Creeps by Night: Chills and Thrills

Perchance To Dream by Michael Joyce

It seemed to him that he was a commercial traveler, sitting in the corner of a third class smoker on a train bound for a small town on the East Coast. It seemed that he was making this journey not on account of business, but of some family affair. In his pocket, he knew, was a letter from his sister, the first she had written him for some years; an urgent letter begging for his help, yet so vague in its terms that he wondered whether she herself knew from what danger or misfortune she was asking him to save her. It seemed that her fears were in some way related to her husband, but she did not suggest ill-treatment; there was a reference to her little boy, but she did not say that he was ill. He had never seen his sister’s child, but, looking back into the dim past, he found an old dislike of her husband, whom he remembered as a tall, raw-boned, redheaded Scot, a chemist in a small way of business and a dabbler, he seemed to have been told, in chemical experiment.

The vagueness of the letter was tiresome to a man who, though he had no living interest in his sister and had made no effort to see her for several years, was yet too much a brother to leave her appeal unanswered; for there was no doubt that she longed for his support, whether in fact she needed it or not, and for this reason, perhaps, her ill-chosen words had given him uneasiness, her very poverty of expression leaving in the mind a dim fear, too shadowy to combat. Such feelings, however, the traveler determined to ignore, finding it more comfortable to fancy that the husband’s business was failing and that this was merely a request for money to avert impending bankruptcy — the plain meaning tortured into the likeness of an indefinable foreboding by the sense of shame that begging excites in decent people. So, his mind was at rest; he hoped that the loan — common sense would call it a gift — need not be large; but money was at least a thing he understood, and on this understanding he settled down to read a magazine for the rest of his journey.

This was not, it seemed, his first visit to the town; perhaps he had been there on business. On leaving the station he found that he knew how to reach the road his sister lived in, although he had certainly never called at the house itself. It was a desolate evening at the dead end of autumn; what few visitors the town could boast had left it long ago, and indeed it was hard to imagine what could ever have brought them there, for the front was low and undistinguished, the beach poor and dirty, the buildings cheap and tawdry; the speculators who had hoped to popularize the place had run mean streets of semi-villas out into the fields, where the roadway and the pavement petered out in heaps of rubble and clay. The whole place was stamped with squalid failure.

He found his sister’s house on the outskirts of the town, where a nagging wind set the peeling posters flapping on an abandoned hoarding and drove a flock of straws and papers along the empty street. The house was badly built and out of repair like all the rest. For some time there was no answer to his knock, and when at length the door was opened it was slowly, as with suspicion. It seemed that for the moment he did not recognize his sister, so changed was she from the plump easy woman whom he had pictured as the writer of that letter. Now he could better understand his uneasiness at her appeal, for she was pale and thin, disordered in her dress and harassed in expression. She had acquired little nervous movements which seemed new to him and which distressed him. He had expected her to greet him with some warmth of gratitude for his prompt response to her letter, and was surprised to find her manner cold and constrained.

The front door opened into a dark and airless lobby, at the end of which he could see a door paneled with colored glass. In there, his sister whispered, the Chemist conducted his experiments; their combined sitting- and dining-room was on the first floor. Ascending the stairs they reached the first landing which led to two short flights of five stairs each — the house was as clumsily planned as it was badly built — one leading to a bedroom in the front of the house and the other to another landing out of which the sitting-room opened. Where the stairs met this second landing a Japanese bead curtain hung across the way. The Traveler noticed how the long strings of beads clicked together as they closed behind him, and wondered why women loved to hang such ugly, useless things about the place. The sitting-room was at once cold and stuffy, the smoldering fire serving rather to raise a draught than to warm the room. They sat on either side of the hearth in constrained silence.

Well? he said, at last. I’m glad you came, she said; it’s the child I’m troubled about. The child? he said; I thought perhaps it was money. No, you needn’t have thought that, she protested; my husband earns enough to keep us, though it’s true we’re not rich; he’s all right about money. No, it’s the child; I’m terribly anxious about him; it gets worse and worse; it’s horrible, it’s horrible.

