The 14th Pan Book of Horror Stories

IT CAME TO DINNER R. Chetwynd-Hayes

He came upon the great house quite by chance, having wandered across the fenlands of East Anglia all day, for he had no fixed destination and was content to keep moving, his head lowered, lost in some twilight world of his own. As the house was in a bad state of repair, the windows uncurtained, the front door open, he thought it must be deserted, and decided to make the place his hotel for the night.

The hall floor was paved with dead leaves, the walls festooned with cobwebs, but the house was not dead, for a hall table stood just inside the doorway, and a badly worn carpet covered the stairs; also, just as Herbert had unslung his haversack, there came the sound of approaching footsteps, and a tall, thickset man came out from one of the rooms.

‘Hullo!’ He stopped, staring at the stranger with small blue eyes. ‘Who are you?’

‘Someone who has made a mistake,’ Herbert smiled, and his lean, bronze face was transformed. ‘I thought the house was deserted. You must forgive me.’

‘Natural enough mistake,’ the big man grunted. ‘On holiday?’

‘A rather prolonged one.’

The man nodded. ‘Thought so. You’re way off the beaten track, you know, miles from anywhere.’

It was Herbert’s turn to nod. ‘I find that a matter for satisfaction rather than alarm. I won’t intrude further; again accept my apologies.’

‘Wait a moment,’—the big man placed his hand on Herbert’s shoulder,—‘no need to hurry off. I mean, the sun will set shortly, and you’ll never find your way among these fens after dark. There’s plenty of room here. Stay the night.’

‘You’re very kind,’ Herbert said gravely. ‘Any corner will do.’

‘We can do better than that. You’ll find the place is in an awful mess; just one servant and the family, but at least there’ll be a roof over your head.’

‘An unexpected luxury,’ Herbert commented dryly. ‘Again, thank you.’

‘Nonsense.’ The man turned, and began to lead his unexpected guest through a maze of rooms, some furnished, others not, but all with an atmosphere of sad neglect. They ascended some stairs, came up on to a small landing, then entered a long, dimly lit corridor. The big man spoke again. ‘By the way, my name is Carruthers. Stafford Carruthers. What’s yours?’

‘Herbert.’

‘Herbert—what?’

‘Just Herbert. A man requires but a single handle.’

‘True,’ Stafford Carruthers nodded gravely. ‘And Herbert is so negative, it could be either a Christian or surname.’

He flung open a door which seemed to resent this liberty, for it groaned a protest, then switched on a ceiling light. The room smelt of dust and stale air; the bed was a great brass-railed monster, and age-blacked furniture lurked against unclean walls.

‘Not what it was,’ observed Carruthers cheerfully, ‘but it’s home. You won’t find any sheets on the bed, but there are plenty of blankets. A bathroom of sorts is two doors down, so as soon as you’ve freshened up, make your way down the stairs and turn left to the dining-room. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.’

He went, closing the door with a slam which made a framed print depicting a spectral Lazarus, emerging from a cave, tremble. Herbert unpacked his haversack: a clean shirt, a vest, a pair of linen pants, a tie, a pair of socks, a razor, a towel, a tube of brushless shaving cream, a bar of carbolic soap, and three handkerchiefs. Herbert laid out the entire collection of his worldly goods upon the bed and smiled.

Twenty minutes later, freshly bathed, shaved, and wearing his clean shirt, he went softly down the stairs, and turned left as Carruthers had instructed. Voices came from beyond an open doorway.

‘You must be mad, Stafford.’

A woman was speaking in a cold, contemptuous tone; then Carruthers answered, blustering like a small boy trying to explain away a misdemeanour.

‘The chap was lost, and I thought . . . things being as they are . . .’

The beautiful, cold voice interrupted: ‘Stafford, you have the mind of a five-year-old imbecile. Don’t you realize . . .’

Another female voice broke in, an old voice, harsh, cultured, slow-speaking: ‘There is little point in heated discussion, Helen, and no foundation to your fears. The stranger will, since he is here, see, hear, and even possibly smell, but will not understand. Should truth be served up on his dinner plate, I doubt if he will recognize her. The situation will not be without its amusing side.’

‘But surely,’ the other feminine voice spoke again, ‘G.O. had better keep to his room.’

‘Nonsense,’ and the old voice broke into a little silvery laugh, like the wind blowing through slivers of steel; ‘let us carry on as usual. But should not this—this wanderer of the wastelands, have joined us by now?’

‘I will fetch him,’ said Carruthers, and Herbert turned quickly and tiptoed to the far end of the corridor.

‘There you are,’ Carruthers bellowed at him from the doorway, ‘didn’t lose your way, then?’

‘Almost,’ Herbert smiled. ‘I think I must have turned right instead of left. Found myself back in the main hall. I hope I have not kept you waiting.’

‘Not at all.’ Carruthers stood to one side for him to enter. ‘Come on in.’

Herbert walked past him and came into a large room, no less shabby than the rest of the house, but more lived in. There were cobwebs on the ceiling, but the furniture was free from dust, the brass fender was highly polished, and the dining table was covered by a white cloth. An, old woman was seated on a straight-backed armchair; a vision dressed in black satin and white lace, with a long, white, lined face, and a pair of shrewd blue eyes. Her white hair was piled high, and kept in position by a tortoiseshell comb, while her beringed hands rested on a black, silver-topped walking cane. A derisive smile parted her thin lips.

‘So,’ the harsh voice rang out, ‘our most unexpected guest.’

Herbert made an old-fashioned bow.

‘I am grateful for your unexpected hospitality.’

‘So you should be,’ the old lady said in a genial tone. ‘You are the first guest this house has entertained for more years than I care to count. I am called Lady Carruthers. This is my daughter; my son you have already met.’

Herbert turned his attention to the tall, beautiful woman who stood by the fireplace, and he drank in the flawless perfection of her face and figure. At first he felt a pang of pity that such a lovely creature should be wasted in an out-of-the-way place like this, then he saw the cold arrogance that was reflected in the brilliance of her blue eyes, and the proud set of her shapely shoulders, and knew his compassion was misplaced.

‘How nice to meet you, Mister . . .?’

She had drawled the words, each one an ice-tipped barb; the final pause was a bottomless pit into which he was being invited to throw himself.

