After breakfast the next morning they developed the plates from those in the bathroom last, having found all the others blank. Those of the one on the window-sill showed the door open and Neils’s head and shoulders. On the other was only the flash of his torch. They tried the sound-machine and a puzzled frown crossed Orsen’s brow as once again they heard the faint noise like fingernails beating against the window.
“This is most peculiar,” he murmured, as the record ceased. “I tore off that branch and I’ll swear there was no sound perceptible to human ears when I was in the room ten hours ago.”
“Perhaps it had started before – or afterwards,” Bruce hazarded.
“No; the sound-machine does not start recording until the cameras operate. On our first night I set them to function automatically at midnight; but last night I fixed them so that they should not operate at all unless someone or something broke the threads across the window or the door. I set them off myself by entering the room, so that noise must have been going on.” He paused. “I shall spend the coming night there myself.”
“Not on your own!” Bruce declared quickly. “Remember, a man died in that room from – well, from unknown causes little more than a fortnight ago.”
A gentle smile illuminated Neils’s face. “I was hoping you would offer to keep me company; but I wouldn’t agree to you doing so unless I felt confident I could protect you. I intend to make a pentacle; one of the oldest forms of protection against evil manifestations, and, fortunately, I brought all the things necessary for it in my luggage. But we must get a change of clothes in the village.”
That afternoon they began their preparations with handkerchiefs soaked in eau-de-Cologne tied over the lower part of their faces to counteract the appalling smell. First, they spring-cleaned the whole room with infinite care, Bruce scrubbing the floor and bath with carbolic soap, whilst Orsen went over the walls and ceiling with a mop which he dipped constantly in a pail of disinfected water.
“There must not be a speck of dust anywhere, particularly on the floor,” the Swede explained, “since evil entities can fasten on any form of dirt to assist their materialization. That is why I asked the captain to lend us blankets, battle-dresses, and issue underclothes straight from new stocks in the quarter-master’s stores. And now,” he went on, “I want two glasses and a jug of water, also fruit and biscuits. We must have no material needs to tempt us from our astral stronghold should any dark force try to corrupt our will-power through our sub-conscious minds.”
When Bruce returned, Neils had opened a suit-case and taken from it a piece of chalk, a length of string, and a foot-rule. Marking a spot approximately in the centre of the room, he asked Bruce to hold the end of the string to it and, using him as a pivot, drew a large circle in chalk.
Next the string was lengthened and an outer circle drawn. Then the most difficult part of the operation began. A five-rayed star had to be made with its points touching the outer circle and its valleys resting upon the inner. But, as Neils pointed out, while such a defence could be highly potent if constructed with geometrical accuracy, should any of the angles vary to any marked degree or the distance of the apexes from the central point differ more than a fraction, the pentacle would prove not only useless, but even dangerous. “This may all be completely unnecessary,” he added. “We have no actual proof yet that an evil power is active here, but I have always thought that it was better not to spill the milk than to have to cry when it was done.”
Bruce smiled at the Swede’s slightly muddled version of the old English proverb, but at the same time he heartily concurred with his friend’s sentiments.
For an hour they measured and checked till eventually the broad white lines were drawn to Neils’s satisfaction, forming the magical star in which it was his intention they should remain while darkness lasted. He then drew certain ancient symbols in its valleys and mounts, and when he had finished Bruce laid the blankets, glasses, water jug, and food in its centre. Meanwhile, Orsen was producing further impedimenta from his case. With lengths of asafcetida grass and blue wax he sealed the windows and bath-waste, making the Sign of the Cross over each seal as he completed it.
“That’ll do for now. I must leave the door till we’re settled in,” he said. “I think we might as well go out and get some fresh air while we can.”
It was then nearly six o’clock. An hour later they returned to the chateau for an early supper. Almost before they had finished eating, dusk began to fall and Orsen glanced anxiously at the lengthening shadows. “We’d better go now,” he said, gulping down the remains of his coffee.
Shivering with cold they undressed and reclothed themselves outside the bathroom. Once inside, the Swede sealed the door; then turning to Bruce gave him a long wreath of garlic flowers and a gold crucifix on a chain which he told him to hang round his neck. Unquestioningly the American obeyed and watched the little man follow suit. As they stepped into the pentacle, Neils gripped his friend by the hand, and said urgently:
“Now, whatever happens and whatever ideas you get about all this being nonsense, you must on no account leave the circle. The evil force, if there is one, is almost certain to try to undermine our defences through you, owing to your spiritual inexperience. Please remember what I’ve said.”
Having huddled into their blankets and tied the handkerchiefs newly soaked in eau-de-Cologne over their faces, they settled down to wait.
Time plodded wearily by and as they had left their watches outside with their clothes they had no means of checking it. Conversation soon flagged owing to the difficulty of speaking through the wet masks, so the two men crouched in silence, each longing desperately for the coming of dawn. Outside, the trees sighed quietly and darkness held the chateau in its thrall.
“It’s very odd, I can’t sense any evil presence here; and if there were one I should have by now,” Orsen whispered after a long silence.