She spoke the last words more to herself than to him, and it was clear that now she had persuaded him to come down to help her she was unwilling to talk about her trouble. Her womanish unreason tried his temper, but he was sorry for her at the same time. He tried, clumsily enough, to soothe and coax her. At the first kind word she began crying silently; he left her time to recover a little and then began to question her. Was it, he asked, the child’s health? Yes, it was his health; he had been ailing for a long time now; but it was more than that, she said, something worse than that. Do you mean it’s his mind? the Traveler asked. Yes, I suppose so, she replied with hesitation; I don’t know, I don’t know.

It seemed that at this moment the child entered, moving with an unnatural staidness which argued an appalling lack of vitality. It was impossible to guess his age from his gray, expressionless face; his head was large, far too large for his flimsy body and mean limbs. Good evening, Uncle, said the child. Do you know me, then? asked the Traveler, eyeing him curiously. Why, yes, replied the child; you’re my mother’s brother. But how do you know that? asked his mother uneasily; I never told you he was coming. The child shook his head indifferently and walked soberly out of the room, not troubling to close the door. The bead curtain could be heard clicking outside as he passed through. The Traveler rose and closed the door after him.

Well, he said, sitting down, what’s wrong with the child then? is he always like that? Yes, always the same, she said. And what does he do all day? asked the Traveler, does he play? No. Does he read, or what? No, she said, he doesn’t often read; he just sits there quite quiet, thinking to himself; he doesn’t speak much. Well, said the Traveler, he certainly doesn’t look very healthy; do you think this place doesn’t suit him? No, replied his sister, it’s a poor place, but the air is good; and she went on to explain that they had settled here simply on account of the child, the doctor recommending the East Coast, and the Chemist being offered the business, cheap, a day or two later. But the child did not seem to have benefited by the change; indeed it rather seemed that he was gradually getting worse, though it would be hard to define what was wrong with him. The Traveler asked whether the child was in the hands of a good doctor. No, his sister said, her husband would have nothing to do with doctors. Why? he asked; does he think that the child is well? No, she said, but he insists on treating the child himself; that’s what frightens me.

The Traveler, sitting with his back to the door, became aware that he was being watched. He turned sharply. The door, which he remembered having closed after the child, was open, and an enormous red-headed man was standing framed in the doorway, his hand on the knob. He took two silent steps into the room, still staring at the Traveler, who noticed that he walked in his socks. You gave me a turn, he said; do you always go about like that? The Chemist nodded, chuckled softly, and walked out again. The Traveler closed the door after him. I don’t like people to creep about the place like that, he said, shaking himself. He opened the door again, suddenly, hut there was no one on the landing. Let’s light the gas, he said, and draw the curtains; it’s a wretched evening.

So he treats the child himself? he asked after a minute or two had passed. Yes, she said. Gives him medicine, does he? Yes, she said. He’s not qualified to prescribe, said the Traveler; he’s no right to do that; even doctors don’t treat their own family. He will do it, she said, though I beg him to let me take the child to a doctor; but he won’t hear of it. Does he give any reason? He says the doctors don’t know their job, she said; he gives the child a dose of some kind night and morning; he mixes it himself in the room downstairs I showed you; sometimes he makes me give it him. And have you no idea what the stuff is? asked her brother. No; but he thinks it’s something wonderful.

The Traveler asked her why she did not take the child to see a doctor without letting her husband know, but she said she would not dare. He would find out somehow, however dark she kept it; the child might tell him, for she knew that the two talked together sometimes when they were alone. And suppose he did get to know, her brother asked, what then? I don’t know, she said, but I’m frightened of him. And so was he, a little, the Traveler realized; still, he must do what he could for his sister, who was clearly ready to break down. He told her that if she would tell her husband, in front of him, that she insisted on the child’s being properly treated and refused to give him any more of the drug, he would support her as best he could. But she must nerve herself to face it out this evening, for to-morrow business would call him back to London. She seemed grateful for the offer, but was afraid, she said, to be left alone with her husband afterwards. Nonsense, he said; he’s never ill-treated you, has he? Look, you speak to him to-night, and to-morrow morning we’ll both take the child along to see the doctor; then we’ll come back here together and the three of us can talk it over quietly and see whether he’ll abide by what the doctor says: if the doctor says, as he’s sure to, that the child must take nothing but what he prescribes himself, then your husband will have to agree to it, of course, and if he goes back on his word you just send a wire to me and let me know. In the meantime I’ll make a few inquiries and find out the rights of the case in law. What can he do to you, anyway? You mustn’t let your nerves get out of hand, you know. Why, even suppose the man was a homicidal lunatic, you’ve got the neighbors at hand to help you; and perhaps you could get some one in to sleep with you...

