by Cave, Hugh
The beating wings broke down his barrier then, and drove him to flight. He wanted no more of this place that would have none of him! He ran back the way he had come, seeking the long road of shadows that had led him here.
But the way was changed. The streets formed and reformed before him, ever different. At every turn were more of the huddled houses, more lights, more people—and no end to his flight. The path of departure had disappeared.
He stopped at last. Running was futile. The wings were thunder-loud and louder. He turned once more to the people who passed—but now tears drenched his face and terror rode his voice. "Speak to me! Look at me! The way out of here—please!" But he was not there. They saw only one another.
As the lights dimmed and the streets emptied of life, he went on dragging feet from house to house, looking in. Who were these people, so warless in a world at war? In this house a golden-haired girl knelt before the fire to play with eager children. In this, four nodding elders ringed a table spread with food. In this, young couples danced to gay music, and a laughing lass lifted her lips for a lover's kiss. In all he found peace. But none found him.
"Are they deaf to the roar of the guns, also?" he wondered. "And the thunder of the bombs?"
On he went. The sound of his voice at their windows did not disturb them, nor the pounding of his fists.
At every door his voice grew shriller, and as the sound of his boots rang hollowly through street after street, terror supplanted his rage. The lights were dimming. Windows darkened one by one, and the sound of voices ceased as the village blinked its eyes for sleep.
At last he gave up. His rage was spent. The wings had beaten all pride from him. Only a great and lasting fear remained, and the thought that he was alone, quite alone, and might be alone forever. Crying, he crouched in a doorway.
The village slept. Through its streets, now, dim shadows moved, plodding aimlessly as he had plodded.
He watched them. Some he recognized. "This one I knew in Kharkov, before he perished from the cold. This one we left behind at Kiev." One by one they passed, without seeing him. Suddenly his hands clawed at the pavement and he was erect, shouting hoarsely in a last, hopeless struggle to be heard.
"Friedrich! Friedrich! In God's name, wait for me! It is Kropp, your friend!" But the shadow passed. Not even Friedrich could hear. He sank again in the doorway, staring animal-eyed.
It had been Friedrich; he was certain. No mistake was possible. When you have marched with a man all those months, fought by his side, shared food and bedding with him . . .
"I was the first to reach him when he fell," he thought dazedly. "It was I who tore the bayonet from his heart and dug the grave in which we buried him. We marched together in Poland, and through half of Russia. We were together at Lidice ..
Lidice! His eyes grew large and, stumbling to his feet again, he stared anew at the shapes and shadows of the village—this village in which now, forever, he would walk unwanted. Lidice!
He knew then the name of the valley, and the meaning of the long, dark road along which he had come. He knew where he was.
The Ghoul Gallery
Let me convince you, first, that the young man who came to my medical offices that night was not the type of man who gives way, without reason, to abject fear.
Yet when I stepped into my outer office and saw him slumped on the divan, I knew that he was in the throes of mortal terror. His face was ghastly white, made hideous by the mop of jet hair that crawled into his eyes. He raised his head sluggishly and glared at me like a trapped animal.
I nodded quietly to the girl who stood beside him. She stepped past me into the inner office, and I drew the door shut silently.
I had known this girl for years. For that matter, all London knew her, as a charming, lovely member of the upper set, a sportswoman and a distinguished lady of one of England's famous old families. She was Lady Sybil Ravenal.
Tonight, half an hour ago, she had telephoned me, seeking permission to bring a patient—a patient very dear to her—to my suite. Now she stood before me, her hand resting on my arm, and said suddenly:
"You've got to help him, Doctor Briggs! He—he is going mad!"
"Suppose you tell me," I suggested softly, "what he is afraid of."
"I can't Doctor. There is the family name to consider. He—he is Sir Edward Ramsey."
I started. That name, too, was well known to me and to the rest of London. Sir Edward Ramsey, the favorite playboy of the upper strata, noted sportsman, adventurer. I could not believe that such a man would be sitting in my offices, dragged into the depths of fear.
