“Fool!” she shrieked. “If you had only asked me. Now all life is dead for me!”
“I still live,” he said kindly.
At that she burst into tears and ran to him and caught him in her arms.
“I didn’t mean it,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean it. I was just worried and sorry because my beautiful plant died. I do have you but it may be that you die as the plant and the moon and the song of the laughing man. Everything dies, and perhaps your candle will go out in the dark some time. Take me away from here. I am afraid! I fear the dark, and the moon will soon pale, shrink, and die also.”
He soothed her as best he could, caressingly, telling her they would leave in a few days; just as soon as he could get another car.
They spent that day as lovers and for long moments Constance seemed to forget her fears in the embraces of the man. At other times she looked furtively into the dark forest. They told the dame they were leaving and she sighed, saying she wished they had never come. None too happy, the bride and her husband returned to their bedroom, discussing plans for their future.
“And I think,” said Paul Gallien suddenly, “that before we go we had better throw out that dead mistletoe and clean the room. Suppose we do it now? I’ll borrow shears from the old woman.”
He returned shortly with a great pair of shears, such scissors as the oldest Fate used to clip the thread of life. While Constance sat on the bridal chest and cried a little, he cut all the ropes and rotten sheet, then threw the dead plant and other things with it out the window.
As he wiped off the oaken bedstead he remarked, “This wood is all dry and powdery. I believe I could break it in two in my hands. The mistletoe must have taken most of the life out of it.”
“It has taken most of the life out of me,” the woman added under her breath.
“No. We are just beginning to live. There are so many happy days to come.”
Thus and so he tried to cheer her. The work done, he placed the shears on the bed and then coaxed her to come to supper. She said she was tired and asked that they go to bed early that evening.
Returning to the room she noticed the shears on the bed, exactly in the middle of the coverlet.
“How odd you are,” she said to her husband. “You left those shears on the bed, exactly in the middle. If they stay there, they will be between us all night.”
“That would be a good idea,” he answered gently, “you’re tired and this has been a hard day for you. Thus in olden times the knights did with their swords when they wished to assure their damsels of an undisturbed night. So, you stay on your side of the shears and I’ll stay on mine. Thus we shall both waken refreshed on the morrow.”
Half an hour passed.
“I’m frightened, Paul,” she whimpered. “Is that thunder I hear? Hold my hand—tight!”
He did so and went to sleep.
Then came the full moon lighting the room with its yellow beams, and the woman heard the sounds of the pipe in the dark forest. At once she knew she must go out and dance or die from desire. As she tried to rise her hair held her back. She started to pull the long braids but they still held her. At last she took courage and slid her hand down the braid till she found it wrapped round the neck of the man who had held her hand. Her hair, those long, black, snake-like tresses, was wrapped around his neck, covering his face.
She screamed, for she knew that Paul Gallien was dead, and she knew the manner of his death.
Yet the pipe called her to the dark forest.
She took the shears and cut her hair, close to her head she cut it. Strand by strand, she cut it till she was free, and as the hair loosened it clung closer to the man’s face and throat as though not quite satisfied that the deed was done.
Constance took off her silken robe and spread it over what lay on the bed. Under the silk all was still, save for the final convulsive twistings of the ropes of hair, tightening uselessly round the throat of the dead. Then the woman ran to the window and climbed feverishly down the ivy. This time she did not wait to put on her slippers.
Once she reached the ground she ran to the rock. The laughing man was gone; the goats and the geese were gone; but through the woods, down the road, she heard the tones of the music, a very old tune, all within an octave, and she hastened after the song, crying, “Oh, Pan! Wait for me! Please wait for me so I can love you and be happy.”
But the laughing man walked on. The running, panting woman could come no closer to him till at last she saw him standing on the edge of the cliff. There he stood and played, waiting for her. She reached out to catch him and kiss him, but failing to touch the fantasy of his body, she plunged over the cliff, her white body curving like a falling star, till she silently became one with the crushed automobile.
The laughing man, lurking in the shadows, ran out into the moonlight and threw his open hands into the air as though to pluck the moonbeams with his questing fingers. Then he began to play his pipes anew. From the dark woods came the goats and the geese and gathered silently round him, and the song he played was all in one octave and very old. He laughed.
“These mortals are never content. They always try to gather moonbeams—and even I cannot do that.”
THE DEAD WOMAN
Originally published in Fantasy Magazine April 1934.
He was found in the room with his wife, slightly confused, a trifle bewildered, but otherwise apparently normal. He made no effort to conceal his conduct any more than he did to the knife in his hand or the pieces in the trunk.
Fortunately the inspector was an officer of more than usual intelligence, and there was no effort made to give the third degree or even secure a written confession. Perhaps the Police Department felt it was too plain a case. At least it was handled intelligently and in a most scientific manner. The man was well fed, carefully bedded, and the next morning, after being bathed and shaved was taken to see a psychiatrist.
The specialist in mental diseases had the man comfortably seated. Knowing he smoked, he offered a cigar, which was accepted. Then, in a quiet, pleasant atmosphere, he made one statement and one request.
