The Science-Fantasy Megapack

by E. C. Tubb

  Puzzled, Charles swung his feet to the floor and padded to the window overlooking the front of the house. Some time while he had slept, the sky had cleared and now the grounds were flooded with yellow moonlight. Details were clearly visible but there was no sign of anything that could have produced the sounds he was still hearing. It was as if invisible carriages were moving away from the house towards the distant gates.

  He picked out faint voices and occasional raucous laughter before the last echoes atrophied into silence.

  He also noticed another odd effect, one that he had witnessed before during his previous visit.

  The entire scene outside shimmered briefly. Details wavered in a curious manner for which he could find no rational explanation, unless it was a distortion produced by the glass.

  Somehow, he found his way back to the bed and sat with the covers pulled up to his chest, staring into the darkness. Had he simply imagined those sounds? After all, this was his first night in a strange, old house and perhaps those stories told him at the inn might have affected him more than he had thought.

  In the morning, he tried to put the event down to some strange, but extremely vivid, nightmare, telling himself it had not really happened. There were no such things as ghosts. The dead remained dead.

  Besides, even if there had been any truth in the old man’s utterance, everyone had escaped the fire, which had supposedly gutted this building. Even that made no sense when there was absolutely no evidence that the Manor had been rebuilt, certainly not within the last century.

  To take his mind off the morbid thoughts that raced chaotically through his mind, Charles spent most of the day in the garden close to the house, setting to work with his usual vigor to put the grounds in order again. It was hard work digging up tangled roots, clearing the choking weeds from around thorny rose bushes and apple trees.

  By evening, there was a large bonfire burning on a patch of clear ground, the dense white smoke spiraling lazily into the still air.

  Satisfied with what he had achieved, he left the fire smoldering and went inside. For some reason, he was feeling tensed and decided to take a couple of the tablets his doctor had prescribed. The doctor had warned him not to take alcohol with the tablets but, as he settled himself in front of the fire in the wide hearth, he thought, “What the hell—”

  As he sipped his third brandy, he considered several questions that were still puzzling him. Why was there no sign of dust anywhere? He doubted if anyone from the village would come daily to keep it clean even if his uncle had made provision for that before his death. It was almost as if the house had been waiting for him to move in.

  After the fourth brandy, an odd drowsiness came over him. He felt his eyelids drooping, his head sinking towards the table. He had the feeling that someone, or something, was watching him closely. Once he opened his eyes to assure himself it was only his imagination playing tricks with him. The only eyes staring down at him were those in the large portraits on the walls.

  His eyes closed again and a moment later he was asleep, the half-empty glass falling from his hand onto the floor. When he came awake, he was shivering violently. The two candles he had placed on the table had burned very low and were flickering on the point of extinction. Then, with a sudden cry, he jerked himself from his chair.

  The unmistakable sound of voices and laughter reached him quite clearly from outside. His first thought was that some of the more adventurous youths from the village had made their way across the moors intent on making trouble.

  If that were the case, he’d soon chase them away. With a grim determination, he strode to the door and threw it open. The sudden shock of what he saw froze him instantly.

  Everything was changed. Where he had left the smoldering bonfire was a wide grassy lawn sloping towards the gates. Light suddenly spilled through every window on the lower floor, clearly illuminating the long line of carriages drawn up in front of the house. The men and women alighting from them were dressed oddly in the style of two centuries earlier.

  In twos and threes, they brushed past him. Not one so much as glanced in his direction or gave any sign they saw him. It was as if he didn’t exist. Behind him, in the banqueting hall, there was a sudden riot of noise. Tall wax candles suddenly appeared on the table.

  As he watched, every seat was occupied. A ceaseless chatter dinned in his ears as he sagged against the door.

  At the head of the table he saw a tall, arrogant man in his mid-fifties whom Charles instantly recognized from the portraits around the walls as the infamous Sir Roger Ingham. His face was flushed with drink and something in his close-set eyes sent a shiver of ice along Charles’ spine. The man was the embodiment of pure, sadistic evil.

  Immobile, Charles struggled to pull himself together. The one thought in his mind was that the drug he had taken with the brandy was affecting him to the point where he was hallucinating. Once he slept it off, everything would return to normal.

  A harsh, angry shout from the head of the table jerked Charles’ head around. His ancestor had lurched drunkenly to his feet, a silver goblet in his hand. “More wine!” he yelled.

  One of the liveried servants hurried over. The man’s hands were shaking violently as he poured more wine into the goblet. Some spilled onto the table but more fell upon Sir Roger’s richly-embroidered coat.

  With a roar of rage, he flung the goblet into the servant’s face, sending him reeling back. Whirling, Sir Roger motioned to two other footmen standing nearby.

  “I’ll teach ye to spill drink on your master!” Swaying a little, he tore at the servant’s jacket and shirt, ripping them away until the man was naked to the waist. With a gesture, Ingham ordered the footmen to pin the man to the wall.

  Another lackey crossed to the wall and took down a long, heavy whip, which Sir Roger snatched from him. Motioning the footmen away, he drew back the whip and then proceeded to flog the unfortunate servant mercilessly. Within minutes, the man’s back was a mass of lacerated, bleeding flesh.

