The Year's Best Horror Stories 11

COME, FOLLOW by Sheila Hodgson

M.R. James (1862-1936) is recognized as The Master of the traditional ghost story. In an essay, “Stories I Have Tried to Write,” James described a number of “stories which have crossed my mind from time to time and never materialized properly. Never properly: for some of them I have actually written down, and they repose in a drawer somewhere… Let me recall them for the benefit (so to style it) of somebody else.” One of several writers to try a hand at building a story from James’ suggestions is Sheila Hodgson.

Born in London, Sheila Hodgson began her career in the theatre before joining the BBC in 1960 as a staff writer. Six years later she turned free lance, writing for both commercial television and the BBC in addition to working extensively for radio. She has had some twenty radio plays and two stage plays produced, and, while basically a dramatic writer, has had short stories published in New Writing and in various English magazines, and has had one novel. Inspired by M.R. James’ above-mentioned essay, Hodgson talked BBC into doing a series of six radio plays based on his story ideas. She wrote four of these plays herself during 1976-77, and adapted two of these for publication in 1978 in the venerable Blackwood’s Magazine (for which she also wrote an article on James). “Come, Follow!” based on another of James’ suggestions, was to have appeared in Blackwood’s also, but that magazine ended its century and a half of publication before the story saw print. Fortunately, editor Rosemary Pardoe rescued Hodgson’s story for Ghosts & Scholars, an annual homage to M.R. James. I think James would have nodded his approval of Hodgson’s development of his bequest.

It is a matter agreed upon among all right-thinking persons that Christmas should be spent in the bosom of the family; the picture conjured up by Mr. Charles Dickens has entered into the catalogue of English myths, a vision compounded of log fires, merry laughter and snow-bound countryside—all this despite the fact that the log fire may smoke, the snow prove nonexistent, and the company be rendered speechless by indigestion. Moreover, it will rain.

“It will rain,” said Mr. George Markham.

“What a dismal fellow you arc, George!” His companion jerked on the bridle; they were riding in a light trap down the empty Sussex road. “My uncle is the only living relative I possess and I must, I positively must, call on him at Christmas.”

“Why? The shops have a capital collection of greeting cards. Just send the old boy a robin. Or a picture of Santa Claus, signed Your Affectionate Nephew.”

“That’s ungenerous!” Paul Bernays laughed; they both laughed, for they were young men up at Cambridge in this year of 1896 and confident of their position. “He’s got no money and no prospects, he lives with some dreary cleric of his own age.”

“Worse and worse! My dear Paul, what are we going to say to a couple of elderly country bores?”

“Happy Christmas!” For some reason this struck both of them as an excellent joke; the barren hedgerows shook to their mirth, they slapped each other on the back and chortled with glee while the horse slowed to a walk and, yes, it began to rain. To either side the sepia downs curved against a wintry sky; a single bird rose above their heads and vanished over the hill.

“Confound it. Oh, let’s go back!”

They might well have been tempted; the shower looked like developing into a steady downpour; but at that moment (seeking a place to maneuver the trap) Bernays turned his head and saw a most curious apparition approaching across the fields. A man of more than average height dressed in a flapping black cloak, he held a large umbrella high above his head and jumped over the furrows in a series of odd little skips; with each jump the umbrella jerked in the air while the rising wind tugged at his cloak, giving him the semblance of an old and agitated bat. He wore no headgear—and indeed would have found some difficulty in keeping anything upon his head by reason of the wind and the fact that both his hands were occupied in an attempt to restrain the umbrella handle. So, struggling against the malice of the elements, he contrived to gain the road where he stood peering at the travelers from under dark eyebrows; strangely hairy eyebrows which almost met over the bridge of his nose.

“Mr. Bernays?”

The words were swept away on a gust of rain. The young men stared at him; then Paul recovered sufficiently to shout:

“Hullo! Are you from the rectory?” And this was more than simple guesswork: at that distance the clerical collar could be plainly observed under the sodden cloak.

“My name is Alaric Halsey. You are welcome, sir, you are most welcome. Dear, dear, dear, what singularly inclement weather!” He smiled, a long grin which etched deep lines around his mouth and displayed a set of rather good teeth. He could have been some fifty years old, the hair still black and worn en brosse, the eyes luminous under those really very peculiar eyebrows. More might have ensued only at that moment there occurred a most unfortunate accident. Whether the wind, the rain, the flapping garments or a combination of all three alarmed the horse, suffice it to say that the animal bolted. It reared abruptly, backed—nearly upsetting the cart—and then set off at a tolerable gallop, causing the Reverend Alaric Halsey to leap into the ditch. His voice echoed thinly after them, the one distinguishable word being “uncle.” It took Paul Bernays the better part of two miles to bring the horse under control. The creature then evinced a marked desire to go straight home, a point of view with which neither young man felt inclined to argue.

