by John Glasby
Very slowly, still shaking uncontrollably, he made his way back into the house. A lot of things made sense now; a crazy, terrible kind of sense. He knew why Charles Belstead had never left this house, even when he had all of that money, when everyone expected him to go back to his riotous life in London. The evil that had once been brought into this terrible house was still there. And Charles Belstead, old and afraid, could not be allowed to die until there was someone there to take his place. He tried to control the shivering in his limbs. No matter by which way he tried to get away, there would always be one of those creatures waiting for him, preventing him from leaving. What had happened to Doctor Woodbridge he did not know. Whether the other was still alive or not, was something he might never know. He went back into the library, feeling the coldness in the room.
It came as no surprise to him, when old Mr. Peters stepped through the wall and stood smiling down at him.
THE SEVENTH IMAGE
There was a thin spatter of rain against the window. Down in the hall, the grandfather clock gave several desultory chimes; eight booming echoes that chased themselves up the winding stairs.
Over by the window, Peter Kennet stared down at the darkening trees and pathways through the dull washing of rain. Night was moving through the sky with an ominous, relentless surge of racing storm clouds. A chill wind moaned drearily around the house, rattling the sash of the window with icy fingers. He turned away and then looked down again at the letter in his hands.
But it still read the same, fingering little thrills of fear up and down his back, though he didn’t quite know why. The words seemed to thrust themselves at him, commanding attention, burning their way into his brain.
And yet, on the face of it, it was nothing more than a very ordinary letter. He forced himself to read it again:
Dear Peter,
Remember we were talking about Arnold Kestro the other day during lunch? I gathered from what you said then, that he was a pretty elusive fellow to get to know. Probably this will surprise you then. I’ve managed to get myself an invitation to a dinner he’s giving tomorrow night.
He seemed to me to be quite a friendly person, nothing out of the ordinary, and not at all unusual. A little odd in his ideas perhaps, but that’s all.
I’ll be going down there about eight o’clock, but I’ll call in and see you on the way. Perhaps you’ll be able to tell me a little more about him before I go.
Regards,
James
Savagely, Kennet crumpled the thin sheet of paper in his hand and flung it into the centre of the room. The fool! his mind yelled at him. The blind, utter fool!
The writing looked simple and clear enough, but unlike many others, he was able to read between the lines, to see what lay at the back of it all. He lit a cigarette with a sudden flick of his lighter, and blew a ring of swirling smoke angrily into the air.
Kestro! Arnold Kestro! The name sent a little shiver of apprehension through him. Probably the most infamous name in the whole history of the Black Art. And James Fisher was walking unwittingly, unbelievingly, into a hell from which there would be no return.
It wasn’t that he had anything against Kestro, he told himself inwardly. All he knew about the man he had heard from others. Not once had he met him face-to-face. To look him straight in the eye and say to himself: This man is an enemy of all that is good and decent and sane in the world.
Several years had passed now since he had first begun his single-handed campaign against these fiends in human guise who continued to prey on the frailty of Man. In the beginning, it had all been quite fascinating, even fun, this tampering about with the black forces of evil, the unknown.
But the novelty and the fascination wore off in a hurry. When one saw the brutality and the misery and the horror that came with it. The madness and the sinister nightmare that existed on the Other Side.
The hollow-eyed things that had once been men and women, meeting in tiny secret groups, away from their fellow creatures, shunning the light, mumbling their frenzied words of idolatry, indulging in mind-shuddering orgies of sheer bestiality. Sure it existed. And as long as it did, he would go on fighting it.
Something had gotten him over the weary years. It was more than a battle now, it was a crusade. He could always tell himself that when everything else failed. When the madness and screaming fear and the panic came padding in on noiseless feet.
Then it was necessary for someone to step in and say: Stop! This is enough! He smiled grimly to himself and turned back to the middle of the room. That was the magic word, the charm that made everything so fine and correct. Even when you knew, deep down inside, the proper thing to do was to leave them to stew in their own juice. To sink deeper into the hell of their own making.
There was a sudden sound outside, above the incessant patter of rain on the grass. A car turned into the drive. Headlights threw the entire room into harsher brilliance as they swung momentarily over the window.
That would be Fisher coming to see him. He tightened his lips and squared his thin shoulders. A lot would depend on whether he could persuade the other not to go, to turn down this devilish invitation. If he couldn’t—
His mind stopped there because he could see no other way out. A car door slammed outside in the teeming rain. Feet pounded up the steps to the front door. A moment later, he felt the slight draft as it was pushed open.
That was Jimmy, all right. He’d been coming here so often now that he never bothered to knock. The other’s deep bass voice reached him from the bottom of the stairs.
“Peter! Where are you, you old devil-worshipper?”
The same old Jimmy, he told himself for the second time. He opened the door of his room and stood in the square of light at the top of the stairs.
“Up here, Jimmy. Come on up.”
“Thought you were out, Peter.” The other came running up the stairs, two at a time, as he always did, the yellow light shining faintly on his wide features with the dark blue eyes dominating everything else, seeing no evil in the world. That was the trouble, thought Kennett bitterly.