“I am sure, Mr. Thompson, that you had an excellent reason for acting as you did the other day. I wish you would tell me all about it.”
The man gazed at the psychiatrist. “Will you believe me if I tell you?”
“I will accept every part of your story with the idea that you are convinced that you are telling me the truth.”
“That is all I want,” whispered Thompson. “If everyone I talked to in the past had done that, if they had even tried to check up on my story, perhaps this would not have happened. But they always thought that I was the sick one, and there was not one who was willing to accept my statement about the worms.
“I suppose that I was happily married. At least as much so as most men are. You know that there is a good deal of conflict between the sexes, and there were a few differences of opinion between Mrs. Thompson and myself. But not enough to cause serious difficulty. Will you remember that? That we did not quarrel very much?
“About a year ago my wife’s health began to give me considerable cause for worry. She started to fail. If you are a married man, Doctor, you know there is always that anxiety about the wife’s health. You become accustomed to living with a woman, having her do things for you, go to places with you and you think about how life would be if she should sicken and die. Perhaps the fact that you are uneasy about the future makes you exaggerate the importance of her symptoms.
“At any rate she became sick, developed a nasty cough and lost weight. I spoke to her about it and even bought a bottle of beef, wine and iron at the drug store and made her take it. She did so to please me, but she never would admit that she was sick. Said it was fashionable to be thin and that the cough was just nervousness.
“She would not go to see a doctor. When I spoke to her mother about it, the old lady just laughed at me; said that if I tried to make Lizzie a little happier she would soon get fat. In fact,
none of our family or our friends seemed to feel that there was anything wrong with Mrs. Thompson, so I stopped talking about it.
“Of course it was not easy on me, the way she coughed at night, and her staying awake so much. I work hard in the daytime and it is hard to lose a lot of sleep. At last I was forced to ask her to let me sleep in the spare bedroom.
“Even that did not help much. I could hear her cough, and when she did fall asleep I would have to tiptoe into her room and see if she was all right. Her coughing bothered me so much that when she did not cough it worried me more because I thought something had happened to her.
“One night the thing I was afraid of happened. She had a hard spell of coughing and then she stopped. It was quiet in the house. I could hear the clock on the landing tick, and a mouse gnawing wood in the attic. I thought I could even hear my own heart beat, but there was not a sound of any kind from the other bedroom.
“When I went in there and turned on the light I just knew it was all over. Of course I was not sure. A bookkeeper is not supposed to be an expert in such matters, so I went and telephoned for our doctor. On the way to the phone I wondered just what I should say, for he had always insisted that my wife was in grand health. So I simply told him that Mrs. Thompson was not looking well and would he come over. Just like that I told him, and tried to keep my voice steady.
“It was about an hour before he came. He went into the bedroom but I stopped at the doorway. He spent sometime listening to her heart and feeling her pulse and then he straightened up and said to me:
“‘She is fine. Just fast asleep. I wish I could sleep as soundly as that. What did you think was wrong?’
“That surprised me so much that all I could do was to stammer something about not hearing her cough any more. He laughed.
“‘You worry too much about her, Mr. Thompson.’
“Right there my difficulty started. Here was a doctor who was supposed to know his business and he said there was nothing wrong with my wife, and there I was, just a bookkeeper, and I just knew what was the matter. What was I to do? Tell him that he was wrong? Send for another physician?
“It was growing light by that time, so I went down to the kitchen and started the coffee. I often did that. Then I shaved, and made ready to go to the office. But before I went I sat down a while by the wife’s bed. It bothered me but I had to keep telling myself that the doctor knew better than I did.
Before leaving the house I phoned to my mother-in-law. Just told her that Lizzie was not feeling well and would she come over and spend the day, and she could get me at the office any time she called. Then I left the house. It felt better out in the sunshine and after working a few hours over the books I almost laughed at myself for being so foolish.
“No telephone calls from the old lady. I arrived home at six and found the house lighted as usual. My wife and mother-in-law were waiting for me in the parlor and told me supper was ready. Naturally, I was surprised to see my wife out of bed.
“At the supper table I watched her just as carefully as I could without making the two of them suspicious of me. Mrs. Thompson ate about as she usually did, just pieced and minced at her food, but I thought when she swallowed that the food went down with a jerk, and there was a stiffness when she moved.
“But her mother did not seem to think there was anything wrong, at least she did not make any comment. Even when I went with her to the front door to say good night to her and we were alone there, she never said a word to show that she thought her daughter was peculiar.
“I started to wash the dishes after that. I often washed the dishes at night while the wife sat in the front parlor watching the people go up and down past the house. After the kitchen was tidy I lit a cigar and went into the parlor and started a little conversation, but Mrs. Thompson never talked back. In fact I do not believe she ever talked to me after that, though I am positive that she talked to the others.
“When the cigar was smoked, I just said good night and went to bed. Later I could hear her moving around in her room, and then all was quiet so she must have gone to bed. She did not cough any more. I congrat-ulated myself on that one thing because the coughing had kept me awake a good deal.
