The Third Macabre Megapack: 25 Classic Tales of Horror

by Gertrude Atherton

  “It’s a mystery—a terrible mystery!” I exclaimed, jumping up and commencing to pace the room. I walked that room for over an hour, and was only aroused from my reverie by the announcement of a servant that supper was served. I ate my meal in silence, and the deliberate mouthfuls I took, and my more than ordinarily methodical manner of eating, must have told my wife that to disturb my present inward argument would have been disastrous to the immediate prospects of domestic harmony. I had come to a conclusion. There is nothing like science and its accompanying occupations for balancing a man’s brain. A game of chess is recreative concentration. So the study of science was with me, whilst physic was my profession. Scientific research and the weighing of Nature’s problems had steadied my thoughts and cooled my actions. It was a settled thing with me that poor Huntingdon had been murdered. By whom? Scientific investigation had transformed me into a calculating individual. Every action, to me, could be proved as a proposition in Euclid or an algebraical problem. I therefore said nothing about my startling discovery, and decided to wait the possibility of a further suggestion coming in my way, and “proving it.”

  I suppose it was the deep interest I took in all matters concerning art which brought so many artist-patients to my consulting room. Six months had passed since the fatal 11th October, and the public were loudly expressing their approval of a marvellously impressive bit of painting by Wilfred Colensoe, which was the feature—and very justly so—of one of the early spring exhibitions. It was the picture of a duel—a very realistic canvas indeed. The young man—lying bleeding on the ground—almost told the story of the attempted avenge of an action towards someone dear to him on the part of an elderly roué, whose still-smoking revolver was in his hand. Colensoe came to see me one morning. He was a remarkably handsome man, classically featured, with hair picturesquely scattered with streaks of silver.

  “Done up, eh?” I said to him.

  “Done up is the word,” he answered.

  “You’ve been doing too much,” I said, looking into his grey eyes as I held his hand a moment. “You must cease work for a time. Get away from your easel, go abroad, and forget to take your brushes with you. Go anywhere, a hundred miles from a retail colourman’s.”

  “My dear doctor,” he answered, “your prescription is too strong. You forget I am an artist. It is like taking a man with a dying thirst to a fountain of water and telling him he mustn’t drink. I can’t leave my work.”

  “When I tell you that it is either a case of your leaving your work or your work leaving you, my remark may not be very original, but it is undeniably true. Do you sleep well?”

  “I can’t say,” was his reply. “When I fall asleep at night I never wake until my hour for rising. But I am more tired in the morning than when I turned in over-night.”[Pg 636]

  “Quite so. Do you dream at all?”

  “Yes, I dream.”

  “Feel sleepy now—eh?”

  “Doctor, I could go to bed for a week,” he replied.

  “Again, I tell you—overwork,” I said, with strong deliberation. “Now I’ll make you a proposal, which I can couple most heartily with the name of Mrs. Gratton. Come away with us. We are going to Herne Bay for a few weeks. I have taken a house there. Most invigorating place. You want no medicine, you won’t leave your work alone, I won’t be hard in my treatment of your case. Bring your tools with you. I will prescribe so much colour for you during the day—your paints and brushes may become converted into agreeable physic, but—they must be taken at periodical times. What do you say?”

  Colensoe consented—gratefully accepted my offer, stayed to lunch, and my wife took care to let him feel that the invitation was one of combined cordiality from both of us. I was a great admirer of Colensoe’s work, and therefore took a deep interest in the worker. In a week’s time we were at Herne Bay. A room—with a good light—was apportioned off as a small studio for Colensoe. A week passed by. Colensoe obeyed my instructions to the letter. I limited his working hours, and he began himself to be thankful when the periodical times for laying aside his brush came round. I noticed this, and lessened the hours of painting more, thinking that by degrees he would soon put his palette away completely and take the undisturbed rest he needed for a time to restore him thoroughly.

  About a fortnight after our arrival I was sitting alone in the dining-room. My wife and visitor had retired an hour ago. It was a glorious night. I turned out the gas, walked to the window, and drew up the blinds. The sea was sparkling with gems thrown out by the moon-beams. The beauty of the night seemed to heighten the stillness of the surroundings. Although it wanted but a few minutes to midnight I determined to walk out to the cliffs—a couple of hundred yards from the house—and view the moonlit scenery to greater advantage. I turned from the window, opened the door, and, just as I was turning into the passage, I heard a footstep. It was a steady, deliberate step; there was nothing uncertain or hesitating about it. I waited a moment; it came nearer. I drew back into the shadow. Now it was on the top stair. A form appeared in sight. It was Wilfred Colensoe.

  “Colensoe,” I cried, softly; “why, what’s the matter?”

