by Otto Penzler
“I shall be up, all right. I’ve warned my crowd that I’ll cut away before midnight.”
“You won’t, though,” Eastman called back over his shoulder as he hurried down-stairs.
The next morning, while Eastman was dressing, Rollins came in greatly excited.
“I’m a little late, sir. I was stopped by Harry, Mr. Cavenaugh’s driver. Mr. Cavenaugh shot himself last night, sir.”
Eastman dropped his vest and sat down on his shoe-box. “You’re drunk, Rollins,” he shouted. “He’s going away to-day!”
“Yes, sir. Harry found him this morning. Ah, he’s quite dead, sir. Harry’s telephoned for the coroner. Harry don’t know what to do with the ticket.”
Eastman pulled on his coat and ran down the stairway. Cavenaugh’s trunks were strapped and piled before the door. Harry was walking up and down the hall with a long green railroad ticket in his hand and a look of complete stupidity on his face.
“What shall I do about this ticket, Mr. Eastman?” he whispered. “And what about his trunks? He had me tell the transfer people to come early. They may be here any minute. Yes, sir. I brought him home in the car last night, before twelve, as cheerful as could be.”
“Be quiet, Harry. Where is he?”
“In his bed, sir.”
Eastman went into Cavenaugh’s sleeping-room. When he came back to the sitting-room, he looked over the writing table; railway folders, time-tables, receipted bills, nothing else. He looked up for the photograph of Cavenaugh’s twin brother. There it was, turned to the wall. Eastman took it down and looked at it; a boy in track clothes, half lying in the air, going over the string shoulders first, above the heads of a crowd of lads who were running and cheering. The face was somewhat blurred by the motion and the bright sunlight. Eastman put the picture back, as he found it. Had Cavenaugh entertained his visitor last night, and had the old man been more convincing than usual? “Well, at any rate, he’s seen to it that the old man can’t establish identity. What a soft lot they are, fellows like poor Cavenaugh!” Eastman thought of his office as a delightful place.
THE FOLLOWER AND THE CORNER SHOP
Lady
Cynthia Asquith
THE DAUGHTER OF THE 11th Earl of Wemyss, Cynthia Mary Evelyn Charteris (1887–1960) was born in Wiltshire, England, and married Herbert Asquith in 1910. Herbert served in World War I and, when he returned, was too ill for regular employment so she took a job as secretary to James M. Barrie, handling his professional and personal responsibilities until his death in 1937. In gratitude for her proficiency and two decades of friendship, he left his entire estate (with the exception of Peter Pan) to her. In addition to Barrie, she had become friends with many important literary figures, including D. H. Lawrence, Hugh Walpole, Algernon Blackwood, and Arthur Machen.
Although Lady Asquith wrote novels, memoirs, essays, children’s books, biographies, and excellent short stories, her major contribution to the genre of supernatural literature was as an anthologist. She called on her literary friends and acquaintances to write stories for her, notably for the seminal anthology The Ghost Book (1926), the first collection of 20th century ghost stories that offered readers nonsensational works by members of the literary establishment. Generally regarded as the most influential ghost story anthology of the century, it was followed by such outstanding collections as The Black Cap (1928), Shudders (1929), and When Churchyards Yawn (1931). Some years later, she compiled sequels to her first book with The Second Ghost Book (1952) and The Third Ghost Book (1955). The series was continued for many years after her death, edited by James Turner, Rosemary Timperley, James Hale, and others.
“The Corner Shop” was originally published in The Ghost Book (London, Hutchinson, 1926). “The Follower” was originally published in My Grimmest Nightmare (London, G. Allen & Unwin, 1935; the editorship of this anonymous anthology has frequently been attributed to Asquith but, in fact, the editor was Cecil Madden). Both stories were collected in Asquith’s deservedly acclaimed collection, This Mortal Coil (Sauk City, WI, Arkham House, 1947).
