The Big Book of Ghost Stories

by Otto Penzler

  “Because,” he replied, “you have a first-class brain, I have a second or third. I have always had things made too easy for me. You have had most things made too hard. Ergo, you have a first-class character. I haven’t. I feel a sense of respectful shame towards you, my dear Teddie, which alone would keep me trotting at your heels. I feel I can rely on you as on no one else. You are at once my superior and my complement. Anyway, it has happened, why worry? Analysing such things often spoils them, it’s like over-rehearsing.”

  And then the War—and even the Defence of Civilisation entailed subtle social distinctions.

  Philip was given a commission in a regiment of cavalry (with the best will in the world Bellamy never quite understood the privileged role of the horse in the higher ranks of English society); he himself enlisted in a line regiment, and rose through his innate common sense and his unflagging capacity for finishing a job to the rank of Major, D.S.O. and bar, and a brace of wound-stripes. Philip went to Mesopotamia and was eventually invalided out through the medium of a gas-shell. His right lung seriously affected, he spent from 1917 to 1924 on a farm in Arizona. They had written to each other occasionally—the hurried, flippant, shadow-of-death letters of the time, but somehow their friendship had dimmed and faded and become more than a little pre-War by the end of it, so that Bellamy was not more than mildly disappointed when he heard casually that Philip was back in England, yet had had but the most casual, damp letter from him.

  But there had been all the old cordiality and affection in his voice over the telephone—and something more—not so pleasant to hear.

  At the appointed hour he arrived in St. James’s Street, and a moment later Philip came up to him.

  “Now, Teddie,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking, I know I’ve been a fool and the rottenest sort of type to have acted as I have, but there is a kind of explanation.”

  Bellamy surrendered at once to that absurd sense of delight at being in Philip’s company, and his small resentment was rent and scattered. None the less he regarded him with a veiled intentness. He was looking tired and old—forcing himself—there was something seriously the matter.

  “My very dear Philip,” he said, “you don’t need to explain things to me. To think it is eight years since we met!”

  “First of all let’s order something,” said Philip. “You have what you like, I don’t want much, except a drink.” Whereupon he selected a reasonable collation for Bellamy and a dressed crab and asparagus for himself. But he drank two Martinis in ten seconds, and these were not the first—Bellamy knew—that he had ordered since five-thirty (there was something wrong).

  For a little while the conversation was uneasily, stalely reminiscent. Suddenly Philip blurted out, “I can’t keep it in any longer. You’re the only really reliable, unswerving friend I’ve ever had. You will help me, won’t you?”

  “My dear Philip,” said Bellamy, touched, “I always have and always will be ready to do anything you want me to do and at any time—you know that.”

  “Well, then, I’ll tell you my story. First of all, have you ever heard of a man called Oscar Clinton?”

  “I seem to remember the name. It is somehow connected in my mind with the nineties, raptures and roses, absinthe and poses; and the other Oscar. I believe his name cropped up in a case I was in. I have an impression he’s a wrong ’un.”

  “That’s the man,” said Philip. “He stayed with me for three months at Franton.”

  “Oh,” said Bellamy sharply, “how was that?”

  “Well, Teddie, anything the matter with one’s lungs affects one’s mind—not always for the worse, however. I know that’s true, and it affected mine. Arizona is a moon-dim region, very lovely in its way and stark and old, but I had to leave it. You know I was always a sceptic, rather a wooden one, as I remember; well, that ancient, lonely land set my lung-polluted mind working. I used to stare and stare into the sky. One is brought right up against the vast enigmas of time and space and eternity when one lung is doing the work of two, and none too well at that.”

  Edward realised under what extreme tension Philip had been living, but felt that he could establish a certain control over him. He felt more in command of the situation and resolved to keep that command.

