Collected Stories (9 page)

 of the county of Kent, Lord of the Manor of Clavering, written in this the twenty-second year of the reign of his gracious majesty, King Charles the Second.

 It took a great effort of will to turn the title page, for the room seemed suddenly to have become very cold, and the dying sun sent its last shafts of light through the window, making the shadows scurry like so many disturbed mice. But he had to read on; the page went over with a disturbingly loud crackling sound.

PART 1.

 INSTRUCTIONS AS TO THE ENTRAPMENT OF THE UNBORN.

 Having kept myself aloof from the troubles of the preceding reign, I have devoted these many years to the pursuit of that knowledge which fools call evil, and from which, even those men that are dubbed wise, cover their faces, even as the night hides from the rising sun.

To say that the knowledge I have confined to these pages is the unadulterated fruit of my own labors would not be true for I have been helped by the old masters, such as Astaste and his
Book of Forbidden Knowledge
, Conrad von Leininstein with his invaluable
Transformation of Living Matter Through Quickening Time
, and many others. But I have gone beyond them, have made myself as a seething-pot, created an essence of bubbling truth such as no man has yet conceived.

Men avert their eyes rather than meet my glance, for I wear my knowledge about me like a cloak; they whisper about me in corners, and there is much talk of witchcraft, and were I not who I am, I might fear the stake.

I prepared me the room after many years and the expense of much blood, and the damnation of my soul should the Black One whose name must never be uttered ever assume power over me. I brought me slaves from the Africas; young persons whose disappearance would never be commented upon; although their screams have doubtless been heard, but such is the reputation of this house, the fools merely cross themselves and take to their heels. It was necessary to kill their body with a painful slowness, and draw off their soul or life essence while the blue room and all pertaining to it was imprinted upon their dying gaze. Thus did I make a karma or ghost room, kept alive by the life essence of those who had been sacrificed to it. But even as the body needs food, the earth needs fertilizing, so the room from time to time, must be fed. Many of the Africans have a poor lasting quality, the power fades and my soul trembles lest He be able to enter. Therefore, I prepared me the door, seeping it in blood that was still warm, and making it into a trap that will function for a brief spell in the time that has yet to come. I pray that this be not destroyed in the centuries yet unborn, for without it will I be unable to acquire that which is needful, and be lost for all eternity.

The unborn must come in when the time is ripe, and should he be of the right mixture, then shall he give of his body and soul that I and the room may continue to be; or I will go forth beyond the door and find me a woman of his kind, which would be better, for a woman have a more lasting quality...

***

William slammed the book closed and looked about him with sudden fear. A sound had disturbed him and for a moment he could not be sure what it had been. Then it came again—a slow, halting footstep, just beyond the French windows. William seemed to be frozen to his chair; he wanted to get up and run back to the safety of his own world; at the same time, there was an irritating curiosity to know who—what, would shortly come in through the window.

Suddenly the overhead chandelier lit up; every one of its candles took on a yellow spear-shaped light, and beyond the window it was night, a black impregnable wall of darkness. But the slow, faltering footsteps continued to draw nearer, and it seemed as though the room shivered with fear at the approach of its dread master, for the coldness grew more intense, and William whimpered like a terrified puppy.

The French windows opened and slowly a black figure emerged from the darkness and limped into the room. The scarlet-doublet was rotten with age, the blue velvet had long since lost its plume, the knee breeches were threadbare, the black boots cracked and down-at-heel, and He—It—had no face. Just an oval-shaped expanse of dead-white skin surrounded by a mass of bedraggled white hair.

William screamed once, a long, drawn out shriek, then he was on his feet and racing for the door. He pulled it open, crossed the dark study in a fear-mad rush, barked his shins on a chair, then tore out into the hall, and up the stairs, to finally collapse on the landing where he lay panting and trembling like a hunted animal.

Slowly he recovered, fought back the terror, mastered his shaking limbs, and marshaled his thoughts. He crawled forward and peered down through the banisters to the dark hall below. He could see the pale oblong that marked his study doorway. The door was still open. Then another more terrible thought exploded and sent slivers of fear across his brain. The door was open. What had he read in the blue-covered book?

