Collected Stories and Poems

by Joseph Payne Brennan

  I could not place him in a tidy niche. He might be a local farmer, and yet I did not think that he was. He had a vague aura of authority, and though his clothes were certainly plain, they were, I thought, somewhat better in cut and quality than those of the local countrymen I had observed.

  A trivial incident opened a conversation between us. An unusually sharp crack of thunder made him turn toward the window. As he did so, he accidentally brushed his wet cap onto the floor. I retrieved it for him; he thanked me; and then we exchanged commonplace remarks about the weather.

  I had an intuitive feeling that although he was normally a reticent individual, he was presently wrestling with some severe problem which made him want to hear a human voice. Realizing there was always the possibility that my intuition might, for once, have failed me, I nevertheless babbled on about my trip, about my genealogical researches in Kilkenny, London, and Chesterfield, and finally about my distant relationship to the Chilton-Paynes and my desire to get a good look at Chilton Castle.

  Suddenly, I found that he was gazing at me with an expression which, if not fierce, was disturbingly intense. An awkward silence ensued. I coughed, wondering uneasily what I had said to make those cold, blue eyes stare at me so fixedly.

  At length, he became aware of my growing embarrassment. “You must excuse me for staring,” he apologized, “but something you said...” He hesitated. “Could we perhaps take that table?” He nodded toward a small table which sat half in shadow in the far corner of the room.

  I agreed, mystified but curious, and we took our drinks to the secluded table.

  He sat frowning for a minute, as if uncertain how to begin. Finally he introduced himself as William Cowath. I gave him my name and still he hesitated. At length he took a swallow of brandy and then looked straight at me. “I am,” he stated, “the Factor at Chilton Castle.”

  I surveyed him with surprise and renewed interest. “What an agreeable coincidence!” I exclaimed. “Then perhaps tomorrow you could arrange for me to have a look at the castle?”

  He seemed scarcely to hear me. “Yes, yes, of course,” he replied absently.

  Puzzled and a bit irritated by his air of detachment, I remained silent.

  He took a deep breath and then spoke rapidly, running some of his words together. “Robert Chilton-Payne, the Twelfth Earl of Chilton, was buried in the family vaults one week ago. Frederick, the young heir and now Thirteenth Earl, came of age just three days ago. Tonight it is imperative that he be conducted to the secret chamber!” I gaped at him in incredulous amazement. For a moment I had an idea that he had somehow heard of my interest in Chilton Castle and was merely “pulling my leg” for amusement, in the belief that I was the greenest of gullible tourists.

  But there could be no mistaking his deadly seriousness. There was not the faintest suspicion of humor in his eyes.

  I groped for words. “It seems so strange—so unbelievable! Just before you arrived, I had been thinking about the various legends connected with the secret room.”

  His cold eyes held my own. “It is not legend that confronts us; it is fact.”

  A thrill of fear and excitement ran through me. “You are going there tonight?”

  He nodded. “Tonight. Myself, the young Earl —and one other.”

  I stared at him.

  “Ordinarily,” he continued, “the Earl himself would accompany us. That is the custom. But he is dead. Shortly before he passed away, he instructed me to select someone to go with the young Earl and myself. That person must be male—and preferably of the blood.”

  I took a deep drink of ale and said not a word. He continued. “Besides the young Earl, there is no one at the casde save his elderly mother, Lady Beatrice Chilton, and an ailing aunt.”

  “Who could the Earl have had in mind?” I enquired cautiously.

  The Factor frowned. “There are some distant male cousins residing in the country. I have an idea he thought at least one of them might appear for the obsequies. But not one of them did.” “That was most unfortunate!” I observed. “Extremely unfortunate. And I am therefore asking you, as one of the blood, to accompany the young Earl and myself to the secret room tonight!” I gulped like a bumpkin. Lightning flashed against the windows and I could hear rain swishing along the stones outside. When feathers of ice stopped fluttering in my stomach, I managed a reply.

