Tales of the Grotesque: A Collection of Uneasy Tales

by L. A. Lewis

  Tranter heaved a big sigh of satisfaction and leaned with his elbows on the mantel shelf. At least he was as fond of the girl as he had been of any and the main point was that all this property was now his without dispute, unless he took into account his brother’s futile threat to ‘get him’ - whatever he may have meant by that.

  Perhaps John had believed in ghosts and their power to inspire fear, but if his spirit really could return, it would soon tire of haunting when it found its efforts ignored. Tranter was unconvinced as to the existence of ghosts and their ability to appear to the living; he was materialist enough to fear nothing which lacked physical form, and was prepared to listen with equanimity to any traditional moaning or chain-rattling which the departed could produce.

  He smiled at his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece, and, with the conceit common to the egocentric, fell to studying the cast of his features. He would make a fitting owner for ‘The Spinney’, with his straight brows, aristocratic nose, and square, clean-shaven chin.

  He took off his hat and smoothed back the black, well-groomed hair from his temples. Yes. He was in his proper sphere!

  He had been standing thus complacently for some minutes when his notice was drawn to an unfamiliar object in the background reflected in the mirror. It took the form of something small and oval with a bright centre, quite unlike anything he remembered seeing since he had entered the room. But what most held his attention was the fact that, instead of resting upon any of the numerous pieces of furniture behind him, it seemed to be poised in mid-air as though suspended from the ceiling by an invisible thread. He glanced round hastily to ascertain what it was, but, to his surprise, could see nothing whatever to correspond with the reflection. The object, whatever it was, should have been just in line from where he stood with the edge of a bookcase, at the end of the third row down. Stooping forward a little to intensify his vision he approached the bookcase. No. There was nothing there - not even an oval mark in the designs of the bindings. He squinted sideways trying to intercept some trick of light on the polished front of the shelf, but without result. 'Well, that’s damned odd!’ he muttered, going back to the fireplace.

  As he neared the mirror he saw the reflection again, just as before.

  'Must be a flaw in the glass,’ he said aloud, 'or mildew behind the quicksilver.’ He peered closely into the mirror, but could detect no flaw. As an afterthought he placed himself in front of the reflection, which immediately disappeared. It was there again when he took a pace to one side, and back he went to the bookcase. This time he picked up a rug and draped it over the entire row' of shelves before returning to the hearth.

  He also made the journey backwards, keeping his eyes fixed on the approximate situation of the illusory oval. It was not visible, from any point of his transit; but the mirror showed it again, when he turned to look, now rather more clearly defined owing to the plain background afforded by the rug. The impression that it was nothing to do with the bookcase, but actually hung at some point between it and the overmantel was, moreover, stronger than ever. Tranter set his teeth and stared at the reflected object. He had never given much serious thought to ghost-lore, but, if this were his righteous brother’s idea of 'getting him’, it would take more than meaningless hallucinations to scare him out of ‘The Spinney’. Nonetheless, a very slight premonitory shiver ran down his spine.

  ‘No,’ he said more loudly than before, It must be something in the glass.’ And then he remembered a powder-box of Vera’s with a tiny mirror in the lid, which he had found in the car and slipped into his pocket. He sorted it out, opened it, and turned the reflector towards the bookcase. It was too small to give a comprehensive view, but, by holding it close to his face, he was able to see several square feet of the wall behind him at one time. He located the rug, which he had hung up, and, by turning the box in his hand, managed to cover the whole of its area systematically. There was no sign of the mysterious oval between it and himself.

  With a sigh of relief, for his nerves had been keyed higher than he realised, he closed the box and involuntarily looked again for the deceptive image in the large looking-glass.

  It was no longer there.

  Tranter pulled the back of one hand across his forehead and brought it away wet. Were his eyes playing him tricks? Or was there really something uncanny about the room? He told himself that he was not frightened - just puzzled and interested. Yes - that was it - puzzled and interested. All the same, he shivered a second time, and cursed under his breath.

