Collected Stories (4.1)

by R. Chetwynd-Hayes

  Suddenly the overhead chandelier lit up; every one of its candles took on a yellow spear-shaped light, and beyond the window it was night, a black impregnable wall of darkness. But the slow, faltering footsteps continued to draw nearer, and it seemed as though the room shivered with fear at the approach of its dread master, for the coldness grew more intense, and William whimpered like a terrified puppy.

  The French windows opened and slowly a black figure emerged from the darkness and limped into the room. The scarlet-doublet was rotten with age, the blue velvet had long since lost its plume, the knee breeches were threadbare, the black boots cracked and down-at-heel, and He—It—had no face. Just an oval-shaped expanse of dead-white skin surrounded by a mass of bedraggled white hair.

  William screamed once, a long, drawn out shriek, then he was on his feet and racing for the door. He pulled it open, crossed the dark study in a fear-mad rush, barked his shins on a chair, then tore out into the hall, and up the stairs, to finally collapse on the landing where he lay panting and trembling like a hunted animal.

  Slowly he recovered, fought back the terror, mastered his shaking limbs, and marshaled his thoughts. He crawled forward and peered down through the banisters to the dark hall below. He could see the pale oblong that marked his study doorway. The door was still open. Then another more terrible thought exploded and sent slivers of fear across his brain. The door was open. What had he read in the blue-covered book?

  “Therefore I prepared me the door... making it into a trap that will function for a brief spell... or I will go forth beyond the door and find me a woman of his kind, which would be better, for a woman have a more lasting quality.”

  Rosemary! If Sir Michael was beyond the door, then he might be but a few feet away, hidden by the darkness, peering down at William with that face that was not a face, perhaps even moving silently towards the bedroom where Rosemary lay asleep.

  William got to his feet, stretched out a hand and groped wildly for the light switch. He found it, pressed, and the sudden light blasted the darkness, shattered it into splinters, sent the shadows racing for protecting corners, forced imagination to face reality. The landing was empty; the familiar cold linoleum, the white painted doors, the brown banisters, the stairs... William peered down into the hall. The landing light did not extend to more than halfway down the stairs, the hall was still in total darkness. It took great courage to descend the stairs, and a great effort of will to press the hall switch. Light, like truth, is all-revealing; the hall table was in its proper place, the carpet he and Rosemary had chosen with such care covered the floor, two prints still hung on the green-papered walls, and all doors were closed, save the one leading to his study; and standing in the opening was something extra—a bedraggled, nightmare figure with no face. Almost no face, for since William had seen it last, it had acquired a mouth. Two thin lines that opened.

  “Thank you,” the voice came as a harsh, vibrant whisper, “thank you very much.”

  For the first time in his life William fainted.

  ***

  Rosemary was crying. Sitting by his bed sobbing, but when she saw his eyes were open, a smile lit up her face, the sun peeping through the rain clouds.

  “Oh, William, you’re awake. Thank goodness, when I found you down on the hall floor, I thought... Do you feel better now? The doctor said you have a slight concussion. Hit your head when you fell.”

  He felt very weak, and his head hurt, a dull ache. There was also a nagging fear at the back of his mind, trying to remind him of something he wanted to forget.

  “I feel fine,” he said, “great, simply great. What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Rosemary was wiping her eyes, “I guess you must have walked in your sleep, and fell downstairs. I did not find you until this morning, and you lay so still...”

  She began to cry again and he wanted to comfort her, but the nagging fear was coming out into the open, making him remember, causing him to shiver.

  “You must leave this house,” he tried to sit upright, “He is looking for someone—a woman who has...” he giggled inanely, “. . . who has a lasting quality.”

  “Oh, no,” Rosemary had both hands clutched to her mouth, staring at him with fear-filled eyes, “your poor head.”

