The Big Book of Ghost Stories

by Otto Penzler

  “Why is revenge necessary?” asked Bellamy.

  “A plausible question. Well, for one thing I like cruelty—one of my unpublished works is a defence of Super-Sadism. Then it is a warning to others, and lastly it is a vindication of my personality. All excellent reasons. Do you like my Thus Spake Eblis?”

  “Masterly,” replied Bellamy. “The perfection of prose, but, of course, its magical significance is far beyond my meagre understanding.”

  “My dear friend, there is only one man in Europe about whom that would not be equally true.”

  “Who is that?” asked Bellamy.

  Clinton’s eyes narrowed venomously.

  “His name is Solan,” he said. “One of these days, perhaps—” and he paused. “Well, now, if you like I will tell you of some of my experiences.”

  An hour later a monologue drew to its close.

  “And now, Mr. Bellamy, what is your role in life?”

  “I’m a barrister.”

  “Oh, so you are connected with the Law?”

  “I hope,” said Bellamy smiling, “you’ll find it possible to forget it.”

  “It would help me to do so,” replied Clinton, “if you would lend me ten pounds. I have forgotten my note-case—a frequent piece of negligence on my part—and a lady awaits me. Thanks very much. We shall meet again, I trust.”

  “I was just about to suggest that you dine with me one day this week?”

  “This is Tuesday,” said Clinton. “What about Thursday?”

  “Excellent, will you meet me at the Gridiron about eight?”

  “I will be there,” said Clinton, mopping his eye. “Good night.”

  “I can understand now what happened to Franton,” said Bellamy to Mr. Solan the next evening. “He is the most fascinating and catholic talker I have met. He has a wicked charm. If half to which he lays claim is true, he has packed ten lives into sixty years.”

  “In a sense,” said Mr. Solan, “he has the best brain of any man living. He has also a marvellous histrionic sense and he is deadly. But he is vulnerable. On Thursday encourage him to talk of other things. He will consider you an easy victim. You must make the most of the evening—it may rather revolt you—he is sure to be suspicious at first.”

  “It amuses and reassures me,” said Clinton at ten-fifteen on Thursday evening in Bellamy’s room, “to find you have a lively appreciation of obscenity.”

  He brought out a snuff box, an exquisite little masterpiece with an inexpressibly vile design enamelled on the lid, from which he took a pinch of white powder which he sniffed up from the palm of his hand.

  “I suppose,” said Bellamy, “that all your magical lore would be quite beyond me.”

  “Oh yes, quite,” replied Clinton, “but I can show you what sort of power a study of that lore has given me, by a little experiment. Turn round, look out of the window, and keep quite quiet till I speak to you.”

  It was a brooding night. In the south-west the clouds made restless, quickly shifting patterns—the heralds of coming storm. The scattered sound of the traffic in Kingsway rose and fell with the gusts of the rising wind. Bellamy found a curious picture forming in his brain. A wide lonely waste of snow and a hill with a copse of fir trees, out from which someone came running. Presently this person halted and looked back, and then out from the wood appeared another figure (of a shape he had seen before). And then the one it seemed to be pursuing began to run on, staggering through the snow, over which the Shape seemed to skim lightly and rapidly, and gain on its quarry. Then it appeared as if the one in front could go no further. He fell and rose again, and faced his pursuer. The Shape came swiftly on and flung itself hideously on the one in front, who fell to his knees. The two seemed intermingled for a moment …

  “Well,” said Clinton, “and what did you think of that?”

  Bellamy poured out a whisky and soda and drained it.

  “Extremely impressive,” he replied. “It gave me a feeling of great horror.”

  “The individual whose rather painful end you have just witnessed once did me a dis-service. He was found in a remote part of Norway. Why he chose to hide himself there is rather difficult to understand.”

  “Cause and effect?” asked Bellamy, forcing a smile.

  Clinton took another pinch of white powder.

  “Possibly a mere coincidence,” he replied. “And now I must go, for I have a ‘date,’ as they say in America, with a rather charming and profligate young woman. Could you possibly lend me a little money?”

