HORRORS!: Rarely-Reprinted Classic Terror Tales Read online

  HORRORS!

  Rarely-Reprinted Classic Tales of Terror

  Edited by

  Jean Marie Stine

  &

  J.L. "Frankie" Hill

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  ISBN 1-58873-210-X

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2003 by Renaissance E Books

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information contact:

  Renaissance E Books

  P. O. Box 1432

  Northampton MA 01060

  USA

  Email [email protected]

  PageTurner E Books

  A Night Chills Edition

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  MESHES OF DOOM

  Neville Kilvington

  UNBURIED BANE

  N. Dennett

  THE EXECUTION OF DAMIENS

  H. H. Ewers

  THE WHISTLING ROOM

  William Hope Hodgson

  THE CARETAKER'S STORY

  Edith Olivier

  NIGHTMARE JACK

  John Metcalfe

  PLAYING WITH FIRE

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  INTRODUCTION

  All too often, anthologies of horror stories draw from the same limited pool of two dozen or so classics over and over. Mrs. Amsworth, The Upper Berth, The Middle Toe of the Right Foot, Markheim, The Mark of the Beast, Casting the Runes, The Open Door, and a handful of others have grown over-familiar through repetition. This series hopes to act as a corrective by unearthing and restoring to print classic tales of grim and grue that have too long languished unnoticed and unreprinted. Among this selection of rarely seen horror masterpieces from the early years of the past century are Meshes of Doom by Neville Kilvington, Unburied Bane by N. Dennet, The Whistling Room by William Hope Hodgson, The Caretaker's Story by Edith Olivier, Nightmare Jack by John Metcalfe, and other gems of terror and the supernatural. How many have you read before?

  The Editors

  MESHES OF DOOM

  Neville Kilvington

  (Extracts from the code-diary of Jacob Trezbond, Fellow of the Botanical Society)

  October 12th, 11 p.m. This has been, for me, a day marked by two highly gratifying achievements. To begin with, at half past one this morning, I strangled my wife with the cord of my dressing-gown, and buried her body in the largest of my conservatories. It is pleasing to be able to recall the detached calmness with which I carried out this operation. Emotionally, it meant no more to me than the vivisection of a frog might mean to a medical student. Indeed, it proved to be an exceedingly interesting process, particularly since it held for me all the charm of novelty. Frances must have suffered very little, for she lost consciousness surprisingly soon. It was curious to watch her eyes projecting, and her tongue lolling out. What a remarkable thing reflex action is. Her legs and arms continued to twitch, and her body to writhe for some minutes after she was dead. I was so absorbed in observing these spasmodic movements that I felt quite regretful when they finally ceased. I could have gone on watching them for ever.

  I must admit that my six years of married life have proved disastrous. No doubt, I myself am partly to blame for this. I ought never to have married. My falling in love I now realize to have been the one serious lapse of my life from that aloof, calculating reason which I have always tried to practise, and which, to my mind, is the crowning accomplishment of a perfect man. In disposing of Frances thus dispassionately, divorced from any of that superstitious dread of retribution which assails most men whose minds turn to murder, I have restored my self-respect in my own eyes.

  Frances was a pretty little thing, with a face like a white flower, and arms like clinging tendrils. Our marriage was as unfortunate for her as for me, so what I have done has obviously been a happy way out for both of us. Of course, I might have let her go on in her own way until she provided me with grounds for divorce, as no doubt she would eventually have done. I should have been glad enough to have seen the Gordian knot cut, but publicity of any kind is abhorrent to me. The step I have taken is obviously the better one.

  I shall be able to live very economically now that Frances is dead, and there will be no one to distract me from my work. Frances was a great distraction, always wanting to be rushing off somewhere on enjoyment bent. Not that I ever went with her, nor, for that matter, did I see much of her when she was at home. I was too absorbed in my botanical researches. But my work needs money, and the annuity my uncle left me was sadly depleted by her extravagances. Consequently, there were many rare, costly specimens of plants that I had to forego, and often my conservatories fell into disrepair through lack of funds. A thousand a year goes but a short way when one has a wife who spends the summer gadding about London, and the winter on the Riviera.