This time he was prepared and turned as the door opened. The Chemist entered noiselessly, placing on the table a medicine glass half full of a clear liquid. He looked across at his wife with an air of malevolent inquiry. She gazed back at him helplessly and at last gave a timid answer, Very well. He nodded and silently left the room.

He knows, he knows, she whispered when the door was shut; didn’t you see the way he looked at me? Well, he may have guessed, said her brother uneasily; you should have told him then, you know. I couldn’t, she said. The Traveler found himself infected by her fear. It was absurd; the Chemist was a big brute, far more powerful than himself, but it was ridiculous to suppose that there would be appeal to physical force. Angry with himself for his qualms he took up the glass and threw its contents into the fire. There, he said, that’s the end of that; I’ll speak to him when he comes back; don’t you worry.

She left him to put the child to bed, coming back later to lay the cold supper. The Chemist joined them in his shirt-sleeves, his fingers browned with acid. Not two words were spoken throughout the meal. As they rose from the table the Chemist said, Did you give it him? No, said the Traveler, she did not. The Chemist ignored him and asked his wife again, Did you give it him? No, she said, very white, I... knocked it over. That’s not true, said her brother; I threw it on the fire; the child must see a doctor; you can’t go on treating him yourself, he’s getting worse and worse. The Chemist still looked across the table at his wife. You won’t give it him, then? he asked. The Traveler nodded urgently at his sister. No, she said desperately, I won’t. The Chemist gave a low chuckle, nodded, and left the room in his stockinged feet.

There, said the Traveler when he was gone, that’s over now; that wasn’t so bad, was it? She was still white with the strain. That’s not all, she said; he’ll not take it as quietly as that. Nonsense, said her brother; what can he do? After all, there are two of us. I don’t know, she said; but he’ll come back, I know he will. The Traveler, although he laughed at his sister’s fears, was careful to take a seat from which he could command the door. They sat there in uncomfortable silence until gradually, since all was quiet, the woman’s color returned and they found themselves in conversation. They spoke of old friends, names forgotten for ten or twenty years, reviving childish memories as the only common ground between them. The Traveler, a lonely man, wondered why he had seen his sister so rarely in the past, resented her marriage with this dour brute of a husband. It was true, he said to himself, blood was thicker than water after all; and he told her that if this trouble should end in a breach with her husband she might look to him; she could keep house for him and bring the child; he was not a marrying man, but he found it a poor life that was spent in furnished rooms and commercial hotels.

The evening passed for them both in a gentle melancholy which made them loth to leave the fireside. Well, said the Traveler at last, it’s getting late; it’s been a quiet evening after all, you see; you’ll be all right now, won’t you? I’ll sit up with you if you’d rather. Yes, I’m all right now, she said; thank you, you’ve been very kind to me... I’ll show you to your room. That’s all right, he said; and we’ll go and see the doctor in the morning. He opened the door while his sister drew back the curtains and opened the window top and bottom to air the room. Outside there was a high wind which made a sudden draught in the close atmosphere. The stairs and landing were dark and the house was in complete silence.

