Herbert van Thal - The Seventh Pan Book of Horror Stories

'Mervyn. Let me have a look at your throat, please.

Mervyn did not move.

'Mervyn, the marks on your throat.' Windrop approached the bed and looked down at his son wha stared up at him without moving and without saying a word. He tried to turn away as his father sat on the edge of the bed, but Windrop got hold of him and pushed his head back so that he could see the pricks in the light of the bedside lamp.

'Where did you get those?' Silence.

'All right,' said Windrop, making a decision. 'You aren't going to tell me anything, so I'll tell you a thing or two: not only are those bats going, but all the other animals as well, and furthermore I shall take great pleasure in demolishing that hut with my own two hands.'

'No!' The cry came from deep within the boy and his eyes seemed to start from his head. He raised himself up on his elbows and Windrop recoiled from the hatred that radiated from his son. He rose quickly from the bed and then asserted himself.

'Yes,' he said firmly, and left the room. Mervyn slumped back on to the bed and his eyes seemed to sink back into his head as he fought to recover from this shattering blow. What would he do when the hut went? Where would the bats be able to go? It was difficult enough as it was trying to make sure they were fed, difficult to supply enough blood….

That night the Windrops went to bed happier than they had been for some time. A decision had been made, and once it was carried out they could get on with the job of reclaiming their son without malign outside influences making it impossible. They talked for a while and then both went comfortably to sleep.

In his room Mervyn waited patiently. When he judged it right he went quietly to the door of his parents' room and tapped. There was no reply so he softly opened it and looked in. Both asleep. He closed the door and hurried downstairs, out into the garden and down to the hut. As he neared it he could hear the shrill cries of the bats as they waited for him. He opened the door of the hut and they flapped out into the night, circling him, squeaking urgently as they hovered close, almost caressingly.

Mervyn started to walk back towards the house and the bats followed, swooping and wheeling away at times, but always returning. When he got to the house he paused.

'Quiet now, bats,' he said gently and the cries ceased abruptly. Then the strange procession entered the house: the small, pale-faced boy in pyjamas and the now silent swarm of fox-faced bats, flicking their way silently around the room as they went out into the hall and up the stairs. Mervyn edged his way along the passage until he came to his parents' reom. He stopped to see if all his friends were with him, and they were. He grinned widely and then opened the door of the bedroom, stepped in and looked back at the silent, flapping mass of wings, fur and teeth.

'Come along, bats,' he said.

She had no idea why she had agreed to go out with him. She didn't like him, and she never would, but he seemed to have a hypnotic effect on her. Thank Heavens though, it would be for the last time.

They had met three months ago, and this was the sixth time he had persuaded her to spend an evening with him, and each time she had been uncomfortable and bored. She was sorry for him of course, but she actually found him repulsive, she didn't quite know why. She shivered slightly.

He was a small man, and rather stout, with a pink and white complexion, a round unlined face and baby-blue rather staring eyes. He had a soft insinuating voice, he fluttered his pudgy white hands nervously all the time when he spoke, and he walked mincingly. Not her type at all. His name was Henry Mallory and he was twenty-seven.

She was eighteen, and very pretty. She wasn't conceited about it, but she knew it for a fact. Everyone, including the looking glass in her bedroom told her so. Her name was Sheila Francis.

Unfortunately Sheila's mother rather liked Henry, and did everything she could to encourage him, but now that Sheila was engaged to John Coolridge, surely even her mother must realise that Henry couldn't take Sheila out any more. Not after tonight.

John was wonderful. Sheila sighed happily as she thought of him. He was all that she had ever wanted in a man. He was tall, dark and handsome. He had black hair, brown eyes, a lean attractive face, a marvellous smile which showed off his splendid white teeth, a strong clear speaking voice and broad shoulders. What more could a girl ask?

She sighed again and pulled the pale woollen frock over her head, zipped up the fastening, smoothed the material over her hips, and reached for her pearls. She put on the pearl earrings to match, gave her lips a second coating of lipstick, and looked for the last time into her mirror. She looked good. No doubt about it. If only she were going out with John!

She heard the front door bell ring. Henry had arrived. She glanced at her clock on the dressing table. Seven o'clock exactly. He was always punctual. Dead on time. She heard the front door being opened, the sound of voices, and then her mother's footsteps coming up the stairs. In another moment her mother entered the room.

'Look darling,' she exclaimed excitedly. 'Isn't Henry kind? He's brought you these gorgeous flowers and this little present.' She held out an enormous bunch of dark red roses, and a small square parcel. 'He says he wants you to wear what's in the parcel this very evening. He's so thoughtful and charming. I can't think why you don't like him.'

Sheila took the roses, and sniffed at them dutifully. 'Lovely,' she said.

'I'll open the parcel darling,' said her mother, 'while you put on your coat. I wonder what he's brought. Mustn't keep Henry waiting though. He's got a taxi outside.'

'I'm engaged to John,' said Sheila resentfully. 'I shouldn't accept any presents except flowers from Henry.'

'Rubbish!' exclaimed Mrs Francis. 'How old fashioned you are! Of course you should.'

Sheila put on her new cherry red coat, while her mother opened the parcel with little cries of anticipatory joy. 'Oh darling,' she breathed. 'Look! Isn't it enchanting?'

In a small square box lay a small brown brooch. It was in the shape of a curious little animal, with a pointed nose, and two unwinking eyes. Its round little body was covered with long silky fur. It had four tiny webbed feet, and the pin on which it was resting was gold. A minute gold collar round its neck was fastened by a gold chain to the brooch-pin, which was long and pointed like a miniature sword.

Tut it on,' cooed Mrs Francis girlishly. 'What a lucky girl you are! And what an original brooch!'

Sheila took it out of the box, and to her surprise the body of the little animal was squashy. For some reason this unnerved her. She looked at it with a slight feeling of disgust, staring at the beady expressionless eyes, then she pinned it on to her coat. Was it her imagination, or did those unwinking eyes gleam for a moment in satisfaction? Of course it was imagination.

'It's absolutely darling!' fussed her mother gaily. 'I've never seen anything so sweet, and you look sweet too my dear.' She kissed her daughter fondly. 'Now come downstairs my poppet or Henry will be getting impatient.'

Henry was standing in front of the fire warming his round fat backside. He waved his hands at her cheerfully when she walked in, and complimented her on her appearance. Just for a moment as his eyes rested on the brooch Sheila thought she saw the same gleam of satisfaction that she had imagined in the animal's eyes, but it was gone so quickly that she couldn't be sure.

Her mother was fussing round them. Would Henry have a drink? — No he wouldn't thank you — or they would be late for dinner. Where were they going? To the Arlington? How lovely — Such good food, and such a charming atmosphere. Terribly expensive though naughty Henry. But of course they must be going! The taxi would be costing a fortune. And how madly extravangant to take a taxi all the way out to the Arlington. Not a taxi but a hired car? Worse and worse, naughty boy. But we're only young once. Sheila listened to the conversation in exasperation. Really how silly her mother could be sometimes. Why couldn't she grow up? And Henry with his bland face and over-polite manners, was a pain in the neck.