And triggered the automatic.
At close range, a .32-caliber bullet smashed into Lenore Bascum’s flesh. She staggered back, falling to one knee on the polished wood floor of the restaurant, blood flowing from the wound.
Angie ran back to the smashed window, crawled through it, moved quickly down the alley. A rise of ground led up to the parking lot. Her car was there.
She reached it, sobbing to herself, inserted the key.
A shadow flowed across the shining car body. Two blood-spattered hands closed around Angie’s throat.
The Ripper’s eyes were coals of green fire, burning into Angie. She tore at the clawed fingers, pounded her right fist into the demented face. But the hands tightened. Darkness swept through Angie’s brain; she was blacking out.
die, bitch
She was dying.
Did she hear a siren? Was it real, or in her mind?
A second siren joined the first. Filling the night darkness.
bleeding…my blood…wrong, all wrong…
A dozen police cars roared into the lot, tires sliding on the night-damp tarmac.
Dan!
The Ripper’s hands dropped away from Angie’s throat. The tall figure turned, ran for the Bridge.
And was trapped there.
Police were closing in from both sides of the vast structure.
Angie and Dan were at the Bridge. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Silent alarm. Feeds right into headquarters. When you broke the window, the alarm was set off. I figured that’s where you were.”
“She’s hit,” Angie told him. “I shot her. She’s dying.”
In the middle of the span the Ripper fell to one knee. Then, a mortally wounded animal, she slipped over the side and plunged into the dark river beneath the Bridge.
Lights blazed on the water, picking out her body. She was sinking, unable to stay afloat. Blood gouted from her open mouth. “Damn you!” she screamed. “Damn all of you!”
She was gone.
The waters rippled over her grave.
Angie was convulsively gripping the automatic, the pearl handle cold against her fingers.
Cold.
The Gatecrasher
R. CHETWYND-HAYES
Known in the United Kingdom as “Britain’s Prince of Chill,” Ronald Henry Glynn Chetwynd-Hayes (1919–2001) was born in Isleworth, West London. He left school at the age of fourteen, working in a variety of menial jobs, including as an extra in crowd scenes in British war films, before serving in the British Army in World War II.
He began his writing career with a science fiction novel, The Man from the Bomb (1959), after which he sold a supernatural romance, The Dark Man (1964), which has had several film options. He sold his first horror story, “The Thing,” to Herbert van Thal for The Seventh Pan Book of Horror Stories (1966). Having noticed a great number of horror titles on the shelves of a bookseller, Chetwynd-Hayes wrote his own collection of horror stories and submitted it to two publishers simultaneously, embarrassing himself when both accepted it.
Becoming a highly prolific writer of short stories in the genre, with more than two hundred published, he was given the Lifetime Achievement Award by both the Horror Writers Association in 1988 and the British Fantasy Society in 1989. Four of his stories were adapted for the film From Beyond the Grave (1974), and three others for The Monster Club (1981). His story “Housebound” (1968) was the basis for an episode of Rod Serling’s Night Gallery titled “Something in the Woodwork” (1973).
“The Gatecrasher” was first published in the author’s short story collection The Unbidden (London, Tandem, 1971).
THE GATECRASHER
R. Chetwynd-Hayes
Someone said, “Let’s hold a seance,” and someone else said, “Let’s,” and five minutes later they were all seated round a table. There was a lot of giggling, and any amount of playing footsie under the table, and it is possible that the entire idea might have collapsed if it had not been for Edward Charlton.
He was a tall, thin youth, with a hungry intense expression that is often peculiar to young men who embrace some burning cause. He had long-fingered hands that were never still, and his ears, which were rather large, stuck out like miniature wings.
“I say.” No one paid much attention, so he raised his voice, “I say, let’s treat the matter seriously.”
This had not been the original intention, and everyone looked at him with astonishment.
“I mean to say,” he cleared his throat, “if one is going to do this kind of thing, one should do it properly.”
