Collected Stories

Collected Stories

R. Chetwynd-Hayes

(Version 4.1)

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Biography

The Thing (1966)

The Monster(1970)

Crowning Glory (1971)

Don't Go Up Them Stairs (1971)

The Door (1973)

Lord Dunwilliam and the Cwn Annwn (1973)

The Labyrinth (1974)

Christmas Eve (1975)

The Ghouls (1975)

The Ghost Who Limped (1975)

The Werewolf and the Vampire (1975)

The Fly-by-Night (1976)

The Shadmock (1976)

The Werewolf (1978)

A Living Legend (1982)

Rudolph (1987) 

Ronald Chetwynd-Hayes (30 May 1919 – 20 March 2001) (a.k.a. Ronald Henry Glynn Chetwynd-Hayes or R. Chetwynd-Hayes) was an author, best known for his ghost stories. His first published work was the science fiction novel
The Man From The Bomb
in 1959. He went on to publish many collections and ten other novels including T
he Grange, The Haunted Grange, And Love Survived
and
The Curse of the Snake God
. He also edited over 20 anthologies. Several of his short works were adapted into anthology style movies in the United Kingdom, including
The Monster Club
and
From Beyond the Grave
. Chetwynd-Hayes' book
The Monster Club
contains references to a film-maker called Vinke Rocnnor, an anagram of Kevin Connor, the director of
From Beyond the Grave
.

He won the Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement for 1988, and the British Fantasy Society Special Award in 1989.

(1966)

The bar was not very full the evening being but middle-aged, that is to say it was too early for the after-theatre crowd, and too late for the 'a quick one for the road' school. This, in my humble opinion, is the time for civilised drinking, not that I've ever minded drinking at an uncivilised time, but its nice to be able to spread your elbows and bath your tonsils with Scotch in reasonable comfort. There are those people who go into a bar for social intercourse, at least so they say, but I being above all else an honest man must confess I go into a bar for only one reason; I like to drink. Now let us get one thing straight, I'm not an educated drinker; fancy names on dusty bottles don't mean a thing to me; as the man said when he was asked if he preferred beef to mutton: ‘It's all meat’. Old fashioned whiskey was good enough for my father, and he died a drunkard's death at eighty-two, which was twenty years longer than his teetotal brother lived, who was knocked down by a bus in the Fulham Road after speaking at a temperance dinner on how strong drink shortens life. There must be a moral there somewhere, but frankly I've never quite seen what it is, unless it be stay quietly sozzled at home, then you won't be knocked down by a 175 bus.

But all this is by the way; digression is one of my many weaknesses, for I often find that the soup is much more tasty than the main dish, and perhaps when you have heard the rest of my story you will agree with me. However, as I said, the room was not very full so I went straight up to the bar and ordered six double whiskeys, and the smart young barman looked at me, for he could see I was by myself. So I took a deep breath and explained the facts of life to him.

‘I could order one whiskey, take it over to that table, drink it and come back for five refills. But that would be wearing on my legs, which after the fourth glass need as much rest as they can get, and a lot of work for you.'

He grinned and said he agreed, but I don't think he was happy, for one thing I'm not what you might call a snappy dresser and they were used to dinner jackets and off the shoulder dresses, or at least a decent Jounge suit. But corduroy trousers and roller neck jersey is my stock in trade, for a writer isn't looked up to these days if he dresses like everyone else, and damn it all, my money is as smart as the next man's. I carried my drinks on a tray the barman gave me to a table a little way from the bar, and after emptying the first glass, I sat back and took in the scenery.

