If we survive death, we survive, probably, on our memories, on our emotional experiences and recollections, on the relationships which enriched our lives.
Amodius had none, or almost none. The outer darkness must have filled him with inconceivable terror.
And that, I think, is why he fingered at Casserman’s bar. That is why we saw him there nearly two and a half weeks after he was supposed to be dead. That is why we saw him there, or thought we saw him there, when his cadaver was lying in Catallo’s closet.
Casserman’s bar was probably the nearest thing to “home” which he had known in many years. If he was not exactly cherished in the establishment, he was certainly not challenged. He was never badgered, nor annoyed, nor made conspicuous. At the worst he was ignored. Casserman himself always treated him courteously; some of the rest of us nodded to him.
I am convinced that some element of him, some residue as it were, anchored itself desperately to Casserman’s even after the formal death of the flesh. It clung with inconceivable loneliness and longing to the one spot where it had known a degree of warmth, of toleration, of familiarity and friendliness.
It left with enormous reluctance. It was tom away, I suppose, as the tenuous threads which held it temporarily at last yielded to the irresistible tug of the terrible outer gulfs.
Possibly its terror generated a kind of energy which permitted it to move about in a body which no longer supported life as we normally know it.
But as I recall the shadowy something which I glimpsed receding down the railroad tracks that last night, as I remember the sense of insupportable desolation which swept over me, I think not. I believe the thing which Casserman and I saw on those final nights was sheer spectre.
At least, I am convinced, it was not of this earth.
The House on Stillcroft Street
(1975)
Amley is one of those out-of-the-way villages which the average traveler never hears about. Years ago a main road passed perilously close to it, but this route has since been superseded by a high-speed, four-lane parkway. The old route is often nearly deserted and almost nobody turns off at the tilted sign bearing the weathered letters, Amley.
I was introduced to Amley years ago by my friend Hugh Corvington, a wealthy member of my club who had stormed Wall Street successfully and retired early. Although I was a largely unrecognized writer who would have had difficulty in scraping up a penny for every hundred dollars possessed by Corvington, for some reason he like me and sought out my company.
Occasionally we had long leisurely dinners together; now and then we spent an evening over the chessboard and a bottle of good port.
One June, when I was fretting about where to go for a vacation, Corvington mentioned Amley.
He was casual, even diffident, about it. "Not much of a place. Dull, you know. And not right if you want travel. Only forty-odd miles from here, but quiet and peaceful. Pleasant place, really. No trouble getting lodgings. In fact, you could bunk in with me while you looked around. I've got a small house up there. A bit cramped, I'm afraid, but there's the usual guest room. We could manage while you poked about and made up your mind."
Two weeks later I drove up the old route, turned at the tilted sign reading Amley, and after a few miles found myself in a charming, somnolent New England village which had somehow escaped the annual invasion of the acquisitive "summer people."
Corvington's "cramped" small house turned out to be a compact Georgian gem, complete with Doric entrance columns.
Less than an hour later, after a shower and a change of clothes, I was sitting with my affable host on a screened rear porch which overlooked an English-type walled garden.
As I settled back in my chair and sipped my whiskey and soda, I lost all desire to travel, to seek out lodgings—and to carry through the writing chores which I had assigned myself.
Corvington seemed to sense my mood. "Thought occurs to me, y'know. If you can put up with this place, no real reason to muck about after rooms somewhere else. Stay here. I have a woman come in to fix breakfast and lunch. Dinner usually at the Black Lion Inn, Amley's only hostelry. Quite good, really."
I thanked him sincerely but insisted that I wouldn't dream of imposing on him to such an extent.
He would have none of it. "No imposition at all. Quite the opposite. You'd be doing me a favor. Now that I have nothing pressing me, I get bored on occasion. We might have some splendid games of chess without having to watch the clock!"
He refreshed my drink. "Of course you'd be free to write whenever you wanted to. No intrusions there. I respect your craft."
