Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

He turned his head and spoke slowly, seemingly jerking each word out with great difficulty.

“I know of . . . this . . . young person, sir. It might be well . . . if you . . . did not encourage her. Make no contact . . . whatsoever. Above all . . . I beg of you . . . do not touch her. Never . . . never touch her.”

I tried to laugh, but the effort all but choked me. Instead I managed to ask:

“Why not? Who is she?”

“Please don’t ask questions, sir. Don’t make me regret allowing you to enter this house. Just ignore . . . forget and never touch. Do what I do . . . turn your back and walk away.” His voice rose to a near scream. “Shut your eyes, block up your ears and try hard to understand.”

He went into the hall, shoulders squared, bag gripped firmly in his right hand, frozen fear expressed in every line of his upright figure. I waited for the sound of the front door closing, before making my way to Caroline Fortescue’s bedroom.

I steeled myself to endure that awful stench, but found it less pungent than the day before. The creature on the chaise longue looked much the same; motionless, eyes partly open and betraying no sign of life. So much for Jenkins’ assertion that she was awake and expecting me. After watching her for a few minutes, I went over to the book shelves and began to examine the bound manuscripts.

Without doubt they were priceless. Written in a clear, round hand, with a space between each line so as to leave room for corrections, here were the original manuscripts of the literary masterpieces that had enthralled three generations. I turned over the pages of Moorland Master and marvelled at the concentration and sheer energy that writing something like a quarter of a million words with a pen and ink, must have involved. But of one thing I was certain. Every book had been a labour of love. The faultless penmanship, the neatly ruled out words of lines, with the substituted prose written above, testified to the masochistic pleasure that is the reward for arduous work well done. A sheet of faded blue notepaper had been pinned on page one and on this was written in the same clear style:

Life is what you make it

A simple philosophy and one easy to follow for a rich young lady in the nineteenth century. I closed Moorland Master and was reaching for the next manuscript when a low, almost masculine voice made me jerk round in sudden alarm.

“Young man, come here.”

It took courage to approach the chaise longue, then look down at Caroline Fortescue. She had not moved, the eyes were still half closed, but the mouth was wide open, as though the lower jaw had dropped. I managed to say:

“I’m Brian Radcliffe . . . a . . . a guest in your house.”

The rasping voice spoke again, but I could detect no movement either of the mouth or tongue. I could only suppose she had taught herself to speak with the stomach muscles, but each word was pronounced with precision.

“Of course, I had forgotten. I am inclined to be absent-minded these days. Time has become fluid, it ebbs and flows so that today often merges with yesterday. More, it sometimes recedes beyond yesterday. I daresay you are confused.”

I shook my head. “No . . . that is to say I am trying to understand.”

“That is fortunate. Poor Jenkins only thinks he understands. But our time is short for I shall soon drift away and next time we meet . . .” She paused and I heard a ghost of a chuckle. “I’ll not be entirely myself. There is a question you wish to ask me.”

I swallowed and tried to select one question from an entire army. “Yes, why did you stop writing after 1911?”

“Because there no longer existed the need to write books. I was able to live them. If that is an unsatisfactory reply, I can only add – think on what you have already seen and heard. Then you will . . . There is I believe a feeding cup nearby.”

I looked around and saw the china vessel with a long spout standing on the mantel shelf and on taking it down found it contained a small amount of the white liquid.

“Yes, I have it here.”

“Then be so kind as to pour liquid nourishment into my mouth. I am conscious of a drying up, purely illusory no doubt, but no less real.”

With an unsteady hand I poured enriched milk into that gaping hole, then withdrew the cup when the mouth filled. Little riverlets of white moisture spilled over and ran down the chin, but the remainder gradually disappeared, although I could not detect any sign of swallowing. The stuff seemed to be merely sinking down her throat. The harsh voice spoke again.

“Thank you. But I fear the result is not satisfactory. I am slipping away again . . . slipping away. Remember not to . . . to . . . or all will be . . . lost . . . lost . . .”

I waited for a long time, hoping (but dreading) she might speak again, but although the mouth remained open, no further sound came from it. Presently the door opened and Jenkins came tip-toeing across the room, his face lit by a gentle smile.

“Did you have a chat with her ladyship, sir?”

I nodded. “Yes, we had a brief but interesting conversation. But, Jenkins, how does she talk? Her mouth . . .”

“No questions if you please, sir. Now I see her ladyship has gone back to sleep. Splendid. I’ve prepared a light lunch, so if you would care to come downstairs, we’ll leave her to rest.”

I did not encourage the old man to speak during lunch for there was a distinct feeling that if I pressed him too hard, he would tell me something I did not want to hear. In this I was aided by his built-in compulsion not to speak when a superior displayed signs of wishing to remain silent, and this I did by frowning when he so much as cleared his throat. At last the meal ended and I volunteered to help him wash up, a suggestion he dismissed with something akin to horror.

“I’ll take a little walk,” I said quietly, almost daring him to make any objection. “Just a stroll round the grounds.”

His head was averted when he answered. “An excellent idea, sir. But it might be well if you kept to the drive. The woods are dangerous at this time of year. The undergrowth conceals boggy patches that can trap the unwary. I entreat you, sir. Keep out in the open.”

“I will not take any unnecessary risks,” I promised.

As I walked across the drive I knew he was watching, darting from window to window and possibly sighing with relief when I turned right and skirted the woods, wading through knee high grass until I came to an overgrown hedge that was breached by an old stile. This I climbed, then after making certain that I could not be seen from the house, entered the woods.

Dense undergrowth impeded progress, whippy twigs stung my groping hands as though some rustic deity were trying to protect its gloomy retreat from invasion. I veered left looking for the path my nocturnal visitor had taken the night before. Eventually I stumbled on to it; a barely perceptible parting that ran through stunted ferns and crumbling leaf mould; a ghost path which had died long, long ago.

To this day I am not certain how long I followed that narrow, almost non-existent trail, but suddenly I found myself facing a large clearing in which stood a snug, red-bricked cottage. It was familiar, yet more than a little disturbing. I tried to remember where I had seen such a cottage before, but could only conjure up mental pictures torn from brightly illustrated books, last seen before cosy nursery fires. Woodland cottage, elderly loving parents, a beautiful daughter who held intimate conversations with loquacious rabbits and other members of the animal kingdom.

A sloping red-tiled roof, two windows up and two down, a green door in the centre; a crazy paved path that divided a flower-rich garden; all protected by a white picket fence broken by a green gate. Dazzling white curtains masked the windows, flaming red geraniums enhanced the lower window sills, while blue smoke drifted up from two squat chimney pots.