Collected Stories (6 page)

That evening all the uncles and aunts came back and a red-faced man who had been introduced as Uncle Arthur arrived with a wheelbarrow filled with bricks. Mother in a loud stage whisper told him to put them round the back, adding, quite unnecessarily, that “little jugs had big eyes”. Then they all sat round and watched Lionel drink his broth.

“Lucky boy,” bellowed Aunt Matilda, “I only wish somebody would make me some nice broth."

“Luvly stuff.” Uncle Arthur smacked his lips. “Makes me mouth water, it does.”

It is extremely doubtful if their appreciation would have lasted beyond the first sip; the pepper had made the broth very hot, and Lionel's mouth felt sore by the time he had emptied the basin.

“Feel sleepy, son?" enquired Mother.

“Yes," lied Lionel.

Everyone gave a sigh of relief, and there was quite a procession to escort him to bed. He was tucked in, kissed a disgusting number of times, then they all trooped out, but Lionel had a suspicion someone was posted outside his door, if not indeed peering through the keyhole, to report progress. He closed his eyes and even snored in what he hoped was a realistic manner. The door creaked open, footsteps tip-toed across the room, and Lionel was gently shaken.

“You asleep, son?” asked Mother.

Lionel snored even louder, and fought down a traitorous sneeze.

“Is 'e off?" enquired Aunt Matilda’s voice from the doorway.

“Like a tombstone,” Mother replied. “He’ll be under for eight hours at least.”

They left him and locked the door, unmindful that a rim lock has screws on the inside which are easily removed by a penknife, a present from Grandfather last Hallowe’en.

There was an awful lot of bumping in the front room, and the door was obligingly ajar. Two uncles were lifting Grandfather out of his coffin, and after they had laid him on the floor, they began to fill the coffin with bricks which Uncle Arthur was passing through the open window. The entire family, if they were related, were attired in strange costumes. Mother and all the aunties wore tall black tapering hats, and long matching dresses, while the uncles were naked, save for a knee-length black apron. Presently the coffin was filled with bricks and Uncle Arthur, after climbing in through the window and closing it after him, started to screw down the lid, while everyone else intoned a dirge that sounded to Lionel something like this.

"Grandfather was with us, long, long, long,

Now he has gone, gone, gone,

Where did he go, go, go?

Down where the dark river flow, flow, flow.

Now his body is dead, dead, dead,

But the Black One must be, fed, fed, fed.

Give him meat to munch, munch, munch,

And lovely bones to crunch, crunch, crunch.”

Uncle Arthur had finished screwing the lid back, and they lifted Grandfather, who looked very frail and cold in his white flannel nightgown, and laid him on the coffin. They now joined hands and danced round the corpse, this time singing a rather gay little tune that sounded rather like “Knees Up Mother Brown.”

"Upstairs we all must go,

He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho,

All must be done just so-so,

He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho.

Do we fry his liver, braise his lights?

He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho.

Bake his kidneys, stew his tripes,

He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho.

No, the Black One likes 'em raw,

He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho,

He’s waiting for us behind the door,

He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho.

Now together let us sing,

He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho.

Black one's dinner we do bring,

He-Hi-He-Hi-Ho."

The dancers took a much needed rest; Aunt Matilda was puffing and panting in a most alarming manner; Uncle Arthur was leaning on Grandfather’s feet, until Mother gave him an angry push that sent him sprawling. Lionel would have laughed if it had not been for their eyes. Even when they were singing their silly little ditty their eyes were bright — glazed with horror; smiles were grimaces, mouths twitched, hands trembled. Uncle Arthur clambered to his feet, then looked upwards in one revealing glance. Everyone repeated the movement; Aunt Matilda gave utterance.

“We must go up.”

Lionel fled, ran up the stairs silently on bare feet, to take refuge in his bedroom and listen behind his unlocked door. There came the tramp of feet, the thump-thump of the heavily laden, the creak of protesting stairboards, and something moved in the room above. A slithering, followed by a soft bumping, then as the procession on the stairs began to intone yet another dirge, whatever was above started to dance.

"Black One, Black One, here we come,

Bearing something for your old turn,

Grandad's ripe and ready now.

Come out quick, and get your chow."

