Collected Stories (4.1)

by R. Chetwynd-Hayes

  He considered this proposal for some time. Then he put his head on to one side and asked: "Anything at all? Even help me all day in the garden?"

  "Yes. I will… I will."

  "Help me plant the little bits and pieces? Do the thinning out? Transplant? Water? Chop-up? Mince? Prepare the mixture?"

  "Yes. Yes… oh God… yes."

  He nodded his approval.

  "That is very good. You have made me very happy."

  "Then you will protect me from them?"

  The beautiful, blue and so innocent eyes looked straight into hers.

  "If they try to drain you, I will become angry."

  "Yes… but will you protect me?"

  He frowned and Caroline flinched.

  "I have already promised. I will become angry."

  He turned and walked away with that kind of hurt and resentful expression that one might expect to find on the face of a boy scout whose word of honour has been doubted. Caroline felt like a mouse who has taken refuge in a mousetrap from a herd of ill-intentioned cats. She sank down on to a chair and closed her eyes and instantly a crazy network of words spread across her brain. "Drain… desoul… mock… shaddy… mock… shadmock… lick… yawn… blow… whistle…" The voice of the lately departed Mr Barker came back as a haunting whisper.

  Wonder not why your hair stifly bristles.

  Just abandon all hope when the shadmock whistles.

  Caroline giggled and pursed her lips and tried an experimental whistle. What was there so terrible about whistling. But - and now she could not suppress a shudder - who would have thought there could have been anything extraordinary about licking, yawning or, for that matter, blowing.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  Her eyes snapped open and there was Sheridan standing by the door, his eyes cold mirrors of contempt. Already she could detect the subtle change. His face had that bleached, deathlike whiteness that was characteristic of them. A stubble of black beard darkened his chin, and it might have been the result of a fevered imagination, but were there not two little bumps rearing up through his hair?

  She said: "I am waiting… For dinner… or something."

  He grunted - or was it a growl? - then turned and went out through the door which led to the servants' quarters. About twenty minutes later Grantley entered pushing a trolley, and Caroline at once noticed a trifling alteration in his appearance. His hair was no longer piled-up to form a raven crest over his head, but was neatly combed around his pointed ears and parted in the centre. The two, gleaming ebony horns did not - if one could only view them dispassionately - seem out of place. They added an almost noble aspect to his long face, and drew attention to his rather well-shaped skull. But Caroline could not help screaming and clutching clenched fists to her mouth. Grantley ignored or did not notice her distress, and after depositing a number of covered dishes and a single plate on the table, bowed most respectfully.

  "Mr Croxley presents his compliments, madam, and instructed me to inform you that he will be dining in the kitchen. He feels he should now be among his peers."

  Caroline did not comment, but continued to stare at the horns which were causing her deep concern. Grantley gave one educated glance at the table, then walked with unruffled dignity back to the door. There he paused and coughed apologetically.

  "There is one little matter. Will it be convenient for madam to be drained at eight o'clock?"

  Caroline made a strange noise that terminated with the single word - drained! Grantley appeared to accept this sound to mean acquiescence, and inclined his head.

  "I am deeply obliged, madam. I must apologise for this unseemly haste, but I find we are rather short of essential fluid and madam's contribution will be greatly appreciated."

  Caroline groaned and slid from her chair and then rolled over on to the floor. She was not aware that Grantley came back into the room and without too much effort replaced her unconscious body back into its former position. By pushing the chair tight against the table, he was able to ensure that such an unfortunate mishap would not occur again.

  There is absolutely no doubt that mocks - apart from a few distressing weaknesses - make excellent domestic servants.

  The shaddy and the maddy came for her at eight o'clock.

  Two bearded faces, two pairs of powerful hands, two muscle corded backs; they lifted Caroline from her chair and carried her out of the dining room and down a long passage. The prospect of imminent death is a great reviver, and she was wide awake when they entered the long, sparsely furnished room.

  Sparsely furnished! A long table, a large galvanised iron bath, two plastic buckets, two carving knives, one saw and a roll of rubber tubing. Grantley was wearing a butcher's apron.

  "If madam will lie down," he bowed in the direction of the table, "we will proceed."

  Caroline struggled, kicked, screamed and did all in her power to break free from those iron-strong hands, but it was hopeless. Grantley looked on with an expression of shocked surprise.

  "It is to be regretted that madam cannot see her way clear to cooperation."

  She was being dragged closer to the table, with its straps and head clamp, and when she jerked her head round, there was Sheridan standing by the window, tall, bulky, looking more like them by the minute, with lust gleaming in his eyes. He chuckled - a low, growling laugh - and rubbed his hands together with fiendish delight.

  Caroline swung her head from side to side, but nowhere was there a sign of the protector, the beautiful one, the innocent with the fatal whistle. Her scream took on words.

  "Marvin, help me! Marvin…"

  She was on the table and the two bearded monsters were preparing to strap her down, when the door opened - and he was there. Blue eyes wide with alarm, full-lipped mouth slightly open, his blond hair tousled as though he had lately risen from a virginal bed. He said nothing, but looked enquiringly at his father.