‘Herbert.’

‘Mr Herbert,’ she nodded, and her dark hair, black as starless space, danced a little jig. ‘It is like an exclamation mark, isn’t it? Like Charles or James.’

‘Or Heathcliff,’ observed Herbert.

‘So, you read. Then tell me, Herbert, how you came to stumble upon our retreat.’

‘It might be as well,’ Lady Carruthers remarked caustically, ‘if the poor man sat down first. Also, dinner will spoil if we dilly-dally further. Stafford, ring the bell.’

She rose from her chair with some difficulty and, supported by her cane, hobbled to the table. Once there, she sank into a high-backed chair, then waved a hand.

‘Mr Herbert, you will kindly seat yourself on my left, Helen will sit opposite, and Stafford will take his usual place at the foot of the table.’

They were all seated at that long table, the old lady watching the three faces with, it seemed to Herbert, sardonic amusement; Helen stared at him, and Stafford in his isolated position was giving a fair imitation of a sulky child. Herbert at last became embarrassed by Helen’s unblinking stare, and glanced at her inquiringly. She smiled.

‘And how did you stumble upon us, Herbert?’

‘Quite by chance. I was just wandering.’

‘How quaint.’

The two words were spoken in a tone of voice that suggested he had been doing something improper, and he felt a tinge of irritation.

‘Where are you staying?’ Lady Carruthers asked, then added, ‘When is that wretched creature going to serve dinner? Stafford, ring the bell again.’

Stafford sullenly left his chair and moved over to the bell cord; Lady Carruthers repeated her question.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘Nowhere,’ he answered and watched Helen’s slim eyebrows rise.

‘My dear man, do you mean to say you sleep—what is the expression? Sleep rough?’

He nodded gravely.

‘Under hedges, hayricks, old houses. I was about to use yours as temporary accommodation when Mr Carruthers found me.’

‘What an original way to spend a holiday.’ Helen appealed to her mother; Stafford was ignored, having resumed his seat looking more sulky than ever. ‘And so inexpensive.’

‘Tell me, Mr Herbert,’ Lady Carruthers began, then stopped abruptly as the door was flung open, and a giant of a man appeared pushing a loaded food trolley. ‘Ah, dinner at last. Marvin, why the delay?’

The giant—Herbert estimated he was at least six foot six—had a completely bald head and lashless eyes; he blinked at his employer, then growled: ‘Stove not burning, me lady. Wind in wrong direction.’

‘Then you should have allowed yourself more time. I hope the meat was well hung.’

‘Yes, me lady. Well hung.’

‘Good, well, hurry up and serve, we’re starving.’

Marvin lifted a huge meat dish from the trolley and deposited it upon the table in front of Stafford. Herbert found his mouth watering; roast leg of pork, the crackling brown and succulent. Stafford began to carve with workmanlike skill. Marvin then presented a dish of roast potatoes, another of green peas, and a sauceboat full to the brim with brown-red, steaming gravy.

‘We live simply, Mr Herbert,’ Lady Carruthers remarked with considerable satisfaction, ‘but we live well. The manor has a few acres left, and we do our own slaughtering. The trouble is, Marvin is apt to serve meat too fresh. I keep stressing that the carcass should be hung for at least two days in a suitably cool place. Please hurry, Stafford, you’re not performing an operation.’

‘My brother,’ Helen explained, ‘was once a surgeon, Herbert, and he views all meat with a professional eye.’

‘One could say,’ Herbert remarked rather tactlessly, ‘that a butcher and a surgeon have much in common.’

Marvin placed a large, silver-covered dish upon the table, then looked inquiringly at Lady Carruthers. She nodded.

‘Leave it. I’m sure he’ll be down presently.’

A very palatable white wine was served in tall green glasses, and for some time there was little conversation, only the rattle of cutlery on plates. The Carruthers, Herbert noticed, enjoyed their food to the point of gluttony. Lady Carruthers in particular wolfed down her meat with a certain amount of lip smacking which he found distasteful; she signalled imperiously for two fresh helpings.

‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr Herbert?’ she inquired after a while.

‘Splendid,’ he replied with sincerity. ‘I must congratulate your cook.’

‘Do you hear that, Marvin?’ Lady Carruthers addressed the motionless manservant. ‘You are being congratulated.’

The man bowed his head in Herbert’s direction, but his face expressed neither pleasure nor indifference at this compliment.

‘Where do you live, Mr Herbert?’ Lady Carruthers inquired, toying with the last scrap of meat on her plate.

‘In whatever place is handy when the sun goes down.’

He was surprised at the interest his answer evoked; Lady Carruthers dropped her knife, Stafford looked at him over the remnants of the once succulent joint, and Helen allowed her beautiful mouth to fall open. She laughed once; a soft ripple of pure amusement.

‘You mean—you are a tramp?’

‘That would describe my position fairly accurately,’ he admitted gravely.

‘You actually tramp around with a little billy-can, and beg a pinch of tea?’

‘Not beg,’ he shook his head. ‘I work when the opportunity presents itself, and necessity dictates.’

‘How absolutely fantastic. A gentleman of the road.’

‘You don’t look like a tramp,’ Lady Carruthers insisted; ‘neither do you talk like one.’

‘How should a tramp look and speak?’ he inquired. ‘Many famous people have followed my profession. George Borrow wrote two bestsellers as a result of his experiences; St Francis was nothing more than a holy tramp. It is a traditional calling.’

‘But,’ there was the faintest suspicion of a flush on the old woman’s lined cheek, ‘you must have a family somewhere, who is deeply concerned about your wanderings.’

Herbert shook his head.

‘I do assure you.’ He paused. ‘There is no one—now.’

‘How sad,’ said Helen. ‘No one to welcome the wanderer home.’

‘No one at all,’ and there was a suggestion of bitterness in his voice. ‘Absolutely no one.’

There was a scratching sound that came from the closed door; a gentle rubbing, and the handle moved. Lady Carruthers asked:

‘What have we for the second course, Marvin?’

‘Savoury jelly, me lady.’

‘Serve it.’

Marvin bent down and took up a dish from the lower tray of the food trolley, which he bore solemnly to the table and set down. The door began to creak slowly open.

