Collected Stories (31 page)

The Basic Rules of Monsterdom

Vampires - sup; Werewolves - hunt; Ghouls - tear;

Shaddies - lick; Maddies - yawn; Mocks - blow;

Shadmocks - only whistle.

*

 A car was driving down a lonely country road. Such a car could have only belonged to a man who was well endowed with this world's goods and had a subconscious desire to advertise the fact. The car must have been made by Messrs Rolls Royce in one of their off moments, for the paintwork was bright red, the headlamps gleamed with blue chromium plating and a naked brass lady sat on top of the radiator. The interior further proclaimed the affluent and original taste of the owner, for the seats were covered with rich, bright yellow leather, the switchboard was a mass of complicated gadgets and there was a faint aroma of expensive cigar smoke and aftershave lotion.

 The man behind the steering wheel was easily recognisable as one of those streamlined wolves who lurk in air-conditioned offices perched on top of shoebox shaped buildings, and roar their Napoleon-brandy-tainted rage over the chilly depths below. He was a large man, with a beefy, rather brutal face that was lit by a pair of small blue eyes and surmounted by a mass of iron-grey hair. His massive shoulders and heavy, bulky body were encased in an electric-blue suit that looked as if it had been tailored by a slightly mad artist, and all but screamed its defiance at the purple shirt and green tie.

 The girl by his side had the blonde, brittle beauty of an expensive doll. Her pale, unlined face invited admiration rather than passion, her soft yellow hair defied anyone to disturb its perfectly arranged curls, and the full, red, but discontented mouth was clearly reserved for eating beautifully prepared dinners and dispensing exclusive kisses. Her green dress and open mink coat was a concession to titillation and good taste. The bosom promised but did not reveal: the hemline dared but never retreated above mid-thigh. Her long, red-tipped fingers toyed with a diamond ring, as she looked bad-temperedly out at the racing, grey-ribbon stretch of road.

 "Why the hell you want to take a place in the sticks, is beyond me. We've got more houses now than we know what to do with."

 The man grunted and switched on the headlights for the first shadows of night were falling across the open countryside.

 "Sheridan," the cool, brittle voice rose sharply, "I do wish you would answer me sometimes. I'm not one of your junior executives to be ignored or grunted at."

 "Caroline, your body talks, your tongue makes a noise, but you say little that is worth listening to, let alone answering."

 Caroline creased her smooth forehead into an angry frown, and her large, hazel eyes became as chips of fire-tinted glass.

 "You are taking me to a dead and alive hole called Wittering…"

 "Withering," Sheridan Croxley corrected. "You may remember I was born there. The son of a cowherd and a kitchen maid. Both of my parents worked at the Grange. Now I have bought it. Do I have to say more?"

 "No." The girl smiled derisively. "You've got a chip on your shoulder the size of Everest and this is one way of getting rid of it. Lord of the Manor where your old man shovelled cow-shit. I should have known."

 The great head swung round and the little eyes glared at her, but she merely shrugged and deepened her mocking smile.

 "You going to hit me now, or wait until you've stopped the car?"

 The head jerked back and redirected its cold stare at the road, but Caroline saw the huge, hair-covered hands tighten their grip on the steering wheel.

 Darkness had won its daily battle with the dying day when the large car roared between the twin rows of huddled cottages that made up the hamlet of Withering, and continued on under an avenue of trees that terminated where a massive iron gate barred the way. Sheridan hooted the horn twice and presently was rewarded by the sight of a bent figure that emerged very slowly from a stone walled lodge that stood to the right of the gate. This apparition shuffled into the beam of light cast by the headlamps and Caroline saw the gross outline and the hideous bearded face.

 "What an awful looking creature," she said. "I sincerely hope you intend getting rid of that."

 "You'll find keeping servants down here is more than a problem - it's well nigh an impossibility. You keep what will stay." He lowered the offside window and leaned out. "I'm the new owner. Open the gates and get a move on."

 The man nodded his head and the long, white hair writhed like a nest of bleached snakes; then he opened his mouth to reveal black, toothless gums, in which Caroline could only suppose to be a derisive grin.