“During the night I lit a candle and, shading it with my hand, tiptoed in to see her. She had her eyes open, but they were rolled back so all you could see was the whites, and she was not breathing. At least I could not tell that she was breathing ; and when I held a mirror in front of her mouth there was no vapor on it. My mother had told me the purpose of that when I was a boy. “The next day was just the same. My mother-in-law came and spent the day. I came home at night and ate supper with them and washed the dishes. The water was hot and it was a pleasure to make them clean. Perhaps I took longer than usual at it because I did not fancy the idea of going into the front parlor where the wife was sitting looking out of the window.
“But I went in, tonight without the usual cigar. I wanted to use my nose. It seemed there was a peculiar odor in the house, like flowers that had been put in a vase of water and then forgotten, for many days. Perhaps you know the odor, Doctor, a heavy one, like lilies of the valley in a small closed room. It was specially strong in the parlor, where Mrs. Thompson was sitting, and it seemed to come from her. I had to light the cigar after a while, and by and by I said good night, and went to bed. She never spoke to me, in fact she did not seem to pay any attention to me. “About two that morning I took the candle and went in to look at her. Her eyelids were open and her eyeballs were rolled back just like they had been the night before but now her jaw was dropped and her cheeks sunk in. I just could not do anything but telephone for a doctor and this time I picked out a total stranger, just picked his name out of the telephone book haphazard.
“What good did it do? None at all. He came, he examined Mrs. Thompson very carefully and he simply said that he did not see anything wrong with her; and then down in the front hall he turned on me and asked me just why I had sent for him and what I thought was the matter with her? Of course I just could not tell him the truth, with his being a doctor and I being just a bookkeeper.
Mother-in-law went to the mountains next day for the summer and that left us alone. Breakfast as usual and to the office and not a word all day from the house. When I came back at night the house was lit and supper was on the table and the wife at her end as usual and the food served and on the plates. She ate, but her movements were slower, and when she swallowed you could see the food go down by jerks, and her eyes were sunken into the sockets and seemed shiny and—well, like the eyes of a fish on the stalls.
“There were flowers on the table, but the smell was something different, it was sweeter and when I took a deep breath it was just hard for me to go on eating the pork chops and potatoes. You see it was summer time and warm, and in spite of the screens there was a fly or two in the house, and when I saw one walking around on her lip and she not making any effort to brush it off, I just couldn’t keep on eating. Had to go and start washing the dishes. Perhaps you can understand how I felt, Doctor. Things looked rather odd.
“The next day I phoned to the office that I would not be there and I sent for a taxi and took Mrs. Thompson to a first class specialist. He must have been good because he charged me twenty-five dollars just for the office call. I went in first and told him just exactly what I was afraid of, and I did not mince my words, and then we had the wife in.
“He examined her, even her blood, and all the satisfaction I got was that she seemed a trifle anaemic, but that I had better take a nerve tonic and a vacation or I would be sick.
“Things looked rather twisted after that. Either I was right and everybody else wrong, or they were right and I was just about as wrong mentally as a man could be. But I had to believe my senses. A man just has to believe what he sees and hears and feels, and when I thought over that office visit, and the wife smiling and the doctor sticking her finger for the blood to examine, it just seemed impossible. Anaemic! Why—that was a simple word to
describe her condition.
“That night the flies were worse than usual. I went to the corner store and bought a fly spray and used it in her bedroom but they kept coming in, the big blue ones, you know. Seemed as though they just had to come in and I could not keep them off her face so at last, in desperation, I covered her head up with a towel and went to sleep. I had to work, the interest on the mortgage was due and the man wanted something on the principal, and it was a good house and all I had in the world to show for twenty years of hard work keeping books.
“The next day was just like all the days had been, except that I made more mistakes with the books and my boss spoke to me about it. And when I arrived home supper was not ready though Mrs. Thompson was in the parlor and the lights on. The heavy odor was worse than usual and there were a lot of flies. You could hear them buzz and strike against the electric lights. I got my own supper but I couldn’t eat much, thinking of her in the parlor and the flies settling on her open mouth.
“She just sat there that night in the parlor till I went to her and took her arm to lead her up the stairs. She was cold and on each cheek there was a heavy purple blotch forming. Once she was in her room she seemed to move around so I left her alone and when I went into her room later on she was in bed.
“It had been a hard week for me, so I sat down by her bed and tried to think, but the more I thought the worse things seemed. The night was hot and the flies kept buzzing; just thinking of the past and how we used to go to the movies together and laugh and sometimes come near crying, and how we used to bluff about the fact that perhaps it was just as well we didn’t have a child so long as we had each other, knowing all the time that she was eating her heart out for longing to be a mother and blaming me for her loneliness.
“The thinking was too much for me so I thought I might as well smoke another cigar and go to bed and try to keep better books the next day and hold my job—and then I saw the little worm crawl out.
The Golden Age of Weird Fiction Megapack, Volume 5 Page 9