SCREAM AT MIDNIGHT
By JOSEPH PAYNE BRENNAN
Macabre House
New Haven, Connecticut
1963
Copyright Joseph Payne Brennan 1963
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
BOOKS BY JOSEPH PAYNE BRENNAN
SHORT STORIES
Nine Horrors and a Dream (1958)
The Dark Returners (1959)
POEMS
Heart of Earth (1950)
The Humming Stair (1953)
The Wind of Time (1962)
CONTENTS
The Horror at Chilton Castle
The Midnight Bus
The Vampire Bat
The Seventh Incantation
Killer Cat
The Dump
The Tenants
The Man Who Feared Masks
The Visitor in the Vault
THE HORROR AT CHILTON CASTLE
I had decided to spend a leisurely summer in Europe, concentrating, if
at all, on genealogical research. I went first to Ireland, journeying
to Kilkenny where I unearthed a mine of legend and authentic lore
concerning my remote Irish ancestors, the O'Braonains, chiefs of Ui
Duach in the ancient kingdom of Ossory. The Brennans (as the name was
later spelled) lost their estates in the British confiscation under
Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford. The thieving Earl, I am happy to
report, was subsequently beheaded in the Tower.
From Kilkenny I traveled to London and then to Chesterfield in search
of maternal ancestors, the Holborns, Wilkersons, Searles, etc.
Incomplete and fragmentary records left many great gaps, but my efforts
were moderately successful and at length I decided to go further north
and visit the vicinity of Chilton Castle, seat of Robert Chilton-Payne,
the twelfth Earl of Chilton. My relationship to the Chilton-Paynes was
a most distant one, and yet there existed a tenuous thread of past
connection and I thought it would amuse me to glimpse the castle.
Arriving in Wexwold, the tiny village near the castle, late in the
afternoon, I engaged a room at the Inn of the Red Goose--the only one
there was--unpacked and went down for a simple meal consisting of a
small loaf, cheese and ale.
By the time I finished this stark and yet satisfying repast, darkness
had set in, and with it came wind and rain.
I resigned myself to an evening at the inn. There was ale enough and I
was in no hurry to go anywhere.
After writing a few letters, I went down and ordered a pint of ale.
The taproom was almost deserted; the bartender, a stout gentleman
who seemed forever on the point of falling asleep, was pleasant but
taciturn, and at length I fell to musing on the strange and frightening
legend of Chilton Castle.
There were variations of the legend, and without doubt the original
tale had been embroidered down through the centuries, but the essential
outline of the story concerned a secret room somewhere in the castle.
It was said that this room contained a terrifying spectacle which the
Chilton-Paynes were obliged to keep hidden from the world.
Only three persons were ever permitted to enter the room: the presiding
Earl of Chilton, the Earl's male heir and one other person designated
by the Earl. Ordinarily this person was the Factor of Chilton Castle.
The room was entered only once in a generation; within three days after
the male heir came of age, he was conducted to the secret room by the
Earl and the Factor. The room was then sealed and never opened again
until the heir conducted his own son to the grisly chamber.
According to the legend, the heir was never the same person again after
entering the room. Invariably he would become somber and withdrawn; his
countenance would acquire a brooding, apprehensive expression which
nothing could long dispell. One of the earlier earls of Chilton had
gone completely mad and hurled himself from the turrets of the castle.
Speculation about the contents of the secret room had continued for
centuries. One version of the tale described the panic-stricken flight
of the Gowers, with armed enemies hot on their flagging heels. Although
there had been bad blood between the Chilton-Paynes and the Gowers, in
their desperation the Gowers begged for refuge at Chilton Castle. The
Earl gave them entry, conducted them to a hidden room and left with a
promise that they would be shielded from their pursuers. The Earl kept
his promise; the Gowers' enemies were turned away from the Castle,
their murderous plans unconsummated. The Earl, however, simply left
the Gowers in the locked room to starve to death. The chamber was not
opened until thirty years later when the Earl's son finally broke the
seal. A fearful sight met his eyes. The Gowers had starved to death
slowly, and at the last, judging by the appearance of the mingled
skeletons, had turned to cannibalism.
Another version of the legend indicated that the secret room had been
used by medieval earls as a torture chamber. It was said that the
ingenious instruments of pain were yet in the room and that these
lethal apparatuses still clutched the pitiful remains of their final
victims, twisted fearfully in their last agonies.
A third version mentioned one of the female ancestors of the
Chilton-Paynes, Lady Susan Glanville, who had reputedly made a pact
with the Devil. She had been condemned as a witch but had somehow
managed to escape the stake. The date and even the manner of her death
were unknown, but in some vague way the secret room was supposed to be
connected with it.
As I speculated on these different versions of the gruesome legend, the
storm increased in intensity. Rain drummed steadily against the leaded
windows of the inn and now I could occasionally hear the distant mutter
of thunder.
Glancing at the rain-streaked panes, I shrugged and ordered another
pint of ale.
I had the fresh tankard halfway to my lips when the taproom door burst
open, letting in a blast of wind and rain. The door was shut and a tall
figure muffled to the ears in a dripping greatcoat moved to the bar.
Removing his cap, he ordered brandy.
