by Otto Penzler
“Do you know what he said? I shall never forget my mother telling me this, and it still sends shivers down my spine. He said, ‘I never had a mother, I never had a father. I was never allowed to be a boy. But the old woman on Haiti said that I could stay young for ever and ever, so long as I always sent back to her the souls of young children, flying on the wind. So that is what I did. I kissed them, and sucked out their souls, and sent them flying back to Haiti on the wind.’
“But do you know what he said to my mother? He said, ‘Your children’s souls may have flown to a distant island, but they can still live, if you wish them to. You can go to their graves, and you can call them, and they’ll come to you. It only takes a mother’s word.’
“My mother said, ‘Who are you? What are you? And he said, ‘Pan,’ which is nothing more nor less than Polish for ‘man.’ That’s why my mother called him ‘Piotr Pan.’ And that’s where Sir James Barrie got the name from.
“And here, of course, is the terrible irony—Captain Hook and Peter Pan weren’t enemies at all, not in real life. They were one and the same person.”
Marjorie stared at her uncle Michael in horror. “What did my great-auntie do? She didn’t call your brother and sister, did she?”
Uncle Michael shook his head. “She insisted that their graves should be covered in heavy slabs of granite. Then—as you know—she did whatever she could to warn other mothers of the danger of Piotr Pan.”
“So she really believed that she could call her children back to life?”
“I think so. But—as she always said to me—what can life amount to, without a soul?”
Marjorie sat with her uncle Michael until it grew dark, and his head dropped to one side, and he began to snore.
SHE STOOD IN the chapel of rest, her face bleached white by the single ray of sunlight that fell from the clerestory window. Her dress was black, her hat was black. She held a black handbag in front of her.
William’s white coffin was open, and William himself lay on a white silk pillow, his eyes closed, his tiny eyelashes curled over his deathly-white cheek, his lips slightly parted, as if he were still breathing.
On either side of the coffin, candles burned; and there were two tall vases of white gladioli. Apart from the murmuring of traffic, and the occasional rumbling of a Central Line tube train deep beneath the building’s foundations, the chapel was silent.
Marjorie could feel her heart beating, steady and slow.
My baby, she thought. My poor sweet baby.
She stepped closer to the coffin. Hesitantly, she reached out and brushed his fine baby curls. So soft, it crucified her to touch it.
“William,” she breathed.
He remained cold and still. Not moving, not breathing.
“William,” she repeated. “William, my darling, come back to me. Come back to me, Mr. Bill.”
Still he didn’t stir. Still he didn’t breathe.
She waited a moment longer. She was almost ashamed of herself for having believed Uncle Michael’s stories. Piotr Pan indeed! The old man was senile.
Softly, she tiptoed to the door. She took one last look at William, and then she closed the door behind her.
She had barely let go of the handle, however, when the silence was broken by the most terrible high-pitched scream she had ever heard in her life.
IN KENSINGTON GARDENS, beneath the trees, a thin dark man raised his head and listened, and listened, as if he could hear a child crying in the wind. He listened, and he smiled, although he never took his eyes away from the young woman who was walking towards him, pushing a baby-buggy.
He thought, God bless mothers everywhere.
JACK D’ARCY IS one of the pseudonyms used by D.(’Arcy) L.(yndon) Champion (1902–1968), who was born in Melbourne, Australia, and fought with the British army in World War II before immigrating to the United States. He wrote a few horror and weird menace stories, but is best known for his mystery and detective series in the pulps. His first published work was a serialization under the pseudonym G. Wayman Jones, a house name, of Alias Mr. Death in the February–October 1932 issues of Thrilling Detective; it was published in book form later in the same year. In 1933, he created the character of Richard Curtis Van Loan, better known as the Phantom Detective, under another house name, Robert Wallace. He wrote most of the early episodes of what was the second hero pulp (after The Shadow). It ran for 170 issues between 1933 and 1953, the third-most of any of the hero pulps after The Shadow and Doc Savage. Under his own name and as Jack D’Arcy, he created several other memorable characters. Mariano Mercado, a hypochondriac detective, appeared in eight novelettes between 1944 and 1948 in Dime Detective. Inspector Allhof, a former New York City policeman who lost his legs while leading a botched raid, is retained by the NYPD because of his brilliance and in spite of his arrogance. Allhof appeared in twenty-nine stories from 1938 to 1945, mainly in Dime Detective; twelve of the tales were collected in Footprints on a Brain: The Inspector Allhof Stories (2001). Perhaps his most popular series featured Rex Sackler, known as the “Parsimonious Prince of Penny Pinchers.” The hilarious series began in Dime Detective, then moved to Black Mask.
