HORRORS!: Rarely-Reprinted Classic Terror Tales Read online

  "Sometimes on late afternoons when I had sat for hours at a time with her, when my blood screamed from all my pores, she would stand up and say quietly: 'Now go riding.' She went to her tower room, and softly I followed her, peered through the hangings. She took a little book bound in old brocade, then she sat down, read only for a few minutes, then stood up again, went to the window, stared out. I went into the stables, saddled my horse, rode through the park, then out into the fields. Like a madman I galloped through the dusk. A cold bath when I returned; thus I found a little rest before supper.

  "Once I had ridden out earlier and came back at tea-time. I met her in the hall, as I was going to my bath.

  "'Come,' she said, 'when you are ready! Hurry; tea awaits in the tower.' I was in my kimono.

  "'I must dress myself,' I answered."

  'Come as you are,' she said.

  "I jumped into the tub, turned on the shower; in a few minutes I was ready. I went into the tower room. She sat on the couch, her little book in her hand; she laid it aside as I entered. She was, like myself, in a dressing-gown – a wonderful kimono, purple with flowers of dull gold. She poured my tea, buttered my toast. Not a word did we say.

  I gulped down the toast, poured down the hot tea. I trembled in every limb. At length tears ran to my eyes. I knelt before her, took her hands, buried my head in her lap. She let me do it.

  "At length she stood up. 'You may do everything – everything. But you must not utter a word. Not a word, not a word!"

  "I did not understand what she meant: but I got up and nodded. Slowly she went to the narrow window. I hesitated, did not quite know what I should do. Finally I followed her, stood behind her. I knew I must not speak.

  "I stood undecided, motionless like her. I heard her light breathing. Then I bent down, very slowly; I touched her neck with my lips. Oh, so tenderly: no butterfly could kiss more tenderly. Then I felt she felt this kiss. A gentle shiver ran over her skin.

  "I kissed her shoulder, her scented hair, her sweet ear – only gently, very softly, page-like, embarrassed. My fingers sought, found her arms, caressed them up and down. A sigh escaped her lips, floated far out into the evening.

  "I saw the high trees without, heard the song of a late nightingale.

  "I shut my eyes. Nothing was between us but a little silk. I breathed deeply and heard her breathing. My body thrilled down to the toes, and I felt how she trembled in my arms. Faster went her breath, and faster; a hot quivering seized her body. Then she seized my hands, pressed them against her breast.

  "I embraced her, clasped her tightly, held her, I don't know how long. Then her hands dropped, she threatened to swoon, and hung for a while in my arms. Then she pulled herself together.

  "'Go,' she said softly.

  "I loosened my hands as she commanded; left her, crept outside on tiptoe.

  "That evening I did not see her again, I was alone for supper. Something had happened; but I did not know what it was. I was rather young in those days.

  "Next morning I waited before the chapel. Lady Cynthia nodded to me as she went in. She knelt down and prayed as she did every morning. "A few days later – and then again and yet again – she said, 'Come tonight!' But she did not forget to add, 'Not a word must you speak, not a word!'

  "Eighteen years old I was, and very gauche and inexperienced. But Lady Cynthia was very wise, and all happened as she wished. Her mouth spoke no word and my mouth spoke no word – only her blood spoke to my blood.

  "Then Sir Oliver returned. We sat at supper, Lady Cynthia and I. I heard Sir Oliver's voice in the hall. I let my fork drop; I believe I was whiter than the damask table-cloth. Not fear – it was certainly not that! But I had, by this time, completely forgotten that this man was still in the world – Sir Oliver!

  "Sir Oliver was in a good humour this evening. He certainly noticed my embarrassment; but he did not betray this knowledge by the slightest gesture. He ate, drank, talked of London, spoke of theatres and horses. He excused himself immediately after the meal, clapped me on the shoulder, bade his wife, in a chosen phrase, goodnight. Yet he waited a moment or so as if he were observing me. I did not know what to do, so I stammered that I was tired, kissed Lady Cynthia's hands, and went.

  "That night I didn't sleep a wink. I had a continuous feeling that Sir Oliver would come to me: I listened for every step in the castle, certain that he would come. But he did not come. At length I undressed and went to bed. I contemplated what now must happen – what had happened during his absence.