 "Come on, damn you. Open the gate," Sheridan roared.

 Still nodding, still grinning, the grotesque figure reached out great, claw like hands, that, in the fierce beam of light, seemed to grow to gigantic proportions - and gripped an upright bar of each gate, before pulling them apart. Then with an abrupt jerk of the powerful wrists it thrust the gates backwards and with a shriek of oil-starved hinges, they crashed against the flanking walls.

 "Must have the strength of an elephant," Sheridan muttered as he eased the car forward. "One good thing, there's no need to worry about trespassers with him on the front gate."

 Caroline turned her head as they drove past the terrifying figure with its gaping mouth, toothless gums and heavy, bowed shoulders. "He's got a dampening effect on me too. Honestly, Sheridan, if the rest of the staff are anything like that - that thing -I'm all for going back to town tonight."

 "You'll do no such damn thing," Sheridan growled. "If people who work for me do their job, I couldn't give a monkey's curse what they look like."

 They were racing along a tree-lined drive and the terrified eyes of a rabbit glittered momentarily in the headlights, before it scampered into the dense undergrowth. Then the trees slipped behind to be replaced by an overgrown lawn that lay like an uneven carpet before the great house. It had possibly begun life as a farmhouse, but over the centuries extensions had been added, until now it sprawled out as an untidy conglomeration of turrets, crouching chimneys, glimmering windows and weather-beaten brickwork. Sheridan braked the car before a wide porchway, then climbed out on to a gravelled drive and looked up at the house with evident satisfaction.

 "What do you think of it?" he asked Caroline who had come round the car to join him.

 "There's no lights anywhere," she complained. "It looks awfully desolate."

 "Hell, what do you expect. There's only three of 'em in there. Mother, father and son - but they keep the place spotless. I expect they are in the kitchen at the back."

 He scarcely finished speaking when the massive double doors slowly opened to reveal a brilliantly lit hall and a man dressed in a decent black suit, who respectfully inclined his head as Sheridan Croxley strode forward.

 "You were on the ball, Grantley," he said genially. "We've only just this minute driven up."

 The man again inclined his head and stood respectfully to one side.

 "I have sharp ears, sir."

 Caroline thought that if size were any criterion, his ears should have detected a pin drop in a thunderstorm. They resembled monstrous, tapered wings that stood up on either side of his narrow head and were not enhanced by the thick, black hair which was combed up into a thick pile, thus adding another four or five inches to the man's height. His face was deadly white and the slanted eyes ebony black. When he smiled - a respectful smirk - the unnaturally thin tips parted to uncover great yellow teeth though his appearance was repellent, even sinister, he was not unhandsome in a grotesque, nightmarish sort of way.

 He gave Caroline one swift glance, then murmured with his husky voice: "Good evening, madam. May I take the liberty of welcoming you to Withering Grange?"

 She could do no more than acknowledge this gracious greeting and was again rewarded by that yellow-toothed, but respectful smirk. When they had entered the large, oak-panelled hall, he clapped his hands and as if by magic, a green baize lined door opened and two persons entered.

 "May I," requested Grantley, "present my wife, who combines the duties of housekeeper and cook?"

 Mrs Grantley had all the attributes that are needed to make a beautiful woman - plus a little extra. She was tall, dark, with splendid brown eyes and a mass of black hair which she wore shoulder length, and her full, mature figure was calculated to excite any man's interest. But it was the little something extra which drew Caroline's wide-eyed attention and forced her to involuntarily cry out. Mrs Grantley was endowed with a full, rich, and very luxurious beard. It began as a drooping moustache and spread out over the pale cheeks and chin, to flow down over the shapely bosom, where it terminated in a few straggling hairs that quivered slightly when their owner spoke.

 "I will endeavour to give satisfaction, madam."

 Caroline was incapable of speech and could only stare at the housekeeper's unusual appendage, while unconsciously shaking her head in disbelief.

 "Women of our kind are not permitted to shave," the butler said softly. "This," he motioned a young man to step forward, "is my son, Marvin. He can act as footman when the occasion demands, but is normally employed as odd job man."

