‘Oh, you are,’ said James fervently.
‘Your heart is in the right place.’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ said James.
‘Then go to her, my boy. Later on you may have something to tell me. You will find me in the strawberry beds.’
It was very cool and fragrant on the porch. Overhead, little breezes played and laughed among the roses. Somewhere in the distance sheep bells tinkled, and in the shrubbery a thrush was singing its even-song.
Seated in her chair behind a wicker table laden with tea things, Rose Maynard watched James as he shambled up the path.
‘Tea’s ready,’ she called gaily. ‘Where is Uncle Henry?’ A look of pity and distress flitted for a moment over her flower-like face. ‘Oh I – I forgot,’ she whispered.
‘He is in the strawberry beds,’ said James in a low voice.
She nodded unhappily.
‘Of course, of course. Oh, why is life like this?’ James heard her whisper.
He sat down. He looked at the girl. She was leaning back with closed eyes, and he thought he had never seen such a little squirt in his life. The idea of passing his remaining days in her society revolted him. He was stoutly opposed to the idea of marrying anyone; but if, as happens to the best of us, he ever were compelled to perform the wedding glide, he had always hoped it would be with some lady golf champion who would help him with his putting, and thus, by bringing his handicap down a notch or two, enable him to save something from the wreck, so to speak. But to link his lot with a girl who read his aunt’s books and liked them; a girl who could tolerate the presence of the dog Toto; a girl who clasped her hands in pretty, childish joy when she saw a nasturtium in bloom – it was too much. Nevertheless, he took her hand and began to speak.
‘Miss Maynard – Rose—’
She opened her eyes and cast them down. A flush had come into her cheeks. The dog Toto at her side sat up and begged for cake, disregarded.
‘Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a lonely man who lived in a cottage all by himself—’
He stopped. Was it James Rodman who was talking this bilge?
‘Yes?’ whispered the girl.
‘– but one day there came to him out of nowhere a little fairy princess. She—’
He stopped again, but this time not because of the sheer shame of listening to his own voice. What caused him to interrupt his tale was the fact that at this moment the tea table suddenly began to rise slowly in the air, tilting as it did so a considerable quantity of hot tea on to the knees of his trousers.
‘Ouch!’ cried James, leaping.
The table continued to rise, and then fell sideways, revealing the homely countenance of William, who, concealed by the cloth, had been taking a nap beneath it. He moved slowly forward, his eyes on Toto. For many a long day William had been desirous of putting to the test, once and for all, the problem of whether Toto was edible or not. Sometimes he thought yes, at other times no. Now seemed an admirable opportunity for a definite decision. He advanced on the object of his experiment, making a low whistling noise through his nostrils, not unlike a boiling kettle. And Toto, after one long look of incredulous horror, tucked his shapely tail between his legs and, turning, raced for safety. He had laid a course in a bee line for the open garden gate, and William, shaking a dish of marmalade off his head a little petulantly, galloped ponderously after him. Rose Maynard staggered to her feet.
‘Oh, save him!’ she cried.
Without a word James added himself to the procession. His interest in Toto was but tepid. What he wanted was to get near enough to William to discuss with him that matter of the tea on his trousers. He reached the road and found that the order of the runners had not changed. For so small a dog, Toto was moving magnificently. A cloud of dust rose as he skidded round the corner. William followed. James followed William.
And so they passed Farmer Birkett’s barn, Farmer Giles’ cow shed, the place where Farmer Willetts’ pigsty used to be before the big fire, and the Bunch of Grapes public house, Jno Biggs propr., licensed to sell tobacco, wines and spirits. And it was as they were turning down the lane that leads past Farmer Robin- son’s chicken run that Toto, thinking swiftly, bolted abruptly into a small drain pipe.
‘William!’ roared James, coming up at a canter. He stopped to pluck a branch from the hedge and swooped darkly on.