As they sat warming themselves before an excellent fire George Markham said: “So much for the clerical friend! We’ve shown seasonal good will, my dear chap. Do we really have to call on your uncle again?”

“Yes.” Paul stretched his legs and reached for the decanter. “I’m sorry for the man, upon my word, he’s been most shabbily treated.”

“How?”

Rain spat against the window, the firelight made little amber gleams in the port. Bernays poured himself another glass before replying.

“Ancient history. He should have inherited this house. But he quarreled with his father over certain companions, a pretty scandalous affair—don’t ask me what!—and the whole West Farthing estate came to me. Uncle Nicholas went abroad; and didn’t return to England till, oh, some time in 1895, I believe.”

“Good Lord. Didn’t he contest the will?”

“No.”

“Lucky for you. Is the estate worth much…?” Markham drained his wine.

“I couldn’t say. Yes, I suppose so. I’ve got the house and about two hundred acres of land. Mostly mixed farming, we passed the farm on the way up.” Paul spoke with a genuine unconcern; he had a young man’s easy contempt for money, a common attribute in those who have never had to do without it. They passed to other more congenial subjects such as women and horses, then went into dinner and gave the unlucky Mr. Nicholas Bernays only a passing thought and his friend the Reverend Alaric Halsey no thought at all.

It was therefore with a certain surprise on the following morning that—caught in the midst of his shaving—the owner of West Farthing looked out of the window and exclaimed:

“Good heavens. My uncle!”

A gentleman could be seen approaching the front door, a man below average height with thinning red hair and a faintly harassed expression. He glanced both right and left; seemingly troubled by something immediately behind him. Precisely what became apparent when a mongrel dog came round the corner of the outbuildings to join his master on the doorstep. Before Mr. Bernays senior could announce his arrival by the conventional rat-a-tat his nephew threw up the window and shouted:

“Uncle Nicholas! I’m delighted to see you, sir! We’re spending Christmas here, I had intended to call on you—Come in, come in!”

Now it is entirely possible that the sight of a young man, his face covered in soap and one hand brandishing a cut-throat razor, startled the visitor; certainly he sprang backwards with an oath while the dog barked, leaping in the air and snapping with some display of viciousness. Both dog and master recovered their composure, however, and entered the house with haste. For the best part of an hour uncle and nephew exchanged the usual aimless remarks which pass for conversation amongst people who meet but seldom and have nothing in common when they do. If Mr. Nicholas Bernays bore any grudge against his relation he gave no sign of it. He was quite frankly a nondescript kind of fellow, he spoke in disconnected spasms and kept his eyes fixed on the carpet. The gaps in his speech grew more frequent, the undergraduates began to wonder how long he intended to stay and whether they should invite him to lunch—Paul being on the point of suggesting it when his uncle suddenly jerked round and cried, “Bless my soul! It’s raining. And I—I—I have no raincoat!”

Well, that omission could speedily be remedied; he really was an odd uncomfortable kind of guest, and they would far rather lend him a raincoat than endure his company throughout a meal—besides, he had the strangest notions. George Markham’s mackintosh fitted him tolerably neatly whereas Paul’s was manifestly too big; yet Mr. Bernays showed a marked preference for the latter and departed with surprising haste, clutching the garment round him and babbling quite excessive gratitude. As they watched him hustle away through the drizzling rain, a curious point struck both young men simultaneously.

“Look!” exclaimed Markham. “What’s the matter with the dog?”

The animal seemed to be following its master at a measured distance, it dodged and hung back and swerved almost as if leaving room for something else; moreover it kept its nose close to the ground, tracing the line of some invisible path. Forward. Sideways. Back a little. And always sniffing, sniffing. The rain dripping relentlessly off its coat made no impression on the creature; intent, it trotted on never once raising its head.

“Oh, there must be something running along under the ground. I feel sure I’ve seen that kind of behavior before—yes, I’m certain I have. Probably a mole.”

“In the middle of winter?”

But they were not country folk, either of them; and lacking any precise information they speedily lost interest in Mr. Bernays and his dog. Preparations for the Christmas feast occupied the next couple of days, they were expecting a group of young companions from London. It is doubtful whether Paul would have given the matter another thought save for one exasperating fact: it kept on raining. By the third day the lack of his raincoat became a serious inconvenience; taking an umbrella and thinking rather uncharitable things about his uncle, he set off across the fields to visit the rectory of St. Wilbrod’s.

