Clay (20 page)

Curiosity won. I decided to investigate. The following morning I paid the first visit to my new patient. The corridors were dark and cold; fog brushed against tall casement windows.

My palms felt damp; a remembered echo of Peter Gaunt’s voice slid through hollow stillness. I told myself Wickford was right. It was all nonsense. It didn’t help; my scalp still crawled, my lips were still too dry. I opened the door to Jeremy Bone’s dormitory.

***

There was a sharp rustle and then the snap of a minute lock. Jeremy sat in the window-seat with the teakwood casket on his knees. He had closed the lid abruptly as I entered. His eyes were narrow with cunning. The big sheathed hands clamped possessively over the chest.

I said quietly, “Hello, Jeremy.”

The huge head tilted grotesquely. “Who are you?”

“You remember me. I’m your friend… Doctor Lambert…”

“No…” The gloved fingers were clawed. “No one is my friend: No one believes me. Only Doctor Gaunt. He knows I’m not crazy. He’s seen Oliver. Doctor Gaunt’s my friend…” I sat down beside him; he cowered in the seat-corner. I tried for Gaunt’s reassuring tone.

“We’re all your friends, my boy. Remember that. I want top help you. Now that Doctor Gaunt is going away…”

“Going away!” It was a raw scream; wariness gave way to sheer terror. “But… he can’t leave me! He was helping me; he was keeping Oliver away. He understood and could fight Oliver. He
mustn’t
go away now!”

“Listen, Jeremy. I’m here to help you now. You must trust me. Tell me… how I can keep Oliver away from you? You must be my friend. Like you were with Doctor Gaunt… Like brothers…”

Jeremy Bone sprang to his feet; a frantic screech clogged his throat. He clutched the teakwood chest to him. His head shook wildly.

“No! You shouldn’t have said that! Not ‘like brothers.’ Now Oliver will make me do it. He doesn’t want anyone to be my friend, my brother. Now he’ll force me to kill Doctor Gaunt! Don’t you see? It’s the Mark of Clay! Brother against brother… always… first Oliver… now Gaunt… No, please! Don’t let him whisper to me. I don’t want to kill Doctor Gaunt. No! Stop him!”

I tried to calm him; my words fell on fear-deafened ears; the wild eyes worked; the mouth twisted; gray-sheathed hands were like convulsed talons. The screams ripped from his throat again and again. In the end, an attendant brought the needle. Even with that, it took Jeremy Bone a long time to sink into shallow, troubled sleep.

I was a doctor; I had been trained in the hard doubting ways of science. A man like that finds it difficult to believe in the erratic babbling of a boy who has been committed to an asylum. I told myself the whole thing was absurd; the idea of a frail child like Jeremy Bone overpowering and killing a man the size of Gaunt was ridiculous. Still, all the rest of that day, a deep sense of failure and anxiety nagged me. I promised myself I would question Peter Gaunt in greater detail that evening; I had a feeling he knew more about this bizarre affair than he had told me. I never got to ask those questions. I was too late.

By the time I had finished my rounds, picked up some books at the Dunnesmouth post-office and returned to dine at Wickford House, Peter Gaunt was gone. I ate a solitary meal, wondering at his absence, and wandered, afterward, into the library. A couple of other residents were there, arguing a point on Freud. I inquired for Gaunt. No one had seen him since mid-morning. I shrugged, poured a drink and tried to get interested in one of the new books. Perhaps it was a subconscious sense of uneasiness that distracted me. It had begun to rain again. Despite the fire, the library seemed gray and alien. I decided I needed rest and returned to my quarters early. I had closed the door behind me and lit a lamp before I spied the manila envelope just inside the sill. The note was brief, and written in a square, sure hand.

Dear Lambert: I leave Jeremy in your care knowing you won’t fail me. See that no harm comes to him, but I beg of you, ask no questions. Stay out of this affair. It is mine and must be left for my return.

It was signed simply: “Gaunt.” I stared at it for a long moment, then sighed. After all, it was his case; it could wait until he came back. Came back. I frowned. For a man who had wanted no vacation, he had certainly gotten under way quickly. And without a word to anyone. Odd…

I put the note on my desk and began undressing. The knot of my tie seemed unusually stubborn. I looked at my hands in the mirror. They were trembling.

