The Big Book of Ghost Stories

by Otto Penzler

  URANN THAYER

  THIS LETTER, my dear wife, or at least my part of it, is going to be extremely short, since I gave you all my personal news yesterday. For the rest, I am enclosing the strangest, most horrible document it has ever been my fortune to read.

  I told you yesterday how we stopped at this little village in the Dolomite Mountains, in the shadow of a great and gloomy chateau; I told you too, about our host’s daughter, the charming girl Myra—how pale and beaten she looks, and how she shrank from the sight of strangers and uttered a pitiful cry when we said we were Americans.

  Well, now I understand why. Today, George and I climbed up to the chateau, against the earnest entreaty of our aged host, who shuddered at the mere suggestion; for a vivid description of the place, inside and out, I refer you to the ill-fortuned writer of the enclosed, who can far surpass my poor descriptive powers.

  We examined the whole chateau, which was deserted by its Austrian owners when the Italians conquered this country, and finally we arrived in a deep sort of cellar, where, upon opening a thick old door, we found ourselves in the family vaults. We were about to retreat, when George grasped my arm.

  “My God! will you look here!” he whispered.

  Holding my candle high, I crossed the stone floor, to see, laid side by side, two open caskets, both tenanted! Due to the dryness of the vault, the bodies were fairly well preserved, and we lowered our candles to look at them more closely.

  One was a young man, English or American, and with a face that was extraordinarily good-looking, but sensitive and imaginative. On looking closer, I was astonished to see his body was tightly bound, hand and foot.

  The other’s face—well, once again I refer you to the tragic document, the writer of which had sad reasons for being able to describe it vividly. I’ll say this much, though: even in death, it was so repulsive, so demoniacally powerful looking, that I instinctively backed away when I saw it. One arm fell limply out of this second coffin, and on the stone floor beside it lay a revolver.

  Near to the caskets was an ancient table and a rickety old chair, and under a candle, long ago burnt to the table’s edge, lay a thick bunch of folded paper. This we took up and glanced over—and before long, the subtle horror of that chateau over our heads was making our flesh creep, while the terrible experiences of the unhappy writer were sending thrills of fear through us, such as I, at any rate, had never before experienced.

  And I think that even you, dearest, in faraway America, surrounded though you are by the comforts and reality of the city, must share our horror as you sit by your electric lamp, turning these pages. But I’ll let the document speak for itself:

  It’s all over now—and I loved life so much! I’d hoped for so much! It’s hard, when one is young, filled with the hot blood and ambitions of youth, to die by his own hand!

  But it’s not by my own hand, and that is why I must die! It is his hand, long, strong with the strength of the devil, snake-like; to look at it turns one’s stomach; to think of carrying it through life makes me faint with horror! No, no! The best thing that hand can do is turn the muzzle of this gun against that hideous head and end it all.

  I have already laid my dead body in one casket. Now I shall lie myself—if I can still use that word “myself”—in the other; and in a moment it will be over. Perhaps some kind person will chance upon this foul place in years to come and bury myself—or myselves—as I should be buried. And perhaps, if that person comes before she dies, he will read this and explain it all to her, and then, maybe, she will understand. God grant that may be true—if He has not deserted me altogether. Anyhow, it is for that reason that I set this all down before I leave the world forever.

  If I had never wandered away from my fellow-soldiers that night, I should never have seen this chateau, this stronghold of all that is hellish, and this terrible fate would not have fallen upon me; it was the summer of 1918, an August night, while I was serving, along with a small detachment of American troops, with the Italian army in the mountainous neighbourhood slightly north-west of the famous Monte Grappa.

  It was a quiet sector, and there had been scarcely any action since my arrival two months earlier. This night, however, we took part in a small skirmish; and in the confusion that followed, I became separated from my detachment.

  The stars were shining quite brightly, but there was no moon; and knowing next to nothing about astronomy, I was completely ignorant of the direction I must take to return to my buddies. I wandered through the deep valley, beneath the far-away peaks of the Dolomites, which I could make out, standing black against the spangled sky, and finally, after a couple of hours, I struck a mule path that climbed easily along the sides of the mountains. I hoped it would lead me to our lines.