He had never been there before: the matter of the inheritance produced coldness on the one side and embarrassment on the other; it was impossible not to feel that he had deprived his relation (possibly unjustly) of a home. How fortunate that the Reverend Alaric stepped forward to provide Uncle Nicholas with a roof over his head. He must have known Uncle Nicholas pretty well—and even played a part in the long-forgotten quarrel between that gentleman and his father. Paul considered the matter as he walked; what had taken place, what could have persuaded a solid conventional pater familias to disinherit his son? Life’s a rum business, thought Paul; with which solemn platitude he looked up and saw the rectory before him.

It was a great rambling building of quite remarkable ugliness. Remarkable, too, for it stood alone among ploughed fields, no other house appeared to be anywhere near and more oddly still, no church. He blinked. The rectory crouched like some gray animal against the wide curve of the sky, there were a couple of wind-torn elms beside it, a line of fencing badly in need of repair. There was no church.

“But where is St. Wilbrod’s…?”

He had been made welcome by the rector, his uncle had, it seemed, gone out.

“St. Wilbrod’s? A commonplace story, my dear sir. There used to be a thriving village here in the last century, oh yes, oh dear me yes, a sizable community. By some unlucky chance—failed crops, disease, bad husbandry, I cannot precisely identify the cause—the people moved away. What was the village of Barscombe has moved quite five miles to the east. A shift in the population which has, I fear, done nothing to enlarge my parish.”

“Has the church gone too?”

“Good heavens, no.” Alaric rose with a cold smile, and drew the young man toward the window. He had very soft white fingers, which stuck to Paul’s arm like so many enlarged slugs. “Some things are not easily destroyed, I assure you. There is my church.”

It lay behind the house, invisible from the main path. It astonished by reason of its shape, for it was tiny, a tiny Norman building. A squat tower with a little spirelet or “Sussex cap”; surely incredible that such a miniature affair should have warranted this great barn of a rectory. Paul said as much. His host nodded, drawing hairy eyebrows together, dark eyes gazed at the boy.

“It has been a matter of some concern to the Church authorities. The ever-present question of finance! We live in difficult times, my son, singularly difficult times. Perhaps you would care to examine St. Wilbrod’s? It has great historical though little artistic merit.”

He led the way across a path made slippery by decayed leaves; the debris of autumn lay around them, there had been no attempt to clear the ground and an unpleasant musty smell contaminated the air. The rain had stopped, leaving a pervading dampness. As they went, Paul felt constrained to explain, to excuse himself—though he had done no wrong and merely chanced to benefit from a family quarrel.

“I trust my uncle keeps in good health, sir?”

“Tolerably.” Again the wintry smile.

“I am very conscious he has been unfairly treated…”

“Life is not fair, Mr. Bernays. Fascinating. Complex. But not fair.”

“Does he hold my good fortune against me?”

“Oh come, Mr. Bernays! You have the money. You really must not expect to be popular as well.”

“Perhaps if I made him a small allowance, in recompense?”

“I think not,” said the Reverend Alaric evenly; and motioned him inside the church.

It was bare to the point of emptiness; a simple altar, two Early English lancets in the chancel, a stained glass window of no merit whatsoever. Paul sat down. He was rehearsing a suitable comment when the priest murmured: “You must excuse me. I think I hear your uncle on the drive, he may not have a latch key.” The next instant he had gone, fading noiselessly into the shadows. His guest remained seated, lost in a conflicting whirl of emotion; he did not wish to harm anybody, anybody in the world, and surely he could not be blamed for inheriting… He closed his eyes and composed a brief prayer. Dear Lord, bless this house and me and Uncle Nicholas.

He stiffened. There seemed to be a murmur, the dry patter of innumerable lips. Consciously he knew that he sat alone in a country church; yet he felt most powerfully that behind him opened a vast nave; a huge assembly of people were seated just out of sight behind his back. The very air opened up, he must be in the center of a great cathedral…

Paul jerked round.

Bare walls, almost within touching distance. A few empty pews, stained and scratched with age. Dusty altar hangings. Needless to say, nobody was there. His bewilderment still lay strong upon him when the Reverend Alaric slipped from the gloom and, bending over him, whispered:

“Your uncle has returned and is most eager to see you. Come, follow.”

