Herbert van Thal: The Seventh Pan Book of Horror Stories

'It's Rodney!' she gasped the name in a strangled voice and for an instant her beauty was wiped away, so that I saw her as she would be when time had done its work; had taken the sheen from the pale skin and wrecked the firm muscles with cruel fingers. Then she jerked her head round and I looked at a frightened child, the cultivated mask ripped aside, and she was as naked as a sinful man on judgment day. I said: 'Do you know him?' A silly question, but I wasn't really interested in her problems, because the young man was taking a drink, at least I guessed he was for although his back was towards me, the Thing had moved to a position a few feet from our table, and for a while I could not understand why its mouth was open and its throat muscles working, then I suddenly realised that it was enjoying whatever the man was drinking. I know that must sound crazy, but may I never raise a glass again if it isn't true; the white face gleamed with the look of a dipso who is having his first drink for a long time, then the man at the bar turned, a full glass was in his hand so I guessed he'd ordered a refill, and he came towards our table so that for a while they stood side by side, the Thing and him, only I knew he did not know he was not alone. Then he suddenly saw my girl friend, the Thing's eyes lit up as well, and together they approached the table, an action that didn't make me feel happy, or, if I was to judge by her expression, the little lady either, for she looked as terrified as a rabbit at a stoat's convention.

'Don't leave me alone with him,' she pleaded, 'he's poison.'

I said nothing as he came up to the table and I could tell he'd seen a lot of tough American films, because he just grabbed a chair and sat down; the Thing stood behind him, its eyes fixed on the girl, while its lips kept moving, and I found myself trying to guess what it was saying.

The man ignored me, a fact that he would have regretted if I hadn't been so concerned with what he brought with him, and when he spoke to the girl it was with a slight Cockney accent that is so popular with pop singers.

'So I found you — up to your old tricks again, looking for suckers, and I see you've found one.'

He looked at me, but much more important the Thing did so as well, and I saw a gleam of speculative interest in its dreadful eyes, so that terror made me empty the sixth glass and make a beeline for the bar. The young man laughed, a high pitched whining sound, but I did not care, so long as the Thing stayed where it was he could laugh his head off. But I could not leave the bar, I had to stay and watch this macabre drama, and though I would not face the truth the tall black figure held a repellant fascination for me; I felt an urge to touch it, to hear it speak, even as a child might want to finger fire.

When I looked back the Thing had changed its position and stood behind my vacated chair where it was watching the girl and the man, and it seemed that it was taking part in the conversation, for the mouth was opening and closing so that I had the impression it was shouting instructions. More people came in and others left, all of them seeking the stimuli of alcohol for the going is tough along the narrow pathway to the grave, or maybe the seventh whiskey was turning sour on me. Perhaps my liver was at last giving up the fight, or more likely my brain was beginning to present its own film show, but I could distinctly see a row of tables standing in a neat row against the far wall, and seated round them was a number of figures dressed all in black, and wearing white masks. They sat perfectly still; their heads were turned inwards and I could only see the sexless profiles, and I felt an unexplainable dread that they might move, for I knew these were the eternal watchers; the dark ones who know neither anger nor pity.

The girl looked back over one white shoulder, and her blue eyes raked my face with burning intensity; a mute appeal for help, as though I were a lifeboat in a boiling sea, and she a lone swimmer at the end of her strength. There was a scraping of a chair and the young man sprang to his feet; the Thing moved back, its eyes blazing with an unholy joy. The girl rose quickly and ran towards me, and the drinkers drew back in alarm, so that I stood alone with the girl running her last few steps; only the watchers did not move. She clutched my arms and I saw the dark caverns of hell reflected in her eyes, and I wanted to tell her it would all pass, that suffering cannot last for ever — not even in hell, but there was not time. The gun in the young man's hand spoke instead, and the beautiful eyes blinked, then blazed forth their horror, the white shoulders quivered, the neck twisted, and she slumped to the floor.

When I looked up the young man was staring in astonishment at the huddled figure that lay at my feet, but the Thing was close behind him, its right arm was raised to the level of his, and its hand rested on the hand that held the gun. Then it drew back and I saw a look of peace on its face; the peace of a sated drug addict, the peace that would come to a vampire who has drunk his fill. The young man shook his head several times, then slowly, like a tired child stifling a yawn, he put the nozzle of the revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

The room was a bedlam of screaming women and swearing men; they rushed back and fro like ants when a pick axe has been driven into their hill. I sank into a chair and listened to the waterfall that crashed about my ears and pondered on the suddenly revealed truth that man's lusts must go on multiplying so that eventually, surely there must be total darkness — or a wiping out — a new beginning.

At last I rose and made my way towards the door — towards those black figures who were now more real than before, and there suddenly came into my vision a little man with a pale wrinkled face and the knowledge of forbidden lore in his eyes. He beckoned with a long trembling finger, and I bent down so that his lips could approach my ear. His voice was old, so very old, and he spoke in a low husky whisper:

'Don't look behind, but you're being followed.'

With a single movement the watchers turned their heads, and the white masks were staring at me, the eyes black pools of darkness, and I knew I would never walk or drink alone again.

Together we left the room.

If she moved her head no more than an inch to the left, she could see through the long lean scythes of grass right down to the river to where the punt was usually tied up. But for some reason or other the punt wasn't there. And when she came to think about it a little longer, she realised that the jetty also wasn't there. It worried her, until it occurred to her that perhaps the place where she was lying was either too far up- or down-river for her to see where the punt and the jetty should have been. But no; when she turned round to look over her shoulder, the roof of the house was exactly where she expected it, peering at her over the orchard of almond and apple trees which, despite their age, were again green and swelling with fruit this summer.

She turned back to the river again, the sun seeping luxuriously through the back of her dress. Where could the punt and jetty have got to? Had Father decided after all to build a new jetty, and while the old one was demolished the punt was up in the boat-house? That must be the explanation. And yet, if this were so, she should have heard about it. Surely her sisters, even Flora, could not have kept so important a project secret from her? When she would go back up to the house, later on in this glorious day when the sun's warmth would be gone, she'd have it out with them, mark her words that she would. They couldn't put everything over Maisie Jane Matthews, no matter how smart they all thought they were, all five of them, especially Flora, even Elsie; hateful, they were at times, like when they said in sing-song voices: