The 14th Pan Book of Horror Stories

THE HOOK Gilbert Phelps

‘Don’t bring your own coat-hangers.’ What a curious accompaniment to an invitation! It was true, Porson reflected, that one did sometimes receive some pretty eccentric injunctions—but they were usually either positive in form: ‘bring your Wellingtons’; ‘bring two empty milk bottles’; ‘bring a good supply of sealing-wax’ (to recollect some recent examples)—or positive in intent: ‘don’t forget to bring your Wellingtons’, milk bottles or sealing-wax. This was certainly the first time he had received a positive prohibition with an invitation! What could it mean? Perhaps on a previous occasion the guests had been instructed to bring coat-hangers in the interests of some new and esoteric party game, which had then turned out a disastrous flop? Or perhaps Mrs Rydall was planning some equally esoteric practical joke?

It hardly seemed likely from what he had seen of her. True, he had only met her a couple of times (at other people’s house-parties), and though he could imagine she might be eccentric, she had not struck him as inventively so. He remembered her as a rather stocky woman, with dark chestnut hair, streaked with grey and worried-looking eyes, who had nevertheless enjoyed such normal pursuits as bridge, golf, tennis, walks and picnics—and who had excused herself from the more unusual diversions like Blind Man’s Buff and Hide and Seek, adult versions of which had been all the rage during the past two years or so.

Perhaps the injunction was, for some reason, addressed specifically to him? But no—when he looked at the card again he saw that the words had been printed. Well then, perhaps the addition was merely intended to provide curiosity?

That, at any rate, was the effect it had on Porson, for he duly presented himself at Mrs Rydall’s charming Georgian house on the Sussex downs, overlooking Brighton and the sea. Perhaps that was why everybody else had accepted the invitation too—somewhat to Mrs Rydall’s embarrassment, it appeared, for she took Porson aside and said:

‘I do hope you don’t mind—but would you be willing to share a room? There’s another bachelor of about your age coming—George Crittal . . .’

‘I don’t think I’ve met Mr Crittal,’ Porson replied rather doubtfully.

‘No—he’s only just come back from South America. As a matter of fact I’ve never met him myself. But apparently he came originally from my part of the country—the same village in fact—and knows a number of people I used to know . . . One of them rang me up and asked me to invite him.’

She laughed ruefully. ‘I didn’t really think he’d accept at such short notice—hence my difficulty over bedrooms.’

She was so charming and apologetic that Porson forgot his grumpiness.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll be glad to share a room with Mr Crittal.’

‘Good—and thank you! I’ll see it’s got ready for you. You wouldn’t mind waiting till after lunch?’

The excellence of that meal provided a more plausible reason for the readiness of Mrs Rydall’s guests to accept her invitations. No one, at any rate, seemed to give a thought to the odd sentence. But Porson couldn’t resist mentioning it to his neighbour, an elderly man who was evidently an habitué.

‘Oh she always has that on her cards,’ he said. ‘It’s a little fad of hers, you know . . .’

‘But why coat-hangers, of all things?’

‘She doesn’t like people leaving them lying about—especially those ugly ones with hooks screwed in at the top—you know, they are always falling out!’ And the old gentleman impatiently returned to his cold consommé.

When George Crittal arrived, though, after the first course and a hasty introduction from Mrs Rydall (she had kept the seat on Porson’s right vacant), the newcomer gave him a quick look and said: ‘So you fell for it too?’

‘Fell for what?’ Porson replied, rather irritated by the other’s manner.

‘You know!’ Crittal threw another quick look at him: one of a whole series, indeed, for throughout the remainder of the meal he kept darting glances at him, as if he found his presence both intriguing and droll. Crittal was a thickset man, obviously still young but with dashes of silver in his very black hair, almost as if someone had dabbed at his head with a paintbrush. The brush also seemed to have scattered flecks of silver—or, rather, quicksilver—into his dark eyes. He had a naturally swarthy complexion, which had been further darkened by tropical suns, and this made his strong, even teeth look unusually white and glistening.

After lunch Mrs Rydall herself took them up to the room which had been prepared for them. It proved to be the last word in comfort and elegance—and a further explanation of the popularity of her house-parties.