  “But I... that is... my relationship is so very remote! I am ‘of the blood’ by courtesy only, you might say. The strain in me is so very diluted.” He shrugged. “You bear the name. And you possess at least a few drops of the Payne blood. Under the present urgent circumstances, no more is necessary. I am sure that the old Earl would agree with me, could he still speak. You will come?” There was no escaping the intensity, the pressure, of those cold, blue eyes. They seemed to follow my mind about as it groped for further excuses.

  Finally, inevitably it seemed, I agreed. A feeling grew in me that the meeting had been preordained, that somehow I had always been destined to visit the secret chamber in Chilton Castle.

  We finished our drinks and I went up to my room for rainwear. When I descended, suitably attired for the storm, the obese bartender was snoring on his stool, in spite of savage crashes of thunder which had now become almost incessant. I envied him as I left the cozy room with William Cowath.

  Once outside, my guide informed me that we would have to go on foot to the castle. He had purposely walked down to the inn, he explained, in order that he might have time and solitude to straighten out in his own mind the things which he would have to do.

  The sheets of heavy rain, the strong wind, and the roar of thunder made conversation difficult. I walked steps behind the Factor, who took enormous strides and appeared to know every inch of the way in spite of the darkness.

  We walked only a short distance down the village street and then struck into a side road, which very soon dwindled to a footpath made slippery and treacherous by the driving rain.

  Abruptly, the path began to ascend; the footing became more precarious. It was at once necessary to concentrate all one’s attention on one’s feet. Fortunately, the flashes of lightning were frequent.

  It seemed to me that we had been walking for an hour—actually, I suppose, it was only a few minutes—when the Factor finally stopped.

  I found myself standing beside him on a flat, rocky plateau. He pointed up an incline which rose before us. “Chilton Castle,” he said.

  For a moment I saw nothing in the unrelieved darkness. Then the lightning flashed.

  Beyond high battlemented walls, fissured with age, I glimpsed a great, square Norman castle with four rectangular corner towers pierced by narrow window apertures which looked like evil slitted eyes. The huge, weathered pile was half-covered by a mande of ivy which appeared more black than green.

  “It looks incredibly old!” I commented.

  William Cowath nodded. “It was begun in 1122 by Henry de Montargis.” Without another word, he started up the incline.

  As we approached the castle wall, the storm grew worse. The slanting rain and powerful wind now made speech all but impossible. We bent our heads and staggered upward.

  When the wall finally loomed in front of us, I was amazed at its height and thickness. It had been constructed, obviously, to withstand the best siege guns and battering rams which its early enemies could bring to bear on it.

  As we crossed a massive, timbered drawbridge, I peered down into the black ditch of a moat but I could not be sure whether there was water in it. A low, arched gateway gave access through the wall to an inner, cobblestoned courtyard. This courtyard was entirely empty, save for rivulets of rushing water,

  Crossing the cobblestones with swift strides, the Factor led me to another arched gateway in yet another wall. Inside was a second, smaller yard and beyond spread the ivy-clutched base of the ancient keep itself.

  Traversing a darkened, stone-flagged passage, we found ourselves facing a ponderous door, age- blackened oak reinforced with pitt
ed bands of iron. The Factor flung open this door,, and there before us was the great hall of the castle.

  Four long, hand-hewn tables with their accompanying benches stretched almost the entire length of the hall. Metal torch brackets, stained with age, were affixed to sculptured stone columns which supported the roof. Ranged around the walls were suits of armor, heraldic shields, halberds, pikes, and banners—the accumulated trophies and prizes of bloody centuries when each castle was almost a kingdom unto itself. In flickering candlelight, which appeared to be the only illumination, the grim array was eerily impressive.

  William Cowath waved a hand, “The holders of Chilton lived by the sword for many centuries.”

  Walking the length of the great hall, he entered another dim passageway. I followed silently.

  As we strode along, he spoke in a subdued voice, “Frederick, the young heir, does not enjoy robust health. The shock of his father’s death was severe—and he dreads tonight’s ordeal, which he knows must come.”

