The Year's Best Horror Stories 9 (17 page)

The whole building began to shudder. It could hardly be a ventilator arrangement; the vibration was too violent for that. He looked up and was amazed to see the rose window beginning to rock gently to and fro. Behind the crude Victorian Gothic glass which filled the spans between the spokes of tracery, some other glass could now be seen. Courtleigh worked with all his might and the huge translucent disc began to go slowly around like windmill sails.

Nor had he need to strain himself in looking up to observe results. The moonlight was casting the circular pattern upon the library floor below. To his further surprise he also noted that this reflection fell exactly on the circle marked upon the stone slab he had uncovered that afternoon. At last he began to see its purpose. He realized he had stumbled upon the work of the eccentric Faik. This would be something to tell Sanderton about in the morning!

As the disc slowly revolved, a flux of strange tints and shapes came into play on the dial below. It was like watching the tinctures which flow from certain crystals as they sink dissolving in a bowl of water. But soon the forms became less blurred as the two cycles of design within the window began to coincide. When this occurred the handle stopped with a click, and an upward glance told the professor that the disc was stationary again.

But the colored patch upon the floor still drew his full attention. And what a fascinating sight it was! The vacant divisions of the dial were now peopled with fantastic forms; some suggesting a mystical significance, like the signs of the zodiac in an old almanac; others of frighteningly grotesque and evil creatures of the night. Each in its appointed place was motionless, frozen into liquid clarity.

All Courtleigh’s fear was now swallowed up in wonderment. Then, even as he gazed into the lighted dial, its placidity was broken. A fresh shape had appeared, this time a moving shadow hovering furtively in the arena of signs. It was a wiry silhouette, as of a blackened lobster, running hither and thither among the symbols with fierce agility like a witch doctor in a tribal dance.

He felt himself going giddy as he stared at this devilish marionette. He must have jerked the lever with his hand for without warning a ratchet crackled rapidly overhead; the lights on the floor whirled into rainbow confusion, and in a few seconds the heavy disc of glass was back in its first position. The sudden motion disturbed the dust and cobwebs up above as well. Quite a shower of particles were filtering through the moonbeams, and a roundish clump of soft debris came bowling down onto the transom.

This sordid finish to the uncanny vision brought the watcher to his senses. For a second or two he felt vaguely puzzled, then once more that strange uneasiness came over him; he sensed he was being watched. He almost felt something stalking him, and found himself trying to catch it in the corner of his eye. With an effort he roused himself: action was what he needed. It was time to be getting out of that place and back to his warm bed again. “There’s nothing for it,” he told himself, “but to scramble down these mullions into the library. But . . . I’m a bit past the age for a thirty-foot drop.”

He was groping cautiously along the transom footway when he noticed an obstruction in his path. It was in the shadow and all he could make out was a basketlike mass frayed out at the edge like the twigs of a besom. He raised his foot to go across it, but as he started the stride, something in that dark mass began to twitch. He was going to crouch down and look at it, and suddenly recoiled with a gasp of horror.

At that very moment the moonlight failed and left him in pitch darkness. With heart beating madly, he quickly edged backward from the thing. Then the light reappeared and nothing was there. He tried to believe he was imagining things; but was soon undeceived. A tiny pattering sound on the glass above caused him to look up just as the horrid form came at him, from behind this time, tacking in a nimble detour across the rose window like some gigantic spider running out along its web.

With a cry of terror the trapped man rushed madly the other way, quite heedless of his precarious path. And now he saw the footway narrowing as the transom shelf again slid in. In another moment his foot had caught the parapet and sent him headlong over.

To the library floor was a considerable drop, but Courtleigh fell obliquely, tearing his jacket on the battlemented stonework of the transom, and so swung inwards against the double mullions below. He clutched out wildly and managed to grasp one of these upright shafts. It did not stop his fall but slowed him down enough so he could slither with one foot against the horizontal bar of the second transom lower down. Instinct alone dictated what to do. With a mighty thrust upon his lucky foothold, he lunged out sideways and cast himself towards the gallery not far below.

