Tomato Cain and Other Stories

by Tomato Cain

  I went round personally, as it was the first complaint from any of these bungalows. The tap seemed normal, and I remember asking if the schoolboy son could have been experimenting with their main stop, when Mrs Pritchard, who had been fiddling with the tap, suddenly said, “Quick, look at this! It’s off now!” They were quite cocky about its happening when I was there.

  It really was odd. I turned the tap to the limit, but - not a drop! Not even the sort of gasping gurgle you hear when the supply is turned ofl at the main. After a couple of minutes, though, it came on. Water shot out with, I should say, about ten times normal force, as if it had been held under pressure. Then gradually it died down and ran steadily.

  Both children were in the room with us until we all dodged out of the door to escape a soaking - it had splashed all over the ceiling - so they couldn’t have been up to any tricks. I promised the Pritchards to have the pipes checked. Before returning to town, I called at the next two bungalows in the row: neither of the tenants had had any trouble at all with the water. I thought, well, that localised it at least.

  When I reached my office there was a telephone message waiting, from Pritchard. I rang him back and he was obviously annoyed. “Look here,” he said, “not ten minutes after you left, we’ve had something else happen! The wall of the large bedroom’s cracked from top to bottom. Big pieces of plaster fell, and the bed’s in a terrible mess.” And then he said, “You wouldn’t have got me in a jerry-built place like this if I’d known!”

  I had plasterers on the job next morning, and the whole water supply to “Minuke” under examination. For about three days there was peace. The tap behaved itself, and absolutely nothing was found to be wrong. I was annoyed at what seemed to have been unnecessary expenditure. It looked as if the Pritchards were going to be difficult - and I’ve had my share of that type: fault-finding cranks occasionally carry eccentricity to the extent of a little private destruction, to prove their points. I was on the watch from now on.

  Then it came again.

  Pritchard rang me at my home, before nine in the morning. His voice sounded a bit off. Shaky.

  “For God’s sake can you come round here right away.” he said. :Tell you about it when you get here.” And then he said, almost fiercely, but quietly and close to the mouthpiece, “There’s something damned queer about this place!” Dramatising is a typical feature of all cranks, I thought, but particularly the little mousy kind, like Pritchard.

  I went to “Minuke” and found that Mrs Pritchard was in bed, in a state of collapse. The doctor had given her a sleeping dose.

  Pritchard told me a tale that was chiefly remarkable for the expression on his face as he told it.

  I don’t know if you're familiar with the layout of that type of bungalow? The living-room is in front of the house, with the kitchen behind it. To get from one to the other you have to use the little hallway, through two doors. But for convenience at mealtimes, there’s a serving-hatch in the wall between these rooms. A small wooden door slides up and down over the hatch opening.

  “The wife was just passing a big plate of bacon and eggs through from the kitchen,” Pritchard told me, “when the hatch door came down on her wrists. I saw it and I heard her yell. I thought the cord must’ve snapped, so I said, ‘All right, all right!’ and went to pull it up because it’s only a light wooden frame.”

  Pritchard was a funny colour, and as far as I could judge, it was genuine.

  "Do you know, it wouldn’t come! I got my fingers under it and heaved, but it might have weighed two hundredweight. Once it gave an inch or so, and then pressed harder. That was it - it was pressing down! I heard the wife groan. I said, ‘Hold on!’ and ripped round through the hall. When I got into the kitchen she was on the floor, fainted. And the hatch door was hitched up as right as ninepence. That gave me a turn!” He sat down, quite deflated: it didn’t appear to be put on. Still, ordinary neurotics can be almost as troublesome as out-and-out cranks.

  I tested the hatch, gingerly; and, of course, the cords were sound and it ran easily.

  “Possibly a bit stiff at times, being new,” I said. “They’re apt to jam if you’re rough with them.” And then, “By the way, just what were you hinting on the phone?”

