The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories, Volume Two

by James D. Jenkins

  ‘Arthur . . .’ She gaped at him.

  He looked a little sheepish. ‘‘Ah – there you are. I was wondering.’

  Then her bitterness at the evening’s disappointment flared up. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she rapped out.

  ‘Been? I haven’t been anywhere.’

  She shook her head in contempt and exasperation. ‘Well – I want to go home. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘But they’ll be serving breakfast soon.’

  ‘I don’t want any breakfast. I just want to go home.’ She waited, then when he didn’t move she said, ‘Didn’t you hear me? I said I want to go home.’

  He looked at her, sighed and nodded. ‘Yes, dear. Whatever you say.’

  They slipped away without saying their good-byes to anyone, and when they got outside she left Arthur for a moment, went round to the back of the house and looked at the remains of the bonfire. Now it was just a pile of cold ashes. Poking into it with a stick, she uncovered the stone she had put there last night. Bending, she picked it up, blew off the dust and looked at it closely. And suddenly she felt a little touch of pleasure in the midst of her frustration and dissatisfaction. On the stone there was not a sign of Arthur’s name. (If the fire shall destroy the name then so shall the owner of that name be destroyed . . .) The name had been burned clean away. With a little smile she dropped the stone back into the ashes and went to join Arthur where he sat waiting in the car.

  When they got back to Stratton she put the car away while Arthur went on upstairs. She didn’t follow him immediately, but first went toward the communal garden in the centre of which lay the ornamental pool and the little waterfall. When she reached the pool she looked at the lip of the stone over which the water ran and saw that there was no trace left of the clay figure. It was gone, without trace. The water had completely worn it away.

  And all at once the depression that had hung over her since Steve’s betrayal was lifted. What did it matter, anyway? He meant nothing to her. And there were plenty of other men in the world. And soon, very soon, with Arthur gone, she would be free to play the field. She looked at her watch. Just after six. There was very little time to go now. It could happen at any moment. She turned and looked up toward the windows of the flat. ‘Arthur,’ she whispered, ‘your hours are numbered.’

  Upstairs in the flat she pushed open his bedroom door and found him getting ready for bed. He turned to her and gave a little shrug. ‘I thought I’d just have a nap for a while . . .’

  Hiding the elation that was growing within her, she took in the look of exhaustion on his face and said, ‘Don’t you want any breakfast?’ After all, she said to herself, every condemned man was entitled to a good breakfast.

  He shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’m feeling very tired. I’m too old for all those goings-on. Staying up all night, cavorting around. I think I’ll give it a miss next year.’

  You certainly will, Doris thought, then aloud she said, ‘Didn’t you get any sleep at the Goldbergs’? There were enough beds.’

  ‘Oh, I dozed a bit,’ he said. ‘But nothing much.’ He climbed into bed and pulled the covers up over him. ‘But I think I’ll sleep now all right.’

  She stayed there in the room until he was settled and then crept out into the hall. After a while she began to move around the flat doing odd little chores – for no other reason than simply to keep herself occupied. Then after a while she crept to his bedroom, silently pushed open the door and looked in. The curtains were drawn against the light, but in the gloom she could hear the sound of his breathing. The suspense was unbearable. When was it going to happen?

  Later, just before eleven, she quietly went back into his room and in the half-light stood listening to the sound of his breathing. It sounded strange: slow and faint, with touches of harshness as if the breaths came with difficulty. She moved closer to the bed and looked down at him. His flesh had a grayish look about it – a dead look. She called his name but he made no response. Carefully she reached in beneath the bed cover, located his wrist and felt his pulse. Sweet Lord, it was only just discernible – only the faintest little flutter there.

  Letting him go, she stepped back from the bed. Now all she had to do was wait. Smiling, she turned and left the room.

  Taking the morning paper into the sitting room, she settled in her favorite chair. It was impossible to concentrate, though, and in the end she just gave in to the warm, sparkling thoughts that crowded her mind and, closing her eyes, she laid back her head and let the thoughts take over.