By now Porson had forgotten the odd phrase in the invitation, and in any case as Mrs Rydall had not referred to it, it would hardly have been polite to mention it. Crittal, however, had no such scruples. As soon as he was inside the door he turned to Mrs Rydall, and said:

‘I haven’t brought any coat-hangers!’ And he actually gave Mrs Rydall a nudge.

She looked startled, which was hardly surprising: during his long sojourn abroad George Crittal had evidently forgotten his party manners. But she quickly recovered herself, and with a smile went over to the built-in wardrobe and pressed a button. Immediately and without a sound the doors glided back, and just as soundlessly a long rod, rising at intervals into shoulder-shaped protuberances moulded of the same material as the rod so that the contraption was all of one piece, slid out.

With a crow of delight Crittal whipped off his jacket and draped it over one of the shoulder-shaped protuberances. He pressed the button; the rod withdrew into the wardrobe and the doors slid to.

‘Oh, but that’s wonderful!’ he cried. ‘What a lovely little gadget! I can’t wait to start unpacking! I shall really enjoy hanging my things up in there!’ and uttering little cries of delight, he pressed the button again.

Mrs Rydall turned to Porson and shrugged, as if to say: ‘What an excitable young man!’ Aloud she said: ‘Well then, I’ll leave you to your unpacking, if you’re going to enjoy it so much!’

But before she reached the door Crittal emerged from the wardrobe, which he had entered in order to make a closer inspection and, running over to her, gave her another hearty nudge. ‘Wonderful! Wonderful!’ he cried, in an exaggeratedly jocular tone of voice. ‘No hooks, eh? No hooks at all!’

Mrs Rydall gave him a long look, then darted through the door, slamming it behind her.

‘I say!’ Porson remonstrated (he was rather a prim and proper young man) ‘you were being a bit familiar with the old girl, weren’t you?’

Crittal burst out laughing. ‘Oh, but she’s a real sport!’ he cried. ‘This wardrobe—I ask you—isn’t it rich?’

‘It’s not as unusual as all that,’ Porson replied. ‘Lots of people nowadays go in for electric gadgets of this kind—and for the most extraordinary things! You should have been to some of the house-parties I have attended!’ Then he added, with what was meant to be a touch of reproof: ‘But, of course, it’s a long time since you were in England.’

Crittal, however, was prowling round the room, rubbing his hands and chuckling. ‘Do you see?’ he said. ‘The pictures are fastened flush to the wall?’

‘Well, what of it?’

‘And see? Behind the door here—it’s not a hook, but one of those smooth, curved plastic things, glued to the door!’

‘Excuse me, I want to get on with my unpacking,’ Porson said. He was beginning to regret that he had agreed to share a room with this very odd young man. Certainly, it wouldn’t do to encourage him.

After a while Crittal, too, began to take his clothes out of the rather battered suitcase he had brought with him. But he went on muttering to himself: ‘No hooks! No hooks at all!’—and then, as he came across something in the bottom of his case, he let out a squeal of laughter, so shrill and sudden that Porson nearly jumped out of his skin. Crittal, however, didn’t show him what it was that had apparently so appealed to his sense of humour, but abruptly closed his case and pushed it under his bed.

During the rest of the day Porson took care to avoid his room-mate. This proved easy, as most of the guests accompanied their hostess on a ramble over the downs, while Crittal excused himself on the grounds of a feverish headache; he certainly looked tense and flushed. He didn’t appear at dinner, either, but when Porson went up to their room he found him sitting on the side of his bed.

‘I say!’ he exclaimed, the moment Porson had closed the door. ‘I’ve been exploring the place while you’ve been out!’

‘What an extraordinary thing to do—in somebody else’s house,’ Porson replied coldly.

‘And do you know,’ Crittal went on, ignoring the rebuke, ‘all the rooms have wardrobes like this!’

‘So I would have supposed!’

‘Yes, but everything you hang things on is made of plastic—and it’s all stuck on—nothing’s screwed!’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Don’t you see? No hooks anywhere!’

‘Look, Crittal,’ Porson said in exasperation. ‘What the hell does it matter whether there are hooks or not?’

‘Why, it means that Mrs Rydall doesn’t like hooks, of course!’

‘Why in God’s name should she like or dislike them? What does it matter? This is a well-run house, and the food is first-rate, and I wish you’d stop going on and on about this ridiculous business!’

‘But doesn’t it strike you as odd that she should go to such pains to keep hooks out of the house?’