"You must tell me the cause," I said kindly. "Otherwise I can do nothing." The girl's lips tightened defiantly.
"When a man comes to you with a broken leg," she said, "you don't ask him where he got it. Please!"
"A fractured leg is a physical malady. His is mental."
"But he comes to you in the same capacity, Doctor. You must help him!"
"1 can only give you the usual advice," I shrugged. "Since you refuse to divulge the cause of his terror, I can only suggest that he get away from it."
I could see, from the obvious twist of her mouth, that she was keenly disappointed. She would have argued with me, perhaps pleaded with me, had not the door opened suddenly behind her.
I say "opened." In reality it was flung back savagely. Young Ramsey stood on the threshold, reeling, glowering at me out of smoldering eyes. I did not know, then, what made him intrude at that moment. I thought, foolishly, that he was afraid of being left alone in the dimly lighted outer office.
He staggered forward blindly, groping toward me.
"The thing!" he cried. His voice was high-pitched and nasal. "By God, it's following me! It's—it's—"
I stared at him in bewilderment. There was no sound in my rooms at that moment—no sound at all except the half-inaudible humming of a machine in the adjoining suite—an electro-therapeutic machine used by my associate in the treatment of leucocythemia and similar afflictions.
Yet the boy's hands clawed at the sleeve of my coat. He flung himself against me muttering a jargon of words that had no seeming intelligence. And then, very suddenly, his twitching face became fixed, staring, glaring at something beyond me. With a strangled sob of abject horror, he stumbled back.
I was beside him in an instant, holding his quivering body upright. As I looked at him, his eyes were wide open and rimmed with white, glued in mute terror upon a small table which stood against the wall on the opposite side of the room.
The table was an insignificant one, placed there merely for ornamental purposes. I had covered it with a black cloth and lined it, along the back, with a small rack of medical volumes. In the center of the black cloth, facing into the room, I had set a human skull.
The thing was neither fantastic nor horrible, merely a very ordinary medical head bleached white. In the shadows, perhaps, the eyeless sockets and grinning mouth, with its usual set of enameled teeth, were a bit unconventional; but certainly there was nothing to excite such uncontrollable horror as gripped the man in my arms.
His eyes were full of sheer madness as he stared at it. His lips had writhed apart and were twitching spasmodically. He clung to me with all his strength; and at length, wrenching his gaze from the thing on the table, he buried his head in my arms and surrendered to the fear which overwhelmed him.
"Be merciful, Briggs!" he moaned. "For God's sake, be merciful! Come with me—stay with me for a day or two, before I go utterly mad!"
There was no alternative. I could not send a man away in such condition. Neither could I keep him with me, for my quarters were not fitted with additional rooms for mad patients.
I forced him into a chair, where he could not see the death's-head on the table. Leaving him with the girl who had brought him, I hurriedly packed a small overnight case and made ready for an all-night siege of it. When I returned, I found the boy slumped wearily in the chair with his head in the girl's comforting arms.
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"Come," I said quietly.
He looked up at me. His bloodshot eyes struggled to drag me into focus.
"You—you are coming with me, Briggs?" he asked slowly.
"I am."
He pushed himself heavily out of the chair. As he turned, his hand groped for
mine. He spoke with a great effort.
"Thanks, Briggs. I'll—try to get back a little courage."
That was my introduction to Sir Edward Ramsey. The account of our departure, and of our subsequent arrival at Sir Edward's huge town house, is of little importance. During the entire journey my two companions did not utter a word. The boy seemed to have shrunk into himself, to have fallen into the lowest depths of fearful anticipation. The girl sat stiff, rigid, staring straight ahead of her.
I remember one thing which struck me as being more or less peculiar, in view of the boy's social position. No servant opened the door to us. For that matter, the boy made no attempt to summon one by ringing the bell. Instead, he groped into his pockets for his own door-key and fumbled nervously with the lock. Turning his head sideways, he spoke to me stiffly:
"My man's—deaf, Briggs. Damned nuisance, but it's the only reason he—stays. The others cleared out long ago."
