The Seventh Pan Book of Horror Stories Part 17

It swung inwards, and he saw at a glance that nothing was different, except that the place was damper and exuded a musty smell. In the drawing-room some plaster had fallen from the ceiling and a strip of wallpaper was peeling from the wall. The whole house was even more silent than he remembered and had a curiously dank and vault-like chill. Or was it merely that he was soaked to the skin and shaken by rigors in every member? In the hope of attracting his weird host's attention, he pulled long and violently at the bell.

Silence. And after silence, more silence, welling in the dark on the heels of retreating light. In the hope that the madman might have kindled a fire, Peter made his way to the kitchen, but a glance at the ashes in the grate snuffed out his hopes. On a shelf stood several tins of food, unopened, but here also the dust lay thick. A plate in the sink contained some rock-hard unidentifiable substance which might have been edible once.

Peter peered out into the garden. The brown gra.s.s had been beaten to the ground by the fury of the winter storms that swept over the island. Of the madman there was no sign. Peter consoled himself by reflecting that the man might have been removed to a lunatic asylum on the mainland, though he knew in his heart this was not true. He shouted once or twice, but the only answer was silence. Not even an echo gave back his halloo.

Frightened more and more by this atmosphere of lurking evil, Peter made his way up the stairs. They groaned as though deploring his pa.s.sage, which left a trail of water everywhere. The first bedroom he came to was empty, bare even of furniture. Two others, shrouded in cobwebs, opened off a corridor. At the far end was another doorway, masked by a moth-eaten portiere. It crumbled and tore in Peter's fingers as he pulled it to one side and went in - and came face to face with the madman, propped up in a foully disordered bed. It took several seconds for him to realise that the staring eyes were sightless and that the madman, in fact, was dead.

The shock stopped his breath for a moment. When he exhaled, it was with a hoa.r.s.e, choking scream. He turned and blundered blindly down the corridor, away from the hideous sight. But at the turn of the stairs a further shock awaited him. Confronting him was the madman's ghost. Wild-eyed, white hair disordered, the pallid face streaked with grime, the lips drawn back into a taut, tetanic rictus, the creature stood awaiting him. Peter threw up his hands in horror and the madman raised his arms to draw him in. There was a magnetism about his red-rimmed eyeb.a.l.l.s. Against his will, Peter found himself advancing to'wards the outstretched arms. His own hands were outstretched to defend himself against the horror which left him powerless in every limb. Yet his legs continued to bear him forward and the madman to hold out his arms.

Peter knew that the creature's touch would be icy, but he was not prepared for quite such burning cold. Involuntarily his hand withdrew from the contact, and the madman's arms fell to his sides. For an instant the two men confronted each other. Then Peter Quint began to laugh. %His mirror image joined him in insane peals of grim amus.e.m.e.nt. 'The new tenant, ha-ha-ha!'

Whether Peter had always been mentally unstable, or whether the shock of Dora's death sent him over the edge, has been hotly debated by his and her relations, but neither Peter nor Dora care. Both in their different ways are past all caring - Dora in the tomb and Peter in a home, where his relations expeditiously placed him as soon as his condition became known. The proprietor of the Coq d'Or will tell their story with very little prompting from his guests, who find it makes an excellent aperitif. There is a new madman on the Island of Regrets.

NEVER TALK TO STRANGERS.

By Alex White.

Lottie Blake was travelling by train from Birmingham to London, and she was extremely nervous. She was a big heavy girl, with dark hair, flas.h.i.+ng eyes and apple red cheeks. She had never left Henley-in-Arden before, and as well as being nervous she was very excited at the prospect of finding work in a large city. She loved the countryside but had the feeling that in London, instead of existing, she would really be living; that among the bright lights, the gaiety and the sophistication, she might find romance, and even perhaps fame.

She was a romantic girl.

Stella Smith, who had been to school with her was already in London, working in Paddington. She had been a little vague as to what her job actually was - some sort of job in a hotel she had said (a receptionist as far as Lottie could gather) but she was excellently paid, and she had suggested that Lottie should join her.

Lottie's parents had been against it at first, but the lure of the money (20 a week as a start) was too much for them all, so here she was, on her way.

One thing however was marring her excitement. During the past two years there had been a series of murders in the district where she would be living, and the victims were always young girls of between sixteen and twenty, and Lottie was seventeen. The murderer not only killed the girls, but he dismembered the bodies, so that the police had to find the pieces - an arm here, a torso there, and a head perhaps in a hat-box like that play Lottie had done at school by Emlyn Williams. What was it called? Oh yes, Night Must Fall. Horrible! Stella however had made nonsense of Lottfe's fears. 'You'll be perfectly safe with me,' she had said, 'if you keep yourself to yourself and don't talk to strangers. You can share my digs which are smas.h.i.+ng, and I'll look after you, until you're on your feet.' She had also promised to meet Lottie at Paddington Station. 'The great thing is,' she had written once again, 'never get talking to strange men, and then you'll be all right.' And Lottie promised her parents that she'd heed the advice.