‘No, it doesn’t!’ Porson shouted. ‘Shut up about these stupid hooks! Why do you go on about them?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Crittal replied. ‘It intrigues me, that’s all . . .’

To Porson’s relief Crittal didn’t return to the subject, and the next morning his headache had apparently gone. He joined the rest of the guests in another ramble over the downs, and proved a perfectly amiable companion. Porson hoped that he had dropped his ridiculous fad.

But while, later in the day, they were changing for tennis Crittal, explaining that he had forgotten to unpack his shorts, pulled out his case from under the bed, opened it, rummaged about inside—and immediately began laughing in the immoderate manner Porson had found so distasteful the previous day.

‘What is it now?’ he asked irritably.

‘It’s a good job I didn’t show Mrs Rydall this!’ He was gazing at something at the bottom of his case.

‘What is it?’

Crittal took the object from the case and handed it to him. It was a hook—but a hook of quite monstrous size.

‘Whatever is it?’ Porson asked. ‘And why in God’s name have you brought it with you?’

‘Oh, that’s an accident—I must have forgotten to take it out of the case before I packed again for this weekend. It’s one of a pair . . .’

‘But what is it? I’ve never seen such a big one!’

‘It’s a hammock hook.’

‘A what?’

‘A hook for a hammock. I took the hammock and the other hook out, but I must have left this one behind.’

‘Are you in the habit of carrying hammocks and their fittings about with you?’ Porson asked, with heavy sarcasm.

‘As a matter of fact I am, or at any rate I was,’ the other replied. ‘In the part of Brazil where I was, you see, a hammock is so much cooler than a bed. Nearly everybody has one. In nearly all the best hotels you’ll find hooks like this screwed into the ceilings above the beds—so that you can sling your hammock if you prefer it . . . Most people, though, also carry a pair of their own hooks about with them too—you often find yourself stranded in some shack, and then you make use of the beams and fit your hammock across the corner . . .’

‘Do you intend to use a hammock while you are in England?’

‘Yes, I think so. I’m not really comfortable in a bed any more.’

Porson handed the hook back to him. Crittal regarded it thoughtfully. The odd lights had come back into his eyes, and he grinned, showing his extraordinarily white teeth.

‘I tell you what!’ he said, closing one eye in a grotesque wink. ‘I think I’ll show this to Mrs Rydall!’

‘That would be a very stupid thing to do!’

‘Why?’

‘Stupid and pointless!’

‘I don’t know about that . . .’

‘Why, what would the point of it be?’

‘It might tell us why Mrs Rydall dislikes hooks so much!’

‘I do wish you’d change the record!’ Porson snapped and, picking up his racquet, he marched out of the room.

When he reached the tennis courts he found he was down to play Crittal, who joined him a few minutes later. Porson relieved some of his irritation by soundly trouncing his opponent. Crittal took his beating equably, and the two of them returned to the house together.

Porson was by now getting so used to his companion’s changes of mood that he was shocked, but not particularly surprised, when on the way down the corridor leading to their own room, Crittal opened one of the doors and, before Porson had time to resist, hustled him inside.

‘This room’s quite a surprise,’ Crittal said, holding on to his arm to prevent him from backing out. In spite of himself Porson looked round him with interest. Crittal was quite right: the room was surprising. Whereas all the others he had seen were typical guest-rooms, as impersonal as those of a hotel (though much more comfortable), this was very much lived-in. It was indeed as much a workroom as a bedroom. Although the furniture and appointments were of the greatest elegance, scraps of material and skeins of coloured silk were scattered about and the centre of the floor was occupied by a tailor’s dummy, the padded upper half studded with pins and surmounted by a knob of polished mahogany. The stand was hidden by what was obviously going to be a very beautiful evening skirt.

It came as quite a surprise to find that Mrs Rydall (for this was obviously her room) should have had such an untidy hobby as dressmaking. It made her much more human, though, and a moment later his eye alighted on another object which made him warm towards her even more—a wig, carefully arranged on its block. The hair was of the same rich chestnut as that which graced Mrs Rydall’s head—but without the dusting of grey. Presumably she disapproved of dyeing—but was soon to blossom out with a brand-new head of hair.

The sight of the wig made him feel guilty at thus intruding on her privacy, and he turned to Crittal. ‘Really, this is quite disgraceful!’ he said. ‘What on earth possessed you to bring me in here?’