The other refused to believe in the existence of devils and other things of the darkness. Which was obviously why he had received this invitation to dinner.
“You got my letter, I see. I didn’t want to go without having another little talk with you. You were quite wrong about Kestro, Peter. Really you were. All that Black Magic stuff.”
Kennett let him ramble on, leading him gently into the room. A tiny corner of his mind was listening attentively to what the other was saying, but the rest was spinning madly inside his head.
How to stop him from going? Keep him here by force?
He looked at the other out of the corner of his eye, as he mixed a couple of drinks, and shook his head slightly. Tall, athletic, well-built, James Fisher had always been the outdoor type, all the time he had known him.
A complete contrast to his own slight build, and more studious nature. Possibly that was why they had always got on well together. Mutual liking of opposites. No, he decided, he wouldn’t be able to keep the other here by force, even if he were foolish enough to try.
He walked over to where the other sat, quite at ease, in the high-backed chair in front of the blazing fire. “Here,” he said. “Take this. It’ll bring some of the heat back into you. God! You must be frozen after driving through that.”
He inclined his head to where the rain was still spilling sheets against the window. Lightning threw a blue sheet of flame across the world, outlining the wind-tossed trees that threshed wildly against the sky. The dull rumble of thunder came an instant later, booming about the walls like an insane thing, venting its anger on the world.
Fisher had the drink in his hand but did not immediately partake of it. His face was full of an uneasiness that Kennett noted and didn’t like.
“It would seem that you have already made up your mind to go to Kestro’s place tonight,” he said suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence. God! Wh
at was coming over them? He had never felt ill at ease with Fisher before. He sat down and sipped his drink.
“That’s rather obvious, old man.”
Kennett bit his lip. “I’d rather you didn’t go, Jim,” he said sharply, blurting the words out. “If only you knew what you were letting yourself in for, I’m sure you’d think twice about accepting that devilish invitation.”
“Peter,” said the other, leaning forward, a smile on his face. “You’ve been mixing with devils and black magic for so long now, you see it where it doesn’t exist. You seek inhuman shapes lurking in every corner. You even read things into a normal, simple, everyday invitation that aren’t there. I remember what you said about Arnold Kestro the other day, and I have no doubt that you believed it all quite sincerely. But this is London, man. In the middle of the twentieth century.”
“And what difference do you think that makes?” muttered Kennett with a sharpness beyond his intention. He felt suddenly on edge. “The worship of the Devil is as old as Christianity, at least. Probably older. And you wouldn’t say that that had died out, would you?”
“No. But—”
“There are two sides to every road, Jim. Just as there are two sides to life itself. The black and the white. Good and evil. Both of them are always with us, and both are forces to be reckoned with. Believe me, I’m not speaking without some knowledge of the subject. If you’d seen as much horror and pain as I have and as much terror as I’ve been through, you’d realise why I’m trying to keep you from that place tonight.”
Fisher rumbled out a loud laugh. But the other detected a faint, forced quality about it. “So because you studied these things, you actually credit their existence? Well, I won’t argue with you. I suppose you know what you’re saying. But coming from anyone else, I’d have to say they were mad. All I’m saying is that I know Arnold Kestro. I’ve spoken with him, studied him, watched his movements, met some of his friends. And I can see no evil in the man.”
“And so,” went on Kennett slowly. “You intend to go out there, to disregard my warning.”
The other spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “What else can I do, Peter? I can quite see your point. But I can’t simply refuse to go, just because you don’t like the man. What would they think?”
“It would appear,” muttered Kennett in a quiet, ominous voice, “that what they think of you matters a lot more than what they can do to you.”
“How do you mean?”
“You’re walking straight into trouble if you go to that dinner, Jim. Bad trouble. And I’m not joking.” There was a chill in his voice, hard and brittle, like ice.
“Nonsense,” said the other. He seemed a little shaken but there was a new look of determination on his face, that Kennett hadn’t noticed before.
“Just because you’re obviously afraid of the fellow, it doesn’t mean to say that I am.” He stood up. “To hell with all your imaginary devils, Peter. I’m going to that dinner at Kestro’s and nothing is going to stop me. And I’ll come back—and in the morning I’ll come round to see you and laugh at your fear and stupid superstitions.”
“Then you’ve made up your mind to go despite anything I can say?”
“Certainly.” Fisher nodded his head emphatically. “I refuse to run away from these things of the dark that exist only in people’s overwrought imagination. I don’t believe in them, and until I see them for myself, I refuse to credit the fact that they exist.”
“You’ll see them soon enough.” Kennett reached for the heavy overcoat that lay neatly folded over the back of a nearby chair, waiting. He pulled it on and buttoned it up above the neck. Then he walked towards the wooden rack where his hat lay among the sticks and umbrellas. The other watched him in surprise.
“Why the coat?” he asked finally.