  A fancied movement on his right caused him to glance quickly in that direction, and he spun round as though he had been shot.

  Close behind him on the other side of the room, and gleaming like some malignant eye, he had seen the reflected oval - larger and brighter because of its apparent nearness, the shining centre now defined as a cleanly cut, elongated diamond.

  But the room was void of anything additional to its normal fittings. There was no oval.

  At that moment Tranter could not bring himself to look back into the glass. He had a sudden desire for the twilight of the garden. He took a quick step towards the door and cried out sharply.

  Some unnoticed obstacle had come into violent contact with his left shin. The pain momentarily steadied him, and he stood rubbing the place for several seconds before he realised that there was nothing visible with which he could have collided. With trembling fingers he rolled down his stocking. The blue outline of a bruise was just perceptible. He dragged the stocking up again and half straightened his back. There was something furtive about his movements by now. His eyes travelled fearfully from side to side. He took another pace forward cringingly, as though expecting a blow, and met no obstruction. A second with equal success, and he broke into a run.

  The next moment he had tripped over something unseen and crashed heavily on his face. He writhed over onto his side and cowered, half stunned, then scrambled to his knees with a whimper of fright, shying sideways as a sharp stabbing pain seared his right shoulder. He gaped foolishly at bright splashes of blood dripping down upon his hands. Some invisible horror out of empty air had slashed keenly through coat- and shirt-sleeve.

  Suddenly, a panic, dwarfing all previous qualms, flooded his whole being. He dared not rise, but dug his fingers into the pile of the carpet, and attempted to crawl to the door, only to be met by a storm of painful stabs about the arms and shoulders - stabs that fell inconceivably out of the void. But that they were not imaginary the rents and blood on his coat testified.

  He shrieked at the top of his voice, leaped up, and dashed frantically back towards the fireplace, away from the unseen force which seemed concentrated between him and escape. As he ran, his image rushed at him in the big looking glass - a wild, dishevelled figure with fear-maddened eyes and distorted features, chalk-white, hands upraised. And behind it, darting through empty air, sped the gleaming oval.

  Immediately above his head it stopped and hung once more immobile.

  Then, as he huddled shaking and sobbing against the mantelpiece, his stare set hypnotically upon the reflection aloft, it slowly changed its shape. The base of the oval grew downward until it resembled a pedestal, and the bright diamond extended upward inch by inch to form a tall triangle of polished steel bearing an engraved design.

  And Tranter saw them at last as hilt and blade - the dirk which had killed his brother. No longer foreshortened in thrusting poise, but brandished upright like a warning of death, the weapon hung in space, its point dappled with fresh blood.

  Even as his ears caught the sound of a footstep in the hall and the rattle of the door-handle, the image in the glass swept down and forward. He choked and fell into the hearth - blood pouring from his mouth.

  The circumstances of Tranter's death naturally demanded an inquest, and the girl, Vera, was the first witness called. She testified to having gone to the house alone to keep an appointment with the deceased.

  She had let herself in with a key, and, hearing a cry of ev
ident pain or fear coming from the study, had hurriedly opened the door and discovered her fiancé lying face downward in the fireplace vomiting blood. She broke down at this point, and the coroner considerately allowed her to sit during the remainder of her evidence. He asked her as few questions as possible, and called the next witness as soon as she had described the rapid stiffening of the body, and her attempts to feel Tranter’s pulse. The telephone being already installed in readiness for their occupation, she had been able to call up the police at once, and had awaited their arrival in the garden.

  Henry Stirling West, Divisional Police Surgeon for the district, gave evidence of being called to the house to view the remains, which showed no sign of external injury. He had subsequently assisted at an autopsy carried out by Sir Bartlett Haviland, the Home Office expert, at which, on removing the dead man’s clothes, they had found a bruise on the left breast corresponding with a protuberance of the fire-kerb, across which the body had fallen. This was confirmed by Sir Bartlett himself, the next witness, and the coroner asked him, ‘What in your opinion, was the cause of death?’, to which the specialist replied unhesitatingly. ‘Rupture of the heart, due to falling heavily on the corner of a fire-kerb.'