Crittal gazed round him in a dreamy, abstracted way. ‘No hooks, needless to say,’ he said softly, and gave Porson a curiously deliberate grin, as if he were hugging some amusing secret to himself. ‘Not yet, anyway,’ he added, moving over to the long window-box, and examining the ornaments on it. But a moment later he jumped back. ‘Mrs Rydall’s coming in from the garden,’ he announced. ‘Let’s beat it!’

Back in their own bedroom, they began to dress for dinner. Crittal’s mood seemed to have changed yet again. He seemed tense and restless, walking up and down the room, gnawing at his fingers, and every now and then cocking his head to one side, as if he were listening for something.

They had nearly finished dressing when a piercing scream came from somewhere close at hand, followed by the crash of breaking glass.

‘Come on!’ Crittal shouted. ‘It’s Mrs Rydall!’ and he rushed out of the room.

Porson stood shocked for a moment, then followed. The screams had changed to a wild, throaty sobbing. Doors along the corridor were opening, and worried-looking guests, in varying stages of undress, peered out. But as Porson reached Mrs Rydall’s door it opened, and Crittal appeared. ‘It’s all right!’ he called out. ‘It’s only a rat! I’ve dealt with it! Leave it to me!’ The doors along the corridor gradually closed. Porson entered Mrs Rydall’s room.

She was seated on a chair near the tailor’s dummy, her face buried in her hands, fighting to control her sobs. Splinters of glass lay on the carpet near the window, and one of the panes had a jagged hole in it.

‘Where’s the rat?’ Porson asked, peering round him. Crittal gave a bark of laughter, so unexpectedly loud that Mrs Rydall lowered her hands and stared at him.

‘There’s no rat,’ Crittal said, in a more normal tone of voice. ‘But Mrs Rydall didn’t want to be bothered by all those nosey-parkers, did you?’

Mrs Rydall went on staring at him.

‘But we know what it was, don’t we?’ Crittal went on, in an indulgent voice, as if he were dealing with a frightened child. ‘You tell us all about it, eh? And you’ll feel much better!’

His eyes and teeth glistened. Mrs Rydall could not seem to take her eyes from his face.

‘It was . . . it was a . . .’ she faltered.

‘Come on now! You tell us!’

‘It was a . . . a hook!’ Mrs Rydall said in a whisper. Porson threw an angry glance at Crittal: it was only too clear where the hook had come from, and who had put it in Mrs Rydall’s room. But Crittal was watching Mrs Rydall: he was obviously having difficulty in keeping a straight face and his lips kept curving away from the white teeth. Porson found himself shuddering. The very fact that there was indeed a kind of grotesque comicality about the situation, and Mrs Rydall’s remark, struck him as quite horrifying.

Crittal now drew up a stool and seated himself opposite Mrs Rydall, his knees practically touching hers. He pulled her hands away from her face and, staring into her eyes, said coaxingly: ‘Come now, you tell us all about it!’

Mrs Rydall trembled. With an exclamation of disgust Porson stepped forward, determined to remove Crittal from the room and to leave Mrs Rydall in peace. But without taking her eyes off Crittal’s face she said, very quietly: ‘No, he’s quite right. I must tell someone. Listen, please listen!’

She swallowed. Her face was very pale, but her voice was steady when she started speaking again.

‘It happened when I was eight years old. In Cruesdon—you know?’ Crittal energetically nodded his head, and Porson remembered that Mrs Rydall had told him that she and Crittal came from the same village.

‘Well,’ she went on, ‘there was a . . . a creature we called Robbie. He was the village idiot, I suppose—though not the usual kind: his family, the Carters, were quite educated and well-to-do. But all of them were odd, very odd, on both sides of the family. One of the grandfathers committed suicide. Another had to be put away—he became quite mad, violent . . . Robbie wasn’t violent, though . . . poor Robbie! Poor Robbie!’

Mrs Rydall stopped. ‘Go on! Go on!’ Crittal prompted her.

