Collected Stories (4.1) Read online

  Collected Stories

  R. Chetwynd-Hayes

  (Version 4.1)

  ***

  Contents

  Biography

  The Thing (1966)

  The Monster(1970)

  Crowning Glory (1971)

  Don't Go Up Them Stairs (1971)

  The Door (1973)

  Lord Dunwilliam and the Cwn Annwn (1973)

  The Labyrinth (1974)

  Christmas Eve (1975)

  The Ghouls (1975)

  The Ghost Who Limped (1975)

  The Werewolf and the Vampire (1975)

  The Fly-by-Night (1976)

  The Shadmock (1976)

  The Werewolf (1978)

  A Living Legend (1982)

  Rudolph (1987)

  Biography

  Ronald Chetwynd-Hayes (30 May 1919 – 20 March 2001) (a.k.a. Ronald Henry Glynn Chetwynd-Hayes or R. Chetwynd-Hayes) was an author, best known for his ghost stories. His first published work was the science fiction novel The Man From The Bomb in 1959. He went on to publish many collections and ten other novels including The Grange, The Haunted Grange, And Love Survived and The Curse of the Snake God. He also edited over 20 anthologies. Several of his short works were adapted into anthology style movies in the United Kingdom, including The Monster Club and From Beyond the Grave. Chetwynd-Hayes' book The Monster Club contains references to a film-maker called Vinke Rocnnor, an anagram of Kevin Connor, the director of From Beyond the Grave.

  He won the Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement for 1988, and the British Fantasy Society Special Award in 1989.

  The Thing

  (1966)

  The bar was not very full the evening being but middle-aged, that is to say it was too early for the after-theatre crowd, and too late for the 'a quick one for the road' school. This, in my humble opinion, is the time for civilised drinking, not that I've ever minded drinking at an uncivilised time, but its nice to be able to spread your elbows and bath your tonsils with Scotch in reasonable comfort. There are those people who go into a bar for social intercourse, at least so they say, but I being above all else an honest man must confess I go into a bar for only one reason; I like to drink. Now let us get one thing straight, I'm not an educated drinker; fancy names on dusty bottles don't mean a thing to me; as the man said when he was asked if he preferred beef to mutton: ‘It's all meat’. Old fashioned whiskey was good enough for my father, and he died a drunkard's death at eighty-two, which was twenty years longer than his teetotal brother lived, who was knocked down by a bus in the Fulham Road after speaking at a temperance dinner on how strong drink shortens life. There must be a moral there somewhere, but frankly I've never quite seen what it is, unless it be stay quietly sozzled at home, then you won't be knocked down by a 175 bus.

  But all this is by the way; digression is one of my many weaknesses, for I often find that the soup is much more tasty than the main dish, and perhaps when you have heard the rest of my story you will agree with me. However, as I said, the room was not very full so I went straight up to the bar and ordered six double whiskeys, and the smart young barman looked at me, for he could see I was by myself. So I took a deep breath and explained the facts of life to him.

  ‘I could order one whiskey, take it over to that table, drink it and come back for five refills. But that would be wearing on my legs, which after the fourth glass need as much rest as they can get, and a lot of work for you.'

  He grinned and said he agreed, but I don't think he was happy, for one thing I'm not what you might call a snappy dresser and they were used to dinner jackets and off the shoulder dresses, or at least a decent Jounge suit. But corduroy trousers and roller neck jersey is my stock in trade, for a writer isn't looked up to these days if he dresses like everyone else, and damn it all, my money is as smart as the next man's. I carried my drinks on a tray the barman gave me to a table a little way from the bar, and after emptying the first glass, I sat back and took in the scenery.

  The tables were little islands and most of them deserted, but here and there a few castaways sipped their nourishment and looked as miserable as most people do in bars, so I turned my attention to the tall stools that lined the bar, and thought they looked like the things in circus rings for seals to perch on. On the one nearest to my table was a girl, and I wondered how I'd missed her, but thought perhaps she'd come in when I wasn't looking, but she was there now and was presenting one of the most tasteful bare backs that I've ever seen. Now all men have their various tastes when it comes to admiring feminine beauty, some rave about legs, others breasts, although believe me, a lot of deception is practised in that direction these days, but for myself, show me a flawless white back and I'd raise my hat, always supposing I wore one, which I don't. This girl knew what she'd got, and made the most of it, for her dress was a mere tape that supported the legal amount of material at the front and nothing at all above the waist line at the back. She must have felt my gaze, which isn't surprising, for she turned her head, and I saw a pair of cornflower blue eyes set in a pale, beautiful, if characterless face, surmounted by a pile of artistically dressed hair. Then she winked, and without so much as by your leave, came and sat at my table. I sighed deeply and downed my second whiskey to wash away my disillusion, for surely the strangest part of man's make-up is that he will pawn his soul for what he thinks he cannot have, but will turn his head in disgust when he learns it is well within his means to buy it. She sank down in the chair opposite mine, and said in a low, husky, carefully cultivated, seductive voice:

  'Aren't you going to buy me a drink?'

