Gaslit Horror

by Lamb, Hugh; Hearn, Lafcadio ; Capes, Bernard

  “No you don’t!” he shouted. “I don’t want you to admire me! I don’t desire to be revered! I don’t like attention and politeness! Do you hear! It’s artificial—out of date—ridiculous! The only thing that recommends a man to me is his bad manners, bad temper, and violent habits. There’s some meaning to such a man, none at all to men like you!”

  He ran at the salad bucket and kicked it again.

  “They all fawned on me in Boston!” he panted. “They ran about under foot! They bought my pictures! And they made me sick! I came out here to be rid of ’em!”

  I rose from the grass, pale and determined.

  “You listen to me, you old grouch!” I hissed. “I’ll go. But before I go I’ll tell you why I’ve been civil to you. There’s only one reason in the world: I want to marry your daughter! And I’m going to do it!”

  I stepped nearer him, menacing him with outstretched hand:

  “As for you, you pitiable old dodo, with your bad manners and your worse pictures, and your degraded mania for prunes, you are a necessary evil, that’s all, and I haven’t the slightest respect for either you or your art!”

  “Is that true?” he said in an altered voice.

  “True?” I laughed bitterly. “Of course it’s true, you miserable dauber!”

  “D-dauber!” he stammered.

  “Certainly! I said ‘dauber,’ and I mean it. Why, your work would shame the pictures on a child’s slate!”

  “Smith,” he said unsteadily, “I believe I have utterly misjudged you. I believe you are a good deal of man, after all—”

  “I’m man enough,” said I, fiercely, “to go back, saddle my mule, kidnap your daughter, and start for home. And I’m going to do it!”

  “Wait!” he cried. “I don’t want you to go. If you’ll remain I’ll be very glad. I’ll do anything you like. I’ll quarrel with you, and you can insult my pictures. It will agreeably stimulate us both. Don’t go, Smith—”

  “If I stay, may I marry Wilna?”

  “If you ask me I won’t let you!”

  “Very well!” I retorted, angrily. “Then I’ll marry her anyway!”

  “That’s the way to talk! Don’t go, Smith. I’m really beginning to like you. And when Billy Green arrives you and he will have a delightfully violent scene—”

  “What!”

  He rubbed his hands gleefully.

  “He’s in love with Wilna. You and he won’t get on. It is going to be very stimulating for me—I can see that! You and he are going to behave most disagreeably to each other. And I shall be exceedingly unpleasant to you both! Come, Smith, promise me that you’ll stay!”

  Profoundly worried, I stood staring at him in the moonlight, gnawing my mustache.

  “Very well,” I said, “I’ll remain if—”

  Something checked me, I did not quite know what for a moment. Blythe, too, was staring at me in an odd, apprehensive way. Suddenly I realised that under my feet the ground was stirring.

  “Look out!” I cried; but speech froze on my lips as beneath me the solid earth began to rock and crack and billow up into a high, crumbling ridge, moving continually, as the sod cracks, heaves up, and crumbles above the subterranean progress of a mole.

  Up into the air we were slowly pushed on the ever-growing ridge; and with us were carried rocks and bushes and sod, and even forest trees.

  I could hear their tap-roots part with pistol-like reports; see great pines and hemlocks and oaks moving, slanting, settling, tilting crazily in every direction as they were heaved upward in this gigantic disturbance.

  Blythe caught me by the arm; we clutched each other, balancing on the crest of the steadily rising mound.

  “W-what is it?” he stammered. “Look! It’s circular. The woods are rising in a huge circle. What’s happening? Do you know?”

  Over me crept a horrible certainty that something living was moving under us through the depths of the earth—something that, as it progressed, was heaping up the surface of the world above its unseen and burrowing course—something dreadful, enormous, sinister, and alive!

  “Look out!” screamed Blythe; and at the same instant the crumbling summit of the ridge opened under our feet and a fissure hundreds of yards long yawned ahead of us.

  And along it, shining slimily in the moonlight, a vast, viscous, ringed surface was moving, retracting, undulating, elongating, writhing, squirming, shuddering.

  “It’s a worm!” shrieked Blythe. “Oh, God! It’s a mile long!”