The door swung open. I followed Sir Edward down the carpeted hail, with the girl beside me. The boy was trembling again, glancing about him furtively. I was forced to take his arm and lead him quietly into one of the massive rooms adjoining the corridor.
There he sank into a chair and stared up at me hopelessly. I realized that he had not slept in many hours—that he was on the verge of breakdown.
Opening my case, I administered an opiate to deaden his nerves, although I had little hope that it would have the desired effect. The boy's terror was too acute, too intense. However, the drug quieted him; he slept fitfully for the better part of an hour; long enough for Lady Sybil to draw me aside, motion me to a chair, and tell me her story.
She came directly to the point, softly and deliberately. They were in love, she and Ramsey. They were betrothed. Six weeks ago his love had changed to fear.
"At first he fought against it," she said evenly. "Then it took possession of him—of his very soul. He—he released me from my promise."
"Why?"
"Because of the curse that hangs over his family."
"And that is why you came to me tonight?"
"I came, Doctor," she said fervently, "because it was a last hope. I love him. I can not give him up. He lives alone here, except for a single servant who is deaf. I have been with him every day since this influence claimed him. At night, of course, I can not be at his side—and it is the night-time he fears!"
"And the cause of his fear?" I prompted.
"I—I can not tell you."
I knew better than to demand an explanation. Without a word I returned to my patient. He was not sleeping, for when I stood over him his eyes opened and he stared at me wearily. I drew a chair close to him and bent forward.
"I want you to tell me," I said simply, "the entire story. Only under those conditions can I help you. Do you understand?"
"That—is impossible."
"It's necessary."
"I—can't do it, Briggs."
"In that case," I shrugged, getting to my feet, "I shall take you away from here. At once!"
"No, no, Briggs! You—you can't! The thing will—follow me. It trailed me to your offices. It—"
It was the girl who cut him short. She stepped closer and took his hands firmly and looked straight at me.
"He is under oath to say nothing, Doctor," she said evenly.
"Under oath? To whom?"
"His father, Sir Guy."
"Then, of course, I shall see Sir Guy at once—"
"He is—dead."
I stood silent, glancing from one to the other. Suddenly the girl straightened up and stood erect, her eyes blazing.
"But I am not under oath!" she cried, almost savagely. "I will tell you—"
"By God, no!" The boy groped up, his face livid.
I understood, then, the courage in Lady Sybil's heart. Slim, lovely as she was she turned on him fiercely, forcing him back into the chair.
"I am going to tell him," she said bitterly. "Do you hear? The oath does not bind me. I am going to tell Doctor Briggs all I know. It is the only way to help you."
Then, without releasing him, she turned her head toward me.
"This house, Doctor," she said, "is very old and full of musty rooms and corridors. It is made hideous by a terrifying sound that comes, always at night, from the upper galleries. The sound is inexplicable. It is a horrible note which begins with an almost inaudible moan, like the humming of an electric motor.
Then it increases in volume to the pitch of a singsong voice, rising and falling tremulously. Finally it becomes a screaming wail, like a human soul in utter torment."
She waited for my questions. I said nothing. The boy had ceased his squirming and sat like a dead man, glaring at me out of lifeless eyes.
"The galleries have been examined many times," Lady Sybil said quietly.
"Nothing has ever been discovered to provide an explanation. Four times in the past year the upper recesses of the house have been wired for electric lights; but the lights in that portion of the house never work. No one knows why."
"And that—that is all?" I murmured.
"I think that is all. Except—the history of the House of Ramsey. You will find that in the library, Doctor. I will remain here with Edward."
I hesitated. I did not think it vital, at that moment, to go rummaging through the library in pursuit of ancient lore. But Lady Sybil looked quietly at me and said, in an even Voice:
"The library is at the end of the main corridor, Doctor. You will find the necessary books in section twelve."