  Today's second noteworthy event has been my acquiring one of the two giant creeper seeds that Armand brought back from the Amazon basin last July. He brought it to show me as soon as he returned to England. It was very like a black walnut. He said that the creeper, when full grown, was enormous, and that it was an entirely new species. His account of the plant's peculiarities made me set my heart on obtaining the seed. He offered it me, but dropped a hint that he was hard up, and that he had sold one of the seeds for fifty pounds to a man who would gladly pay the same price to acquire the other. He was unable to obtain more than two, he explained, and they cost him the lives of three of his boys. I don't see why he should assess the lives of three niggers at a hundred pounds; they weren't his property; but I suppose his trouble was worth something.

  I hadn't got the money then – thanks to Frances – so Armand promised to hold the seed until my half-yearly allowance came in in October. If I didn't claim the seed then, he warned me, he'd sell it elsewhere.

  When my allowance arrived, my lady Frances, if you please, began whining about her annual jaunt to the Riviera. I assented outwardly to her going, for appearances' sake, while secretly determining to put a stop to her money-devouring games for good.

  At half past six this morning, Frances being safely buried, I set off in the car for London. I had a double purpose in starting so early. I wanted to catch Armand before he started for Brussels, where he was attending a conference, and also, I didn't want people in the neighbourhood to know that Frances wasn't with me. I had let her put it about that she was leaving for the Riviera today, and that I was driving her to Town. She used to take a malicious pleasure in dangling her jaunts before her acquaintances, because it pleased her to see the envy in their faces.

  The servants left yesterday, all but an odd-job man for outside work, who will be back next week after a short holiday. His wife will come in once a week to clean down. I can do for myself very well with the aid of a tin-opener. This is the usual arrangment whenever Frances goes away, so no one will notice anything unusual. In a week or so I shall announce that I've not heard from Frances, then the police can start dragging the Dover Straits if they like. I don't see how anyone can prove she didn't get as far as Dover, anyhow. Not even a Southern Railway ticket collector could swear she didn't.

  I took care to let the engine of my car make all the noise it could as I set out, so that the village gossips in their beds could say: "There's Trezbond and his wife off to London," and then go back to their snoring, damn them.

  When I reached Armand's place off Oakley Street, Chelsea, a disturbing incident occurred, which warned me I shall have to watch my nerves carefully. I was about to ring the bell, when, on the panel of the pillar-box red door – it was freshly painted, and there was not a soiled spot on it – I saw two faint dark
oval shadows. They gradually deepened, as though projected by the strengthening light of a magic lantern. At their most distinct, they resembled the staring eyes of my wife as she lay dead. After about fifteen seconds they faded away. Hallucinations, of course.

  Armand didn't seem at all willing to let me have the seed, even when I showed him the fifty pounds in notes. I asked him why he hesitated. He pulled a long face and shrugged his shoulders.

  "Well," he said, "the seed I sold to the other man ... It grew."

  "Quite likely it did grow," I answered. "Be queer if it didn't."

  "Ah, but how it grew. It took a whole conservatory to itself, and that proved too small a habitation for it. The thing smashed the glass and broke out. They tried cutting it down, but that made it grow faster. Then they endeavoured to dig it up, but its roots seemed to go down to the centre of the earth. They killed it at last with sulphuric acid. Ordinary weed killer was no good."

  "But why kill it?" I asked.

  He turned a shade pale. I pooh-poohed his fears, and insisted upon having it. He fetched the seed out of a safe, and came back to sit by the fire. For an irritating time he stared at the thing. Then he shook his head, and stretched out his hand to throw it on the fire. I swore, and plunged forward to prevent him.