Bruce stiffened and peered through the darkness at the white blob that was Neils’s face. “Now don’t you start talking like that. Remember what you told me. It looks as though those things you mentioned a while ago are having a dig at you.”
“No,” Orsen muttered after a moment, “no, it’s not that. Will you give me some water, please, it’s over on your side.”
Bruce put out his hand to feel for the jug. Without the least warning his strangled yell shattered the deep quiet of the night and he collapsed in a limp tangle over the Swede’s legs.
Orsen stumbled to his feet, his mind reeling – the Thing was in the pentacle. Inside it! There, with them; at their elbows, instead of beyond the barrier which should have kept it out. Why had he felt no warning – no indication of evil?
Shouting aloud a Latin exorcism which would keep the evil at bay for a space of eleven human heart-beats, he stooped, grabbed Bruce under the armpits, and dragged him from the circle.
Once outside it he allowed himself a pause to get back his breath; knowing that since the Thing was in the pentacle the magic barrier would act like the bars of a cage and keep it from getting out. But would it? Even Neils was scared by such an unusual and extraordinarily potent phenomenon.
Wrenching the door open he seized Brace’s unconscious form again and, exerting all his frail physical strength, hauled it along the passage. When at last he reached the ballroom sweat was pouring down his face and he was gasping as though his lungs would burst. Feverishly he searched for his torch and finding it threw its beams on Bruce’s face. It was deathly pale, but with a sob of relief Neils felt the faintly beating heart beneath his hand.
A few minutes later Bruce came out of his faint, but he could remember nothing, save that when he had put out his hand for the water-jug it seemed as though a thousand knives had pierced his body; then everything had gone black.
Neils nodded as his friend finished. “It’s a good thing we left our blankets here. We’ll try and get some sleep!” But he himself did not attempt to sleep. Puzzled and anxious, he remained on watch all night, and as
the first rays of dawn crept through the windows he returned to the bathroom.
Two hours later he told Bruce: “I think I’ve found the root of the evil, and I’m going down the village to borrow the largest electric battery I can find.”
“Whatever for?”
“Electric force can be used for many purposes,” was all Neils would say.
It was not until they had completed their evening meal that Neils undid a parcel and produced four bottles of champagne.
“Hullo! What’s this?” Bruce exclaimed.
“I got them from the local estaminet this morning as I thought it was time we returned hospitality to some of the officers in the mess. They’re coming in about ten o’clock.”
“That’s fine,” Bruce grinned. “I reckon I deserve a party after last night.”
Soon after ten their friend the captain, a colonel, and three other officers arrived and they immediately began to make half-humorous inquiries about the ghost.
“Gentlemen,” replied Neils, “I asked you up here because I hope to lay the ghost tonight; but we can’t start work for an hour or two, and in the meantime, as I am a teetotaller, I hope you’ll join Bruce Hemmingway in a glass of wine.”
For two hours Neils kept them enthralled with stories of Saati manifestations he had encountered, so that even the most sceptical was secretly glad that the party numbered seven resolute men; but he would say nothing of his discoveries in the chateau until, glancing at his watch, he saw that it was half-past twelve. Then he began to recount the experiences of Bruce and himself since their arrival.
Turning to Bruce, he went on: “My suspicions were aroused last night when you were attacked in the pentacle. Mentally you were unharmed, but your hand was red and inflamed, as though it had been burnt. Early this morning I returned to the bathroom and pulled up the boards upon which the water-jug was resting, taking care not to touch the floor anywhere near it. Underneath there were the decaying bodies of two rats and three electric wires, the naked leads of which were inserted in the plank to look from above like nails. You remember that curious sound of tapping fingers on the recording machine, which is so much more sensitive than our ears. When I saw those wires I suddenly realized what it meant. Somewhere in the chateau a person was working a morse transmitter.”
“By Jove!” The Colonel jumped to his feet. “A spy!”
Neils nodded. “Yes. Long before the war, no doubt, the Germans laid a secret cable from their own lines to the chateau, reckoning that their agent here would be able to work undisturbed because no one would come to the place on account of its sinister reputation. But to make quite certain of being able to scare away any intruders they ran electric wires to a dozen different points in the building, mainly to door-knobs; but the lavatory seats and bathroom also particularly lent themselves to such a purpose.”
“But we’ve searched every room in the place,” Bruce exclaimed, “so where does the spy conceal himself?”
The officers were now all on their feet. “Grand work, Mr Orsen!” cried the Colonel. “He may even be sending a message now. Let’s go and get him.”
It was after one o’clock when Orsen led the way out of the château. They stumbled through tangled undergrowth, barking their shins on unseen obstacles for nearly twenty minutes until Neils halted in a clearing among the trees which was almost filled by a large grassy mound.
“What’s this?” the captain asked, flashing his torch.
“It’s an ice-house,” the little man replied as he pulled open a thick, slanting wooden trap almost hidden by moss and ivy. “In the old days, before refrigerators were invented, people used to cut blocks of ice out of their lakes when they were frozen in the winter and store them in these places. The temperature remained constant owing to the fact that they were underground and invariably in woods, which always retain moisture, so the ice was preserved right through the summer.”