The Follower
LADY CYNTHIA ASQUITH
MRS. MEADE HAD BEEN in the nursing home with heart trouble for three weeks, and her doctor, to whom she had confided the terror that obsessed her, had at last persuaded her to see the famous psycho-analyst, Dr. Stone. She awaited his visit in great trepidation. It would not be easy to tell him of her fantastic experiences—“hallucinations” her own doctor insisted on calling them.
A quarter of an hour before the time when she expected Dr. Stone, there was a knock on the door.
“I’m a little early, Mrs. Meade,” said a smooth voice from behind the screen, “and I must ask you to forgive my fancy dress ball appearance. I was very careless with a spirit lamp and am obliged to wear this mask for some time.”
As he approached her bedside, Mrs. Meade saw that her visitor’s face was entirely concealed by a black mask with two small holes and a slit for his eyes and mouth.
“Now, Mrs. Meade,” he said, seating himself in a chair close to the bed. “I want you to tell me all about this mysterious trouble that is thought to be affecting your physical health. Please be perfectly frank with me. When did this—shall I say obsession?—begin, and what precisely is it?”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Meade. “I will try to tell you the whole story. It began years ago—when I first went to live in Regent’s Park. One afternoon I was most disagreeably struck by the appearance of a man who was loafing about outside the Baker Street Tube Station. I can’t tell you how strong and horrible an impression he made on me. I can only say that there was something utterly hateful about his face, with its bold, malignant eyes—lashless eyes that searched me like unshaded lights. He seemed to leer at me with a ‘so there you are!’ sort of look, and the queer thing was that, though I had never to my knowledge seen him and—as I say—his appearance came to me as a shock, yet it was not a shock of complete surprise. In the violent distaste I felt for him there was a faint element of—shall I say sub-sub-conscious recognition?—as though he reminded me of something I had once dreamt or imagined. I don’t know! I vaguely noticed that he had on a black slouch hat and no tie but a sort of greenish muffler round his neck. Otherwise his clothes were ordinary. Like the description of Mr. Hyde, he gave an impression of deformity without any nameable malformation. His face was horrible—moistly pale like … like a toadstool! It’s no good! I can’t describe him! I can only repeat that the aversion he inspired in me was extraordinarily violent. I was conscious of his stare as I hurried past him and went down the steps, and it was a great relief to disappear into the lift and be whirled away in the Tube. Though I had plenty to do that day I could not quite dismiss him from my mind, and when I returned by Tube late in the evening it was a horrid shock to find him lurking at the top of the steps just as though he were waiting for me. This time there was no doubt that he definitely leered at me, and I thought he faintly shook his head. I hurried past him. Soon I had that horrid sense of being followed and glanced over my shoulder. Sure enough, there he was—just a few paces behind! and, as I turned, he slightly raised his hat. I almost ran home, and I cannot say what a relief it was to hear my front door slam behind me. Well, I saw him the next day and the next, and practically every day. The distaste with which I recognized him became a definite shudder, and each time his cynical glance seemed to grow bolder. Several times he followed me towards my house, but never right up to the door. I made tentative inquiries at the little shops round the Tube Station, but no one seemed to have noticed him. The dread of meeting him became an absolute obsession. Soon I gave up going in the Tube and would make long detours in order to avoid that upper part of Baker Street.”
“You minded him as much as all that, did you?” asked the doctor.
“Yes.”
“Go on, don’t let me interrupt you.”
“For some time,” continued Mrs. Meade, “I did not see him and then there was a hideous incident. Returning from a walk in
the park one day I saw quite a large crowd just outside the gate. A little girl had been run over. An ambulance man was carrying her lifeless form, and a policeman and some women were attending to the demented mother. Amongst all those shocked and pitying faces, suddenly I saw one vile, mocking face, its familiar features horribly distorted in a gloating grin. With positive glee he pointed at the dead child and then he turned and leered at me.