  Immediately, another strange thing happened. (I must be careful.) A hand materialized out of nowhere, a small, plump woman's hand. Beneath the finger-nails lay that brownish tinge that comes to human flesh some hours after death, and, sometimes, even before. It guided Armand's hand from the fire towards mine, and forced open his fingers so that the seed dropped into my palm. Then the strange hand vanished.

  "Now, I wonder what induced me to give you that, when I had intended to burn it," he said.

  I gave him the money and got up to go. To tell the truth, I was feeling a little shaky. One thing more Armand said before I left:

  "Do you allow any children – neighbours' chi1dren – about your place?"

  I told him "No."

  "Mind you don't," he warned me. "Got a couple dogs, haven't you?"

  "Yes. They're all the friends I have got."

  He nodded sympathetically, having learnt how little my wife and I have been to each other.

  "Keep the dogs away from that," he said, indicating with a monitory forefinger the pocket in which I placed the creeper seed.

  Oct. 13th, 3 am. I cannot sleep. I hope my nerves are not going to be troublesome. I went to bed last night a soon as I had entered up my diary for the day, and, being tired, fell asleep at once. I was awakened by a feeling that the bed had suddenly become afflicted with convulsions. Something beside me was tossing and writhing like a body in pain, and there were sounds as of someone choking. I switched on the light. It was exactly half past one. The bedclothes were in a turmoil of confusion, due, of course, to my own restlessness – there can be no other explanation. I sought sleep again, but it would not come, and every now and then a cold sweat broke out over me, and I fell into fits of shivering. I had to get up at last, and am writing my diary for the sake of doing something. It will be a relief when daylight dawns, and I can get to work. I propose to plant the creeper seed in the largest conservatory, so as to give the plant ample room for growth. That is where my wife – but I must forget all that. I wish I had remembered to ask Armand what kind of soil was prevalent where he found the creeper growing, but no doubt a geological survey of South America will help me. There is a book on the subject in my study.

  Oct. 14th, 4.45 am. I have been walking about for the last three hours, taking sips of brandy to stop this hateful trembling. It's all nerves, of course. I did not enter my diary last night, thinking that the mental effort of writing might excite me and keep me awake. It made no difference, however. I slept well enough until one-thirty. Then came the same disturbance as before, the same writhing and choking; but to it was added the sensation of a body beside me. It had not the comforting warmth of a living body, but was cold and exuded a faintly haunting odour. When I lit up there was, of course, nothing there.

  I planted the seed, as I had arranged to do, yesterday morning. While I was engaged upon the task, my nerves played me another trick, for I distinctly heard a woman's low laugh that sent a chilly prickle through my scalp. I wish I could shake off this feeling of apprehension that grows on me like a weight over the heart.

  Oct. 18th. It's no use going to bed. I sit up and read to keep my mind off – things, and doze in my chair when I can. I live in that detached, dreamy state that is the result of losing sleep, and every little noise electrifies my raw nerves to red heat. I don't know what is the matter with the dogs. They whine incessantly, refuse food from me, and are getting scraggy and wild-looking about the eyes. They're no comfort to me now. At times they snap at the invisible air like half-mad things.

  I want to be alone. The thought of seeing anyone sets all my nerves quivering, and my heart pounding. Stupid, I know, but I so dread the return of the odd-job man and his meddlesome wife that I've written to tell them to take a longer holiday, and sent them a decent cheque to tide them over.

  Oct. 19th, 11 pm. Thank goodness for sending me something of interest to think about. The creeper seedling put in an appearance above ground this morning. I hardly expected its growth to be so rapid. It is dark red and green like the stem of a beetroot.

  Loss of sleep is making me very stupid. I knocked over a particularly valuable potted cactus this morning, and trod on it. Also I have been going about all day in agony from my feet, wondering what was the matter with them. Only when I took off my boots tonight did I discover that I'd put each on the wrong foot. A sort of gloom seems to be gathering around everything here. I'm afraid the dogs are going to die. I shall go to bed tonight. I must get some sleep, and be damned to what happens.

