The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories, Volume Two

by James D. Jenkins

  And then, suddenly, Hugh realized that without his knowledge or desire his hand was moving – moving slowly, very slowly, in the direction of the bell.

  His eyes were wide with terror, but his hand continued to move, nearer, ever nearer. It was being dragged by an irresistible force; and he noticed that the fingers of this hand were numb and cold, though the rest of his body was warm.

  He longed to call for help; his lips moved convulsively; but no words came. By a supreme effort of will he held his arm rigid, digging his fingers into the plaster till he could have cried with pain. But the wall seemed cold and slippery, like ice; inch by inch his fingers slid nearer. And now they were touching the little brass ring round the bell itself, and now they were sliding over it – and now . . . ‘O God, give me strength!’ . . . his heart cried within him. But no strength came.

  Far below came the familiar ring. It seemed to echo all through the empty house, like a voice, calling down the deserted corridors, through the lonely hall, calling for someone who was not there.

  Who was not there?

  His arm dropped to his side, like a dead thing. His head sank forward; he lay crouched, waiting, like an animal in hiding.

  And he began to count nine.

  One, two, three – four, five, six – seven . . . eight . . . nine.

  He waited. The seconds ticked by. If . . . if . . . anyone were coming . . . surely he would have heard some sound by now?

  But there was no sound save the moan of the wind and the fitful lash of the rain on the windows.

  A sob of relief escaped him; and though he was trembling violently, he felt the blood surging back into his arm, warming the icy fingers. Slowly he lifted his head, and raised his hand to his eyes, staring at it.

  It was just an ordinary hand – wrinkled, white, with the gold signet ring on the second finger; yes – it was his own hand – and look! It obeyed his own commands. He had no desire to ring the bell any longer. His eyes filled with tears of gratitude; he even began to laugh.

  And then the laugh died in his throat. For in the distance, he heard the swing of the green baize door. And the faint tinkle of the Japanese wind bells.

  Silence again. His teeth were clenched in expectation, but not yet had he completely surrendered to the wild beast of terror. A part of his conscious brain was working, trying desperately to comfort him, to tell him that his fears were only creatures of the storm, that a window was open, that the door was swinging in the wind.

  ‘Why this long pause’ – his conscious brain demanded – ‘if anything is below? Why are the seconds again ticking by, with nothing happening?’ It was this same conscious brain that supplied the answer.

  ‘Because the thing that is down below is hurt, is wounded – the thing is only dragging itself towards me under a sense of terrible compulsion.’

  No sooner had this answer flashed across his mind than the next sound came – the step on the marble pavement – then another, and another – very slowly, as though the thing were dragging its feet in agony.

  He was conscious of a sharp pain in his heart. But he knew that at all costs he must get out of bed, and cross the room and himself open the door before the thing that was mounting the stairs could open it. If only he could open the door in time he knew that at last, at the end of his life, he would prove himself the master and not the servant. But if he could not reach it, he knew that the door would be opened by the thing, and that this slavery was on him for ever, beyond the grave.

  Gasping, entreating, muttering little prayers, he staggered out of bed. As he did so, the light from the bedside lamp flickered – flickered again – and once again. The electric plant, which Frank had always managed so perfectly, was failing. The room was almost dark.

  But there was still time . . . still time. He staggered to the door, and reached for the handle. As he did so, he heard a creak. It was the top step.

  He sank to his knees. At that very moment, the light went out. Moaning pitifully, he groped for the handle in the darkness.

  As he touched it, it turned very slowly, from the other side.