  “I’m not mad,” William clutched her arm, “please believe me. He—It, I don’t know, but there is a room behind the door, and He made it—kept it alive and himself by the life essence—soul’s blood, of living people. I know the door is a trap, is only active for a little while at certain periods, and now happens to be one of them. I don’t know why sometimes I can go through, and at others I cannot, but it is so. But the point is, He—Sir Michael—has come through. He is on this side of the door. He wants a woman he can take back—make part of the room—take to pieces, tear soul from body, but you won’t die, you won’t be so lucky.”

  Rosemary ran from the room, raced down the stairs, and he heard the telephone receiver being removed; she was telephoning the doctor, convinced beyond all doubt he was mad.

  Perhaps he was, or at the very best a victim of a walking hallucination. He was suddenly very confused. He had lived off his imagination for years—it could have rebelled, manufactured a sleepwalking nightmare. After all his first “visit” had begun by him mentally building up the room item by item.

  He pretended to be asleep when Rosemary returned.

  The doctor said: “Run-down,” remarked sagely on the effects of overwork, strain, advised rest, wrote out a prescription, and then departed. William felt almost happy after his visit, quite willing to accept the certainty that his experience had been nothing more than a vivid and unpleasant dream. He would rest, stay in bed, then in a few days he and Rosemary would go away for a long holiday, and during their absence a builder could remove the door. That was the sensible solution.

  “Sorry if I scared you,” he told Rosemary, “but I had such a horrible nightmare—a sort of two-part dream, and it seemed so real. We’ll go away when I feel fit.”

  She was delighted; chatted happily about where they should go, spent as much time as possible by his bedside, and left all the doors open when she went downstairs, so she could hear should he call out. The day passed and as the shadows of night darkened the windows, a faint chill of returning fear began to haunt his mind. Rosemary turned on the lights, drew the curtains, smiled at him, but there was an expression of unease in her eyes, and it was then he knew his hard-won peace of mind was merely self-deception.

  “Anything wrong?” He tried to make the question sound casual.

  “No,” she straightened the counterpane, “no, nothing.”

  “Tell me,” he whispered, fearful lest the very walls were listening, “please, tell me.”

  She averted her head.

  “It’s nothing, only silliness on my part. But—that door—it won’t remain shut. Every time I close it, the handle turns, and it opens.”

  “Then I was right, it was not a dream.”

  “Nonsense,” she was pushing him back onto the pillows, “the door is shrinking, the warm air is making it contract, that must be the answer. It must be.”

  “Did... did you see anything beyond the door?”

  “Only the cupboard shelves, but...”

  She paused, and he did not want her to go on, tried to blot out her voice, but the words came to him, like echoes from yesteryear.

  “I keep thinking there is someone else in the house.”

  He shook his head: “No... no...”

  “I know it’s pure imagination, but... I thought I saw a face looking down at me over the banisters.”

  “Rosemary,” he took her hand, “don’t say anything more, just do as I say. Go downstairs, get the car out of the garage and wait for me. I’ll pack a bag and will be with you in a few minutes.”

  “But...” Her eyes were wide open, glazed with fear, and she made a faint protest when he clambered out of bed.

  “Please do as I say. Now.”

  She
ran from the room and William was reaching for his clothes when he had a glimpse of a figure gliding across the open doorway. For a moment he stood petrified, then he shouted once: “Rosemary!”

  “What’s the matter?” Her voice, hoarse with fear, came up from the hall. “What...”

  Her scream seared his brain like a hot knife and he raced for the landing, ran down the stairs, then stood in the hall, calling our her name, trying to master his fear, the weakness in his legs.

  “William...!”

  The scream came from his study and for a moment he surrendered to the paralyzing terror, stood trembling like a statue on the brink of unnatural life, then with a great effort of will he moved forward, staggered rather than ran through the doorway and took in the scene with one all-embracing glance.

  He—It—Sir Michael, was complete, rejuvenated by the life force of the girl that lay limp in his arms. The face was now lit by a pair of dark terrible eyes, the nose was arched, cruel, the lips parted in a triumphant smile, the long hair only slightly flecked with grey, but his clothes were still ragged, old, besmirched with grave mire.