‘Yes, poor Robbie was harmless,’ she went on. ‘Very gentle, really—but simple, you know, very simple—and rather frightening sometimes—for a child, I mean—with a big head that seemed to wobble, and big lips that were always dribbling . . . It was tragic really because, you see, he loved children, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than playing with them. They treated him abominably, of course. Sometimes they would let him join in one of their games, and he would grin all over his face. Then they would either start tormenting him if he didn’t play the game properly . . . or suddenly, for no reason at all, get frightened . . . If he had been one of those big, clumsy dogs no one would have, minded the way he lolloped about or rolled over and over or dribbled . . . But because he was human . . .’ Tears came into her eyes. ‘And he would do anything!’ she cried. ‘Anything to please! He didn’t mind how much they hurt him—and sometimes they were really cruel—he’d just come bouncing back for more, only too happy to be taken notice of . . . Well, one day I was in the churchyard—you know?’ She looked at Crittal. ‘It’s a short cut to the upper end of the village.’

‘Yes, yes, I remember!’ Crittal replied, in a strange, jerky voice. ‘I used to play in that churchyard myself!’

‘Well, Robbie was there . . . He gave his funny little cry as soon as he saw me—it wasn’t really human, you know—more like the cry an animal gives when you unexpectedly pat it—or kick it—and came running over to me. I didn’t want to be bothered with him, so I told him—very crossly, I’m afraid—to go away. He looked at me with hurt eyes, mouth hanging open. Then he gave another little cry and grinned, as if he had suddenly thought of something that would please me. He dragged something out of his pocket . . . It was a hook . . .’

‘Ah!’ Crittal cried out, in a strange, almost exalted, voice, as if he had been vouchsafed some astonishing revelation. Mrs Rydall closed her eyes. She looked ill and exhausted.

‘I should rest if I were you,’ Porson said, stepping forward again. ‘Really, you know, there’s no need to go on with this if it distresses you!’

Mrs Rydall opened her eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I must be done with it. It will be a relief to get it off my mind.’

‘Of course it will!’ Crittal cried, in ringing tones. It was his turn to throw an indignant look at his room-mate. He was shifting to and fro on the stool, licking his lips as if they were dry, and apparently beside himself with impatience and an avid curiosity that struck Porson as indecent, and somehow disquieting.

‘Yes, it was a hook.’ Mrs Rydall resumed her story, although her voice trembled, and she was evidently in great distress of mind. ‘A huge hook, like the one . . . like the one . . .’

‘Like the one you found on the window-box,’ Crittal interrupted eagerly.

‘Yes,’ Mrs Rydall replied, giving him a puzzled look. ‘Yes, like the one I threw through the window just now . . . Only rusty and dirty. Robbie must have picked it up somewhere—probably in the timberyard where he often used to play . . . Anyway, he held the hook towards me, grinning all over his face.

‘Oh he looked so pleased with himself! He thought he was giving me a present. Then when I shook my head and walked away, he started to trot after me, holding out the hook, with a pleading expression on his face. I quickened my pace too, and then as he got closer I darted behind one of the tombstones. He followed, and I dodged behind another tombstone. I was teasing him, of course—I’m afraid I was no better than the other children . . . Well, he stopped for a moment, puzzled; then suddenly a beatific smile spread across his face, and he began to crow with delight, just like a baby when it’s given a rattle. He came running after me again, holding out the hook now and making scrabbling movements with it.

‘At first I entered into the spirit of the thing. I had often played “catch” among the tombstones with my friends, and of course Robbie had watched us. Now, for the first time, he was being allowed to play too, and he was beside himself with joy, lurching from side to side, giggling and babbling incoherently. But he didn’t know when to stop. He became more and more excited. Once, when he nearly caught up with me, the hook caught in my hair; and then a few minutes later it scraped along my arm, causing qiute a nasty graze.

‘Suddenly the fun had gone out of it . . . You know how quickly one’s mood can change at that age; how close joy is to terror; how laughter can suddenly spill over into hysteria . . . The game was over for me—but not for Robbie.

‘ “Stop!” I called out. “Stop! Oh please stop, Robbie!” But he paid no attention. Still giggling in that high-pitched voice, he continued to come after me, brandishing the hook. I was sobbing and screaming now. Everything about him had become horrifying—the lolling head, the slobbering mouth—and that hook! Oh my God, that hook!’

Again Mrs Rydall broke off and began rocking herself to and fro. Again Porson made to drag Crittal out of the room, but Mrs Rydall held up her hand and gradually composed herself. Besides, it was difficult to dislodge Crittal from the stool: he had become astonishingly strong and heavy.

