I had thought he was finished, but he resumed. Glancing upward, he lifted his torch toward the roof of that accursed chamber. “This room,” he said, “lies directly underneath the family vaults. Upon the death of the Earl, the body is ostensibly left in the vaults. When the mourners have gone, however, the false bottom of the vault is thrust aside and the body of the Earl is lowered into this room.”
Looking up, I saw the square rectangle of a trapdoor above.
The Factor’s voice now became barely audible. “Once every generation Lady Glanville feeds—on the corpse of the deceased Earl. It is a provision of that unspeakable pact which cannot be broken.”
I knew now—with a sense of horror utterly beyond description—whence came that red smear on the repulsive mouth of the creature before us.
As if to confirm his words, the Factor lowered his torch until its flame illuminated the floor at the foot of the stone bench where the vampiric monster was fettered.
Strewn around the floor were the scattered bones and skull of an adult male, red with fresh blood. And at some distance were other human bones, brown, and crumbling with age.
At this point, Frederick began to scream. His shrill, hysterical cries filled the chamber. Although the Factor shook him roughly, his terrible shrieks continued, terror-filled, nerve-shaking.
For moments, the corpselike thing on the bench watched him with its frightful red eyes. It uttered sound finally, a kind of animal squeal which might have been intended as laughter.
Abruptly then, and without any warning, it slid from the bench and lunged toward the young Earl. The blackened shackles which fettered it to the wall permitted it to advance only a yard or two. It was pulled back sharply; yet it lunged again and again, squealing with a kind of hellish glee which stirred the hair on my head.
William Cowath thrust his torch toward the monster, but it continued to lunge at the end of its fetters. The nightmare room resounded with the Earl’s screams and the creature’s horrible squeals of bestial laughter. I felt that my own mind would give way unless I escaped from that anteroom of hell.
For the first time during an ordeal which would have sent any lesser man fleeing for his life and sanity, the iron control of the Factor appeared to be shaken. He looked beyond the wild lunging thing toward the wall where the fetters were fastened.
I sensed what was in his mind. Would those fastenings hold, after all these centuries of rust and dampness?
On a sudden resolve, he reached into an inner pocket and drew out something which glittered in the torchlight. It was a silver crucifix. Striding forward, he thrust it almost into the twisted face of the leaping monstrosity which had once been the ravishing Lady Susan Glanville.
The creature reeled back with an agonized scream which drowned out the cries of the Earl. It cowered on the bench, abruptly silent and motionless, only the pulsating of its wizened mouth and the fires of hatred in its red eyes giving evidence that it still lived.
William Cowath addressed it grimly. “Creature of hell! If ye leave that bench ere we quit this room and seal it once again, I swear that I shall hold this cross against ye!”
The thing’s red eyes watched the Factor with an expression of abysmal hatred which no combination of mere letters could convey. They actually appeared to glow with fire. And yet I read in them something else—fear.
I suddenly became aware that silence had descended on that room of the damned. It lasted only a few moments. The Earl had finally stopped screaming, but now came something worse. He began to laugh.
It was only a low chuckle, but it was somehow worse than all his screams. It went on and on, softly, mindlessly.
The Factor turned, beckoning me toward the partially demolished wall. Crossing the room, I climbed out. Behind me, the Factor led the young Earl, who shuffled like an old man, chuckling to himself.
There was then what seemed an interminable interval, during which the Factor carried back a sack of mortar and a keg of water which he had previously left somewhere in the tunnel. Working by torchlight, he prepared the cement and proceeded to seal up the chamber, using the same stones which he had displaced.
While the Factor labored, the young Earl sat motionless in the tunnel, chuckling softly.
There was silence from within. Once, only, I heard the thing’s fetters clank against the stone.
At last, the Factor finished and led us back through those niter-stained passageways and up the icy stairs. The Earl could scarcely ascend; with difficulty, the Factor supported him from step to step.
