The Year's Best Horror Stories 9

by Karl Edward Wagner (Ed. )

  Inside the library the gloom was so mottled with pale light that Courtleigh had no difficulty finding his way into the gallery. And there to be sure, at the far end against the banister, was the little box he was looking for. As he was picking it up, though, his foot tripped against the leg of one of the reading tables; and in regaining his balance he steadied himself against the wainscoted wall. To his surprise the woodwork gave back a little as his hand pressed upon its carved surface. Then the moonlight came flooding through most powerfully into the building, and showed a telltale crevice along one of the panels.

  It was time, in all reason, for a professor of classical antiquities to be in bed. But Courtleigh was very human, and you will not be surprised that, at the thought of having discovered a secret panel, curiosity got the better of him. He determined at any rate to have one peep inside that little opening while he was there. But the door, after coming ajar some three or four inches, had somehow jammed. Hardening with impatience, Courtleigh got his shoulder to it and gave a quick thrust. Back it went and landed him staggering inside. There was a smart slam: and things went suddenly dark.

  He got to his feet and struck a match—only to note that he was trapped. What on the other side might have seemed a panel of innocent thickness now showed itself to the captive as a stout oak door with a great iron spring but no visible lock or fastening of any kind. When every attempt to lever it around the edges with his penknife proved futile, he had nothing left but to look for another way out.

  He tried the downward direction first, hoping to come out somewhere on the ground level. But the steps were getting soft and flaky and he had to be careful. There was also a suffocating thickness about the air as he neared the bottom and peered down, holding the lighted match in front of him.

  Now what could that be? A heap of debris down there started to remind him of . . . but then the step crumbled under his foot, and the light fell from his hand. Instinctively he sprang back to the step above. It was giving too, like shale, and the flakes rattling around had strewn him from head to foot before he managed to again reach firm footholds at the top. As he brushed himself and collected his thoughts he heaved a sigh of relief to find himself safe once more. He felt as if there was something at the bottom he was glad he had not discovered. And, whatever it was, he had come within an ace of being entombed with it.

  He decided to explore things higher up. Ascending past his starting point, he had hopes of coming to an exit on the roof; for once in the open air he might climb down some buttress or at least call out for help. But his hopes on this score were also dashed. A few yards up and this time the stair was sealed by a blank wall of masonry.

  Courtleigh was by now almost ready to despair. But, striking another match, he was relieved to discover a narrow door set back a little to the side by his right hand. It was not fast and he pulled it open with new expectancy. By a miracle he did not break his neck, for the passage was no more and he gasped to find himself on the verge of a sheer drop, looking into the moonlit library.

  There, below him on the right, it lay like the auditorium of some deserted theater viewed from a scaffolding high up in the wings. Close by him on the left loomed the upper part of the great east window, the gigantic wheel of tracery sweeping overhead and foreshortened so as to seem toppling down upon the beholder. He was, in fact, standing in a niche, or panelled recess, within the framework of the window. What purpose such an outlet could have remained a puzzle. If it was intended to allow the window to be inspected and repaired from time to time there would still have to be some scaffolding to take workmen to the window face. But the thing which concerned Courtleigh was the prospect of his own escape. Could he scramble down the mullions into the well of the library? It looked so perilous that he thought better of it.

  While craning his neck to take the situation in, his hand had found a convenient little rail fastened in the wall. His weight upon it seemed to loosen it a bit. Another look and he noticed it was really a lever of some sort, and as he pulled it farther his eyes almost dropped out of his head to see a line of what looked like ornamental masonry slide out horizontally from the window. In a few moments there had appeared a narrow footway, battlemented at the edge, stretching right across to the other side of the window. It was about a foot wide and had slid out like a shelf in an old-fashioned desk.

  As his astonishment subsided, Courtleigh guessed that a certain ogee-headed panel at the far side would be a door like the one by which he was standing. Trying the proffered bridge with his foot, hesitating somewhat to trust his weight to it, he at last decided to make the crossing. He sidled forth slowly, steadied himself by grasping the curved stonework of the window, and reached the other side only after an agony of carefulness.

  Yes, it was a door as he had hoped. He lost little time in pushing it open, but saw that any upward way was sealed, and found descent the only course open to him. This second stairway spiraled around till it brought him to another wooden barrier, and his heart beat wildly at the sight of a metal catch. In a moment he was through this panel and inside the Muniment Room, sighing with renewed hope.

  He groped about the presses with a lighted match and found the door which led into the library. Of course, it was locked. He sat for a while quite beaten. Only one other possibility remained: without much hope, he looked into the little stair again to see if there was any way to the ground floor. No luck: it was built up. As he leaned against the wall considering things, he suddenly realized that he had at least discovered a possible solution to the mystery of the Household Book. If Faik had known about the panels into these two stairways and the transom bridge along the window, what could be easier for him than to get from the gallery across into the Muniment Room and steal the book! No wonder the ordinary door had shown no signs of violence. But if the man had entered, he must have got out as well. “Of course,” thought Courtleigh, “he had probably known about the spring catch behind the panel in the gallery and taken precautions not to be trapped inside as I have been, like a fool. And yet . . . and yet . . . neither Faik nor the book had been heard of since that fatal October night two years ago. What if the man had not got out?”