Having nothing better to do, I observed him closely. He looked about
seventy, grizzled and weather-worn, but wiry, with an appearance
of toughness and determination. He was frowning, as if absorbed in
thinking through some unpleasant problem, yet his cold blue eyes
inspected me keenly for a brief but deliberate interval.
I could not place him in a tidy niche. He might be a local farmer, and
yet I did not think that he was. He had a vague aura of authority and
though his clothes were certainly plain, they were, I thought, somewhat
better in cut and quality than those of the area countrymen whom I had
observed.
A trivial incident opened a conversation between us. An unusually sharp
crack of thunder made him turn toward the window. As he did so, he
accidentally brushed his wet cap onto the floor. I retrieved it for
him; he thanked me; and then we exchanged commonplace remarks about the
weather.
I had an intuitive feeling that although he was a normally reticent
individual, he was presently wrestling with some severe problem which
made him want to hear a human voice. Realizing there was always
the possibility that my intuition might have for once failed me, I
nevertheless babbled on about my trip, about my genealogical researches
in Kilkenny, London and Chesterfield, and finally about my distant
relationship to the Chilton-Paynes and my desire to get a good look at
Chilton Castle.
Suddenly I found that he was gazing at me with an expression which,
if not fierce, was disturbingly intense. An awkward silence ensued. I
coughed, wondering uneasily what I had said to make those cold blue
eyes stare at me so fixedly.
At length he became aware of my growing embarrassment. "You must
excuse me for staring," he apologized, "but something you said...." He
hesitated. "Could we perhaps take that table?" He nodded toward a small
table which sat half in shadow in the far corner of the room.
I agreed, mystified but curious, and we took our drinks to the secluded
table.
He sat frowning for a minute, as if uncertain how to begin. Finally
he introduced himself as William Cowath. I gave him my name and still
he hesitated. At length he took a swallow of brandy and then looked
straight at me. "I am," he stated, "the Factor at Chilton Castle."
I surveyed him with surprise and renewed interest. "What an agreeable
coincidence!" I exclaimed. "Then perhaps tomorrow you could arrange for
me to have a look at the castle?"
He seemed scarcely to hear me. "Yes, yes, of course," he replied
absently.
Puzzled and a bit irritated by his air of detachment, I remained silent.
He took a deep breath and then spoke rapidly, running some of his words
together. "Robert Chilton-Payne, the Twelfth Earl of Chilton, was
buried in the family vaults one week ago. Frederick, the young heir and
now Thirteenth Earl, came of age just three days ago. Tonight it is
imperative that he be conducted to the secret chamber!"
I gaped at him in incredulous amazement. For a moment I had an idea
that he had somehow heard of my interest in Chilton Castle and was
merely "pulling my leg" for amusement in the belief that I was the
greenest of gullible tourists.
But there could be no mistaking his deadly seriousness. There was not
the faintest suspicion of humor in his eyes.
I groped for words. "It seems so strange--so unbelievable! Just before
you arrived, I had been thinking about the various legends connected
with the secret room."
His cold eyes held my own. "It is not legend that confronts us; it is
fact."
A thrill of fear and excitement ran through me. "You are going
there--tonight?"
He nodded. "Tonight. Myself, the young Earl--and one other."
I stared at him.
"Ordinarily," he continued, "the Earl himself would accompany us.
That is the custom. But he is dead. Shortly before he passed away, he
instructed me to select someone to go with the young Earl and myself.
That person must be male--and preferably of the blood."
I took a deep drink of ale and said not a word.
He continued. "Besides the young Earl, there is no one at the Castle
save his elderly mother, Lady Beatrice Chilton, and an ailing aunt."
"Who could the Earl have had in mind?" I inquired cautiously.
The Factor frowned. "There are some distant male cousins residing
in the country. I have an idea he thought at least one of them might
appear for the obsequies. But not one of them did."
"That was most unfortunate!" I observed.
"Extremely unfortunate. And I am therefore asking you, as one of the
blood, to accompany the young Earl and myself to the secret room
tonight!"
I gulped like a bumpkin. Lightning flashed against the windows and I
could hear rain swishing along the stones outside. When feathers of ice
stopped fluttering in my stomach, I managed a reply.
"But I--that is--my relationship is so very remote! I am "of the blood"
only by courtesy, you might say! The strain in me is so very diluted!"
He shrugged. "You bear the name. And you possess at least a few drops
of the Payne blood. Under the present urgent circumstances, no more is
necessary. I am sure that Earl Robert would agree with me, could he
still speak. You will come?"
There was no escaping the intensity, the pressure, of those cold blue
eyes. They seemed to follow my mind about as it groped for further
excuses.
Finally, inevitably it seemed, I agreed. A feeling grew in me that the
meeting had been preordained, that, somehow, I had always been destined
to visit the secret chamber in Chilton Castle.
We finished our drinks and I went up to my room for rain ware. When
I descended, suitably attired for the storm, the obese bartender was
snoring on his stool in spite of savage crashes of thunder which had
now become almost incessant. I envied him as I left the cozy room with
William Cowath.
Once outside, my guide informed me that we would have to go afoot to
the castle. He had purposely walked down to the inn, he explained, in
order that he might have time and solitude to straighten out in his own
mind the things which he would have to do.