  I followed this for another hour, making my way slowly, as in places, right at my side, it dropped, sheer, to the silent and invisible valley-bed a thousand feet below. Always I was on the alert for the enemy; always I hoped against hope that another turn around the mountains would take me in sight of my friends. And I kept on, plodding wearily, until at last a sharp turn did show me something unexpected—but not the camp of my friends.

  It was a chateau, a hundred yards ahead of me, rising majestic and black against the mountain that dropped away behind it. Not one light shone in its innumerable dark windows; not a sound, no sign of life, disturbed its gloomy grandeur. And I decided that its owners, like most of the wealthy families that lived along the various fronts, had deserted their home to await, in healthier climes, the coming of peace, leaving the surrounding peasants, who had little to lose, to stay and keep guard.

  I advanced toward the chateau, for want of a better direction to take, and reaching the high iron gate that opened into the courtyard, I suddenly paused. There was no hope of finding my detachment before daylight, I thought, and this place seemed deserted. Then why not break in, if I could, and try to find a comfortable bed for the night, instead of sleeping on an uncomfortable rocky couch, and taking a chance of being caught by the Austrian patrol, if I had crossed into their lines?

  Since that night, I’ve often wondered what fiend of hell put that thought in my head; for surely mere chance could not have ordered the terrible fate that was standing in wait for me!

  The great gate was locked; but the wall, which was about fifteen feet high, had been so roughened by time that it was an easy matter to find a foothold. And making my way up with difficulty, I reached the top and dropped to the other side, into a high black courtyard, similar to those of ancient strongholds, only on a smaller scale.

  The crack of my feet as they struck the ancient stone paving echoed loudly against the three walls that rose around me to twice my height, and against the building itself, looming dark and silent in back of me. I whirled around to look at the chateau, feeling sure that if anybody were inside, he must have been awakened by the noise, and appear.

  But the long French windows directly ahead of me returned my stare, blank and empty, and above them other lines of windows were equally dark and still. If anybody stood in the dark rooms behind them, he kept well out of sight as he watched me.

  That was the uneasy thought that entered my head. I can’t say why, for before this an empty house had meant an empty house to me, and nothing more. I suppose its grandeur and its gloominess and the fact that it stood in the loneliness of the mountains, caused that eerie feeling to creep over me. I even turned to look once more at the high walls, half contemplating climbing over them again and taking a chance on meeting the Austrian patrol—and somehow I felt my heart sink when I realized it was impossible to climb from this side.

  Although the outside had been allowed to crumble away, the inside had been plastered smooth within the last generation, and there was no chance of gaining a foothold here.

  However, I shrugged my shoulders, wheeled about, and started for the great iron door ahead of me, the sound of my feet ringing against the flags and echoing against the dark, silent front of the building, that rose
high up, to where several uneven turrets vied with the mountain crags behind them, cutting the night sky with awe-inspiring gloom. Grasping the big iron ring that served as the door’s handle, I twisted it, and was pleasantly surprised to find the door slowly open, though it creaked and squeaked in protest till its cries rang through the whole dark building. I entered and lit a match.

  A great hall sprang into sight. On its walls I saw lines of crossed swords and shields of beaten silver, gleaming in the faint light, becoming fainter farther along the hall, till finally they were swallowed in the gloom. Ahead of me, so far away I could scarcely make it out in the flickering light and shadows, rose the grand staircase, leading to the floor above.

  As the match died out, I crossed the floor of mosaic pavements, walking unconsciously on tip-toe; and even that muffled tread whispered against the far walls about me. I reached the stairs quicker than I expected, and my toe rapped against the lowest step. A hollow echo rose through the gloom, beating against the walls of the empty halls over my head. I stopped a moment. Was there the sound of a light step, directly above me? I listened, holding my breath.