So it was settled. I understood that he would be offended if I even suggested remuneration of my accommodations. I decided that I would try to pay for most of our dinners at the Black Lion Inn and let it go at that.
The summer settled in smoothly. I usually wrote for a few hours in the morning and after lunch strolled around the village. Often I walked right through into the surrounding countryside. I would return in time for a shower, cocktails, and a relaxed chat before I walked with my host to the Black Lion Inn.
Not infrequently I spent most of the afternoon sauntering about Amley's leafy street. The peace and quiet of the place, the relatively unpolluted air, and the sense of stability surrounding the quaint old houses acted as a tonic and—I might as well admit it—a soporific.
My writing proceeded more or less on schedule; some color came back to my pale face and I beat Corvington at chess more often than formerly. Fortunately, he was a good loser. My improving gave acted as a challenge and I think we both played better than we ever had before. I can recall many long-drawn, remorseless battles.
One sun-drenched afternoon while I was strolling Amley's shaded walks, I noticed a sign reading: Stillcroft Street. The name intrigued me. Quite naturally I decided to turn at the sign. The street was little different from others in Amley: quiet old houses, gardens, immense trees—and scarcely a soul in sight. As I neared the end of it, I saw that it was a dead-end thoroughfare and that I would have to go back the way I had come.
Sauntering to the extreme far end, I crossed the road, intending to return on the other side. It was then that I first noticed the opposite house, the last one on the street. The house itself was ordinary enough—a two-story brick square with very few embellishments—but it was surrounded by a thick growth of exotic-looking trees, shrubs, and plants which appeared to have run wild over the premises. There was no evidence of any recent pruning, trimming, or shaping.
I was particularly struck by a glossy, luxurious growth of heavy climbing ivy which virtually covered the entire front of the house, including the windows. Only the door itself seemed to have escaped the clutch of this remarkable plant.
I supposed the ivy was the common climbing variety but I had never seen ivy leaves so large. Their rich deep green color, shining in bars of sunlight which slanted through the trees, appeared to possess a purplish sheen.
As I remained staring at the unusual growth, I caught a glimpse of a white-haired man's face peering out of one of the upper windows. The window itself was almost entirely screened by ivy leaves, and as I looked up, the face abruptly disappeared.
Turning away, I continued back up Stillcroft Street toward the center of Amley.
Over cocktails that afternoon I mentioned the house to Corvington.
He nodded. "That's Millward Frander's house. Noted botanist, y'know. Used to travel all over the world and bring back rare plants. Had a showplace garden. But he's been ill for some years. Recluse now. Scarcely anybody sees him. Stays shut in there and the garden's run riot. Too bad."
He sipped his martini and for some minutes was silent. Finally he added, as an afterthought of little importance, "Second cousin of mine, actually. I've a key to the house even. Never dream of using it, of course. I like privacy and I respect it."
"You're right," I agreed, "but don't you think he's got carried away a bit? The place is going to disappear in that jungle!"
Corvington shrugged. "I've a sort of philosophy. Every man has a right to his own kind of madness—providing, of course, it doesn't impinge on the rights of others. If Millward wants to live in a miniature jungle—well, so be it!"
I dropped the subject and did not bring it up again, but every day or two I found myself sauntering down Stillcroft Street. I presumed poor old Millward Frander was cursing me out as an infernal spy and busybody, but that strange ivy-shrouded house drew me like a magnet.
During the hot, brilliant summer the ivy seemed to grow almost visibly. Ivy, of course, is not a sun-lover, but the house itself was well-shaded by a row of huge old elms which grew along the front walk. The ivy received very little direct sunlight.
Almost as I watched, it seemed, the broad five-lobed leaves, glimmering purple-green, extended their domain. Only once or twice more after my first glimpse of that white-haired old man's face at the window, did I see it again. The ivy leaves sent their fluttering legions over the glass and the window just disappeared completely.