  When he had gone Bellamy washed his person very thoroughly in a hot bath, brushed his teeth with zeal, and felt a little cleaner. He tried to read in bed, but between him and Mr. Jacobs’s Night-Watchman a bestial and persistent phantasmagoria forced its way. He dressed again, went out, and walked the streets till dawn.

  Some time later Mr. Solan happened to overhear a conversation in the club smoking-room.

  “I can’t think what’s happened to Bellamy,” said one. “He does no work and is always about with that incredible swine Clinton.”

  “A kink somewhere, I suppose,” said another, yawning. “Dirty streak probably.”

  “Were you referring to Mr. Edward Bellamy, a friend of mine?” asked Mr. Solan.

  “We were,” said one.

  “Have you ever known him to do a discreditable thing?”

  “Not till now,” said another.

  “Or a stupid thing?”

  “I’ll give you that,” said one.

  “Well,” said Mr. Solan, “you have my word for it that he has not changed,” and he passed on.

  “Funny old devil that,” said one.

  “Rather shoves the breeze up me,” said another. “He seems to know something. I like Bellamy, and I’ll apologise to him for taking his name in vain when I see him next. But that bastard Clinton!—”

  “It will have to be soon,” said Mr. Solan. “I heard to-day that he will be given notice to quit any day now. Are you prepared to go through with it?”

  “He’s the devil incarnate,” said Bellamy. “If you knew what I’ve been through in the last month!”

  “I have a shrewd idea of it,” replied Mr. Solan. “You think he trusts you completely?”

  “I don’t think he has any opinion of me at all, except that I lend him money whenever he wants it. Of course, I’ll go through with it. Let it be Friday night. What must I do? Tell me exactly. I know that but for you I should have chucked my hand in long ago.”

  “My dear Bellamy, you have done marvellously well, and you will finish the business as resolutely as you have carried it through so far. Well, this is what you must do. Memorise it flawlessly.”

  “I will arrange it that we arrive at his rooms just about eleven o’clock. I will ring up five minutes before we leave.”

  “I shall be doing my part,” said Mr. Solan.

  Clinton was in high spirits at the Café Royal on Friday evening.

  “I like you, my dear Bellamy,” he observed, “not merely because you have a refined taste in pornography and have lent me a good deal of money, but for a more subtle reason. You remember when we first met I was puzzled by you. Well, I still am. There is some psychic power surrounding you. I don’t mean that you are conscious of it, but there is some very powerful influence working for you. Great friends though we are, I sometimes feel that this power is hostile to myself. Anyhow, we have had many pleasant times together.”

  “And,” replied Bellamy, “I hope we shall have many more. It has certainly been a tremendous privilege to have been permitted to enjoy so much of your company. As for that mysterious power you refer to, I am entirely unconscious of it, and as for hostility—well, I hope I’ve convinced you during the last month that I’m not exactly your enemy.”

  “You have, my dear fellow,” replied Clinton. “You have been a charming and generous companion. All the same, there is an enigmatic side to you. What shall we do to-night?”

  “Whatever you please,” said Bellamy.


  “I suggest we go round to my rooms,” said Clinton, “bearing a bottle of whisky, and that I show you another little experiment. You are now sufficiently trained to make it a success.”

  “Just what I should have hoped for,” replied Bellamy enthusiastically. “I will order the whisky now.” He went out of the grill-room for a moment and had a few words with Mr. Solan over the telephone. And then he returned, paid the bill, and they drove off together.

  Clinton’s rooms were in a dingy street about a hundred yards from the British Museum. They were drab and melancholy, and contained nothing but the barest necessities and some books.

  It was exactly eleven o’clock as Clinton took out his latchkey, and it was just exactly then that Mr. Solan unlocked the door of a curious little room leading off from his study.

  Then he opened a bureau and took from it a large book bound in plain white vellum. He sat down at a table and began a bizarre procedure. He took from a folder at the end of the book a piece of what looked like crumpled tracing paper, and, every now and again consulting the quarto, drew certain symbols upon the paper, while repeating a series of short sentences in a strange tongue. The ink into which he dipped his pen for this exercise was a smoky sullen scarlet.

