Collected Stories (4.1)

by R. Chetwynd-Hayes

  She did not move her head, only continued to gaze up into his eyes.

  "Isn't there any other way?" she whispered.

  He shook his head.

  "None. None whatsoever."

  There was a minute of complete silence, then:

  "What are you going to use as a shovel?"

  He laughed and went back to the wall which he pounded with his fist.

  "I could say you have a point there, but I won't. Let's take an inventory. What have we that is pick- and shovel-worthy? Our hands, of course. Shoes? Maybe." He felt in his pocket and produced a bunch of keys and a penknife. "This might start things going, then I can pull the loose stuff out with my hands."

  He sank the penknife blade into the soft, moist earth and traced the rough outline of a door, then a he began to deepen the edges, digging out little lumps of earth that fell to the ground like gobbets of chewed meat. Brian then removed his shoes and used the heels to claw out a jagged hole.

  . "If I can work my way through," he explained, "it should be an easy matter to pull the entire thing down."

  He dug steadily for another five minutes, then a glimmer of light appeared and, after a final effort, he was able to look through an opening roughly six inches in diameter.

  "What can you see?" Rosemary asked, her tone suggesting she would rather not know.

  "It seems to be some kind of large cave and it's lit up with that green light, just like the passages. I can see hunks of rock lying about, but not much else. Well, here goes."

  He thrust his right hand through the aperture, curled his fingers round the inner wall and pulled. A large chunk came away, then he began to work with both hands, pulling, clawing, and the entire wall came tumbling down. He wiped his hands on already stained trousers, then put on his shoes.

  "Now," he said, "for the moment of truth."

  They were in a rough, circular cavern; it was perhaps twenty feet in diameter and an equal distance in height. Loose lumps of rock littered the floor, but there was no sign of anyone-alive or dead-and Brian gave a prolonged sigh of relief.

  "I don't know what I expected to see, but thank heavens, I don't see it. Now, we must start looking for a way out. I'll go round the walls, you examine the floor. Never know, there might be a hole going down still further."

  He turned his attention to the irregular walls, leaving Rosemary to wander miserably among the large rocks and boulders that formed a kind offence round the centre of the cavern. He looked upwards and saw, some twenty feet from the ground, a fairly large hole. Deciding it would be worth investigating, he began to ascend the wall and found the task easier than he had supposed, for projecting rocks made excellent footholds. In a few minutes he had reached his objective. The hole was in fact a small cave that was about seven feet high and five across, but alas there was no exit.

  He was about to descend and continue his search elsewhere when Rosemary screamed. Never before had he realised a human throat was capable of expressing such abject terror. Shriek after shriek rang out and re-echoed against the walls, until it seemed an army of banshees were forecasting a million deaths. He looked down and saw the girl standing just inside the fence of stones looking down at something he could not see; her eyes were dilated and seemed frozen into an expression of indescribable horror.

  Brian scrambled down the wall and ran over to her; when he laid hands on her shoulders she flinched as though his touch were a branding iron, then her final shriek was cut off and she slid silently to the floor.

  A few feet away there was a slight indentation, a shallow hole, and he experienced a terrifying urge not to look into it, but he knew he must, if for no other reason than a strange, compelling curiosity.

  He dragged Rosemary well back and left her lying against one wall, then he returned, creeping forward very slowly, walking on tip-toe. At last he was on the brink of hell. He looked down.

  Horror ran up his body in cold waves; it left an icy lump in his stomach and he wanted to be sick only he had not the strength. He had to stare down, concentrate all his senses and try to believe.

  The head bore a resemblance to the portrait in Mrs Brown's ante-room; it was dead-white, bloated, suggesting an excess of nourishment consumed over a very long period. The hair was at least six feet in length and was spread out over the loose rock like a monstrous shroud. But the torso and arms grew out of the ground. The shoulders and part of the forearms were flesh, but further down the white skin assumed a greyish colour and, lower still, gradually merged into solid rock. Most horrifying of all was the profusion of fat, greenish, tubelike growths that sprouted out from under forearms and neck and, so far as Brian could see, the whole of the back. Obscene roots spreading out in every direction until they disappeared into the black earth, writhing and pulsating, carrying the vital fluid that circulated round the house.