Back in his tapestry-paneled chamber, Frederick sat on his canopy bed and stared at the floor, laughing quietly. With horror, I noticed that the black hair had actually turned gray. After persuading him to drink a glass of liquid which I had no doubt contained a heavy dose of sedative, the Factor managed to get him stretched out on the bed.
William Cowath then led me to a nearby bedchamber. My impulse was to rush from that hellish pile without delay, but the storm still raged and I was by no means sure I could find my way back to the village without a guide.
The Factor shook his head sadly. “I fear his Lordship is doomed to an early death. He was never strong and tonight’s events may have deranged his mind... may have weakened him beyond hope of recovery.”
I expressed my sympathy and horror. The Factor’s cold, blue eyes held my own. “It may be,” he said, “that in the event of the young Earl’s death, you yourself might be considered...” He hesitated. “Might be considered,” he finally concluded, “as one somewhat in the line of succession.”
I wanted to hear no more. I gave him a curt goodnight, bolted the door after him, and tried— quite unsuccessfully—to salvage a few minutes’ sleep.
But sleep would not come. I had feverish visions of that red-eyed thing in the sealed chamber escaping its fetters, breaking through the wall, and crawling up those icy, slime-covered stairs....
Even before dawn, I softly unbolted my door and, like a marauding thief, crept shivering through
the cold passageways and the great deserted hall of the castle. Crossing the cobbled courtyards and the black moat, I scrambled down the incline toward the village.
Long before noon I was well on my way to London. Luck was with me; the next day, I was on a boat bound for the Atlantic run.
I shall never return to England. I intend always to keep Chilton Castle and its permanent occupant at least an ocean away.
Mr. Octbur
(1967)
He has left a long time ago and now, finally, he was returning. The cold winds of autumn were rattling dry leaves alone the streets when he entered town. A late afternoon sun slanted its light against the buildings. He looked around in bewilderment.
Much of the old town, as he remembered it, was gone. Half of it? two-thirds of it? Most of the old brick buildings, blackened with the soot and grime of a century, had been replaced by chromium-fronted horrors, plate- glass, parking-lots. Oh, not all of them; he found a few survivors and inspected them lovingly. But most were gone. Some of the very streets had disappeared.
He wandered disconsolately. The sun slanted lower and the wind rose, a late autumn wind, a cold and keening wind which seemed to mourn for every vanished thing, a wind blowing out of the all-but-forgotten past, bringing with it the flavor and the memory of other autumns lost in time.
Occasionally, as he chanced across an old house, or an old brick building which had somehow escaped the destroyers sledge, the memories flooded back — memories from forty, yes, fifty years ago. He would stand, motionless, reminiscing, while the passers-by moved like ghosts, like wraiths out of an alien dimension of time.
Amazingly, as the wind rose and the sun sank, his powers of memory recaptured a clarity which he would have thought impossible of attainment. He found that he could recall entire streets, whole areas, as they had existed a half century before. He had scarcely realized that he possessed such a faculty. What was it they railed it? Photographic memory?
He walked abou
t slowly in the dusk, remembering everything, All he needed was a single landmark, even a remembered street-name, and it all, came back.
Yes, here was the old icehouse, and over there the buckle factory. Right next to the corner was the harness shop, then the stables and across the street, Mrs. Donley’s big, brick boarding house. Further along was Mr. Evans’ little store, Wayne's barber shop and then old Mr. Gruber's shoe-repair place. Yes, yes, he could remember them all. And then the nice residential streets, the brick sidewalks, the cool, shadowed front porches, screened by wisteria vines. Right here was Marley's house, then Keenan's, Hopemore's, Havey's... Yes, he remembered every one! As he walked along he thought he could hear the creak of front-porch swings. Did someone call to him out of the dusk? Mr. Octbur! Mr. Octbur! Or did he only imagine it?
He walked on and now the cold seemed to be settling in. The wind moaned dolefully; a scarf of sudden leaves swirled down the sidewalk and then abruptly disbursed like skirmishers. Somewhere nearly — in someone's garden yard? — he could hear the rasp and rustle of autumn com stalks. A cricket chirped and then grew silent. What was happening?