“The Grave Gives Up” was originally published in the August 1936 issue of Thrilling Mystery.
CHAPTER I
A VOICE FROM THE DEAD
IT WAS A melancholy night. Dampness impregnated the sultry autumn air. The light of the moon filtered faintly through a huge black cloud that hung over the face of the heavens. Somewhere from the great swamp near the graveyard a whippoor-will sobbed; and the throbbing sound echoed the anguish in the heart of Gordon Lane.
He sat alone in his small bachelor apartment in the eastern end of the town. A fire crackled on the hearth, and a book lay upon his lap. Yet he could not see the type for the tears that dimmed his vision.
For two weeks now he had seen none of his friends. Mechanically, he had gone about his daily duties with that numbing pain in his heart that pumped a deadly emotional opiate to his brain.
Once he had sworn that he could not live without Janice and she had laughed at him. Now he knew that his words were not mere lover’s rhetoric. Since that awful day a fortnight ago, something within him had died. When Janice had been killed in the automobile accident, the soul of Gordon Lane had been slain with her.
The overwhelming love that he had borne her had evolved into a great sorrow which gnawed like the Spartan fox at his heart. Despite the heat of the fire, he shuddered as he thought of Janice’s slim white body lying in the coldness of the dank earth.
Within his breast he could feel that coldness as surely as if he had been lying in the grave with her. Within his brain was a deadness, a lifelessness, as if his body, too, was interred in a mossy stone crypt on the other side of town.
And if Death himself had entered the room at that moment, he would have been a welcome visitor to Gordon Lane.
For the first time in a week, the phone bell jangled. Lane did not stir at its metallic summons. Again and again it shrilled until it finally hammered into his consciousness.
He turned slowly to the table at his side and lifted up the instrument. In a dull listless voice, he said, “Hello.”
A sound came over the wire as if from a great distance. It was tired and dispirited as a weary breeze that stirred sere autumn leaves. Yet the words it uttered crashed into Lane’s ear like a thunder clap.
“Gordon? Is that you, Gordon?”
Lane’s pulse leaped, and for the first time since the funeral his heart pumped surging vibrant life through his veins. But what slew his lethargy was the stimulating toxin of stark terror.
Like a fluttering kite it rose in his pulses; like the wings of a black bat it beat against his brain. For the rustling voice that had come to him over the wire was the voice of Janice!
Lane’s hand was hot as he clutched the phone to his breast. His face was white and there was a tremor in his tone as he answered.
“Yes, this is Gordon. Janice! Janice, wher
e are you? Where—”
Again Lane heard the voice of the woman he had loved more than life itself; and it seemed to come from a great distance as if it had been projected from the borderland of the netherworld from which no man has ever returned.
“Gordon—Gordon—” For an instant the dreariness left her tone and her words came pantingly like a hot wind over hell. “Gordon! Come to me—I need you! I need you. I—”
THE NEXT SYLLABLE was an inarticulate, strangled fragment in her throat. From somewhere in the realm of infinity Lane heard a stifled scream—a scream that caused the black bat in his brain to beat its dark wings more furiously. Then there was silence.
“Janice!” Lane rasped her name into the mouthpiece. “Janice!”
But there was no answer. If that voice had come from the grave, it had returned to its awful prison once more. If, for a fleeting moment, the other world had opened its locked doors, they were sealed again now. The complete silence of the receiver seemed to mock him.
Lane dropped the telephone upon the table and fell into his chair. Diamonds of sweat were on his brow.
