Тим Леббон - New Fears 2 - Brand New Horror Stories by Masters of the Macabre

Sunday 10th May 1964

Another quarrel with Evelyn. Been happening a lot of late. She suggests that I haven’t been myself, and that our relationship is fractured. I of course told her that she was being downright silly, but I wonder…

She is sleeping now. I have spent the last twenty minutes or so standing by her bedside, staring at her. Moonlight spills through the window and her skin seems so pale, and so breakable. I think how vulnerable her eyes are, and how soft her lips. It amazes me how easily she would shatter.

We are such fragile creatures.

Wednesday 20th May 1964

Tried my hand at some traditional Japanese haiku. I have stapled one into the diary:

Will submit to Ambit . Reject that, you buggers!

Tuesday 23rd June 1964

The last month or so has been extremely trying. Diary entries have been sporadic, at best, but I’ll try to cover the important things here.

I’ll begin by saying that Evelyn has threatened to take the children and leave. She has called my behaviour damnable and believes I need psychiatric help. She doesn’t like my beard either. She says it makes me look like a Russian. The beard (which I think looks rather dashing) is a problem that can be solved with a pair of scissors and a sharp razor. I am more concerned with other issues.

Namely, the typewriter.

I began to suspect a deviance about the little machine, something—dare I say it?— paranormal. Not simply because of the dead-puppy smell, or my deformed reflection when I’m typing. There is a disquieting presence about it… a dismalness to the clacking of the keys and the peal of the tiny bell, and I believe some small measure of it has leaked into me. And so I hastened to the one man who would know about such things: Watkins. I cornered him on his lunch break. He was eating marmalade sandwiches, like Paddington Bear, and reading a book on radiesthesia.

“Watkins,” I said. “I need your expertise.”

“The Purley contract?” he enquired worriedly.

“No,” I said. “Something even more inexplicable.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Is it possible,” I began, “for a non-living object to be spiritually possessed?”

“You mean like a house?”

“No,” I replied. “Something smaller.”

“A packet of fags?”

“Don’t be an imbecile.”

“Well, what do you mean, Arthur? Spit it out.”

I told him about the typewriter. I thought, prior to our conversation, that I would share only the relevant details, but found myself divulging everything, from the dead-puppy smell to the fact that my wife now sleeps in a separate bed. He listened, munching his marmalade sandwiches, nodding occasionally, and when I finished he took a pen from a pot on his desk and wrote down the name and telephone number of someone who could help.

“Kingsley Pringle?” I asked, eyeing the piece of paper suspiciously. “Is this a psychiatrist, Watkins? Do you think I’m bananas?”

“Not at all,” he said. “Pringle is the most renowned psychometrist in the UK, and luckily for you, he’s right here in Bermondsey.”

“Psychometrist?” I said.

Watkins nodded. “It is believed that all things—be they animal, vegetable, or mineral—have a unique vibratory signature. The psychometrist, through touch, is able to channel this energy and divine aspects of the subject’s history. For instance, he or she might touch an item of clothing and be able to tell you to whom it belonged. Pringle is particularly remarkable, and has several times been employed by Scotland Yard. He has touched murder victims, weapons, etcetera, and provided the police with vital information.”

“Fascinating,” I said.

“Quite,” Watkins agreed. A blob of marmalade dripped onto his tie. “Take your typewriter to Pringle, and he’ll be able to tell you more about it than you probably want to know.”

I thanked Watkins, went to my own desk, and called the number at once. Pringle answered. Our conversation was brisk. I told him about the typewriter and made an appointment for the following evening.

Pringle lives in a gloomy block of flats on The Grange. I took the bus to Tower Bridge Road (feeling somewhat odd with the typewriter perched on my lap) and walked from there. He lives on the top floor, of course, which meant I had to lug the beast up four flights of stairs. I was out of breath when I reached his door.

“Clayworth?”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr Pringle.”

“Come in,” he said.

I had expected a bright, fox-faced man in wire-framed spectacles, but Pringle was a dour-looking oldster with a plumage of silver hair and dandruff on his shoulders. He asked for payment of one pound up front, then led me to a room furnished only with a table and chair. At his request, I set the typewriter on the table and stepped back.

“An Oliver number 6,” he said, looking at it carefully, but not touching.

“Yes,” I replied. “It was in terrible con—”

“Shh.” He waved one porky digit in the air. “Don’t tell me anything.”

I bit my lip and nodded mutely.

“Partially restored.”

I wasn’t sure if it was a question or not, so remained silent.

“1909, I believe.”

I shrugged.

“And an ugly mite, if ever there was one.”

“It has a certain charm,” I said, having become used to defending the typewriter. Evelyn calls it the cockroach, and has begged me to get rid of it. But I cannot bring myself to discard something I worked so hard to restore. With my hands I made it comely (to my eye, at least), working in a cold shed to bring it to life. It feels like a part of me.

“Charm,” Pringle repeated. He shook his head and took a seat at the table. “Now, I ask that you remain quiet, Clayworth. I require absolute silence when scrying.”

“Scrying?”

“Shh.” The porky digit again.

I have since learned that Pringle has “scried” over a thousand objects, many of them with huge degrees of success. Smaller objects he places against his forehead. Those too heavy to lift are touched with hand position aligned with certain celestial energies. His usual reaction is a light fluttering of the eyelids and perhaps a few mumbled phrases. Then he will break contact and reveal what he has learned.

On this occasion, he assumed the position, placed his hands on either side of the typewriter, and immediately started to tremble—and quite violently too, as if several thousand volts of electricity were passing through his body. I, of course, thought this a normal aspect of the scrying process, along with the frothing at the corners of his mouth, so simply stood and watched, silently, as requested. However, I suspected something was awry when I smelled his silver plumage burning and noticed blood trickling from his ears.

“I say… Pringle?”

Pringle shrieked. He pulled his hands from the machine and flew backwards in his chair, spilling to the floor in a most ungainly manner.

“My dear man,” I said. “Is this quite normal?”

“Evil,” he said, holding his head. Tears sparkled in the corners of his eyes. “I’ve never known such evil. And it’s restless… looking for—”

“What are you talking about?” I took a step backward.

“Blood… screaming.”

I shook my head. The sight of Pringle so distressed, and the smell of his burning hair, was extremely unsettling.

“Go,” he pleaded, waving at the door. “And take that infernal machine with you.”

“Go?” I asked, gathering the typewriter to my chest. “But I gave you a pound.”

Pringle drew a long breath that sounded like the wind rattling my windows. Tendrils of smoke rippled from his scalp.