‘I fear, Mr Herbert,’ Lady Carruthers said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, ‘that we all lack a sweet tooth. I trust this will be to your taste. Marvin’s savoury jellies are a great favourite with us all.’

Herbert did not answer, for his full attention was engaged in watching what came in through the door. A short, squat figure, clad in a sort of white nightgown that was drawn together at the neck by a broad tape, and draped down to a little above the carpet-slippered feet. The white hair was like a fiattened-out bird’s nest, thin and spikey; with a stomach-turning stab of horror, he realized there were no eyelids, just two small pools of black; neither was there a nose, only a pair of minute holes—nor ears. The face, so far as he could judge, was fleshless; a mere skull covered by loose skin which pulsated in and out when the creature breathed. It shuffled towards a chair which Marvin obligingly pulled back.

‘Marvin broils the meat on a very low fire,’ Lady Carruthers was saying, ‘so that there is a very slow simmering. The entire process takes some eight or nine hours. Then the essence is strained through a muslin cloth and allowed to set in a cool place. Try a small portion, Mr Herbert, then give us your considered opinion.’

The creature, Herbert could not determine its sex, was staring at the silver-covered dish; Marvin raised the lid and skilfully forked a lump of raw meat on to a plate. Two hands crept up over the table edge and wormed their way towards the plate. The fingertips were gone, and Herbert could see white, jagged ends of bone . . . He tore his eyes away.

‘Stafford, serve Mr Herbert,’ Lady Carruthers instructed.

‘Really,’ Herbert objected weakly, ‘I don’t think I could.’

‘Just a mouthful,’ she insisted gently.

The finger stubs had somehow wrapped themselves around the raw meat, and were pulling it upwards. The mouth hole was widening; two yellow fangs came into view, and Herbert stared down at the faintly trembling, pinkish-brown jelly.

‘A big helping for me,’ said Helen.

‘Don’t be greedy,’ admonished Lady Carruthers.

They gobbled their jelly: three two-legged animals, snorting, lips smacking, and the fourth, a creature, sank its two fangs into the raw meat and tore, before bolting the blood-rich flesh. The plates were clean, except Herbert’s, and three spoons were laid gently down; the creature gave a final gulp, then looked slowly round the table. The twin black pools were turned on Herbert, then became still.

‘You must forgive us, Mr Herbert,’ Lady Carruthers was patting her lips with a napkin, ‘if our table manners leave a little to be desired, but we live isolated lives, and have grown perhaps somewhat lax.’

‘You must feel quite at home,’ Helen said. ‘It’s rather like a hobos’ picnic.’

It was struggling to rise from its chair, slithering from side to side, clutching at the table with its finger stubs. It was up and moving along the table, its head turned so that the eyes never left Herbert’s face. Moving very slowly, walking with great effort.

‘You must lead a varied life, Mr Herbert,’ Lady Carruthers was saying, ‘always on the move, meeting all kinds of picturesque people. I’m not at all sure I don’t envy you.’

‘And women,’ Helen breathed the words; ‘are there any women tramps?’

‘None that I have ever met.’ Herbert was aware it had now shuffled past Stafford and was coming down the table towards him. ‘It is hardly the life for a woman.’

‘I don’t know,’ Helen looked thoughtful. ‘There must be a great sense of freedom, out mere on the road. I mean,’ she was watching Herbert, who was doing his best not to move, ‘you can leave your sins behind you.’

It was beside him now, and when at last he turned, he saw at close range the hideous, skin-covered skull, the lidless eyes, the gaping mouth hole, revealing a tongue that resembled a chewed piece of old leather. The eyes were studying his hand that rested on the table; a strange crooning sound emerged from somewhere in its throat, and a thin trickle of saliva drooled down over the pointed chin. A terrible stench cloyed his nostrils as a stubbed claw moved up, then slowly descended towards his hand.

‘Marvin,’ Lady Carruthers snapped.

With unhurried steps Marvin went over to his trolley and took up another dish, then with the same dignified gait walked round the table until he came to the creature, which was now leaning over Herbert as if it were trying to smell him. Marvin whipped off the dish cover and presented a gobbet of raw meat. This he took up fastidiously between thumb and forefinger and waved it gently before the creature’s face. It crooned again; the trickle of saliva widened into a stream, then it turned and, with Marvin backing away, followed him along the table and eventually out through the doorway. Herbert wiped his forehead with his napkin.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Lady Carruthers said softly, ‘but one must make allowances for the very, very old. Mustn’t one?’

He fell awake suddenly with the moonlight on his face, and lay perfectly still for a full minute, every sense alert. The second scream was muted, but high pitched, the result possibly of intense pain or great terror. It had a pig-like quality. Then from below came the sound of scuffling; a door crashed open, and a man’s voice was raised in anger. A little later heavy footsteps were heard running over the rough ground, and Herbert rose quickly and moved to the window.

A cloud veiled the moon but there was enough light for him to see Marvin pursuing a long, white figure that was crawling towards a gap in the tumble-down fencing where a gate had doubtless once stood. It was moving with great difficulty on short, thick legs, leaving a trail of blood on the dead grass, and emitting a series of high-pitched screams. Marvin was waving a large meat chopper, and a blue and white butcher’s apron flapped against his legs as he stumbled awkwardly after his escaping prey. The macabre chase disappeared behind a clump of bushes; there came one last high-pitched scream, then Marvin reappeared dragging a carcass by one short foreleg.

Herbert returned to his bed and fought down a renewed feeling of nausea. It would seem that the fellow had been killing a pig when, somehow, the animal had broken free but, and now Herbert shuddered, what kind of pig had no feet? He tried to construct a picture of the animal as he had seen it moving across the grass, and then the carcass that Marvin had dragged back from behind the bushes. It had been long and white; that much was certain, and the hindlegs very thick; the forelegs had not been so thick, but considerably shorter and—bloodstained. He stirred uneasily. Marvin—he accepted the knowledge with great reluctance—Marvin must have chopped off the feet prior to slaughtering. But why? Also, surely the animal should have bled to death within minutes, but Herbert had seen it crawling across the grass and, now he came to think more clearly, the hindlegs had been very thick, mere hams with stumps. His brain worried the problem for a long time until sleep crept up like a bare-footed burglar and robbed him of consciousness.