  The eyes were closed, but the face moved. The thin lips grimaced, creating temporary furrows in the flabby fat. Brian withdrew from the hole-the grave-and at last his stomach had its way and allowed him to be violently sick. By the time he returned to Rosemary, he felt old and drained of strength. She was just returning to consciousness and he smoothed back her hair.

  "Are you fit enough to talk?" he asked.

  She gave a little strangled gasp.

  "That… that thing…"

  "Yes, I know. Now listen. I am going to take you up there," He pointed to the cave set high up on the opposite wall. "You'll be all right there while I do what must be done."

  "I don't understand." She shook her head. "What must you do?"

  "Mrs Brown told me her husband was a partaker of blood. In other words, a vampire, and centuries ago the local lads did the traditional things and drove a stake through his heart. She said something else. It wasn't his body they should have destroyed, but his brain. Don't you see? This house, the entire set-up, is a nightmare produced by a monstrous intelligence?"

  "I'll believe anything." Rosemary got to her feet. "Just get me out of here. I'd rather walk the passages than spend another minute with that… thing."

  "No." He shook his head. "I must destroy the brain. The only point is, when I do…" He looked round the cavern, then over to the entrance of the green-walled passage. "… anything may happen."

  "What about you?" she asked.

  "So soon as the job is finished, I'll join you."

  He might have added, "If I can," but instead guided Rosemary to the wall and assisted her up to the cave.

  "Now," he instructed, "stay well back and don't, in any circumstances, so much as put your nose outside. Understand?"

  "God, I'm petrified," she said.

  "Don't let it get around," he nodded grimly, "but so am I."

  He came back to the hole like a released spirit returning to hell. As he drew nearer, the terror grew until it required a desperate effort to raise one foot and put it down before the other. Only the memory of Rosemary up there in the cave kept his spark of courage alive. At last he again gazed down at that horrible growth; it groaned and the sound raced round the cavern and up through the house. The face grimaced and twitched, while the green tubes writhed like a nest of gorged worms. Brian selected a rock which was a little larger than the bloated head and, gripping it in both hands, prepared to hurl it down. He had tensed his muscles, and was turning slightly to one side, when the eyelids flicked back and he was staring into two pools of black hate.

  The shock was so intense he automatically slackened his grip and the rock slid from his fingers and went crashing down somewhere behind him. The mouth opened and a vibrant whisper went racing up through the house.

  "Elizabeth… Carlo…"

  The words came out slowly, rather like a series of intelligible sighs, but from all around, from the walls, the floor, the high roof-never from the moving lips.

  "Would… you… destroy… that… which… you… do… not… understand?"

  Brian was fumbling for the rock, but he paused and the whispering voice went on.

  "I… must…
continue… to… be… I… must… grow… fill… the… universe… consume… take… strength…"

  A padding of fast-running paws came from the passage entrance and a woman's voice was calling out.

  "Petros, drink of his essence… will him into walking death."

  There was a hint of fear in the terrible eyes. The whispering voice again ran through the house.

  "He… is… an… unbeliever… he… is… the… young… of… a… new… age… why… did… you… let… him… through…?"

  The great dog leapt over the loose earth and emerged from the passageway; it was black as midnight, like a solid shadow newly escaped from a wall, and it padded round the cavern before jumping up on to a boulder and preparing to leap. Brian hurled a rock at it and struck the broad, black snout. The beast howled and fell back as Mrs Brown spoke from the entrance.

  "You will not keep that up for long. Carlo cannot be killed by the likes of you."

  She had been transformed. The once white hair was now a rich auburn, the face was as young as today, but the glorious eyes reflected the evil of a million yesterdays. She wore a black evening dress that left her arms and back bare and Brian could only stare at her, forgetting that which lay behind him and Rosemary, up in the cave. All he could see was white flesh and inviting eyes.