  “Well,” continued Philip, filling up his glass, “when I got back to England I was so frantically nervous that I could hardly speak or think. I felt insane, unclean—mentally. I felt I was going mad, and could not bear to be seen by anyone who had known me—that is why I was such a fool as not to come to you. You have your revenge! I can’t tell you, Teddie, how depression roared through me! I made up my mind to die, but I had a wild desire to know to what sort of place I should go. And then I met Clinton. I had rushed up to London one day just to get the inane anodyne of noise and people, and I suppose I was more or less tight, for I walked into a club of sorts called the ‘Chorazin’ in Soho. The door-keeper tried to turn me out, but I pushed him aside, and then someone came up and led me to a table. It was Clinton.

  “Now there is no doubt he has great hypnotic power. He began to talk, and I at once felt calmer and started to tell him all about myself. I talked wildly for an hour, and he was so deft and delicate in his handling of me that I felt I could not leave him. He has a marvellous insight into abnormal mental—psychic—whatever you like to call them—states. Some time I’ll describe what he looks like—he’s certainly like no one else in the world.

  “Well, the upshot was that he came down to Franton next day and stayed on. Now, I know that his motives were entirely mercenary, but none the less he saved me from suicide, and to a great extent gave back peace to my mind.

  “Never could I have imagined such an irresistible and brilliant talker. Whatever he may be, he’s also a poet, a profound philosopher and amazingly versatile and erudite. Also, when he likes, his charm of manner carries one away. At least, in my case it did—for a time—though he borrowed twenty pounds or more a week from me.

  “And then one day my butler came to me, and with the hushed gusto appropriate to such revelations murmured that two of the maids were in the family way and that another had told him an hysterical little tale—floating in floods of tears—about how Clinton had made several attempts to force his way into her bedroom.

  “Well, Teddie, that sort of thing is that sort of thing, but I felt such a performance couldn’t possibly be justified, that taking advantage of a trio of rustics in his host’s house was a dastardly and unforgivable outrage.

  “Other people’s morals are chiefly their own affair, but I had a personal responsibility towards these buxom victims—well, you can realise just how I felt.

  “I had to speak about it to Clinton, and did so that night. No one ever saw him abashed. He smiled at me in a superior and patronising way, and said he quite understood that I was almost bound to hold such feudal and socially primitive views, suggesting, of course, that my chief concern in the matter was that he had infringed my droit de seigneur in these cases. As for him, he considered it was his duty to disseminate his unique genius as widely as possible, and that it should be considered the highest privilege for anyone to bear his child. He had to his knowledge seventy-four offspring alive, and probably many more—the more the better for the future of humanity. But, of course, he understood and promised for the future—bowing to my rights and my prejudices—to allow me to plough my pink and white pastures—and much more to the same effect.

  “Though still under his domination, I felt there was more lust than logic in these specious professions, so I made an excuse and went up to London the next day. As I left the house I picked up my letters, which I read in the car on the way up. One was a three-page catalogue raisonné from my tailor. Not being as dressy as all that, it seemed unexpectedly grandiose, so I paid him a visit. Well, Clinton had forged a letter from me authorising him to order clothes at my expense, and a lavish outfit had been provided.

  “It then occurred to me to go to my bank to discover precisely how m
uch I had lent Clinton during the last three months. It was four hundred and twenty pounds. All these discoveries—telescoping—caused me to review my relationship with Clinton. Suddenly I felt it had better end. I might be mediæval, intellectually costive, and the possessor of much scandalously unearned increment, but I could not believe that the pursuit and contemplation of esoteric mysteries necessarily implied the lowest possible standards of private decency. In other words, I was recovering.

  “I still felt that Clinton was the most remarkable person I had ever met. I do to this day—but I felt I was unequal to squaring such magic circles.

  “I told him so when I got back. He was quite charming, gentle, understanding, commiserating, and he left the next morning, after pronouncing some incantation whilst touching my forehead. I missed him very much. I believe he’s the devil, but he’s that sort of person.