  A sudden sound brought her head toward the door, and she realized that she had been sleeping.

  Arthur was standing there in his dressing gown. He smiled at her. ‘You should have gone to bed and had a real nap, like I did,’ he said. ‘You look as if you could do with it.’

  She gaped at him, speechless. When she had found her voice she said, ‘How do you feel?’

  He nodded, smiling. ‘Oh, much better now after my rest.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she murmured. ‘You look better.’

  She gazed at him, realizing that her words were true – he did look better. So much better. For one thing his colour was better than it had been for years – and also he seemed to be holding himself so much straighter – and she saw too an unaccustomed suppleness in his movement as he turned, stepped toward the window, opened it and breathed in the fresh air.

  ‘Now,’ he said, turning to smile back at her, ‘I could really eat some breakfast.’

  She nodded and, almost in a daze, got up and started off toward the kitchen, Arthur walking behind her. ‘I’ve already mixed the eggs,’ he said. ‘I just have to finish them off.’

  ‘No, I’ll do it,’ she retorted quickly.

  ‘I really don’t mind, Doris. Honestly.’

  She had reached the kitchen table now and she turned back to face him. She had never hated him so much. Scathingly she said, ‘You’ll do it, Arthur? You?’ She laughed. ‘Dear Hell, the most inefficient, incompetent man this side of the English Channel. I should let you loose in my kitchen? That’ll be the day.’

  Ten minutes later she moved to the breakfast table, where she placed before him a plate of scrambled eggs. Then, setting down in her own place the two lightly boiled eggs she had prepared so perfectly, she sat and began to eat.

  As she ate – without looking at him – she waited for him to complain. There was silence, though, and at last she lifted her head and gazed at him. He sat there, very still, just looking down at his plate. And, dear Satan, he looked better than he had for ages. Nothing had worked – not the clay image, nor the coffin nail nor the stone. But how could it be? She had done everything exactly according to the book. Or at least she had tried to. Then what had gone wrong? Was it that the name on the stone hadn’t quite disappeared in the fire? Was it that the nail she had bought hadn’t come from a coffin? Was it that the clay model hadn’t been quite faithful enough in its likeness? Or was it perhaps because there had been no live chickens at the festival and therefore no blood had been spilled . . . ? The questions went on churning through her mind. Whatever had happened, though, it hadn’t worked. He was still here.

  Thrusting the thoughts, the questions from her mind, she waited for him to speak, to say something about the eggs. Yet still he said nothing. That wasn’t like him; and this time she had truly excelled herself; there was no way that anyone could eat the food she had put before him. Every bit of her seething hatred and frustration had gone into its preparation. He had to react soon.

  And then, as she watched him he gave a little sigh, pushed the empty plate away from him, got up from the table and moved toward the kitchen. ‘What’s the matter?’ she called after him. ‘You feel sick?’

  When he came back a few seconds later she turned to him as he approached. He had a weird, calm look about him that she had never seen before. And suddenly she was afraid. ‘Arthur,’ she said, ‘don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Doris,’ he said, shaki
ng his head, ‘I’ve told you over and over again – I don’t like my eggs like that.’

  Calmly, he raised the hatchet in his right hand and brought it down. Very efficiently, more than competently, and without an ounce of wasted effort, he split her skull from crown to jaw with one clean downward blow. Then, aiming the ax from the side, he struck a second time and severed her head from her neck.

  Later, when he had cleaned up the mess, he beat up more eggs and scrambled them the way he liked.

