The Year's Best Horror Stories 16

by Karl Edward Wagner (Ed. )

  Will-he-come-he-must-not-come-He-comes-he-comes!

  As if a company of people were stealthily approaching, a muttering group of men ...

  Then the wind changed direction, and high above the chorus I heard Layton shouting that the boy had been found.

  Sleepwalking, it appeared. He had wandered out of the house in his sleep and no harm done. Well, well. I returned to my bed and got precious little rest myself. My mind kept puzzling over the voices; they reminded me of a curious incident when I was at Eton. One of the pupils there was given to talking in his sleep, and I had noticed how, when this happened, the entire dormitory would begin to toss and turn and murmur until the whole room filled with a strange babbling sound. Odd. Being quite unable to close my eyes again I got up and spent the rest of the night studying the notes I had made on Medborough Abbey. It seemed the monks were allowed to talk together for one hour every day in a particular room set aside for the purpose, and very reasonably named the Talking Room. I amused myself by wondering if my voices had been some weird echo from the past, a recreation of a conversation long gone.

  It was far more likely to be the wind.

  I extinguished the gas and went back to bed.

  Now, I had every intention of making some courteous excuse the next day and leaving; I found both the house and the company depressing and quite beyond anything I could do to help, alas. The unfortunate Layton had my sympathy but I could imagine no way of saving his Academy For Young Gentlemen; the whole enterprise had been foolhardy to a degree. I opened my mouth to frame a suitable apology to Mrs. Layton, to ask what time the next train left for Cambridge ... and was forestalled by my host bursting into the breakfast room clutching a metal object.

  “James! My dear James! How very fortunate, thank goodness you’re here, I really have no idea what to do. It’s extraordinary, inexplicable; I have questioned the boy of course, I have demanded an explanation, I can get no sense out of him at all. Bless my soul, what am I going to do?” He dropped the object on the table causing milk to spill from the jug and spread slowly across the tablecloth. Mrs. Layton uttered a little squeal while I ... I looked at the thing.

  It was a crucifix. A rather large crucifix, stained and dented by age but quite possibly made of gold. I blinked. So did Mrs. Layton.

  “Good gracious me.”

  “The housemaid found it in his bed! Hidden in that wretched boy’s bed!”

  I do not pretend to any expert knowledge of church antiques but it did seem a most curious discovery. I said as much and went with him to question the child. Our enquiries were not helped by the headmaster’s hysterical insistence on “the truth, the truth, tell me the truth, Harley!”, and Harley’s defiance, a kind of timid obstinacy. He backed against the wall, he gazed fixedly at his boots; finally he declared:

  “Well, he must have left it there.”

  “Who left it, Harley?”

  “I think he was a monk!” said Harley, and burst into tears. When we succeeded in checking the flood there emerged through choking sobs a tale of bad dreams, moonlight, and a figure standing by the end of his bed.

  “A ghost?” sneered Layton in tones that would have done credit to an actor at the Lyceum; he had a most unfortunate tendency to use theatrical gestures and intonations, a habit which ought not to have detracted from one’s belief in his sincerity. But did. “I suppose this monk gibbered, rattled bones, and threatened you!”

  “No,” said Harley faintly. “He just looked rather surprised at finding me there.”

  “After which he vanished through the wall, no doubt!”

  “I don’t know what he did, sir! Honestly! I was hiding under the bedclothes.”

  “I will not listen to these impudent lies! How dare you, boy, your parents shall be informed, oh yes, they shall be told of your behavior. Where did you get the crucifix?”

  “I didn’t! It’s nothing to do with me!”

  “Liar!”

  We were making no progress whatsoever and the situation seemed to me to be getting out of hand. I stepped between the two and asked, “Why do you believe it was a monk, Harley?”

  “Because the Abbey is haunted.” A sniff. He wiped his nose. “Everybody knows the Abbey is haunted.”

  “The Abbey is not haunted!” shrieked Layton, quite beside himself with rage. “Go to your room, you wretched child! You will stay there and you will have no luncheon; would you try to deceive Dr. James; have you no honesty, no respect?”