‘I was becoming exhausted by now,’ Mrs Rydall began again, in a low voice. ‘I went on crying out to him to stop, begging, pleading, but still he came after me. And I became more and more panic-stricken. I tried to break away from the tombstones and make for the gate. But Robbie darted along the path and barred the way, with a cry of triumph, as if he had, for the first time in his life, scored a point in a game that was usually beyond him. Sobbing with exhaustion, I left the path and sought refuge among the tombstones again. Robbie came lurching after me, getting closer and closer . . . Then I stumbled over something and fell. As I scrambled to my feet, Robbie was only a few feet away, his hand, holding the hook, upraised . . .

‘I found I had something in my hand, too. It was a grass-hook, which old Parkins, who looked after the churchyard, must have left lying about. Without really thinking what I was doing, and as Robbie’s hand descended, I struck out with the grass-hook . . . It felt like . . . it felt like a knife going through butter . . . and the next moment there was a dull plop, and Robbie’s hand, with the hook still in it, was lying near my feet. There was blood among the grass blades, turning a rusty orange . . . There were big spots of blood on my dress . . . Blood was welling up from the stump of Robbie’s wrist . . . I hadn’t thought . . . I hadn’t realized . . . It was only then that I remembered I had often seen Parkins honing the grass-hook on a stone . . . honing it over and over until the blade was as sharp as a razor . . .

‘Everything seemed to have gone still. I just stood there, unable to move. And poor Robbie stared down at his stump. The expression on his face was one of such utter astonishment that it was almost ludicrous, and I nearly broke into a fit of hysterical laughter, until . . . until my eyes alighted again on the hand . . . lying so still . . . lying in the grass . . .

‘After a while Robbie switched his eyes from the stump to my face. He looked puzzled, hurt, pleading . . . He looked as if he was going to cry—not with the pain, but because he felt I had, as so often happened in his games with the village children, suddenly played a shabby trick on him. Then, when he saw the stricken expression on my own face, and heard me whisper, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his face brightened. I wasn’t teasing him after all! I was sorry for him! I had enjoyed the game . . . He began to smile. He waved his hand up and down playfully: further drops of blood, heavy—like rain after thunder—fell on to my dress . . . And then, and then . . .’

But Mrs Rydall was shuddering violently. Her hands went up to her throat as if it were paining her. Porson hurried into the adjoining bathroom, and filled a tumbler with water. When he returned Crittal snatched it from his hands and held it to Mrs Rydall’s lips. She drank greedily; then she sat for a few moments, staring in front of her. There were tears in her eyes.

‘What happened next,’ she said in a far-away voice, so soft that Porson had to lean forward in order to hear it. ‘What happened next was unbelievable, quite, quite fantastic—the sort of thing that might happen in a nightmare, but not . . . not in real life. Robbie’s eyes alighted on the hand lying at his feet. Suddenly he bent down and, with his left hand, snatched the hook out of the dead fingers . . . He straightened up and then . . . Oh my God, can you believe it? He . . . he began screwing the hook into his stump?’

Crittal held the glass to her lips again. She took a few sips, then continued, in the same low voice.

‘He pushed the point of the hook into the stump, and began to turn it, exerting all his strength . . . Thick, dark blood welled up, like . . . like jelly that hasn’t set . . . But he went on turning . . . At the end of it his face was a pale, muddy colour, and there were great drops of perspiration on his forehead . . . Then he raised his head and looked at me. The only word I can think of to describe the expression on his face is radiant! . . . “Look!” he said, in a trembling voice, and then, ecstatically, “Look!”—as if he had discovered some excitingly new and original way of pleasing me, of entertaining me . . . Oh, now it’s the pity of it that moves me—but then it was pure horror! And a moment later he had raised the stump, with the screw stuck in it, and brandished it feebly in the air. Screaming, I fell back a few steps. With stump and hook raised aloft, still grinning delightedly, though he tottered as he walked and the blood was running down his arm, and the sleeve of his coat was heavy with it, he . . . he came after me again!

‘I shut my eyes, and the last thing I was aware of was the sound of my own screaming . . . I seemed to fall into a pit of screaming . . .

‘When I came to I was lying in my own bed at home, and at first I thought it really had been a nightmare . . .’