  ‘And there was no other sign of external injury?’

  ‘None of any moment.’

  ‘What do you think caused the fall?’

  Sir Bartlett shrugged. ‘It is impossible to say definitely. He may either have tripped or had an attack of giddiness. I am inclined to discount the latter, as all his organs were fit and healthy, and there was no trace of excess alcohol in the stomach.’

  ‘Do you imagine he could have been struck down by an assailant?’

  ‘There is no evidence pointing to that. The only marks on the skin were the bruise, already described, and another on the left shin which could also have been caused in the fall.’

  A verdict of ‘Death by misadventure’ was finally recorded, but the coroner, an old friend of Sir Bartlett’s, tempted to re-open the subject when the latter was taking a glass of wine in his library, after the proceedings were closed

  ‘The Press,’ he remarked musingly, ‘have already made the most of certain coincidences, such as the violent ends of both Tranter and his brother, in the same room, and I can quite understand that you

  people must often find it judicious to suppress evidence that is not essential. Personally, I’m puzzled by a man of Tranter’s youth and fitness falling, for no apparent reason, with such heaviness as to burst his heart. Did you draw any inferences not expressed in Court?’

  Sir Bartlett stroked his chin with deliberation.

  ‘Make what you like of it,’ he answered at length, ‘but treat this confidentially, as a man in my position cannot afford to suggest supernatural explanations publicly. Tranter’s heart was not ruptured by the fall. Though there was no break in the skin of chest or back, a lobe of it had been cleanly severed as though by a sharp blade. You would produce the same phenomenon if it were possible to stab a man from inside! Another point for reflection,’ he added, emptying his glass, ‘is that the dirk with which the brother was killed has mysteriously disappeared from the Yard’s collection of murder-weapons!’

  The Chords Of Chaos

  'HAVE YOU EVER heard of astral music?’

  Rex Eustace replaced his pipe in his mouth, leaned back and looked at me interrogatively. We had just finished dinner, and were taking our coffee on the terrace in the cool of the evening.

  It was not the first time that we had touched upon the supernatural. Many a night in our dug-out “over there”, mutual interest had led our thoughts along the same path, the light of one flickering candle casting its elusive shadow’s on walls of damp earth, lending a spice of reality to the topic.

  But back home in my friend’s pretty, old-fashioned garden, with the dark uncertainties of war at an end, and a hundred trivialities of daily amusements to occupy our minds, I wondered what train of thought had prompted this sudden question.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I replied cautiously. ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘I mean music which belongs to the spirit-world and can be reproduced by a medium during a state of trance.’

  ‘I have heard of that,’ I said, ‘but have never seen it done. Have you?’

  ‘Yes. Quite recently,’ he answered.

  I became interested. Spiritualism is a subject of which I know little, but it is a fascinating study.

  ‘I have a neighbour,’ he continued, ‘a Mr. Julian Westenhanger, who is a medium. He will sit down at the piano, make his mind a blank, and play the harmonies that come to him from beyond the barrier. The thing is absolutely genuine. He really plays the most wonderful stuff, quite unlike anything else which I have heard.

  Nearly sent me into a trance myself the other day, when I was listening to it. On regaining consciousness he can recall nothing. It’s most weird.’

  ‘I should like to hear him,’ I said quietly.

  ‘You will have the opportunity,’ Eustace declared. ‘He is well known as a musician, and has been asked to give an organ recital in St. Mary’s Church tomorrow night after Evensong.’

  ‘Yes. But I mean the spirit music.’

  My friend looked at me quizzically for a moment. Then his gaze travelled vacantly to the sky, as though he were considering some problem.