  But if there was somebody there, he, too, was standing very still and listening to me.

  I waited a while longer, and then cursing myself for an imaginative coward, and deciding to prove myself wrong, once and for all, I rushed up the stairs, the sound of my feet beating hollowly against the walls of a hundred empty rooms. I whirled around at the landing, and ran up the remaining steps, two at a time; and then grabbing my match-box and striking a match quickly, I held it high.

  I saw another great hall, similar to the one below. Its high ceiling scarcely appeared in my tiny light, and the walls for the most part disappeared in the dense shadows. And there was nobody in sight.

  Lighting match after match, I turned to the right and allowed chance to direct my reverberating footsteps, the sound of which I no longer attempted to deaden. The few furnishings of that bare hall sprang into sight as I passed—an ancient chair or two, a richly-carved strong box—and finally I arrived at a high doorway, leading into a suite of rooms.

  Entering this, I passed through a barely furnished living-room and into a smaller dressing-room, whose narrow walls muffled the sound of my feet; at last, I entered a fair-sized bedroom.

  Here was a bed. A bed! If you could understand what that meant to a man who for over a year had considered himself lucky if he slept on a cot! I threw myself down on it, sank into its luxurious softness, and closed my eyes for sleep.

  But sleep did not come. Instead, I lay in that darkness, and a queer, unpleasant heaviness weighted down my eyes and numbed my brain; but I did not sleep. From some village in the valley, directly below the chateau, rose the clear, rounded note of a church bell, ringing the hour.

  One … two …!

  And the heaviness crept over me. Like a silent, invisible cloud, entering the room, filled with the dust of some sleep-producing drug, that unpleasant sensation passed over me, soothing my body. I fought against it; and finally I forced my eyes open.

  And then I knew I was not alone in that room. I turned my eyes to right and left, my body being too sluggish to move my head. I could see nobody, and I could hear nothing in that intense stillness. Yet I knew that another presence was in that darkness beside my bed; and more than that, I knew he was watching me.

  I forced my head to turn, to look farther; and then I saw them—two eyes, staring steadily at my face! And when they caught my gaze, they held me, like a grim spider clutching his prey.

  I could not turn my eyes away. His eyes seemed to stand out of the darkness, alone, silently boring into me. A faintness passed over me. Queer noises commenced whispering in my brain.

  My resistance became less and less. Already, evil dreams were popping into my brain as I lay there, motionless as a corpse. Weird faces appeared, vivid, terrible. They spoke to me. I was conversing with them—out in a deathlike plain of darkness and endless space, we were floating, floating, floating!

  I sat upright. The terrible shriek that had waked me was dying away, vibrating through the empty rooms around me—dying away, till nothing was left but that oppressive silence.

  I was wide awake now, and I knew the room was free from any presence save my own. Had I dreamed it, or had there been somebody here? And if so, whereabout in this great chateau was he waiting so silently?

  I sat up; and then—then I was once more aware of the presence; not in the room now, but somewhere in the chateau. And I knew that wherever he stood, those terrible eyes were turned again toward me, and through walls and ceilings, their power was concentrated against my body. A sluggishness crept over me; those noises commenced whispering once more in my brain, as, sitting there, my eyelids dropped heavily over my eyes.

  But, distant by several rooms, the power was not so great now; and throwing it off with one tremendous effort, I rose to my feet and commenced tip-toeing through the series of chambers, until finally I knew I stood at the entrance to the great hall. For, though I could neither see nor hear anything, the very thinness of the air around me showed the immense size and barrenness of the place.

  I walked quietly to the centre of the hall, and then stood, listening. Everything was still, still as the grave; but what was that odour of something burning, something unpleasant and overpowering? Sniffing in all directions, I finally figured it came from somewhere above me, and lighting a match glanced at the two huge staircases, side by side, one of which descended, its steps becoming less and less clear, until finally it plunged into the gloom of the floor below, and the other rising through a like impenetrable gloom to the floor above.