The sheets of heavy rain, the strong wind and the roar of thunder made
conversation difficult. I walked Indian-fashion behind the Factor who
took enormous strides and appeared to know every inch of the way in
spite of the darkness.
We walked only a short distance down the village street and then struck
into a side road which very soon dwindled to a foot path made slippery
and treacherous by the driving rain.
Abruptly the path began to ascend; the footing became more precarious.
It was at once necessary to concentrate all one's attention on one's
feet. Fortunately, the flashes of lightning were frequent.
It seemed to me that we had been walking for an hour--actually, I
suppose, it was only a few minutes--when the Factor finally stopped.
I found myself standing beside him on a flat rocky plateau. He pointed
up an incline which rose before us. "Chilton Castle," he said.
For a moment I saw nothing in the unrelieved darkness. Then the
lightning flashed.
Beyond high battlemented walls, fissured with age, I glimpsed a great
square Norman castle with four rectangular corner towers pierced by
narrow window apertures which looked like evil slitted eyes. The huge
weathered pile was half covered by a mantle of ivy which appeared more
black than green.
"It looks incredibly old!" I commented.
William Cowath nodded. "It was begun in 1122 by Henry de Montargis."
Without another word he started up the incline.
As we approached the castle wall, the storm grew worse. The slanting
rain and powerful wind now made speech all but impossible. We bent our
heads and staggered upward.
When the wall finally loomed in front of us, I was amazed at its height
and thickness. It had been constructed, obviously, to withstand the
best siege guns and battering rams which its early enemies could bring
to bear on it.
As we crossed a massive timbered drawbridge, I peered down into the
black ditch of a moat but I could not be sure whether there was water
in it. A low arched gateway gave access through the wall to an inner
cobblestoned courtyard. This courtyard was entirely empty, save for
rivulets of rushing water.
Crossing the cobblestones with swift strides, the Factor led me to
another arched gateway in yet another wall. Inside was a second smaller
yard and beyond spread the ivy-clutched base of the ancient keep itself.
Traversing a darkened stone-flagged passage, we found ourselves facing
a ponderous door, age-blackened oak reinforced with pitted bands of
iron. The Factor flung open this door and there before us was the great
hall of the castle.
Four long hand-hewn tables with their accompanying benches stretched
almost the entire length of the hall. Metal torch brackets, stained
with age, were affixed to sculptured stone columns which supported the
roof. Ranged around the walls were suits of armor, heraldic shields,
halberds, pikes and banners, the accumulated trophies and prizes of
bloody centuries when each castle was almost a kingdom unto itself. In
flickering candlelight, which appeared to be the only illumination, the
grim array was eerily impressive.
William Cowath waved a hand. "The holders of Chilton lived by the sword
for many centuries."
Walking the length of the great hall, he entered another dim
passageway. I followed silently.
As we strode along, he spoke in a subdued voice. "Frederick, the young
heir, does not enjoy robust health. The shock of his father's death was
severe--and he dreads tonight's ordeal, which he knows must come."
Stopping before a wooden door embellished with carved fleurs-de-lis
and metal scrollwork, he gave me a shadowed, enigmatic glance and then
knocked.
Someone inquired who was there and he identified himself. Presently a
heavy bolt was lifted and the door opened.
If the Chilton-Paynes had been stubborn fighters in their day, the
warrior blood appeared to have become considerably diluted in the veins
of Frederick, the young heir and now Thirteenth Earl. I saw before me a
thin, pale-complexioned young man whose dark sunken eyes looked haunted
and fearful. His dress was both theatrical and anachronistic: a dark
green velvet coat and trousers, a green satin waist-band, flounces of
white lace at neck and wrists.
He beckoned us in, as if with reluctance, and closed the door. The
walls of the small room were entirely covered with tapestries depicting
the hunt or medieval battle scenes. A draft of air from a window or
other aperture made them undulate constantly; they seemed to have a
disturbing life of their own. In one corner of the room there was an
antique canopy bed; in another a large writing table with an agate lamp.
After a brief introduction, which included an explanation of how I came
to be accompanying them, the Factor inquired if his Lordship was ready
to visit the chamber.
Although he was wan in any case, Earl Frederick's face now lost every
last trace of color. He nodded, however, and preceded us into the
passage.
William Cowath led the way; the Earl followed him; and I brought up the
rear.
At the far end of the passage, the Factor opened the door of a
cobwebbed supply room. Here he secured candles, chisels, a pick and a
sledgehammer. After packing these into a leather bag which he slung
over one shoulder, he picked up a faggot torch which lay on one of
the shelves in the room. He lit this, waited while it flared into a
steady flame. Satisfied with this illumination, he closed the room and
beckoned for us to continue after him.
Nearby was a descending spiral of stone steps. Lifting his torch, the
Factor started down. We trailed after him wordlessly.
There must have been fifty steps in that long downward spiral. As we
descended, the stones became wet and cold; the air, too, grew colder,
but the cold was not of the type that refreshes. It was too laden with
the smell of mould and dampness.
At the bottom of the steps we faced a tunnel, pitch-black and silent.
The Factor raised his torch. "Chilton Castle is Norman but is said to
have been reared over a Saxon ruin. It is believed that the passageways
in these depths were constructed by the Saxons." He peered, frowning,
into the tunnel. "Or by some still earlier folk."