She was travelling third cla.s.s, and the carriage was crowded. There were six men and one other woman. Luckily the woman who was middle-aged and motherly was sitting next to her, and they struck up a conversation, and Lottie was able to ignore all the men. So at least she knew she was safe until she saw Stella.

'We'll be there in a jiffy,' said the motherly woman suddenly. 'Will you be all right on your own dear?'

'Yes thank you,' replied Lottie politely. 'My friend Stella Smith will be meeting me, and I'm sharing her digs, so I shall be fine.'

The train slid into the station, and the occupants of the carriage streamed out on to the platform. One of the men helped Lottie with her luggage, much to her dismay, but the moment he had put it on the platform, he lifted his hat and to her great relief left her.

The motherly woman was still a little anxious. 'Sure I can't help you love? I can easily wait a few minutes. Can you see your friend? Certain you'll be all right?'

'Oh please don't bother to wait,' answered Lottie confidently. 'Stella is sure to be here. She promised she would be, and she's very reliable.'

But Stella was not there. She was nowhere to be seen.

At first Lottie waited quite happily. This was London, and she had never seen such crowds in her life. It was all very thrilling. Birmingham had seemed busy enough, but this was fantastic.

People were hurrying about in all directions. Thousands and thousands of them. The huge trains wound in or steamed out of the long platforms. Whistles blew, guards shouted, an occasional dog barked. People met each other and kissed, left each other and cried - waved, shouted, ran, strode purposefully.

Mountains of luggage piled on trollies, were wheeled towards the barrier. It was all wonderful, and Lottie was in high spirits.

But there was still no sign of Stella, and now the big platform was almost empty.

Slightly worried, she picked up her two small suitcases and made her way to the barrier. 'Stella is sure to be waiting over there!' she chided herself - 'What a silly I am! What's the sense of buying a platform ticket when she only has to meet me, and then go straight out again?'

Only two other people, both men, were still on the platform with her. Even the porters had gone. But the ticket collector was still at the barrier. Lottie trotted towards him.

The ticket collector held his hand out for her ticket.

'Actually I'm waiting for someone,' said Lottie, 'so I'd rather stay on the platform. Do you mind? I just want to look past you to see if my friend is waiting for me that's all. OK?'

'That's all right my dear. Take a look round. Why not? I'll trust you!' He chuckled in a fatherly manner.

Lottie peered through the barrier - Stella was nowhere in sight.

She confided in the ticket collector again. 'I've never been to London before,' she said. 'I expect my friend has been held up. What would you advise me to do?'

'D'you know her address?'

'Yes.'

'Well I should wait another few minutes, then if she still doesn't come, take a cab to where your friend lives.'

'Good idea!' said Lottie gratefully. 'Thank you.'

She returned to the platform and sat on a bench with her two suitcases beside her.

One of the men came and sat down beside her.

He was a villainous looking man of about thirty, with a swarthy complexion, a mane of black hair, a large nose, and a loose-lipped red mouth. He was powerfully built and had huge square hands with swollen veins. Lottie studiously avoided looking at him, but he seemed determined to make her acquaintance.

Tou a stranger to London?' he asked.

She didn't reply.

'You live here?' he insisted.

Lottie moved further away from him.

'You were expecting someone, weren't you?' he said. 'I bin watching you. You looked up and down the platform, then you talked to the ticket collector, and now you're waiting. Where d'you want to go?'

Lottie kept silent.

The man sounded impatient. 'Look here,' he said. 'There's no need to be so stand offish. I know London. I can take you anywhere you want to go. Tell you what, I'll give you something to eat as well.'

'No thank you,' said Lottie.

'Oh come on,' urged the man. 'What's the sense? I'm doing you a good turn.'

Lottie got up and moved away. The man followed her.

'Look,' said Lottie. 'You go on pestering me, and I'll ask the ticket collector to get rid of you.'

At that moment the second man came alongside them. He lifted his hat.

'Forgive me if I'm intruding,' he said in a pleasant rather light voice, 'but I wondered if I could be of any a.s.sistance?'

Lottie looked at him. He was tall and thin, with fair straight hair, blue eyes and a scrubbed rather pink and white complexion. He was quietly though well dressed, and he had a very pleasant smile. She warmed to him at once.

'Yes you can help, thanks,' she said gratefully. 'This man keeps on pestering me, and he won't go away. I'm waiting for a friend who promised to meet me, and this man has been watching me and wants to get fresh.'

'Allow me to take the place of your friend for a few minutes,' said the pleasant man. He then turned to the other man, and said, 'Perhaps you'd be good enough to leave the lady alone. I'm quite willing to take care of her.'

The big man started to protest, but finally shrugged his shoulders, and departed, and Lottie's new friend smiled at her with great charm.

'Now' he said cheerfully, 'anything else I can do?'

Lottie gave him her name and told him all her troubles. 'So I'm a bit lost/ she added anxiously. 'I don't know whether to stay here or go to her place.'

'Come with me Miss Blake,' said the pleasant man, Til take you to your destination. My name is Clandon by the way - Peter Clandon.'