“Nonsense!” I said it aloud. The word sounded flat and brassy, like whistling in the dark. I repeated it more convincingly. I was getting upset over foolish trifles, taken in by the weird jabberings of an out-and-out schizoid. I had to get hold of myself. Everything was all right… But even with the drapes drawn and electric heater going my sitting room seemed dark and filled with strange, restless thoughts…

***

I must have dozed. My neck felt stiff with nodding in the easy-chair. I stirred. Somewhere, a door was open, because a damp draught swirled about my ankles. The sobbing of the storm had dwindled, but now, even before I opened my eyes, I was aware of a hoarse pulsing sound, murmuring from a spot very near to me. I sat quite still and stared. Inside the open door of my chamber, crouched and rain-soaked, stood Jeremy Bone.

My nerves tightened sharply. It was an effort to keep my voice level.

“Well, Jeremy. Shouldn’t you be in bed? It’s past your time.”

His thick breathing throbbed in the stillness. The pendulous lower lip quivered; his eyes had a look of blank, frozen horror. The sane timbre of his words gave me a start.

“Doctor Lambert, I want you to lock me up.”

“Now, Jeremy. You wouldn’t like that.”

“You’ve got to lock me up,” he droned. “Oliver has won. I warned you he would, and he has. I’ve listened to him… and killed…” A raw sob caught in his chest. “I’ve killed Doctor Gaunt.”

I had started toward him; I came up short.

“You’re wrong, my boy. You wouldn’t hurt Doctor Gaunt. He’s your friend.”

“Yes… The bulbous head nodded dully. “…Like a brother. That’s why I had to do it, you see. I had to obey Oliver, like it says in the Mark of Clay… The chapel was so quiet… the organ crying, low and sad… I didn’t want to kill him. But, Oliver kept urging me… His neck was soft and easy to snap… and then, those gray marks on the flesh, and the organ going sour, like a dying man’s scream…”

“Jeremy,” I said steadily. “Listen to me. Doctor Gaunt has left on his vacation. In a little while, he’ll be back. You didn’t kill him. You’re only a boy; Gaunt is a powerful man!” “You don’t know the strength of Oliver. He speaks to me and my hands are like vises.”

“Try to understand, boy. Doctor Gaunt left me a note.”

“I wrote that note. After I throttled him, I thought I wanted to escape. Now, I know I can’t. It’ll always be somebody… When he whispers, ‘Kill,’ I’ll do his bidding.”

I swallowed; my throat felt tight. It was growing more difficult to keep the words calm.

“Now, Jeremy, you’re only upset because Doctor Gaunt has gone away. You need rest, and dry clothes. You shouldn’t go out in the rain. Jeremy…”

“You don’t believe me!” Bone said sharply. The frantic terror was back in his eyes. “I tell you, I must be locked up. I killed Gaunt! There will be others. It’s the truth… in the secret drawer of the chest… If you don’t lock me up, I’ll kill myself! I won’t let Oliver torture me any more! I swear it! I’ll hang myself in the bell-tower! I’ll…”

I had caught the fragile shoulders; Bone’s arms flung out wildly. He screamed. That was what brought Lowery. The attendant from Ward “A” sighed with relief at sight of the boy.

“Thank the Lord! We’ve been looking all over for him since noon.”

He gripped Bone in powerful arms.

“All right, laddiebuck. Easy does it. No more of your running off and disappearing.”

I said hoarsely, “You’d better use the sheets.”

Lowery nodded; he and several others carried the floundering form from the room. Jeremy Bone’s maniacal wail echoed back along the corridors. “I’ll kill myself! I warn you… I didn’t want to hurt Gaunt. There mustn’t be any more like him!” The words withered; I heard a heavy door clang shut. Then, only silence.

I turned back to my room. Tousled and bathrobed, Wickford filled the doorway.

“What the devil is this, Lambert?”

Between sips of brandy, I told him. His cheeks puffed out “Absurd! Why, I’ve a note from Gaunt, saying he was leaving…”

“So have I. The boy claims he wrote it.”

Wickford made a derisive sound.

‘That’s what comes of humoring their fantasies. Only makes them worse.”

I gulped the last of the drink. “Then you think there’s nothing to it? All this talk of the Mark of Clay and the teakwood chest? This story of murder?”

“Fantasy,” Wickford said. “Pure and simple. We must break the boy of these imaginative flights. Orthodox treatment; that’s the answer. Gaunt’s method was getting rather out-of-line. That’s why I wanted you to take over.”

“But…”

“No ‘buts,’ my dear fellow. Take my word. It’s all schizophrenic fantasy.”

I wanted to believe him. It was the logical, safe answer. I watched Wickford pad off, yawning and self-satisfied, to his quarters, and wondered why I could not be as sure as he. I could still hear the shrill reverberations of Jeremy Bone’s screams. I closed my door and locked it. Somewhere, outside, wind cried through naked branches. Even the quilted coverlet did not keep me from shivering. That night, I slept very poorly. A nameless apprehension lay like frozen fear at the pit of my stomach. But, the expected blow did not fall that night. Nothing happened until the following Saturday.

