was growing smaller and the shadows darker, as if both conspired to crush those within. My subconscious sent the message that it was only imagination, my own fear, that was creating the effect; that fleeting realization afforded little comfort. I still gripped Bob's wrist, and now I was shaking as much as he. My jaw locked open as I watched through the open doorway.

  A shadow was rising from the stairway. A bulky shape, ill-defined, inky dark. Coming up from the kitchen.

  Rising. Lit only dimly from the back. Now in almost complete darkness as it rose higher, came around the bend in the stairs.

  Slowly emerging into the soft light of the round room.

  BAD TRIP

  I ALMOST COLLAPSED with relief when Midge's agent walked through the door.

  " Jesus fucking Christ, Val, you nearly scared us shitless!" I thumped my fist on the floor in exasperation.

  She was genuinely surprised. "Good Lord, why? I went down to investigate the cause of all the fuss our gibbering friend was making."

  She reached for the switch by the door and turned on the overhead light. Walls immediately sprang back into place, shadows instantly evaporated. Val strode purposefully into the room, voluminous flannel nightgown, worn with total disregard to the season, billowing out behind her. Never had she looked so formidable. Nor so reassuring.

  "There's nothing downstairs, Bob, nothing at all," she said, bearing down on us. "Now just what is all this nonsense about?"

  I drew my robe around me, feeling somewhat under-dressed, and hauled myself to my feet. We looked at Bob together and I was happy to notice a glimmer of color returning to his flesh. He didn't look healthy, though, he didn't look healthy at all.

  "Help me with him," I said to Val, and we both grasped his arms and pulled him up. There was no resistance left in Bob, and little life either, and we all but carried him over to the sofabed.

  "
He was crawling across the room when I got out here," Val explained as we gently lowered his body, "screaming blue murder and pointing at the stairs. I thought perhaps you'd had burglars, so I rushed down there immediately."

  I always knew she had balls, but I never suspected how much.

  "Empty, of course, no sign of anyone in the kitchen. I checked the door and windows, but there were no signs of (heir being forced. I think dear Bob must have woken from an extremely bad nightmare."

  Kiwi was still sobbing, but she managed to say, "No, no. He was awake. He needed a drink of water. He went downstairs."

  I was still shaken enough not to take too much notice of her long thighs exposed beneath her short and flimsy nightie.

  "Did you turn on the light in the kitchen?" I asked Val.

  "No, it was already on. All right, so he did find his way down there, but I can't imagine what sparked off all this hoo-ha."

  Midge and I helped Kiwi sit on the edge of the sofabed; Bob lay on his back staring at the ceiling and murmuring to himself.

  I lifted Kiwi's chin with a crooked finger so that I could look at her face. "What did Bob take tonight? I know he was on cannabis most of the evening, but he took something stronger when we all turned in, didn't he?"

  I felt Midge's eyes on me and risked a glance at her. I shook my head slightly, an apology as much as anything else.

  "Come on, Kiwi, we need to know," I persisted.

  "He . . . he took some Chinese."

  I closed my eyes and silently swore. Smack. Heroin. Cheap brown powder that was mixed with all kinds of impurities, often strychnine and other toxics. The stupid bloody idiot!

  "Not . . . not much," she added quickly. "He only sniffed a little bit. He wanted me to join him, but the stuff makes me sick. It's not good for my sinuses."

  Bob began to moan aloud and writhe on the bed. Then he sat bolt upright and slowly looked around the room. Still pallid, but his skin no longer having that eerie albescence, he shook less spasmodically than before, the movement becoming a steady tremble.

  "This . . . pi—place . . ." he stammered.

  It was Midge who came forward and put a gentle hand by the side of his neck.

  "Bob, there's nothing here to harm you," she told him, her voice low and as gentle as her touch.

  It took a while for his eyes to focus solely on her, and when they did his chest slumped as though he were suddenly exhausted. When he spoke, his words were tearful: "This fucking place . . . I've got to get out of here!"

  "Hush, now," she said, and I saw her hand become reassuringly firmer against him. "There's nothing here to be afraid of.'"

  For myself, I was angry at him, almost mad enough to pop him. He'd had no right to bring that stuff into our home, no right at all, especially when he knew Midge's feelings against all drugs, hard or soft. It took a lot of restraint not to choke him.

  "Snap out of it, Bob," I told him severely. "You've snorted some bad shit, that's the strength of it." But I remembered the menace that I, myself, had experienced.

  He seemed more in control of himself, and I think Midge's soothings had much to do with that. She continued talking to him, her tones moderated, her hand always working softly on the stiffened muscles of his neck and shoulder.

  When he spoke again, the hysteria was held in check— only just, though. "There was something down there in the kitchen—"

  "There's no one else in the cottage," I said.

  "Not someone, something! Waiting for me in the dark, sitting there . . . ! Jesus, the stink! I can smell it now. Can't you? There's something terrible here!" His voice was rising in pitch once more.

  "No, Bob," Midge replied calmly. "Gramarye is a good place, there's nothing bad here."

  "You're wrong. Something's . . . something's . . ." His mouth flapped open; he couldn't find the words.

  Kiwi was sobbing aloud again and Bob turned to her, then to me, almost desperately. "Mike, I'm not staying, I'm not staying here—"

  "Take it easy," I said. "You're on a bad trip. It'll pass, just calm down."

  "No, no way . . . this room . . . the walls . . ."

  I knew what he meant. Hadn't I been sure the walls were moving closer, that mold was forming on them in the shadows? Or had his hallucination, his hysteria, insinuated itself into my own mind? Not much was certain to me any more inside the cottage.