  As in a nightmare we clutched each other, struggling frantically to avoid the fissure; but the soft earth slid and gave way under us, and we fell heavily upon that ghastly, living surface.

  Instantly a violent convulsion hurled us upwards; we fell on it again, rebounding from the rubbery thing, strove to regain our feet and scramble up the edges of the fissure, strove madly while the mammoth worm slid more rapidly through the rocking forests, carrying us forward with a speed increasing.

  Through the forest we tore, reeling about on the slippery back of the thing, as though riding on a ploughshare, while trees clashed and tilted and fell from the enormous furrow on every side; then, suddenly out of the woods into the moonlight, far ahead of us we could see the grassy upland heave up, cake, break, and crumble above the burrowing course of the monster.

  “It’s making for the crater!” gasped Blythe; and horror spurred us on, and we scrambled and slipped and clawed the billowing sides of the furrow until we gained the heaving top of it.

  As one runs in a bad dream, heavily, half-paralyzed, so ran Blythe and I, toiling over the undulating, tumbling upheaval until, half-fainting, we fell and rolled down the shifting slope onto solid and unvexed sod on the very edges of the crater.

  Below us we saw, with sickened eyes, the entire circumference of the crater agitated, saw it rise and fall as avalanches of rock and earth slid into it, tons and thousands of tons rushing down the slope, blotting from our sight the flickering ring of flame, and extinguishing the last filmy jet of vapour.

  Suddenly the entire crater caved in and filled up under my anguished eyes, quenching for all eternity the vapour wall, the fire, and burying the little denizens of the flames, and perhaps a billion dollars’ worth of emeralds under as many billion tons of earth.

  Quieter and quieter grew the earth as the gigantic worm bored straight down into depths immeasurable. And at last the moon shone upon a world that lay without a tremor in its milky lustre.

  “I shall name it Verma gigantica,” said I, with a hysterical sob; “but nobody will ever believe me when I tell this story!”

  Still terribly shaken, we turned towards the house. And, as we approached the lamplit veranda, I saw a horse standing there and a young man hastily dismounting.

  And then a terrible thing occurred; for, before I could even shriek, Wilna had put both arms around that young man’s neck, and both of his arms were clasping her waist.

  Blythe was kind to me. He took me around the back way and put me to bed.

  And there I lay through the most awful night I ever experienced, listening to the piano below, where Wilna and William Green were singing Un Peu d’Amour.

  John C. Shannon

  John C. Shannon, alas, is shrouded in mystery. All that is known about him is that he lived in Walsall, where he published several stories in the Walsall Advertiser in the 1890s, and later collected them into two volumes, Who Shall Condemn (1894), published in Walsall, and the later Zylgrahof (1901).

  He also published a novel, D’Aubise (1900) and that seems to have been his total output. He never made enough of a mark to have been included in any directory of the day, so who he was and what he did for a living remains a puzzle.

  “The Spirit of the Fjord” comes from Zylgrahof and is a neat little story in an unusual locale.

  The Spirit of the Fjord

  The S.S. Valda was steaming slowly over the broad expanse of one of the largest of the Norwegian Fjords. So slow was her progress that the lazy parting of the wate
r at her prow was almost invisible.

  Dinner was just over. Her passengers were seated in small groups about her spacious deck. Some talked, their conversation punctuated by frequent laughter; others passed the time indulging in the various amusements available on such a trip. Two or three of the men were pacing the deck arm-in-arm, smoking.

  The sun was setting, flooding the water with dazzling glory. On the horizon the hills lay low and black. Nearer were a few solitary islands, their every detail clearly visible in the departing blaze. Afar was a solitary, tiny sail—the only sign of life, except the graceful steamship Valda, whose masts and rigging shewed blackly-delicate against the golden sky.

  The sun sank swiftly till its lower edge disappeared behind the hills, and the distant mountains glowed blood-red. The light crept stealthily over the water, enveloped the vessel, passed over it, and finally outlined the lonely islands with a band of liquid fire. Then there succeeded that mysterious, purple twilight peculiar to those latitudes.

