The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories

by Michael McDowell

  The next day, when Daphne and Anne were unlatching the little gate that divided the flower-­filled garden of their cottage from the road – little more than a track – that formed the main street of village, they encountered Mrs Arraway, who, her arms full of vegetables, wished them good morning.

  ‘We didn’t have much encouragement from your son last night,’ said Anne laughingly.

  Mrs Arraway’s mouth tightened into a thin line, and an anxious frown wrinkled the placid expanse of her forehead.

  ‘Oh, miss, do give up this mad idea of yours. Jean told me he’d tried to dissuade you. You don’t know these islands like we do. Indeed, how could you?’

  ‘But, Mrs Arraway, what is it exactly we have to fear – smugglers or such shady doings?’

  ‘No, miss – smugglers are flesh and blood – but the Thing on Tobit . . . well, no one knows rightly quite what it is, tho’ they do say that Tobit belongs to the sea; and that each year the sea demands a sacrifice – in return for all it gives to us.’

  In spite of the brilliant sunshine and the cheerfulness of the bright island scenery, Daphne felt a chill of foreboding. After all, these islanders might be much nearer to the truth of things than she and Anne.

  ‘The sea missed its sacrifice last year – didn’t it? How about that?’ Anne teased.

  ‘Don’t joke about such a subject, miss – and don’t, I beg of you, go to Tobit to-­night.’

  ‘Nonsense, Mrs Arraway, we simply must go. We’ll be alright . . . don’t worry. Would you be very kind, and make us up a picnic basket? We’re starting about seven to give ourselves plenty of time to settle down before it’s dark’ – and the girls swung down the road, two gay figures in their coloured cotton dresses, their towels and bathing suits over their arms.

  A group of fishermen was clustered round the few wooden sheds that formed the tiny harbour, overhauling their nets; or sitting silent in companionable groups.

  Nothing could have been less sinister or more secure than the tranquil sun-­soaked scene. The sea, its calm scarcely broken by a ripple, lay smiling in the sun, flaunting its motley of blues and greens and rich purples – a sea more of the tropics than of our dour northern climate – yet a sea that could on occasion be lashed into a pitiless titan devoid of mercy, a monster of tossing crests and crashing spume-­flecked waves that flayed the rocks and crushed the pebbles in grinding torment.

  It was after six o’clock when Daphne and Anne, after a long and lazy day on the beach, returned to the cottage. They were full of content, and a pleasurable fatigue, the outcome of hours of amphibian existence; of bathing, and basking, and bathing once more. Their skins were bronzed to a deep tan that made their young prettiness the more effective. Health and well-­being wrapped them in their cheerful embrace.

  They were met by Jean, his dark hair ruffled, his face sullen. He wore a bleached blue shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the tense muscles of his arms; light canvas shoes, and well-­worn flannel trousers completed his dress.

  ‘Good evening, Jean.’

  ‘Good evening, missie.’

  The two girls started to walk up the stone flags of the path, Jean following. At the door he spoke.

  ‘You’re going to Tobit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll take you, missie.’

  ‘But I thought nothing would persuade an islander to go there?’

  Jean flushed. He was intensely uncomfortable. ‘You see, missie. It isn’t right for you to go alone. I’d feel happier myself, like, if you’d let me take you.’

  ‘Thank you, we’re very grateful.’ Daphne spoke with sincerity, for she knew the effort that had prompted Jean’s offer.

  ‘But you mustn’t sleep on the island. That would spoil everything, wouldn’t it, Daphne?’ then, seeing the man’s embarrassment, Anne hurried on, ‘I mean, you must drop us there, and either come back for us in the morning, or sleep in the boat.’

  ‘As you say, missie. And what time will you want to be starting?’

  ‘In about half an hour. We’ll meet you at the harbour.’

  Up in their bedroom, while they were collecting the blankets and rugs necessary for their night’s adventure, Daphne said, ‘You know, Anne, I’m rather pleased Jean will be near us.’

  ‘Why, I believe you’re scared.’

  ‘I’m not at all – but it will mean we can get away if we want to.’

  ‘We shan’t. Hurry up – we’ve got to get the food yet – and don’t forget the matches.’