  THE BELL by Beverley Nichols

  Despite his vast output, which comprises some sixty volumes of fiction, nonfiction, drama, and autobiography, Beverley Nichols­ (1898-1983) seems to have written only one contribution to the horror genre, the excellent short tale ‘The Bell’, originally published in Strand Magazine in 1946 and last reprinted nearly thirty years ago. Nichols is best remembered today for his books on gardening, which have been continuously in print since their original appearance in the 1930s and remain highly enjoyable, written in a lively and extremely humorous style. During his lifetime he was also well known as a mystery writer (Somerset Maugham cited him as one of the top five British authors in the genre) and an author of children’s books. Though it is to be regretted Nichols did not write more horror, it is clear that he himself believed in the paranormal: in his autobiography Twenty-Five (1926) he describes a chilling visit he made to a reputedly haunted house, and in Powers that Be (1966) he recounts authenticated cases of the supernatural and paranormal. Nichols’s early novel Crazy Pavements (1927), an updating of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray set amongst the world of the Bright Young Things in 1920s London has been reissued by Valancourt Books as part of our series of rediscovered gay-interest fiction.

  ‘Well, Hugh,’ said Mrs Lupton, giving a final pat to the pillow, ‘you’re sure there’s nothing more you want?’

  Hugh shook his head, and sighed deeply. ‘No, my dear. Nothing.’

  ‘In that case I shall be going. The night’s growing wilder, and it’s past ten o’clock. Mrs Jenkins will come round from the vicarage in the morning, in plenty of time to give you breakfast. Of course, she won’t be able to come permanently, but I can easily spare her till you’re settled.’ She bent down and gave her brother an affectionate peck. ‘Good-night, my dear.’

  ‘Good-night.’

  She went to the door and turned off the switch. The room was now illuminated only by the green glow from the reading-lamp. In this light Hugh looked very wan and frail. She hated to leave him all alone like this, but then it wasn’t as if he were ill, though, of course, his heart had never been strong. It was simply a matter of nerves, and though she loved her brother she did think he was being unreasonable.

  She obeyed an impulse to speak her mind.

  ‘Hugh, dear, before I go, do try not to take it so badly.’

  ‘I can’t help it. Frank was with me for forty years. And I feel as if I’d killed him.’

  ‘That’s morbid, Hugh, and you know it.’

  ‘He was going to the village on an errand for me when that car ran over him.’

  ‘What has that got to do with it? The car skidded. It was no more your fault than it was mine. It was an act of God.’

  ‘God moves in a mysterious way.’ He frowned. And then . . . ‘Of course, if I had wished him to die, nothing could have been more convenient, could it?’

  ‘Wished Frank to die? Frank, of all people? But he was the perfect servant!’

  ‘He was too perfect. He never let me do anything for myself.’

  ‘But, my dear, you never showed the least desire to.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’ He shifted impatiently on the pillow. ‘Didn’t I?’ he repeated. And then, as though he were speaking to himself. ‘Maybe not, in the last fifteen or twenty years. You see, by then, he’d got me.’

  ‘“Got” you?’

  ‘Where he wanted. And that was there.’ He pressed his thumb on the counterpane; she noticed that his hand was trembling. ‘He knew I couldn’t move an inch without him. It was like a sort of slavery.’

  ‘Hugh . . . You sound as if you hated him.’

  ‘Do I?’ he laughed, but there was little mirth in his voice. ‘Perhaps he made me hate myself. If life hadn’t been so easy, if I’d had to fend for myself, to do my own thinking, even to do my own packing . . .’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Things might have been different. I might have had adventures. I might have met people.’

  ‘Do you mean women?’

  ‘Perhaps. Frank was jealous of everyone, you know. He was even jealous of you.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anyway, it’s all too late now.’

  He seemed to have drifted far away. Mrs Lupton’s kind face was troubled. She had never seen her brother like this before. But then – now she came to think of it – she had never seen him without Frank. All these years, all their lives, Frank – tall, dark, inscrutable Frank – had been hovering somewhere in the background, handing a drink, drawing the curtains, silently, discreetly, serving and watching. It was as though he were with them at this moment. And then, just as she was reproving herself for such thoughts, her heart seemed to freeze.

  For she saw that her brother was reaching for the bell.

  It lay just above his head – a little bronze button set into the wall. He had lifted his hand over his shoulder, and his finger was groping over the wall’s surface.