Darkness had turned out the moon, the house was a box lost in the maze of time and Herbert was a streak of light that had come out of the mist of yesteryear and would soon be extinguished in the blackness of tomorrow. As the night grew old silence crept hand-in-hand with its sister, fear, and they crouched by his bedside, painting horror pictures on the blank canvas of his sleeping brain.

He was wandering through a dark valley while far above fires shimmered fitfully from grey mountain-tops. Shapeless monsters slithered between rocks; aimless, blind creatures that reared up, their gaping mouths red caverns; Herbert sensed their hunger and screamed—only there was no sound in that place save the whisper of a cold wind flavoured by the stench of corruption.

He moved without effort; drifted over the rocks like a sheet of yesterday’s newspaper chased by the wind along a midnight street, while the mountain-top fires cast their baleful glow, making shadows dance, but never quite revealing the things that slid into crevices, or reared up from behind boulders. He came to the cavern. A great opening in the mountainside, a mouth of solid darkness, and that which was the essence of Herbert struggled like a fly caught in a spider’s web. For he knew. It was knowledge never to be translated into words or even thoughts; knowledge refined by millions of years so that now it was merely instinct. But he knew that in that cave, far back, lay the font of all knowledge and hence, all evil. Terror made him want to wake up, but at the same time there was a tiny wish that fluttered like a newly hatched fly, a perverted fear, that he might be forced to enter.

‘There is no yesterday,’ a voice whispered; ‘no today, no tomorrow.’

Something soft was pawing his body and at last his scream took on sound.

‘Hush.’ Helen was lying beside him, her white body a thing of wonder in the soft glow cast by the bedside lamp. ‘You’ll wake the entire house.’

He sat up and brushed the sweat from his eyes; his hand was trembling.

‘What are you doing here?’

Her full lips parted: ‘What do you think? You were having a nightmare.’

‘True,’ he nodded, ‘I was.’

‘That is not unusual.’ She lay back and her pink-tipped breasts glimmered like distant fire-crested mountains. ‘One must expect nightmares in a place like this.’ Her eyes twinkled with a mischievous light. ‘Do you know where you are?’

He wanted to say: ‘No.’ ‘Where?’ he asked.

‘On the lower lip that borders the mouth of hell.’

‘A very dramatic answer.’ He managed to smile, and her long white legs moved very gently.

‘All life is high drama and beneath every iceberg roars an unquenchable fire. Ask me some more questions.’

‘Very well,’ he moved a little nearer; ‘who is—what is . . .?’

‘That which came down to dinner?’

He nodded, and she gave a low, throaty chuckle.

‘That must remain an enigma for the present. Let us say he—she—or it, once came to dinner and stayed.’ She placed two fingers on his mouth and he felt the cool flesh gently caress his lips. ‘I know what you are going to ask. Where did it come from? Perhaps a hole in the ground, or a deep marsh, or maybe from the dark wastes of the human brain. From one, perhaps all, of these places. On the other hand, maybe it came from nowhere; has always been and always will be. Think about it. Ask me some more.’

‘Why,’ Herbert took a deep breath, ‘why does Marvin cut off the feet from pigs before he kills them?’

‘Cut off—pigs?’ She stared at him, her face a frozen mask of astonishment.

‘I saw from the window.’

The laugh started as a low gurgle somewhere deep down in that long white throat, then bubbled up into a cascade of rippling laughter.

‘Don’t.’ He seized those white shoulders and shook her. ‘What’s so damn funny?’

The long fingers were now worming their way through his hair and he was being drawn down. ‘The hair is grey,’ her whisper came to him across a great divide where the shapeless things writhed in semi-darkness, ‘but you are so young. You understand so little.’

Their bodies met, fused into one and fear took wing like a vulture disturbed at meat, and waited for sanity to return.

Sunlight had slaughtered darkness when he rose up out of the sleep that succeeds complete exhaustion and in that half-clad moment which separates life from death, clawed the empty pillow next to his head and muttered: ‘Why, why?’ Then full consciousness exploded upon his brain and he sat up.

He must not think—not yet.

First dress, then go out into the corridor, then walk as though he still had freedom of movement to the bathroom, there wash the body; the fit, healthy body, then shave, return to the bedroom, finish dressing, comb the hair—now think, but slowly. Think slowly.

One fact out-shouldered all others; towered up like a colossus among pygmies. He was no longer free. An invisible wall surrounded the house, weightless chains hung from his wrists, a lashless whip hung limply over his back; his five senses had united in rebellion and made him a prisoner.

The imprint of her body was still on the bed, her perfume still cloyed his nostrils, the vision of her breasts, thighs, insatiable lips, would never, so long as his brain functioned, be erased. And memory—he groaned aloud.

There was a tap on his door; then it opened and Stafford Carruthers stood in the entrance, bluff, hearty, a middle-aged schoolboy looking for a holiday.

‘Up and dressed? Good man. Breakfast’ll soon be ready. I say, you look a bit under the weather.’

His small blue eyes flashed a single inquiring glance at the tumbled blankets, the two rumpled pillows, then were quickly veiled by lowered lids.

‘I guess you’ll be staying for a bit, old man,’ he said.

The breakfast table was no less elaborately set than it had been for dinner the night before; Lady Carruthers was already seated in her high-backed chair.

‘Good morning, Mr Herbert. I trust you spent a pleasant night.’

Her voice held the right polite tone of inquiry and her face bore the correct expression of superficial concern, but the word ‘pleasant’ had an ironic ring.

‘Good morning, Lady Carruthers; thank you, I slept well, as indeed, I trust, did you.’

‘I sleep fitfully.’ She waved a hand as though stressing the matter was of no importance. ‘Please, take your seat, we are ready to start. Stafford where is that wretched girl?’

‘She went out early,’ Stafford replied in that half-sulky tone he used when addressing his mother. ‘She said not to wait breakfast for her.’

‘Indeed,’—the old lady flapped open a napkin—‘I expect my children to be present at mealtimes. Stafford, ring for Marvin.’ She turned to Herbert. ‘I understand you intend staying over for a few days.’

He felt the blood race up to his face and his heart began to pound.

‘I cannot remember being invited.’

‘Goodness, man, we thought you took that for granted. In fact I’m certain someone, perhaps Helen, told me you were. In any case, you are, so let’s hear no more about it.’