William had been crouching before the pipe, making a noise like a bassoon into its interior; but now he rose and came beamingly to James. His eyes were aglow with chumminess and affection; and placing his forefeet on James’s chest, he licked him three times on the face in rapid succession. And as he did so, something seemed to snap in James. The scales seemed to fall from James’s eyes. For the first time he saw William as he really was, the authentic type of dog that saves his master from a frightful peril. A wave of emotion swept over him.
‘William!’ he muttered. ‘William!’
William was making an early supper off a half brick he had found in the road. James stooped and patted him fondly.
‘William,’ he whispered, ‘you knew when the time had come to change the conversation, didn’t you, old boy!’ He straightened himself. ‘Come, William,’ he said. ‘Another four miles and we reach Meadowsweet Junction. Make it snappy and we shall just catch the up express, first stop London.’
William looked up into his face and it seemed to James that he gave a brief nod of comprehension and approval. James turned. Through the trees to the east he could see the red roof of Honeysuckle Cottage, lurking like some evil dragon in ambush.
Then, together, man and dog passed silently into the sunset.
That (concluded Mr Mulliner) is the story of my distant cousin James Rodman. As to whether it is true, that, of course, is an open question. I, personally, am of opinion that it is. There is no doubt that James did go to live at Honeysuckle Cottage and, while there, underwent some experience which has left an ineradicable mark upon him. His eyes today have that unmistakable look which is to be seen only in the eyes of confirmed bachelors whose feet have been dragged to the very brink of the pit and who have gazed at close range into the naked face of matrimony.
And, if further proof be needed, there is William. He is now James’s inseparable companion. Would any man be habitually seen in public with a dog like William unless he had some solid cause to be grateful to him, – unless they were linked together by some deep and imperishable memory? I think not. Myself, when I observe William coming along the street, I cross the road and look into a shop window till he has passed. I am not a snob, but I dare not risk my position in Society by being seen talking to that curious compound.
Nor is the precaution an unnecessary one. There is about William a shameless absence of appreciation of class distinctions which recalls the worst excesses of the French Revolution. I have seen him with these eyes chivvy a pomeranian belonging to a Baroness in her own right from near the Achilles Statue to within a few yards of the Marble Arch.
And yet James walks daily with him in Piccadilly. It is surely significant.
‘CLICK-CLACK THE RATTLEBAG’
NEIL GAIMAN (BRITISH, 1960–)
First published in the collection Impossible Monsters in 2013.
I am very partial to the boy’s admonition that Click-Clacks look like ‘what you aren’t paying attention to’. That’s a good summing up of the modus operandi of many ghost stories: they sneak up on you. In this story Neil Gaiman does some especially skilful sneaking.
CLICK-CLACK THE RATTLEBAG
Neil Gaiman
‘Before you take me up to bed, will you tell me a story?’
‘Do you actually need me to take you up to bed?’ I asked the boy.
He thought for a moment. Then, with intense seriousness, ‘Yes, actually I think you do. It’s because of, I’ve finished my homework, and so it’s my bedtime, and I am a bit scared. Not very scared. Just a bit. But it is a very big house, and lots of times the lights don’t work and it’s a sort of da
rk.’
I reached over and tousled his hair.
‘I can understand that,’ I said. ‘It is a very big old house.’ He nodded. We were in the kitchen, where it was light and warm. I put down my magazine on the kitchen table. ‘What kind of story would you like me to tell you?’
‘Well,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think it should be too scary, because then when I go up to bed, I will just be thinking about monsters the whole time. But if it isn’t just a little bit scary then I won’t be interested. And you make up scary stories, don’t you? I know she says that’s what you do.’
‘She exaggerates. I write stories, yes. Nothing that’s been published, yet, though. And I write lots of different kinds of stories.’
‘But you do write scary stories?’
‘Yes.’
The boy looked up at me from the shadows by the door, where he was waiting. ‘Do you know any stories about Click-Clack the Rattlebag?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Those are the best sorts of stories.’
‘Do they tell them at your school?’
He shrugged. ‘Sometimes.’