A dank musty smell filled their nostrils as, almost bent double, they followed Neils inside. Ahead of them in the far corner of the cellar loomed a dark cavity. “This is the way the ghost comes,” Orsen murmured. “Mind how you go; there’ll be one or two holes, I expect.”
The silence seemed to bear down on them as they crept forward through a dark tunnel and the deathly chill penetrated their thick overcoats. No one spoke. On and on they went. The passage seemed to wind interminably before them; occasionally a rat scurried across their path. Suddenly, as they rounded a bend, a bright shaft of light struck their eyes. For a second they stood practically blinded and two of the officers produced revolvers.
Neils let them precede him into the secret cellar, but they did not need their weapons. At its far end, sprawled over the table which held a big telegraphic transmitting-set, was the body of a man.
“There, gentlemen, is your ghost,” Orsen announced quietly. “No, don’t touch him, you fool!” he snapped, as the captain stretched out a hand towards the corpse. “He’s been electrocuted and the current isn’t switched off yet.”
“Electrocuted?” the captain gasped. “But how did that happen?”
“The powerful battery you borrowed for me this morning from the Air Force people,” Neils said. “I attached it to the leads in the bathroom, then came down here and fixed the other end of the wires to the side of the transmitter key.”
“Good God!” exclaimed the colonel. “But this is most irregular.”
“Quite,” Neils agreed, “and, of course, I’m neutral in this war, but I’m not neutral in the greater war that is always going on between good and evil. This man murdered that poor fellow who died in the bathroom. So I decided to save you a shooting party.”
Pink May
Elizabeth Bowen
Location: Aldershot, Hampshire.
Time: May, 1942.
Eyewitness Description: “She was there. And she aimed at encircling me. I think maybe she had a poltergeist that she brought along with her. The little things that happened to my belongings . . .”
Author: Elizabeth Bowen (1899–1973) was born in Dublin but spent much of her younger life in England where she began to write novels and short stories in the late twenties. The success of The Last September (1928) marked her out as a sensuous, visual writer destined to enjoy great popularity. The outbreak of the Second World War challenged Elizabeth Bowen’s skill and also revealed her interest in the supernatural. Indeed, in the next five years she wrote a unique series of ghostly tales depicting men and women in London during the Blitz and elsewhere in the country, all enduring the stresses and strains of war. Notable among these are “The Demon Lover”, “Green Holly”, “The Mysterious Kor” and “Pink May” which is set in a garrison town where the war is both far away and very close to home. Bowen’s most successful novel, The Heat of the Day (1949), also about the capital during the war, is reputed to have sold over 45,000 copies in a few weeks after publication. Writing about her wartime ghost stories, Elizabeth Bowen said in 1965, “I do not make use of the supernatural as a get out -it is inseparable, whether or not it comes to the surface – from my sense of life.” Few tales better demonstrate her conviction than this one.
“Yes, it was funny,” she said, “about the ghost. It used to come into my bedroom when I was dressing for dinner – when I was dressing to go out.”
“You were frightened?”
“I was in such a hurry; there never was any time. When you have to get dressed in such a hell of a hurry any extra thing is just one thing more. And the room at the times I’m talking about used to be full of daylight – sunset. It had two french windows, and they were on a level with the tops of may trees out in the square. The may was in flower that month, and it was pink. In that sticky sunshine you have in the evenings the may looked sort of theatrical. It used to be part of my feeling of going out.” She paused, then said, “That was the month of my life.”
“What month?”
“The month we were in that house. I told you, it was a furnished house that we took. With rents the way they are
now, it cost less than a flat. They say a house is more trouble, but this was no trouble, because we treated it like a flat, you see. I mean, we were practically never in. I didn’t try for a servant because I know there aren’t any. When Neville got up in the mornings he percolated the coffee; a char came in to do cleaning when I’d left for the depot, and we fixed with the caretaker next door to look after the boiler, so the baths were hot. And the beds were comfortable, too. The people who really lived there did themselves well.”
“You never met them?”
“No, never – why should we? We’d fixed everything through an agent, the way one does. I’ve an idea the man was soldiering somewhere, and she’d gone off to be near him somewhere in the country. They can’t have had any children, any more than we have -it was one of those small houses, just for two.”
“Pretty?”
“Y-yes,” she said. “It was chintzy. It was one of those oldish houses made over new inside. But you know how it is about other people’s belongings – you can’t ever quite use them, and they seem to watch you the whole time. Not that there was any question of settling down – how could we, when we were both out all day? And at the beginning of June we moved out again.”
“Because of the . . .?”
“Oh no,” she said quickly. “Not that reason, at all.” She lighted a cigarette, took two puffs and appeared to deliberate. “But what I’m telling you now is about the ghost.”
“Go on.”
“I was going on. As I say, it used to be funny, dressing away at top speed at the top of an empty house, with the sunset blazing away outside. It seems to me that all those evenings were fine. I used to take taxis back from the depot: you must pay money these days if you want time, and a bath and a change from the skin up was essential -you don’t know how one feels after packing parcels all day! I couldn’t do like some of the girls I worked with and go straight from the depot on to a date. I can’t go and meet someone unless I’m feeling special. So I used to hare home. Neville was never in.”
The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories Page 30