The Pan Book of Horror Stories

BEHIND THE YELLOW DOOR Flavia Richardson

The house was plain—stucco to the height of the first storey and brick for the remaining two. The bricks had recently been pointed; the whole building looked well kept and as if it were inhabited by well-to-do and intelligent people. Only the door was an eyesore. Yellow—not cheerful orange or even a clear lemon or saffron, but a blatant shade that could not be described by any known hue—crude chrome, perhaps, was the closest analogy.

Marcia Miles, standing on the doorstep, felt a little shiver run through her as she waited for the bell to be answered. Never given to ‘feelings’ or premonitions, she was at a loss to account for the cold goose-flesh sensation that attacked her ankles in spite of the warm July sun.

Then the door was opened, and she stepped into the most ordinary hall: walls papered with lincrusta for three feet from the floor and then distempered cream . . . staircase turning at the half-landing with a large bowl of carnations on an oak chest in the window . . . thick brown carpet, blue curtains, making a background for the pink flowerheads . . . nothing could have been more sane, more conventional. And yet in her innermost heart she felt a desire to turn and run . . . but why, she could not say. But companion-secretaries who have been out of work for three months, and whose qualifications are far more those of companions than of secretaries, do not run on their first day in new positions.

The maid led her upstairs to the back drawing room, which had been converted into a study. And there Mrs Merrill came to her.

Mrs Merrill was tall, slender, and good looking. Her clever, capable hands had the strength of a surgeon’s. Marcia, secretly surveying her, realized why this woman had made a name as a consultant physician. She had personality . . . almost hypnotic persuasion. Not a woman it would be easy to withstand.

“My correspondence is not very heavy,” she explained. “The maid who brought you up attends to my professional appointments. She keeps the book, and you need only consult it in order to prevent my social engagements clashing.”

Marcia heaved a sigh of relief. She had been afraid, even though it had been expressly stipulated that the secretarial duties would be light. She was only too well aware of her own shortcomings from a professional point of view.

“What I really need you for,” the cool, clearly modulated tone went on, “is as a companion for my daughter. She needs someone to be with from time to time. . . .”

She broke off. Marcia longed to ask the age of the daughter, but she did not like to do so. Time enough when she saw the girl. Covertly surveying Mrs Merrill, Marcia placed her as a well-preserved forty-three. Her daughter might easily be nearly grown-up—in the betwixt and between stage, probably.

The morning passed without anything of note. Marcia took down the answers to a number of letters, answered the telephone twice, and made notes of various engagements.

But all the time she was conscious of a queer undercurrent. Mrs Merrill looked at her every now and then as it were in an appraising way. Marcia fidgeted once under the scrutiny, and was aware that it was instantly withdrawn . . . but she felt uncomfortable, all the same. The parlourmaid came in with a message . . . and Marcia sensed that she too was looking at her more intently than was usual, even with old and valued servants. She did not like the maid. There was an opaqueness, a steeliness about the grey eyes that was almost frightening . . . as though the woman’s mind were always turned inwards. She looked like a woman with a mission.

Marcia tried to scold herself for her imagination. It was no business of hers. Her job was to do her work so well that Mrs Merrill would keep her as her employee for a long time to come.

Luncheon was served in a small dining room under the study, but there was no sign of the daughter. Marcia supposed she was out, but a chance remark about the tray for upstairs between Mrs Merrill and the maid made her suspect that the girl was indisposed.

More letters and odds and ends followed during the afternoon, and at last, about five o’clock, Mrs Merrill said:

“If you have finished those cards, we will go upstairs and you can meet my daughter. She will be expecting us now.”

Marcia hurried through the cards. There was a hint of something unusual in Mrs Merrill’s voice that made her wonder what was to come next. Was the daughter an invalid? Had she got to amuse a fretful adolescent? She wondered anxiously how her voice would hold out if she were expected to do much reading aloud.

Mrs Merrill put aside her book, took off the tortoise-shell glasses she habitually wore for reading, and rose to her feet.

Marcia followed her docilely, but with a throb of expectation.

They went up another flight of stairs, past two doors, and then up a further flight that curled unexpectedly. Marcia realized that they were going to the attics. At the top of the stairs was a heavy door, shrouded in baize and rubber-sheathed . . . and sound-proofed effectively if not in the newest manner. The sight of it seemed menacing. . . . Marcia hesitated involuntarily as she followed Mrs Merrill. . . . What lay on the other side? What could she not hear?

Mrs Merrill went on without a word and pushed the door open. It gave on to a small entrance lobby, dark except for the light that came in through the opened door. From it another door led. As Marcia stepped into the lobby the door behind her swung noiselessly to on its hinges. With a little gasp she realized as they stood in the dark that it had shut. Instinctively she put out a hand and pushed against it. It remained firm.

