“Look!” exclaimed Markham. “What’s the matter with the dog?”
The animal seemed to be following its master at a measured distance, it dodged and hung back and swerved almost as if leaving room for something else; moreover it kept its nose close to the ground, tracing the line of some invisible path. Forward. Sideways. Back a little. And always sniffing, sniffing. The rain dripping relentlessly off its coat made no impression on the creature; intent, it trotted on never once raising its head.
“Oh, there must be something running along under the ground. I feel sure I’ve seen that kind of behavior before—yes, I’m certain I have. Probably a mole.”
“In the middle of winter?”
But they were not country folk, either of them; and lacking any precise information they speedily lost interest in Mr. Bernays and his dog. Preparations for the Christmas feast occupied the next couple of days, they were expecting a group of young companions from London. It is doubtful whether Paul would have given the matter another thought save for one exasperating fact: it kept on raining. By the third day the lack of his raincoat became a serious inconvenience; taking an umbrella and thinking rather uncharitable things about his uncle, he set off across the fields to visit the rectory of St. Wilbrod’s.
He had never been there before: the matter of the inheritance produced coldness on the one side and embarrassment on the other; it was impossible not to feel that he had deprived his relation (possibly unjustly) of a home. How fortunate that the Reverend Alaric stepped forward to provide Uncle Nicholas with a roof over his head. He must have known Uncle Nicholas pretty well—and even played a part in the long-forgotten quarrel between that gentleman and his father. Paul considered the matter as he walked; what had taken place, what could have persuaded a solid conventional pater familias to disinherit his son? Life’s a rum business, thought Paul; with which solemn platitude he looked up and saw the rectory before him.
It was a great rambling building of quite remarkable ugliness. Remarkable, too, for it stood alone among ploughed fields, no other house appeared to be anywhere near and more oddly still, no church. He blinked. The rectory crouched like some gray animal against the wide curve of the sky, there were a couple of wind-torn elms beside it, a line of fencing badly in need of repair. There was no church.
“But where is St. Wilbrod’s . . .?”
He had been made welcome by the rector, his uncle had, it seemed, gone out.
“St. Wilbrod’s? A commonplace story, my dear sir. There used to be a thriving village here in the last century, oh yes, oh dear me yes, a sizable community. By some unlucky chance—failed crops, disease, bad husbandry, I cannot precisely identify the cause—the people moved away. What was the village of Barscombe has moved quite five miles to the east. A shift in the population which has, I fear, done nothing to enlarge my parish.”
“Has the church gone too?”
“Good heavens, no.” Alaric rose with a cold smile, and drew the young man toward the window. He had very soft white fingers, which stuck to Paul’s arm like so many enlarged slugs. “Some things are not easily destroyed, I assure you. There is my church.”
It lay behind the house, invisible from the main path. It astonished by reason of its shape, for it was tiny, a tiny Norman building. A squat tower with a little spirelet or “Sussex cap”; surely incredible that such a miniature affair should have warranted this great barn of a rectory. Paul said as much. His host nodded, drawing hairy eyebrows together, dark eyes gazed at the boy.
“It has been a matter of some concern to the Church authorities. The ever-present question of finance! We live in difficult times, my son, singularly difficult times. Perhaps you would care to examine St. Wilbrod’s? It has great historical though little artistic merit.”
He led the way across a path made slippery by decayed leaves; the debris of autumn lay around them, there had been no attempt to clear the ground and an unpleasant musty smell contaminated the air. The rain had stopped, leaving a pervading dampness. As they went, Paul felt constrained to explain, to excuse himself—though he had done no wrong and merely chanced to benefit from a family quarrel.
“I trust my uncle keeps in good health, sir?”
“Tolerably.” Again the wintry smile.
“I am very conscious he has been unfairly treated . . .”
“Life is not fair, Mr. Bernays. Fascinating. Complex. But not fair.”
“Does he hold my good fortune against me?”