  ‘Hugh!’ Her voice rang out sharply. ‘What are you doing?’

  He blinked and stared at her. His hand fell down again. He smiled sheepishly.

  ‘Old habits die hard,’ he muttered.

  There was silence, except for the faint ticking of the bedside clock. Then he spoke again.

  ‘I wonder’ – it was as though he were speaking to himself – ‘I wonder how many thousand times I have rung that bell? And always it’s been answered. I’d lie back, and count nine. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight – nine. And at exactly nine, I’d hear the swing of the green baize door into the hall. Then, if it were stormy weather, there’d be a little tinkle from the Japanese wind bells, as the draught blew down the passage. After that, there’d be three steps on the marble pavement. Then silence, till he reached the top of the staircase. It always creaked, that top step. Then three more steps, and the door opened . . .’

  ‘Hugh!’ Try as she would, Mrs Lupton could not prevent her voice from trembling, for Hugh was staring at the door. ‘I simply will not listen to this sort of talk.’

  He smiled, and seemed to pull himself together.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I was only reminiscing.’

  ‘Well – they’re very unhealthy reminiscences.’ She stepped forward and gave him a final peck. ‘Tomorrow I shall look for some nice old housekeeper who’ll make you forget all about – everything.’ She felt a sudden aversion to mentioning Frank’s name. ‘And now, once again, good-night.’

  ‘Good-night, my dear.’

  She went out, shutting the door softly behind her. As she began the descent of the staircase, she gave a sudden start as she trod on the top step; she had never noticed that it creaked before.

  The hall was bitterly cold and very dimly lit; the electricity must be running down now that Frank was no longer there to tend the little independent plant. It was incredible, she thought, as she groped for the handle of the front door, how much that man had done for Hugh.

  She flung open the doors, and the wind rushed in with such force that she staggered back as though she had been pushed aside by some violent intruder. As she pushed it to again, she heard the tinkle of the Japanese wind bells. They seemed to be laughing at her.

  Hugh could not sleep.

  He switched off the light – noticing as he did so that the power was growing very faint – and lay back staring into the darkness, making plans.

  Now that his sister was gone, he felt a curious exhilaration. Life, which had previously been so safe, so ordered, and – frankly – so dull, had suddenly become, through Frank’s death
, dangerous, chaotic, and exciting. If he went abroad, as he well might, he would not have to stay at the best hotels, as he had always done, for forty years, lest he should risk Frank’s disapproval. He would not even have to take a dinner-jacket. He could go where he pleased, stay as long as he liked, be shabby, meet artists, gamblers, adventurers. It was not too late – he was only sixty – he might have ten years of life, even now.

  Of course, there would be drawbacks. This house – for example. If he stayed in this house, he would need at least three servants to take Frank’s place. A man and his wife, and a gardener as well. But then, why need he stay in this house? Would he ever have stayed in it, if it had not been for Frank? It was far too large, too lonely, too gloomy. But he would never have dared to suggest to Frank that they should move. Frank would have been hurt; he would have taken it as a personal reflection on his service – his perfect, all-absorbing, devoted service.

  All that was changed now.

  Hugh sat up in bed, and switched on the light once more. Even this little act gave him a sense of freedom, for in the old days he would have hesitated, in case Frank, with that weird sixth sense of his, had seen the light and come to ask if there was anything he wanted.

  Hugh lay back, letting his mind drift, enjoying the sensuous pleasure of the warm bed in contrast to the tempestuous night outside. But gradually, perhaps because the room was growing colder and the night more wild, his mood changed. He felt restless, fidgety.

  He shifted from one side to another, and now and then he paused, tense and rigid, because he had a curious idea that he had heard a sound, far below. He told himself not to be a fool; the old house was full of sounds on a night like this.

  What really worried him was his hand, his right hand; he could not keep it still. It plucked nervously at the blanket, straying hither and thither; it seemed to have an independent life of its own. One would have said that it was searching for something, that it was trying to obey some order that it could not, as yet, understand.