He hesitated briefly, and I thought he was listening. Then, glancing
round at us, he proceeded down the passage.
I walked after the Earl, shivering. The dead, icy air seemed to pierce
to the pith of my bones. The stones underfoot grew slick with a film of
slime. I longed for more light, but there was none save that cast by
the flickering, bobbing torch of the Factor.
Partway down the passage he paused and again I sensed that he was
listening. The silence seemed absolute however, and we went on.
The end of the passage brought us to more descending steps. We went
down some fifteen and entered another tunnel which appeared to have
been cut out of the solid rock on which the castle had been reared.
White-crusted nitre clung to the walls. The reek of mould was intense.
The icy air was fetid with some other odor which I found peculiarly
repellent, though I could not name it.
At last the Factor stopped, lifted his torch and slid the leather bag
from his shoulder.
I saw that we stood before a wall made of some kind of building stone.
Though damp and stained with nitre, it was obviously of much more
recent construction than anything we had previously encountered.
Glancing round at us, William Cowath handed me the torch. "Keep a good
hold on it, if you please. I have candles, but--"
Leaving the sentence unfinished, he drew the pick from his sling bag
and began an assault on the wall. The barrier was solid enough, but
after he had worked a hole in it, he took up the sledgehammer and
quicker progress was made. Once I offered to take up the sledge while
he held the torch but he only shook his head and went on with his work
of demolition.
All this time the young Earl had not spoken a word. As I looked at his
tense white face, I felt sorry for him, in spite of my own mounting
trepidation.
Abruptly there was silence as the Factor lowered the sledgehammer. I
saw that a good two feet of the lower wall remained.
William Cowath bent to inspect it. "Strong enough," he commented
cryptically. "I will leave that to build on. We can step over it."
For a full minute he stood looking silently into the blackness beyond.
Finally, shouldering his bag, he took the torch from my hand and
stepped over the ragged base of the wall. We followed suit.
As I entered that chamber, the fetid odor which I had noticed in the
passage seemed to overwhelm us. It washed around us in a nauseating
wave and we all gasped for breath.
The Factor spoke between coughs. "It will subside in a minute or two.
Stand near the aperture."
Although the reek remained repellently strong, we could at length
breathe more freely.
William Cowath lifted his torch and peered into the black depths of the
chamber. Fearfully, I gazed around his shoulder.
There was no sound and at first I could see nothing but nitre-encrusted
walls and wet stone floor. Presently, however, in a far corner, just
beyond the flickering halo of the faggot torch, I saw two tiny fiery
spots of red. I tried to convince myself that they were two red jewels,
two rubies, shining in the torchlight.
But I knew at once--I _felt_ at once--what they were. They were two red
eyes and they were watching us with a fierce unwavering stare.
The Factor spoke softly. "Wait here."
He crossed toward the corner, stopped halfway and held out his torch
at arm's length. For a moment he was silent. Finally he emitted a long
shuddering sigh.
When he spoke again, his voice had changed. It was only a sepulchral
whisper. "Come forward," he told us in that strange hollow voice.
I followed Earl Frederick until we stood at either side of the Factor.
When I saw what crouched on a stone bench in that far corner, I felt
sure that I would faint. My heart literally stopped beating for
perceptible seconds. The blood left my extremities; I reeled with
dizziness. I might have cried out, but my throat would not open.
The entity which rested on that stone bench was like something that had
crawled up out of hell. Piercing malignant red eyes proclaimed that
it had a terrible life, and yet that life sustained itself in a black,
shrunken half-mummified body which resembled a disinterred corpse. A
few mouldy rags clung to the cadaver-like frame. Wisps of white hair
sprouted out of its ghastly grey-white skull. A red smear or blotch of
some sort covered the wizened slit which served it as a mouth.
It surveyed us with a malignancy which was beyond anything merely
human. It was impossible to stare back into those monstrous red eyes.
They were so inexpressibly evil, one felt that one's soul would be
consumed in the fires of their malevolence.
Glancing aside, I saw that the Factor was now supporting Earl
Frederick. The young heir had sagged against him. The Earl stared
fixedly at the fearful apparition with terror-glazed eyes. In spite of
my own sense of horror, I pitied him.
The Factor sighed again and then he spoke once more in that low
sepulchral voice.
"You see before you," he told us, "Lady Susan Glanville. She was
carried into this chamber and fettered to the wall in 1473."
A thrill of horror coursed through me; I felt that we were in the
presence of malign forces from the Pit itself.
To me the hideous thing had appeared sexless, but at the sound of its
name, the ghastly mockery of a grin contorted the puckered red-smeared
mouth.
I noticed now for the first time that monster actually was secured to
the wall. The great double shackles were so blackened with age, I had
not noticed them before.
The Factor went on, as if he spoke by rote. "Lady Glanville was a
maternal ancestor of the Chilton-Paynes. She had commerce with the
Devil. She was condemned as a witch but escaped the stake. Finally her
own people forcibly overcame her. She was brought in here, fettered and
left to die."
He was silent a moment and then continued. "It was too late. She had
already made a pact with the Powers of Darkness. It was an unspeakably
evil thing and it has condemned her issue to a life of torment and
nightmare, a lifetime of terror and dread."