  Grantley frowned. "This does not concern you. When she has been drained, you may plant what remains."

  "I want her to help me in the garden," the soft voice said.

  The mock deepened his frown and shook his head angrily.

  "You cannot always have what you want. There are others to consider. Her essence must be drained and stored, so that we may all be nourished during the winter months. You really must grow up and face your responsibilities."

  "I want her to help in the garden," Marvin repeated.

  "Marvin," the Maddy was trying the mother approach, "be a good boy. We let you have that stockbroker to play with before he was drained, and we did not interfere when you pulled the legs off that property speculator, even though he was useless for our purpose afterwards. But now the time has come for us to take a stand. There is no point in licking or yawning the humwoman, she has no monsteral qualities. She must therefore be drained, minced and planted. Then - if you are a good boy - you will be able to harvest the corpoties next spring."

  Marvin opened and closed his hands, while his entire body became rigid. When he spoke his voice was very low - almost a growl.

  "Let… her go."

  Before Grantley or either of the other monsters could speak, Sheridan lurched forward, his great hands balled up into fists, his little eyes like tiny pits of blue fire.

  "See here," he was spitting the words out, "it's all decided. All cut and dried. I gather I'm not completely one of you lot, until," he jerked his head in the direction of Caroline, "she has had the chop. I'm hungry, pretty boy. Hungry for more money, more power, and when I'm hungry, I smash anyone that gets in my way. So go and play in your garden, unless you want to get hurt."

  Marvin's eyes were wide open and they gleamed with cold contempt. At the same time he looked so young and helpless, standing there before the bulky, powerful figure of Sheridan Croxley. Then he said softly: "A peasant should learn to guard his tongue."

  Sheridan's fist caught the boy squarely under the chin and lifted him off the floor, before sending him hurling across the room and crashin
g against the closed door. The door trembled, the Maddy shrieked, the Shaddy roared and the Mock - Grantley - voiced his objections.

  "In Satan's name, you should not have done that, newly acquired brother. Now he will be angry."

  "I'm angry," Sheridan retorted. "Bloody angry."

  "Yes," Grantley was watching his son with growing concern, "but the anger of a fly cannot be compared with the rage of a lion."

  "A fly!"

  "Quiet." Grantley waited until Marvin had regained his feet and stood upright against the door. "Now, son, control. Our newly acquired brother will be disciplined for this act, you may have no doubt about that. So don't get angry. Please practise some self-control. He alone was to blame, so there's no need to make us all suffer…"

  Marvin took a deep breath, if that can describe the rumbling intake of air; the unnatural expanding of the chest, or the dilated cheeks which bulged like white walled tyres. Grantley hesitated for only a moment, then turned and made for the solitary window, where he arrived a bad third, his father and wife having been similarly motivated.

  The lower sash had been raised - not before all the glass panes had been broken in the frantic struggle - and grand-father Shaddy had his head and shoulders out over the sill, when the whistle began.

  Caroline had watched the eyes dilate, the head go back, the hands slowly turn, revealing the smooth, hairless backs, the fingers stiff and widely spread; the pink tongue coiled back until it resembled a tightly wound spring. Then the whistle. It was born somewhere deep down in the stomach and gradually rose up until it erupted from the throat as a single note of shrill sound.

  Just abandon all hope when the shadmock whistles.

  In the midst of her terror, Caroline thought: "It's not so bad. After all, what can a whistle do?" Then quickly changed her mind when the sound rose to a higher pitch.

  A whistle - a shriek - a sound that went higher and higher until it reached a pitch that seemed to make the walls tremble and broke the remaining fragments of glass in the window. Then from the shadmock's mouth appeared a pencil-thin streak of light. It shot across the room and struck Sheridan in the base of the throat.

  The big man screamed and for a moment clawed the air with convulsing fingers, before he crashed down across the table, his head hanging limply over the edge. Blood seeped from his open mouth and formed a pool on the floor.

  The shadmock advanced slowly forward and the whistling sound rose to an even higher pitch, while the beam of light became a pulsating, white-whiplash that flicked across the conglomeration of bodies that were jammed in the window frame. Marvin moved his head from side to side and the three bodies jerked, quivered, bellowed and screamed. Only that of Sheridan remained still.

  It was then that Caroline realised that the door was unguarded. She crept towards it like a mouse in a den of fighting wild-cats, and hardly daring to breathe, eased her way out into the passage.

  The front door was not locked.

  Caroline ran desperately down the drive. Running under trees that shook their naked branches as though in sinister merriment; stumbling over pot-holes, bowed down by the horrible fear that rode on her shoulders.

  She staggered round a bend and there were the front gates, mercifully unguarded. The iron barrier that partitioned the world of everyday activity that men call sanity, from the bizarre realm of the unacceptable. She ran by instinct, not daring to think, prepared for disaster to strike at every step.

  The gates were locked. A thick iron chain was wound several times round the rusty bars and this was secured by a massive padlock. The rough ironwork rasped her soft palms, when in a frenzy of despair, she shook the gates and cried out her hopeless appeal.

  "Help me… help me."