The ceiling shook, a picture moved, and the noise above became a patter of sheer joy. Grandfather and his escort passed Lionel’s door and carried on up the second flight. Lionel waited. There was a bump on the top landing, the family came running downstairs so fast someone slipped and tumbled down the last few steps; the dancing ceased and a heavy tread crossed the ceiling. The murmur of subdued voices below indicated the family were waiting also, and Lionel gently pulled his door open and peered out. A black candle was burning on the bottom stair of the second flight. It spluttered, and gave out a thin plum of white smoke, then the door of the attic creaked open and a strong draught blew the candle out. The family chanted again as Lionel closed his door.

"Ugly Black One up above,

Accept this offering with our love.

But come not down, stay up there.

And we'll remain just where we were."

There was a terrible silence, and Lionel knew, even if he did not understand, that some very important decision would be reached during the next minute. Downstairs someone began to cry, then Uncle Arthur swore; both sounds were frozen when a crash made the banisters tremble, followed at once by a swift dragging, a taking-away; but Lionel knew it was Grandfather being pulled into the attic, for the sound continued on over his ceiling. A door slammed, and the family sent their sigh of relief shivering up the stairs.

They all dispersed shortly afterwards, save for Aunt Matilda and Mother. Lionel had only just screwed the lock back into place when he heard them coming up the stairs; he got into bed and turned over on to one side, shutting his eyes tight when the key turned.

“Is he still asleep?’ Aunt Matilda's whisper was a muted shout. “Is he still under?’

“Yes," Mother was leaning over him, “the black draught will keep him still as a week old corpse till daybreak."

“When will you tell him?’

“Not until he’s fourteen.” Mother straightened up. “I think he’ll have a real bent for it then.”

“Sure, ’e’s a natural," Aunt Matilda chuckled, “them green eyes. And the way his ears taper. He’ll be lording it over his own B.M. before you know it.”

Mother shut the door when she left but did not lock it, and Lionel lay awake and listened. There was much movement in the attic above; soft thuds with an occasional thump, and once a loud bang as though something heavy had been dropped on the floor. Two hours or more had passed before he decided it was safe to climb out of bed and approach the door. The black candle had been relit and its flickering flame fought the writhing shadows in a losing battle. Aunt Matilda, who must be sharing Mother’s bed, sent out reassuring snores, and even Mother confirmed her state of unconsciousness by a spasmodic snort.

Lionel took up the black candle and slowly mounted the stairs. He was not afraid, only tensed by excitement; at last he would know why he must not, or rather, should not, “go up them stairs". The top landing was festooned with cobwebs, the floor carpeted by dust in which lat the imprint of Grandfather’s form, plus a long path along which the corpse had been dragged to the black- painted door. Lionel put his candle down, and pressed his ear to the keyhole.

Something was munching; there was a sharp crack followed by a sucking sound, then a soft ripping like thick felt being torn. Lionel peered through the keyhole, but it was pitch black inside, and he could not see a thing.

He did not mean to open the door, for commonsensc told him such an action would be asking for trouble, but he could not help himself. His hand crept up to the handle of its own accord, the muscles in his wrist hardened, and then, before his brain had time to flash out a panic-inspired order, the handle turned and the door slid open. The candlelight attacked the inner darkness, and was at once repelled. A graveyard smell came to him, and with it memory of things which breed in old and forgotten tombs; life that is born of death corruption and must never see the light of day. He retreated a few steps, and the candlelight, grateful for this small respite, came with him. A soft padding thumping was approaching from the inner darkness, and a deep shadow shape turned to a dirty white. It was lean and tall, clad in a long gown made from unbleached linen shrouds; the face was green-white and shone with a soft luminous light; the eyes were white, pupiless pools, and it had no nose — only two holes. It shuffled out on to the landing, right into the cirle of yellow light, and reaching out a skeleton hand, opened its black-toothed mouth:

“Glug —glug.”

Lionel dropped his candle and ran; slipped down a few stairs, fell down the rest, and a bellowed: “Wassat?’ followed by a creaking of bed springs told him Aunt Matilda was awake. He looked upwards. The “Thing" was holding the still lighted candle and peering down at him over the banisters; the mouth was open, expressing what could well be a grimace of pleasure. Whatever it used for a voice also suggested unholy satisfaction.

“...Glug...glug..."