  "You can't leave in the middle of the night," I told him with a mildness I hardly felt. "For one thing, you can't drive in your present state, and for another, you need to calm down and sleep this off."

  "Sleep? You're fucking crazy if you think I'm gonna sleep in this place!" He started looking around again, this time wildly.

  "It's nearly three in the morning,"' put in Val, who hovered over us all, "much too late for traveling. We'll sit with you until it's light, then if you still want to, you can leave."

  Every one of us jumped back when Bob screamed.

  "Now! I've gotta get out now!"

  He threshed around on the bed like a spoiled kid who couldn't get his own way. I grabbed him and pulled him back as he tried to leave the bed, pinning him there by his shoulders and needing all my strength to do so. I was alarmed to see spittle glistening the sides of his mouth.

  "Leave him be!" Kiwi shouted, and began tugging at my arm. "I'll drive, I'll take him home!"

  "He's in no condition—"

  "I think it would be for the best, Mike."

  I looked over my shoulder at Midge in surprise. "It could be dangerous for both of them with Bob in this state."

  "He'll be better once he's away from here," she answered.

  "We can't be sure of that."

  "It's more dangerous for him to stay."

  Bewildered, I turned my attention back to Bob; now tears were running from his face onto the pillow beneath him.

  "She might be right," said Val. "I should let him go, Mike."

  Uncertain, I relaxed my grip, but I didn't release him. "Bob, listen to me now." I held his jaw to make him look lit me. "You can get dressed and we'll take you down to your car. Kiwi will drive, okay? Can you understand me?"

  " 'Course I can fucking understand you. Just let me up. Oh Christ, I've . . ." Again he couldn't finish the sentence.

  I let go of him and rose from the sofabed. He sat and Kiwi pushed by me to throw her arms around his shoulders.

  "Help him get dressed," I told her. "We'll wait downstairs."

  The three of us stayed long enough to see that Bob was more in control of himself, and although his movements were erratic and he shivered as if chilled, he gave the appearance of having come to his senses a little more. But we could tell he was still very frightened.

  "I'll make some coffee," said Midge quietly, and she and Val went to the stairs. I took time out to return to our bedroom and don jeans and sneakers, keeping the robe wrapped around me. I looked in on Bob again before going downstairs and found Kiwi already dressed, throwing spare clothes and bathroom things into their overnight bag, while Bob slowly did up the buttons of his shirt, his gaze fearfully roaming the room, checking that the walls weren't on the move again.

  I was sorry for him and I was angry at him. And, of course, I was worried for him. But also, I was becoming very afraid for Midge and myself.

  Kiwi helped Bob on with his jacket while I watched, ready to leap in and restrain him should his panic bubble over again: I could tell the hysteria was just below the surface, barely held in check.

  "Bob," I said, "I'd feel better if you didn't leave . . ."

  He looked at me as if I were the one in need of treatment, the wildness of his expression contrary to the usual appearance of someone on heroin: there was a kind of dreaminess there sure enough, but it was of the nightmare variety.

  He suddenly gripped both my arms, his words forced and slurred. "What is . . . this place?"

  And that was all he said.

  He let go of me just as abruptly and grabbed Kiwi, pulling her toward the door. He stopped before the hallway, though
, and his girlfriend had to support his weight as he swayed there. He kept shaking his head, and for a moment I thought he was going to faint.

  "He doesn't want to go down there again," Kiwi called back to me. "Let us out this way, Mike, please hurry."

  I pushed past them and unbolted the door in the hallway above the stairs. They were through before I could stop them.

  "Hey, it's dark out there. Let me go first—those steps are dangerous." The only reply I got was from an owl somewhere off in the woods.

  They were already on the top step, Kiwi struggling with one of Bob's arms around her shoulders, using her free hand on the wall to guide herself, the other carrying the overnight bag. They tottered dangerously and I hurried after them before they could tumble.

  Taking Bob from her, I slipped his arm around my neck, gripping his wrist tightly and sliding my other arm about his waist. We began an awkward descent and I was glad I'd cleared most of the moss from the steps. Even so, the stone felt slippery beneath me.

  When my fingers brushed against the brickwork of the cottage itself, it too felt silky damp.

  Twice my feet slid on the smooth steps, but both times I managed to keep upright, pushing Bob against the wall to steady ourselves. I breathed a sigh of relief when we made it into the garden.

  The front door opened as we passed, throwing out some useful light, and Val appeared on the other side of Bob; she helped me guide him along the path, Kiwi running ahead to open the car. At the gate, I turned briefly and looked back at the cottage.

  The black silhouette of Midge was in the doorway, so perfectly still that she could have been part of Gramarye's structure. It was a strange, fleeting moment.

  We bundled our burden into the car, Kiwi quickly climbing into the driver's seat, and now Bob had his eyes closed. I tucked in his legs and before I straightened, my head close to his, he opened his eyes again and stared directly into mine. I still shudder when I remember that look (even (hough worse and more memorable events were to follow), because I saw not just his fear, but an intense and wretched despair within him. Looking into those eyes was like peering into a deep, shadowed well, at the bottom of which something indefinable in the darkness moved, writhed, reached upward in a gesture of pleading. The drugs he had taken that night had closed certain doors in his mind—which is their true effectiveness—but that had left exposed a direct passage toward other, more inward senses. Whatever he had faced, whatever he had imagined he'd seen downstairs in Gramarye's kitchen, had been drawn from his own darker thoughts.