  Presently the atmosphere of the room became intense, and charged with suspense and crisis. The symbols completed, Mr. Solan became rigid and taut, and his eyes were those of one passing into trance.

  “First of all a drink, my dear Bellamy,” said Clinton.

  Bellamy pulled the cork and poured out two stiff pegs. Clinton drank his off. He gave the impression of being not quite at his ease.

  “Some enemy of mine is working against me to-night,” he said. “I feel an influence strongly. However, let us try the little experiment. Draw up your chair to the window, and do not look round till I speak.”

  Bellamy did as he was ordered, and peered at a dark facade across the street. Suddenly it was as if wall after wall rolled up before his eyes and passed into the sky, and he found himself gazing into a long faintly-lit room. As his eyes grew more used to the dimness he could pick out a number of recumbent figures, apparently resting on couches. And then from the middle of the room a flame seemed to leap and then another and another until there was a fiery circle playing round one of those figures, which slowly rose to its feet and turned and stared at Bellamy; and its haughty, evil face grew vast, till it was thrust, dazzling and fiery, right into his own. He put up his hands to thrust back its scorching menace—and there was the wall of the house opposite, and Clinton was saying, “Well?”

  “Your power terrifies me!” said Bellamy. “Who was that One I saw?”

  “The one you saw was myself,” said Clinton, smiling, “during my third reincarnation, about 1750 B.C. I am the only man in the world who can perform that quite considerable feat. Give me another drink.”

  Bellamy got up (it was time!). Suddenly he felt invaded by a mighty reassurance. His ghostly terror left him. Something irresistible was sinking into his soul, and he knew that at the destined hour the promised succour had come to sustain him. He felt thrilled, resolute, exalted.

  He had his back to Clinton as he filled the glasses and with a lightning motion he dropped a pellet into Clinton’s which fizzed like a tiny comet down through the bubbles and was gone.

  “Here’s to many more pleasant evenings,” said Clinton. “You’re a brave man, Bellamy,” he exclaimed, putting the glass to his lips. “For what you have seen might well appal the devil!”

  “I’m not afraid because I trust you,” replied Bellamy.

  “By Eblis, this is a strong one,” said Clinton, peering into his glass.

  “Same as usual,” said Bellamy, laughing. “Tell me something. A man I knew who’d been many years in the East told me about some race out there who cut out paper patterns and paint them and sent them to their enemies. Have you ever heard of anything of the sort?”

  Clinton dropped his glass on the table sharply. He did not answer for a moment, but shifted uneasily in his chair.

  “Who was this friend of yours?” he asked, in a voice already slightly thick.

  “A chap called Bond,” said Bellamy.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of that charming practice. In fact, I can cut them myself.”

  “Really, how’s it done? I should be fascinated to see it.”

  Clinton’s eyes blinked and his head nodded.

  “I’ll show you one,” he said, “but it’s dangerous and you must be very careful. Go to the bottom drawer of that bureau and bring me the piece of straw paper you’ll find there. And there are some scissors on the writing table and two crayons in the tray.” Bellamy brought them to him.

  “Now,” said Clinton, “this thing, as I say, is dangerous. If I wasn’t drunk I wouldn’t do it. And why am I drunk?” He leaned back in his chair and put his hand over his eyes. And then he sat up and, taking the scissors, began running them with extreme dexterity round the paper. And then he made some marks with the coloured pencils.

  The final result of these actions was not unfamiliar in appearance to Bellamy.

  “There you are,” said Clinton. “That, my dear Bellamy, is potentially the most deadly little piece of paper in the world. Would you please take it to the fireplace and burn it to ashes?”

  Bellamy burnt a piece of paper to ashes.

  Clinton’s head had dropped into his hands.

  “Another drink?” asked Bellamy.

  “My God, no,” said Clinton, yawning and reeling in his chair. And then his head went down again. Bellamy went up to him and shook him. His right hand hovered a second over Clinton’s coat pocket.

  “Wake up,” he said. “I want to know what could make that piece of paper actually deadly?”

  Clinton looked up blearily at him and then rallied slightly.

  “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Bellamy. “Tell me.”