  "One thing seemed to be clear: I must tell Sir Oliver everything, must place myself at his disposal. But, to what end? I knew that there was no more duelling in England, that he would laugh at me if I just mentioned such a thing. But – what else? Would he drag me before a Court of Justice? He – me? That was even more laughable, and quite certainly no satisfaction for him. Fisticuffs? He was much bigger, much broader and stronger than I, one of the best amateur boxers in the country. I hadn't the slightest idea of this sport: the little I knew he, himself, had taught me. Nevertheless, I ought to let him challenge me, come what might.

  "But then, if I spoke, wasn't it an infamous betrayal of Lady Cynthia? If he crippled me, what did it matter! But she – sweet, holy woman, she– What would become of her? For she was not guilty. All the guilt was mine, mine alone; I felt that in every fibre of my being. I had come into her house. I had loved her from the first moment. I had stalked her, lain in wait for her, followed her wherever she went. Not content that she gave me her white hands, I had desired her more and more, more ardently every day – until–

  "True, I had not spoken. But had not my blood cried for her every hour? What use were words, when my eyes sang, when my body trembled at the very sight of her? She, brutally flung aside by her husband, betrayed every day and insulted before all eyes, tortured and bearing these tortures and insults like a saint – oh, not a shadow of guilt fell upon her! Small wonder that she had finally fallen to the temptations of a seducer, who followed her step after step–

  "And even then, even then she remained the saint she was. She gave her body more out of goodness of heart, out of pure pity for the youth who was devoured by longing for her. She gave herself to me as she gave to the poor she visited, and, in spite of it, remained pure. And so great was her sweet shame that she forbade me to speak in those hours, that she did not once turn around, did not once look in my eyes–

  "I understood everything now. I alone bore all the guilt. I was the seducer, the wretched scoundrel. And I was now to crown this work, stand before Sir Oliver and tell him– No, no! Then, again, something had to be done! I did not know what. The night passed – I found no way!

  "I breakfasted in my room. Then the butler came: Sir Oliver inquired whether I would play golf with him. I nodded, dressed myself, went down, met him outside.

  "I have never played good golf. But this time I dug holes in the turf instead of hitting the ball.

  "Sir Oliver laughed. 'What's the matter?' he said.

  "I said something. But as my shots became worse, he grew serious.

  "Suddenly he came to me and asked, 'Is it– Were you – at the window, young man?'

  "Now it had gone too far. I let my golf club fall; he might as well kill me with his iron.

  "I nodded. 'Yes,' I said, tonelessly.

  "Sir Oliver whistled. He tried to talk – but said nothing. He whistled again. Then he turned, went slowly to the castle. I followed him at some distance.

  "I did not see Lady Cynthia that morning. When the gong rang for lunch, I forced myself to go down.

  "Before the dining-room I met Sir Oliver; he came to me and said, 'I would rather you did not speak alone with Lady Cynthia today.' Then he waved me through the door.

  "During the meal I spoke scarcely a word to Lady Cynthia. Sir Oliver led the conversation, what there was of it. Afterwards, Lady Cynthia ordered the carriage: she was going to visit her poor.

  "She gave me her hand, which I kissed, and said: 'Tea at
five o'clock!'

  "She did not return until six: I stood at my window as her carriage drew up. She looked up to me. 'Come,' said her glance. At the door I met Sir Oliver.

  "'My wife is back,' he said; 'we'll have tea with her.'

  "'Now it's coming,' I thought.

  "Only two cups stood on the little table. It was obvious that Lady Cynthia awaited me only, and not her spouse. But she rang at once and had another cup brought. Again Sir Oliver endeavoured to carry on the conversation, but his efforts were even less successful than at luncheon. At length no one said a word.

  Then Lady Cynthia went. Still Sir Oliver did not speak; silently he sat there, whistling lightly through his teeth. Finally he sprang up, as if he had a sudden idea. 'Please wait for me!' he cried, and hurried out.