“Oh come, Mr. Bernays! You have the money. You really must not expect to be popular as well.”
“Perhaps if I made him a small allowance, in recompense?”
“I think not,” said the Reverend Alaric evenly; and motioned him inside the church.
It was bare to the point of emptiness; a simple altar, two Early English lancets in the chancel, a stained glass window of no merit whatsoever. Paul sat down. He was rehearsing a suitable comment when the priest murmured: “You must excuse me. I think I hear your uncle on the drive, he may not have a latch key.” The next instant he had gone, fading noiselessly into the shadows. His guest remained seated, lost in a conflicting whirl of emotion; he did not wish to harm anybody, anybody in the world, and surely he could not be blamed for inheriting . . . He closed his eyes and composed a brief prayer. Dear Lord, bless this house and me and Uncle Nicholas.
He stiffened. There seemed to be a murmur, the dry patter of innumerable lips. Consciously he knew that he sat alone in a country church; yet he felt most powerfully that behind him opened a vast nave; a huge assembly of people were seated just out of sight behind his back. The very air opened up, he must be in the center of a great cathedral . . .
Paul jerked round.
Bare walls, almost within touching distance. A few empty pews, stained and scratched with age. Dusty altar hangings. Needless to say, nobody was there. His bewilderment still lay strong upon him when the Reverend Alaric slipped from the gloom and, bending over him, whispered:
“Your uncle has returned and is most eager to see you. Come, follow.”
The second encounter with Mr. Nicholas Bernays proved even more tedious than the first. He stammered his apologies, how monstrously careless to have forgotten the raincoat, and in this weather too! He seemed incapable of looking anybody in the face, his balding head twisted from side to side and when by chance Paul caught his eye the man blinked as if stung. By contrast, the Reverend Alaric Halsey appeared totally at his ease; he talked learnedly of St. Wilbrod’s, its history and its architecture; he spoke of the Saxons and the influence Christianity had had on them.
“And vice versa, of course! You do know that Easter derives from the Saxon word Eostre, a festival celebrating the goddess of Spring? Our somewhat confusing habit of fixing Easter by the full moon must surely be pagan in origin; it is also linked to the Jewish Passover. As for Christmas—why, it seems tolerably certain that whenever Our Savior was born, it was not in the middle of winter! You may remember that a decree went forth at the time of His birth that all the world should be taxed? In the ancient world taxes were levied at harvest time, therefore we can immediately discount December the twenty-fifth. But that date is the winter solstice, the Mithraic birthday of the Unconquered Sun. It would seem that the early Fathers of the Church found it paid them to be reasonably accommodating in the matter of dates. We have here a combination of Mithraism, Judaism, and who knows what pagan nature worship!” The Reverend Alaric smiled, he had a compelling manner and some degree of charm; after a while he proposed to show their visitor the Rectory, a tour which Paul had no desire to make and found himself quite incapable of refusing.
It proved a most embarrassing experience. Clearly the general exodus of its congregation had thrown the parish of St. Wilbrod’s into a state of quite desperate poverty; room after room held nothing save a threadbare rug on the floor and two or three dilapidated chairs. It must once have been of some importance for the house boasted six bedrooms, three reception rooms, a library, a study, and a positive warren of kitchen
and pantries. From these last Paul deduced that his host was in the habit of cooking for himself; various pots and pans lay on the table, uncleaned and smelling slightly of rancid fat. He wondered how in heaven’s name the two men contrived to exist in such a penniless wreck of a home. The contrast between this squalor and the comfort of his own manor house, West Farthing, with its full complement of amiable Sussex maids and kindly gardeners, seemed too much for Paul altogether—he made his excuses and fled out into the wintry afternoon, taking his raincoat with him. Even as he pulled it on it struck him that Uncle Nicholas must have thrown the garment down in that abominable kitchen. It felt sticky.
The day had darkened, a discolored sky fitted over the hills like a lid. Paul Bernays hurried on, conscious of a most irrational desire to escape.
From what?