He took her by the arm. They pa.s.sed the ticket collector and once outside the platform, he suggested refreshments in the refreshment room. 'And we can look out of the window and watch for your friend,' he comforted her. Over their scrambled eggs and coffee they became very friendly, and by the time they had finished eating, darkness had already fallen.

It was a fine night, and Lottie was delighted with the way things had turned out. She was even glad that there was no sign of Stella.

'This is quite an adventure/ she told Peter and he seemed pleased.

He now suggested that he should show her round London a little before taking her to her digs, and she readily agreed. He took her by bus up Oxford Street and down Regent Street, and she chattered to him excitedly all the way.

He was vastly amused by the fact that she had thought the man from whom he had rescued her was the killer of Padding-ton, and told her that it was his theory that killers seldom looked like killers, or they wouldn't get any victims. They both laughed heartily at this.

'Well at any rate I can see you're not one/ she said. 'My friend told me never to talk to strangers which is why I was clamming up on the other fellow, but you're quite different. You don't look like a stranger.'

And they both laughed again.

Finally she said she really must go to her friend's digs in case Stella was worrying about her, and Peter agreed.

'First come back to rtiy place,' he said. 'I've got a job to do, and some gear to collect there, then Fll take you on to your final resting place.'

What a horrid expression!' laughed Lottie and Peter once again joined in the laughter.

Peter lived in a surprisingly squalid part of Paddington. His room which was on the third floor of a near derelict house, overlooked a nearly deserted lane leading to a disused warehouse. Lottie didn't like to show her surprise and dismay, but she felt a distinct lowering of her spirits as she looked about her.

An iron bedstead with a filthy brick-red cover, over what judging from the b.u.mps appeared to be an exceedingly ill-made bed, was in the corner. Beside it was a chipped wash basin. A tall fumed oak wardrobe with a vaguely art-nouveau acorn motif was beside this, and in the centre of the room was a fumed oak circular gate-legged table and two bentwood chairs. The floor was covered in very old stained linoleum, on top of which was a threadbare rug in black and dirty mauve. On the wall opposite the cupboard was an unframed strip of mirror with a crack running across the top right hand corner, and on the other side of the window was a built-in cupboard. The window which had green hessian curtains of different lengths and a tattered frill on the top was shut, and there was a sickly rather sweet smell in the room, which reminded Lottie of something she was unable to place.

'Sit down my dear,' said Peter cheerfully, 'and we'll have a gla.s.s of milk.'

Gingerly Lottie sat on one of the two dilapidated wooden chairs.

Peter rummaged in the built-in cupboard, and first of all produced two gla.s.ses and a bottle of milk which he set on the table by Lottie with a joking, 'You pour out and be mother,' then from the lower part of the cupboard he took out a hacksaw, some twine, a linen triangle which reminded Lottie of a boy scout's scarf, an old fas.h.i.+oned razor, a hammer and some nails. These he also put carefully on the table having first spread out a clean but torn pillow case, as a table cloth. He then went to the wardrobe and dressed himself in a white plastic boiler suit, which he zipped up to his neck over his suit. The boiler suit was fitted with a pixie hood, also in white plastic.

'Good heavens!' laughed Lottie nervously. 'Whatever sort of a job are you going to do?'

'My favourite kind,' said Peter. 'The job I like doing best in the world.' He sounded excited.

'What's that?' asked Lottie.

Peter smiled. 'Don't ask questions and you won't be told lies,' he replied. He smiled gaily.

Lottie drank her milk hurriedly. She found that she was suddenly frightened; she had no idea why. Perhaps it was the sight of Peter in his plastic overalls. He certainly looked rather sinister. Perhaps it was only this unlikely and hideous room, which even by Lottie's standards was depressing beyond belief. Perhaps it was the way Peter was now looking at her, with what she could only describe to herself as a calculating intensity. She finished the milk quickly and set down the empty gla.s.s.

'Well,' she said with an effort to sound gay and unconcerned, 'we'd better be off hadn't we? Stella will be mad at me.' She stood up.

Peter got up too, crossed swiftly to the door, and locked it.

'What are you doing?' asked Lottie in amazement.

'Locking the door,' said Peter flatly.

'I know,' said Lottie. 'But why?'

'Because you should never talk to strangers,' he answered.

Before she could reply he gagged her with the triangle of linen, and in spite of her frantic struggles he dragged her over to the iron bedstead.

'I'll have you first,' he said, 'and then I'll kill you like all the others, and I'll tell you how I always do it. I saw off your arms and legs while you're still alive, and though you're in agony you don't die until I saw through your heart. I've always killed them like that. It's the way they struggle most - and it gives me a real kick.' He laughed so hard that the tears came into his eyes.

She fought with all her strength but she was no match for him.

And as she fought with him on the bed she realised what the smell was that had been puzzling her since she came into the room.

It was the smell of blood.

The last thing she heard him say when he had cut off both her arms and was preparing to saw off her legs, and just before she lost consciousness completely, was 'Never talk to strangers. Never talk to strangers.' And there was exultation and hatred in his voice.

end.