“Therefore I prepared me the door... making it into a trap that will function for a brief spell... or I will go forth beyond the door and find me a woman of his kind, which would be better, for a woman have a more lasting quality.”

Rosemary! If Sir Michael was beyond the door, then he might be but a few feet away, hidden by the darkness, peering down at William with that face that was not a face, perhaps even moving silently towards the bedroom where Rosemary lay asleep.

William got to his feet, stretched out a hand and groped wildly for the light switch. He found it, pressed, and the sudden light blasted the darkness, shattered it into splinters, sent the shadows racing for protecting corners, forced imagination to face reality. The landing was empty; the familiar cold linoleum, the white painted doors, the brown banisters, the stairs... William peered down into the hall. The landing light did not extend to more than halfway down the stairs, the hall was still in total darkness. It took great courage to descend the stairs, and a great effort of will to press the hall switch. Light, like truth, is all-revealing; the hall table was in its proper place, the carpet he and Rosemary had chosen with such care covered the floor, two prints still hung on the green-papered walls, and all doors were closed, save the one leading to his study; and standing in the opening was something extra—a bedraggled, nightmare figure with no face. Almost no face, for since William had seen it last, it had acquired a mouth. Two thin lines that opened.

“Thank you,” the voice came as a harsh, vibrant whisper, “thank you very much.”

For the first time in his life William fainted.

***

Rosemary was crying. Sitting by his bed sobbing, but when she saw his eyes were open, a smile lit up her face, the sun peeping through the rain clouds.

“Oh, William, you’re awake. Thank goodness, when I found you down on the hall floor, I thought... Do you feel better now? The doctor said you have a slight concussion. Hit your head when you fell.”

He felt very weak, and his head hurt, a dull ache. There was also a nagging fear at the back of his mind, trying to remind him of something he wanted to forget.

“I feel fine,” he said, “great, simply great. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Rosemary was wiping her eyes, “I guess you must have walked in your sleep, and fell downstairs. I did not find you until this morning, and you lay so still...”

She began to cry again and he wanted to comfort her, but the nagging fear was coming out into the open, making him remember, causing him to shiver.

“You must leave this house,” he tried to sit upright, “He is looking for someone—a woman who has...” he giggled inanely, “. . . who has a lasting quality.”

“Oh, no,” Rosemary had both hands clutched to her mouth, staring at him with fear-filled eyes, “your poor head.”

“I’m not mad,” William clutched her arm, “please believe me. He—It, I don’t know, but there is a room behind the door, and He made it—kept it alive and himself by the life essence—soul’s blood, of living people. I know the door is a trap, is only active for a little while at certain periods, and now happens to be one of them. I don’t know why sometimes I can go through, and at others I cannot, but it is so. But the point is, He—Sir Michael—has come through. He is on this side of the door. He wants a woman he can take back—make part of the room—take to pieces, tear soul from body, but you won’t die, you won’t be so lucky.”

Rosemary ran from the room, raced down the stairs, and he heard the telephone receiver being removed; she was telephoning the doctor, convinced beyond all doubt he was mad.

Perhaps he was, or at the very best a victim of a walking hallucination. He was suddenly very confused. He had lived off his imagination for years—it could have rebelled, manufactured a sleepwalking nightmare. After all his first “visit” had begun by him mentally building up the room item by item.

He pretended to be asleep when Rosemary returned.

The doctor said: “Run-down,” remarked sagely on the effects of overwork, strain, advised rest, wrote out a prescription, and then departed. William felt almost happy after his visit, quite willing to accept the certainty that his experience had been nothing more than a vivid and unpleasant dream. He would rest, stay in bed, then in a few days he and Rosemary would go away for a long holiday, and during their absence a builder could remove the door. That was the sensible solution.  

“Sorry if I scared you,” he told Rosemary, “but I had such a horrible nightmare—a sort of two-part dream, and it seemed so real. We’ll go away when I feel fit.”