The derelict rectory with its learned owner—his uncle, ducking that thin red head, avoiding all direct contact with the eyes? Absurd. His uncle was merely a nervous, unlucky man and the priest—why, the priest must be both charitable and kind to have offered him a home. Paul quickened his pace and nearly fell, the ground being pitted with disused rabbit holes and littered with stones. The strange depression, the mounting unease, could only be the result of bad weather and a bad conscience; he did indeed feel guilty, he must certainly do something to make life more tolerable for the ill-assorted pair he had just left. Meanwhile, home and tea!
He stepped out briskly. Thinking of the couple made him glance back over his shoulder, and he noticed a shadow at his heels. A second’s thought made him look again, for there was no sun; how could he be casting . . . Yes, he had not been mistaken, it was there—a shapeless blur on the grass. Quite small; and eight or ten feet away. It moved when he moved, stopped when he stopped; it bore no resemblance to his own shape, so therefore something else must be causing the effect. Paul frowned, studying the landscape. There was nothing visible at all, nothing to account for the mark. Empty fields stretched to the foot of the downs, a most extraordinary silence, not even a bird sang—but it was the middle of winter, why should birds sing! He turned and put the matter from his mind. Yet the thing still puzzled him; after a few hundred yards he turned again. The shadow had moved closer and had grown in size, a formless gray stain wrinkling where it crossed the folds in the ground.
He could not say why it affected him so unpleasantly. Perhaps the scientific absurdity offended his intellect, for there must be some object between the light and the earth to account for . . .
“This is impossible!” said Paul out loud.
Close behind him something giggled.
He broke into a run; even as he went he told himself that his behavior was no more than natural—it was cold, it might rain, he must get to West Farthing. As for the noise, that soft gurgle, some animal must have made it! Paul lengthened his stride. Yet he could not resist the urge, almost against his will, to twist round and glance behind him.
The shadow had swollen to twice its original size: as he watched, one corner elongated itself and slid across the ground in his direction. He let out a yell, and sprinted across the rough grass. Gasping for breath he made for the stile—unable to say what terror, what monstrous premonition of evil, impelled him forward. He clambered frantically over the wooden bar, and as he did so a voice shouted:
“My dear chap! Where on earth have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for hours.”
George Markham stood in the yard, his face creased with anxiety.
Paul stopped. He forced himself to turn slowly, to look calmly back. The bleak winter fields lay motionless under the sky; barren acres extended to the foot of the downs. There was nothing there. He debated whether to mention the incident to his friend: really, it seemed too unlikely, too fanciful altogether! He muttered something to the effect of having been detained at the rectory; and hurried inside the house.
The temperature dropped during the night; they woke to find the air grown sharp and a thin coating of snow across the paths. From his window Bernays observed one of the farmers going by with a gun; the fellow seemed to be eyeing the ground, he stopped from time to time, peering and prodding at the frozen mud.
“Morning, Elliot!”
“Morning, sir.” The man glanced up. “You haven’t had any trouble over here, I don’t suppose?”
“Trouble? Why, no.”
“Thought you might have been visited by a fox. There’s tracks running right round your house. There, see? And there again. Can’t be a fox, I reckon; no, not a fox. I never did see a fox leave marks the like of that.”
“What kind of marks?” asked Paul, refusing to acknowledge the very faint shiver of apprehension, no, not fear: he was cold, no more—he had the window open, and the weather had turned cold.
“Hanged if I know, sir.” The farmer sniffed, blew his nose, and went out of sight behind the barn.
The moment passed. Those who live in the country must surely expect to find evidence of wild animals from time to time! Besides, there were preparations to be made, plans to be discussed, an entire Christmas program to arrange. The owner of West Farthing slammed the shutter down and went in search of George Markham. They were seated in front of what may fairly be called a Dickensian log fire, happily arguing the relative merits of roast turkey and duck a l’orange, when the Reverend Halsey was announced. He had come, he said, to deliver an invitation—the residents at the rectory would count it a most particular blessing if Mr. Bernays would take dinner with them on Christmas Eve.