What? Ah, he knew! Frost was settling in on the cold evening wind. It was coming down out of the cold sky, coming up out of the cold earth, and soon its silver would shine in the moonlight. The crickets would be stiffened into final silence, the corn stalks would freeze into whitened spikes which even the rising wind would no longer rattle.
It was like an evening he had known so many years ago, like an autumn evening out of vanished time, the same frosty moonlight silence pervading the old town. It seemed as if fifty years might be shrugged off like a fleeting dream, like an ephemeral interlude lost in the landscape of time.
Time and memory! And the key was his! He walked and remembered. The old town as he had known it returned in the eerie moonlight. The silent silver streets came back again. Gaslight gleamed in the houses. He heard the muted tinkle of pianos, voices mingled in harmony, the old songs come to life again!
He turned toward home. Past the old school, over the wooden railroad bridge and down the little hill. Yes, nothing was changed. There was the Madigan house, the Janmer house, the Chanrey place, then the empty lot and then...
Yes, it was still there, the old Octbur house, every brick still intact, gaslight shining in the front parlor, the sound of rather mournful music.
He went up the brick walk, up the wooden steps. Someone opened the door and he stepped in.
The next day the Octburs told everyone he was a distant relative who had strayed back and that they were taking him in. He'd sit on the porch in the evening, in the cold autumn moonlight, with a shawl around his shoulders. During the day he’d stand by the gate and watch the brewery wagons rattle past.
He was content and at peace, although the Octbur household was not exactly a merry one. There had been tragedy, they told him, a long time ago.
One of the young Octbur boys had wandered off one cold autumn night and never returned. Yes, it was a long time ago. They had looked everywhere. Everywhere...
He wasn’t sure about it himself, but he sometimes wondered; something about it puzzled him, nagged at him. Had they really looked everywhere — including the dim, kaleidoscopic corridors of vanished time, those haunted corridors he himself seemed to know so well?
Frowning, he’d sit on the porch and think about it, while the slow frost settled in...
Long Hollow Swamp
(1976)
I think that very probably the most desolate region in New England lies northwest of Colbury. As you surmount the inhospitable hills, you drive between ragged meadows, cheerless and not at all picturesque. Tangled, wind-twisted scrub clings to barren ridges. At intervals long stretches of swamp lie motionless and forbidding, screened by acres of reeds and blackthorn bush.
As I drove along in the late afternoon light, a faint mist began to arise from the still waters hidden by the reeds. A sense of emptiness, of acute depression, took possession of me. I have always been peculiarly affected by certain aspects of landscape and terrain, and the countryside through which I was traveling was one of the bleakest imaginable.
However, I had no choice. Mayne Cordiss, my lifelong friend, had asked me up for a visit and I could think of no convincing grounds on which to decline his invitation. I had retired some years before; my health was good; and I had nothing whatever planned for that late summer and autumn. Moreover, I was a bachelor. My book-cluttered city apartment could collect dust for months and nobody would fret about it.
Cordiss and his wife, who had died the previous year, had bailed me out when I was on the verge of bankruptcy and they had coaxed and cosseted me back to some semblance of emotional stability when my one “great” love affair turned sour.
When Cordiss telephoned, I realized that I could not refuse a visit. I knew that he was now alone and probable quite restless and forlorn.
I had been to his place north of Colbury only once before, but then it was spring, his wife was in glowing good health and his house had been filled with fascinating party guests.
Even at that time, however, I wondered why he had settled in such an oppressive area—but I never asked. The building itself was cheerful enough and I had scarcely left it during the entire duration of the house party.
The Cordiss place was a big, rambling, renovated farmhouse set back about a hundred yards from the main road. I was appalled as I rolled up the drive. The grounds looked wild, unkempt and overgrown. Hemlocks lifted against the windows and scrub cedar had taken hold where the garden had once flourished.