 Caroline switched her gaze from father to mother, then to the youth who stood a little in front of them, and instantly it changed to one of unstinted admiration. The expressions - good looking -handsome - flashed across her mind, then were dismissed as being totally inadequate. He was beautiful. There was no other word to describe the perfect, pale features, the wonderful blue eyes, the long, blond hair, the white, even teeth and the muscular, but slim, body. There was nothing feminine in that beautiful face; on the contrary, Caroline was aware of an animal magnetism that made her forget his bizarre parents and the presence of her husband who had been watching her previous discomfort with sardonic amusement.

 "I think, Caroline, Mrs Grantley is waiting for your instructions regarding dinner."

 "What!" She tore her gaze away from the beautiful face. "Oh, yes. Whatever is convenient. I…"

 "For God's sake!" Sheridan broke in impatiently. "Not what - but when? I should imagine dinner is almost ready."

 "Oh… in about an hour."

 Grantley was the epitome of a perfect butler.

 "Would eight o'clock be satisfactory, Madam?"

 "Yes… that would be fine."

 "Then permit me to show you to your room."

 "Surely," she overcame her reluctance to address this strange creature, "you must have some help with the housework. It seems too much for three people. I mean the house is so big."

 Grantley was leading them up the great staircase and answered without turning his head.

 "We manage quite well, thank you, madam. It is simply a matter of keeping to a system and my father comes up from the lodge each day to do the heavy work."

 "Your father!" She remembered the awful old man who had opened the front gates and shuddered to think that he would actually enter the house - perhaps even walk up these stairs. "Surely he's too old…"

 "He's very strong, madam," Grantley stated suavely, as he opened a door and stood to one side so that they could enter. "The blue room, sir. You expressed a preference for this one, I believe."

 "Yes, this will do fine." Sheridan Croxley walked across the room and then turned and looked round with evident satisfaction. "Used to be old Sir Harry's room. Used to sleep his after dinner bottle of port off in here, while my old dad was pigging it down in the village."

 "Will that be all, sir?" Grantley enquired.

 "We would like a bath," Sheridan replied.

 "Of course, sir. Marvin is running them now. The bathrooms are on the opposite side of the passage."

 He went out and closed the door with respectful quietude and they heard his soft footsteps recede along the passage. Caroline sank down on the bed and mopped her forehead with a lace handkerchief.

 "Good heavens, where did you find them?"

 "I didn't." Sheridan removed his jacket and walked to the dressing-table. "They came with the house. Old Sir Harry Sinclair died some twenty years ago and I gather it has been empty off and on ever since, with this lot acting as caretakers. But I should say they are worth their keep. You can see how the place is kept and Mrs Grantley's cooking has to be sampled to be believed."

 "But she looks like something that has escaped from a fairground," Caroline protested. "Did you hear what he said? 'Women of our kind are not permitted to shave.' Sheridan, we can't have a bearded lady about the place."

 "I see no reason why not," Sheridan growled. "She's a good cook and can't help having an - an unusual growth. Don't suppose she enjoys it."

 "But what about him? Grantley, for God's sake! Those ears and that great pile of hair! And that thing on the front gate!"

 "Not to mention the young one," added Sheridan caustically. "I saw you giving him the once over."

 "Now you're being ridiculous. Although how that pair produced a son like that is beyond me. Sheridan, this place gives me the willies. Let's get out of here."

 "We will. On Monday morning. But not one minute sooner. So have your bath, put on some glad rags and make the best of it."

 He was glaring at her with that cold, baleful stare she knew so well - and she flinched.

 "If you say so. But surely we don't have to dress for dinner when there are only the two of us?"

 He grinned and Caroline felt the familiar surge of loathing and desire that seemed to originate somewhere in the region of her stomach and set her brain on fire. She trembled and his grin broadened.

 "Not now, my little slut. As my old man would have said - we have company coming. The local sky-pilot. Bloody old fool, but he's been here for over forty years and it'll be fun to let him know how the world has changed."

 Caroline felt the blood drain from her face and thwarted passion curdled and became unreasoning rage.

 "You bastard! You dirty, bombastic bastard. You haven't an ounce of decent feeling in your entire body."