‘Thank you,’ Herbert began, but she cut him short by another abrupt wave of the hand.

‘Fiddlesticks. Ah, Marvin with the trolley. What have we this morning?’

Marvin began to load dishes on to the table, his face set in its usual expressionless mould but, and Herbert shuddered, there was blood under his fingernails.

‘Devilled kidneys, me lady, braised liver, sweetbreads and toast. Also, enriched coffee.’

‘Help yourself, Mr Herbert,’ Lady Carruthers instructed.

Herbert took kidneys, toast and a cup of coffee that Marvin poured from an earthenware pot. It tasted sweet and had a slightly red, brownish colour. He found it to be extremely palatable and requested a second cup. Lady Carruthers, who was wolfing down a full plate of kidneys, sweetbreads and liver, smiled a tribute to his appreciation.

‘I’ll warrant,’—she corrected herself,—‘I’ll wager you’ve never tasted coffee like that before, Mr Herbert. It is enriched with natural juices. We are great believers in natural foods; that which made our forefathers strong, makes us what we are. Heed my advice, Mr Herbert, eat fresh meat, properly hung, drink natural juices and, barring accidents, Father Time will pass you by.’

The meal proceeded without further conversation until Lady Carruthers folded up her napkin and said: ‘If you have finished, I would suggest you go for a walk or something. Find Helen—she’s around somewhere.’

He wandered round that great house, opening doors, peering into empty rooms, and he had the impression she had just preceded him by a few seconds; once he caught a glimpse of a white dress disappearing round a corner, but when he reached the spot there was no one in sight. He walked for a long time, lost in a maze of passages, opened innumerable doors, disturbed a carpet of dust, and it seemed to his fevered imagination that the house was a dead body and that he was adrift in its empty veins and arteries.

He came into the long picture gallery. The double doors creaked open at his touch; there was a desert of floor, one wall broken by windows, a small door at the far end and gilt framed pictures waiting to meet him. He paused before each one like a tourist absorbing his mead of culture; four centuries of Carruthers stared back, iron-faced, steel-eyed, their attire changing as one generation succeeded another; otherwise they shared a family set of features. Lady Carruthers’s nose, Stafford’s small eyes, or Helen’s beautiful ones, add a periwig, take away a cloak, here was little to differentiate the quick from the dead.

One portrait in particular arrested Herbert’s attention: a man standing beside a table. His black hair was long, his eyes black, lifelike, the face round and swarthy, and he seemed to be watching Herbert with sardonic amusement. The short blue cloak was trimmed with silver lace, the doublet and hose bright scarlet, as were the thigh-high boots. Herbert read the faded inscription etched on an age-green brass plaque fastened to the frame base.

The man depicted must have been at least forty years of age, so the picture had been painted around 1668. Restoration period, Herbert reflected, the Fire of London and the Great Plague but a few years behind. Those eyes might well have seen old St Paul’s burn, seen the death carts trundle down Cheapside, and much else. Then he noticed another item that, due to his interest in the man, had so far escaped his attention. On the table was a bowl full of raw meat. He moved a step nearer and examined the painting with greater care. Bright red meat, chopped into small cubes, each rimmed with white fat, gleaming with a red sheen as though it had been freshly slaughtered. There was another point; Sir Gore’s lips had been painted to match the meat. The same juicy redness; slightly parted, revealing ivory-white teeth; his cheeks were replete, slightly veined, plump, a little short of bloated.

A sound made him turn his head. What was it? He stood rigid before the portrait, his head slightly on one side, listening, his brain attuned to savour any further sound so as to give it a rational explanation. There it was again. A shuffling, a slow edging forward, feet never leaving the dust-muffled floor; harsh breathing, age-withered lungs drawing air in, blowing out; occasionally the breathing descended to a huskier harshness—it crooned. Herbert gave one more glance at the portrait of Sir Gore, the bowl of red meat, then he backed away, suddenly cold, numb, faintly sick.

The shuffling came to the great double doors, both wide open; a rat ran across the floor and disappeared into a hole in the wainscoting—and then it came in. The flattened, bird’s-nest white hair, the lidless eyes, the gaping mouth-hole which now emitted a continuous crooning dirge, the hideous hands outstretched, the black eye-pools glittering when the sun cast a golden beam through dust-grimed windows.

It stopped and for a full minute stared at Herbert, then the head came up, the two yellow fangs were bared and it howled. A long screeching howl; a strange twitching seemed to be taking place under that sacklike robe, then it broke into a shuffling run, moving at terrifying speed, the arms now stretched out still, like dead branches, the finger stubs arched. Herbert leapt to his left; the creature instantly changed direction and before he could move again his right hand was clutched by those claws and pulled up to the gaping mouth-hole. The shortened finger felt like cold steel, the head was thrust well back, the mouth wide open. He had a momentary glimpse of blackened gums, notched bone, broken by two eye-teeth; he was reminded of a snake preparing to strike.

‘Stop.’

A voice came from behind; soft, barely above a whisper, but the creature heard it, became a rigid effigy of a nightmare frozen by death. The mouth-hole remained open, the eye-pools looked down over the crater-pitted cheeks, and slowly the mutilated fingers loosened their grip. Helen glided forward and spoke in a hurried, urgent undertone.

‘Go bad. Go. Go bad.’

The arms dropped, disappeared into the folds of that sacklike robe, the eye-pools leaked over and spilt two riverlets of moisture down the upturned face.

‘Go,’ Helen repeated, ‘presently. Keep fresh, long time. Strong. Heal. Go.’

It went. Like a wronged child, a dog deprived of a long-awaited bone, a hyena driven from its offal. Shuffling back towards the door, head down, shoulders shaking, the picture of infantile, grotesque grief.

Helen’s lovely face was lit by a gentle smile.

‘I am so sorry, that must have been an alarming experience for you.’

‘The understatement of all time.’ He rubbed his wrist. ‘I’ve never been so terrified in all my life. You must tell me—what—who is it?’

‘I’ve told you all I can. You can see it is very old and very small.’

‘And very horrible.’

She laid a hand upon his arm and he began to tremble, but this time not with fear.

‘Terror comes in small packages.’