  THE ELEMENTAL by R. Chetwynd-Hayes

  R. Chetwynd-Hayes (1919-2001) was a prolific author of horror fiction, publishing over a dozen novels and more than twenty volumes of short stories; he also edited numerous paperback horror anthologies in the 1970s, including volumes of the Armada Monster Book and Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories series. Although Chetwynd-Hayes never wrote a bestseller, he was consistently among England’s top earners of public lending rights, meaning that his books were among the most frequently borrowed from British libraries. Chetwynd-Hayes’s stories usually feature a mixture of horror and humour, and he often wrote about monsters, both traditional ones like vampires and werewolves and others of his own creation, such as the Shadmock and the Jumpity-Jim. His brilliant collection of interlinked monster stories, The Monster Club (1976), was adapted for a cult classic film version in 1981 starring Vincent Price and John Carradine and has been republished by Valan­court, as has a volume of Chetwynd-Hayes’s complete vampire tales, Looking for Something to Suck (1997). ‘The Elemental’, which showcases the author’s trademark blend of the horrific and humorous, first appeared in 1974 and has not been reprinted in more than twenty-five years.

  ‘There’s an elemental sitting next to you,’ said the fat woman in the horrible flower-patterned dress and amber beads.

  Reginald Warren lowered his newspaper, glanced at the empty seats on either side, shot an alarmed look round the carriage in general, then took refuge behind his Evening Standard again.

  ‘He’s a killer,’ the fat woman insisted.

  Reginald frowned and tried to think rationally. How did you tackle a nutty fat woman?

  ‘Thank you,’ he said over the newspaper, ‘I’m obliged.’

  Then he tried to immerse himself in the exploits of a company secretary who had swindled his firm out of thirty thousand pounds. He had not progressed further than the first paragraph when the newspaper shook violently, and a little pyramid formed just above an advertisement for Tomkins Hair Restoring Tonic. He jerked the paper downwards and it was at once skewered on the sharp point of an extremely lethal ladies’ umbrella.

  ‘Look, madam,’ he spluttered, ‘this really is too much.’

  ‘And I really do think you should listen to me, ducks,’ the fat lady insisted, completely unmoved by his outburst. ‘This is a particularly nasty specimen – a real stinker, and he’s growing stronger by the minute.’

  Reginald stared longingly at the communication cord, but he had been conditioned from birth to regard this interesting facility as something never to be pulled. Apart from which the old dear looked harmless. She was just batty.

  ‘Have you been feeling weak, run down, rather tired lately?’ the fat lady enquired solicitously. ‘Don’t bother to answer that – I can see you have. He’s been feeding on you. They do, you know, nasty, vicious things. I must say I haven’t seen a homicidal one before. Sex-starved ones, yes, alcoholic ones, quite often, but killers, they are rare. In a way you are privileged.’

  ‘What . . .’ Reginald felt he should display some interest, if only to humour her, ‘What exactly is an el . . . ?’

  ‘An elemental?’ The fat woman settled back and assumed the air of an expert revealing professional mysteries to a layman. ‘Generally speaking it is a spirit of air, fire and water, but the ’orrible thing that’s attached itself to you, is something that’s trapped between the planes. It sort of lusts after the pleasures of the flesh. It sucks – yes, that’s the word – sucks the juices of the soul. You follow me?’

  Reginald was incapable of coherent speech; he nodded.

  ‘Good.’ She beamed, then fumbled in her handbag and produced a pair of spectacles. ‘Let’s have a butcher’s.’ She adjusted the spectacles firmly on her nose and stared intently at a spot immediately to Reginald’s left. ‘Ah, yes, my word yes. Tut-tut. He’s firmly embedded, I fear. His right arm is deep in your left shoul
der – ah – he’s not happy about my interest . . .’ She shook a clenched fist. ‘Don’t you glare at me, you dirty little basket, I’ve got your measure, me lad. Yes, I have.’

  A shocked expression made her lips pucker and she hurriedly removed the spectacles and replaced them in her bag.

  ‘He spat at me,’ she stated.

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry,’ Reginald was completely powerless to subdue the urge to rub his left shoulder, and the fat lady smiled grimly.

  ‘I’m afraid you won’t rub ’im off, dear. Not in a lifetime will you rub ’im off.’

  The train roared into Hillside Station, and Reginald greeted its appearance much as a Red-Indian-besieged cowboy welcomed the arrival of the U.S. cavalry.

  ‘My station.’ He pulled a suitcase from the luggage rack. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Wait.’

  The fat lady was fumbling in her handbag. ‘I’ve got one somewhere.’