“Satan’s knee britches!”

Aunt Matilda gripped his shoulder, then dragged him into Mother’s bedroom.

The two women stared at him with fear-inspired rage.

“You've been up there?’

Lionel nodded.

“He’s seen young flesh,” stated Mother. “Living flesh,” added Aunt Matilda. “With warm blood in it,” Mother nodded.

“Tender meat."

“No gristle."

“A succulent morsel,” Aunt Matilda licked her lips, “untouched by undertaker, juicy, such as ’e’s been looking for these past three hundred years."

“Satan preserve us,” Mother made an X sign, and the aunt quickly imitated her, “what shall we do?’

“’And ’im over," replied Aunt Matilda without* hesitation. “Now He’s seen. He’ll want."

“But — I can't,” Mother clutched Lionel to her ample bosom. “I can’t give Him my son.”

“Do you want Him down here?’ The woman’s vast fat face was pitiless. “Do you want Him loose.”

“No," Mother’s grip slackened. “No, that don’t bear thinking about, but Lionel’s me son, Matilda. Remember that, he’s me son.”

“It’ll be a sacrifice,” agreed Aunt Matilda. “There’s no denying, it’ll be a sacrifice.” She froze and raised a hand. “What’s that? Hark, damn ye, hark.”

The three figures became as statues; they looked at each other, mutely pleading for confirmation that the silence was absolute. But a stairboard creaked, a banister squeaked, then for a few moments there was nothing, a pause before the rack was turned another notch. Something bumped against the wall, then a short croaking cough, followed by a spluttering sigh; another stair protested — there was no doubt now, whatever lived in the attic was coming down.

“What is it?’ Even now Lionel could not resist his craving for knowledge.

“A Ghoul,” snapped Aunt Matilda. “What did you suppose it was?’

“A King Ghoul," Mother corrected. “You remember, Matilda, Grandfather always said it was a King Ghoul."

“Hark!" Aunt Matilda glared her terror. “It’s trying to get in. Come on, we’ve got to barricade the door.”

Lionel watched the women manhandle the wardrobe into position, and tried not to see the door handle slowly turn, but he could hardly ignore the spluttering roar that proclaimed the Ghoul’s rage when it found the entrance barred. Mother and Aunt could do no more than make the X sign and mutter completely futile incantations, while the wardrobe was trembling in amost alarming fashion. Lionel could see only one other exit from the bedroom, and he decided to use it. Aunt Matilda glanced over one shoulder.

“Here, Maud, the little perisher is getting out of the window." The descent for a ten-year-old was simple. The ivy was tough, well rooted into the mortar, and Lionel had used this natural ladder before. Once on the ground he looked and decided Aunt Matilda was foolhardy to attempt the same feat. She was not built for it, but what with the shifting wardrobe and the appeasement morsel on the road to freedom, she really had not much alternative. The ivy parted company with the wall, and Aunt Matilda came down with a sickening thud. She lay quite still, but possibly she was not dead, only Mother settled the matter beyond doubt by climbing out on to the window sill and jumping down on to Aunt Matilda’s back. Lionel distinctly heard the spine snap, and wondered idly of Aunt’s head would wobble should it be possible for her to stand up.

“See what you’ve done now,” Mother complained, clambering to her feet. “Look at poor Matilda." She bent down and shook and unresponsive shoulder. “You all right, Matilda?”

Aunt Matilda did not, indeed could not, answer, but a voice from the bedroom window did its best.

“...Glug...glug...”

The Ghoul was leaning out of the window; its green luminous face gleamed like an over-ripe melon. Mother grabbed Lionel by the scruff of the neck and pushed him forward, while at the same time doing her best to lift him upwards, but the Ghoul was looking down at Aunt Matilda’s immense sprawling figure. He pointed with one chalk white finger.

“...Glug...glug...”

“Oh!” Mother relaxed her grip and Lionel twisted like an eel to break free. “Yes, of course. Never thought of that.” She looked up at the Ghoul who was drooling with anticipation. “You get up them stairs and stay there, and we’ll let you have her when it’s right and respectable.”

“Glug," the Ghoul pointed again.

“Don’t be so greedy,” Mother admonished. “It isn’t as though you haven’t anything to go on with. I mean to say, normally you would have had to wait a very long time for Matilda.”