He swung his torch toward the blackened red-eyed thing. "She was a
beauty once. She hated death. She feared death. And so she finally
bartered her own immortal soul--and the bodies of her issue--for
eternal earthly life."
I heard his voice as in a nightmare; it seemed to be coming from an
infinite distance.
He went on. "The consequences of breaking the pact are too terrible to
describe. No descendant of hers has ever dared do so, once the forfeit
is known. And so she had bided here for these nearly five hundred
years."
I had thought he was finished, but he resumed. Glancing upward, he
lifted his torch toward the roof of that accursed chamber. "This room,"
he said, "lies directly underneath the family vaults. Upon the death
of the male Earl, the body is ostensibly left in the vaults. When the
mourners have gone, however, the false bottom of the vault is thrust
aside and the body of the Earl is lowered into this room."
Looking up, I saw the square rectangle of a trap door above.
The Factor's voice now became barely audible. "Once every generation
Lady Glanville feeds--on the corpse of the deceased Earl. It is a
provision of that unspeakable pact which cannot be broken."
I knew now--with a sense of horror utterly beyond description--whence
came that red smear on the repulsive mouth of the creature before us.
As if to confirm his words, the Factor lowered his torch until its
flame illuminated the floor at the foot of the stone bench where the
vampiric monster was fettered.
Strewn about the floor were the scattered bones and skull of an adult
male, red with fresh blood. And at some distance were other human
bones, brown and crumbling with age.
At this point young Earl Frederick began to scream. His shrill
hysterical cries filled the chamber. Although the Factor shook him
roughly, his terrible shrieks continued, terror-filled, nerve-shaking.
For moments the corpse-like thing on the bench watched him with its
frightful red eyes. It uttered sound finally, a kind of animal squeal
which might have been intended as laughter.
Abruptly then, and without any warning, it slid from the bench and
lunged toward the young Earl. The blackened shackles which fettered it
to the wall permitted it to advance only a yard or two. It was pulled
back sharply; yet it lunged again and again, squealing with a kind of
hellish glee which stirred the hair on my head.
William Cowath thrust his torch toward the monster, but it continued to
lunge at the end of its fetters. The nightmare room resounded with the
Earl's screams and the creature's horrible squeals of bestial laughter.
I felt that my own mind would give way unless I escaped from that
anteroom of hell.
For the first time during an ordeal which would have sent any lesser
man fleeing for his life and sanity, the iron control of the Factor
appeared to be shaken. He looked beyond the wild lunging thing toward
the wall where the fetters were fastened.
I sensed what was in his mind. Would those fastenings hold, after all
these centuries of rust and dampness?
On a sudden resolve he reached into an inner pocket and drew out
something which glittered in the torchlight. It was a silver crucifix.
Striding forward, he thrust it almost into the twisted face of the
leaping monstrosity which had once been the ravishing Lady Susan
Glanville.
The creature reeled back with an agonized scream which drowned out
the cries of the Earl. It cowered on the bench, abruptly silent and
motionless, only the pulsating of its wizened mouth and the fires of
hatred in its red eyes giving evidence that it still lived.
William Cowath addressed it grimly. "Creature of hell! If ye leave that
bench 'ere we quit this room and seal it once again, I swear that I
shall hold this cross against ye!"
The thing's red eyes watched the Factor with an expression of abysmal
hatred which no combination of mere letters could convey. They actually
appeared to glow with fire. And yet I read in them something else--fear.
I suddenly became aware that silence had descended on that room of the
damned. It lasted only a few moments. The Earl had finally stopped
screaming, but now came something worse. He began to laugh.
It was only a low chuckle, but it was somehow worse than all his
screams. It went on and on, softly, mindlessly.
The Factor turned, beckoning me toward the partially demolished wall.
Crossing the room, I climbed out. Behind me the Factor led the young
Earl, who shuffled like an old man, chuckling to himself.
There was then what seemed an interminable interval, during which the
Factor carried back a sack of mortar and a keg of water which he had
previously left somewhere in the tunnel. Working by torchlight, he
prepared the cement and proceeded to seal up the chamber, using the
same stones which he had displaced.
While the Factor labored, the young Earl sat motionless in the tunnel,
chuckling softly.
There was silence from within. Once, only, I heard the thing's fetters
clank against the stone.
At last the Factor finished and led us back through those nitre-stained
passageways and up the icy stairs. The Earl could scarcely ascend; with
difficulty the Factor supported him from step to step.
Back in his tapestry-panelled chamber, Earl Frederick sat on his canopy
bed and stared at the floor, laughing quietly. Pompous medical tomes
to the contrary, I noticed that his black hair had actually turned
grey. After persuading him to drink a glass of liquid which I had no
doubt contained a heavy dose of sedation, the Factor managed to get him
stretched out on the bed.
William Cowath then led me to a nearby bed chamber. My impulse was to
rush from that hellish pile without delay, but the storm still raged
and I was by no means sure I could find my way back to the village
without a guide.
The Factor shook his head sadly. "I fear his Lordship is doomed to an
early death. He was never strong and tonight's events may have deranged
his mind--may have weakened him beyond hope of recovery."
I expressed my sympathy and horror. The Factor's cold blue eyes held
my own. "It may be," he said, "that in the event of the young Earl's
death, you yourself might be considered...." He hesitated. "Might be
considered," he finally concluded, "as one somewhat in the line of
succession."