He buried his face in her hair. ‘Helen, I have never known fear before, not real fear. This house is saturated with horror, come away. Let me take you away.’

‘To wander?’ she laughed softly. ‘To tramp, sleep in ditches, beg a pinch of tea for our billy-cans?’

‘No,’ he clutched her shoulders, ‘I can go back. There is money if I want it, friends who will help me. You would want for nothing, I swear. Come with me.’

The mocking smile died very slowly, the clear dark eyes became troubled; a bewildered expression flashed across her face, then she shook her head.

‘I cannot. Impossible.’

‘Why?’ The question was a cry, almost a call for help.

‘Because,’ the smile came back and she pushed him abruptly away, ‘I would die were I to leave this house.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Not nonsense. The house has windows, doors, furniture and us. You might as well ask a tree to pull up its roots and walk beside you. But you can go. There is nothing to keep you.’

‘You know there is.’

He snapped out the words, his anger real, and for a second he hated her beauty, the mocking eyes, the white flesh, the power she held over him.

‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘I know. How do you like our family?’

‘What?’

‘Our family.’ She raised her hand in a gesture that embraced the entire gallery. ‘The long dead.’ She moved over to the portrait of Sir Gore. ‘This one interests you, doesn’t he? And so he should. The portrait was painted by Antonio Gelleni, the so-called mad artist of Charles’s court. A genius who painted people as they were, not as they appeared. Sir Gore liked that. He wore his evil proudly, like a badge of honour. Look at those eyes, can’t you see the knowledge peering out from them? And see, the mouth is slightly open as though he were about to tell you some awful, obscene secret that would burn up your poor little soul with terror and send it puffing up the chimney like a ball of black smoke. And the hands . . .’

She was becoming excited, her eyes shining.

‘. . . long-fingered, slightly red and they are strong, you can see that, can’t you? Strong enough to rip flesh from bone, tear the heart from your breast . . .’

‘No,’ he placed both hands over his ears. ‘For God’s sake stop.’

‘Poor boy.’ She kissed him and her lips were warm and moist. ‘I’ve frightened you. I shouldn’t have done that, Mother would be so angry. But I get so excited when I think of him as he was. But come,’ she took his arm and began to steer him towards the doors, ‘I’ll show you what remains of the garden, then open up the old library; then if you are very good, perhaps we’ll have time to be very bad.’

In a little while Herbert had forgotten his fear and was once again almost happy.

They went for a walk just before dinner, to work up an appetite, Helen said and he smiled indulgently when he saw her look of anticipation.

‘You are a glutton. Your entire family are; I wonder you aren’t all fat.’

She hugged his arm with both hands.

‘Because we eat mainly meat. Lots of nice protein.’

They walked some hundred yards and then Helen steered him round so that the house was always in view.

‘Why can’t we walk straight on?’ he asked.

‘Because,’ she looked fearfully at the boundless heath that stretched out to the horizon, ‘as I told you, I can’t leave the house. Out there I’d die.’

‘Good heavens,’ he laughed, ‘you can’t believe that.’

‘I know it,’ she nodded gravely. ‘You can go, but I cannot.’

‘Then it looks as if we are both stuck with the house for ever, unless your mother kicks me out and she’s bound to sooner or later.’

She seemed to think this very funny and laughed, still gripping his arm with both hands.

‘Well, I can’t see her giving me board and keep indefinitely,’ Herbert insisted, ‘and I wouldn’t expect her to, either.’

‘She will,’ the fit of laughter had passed, and now there was a haunted look in her eyes. ‘She’ll insist that you stay. Why did you come, the others did not matter?’

‘Others?’ he frowned. ‘I thought no stranger had come this way for years.’

‘They haven’t,’ she shook her head; ‘the grocery man . . . Let’s go back.’

‘You mean the grocery man brings people to the house?’ Herbert demanded.

‘I didn’t say that,’ her face was pale, her eyes terrified. ‘I just said the grocery man. Don’t go putting words into my mouth. I meant he was the only stranger to visit us in years.’

‘But you said the others did not matter.’ The fear was back,—sitting on his shoulders, gibbering in his ear. ‘You implied your mother insisted “the others” stayed too.’

‘Did I?’ she twisted her lips into a grotesque grimace. ‘Well, what of it? Will you sleep better tonight believing that?’

Suddenly she changed; flung her arms round his neck and placed her cold cheek next to his. ‘If only you had a family, someone who expected you. Run, keep running, don’t look back. Don’t you see, this is a moment of sanity? Once back in the house and I’ll never let you go.’

‘I ask for nothing more,’ he said gravely.

‘You are mad. Mad.’ She broke away and ran towards the house, her glorious hair streaming like a pall of black velvet in the wind.

Herbert stood alone, looked up at the sky where low-lying cloud flew with misty wings, saw the wild moorland, a desert of grass and stunted bushes that mourned the passing of summer, then listened to the wind’s familiar cry. He turned and saw the house. The windows were eyes that mocked him, the open doors, parted lips . . . He started to walk towards the house; after a while he ran and his friend the wind seemed to wail its grief.

The grocery man came just before dinner.

Herbert saw the plain, rather shabby van from his bedroom window and watched Marvin help a little bald-headed man carry cartons into the house. Then Marvin returned alone and peered inquiringly into the van’s interior; his investigation seemed to cause annoyance, for he called out and Herbert caught the word: ‘Where.’

The little man came back into view, his hands outstretched like one who is explaining his helplessness due to circumstance. Then Marvin roared his rage again. ‘You explain to her ladyship.’

Both men disappeared into the house and Herbert, remembering Helen’s reference to the grocery man, went out into the corridor and crept down the stairs. The dining-room door was closed and he could hear the murmur of voices that occasionally rose and gave him a few words; a tantalizing morsel lacking continuity.

The little man, high-pitched, pleading an excuse:

‘It’s so difficult, me lady. You always said be careful and I’ve got meself to think of.’

Then Lady Carruthers’s low, cultivated old voice, the words indistinguishable but conveying an undertone of cold menace that made the man behind the door shiver. Suddenly Stafford’s deep baritone rang out.

‘You’re fast enough to take our money. A bloody fortune over the years.’

‘I’ve done me best, squire. So ’elp me I have. But the really safe ones are scarce.’