Cordiss greeted me with all his old enthusiasm and warmth, however, and after I had stretched out in a comfortable chair in his study, with a large whisky and soda at my elbow, I began to forget about the dreary landscape in which the house was located.
He told me that aside from a part-time odd-job man, and a housekeeper who came in only twice a week, he had dispensed with servants. He was a gourmet cook and he said that he never looked on cooking as a chore. He was happy to have someone to share his creations.
He had aged considerably since my last visit. His hair was starting to thin out and he had developed little wrinkles around his eyes. I felt that he was no longer his old relaxed, “unflappable” self; he appeared edgy and apprehensive. I knew that he was still grieving for his wife, of course, and put it down to that.
The late summer days passed pleasantly enough. Cordiss sensed my moods and made provision for them. I read, wrote dozens of long-overdue letters, tramped the country roads, sat listening to my host’s rambling anecdotes—and looked forward every day to his sumptuous dinner.
After a week or two I became convinced that something besides grief was troubling him. Frequently he came in from tours around his land with a scowl on his face. He sat brooding on occasion, which was something I had never seen him do before.
Finally one day he blurted it out “Confound it!” he exclaimed. “There’s something wrong with this infernal woods of mine. I had hopes of getting up a hunting party this fall, but I haven’t seen a deer—or even a rabbit—in months. Maybe these rustics are right—it’s Long Hollow Swamp!”
I looked at him in surprise. “Afraid you’ll have to fill me in, old man. What’s the rustic rumor and what’s Long Hollow Swamp?”
I sprawled in an armchair while he mixed drinks at the sideboard. At length he came over and sat down.
“Long Hollow Swamp,” he told me, “is situated on my property here. I’ve got about three thousand acres—enough to hunt on. Well, there’s some idiotic local legend about Long Hollow Swamp. No details really, just that the place is baleful and obnoxious and that it has an adverse effect on the adjacent woodland—sort of an aura, you know. I’ve skirted along the fringes of it and never seen anything, but it is a spooky type of place. No animal or bird life around and a kind of listening expectancy in the air.”
He took up his drink and laughed shortly. “I suppose I sound like some sensational magazine writer! Nerves
, I guess.”
I frowned. I knew that Mayne Cordiss had neither an overactive imagination nor fluttery nerves. “Have you ever—that is—penetrated the swamp?”
He shook his head. “Can’t say that I have. Treacherous. Possible quicksands. And when you’re out alone…” He left the sentence hanging.
“Why don’t we tramp over there together tomorrow and have a look?” I suggested.
He acceded readily enough.
The next day—cloudy and overcast with a faint touch of autumn in the air—found us pushing over the hills through dense scrub. I noticed a few crows and one chipmunk but no other wildlife. As we went on, the rocky ground became marshy; pools glimmered through scrawny trees up ahead.
Quite suddenly we topped the crest of a ridge and Long Hollow Swamp lay spread out before us. The place was aptly named. The swamp was, literally, situated in a long hollow between two hills. It was probably two miles across and three or four miles in length. It was virtually roofed over with a thick mat of creepers which spread from tree to tree, from bush to bush. There were occasional gaps where tussocks of swamp sedge were visible, or puddles of brackish water. Not a sound broke the brooding silence. Although we stood without speaking for several minutes, not even the croak of a frog nor the harsh rasp of a cicada was audible.
“Uninviting place,” I commented.
“Let’s go down a bit,” Cordiss suggested.
We trailed down the ridge to the very edge of the swamp. Suddenly Cordiss swore and yanked back one leg. It had sunk into mud up to his knee. He glanced around. “See what I mean?”
I nodded. “Treacherous is the word. I’ll bet more than a few deer have been trapped in that mud. If it isn’t quicksand, it might as well be.”
We decided to walk along the edge for some distance in the hope of finding more stable ground. After a few minutes, we came to a knoll which lifted slightly above the general level of the swamp. It looked reasonably firm, but caution was in order.
Collected Stories and Poems Page 9