  Stopping before a wooden door embellished with carved fleurs-de-lis and metal scrollwork, he gave me a shadowed, enigmatic glance and then knocked.

  Someone enquired who was there and he identified himself. Presently a heavy bolt was lifted and the door opened.

  If the Chilton-Paynes had been stubborn fighters in their day, the warrior blood appeared to have become considerably diluted in the veins of Frederick, the young heir and now Thirteenth Earl. I saw before me a thin, pale-complexioned young man whose dark, sunken eyes looked haunted and fearful. His dress was both theatrical and anachronistic: a dark-green velvet coat and trousers, a green satin waistband, flounces of white lace at neck and wrists.

  He beckoned us in as if with reluctance and closed the door. The walls of the small room were entirely covered with tapestries depicting the hunt or medieval battle scenes. A draft of air from a window or other aperture made them undulate constantly; they seemed to have a disturbing life of their own. In one corner of the room there was an antique canopy bed; in another, a large writing-table with an agate lamp.

  After a brief introduction which included an explanation of how I came to be accompanying them, the Factor enquired if his Lordship was ready to visit the chamber.

  Although he was wan in any case, Frederick’s face now lost every last trace of color. He nodded, however, and preceded us into the passage.

  William Cowath led the way; the young Earl followed him, and I brought up the rear.

  At the far end of the passage, the Factor opened the door of a cobwebbed supply room. Here he secured candles, chisels, a pick, and a sledgehammer. After packing these into a leather bag which he slung over one shoulder, he picked up a faggot torch which lay on one of the shelves in the room. He lit this, then waited while it flared into a steady flame. Satisfied with this illumination, he closed the room and beckoned for us to continue after him.

  Nearby was a descending spiral of stone steps. Lifting his torch, the Factor started down. We trailed after him wordlessly.

  There must have been fifty steps in that long, downward spiral. As we descended, the stones became wet and cold; the air, too, grew colder, but the cold was not of the type that refreshes. It was too laden with the smell of mold and dampness.

  At the bottom of the steps, we faced a tunnel, pitch-black and silent.

  The Factor raised his torch. “Chilton Castle is Norman, but is said to have been reared over a Saxon ruin. It is believed that the passageways in these depths were constructed by the Saxons.” He peered, frowning into the tunnel. “Or by some still earlier folk.”

  He hesitated briefly, and I thought he was listening. Then, glancing around at us, he proceeded down the passage.

  I walked after the Earl, shivering. The dead, icy air seemed to pierce to the pith of my bones. The stones underfoot grew slippery with a film of slime. I longed for more light, but there was none save that cast by the flickering, bobbing torch of the Factor.

  Partway down the passage he paused, and again I sensed that he was listening. The silence seemed absolute, however, and we went on.

  The end of the passage brought us to more descending steps. We went down some fifteen and entered another tunnel which appeared to have been cut out of the solid rock on which the castle had been reared. White-crusted niter clung to the walls. The reek of mold was intense, the icy air was fetid with some other odor which I found peculiarly repellent, though I could not name it.

  At last the Factor stopped, lifted his torch, and slid the leather bag from his shoulder.

  I saw that we stood before a wall made of some kind of building stone. Though damp and stained with niter, it was obviously of much more recent construction than anything we had previously encountered.

  Glancing around at us, William Cowath handed me the torch. “Keep good hold on it, if you please. I have candles, but...”

  Leaving the sentence unfinished, he drew the pick from his sling bag, and began an assault on the wall. The barrier was solid enough, but after he had w'orked a hole in it, he took up the sledgehammer and quicker progress was made. Once I offered to take up the hammer while he held the torch, but he only shook his head and went on with his work of demolition.

  All this time the young Earl had not spoken a word. As I looked at his tense white face, I felt sorry for him, in spite of my own mounting trepidation.

  Abruptly, there was silence as the Factor lowered the sledgehammer. I saw that a good two feet of the lower wall remained.