Then, Fothering discovered the thing in the Chapel.

***

Like Peter Gaunt, young Fothering was something of an artist at the keyboard; their mutual interest in organ music had made them fast friends, and, between them, they supplied the tonal background during Sunday services at the Chapel. With Gaunt gone on vacation, it was only natural that Fothering should take over; only natural that he should go to the Chapel on Saturday evening to run through the selections he planned to render the next day. But, what he found crushed in the gloom and cobwebs behind the gilded organ-pipes was far from natural. It was a hulk of bone and clothes and decomposing flesh. The eyes pushed wildly from their bluish sockets; the skin of the face had gone black. It seemed impossible that this putrid mass was all that was left of Peter Gaunt.

Cold sweat pocked Wickford’s red face. He mopped it with a handkerchief. His fat mouth worked soundlessly. Fothering swayed; his face had lost all color; he turned away and retched. The thing on the floor grinned up at me hideously. I fought back nausea and stooped. Even in dim light filtered through stained-glass windows, I could see the purple puffiness of the throat. There were the marks of two thumbs on either side of the windpipe. They were gray, and flaked away drily when my fingers brushed them. I felt words thick on my tongue.

“The Mark of Clay…”

Wickford’s breath caught on a snag; he tried to sound gruff, assured.

“Nonsense. You’re on the wrong track, Lambert. That boy couldn’t have done it. It doesn’t make sense.”

I stood erect. “It does, if you believe in Oliver.”

Wickford only stared.

“Gaunt believed. He warned us the boy wasn’t mad. He said Bone’s fear had a real cause… Remembered words chanted in my head. “The secret of the chest… yes, Jeremy said that… Perhaps the answer is in the cask.”

“I tell you, it’s impossible. Why should this boy want to murder Gaunt? And how could he manage to strangle a grown man?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. But one thing is certain. Jeremy Bone can’t be left loose. He tried to tell me there would be others like Gaunt. We’ve got to restrain him… now, before it’s too late.”

I did not wait for more of Wickford’s stubborn protests. I brushed past Fothering and out into the mist-clotted night. The journey across the grounds seemed endless. Behind, in its musty tower, the Chapel bell tolled with the shifting wind. Wickford puffed at my heels, cursing his foul luck. I hurried along the corridors toward Ward “A”. My hands felt like ice a numb chill fingered along my spine. Somehow, even before I tried it, I knew the door to Jeremy Bone’s dormitory would be locked.

Wickford blinked at me; the self-possession was gone; he waved plump hands. “Well, don’t just stand there! Break it down!”

I lunged against the thick panels; something gave and splintered. The fourth thrust did it. The door slammed open and I plunged into the room. Moonglow bled on the pallid walls. In its comer, Jeremy Bone’s cot was empty, its linen undisturbed. I started toward it. A low inane giggle brought me up short I turned to find Swan sitting on the edge of his bed, smiling emptily at Wickford. The cretin’s head lolled to one side. His voice was a sing-song keeping time with the distant carolling of the Chapel bell.

“Listen to the chimes, the chimes are ringing, ding, dong, ding…”

“Swan,” I said sharply. “Where’s Bone? When did he leave?”

The pale eyes focussed on me.

“Ding, dong. Jeremy said you would come… He locked me in… No more Oliver… Ding, dong… No more Gaunts… the secret of the chest.”

“The chest,” Wickford echoed in a toneless voice.

I snapped on the light and made for Jeremy Bone’s cot; in the shadow beneath it, covered with a mildewed blanket, lay the teakwood casket. I drew it out; the lock was a simple affair. After a moment, the lid sprang open. I stared. The box was empty. A foul stench issued from it like a cloud of grave-dust. I fumbled anxiously.

“He said there were papers… something about a secret drawer…”

***

On the lid of the chest, carved in dark wood, there was a gorgon mask; my fingers brushed it; the head turned with a muffled click and, simultaneously, at the base of the casket, a shallow compartment slid into view. The sickly odor had grown overpowering; it seemed to rise from the tiny leather-bound book that lay on the bottom of the hidden drawer. The jaundiced pages crackled at the touch. The print was archaic and minute. I read the title page. “Night Terrors by Bartholomew Humphrey, Being An Accurate Account Of Evidence Garnered By The Author & Concerning Veritable Case Histories Which Support The Theory That Hydras, Ghosts, Gorgons, Chimaeras And Such Night-Things Do Truly Exist.”