The sensation of horror deepened. In a second of time she appreciated the fact that she was shut up on the top floor of this strange house with a woman whom she did not know . . . a woman who was reputed to be a brilliant pathologist, but about whom strange stories were already being whispered.

“Come in and see my daughter.” Mrs Merrill’s voice was so ordinary that it almost took Marcia by surprise. She realized that she had been waiting almost rudely in the lobby, and at the same time realized that scarcely ten seconds had gone since the door had swung to at her back. Time had seemed to stand still. She pulled herself together with an effort.

“Of course,” she said, then, summoning her courage, “Is she—is she an invalid?”

For a moment it seemed as if Mrs Merrill paused. “Not an invalid,” she said at length, with a harsh note in her voice; “no, not an invalid. Come in, please.”

She opened the door, and Marcia automatically followed her into the big attic. The room ran the entire length of the house, and was gay with cretonne. The floor was covered with a big straw mat, curtains hung straight in the airless July day, the canary in his cage in the window was too sleepy to sing.

For a moment Marcia glanced round. . . . Then it was a child, a nursery. The furniture was all on the small scale. There was a tiny chair, a table, cupboards, and wardrobe. The bed was small and beautifully carved. On it, under the lightest of summer rugs, lay a child, her face exquisitely beautiful in the Greuze style.

“Olivette,” said Mrs Merrill softly. The child stirred, flung one arm up to shield her opening eyes from the sun, and then got down from the bed.

And Marcia found herself clenching her hands till the nails began to pierce the skin of the palms in her effort to keep from crying out. For the lovely child, Olivette, beautifully made to the waist, had no semblance of beauty below. Her thighs, her legs, and ankles were barely a foot long all told. Her feet were little larger than doll’s feet, and she tottered on them as she came to her mother. The beauty of the torso was made more terrible by the horror that stretched below.

“My daughter,” said Mrs Merrill, and there was a trace of defiance in her voice as she bent down to caress the child who barely reached her own waist.

Marcia held her horror in check. Leaning down to shake hands, she looked more closely at the face below, and realized that in years Olivette was no child. The features, expression, hair, the very development of the breast, betrayed the fact that she was coming to full maturity. In spite of herself, a shudder ran through her as she felt the touch of the dwarf. Noticing it, Olivette’s deep-blue eyes flashed fury—her lips parted in a bitter curve.

Suddenly Marcia felt, that she could stand the situation no longer. She felt faint . . . she turned . . . Mrs Merrill looked at her in surprise.

“Forgive me . . . the heat,” gasped Marcia, as she moved to the door.

The high-pitched laughter of Olivette warned her that she was not to escape so easily. Again the foreboding swept over her like a cloud. . . . What would happen? Something terrible was hovering in the room. . . . She clutched the door handle dizzily, turned it. . . . It did not respond. And then she realized that she had been trapped.

Trapped for what purpose she did not know. But that she was in the hands of Mrs Merrill and the dwarf for no good purpose she was firmly convinced. She could have cried at the lack of heed she had paid earlier to the warnings of her sixth sense, yet how could she, the sane and unemotional, be expected to trouble about unknown fears and premonitions? . . . For a moment she thought she would faint.

Mrs Merrill’s voice brought her to herself. It was so cold, so calm, that for the moment Marcia did not take in the full purport of the words. Gradually the sense penetrated to her dulled mind.

“My daughter, Olivette. . . . As you see, she has never had a chance. An accident shortly before her birth. . . . My lovely child condemned to a life of horror and regret. I had to wait for her to come to maturity. I had to lay my plans. Now they are ready and you came in answer to my advertisement. You will do well. You are approximately the same age as Olivette. You are the size to which she ought to have grown—to which she shall grow. . . .”

Mrs Merrill paused. Marcia drew a deep breath. What did she mean? What was all this preamble? What were they going to do?

She gazed into the hypnotic eyes of the woman facing her and felt her strength waning. She was still conscious of her own individuality, but she was paralysed, as a rabbit before a snake.

She did not hear the door open behind her. Her whole being was concentrated on the woman who stood in front—fighting to retain awareness. So deep was her absorption that the gentle touch of silk on her wrists almost passed unnoticed. When she realized it was too late. The hardfaced parlourmaid, now in a white nurse’s overall, had bound her wrists tightly behind her back.

Marcia opened her mouth to scream, but a hand was laid over her mouth and at the same time the prick of a hypodermic needle in her arm started the lapsing of her consciousness.

“She didn’t give much trouble,” said the parlourmaid, as they laid the inert form on the bed. “I didn’t think she would give in so easily. And she’s just what you wanted, isn’t she?”

Mrs Merrill nodded. “Just what I wanted,” she said, and her hand went out to Olivette. “Only a little while longer, my darling, and you shall be like other girls.”

“Shall you tell her . . .?” The maid nodded at Marcia.