His face, far whiter than the glacial snows, was painted a ghastly hellish red by the licking flames of the fire. He resembled a phantom before the gates of hell.
Two facts seared themselves into his throbbing brain. He had heard HER voice; and she was dead. For a long time he stared into the fire as if in those flickering yellow tongues he would read the awful mystery which confronted him.
Was it madness that assailed him? Had the burden of grief he had borne for the past two weeks, caused a delicate hairline between sanity and madness to break? Was the phone call an illusion which existed only in his own tortured mind?
Two distinct fears met and clashed within him—fear for his own sanity and fear that he had for a moment communicated with that unknown uncharted world beyond the grave.
Slowly his mind began to function logically through the maelstrom in his head. Slowly his thoughts became translated to action. He moved toward the telephone; picked it up with trembling fingers. A moment later the operator’s voice was in his ear.
“Operator.” He made a desperate effort to make his tone casual. “This is Gordon Lane of the County Attorney’s office. I believe my phone rang a few minutes ago. Have you a record of the call?”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Yes, sir. You were called at nine-sixteen. We have the record here.”
Lane could feel his heart pound up against his breast like a pendulum weighted with ice.
“And can you tell me where the call originated?”
Again there was a short silence; a heavy ominous silence in which shadowy phantoms bred in Lane’s mind. Then the operator’s voice rasped on the wires again.
“Why yes, Mr. Lane. That call was made from one-eighty-one Lenora Street.”
Lane’s hand gripped the phone with all its strength. It was as if he had to cling to something material, to anchor himself against the terrifying nebulae of his thoughts.
“One-eighty-one Lenora,” he said and his voice was dry as a cactus stalk. “That’s the Gaunt Hill cemetery.”
“That’s right.”
There was a dull click at the other end of the wire as the operator broke the connection. But Gordon Lane did not replace the phone immediately. His hot, perspiring hand held the receiver clutched hard against his breast as if it was an aegis against the incredible thing which he must now believe.
Janice had called him. It had been her voice. And the call had come from Gaunt Hill on the other side of town. Gaunt Hill, where Janice’s lovely tender body lay buried in a cold marble crypt!
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Lane’s coupé slithered to a halt before a rectangular two-story building. His nervous finger jerked against a bell in the doorway. An immaculate butler opened the door.
“Dr. Ramos,” said Lane pantingly. “Is he in?”
“Hello, Lane,” a voice greeted him from the foyer. The doctor, wearing his hat and coat had spoken. “I was just going out. What can I do for you?”
Lane crossed the threshold. His eyes were brilliant with a shining fever. His hair was rumpled and his face was a dirty, ashen grey. As he spoke his voice was hoarse and thick with feeling.
“I’ve got to see you a moment,” he said. “At once. Privately.”
Ramos regarded him with a professional eye. Then quietly he replaced his hat on the hall tree.
“All right. Come on into the office.”
He led the way to a book-lined sanctuary, and took a seat beside his desk. Lane threw himself in a huge overstuffed chair and stared with his glassy eyes at the doctor.
Already he felt somewhat better. For the doctor symbolized everything that was reasonable. Ruddy-faced and solid, he held the respect of the ancient town. He was firmly opposed to all that might even be suspected of mysticism.
He was a complete atheist, a crass materialist, fond of good food and better wines. If anyone in town could explain away the mad thing that had happened to Lane that night, the man was Dr. Ramos.
Lane’s white knuckles gripped the sides of the chair.
“Listen, Doctor,” he said slowly. “It’s about Janice.”
Ramos raised his eyebrows.
“Janice,” he said. “Now listen, Lane. You’ve got to steady yourself on that score. Death comes to us all. You’ve got to get hold of yourself. I—”
“Wait a minute, Doctor. It’s not that. It’s—Well, you signed her death certificate, didn’t you?”
Ramos’ eyes narrowed. A peculiar expression was on his face as he nodded at the younger man.
“Well,” went on Lane and there was a terrible tenseness in his tone, “was she dead? Are you sure that she was really dead? Are you sure?”
