Collected Stories (7 page)

The marble eyes moved slowly, then stopped when Lionel came within their vision, but Mother was fearless now she had, so to speak, a generous amount of ammunition to hand.

“No you don’t. You’ve had me father, and you’ll have me sister, but you’ll have to wait for me son. So get back up them stairs or I’ll throw a crooked cross at yer,” This threat seemed to disturb the Ghoul for it jerked back from the window sill, and roared like a wolk.

“A crooked cross,” Mother repeated. “Now up with yer.”

The Ghoul withdrew, but with reluctance, for the luminous face peeped round the window frame twice, and the white eyes glared down at Lionel, while a black tongue licked grey lips.

“Crooked crosses.” Some of Mother’s new-found confidence was seeping away, and her voice squeaked.

The Ghoul went; they could hear his feet slouching up the stairs, then the attic door slammed, and Mother gave a vast sigh of relief.

“That was a near thing, and it was all your fault. Look what’s happened to poor Matilda, and she not ready to take the steep path. Thank your dark stars she fell out of that window all the same. There’s enough to keep the Old One busy for a long time, to say nothing of that remains of poor Grandfather.”

“What’s a crooked cross?” asked Lionel. “A cross that’s crooked,” Mother explained, “’E don’t like ’em," she shuddered, “neither do I. But they’s poison to a Ghoul.

“Now," she squared her shoulders, “you must go and fetch Uncle Arthur."

“Where does he live?”

“I’m going to tell you, ain’t I? Go down through the village and you reach the cross roads where yer Great-Aunt Bridget is buried, you’ll see a sign post which says, TO DEVIL’S WOOD. Follow the footpath till you come to DEAD MAN’S bridge; cross, and two hundred yards further on you’ll find HANGMAN’S CORNER. Turn left, and yer Uncle’s cottage is on the right. Got that?"

Lionel nodded.

“Right. Tell Arthur what’s happened, and say he’s to get here pronto. Off you go, and look out for ’is cat. Don’t get familiar with it.”

Lionel ran through the village, and the full moon watched him run. He walked through Devil’s Wood and felt strangely at home in the eerie gloom; Dead Man’s Bridge was a narrow wooden structure that creaked when he crossed it, and Hangman’s Corner was marked by the ruins of an old gibbet.

Uncle Arthur’s cottage was almost hidden under a dark canopy of large trees, and as Lionel pushed open the wicket gate an immense black cat emerged from the shadows, and after arching its back, spat at him.

“Crooked crosses,” Lionel experimented.

The cat spat again, then turned and was off; a black streak that was soon lost in the deep darkness. Lionel went up the garden path and tapped on the weather-beaten door. The door flew open and Uncle Arthur faced him, a bulky figure outlined against the dim candlelight that illuminated the room beyond. Lionel tried to see what was in the room, but Uncle Arthur kept bobbing about, so he was left with the impression of toads in bottles and a heap of old bones.

“Must be trouble,” Uncle Arthur commented, “otherwise Maud would never have sent you.”

“The Ghoul came downstairs." Lionel thought it wise to be brief. “Aunt Matilda fell out of the window, she's dead. Mother said get there pronto."

“Satan!” Uncle Arthur took a deep breath. “Let’s get going.” He peered into the darkness. “Lucifer!"

The black cat appeared and glared at Lionel. Uncle Arthur slammed his front door.

"Curse loud, curse deep,

AII those who try to peep."

The cat swore and took up a position on the doorstep. Uncle Arthur swept Lionel up into his arms, and after muttering some words that they boy was unable to hear, jumped forward. The return journey was accomplished in no time at all. Uncle Arthur may have run, but more likely he flew. Hangman’s Corner was gone in a flash; Dead Man's Bridge did not creak when they passed over; Devil’s Wood was a blur of startled trees, the village was barely reached before it was left behind, and there was Mother standing by Aunt Matilda's recumbent form.

‘What kept yer?" she snapped.

“Out of practice.” Uncle Arthur was indeed a little breathless. “Let’s get her inside. Can’t afford to waste time now the Old One has remembered the way downstairs."