  "Come away," the low, husky voice said. "Leave Petros to his dream. He cannot harm you and it would be such a waste if Carlo were to rip your nice body to shreds. Think of what I can offer. An eternity of bliss. A million lifetimes of pleasure. Come."

  He took one step forward, then another, and it seemed he was walking into a forbidden dream; all the secret desires that up to that moment he had not realised existed flared up and became exciting possibilities. Then, just as he was about to surrender, go running to her like a child to a beautiful toy, her voice lashed across his consciousness.

  "Carlo… now."

  The dog came snarling over the rocks and Brian fell back, suddenly fully aware of the pending danger. He snatched up a piece of jagged rock and threw it at the oncoming beast. He hit it just above the right ear, then began to hurl stones as fast as he could pick them up. The dog leapt from side to side, snarling with pain and rage, but Brian realised it was coming forward mor›; than it retreated and knew a few minutes, at the most, must elapse before he felt those fangs at his throat. By chance his hands closed round the original small boulder-and it was then he understood what must be done.

  He raised the rock high above his head, made as though to hurl it at the dog, which momentarily recoiled, then threw it back-straight at the head of Petros.

  The house shrieked. One long-drawn-out scream and the dog was no longer there; instead, Carlo ran towards his mistress, making plaintive, guttural cries, before sinking down before her, plucking frantically at the hem of her black dress.

  ***

  Brian looked back and down into the hole and saw that the head was shattered and what remained of the flesh was turning black. The green tubes were now only streaks of deflated tissue and the life-giving fluid no longer flowed up into the body of the house. From up above came a deep rumbling sound and a great splintering, as though a mountain of rocks were grinding together. Brian ran towards the far wall and, quickly scrambling up into the cave, found Rosemary waiting to welcome him with outstretched arms.

  "Keep down," he warned. "All hell is going to break loose at any moment."

  They lay face down upon the floor, and Brian had to raise his head to see the final act. The green light was fading, but before it went he had a last glimpse of the woman staring blankly at the place where Petros had lain. She was patting Carlo's head. Then the ceiling came down and for a while there was only darkness filled with a mighty rumbling and crashing of falling rock. Fantasy tumbling down into the pit of reality. Time passed and the air cleared as the dust settled and presently, like a glimmer of hope in the valley of despair, a beam of light struck the entrance to the cave. Brian looked out, then up. Twenty feet above was a patch of blue sky.

  They came up from the pit, bruised, clothes torn, but happy to be alive. They trudged hand-in-hand out across the moors and after a while looked back to see a pile of rocks that, at this distance, could have been mistaken for a ruined house.

  "We will never talk about this to anyone," Brian said. "One does not talk about one's nightmares. They are so ridiculous in the light of day."

  Rosemary nodded. "We slept. We dreamed. Now we are awake."

  They walked on. Two figures that distance diminished until they became minute specks on a distant horizon. Then they were gone.

  The early morning breeze caressed the summer grass, harebells smiled up at a benign sky and a pair of rabbits played hide and seek among the fallen rocks. To all outward appearances the moors were at peace.

  Then a rabbit screamed and a stoat raised blood-dripping jaws.

  Christmas Eve

  (1975)

  Andrew Nesbitt was a wanderer.

  Had he been less endowed with this world’s goods he would doubtlessly have been a tramp; one of those unfortunates who trudge with bowed heads along never-ending roads and live like stray cats on charitable scraps, thrown to them by a contemptuous society. But Andrew could afford to wander in comfort.

  His usual procedure was to buy a railway ticket for some far-off destination, then alight at any station that looked interesting. But of course it rarely was. Most towns look alike; the majority of hotels offer the same service - or lack of it - and all houses are impregnable fortresses, if one has no right of entry. But the urge to keep moving, to see the sky from a different window, was a disease for which he could find no cure - nor did he want to.

  It was Christmas Eve when he arrived at Mansville, a little town some twenty miles from the south coast. The shops were bright with plastic goodwill; a large Christmas tree stood in the hotel foyer and the receptionist said: ‘The compliments of the season, sir.’