‘Hell, man,’ Stafford sounded so unlike his usual self, ‘our demands are not great; the last consignment was three months old before Marvin here finished it off, and then only through stupidity.’

Lady Carruthers broke in again, quelling what was clearly developing into mutual recriminations, for even Marvin was rumbling a half-angry excuse for some implied fault.

Herbert vainly flattened his ear against the door, for that low, even tone never rose. The grocery man interrupted now and again with an: ‘Understand, me lady’: ‘Three months should be all right, me lady’. Once he even permitted himself a low, respectful laugh: ‘Winter is always a more fruitful time, me lady.’

A sound of footsteps came towards the door and Herbert ran on tiptoe along the passage, turned left and raced for the stairs. On the first landing he waited and presently heard Marvin and the little man pass below. The grocery man was still trying to explain something away, his voice plaintive, as though he had been unjustly accused of some lapse of duty.

‘They don’t understand, Marvin, it’s so difficult out there. It ain’t like it used to be. Everybody has got papers.’

Marvin made an unintelligible rumble.

‘Where there’s papers there’s trouble.’ The little man’s voice went on, but now it was drawing away, going towards the front door and Herbert had to strain his ears to catch the last few words. ‘We don’t want no questions asked.’

He stood rigid on that cold landing and allowed a small, impossible suspicion to whisper its horrifying suggestion into the empty caverns of his mind. For a while he stood so petrified by rising terror that his very brain refused to function, then gradually it accepted the possibility of the seemingly impossible being a fact. But he had to know; was forced by an urge stronger than fear, to find evidence that must surely disprove the monstrous suggestion his reason had put forth.

Minutes passed, Marvin came back into the main hall, closed the door; Stafford called front the dining-room: ‘Marvin, come in here.’ Marvin, without saying a word, obeyed. The dining-room door closed behind him and there was the sound of raised voices, a disagreement in which Helen appeared to be taking a leading part.

It took some time for Herbert to find the kitchen, for every door to the lower regions seemed to be locked, a precaution that Marvin doubtless took whenever he came upstairs, and the precious minutes were passing. Once he by chance wandered into the portrait gallery and there, before the picture of Sir Gore, was the shrivelled figure of the Thing, gazing up at the painted features with lidless eyes. It was moaning softly and Herbert fled, tore down the nearest stairs and out through the front door. Eventually he found an open window, climbed into a small, empty room and there began his search in earnest for the truth.

Long dark passages; warped, dust-grimed doors that whimpered when opened; musty little rooms mostly devoid of furniture; a prevailing smell of long-dead cooking, the occasional startled rat, its fur sleek, its body plump from good living, and horror that lurked behind the right shoulder, ever ready to disappear should one’s head be turned, but always present. Herbert’s eyes became a camera, his brain a white screen on which pictures flickered and constantly changed as he drew nearer to his goal.

A fire was spluttering, he could hear it—only one more door to open—a saucepan was rattling its lid as though demanding attention. Herbert’s right hand was a five-fingered beast that insisted on turning a handle and his entire arm refused to heed his silent protest and pushed open the door. The kitchen door.

A large, stone-paved room, a long, well-scrubbed table in the centre, a black iron range on the far side, its hot plates cherry-red; a great Welsh dresser by the left wall; on a rack over the mantelpiece an array of butcher’s knives, a saw—nothing more.

Herbert moved soft-footed to the iron range. Three saucepans were now raising their lids, potatoes, carrots, greenstuff; he bent down—a roast was browning nicely in the oven; nothing sinister. The place was neat, clean, displaying all the signs of a well-run kitchen, and Herbert began to breathe more easily. He wandered round the kitchen, opened a cupboard door and saw rows of pickling jars, each packed with bright pink meat nestling in white vinegar. He examined each jar carefully. The raw meat had been scraped and was pink, as though all the blood had been drawn away, but in one jar, one piece of meat looked familiar. A small, chubby, succulent morsel, shaped—Herbert drew away, his eyes widening—shaped like a big toe.

Horror rushed into the kitchen, came out of the walls, shrieked with chattering teeth from the rattling saucepan lids, sputtered from the oven. A brine tub. It was standing by the left wall, the rim cutting into the back of Herbert’s legs; black, three-quarters full of clear water, three heads, shaven, (or had they been plucked?) dead white, grinning, and most certainly human. Herbert giggled. Perhaps Marvin would make some brawn.

He fled to the nearest door; threw it open; the room was dark, switch—where was the switch? He found it, light exploded. An operating theatre. A long white table complete with straps; the walls lined with glass-fronted cases; knives, syringes, saws, bottles, rolls of bandages, the smell of antiseptic. There was something hanging on the wall: ‘Oh, God, let not my eyes see, let my reason fail, give me the blessed relief of madness, let me be blotted out.’

The arms had gone, so had the legs, it was a cocoon of bandages, the gaping mouth bright-red with dried blood—no tongue, the brown eyes rolled from side to side.

Herbert heard the stepfall behind him, heard the growl of rage, but before Marvin’s giant fist clubbed him into unconsciousness, he managed a gurgling chuckle.

‘The meat is well hung.’

He came back to consciousness with great reluctance, fighting to keep his brain dead, but his eyes opened and there was Helen looking down at him. Her face was so lovely, so sad, and a rush of lust-tinted tenderness flooded his newly awakened senses. She bent down and kissed him full on the lips, and her tears wetted his face.

‘My poor darling.’

Her soft lips crept round his face, his nose, nuzzled his ears, while her shoulders shook; her long black hair smelt clean, wind clean. She straightened up, smiling, beautiful, gentle, the dream-woman who haunts the mist of yesteryear.

‘You should have run when I told you. But never mind, it is better this way. Now we will never be parted, you will be flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, your life force will mingle with mine, and we will walk down through the centuries together.’

‘Why?’

‘Such a short word.’ She sighed. ‘But it has no answer. The tree asks “why”, when its leaves turn brown and fall. The rabbit asks “why” when the ferret sinks home its fangs, but there is no answer. Perhaps it is because the earth needs leaves so it can be replenished, and the ferret also requires food. We are the earth, the ferret, we need food. Special food in which the life force is still strong.’

Herbert began to struggle but the straps held him firm, and Helen’s smile died, to be replaced by a look of concern, even anguish.