  “Just repeating six words,” said Clinton, “but I shall not repeat them.” Suddenly his eyes became intent and fixed on a corner of the room.

  “What’s that?” he asked sharply. “There! there! there! in the corner.” Bellamy felt again the presence of a power. The air of the room seemed rent and sparking.

  “That, Clinton,” he said, “is the spirit of Philip Franton, whom you murdered.” And then he sprang at Clinton, who was staggering from the chair. He seized him and pressed a little piece of paper fiercely to his forehead.

  “Now, Clinton,” he cried, “say those words!”

  And then Clinton rose to his feet, and his face was working hideously. His eyes seemed bursting from his head, their pupils stretched and curved, foam streamed from his lips. He flung his hands above his head and cried in a voice of agony:

  “He cometh and he passeth by!”

  And then he crashed to the floor.

  As Bellamy moved towards the door the lights went dim, in from the window poured a burning wind, and then from the wall in the corner a shadow began to grow. When he saw it, swift icy ripples poured through him. It grew and grew, and began to lean down towards the figure on the floor. As Bellamy took a last look back it was just touching it. He shuddered, opened the door, closed it quickly, and ran down the stairs and out into the night.

  THURNLEY ABBEY

  Perceval Landon

  ALTHOUGH HIS MAJOR WORK was writing about the virtually unknown regions of Tibet and Nepal in the early years of the nineteenth century, Perceval Landon (1868–1927) is the author of this masterpiece, which has been called one of the three most terrifying stories in the English language. Due to its fame and brilliant portrayal of dread and the sense of waking nightmare, it has been frequently anthologized.

  Landon was born into a prominent family (a relation was Spencer Perceval, the only British Prime Minister ever to have been assassinated). After graduating from Hertford College, Oxford, he became a barrister. More interested in adventure and journalism, however, he became a special correspondent to The Times (London),
covering the Boer War in South Africa (1899–1900), then serving as private secretary to the Governor of New South Wales (1900–1903), after which he took on the role of special correspondent for The Daily Mail in China, Japan, and Siberia (1903). His reportage on the 1903–1904 British mission to Tibet, led by Col. Sir Francis E. Younghusband, which he accompanied, led to his important book, The Opening of Tibet (1905), in which he provides a narrative of the march but also describes what Western eyes first saw. Often political in tone (Landon was powerfully British in his attitudes and judgments), the book also offered insight into the daily lives of Tibetans, including their religion, manners, and customs. His familiarity and expertise in the region resulted in such further books as Lhasa: An Account of the Country and People of Central Tibet (1905), Under the Sun: Impressions of Indian Cities (1906), 1857: In Commemoration of the 50th Anniversary of the Indian Mutiny (1907), and Nepal (1928). The very few works of supernatural fiction that Landon produced in his lifetime were collected in a single volume, Raw Edges (1908).

  “Thurnley Abbey” was first published in Raw Edges: Studies and Stories of These Days (London, William Heinemann, 1908).

  Thurnley Abbey

  PERCEVAL LANDON

  THREE YEARS AGO I was on my way out to the East, and as an extra day in London was of some importance, I took the Friday evening mail-train to Brindisi instead of the usual Thursday morning Marseilles express. Many people shrink from the long forty-eight-hour train journey through Europe, and the subsequent rush across the Mediterranean on the nineteen-knot Isis or Osiris; but there is really very little discomfort on either the train or the mail-boat, and unless there is actually nothing for me to do, I always like to save the extra day and a half in London before I say goodbye to her for one of my longer tramps. This time—it was early, I remember, in the shipping season, probably about the beginning of September—there were few passengers, and I had a compartment in the P. & O. Indian express to myself all the way from Calais. All Sunday I watched the blue waves dimpling the Adriatic, and the pale rosemary along the cuttings; the plain white towns, with their flat roofs and their bold “duomos,” and the grey-green gnarled olive orchards of Apulia. The journey was just like any other. We ate in the dining-car as often and as long as we decently could. We slept after luncheon; we dawdled the afternoon away with yellow-backed novels; sometimes we exchanged platitudes in the smoking-room, and it was there that I met Alastair Colvin.