Mother nodded again, then together they carried Aunt Matilda indoors, and laid her out on the front room table.

“She’s going to take a bit of getting upstairs,” Uncle Arthur observed.

“But it’ll be worth the effort.” Mother wiped her forehead on Aunt Matilda’s skirt. “The Old One will sleep for years after her."

“I dunno,” Uncle Arthur shook his head doubtfully, “he’s seen young meat.”

“Serve him right,” she glared at Lionel, “if he hadn’t gone up them stairs, Matilda would still be brewing her black stew with the worst.”

Next day Grandfather’s brick-filled coffin was interred in the village graveyard, although popular opinion maintained the cross roads was the right and proper place, and that evening the undertaker put Matilda in her narrow box. Uncle Arthur went round to the builder’s yard for another barrow-load of bricks, while Lionel pondered on the problem of crooked crosses. He decided to question Uncle Arthur.

“It’s like this, young ’un,” he sat down on the wheelbarrow handle, “when you’ve been initiated a cross of any kind is bad medicine, but a crooked cross is fatal, If I just sees one, I goes all squeezy in me stomach.”

“What’s init...?”

“Initiated? That’s when you takes an oath of allegiance to Old Nick. A Ghoul of course is worse off than us warlocks. I mean to say, he’s from down under, and a crooked cross would liquefy him. That’s why the Old One is in your Mother’s attic. Years and years ago he used to haunt the churchyard, but people got wise and began putting crooked crosses on their tombstones. But in an initiated house, he’s as safe as if he was in the dark place itself. Get me?”

That night Lionel sat on the side of his bed and thought the matter out.

“I’m not initiated,” he said aloud.

He finally made a crooked cross out of a bent bed spring.

The Ghoul upstairs had been quiet for the part two days; having an after-dinner

nap, Lionel supposed. Mother, worn out by the need to keep an eye on Lionel, and still blissfully unaware of the uses a penknife can be put to, was snoring. He crept downstairs clutching his crooked cross in one hand.

A black candle, large enough to last the entire night, burnt by Aunt Matilda’s coffin. She looked far from peaceful, for her teeth were bared, and this grimace gave Lionel the idea he needed. But the teeth were tightly clenched, and his penknife had to be inserted to force them apart so that the little crooked cross could be pushed in over the stiffened tongue. Once open the mouth was reluctant to close again, and Lionel had to upper-cut Aunt Matilda with his small fist before he could safely retire to bed. It was offering night again. Uncle Arthur brought along his barrow-load of bricks; Aunt Matilda was lifted out of her coffin (no mean task), and the family danced and sang.

"Old One, Old One, here we come,

Bringing goodies for your turn,

Fat Matilda, plump and white,

Succulent flesh, the kind you like.

Sup well, eat your fill,

There’s plenty here, and no bill,

Rump, sirloin, liver, lights,

Kidneys, breasts, and unstewed tripes.

All this advertising had brought the Ghoul into active, feet-stomping life. The ceiling shook, the lamp trembled, and Lionel could scarce control his glee when he joyfully anticipated what was to come.

It took a lot of effort to bring Aunt Matilda up the stairs, and there was certainly no breath left for further singing. They had a brief rest on the landing outside Lionel’s door, and Uncle Arthur could be heard swearing.

“He’s very active up there,” he said after a while.

“He’s always a bit frisky before meat," another uncle suggested.

“You don’t suppose,” Mother hesitated, “he’ll come out before we come down?”

“’Course ’e won’t,” Uncle Arthur replied, without however, much conviction, “I mean, he never has.”

The journey upwards continued. Lionel heard the shuffling footsteps move over the ceiling to the attic door. Aunt Matilda was dumped on to the upper landing, then there was a mad scramble as the family poured down the stairs; once safely in the hall, they huddled together and chanted the final dirge.

"Old One, Black One, listen please,

From our fears, you must give us ease,

Come not down, stay up there,

And we’ll all give a hearty cheer."

The attic door opened, and Aunt Matilda was dragged across the floor.

