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

Reverend Dale looked grave. “It does not.”

“And what explanation do you have for that, sir?”

“I fear that, although I am a man of God, and might be expected to incline to esoteric conclusions, I have none.”

I said, flatly, “Do you think there is a malevolent ghost?”

“I am not supposed to believe in ghosts,” said the Reverend Dale. “However, I can’t quite rid myself of a belief in — influences”

A cold tremor passed up my back. I deduce I may have gone pale, for the vicar got up and went over to his cabinet, from which he produced some brandy. A glass of this he gave me — I really must put a stop to all this profligate drinking! I confess I downed it.

“You must understand,” he said, “I’m speaking not as a man of the cloth, but simply — as a witness. I’ve seen very clearly that, in the Martyce family, those who spend much or all of their time at the house, sicken. Some are more susceptible, they fail more swiftly. Some are stronger, and hold at bay or temporarily throw off the malaise, at first. Your Grandfather lived into his nineties, yet from his sixties he had hardly a day without severe illness. Perhaps, in a man of advancing years, that is not uncommon. And yet, before this time, he was one of the fittest men on record, apparently he put the local youth, who are hardy, to shame. Again, some who aren’t strong, also linger in a pathetic, sickly state — your Aunt was one of these. She succumbed only in her adult years, but then her life was a burden for her. One wondered how she bore with it. Even she, at length…” he sighed. “Her end was a release, I am inclined to think. A satisfactory cause of death meanwhile has never been established. In your Grandfather’s case, necessarily it was put down to old age. As with his wife, since she died in her sixties. In the cases of others, death must be questionable. Or unreasonable. As with your Uncle’s two sons. They were fourteen and nineteen years.”

“I assumed some childish malady — ”

“Not at all. Clemens was their doctor, then. I will reveal, he confided in me somewhat. He was baffled. The same symptoms — inertia, low pulse, some vertigo, headache, an inclination not to eat. But no fever, no malignancy, no defect. You will perhaps know, William’s health was poor enough to keep him out of the War. He was utterly refused.”

I said, briskly, “Well, I’m leaving tonight.”

“I am glad to hear that you are.”

“But, I had intended to put the house up for sale — ”

“I think you need have no qualms, Mr Martyce. Remember, no one who has lived there, who is not a member of your family, has ever been ill. If anything, the reverse.”

“A family curse,” I said. I meant to sound humorous and ironic. I did not succeed.

The Reverend Dale looked down upon his serviceable desk.

“I shall tell you something, Mr Martyce. You are, evidently, a sensible man. I can’t guarantee my words, I’m afraid. The previous incumbent of the parish passed them on to me. But he was vicar in your Grandfather’s time. It seems your Grandfather, always a regular churchgoer when at home, asked for an interview. This was about three years after his final return from the East. He was getting on in years, and had recently had a debilitating bout of illness, but recovered, and no one was in any apprehension for him, at that time.” The vicar paused.

“Go on,” I said.

“Your Grandfather it seems posed a question. He had heard, he said, of a belief among primitive peoples, that when a camera is used to take a photograph, the soul is caught inside the machine.”

“I’ve heard of this,” I said. “There is a lack of education among savages.”

“Quite. But it appears your Grandfather asked my predecessor — if he thought that such a thing were truly possible.”

I sat in silence. I felt cold, and wanted another brandy, but instead I sipped my tepid tea.

“What did he say, your predecessor?”

“Naturally, that he did not credit such an idea.”

“To which my Grandfather said what?”

“It seems he wondered if, rather than catch a human soul, a camera might sometimes snare… something else. Something not human or corporeal. Some sort of spirit.”

Before the eye of my mind, there passed the memory of how my Grandfather had photographed so many exotic things. And of the pictures taken inside the ancient and remarkable tomb. I am not given to fancies. I do not think it was a fancy. Like a detective, I strove to solve this puzzle.

I stood up before I had meant to, I did not mean to be rude.

The old man also rose, and the dog. Both looked at me kindly, yes, I would swear, even the dumb animal had an expression of compassion.

“Excuse me,” I said, “I have to hurry to be sure of my train.”

“You’re not returning to the house?” said the Reverend Dale.

“No. It’s all locked up. The cleaning lady has been and gone. I promised her she’d be kept on until any new tenants take over. They must make their own arrangements.”

“I think you have been very wise,” said the vicar.

He himself showed me to the door of the stone house. “It’s a lovely afternoon,” he said. “You look rather exhausted. That cottage there, with the green door. Peter will drive you to the station. Just give him something towards the petrol.”

I shook his hand, and like some callow youth, felt near to tears.

In future I must take more exercise. It is not like me to be so flabby. Thank God, Peter was amenable.

I have written all this down in the train. It has not been easy, with the jolting, and once I leaned back and fell fast asleep. I am better for that. I want to make an end of it here, and so return into London and my life, clear of it.

No, I cannot say I know what has gone on. When I put the four photographs into the tureen and poured in the whisky, I thought myself, frankly, an imbecile.

I had left them for perhaps twenty minutes, possibly a fraction longer. I approached the table with no sense of apprehension. Rather, I felt stupid.

Looking in, I saw at once, but the brain needs sometimes an interim to catch up with the quirkiness of the eye. So I experienced a numbing, ghastly dread, but even so I took out the photographs one by one, and laid them on the newspaper I had left ready.

The original had not altered. That is, the photograph, already damaged, of my Uncle by the tree. It had not changed, nor the mark, the yellow and red mark, that had the shape of a horned creature with forelegs and the hind body of a giant slug. There it still was, quite near to him but yet not close. There it was with its blind red dots of eyes, brilliant on the black and white surface of that simple scene.

The other three images are quickly described, and I should like to be quick. The whisky had affected them all only in one place. And in that place, always a different one, exactly similarly. The demon was there. The same. Absolute.

Where the two boys are playing as children, it is some way off, among the trees. It is coiled there, as if resting, watching them, like a pet cat.

In the photograph of William and his wife and sister — my Aunt — the thing is much nearer, lying in the grass at their feet — again, again, like some awful pet.

But it is the last picture, the most recent picture of my Uncle William’s younger son, it is that one — They are standing by the summer house. The boy is about thirteen, and the date on the back, that the whisky has blurred, gives evidence that this is so.

They do not look so very unhappy. Only formal, straight and stone still. That is probably the very worst thing. They should be in turmoil — and the boy — the boy should be writhing, flailing, screaming -