I did not argue. There was no denying that cool, methodical tone! Before I left the room, however, I examined my patient carefully, to be sure that I was justified in leaving him. He had sunk into complete apathy. His eyes remained wide open, as if he feared to close them. But the opiate had produced an effect of semi-torpor, and I knew that he would not soon become violent again. Thus I turned away and paced silently to the door.
By a singular coincidence the door opened as I reached it. On the threshold I came face to face with the servant, a ferret-faced fellow with deep-set, colorless eyes, who peered at me suspiciously as I went past him into the corridor.
In this manner, after prowling down the dimly illuminated passage, I came to the library, and sought the particular section which the girl had suggested. Section twelve proved to be not in the main library, but in a secluded recess leading into the very farthest corner. The walls before me were lined with long shelves of books, symmetrically arranged. An ancient claw-footed desk stood in the center, and upon it a gargoyle reading-lamp which I promptly turned on.
The alcove had obviously been unused for some time. A layer of dust hung over it like a funeral shroud. Its musty volumes were sealed with a film of dirt, except—and this is what led me forward eagerly—for a certain shelf which lay almost directly beneath the lamp. The books on this particular shelf had been recently removed, and had been thrown back carelessly.
I took one of the volumes to the desk and bent over it. It contained, in some detail, a history of the house in which I stood, and a lengthy description of its occupants since time immemorial. Allow me to quote from it:
Sir Guy Ramsey. 1858-1903. [Evidently the father of my patient.] Eton and Cambridge. [Here followed an account of an adventurous and courageous life.] In the year 1903, Sir Guy was suddenly stricken with an inexplicable fear of darkness. Despite all efforts to discover the reason of his terror, no cause was revealed, and Sir Guy refused to divulge any. In September of the same year, Sir Guy became utterly mad with fear and spoke continually of a certain "specter" which had taken possession of him. Physicians were unable to effect a cure, and on the ninth day of the month of September, Sir Guy was found
in the upper galleries, where he had, to all appearances, been strangled to death.
His own hands clutched his throat; but upon his bands were certain marks and bruises which revealed the imprint of another set of fingers. In these imprints, the thumb of the unknown murderer's left hand was singularly missing. No clue has ever been discovered as to the identity of the assailant.
I closed the book slowly. Mechanically I opened a second of those significant volumes, which proved to be an account of the life and death of another of Sir
Edward's forebears. From the dates, I judged the gentleman to be Sir Edward's grandfather—the father of the man whose fate I had just learned. His name, peculiarly, was also Sir Edward.
On the twenty-seventh day of January, in the year 1881, Sir Edward was suddenly noticed to be prowling fearfully in the upper galleries. From that time on he was observed to be very much in the throes of acute terror; but when accused of this, Sir Edward refused to confide the nature of his fear. On February first he was found choked to death in the upper galleries, his own hands twisted into his throat and the imprint of another set of bands, with the thumb of the left band missing, still evident on his dead wrists.
The murderer was not discovered. For three years after Sir Edward's death, the galleries were closed and sealed, after a careful inspection by the police. At the end of that period they were again opened by command of Sir Guy, son of the deceased.
And there was one other passage—a paragraph or two describing the sudden death of some distinguished lady far back in the archives. Her name, according to the book before me, was Lady Carolyn.
A woman [the script said] imbued with the same fearless courage which marked the men of her blood. In the final days of her life she lived alone in the London house. She left a single parting message, found after her death: "I am becoming insane. The specter has ebbed my last bit of resistance. Madness is, after all, a fitting death—much better than eternal fear and horror."
This note was found on the morning of July third, 1792. Lady Carolyn was murdered, strangled to death by unknown bands, on the night the note was written. Her unfortunate body was discovered in the galleries, her fingers still clutching her dead throat, and the marks of other fingers, with the thumb of the left hand missing, imprinted on the back of her hands and wrists. For three years following her death, every effort was expended to locate the fiend who had so brutally destroyed her. The attempt was without avail.