Mrs Merrill’s eyebrows went up. “Tell her? Of course,” she responded. “She is to form part of a stupendous scientific experiment. Of course I shall tell her. Now help me carry her down.”

Marcia came slowly to her senses and could not for the moment realize where she was. She was lying flat on something very hard and even, not painful but definitely uncomfortable. She tried to raise her hand, but found it impossible. Then she realized that not only could she not move her head but that she could scarcely move at all. Her arms were bound tightly to her sides and her ankles were tied together. Over her chest and legs straps were passed that fastened under the table on which she was lying. Her head was held in place by a further band that passed round her neck and again under the table. If she made any effort to sit up, she felt the preliminary symptoms of strangulation.

The room was nearly dark. She must have lost consciousness for some time. The sun had sunk below the houses, and the summer twilight blurred the outlines of the furniture. Marcia tried to call out, but her voice seemed weak and distant.

The sound, however, carried further than she thought. A strong electric light was switched on at once and Mrs Merrill came into Marcia’s line of vision. Marcia stared at her, first blankly, then with growing horror. She was wearing a surgeon’s overall and in her hand was a case of instruments.

“What . . . what . . .” Marcia began feebly.

Mrs Merrill came over to the table and felt the straps. Then she nodded. “That’ll do,” she said, half to herself. Then she turned to Marcia. “You are going to see one of the most interesting and stupendous operations that has ever been attempted in modern surgery,” she said, and there was a detached, professional note in her voice that was more alarming than any emotion. “You and my daughter are to change lower parts of your bodies. I have been waiting for a long time to get everything ready. In a few moments I shall begin to operate. You will know nothing about it until afterwards. Then, assuming that the operation is successful, as it must be, you will find Olivette’s deformed legs grafted on to your body, while Olivette will be at last able to enjoy her life as a normal human being. She has waited nearly twenty years. You have had twenty years. It is her turn.”

Marcia screamed . . . just once. Then a gag was slipped into her mouth and she found she could do nothing but gurgle helplessly. Her whole body shook with terror.

“Dorcas,” Mrs Merrill called, and the former parlourmaid came from another part of the room where she had been waiting.

“Bring Olivette in, please.”

Dorcas reappeared, and Marcia, out of the tail of her eye, could see her lay Olivette, already under an anaesthetic, on an operating table similar to the one on which she was strapped. Mrs Merrill busied herself with preparations. Then she stood up and turned to Dorcas.

“If everything is ready in the sterilizer, we’ll begin,” she announced. “Are you ready with the anaesthetic?”

Marcia struggled feebly against her bonds. Helpless, unable to cry out, fully aware that every effort was useless, she still made a frantic appeal with her eyes. But no attention was paid. She realized that she was dealing with a mad woman, a woman with so deep an obsession about her daughter that nothing else mattered—and that Dorcas had no other idea than to serve her mistress.

With a refinement of cruelty, Mrs Merrill continued her preparations within Marcia’s line of vision. Try as she would, Marcia could not keep her eyes closed. She must know . . . must see how near she was coming to the fatal moment. Death or deformity? . . . She did not know if the experiment were possible . . . but, if it were a success, would not death be more kind?

And all the time she was making ready Mrs Merrill talked. “Think what a fortunate woman you are to be the subject of such an amazing experiment,” she said, laying out one deadly instrument after another. “And we shan’t ask you to endure it without ether. I don’t want you to die—dead limbs would be no good to Olivette. After all, you will be able to walk—just as she can; it is not as if we were proposing to stop with the grafting on of your limbs to her body. . . . I will finish the operation properly. . . .”

Involuntarily, Marcia tried to scream, but only the merest sound came from her white lips. She strained again at the straps, and fell back, choking.

“Don’t be silly,” admonished Mrs Merrill. “You will only hurt yourself, and you won’t be able to stand the strain of the operation.”

“Everything is ready, madam,” said Dorcas, coming again into the line of vision.

Marcia thought wildly: “They’ll surely take the gag out before they give me the ether. . . . I can give one scream. This is a big street. Someone must be passing.” She lay still and tried to relax, saving her strength. Spots danced before her eyes; her lips, strained by the gag, were dry and colourless.

“Now!” Mrs Merrill approached, a surgeon’s mask over her face. Only the bright eyes gleamed, brighter against the white gauze.

Suddenly the cone was dropped over Marcia’s nostrils, and with the realization of despair she knew that they were not going to give her even that one poor little chance.

Hours later, Mrs Merrill lifted her face, a face so haggard that the lines and pallor could be seen even under the mask.

“Both gone?” she whispered.

Dorcas, standing between the tables, nodded. “Both, madam.”

“Failed!”

“You did your best, madam,” comforted the maid. “Miss Olivette didn’t suffer, and it was better she should die than live like—like she was. As for the other one——”

Mrs Merrill scarcely glanced at the dismembered body on the table under her hand.

“Secretaries are plentiful,” was all she said.