  They found Jean waiting for them in the boat; and in a very few minutes their various packages were stowed away and their journey had begun. Tobit lay about a mile to the west of St Mark’s – a last defiant rock against the barrage of the Atlantic. To their left Daphne saw the island of Samson, uninhabited save for the sea-­gulls, although a ruined hut showed where once a shepherd had grazed a few sheep. Tobit itself lay low in the sea – a queer, dark shape, a gigantic beast of a long-­forgotten age, stricken and petrified, wallowing in the mill of the waters. Its rocky and forbidding shores riddled with caves gave scant welcome to visitors from the neighbouring islands. On the higher land a coarse sea-­grass faintly coloured its spine, dotted with giant and fantastic boulders, monuments of a race lost in the dim ages of the past, perhaps a mountain outpost of Atlantis itself.

  Daphne was surprised to find that the boat was nearly there, so lost had she been in her musings. Jean sprang into the sea and waded ashore with the blankets and picnic basket.

  From the boat the girls noticed that the rocks had caught a liberal supply of driftwood, so that there would be no likelihood of their fire dying down through lack of fuel.

  In a few minutes Jean returned; he had not spoken during the journey, and was evidently liking the expedition no more than in the morning.

  ‘Shall I carry you, missie?’

  ‘No – we’ll wade, too,’ Anne answered.

  ‘Then I’ll be helping you to get settled. There’s a sandy hollow at the far end of the island that should be sheltered.’

  They splashed after him to the shore; stumbling over the treacherous rocks slippery with seaweed of a peculiar red colour, and studded with deep pools. Five minutes’ walking brought them to a narrow peninsula on the main end of which was a circular patch of sand almost entirely surrounded by great wind-­eaten rocks.

  ‘I say, Daphne,’ her friend said, ‘looks like a druid’s circle, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It’s one of the fairies’ rings,’ Jean broke in. ‘There are several such on the islands. The pixies made them.’

  Daphne laughed. ‘Yes? I must thank them in that case for our bedroom. By the way, are you going to sleep in the boat to-­night?’

  ‘It’s not right for you to be here by yourselves. It’s dangerous, I tell you. Tobit’s cursed. It belongs to the sea.’

  ‘If you’re afraid, why don’t you go back to St Mark’s? You can come back for us in the morning.’ There was a taunt in Anne’s question.

  ‘I won’t be denying that I be afraid. But I won’t be leaving you.’

  ‘Then you’ll sleep – in the boat?’

  ‘No. I’ll be on the main part of the island. Near like, in case you’re needing me. I’d best stay within hearing.’

  ‘Very well.’ Daphne turned to Anne. ‘I think we should collect the wood for the fire. Jean and I will get it while you “unpack.” ’

  They walked away; and Anne started to make their camp. In her heart of hearts she was none too confident now that night was actually falling . . . and there was no going back. She shivered. Why should her thoughts say that?

  There is no going back! She mustn’t be hysterical. It might have serious consequences. Still, the feeling remained – a feeling of uneasiness, of dread, almost as if something was menacing them – something unseen watching – and waiting.

  Ten o’clock. The firelight flickered eerily, throwing into brief illumination the faces of the two girls, and causing dark shadows to dart mome
ntarily to the very edge of the crackling, salt-­­saturated fire.

  ‘Don’t you think we should try to sleep?’ Daphne suggested. ‘It’s after ten.’

  ‘Yes. Daphne – I hate to admit it – but I’m frightened. Where’s Jean?’

  ‘Over there to the left – about a hundred yards.’

  ‘Is he asleep?’

  ‘No, he said he’d . . . watch.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Goodness only knows. The Bogey, perhaps!’ Anne snuggled down more comfortably into her blankets. It was so easy to imagine things, she told herself.

  ‘Good night.’

  ‘Good night.’

  And the waves splashed softly on the shore.

  Two hours passed. Daphne stirred restlessly. Then she sat up.

  What was that?

  The air seemed to vibrate with a high singing sound – oddly penetrating, like the noise of a swarm of giant mosquitoes. It rose and fell in a monotonous cadence. Paralysed with foreboding she lay motionless. She knew she could not bear to listen to it alone for another moment.

  ‘Anne!’ her voice was urgent.