  Oct. 20th, 2 am. My God, I can't stand this. It came again at half past one, but with fresh developments. I'd go and see a nerve specialist, but that he might hand me over to a psychoanalyst, and those fellows are so confoundedly clever at worming one's inmost secret out of one.

  When I went to bed, I left the light on. I fell asleep comfortably enough, but was awakened after a while by a cold hand insinuating itself between my neck and the pillow, while the nauseating odour of putrescent flesh smote my nostrils. Beside me lay Frances, and she was twining one clammy arm about me. Two eyes stared glassily out of her bluish-brown face. I thrust out a hand, against that face, to push it from me. The skin was coldly moist; it yielded spongily to my pressure as though it were a bag of water. Then the head began to shrivel and harden, and grew dark until it resembled the creeper seed, while the whole body slowly resolved itself before my eyes into a tangled mass of reddish-green vegetable tendrils. Abruptly, then, the thing disappeared. I shall never go to bed again, and shall not record any more of these hallucinations. I must not dwell on them.

  Same day, 11 pm. When I went into the conservatory this morning, I found the creeper, which yesterday was but a seedling, had grown to be a plant twenty inches long, with three pairs of thick leaves of the diameter of tea-trays. Tendrils were sprouting out of it all over the place. During the day it has grown another eight inches. I shall continue to measure it twice daily to record its growth.

  Oct. 24th, noon. There must be something at the back of Armand's hints. I don't like the way this creeper is behaving. Already it sprawls like some all-devouring monster over half the conservatory. This morning, when I went in, I found some of my most precious plants had been upset, and many of the pots broken. I fancied at first that I might accidentally have shut a stray cat in the conservatory overnight, but a closer examination showed that the creeper was the cause of the ruin. It had twisted its tendrils round the plants and had dragged them on to the floor, and still held on to its victims by means of its tough, wire-like tendrils. I tried to free the plants without breaking the creeper, but its grip was too tenacious, so I had to cut them free. As I did so, the entire plant writhed from tip to root, and the severed limbs ejected a thick fluid, dark as co
ngealed blood, and of a nauseating stench that made me quite sick. I had to go outside for a few minutes to get some fresh air. After that, I cleared all the other plants I could out of the conservatory, so as to let the creeper have the place to itself.

  I'm afraid my poor old terrier, Trixie, won't last long. She cowers when I go near her, and glares and snaps at everything. She has grown very feeble.

  Oct. 29th. The creeper sprawls, a loathsome tangle, over the entire conservatory floor, and is travelling up the sides. It is now almost entirely black, except for the finer veins and tendrils, which are a deep maroon colour. It has put buds out, too. I wish I could make up my mind to get rid of the thing.

  Oct. 31st. The first flowers are out in full bloom. Great white things, as large as dinner plates, with black centres that stare like the eyes of the dead.

  Nov. 2nd, 2 pm. As I went in to water the creeper this morning, a kind of rustle ran through the whole fibre of the thing, and the great flower-faces – there are dozens of them now – turned their glowering black eyes upon me. I picked my way among the tangled meshes of vegetable matter that lay about the floor, and was just stooping to give the roots some water, when cold feelers began to tickle my neck, and to twine round it. There was something so loathsome in the touch of the thing that I struck out at it, and broke one of the flower stems.

  I don't know whether anyone could be prevailed upon to believe a plant capable of getting into a rage. This one certainly did. Angry quivers ran through it. It shook and soughed as though a gale were blowing. The whole thing converged about me, as though endeavouring to enmesh me, while the white flowers glowered, malignant with hatred. I happened to be smoking, as I often do in the conservatories, because tobacco smoke keeps down certain pests. A stout tendril thrust itself out and twined round my pipe, wrenching it from my mouth with such violence that one of my teeth was loosened.

  I dropped the bucket at that, and bounded to the door, while angry tendrils lashed out, trying to trip me up, and beating my face. I could hear the squelch of the great, rope-like stems as my boots crushed them. The foul smell of the escaping sap became intolerable. I think I will get some petrol, and burn the thing out.