She was delighted; chatted happily about where they should go, spent as much time as possible by his bedside, and left all the doors open when she went downstairs, so she could hear should he call out. The day passed and as the shadows of night darkened the windows, a faint chill of returning fear began to haunt his mind. Rosemary turned on the lights, drew the curtains, smiled at him, but there was an expression of unease in her eyes, and it was then he knew his hard-won peace of mind was merely self-deception.

“Anything wrong?” He tried to make the question sound casual.

“No,” she straightened the counterpane, “no, nothing.”

“Tell me,” he whispered, fearful lest the very walls were listening, “please, tell me.”

She averted her head.

“It’s nothing, only silliness on my part. But—that door—it won’t remain shut. Every time I close it, the handle turns, and it opens.”

“Then I was right, it was not a dream.”

“Nonsense,” she was pushing him back onto the pillows, “the door is shrinking, the warm air is making it contract, that must be the answer. It must be.”

“Did... did you see anything beyond the door?”

“Only the cupboard shelves, but...”

She paused, and he did not want her to go on, tried to blot out her voice, but the words came to him, like echoes from yesteryear.

“I keep thinking there is someone else in the house.”

He shook his head: “No... no...”

“I know it’s pure imagination, but... I thought I saw a face looking down at me over the banisters.”

“Rosemary,” he took her hand, “don’t say anything more, just do as I say. Go downstairs, get the car out of the garage and wait for me. I’ll pack a bag and will be with you in a few minutes.”

“But...” Her eyes were wide open, glazed with fear, and she made a faint protest when he clambered out of bed.

“Please do as I say. Now.”

She ran from the room and William was reaching for his clothes when he had a glimpse of a figure gliding across the open doorway. For a moment he stood petrified, then he shouted once: “Rosemary!”

“What’s the matter?” Her voice, hoarse with fear, came up from the hall. “What...”

Her scream seared his brain like a hot knife and he raced for the landing, ran down the stairs, then stood in the hall, calling our her name, trying to master his fear, the weakness in his legs.

“William...!”

The scream came from his study and for a moment he surrendered to the paralyzing terror, stood trembling like a statue on the brink of unnatural life, then with a great effort of will he moved forward, staggered rather than ran through the doorway and took in the scene with one all-embracing glance.

He—It—Sir Michael, was complete, rejuvenated by the life force of the girl that lay limp in his arms. The face was now lit by a pair of dark terrible eyes, the nose was arched, cruel, the lips parted in a triumphant smile, the long hair only slightly flecked with grey, but his clothes were still ragged, old, besmirched with grave mire.

The door was open but the room beyond was slightly out of focus, the walls had a shimmering quality, the chandelier candles were spluttering, making light dance with shadow; a chair suddenly lost one leg and it fell over onto the floor.

He watched William, eyes glistening with sardonic amusement, and made no attempt to intervene as the young man edged round the walls towards the door. When William stood in the open doorway, with the blue room behind him, the thin lips parted again, and the harsh voice spoke:

“I must thank you again. The woman may have a more lasting quality, but two bodies and souls were always better than one.”

He moved forward, and Rosemary, now mercifully unconscious, lay in his arms, her head flung back so that her long hair brushed the desktop as they passed.

“The door,” William’s brain screamed, “destroy the door.”

He would have given twenty years of his life for an axe. Then he remembered the crossed sabers hanging just above the doorframe. He reached up and gripped the brass hilts, jerked and they came away, then he spun round to face the approaching figure.

Sir Michael chuckled as he slowly shook his head.

“Never. You will only harm the lady.”

William swung the saber in his right hand sideways; struck the door with a resounding crash, and instantly Sir Michael flinched, fell back a few paces as though the blade had been aimed at him.

“No-o-o.” The protest was a cry of pain; William struck again, and red fluid began to seep out of the door panel, and something crashed in the room behind. Then in a fear-inspired frenzy, William slashed wildly at the door, and was dimly aware that Sir Michael had dropped Rosemary, was reeling around the study, jerking as each blow fell, emitting harsh animal-like cries, his eyes black pools of pain-racked hate.