  “Once I had assured the prospective mothers of his children that they would not be sacked and that their destined contributions to the population would be a charge upon me—there is a codicil to my will to this effect—they brightened up considerably, and rather too frequently snatches of the Froth-Blowers’ Anthem cruised down to me as they went about their duties. In fact, I had a discreditable impression that the Immaculate Third would have shown less lachrymose integrity had the consequences of surrender been revealed ante factum. Eventually a brace of male infants came to contribute their falsettos to the dirge—for whose appearance the locals have respectfully given me the credit. These brats have searching malign eyes, and when they reach the age of puberty I should not be surprised if the birth statistics for East Surrey began to show a remarkable—even a magical—rise.

  “Oh, how good it is to talk to you, Teddie, and get it all off my chest! I feel almost light-hearted, as though my poor old brain had been curetted. I feel I can face and fight it now.

  “Well, for the next month I drowsed and read and drowsed and read until I felt two-lunged again. And several times I almost wrote to you, but I felt such lethargy and yet such a certainty of getting quite well again that I put everything off. I was content to lie back and let that blessed healing process work its quiet kindly way with me.

  “And then one day I got a letter from a friend of mine, Melrose, who was at the House when we were up. He is the Secretary of ‘Ye Ancient Mysteries,’ a dining club I joined before the War. It meets once a month and discusses famous mysteries of the past—the Mary Celeste, the McLachlan Case, and so on—with a flippant yet scholarly zeal; but that doesn’t matter. Well, Melrose said that Clinton wanted to become a member, and had stressed the fact that he was a friend of mine. Melrose was a little upset, as he had heard vague rumours about Clinton. Did I think he was likely to be an acceptable member of the club?

  “Well, what was I to say? On the one side of the medal were the facts that he had used my house as his stud-farm, that he had forged my name and sponged on me shamelessly. On the reverse was the fact that he was a genius and knew more about Ancient Mysteries than the rest of the world put together. But my mind was soon made up; I could not recommend him. A week later I got a letter—a charming letter, a most understanding letter from Clinton. He realised, so he said, that I had been bound to give the secretary of the Ancient Mysteries the advice I had—no doubt I considered he was not a decent person to meet my friends. He was naturally disappointed, and so on.

  “How the devil, I wondered, did he know—not only that I had put my thumbs down against him, but also the very reason for which I had put them down!

  “So I asked Melrose, who told me he hadn’t mentioned the matter to a soul, but had discreetly removed Clinton’s name from the list of candidates for election. And no one should have been any the wiser; but how much wiser Clinton was!

  “A week later I got another letter from him, saying that he was leaving England for a month. He enclosed a funny little paper pattern thing, an outline cut out with scissors with a figure painted on it, a beastly-looking thing. Like this!”

  And he drew a quick sketch on the table cloth.

  Certainly it was unpleasant, thought Bellamy. It appeared to be a crouching figure in the posture of pursuit. The robes it wore seemed to rise and billow above its head. Its arms were long—too long—scraping the ground with curved and spiked nails. Its head was not quite human, its expression devilish and venomous. A horrid, hunting thing, its eyes encarnadined and infinitely evil, glowing animal eyes in the foul dark face. And those long vile arms—not pleasant to be in their grip. He hadn’t realised Philip could draw as well as that. He straightened himself, lit a cigarette, and rallied his fighting powers. For the first time he realised, why, that Philip was in serious trouble! Just a rather beastly little sketch on a table cloth. And now it was up to him!

  “Clinton told me,” continued Philip, “that this was a most powerful symbol which I should find of the greatest help in my mystical studies. I must place it against my forehead, and pronounce at the same time a certain sentence. And, Teddie, suddenly, I found myself doing so. I remember I had a sharp feeling of surprise and irritation when I found I had placarded this thing on my head and repeated this sentence.”

  “What was the sentence?” asked Bellamy.

  “Well, that’s a funny thing,” said Philip. “I can’t remember it, and both the slip of paper on which it was written and the paper pattern had disappeared the next morning. I remember putting them in my pocket book, but they completely vanished. And, Teddie, things haven’t been the same since.” He filled his glass and emptied it, lit a cigarette, and at once pressed the life from it in an ash tray and then lit another.

