And Afterward, the Dark

by Basil Copper

  Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark.

  Tennyson

  Introduction

  When, toward the end of his life, General Smedley D. Butler was giving his energies to a campaign intended to keep his country out of World War II, he used to say that the best introduction he ever had as a speaker was from an old farmer in the corn belt who held forth as follows: "Ladies and gentlemen, I haf to introduce General Smedley Butler, who vill to you a speech make. Dis I haf now done, and dis he vill now do."

  In "introducing" this new volume by Basil Copper (but who, then, will introduce me?), I fear I cannot quite reach the old farmer's level, but it is always well to have an ideal in the mind's eye toward which one can aspire.

  It is not of course as though Arkham House readers were now encountering Mr. Copper for the first time. That "introduction" was effected in 1973 with From Evil's Pillow, which was also his first book to be published in the United States, though there are many others in his native England, more of which have been devoted to the adventures of his own Sherlock Holmes, Mike Faraday, than to the stories of the supernatural, which, one would gather, lie closest to his heart.

  All seven of the tales in And Afterward, the Dark, as well as the five in From Evil's Pillow, deal with death. The last and by all means the longest tale in the new volume, "The Flabby Men," I should call science fiction; the others exemplify older and more orthodox forms of supernaturalism. Machinery is important, however, in "Camera Obscura," as it was also in "A Very Pleasant Fellow" in the earlier collection, and I should say that both "Camera Obscura" and Evil's "Amber Print," which revolves around an enchanted and finally lethal version of one of the most seminal of all the great German films of the late teens and twenties, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, serve to remind us that Mr. Copper is an authority on the silent film. (Is this, I wonder, the very best story that has ever been written about a motion picture? It certainly cannot have many competitors.)

  The reader of supernatural stories can hardly expect to be made quite as comfortable as the reader of, say, New England local color tales, for though there are of course benevolent as well as malevolent ghosts, ghostly society still strains the nerves by breaking through the comfortable barriers which fence off the world in which we feel most at home and whose laws alone we enter even a modest claim to understand from the rest of the mysterious, undisclosed universe. It is a mistake nevertheless to use ghost stories, supernatural stories, terror tales, and horror tales as if they were quite synonymous terms. The anthology Six Novels of the Supernatural which I edited years ago for The Viking Portable Library was objected to, I remember, by one reviewer, a rather distinguished writer, because the manifestations it dealt with were not sufficiently horrible, which caused Marjorie Bowen to inquire why angels were less supernatural than other nonearthly creatures. Of course some people are afraid of angels too, and one can well understand why they should be in some cases. The gentlest of all Mr. Copper's tales (and the one which I confess I care for most) is the last story in the Evil volume, "Charon." "Charon" is as much concerned with death as any of the others, and a great deal more so than some, but it would be difficult to suggest that the transition could be achieved more gracefully or with greater benevolence.

  Elsewhere Mr. Copper's readers will surely find terror enough to satisfy even my reviewer. It goes without saying, I suppose, that no writer should bother with the supernatural unless he has a gift for conjuring up what, for want of a better term, we may call"atmosphere"; there are famous stories in the genre in which we are far more afraid of what may be going to happen than of anything that actually does. In Mr. Copper's tales our worst fears are generally realized at last, but there could hardly be a better example of atmosphere than the beginning of "Dust to Dust," where the sinister qualities of the house involved are skillfully suggested without the presentation of any real substantiating evidence, and indeed even in the process of denying them. In "The Cave" the evil force is never precisely identified; in "The Spider" a commonplace thing is invested with qualities one would suppose incompatible with its actual inherent powers. In "The Flabby Men" we do learn at last what has caused everything that has terrified us from the beginning, but through most of the tale (though the specific expressions of the terror are always concrete enough), we are kept guessing, so that we come to fear that nature herself has become corrupted, which would be far more terrible than any particular evil could possibly be.