  I headed for this, creeping up the steps slowly and quietly. At the landing I turned and glanced along the hallway of the floor to which I was climbing—to see, far down it, a faint streak of light, coming from some room at the end of a suite. I tip-toed up and along the hall to the doorway. Here, beyond a darkened room, I could see a pair of closely drawn portières, through which the light scarcely filtered and behind which I could hear a deep, monotonous voice. I made my way to this and pulled the velvet cautiously aside, and a queer shiver passed over my body.

  A girl faced me, the most charming, soft-haired girl I had ever seen. She stood in the centre of the floor, her body swaying, her gorgeous white throat thrown back. And in her wide-open violet-blue eyes, there was a look of horror such as I hope never again to see.

  She seemed to be staring at me. But in reality, she saw nothing. Those beautiful eyes were glazed with a hypnotic influence; with all her power she tried to hold her head averted—from him.

  Him! How shall I describe the man, the thing, that towered over her, not moving a muscle, just regarding her, steadily … steadily … waiting until she was forced to turn her eyes to his, when she would be completely subdued? How can I describe him now, as I sit in the darkness and the silence of this vault, beaten at last by him; as I actually employ those bulging eyes of his and those long, hideous fingers to write this document? But you who discover this—if ever in years to come these papers are found—gaze upon him, as he lies in his coffin—if his body has not mouldered away—look into those hideous, bulging eyes, glazed by death, and think of how they looked to me, and to her, with all the power of his hellish mind behind them!

  He stood, towering in a long, black cloak. Somewhere, a cigarette he had laid down was burning, and from that cigarette came the queer, exotic odour I had noted. I heard the monster speak to the girl in German, a language I understood fairly well. His voice was low, monotonous, terrible; it repulsed one, and at the same time, fascinated with its hypnotic power.

  “Remember, Myra, I am not forcing you. But you want to come to me, Myra; you want to come to me and stay with me forever and ever,” he said slowly.

  “I don’t! I don’t!” she gasped, hoarsely. “Let me go, mein Graf! Let me go back down to the village!”

  “You will never want to go down to the village again, Myra,” he droned, hypnotically. “Onc
e you have turned again and looked into my eyes, you will want to be with me always. Turn and look at me, Myra. Turn and look at me!”

  Her head moved slowly, drawn by that terrible power. I could see her delicately tipped nose in profile. But now her pretty red lips parted in one last feeble effort.

  “I’ll scream again,” she whispered. “I’ll wake whoever is downstairs!”

  “No, you won’t, Myra,” replied that slow, monotonous voice. “You can’t scream now. And besides, I have put him to sleep, and it would be no good.” He glided a step closer. “Turn, Myra,” he droned. “Turn to me … turn … turn …”

  And completely overpowered, she turned to face him.

  Up till this time I had watched, fascinated, almost conquered myself by the power he exercised over the girl. Now, however, I suddenly pulled myself together, ready to spring on him.

  I did not move an inch; I had not as yet made the slightest sound. But that very thought and exertion of will on my part seemed to penetrate his silent smooth-flowing will, to strike a discordant note.

  Slowly, those terrible, bulging eyes left the face of the girl before him. His head turned, slowly—slowly—until finally those eyes rested on the spot where I hid. I knew he could not see me; but I could feel powerful, hypnotic waves steal over me, weave around me, as a spider weaves his web around a helpless fly.

  There was a scream from the released girl. I heard her slip through the far side of the portières, I knew that for one brief instant she stopped and gazed into my face while my eyes remained rigidly before me. I heard her light feet fly down the stairs … growing fainter … fainter. A door, far below us, opened and slammed. The echoes died away on the walls around us, and everything was still again.

  And he stood before me motionless, tall, powerful, his face emaciated and ghastly pale; and those bulging eyes, like glinting steel, gazed into mine. Everything before me grew faint and grey, save those eyes. They seemed to float by themselves in a cloudy darkness, like two mystic stars. The dark whispering commenced again in my brain. I felt myself swaying. And now those eyes were drawing nearer, as he approached.