Kennet regarded him steadily a few moments before speaking. Then he said quietly: “Because since you refuse to accept my advice to stay away from this place, I consider it my duty to come with you. Perhaps, by being there, I may be able to divert some of evil that is sure to come of this meeting.”
“But you can’t come.” His companion cleared his throat, fighting down his surprise. “You’ve received no invitation. How will you get in?”
The other nodded slowly. “A good question,” he said. “But I doubt very much whether our Mr. Kestro will want to make a scene by having me kicked out. Not tonight, anyway. Don’t worry, I’ll get in all right. And I intend to stick to you like glue for the rest of the evening.”
Fisher shrugged his broad shoulders. It was a purely reflex gesture. “Well—that’s up to you entirely. I wish I could just make up an excuse like that every time I wanted to gatecrash a society dinner.”
“This time, I’m afraid it’s absolutely necessary,” muttered Kennett. He switched off the light and led the way down the stairs.
“But you’re mad if you think you can pull it off.”
“Perhaps. But in a case like this, it’s better to be mad than to allow these things to take place. Maybe you don’t know it, and you won’t believe it, but when you met Kestro the other day you met someone who is definitely a representative of those forces of evil, I was speaking about at lunch. Oh, I know you’ll say I’m insane to think such things. No one in their right mind believes in supernatural forces these days. It just isn’t done. But you met some of them—and tonight, unless I miss my guess, you’re going to meet some more. And this time, they’ll be the real ones. Kestro, for all his evil power, is just a puppet for them.”
“Them? You mean vampires and demons and things like that?”
“Maybe. Though you’re being a little specific. But that’s the term used for them today.” He opened the door of the car and slid himself inside, slamming it behind him.
Rain drummed steadily on the roof, streaming down in tiny rivulets over the windscreen. The drive in front of them was a mirror-like stretch of water. Fisher slipped in beside him. The engine started with a faithful-throated roar that was somehow comforting to hear.
They discussed the matter for a little while as the car headed out of the city into the more open country roads. And then, finally, a sort of impatience crept into their tone, and they relapsed into a silence broken only by a muttered sentence or two.
Fisher drove the car with a restless abandon, keeping his foot down on the accelerator, peering ahead into the well of darkness that seemed to open out momentarily to let them pass, to slide over them in a river of midnight; and then close in behind the car as if trying to block any way of return.
Twenty minutes later, they came within sight of the old house that stood a little way back from the main road, half-hidden by a veritable barricade of tall trees, as if trying to hide itself away from prying eyes.
Fisher swung the car through the massive, wrought-iron gates. There was the sudden crunch of gravel beneath the wheels. Kennett leaned forward in his seat and peered through the windscreen. It was always best, when going into anything like this, to get an idea of the layout of the place.
There was no telling when they would have to move fast to get away. And past experience had taught him never to overlook a single thing.
The rain had stopped its insane lashing and there was a thin crescent of a moon racing through the tattered wisps of cloud. The mansion that showed clearly for the first time as they rounded a bend in the road, seemed to repel him at once.
Tall, twisty towers ripped the sky, clawing defiantly for the moon. There were lighted windows in the face of it, like a hundred hungry eyes, staring and vacant, watching their approach.
For an instant, looking at it, the fear was strong within him. Then, consciously, he pushed it down and tried to ignore it, although it was still there, just below the surface, ready to spill over him in a single instant, should the opportunity arise.
They drew up in front of the house, into the sudden harsh glare of light from the porch. A single glance was sufficient to show Kennett that most of the other guests had arrive
d. There were several cars lined up along the drive.
Together, they walked up the wide, cold marble steps. Kennett felt his teeth beginning to chatter in his head. And there was a warning tingle along his nerves. It had all begun again. Once more he was bringing himself face-to-face with evil.
There was a touch of the exotic and the Oriental about the place, he decided, which must be why—
He grew aware that they had reached the open door. Somebody was standing with his back to the light, watching him. Arnold Kestro! He caught a glimpse of fat, smoothly rounded cheeks and small narrow eyes, very black and cruel, beneath almost non-existent brows.
A huge, balding head was balanced almost precariously on top of the body, which although grotesquely fat, still seemed too small for it.
Kestro extended a hand to him, warm and moist. “I understand you are a friend of Mr. Fisher’s. You are most welcome to the little dinner I am giving. I regret he didn’t tell me about you earlier, or I could have sent a formal invitation.”
Was there a touch of hidden menace in the other’s thick, oily voice? A definite beat of sarcastic laughter? Kennett wasn’t sure. He nodded, bowing slightly from the waist.
“I trust you’ll pardon the intrusion,” he said as calmly as he could. “But my friend happened to mention he was coming here, and I—”
“But think no more of it, my friend. All are welcome. The more the merrier.” He turned away with a wave of a thick hand, to greet someone else coming up the steps behind them.
The more for what? thought Kennett grimly. More souls to offer to their evil master? It seemed unlikely, but even so, it was something he didn’t want to think about. Not at the moment, anyway.
He gave his overcoat and hat to the tall, muscular Creole standing silent, watchful, just inside the door. A Creole! That looked bad from the start.