  Barely had the sound of her voice died away when running footsteps came crashing through the undergrowth and Marvin emerged from beneath the trees. Beautiful as Adonis, graceful as a golden snake, he came to her, and at once the fear, the urgent need for escape, was submerged under a blanket of slavish desire. His voice was gentle, but reproachful.

  "Why did you run away? I was not angry with you."

  "I was frightened."

  He began to lead her back up the drive, talking all the while, like any enthusiast who has found a kindred soul to share his burning interest.

  "There's no need to be frightened. My parents have decided to let me have my own way. They always do in the end. Now you can help me in the garden. Help me prepare your husband for planting. Will you do that?"

  "Yes… yes, Marvin."

  "Cut him up and watch him grow ripe?"

  "Yes, Marvin."

  "And you won't make me angry, will you?"

  "No, Marvin."

  "I expect I'll be angry with you sometimes. I just can't help myself. But I'll be awfully sorry afterwards. That should be a great comfort for you. I'm always sorry afterwards. Always… afterwards."

  They disappeared round the bend in the drive and for a while peace reigned among the slumbering trees and the rolling hills beyond. Then a colony of rooks rose up with much flapping of wings and raucous cries and became black, wheeling shadows against the clouded sky.

  The Werewolf

  (1978)

  The house was old and tucked away behind a curtain of trees; a lonely place that had been built by a man who loved solitude.

  Mr Ferrier liked the company of his fellow beings as much as the next man, but he did not have much money, and The Hermitage – due, possibly, to its isolated position – had been very cheap. So he bought the property, moved in with his furniture and family and began to extol the virtues of a rustic life.

  “Room to move around,” he informed a sceptical Mrs Ferrier. “A chance to breathe air that isn’t contaminated by petrol fumes.”

  “But it’s such a long way for Alan to go to school,” his wife protested. “And the nearest shop is five miles away. I tried to warn you, but I might as well have saved my breath.”

  “Ten minutes’ car ride,” Mr Ferrier retorted impatiently. “Besides, there’s a travelling salesman who has everything you’ll ever need in his van.”

  “And what about social life?” Mrs Ferrier demanded. “How will we get to know people, stuck in this out-of-the-way place?”

  “Other people have cars, haven’t they? At least give the place a chance. If at the end of three months we find the solitude a bit too much, well – I suppose I’ll have to look for another house nearer town.”

  Alan was more than content with his new home. After years spent in a large industrial town, he found the rolling moors had much to commend them. He also discovered ruined farmhouses with frameless windows and gaping roofs, the exposed inner walls still retaining patches of flower-patterned wallpaper; and he wondered how long ago the last family had moved away, leaving their home to fall into decay.

  But one of these relics from a bygone age was not completely deserted. According to an old map which Alan borrowed from the public library, this particular ruin had been called High Burrow: a very suitable name, as the house stood on the summit of a fairly steep hill and commanded a splendid view of the surrounding countryside. Alan climbed the slope, clambered over a low wall, then walked across an expanse of weed-infested ground that had probably once been a front garden.

  He mounted three crumbling steps and passed through an open doorway, then entered the narrow hall, where the stone floor was coated with dust, and a large rat jumped down from a window-ledge and went scurrying into a side room. The ceiling had either fallen down or been removed, and Alan could see the room above, which had an iron fireplace clinging precariously to one wall. Higher still were massive beams, each one festooned with writhing cobwebs; the naked bones of a dead house.

  Alan was about to leave, for there was an indefinable, eerie atmosphere about the place, when he heard the sound of ascending footsteps, which seemed to come from beyond a gaping doorway situated to the left of a dismantled staircase. The footsteps became louder and were intermingled at irregular intervals by
an exceedingly unpleasant barking cough.

  Presently a figure emerged from the doorway and walked slowly into the hall. Alan saw a tall young man with a heavily bearded face and long matted hair that hung down to his slightly bowed shoulders, deep sunken eyes that were indescribably sad and a set of perfect teeth which were revealed when he again coughed and gasped in a most alarming way.

  Alan waited until the man had regained his breath, then said:

  “I didn’t realize there was anyone here. I was just exploring.”

  The man wiped his brow on the sleeve of his ragged shirt, then spoke with a surprisingly cultivated voice.

  “That’s all right. But I heard you come in and wondered who it could be. Haven’t had a visitor for years. This place is rather off the beaten track.”

  “Do you live here?” Alan enquired.

  The man jerked his head in the direction of the doorway.

  “Yes, down there. The cellars are still intact, if rather damp.” He sighed deeply. “There’s no other place I can go.”

  Alan thought there were many places he would rather live than in a damp cellar of a ruined house, particularly if he had such a bad cold. In fact, the man probably had bronchitis, or even pneumonia, for, despite the perspiration that poured down his face, he was shivering and could scarcely stand upright. Alan felt a twinge of pity for this strange, lonely person who appeared to have no one to look after him.

  “Look, I know it’s none of my business – but shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  The man nodded and leaned against the wall.

  “Yes, I suppose I should. But my stores are running low and I must somehow get to the village before...”

  Another fit of coughing interrupted his next words, and Alan made the only suggestion that was possible under the circumstances.

  “Would you like me to do your shopping?”