“After this horrible encounter you may be sure I shunned Upper Baker Street, but one day, just as I was starting to walk through the park, the heaviest rain I have ever seen came on, so I rushed towards the taxis at the top of the street and jumped into the first one on the rank. A small boy opened the door for me, and, to avoid getting my hat wet, I gave him the address to give the driver. To my surprise we started off at a terrific pace. I looked up and saw a rather crouched back and a greenish muffler. The speed at which we were going was insane, and I banged on the window. The driver turned. Imagine my nightmare horror when I recognized that dreaded face, grinning at me through the glass. Heaven knows why we did not crash at once. Instead of watching the road, the creature on the box kept turning round to grin and gloat at me. We went faster and faster—whirling through the traffic. I was so sick with horror that, in spite of the appalling speed, I would at all costs have jumped out, but—struggle as I might—I could not turn the handle. I think I screamed and screamed and screamed. I was simply flung about the taxi. At last there was an appalling shock.…
“I can just remember the tinkle of breaking glass and the awful pain in my head—and then no more.
“When I came to, I was in a hospital where for hours I had been unconscious from concussion. I began to ask questions but could only learn that I had been picked up from the debris of a taxi which had crashed into some railings, and that it was a miracle I had not been killed. As for the driver, he had unaccountably disappeared before the police arrived and no one claimed to have seen him. The taxi bore no number and could not be identified. The police were completely baffled.
“After this I insisted on leaving the neighbourhood, and made my husband take a house in Chelsea.
“Nearly a year passed and I began to hope that I should never see him again; but I became ill, and after endless consultations a very serious operation was decided on. Everything was arranged and the evening before the date fixed I drove to the nursing home with the sinking sensation natural to the occasion. I rang the bell and the door was promptly opened by a short man. I almost screamed. In spite of the incongruous livery, it was him! There he stood—sickly pale as ever, and with that awful, intimate smile.
“In a wild panic I sprang from the door and back into the taxi which was waiting with my luggage. Directly I got home I cancelled the operation. In spite of all the Harley Street opinions, I recovered. The operation was proved unnecessary.”
Mrs. Meade paused in her narrative. The listener spoke.
“Then this being—whatever he is—on this occasion may be said to have done you a good turn?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Meade, “perhaps, but it didn’t make me dread him any the less. Oh, the ghastly dreams I had!—that I had been given the anaesthetic and was thought to be unconscious, but I wasn’t, and I saw the surgeon approach and, as he bent over me, his face was THE FACE!”
“Did you ever see him again, Mrs. Meade?”
“I’m sorry,” answered the patient hastily, “but the next time I saw him, I cannot tell you about. It is still too unbearable. There are things one cannot speak about. It was then I understood why he had pointed at that dead child and leered at me out of his vile little eyes. That was a long time ago, but the dread is always with me. You see, I still have one child left—I am always looking for what I fear. I can never leave my house without expecting to see him. What if one day I should meet him in my house?”
“I do not think you will ever do that, Mrs. Meade.”
“I suppose you think the whole thing is an illusion, Doctor Stone? And in any case I don’t suppose I have been able to give any impression of what—it—he—the creature is like,” sighed Mrs. Meade.
The listener rose from his chair and leant over the invalid.
“Is—his—face—like this?” he asked, and, as he spoke, he whipped off his mask.
No one who heard it will ever forget Mrs. Meade’s scream.
Two nurses rushed into her room, followed by Dr. Stone, who, punctual to his appointment, had that moment arrived.
The dead woman lay on the bed.
There was no one else in the room.
The Corner Shop
LADY CYNTHIA ASQUITH
PETER WOOD’S EXECUTORS found their task a very easy one. He had left his affairs in perfect order. The only surprise yielded by his tidy writing-table was a sealed envelope on which was written, “Not wishing to be bothered by well-meaning Research Societies, I have never shown the enclosed to anyone, but after my death all are welcome to read what is, to the best of my knowledge, a true story.”
The manuscript bears a date three years previous to the death of the writer, and is as follows:
I have long wished to write down an experience of my youth. I shall not attempt any diagnosis as to its nature. I draw no conclusions. I merely record certain facts. At least, as such these incidents presented themselves to my consciousness.