‘Oh no, it was real! It was real!’ Crittal interrupted, indignantly. She looked at him. ‘You heard about it, then?’

‘Oh yes . . . My family . . . they used to talk about it sometimes . . .’

‘You probably know, then, that I was ill for quite a long time and my parents had to move . . . I’ve never been back to Cruesdon . . . My parents never talked about it—but I’ve never been able to forget . . . I don’t know what happened to . . . to . . .’

‘Robbie? They had to put him away—after he came out of hospital.’

‘But why? He was harmless!’ Mrs Rydall cried.

‘Oh yes—quite harmless. But about that time his mother went out of her mind—again, I mean . . . for good. And there was no one left to look after Robbie.’

‘Poor Robbie!’

‘Poor Robbie!’ Crittal echoed, almost in a mocking manner, and then added: ‘But, as you said, the whole family was odd, very odd!’ For some reason the thought seemed to amuse him.

‘So you see,’ Mrs Rydall said, in a much calmer tone of voice, ‘why I have this . . . this obsession about hooks—and why, when I found one in this room I . . . I reacted as I did!’

‘Oh indeed! Indeed!’ Crittal cried; his voice now sounded sympathetic, ingratiating. ‘I quite understand. A very nasty experience! But it will be better now, much better . . . Don’t you feel better already?’

‘Yes, I think I do,’ Mrs Rydall replied, trying to smile, though the expression on her face, Porson thought, was puzzled and somehow, what was it? . . . Yes, wary . . .

‘I think you should have a rest now,’ he said to her.

‘I think I will,’ Mrs Rydall agreed, though her eyes were still fixed on Crittal. ‘I’ll have a couple of aspirins and try to have an early night . . . Perhaps you’d be good enough to make some excuse for me at dinner?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Porson agreed, and this time he succeeded in jerking Crittal from his stool and propelling him through the door.

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself!’ he said, when they had reached their own room. ‘Planting that damned hook on Mrs Rydall—it was a disgusting thing to do!’

‘I don’t see why,’ Crittal replied, in a surprisingly mild voice. ‘It brought things to the surface . . . A shock like that—it was just what she needed. Why, she said herself that she felt better for it!’

‘Well, perhaps you’re right,’ Porson acknowledged grudgingly. ‘But if I were you I should find that wretched hook of yours and put it away!’

‘Oh that’s all right—it’s in the flower-bed under Mrs Rydall’s window: I saw it there when I looked out.’

‘See you get it then!’ Crittal nodded. He seemed abstracted. ‘Yes, it’s brought all sorts of things to the surface!’ he said, in a strangled kind of voice.

At dinner Porson made Mrs Rydall’s apologies, as he had promised. He was unable to do more than pick at his food. Crittal, however, ate heartily, though to Porson’s surprise and relief he did not speak, and disappeared immediately the meal was over.

Porson did not see him again until he was already in bed, when Crittal entered the room—and placed the hook on the dressing-table, with a meaningful glance in Porson’s direction.

‘Put it away!’ Porson said sharply. Crittal nodded and, opening his suitcase, threw the hook into it. When he turned round his lips were parted in a grin; the white teeth glistened more noticeably than ever, and the curious flecks of light in his eyes were more pronounced. But Porson had had enough of Crittal for one day. He pointedly turned on his side—and fell asleep almost instantly.

He awoke with a start some three hours later. He sat up in bed. Had he heard a muffled scream somewhere near at hand, or had he merely dreamed it? He listened intently, his heart unaccountably thumping. He thought he could hear various dragging and bumping noises somewhere—such as might be caused by dragging some heavy object across the floor—a suitcase, for example.

The thought made him glance at Crittal’s bed. It was empty, but by an odd coincidence Crittal’s suitcase was placed on top of it: perhaps, Porson thought, he had subconsciously noted it out of the corner of his eye in the moment of waking.

He switched on his bedside light and got out of bed. The lid of Crittal’s suitcase was raised. Porson looked inside. There was no sign of the hook. What was Crittal up to now, he asked himself irritably, and with a sudden sinking of the heart. He noticed that there was a book at the bottom of the case. He took it out in order to make sure that the hook hadn’t been hidden beneath it. Before returning the book to the suitcase he absentmindedly opened it and glanced at the fly-leaf. George Crittal’s signature, in the same bold black ink and with the same flourishes which he had noticed in Mrs Rydall’s visitors’ book, sprawled right across the page . . .