  He looked at me. It was warm sunlight outside, with a bus passing. Normal enough to take the mike out of Frankenstein’s monster. “Never mind,” he said, and gave a sheepish half-grin. “But of - well, funny construction in this house, though, eh?”

  I’m afraid I was rather outspoken with him.

  Let alone any twaddle about a month-old bungalow being haunted, I was determined to clamp down on this “jerry-building” talk. Perhaps I was beginning to have doubts my-self.

  I wrote straight off to the building company when I’d managed to trace them, busy developing an arterial road about three counties away. I dare say my letter was on the insinuating side: I think I asked if they had any record of difficulties in the construction of this bungalow. At any rate I got a sniffy reply by return, stating that the matter was out of their hands: in addition, their records were not available for discussion. Blind alley.

  In the meantime, things at “Minuke” had worsened to a really frightening degree. I dreaded the phone ringing. One morning the two Pritchards senior awoke to find that nearly all the furniture in their bedroom had been moved about, including the bed they had been sleeping in: they had felt absolutely nothing. Food became suddenly and revoltingly decomposed. All the chimney pots had come down, not just into the garden, but to the far side of the high road, except one which appeared, pulverised, on the living-room floor. The obvious attempts of the Pritchards to keep a rational outlook had underlined most of my suspicions by this time.

  I managed to locate a local man who had been employed during the erection of the bungalows as an extra hand. He had worked only on the foundations of “Minuke”, but what he had to say was interesting.

  They had found the going slow because of striking a layer of enormous flat stones, apparently trimmed slate, but as the site was otherwise excellent, they pressed on, using the stone as foundation where it fitted in with the plan, and laying down rubble where it didn't. The concrete skin over the rubble - my ears burned when I heard about that, I can tell you - this wretched so-called concrete had cracked. or shattered, several times. Which wasn’t entirely surprising, if it had been laid as he described. The flat stones, he said, had not been seriously disturbed. A workmate had referred to them as “a giant’s grave”, so it was possibly an old burial mound. Norse, perhaps - those are fairly common along this coast - or even very much older.

  Apart from this - I’m no diehard skeptic, I may as well confess - I was beginning to admit modest theories about a poltergeist, in spite of a lack of corroborative knockings and ornament throwing. There were two young children in the house, and the lore has it that kids are often unconsciously connected with phenomena of that sort, though usually adolescents. Still, in the real-estate profession you have to be careful, and if I could see the Pritchards safely off the premises without airing these possibilities, it might be kindest to the bungalow’s future.

  I went to “Minuke” the same afternoon.

  It was certainly turning out an odd nook. I found a departing policeman on the doorstep. That morning the back door had been burst in by a hundredweight or so of soil, and Mrs Pritchard was trying to convince herself that a practical joker had it in for them. The policeman had taken some notes, and was giving vague advice about “civil action” which showed that he was out of his depth.

  Pritchard looked very tired, almost ill. “I’ve got leave from my job. to look after them.” he said, when we were alone. I thought he was wise. He had given his wife’s illness as the reason. and I was glad of that.

  “I don’t believe in - unnatural happenings,” he said.

  I agreed with him, non-committally.

  “But I’m afraid of what ideas the kids might get. They’re both at impressionable ages, y’ kno
w.”

  I recognised the symptoms without disappointment. “You mean. you’d rather move elsewhere,” I said.

  He nodded. “I like the district, mind you. But what I —“

  There was a report like a gun in the very room.

  I found myself with both arms up to cover my face. There were tiny splinters everywhere, and a dust of fibre in the air. The door had exploded. Literally.

  To hark back to constructional details, it was one of those light, hollow frame-and-plywood jobs. As you’ll know, it takes considerable force to splinter plywood; well. this was in tiny fragments. And the oddest thing was that we had felt no blast effect.

  In the next room I heard their dog howling. Pritchard was as stiff as a poker.

  “I felt it!” he said. “I felt this lot coming. I’ve got to knowing when something’s likely to happen. It’s all around!” Of course I began to imagine I’d sensed something too, but I doubt if I had really; my shock came with the crash. Mrs Pritchard was in the doorway by this time with the kids behind her. He motioned them out and grabbed my arm.

  “The thing is,” he whispered. “that I can still feel it! Stronger than ever, by God! Look, will you stay at home tonight, in case I need - well, in case things get worse? I can phone you.”

  On my way back I called at the town library and managed to get hold of a volume on supernatural possession and what-not. Yes, I was committed now. But the library didn’t specialise in that line, and when I opened the book at home, I found it was very little help. “Vampires of south-eastern Europe” type of stuff. I came across references to something the jargon called an “elemental” which I took to be a good deal more vicious and destructive than any poltergeist. A thoroughly nasty form of manifestation, if it existed. Those Norse gravestones were fitting into the picture uncomfortably well; it was fashionable in those days to be buried with all the trimmings, human sacrifice, and even more unmentionable attractions.

  But I read on. After half a chapter on zombis and Rumanian werewolves, the whole thing began to seem so fantastic that I turned seriously to working out methods of exploding somebody’s door as a practical joke. Even a totally certifiable joker would be likelier than vampires. In no time I’d settled down with a whisky, doodling wiring diagrams, and only occasionally - like twinges of conscience - speculating on contacting the psychic investigation people.

  When the phone rang I was hardly prepared for it.

  It was a confused, distant voice, gabbling desperately, but I recognised it as Pritchard. “For God's sake, don’t lose a second! Get here - it’s all hell on earth! Can’t you hear it? My God. I’m going crazy!” And in the background I thought I was able to hear something. A sort of bubbling, shushing “wah-wah” noise. Indescribable. But you hear some odd sounds on telephones at any time.

  “Yes,” I said, “I’ll come immediately. Why don’t you all leave —“. But the line had gone dead.

  Probably I've never moved faster. I scrambled out to the car with untied shoes flopping, though I remembered to grab a heavy stick in the hall - whatever use it was to be. I drove like fury, heart belting, straight to “Minuke”, expecting to see heaven knows what.

  But everything looked still and normal there. The moon was up and I could see the whole place clearly. Curtained lights in the windows. Not a sound. I rang. After a moment Pritchard opened the door. He was quiet and seemed almost surprised to see me.

  I pushed inside. “Well?” I said. “What’s happened?”

  “Not a thing, so far,” he said. “That's why I didn’t expect —“

  I felt suddenly angry. “Look here,” I said, “what are you playing at? Seems to me that any hoaxing around here begins a lot nearer home than you’d have me believe!” Then the penny dropped. I saw by the fright in his face that he knew something had gone wrong. That was the most horrible, sickening moment of the whole affair for me.

  “Didn’t you ring?” I said.

  And he shook his head.

  I’ve been in some tight spots. But there was always some concrete, actual business in hand to screw the mind safely down to. I suppose panic is when the subconscious breaks loose and everything in your head dashes screaming out. It was only just in time that I found a touch of the concrete and actual. A kiddie’s paintbox on the floor, very watery.

  “The children,” I said. “Where are they?”

  “Wife’s just putting the little ’un to bed. She’s been restless tonight: just wouldn’t go, crying and difficult. Arthur's in the bathroom. Look here, what’s happened?”

  I told him, making it as short and matter of fact as I could. He turned ghastly.

  “Better get them dressed and out of here right away,” I said. “Make some excuse, not to alarm them.”

  He’d gone before I finished speaking.

  I smoked hard, trying to build up the idea of “Hoax! Hoax!" in my mind. After all, it could have been. But I knew it wasn’t.

  Everything looked cosy and normal. Clock ticking. Fire red and mellow. Half-empty cocoa mug on the table. The sound of the sea from beyond the road. I went through to the kitchen. The dog was there, looking up from its sleeping-basket under the sink. “Good dog,” I said, and it wriggled its tail.