It was this desperate leap that saved him. The agile fiend had been within a foot of him upon the mullions. But, by a marvel, he had cleared the wooden balusters and landed sprawling against a case of books. He was now at the east end of the gallery panting for a moment’s respite, knowing full well he dare not linger. He quickly scrambled up, heedless of bruises, staggering forward among the moonlit reading-tables toward the stair-head. Still going tiptoe, he was just preparing to descend and quit the place when he was again confronted by the hideous creature coming crabwise up the steps to intercept him.

Back he swung in flight along the gallery, but this time he took the other way, making for the reading-cabinet at the end. He floundered in exhausted and slammed the screen door after him. Once in, he knew how futile this move was; there was no way out. Already the hideous face was looking through the open woodwork at him. With nightmare fascination he watched it craning its gaunt head about as though blind, then squeeze between the carved foliage, straining its quivering legs against the sides. By some uncanny sense it came straight for him as he stood transfixed against the balustrade. It fastened on him without haste and though he raised his arms to beat it off, they fell limply down again and left him to his fate. A fiery glow suffused all vision now as he felt the bristling tendons on his chest and saw the ghastly proboscis nosing up for his throat . . .

A rapid tinkling of melodious bells mingled below with a heavy thud. But Courtleigh did not hear them. Nor did he hear that fearsome screech that scalded the night air. Mortal consciousness had given out, and his inert body—with the demon fast clawed upon it, had hurtled backwards over the gallery rail.

That unearthly wail had carried right across the park and pierced every ear at the hall. The whole household woke into commotion as at an earthquake. There was a barking of dogs, lights appeared in distant corridors, doors flung open while figures with sticks and shotguns ran out from every quarter. From upstairs windows night-capped heads appeared, calling to know what was amiss.

It was amidst this hue and cry that Sir Leslie (beslippered and holding a pistol) accompanied by Mr. Sanderton (pulling his priest’s cloak round his shoulders) appeared upon the terrace.

“By jingo!” ejaculated Marlop, “the library’s on fire! Perkins, Jennings, and you other men come with me. The rest get buckets and whatever you can, and down to the lake with them.”

“I think it’s chiefly the east end that’s going,” panted Sanderton as they headed across the grass. “It’s to be hoped we can get it stopped before the rest gets hold.”

Without more words they burst through the great door and were nearly choked with smoke. But masking their mouths and noses, they pressed forward and found the fire buckets by the wall. The seat of the conflagration was the end nearest the great window, but flames were spreading right along the gallery. Sir Leslie and two of the men were soon up there with axes to cut away the burning beams and banisters. Others got to work with a relay of buckets while Sanderton, assisted by the tremulous Hook, was shoving blindly at the screen door to get into the oratory. All inside was a pit of smoke but he determined to rescue what he could of the antique altar furnishings.

Hook, treading gingerly, entered first; but had not gone above a pace or two before he took fright. The rector pushed past him impatiently to see what was wrong. A current of air had cleared away the smoke sufficiently to show a prostrate figure on the floor. Whether dead or alive, the man could not be left there. Having got him dragged into the open, Sanderton held up a lantern and recognized, with a shock of dismay, the features of his Durham friend.

The fire was nothing to him now. He left Sir Leslie and the rest to deal with it as they could, and with two men to help him, he moved the unconscious professor across to the house and up to bed. Not till he had gotten Dr. Green over from the village and received the blessed verdict that Courtleigh was out of mortal danger, did the old bookworm give any real thought to the fate of the library.

“He’s terribly bruised,” said the doctor as they left the patient sleeping soundly, “and has had a nasty shock. There are some queer scratches about the chest but I don’t find any bones broken. I’ll have another look at him when he comes round. And now, hadn’t we better see about this awful fire?”

By the time they reached the scene, however, the amateur fire brigade had gotten things well under control. The place was still smoldering but it was felt safe for most of the helpers to get off home again.

“Well,” cried Sir Leslie, grimy but triumphant, as they trooped back, “thank God that’s over. I’ll never say another word against ornamental lakes! Hey, Sanderton, what’s this about finding a man unconscious in the oratory? Professor Courtleigh! What? How the devil did
he
come to be there?”