I marveled at the thing's growth—and marveled more at the occupant who willingly, I presumed, permitted his house to be swallowed up, as it were.
As the summer wore on, Corvington became a bit edgy. I could see that something was beginning to bother him. I caught him frowning on occasion and I noticed that his chess game fell off considerably.
Finally, one afternoon as we sipped our iced martinis on the screened porch, he brought up the matter.
"Infernal nuisance, y'know," he began, "but I'm getting a little worried about Millward. Tradesmen haven't heard from him in weeks. Mail piled up." He turned toward me. "Have you walked down Stillcroft lately?"
I was perfectly aware that he knew I had. "Every few days. The windows are completely covered with that climbing ivy and I haven't seen a sign of life." I set down my drink. "Of course nobody could see a sign of life. You could have a banquet or a ball in there with nobody the wiser. The windows are simply blanked out by that greedy growth."
"Odd you'd use that word."
"What word?" I asked.
"Greedy."
He was silent for some time. At length he reached over and refilled my glass. "I suppose," he said, "that I ought to do something."
"I think so," I agreed. "I know the idea of—intrusion—is distasteful to you, but it would do no harm to look in on the old boy."
He settled back with a sigh. "Well, tomorrow's time enough. We'll go down, and if there's no answer at the door, I'll use my key, much as I hate meddling."
The next day, like most of its predecessors, was hot and sunny. After a light lunch, we started out for Millward Frander's house on Stillcroft Street.
Overnight, it appeared to me, the shining, purple-green ivy leaves had grown larger and more luxurious. They were everywhere. They had climbed over the eaves and started across the roof. Their tiny claspers clung to the drains, the bricks themselves, the windowpanes. The house looked as if it had been draped in a thick cloak of shimmering ivy.
Corvington rang the bell in vain. After a ten-minute wait, he sighed with resignation and took out his key. "Hate doing this, y'know."
The door opened grudgingly. We saw then that the minute clasper-rootlets of the ivy had begun to pry into the almost invisible slit of space between the door and its frame.
The entrance hall exuded a peculiar smell—a mixture of decay and growth, damp, sweet, and sickish.
Corvington shouted up the stairs. "Millward!"
He called again and we waited, but there was no reply.
Closing the door behind us, he slipped the key into his pocket. "Might as well go up, I guess."
As a trudged up the stairs behind him, I noticed that the unpleasant odor became more intense.
In the upstairs hall, Corvington looked about in some confusion. "Been years since I was in here. Forgotten which was his favorite room."
At length he settled on the last door to the right, toward the front of the house.
He knocked and there was no reply. Finally he pounded on the door. "Millward! It's Corvington!" Silence.
He tried the door and found it locked. "Hang it all! I don't have keys for all the rooms!"
After a moment's hesitation, he shrugged and swung his big shoulder against the door. It crashed inward with a splintering rasp of broken wood and metal.
We stepped into the semidarkened room—and stood stricken speechless.
In the green, glimmering half-darkness, a thing which had once been human slumped in an arm chair a few feet from the front window. It was covered with a great fluttering, waving mass of the huge, five-lobed ivy leaves. Only its outline was visible. For a minute or so, as we remained rooted with horror, the shape itself stayed motionless. Then it moved. It lifted itself from the chair and a thin, half-stifled scream came out of its mouth.
The purplish, fleshy-looking ivy leaves immediately veered in our direction, as if we had been some kind of magnet.
The thing fell back in the chair but the inhuman, high-pitched scream of protest and agony went on and on.
The ivy leaves waved frantically. Possibly it was my imagination, but I had the distinct impression that their claspers had descended to the floor in front of the chair and were starting across toward us.
At last Corvington recovered himself. He shoved me toward the door. "Get out at once! Out of the house!"
As I hurried down the stairs, he was right behind me. Even under the circumstances, I felt that this—well, it wasn't like the Corvington I knew, or thought I knew.