  Anne did not stir.

  ‘Anne!’ she called more loudly.

  ‘Yes. What is it? What’s the matter?’ She raised herself drowsily on her elbow.

  ‘Don’t . . . don’t you hear it?’

  ‘Hear what?’

  They listened intently. The sea murmured, caressing the rocks with soft, secretive whisperings, glutting the myriad little caves, reluctant to withdraw. But above the whispering of the sea rose that other sound – a high, uncanny whistling, growing more insistent every moment.

  ‘It’s the wind in the rocks. Try and go to sleep again.’

  The fire had burnt down to a heap of glowing embers, and Daphne stretched out her hand to the pile of driftwood. The sticks spluttered and popped as they lay on the hot ashes; but gradually little blue flames crept up into a cone of warmth.

  Soon Anne was asleep once more; and Daphne lay on her back gazing wide-­eyed at the sky, peppered with a million stars. She was frightened . . . that whistling – what could it be?

  ‘Tobit belongs to the sea – humans have no right there.’

  Where had she heard those words? Who had spoken them?

  She was beginning to feel sleepy. If only that whistling would stop, she might go to sleep. If only it would stop. It seemed that she tossed the victim of insomnia for hours.

  Daphne awoke with a start. She was shivering as with an ague. . . . Even now she could not put that terrible dream out of her head.

  She had been alone – quite alone by the seashore; and suddenly she had heard a voice cry:

  ‘Two . . . this time it shall be two,’ and the words had filled her with an indescribable fear, and she had turned to run; but her way had been blocked by a figure, gigantic in stature – and its monstrous shape had moved towards her, and she knew it was the incarnation of evil itself. If it had touched her Daphne was certain that she would have gone mad. . . .

  She looked at her watch. Two o’clock. A few more hours and it would be dawn. The fire had died down once more. She stretched out her hand for more wood; but there were only a few sticks left. Anne must have used their supply while she was sleeping.

  Without the security of the fire slumber would be impossible. She looked at Anne. Her head lay on her left shoulder, her fair hair falling back from her forehead. Daphne thought she looked very young and very, very sweet. No, she wouldn’t disturb her.

  The whistling had grown in volume, it seemed to fill the air in a pæan of triumph. She must collect more sticks. . . . The darkness would be unbearable. She got up and walked out of the circle away from the sandy patch and the friendly embers into the sombre mystery of the island.

  The night closed round her. . . . She was alone, quite alone. But that was ridiculous. After all, Jean was there, and Anne.

  She felt afraid: she would walk towards the huge monolith where Jean was watching. She remembered his face, reddened by the light of his fire. His determined expression . . . the set look, akin to martyrdom, in his eyes; he knew the danger they were threatened by . . . he could only wait.

  It was difficult walking. There was no moon; and the tough sea-­grass tore at her legs. Where was Jean? There! She caught the glow of the ashes of his fire. She stumbled towards it. But where was Jean? She stood on a small hillock peering into the darkness.

  ‘Jean! Jean!’ Her voice sounded strangled and strange.

  She moved towards the fire; and as she drew nearer she noticed something glistening in the dim light, glistening with a pale phosphorescence. She bent down, the better to discover what it could be. She started back with an exclamation of disgust. The side of the fire where Jean had been sitting was a pool of slime – reeking and foul; the thought came to her that a giant slug might have made that mark – a giant sea-­slug. And then real fear gripped her. She was rooted to the spot; stricken with the paralysis of fear. She gazed at the filthy trail at her feet.

  ‘Daphne!’ It was Anne’s voice – and terror was in it – incredible terror.

  ‘Daphne! . . . Jean! . . . Daphne! Help! Help! Oh, my God!’

  The cries suddenly ceased, and a silence, more significant than any clamour, froze her heart.

  With an effort she staggered towards their camp, her lips gasping, ‘I’m coming . . . I’m coming.’

  She tottered to the top of the rise below which was their sleeping place.

  ‘Anne!’ Her scream rose shrilly in the air. ‘What is it? I’m coming, Anne.’

  She ran to their camp. Where Anne had lain was a second pool of slime – the same odour of putrefaction . . . and the same trail that led – towards the sea.