The tables were little islands and most of them deserted, but here and there a few castaways sipped their nourishment and looked as miserable as most people do in bars, so I turned my attention to the tall stools that lined the bar, and thought they looked like the things in circus rings for seals to perch on. On the one nearest to my table was a girl, and I wondered how I'd missed her, but thought perhaps she'd come in when I wasn't looking, but she was there now and was presenting one of the most tasteful bare backs that I've ever seen. Now all men have their various tastes when it comes to admiring feminine beauty, some rave about legs, others breasts, although believe me, a lot of deception is practised in that direction these days, but for myself, show me a flawless white back and I'd raise my hat, always supposing I wore one, which I don't. This girl knew what she'd got, and made the most of it, for her dress was a mere tape that supported the legal amount of material at the front and nothing at all above the waist line at the back. She must have felt my gaze, which isn't surprising, for she turned her head, and I saw a pair of cornflower blue eyes set in a pale, beautiful, if characterless face, surmounted by a pile of artistically dressed hair. Then she winked, and without so much as by your leave, came and sat at my table. I sighed deeply and downed my second whiskey to wash away my disillusion, for surely the strangest part of man's make-up is that he will pawn his soul for what he thinks he cannot have, but will turn his head in disgust when he learns it is well within his means to buy it. She sank down in the chair opposite mine, and said in a low, husky, carefully cultivated, seductive voice:

'Aren't you going to buy me a drink?'

I said: 'Why not? But you will have to fetch it yourself, I never stir before the sixth drink and by then it's a risky business.'

She took my pound note, making a small grimace, and the small sherry must have been exorbitantly expensive, or she was very forgetful for I never saw my change. When she came back and reseated herself, and the third whiskey was doing its bounded duty so that the sharp edges of the bar were becoming nicely rounded, and a faint mist was obscuring the far end of the room, for if truth must be told, and I can see no reason why it shouldn't, this was not the first bar I had visited that evening; she said:

'You're cute, you know that don't you, you're cute.'

I nodded slowly, for I was in the mood to agree to anything. 'Yes, I know. Whenever I look into a mirror I get a shock.'

She giggled and took a ladylike sip from her glass, and I wondered if the people who owned this place knew what she was up to, or if the smart young barman who had a suspicion of a knowing smirk on his face was receiving his cut.

'What's a nice looking fellow like you doing on your own?'

'Getting drunk,' I said briefly, 'it's a hobby. Some people collect stamps, others milk bottle tops, but I get drunk. I do it very well.'

She giggled again, and there was something horrifying about that beautiful mask; she looked like an animated shop window dummy, or a body from which the soul had been sucked out.

'You're funny. I like witty men. Say something else.'

I grinned and felt my face crinkle, like a deflated balloon pressed by a child's destructive fingers. 'A fool is funny because he dare not think, for thought is the pathway to truth, and beyond truth lies madness.'

She shrugged her shapely shoulders and they gleamed in the bright light like white clouds on a winter's day, and for some reason I felt sad, which was strange for usually I am a cheerful drinker.

That's not funny, it's rather frightening. I say, you're not squiffy, are you?'

How I would have answered this insulting insinuation I do not know, for let it be recorded, never in fifteen years of heavy drinking have I been drunk, or as my uncle (the one knocked down by a bus in the Fulham Road) would have aptly expressed himself: 'been seen the worse for strong drink', for at that moment there was a sudden influx of people who came into the room, chattering and babbling and in less than no time the place was crowded, and I was troubled by the thought that I might not have time or opportunity to buy my second consignment. But there came in with this human flood, like a piece of driftwood cast ashore by the tide, a young man who for some reason that I could not at that time understand, stood out from the crowd and claimed my complete attention. He was young, younger than he should have been, for although there were lines about his eyes and mouth, and a certain tautness of his facial muscles that suggested maturity of years, yet he wore an air of youthfulness that did not flatter him, for one was reminded of a fruit that had hung on a tree for a whole summer but was still unripe; a soft green skin full of corruption, that will fall to the ground at the first breath of autumn. He clung to the bar like one who has walked through life looking for props, and his weak handsome face turned slowly, the pale blue eyes were lifeless blue chips of broken glass, and his full lips were moist and sagged pathetically as though he were about to cry. His neat dark suit was rumpled, and his long fingers toyed with the buttons, then, like a startled bird, the right one flew up to the striped tie and jerked it from side to side, then abruptly he turned his back and suddenly I was aware that he was not alone.