Once outside, I turned to him. "My God, Corvington, what are you going to do?"
"You'll see," he replied grimly.
I followed him around the side of the house, fighting through an almost impenetrable mass of vegetation. Swearing, he tore his way toward a sort of shed or garage which was situated in the rear of the house. The building bore such a weight of massed vines, limbs, and leaves, it appeared about to cave in.
Somehow Corvington reached it, got one of the doors open, and groped inside. I waited, nearly suffocated in the dense tangle of growth, and presently he pushed his way out. I saw that he was carrying a heavy ax. The blade was rusty but the handle looked solid.
As we struggled back toward the front of the house, I felt certain that the huge tangle had closed in behind us.
As soon as we emerged near the entrance door, I understood Corvington's purpose. Pushing his way to the front of the house, he located the main root, or trunk, of the ivy.
I know it may sound absurd, but the infernal thing seemed to sense his plan. The heavy ivy leaved fluttered against his face. I am positive I saw one or more of the claspers fasten on the shoulder of his jacket—but Corvington, once aroused, was formidable. He was not to be stopped.
Swinging the ax in a wide arc, he buried the rusty blade in the knotty root.
Gasping, he stepped back. I saw that he was staring at the half-severed root. Wiping the perspiration from my eyes, I looked more closely at it. A thin trickle of liquid was seeping out of the ivy trunk. It looked like blood.
Corvington swung the ax again—and again.
Things are handled quietly in Amley—if you know the right people. Corvington knew them.
There was no publicity—aside from the stark announcement of Millward Frander's death "from circulatory problems associated with a failing heart."
The funeral was private and the casket was closed.
Corvington, who inherited his cousin's house, had all its surrounding vegetation chopped, cut and sheared away—down to the last blade of grass.
One evening at the club, long afterward, he brought up the subject
"Y'know," he said, "specimens of that monstrous ivy were sent to some of the best botanists in the country and they couldn't identify it! Millward must have rooted it out in some remote, unexplored jungle area. It resembles the common ivy—Hedera canariensis—which is native to North Africa and the Canary Islands—but there are horrible differences.
"Rootl
ets of the damned thing had infiltrated a tiny fissure along the window frame where Millward usually sat.
"We don't know the exact sequence of events. He may have suffered a stroke and been unable to move out of the chair. At any rate, once inside, the ivy headed right for him. Its claspers fastened on him while he was still alive and hairlike root filaments penetrated into his tissues. It must have been agony beyond our comprehension."
Corvington refilled his glass. "Actually, however, it may not have lasted long. Even—what we saw—may have been deceptive. Millward may have been already dead when we entered."
"But he tried to get out of that chair!" I objected.
Corvington frowned. "Yes, I know. But . . . well . . . you see, it may have been a sort of—symbiosis. In other words, Millward may have been clinically dead when we saw him. The ivy root filaments may simply have acted on his nerve endings, galvanized them, so to speak. In other words, he was little more than a sort of zombie, physically animated by outside sources."
I shook my head. "Hard to believe. That scream..."
Corvington nodded. "I know. But even that might be explained. The autopsy disclosed that the hideous thing had sent its hairlike rootlets right into his brain. The stimulation may have acted on his speech centers, even though he was medically dead."
"And that red—fluid—in the root?"
Corvington grimaced. "Thought you'd bring that up. We had it analyzed. It was—part of it, anyway—human blood."
I had to let it go at that. Corvington, I observed, had closed the subject.
Today, whenever I see a friend's house wearing ivy, I immediately urge him to get rid of the growth. I suppose I'm a bit too vehement about it.
Some of my acquaintances have begun to consider me a trifle eccentric.
Mrs. Clendon's Place
(1984)
It was late November; sleet driven by a north wind slanted down the dingy street. Shivering, I sought the meager protection of a tattered awning left unfurled above the window of an abandoned storefront, and considered my prospects.
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