Джон Пристли - Benighted

She wandered back to the table and looked down on the candle-flame. Idly she held one hand above it and began twiddling her fingers, watching their play of light and shade. Then she saw the shadows they cast, a dance of uncouth crazy figures, savages leaping in the smoke of a ceremonial fire, and she brought her hand away and remained quite still for a few moments, feeling very small and desolate. Soon she grew impatient, first with herself and then with everybody else. Why had they all stolen away, leaving her alone? Her mind swayed towards unreason. There came gibbering into it the fancy that she was the victim of a plot, that all the others had been deliberately spirited away by Miss Femm, who would lock them all up and then come creeping back to lay a toad-like witch's hand upon her. For one sickening moment she could feel that hand, but the next instant the whole fantastic web was broken. Nerves and a too eager imagination were playing her false again, playing false indeed to life itself, through which there ran the unbroken cord of sanity; they were lying and treacherous, betraying her mind back into primitive darkness. You go native, they whispered, it's easier. Thought came to steady her, and things shifted back into a reasonable shape and colouring again.

She was ridiculously impatient, of course, she told herself, swelling every second into a minute, but still it was queer how long everybody seemed to stay away. And where were Penderel and that girl Gladys? They must be together, of course. Perhaps they had tucked themselves away in some corner of the house (somehow the idea made her shudder), or they might possibly be outside.

The thought steered her towards the door. She would have a look at the night. Even if no one had returned by the time she came back from the door – and that was improbable – a peep outside would at least make things easier by contrast, would banish the desolation of the room, give it a suggestion of warmth and security. She opened the door and peered out. At first there was nothing but darkness and a rush of sweet cold air in her face. Then the light of the room, dim as it was, stole through and her eyes began to sift the dark. There were still noises coming from a distance, the sounds she had heard before, but these only formed a vague tumultuous background for other and more curious sounds, near at hand, all watery sounds, a kind of mixed lapping and swishing and splashing. She leaned forward and looked more closely. There was little or no rain now, only a few drops came spattering in the rising wind. But what was that faint curved gleam below? She peered down and saw that two of the three steps from the door had disappeared. Then she understood, though it was difficult to say how much her eyes actually saw. But that was water that darkly shone and lapped and swished and splashed there below. She was looking out upon what was virtually a river or a lake. The flood had come pouring down upon them, had rolled round the house (and was perhaps filling the cellars this very minute), and its waters had risen to a sufficient height to cover the two steps. It was besieging them. She was standing on the edge of a little island. Involuntarily she drew back and swung the door a little further forward, but did not close it. Fascinated, half lost in a dream, she still stared out, her fancy deepening the dark water every moment until she brooded over whole drowned valleys.

Then suddenly she went cold and stiffened. Somebody was standing behind her, very close. For a moment or so she did not move and there came back to her, in one crazy flash, that vision of Miss Femm which tormented her before. It was she who was standing there, malignant, corrupt, a witch.

There was a shuffling movement and the sound of heavy breathing. She had no need to turn and look now. It wasn't Miss Femm, it was Morgan. A great hand came uncertainly over her head, touched the door she held, and began closing it; she could feel his hot breath; he was brushing against her; there came a sickening animal warmth, a rank smell.

One quick desperate twitch of her whole body and she was free. The door crashed to, with all his weight upon it, and for a moment he remained there, leaning against it, a breathing hulk. She stood trembling, only a yard away, and stared at him. She wanted to cry out, but she dug her nails into her palms and remained silent, asking herself frantic questions. He was drunk, of course, as they said he would be. Had he been simply trying to shut the door? Yes, that was all. She had only to keep quiet, to be calm, dignified, and he would be gone in a minute.

Without another glance at him, she walked slowly across the hall towards the fire. It was extraordinary how far it seemed. Her back crept with little shivers. But it was all right; he would go away, and somebody would be coming soon, yes, somebody would be coming. She had reached the table now and the candle burning there gave her confidence. What was he doing? She turned to see, narrowing her eyes. The dim light showed him to her still standing there, a vague shape at first, but then she saw that he was no longer leaning against the door but had turned round to face her. Was he looking at her? The blur of his face told her nothing, but she felt sure that he was staring across at her. It would have been less terrifying if she could have seen him clearly, but that vague mass, that dark hulking shapelessness, like something monstrous spawned by the shadows, appalled her. Was he moving forward or merely swaying? And there was not a sound; nobody was coming. The whole world was suddenly empty and horrible.

Yes, he was coming towards her, there could be no mistake about that now. She saw him lurching forward gigantically. She wanted to run away. But he had stopped again, and was swaying there not two or three yards from the table; and she could see him clearly now, could see his hair and dripping beard and even his little sunken eyes, and this was something for faint comfort, for he did at least become a person again. Desperately she told herself it was only Morgan, the servant here, a big stupid creature. Why should she stand looking at him like that? If she took no notice of him, he would probably go away. She turned a shivering back upon him and walked slowly across to the other side of the fireplace. Then she faced about sharply. He too had moved and was now standing where she had been a moment before.

"What do you want?" she cried shakily. Her voice sounded so feeble that it only emphasised her weakness, her loneliness. And what was the use? He was dumb. If only he hadn't been dumb, she felt, she could have done something with him.

His little eyes dwelt upon her, as if in answer to her question. Then he raised a hand lumberingly and his mouth seemed to gape into a grin.

She held herself tightly. "Go away," she cried again, and stared at him. He did not move but made an uncouth noise in his throat. There came with it that smell again, rank from a huge unwashed hairy body. If he could only say something, however foul, it would have helped her to control herself. But this sickened and terrified her. Still trying to look self-possessed, she moved away again, with wincing little steps, this time round the right-hand side of the table, thus keeping it between them. She would go towards the stairs. Philip was up there somewhere and might be coming down any moment.

She could see Morgan out of the corner of her eye. He was still standing there, watching her. Now she was turning away from him, facing the bottom of the stairs. There was a noise behind her. Had he moved? She quickened her pace and was now within a yard of the lowest stair. He was following her; he was very near. Then she gave a little shriek for a hand fell upon her shoulder, twisting her round. A great arm swept about her, and there was a fleeting nightmare of a lowered hairy face, a suffocating hug, heat and stench and huge sliding paws. She threw herself back, struggling wildly, sickeningly, beating upon the arm that held her, wriggling desperately in his grasp. A sharp tearing – the top of her dress ripped – and she was free, stumbling backward, gasping. He loomed above her, but now she summoned all her strength, darted blindly beneath the outstretched arm, and contrived to scramble up the first few stairs.