Normally he would have been laughed down, but they were in his flat, and good manners, or what passed for good manners in that company, demanded the host be given some freedom in his choice of entertainment.
“What do we do?” asked a blonde girl.
“We all hold hands.” He waited for the ribald comments to die down, then went on. “So as to form an unbroken circle. Yes, and I’ll turn all the lights out except the table lamp.”
They sat in the semi-gloom holding hands, and the occasional giggle was more an expression of uneasiness than one of merriment. Edward felt more confident now the lighting had been subdued, and his voice was stronger.
“You must empty your minds,” he instructed.
“That won’t be difficult for some of us,” a voice remarked.
“Then,” Edward went on, “we must concentrate all our powers on the spirit world.”
The young man cursed when a feeble wit asked: “Whisky or gin?” but nobody bothered to laugh.
“Now concentrate,” Edward ordered.
They all obeyed him in their different ways, but an undisciplined mind is like a wild stallion when subjected to restraint. Under Edward’s continual bombardment of whispered “Concentrate”s, several minds tried to chain thought, but mental pictures manifested in the void, and the senses would not be muted. Hand could feel hand; ears heard the sound of breathing; eyes saw the shaded table lamp; smell sipped at a whiff of perfume; and imagination was never idle.
“Is there anyone here?” asked Edward in a stage whisper.
“Only us chickens,” the humorous one could not help himself, and now several voices ordered him to belt up.
“If anyone is there, come in,” Edward invited, “don’t be afraid—come in.”
There was an ungrateful silence; the blonde girl shivered and tightened her grip on her neighbor’s hand. Presently the shiver ran round the entire circle, passed from hand to hand, up arms, down legs, leaving behind a paralyzing coldness. Consciousness fled, and was replaced by dreams.
Edward walked in the footsteps of a tall man; a great towering figure dressed in a black coat and matching broad-brimmed hat. The man stopped, then turned, and Edward looked upon the lean dark face, the deep sunken eyes, the jutting beak of a nose; the coat fell open, revealing a row of knives stuck in a black belt. He heard the distant sound of carriage wheels, and tasted the bitter fog.
The room was like an ice chamber; the table lamp dimmed down to an orange glimmer, and the room was full of fog, and all around him he could hear the moans of his companions. Slowly the fog lifted, rose to the ceiling and gradually dispersed, and the coldness went as the lamp grew brighter. Edward looked at the faces of his companions with astonishment that gradually merged into horror. It was as though they had all gone to sleep with their eyes open. The blonde girl had fallen back in her chair and was moaning as though in great pain; one young man had his face twisted up into a snarling grimace; another was opening and closing his hands while staring with unseeing eyes at the overmantel mirror. Edward whispered, “Stop messing about,” but without much conviction; then he rose, went over to the wall switch and flooded the room with light. They all returned to the land of the living shortly afterwards.
The mass exodus began some five minutes later; no one said much, but eyes accused Edward of some unspeakable crime; a violation, an act of indecency, an unpardonable breach of human behavior
that was beyond normal reproach.
The last man to go out the front door looked back at Edward with scornful, but at the same time, fearful eyes.
“I wouldn’t be you, brother,” he said, “not for all the tea in China.”
He slammed the door, and Edward was left alone.
—
His bed stood on a dais situated in the center of the far wall of his sitting room; during the day it was surrounded by a curtain, but at night he drew this back and by raising his head could see the entire room. As he lay on the bed and put out his hand to turn off the bedside lamp, the fear came to him, and he wondered, in that revealing moment, why it had not come before.
The fear was at first without form. It was just black, unreasoning terror, and he shrank back against his pillow and tried to see beyond the circle of light cast by his lamp. Then he knew. He was afraid of the dark. He lay awake all that night with the light on.