One evening, shortly after I had been called to the Bar, I was rather dejectedly returning to my lodgings, wishing I could afford a theater ticket, when my attention was drawn to the brightly lit window of a shop. Having an uneducated love of bric-à-brac, and remembering an unavoidable wedding present, I grasped the handle of the door which, opening with one of those cheerful clanking bells, admitted me into large rambling premises thickly crowded with all the traditional litter of a curiosity shop. Fragments of armour, pewter pots, dark, distorting mirrors, church vestments, flower pictures, brass kettles, chairs, tables, chests, chandeliers—all were here! But in spite of the heterogeneous confusion, there was none of the dingy, dusty gloom one associates with such collections. The room was brightly lit and a crackling fire leapt up the chimney. The atmosphere was warm and cheerful. Very agreeable I found it after the cold dank fog outside.
At my entrance a young woman and a child—by their resemblance obviously sisters—had risen from their two arm-chairs. Bright, bustling, gaily dressed, they were curiously unlike the type of person who usually presides over that particular sort of wares. A flower shop would have seemed a more appropriate setting.
“How wonderful of them to keep their premises so clean,” I thought, as I wished them good evening.
Their smiling faces made a very pleasing impression on me; one of comfortable, serene well-being, and, though the grown-up sister was most courteous in showing me the crowded treasures and displayed knowledge and appreciation, she struck me as quite indifferent as to whether I made any purchase or not. Her manner was really more that of a custodian than of a saleswoman.
Finding a beautiful piece of Sheffield plate very moderately priced, I decided that here was the very present for my friend. The child deftly converted my purchase into a brown paper parcel. Explaining to her elder sister that I was without sufficient cash, I asked if she would take a cheque.
“Certainly,” she answered, briskly producing pen and ink. “Will you please make it out to the ‘Corner Curio Shop’?”
It was with conscious reluctance that I set out into the saffron fog.
“Good evening, sir. Always pleased to see you at any time,” rang out the girl’s pleasant voice, a voice so agreeable that I left almost with a sense of having made a friend.
I suppose it must have been about a week later, that, as I walked home one very cold evening—fine powdery snow brushing against my face, and a cutting wind tearing down the streets, I remembered the welcoming warmth of the cheerful Corner Curio Shop, and determined to revisit it. I found myself to be in the very street, and there—yes—there was the very corner. It was with a sense of disappoin
tment, out of all proportion to the event, that I found the shop to be wearing that baffling—so to speak, shut-eyed appearance, and saw that a piece of cardboard, on which was printed the word “Closed,” hung from the door handle.
A bitter gust of wind whistled round the corner, and my wet trousers flapped dismally against my chapped ankles. I longed for the warmth and glow within, and felt annoyingly thwarted. Rather childishly—for I was certain the door was locked, I grasped the handle and shook it. To my surprise the handle turned in my hand, but not in answer to its pressure. The door was pulled open from inside, and I found myself peering into the dimly lit countenance of a very old and frail-looking little man.
“Please do come in, sir,” said a gentle, rather tremulous voice, and soft footsteps shuffled away in front of me.
It is impossible to describe the altered aspect of the place. I assumed that the electric light had fused, for the darkness of the large room was only thinned by two guttering candles, and in the dim wavering light, the jumble of furniture, formerly brightly lit, now loomed towering and mysterious, and cast weird, almost menacing shadows. The fire was out, only one faintly glowering ember told that any had lately been alive. Other evidence there was none, for the grim cold of the atmosphere was such as I had never experienced. The phrase “it struck chill” is laughably inadequate. In retrospect the street seemed almost agreeable; in its biting cold there had at least been something exhilarating. The atmosphere was now as gloomy as it had previously been genial. I felt a strong impulse to leave immediately, but the surrounding darkness thinned, and I saw that the old man was busily lighting candles here and there.
“Anything I can show you, sir?” he quavered, as he spoke approaching me with a lighted taper in his hand. I now saw him comparatively distinctly, and his appearance made an indescribable impression on me. Rembrandt flitted through my mind. Who else could have suggested the strange shadows on that time-worn face? Tired is a word we lightly use. Never had I known what the word might mean, till I stared at that exhausted countenance. The ineffable, patient weariness of the withered face, the eyes—which seemed as extinct as the fire, save for a feeble glow as of some purpose. And the wan frailty of the figure!