‘What’s a Click-Clack the Rattlebag story?’
He was a precocious child, and was unimpressed by his sister’s boyfriend’s ignorance. You could see it on his face. ‘Everybody knows them.’
‘I don’t,’ I said, trying not to smile.
He looked at me as if he was trying to decide whether or not I was pulling his leg. He said, ‘I think maybe you should take me up to my bedroom, and then you can tell me a story before I go to sleep, but a very not-scary story because I’ll be up in my bedroom then, and it’s actually a bit dark up there, too.’
I said, ‘Shall I leave a note for your sister, telling her where we are?’
‘You can. But you’ll hear when they get back. The front door is very slammy.’
We walked out of the warm and cosy kitchen into the hallway of the big house, where it was chilly and draughty and dark. I flicked the light-switch, but nothing happened.
‘The bulb’s gone,’ the boy said. ‘That always happens.’
Our eyes adjusted to the shadows. The moon was almost full, and blue-white moonlight shone in through the high windows on the staircase, down into the hall. ‘We’ll be all right,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said the boy, soberly. ‘I am very glad you’re here.’ He seemed less precocious now. His hand found mine, and he held onto my fingers comfortably, trustingly, as if he’d known me all his life. I felt responsible and adult. I did not know if the feeling I had for his sister, who was my girlfriend, was love, not yet, but I liked that the child treated me as one of the family. I felt like his big brother, and I stood taller, and if there was something unsettling about the empty house I would not have admitted it for worlds.
The stairs creaked beneath the threadbare stair-carpet.
‘Click-Clacks,’ said the boy, ‘are the best monsters ever.’
‘Are they from television?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t think any people know where they come from. Mostly they come from the dark.’
‘Good place for a monster to come.’
‘Yes.’
We walked along the upper corridor in the shadows, walking from patch of moonlight to patch of moonlight. It really was a big house. I wished I had a flashlight.
‘They come from the dark,’ said the boy, holding onto my hand. ‘I think probably they’re made of dark. And they come in when you don’t pay attention. That’s when they come in. And then they take you back to their … not nests. What’s a word that’s like nests, but not?’
‘House?’
‘No. It’s not a house.’
‘Lair?’
He was silent. Then, ‘I think that’s the word, yes. Lair.’ He squeezed my hand. He stopped talking.
‘Right. So they take the people who don’t pay attention back to their lair. And what do they do then, your monsters? Do they suck all the blood out of you, like vampires?’
He snorted. ‘Vampires don’t suck all the blood out of you. They only drink a little bit. Just to keep them going, and, you know, flying around. Click-Clacks are much scarier than vampires.’
‘I’m not scared of vampires,’ I told him.
‘Me neither. I’m not scared of vampires either. Do you want to know what Click-Clacks do? They drink you,’ said the boy.
‘Like a Coke?’
‘Coke is very bad for you,’ said the boy. ‘If you put a tooth in Coke, in the morning, it will be dissolved into nothing. That’s how bad coke is for you and why you must always clean your teeth, every night.’
I’d heard the Coke story as a boy, and had been told, as an adult, that it wasn’t true, but was certain that a lie which promoted dental hygiene was a good lie, and I let it pass.
‘Click-Clacks drink you,’ said the boy. ‘First they bite you, and then you go all ishy inside, and all your meat and all your brains and everything except your bones and your skin turns into a wet, milk-shakey stuff and then the Click-clack sucks it out through the holes where your eyes used to be.’
‘That’s disgusting,’ I told him. ‘Did you make it up?’
We’d reached the last flight of stairs, all the way in to the big house.
‘No.’
‘I can’t believe you kids make up stuff like that.’
‘You didn’t ask me about the rattlebag,’ he said.
‘Right. What’s the rattlebag?’
‘Well,’ he said, sagely, soberly, a small voice from the darkness beside me, ‘once you’re just bones and skin, they hang you up on a hook, and you rattle in the wind.’