  Pritchard came in from the hall. He jumped when he saw me.

  “Getting nervy!” he said. “They won’t be long, I don’t know where we can go if we - well, if we have to - to leave tonight —“

  “My car's outside,” I told him. “I’ll fix you up. Look here. did you ever ‘hear things’? Odd noises?” I hadn’t told him that part of the telephone call.

  He looked at me so oddly I thought he was going to collapse.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Can you?”

  “At this moment?”

  I listened.

  “No,” I said. “The clock on the shelf. The sea. Nothing else. No.”

  “The sea,” he said, barely whispering. “But you can’t hear the sea in this kitchen!”

  He was close to me in an instant. Absolutely terrified. “Yes, I have heard this before! I think we all have. I said it was the sea: so as not to frighten them. But it isn’t. And I recognised it when I came in here just now. That’s what made me start. It’s getting louder: it does that.”

  He was right. Like slow breathing. It seemed to emanate from inside the walls, not at a particular spot, but everywhere. We went into the hall, then the front room: it was the same there. Mixed with it now was a sort of thin crying.

  “That’s Nellie,” Pritchard said. “The dog: she always whimpers when it’s on - too scared to howl. My God, I’ve never heard it as loud as this before!”

  “Hurry them up, will you!” I almost shouted. He went.

  The “breathing” was ghastly. Slobbering. Stertorous, I think the term is. And faster. Oh, yes, I recognised it. The background music to the phone message. My skin was pure ice.

  “Come along!” I yelled. I switched on the little radio to drown the noise. The old National Programme, as it was in those days, for late dance music. Believe it or not, what came through that loudspeaker was the same vile sighing noise, at double the volume. And when I tried to switch off, it stayed the same.

  The whole bungalow was trembling. The Pritchards came running in, she carrying the little girl. “Get them into the car,” I shouted. We heard glass smashing somewhere.

  Above our heads there was an almighty thump. Plaster showered down.

  Halfway out of the door the little girl screamed, “Nellie! Where's Nellie? Nellie, Nellie!”

  "The dog!” Pritchard moaned. “Oh, curse it!” He dragged them outside. I dived for the .kitchen, where I’d seen the animal, feeling a lunatic for doing it. Plaster was springing out of the walls in painful showers.

  In the kitchen I found water everywhere. One tap was squirting like a fire hose. The other was missing, water belching across the window from a torn end of pipe.

  “Nellie!” I called.

  Then I saw the dog. It was lying
near the oven, quite stiff. Round its neck was twisted a piece of painted piping with the other tap on the end.

  Sheer funk got me then. The ground was moving under me. I bolted down the hall, nearly bumped into Pritchard. I yelled and shoved. I could actually feel the house at my back.

  We got outside. The noise was like a dreadful snoring, with rumbles and crashes thrown in. One of the lights went out. “Nellie’s run away,” I said, and we all got into the car, the kids bawling. I started up. People were coming out of the other bungalows - they're pretty far apart and the din was just beginning to make itself felt. Pritchard mumbled, “We can stop now. Think it’d be safe to go back and grab some of the furniture?” As if he was at a fire; but I don’t think he knew what he was doing.

  ‘Daddy - look!’ screeched the boy.

  We saw it. The chimney of “Minuke” was going up in a horrible way. In the moonlight it seemed to grow, quite slowly, to about sixty feet, like a giant crooked finger. And then - burst. I heard bricks thumping down. Somewhere somebody screamed.

  There was a glare like an ungodly great lightning flash. It lasted for a second or so.

  Of course we were dazzled, but I thought I saw the whole of “Minuke” fall suddenly and instantaneously flat, like a swatted fly. I probably did, because that’s what happened, anyway.

  There isn’t much more to tell.

  Nobody was really hurt, and we were able to put down the whole thing to a serious electrical fault. Main fuses had blown throughout the whole district, which helped this theory out. Perhaps it was unfortunate in another respect, because a lot of people changed over to gas.