  “Bluntly, I’ve been bothered, haunted perhaps is too strong a word—too pompous. It’s like this. That same night I had read myself tired in the study, and about twelve o’clock I was glancing sleepily around the room when I noticed that one of the bookcases was throwing out a curious and unaccountable shadow. It seemed as if something was hiding behind the bookcase, and that this was that something’s shadow. I got up and walked over to it, and it became just a bookcase shadow, rectangular and reassuring. I went to bed.

  “As I turned on the light on the landing I noticed the same sort of shadow coming from the grandfather clock. I went to sleep all right, but suddenly found myself peering out of the window, and there was that shadow stretching out from the trees and in the drive. At first there was about that much of it showing,” and he drew a line down the sketch on the table cloth, “about a sixth. Well, it’s been a simple story since then. Every night that shadow has grown a little. It is now almost visible. And it comes out suddenly from different places. Last night it was on the wall beside the door into the Dutch Garden. I never know where I’m going to see it next.”

  “And how long has this been going on?” asked Bellamy.

  “A month to-morrow. You sound as if you thought I was mad. I probably am.”

  “No, you’re as sane as I am. But why don’t you leave Franton and come to London?”

  “And see it on the wall of the club bedroom! I’ve tried that, Teddie, but one’s as bad as the other. Doesn’t it sound ludicrous? But it isn’t to me.”

  “Do you usually eat as little as this?” asked Bellamy.

  “ ‘And drink as much?’ you were too polite to add. Well, there’s more to it than indigestion, and it isn’t incipient D.T. It’s just I don’t feel very hungry nowadays.”

  Bellamy got that rush of tip-toe pugnacity which had won him so many desperate cases. He had had a Highland grandmother from whom he had inherited a powerful visualising imagination, by which he got a fleeting yet authentic insight into the workings of men’s minds. So now he knew in a flash how he would feel if Philip’s ordeal had been his.

  “Whatever it is, Philip,” he said, “there are two of us now.”

  “Then you do believe in it,” said Philip. “Sometimes I can’t. On a sunny morning with starlings chattering and buses swinging up Waterloo Place—then how can such things be? But at night I know they are.”
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br />   “Well,” said Bellamy, after a pause, “let us look at it coldly and precisely. Ever since Clinton sent you a certain painted paper pattern you’ve seen a shadowed reproduction of it. Now I take it he has—as you suggested—unusual hypnotic power. He has studied mesmerism?”

  “I think he’s studied every bloody thing,” said Philip.

  “Then that’s a possibility.”

  “Yes,” agreed Philip, “it’s a possibility. And I’ll fight it, Teddie, now that I have you, but can you minister to a mind diseased?”

  “Throw quotations to the dogs,” replied Bellamy. “What one man has done another can undo—there’s one for you.”

  “Teddie,” said Philip, “will you come down to Franton to-night?”

  “Yes,” said Bellamy. “But why?”

  “Because I want you to be with me at twelve o’clock to-night when I look out from the study window and think I see a shadow flung on the flagstones outside the drawing-room window.”

  “Why not stay up here for to-night?”

  “Because I want to get it settled. Either I’m mad or—Will you come?”

  “If you really mean to go down to-night I’ll come with you.”

  “Well, I’ve ordered the car to be here by nine-fifteen,” said Philip. “We’ll go to your rooms, and you can pack a suitcase and we’ll be there by half past ten.” Suddenly he looked up sharply, his shoulders drew together and his eyes narrowed and became intent. It happened at that moment no voice was busy in the dining-room of the Brooks’s Club. No doubt they were changing over at the Power Station, for the lights dimmed for a moment. It seemed to Bellamy that someone was developing wavy, wicked little films far back in his brain, and a voice suddenly whispered in his ear with a vile sort of shyness, “He cometh and he passeth by!”