  She upturned the bag and its contents tumbled out on to the seat.

  ‘Really, don’t bother.’ Reginald had the door open. ‘Must go . . .’

  ‘Ah!’ She produced a scrap of pasteboard. ‘My professional card. “Madame Orloff, Clairvoyant Extraordinary. Séances, private sitting, palmistry, full psychic service guaranteed.” I can take care of your little problem in no time at all . . .’

  Reginald snatched the card from her outstretched hand, slammed the door, and sprinted for the ticket-barrier. Madame Orloff jerked down the carriage window and shouted after his retreating figure:

  ‘Special reduced rates for five sittings, and a bumper free gift of a genuine crystal-ball if you sign up for ten!’

  Susan was waiting for him at the station entrance; she was white and gold and wore a backless sun-suit. He instantly forgot the fat lady, banished the last lingering thought of elementals to that dark world which had always lurked at the back of his mind, and drank in her cool beauty. The blood sang through his veins when he kissed her, and he wanted to say beautiful words, but instead: ‘It was hot in town.’

  ‘Poor darling.’ She slid her hand over his arm and they walked slowly towards the car. ‘You look tired. But never mind, seven lazy days in the country is what you need.’

  ‘Seven days of mowing grass, clipping hedges, hoeing, and chopping wood.’ He laughed, and the sound was young, carefree. ‘What have you been doing today?’

  She opened the car door.

  ‘Get in, I’ll drive. Doing? Cleaning windows, Hoovering carpets, airing the bed, everything that’s needed in a cottage that hasn’t been lived in for three months. Did you remember to turn off the gas and lock the flat door before you left?’

  He climbed in beside her and settled back with a sigh of content.

  ‘Yes, and I cancelled the milk and papers, turned on the burglar-alarm, and flushed the loo.’

  ‘Good.’

  She swung the car out of the station forecourt and they glided smoothly under an archway of trees that linked arms over the narrow road. He closed his eyes and the occasional beam of sunlight flashed across his round, pleasant face.

  ‘I shall sleep tonight. God, I feel tired, drained dry, almost as if . . .’

  He stopped, opened his eyes, then frowned.

  ‘As if what?’ Susan cast an anxious glance sideways. ‘Look, don’t you think you ought to see a doctor? I mean it’s not like you to be so whacked.’

  He forced a laugh.

  ‘Nonsense. It’s this hot weather and the stuffy atmosphere in town. No, give me three or four days of this country air, plus three square meals prepared by your fair hand, and I’ll be raring to go.’

  ‘I don’t cook square meals. They’re very much with-it meals. But honestly, you do look peaky. I’m going to make you put your feet up.’

  He grinned. ‘I don’t need any encouragement.’

  The car shot out from under the trees and the sunlight hit them like a blast from a furnace. Reginald opened the glove-compartment and took out two pairs of sunglasses. He handed one to Susan and donned the other himself.

  ‘We must have anti-glare windscreens installed. Bloody dangerous when the light hits you like that.’

  Susan changed gear.

  ‘Don’t swear, darling. It’s not like you.’

  ‘I’m not swearing. Bloody is a perfectly respectable word these days.’

  ‘But it doesn’t sound right coming from you. You’re not a bloody type.’

  ‘Oh!’ He grimaced, then sank back in his seat. Presently Susan’s voice came to him again.

  ‘Darling, I don’t want to nag, but don’t hump your left shoulder. It makes me think of the Hunchback of Notre-Dame.’

  He jerked his head sideways and a little cold shiver rang down his spine.

  ‘What?’

  She laughed happily; she was gold and ivory in the afternoon sunlight.

  ‘That made you sit up. “Oh, man, your name is vanity.” ’

  They swept round a bend in the road, and there was the cottage nestling like a broody hen behind the neatly-trimmed privet hedge. Susan unlocked the front door and Mr Hawkins barked happily and reared up on his hind legs, begging to have his ears tickled. ‘Down, you monster.’ She patted his silky head, then went quickly through the little hall and disappeared into the kitchen. Reginald said: ‘Hullo, boy, how are you?’ and Mr Hawkins began to wag his tail, but after one or two cautious sniffs turned about and ran into the living-room.