  I said: 'Why not? But you will have to fetch it yourself, I never stir before the sixth drink and by then it's a risky business.'

  She took my pound note, making a small grimace, and the small sherry must have been exorbitantly expensive, or she was very forgetful for I never saw my change. When she came back and reseated herself, and the third whiskey was doing its bounded duty so that the sharp edges of the bar were becoming nicely rounded, and a faint mist was obscuring the far end of the room, for if truth must be told, and I can see no reason why it shouldn't, this was not the first bar I had visited that evening; she said:

  'You're cute, you know that don't you, you're cute.'

  I nodded slowly, for I was in the mood to agree to anything. 'Yes, I know. Whenever I look into a mirror I get a shock.'

  She giggled and took a ladylike sip from her glass, and I wondered if the people who owned this place knew what she was up to, or if the smart young barman who had a suspicion of a knowing smirk on his face was receiving his cut.

  'What's a nice looking fellow like you doing on your own?'

  'Getting drunk,' I said briefly, 'it's a hobby. Some people collect stamps, others milk bottle tops, but I get drunk. I do it very well.'

  She giggled again, and there was something horrifying about that beautiful mask; she looked like an animated shop window dummy, or a body from which the soul had been sucked out.

  'You're funny. I like witty men. Say something else.'

  I grinned and felt my face crinkle, like a deflated balloon pressed by a child's destructive fingers. 'A fool is funny because he dare not think, for thought is the pathway to truth, and beyond truth lies madness.'

  She shrugged her shapely shoulders and they gleamed in the bright light like white clouds on a winter's day, and for some reason I felt sad, which was strange for usually I am a cheerful drinker.

  That's not funny, it's rather frightening. I say, you're not squiffy, are you?'

  How I would have answered this insulting insinuation I do not know, for let it be recorded, never in fifteen years of heavy drinking have I been drunk, or as my uncle (the one knocked down by a bus in the Fulham
Road) would have aptly expressed himself: 'been seen the worse for strong drink', for at that moment there was a sudden influx of people who came into the room, chattering and babbling and in less than no time the place was crowded, and I was troubled by the thought that I might not have time or opportunity to buy my second consignment. But there came in with this human flood, like a piece of driftwood cast ashore by the tide, a young man who for some reason that I could not at that time understand, stood out from the crowd and claimed my complete attention. He was young, younger than he should have been, for although there were lines about his eyes and mouth, and a certain tautness of his facial muscles that suggested maturity of years, yet he wore an air of youthfulness that did not flatter him, for one was reminded of a fruit that had hung on a tree for a whole summer but was still unripe; a soft green skin full of corruption, that will fall to the ground at the first breath of autumn. He clung to the bar like one who has walked through life looking for props, and his weak handsome face turned slowly, the pale blue eyes were lifeless blue chips of broken glass, and his full lips were moist and sagged pathetically as though he were about to cry. His neat dark suit was rumpled, and his long fingers toyed with the buttons, then, like a startled bird, the right one flew up to the striped tie and jerked it from side to side, then abruptly he turned his back and suddenly I was aware that he was not alone.

  He who drains the wine jug to its bitter dregs sees strange visions, at least so it is said, but speaking for myself, although I've seen the world through many an empty bottle, I've yet to meet a pink elephant, but of course I'm still comparatively young, and all things come to him that waits. But I knew, and don't ask me how or why, that what stood behind the young man did not come out of a bottle, but it wasn't the kind of thing you usually met in a bar either. I'll tell you something else, I was pretty certain that I was the only person who saw it, because no one else paid it the least attention and they would have if. . . . Let me describe the Thing, because that is what it was - a Thing. Imagine something that has the shape of a man; a tall man at least six foot two, dressed in a long black robe that encased the entire figure from neck to feet, only the feet weren't too substantial, I could not be sure they were actually there; then imagine a dead white face; a face made of white wax, then give the face a pair of black gleaming eyes; eyes filled with a terrible hunger, that a thousand years of sated lusts will not satisfy, then crown the face with a mop of coarse hair and watch a pair of thin lips as they mouth silent obscenities, or whisper unfulfilled longings into the victim's ear, and you have a fiend that is begging someone to share its hell.

  'What's the matter, honey,' the girl spoke and her pale beauty seemed to bear a faint resemblance to that dreadful face, 'you look as though you've seen a ghost.'

  'The man at the bar,' my voice betrayed nothing and I marvelled that this was so, 'do you see anything unusual about him; the young one - there?' I pointed, and she turned with little interest for I suppose I was already beginning to bore her and a more promising client would soon draw her away. Then her face flushed for a moment, then turned paler than before, her eyes glazed with sudden fear, and one hand tightened its grip about the wine glass so that I found myself watching the whitened knuckles.