  ‘I don’t know' him very well,’ he observed at last, ‘because he has only come to the place during the war, and I have been away, as we both know; but, if you really care to meet him, I see no reason why we should not drop in for an hour right away. What d’you think?’

  ‘Certainly,’ I responded, rising to my feet.

  And with that one word I ignorantly committed myself to the most painful, ghastly, and grotesquely incredible adventure of my life - a thing made the more bizarre by its setting of peaceful security in the little country town.

  Mr. Westenhanger was at home, and we were promptly shown into his drawing-room. I walked over towards the French windows and glanced casually about me. One can frequently read something of a man’s character in the objects with which he surrounds himself. To my disappointment, however, this room presented no features of especial interest. In all respects it was commonplace. I do not mean drab, or ugly, but just average - the kind of reception room one would find in a dozen small country houses. There were the usual rosewood chairs, the usual landscape pictures on a pale-blue wallpaper, a chintz-covered sofa, and various other pieces of strictly conventional furniture. A vase of lilies, standing on the piano, diffused a sweet though rather heavy perfume.

  I began to regret that my friend had told me nothing of the man himself.

  ‘At all events,’ I thought, ‘he is not a genius of the long-haired tribe’ - a deduction which was verified as our host made his appearance.

  In no way did Westenhanger give the impression of an artist except in his slender hands, with the long, sensitive fingers of the musician. Of medium height, with rather close-cropped hair, and neatly attired in a grey suit, he also fell very’ short of my ideal spiritualist.

  Eustace rose, and said in a formal introduction: ‘This is my friend Mr. Steer - one of the overseas crowd. He is staying with me for a week to celebrate peace.’

  I bowed and extended my hand.

  ‘You see,’ I remarked, ‘I am a great lover of music. That is why I asked Eustace to bring me round.’

  For an instant a look of pleasure crossed his face, but, as his hand gripped mine, the expression seemed to change. What emotion it depicted, I am powerless to describe; but the effect upon me as I met his eyes was most peculiar. I experienced simultaneously a feeling of exultation and loathing, which vanished as swiftly as it had arisen.

  You may think that, having heard of him as an occultist, I was unconsciously on the look-out for something abnormal, but I am not usually imaginative, and the queer sensation puzzled me. If I had given any sign, however, of what I felt bound to consider a ridiculous fancy, neither Eustace nor Westenhang
er himself appeared to have noticed it. The latter leaned one elbow on the piano and courteously motioned me to a chair.

  ‘You play yourself, Mr. Steer?’ he inquired. I was obliged to confess my claims were limited to admiring the performance of others, and the conversation drifted for a while over many diverse subjects.

  Presently Westenhanger seated himself at the piano and began to play from memory. Some of the pieces were unfamiliar, and others the best known triumphs of famous composers. The whole production was an aesthetic banquet, so faultless was his technique and so soulful the rendering. I was lost in the pleading accompaniment of Tosti’s ‘Parted’ when he turned abruptly from the instrument.

  ‘You will take a glass of port, won’t you?’ he said in the most matter-of-fact tone. It was more of a command than a question, and before either of us could reply, he had rung the bell. Brought back to reality by his sudden change of demeanour, I began to fear that we should be denied the real object of our visit, when Rex broke the silence.

  ‘Steer, like myself, is interested in the supernatural,’ he ventured, ‘and I took the liberty of mentioning to him your mediumistic powers. I am sure he would like you to give us some astral music, if it will not trouble you too much.’

  The way in which he spoke amused me slightly. It seemed by far too casual a tone for such a matter, and I felt a little apprehensive lest it should be taken as the irreverent banter of a sceptic.

  Our host made no answer until the servant had placed a decanter with three glasses upon a side-table, and the door was once more closed.

  I was becoming quite excited, like a schoolboy immersed in a blood-curdling ghost story, while he poured out the red wine and handed each of us a glass.

  At last he turned towards me thoughtfully. ‘It is a thing I very rarely do at anyone’s request.’ he affirmed. ‘Do you really wish me to?’