  The door was open but the room beyond was slightly out of focus, the walls had a shimmering quality, the chandelier candles were spluttering, making light dance with shadow; a chair suddenly lost one leg and it fell over onto the floor.

  He watched William, eyes glistening with sardonic amusement, and made no attempt to intervene as the young man edged round the walls towards the door. When William stood in the open doorway, with the blue room behind him, the thin lips parted again, and the harsh voice spoke:

  “I must thank you again. The woman may have a more lasting quality, but two bodies and souls were always better than one.”

  He moved forward, and Rosemary, now mercifully unconscious, lay in his arms, her head flung back so that her long hair brushed the desktop as they passed.

  “The door,” William’s brain screamed, “destroy the door.”

  He would have given twenty years of his life for an axe. Then he remembered the crossed sabers hanging just above the doorframe. He reached up and gripped the brass hilts, jerked and they came away, then he spun round to face the approaching figure.

  Sir Michael chuckled as he slowly shook his head.

  “Never. You will only harm the lady.”

  William swung the saber in his right hand sideways; struck the door with a resounding crash, and instantly Sir Michael flinched, fell back a few paces as though the blade had been aimed at him.

  “No-o-o.” The protest was a cry of pain; William struck again, and red fluid began to seep out of the door panel, and something crashed in the room behind. Then in a fear-inspired frenzy, William slashed wildly at the door, and was dimly aware that Sir Michael had dropped Rosemary, was reeling around the study, jerking as each blow fell, emitting harsh animal-like cries, his eyes black pools of pain-racked hate.

  The door shivered, then split; one half, now splintered, soggy, crashed to the floor; William swung his right-hand saber and struck at the hinges, the door frame, and did not cease until the brickwork lay bare.

  Sir Michael disintegrated. The face dissolved into an oval featureless mask, the hair turned white, then seemed to melt into a white powder, the entire body collapsed and became an untidy heap of rags and white bones. In a few minutes these too faded away and William was left staring at a dirty patch of carpet.

  He had one last fleeting glimpse of the blue room. The walls and ceiling appeared to fall in, turn into a mass of swirling blue-mist; he saw a great jumble effaces; Negroes with frizzy hair and large, black eyes, young fair-haired girls, children, even animals. Then the shelves of his stationery cupboard came into being—typing paper, ribbons, carbon paper, all merged into their proper place, and William turned his attention to Rosemary, who was stirring uneasily.

  He gathered her up into his arms.

  The splintered remains of the door lay all around, crumbling, rotten with age.

  Lord Dunwilliam and the Cwn Annwn

  (1973)

  My Lord Dunwilliam was not, to say the least, in a good mood. The interior of the coach was cold, the road, if the snow- covered track could be so designated, was rough, and his lordship was tossed upwards, then flung from side to side, and the coachman, who was steadily freezing high up on his elevated seat, trembled as Dunwilliam gave vent to his rage.

  'Blind, blockheaded cretin, drive round the bloody holes, not in them.’

  Had he been given the gift of free speech, Coggins, for such was the coachman’s name, might well have pointed out that in a blinding snowstorm it was a miracle that he had so far kept the coach on four wheels, but not being so gifted he did his best to guide the team of four horses on what he devoutly trusted was the centre of the road. His trust was misplaced.

  The coach reeled over, then slid into what appeared to be a deep ditch; the horses screamed as they were pulled backwards, and Coggins fell from his perch and landed in a deep pile of snow. He clambered to his feet and hastened to aid his employer, whose scarlet face was glaring at him from the remains of the near-side window.

  'You blasted, addle-brained imbecile.’ His lordship was impelled to desist while he made the perilous descent from tilted coach to snow-coated road, then he took a deep breath and continued. 'You walled-eye son of Jezebel, you maggot-ridden ball of excreta, what by the devil and all his angels do you think you’re doing?’

  'Snow, me Lord.’ Coggins spoke quickly, knowing he had little time before the next outburst. 'Ditch, me Lord, couldn’t see it, me Lord.’