  "The Flabby Men" is no more a full-dress performance, with all the stops out, however, than "Archives of the Dead," which, like "The Grey House" in the earlier collection, employs traditional materials of Satanism and vampirism, yet manages to make them as exciting as if nobody had ever used them before. Which, of course, is characteristic of our writer. We have all, by now, read many stories about time-traveling which are built upon the there-and-back-again principle, but when the hero of "Camera Obscura" gets into the past, he is as dead there as all the people he meets.

  Impressive as these stories are, however, they must probably yield the palm for originality, though not for excitement, to the very extraordinary "Janissaries of Emilion," in which the dream world actually invades the world that we call waking and masters it and wreaks destruction there. What I am saying finally, I suspect, is not merely that Mr. Copper spreads a richly varied table for his readers but, more significantly, that he manages to achieve both concentration and variety. The unifying force is the constant preoccupation with the theme of death; the variety lies in the many different ways in which it is viewed and the many different devices employed to present it. And since life is everlastingly different while death is ever the same, this calls for a degree of skill which even the alert and appreciative reader may not fully apprehend. In its own way, recharactered as it is through his subtle art, Mr. Copper's death takes on a life of its own.

  Edward Wagenknecht

  The Spider

  M. Pinet arrived at the small country hotel just as dusk was falling on a wet October day. All about him was the melancholy of autumn, and the headlights of his car stencilled a pallid path across the glaucous surface of the soaking, leaf-scattered road.

  M. Pinet was feeling pleased with himself. A representative of a large firm of Paris textile manufacturers, he had previously travelled the flat, monotonous areas of Northern France and had felt his mind becoming as rigid and unyielding as the poplar-lined roads he had daily traversed.

  But now, he had been given another district, from Lyons in the south to the Ile de France, with an increase in salary as well, and he greatly appreciated the change. The beauty of his new surroundings, moreover, the different atmosphere of a novel routine, had released all his pent-up drive; his latest had been a very successful tour indeed and his wallet bulged with the notes and banker's orders of clients.

  At present he was about fifty miles south of Paris and had decided that he was too tired to push on to his home in the suburb of Courbevoie. He had already driven all the way from Auxerre and hadn't started until the afternoon, but he had made good time nevertheless. His bags of samples and the long bolts of cloth in the back of his small estate wagon shifted from side to side as he turned on the bad surface of the second-class road through the forest.

  He was feeling more than usually tired and the traffic in the Paris direction had been even heavier than normal for the time of year. He had reached the outskirts of a small village that was unfamiliar to him and had then spotted the lights of a fair-sized auberge set back from the road, amid clean-smelling pine trees. The chairs and tables of summer were now stacked under canvas between the box hedges, but there came a welcome glow of light from the hallway and as he ran his car in under the heavy shadow of the trees he could see a zinc-c
overed bar and a thousand reflections from bottles that looked as though they contained most warming liquids. There were no other vehicles parked in front of the inn, but that did not worry M. Pinet. He had no particular desire for company; uppermost in his mind was the thought of a half bottle of wine to chase away the dank chill of autumn, a good dinner, and eight hours' refreshing sleep before pushing on to Paris in the morning.

  He parked his car, securely locked it, and a few moments later found himself in a delightful-looking hall, containing a bar, some leather stools, and a profusion of late summer flowers. A cat lay stretched on the polished tile floor. There was no other sign of life, apart from a man dressed in city clothes who was drinking cognac. He went out a moment after M. Pinet came in, muttering a sotto voce good-evening, and a short time later M. Pinet saw a big blue Mercedes, which had evidently been parked lower down the road, go by the window.

  In response to the sharp, insistent bell on the zinc counter there presently came the shuffling of slippers and the patron appeared. He was all bonhomie and effusive welcome; yes, of course monsieur could have a room and dinner if he desired. It was the end of the season and he would not find it very gay—there was no one else dining in, but the chef could make him anything within reason. He would have his baggage fetched, if he wished.