As he stood there with his hand on the door knob he heard his sister behind him give a little gasp. What’s up now? he said, looking round. She was staring at the gas-burner over the mantelpiece. The flame flickered and then ceased, leaving the room dark except for what dim, diffused light filtered through the driving clouds and in at the narrow window. He said, What’s wrong with it; does it want a shilling? No, she said breathlessly, it’s not a slot meter; I’ve never known it do this before. Well, he said, there’s not much odds now we’re off to bed; you’ve got candles... Hush, she said, didn’t you hear it, didn’t you... She stopped, breathless. He could hear a slight rustling like wind among the leaves, a tiny click-click from the landing; then suddenly, framed in the doorway, enormous in the gloom, stood the Chemist, an axe raised above his shoulder. The Traveler recoiled instinctively, and on the instant the man was through the door and making straight across the room at his wife. There was a scream, a scuffle, and a crash. Crossing the room in panic the Traveler found his sister still cowering against the further wall while the Chemist lay inert upon the floor, his head in the hearth. The Traveler examined his face in what small glow came from the dying fire; the forehead was wet with blood. Realizing quickly that he had tripped and stunned himself he feverishly tried to turn his mind to action. Quick, he said, we must tie him up before he comes round; what have you got? Have you got any rope? Quick, for God’s sake; tear the table-cloth into strips; if he comes round first he’ll kill the two of us; he’s killing-mad. He struck a match to find the axe, which he hid in a corner. Here you are, said his sister; will these do? She was stuttering with fear, but she had kept her nerve. That’s right, he said; here, you must help me; we must do it in the dark, there’s no time to get a candle. In the dim light they fumbled with the limp wrists and ankles, lashing them together as tightly as they could with the clumsy strips of serge. Pull, said the Traveler; never mind hurting him; it’s either him or us. At last they had him tied, dragged and pushed him towards the table, and made him fast as best they could to the legs. Now, said the Traveler, get a candle, several, and some rope or cord; here are the matches; I’ll watch him till you come back. I’m frightened, she said; I daren’t go downstairs alone. You must, he said urgently; I can’t leave you with him, he isn’t safe like this; quick, now, there’s a good girl. She went.

Left alone, the Traveler examined the body again. The heart was still beating and the blood on the forehead was already nearly dry; soon he would be coming round. If only she would hurry with that cord — their makeshift lashings would not hold him long, a great brute of a man with a maniac’s strength at that. At a pinch they might both cut and run while he was struggling to get free; but if he did get loose he’d kill some one before he’d finished. He wondered whether there was a telephone in the place. His sister came back with a candle, the only one, she said, in the house, and a good length of stout box-cord. The light was cheering, and the Traveler was able to secure the brute’s hands and feet carefully and at his leisure. There, he said at last, straightening his back; he’s safe enough for the present; now, is there a ’phone in the house? Good; go down and ring up the police and tell them to send round several men, with a strait-jacket, if they’ve got one, as soon as they can. Oh, but I’m frightened, she said; it’s so dark on the stairs; don’t make me go. I’m afraid you’ll have to, he said; here, you can take the candle; come, it’s nearly over now; run along quick, there’s a good girl, and the police will be along in a minute or two, and then everything will be all right. He could see that she was ready to collapse at any minute, but she took the candle and went downstairs.

In the dark he heard a low moan; soon his eyes growing accustomed to the absence of the candle, he could see some movement in the huge figure on the floor. He knew that the brute had come to and was trying to free himself. The table creaked. You can’t get loose, said the Traveler sharply; you’ll only hurt yourself trying. There was another moan followed by silence. The woman returned with the candle. Are they coming? he asked. Yes, she said, they promised to send the men at once. How far, he asked, is the police station? The other end of the town, she said, but it won’t... She broke off with a scream as her eye fell on the Chemist. Look, she whispered, look, he’s watching us. At that the Chemist shut his eyes and moaned again. For God’s sake loose me, he whined; these cords are killing me. Don’t answer him, said the Traveler; we can’t take any risks. For God’s sake, the Chemist whined again in his vile Greenock speech, for God’s sake let go my legs from the table so I can lie straight. We could do that, couldn’t we? said the woman weakly. No, snapped her brother; we can’t take any risks.

The Chemist began to talk, lucidly enough; he was all right now, he said, they need not be afraid; he didn’t mind being tied up so long as they would ease him a little; he was suffering terribly. When the Traveler ignored him he began to excite himself, threatening and imploring them by turns. He strained at the cords without effect, groaning and gasping, his face distorted, saliva trickling from his mouth. Then he lay still and began to talk rapidly about the child; it was his child, he said, and it was to be a genius, a superman, the greatest man that ever lived; fools that they were to stop the treatment, they should not stop it, he was the father and it was for him to say. His speech grew thicker, his accent so strong as to make his words barely intelligible. The boy was to be the greatest man that ever lived; it was simple, it was easy, but no one else had found the way to do it. Hemp, Indian Hemp, Cannabis Indica; they understood it in the East; but here, what did the doctors use it for? Chlorodyne and corn cures; no one knew but him, it was his discovery; steady dosing, minute at first but increasing month by month, from early childhood, and there was your genius, there was your pure intellect; fools were afraid of drugs, the doctors said they were harmful, yet all the great men had taken drugs in one form or another, all of them; they had suffered because the effect on the adult brain was to disintegrate the mental controls and unbalance the faculties; but steady assimilation by the growing brain, that was his discovery, no one else had seen it; it was simple but all the clever people missed it. The child would be the greatest man the world had ever seen; and but for meddling fools... He broke off, panting.