  'A ditch,’ Lord Dunwilliam pointed out with assumed patience, 'is for draining water into. A road is intended for driving coaches on. Those little bags of moisture situated on either side of your misshapened nose are called eyes. They are supposed to inform that minute spec of putrescence that you in all seriousness call a brain, which is which.’

  The enormity of his crime came home to Coggins, and he could only mutter: 'Beg pardon, me Lord. Beg pardon.’

  "Where are we?’ Dunwilliam pulled his greatcoat tighter about his burly form.

  'So far as I can ascertain,’ Coggins was releasing the struggling horses, 'half-way between Llanwddyn and Bala.’

  'Right, saddle Lucifer. I’ll sleep in Bala tonight or die in the attempt.’

  'But, me Lord,’ Coggins wiped the snow from his eyes, 'it’s all of eight miles, and you have to cross the Berwyn Mountains, and there’ll be deep drifts by now.’

  'Get the saddle out of the boot.’ Dunwilliam spat snow out of his mouth. 'Then my valise.’

  'My Lord,’ Coggins protested again, 'in a few hours it’ll be as black as the devil’s hand. I know this country and, begging your pardon, your lordship does not, and I would not make such a journey alone on a night like this. If you must go on, turn east and make for Llangynog.’

  'Saddle the horse and don’t talk so much,’ Dunwilliam instructed. 'I meet my man of business in Bala tomorrow, and that will not be possible if I go to Llangynog tonight.’

  Ten minutes later found Lord Dunwilliam seated upon the leading coachhorse, gazing down at his coachman with an impatient frown.

  'What shall I do, my Lord?’ Coggins said.

  'Do, man, do? First get blankets from the boot for the horses, then see they are hobbled in a sheltered spot. Afterwards, I suppose you’d better take cover in the coach, always supposing you can sit or lie at an angle. I’ll send someone back when I get to Bala.’

  Lord Dunwilliam rode away without a single backward glance, and it seemed the snow was eager to erase the footprints of his horse.

  ***

  It caressed his eyes with icy fingers, it cloyed his nostrils, clogged his ears, clung to his horse’s hoofs and mocked his impotent rage. The wind swept down from the Berwyn Mountains, driving the snow before it like a plague of white moths, and it screamed a terrible cry that was at times one of desolate despair, at others one of unholy joy. Dunwilliam on several occasions was almost lifted out of his saddle, and it wa
s then that he clung to the horse’s neck, digging his toes well under it’s belly, swearing aloud, for his lordship was a man who always coated his fear with a thick layer of anger. He had been riding, if that was the correct expression for this slow plodding, for an hour — maybe two; the light was failing, and he was, without any possible doubt, hopelessly lost. But even now he had no regrets, he did not blame himself for setting out on this nightmare journey. He had to be in Bala before morning, and he blamed the wind, the snow, the night that was falling too soon, for his predicament. Even when he knew death was shrieking in on the wind, striking at his exhausted body with grave-cold fingers, there was no relenting from his purpose, no thought of stopping, surrendering to the nigh-overwhelming need to bed down in a soft blanket of snow and sleep for ever.

  Perhaps it was the horse that instinctively made for the only house within ten miles, or maybe Dunwilliam’s own sense of self-preservation was sufficiently developed for him to steer his horse in the right direction, or maybe he was just lucky, but suddenly he found himself peering at a lighted window that was only a few yards in front. A window, a rectangle of light, and next to it was a green door, now daintily framed with crisp snow, and somehow Dunwilliam was pounding upon it, roaring out his demand: 'By the devil and all his angels let me in,’ and his cry was eagerly seized by the wind and hurled back to the glowering mountains.

  The door opened and he fell forward into a world of warmth and light; the voices had that soft Welsh lilt he had sometimes found rather irritating, but now they were telling him he had stumbled past the gates of death, that his flesh would not freeze, his heart continue to pump, his senses could still function.