  All this was very gratifying and as M. Pinet signed the register he should have been pleased. He had brought his solitary valise in with him and after an aperitif he began to forget the dreariness of the autumn evening and the mile after mile of sodden woods outside. He was agreeably surprised, too, at the sumptuous furnishings of the dining-room, which could easily have seated over two hundred people; the patron explained that many visitors came out from Paris to dine during the season.

  M. Pinet felt he was being unfair, but it was the character of the landlord which spoiled what otherwise would have been a delightful sojourn. He hadn't caught the man's name, but there was something about him which put M. Pinet off. He was an averagesized man with a triangular yellow face, a bald head, and unnaturally large ears. His little eyes sparkled meanly, redolent of greed and insincerity, and his wide slit mouth, which often parted to reveal gold teeth, was the crowning glory of an exceedingly ugly visage.

  To M. Pinet's discomfort this individual set out to make himself ingratiatingly helpful, and personally waited on him at dinner. Of other staff M. Pinet saw none, though there must have been people in the kitchen beyond as he frequently heard the low murmur of voices and once a plump woman in a low-cut black frock, possibly the patron's wife, walked by in the distance, giving him a stiff nod.

  But first M. Pinet wanted a wash and the landlord indicated the door of the toilet. It was down a short corridor off the dining-room; he had to fumble for the light switch and he then saw to his disgust that there was a large brown spider on the floor of the cracked stone corridor.

  It seemed to watch him with little metallic eyes, and with a sense of bubbling horror M. Pinet felt it crack beneath his foot as he ground it with his heel. He had an innate fear of spiders, almost pathological in its intensity, and the violent physical nausea stayed with him until after dinner.

  As he opened the door of the toilet and switched on the light there, M. Pinet could not repress a cry of panic. Faugh! There were two more of the monsters here, one on the wall near his head and the other on the floor near the toilet seat. M. Pinet fancied he could almost hear the low scratch of its legs, as it moved experimentally, its strange blue metallic eyes—the most curious he had ever seen in an insect—seeming to gaze at him with reproach. As it crunched beneath his almost hysterically wielded shoe, the eyes faded as the creature died. The other fled like lightning to a spot behind the lavatory cistern, wrenching another involuntary cry from M. Pinet's lips.

  A moment later the landlord was at his side. He seemed amused and his small eyes were dancing.

  ''No, monsieur," he said. ''Nothing to be alarmed about. The damp weather always brings them from the woods at this time of year. They will not harm you. They are my pets."

  He made a sort of clucking noise with his mouth, which M. Pinet found hideously revolting, and the great brown horror behind the cistern stirred. Before M. Pinet's disbelieving eyes it scuttled onto the landlord's open palm, where he stroked it and crooned to it in a thoroughly disgusting manner.

  M. Pinet, pale and disconcerted, excused himself and made shift by washing his hands and face at the washbasin in the corridor. Back in the dining-room he felt better and was relieved to see the patron first put the spider somewhere outside the back door. He was pleased too, to see this strange character wash his own hands before disappearing into the kitchen.

  The dinner was an excellent one and as M. Pinet tipped his croutons into the soup, he felt his spirits revive; the landlord was undoubtedly a somewhat peculiar man but he certainly knew how to produce a fine meal. M. Pinet was by this time so far soothed by his surroundings that he invited the landlord to join him at the table for a drink after his dinner was over. Contrary to his expectations the landlord seemed to draw more out of him than the information he gained in return. In answer to M. Pinet's point-blank question, as to whether he had been at the inn long, the patron replied, "No, not long. We move around quite a bit, my wife and I."

  M. Pinet did not pursue the subject. He had decided to pay for his meal before going to bed and settle for his accommodation in the morning. He was a methodically minded man and though it all came to the same thing in the end, he preferred to do it this way. He had stepped up to the desk in a corner of the dining-room and the landlord's eyes glistened and narrowed in an unpleasant manner as he spotted the huge bundle of notes in M. Pinet's wallet. The latter realized this was a mistake and somewhat awkwardly tried to cover them over with a batch of letters he carried, but this only served to draw more attention by its obvious clumsiness.