When the door slammed the cheer was not very hearty, little more than an overgrown sigh, then the family retired to the front room for some well-deserved celebrating, while Lionel sat on his bed to listen.

There was much rattling and bumping, as though a vast collection of bones were being cleared to one side. Then came some soft bumps, a few flops, a moist flap, and one mighty crash, then a series of cracking sounds: Lionel giggled, and said aloud, “You wait — you just wait.”

He waited for a long time. Downstairs Uncle Arthur was singing an obscene song and the rest of the family seemed to be dancing. Then the Ghoul grunted; an enquiring, almost disbelieving growl that must have been heard in the front room, for Uncle Arthur was stopped on a high note, and the dancing ceased.

The scream began as a whistle. Like an overheated whistling kettle it grew in volume, became an ear-splitting shriek, rose up to a bellowing roar, then reached full maturity as a roof-raising, rasping scream. The ceiling shook, there was a mighty crashing, thrashing; a terrifying bouncing, as though countless very large lead balls were being tossed about. Then a shuddering crack streaked across the ceiling, a lump of plaster fell down on to the dressing table, another crack appeared, then another. Lionel crouched down by his bed, and as an afterthought, crawled under it. The room rained plaster, something crashed down on to the bedside rug, and Lionel stared into the empty eye sockets of a bleached skull; a couple of thigh bones followed, then a gleaming shoulder blade; something soft and floppy flapped on to the bed, and Lionel decided not to think about it.

The scream sank, became a gurgle, then a hiss — then ceased. A few more bones fell, another hunk of plaster, but at last there was peace — an absence of sound before the murmur of frightened voices came up from the room below. Lionel looked upwards and crooned with joy. The Ghoul’s head was hanging down through the jagged hole in the ceiling. The green face was no longer luminous; just nasty, crawling slightly, and seemed an imminent danger of parting company from whatever was left of its main body.

“Got yer,” said Lionel.

The family crowded into the room; they looked upwards, they looked down, then they looked at Lionel. Mother put the communal thought into words.

“How did you do it, Son?”

Lionel was brief; action, after all, spoke louder than words.

“Crooked cross,” he said.

“Little monster,” said one aunt.

“A horned toad,” agreed Uncle Arthur.

“What,” enquired Mother, “will he be when he grows up?”

Silently Lionel pointed to the head dangling from the ceiling.

(1973)

“Why a door?” Rosemary asked. “I mean to say, the house has a full complement of perfectly satisfactory doors.”

William continued to run his hands over his latest acquisition, his eyes alight with that glow of pure pleasure that is peculiar to the ardent collector.

“I liked it,” he explained, “besides it is very old. Three hundred years, if a day.”

“But it doesn’t match the paintwork or anything,” Rosemary protested, “and it’s so heavy.”

She was right, of course. The door was massive; made of solid walnut, fully four feet wide and seven feet high, the panels embossed with an intricate pattern that seemed to grow more complicated the longer it was examined. It had a great tarnished brass knob on the left side, and four butt hinges on the right.

“What are you going to do with it?” Rosemary asked after a while. “Hang it on the wall?”

“Don’t be so silly.” William tapped the panels with his knuckles. “I’m going to put it to its proper use. You know that cupboard in my study? Well, it’s dead center in the wall opposite my desk; I’ll get the builders to take away the old door, enlarge the aperture, and hang this one in its place.”

“A great thing like that as a cupboard door!” Rosemary gasped.

“Then,” William went on, “I’ll hang a large 16th-century print on either side, a couple of crossed swords over the top, and the result should be pretty impressive.”

“Like a museum,” Rosemary observed.

“It will inspire me,” William nodded slowly, and Rosemary, with a woman’s inconsistency thought he looked very sweet. “It must be French polished of course, and the lock burnished and then lacquered.”

“Where did you find it?” Rosemary asked.

“At Murray’s. You know, the demolition people. Old Murray said it came from a 16th-century manor house he knocked down last year. I can’t wait to see the door in position, can you?”

“No,” Rosemary said doubtfully, “no, I can hardly wait.”