  "I did not have to wait long; after a few minutes he was back. He beckoned me to go with him. We went through a few rooms – to the tower room. Sir Oliver drew back the curtains, looked into the room; then he turned to me and said: 'Bring me the little book lying on that stool.'

  "I obeyed. I slipped through the hangings. At the window stood Lady Cynthia. I felt I was committing treachery, but I could not grasp how or why. Very softly I went to the stool, took the tiny brocade-bound book, that I had so often seen in her hand, crept back again, and gave it to Sir Oliver. He took it, slipped his arm through mine, and whispered: 'Come along, my boy!'

  "I followed him down the steps, across the courtyard, into the park.

  "He seized my arm, his other hand gripping the red book. At length he began: 'You love her? Very much? Very much, my boy?' But he did not wait for an answer. 'It is not necessary to speak! I also loved her – perhaps more than you; I was twice as old as you. Not for Lady Cynthia's sake am I speaking to you: but for your own sake!'

  "Again: he was silent, led me through the avenue, then to the left up a small side-path. There stood a bench under the old elms, he sat down and motioned me to sit beside him. Then he raised his hand, pointed upwards: 'Look! There she stands.'

  "I looked up. There stood Lady Cynthia at her window. 'She will see us,' I said.

  "Sir Oliver laughed aloud. 'She won't see us. Not if a hundred people sat here – she would see none, hear none! This book she sees, this she feels – and nothing else!'

  "He gripped the little volume in: his strong fingers, as if he would crush it; pressed it into my hands. 'It is cruel to show it to you, my poor youth – very cruel, I know. But it must be for your own sake. Then – read!'

  "I opened the book. It only held a few pages of strong handmade paper. It was not printed, but written, and it was in: Lady Cynthia's handwriting.

  "I read:

  'THE EXECUTION OF ROBERT FRANCOIS DAMIENS ON THE PLACE DE GREVE ... IN PARIS

  MAY 28TH, 1757

  ACCORDING TO THE TESTIMONY OF AN EYE-WITNESS THE DUKE OF CROY'

  "The letters flickered before my eyes; what, what had that to do with the woman who stood at the window? I stuttered. I could not recognize the words; I let the book fall.

  "Sir Oliver picked it up, and began to read in a loud voice:

  "According to an eye-witness, the Duke of Croy– '

  "I rose. Something drove me. I had a feeling I must fly, hide myself in the thickest bushes like a wounded animal. But the strong hand of Sir Oliver seized my arm. And his inexorable voice went on:

  "'Robert Damiens, who on January 5th, 1757, attempted to assassinate His Sacred Majesty King Louis XV of France, and on that day at Versailles wounded him in the left side with a dagger thrust, was compelled to expiate his guilt on May 28th, 1757.

  "'The same sentence was executed upon him as upon the murderer of King Henri IV, Francois Ravaillac, on May 17th, 1610.

  "'On the morning of the day of execution, Damiens was stretched on the rack; his arms, thighs and calves were ripped open with red-hot hooks, and into the wounds was poured molten lead, boiling oil and burning pitch, mixed with wax and sulphur. At three in the afternoon, the muscular delinquent was led to the Cathedral of Notre Dame and thence to the Place de Greve. The streets were filled with a mob which took sides neither for nor against the criminal. The aristocratic world, ornamented and dressed as for a festival, elegant ladies and gentlemen of nobility, crowded the windows, playing with their fans and holding their smelling salts in case of fainting. At half past four the great spectacle began. In the middle of the square a stage had been erected, to which Damiens was brought. With him, the executioners and two father confessors ascended the platform. This huge man betrayed neither surprise nor fear, but merely expressed a wish to die quickly.

  "'Six assistant executioners now bound his trunk to the boards with iron chains and rings, so that he could not move his body. Then his right hand was seized and burned slowly in a fire of sulphur, while Damiens gave voice to a horrible shrieking. It was seen that the hair on his head stood up stiffly, while his hand was being burnt. The iron hooks were made glowing hot, and with them large pieces of flesh were ripped out of arms, legs and breast. In the fresh wounds were poured liquid lead and boiling oil. The atmosphere on the whole square was befouled by the stench of burning.

