Christopher Fowler - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 10

It is so curiously placed in this view, that it seems to recline at William’s very feet, spacing its paws for balance. In relation to the man and boys, it is the equivalent of a medium-sized dog. I cannot escape the illusion that it has not grown bigger, but — got nearer. That way madness lies.

If there were a telephone here, I would put a call through to Saunders, or Eric Smith, even to Lucy. But there is no telephone. Perhaps, a good thing. What would I say?

I know I am behaving in an irrational and idiotic manner. I must pull myself together.

I have put the photographs back on the table and turned them face down. I shall go up and take a couple of aspirins. Obviously, in months to come, I will reread these entries and laugh at them.

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11th September: 11:00 a.m.

Johnson, the agent, arrived efficiently at ten, and we perfunctorily discussed my plans. I had no hesitation in telling him that I would probably wish to put the house up for sale. I passed a restless night, mostly lying listening to the grim silence of this place. I would have been glad for the creaking of the boards I had heard on my first night, even for the boisterous owl. But both failed me. Everything seemed locked in the cupboard of the darkness, and now and then, like a child, I sighed or moved about, to make some sound.

I got a little sleep for an hour or so after dawn, and came down bleary-eyed but resolved. I had put myself into a foolish state over those confounded burns on the photographs. Perhaps this is the price for allowing myself to become a middle-aged bachelor. No matter. I am going back to London this evening. Back to traffic and fog and lights, and human company if I wish it. I must take myself in hand. I do not want to become one of those querulous neurasthenic fools one reads of. Good God, I have gone through a World War, and although luck put me out of the way of most of the action, I was ready enough to do my part. Is some childish horror going to undo me now?

As he was leaving, Johnson recommended that I seek out the vicar. “If you want to know anything about your Uncle’s tenancy here, that is.”

“Oh, yes. A Reverend Dale, I believe.”

“That’s right. He’s getting on, but pretty spry. A wise old bird.”

I said that I might not have the time, but thanked Johnson all the same. What, after all, did I want to know? My Grandfather’s forays in the East did not interest me, and all the rest seemed decline, disease, and death. Charming points of conversation — besides, the bubbling Mrs Gold had already rejoiced me with enough of all that.

“Incidentally, Johnson,” I said, as I saw him to the door, “I suppose there is some use of photography in your business.”

“There is,” he agreed.

“I wonder if you’ve ever heard of- alcohol making a burn on a photograph?”

“Well, I never have,” he said. He thought deeply. “It might, perhaps. But not anything pure, I wouldn’t have thought.”

“Whisky,” I said.

“From a still, maybe. Not the stuff in a bottle. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, something a friend told me of.”

Johnson shrugged and laughed. “A waste of a good beverage,” he said.

When he was gone, I made a decision. It was because I had begun to feel angry.

Mrs Gold was not to come today until three, but she had left me another cold plate. This I tried to eat, but did not really fancy it, although I had had no breakfast.

Eventually I took the largest soup tureen I could find from the kitchen, and the whisky decanter, and went up to the library. The quickest way to be rid of my “monster” was to carry out an experiment. It was quite simple. I would place a selection of photographs in the tureen and pour over them enough whisky to cover them entirely. Either nothing would happen to them, or they would burn — burn all over into yellow and red. And that would be that. No random marks, no possible coincidences of shape. No doubt the pictures that I spoiled underwent some flaw in their reproduction, or there was some weakness in the material on which they were printed. I was confident, to the point of belligerence, that by this means I should be free of the horror I had unwittingly unleashed. As for ruining more photographs, if I did so, there comes a point where one must put oneself first.

I set the tureen down on the big table in the library. Outside, the birds were singing. There was a view of the lawn, and the big oaks, golden and crimson in the dying of the leaves. It is a sunny day.

I took three photographs from the box more or less at random, a scene of my Uncle and his son by the little summer house, the two boys playing some game under the trees when they were small. To this selection I added one of the former casualties, the photograph of my Uncle pruning the tree. One thing I had made sure of, the three new scenes were of different dates, and had therefore been processed on other paper.

Dropping the four into the bowl, I poured in a generous measure of the whisky. A waste, as Johnson had said.

I have come away to write this, leaving a proper space of time, and now I am going back to look. There will be nothing, I believe, or complete obliteration. I am already beginning to feel I have made an idiot of myself. Perhaps I will tear out these pages.

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11th September: 6:00p.m.

The walk down to the village, just under a mile and a half, took me longer than it should have. I arrived feeling quite done up, and went into the little pub, which had some quaint name I forget, and had a brandy and soda.

Across the green was the vicarage, a picturesque building of grey stone, and behind it the Norman church, probably of interest to those with an historical concern. When I got to the vicarage door, and knocked, a homely fat woman came and let me in, all smiles, to the vicar’s den. It was a nice, masculine place, redolent of pipe smoke, with a big dog lying on the hearth, who wagged his tail at me politely.

The Reverend Dale greeted me, and called for tea, which the fat nymph presently brought with a plate of her own shortbread. This tasted very good, although I am afraid I could eat no more than a bite.

The vicar let me settle myself, and we talked about ordinary things, the autumn, elements of the country round about, and of London. At last, leaning forward, the old man peered at me through his glasses.

“Are you quite well, Mr Martyce?”

“Perfectly. Just a trifle tired. I haven’t slept well at the house.”

He looked long at me and said, “I’m afraid people often don’t.”

I took a deep breath. “In what way?” I asked.

“Your family, Mr Martyce, has been inclined to insomnia there. The domestics have never complained. Indeed, I never heard a servant from there that had anything but praise for the house and the family. Mrs Allen, the former cook, retired only when she was seventy-six and could no longer manage. She was loath to go.”

“But my family — there has been a deal of illness.”

“Yes, I’m afraid that is so. Your Grandfather — he was before my time, of course. And his wife. Your father was long from home, and his brother, Mr William, was sent out into the world at twenty… before there was any — problem at the house. The two brothers did not at first choose to come back. And your father, I think, not at all. He lived to a good age?”

“He was nearly eighty. There was quite a gap between him and William — my Grandfather’s travels.”

“Eighty — yes, that’s splendid. But poor William did not do so well. He was, as you know, only sixty-two when he succumbed. His wife was a mere fifty, and your Aunt in her forties. But, in later life, she had never been well.”

I tried a laugh. It sounded hollow. “That house doesn’t seem very healthy for the Martyces.”