The next day was spent in anticipation of the night which must follow, and when he finally put his key into the lock and opened his front door there was a sense of fearful expectancy. But his flat was empty, was almost irritatingly normal, and he experienced a strange feeling of disappointment. As he ate a solitary meal before the artificial electric log fire, and later tried to read a book, his mind circled the canker of fear, like a bird flying round a snake. He toyed with the idea of going out; perhaps staying the night at a hotel. But this fear took him to the borderline of insanity. If he were to leave the flat, he would be haunted by the knowledge it was empty; his imagination would picture what was moving among his furniture; if his body slept, then surely his soul would return here and bring back some macabre memory to the waking brain.
He did not intend to fall asleep, but he had been awake the entire previous night, and unconsciousness smothered him unawares so he did not hear the book fall from his lax fingers. The icy cold woke him. The limb-freezing, hair-raising chill, and the wild thumping of his heart. He choked, cleared the bitter bile from his throat, gripped the arms of his chair, cried out like a frightened child as his sitting room door opened, then closed with a resounding slam. The overhead electric lamp trembled slightly, then began to swing to and fro, making a pattern of light circles dance a mad reel across the room. He looked up at the swaying lamp, and, as though it had been caught out in some childish prank, it suddenly became still; his gaze moved across the ceiling and travelled down to the overmantel mirror, then stopped. A man’s face was staring at him out of the mirror.
A face that was long, lean, and dark. The sunken eyes, glittering pools of darkness, stared down at the shrinking figure and betrayed no emotion. Indeed, the entire face was a blank mask; the eyes moved, studied the room with the same unreasoning stare, then looked down again. The thin lips parted, and Edward read the soundless word.
“Come.”
Like a sleepwalker, he rose and walked to the mirror.
—
Greek Street mumbled in the half sleep that falls upon Soho in the small hours. The after-theatre crowds had long since finished their late dinner and gone home; now only the night-club revellers, or more likely, seekers of esoteric entertainment, still moved like maundering snails along the pavement, glancing hopefully into darkened doorways, or looking upwards at lighted windows.
The girl came upon Edward suddenly. She materialized out of a shop doorway and gripped his arm, while gazing up at him with an air of one who has just stumbled upon an old and extremely dear friend.
“Hullo, darling, how nice to see you again.”
One blue-painted lid closed in an expressive wink, and that part of Edward’s brain that still worked took in the words, the expression, and the wink, then came to a decision.
“Let’s start walking, darling.” The full red lips scarcely parted, and the blue eyes were never still. “You never know when a bloody copper is going to poke his nose round the corner.”
“Let’s walk,” said Edward in a flat voice.
She took his arm, and together they walked along the pavement. The girl gave Edward a calculating sideways glance. “Like to come to my place, darling? Five quid and no hurry.”
“I would like you to come to my place,” said Edward.
“How far?” Now there was a hint of suspicion in her voice.
“Off the Edgware Road.”
“Rather a long way. Have to make it worth my while.”
“Shall we say thirty pounds?” Edward suggested.
Next time the girl spoke her voice sounded like a cash register.
“You a pussy, dear?”
“A pussy?”
“Yes, pussy—cat—do you go in for the rough stuff? If you do, count me out. I’ve got me other clients to think about. In any case I’d want more than thirty pounds.”
Edward chuckled and the girl frowned. “Nothing like that. Just your company.”
She relaxed. “All right then. Ten pound down in the taxi, and the rest when we say goodbye. O.K.?”
“O.K.,” said Edward.
—
He opened his front door and, after turning on the hall light, stood aside for her to enter. Despite the carefully applied makeup, telltale lines marred her face, and the muscles under her chin sagged slightly; the brash metallic blonde hair was brittle, while her calves were plump and streaked with extended veins. He helped her take off the light blue coat, noting with cold detachment the short, sleeveless, and very low-cut black dress. He then guided her through the sitting room door and she gasped with pretended, or perhaps genuine, delight at the cosy surroundings.
“You are nice and comfy.” She wriggled her bottom and the action made her suddenly grotesque, and a mirthless grin parted his lips. “Do you think I could have a little drinkie?”
“Of course.” He walked over to the sideboard. “Whisky all right?”
