Dennis Wheatley - The Devil Rides Out

The whirling hurricane ceased as suddenly as it had begun. An unnatural stillness descended on the room again. Then without warning, an uncontrollable fit of trembling took possession of Marie Lou.

‘Steady, my sweet,’ breathed Richard, gripping her hand more tightly, ‘you’ll be all right in a minute.’ He thought that she was suffering from the effect of that awful cold which had penetrated the thin garments of them all, but she was standing facing the grate and her knees shook under her as she stammered out:

‘But look—the fire.’

Simon was behind her but the Duke and Richard, who were on either side, turned their heads and saw the thing that had caused her such excess of terror. The piled-up logs had flared into fresh life as that strange rushing wind had circled round the room, but now the flames had died down and, as their eyes rested upon it, they saw that the red-hot embers were turning black. It was as though some monstrous invisible hand was dabbing at it, then, almost in a second, every spark of light in that great, glowing fire was quenched.

‘Pray,’ urged the Duke, ‘for God’s sake, pray.’

After a little their eyes grew accustomed to this new darkness. The electric globes hidden behind the cornice were not quite dead. They flickered and seemed about to fail entirely every few moments, yet always the power exerted against them seemed just not quite enough, for their area of light would increase again, so that the shadows across the ceiling and below the books were driven back. The four friends waited with pounding hearts as they watched that silent struggle between light and darkness and the swaying of the shadows backwards and forwards, that ringed them in.

For what seemed an immeasurable time they stood in silent apprehension, praying that the last gleam of light would hold out, then, shattering that eerie silence like the sound of guns there came three swift, loud knocks upon the window-pane.

‘Who’s that?’ snapped Richard.

‘Stay still,’ hissed the Duke.

A voice came suddenly from outside the garden. It was clear and unmistakable. Each one of them recognised it instantly as that of Rex.

‘Say, I saw your light burning. Come on and let me in.’

With a little sigh of relief at the breaking of the tension, Richard let go Marie Lou’s hand and took a step forward. But the Duke grabbed his shoulder and jerked him back :

‘Don’t be a fool,’ he rasped. ‘It’s a trap.’

‘Come on now. What the heck is keeping you?’ the voice demanded. ‘It’s mighty cold out here, let me in quick.’

Richard alone remained momentarily unconvinced that it was a superhuman agency at work. The others felt a shiver of horror run through their limbs at that perfect imitation of Rex’s voice, which they were convinced was a manifestation of some terrible entity endeavouring to trick them into leaving their carefully constructed defence.

‘Richard,’ the voice came again, angrily now. ‘It’s Rex I tell you—Rex. Stop all this fooling and get this door undone.’ But the four figures in the pentacle now remained tense, silent and unresponsive.

The voice spoke no more and once again there was a long interval of silence.

De Richleau feared that the Adversary was gathering his forces for a direct attack and it was that, above all other things, which filled him with dread. He was reasonably confident that his own intelligence would serve to sense out and avoid any fresh pitfalls which might be set, providing the others would obey his bidding and remain steadfast in their determination not to leave the pentacle, but he had failed in his attempt to secure the holy wafers of the Blessed Sacrament that afternoon, the lights were all but overcome, the sacred candles had been snuffed out. The holy waters, horseshoes, garlic and the pentacle itself might only prove a partial defence if the dark entities which were about them made an open and determined assault.

‘What’s that!’ exclaimed Simon and they swung round to face the new danger. The shadows were massing into deeper blackness in one corner of the room. Something was moving there.

A dim phosphorescent blob began to glow in the darkness; shimmering and spreading into a great hummock, its outline gradually became clearer. It was not a man form nor yet an animal, but heaved there on the floor like some monstrous living sack. It had no eyes or face but from it there radiated a terrible malefic intelligence.

Suddenly there ceased to be anything ghostlike about it. The Thing had a whitish pimply skin, leprous and unclean, like some huge silver slug. Waves of Satanic power rippled through its spineless body, causing it to throb and work continuously like a great mass of new-made dough. A horrible stench of decay and corruption filled the room; for as it writhed it exuded a slimy poisonous moisture which trickled in little rivulets across the polished floor. It was solid, terribly real, a living thing. They could even see long, single golden hairs, separated from each other by ulcerous patches of skin, quivering and waving as they rose on end from its flabby body—and suddenly it began to laugh at them, a low, horrid, chuckling laugh.

Marie Lou reeled against Richard, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth and biting into it to prevent a scream.

His eyes were staring, a cold perspiration broke out upon his face.

De Richleau knew that it was a Saiitii manifestation of the most powerful and dangerous kind. His nails bit into the palms of his hands as he watched that shapeless mass, silver white and putrescent, heave and ferment.

Suddenly it moved, with the rapidity of a cat, yet they heard the squelching sound as it leapt along the floor, leaving a wet slimy trail in its wake, that poisoned the air like foul gases given off by animal remains.

They spun round to face it, then it laughed again, mocking them with that quiet, diabolical chuckle that had the power to fill them with such utter dread.

It lay for a moment near the window pulsating with demoniac energy like some enormous livid heart. Then it leapt again back to the place where it had been before.

Shuddering at the thought of that ghastliness springing upon their backs they turned with lightning speed to meet it, but it only lay here wobbling and crepitating with unholy glee.

‘Oh, God!’ gasped Richard.

The masked door which led up to the nursery was slowly opening. A line of white appeared in the gap from near the floor to about three feet in height. It broadened as the low door swung back noiselessly upon its hinges, and Marie Lou gave a terrified cry: ‘It’s Fleur!’

The men, too, instantly recognised the little body, in the white nightgown, vaguely outlined against the blackness of the shadows, as the face with its dark aureole of curling hair became clear.

The Thing was only two yards from the child. With hideous merriment it chuckled evilly, and flopping forward, decreased the distance by a half.

With one swift movement, De Richleau flung his arm about Marie Lou’s neck and jerked her backwards, her chin gripped fast in the crook of his elbow. ‘It’s not Fleur,’ he cried desperately. ‘Only some awful thing which has taken her shape to deceive you.’

‘Of course it’s Fleur—she’s walking in her sleep!’ Richard started forward to spring towards the child, but De Richleau grabbed his arm with his free hand and wrenched him back.

‘It’s not,’ he insisted in an agonised whisper. ‘Richard, I beg you! Have a little faith in me! Look at her face—it’s blue! Oh, Lord protect us!’

At that positive suggestion, thrown out with such vital force at a moment of supreme emotional tension, it did appear to them for an instant that the child’s face had a corpse-like bluish tinge then, upon the swift plea for Divine aid, the lines of the figure seemed to blur and tremble. The Thing laughed, but this time with thwarted malice, a high-pitched, angry, furious note. Then both the child and that nameless Thing became transparent and faded. The silent heavy darkness, undisturbed by sound or movement, settled all about them once again.