  A panicky feeling of claustrophobia came over him as he pictured his own fate, burrowing like a trapped fox within walled passages each ending in a cul-de-sac. And then there came into his mind what might be lying down in the pit of the other stair where the steps had given way . . . Putting such thoughts aside, he determined to again get up to the window level where he could at least see into the library. He reached the top of the stair and saw the moonlit window, but the gangway across was no longer there. Still, there must also be a lever at this side to bring it out again. Ah! there it was. Pulling at it, Courtleigh breathed more easily to see the transom shelf emerge once more, and he could not but wonder at the ingenuity of it all. While pondering the situation, he found yet another handle! The curiosity was too much. Stiff as it was, he pressed hard upon it and managed to make it turn.

  The whole building began to shudder. It could hardly be a ventilator arrangement; the vibration was too violent for that. He looked up and was amazed to see the rose window beginning to rock gently to and fro. Behind the crude Victorian Gothic glass which filled the spans between the spokes of tracery, some other glass could now be seen. Courtleigh worked with all his might and the huge translucent disc began to go slowly around like windmill sails.

  Nor had he need to strain himself in looking up to observe results. The moonlight was casting the circular pattern upon the library floor below. To his further surprise he also noted that this reflection fell exactly on the circle marked upon the stone slab he had uncovered that afternoon. At last he began to see its purpose. He realized he had stumbled upon the work of the eccentric Faik. This would be something to tell Sanderton about in the morning!

  As the disc slowly revolved, a flux of strange tints and shapes came into play on the dial below. It was like watching the tinctures which flow from certain crystals as they sink dis
solving in a bowl of water. But soon the forms became less blurred as the two cycles of design within the window began to coincide. When this occurred the handle stopped with a click, and an upward glance told the professor that the disc was stationary again.

  But the colored patch upon the floor still drew his full attention. And what a fascinating sight it was! The vacant divisions of the dial were now peopled with fantastic forms; some suggesting a mystical significance, like the signs of the zodiac in an old almanac; others of frighteningly grotesque and evil creatures of the night. Each in its appointed place was motionless, frozen into liquid clarity.

  All Courtleigh’s fear was now swallowed up in wonderment. Then, even as he gazed into the lighted dial, its placidity was broken. A fresh shape had appeared, this time a moving shadow hovering furtively in the arena of signs. It was a wiry silhouette, as of a blackened lobster, running hither and thither among the symbols with fierce agility like a witch doctor in a tribal dance.

  He felt himself going giddy as he stared at this devilish marionette. He must have jerked the lever with his hand for without warning a ratchet crackled rapidly overhead; the lights on the floor whirled into rainbow confusion, and in a few seconds the heavy disc of glass was back in its first position. The sudden motion disturbed the dust and cobwebs up above as well. Quite a shower of particles were filtering through the moonbeams, and a roundish clump of soft debris came bowling down onto the transom.

  This sordid finish to the uncanny vision brought the watcher to his senses. For a second or two he felt vaguely puzzled, then once more that strange uneasiness came over him; he sensed he was being watched. He almost felt something stalking him, and found himself trying to catch it in the corner of his eye. With an effort he roused himself: action was what he needed. It was time to be getting out of that place and back to his warm bed again. “There’s nothing for it,” he told himself, “but to scramble down these mullions into the library. But . . . I’m a bit past the age for a thirty-foot drop.”

  He was groping cautiously along the transom footway when he noticed an obstruction in his path. It was in the shadow and all he could make out was a basketlike mass frayed out at the edge like the twigs of a besom. He raised his foot to go across it, but as he started the stride, something in that dark mass began to twitch. He was going to crouch down and look at it, and suddenly recoiled with a gasp of horror.

  At that very moment the moonlight failed and left him in pitch darkness. With heart beating madly, he quickly edged backward from the thing. Then the light reappeared and nothing was there. He tried to believe he was imagining things; but was soon undeceived. A tiny pattering sound on the glass above caused him to look up just as the horrid form came at him, from behind this time, tacking in a nimble detour across the rose window like some gigantic spider running out along its web.

  With a cry of terror the trapped man rushed madly the other way, quite heedless of his precarious path. And now he saw the footway narrowing as the transom shelf again slid in. In another moment his foot had caught the parapet and sent him headlong over.

  To the library floor was a considerable drop, but Courtleigh fell obliquely, tearing his jacket on the battlemented stonework of the transom, and so swung inwards against the double mullions below. He clutched out wildly and managed to grasp one of these upright shafts. It did not stop his fall but slowed him down enough so he could slither with one foot against the horizontal bar of the second transom lower down. Instinct alone dictated what to do. With a mighty thrust upon his lucky foothold, he lunged out sideways and cast himself towards the gallery not far below.