  But worse was to come. Dragging the servant from the wall, he flung him to the floor. Then, reaching up, he pulled one of a pair of axes from the wall. Charles could barely suppress a scream as his ancestor raised the axe high above his head and brought the blade down on the moaning man’s outstretched wrist.

  “Now ye’ll not spill any of my fine wine again.” Sir Roger straightened, his face like a demon’s as he stared around the guests gathered at the table.

  Charles had expected to see shock and horror mirrored on their faces. But, without exception, he saw broad smiles of approval, their very attitudes applauding his actions and lusting for more. Clearly, these folk were just as evil as Sir Roger. The footmen hauled the servant to his feet and took him from the room while a third entered and sprinkled sawdust on the pool of blood near the table.

  Shaking uncontrollably, Charles pushed himself hard against the wall. Dear God, had such scenes as this really happened two hundred years ago? If so, he could clearly understand how the villagers felt about his family even after all this time.

  Sir Roger had returned to his seat, an expression of malicious amusement on his coarse features. For a moment, he sat there, his gaze roving over the faces of his guests.

  Then, suddenly, he turned his head and stared directly at the spot where Charles stood. His gaze locked with Charles’ and there was a look of growing amazement blended with anger on his bloated features.

  Starting up, he pointed directly at Charles. “An interloper in our midst!” he bellowed. “How did yon knave gain entry into my house? Seize him!”

  Somehow, Charles galvanized himself into action. Several of the guests were on their feet. Together with the servants, they came towards him.

  His first thought was the front door directly behind him. Frantically, he twisted the handle but it stubbornly refused to open. There was no escape that way.

  Turning, he ran for the far wall. His only chance lay in getting back upstairs, into his bedroom, and locking the th
ick wooden door. A dark, menacing figure suddenly blocked his way.

  Without thinking, he swung a clenched fist at the leering face, expecting his hand to pass right through it. Instead, his knuckles contacted solid flesh.

  With a grunt, the man staggered and fell to his knees. Desperately, Charles kicked out as the servant attempted to grab him around the knees. Then, acutely aware of the pandemonium all around him, he managed to free himself.

  Moments later, he reached the bottom of the wide stairway and took the stairs two at a time, almost falling in his frantic haste to reach the top. Behind him, Sir Roger was shouting at the top of his voice, urging his guests on.

  Throwing open the door of the bedroom, he slammed it shut behind him, sliding the thick metal bolts into place. He was shaking convulsively as he dragged the heavy dressed across the floor, thrusting it hard against the door.

  His mind whirling, he threw himself down on the bed. If this was an hallucination induced by that drug he’d taken, it was too damned real for his liking. Even now, the hallucination continued. Dimly, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside the door.

  The handle turned, accompanied by several loud blows. Harsh voices sounded. Then these ceased. But from downstairs, there was still the sound of coarse, raucous laughter.

  Steadying himself, he tried to think clearly. This had to be a delusion. There was no other rational explanation. From all he knew, it was a fact that none of these people had died here and there was no reason for them to haunt this place.

  He clung desperately to that one thought, still struggling to compose himself. How long he lay there, still trembling all over, he couldn’t tell. Then, abruptly, there came a change in the sounds from below. The harsh merriment gave way to shrieks of terror. There came the crash of dishes, the unmistakable sound of running feet.

  For a moment, Charles remained where he was, fingers clutching convulsively at the bed covers. Then he stumbled from the bed and walked unsteadily to the window.

  There was still light spilling onto the lawn from the lower floor but now it was different, tinged with an angry red. It was not candlelight but something far more frightening and deadly.

  The house was ablaze. He could not understand how it had happened but he knew he had to get out of there, and quickly. Pulling the dresser from the doorway, he tugged urgently at the handle. It refused to open.

  There was the faint sound of carriage wheels diminishing into the distance, followed by the insidious crackle of flames eating into the woodwork, spreading swiftly through the lower half of the house.

  As he pulled futilely at the door, Charles Ingham now saw it all. With the possible exception of one, there were no ghosts here. It was the house itself which was the ghost, taking him back to that far-off time of Sir Roger and his cronies—and in a single soul-searing instant, he knew the identity of that body which had been found in the burnt-out ruins all those years ago!

  THE MARTIAN ENIGMA, by John Glasby

  After two days in orbit, the third expeditionary ship to Mars landed gently on the rust-red surface within half a kilometre of the designated position. Outside, there was a dust storm in the distance but Clive Bradwell, the pilot, estimated it was too far away to pose any danger to them.

  Two earlier expeditions to the Red Planet had both landed in this region and had reported finding something strange situated close to the large mound, which they could now clearly see on the rectangular visiplate.

  Vic Cranton, the astronomer, stood facing the viewer, a worried frown on his lean features. Beside him, Anne Kirby, the biophysicist and Helen Wainwright, an eminent geologist, made up the rest of the crew.

  “What do you make of it, Vic?” Bradwell asked. “Anything there to explain why those two ships failed to return to Earth?”