The second encounter with Mr. Nicholas Bernays proved even more tedious than the first. He stammered his apologies, how monstrously careless to have forgotten the raincoat, and in this weather too! He seemed incapable of looking anybody in the face, his balding head twisted from side to side and when by chance Paul caught his eye the man blinked as if stung. By contrast, the Reverend Alaric Halsey appeared totally at his ease; he talked learnedly of St. Wilbrod’s, its history and its architecture; he spoke of the Saxons and the influence Christianity had had on them.

“And vice versa, of course! You do know that Easter derives from the Saxon word Eostre, a festival celebrating the goddess of Spring? Our somewhat confusing habit of fixing Easter by the full moon must surely be pagan in origin; it is also linked to the Jewish Passover. As for Christmas—why, it seems tolerably certain that whenever Our Savior was born, it was not in the middle of winter! You may remember that a decree went forth at the time of His birth that all the world should be taxed? In the ancient world taxes were levied at harvest time, therefore we can immediately discount December the twenty-fifth. But that date is the winter solstice, the Mithraic birthday of the Unconquered Sun. It would seem that the early Fathers of the Church found it paid them to be reasonably accommodating in the matter of dates. We have here a combination of Mithraism, Judaism, and who knows what pagan nature worship!” The Reverend Alaric smiled, he had a compelling manner and some degree of charm; after a while he proposed to show their visitor the Rectory, a tour which Paul had no desire to make and found himself quite incapable of refusing.

It proved a most embarrassing experience. Clearly the general exodus of its congregation had thrown the parish of St. Wilbrod’s into a state of quite desperate poverty; room after room held nothing save a threadbare rug on the floor and two or three dilapidated chairs. It must once have been of some importance for the house boasted six bedrooms, three reception rooms, a library, a study, and a positive warren of kitchen and pantries. From these last Paul deduced that his host was in the habit of cooking for himself; various pots and pans lay on the table, uncleaned and smelling slightly of rancid fat. He wondered how in heaven’s name the two men contrived to exist in such a penniless wreck of a home. The contrast between this squalor and the comfort of his own manor house, West Farthing, with its full complement of amiable Sussex maids and kindly gardeners, seemed too much for Paul altogether—he made his excuses and fled out into the wintry afternoon, taking his raincoat with him. Even as he pulled it on it struck him that Uncle Nicholas must have thrown the garment down in that abominable kitchen. It felt sticky.

The day had darkened, a discolored sky fitted over the hills like a lid. Paul Bernays hurried on, conscious of a most irrational desire to escape.

From what?

The derelict rectory with its learned owner—his uncle, ducking that thin red head, avoiding all direct contact with the eyes? Absurd. His uncle was merely a nervous, unlucky man and the priest—why, the priest must be both charitable and kind to have offered him a home. Paul quickened his pace and nearly fell, the ground being pitted with disused rabbit holes and littered with stones. The strange depression, the mounting unease, could only be the result of bad weather and a bad conscience; he did indeed feel guilty, he must certainly do something to make life more tolerable for the ill-assorted pair he had just left. Meanwhile, home and tea!

He stepped out briskly. Thinking of the couple made him glance back over his shoulder, and he noticed a shadow at his heels. A second’s thought made him look again, for there was no sun; how could he be casting… Yes, he had not been mistaken, it was there—a shapeless blur on the grass. Quite small; and eight or ten feet away. It moved when he moved, stopped when he stopped; it bore no resemblance to his own shape, so therefore something else must be causing the effect. Paul frowned, studying the landscape. There was nothing visible at all, nothing to account for the mark. Empty fields stretched to the foot of the downs, a most extraordinary silence, not even a bird sang—but it was the middle of winter, why should birds sing! He turned and put the matter from his mind. Yet the thing still puzzled him; after a few hundred yards he turned again. The shadow had moved closer and had grown in size, a formless gray stain wrinkling where it crossed the folds in the ground.

He could not say why it affected him so unpleasantly. Perhaps the scientific absurdity offended his intellect, for there must be some object between the light and the earth to account for…

“This is impossible!” said Paul out loud.

Close behind him something giggled.

He broke into a run; even as he went he told himself that his behavior was no more than natural—it was cold, it might rain, he must get to West Farthing. As for the noise, that soft gurgle, some animal must have made it! Paul lengthened his stride. Yet he could not resist the urge, almost against his will, to twist round and glance behind him.

The shadow had swollen to twice its original size: as he watched, one corner elongated itself and slid across the ground in his direction. He let out a yell, and sprinted across the rough grass. Gasping for breath he made for the stile—unable to say what terror, what monstrous premonition of evil, impelled him forward. He clambered frantically over the wooden bar, and as he did so a voice shouted:

“My dear chap! Where on earth have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for hours.”