  The landlord stared at him unblinkingly, as he said, quite without emphasis, "You have had a successful season, monsieur." It was a statement, not a question, and M. Pinet managed to turn the conversation quickly to the subject of his room. A few moments later he said good-night and carried his own bag up to the chamber indicated on the first floor.

  The well-carpeted corridor had bowls of flowers on tables at intervals and bright lights were burning; there was an uneasy moment, however, as M. Pinet put his key in the lock of room Number 12. All the lights in the corridor suddenly went out, evidently controlled from downstairs, and for a long minute M. Pinet was in total darkness. A faint scratching noise away to his left brought sweat to his forehead, but a moment later he was inside his room and light flooded from the ceiling fixture. He locked the door and stood against it for a few seconds, taking in the contents of the room.

  It was a prettily conceived chamber and any other time M. Pinet would have been taken with its heavily contrived charm; but tonight, with his nerves curiously shaken, he was in no mood for atmosphere. He merely undressed as quickly as he could, turned up his bed, got a novel from his valise, and noisily cleaned his teeth in the basin in the corner. The mirror reflected back an image that was noticeably pale. Before getting into bed he heard the faint noise of footsteps outside and looking through the window was disconcerted to see the figure of the landlord, silhouetted against the light from an open door, furtively studying his car. A moment later he moved off and M. Pinet heard a door slam somewhere below him. He got into bed.

  The novel was a bad one and M. Pinet was greatly tired but somehow he did not want to sleep. He kept his bedside lamp burning but despite this eventually drifted off into a doze. Some time later he was awakened by the noise of a car driving away from the inn. Even as he became fully conscious he heard the faint sound of its engine die with a hum in the distance as the trees enveloped it.

  For some reason M. Pinet's mind became agitated at this and he felt a great desire to look out the window to see if his car was still in front of the hotel. Before he could move, however, he heard a faint scratching noise; his nerves strained as they
were, he turned his head with infinite slowness in an effort to locate the sound. Eventually—a quick glance at his watch showed him that it was after 2:00 a.m.—he narrowed down the source of the sound as coming from the triangular area formed by the corner of the ceiling farthest from him.

  It was in the gloomiest part of the chamber, for the light from the reading lamp extended only a yard or two; to switch on the main light M. Pinet would have to cross over to the door and he was loath to do this, particularly in his bare feet. He compromised by turning up the bedside lamp so that the light shone towards the far corner of the room. There was something there, but it was still so wrapped in shadow that he could not make out what it was.

  He groped for his glasses on the table by the bed; to do this he had to lower the lamp to its usual position, and while he was fumbling with this he heard his spectacle case fall with a soft thump onto the carpet at his bedside. He looked down; the spectacles were only about two feet from him but again, he had great reserve about stretching out his hand to the carpet. Dry-mouthed he turned, as the scratching noise came again and a cry was strangled in his throat as he saw the shadowy thing scuttle a little closer towards him across the ceiling; even without his glasses he did not need to be told what it was, but his senses still refused to believe.

  Something furry, like a tarantula, bigger than a soup-plate, round and with legs as thick as telephone cables. Its legs rustled together as it came across the ceiling with old-maidish deliberation and a thin purring noise came from it. As it edged forward into the brightness of the lamp M. Pinet saw with sick fear that it was covered with brown fur and had an obscene parody of a mouth.

  He looked round desperately for a stick or any other weapon, but there was nothing; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, denying him the shriek which would have saved him; his pyjamas streamed with perspiration and moisture dabbled his forehead. He closed his eyes once and opened them with an effort, hoping against hope that he was in the grip of nightmare. But the obscene, sliding thing was nearer still and M. Pinet gave up hope. He saw now that the creature had metallic blue eyes, like the eyes of the insects he had crushed in the washroom, and as they glared into his own with implacable hatred he noticed with a last shock of surprise that they were very like the landlord's.