  He made no answer. With monotonous step he descended the stairs and was now at the bottom. His blank, staring eyes at once told me that he was in a state of somnambulism. He was fully dressed. His face was deadly pale, his features stolidly set, and his lips were gently moving as though impressively muttering. When he reached the bottom stair, he turned and walked in the direction of the room we had converted into a studio for him. I followed on quietly. With all the method and mysterious discretionary[Pg 637] power of the sleep-walker he turned the handle of the door and entered. The room was flooded with light, for the roof was a glass one. I watched him take his palette in hand and play with the brushes on the colours. He stood before his easel, on which rested a half-finished canvas. And he painted—painted as true and as sure as if awake, blending the colours, picking out his work, working with all his old artistic touch and finish. All this time his lips were moving, muttering incoherent words I could not hear. At last he laid aside his tools with a sigh that almost raised compassion in my heart. Then walking towards the window at the far end of the room, he appeared to look out upon the sea. He was now talking louder. I crept up to him and tried to catch a word. It was a terrible brain-ringing word I heard—and uttered in a way I shall never forget.

  “Murder!”

  That was the word. “Murder, murder, murder!” he muttered, with agonized face. Yet another word came to his lips.

  “Huntingdon!”

  “Murder—Huntingdon!” I said within myself as I linked the two words together.

  The sleeping man passed his hand across his forehead. It was evident that he was in the midst of an agonizing dream—a vision of conviction. Here stood the guilty man before me now, pale and motionless, the rays from the moon lighting up his face and revealing the word “guilt” written on every feature. I watched him and waited for something else to come from his lips. I stood by his side for nearly an hour, but he did nothing more than repeat these same two words. With measured tread he turned to go. I followed him to his bedroom and heard him turn the key. I sat up the whole night—thinking. None knew of the remarkable discovery which I had made amongst poor Huntingdon’s sketches; none should know of what I had learnt tonight. By the morning I had fully determined upon my course of action. The ramblings of a sleep-walking man would not prove a conviction to those who would judge his deed. He should convict himself. He should witness against himself. He was a sleep-worker. I had met with many similar cases before, all of which tended to prove that sleep by no means deadens the faculties of labour. It is indisputable that the hands will follow the inclinations of the brains of somnambulists. They will act as they think—perform what they dream. If Colensoe would only work out his terrible night dreams!

  My conduct towards him at t
he breakfast table and throughout the day was just the same as ever. It was far from a comfortable feeling, however, to pass the wine to one who had taken another’s life, and to offer an after-dinner cigar to a murderer. The day passed. I slept during the afternoon, for I was tired with my over-night watching, and could I but put my inward plans into execution, it was more than probable that I should be awake for many nights to come. I told my wife that Colensoe was a somnambulist, and that he worked at the canvas equally as well whilst sleeping as waking. I impressed upon her the absolute necessity of silence on the subject, as I firmly believed that I was on the brink of a great discovery. Seeing that I was a medical man, her curiosity was in no way aroused. Indeed, she thought me foolish to give up my night’s rest.

  That night, after Colensoe had gone to bed, I went into his studio. My hand trembled somewhat as I placed on his easel a square piece of new canvas. This done, I waited patiently. A step on the stairs rewarded me. It was Colensoe walking again. His speech was louder this time, and more impressively distinct; his dream was evidently more agonizing than the night before. If he would only follow out the promptings of that dream—if he would but work tonight—tonight! I watched him breathlessly. He wandered about the room for some time, then suddenly, as though impelled by some mysterious force within, crossed to the cupboard where he kept his tools, took out his materials and walked to the canvas.

  “Huntingdon—Huntingdon!” he cried, and the first lines of his everlasting vision were written on the hitherto untouched canvas. It was the outline of a man’s face! For two hours he worked, and then, replacing his brushes and palette, went to bed. I took the canvas away. Night after night for ten days I placed the canvas in position. Night after night the artist got nearer to accomplishing his own condemnation. And as the picture grew more like the man he had murdered, so his dream became more intense. His features showed that. The rapidity of his brush revealed the rush of thoughts within, of an anxiety to complete his task. Never was such a true portrait painted, and when on the last night he put the finishing touches to it, the face of Huntingdon seemed to live on the canvas. It was the face which existed in the brain of the painter. The last night’s work was[Pg 638] done. The sleeping man turned from his easel and went to his bedroom once more.

  The morrow would tell me if Colensoe was guilty. I had little doubt of it in my own mind—but he should say so himself when waking as he had condemned himself whilst sleeping. I would take him to the studio and confront him with his own testimony. He should see the face of the man whose life he had taken, painted with his own hands. He was later than usual in coming down that morning. I left the breakfast-room with the intention of calling him, when, just as I got into the passage, I saw him at the top of the stairs. His hat was on. His face was ghastly pale, every feature was working. His eyes betokened some mad intention—their gaze appeared to kill. He almost flew down the stairs.

  “Don’t stop me,” he cried. “I must go into the open. I want God’s air. Let me go now—let me go, only for a little while!”

  “Colensoe,” I said, catching him by the arm, “what mad act do you contemplate?”

  “Nothing—nothing. Believe me, nothing. I only want the refreshing breeze, that’s all. I’m tired—worn out.”

  “Yes, you are truly tired,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” he cried.