  Harley fled and Layton grumbled all the way back to the breakfast table, mostly on the subject of mendacious boys, the disobedience of the rising generation and the damage any rumors—however false—of ghostly apparitions could do to the school.

  “I have enough troubles,” he said somberly, and said no more for the remainder of the meal.

  But I was sufficiently curious to seek out young Harley and ask for a more detailed account of his adventure. He struck me as a commonplace and rather timid person, unlikely to have invented the tale for the sake of notoriety; a theory much favored by Mrs. Layton who hinted the whole thing had been fabricated in a juvenile attempt to grab at our attention.

  I did not think Harley wanted our attention.

  In an effort to put the boy at his ease I chattered on about the Abbey, the enclosed order of monks, the place set aside for conversation and known as the Talking Room. This last roused him.

  “Oh, I know where that is. I’ve heard them.”

  A flat statement. I could get no more and I would have dismissed it except for a memory which stirred in my own mind.

  Does-he-know-he-must-not-know-he-surely-knows!

  Strange. An illusion! Had we both had the same illusion?

  It would do no harm to stay for another couple of days. I occupied the morning by sketching various parts of the Abbey; most of it appeared to be late Norman work and I particularly admired the south cloister. From time to time I would stop and listen. I could hear nothing save the faint movement of grass. Presently to my considerable annoyance it began to snow.

  Over luncheon (to which young Harley had not been summoned; my host set great price on the consistency of his threats), Mrs. Layton leaned across the table and, trailing her sleeve in the soup, said:

  “Do tell me, Dr. James, is much known about the history of Medborough Abbey? I mean, could there actually be a ghost or anything horrid like that?”

  Her husband gave a snort of irritation and tore his roll in half, I consulted my recollections and produced the only story likely to entertain her.

  “Well, now. There is a legend, I believe. It appears that during the Suppression of the Monasteries the monks plotted to save their precious silver and gold by the simple device of setting fire to the Abbey, having first removed the valuables; the purpose being to declare them lost in the ensuing blaze. They kept the plan secret from their Abbot. I regret to tell you he came upon them suddenly one day in the Talking Room and discovered everything.”

  “Good gracious! So they abandoned the plot?”

  “No, no. The good Abbot, on overhearing their scheme, endorsed the idea of arson as both practical and prudent and gave it his blessing.”

  “So they burned the Abbey down ...? On purpose ...?”

  “This is just hearsay,” muttered Layton.

  “My dear Layton, all history is merely hearsay, and written evidence often a record of other men’s lies. I give you the tale for what it is worth.”

  “But how fascinating! What happened to the silver and gold?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I suppose the monks took it away ...?”

  “We shall never know, Mrs. Layton. Unfortunately Henry the King regarded both the fire and the monks with grave suspicion and they were hanged.”

  She gave the expected little squeal, her husband changed the subject and the meal ground to its indigestible end. As we left the table he indicated the crucifix now standing on the sideboard and murmured:

  “Could that possibly be ...? James?
Could it?”

  I replied truthfully that I could not possibly tell, it would need to be dated by an expert in such things and I considered the notion unlikely in the extreme. But he lingered in the dining room after we had gone and a backward glance showed him polishing the relic vigorously with his table napkin.

  The broken night had left me fatigued, I retired to my bedroom and was shaken from sleep by a ragged chorus of carol singers, apparently directly beneath my window. “God rest you merry, gentlemen, may nothing you dismay!” Upon my soul. I had been trying to rest, I was dismayed; still, we were within a week of Christmas and one should be charitable at the festive season. I opened the window meaning to throw a coin down and was mildly surprised to see three rough-looking men below. On hearing the noise they looked up and for some reason burst into raucous laughter. The next moment the front door opened and Layton came out; his appearance triggered another burst of laughter and more singing.

  “God rest you, merry gentlemen, may nothing you dismay!”

  They clustered round the headmaster; instead of receiving a suitable tip they were presenting him with some object, they were giving him—of all things!—a Christmas cracker. “Happy Christmas!” I cried, tossing down my contribution.