  As the sun disappeared, a young man, who had been leaning alone over the vessel’s stern contemplating the scene, turned from the rail and walked along the deck into the smoking-room. He was tall, well-proportioned, had a well-knit, athletic figure, and handsome, debonair face.

  During the few days he had been aboard the Valda, Gilbert Amyn had succeeded in making himself extremely popular. Of a sunny disposition, prone to see the ludicrous side of most things, he was an ideal shipmate. Ever willing to join in any amusement, he was in universal request, and his appearance was hailed with delight. Immediately half-a-dozen voices invited him to join in one or other of the various games in progress.

  Soon, as the deck became deserted, cards were abandoned, and the men strolled out to seat themselves in the vacated deckchairs for a final smoke in the cool night air before going below.

  As they smoked, the Captain joined the circle. Wishing his passengers “Good evening,” he sat down and lighted a cigar.

  Taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, Amyn addressed the company in general.

  “As I was leaning over the stern about an hour ago,” he remarked, “a most extraordinary thing happened. I don’t know whether it was what you would call an optical illusion or not. At any rate, it has puzzled me considerably. If it won’t bore you, I will tell you what I saw. Perhaps between us we may evolve a solution of the mystery.”

  It is curious how small a thing awakens interest aboard ship. The men gathered on the Valda’s deck immediately evinced their eagerness to hear what Amyn had to say. The Doctor, acting as spokesman, and lighting a fresh cigar, replied for all:—

  “Fire away, Amyn, by all means let us hear your experience.”

  Thus adjured, Amyn told his story:—

  “I was watching the sunset from the stern of the vessel. I confess to a weakness for sunsets, and this evening’s was passing beautiful. Over yonder the hills were intensely black, presenting a vivid contrast to the luminous yellow radiance cast by the setting sun. Overhead the sky was a beautiful tinge midway between crimson and gold. The whole scene was lovely in the extreme. I was watching more particularly the long trail made by our propellor, noting the varied tints the foam assumed as it danced in the brilliant light, when suddenly, a short distance away, I saw a skiff. Now, I can swear that a moment before the Fjord was absolutely deserted, except for our own vessel and a solitary fishing-boat over by the distant mountains. Whence, then, came the skiff?

  “As I watched it drew swiftly nearer, and I saw that it was occupied by a girl. She was quite alone, standing erect in the boat, her hands loosely clasped before her. The skiff moved rapidly towards me, though the girl had no oar, and did not appear, so far as I could see, to make any movement which would account for its progress. How it advanced, therefore, was as much a mystery as it coming.

  “These questions, however, faded into insignificance beside the amazing beauty of the girl. I have seen many beautiful women, but never so lovely a face.

  “Its colouring was fresh and delicate. The skin was tinged with a dainty rose-flush. The mouth was small; the eyes large and blue, their half-shy, half-tender, wholly trusting glance making them dangerously fascinating. But her hair was her crowning glory. It fell around her in rich, wavy masses, completely enveloping the upper part of her form. The colour of molten gold, it flamed about her like some gorgeous aureole as the waning sunlight kissed it.

  “Clad in white from head to foot, her simple robe was exquisitely broidered, and was confined at her waist by a curiously wrought silver girdle. The skiff in which she stood was of ancient shape and very small.

  “Such was the vision. To say that I was astonished is but feebly to express my feelings. Whither the girl and boat had come was beyond my power to fathom.

  “As she approached I obtained a clearer view of her, but the nearer she came the more beautiful she seemed. It was the type of face for love of which men commit crimes; the dangerous beauty of a Circe; the witching countenance of a Siren.

  “Soon she drew abreast of our vessel, but as she came within a stone’s throw the skiff turned aside and shot away towards the mountains. As it receded I strained my eyes in my eagerness to catch the last glimpse of that lovely form. When some little distance away she turned her head and smiled at me; and, smiling, I think she looked more beautiful than before. Then, as I watched, though I am not conscious of having removed my eyes for a moment, she vanished. It was most mysterious.”

  “A very curious occurrence altogether, Amyn. You are quite sure, old fellow, that you were not enjoying an afternoon siesta?” laughingly remarked the Doctor.