  “Your work.”

  “Work—what work?—who works?”

  “Come with me,” I said.

  Like a child he followed me to his studio. I opened the door. The portrait of Huntingdon rested on the easel. He saw it. The eyes he had painted pierced him to the heart, and the lips almost moved in accusation. He shrieked the murdered man’s name and fell to the ground. He was dead!

  * * * *

  The following letter was found on Wilfred Colensoe’s dressing-table:—

  “What good is life to me?—what good am I for life? Then why live? A guilty conscience only means a living death. You have been very good to me—both you and your wife. But I am going to end it all. Let me confess. It will bring me some small comfort even now in the dying hour I have given to myself. You remember poor Huntingdon? I shot that man—murdered him. Listen and then ‘Good-bye.’ Huntingdon and I were friendly rivals. You remember my picture of ‘The Duel’? Yes. One day I visited Huntingdon. That same morning I had been making some studies of a revolver in the act of being discharged. I had it in my pocket when I went to see Huntingdon, and one chamber remained loaded. I walked straight into his studio. As I entered Huntingdon had a pistol in his hand pointed immediately towards me and—fired. In an instant my revolver was in my grasp and a bullet had entered his heart. That is the simple history of the crime. I fled from the place and none knew. Thank God this is written. A life for a life. I am passing through death all the day, and at night I do not cease to die. You do not know what that means. The guilty do. Angels of darkness play with you all day long and at night watch over you—watch over you that you do not escape, that they may gambol with you on the morrow. They are making merry now. They have got what they want—Me. Yes, a life for a life. I will deliver my own up. Good-bye.”

  THE NIGHT WIRE, by H. F. Arnold

  There is something ungodly about these night wire jobs. You sit up here on the top floor of a skyscraper and listen in to the whispers of a civilization. New York, London, Calcutta, Bombay, Singapore—they’re your next-door neighbors after the streetlights go dim and the world has gone to sleep.

  Alone in the quiet hours between two and four, the receiving operators doze over their sounders and the news comes in. Fires and disasters and suicides. Murders, crowds, catastrophes. Sometimes an earthquake with a casualty list as long as your arm. The night wire man takes it down almost in his sleep, picking it off on his typewriter with one finger.

  Once in a long time you prick up your ears and listen. You’ve heard of someone you knew in Singapore, Halifax or Paris, long ago. Maybe they’ve been promoted, but more probably they’ve been murdered or drowned. Perhaps they just decided to quit and took some bizarre way out. Made it interesting enough to get in the news.

  But that doesn’t happen often. Most of the time you sit and doze and tap, tap on your typewriter and wish you were home in bed.

  Sometimes, though, queer things happen. One did the other night, and I haven’t got over it yet. I wish I could.

  You see, I handle the night manager’s desk in a western seaport town; what the name is, doesn’t matter.

  There is, or rather was, only one night operator on my staff, a fellow named John Morgan, about forty years of age, I should say, and a sober, hard-working sort.

  He was one of the best operators I ever knew, what is known as a “double” man. That means he could handle two instruments at once and type the stories on different typewriters at the same time. He was one of the three men I ever knew who could do it consistently, hour after hour, and never make a mistake.

  Generally, we used only one wire at night, but sometimes, when it was late and the news was coming fast, the Chicago and Denver stations would open a second wire, and then Morgan would do his stuff. He was a wizard, a mechanical automatic wizard which functioned marvelously but was without imagination.

  On the night of the sixteenth he complained of feeling tired. It was the first and last time I had ever heard him say a word about himself, and I had known him for three years.

  It was just three o’clock and we were running only one wire. I was nodding over the reports at my desk and not paying much attention to him, when he spoke.

  “Jim,” he said, “does it feel close in here to you?”

  “Why, no, John,” I answered, “but I’ll open a window if you like.”

  “Never mind,” he said. “I reckon I’m just a little tired.”

  That was all that was said, and I went on working. Every ten minutes or so I woul
d walk over and take a pile of copy that had stacked up neatly beside the typewriter as the messages were printed out in triplicate.

  It must have been twenty minutes after he spoke that I noticed he had opened up the other wire and was using both typewriters. I thought it was a little unusual, as there was nothing very “hot” coming in. On my next trip I picked up the copy from both machines and took it back to my desk to sort out the duplicates.

  The first wire was running out the usual sort of stuff and I just looked over it hurriedly. Then I turned to the second pile of copy. I remembered it particularly because the story was from a town I had never heard of: “Xebico.” Here is the dispatch. I saved a duplicate of it from our files:

  “Xebico, Sept 16 CP BULLETIN

  “The heaviest mist in the history of the city settled over the town at 4 o’clock yesterday afternoon. All traffic has stopped and the mist hangs like a pall over everything. Lights of ordinary intensity fail to pierce the fog, which is constantly growing heavier.

  “Scientists here are unable to agree as to the cause, and the local weather bureau states that the like has never occurred before in the history of the city.

  “At 7 P.M. last night the municipal authorities…