  Layton stepped back and gazed up at me with the most extraordinary expression on his face; really, one would have said the man was frightened. Yet he knew I was there! As I watched, trying to make sense of his reaction, Mrs. Layton trotted down the steps, noticed the cracker in his hand and seized it. Her voice shrilled up through the cold air—a cracker, how delightful, why, they had not had crackers for years; how clever of the visitors to guess there was a child in the house! At this the carol singers backed away down the path laughing uncontrollably, Mrs. Layton squealed that she found the cold quite unendurable and retreated into the house taking the cracker with her. She waved it gaily as she went.

  As for Layton ... He stood there; and if he had seen young Harley’s monk he could not have looked more shaken.

  A curious scene. I shut the window and went back to bed.

  Whatever their financial difficulties, Mrs. Layton had made a most determined effort to provide Christmas fare and an atmosphere of Yuletide jollity. We sat down that night to goose and plum pudding, the room had been decked with sprigs of evergreen and a pile of crackers occupied the center of the table, where they were in imminent danger of being set alight by the candles. Red crinkly paper, silver foil—she must have decided to supplement the gift; one cracker would have looked distinctly odd. Young Harley had evidently been forgiven; still, he seemed downcast, he concentrated on his food and made no attempt to respond to Mrs. Layton’s playful jokes, while Layton, I regret to say, concentrated on the wine and was drinking altogether too much of it. From time to time he eyed the center decoration. I confess to a certain interest myself; one of them might indeed be the cracker handed in at the door, impossible to say which. So Layton drank and Mrs. Layton prattled, the boy ate and the crucifix winked on the sideboard. It had been polished to great advantage.

  The meal commenced at half past six; by eight o’clock my host appeared slightly drunk, his wife’s hair was coming down while Harley looked sick, no doubt from an excess of sugar plums. The maid Gladys served coffee. Mrs. Layton suddenly made a little grab at the heap crying “Crackers! Crackers!” Her action scattered the things in all directions, I noticed her husband fumbling through them with a shaking hand, and if he could identify that one particular cracker it was more than I could do. Courtesy demanded I join in the gaiety; we pulled crackers, we read appalling jokes to each other and laughed quite immoderately. There were snaps and mottoes and paper hats which perched uneasily upon our adult heads. I gathered this performance was for the benefit of the boy, who was most certainly not enjoying it. He leaned forward obediently, urged on by Mrs. Layton. As the snap exploded with a small “plop” and the red casing tore apart, something fell to the table between them. Arthur Layton snatched it up.

  “That’s mine!” protested Harley.

  “Arthur, don’t be naughty, that was our cracker!”

  He continued to stare at the scrap of paper in his hand.

  “Arthur? Is it a joke? Oh, do tell us, what have you got there, a motto or a riddle? I love riddles, don’t you love riddles, Dr. James?”

  I nodded. The puzzle occupying my mind at that moment was why the headmaster should look so inexplicably alarmed. He recovered almost instantly, muttering words to the effect that the contents were unsuitable for juvenile ears; he stuffed the paper into his pocket and reached for the wine decanter. For some time after, he sat in a morose silence and kept glancing at the clock. Presently, and possibly because she had noticed the direction of his eyes, Mrs. Layton turned to Harley and cried merrily, “Bedtime! Bedtime!”

  I began to rise from the table myself; and was astonished to hear Layton exclaim: “NO!”.

  He pushed the chair back. His eyes were quite unnaturally bright and his manner really very odd. It occurred to me that the man had had far too much to drink.

  “We must celebrate!” He leaned on the chair for support. “We have an honored guest, we have Dr. James with us; he is an authority—an authority on Medievalism.” He stumbled over the word. “He wants to see the Abbey. Come along, come along, we must show him the Abbey.”

  “Not at this time of night, Arthur!”

  Her wail was echoed by my own protest; I had no desire to be dragged out into the winter air, I am subject to colds. He ignored us both, and staggered toward the door, both arms flailing.

  “Tomorrow we might be snowed up. It won’t do. Tomorrow will be too late.”