George Markham stood in the yard, his face creased with anxiety.

Paul stopped. He forced himself to turn slowly, to look calmly back. The bleak winter fields lay motionless under the sky; barren acres extended to the foot of the downs. There was nothing there. He debated whether to mention the incident to his friend: really, it seemed too unlikely, too fanciful altogether! He muttered something to the effect of having been detained at the rectory; and hurried inside the house.

The temperature dropped during the night; they woke to find the air grown sharp and a thin coating of snow across the paths. From his window Bernays observed one of the farmers going by with a gun; the fellow seemed to be eyeing the ground, he stopped from time to time, peering and prodding at the frozen mud.

“Morning, Elliot!”

“Morning, sir.” The man glanced up. “You haven’t had any trouble over here, I don’t suppose?”

“Trouble? Why, no.”

“Thought you might have been visited by a fox. There’s tracks running right round your house. There, see? And there again. Can’t be a fox, I reckon; no, not a fox. I never did see a fox leave marks the like of that.”

“What kind of marks?” asked Paul, refusing to acknowledge the very faint shiver of apprehension, no, not fear: he was cold, no more—he had the window open, and the weather had turned cold.

“Hanged if I know, sir.” The farmer sniffed, blew his nose, and went out of sight behind the barn.

The moment passed. Those who live in the country must surely expect to find evidence of wild animals from time to time! Besides, there were preparations to be made, plans to be discussed, an entire Christmas program to arrange. The owner of West Farthing slammed the shutter down and went in search of George Markham. They were seated in front of what may fairly be called a Dickensian log fire, happily arguing the relative merits of roast turkey and duck a l’orange, when the Reverend Halsey was announced. He had come, he said, to deliver an invitation—the residents at the rectory would count it a most particular blessing if Mr. Bernays would take dinner with them on Christmas Eve.

Strange are the complexities of civilization, the pressure exercised by society on even the most rational person. Paul Bernays did not want to dine at the rectory. He disliked the rector, and what he had seen of the kitchen caused him to entertain grave doubts as to the food. An older or more quick-witted man would have pleaded a previous engagement—pressure of work—the imminent arrival of a great many guests. There was, to be frank, no reason on earth why he should accept; save the horrid, the paralyzing conviction that it would be bad manners to refuse.

“You have no other plans, I believe?” The clergyman smiled. “As I recall it, you told your uncle that your own festivities do not begin till Christmas Day.”

Paul shifted miserably; for you see, it was true, his London companions did not arrive before then. If he told a direct lie he might be detected; a circumstance altogether too embarrassing. He toyed briefly with the notion of pleading illness; and that also was quite impracticable—he might be seen galloping across the downs. Before his confused brain could handle the situation Paul heard his lips say:

“Thank you, sir, that’s very kind of you.” And then, as a desperate afterthought—“My friend and I will be happy to accept.”

It became apparent from the clouding of the Reverend Alaric’s face that his invitation had not included Paul’s friend; but here, thankfully, the restraints of polite society worked in reverse. He could not bring himself to say he had excluded Mr. George Markham. So it came about that on Christmas Eve both young men sat down to dinner in St. Wilbrod’s rectory.

The meal proved quite as excruciating as they had feared: a concoction of half-burnt meats and overdone vegetables served on cracked dishes, the entire menu redolent of frantic poverty and inefficient male cooking. Their host kept up a smooth flow of interesting, curious, and often amusing chatter; he had beyond question a most formidable charm—indeed, had it not been for those strange eyebrows he would have passed for a handsome man; the head well formed, the eyes darkly compulsive. He seemed completely at his ease. Uncle Nicholas, by contrast, appeared to be afflicted by a nervous tick, his speech impediment grew worse when thickened by wine, he seldom joined in the conversation and then only to defer to the rector. It came as a mild surprise when (the ordeal of eating mercifully finished) Alaric Halsey moved across the threadbare carpet, sat himself down at an old upright piano, and declared that his companion would entertain them with a song.

It emerged that Nicholas, in common with others who suffer his disability, could sing with no trace of a stammer; he produced a moderate tenor voice and the company joined in a variety of carols. That done, the pianist changed key and the singer moved on to ballads, folk tunes, old roundelays…

“Come, follow follow—follow follow—follow

follow me!

Whither shall I follow—follow—follow,

follow thee?”

The reedy notes echoed curiously in the gloom; only candles fought against the encroaching night, the rectory had not yet been equipped with gas. Melting wax splashed down onto the piano top.