  It was this desperate leap that saved him. The agile fiend had been within a foot of him upon the mullions. But, by a marvel, he had cleared the wooden balusters and landed sprawling against a case of books. He was now at the east end of the gallery panting for a moment’s respite, knowing full well he dare not linger. He quickly scrambled up, heedless of bruises, staggering forward among the moonlit reading-tables toward the stair-head. Still going tiptoe, he was just preparing to descend and quit the place when he was again confronted by the hideous creature coming crabwise up the steps to intercept him.

  Back he swung in flight along the gallery, but this time he took the other way, making for the reading-cabinet at the end. He floundered in exhausted and slammed the screen door after him. Once in, he knew how futile this move was; there was no way out. Already the hideous face was looking through the open woodwork at him. With nightmare fascination he watched it craning its gaunt head about as though blind, then squeeze between the carved foliage, straining its quivering legs against the sides. By some uncanny sense it came straight for him as he stood transfixed against the balustrade. It fastened on him without haste and though he raised his arms to beat it off, they fell limply down again and left him to his fate. A fiery glow suffused all vision now as he felt the bristling tendons on his chest and saw the ghastly proboscis nosing up for his throat . . .

  A rapid tinkling of melodious bells mingled below with a heavy thud. But Courtleigh did not hear them. Nor did he hear that fearsome screech that scalded the night air. Mortal consciousness had given out, and his inert body—with the demon fast clawed upon it, had hurtled backwards over the gallery rail.

  That unearthly wail had carried right across the park and pierced every ear at the hall. The whole household woke into commotion as at an earthquake. There was a barking of dogs, lights appeared in distant corridors, doors flung open while figures with sticks and shotguns ran out from every quarter. From upstairs windows night-capped heads appeared, calling to know what was amiss.

  It was amidst this hue and cry that Sir Leslie (beslippered and holding a pistol) accompanied by Mr. Sanderton (pulling his priest’s cloak round his shoulders) appeared upon the terrace.

  “By jingo!” ejaculated Marlop, “the library’s on fire! Perkins, Jennings, and you other men come with me. The rest get buckets and whatever you can, and down to the lake with them.”

  “I think it’s chiefly the east end that’s going,” panted Sanderton as they headed across the grass. “It’s to be hoped we can get it stopped before the rest gets hold.”

  Without more words they burst through the great door and were nearly choked with smoke. But masking their mouths and noses, they pressed forward and found the fire buckets by the wall. The seat of the conflagration was the end nearest the great window, but flames were spreading right along the gallery. Sir Leslie and two of the men were soon up there with axes to cut away the burning beams and banisters. Others got to work with a relay of buckets while Sanderton, assisted by the tremulous Hook, was shoving blindly at the screen door to get into the oratory. All inside was a pit of smoke but he determined to rescue what he could of the antique altar furnishings.

  Hook, treading gingerly, entered first; but had not gone above a pace or two before he took fright. The rector pushed past him impatiently to see what was wrong. A current of air had cleared away the smoke sufficiently to show a prostrate figure on the floor. Whether dead or alive, the man could not be left there. Having got him dragged into the open, Sanderton held up a lantern and recognized, with a shock of dismay, the features of his Durham friend.

  The fire was nothing to him now. He left Sir Leslie and the rest to deal with it as they could, and with two men to help him, he moved the unconscious professor across to the house and up to bed. Not till he had gotten Dr. Green over from the village and received the blessed verdict that Courtleigh was out of mortal danger, did the old bookworm give any real thought to the fate of the library.

  “He’s terribly bruised,” said the doctor as they left the patient sleeping soundly, “and has had a nasty shock. There are some queer scratches about the chest but I don’t find any bones broken. I’ll have another look at him when he comes round. And now, hadn’t we better see about this awful fire?”

  By the time they reached the scene, however, the amateur fire brigade had gotten things well under control. The place was still smolder
ing but it was felt safe for most of the helpers to get off home again.

  “Well,” cried Sir Leslie, grimy but triumphant, as they trooped back, “thank God that’s over. I’ll never say another word against ornamental lakes! Hey, Sanderton, what’s this about finding a man unconscious in the oratory? Professor Courtleigh! What? How the devil did he come to be there?”

  They had to wait till next day to answer that. The rector, not much helped by Mrs. Willerby’s contributions to things, went across to the hall again straight after breakfast.

  “How is Courtleigh now?” he inquired as Sir Leslie showed him into the morning room to talk things over. “Has a sleep done him good?”

  “I’ve just been up,” replied the other, “and he’s much better. A day in bed and thinking things steady for a bit, and he’ll be all right, I think. But he’s very talkative. In fact he’s told me the queerest tale about how he got into the library yesterday. A thorough nightmare story it is, I assure you. So far as I can judge, the poor fellow’s been sleepwalking. I’d better tell you what he said.”

  Sanderton listened to the story very intently. “My word,” he said when he had heard it, “he must have had a frightful fall from the cabinet into the oratory! It’s a mercy that pile of hassocks was there, or he’d have broken his neck: as it was, he hit the Sanctus bell.”