  We chased after him, raising every sensible objection; the whole idea of visiting the ruins was ludicrous, out of the question ... But he was already in the hall shouting for the staff, calling for lanterns, and urging us to put on warm overcoats. I drew Mrs. Layton aside and begged her to get her husband to bed. She was in tears and totally ineffective, she clutched at my arm and entreated me not to leave them; the scene grew further confused as young Harley shot out of the dining room shrieking that the Abbey was haunted and he wouldn’t go. So far from helping the situation, this goaded Layton into further and even more grotesque action; he vanished from the hall and reappeared carrying the crucifix, he shouted defiance: the Abbey was not haunted, there were no ghosts, and he would not suffer his school to be destroyed by vicious rumors and malicious invention!

  In the end we wrapped ourselves in outer clothing and trailed after him; he had succeeded by now in raising the entire household. We crossed the grass in ragged procession, clinging on to one another to avoid slipping on the frozen ground. I have never seen a more absurd undertaking. Arriving among the ruins it became apparent that Mr. Layton (who did not believe in ghosts) had come there with the intention of exorcising them. He placed the crucifix on a ledge and began to intone prayers of doubtful authenticity and quite horrid ferocity, calling on the Lord to strike his enemies dead; he insisted on our small group—Mrs. Layton, the boy, the maid Gladys, the cook—responding to his exhortations. And very strange we must have looked, gathered together in the shadow of the north transept, the lantern flickering in the wind. I listened: among Layton’s outbursts I managed to identify lines from the terrible 109th Psalm. “Destroy mine enemy! Set thou a wicked man over him and let Satan stand at his right hand!” Something pressed against my side; I became conscious of Harley cowering up against me and realized that he was listening too.

  But for something else.

  “Can you hear them?” he whispered.

  I feigned ignorance; one should not needlessly alarm the young, and besides I could hear nothing save Layton’s voice raised in prayer, our own mumbled Amens, and a rustling ...

  A whispering?

  A dry murmur from beyond the arch.

  At that moment Layton shouted to heaven for justice, Mrs. Layton squealed, the cook jumped sideways, knocked over the lantern and the light went out. There was a certain a
mount of confused scuffling in the dark; by some malign chance the moon took that moment to vanish behind a surge of billowing cloud.

  I became conscious of a strong smell of burning.

  And then beyond all hope of pretense or concealment I heard them—they came from the chapter house, they rushed upon us through the shattered pillars of the nave, and the chorus grew and swelled and became a monstrous roar.

  Save-us-save-us-save-us-save-us-save-us!

  Save-us-save-us-save-us-save-us-save-us!

  SAVE-US-SAVE-US-SAVE-US!

  On a sleepless night it can haunt me still. There arose from the ruins a kind of spiraling vapor, a mist that wavered and took form and swept along the north transept; the most appalling stench hit our nostrils, we scattered and fled in all directions and still the Thing swept on. My last impression was of a series of gaping mouths set in folds of dirty linen.

  It lasted perhaps ten seconds. It ended, leaving only a faint murmur beyond the columns, the noise of Gladys weeping, and an all-pervading reek of decay. We calmed the women to the best of our ability, Mrs. Layton’s terror subsiding quite fast into a shrill abuse. We discovered the path and thought at first the moon must have reappeared, for the horizon seemed flooded with light. But Harley cried that the whole sky was changing color, and as we turned the reason became dreadfully apparent.

  The school was on fire.

  Round blobs erupted from the roof, they sprouted like so many black toadstools from the gable and rose and spread in puff-ball smoke. Lurid streaks of flame shot up between them and flared and sank again. The maid Gladys screamed “Oh my God,” Layton stood as if nailed to the ground, his wife called out—absurdly, ludicrously!—“Help, help, help!” Then we all began to run.

  I have nothing but praise for the fire service. They arrived within forty minutes, they struggled with great courage to control the blaze; but the fact remains that there had been a fatal delay owing to the number of emergencies over the Christmas holiday, the dangerous state of the roads due to the weather, and our own failure to alert them at once. I have a confused memory of ladders, hose pipes, men clambering along the parapet and a solitary figure which appeared at a window and threw a tiger-skin rug onto the lawn, where it lay grinning among the debris. As for the rest—Why—shouts, screaming, the hiss of water and the crash of falling masonry. At one point I came upon Layton staring wild-eyed at the chaos.