  Now, if ever courage was needed, she must have it. Such horrors could not be allowed to happen – and she was alone. Anne was gone; and so was Jean. Something had taken them. She gazed in horror at the slimy track; remembered the story of the artist who had disappeared. Jean had said, ‘No one rightly knows what happened to him.’

  She stumbled on trying to follow the trail of the Thing that had taken Anne. It was difficult to see by the starlight. Occasionally a smear of slime shone on some exposed rock. And always the way led to the sea. Several times she fell, her hands were torn and bleeding, her legs cut by the rocks and the sharp blade-­like grass.

  ‘Anne! Anne!’

  But the only answer was the faint beating of the waves on the shore. Everything seemed uncannily quiet. Daphne sobbed aloud in her fear.

  She realised that the whistling had stopped.

  Mrs Arraway sat in the stern of the boat, her eyes fixed on the island they were approaching. Tobit, in the mellow sun of the late afternoon, presented an appearance of impressive beauty. The jagged outline of her coasts bravely challenged the surrounding waters; the blood-­red seaweed gently rose and fell on the waves.

  Mrs Arraway’s face was grim, and her eyes were anxious. In the boat were four islanders – sturdy fishermen with muscles of steel, and they rowed in silence. The boat grounded. Mrs Arraway was the first to reach the shore. She ran to the higher ground.

  ‘Jean! Jean! Miss Daphne! Jean!’

  And the caves echoed, ‘Jean! Jean!’ And the sea chuckled as it churned in the channels between the rocks.

  Behind her the fishermen padded, heavy-­footed, scrambling up the rocks.

  ‘There’s one of ’em!’ Jim Tregarth shouted.

  Mrs Arraway turned quickly. On the shore below her Daphne sat by a deep pool, her hands full of the red seaweed. She appeared to be unaware of the presence of the fishermen.

  Mrs Arraway ran towards her. She bent down and shook her by the shoulder. Daphne looked up, and there was a great wisdom and understanding in her eyes.

  ‘Jean . . . where’s Jean?’

  ‘Jean?’ Daphne shook her head. ‘Jean?’

  ‘And Miss Anne? Tell me, what’s happened? Where are they?’

  ‘You’d like to know, wouldn’t you? I can s
ee you would. But you won’t. . . . You won’t. Because nobody knows rightly what happened to them.’ She laughed to herself. She possessed a great secret, and one that nobody must share. She gave the woman a cunning look; and stroked the seaweed that she held between her fingers. ‘No,’ she continued, ‘nobody will rightly know what happened to them. This time it claimed two. This time. Tobit has taken two!’

  For a long time she would not consent to leave the island.

  And if you care to go and see her in the square yellow brick building where she was sent, she will beckon you over to her, and drawing your head down to hers will begin to confide her secret to you. But she will never finish it, for she is afraid that if she does the Thing on Tobit will know that she has told – and Tobit belongs to the sea.

  FURNISHED APARTMENTS by Forrest Reid

  Forrest Reid (1875-1947) is still regarded by most critics as the finest writer ever to emerge from the North of Ireland. Though popular success eluded him during his lifetime (and after), his novels were almost universally praised by contemporary critics, and Young Tom (1944), perhaps his greatest achievement, was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for best novel of the year, the equivalent of today’s Booker Prize. Though Reid is widely recognized as a great writer, he is not often discussed as a practitioner of supernatural fiction, an odd omission, given that the supernatural runs through almost all his work, from The Spring Song (1916), in which a ghostly tune seems to be luring a boy to the world of the dead, to Uncle Stephen (1931), in which a young lad has a spectral playmate, to Denis Bracknel (1947), the story of an unworldly boy who practices strange occult rituals by moonlight. Reid’s literary idol was Henry James, and like that master, he was concerned not only with telling a story, but telling it perfectly, in pellucid prose and always employing ‘le mot juste’. This attention to detail is evident in the typescript of ‘Furnished Apartments’ – found among his papers at Queen’s University Belfast and never before published – which is filled with Reid’s handwritten emendations. This wonderfully atmospheric tale is an exciting discovery that provides a new opportunity to reevaluate the works of Reid, an exceptionally talented writer with a lifelong interest in the supernatural who still awaits the popular recognition he is due.