  William Cowath bent to inspect it. “Strong enough,” he commented cryptically. “I will leave that to build on. We can step over it.”

  For a full minute he stood looking silently into the blackness beyond. Finally, shouldering his bag, he took the torch from my hand and stepped over the ragged base of the wall. We followed suit.

  As I entered that chamber, the fetid odor which I had noticed in the passage seemed to overwhelm us. It washed around us in a nauseating wave and we all gasped for breath.

  The Factor spoke between coughs. “It will subside in a minute or two. Stand near the aperture.”

  Although the reek remained repellentlv strong, we could at length breathe more freely.

  William Cowath lifted his torch and peered into the black depths of the chamber. Fearfully, I gazed around his shoulder.

  There was no sound and at first I could see nothing but niter-encrusted walls and wet stone floor. Presently, however in a far corner, just beyond the flickering halo of the faggot torch, I saw two tiny, fiery spots of red. I tried to convince myself that they were two red jewels, two rubies, shining in the torchlight.

  But I knew at once—I felt at once—what they were. They were two red eyes and they were watching us with a fierce, unwavering stare.

  The Factor spoke softly. “Wait here.”

  He crossed toward the comer, stopped halfway, and held out his torch at arm’s length. For a moment he was silent. Finally he emitted a long, shuddering sigh.

  When he spoke again, his voice had changed. It was only a sepulchral whisper. “Come forward,” he told us in that strange, hollow voice.

  I followed Frederick until we stood at either side of the Factor.

  When I saw what crouched on a stone bench in that far corner, I felt sure that I would faint. My heart literally stopped beating for perceptible seconds. The blood left my extremities; I reeled with dizziness. I might have cried out, but my throat would not open.

  The entity which rested on that stone bench was like something that had crawled up out of hell. Piercing, malignant red eyes proclaimed that it had a terrible life, and yet that life sustained itself in a black, shrunken, half-mummified body which resembled a disinterred corpse. A few moldy rags clung to the cadaverlike frame. Wisps of white hair sprouted out of its ghastly gray-white skull. A red smear or blotch of some sort covered the wizened slit which served it as a mouth.

  It surveyed us with a malignancy which was beyond anything merely human. It was impossible to stare back into those monstrous red e
yes. They were so inexpressibly evil, one felt that one’s soul would be consumed in the fires of their malevolence.

  Glancing aside, I saw that the Factor was now supporting Frederick. The young heir had sagged against him, staring fixedly at the fearful apparition with terror-glazed eyes. In spite of my own sense of horror, I pitied him.

  The Factor sighed again, and then he spoke once more in that low, sepulchral voice.

  “You see before you,” he told us, “Lady Susan Glanville. She was carried into this chamber and then fettered to the wall in 1473.”

  A thrill of horror coursed through me; I felt that we were in the presence of malign forces from the Pit itself.

  To me the hideous thing had appeared sexless, but at the sound of its name, the ghastly mockery of a grin contorted the puckered, red-smeared mouth.

  I noticed now for the first time that the monster actually was secured to the wall. The great double shackles were so blackened with age, I had not noticed them before.

  The Factor went on, as if he spoke by rote. “Lady Glanville was a maternal ancestor of the Chilton-Paynes. She had commerce with the Devil. She was condemned as a witch but escaped the stake. Finally her own people forcibly overcame her. She was brought in here, fettered, and left to die.”

  He was silent a moment and then continued. “It was too late. She had already made a pact with the Powers of Darkness. It was an unspeakably evil thing and it has condemned her issue to a life of torment and nightmare, a lifetime of terror and dread.”

  He swung his torch toward the blackened, redeyed thing. “She was a beauty once. She hated death. She feared death. And so she finally bartered her own immortal soul—and the bodies of her issue—for eternal, earthly life.”

  I heard his voice as in a nightmare; it seemed to be coming from an infinite distance.

  He went on. “The consequences of breaking the pact are too terrible to describe. No descendant of hers has ever dared to do so, once the forfeit is known. And so she has bided here for these nearly five hundred years.”