  “Spare me your chaff, if you please, Doctor. I was most certainly not asleep, though I was almost tempted to think I was the victim of a waking dream.”

  “I think I can give Mr. Amyn some explanation of the phenomenon,” interjected the Captain.

  Every man settled himself to listen. Amyn’s story had evidently excited their imaginations.

  “First of all, are you superstitious?”

  “Not the least,” replied Amyn, somewhat surprised.

  “I only ask because if you are, what I am about to say may affect your nerves and considerably startle you. In short, are you a believer in omens or presentiments?”

  “No, Captain, I’m not,” answered Amyn, emphatically.

  “Good. Then I’ll tell you as briefly as possible the story of the ‘Spirit of the Fjord.’ ”

  Clearing his throat, and flicking the ash from his cigar, the Captain related the following legend:—

  “Many years ago there stood on the brow of a cliff over yonder,” pointing to the distant mountains, “a Castle. It was strongly fortified, and occupied a position practically impregnable.

  “It was the home of a warrior Norseman, of whose life-history the legend does not speak. He does not seem to have been of the slightest importance to the story.

  “He had a beautiful wife, but unfortunately, up to a certain point in their lives, children had been denied them. Sorely troubled, the woman prayed to the Norwegian Fates to give her a child. Pitying her, they promised that she should have a daughter. In process of time the child was born, and the mother’s heart rejoiced.

  “Norwa grew and throve as the years passed, ever increasing in beauty. Gradually, however, the mother forgot the kindness of the Norns. Her heart grew arrogant because of the loveliness which had been entrusted to her, till at last her pride became so great that it burst all bounds. She openly boasted to her kinsfolk concerning the exceeding beauty of her child, asserting that nothing could surpass it. In extravagant language she eulogized it, saying that to her, and to her only, had been born one so lovely. The Fates grew angry at the vain-glorious boasting of the woman, and one night, as she slept, they appeared to her in a dream to upbraid her for her folly.

  “In fear, the mother prayed to be forgiven. Willingly the Norns extended their forgiveness, but as the penalty of her boasting they decreed that henceforth the child’s beauty should be accur
sed and the death of many. Humbly the mother pleaded, but they would not relent, and as the morning broke they left her weeping.

  “Years passed. Norwa’s beauty increased exceedingly, till the fame of it spread throughout the length and breadth of Norway. From far and near came knights and warriors eager to win her hand. The mother’s heart was heavy as she saw these things, for the words of the Fates echoed continually in her memory.

  “Men of noble blood, of mighty deeds—the greatest the land could boast—sought Norwa’s love. But the girl’s heart seemed formed of ice. She laughed at their words, sending them away sorrowing or gnashing their teeth at the bitterness of her speech. Then came the fulfilment of the curse the Norns had laid upon her. Of all those who came, confident of success, few were heard of more. Many vanished as though the earth had opened and swallowed them. Others were found dead on the path leading to the Castle gate, a look of nameless terror on their faces. Others, missing their way in the darkness, fell over the precipice and were either drowned in the sea or dashed to pieces on the rocks below.

  “Awesome tales began to be whispered concerning these things, and Frelda, Norwa’s mother, sorrowed over the terrible thing her folly had brought to pass. As for the beautiful Norwa, she did but laugh, singing softly to herself as she stood by the edge of the cliff looking out over the sea. What were the lives of men to her? Of their own free will they sought her. If her beauty slew them, what mattered it?

  “So time passed, till the Castle of Geiranger came to be regarded as a haunted place, and dark stories were recounted concerning Norwa, Maiden of the Ice Heart.

  “Then came a noble knight. His manner was winsome, his words pleasing. He had come, he said, to woo and win the lady Norwa, and for many days he sojourned at the Castle.

  “At this time, Frelda, Norwa’s mother, wearied by much sorrow, died, and was buried by the edge of the cliff, in sight of the great Fjord, whose constant murmur sighed plaintively above her grave.

  “At last the knight told his love to Norwa. With a radiant smile she listened to his impassioned words. As he ceased, she laughed in his face, a silvery, rippling laugh which maddened him. Fiercely he demanded if she loved him. Gaily the maiden answered “Nay,” and laughed again.