  "'Now, strong ropes were bound round the upper arm and upper thigh, the wrists and ankles, to which were harnessed four strong horses, one at each of the four corners of the stage. The horses were then whipped forward, with the intention of tearing the wretch apart. For a full hour the horses were spurred and whipped, yet they did not succeed in wrenching off either an arm or a leg. Above the blows of the whips and the shouting of the executioners could be heard the terrible yells of pain of the man in his sickening torment.

  "'Then six more horses were harnessed on, and all the horses were whipped up together. The cries of Damiens increased to mad bellowing. At length the executioners obtained permission from the judges present to make incisions in the joints, in order to lighten the work of the horses. Damiens raised his head to see what was being done to him, but he did not cry out while they cut through his joints. He turned his head to the crucifix held before him and kissed it while two confessors exhorted him to repent. Then blows once more rained on all the horses at once, and at last, after one and a half hours, they succeeded in pulling off the left leg.

  "'The people in the square and the aristocrats in the windows clapped their hands. The work was continued.

  "'When the right leg was torn off, Damiens once more began to scream wildly. The shoulder-joints were then cut, and the horses were again whipped up. As the right arm was wrenched off, the cries of the wretch grew weaker. His head began to droop, but only when the left arm was detached did his head fall right backward. Now only the palpitating trunk remained, with the head upon which the hair had turned white. But this trunk and his head lived yet.

  "'Now his hair was cut off and his limbs collected together, while the father confessors approached him once more. Henri Samson, the chief executioner, held them back, however, saying that Damiens had drawn his last breath. Thus was the believing criminal denied the last spiritual consolation, for the trunk could be seen turning itself here and there, while the lower jaw moved itself to speak. This trunk still breathed: the eyes turned upon the bystanders.

  "'What remained was burned upon a pyre and the ashes scattered to the winds.

  "'Thus was the end of a wretch who suffered the greatest torment that ever a man suffered; in Paris, before my own eyes and those of many thousands of people, including those of many noble and beautiful women who stood at the windows."

  "Do you wonder, gentlemen," Brinken concluded, "that since that evening I have been a little frightened of women who have feelings, souls, imagination? And especially if they are English?"

  THE WHISTLING ROOM

  William Hope Hodgson

  Carnacki shook a friendly fist at me as I entered late. Then he opened the door into the dining-room, and ushered the four of us – Jessop, Arkright, Taylor and myself – in to dinner.

  We dined well, as usual, and, equally as usual, Carnacki was pretty si
lent during the meal. At the end, we took our wine and cigars to our accustomed positions, and Carnacki – having got himself comfortable in his big chair – began without any preliminary:

  "I have just got back from Ireland again," he said. "And I thought you chaps would be interested to hear my news. Besides, I fancy I shall see the thing clearer, after I have told it all out straight. I must tell you this, though, at the beginning – up to the present moment, I have been utterly and completely 'stumped.' I have tumbled upon one of the most peculiar cases of 'haunting' – or devilment of some sort – that I have come against. Now listen.

  "I have been spending the last few weeks at Iastrae Castle, about twenty miles north-east of Galway. I got a letter about a month ago from a Mr. Sid K. Tassoc, who it seemed had bought the place lately, and moved in, only to find that he had got a very peculiar piece of property.

  "When I reached there, he met me at the station, driving a jaunting-car, and drove me up to the castle, which, by the way, he called a 'house-shanty.' I found that he was 'pigging it' there with his boy brother and another American, who seemed to be half servant and half companion. It appears that all the servants had left the place, in a body, as you might say; and now they were managing among themselves, assisted by some day-help.

  "The three of them got together a scratch feed, and Tassoc told me all about the trouble, whilst we were at table. It is most extraordinary, and different from anything that I have had to do with; though that Buzzing Case was very queer, too.

  "Tassoc began right in the middle of his story. 'We've got a room in this shanty,' he said, 'which has got a most infernal whistling in it; sort of haunting it. The thing starts any time: we never know when, and it goes on until it frightens you. All the servants have gone, as I've told you. It's not ordinary whistling, and it isn't the wind. Wait till you hear it.'

  "'We're all carrying guns,' said the boy; and slapped his coat pocket.