They had to wait till next day to answer that. The rector, not much helped by Mrs. Willerby’s contributions to things, went across to the hall again straight after breakfast.

“How is Courtleigh now?” he inquired as Sir Leslie showed him into the morning room to talk things over. “Has a sleep done him good?”

“I’ve just been up,” replied the other, “and he’s much better. A day in bed and thinking things steady for a bit, and he’ll be all right, I think. But he’s very talkative. In fact he’s told me the queerest tale about how he got into the library yesterday. A thorough nightmare story it is, I assure you. So far as I can judge, the poor fellow’s been sleepwalking. I’d better tell you what he said.”

Sanderton listened to the story very intently. “My word,” he said when he had heard it, “he must have had a frightful fall from the cabinet into the oratory! It’s a mercy that pile of hassocks was there, or he’d have broken his neck: as it was, he hit the Sanctus bell.”

“Good for him!” commented Marlop grimly. “That would be enough to send any orthodox ghost packing!”

“Good old Courtleigh, he certainly had the sense to fall in the right place; let us put it that way,” smiled the cleric. “But this story about being pursued is a bit strange. I suppose you’re right: sleepwalking’s the most reasonable explanation.”

“Not much doubt, I reckon,” nodded Sir Leslie, “but Courtleigh needs reassuring about it. Says he would like to think it all a dream but somehow he feels that it really happened. He’s particularly anxious to know if that revolving window and those passages exist. And also whether his speculation about Faik was correct. I told him we’d be going across to see what the fire had left, then we can set his mind at rest. If you’re willing, we’ll go now. I’d like, in any case, to see this turret that Hook sealed up.”

The rector, by this time prepared for almost anything, accompanied Sir Leslie to the scene of the fire. There was, however, not much to be examined. The window had completely collapsed and, though some twisted ironwork showed among the debris, it was impossible to reconstruct much from that. The stonework flanking the space where the window had been was still intact, and the door at the base of the first turret—being at the far side—was quite unburnt. As soon as Hook arrived with the tools Sir Leslie directed him to force it open.

Jennings assisted and it was not a many minutes’ job. As the last shove flung it open there came forth a terrible stench of foul air, and the men paused outside to let it clear.

“Hm. A pair o’ moldy shoes!” commented Jennings, looking in with his arms akimbo.

“Aye, and an ancient book lying open agen that . . . Lord ’a mercy it’s . . .” began Hook and suddenly stopped.

Sir Leslie brushed past him and stepped inside. “Looks like a bird’s nest,” he was saying as he bent forward. All at once he sprang clear as if stung. “Keep back, man!” he cried to Sanderton who had that moment pressed in to have a look.

What happened next was hard to tell. They saw the rector recoil, as a man does when a rat springs at his throat, then cross himself rapidly. There was a rumble of collapsing masonry up in the stair as he slowly stepped backwards with his hand to his brow like one dazed.

“Courtleigh was right,” he gasped, leaning by the wall as the rumbling ceased and all became quiet again.

The disturbance had jolted the whole turret, but when the dust began to clear Sir Leslie advanced again, very cautiously this time, to look inside; and the rest peered over his shoulder. And there they saw, perched on what appeared to be a bundle of rags, a black form shriveled up. It might have been the charred skeleton of a small ape but the face was a mere leperlike mask, frightful to look upon.

Seizing a spade, and averting his glance with a shudder, Sir Leslie darted in upon the instant to strike it down. But it was quite dead, and crumbled at the first touch, leaving only a pile of feathery ashes. Instinct, however, made him stamp even that to powder.

While they still stared, scarce believing what their eyes had seen, the real meaning of those moldy rags and shoes also appeared. The book had tumbled from the step and disclosed five digit bones protruding from a sleeve, while in the shadow—no longer hidden by that charred form—lay a human skull, Faik’s.

When the first shock of ghastliness had passed, Sanderton picked up the book and came out into the light to examine it. Then, looking up after a brief scrutiny to meet Sir Leslie’s inquiring glance, he gave a little sigh and nodded simply: “The bequest is safe at last. This is the
Household Book
, the cause of all our cares.”