  ‘I think Mr Hawkins has gone off me,’ Reginald said on entering the kitchen where Susan was examining a roast that was half out of the oven.

  ‘About fifteen minutes more,’ she announced. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, I think Mr Hawkins has gone off me. Seems I don’t smell right or something.’

  ‘Probably thinks you need a bath. Why not have one before dinner? I’ve laid out a pair of slacks, and a white shirt; you’ll feel much fresher afterwards.’

  ‘Hey . . .’ He crept up behind her. ‘Are you suggesting I stink?’

  She looked back at him, her eyes laughing.

  ‘If your best friend won’t tell you, why should I?’

  He was but two feet from her, his hand raised above her gleaming white shoulder, and he bellowed with mock rage.

  ‘Is that the way you speak to your lord and master? I’ve a good mind to . . .’

  She pulled a saucepan on to the gas ring, then reached up to a wall cupboard and took down two dinner-plates which she placed in the slotted plate-rack.

  ‘Be a good boy and go have your bath.’

  ‘Right.’ He shrugged as he turned towards the door. ‘I’ll wallow in soap suds and sprinkle Eau-de-Cologne under my armpits.’

  ‘Oh, don’t! That hurt!’

  He stared back at her in astonishment; she was rubbing her right shoulder, her face screwed up in a grimace of pain.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent. You know darn well – you hit me.’

  He laughed, imagining this to be some sort of joke, the point of which would become clear in due course.

  ‘Don’t be silly, I haven’t touched you.’

  She was performing an almost comical convulsion in an effort to rub the afflicted shoulder. ‘Look, there’s only two of us here, and I certainly didn’t hit myself.’

  ‘I tell you, I was nowhere near you.’

  She turned back to the stove, adjusted the gas, then switched on an extractor-fan. ‘It’s not important, so there’s no need to lie.’

  Reginald took a deep breath, and made an effort to speak calmly.

  ‘For the last time, I did not hit you, I was nowhere near you, and I don’t like being called a liar.’

  She made a great business of opening and closing doors, her face set in angry lines. ‘Go and have your bath. Dinner will soon be ready.’

  Reginald stamped out of the kitchen. In the hall he almost trod on Mr Hawkins, who yelped and streaked towards the living-room.

  Dinner began in an atmosph
ere that would have gladdened the heart of an Eskimo; a thaw set in when the sweet was served, and warmth returned with the coffee.

  ‘Darling,’ he murmured, ‘please believe me, I didn’t . . .’

  She interrupted with a radiant smile.

  ‘Forget it. If a man can’t beat his wife, who can he beat?’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Not another word. What are we going to do after dinner? Watch television, read, or go to bed?’

  ‘Let’s take Mr Hawkins for a walk, then pop in the Plough for a quick one.’

  ‘OK.’ She began to collect the empty coffee cups. ‘I’ll wash up, then we’ll be off.’

  ‘Give you a hand?’ Reginald half-rose from his chair.

  ‘No, you don’t, this lot won’t take me more than ten minutes. In any case, you always break something. Sit in the armchair and read the local rag – there’s an uplifting article on pig-raising.’

  ‘If you insist.’

  He got up from the table, then slumped down in an armchair, where, after a fruitless attempt at interest in local events, he tossed the newspaper to one side and closed his eyes. The muted sounds made by Susan in the kitchen were pleasant; they told him all was well in his safe little world. They reminded him he had an adoring, beautiful young wife, a good job that he tackled with ease, a flat in town, a cottage in the country, money in the bank. He smiled, and this wonderful sense of security drew him gently into the quiet realms of sleep.

  He came awake with a start. The rattle of plates still came from the kitchen; far away on the main by-pass a heavy van sent its muted roar across fields that dozed in the hot evening sun; Mr Hawkins sat under the table and glared at his owner. Reginald blinked, then yawned as he spoke.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  The dog’s usually placid, brown velvet eyes were fierce; his body was rigid, and, even as Reginald spoke, he bared his teeth and growled.