I wanted to hear no more. I gave him a curt goodnight, bolted the door
after him and tried--quite unsuccessfully--to salvage a few minutes'
sleep.
But sleep would not come. I had feverish visions of that red-eyed thing
in the sealed chamber escaping its fetters, breaking through the wall
and crawling up those icy, slime-covered stairs.
Even before dawn I softly unbolted my door and like a marauding thief
crept shivering through the cold passageways and the great deserted
hall of the castle. Crossing the cobbled courtyards and the black moat,
I scrambled down the incline toward the village.
Long before noon I was well on my way to London. Luck was with me; the
next day I was on a liner bound for the Atlantic run.
I shall never return to England. I intend always to keep Chilton Castle
and its permanent occupant at least an ocean away.
THE MIDNIGHT BUS
Old Mrs. Twining was telling a story about imported marmalade for the
third time that evening when Martha glanced at her watch.
"O my goodness!" she exclaimed, "I really must be off! If I don't
hurry, I'll miss the last bus!"
Assuring her elderly hostess that she had had a most enjoyable evening,
she wriggled into her coat, scurried into the vestibule and was soon
off the veranda steps and down the garden walk.
Mrs. Twining was an old dear--but she _was_ tedious at times, Martha
thought as she swung open the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk.
Goodness! Here it was almost midnight and Mrs. Twining was going on
about marmalade for the third time! Lucky she'd looked at her watch.
She had rushed out in such a hurry, she was well down the walk before
she noticed the fog. Rising from the nearby river, it was thickening in
the empty streets. The lights looked dim and faraway; the whole suburb
seemed muffled and silent.
Shivering a little, Martha reached the bus stop and sat down on the
cold bench. Glancing along the street, she saw that it was quite empty.
The river fog was swirling in rapidly and now even the trunks of trees
were becoming blurred and half-shadowy.
It was too bad, Martha thought, that people had to become old. Old and
lonely and hungry for talk. Leading such dreary, uneventful lives that
a little thing like imported marmalade assumed vast importance.
She hadn't been out to see old Mrs. Twining for over a year and the
poor dear would have kept on talking till morning if Martha hadn't
broken away to catch the midnight bus back to town.
Martha sighed, drawing her coat a little closer. She _did_ wish the
bus would hurry along. The bench began to feel like a carved slab of
ice and the fog was getting so thick she could scarcely see across the
street.
It was just after twelve by her watch when she saw a faint light
flicker through the fog. It was a very feeble light and it approached
with maddening deliberation. It appeared to just creep along, as if the
driver of the vehicle were groping his way down a totally unfamiliar
route.
When the bus stopped in front of the bench, she saw that one of its
headlights was quite dead. And the other did not look very bright.
As she stepped up into the bus and dropped her coin, she intended
telling the driver about the single headlight. But she didn't. The
driver thrust a ticket at her without turning his head and for some
reason which she didn't at the moment grasp, her impulse to speak
vanished.
She walked back to the middle of the bus and sat down. The bus rolled
forward again. Glancing out, she could see nothing but fog. It pressed
against the windows like a white wall; it even seemed to be seeping
into the bus. The seat felt as cold as the bench back at the curb stop.
For some reason she kept looking at the driver. Perhaps because there
wasn't much else to look at. About all she could see of him was his
back. He sat slumped in the seat, hunched over the wheel, looking to
neither left nor right, his total attention focussed on the fog-blurred
ribbon of road immediately ahead.
Martha wished there were some other passengers on the bus. The driver
was no company at all and the smothering fog outside made everything
seem so desolate. The interior of the bus itself looked dingy and
soiled, as if it hadn't been swept out or polished for months on end.
Frowning toward the window, Martha realized that she would never be
able to tell when they were approaching her destination, Barley Street.
The fog had become an impenetrable blanket, swirling close on all sides.
"Driver," Martha called out, "will you please stop at Barley Street?"
He didn't answer, didn't turn, didn't so much as nod his head. He
stared forward into the fog and Martha imagined that he hadn't even
heard her.
But of course he must have. It was simply that the fog made driving
hazardous and his entire attention was concentrated on the street ahead.
Trying to stifle her irritation, Martha leaned her head back against
the seat and attempted to relax. But the top of the seat was hard and
cold and she soon sat up straight again.
She suddenly realized that she was shivering. What a bore! She must be
catching cold! But the bus _did_ seem frigid. She could scarcely keep
her teeth from chattering.
And now a new vexation caught her attention. In spite of the almost
opaque wall of fog, the bus driver was steadily increasing the speed of
his vehicle. The bus careened along at a constantly accelerated rate,
bumping and lurching and swaying from side to side.
Martha felt a funny little knot of fear and apprehension begin to
tighten in her breast. For a block or two she held tight to her seat,
stifling an urge to shout at the driver, but finally she could stand it
no longer.
"Driver," she called out in a strained voice which didn't sound at all
like her own, "you're going much too fast! Won't you please slow down?"
As if in response, and without paying her any other heed, the driver
managed a new and positively fearful burst of speed. The bus thundered
ahead until the fog seemed to be going by in white streamers of light.
Fighting back rising hysteria, Martha stood up. "Driver! Please! We'll
be killed!"