‘Please, you’ll hurt yourself.’

‘You’re not carving me up,’ his voice rose to a scream. ‘I’ll not finish up like that . . .’

He turned. The creature on the wall hung limp in its cradle of straps, the head slumped forward on the bandaged chest. Helen shook her head sadly.

‘It died. But it lasted well, considering. Did you realize how much the human body can lose and still function? Legs, arms, three-quarters of the liver, one kidney, one and two-thirds of the lungs, most of the stomach . . .’

Herbert screamed.

Silently Helen took up a syringe and plunged it into Herbert’s arm; just before he fell into a pit of roaring darkness, he had a glimpse of Stafford in the doorway. He was dressed in white, and his heavy face wore a satisfied grin.

When he came up out of the darkness for a second time, he was alone. The mutilated corpse no longer draped the wall, every bottle was in its place, there was such an atmosphere of cleanliness, of hygienic serenity, that for a moment, before memory returned, Herbert imagined he must have been miraculously transported to a hospital. Then he remembered and began to struggle.

Broad straps bound him to the table; one across the chest, another over the waist, while a third confined his legs. His right arm ached and was slightly numb; his left was completely devoid of feeling, save for a faint burning sensation just above the elbow. In fact, as full consciousness returned, he became aware of a battling army of pains, each one claiming supremacy. Somewhere at the back of his skull a little man was wielding a pick-axe, and the dull burning ache in his left arm was doing it very best to become a furnace. He wriggled the right arm then braced his legs; finally he strained his upper regions and that damnable spot, just above the left elbow, sent out tentacles of fire.

‘I’m so damn weak,’ he muttered, then remembered what had hung on the wall and redoubled his efforts. The straps were not new, hell alone knew how many bodies had battled against their confining grip, and presently he heard a short ripping sound before his right arm struggled free.

He lay still for at least five minutes, carefully conserving his strength, then slowly sat up, looking intently at the belt that pinioned his waist, seeking the buckle. It was a little below table-level, within reach of his right hand, and he fumbled, jerked, then was free, except for the leg straps. He need now only twist one ankle, press down on the table with both hands, and pull. No further action was to be considered yet, just pull and free his legs.

His right hand flattened itself upon the table, but his left refused to acknowledge the brain’s command. Reason put forward an instant monstrous suggestion, but Herbert smothered it with a screamed denial.

‘No-o-o . . .’

The single, drawn-out word smashed the silence into a thousand splinters of tortured sound. His head came round very slowly, the eyelids tried to close, and for a century-imprisoned minute he existed in a limbo of blessed ignorance.

The left arm stopped short of the elbow; a grotesque stump swathed in bandages—his friendly, helpful arm had gone for ever. He began to cry, mourning his great loss, recalling a happy past when it had been with him, vainly willing it to come back. There was no great pain so long as he did not try to move that stump; a local anaesthetic, no doubt, that would shortly wear off. Then reason whispered again and he struggled to free his feet. Today the left arm, tomorrow the right, then left leg, then right. Kidney, three-quarters liver, tongue, lungs. Surely not his lungs. Lady Carruthers was too fastidious to dine off lights—cats’ food.

He was on his feet now, swaying like a wind-drunk tree; the floor tried to hit him, but no, he’d stay upright, for a little while.

‘Serve me up with two veg, would you?’ he heard a voice shout, ‘rare done and don’t forget the gravy.’

Some lovely knives lay in a neat row behind a glass-panelled door; one had taken away friend arm, so now it would return the favour. Take away somebody’s friend head, go into somebody’s friend stomach, seek out somebody’s friend heart. The glass made a pretty sound as it clattered to the floor, and the knife was so beautiful, so sharp, so loving.

‘Let me serve you,’ it said, winking slyly. ‘I’ll sliver and slice, and make all things nice.’

The door wasn’t locked. Good—good. They thought he was trussed up snug as a joint in the oven, and the kitchen was empty; so was the passage beyond. Careful now, don’t bump the stump, pick your feet up, don’t reel about like a headless chicken, that’s better, much better. To the dining-room you are going, my lad, dinner served up on two legs; sirloin, rump, liver, lights, one hand down and one with a knife. Stairs! A problem here. Must make no noise. Up you go, one hand full, the other gone, can’t hold on to the banisters.

Herbert almost shrieked when he stumbled and the raw stump was jolted against the wall. He crouched on the stairs and waited for the agony to subside. Upwards again. Make it. Now turn left, into the corridor, the dining-room door is there, at the far end, see—a light strip? Voices! Cutlery rattling on plates! The family are at table.

The door was coming near, the walls were sliding by, voices were growing louder.

Put knife between teeth. Good boy, clever. Right hand, only hand, on door handle, twist—push. Push. It’s opening. At last . . . Take knife from between teeth, they haven’t seen you yet . . . Hold knife in hand, now forward.

Lady Carruthers looked up, a dawning expression of polite surprise on her face, a glass of wine halfway to her lips. Stafford looked back over one shoulder, his eyes wide with astonishment; Helen half rose from her chair; beautiful, an expression of playful annoyance on her face. The wife-mother whose child has wandered down from its warm bed.

‘Oh, Herbert, you naughty boy.’

Marvin stood by the wall, his face expressionless, the perfect servant waiting for orders. The Thing was at table. It was eating.

Herbert continued to move forward. He passed down the right hand side of the table and looked down over the Thing’s shoulder. It was gnawing a bone.

Sanity flared up into a last bright flame. His eyes saw, his ears heard and his brain understood.

‘Marvin,’ Lady Carruthers spoke quietly.

‘Me lady?’

‘Take it back to the kitchen.’

‘Very well, me lady.’

A great arm encircled Herbert’s waist and he was being dragged back to the door; back to the butcher’s shop, back to the black hell of insanity. But that was not important. He must tell them, make them understand. The knife fell from his limp fingers.

‘That,’ he pointed at the feeding Thing, ‘that . . . that . . . is . . . eating MY BLOODY HAND.’

From over a great gulf, Lady Carruthers’s voice came to him, low, cultured, reasonable.

‘Naturally. Sir Gore likes his meat fresh, and . . .’ A slight pause, the merest suspicion of a chuckle. ‘Unhung.’