  The astronomer shook his head. “Nothing. To be quite honest, this is precisely what I expected. You’re absolutely certain this is the location they gave in their initial reports?”

  “No doubt about it. The coordinates agree exactly.”

  “Just what did those two missions report?” Anne asked. “Remind me.”

  “Simply that an important find had been made,” Clive replied. “Neither team went into any detail. And as far as we know, they took off successfully on their return to Earth.”

  “So whatever happened to them, it must have occurred after they’d left the planet.”

  “That’s the presumptive conclusion back on Earth.” Clive walked over to the lockers, which housed the protective suits. “But there’s something here which seems highly peculiar to me. Two spacecraft malfunctioning on the return journey. That makes no sense.”

  Vic glanced away from the visiplate, rubbing his chin. “Before we go down onto the surface, does anyone have any suggestions as to what might have happened?”

  It was Anne who answered him. “Either we accept that something went wrong with both ships or—or whatever they found here was the cause of their disappearance.”

  “Then I suggest we check out what’s down there but proceed with caution,” Helen put in. “We’ll certainly discover nothing just standing here.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they had suited up and were standing on the Martian surface. The large dust cloud had disappeared into the far distance.

  Beneath their feet, the ochre soil was dotted with rocks and boulders of every shape and size. Bradwell pointed a gloved hand. Over the communicator, he said, “That long escarpment yonder in where they claimed they found something out of the ordinary.”

  In the lower gravity, they made their way cautiously towards it. It loomed about a hundred feet above the flatness of the surrounding sand and Bradwell estimated it to be at least six kilometres in length.

  He scanned it meticulously through the transparent vizor. Outwardly, it appeared no different from the hundreds of other similar formations they had scanned from orbit.

  The pale sunlight, slanting obliquely across the surface made it glow a dull crimson.

  “Nothing here but solid rock,” Helen said, examining it closely. “Somehow, I doubt if—”

  She broke off sharply as Anne’s voice sounded excitedly over their communicators.

  “There’s something here but I don’t believe what I’m seeing.”

  Clive glanced round quickly. She was standing some distance away, staring down at the base of the escarpment immediately in front of her.

  Feet sloughing off the reddish sand, they joined her.

  There was a dark, irregular opening in the rock and, even though the aperture was deeply shadowed, they could clearly make out the steps leading down into absolute darkness.

  For a moment, they stared at each other in stunned silence. Then Clive said harshly, “So there was once intelligent life on Mars. But these steps must be millions of years old and whoever, or whatever, made them must have died out along with any vegetation there may have been, almost as long ago.”

  “I wouldn’t be too dogmatic about that,” Anne said tensely.

  Vic forced casualness into his tone. “Surely you’re not suggesting that—”

  “All I’m saying is that we shouldn’t forget those two other missions. Either they found something here—or something found them.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, broken by the astronomer. “Then I think you and Clive should remain here while Helen and I investigate.”

  When the pilot made to protest, he added, “You have to stay, Clive. You’re the only one who can take the ship back to Earth if anything does happen.”

  “Then watch your step, both of you,” Cranton said, his face twisted into a worried frown. “We’re dealing with the unknown here. There’s no telling what might be down there.”

  Nodding, Vic took the large torch that the pilot held out to him, switched it on, and shone the powerful beam down into the blackness. The steps seemed to descend as far as the torchlight could penetrate. He also noticed their peculiar delineations as if they had been designed for feet t
otally unlike those of humans.

  With Helen following close behind him, he lowered himself down, one hand trailing along the wall. Faceted crystals along the walls reflected the light back at him out of thousands of winking eyes.

  Just what is this? he wondered. Some incredibly alien artefact encrusted within the rock, or some long-dead Martian burial place like the pyramids? It seemed certain that several million years of geological time lay stratified within these crystal rocks.

  Helen’s voice crackled over the communicator in his helmet. “Can you see any end to these steps? We must be more than a hundred feet below the surface already.”

  “Nothing yet,” he answered. “They just seem to—” He broke off sharply. “What is it?”

  “There’s something down there. I can’t quite make out what it is.”

  Carefully, they eased themselves down for a further thirty feet. In front of them stood a huge door inlaid with the cryptic symbols of some alien language.

  “So what do we do now?” Helen asked. “Personally, I can see no way of opening this. Yet, somehow, I have the feeling those others who cam here were describing something more important and unusual than this.”

  “Meaning that, somehow, they opened it and saw what’s on the other side?”

  “Exactly.”

  Vic pondered that for a moment, then thrust the torch into her hands.

  “Hold this for me.”

  While Helen shone the light over the door, Vic reached out and ran his fingers over the strange symbols. By now, he was convinced those two earlier teams had found the means of opening it. Yet at first, he could see nothing.

  Then he thought he noticed something. “Move around to the side and shine the light obliquely across it,” he said tautly.

  A moment later, he knew he had not been mistaken. All of the symbols, with but one exception, were engraved upon the surface. One, however, close to the left-hand side, was embossed, throwing its shadow across the surface.

  Acting on impulse, he stretched out his hand and placed it on that particular motif, pressing hard. There was a faint click and an instant later, the door slid downward into the rock.