For the first time the driver turned. In the poor light, his face under
the visor of his driver's cap looked as blurred and white as the fog
outside.
"We're late on the run! We'll never make it!"
He turned back to the wheel. Martha felt deadly fear coil up within
her. The man was either drunk or mad and she sensed at once that any
further attempt to reason with him would be futile.
Clutching the seat handles, she began stumbling toward the front
of the bus. At least she would be near the door, she decided,
when--if--something happened.
Once a sudden lurch of the bus almost threw her off her feet. Clutching
the back of a seat, she regained her balance and staggered ahead.
She could no longer force back the panic which was welling within her.
She felt--she _knew_--that her life was in imminent and deadly danger.
And when she finally reached the front of the bus and stared ahead into
the fog, it was impossible to retain any lingering doubts about the
lethal jeopardy of her position.
The vehicle's single headlight had gone out. The bus was racing through
the midnight fog in total darkness!
With a scream, Martha turned toward the driver. He sat with a fixed
stare, grimly intent, entirely oblivious to everything except the white
wall of fog looming up immediately ahead.
With the scream still on her lips, Martha whirled toward the door. It
opened. Or perhaps it had been open. She was too terrified to know. But
in any case there was the cold white fog streaming past outside.
She hesitated momentarily. It took courage to hurl yourself into that
rushing white wall, never knowing exactly what lay beyond it, beneath
it--within it.
But some sure instinct warned her that there was no choice. This
fearful icy bus racing ahead into the foggy darkness without any lights
could come to only one end.
With another wild scream she plunged through the open door into the
streamers of fog.
For a second she was snatched through space in the wake of the midnight
bus. Then she struck earth with a thud which seemed to loosen every
bone in her body and went bouncing and rolling along the ground like a
rag doll hurled aside by an angry child.
She came to rest against a hedge and lay motionless, the taste of wet
moldy earth in her mouth. She was still lying there, wondering how many
bones she had broken, when a rending crash sounded somewhere ahead in
the foggy darkness. She heard the tinkle of falling splinters of glass
and then there was silence. Sudden, terrifying silence.
The silence endured, pregnant and somehow horrifying, and she wanted
to scream again, but her mouth was full of dirt and screaming was
difficult.
A light appeared; someone shouted; and she managed a groan.
A face materialized out of the fog, a kindly, anxious face.
The man bent over her. He spoke soothingly for a moment; he
straightened up and called into the fog. "It's a girl, Alica! She's
hurt! Bring a blanket! Quickly!"
In less than a minute a sturdy woman appeared. The two of them, the man
and the woman, slid the blanket under Martha and lifted her up.
In another minute she was carried out of the fog into a cozy lighted
house and tenderly laid on a couch.
While the man telephoned for a doctor, the woman Alica asked Martha
where she was hurt the most.
Martha wasn't sure. She hurt all over, but not in any special place.
The woman brought a wet cloth, a glass and a pitcher of water. After
Martha had rinsed out her mouth, the woman gently washed her face.
The man came into the room. "The doctor's coming right over! Now don't
you worry!"
Martha sat up and carefully moved her legs. They felt bruised but
assuredly not broken. And she could move her arms without any
concentrated pain.
The man nodded. "Good! No bones broken, by the looks. You were lucky,
child. You struck the turf outside and not the hard cobbles!"
The woman peered at her intently. "What happened, dear--if you want to
tell."
Martha suddenly remembered that splintering crash which had followed
shortly after her frenzied leap from the speeding bus.
"Oh, that poor man!" she said. "Has anybody gone to help him?"
They both looked at her. "What man, dear?" the woman asked.
"The bus driver," Martha said. "That was such a horrible crash!"
They went on looking at her without saying anything. A queer uneasiness
overcame her. "Didn't you--hear it?" she asked.
The man shook his head. "We heard you scream. But we didn't hear
any--crash."
"But--there was," Martha explained frowning. "The bus I jumped out of
didn't have any lights and it was speeding and--I heard it crash!"
They were looking at her strangely now. As if they didn't believe a
word she was saying. As if, Martha thought, they were patiently hearing
out the imaginary story of a feverish child.
"What bus did you jump out of?" the woman asked, laying a cool hand
against Martha's forehead.
"The midnight bus," Martha replied. "I was visiting a friend on
Coverton Street. I got the last bus--the midnight bus--just after
twelve."
The woman smiled gently. "The last bus on Coverton Street runs through
at eleven. The midnight bus was discontinued a year ago. Nobody used it
much and then after the crash--"
"What crash?" interrupted Martha with an eerie feeling that she knew
what the answer would be.
"A year ago," the woman explained, "the driver of the Coverton Street
midnight bus ran off the road into a wall and was instantly killed.
Luckily, no passengers were on the bus. It happened not far from here.
There were no witnesses to the crash, but someone claimed later that
the bus had been seen speeding along Coverton Street through the fog
without any lights--"
Suddenly the woman turned pale. She stared at Martha. "And you were
saying--your bus--no lights--"
Remembering the cold, grim interior of the bus, the white face of the
driver and the one feeble headlight which had finally gone out, Martha
felt an icy thrill of fear.
She saw her bag lying on the couch, and she pointed to it.