But just a minute—was the second name Crittal? He took the book under the light and examined the signature more closely. The first name was George all right—but the second looked more like—what was it? Yes, Carter . . . Where had he heard that name recently?

Suddenly he remembered. Mrs Rydall had mentioned it this afternoon when she was telling them that dreadful tale about Robbie and the hook . . . Yes, of course! Carter was the name of Robbie’s family—poor Robbie’s second name in fact—the family which Mrs Rydall had said was ‘odd’ . . .

Porson froze. Was Crittal’s real name, then, Carter? He dismissed the thought. It would be too much of a coincidence—or, rather, the appearance of the name Carter in the book was a coincidence, but one of a perfectly harmless nature . . . After, all, there were thousands of Carters in the world, and almost as many George Carters . . . No doubt someone of that name had lent the book to Crittal . . .

Where, though, was Crittal? Porson put the book on the case and hurried out of the room and down the corridor towards Mrs Rydall’s room. He was filled with a sense of foreboding. When he reached Mrs Rydall’s door he cautiously pushed it open and peered in. The room was dimly lit from a reading-lamp at the side of Mrs Rydall’s bed, but the bed itself was empty. It had obviously been slept in recently, however, for the bedclothes were scattered on the floor.

He entered the room, clicking on the main switch as he did so, but nothing happened—presumably the bulb had failed. He peered round him in the dim light. There was no sign of Mrs Rydall. One of the sheets, though, had been thrown over the tailor’s dummy, rising to a peak where the knob protruded from the padded torso. No doubt Mrs Rydall had been unable to sleep and had been passing the time with her dressmaking. But where was she now? Well, perhaps she had gone to one of the other rooms to collect some further piece of material, or a reel of cotton, or a pair of scissors—Porson found this rationalistic approach somehow reassuring . . . Though why, he asked himself, should he be in need of reassurance? There was nothing wrong about the room, was there?

He took another look round, and his eye alighted on a raffia wastepaper basket in the corner. For some reason Mrs Rydall had thrown the wig into it. That, admittedly, was rather a curious thing for her to have done; but perhaps she had grown tired of it, or had experienced a reaction against the whole idea of a wig? He went over to take a closer look.

The wig seemed rather dusty. What was more curious, it appeared to have grey streaks in it. Perhaps some talcum powder or cigarette ash had got spilled on to it? Again his brain began frantically to search for explanation . . . Anyway, he decided, it might be a good idea to retrieve the wig and put it on the dressing table.

He put out his hand and caught hold of the tumbled hair. To his astonishment, the wig did not come away. He gave a harder tug—and found he had lifted the whole wastepaper basket. It was extraordinarily heavy. He gave it a shake, and still the wig did not come away. Somehow it had got jammed into the basket . . . unless . . . It was then that he saw that the underside of the basket was sodden with something dark, something that dripped through the interstices . . .

He let go of the basket as if it had electrocuted him. It fell on its side with a thud and rolled back into the corner, like some monstrous flower pot.

Porson’s knees were trembling. He felt he wanted to be sick. But his mind refused to take in the possible implications of what he had just experienced; it had gone numb, as if he were under an anaesthetic. ‘I must get out of here,’ he thought, and turned in the direction of the door. As he did so his foot struck against something. He glanced down, and a thrill of horror shot through his whole body, nearly knocking him down. A dark torso was lying on the floor, half under the bed. Then he gave a huge sigh of relief. It was only the tailor’s dummy. Thank God! Everything was all right: he had been letting his imagination run away with him.

But halfway to the door he stopped. If the dummy was lying on the floor then . . . then what was that in the centre of the room?

His limbs felt as if they had been turned to lead. His heart thudded as if someone was throwing a sledge-hammer against it. Somehow he forced himself to walk over to the shrouded object. He lifted his hand, slowly and laboriously. It seemed to take an age. Then, with a sudden, desperate movement, he snatched the sheet away. And as in one half of his mind he became aware that Crittal was standing in the doorway, head thrown back, teeth glistening, letting loose peal after peal of maniacal laughter, with the other half he took in the bloody headless body seated on the stool and, rammed into the neck, wedged tight with blood-soaked cotton-wool, a huge hook, like an obscene question-mark.