‘So what do these Click-Clacks look like?’ Even as I asked him, I wished I could take the question back, and leave it unasked. I thought: Huge spidery creatures. Like the one in the shower that morning. I’m afraid of spiders.
I was relieved when the boy said, ‘They look like what you aren’t expecting. What you aren’t paying attention to.’
We were climbing wooden steps now. I held on to the railing on my left, held his hand with my right, as he walked beside me. It smelled like dust and old wood, that high in the house. The boy’s tread was certain, though, even though the moonlight was scarce.
‘Do you know what story you’re going to tell me, to put me to bed?’ he asked. ‘It doesn’t actually have to be scary.’
‘Not really.’
‘Maybe you could tell me about this evening. Tell me what you did?’
‘That won’t make much of a story for you. My girlfriend just moved in to a new place on the edge of town. She inherited it from an aunt or someone. It’s very big and very old. I’m going to spend my first night with her, tonight, so I’ve been waiting for an hour or so for her and her housemates to come back with the wine and an Indian takeaway.’
‘See?’ said the boy. There was that precocious amusement again. But all kids can be insufferable sometimes, when they think they know something you don’t. It’s probably good for them. ‘You know all that. But you don’t think. You just let your brain fill in the gaps.’
He pushed open the door to the attic room. It was perfectly dark, now, but the opening door disturbed the air, and I heard things rattle gently, like dry bones in thin bags, in the slight wind. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Like that.
I would have pulled away, then, if I could, but small, firm fingers pulled me forward, unrelentingly, into the dark.
‘THEY’
RUDYARD KIPLING (BRITISH, 1865–1936)
First published in Scribner’s Magazine in 1904.
I have an ambivalent relationship with Kipling’s work, as he can sometimes be a too-forthright champion of colonialism and empire. But he is also a marvellous and sympathetic writer, and this story is a very personal one, as Kipling’s young daughter Josephine had died in 1899. It is set in Sussex, where Kipling lived, and the mysterious house is based on his own, Bateman’s.
THEY
Rudyard K
ipling
One view called me to another; one hill top to its fellow, half across the county, and since I could answer at no more trouble than the snapping forward of a lever, I let the county flow under my wheels. The orchid-studded flats of the East gave way to the thyme, ilex, and grey grass of the Downs; these again to the rich cornland and fig-trees of the lower coast, where you carry the beat of the tide on your left hand for fifteen level miles; and when at last I turned inland through a huddle of rounded hills and woods I had run myself clean out of my known marks. Beyond that precise hamlet which stands godmother to the capital of the United States, I found hidden villages where bees, the only things awake, boomed in eighty-foot lindens that overhung grey Norman churches; miraculous brooks diving under stone bridges built for heavier traffic than would ever vex them again; tithe-barns larger than their churches, and an old smithy that cried out aloud how it had once been a hall of the Knights of the Temple. Gipsies I found on a common where the gorse, bracken, and heath fought it out together up a mile of Roman road; and a little farther on I disturbed a red fox rolling dog-fashion in the naked sunlight.
As the wooded hills closed about me I stood up in the car to take the bearings of that great Down whose ringed head is a landmark for fifty miles across the low countries. I judged that the lie of the country would bring me across some westward-running road that went to his feet, but I did not allow for the confusing veils of the woods. A quick turn plunged me first into a green cutting brim-full of liquid sunshine, next into a gloomy tunnel where last year’s dead leaves whispered and scuffled about my tyres. The strong hazel stuff meeting overhead had not been cut for a couple of generations at least, nor had any axe helped the moss-cankered oak and beech to spring above them. Here the road changed frankly into a carpeted ride on whose brown velvet spent primrose-clumps showed like jade, and a few sickly, white-stalked bluebells nodded together. As the slope favoured I shut off the power and slid over the whirled leaves, expecting every moment to meet a keeper; but I only heard a jay, far off, arguing against the silence under the twilight of the trees.
Ghostly: Stories Page 19