“Come, follow follow—follow follow”

Paul turned abruptly; the high windows had no curtains and for one second he had an impression—the merest hint—of something peering through the glass.

“Whither shall I follow—follow”

A mistake of course. Black countryside lay all around the house.

“To the greenwood, to the greenwood, to the greenwood tree”

“Trees,” said the Reverend Alaric, “trees figure prominently in the ancient Saxon religion. My dear Mr. Bernays, what is the matter?”

For Paul had leapt up: something, yes, positively Something, tapped on the window pane—a faint rattle as of drumming fingertips, a staccato impatient knock. But now he had gained the window and now he stared out and it had gone. He stood there feeling very slightly ridiculous. His mind clutched at the notion of a tree, for there were trees, certainly; a couple of elms etched sharply against the sky. But too far away, surely, to account for the sound and the singular impression he had received of a figure, just beyond the glass, waiting.

“I thought I heard a noise,” said Paul foolishly.

“Has it begun to snow?”

“I think not.” And indeed the chill of the previous hours had passed off; not only was there no promise of the traditional Christmas white, but it had most disagreeably begun to rain again.

“Oh dear, dear, dear.” The group round the piano broke up; Mr. Halsey crossed the room. “You heard a noise, you say? I do hope Elliot’s horse hasn’t broken out of the stables again.”

His easy tone, and the natural-sounding explanation, calmed the visitor. We have already noted that Paul Bernays did not possess a remarkably quick mind; it did not strike him as monstrously unlikely that a horse should break out of a warm stable in the middle of a winter’s night to go wandering abroad. He knew the animal in question; it did from time to time escape and had in the past been the subject of irritated complaint from other farmers. He was about to resume his seat, satisfied, when the priest took his arm.

“Shall we investigate, my dear boy? It might perhaps be prudent. I have no desire to see my fencing knocked down.”

Again the fatal grip of good manners! A young man of sense had only to protest that it grew late, the countryside lay in inky blackness, and the pursuit of somebody’s else’s horse under such circumstances were mere folly. He did indeed open his mouth to remark on the rain; yet under the steely impact of Alaric Halsey’s gaze, the smile that would not brook refusal, he heard himself answer:

“Yes, of course.” And then—clutching once more at straws—“Will you come with us, George?”

It should have presented no problem. Clearly (given the improbable surmise that a farm animal was running loose outside) the more people to catch it the better. So much should have been self-evident; yet somehow Paul found himself being drawn out into the hall, while behind him Uncle Nicholas cried: “You must stay with me, Mr. Markham! I—I—I feel sure the others can manage! I—I—I must ask you not to leave me alone…”

His voice rose to a plaintive yelp; and the door slammed shut. It must have been exasperated nerves which caused Paul to believe that, for a fraction before the door shut, Uncle Nicholas had looked to Alaric Halsey with frightened questioning eyes; and Alaric Halsey had almost imperceptibly nodded.

They passed through the dim hall and, pausing only to snatch up their raincoats, they hurried out of the main porch, into the rainswept night. It really was most horribly dark, an absolute blackness hung over the fields; a blackness so complete the eye could not determine the curve of the downs or see with any certainty where the horizon ended and the sky began. And the silence too held some quality positively unnatural: save for the drumming of rain on sodden grass there was no sound whatsoever.

“There’s nothing there!” cried Paul; and as the words left him he knew he lied. Oh, most certainly something was there: within that black void Something waited, holding its breath.

“Beyond the gate, I imagine.” His companion’s hand fell on his shoulder, urging him forward. Paul stumbled against the wet shrubbery, precipitating a shower of cold drops; if only it were possible to see! He fumbled in the pocket of his raincoat for matches; they were not there! They should have been there, for he smoked a pipe and was in the habit of carrying…

“Hurry! Hurry!” The Reverend Alaric’s voice, sharp with impatience, sounded behind him. “Come, come, you’re a young man, I’m relying on you, don’t loiter in the pathway! You’re not, I take it, afraid of the dark?”

“Of course not!” yelled Bernays; he leapt forward and caught his foot against a stone. “It’s just that—Confound it—which way are we supposed to be going?”

They were out of the garden by now. To the left lay a rising hill, to the right a flat stretch of meadow; this much he knew from memory—and memory was all he had to guide him; the land merged into an inky pool without form or definition. The rain appeared to be dropping in straight lines; the entire exercise seemed monstrously disagreeable and utterly pointless for there was no stray animal: no creature with a modicum of sense would be abroad in such abominable circumstances. Irritation began to replace alarm. What in the name of wonder were the two of them doing there? His dislike of Alaric Halsey hardened into a positive contempt. Blast the fellow, by what right did he drag a visitor from the house? He opened his mouth to protest, to voice his declared intention of returning indoors.