"My bus ticket," she told the woman, "is in there."
When the woman drew out the bus ticket and held it up to the light, her
pale face seemed drained of every drop of blood.
She stared at her husband and then at Martha with round frightened eyes.
"I had forgotten," she said softly. "The date on your ticket reminds
me. That crash was just a year ago tonight!"
THE VAMPIRE BAT
I was in the Amazon collecting background material for a projected
series of stories and travel articles and I was to join a government
exploring party at a small native settlement two hundred miles north of
Cuyaba.
When I arrived at the settlement I was very much surprised to see a
white man sitting on the screened-in veranda of a shack some distance
from the huddle of native huts. The government party was not due to
arrive until the next day, and I had no idea that a white man was
living at the settlement.
He walked out to meet me and introduced himself as Cecil Hubbers. He
said that he had been staying at the settlement for nearly six months
and that he represented a South American pharmaceutical firm which was
endeavoring to establish a permanent base in that area.
He was middle-aged, gaunt and faded-looking, with an expression of
chronic weariness etched on his wan face. A huge, high-crowned straw
hat accentuated the strained lines of his pinched countenance. He acted
jumpy and nervous.
He was certainly a pathetic figure, and I felt sorry for him, but he
seemed sincerely glad to see me and he was hospitable enough.
After I had washed and taken some food, I sat on his screened porch
and he talked. He said that except for the natives he was alone for
months at a time. The company he worked for had parties further in the
interior but they remained in the jungles for long periods, collecting
roots and herbs and bark which were used to concoct precious drugs.
He had come down from Panama some years before with a fair grubstake,
he said, but he had lost his money in a mining venture and since
then he had drifted from one poor-paying job to another. When the
pharmaceutical company offered him work at the settlement, he was flat
broke and he had accepted it.
His job was easy enough. He had to store and check supplies, list and
pack outgoing raw materials and recruit and pay the native guides. But
it was obvious to me that there was some aspect of the job, or of the
locale, which he detested.
After he had talked for nearly an hour, I finally learned what was
preying on his mind. He lived in constant fear of a vampire bat which
he said was systematically draining him of blood and life. I say bat,
not bats, because he had a weird conviction that a single bat was to
blame.
When he first mentioned the bat, he made some effort to describe his
predicament in a detached and objective manner, but it was impossible
for him to do so. He became emotional. His voice grew shrill and I
thought that he was about to leap out of his chair.
"If I don't find out how it's getting to me, that bat will bleed me to
death!" he cried. "I've already lost half my blood! _Half of it_ I tell
you!"
He became so agitated at one point, I thought I might actually have to
restrain him from some violent action. Finally he calmed down a little
and I managed to change the subject.
He certainly looked anemic, but I found it hard to believe that he was
not exaggerating about the bat.
Contrary to much popular superstition, vampire bats are not immense
flapping horrors which rob their victims of quarts of blood in a single
night. The vampire bat is a small creature, scarcely two inches long.
Its capacity is obviously determined by its own dimensions.
This is not to say that the vampire should be considered a gruesome but
harmless pest. Although the vampire's capacity is limited, this little
light-hating bat makes a circular incision in its slumbering victim's
flesh with such precision and stealthy finesse that the sleeper rarely
awakens. After the vampire laps up its fill of blood and flies away,
blood usually continues to flow from the wound. It is this continuing
flow of blood which ordinarily awakens the victim. By the time the
victim becomes fully alert, however, he may have lost much more blood
than the bat itself has actually absorbed.
Although I knew of well authenticated instances in which both animals
and men had been seriously weakened by attacks of the vampire bat,
I decided that my host's fear of being bled to death was largely
groundless. I felt that he actually had been attacked by a vampire bat
some time in the past and that the experience had proved so revolting
and even terrifying he had suffered a kind of traumatic shock. Now the
vampire bat had become an obsession which was never out of his mind.
Loss of sleep and morbid nagging fear had turned him into a physical
and mental wreck.
I accepted his invitation to set up my cot and mosquito net in his
shack that night. Before he blew out the kerosene lantern, I witnessed
a prolonged performance which was both ludicrous and disturbing. For
the space of two hours my host inspected the floors, walls and ceiling
of the screened shack. Inch by inch his eyes searched every plank
and every screen. He had apparently done this many times before and
although at the end of his inspection he had not found a single crack
or aperture of any kind, he did not appear to be particularly relieved.
Certainly if any means of ingress originally existed, it must have
long since been sealed up. I did not see how a fair-sized insect could
squirm inside.
But when my host finally--for the first time I believe--removed his
huge straw hat, placed it on a shelf, and crawled under his mosquito
net, he still wore a worried frown.
I had had a tiring day and I fell asleep soon afterwards. About three
hours later I was awakened by a hair-raising scream. I sat up and
stared around in the blackness. My heart was pounding. I thought that a
bushmaster or some other deadly kind of snake had gotten into the shack.
Cecil Hubbers moaned in the nearby darkness. "The vampire!" he cried.
"It's been at me again!" He began to whimper like a sick child.
I felt sure that he had merely experienced a recurrent nightmare, but
nevertheless I got up and lit the kerosene lantern. When I brought it
to his cot, I gasped. He was staring down at a tiny circular incision
on the top of his foot where the blood was still flowing.