He had risen from his chair and now he pounded excitedly on the smooth top of the desk. Ramos made no reply until Lane’s outburst had exhausted itself in a fit of words.
“My boy,” he said at last, in a grave sympathetic voice, “I know what suffering must have gone on in your heart. But you must fight it with your reason. You must. Janice is dead. I saw her dead. You saw her interred. There can be no doubt about it.”
“Then,” said Lane, and his voice was the voice of a man who fears the words he speaks, “how did she speak to me tonight? Where did her voice come from if she is dead? Is my ear so attuned that I can hear a voice from Beyond?”
A shadow, almost imperceptible, flickered into the doctor’s eyes. The ruddiness of his face grew a shade lighter. He leaned forward slightly in his chair.
“What’s that you say?” he breathed. “You heard her voice?”
“From the grave, I heard it. She telephoned me. Said she needed me. And the call came from Gaunt Hill cemetery.”
RAMOS’ FACE WAS dark for a fleeting instant. Then it became normal again. He rose and crossed the room. He flung a fraternal arm about Lane’s shoulder.
“My boy,” he said, “there’s a simple explanation. You would have thought of it yourself if you hadn’t been so overwrought. It’s a joke. A cruel practical joke, played by some unfeeling fool who is trying to frighten you. Janice died here in my sanitarium. Of that I can assure you. Here, I’ll give you a sedative. Take it and go to bed.”
Gordon Lane came to his feet. It seemed that in that single instant, the cobwebs of fear had been brushed from his brain. There was something within him that was stronger than the terror that had held him in its icy thrall. Something stronger than any other emotion he had ever experienced.
Now the thing was clear at last. Now he knew where his duty lay. Now he knew what he must do.
“No,” he said and his voice was resolute, “I want no sedative. No matter what hideous thing is behind that call tonight, I know that it was the voice of Janice. I know further that she needs me. I shall go to her. She spoke to me from Gaunt Hill. That is all I know. So it is to Gaunt Hill that I must go. She needs me.”
He turned on his heel and strode toward the door. Ramos’
voice, pitched oddly, came to him on the threshold.
“Wait a minute, Lane. Now don’t be a fool. Janice is dead, I tell you. Don’t go to Gaunt Hill tonight.”
As Lane turned to face the doctor, it seemed to him that there was a cloud of apprehension in Ramos’ eyes.
“I’m going,” he said simply. “Now.”
Ramos crossed the room and stood in the doorway facing Lane. He put his hands on the younger man’s shoulders and gazed squarely into his eyes. An odd sensation came over Lane in that moment. He could feel the blood mount to his face, feel its swift rhythmic beat in his temples.
“Don’t go to Gaunt Hill tonight,” said Ramos, speaking each word in a measured spondee beat. “Don’t go.”
Again Lane was aware of that odd lulling throb in his temples, but the knowledge of Janice’s need was a strong impelling force in his breast. Roughly he took the doctor’s hands from his shoulders.
“I must go,” he said quietly.
He strode past the other, through the hall and out of the sanitarium. A moment later his coupé raced, a shadowy phantom through the deserted streets; it sped, a ghostly vehicle through the town, toward the marshy swamp on whose sloping bank reposed that city of the dead—the Gaunt Hill cemetery.
CHAPTER II
THE DEAD ALIVE
The tombstones were white, motionless specters in the night. Overhead the stark leafless branches of the trees waved in the breeze like the naked arms of some black Lorelei beckoning to disaster. The lethal silence which hung over the graveyard was not the silence which occurs through mere lack of sound. Rather it was a positive thing, a throbbing silence which assailed the senses as surely as the beat of savage drums.
On the right, near the entrance, a squat building loomed against the faint, clouded moonlight. That, Lane knew, was the caretaker’s lodge. No light shone in its windows. Lane walked past the place on quiet feet. He had no wish to disturb the men at this hour.
He realized the explanation for his presence here would sound ridiculous in another’s ears. As he moved noiselessly through the steles, it seemed as if the directing portion of his brain was a detached part of him. Quite clearly he knew what he must do.