“Luvely.” She rubbed her well-corseted stomach. “Nothing like a drop of the hard stuff to turn me on.”
He poured a generous helping of whisky into two glasses, then carried them over to the sofa where she sprawled, displaying a large amount of not particularly appetizing leg. She gulped down the neat spirit with experienced ease, then glanced suggestively over one shoulder.
“I see you’ve got everything handy. Curtains and all. This is quite a treat after my place, and you know how to treat a girl. I always like dealing with gentlemen. At one time I had an extensive refined clientele, if you follow me. No riffraff. But times are hard now, what with the Squeeze, and the Wolfenden Report, and all. Thank you, darling, perhaps I will have another. Tell me, have you anything special in mind?”
Edward’s eyes were cold, devoid of expression.
“Yes,” he said, “something very special.”
“Well,” she shrugged, “with one or two of these inside me, perhaps I won’t mind. But I’ll have to put my fee up.” She suddenly shivered. “Strike a light, it’s bloody cold in here.”
He backed slowly to the window bay; an alcove lined with dark red curtains, and so masked with shadow the outward edge of a small mahogany table could only just be seen. With his eyes still fixed upon her face, Edward walked slowly backwards until he was stopped by the table; he reached back with his right hand and took something from the table. Slowly he bought it out and the overhead lamp reflected its light on the steel blade. The woman, her wits dulled with whisky, giggled softly.
“Oh no, dear, not knives. I mean, there’s a limit…”
Edward came out from the window bay, the knife clasped firmly in his right hand, and behind him strode a second figure. A tall, dark man, with a bitter lean face, his eyes masked by the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat; together they crept forward, the tall man’s hands resting on Edward’s shoulders. Their legs worked in unison. Breast to back, thighs to buttocks, legs to legs; the tall man’s chin rested on Edward’s head, and while his face was white, devoid of emotion, the stranger’s lips were parted in a joyous, anticipatory smile, his eyes gleamed with unholy joy, and his hands pressed down on his partne
r’s shoulders, steering him…
“Gawd,” the woman was sober now, and half rose from the sofa, “not two of you…?”
The tall man’s eyes willed her to silence, forced her back onto the sofa, where she lay like a plump broken doll with a wide open mouth and glazed eyes. The four-legged, two-headed monster now stood over her; the two pairs of eyes, one cold, blue, dead fish, the other black, glittering, stared down. Then the tall man raised his hand, and Edward raised his knife. The stranger’s thin lips moved, and from between the tightly clenched teeth came one hissing word.
“Now.”
Edward’s hand flashed down—then up, then down, then up, then down, until the gleaming knife blade was an unbroken streak of red blotched silver light.
—
There was blood everywhere, but no body.
Once the curtains had been pulled back and the early morning light flooded the room, his eyes refused to be deceived. There was a dark ominous stain covering the sofa and most of the surrounding carpet. In some places the stains were lighter in color, as though they had been scrubbed in a futile effort to remove them. His suit hung in front of the electric fire, shrunken and creased; it was still damp, and although it had clearly been washed, ugly dark stains darkened the coat front and trousers. His grey waistcoat was like a screwed-up house flannel, and his shirt was missing. He went up close to the overmantel mirror until his reflection filled it.
“Why?”
There was blood in his hair. His face and body had been washed, but the subconscious, or whatever had controlled his body during the dark hours, had not considered shampoo.
“How?”
That one was easy. In the bathroom he found a clean carving knife with a bloodstained towel next to it; the subconscious had not bothered to empty the bath either. The water was pink, red-rimmed, and foul; his missing shirt floated on the surface like the upturned belly of a dead fish.
“Where?”
That was indeed the master question. Where was the body that had given forth such a profusion of blood? He stumbled from room to room, searched the six-by-eight kitchen, even looked under the bed, opened cupboards; it took him a full five minutes to summon courage to open the blanket chest, but he did not find a body. His terror became flecked with anger, and he glared at the mirror.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 155