“Come,” said Alaric in his ear. “Follow.”

With fingers fastened onto Paul’s wrist, he led the way across a grassy incline, moving forward with a very complete confidence as if perfectly aware of his destination. Walking became more hazardous; rough ground and darkness combined to make each step a risky business; the earth (rendered soft by the downpour) sucked at their shoes and left a coating of mud which smelt of farmyard refuse. Bernays glanced over his shoulder: he could see blurred patches of light behind them, the hazy outline of the rectory windows: as he watched, the lights went out. A curious effect. It must be an optical illusion, caused no doubt by some contour of the landscape. He turned to comment on it; thank goodness the Reverend Halsey had let go of his arm and moved a few paces on into the night.

“Did you notice that?” asked Paul; and then again, “I say, sir, did you notice that?”

Rain drummed steadily on the grass. He strained his eyes, for surely the man must be there; he had been there only a second before.

“Hullo!” He peered again—and yes, there he was, away on the left—No. That looked more like a tree; it was in fact a tree. Well, to the right, then, there had not been time for him to travel any great distance. “Mr. Halsey!”

He got no answer, and now concern swept over him: had his guide slipped and fallen, was he lying on the ground?

“Where are you, sir?”

The rain grew slower, spat, and stopped.

If there had been an accident he would have heard a cry, a shout for help. If his companion had gone on without him—unlikely in these difficult conditions—he should by now be aware of Paul’s absence.

“I’m here!” cried Paul. The call was swallowed up in the surrounding darkness. “I’m here, where are you…?”

No reply; and still blackness defeated his eyes and still he could not find a trace. He hurried forward, which was unwise and led to a stumbling fall; he spent several minutes in agitated search before deciding that he would have to return to the house and get help. It seemed that some calamity had overtaken the Reverend Alaric Halsey. He straightened; then realized that with the disappearance of the lights, he had lost his bearings; he did not know in which direction to walk—quite simply, he did not know where he was. Paul Bernays possessed slow reactions yet a fair degree of common sense; he pulled himself up and stood completely still. To advance blindly might easily lead to his wandering miles out into the open countryside; the best hope lay in waiting, in hoping that his eyes would finally grow accustomed to the gloom and enable him to identify a landmark.

As he stood there a noise caught his attention: close at hand, close behind him, the sound of heavy breathing. Now there is no good reason why this should have alarmed him so extravagantly; it could have been a farm animal, a stray dog, a badger, a fox…

He knew it to be none of these.

The noise grew louder, a kind of panting followed by a hiss. It took all Paul’s courage to remain where he stood, for an overwhelming presentiment of evil gripped him, a profound conviction that horror walked the night. Two things alone kept him in his place: the first, a very real fear that if he turned and ran he might all too easily lose his footing and crash to the ground; the second, a curious yet mounting impression that this invisible creature was not looking at him. He froze. Perhaps the darkness cloaked him? Yet surely an animal could smell; no animal would be hampered by… Something soft and faintly slimy bumped against his leg. Paul let out a yell; and still the Thing glided on, indifferent, and now the breathing grew fainter and now it stopped.

“Dear heaven!” muttered Bernays, and he wiped his face with a handkerchief. Luckily there was a handkerchief in the pocket of his raincoat, although he could not remember putting it there. Relief swept over him; whatever the threat, it had gone. The next moment the sky above him split into groups of leaden clouds and the merest fragment of a moon slid through.

“That’s better!”

The faint moonbeams did indeed throw some light across the country: the empty fields, the wide curve of the downs now came into view. Paul grimaced; he had been facing the wrong way; if he had continued he would have become most hopelessly lost. Thank goodness he had kept his head! He looked over toward the black outline of the rectory; and observed to his considerable annoyance a figure walking quite calmly up the path to the house. The Reverend Alaric.

“Confound the man!” Paul swore briefly. “Would he have left me, wandering about in the dark?” He ran forward, forming a protest in his mind; in pity’s name, this lacked both hospitality and common sense.

And then he saw it; some twenty yards behind Alaric Halsey.