There was a silence. The woman sat cowering in a chair, gazing fascinated at her husband. They’re a long time coming, said the Traveler at last. Yes, said his sister, they should have been here by now. The Chemist was eying them cunningly; he began to whine and wheedle. He was safe now, he said; they could let him go; he must have his way with the child, that was all; cross him there and he was fighting-mad, but, that apart, he was as sane as they were. There was no response. He moaned, pulling feebly at the cords. Water, he gasped, for the love of Christ. Give him some water, said the woman, if you think it’s safe. The Traveler filled a glass from the carafe on the sideboard and, kneeling warily beside the Chemist’s head, poured the water into his open mouth. The Chemist spluttered and spat it out. You’ll choke me, he said between his coughs; loose my hands and let me take it myself; I can’t drink lying here. The Traveler shook his head. For the love of Christ, whined the Chemist, just let my hands go from the table so I can sit up. The Traveler shook his head.

There came a loud knocking at the front door which echoed through the still house. Quick, said the Traveler, run down and let them in; here, take the candle. Between them, in their haste, they dropped it and were in the dark. Quick, where are the matches? said the Traveler, fumbling on the table. I left them downstairs, she said. Then you’ll have to go in the dark, there’s nothing else for it; there’s not a spark left in the fire. I can’t, I daren’t, she whimpered; I can’t face those stairs again. The knocking was repeated. For God’s sake, said the Traveler sharply, pull yourself together; you must go — very well, then, I’ll go myself and you must watch him. There came a low groan from the floor. No, cried the woman, don’t leave me with him, I can’t bear it, he’ll kill me, he’ll kill me. While the Traveler stood perplexed the knocking was repeated, louder. Then we must leave him, he said desperately, and both go down. No, no, she sobbed; he’ll break loose and kill us on the stairs; we mustn’t leave him... I’ll go. She went to the door but drew back in terror from the dark landing. It’s no good, she said helplessly; you go, you’ll have to. Yes, I’ll have to, he said; there they are again, that’s the last time they’ll knock; they’ll think it’s a hoax and clear off. Now watch him and don’t answer a word; don’t give him the water whatever he says; I’ll be back with the police in thirty seconds. Now, watch him.

As he ran downstairs there suddenly came into his mind an explanation which he had not been seeking: that the Chemist had turned the gas off at the main before making his attack. Reaching the hall he flung open the front door. There was no one on the step. The high wind had cleared the sky and the street lay in bright moonlight. He stepped out onto the pavement, looked to the left — there was no one — looked to the right, and there, turning the corner at the end of the street, was a posse of policemen. They were gone. He shouted, too late. He could not make up his mind to leave his sister alone with that brute any longer, trussed up though he was; he was afraid that her nerve would go completely. But if he rang up the station they might have decided that it was a hoax and merely ring off. Every moment as he considered the policemen were further away. He must ring up and take his chance of persuading them. He stepped back to the open door; in front of him the hall yawned velvet black after the moonlight. As he stood, half in the light, half in the shadow, he heard the tiny sound of a scuffle upstairs, a crash, a scream cut short as it began, then nothing. The house was silent. Then he heard a quiet click-click at the head of the stairs. Silence again; he could hear nothing and see nothing in the darkness. There was the least sound of a little shuffle on the stairs like a faint breeze, and his ears, keyed up by fear, caught the sound of rough fingertips feeling their way down the wall. He felt sick; his heart shook him, but he could not move. There was a dim whiteness in the gloom and then the glint of steel; then it seemed that he heard a slow deep chuckle from the foot of the stairs...