Strange are the complexities of civilization, the pressure exercised by society on even the most rational person. Paul Bernays did not want to dine at the rectory. He disliked the rector, and what he had seen of the kitchen caused him to entertain grave doubts as to the food. An older or more quick-witted man would have pleaded a previous engagement—pressure of work—the imminent arrival of a great many guests. There was, to be frank, no reason on earth why he should accept; save the horrid, the paralyzing conviction that it would be bad manners to refuse.
“You have no other plans, I believe?” The clergyman smiled. “As I recall it, you told your uncle that your own festivities do not begin till Christmas Day.”
Paul shifted miserably; for you see, it was true, his London companions did not arrive before then. If he told a direct lie he might be detected; a circumstance altogether too embarrassing. He toyed briefly with the notion of pleading illness; and that also was quite impracticable—he might be seen galloping across the downs. Before his confused brain could handle the situation Paul heard his lips say:
“Thank you, sir, that’s very kind of you.” And then, as a desperate afterthought—“My friend and I will be happy to accept.”
It became apparent from the clouding of the Reverend Alaric’s face that his invitation had not included Paul’s friend; but here, thankfully, the restraints of polite society worked in reverse. He could not bring himself to say he had excluded Mr. George Markham. So it came about that on Christmas Eve both young men sat down to dinner in St. Wilbrod’s rectory.
The meal proved quite as excruciating as they had feared: a concoction of half-burnt meats and overdone vegetables served on cracked dishes, the entire menu redolent of frantic poverty and inefficient male cooking. Their host kept up a smooth flow of interesting, curious, and often amusing chatter; he had beyond question a most formidable charm—indeed, had it not been for those strange eyebrows he would have passed for a handsome man; the head well formed, the eyes darkly compulsive. He seemed completely at his ease. Uncle Nicholas, by contrast, appeared to be afflicted by a nervous tick, his speech impediment grew worse when thickened by wine, he seldom joined in the conversation and then only to defer to the rector. It came as a mild surprise when (the ordeal of eating mercifully finished) Alaric Halsey moved across the threadbare carpet, sat himself down at an old upright piano, and declared that his companion would entertain them with a song.
It emerged that Nicholas, in common with others who suffer his disability, could sing with
no trace of a stammer; he produced a moderate tenor voice and the company joined in a variety of carols. That done, the pianist changed key and the singer moved on to ballads, folk tunes, old roundelays . . .
“Come, follow follow—follow follow—follow
follow me!
Whither shall I follow—follow—follow,
follow thee?”
The reedy notes echoed curiously in the gloom; only candles fought against the encroaching night, the rectory had not yet been equipped with gas. Melting wax splashed down onto the piano top.
“Come, follow follow—follow follow”
Paul turned abruptly; the high windows had no curtains and for one second he had an impression—the merest hint—of something peering through the glass.
“Whither shall I follow—follow”
A mistake of course. Black countryside lay all around the house.
“To the greenwood, to the greenwood, to the greenwood tree”
“Trees,” said the Reverend Alaric, “trees figure prominently in the ancient Saxon religion. My dear Mr. Bernays, what is the matter?”
For Paul had leapt up: something, yes, positively Something, tapped on the window pane—a faint rattle as of drumming fingertips, a staccato impatient knock. But now he had gained the window and now he stared out and it had gone. He stood there feeling very slightly ridiculous. His mind clutched at the notion of a tree, for there were trees, certainly; a couple of elms etched sharply against the sky. But too far away, surely, to account for the sound and the singular impression he had received of a figure, just beyond the glass, waiting.
“I thought I heard a noise,” said Paul foolishly.
“Has it begun to snow?”
“I think not.” And indeed the chill of the previous hours had passed off; not only was there no promise of the traditional Christmas white, but it had most disagreeably begun to rain again.
The Year's Best Horror Stories 11 Page 8