  Andrew felt a warm glow of subdued excitement as he unpacked his bag. He still enjoyed Christmas, for although time had expelled him from the land of childhood, he still sought ways and means of recapturing its memories. Christmas was a time of bright lights and roaring log fires, paper-chains and Tiny Time saying: ‘God bless us, one and all.’

  He was unlikely to find much of this in The Royal George Hotel, but the spirit of Christmas must surely walk down its corridors or sit enthroned in the large dining-room, while he ate turkey and tinned plum pudding. That he need have no doubt on that score, was demonstrated by a large card pinned on the door. It said in bright, tinsel-edged letters: the management WISHES A HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND A PROSPEROUS NEW YEAR TO ALL its patrons. Fortified by this desire for his wellbeing, Andrew went down to the restaurant and smiled at waiter. He responded with a weak grin.

  ‘Good evening, sir. What will it be? ’

  Andrew, in his present, uplifted mood, would have preferred a less mundane greeting, but he took the proffered menu and ordered roast beef, potatoes and brussels sprouts, with chocolate pudding to follow. Then he sat back and studied his surroundings.

  Roughly two-thirds of the tables were occupied; mostly by family groups and parties that had come together for the festive season. But here and there was a solitary being like himself, trying to find colour in a glass of water. But he had no desire for companionship; it was enough to sit and watch; to hear voices, to dine among many but eat alone.

  Andrew was mid-way through his roast beef when the girl entered the dining-room and made her way towards an empty table. He watched her with interest, because she was young and pretty, if somewhat pale. She sat down and after slipping out of the fur coat, which she allowed to drape over the chair- back, jerked her head so that the rich, auburn hair flew back like a dark, red-tinted wing. Andrew waited until she had taken up the menu before lowering his eyes. She was only another face in the crowd; one more tiny spark of memory that would begin to die as soon as he had left the restaurant. But - and his eyes came slowly up again to study the pale
face - would he forget? Her beauty was like a white flame; he experienced a stirring of, not so much desire, as a longing to possess. This was followed by a rising irritation. What right had she to come here and spoil his Christmas Eve? For that, he realized, was exactly what she had done. No matter how much he tried, his eyes would keep wandering back to that pale, flawless face, watching the long-fingered hands while they played with knife and fork. She made eating into an act of poetry - chewing with closed mouth, so that the movement of her jaw muscles was scarcely perceptible.

  Then she looked up and for three seconds their eyes met. It seemed to Andrew’s inflamed imagination that there was a flicker of recognition. Then she lowered her head and he was left in a limbo of pain.

  Andrew went back to toying with his own meal, mentally listing a number of unpalatable truths. ‘You are forty-five,’ he told himself, ‘ugly, balding and probably impotent. Suppose the impossible were to happen and she offered herself to you - what would you do with her? ’

  The answer was simple, of course. Nothing. But his madness lay beyond the realms of reason. He wanted to touch, look and own. Then he looked up and a great surge of relief made him want to laugh out aloud. She was gone. A half-empty plate and an abandoned knife and fork were the only evidence that she had ever existed. Andrew Nesbitt was like a man who has walked to the gallows, then at the last minute, been reprieved.

  ‘Thank God,’ he muttered. ‘I am still free.’

  * * *

  The evening had surrendered its grey body into the dark arms of night, when Andrew Nesbitt made his way towards the church.

  He was not a religious man - his faith had died long ago - but the midnight service on Christmas Eve still held for him the magic of childhood. The stained-glass windows, the subdued lights, the swelling organ music, the singing voices - again he would be truly alone in a crowd; a member of a congregation, yet not of it.

  People sat in groups, occasionally exchanging low whispers as though somewhere - probably behind the candle-lit altar - there was a sleeping deity who must not be wakened. Andrew slid into an empty pew and allowed the warm, burnt candle atmosphere to close in around him. The ghosts of the long dead must surely haunt old churches. The world outside might be an alien, frightening place, but here was a pocket of time, where only those memories which were comforting, need be preserved. He was playing with this fantasy when the organ began its melodious music and the choir filed out of the vestry. He did not join in the responses, but he did sing those carols which he knew; the prayers he ignored, merely bowing his head and lapsing into thought.