He took it at first to be a small rain puddle, and his eyes might have ignored it altogether but for one thing. It moved. As he watched, it heaved, swelling a little, and slid across the ground—it could have been a shadow but there was nothing there to account for a shadow; nothing between the wet earth and the moon. Heaving, pulsating, it moved with ever-increasing speed along the ground. The Reverend Alaric came to the gate and passed through; behind him the object swelled, sucked itself up, wobbled briefly on the top bar and dropped over. For no particular reason Bernays associated its movement with that panting, hissing breath. It had lessened the gap, a bare ten yards lay between it and the priest; it not only gathered speed as it went, but also seemed to grow, pushing outward in wide soft bulges.

“Halsey!” cried Paul. “Halsey! Halsey!”

The man looked round. The moonlight struck full on him and an expression that might have been surprise or rage or both showed in his face. Before the emotion could be identified he saw the Thing behind him and screamed.

He broke into a run and Paul ran too, leaping across the fields, driven on by a rising panic, for distance could not dim the terror in Alaric Halsey’s voice. He fled around the corner of the rectory; the monstrous shadow gaining all the time. Paul had the advantage of youth; he cut round by the other side and caught up with him beyond the elm trees. The priest appeared to be in a state of advanced shock, his eyes stared blindly up and he shrieked:

“Deliver me! Deliver me! Deliver me from evil!”

Then he fell to the ground, senseless.

Bernays stooped over him. Fear still pulsed through the night. For the moment he had lost sight of that dark stain—it might be crouched slackly under the trees, it might have vanished altogether. He had abandoned all rational thought, all attempt to work out what in heaven’s name it could be; his immediate concern was to get Halsey to safety. They were some little distance from the house; the church stood altogether more near, and there were practical considerations too; the elder man was above average height and heavy. Paul placed his arm around the unconscious figure and, half-pulling half-lifting, contrived to drag him through the stone porch and into the little Norman church. As he did so he got once more that extraordinary sensation. The tiny chapel seemed to open out around him, to change into a vast cathedral thronged with people whispering, muttering, praying—and high above them all a sudden triumphant laugh. He blinked; between them and the altar stood a formless Thing of towering height, growing larger even as he looked.

Oh God, thought Paul confusedly. It lives here. And fainted.

He came to his senses in the brightly lit bedroom of West Farthing; he had been ill, they told him, for three weeks. Out of concern for his health, another week passed before the doctor thought it proper to tell him that Alaric Halsey had died, presumably of a heart attack. The doctor (being a rational country physician) had no intention of repeating local gossip; the whispered story that the body had marks on it for all the world as if it had been trampled to death by a huge crowd. The marks were there; but must surely have been caused by something else, for the entire population of West Farthing village numbered no more than twenty people. Country folk were notorious for their imaginings, and the story struck the good doctor as a palpable absurdity.

Christmas had come and gone while Paul lay in his bed; and it was not until the end of January that he nerved himself to revisit the rectory. It seemed deserted. No one answered his repeated knock; and of his Uncle Nicholas there was no sign whatsoever. He considered examining the chapel—but became conscious of a repugnance so extreme he abandoned the attempt. The Spring term beckoned, he had work to do, examinations to sit; Paul Bernays tidied his house and prepared to return to Cambridge. Sorting through various papers belonging to the estate he came across a bundle of ancient correspondence; letters apparently written by Nicholas Bernays to his father, the squire of West Farthing. The ink had faded and the words (which seemed to have been written by someone in a violent rage) proved uncommonly hard to decipher. Ill-formed characters sprawled across the page at an angle; at one point the nib of the pen had actually gone straight through the document.

“… he is my friend! My friend! I do not care if you disinherit me! I shall devote my life to him! You have been listening to vile slanders, the babble of the village idiots who have all run away. He is a great man! It is not true that he worships the…”

Here followed a word which might have been Devil; but Paul could not be certain—besides, he was pressed for time, and so he threw the letters away.

Two events only remain to be told. On putting on his raincoat preparatory to leaving West Farthing, the young man discovered a pair of black leather gloves in the pocket; a curious circumstance as he did not possess any black leather gloves. Further consideration led him to the belief that he had in fact got the wrong raincoat—by some accident in the dim light of the rectory hall, he had picked up the Reverend Halsey’s coat, and that gentleman had picked up his. The two garments were not dissimilar. (In passing it might be well if the manufacturers were to make these items of clothing more distinctive, thus avoiding possibly—unfortunate—mistakes.)

At Cambridge Paul resumed his studies, happily showing no ill effects from his disastrous adventure. But his friends did remark that from that date he evinced a marked dislike for the popular student song, “Come Follow”; and—on being present at a concert when the Glee Club performed that piece—he asked them to be good enough to desist.