  'It's Rodney!' she gasped the name in a strangled voice and for an instant her beauty was wiped away, so that I saw her as she would be when time had done its work; had taken the sheen from the pale skin and wrecked the firm muscles with cruel fingers. Then she jerked her head round and I looked at a frightened child, the cultivated mask ripped aside, and she was as naked as a sinful man on judgment day. I said: 'Do you know him?' A silly question, but I wasn't really interested in her problems, because the young man was taking a drink, at least I guessed he was for although his back was towards me, the Thing had moved to a position a few feet from our table, and for a while I could not understand why its mouth was open and its throat muscles working, then I suddenly realised that it was enjoying whatever the man was drinking. I know that must sound crazy, but may I never raise a glass again if it isn't true; the white face gleamed with the look of a dipso who is having his first drink for a long time, then the man at the bar turned, a full glass was in his hand so I guessed he'd ordered a refill, and he came towards our table so that for a while they stood side by side, the Thing and him, only I knew he did not know he was not alone. Then he suddenly saw my girl friend, the Thing's eyes lit up as well, and together they approached the table, an action that didn't make me feel happy, or, if I was to judge by her expression, the little lady either, for she looked as terrified as a rabbit at a stoat's convention.

  'Don't leave me alone with him,' she pleaded, 'he's poison.'

  I said nothing as he came up to the table and I could tell he'd seen a lot of tough American films, because he just grabbed a chair and sat down; the Thing stood behind him, its eyes fixed on the girl, while its lips kept moving, and I found myself trying to guess what it was saying.

  The man ignored me, a fact that he would have regretted if I hadn't been so concerned with what he brought with him, and when he spoke to the girl it was with a slight Cockney accent that is so popular with pop singers.

  'So I found you - up to your old tricks again, looking for suckers, and I see you've found one.'

  He looked at me, but much more important the Thing did so as well, and I saw a gleam of speculative interest in its dreadful eyes, so that terror made me empty the sixth glass and make a beeline for the bar. The young man laughed, a high pitched whining sound, but I did not care, so long as the Thing stayed where it was he could laugh his head off. But I could not leave the bar, I had to stay and watch this macabre drama, and though I would not face the truth the tall black figure held a repellant fascination for me; I felt an urge to touch it, to hear it speak, even as a child might want to finger fire.

  When I looked back the Thing had changed its position and stood behind my vacated chair where it was watching the girl and the man, and it seemed that it was taking part in the conversation, for the mouth was opening and closing so that I had the impression it was shouting instructions. More people came in and others left, all of them seeking the stimuli of alcohol for the going is tough along the narrow pathway to the grave, or maybe the seventh whiskey was turning sour on me. Perhaps my liver was at last giving up the fight, or more likely my brain was beginning to present its own film show, but I could distinctly see a row of tables standing in a neat row against the far wall, and seated round them was a number of figures dressed all in black, and wearing white masks. They sat perfectly still; their heads were turned inwards and I could only see the sexless profiles, and I felt an unexplainable dread that they might move, for I knew these were the eternal watchers; the dark ones who know neither anger nor pity.

  The girl looked back over one white shoulder, and her blue eyes raked my face with burning intensity; a mute appeal for help, as though I were a lifeboat in a boiling sea, and she a lone swimmer at the end of her strength. There was a scraping of a chair and the young man sprang to his feet; the Thing moved back, its eyes blazing with an unholy joy. The girl rose quickly and ran towards me, and the drinkers drew back in alarm, so that I stood alone with the girl running her last few steps; only the watchers did not move. She clutched my arms and I saw the dark caverns of hell reflected in her eyes, and I wanted to tell her it would all pass, that suffering cannot last for ever - not even in hell, but there was not time. The gun in the young man's hand spoke instead, and the beautiful eyes blinked, then blazed forth their horror, the white shoulders quivered, the neck twisted, and she slumped to the floor.

  When I looked up the young man was staring in astonishment at the huddled figure that lay at my feet, but the Thing was close behind him, its right arm was raised to the level of his, and its hand rested on the hand that held the gun. Then it drew back and I saw a look of peace on its face; the peace of a sated drug addict, the peace that would come to a vampire who has drunk his fill. The young man shook his head several times, then s
lowly, like a tired child stifling a yawn, he put the nozzle of the revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  The room was a bedlam of screaming women and swearing men; they rushed back and fro like ants when a pick axe has been driven into their hill. I sank into a chair and listened to the waterfall that crashed about my ears and pondered on the suddenly revealed truth that man's lusts must go on multiplying so that eventually, surely there must be total darkness - or a wiping out - a new beginning.

  At last I rose and made my way towards the door - towards those black figures who were now more real than before, and there suddenly came into my vision a little man with a pale wrinkled face and the knowledge of forbidden lore in his eyes. He beckoned with a long trembling finger, and I bent down so that his lips could approach my ear. His voice was old, so very old, and he spoke in a low husky whisper:

  'Don't look behind, but you're being followed.'

  With a single movement the watchers turned their heads, and the white masks were staring at me, the eyes black pools of darkness, and I knew I would never walk or drink alone again.

  Together we left the room.

  The Monster

  (1970)

  They were kind to her in their own, cold way, but she was young and would ask questions, and Aunt Mabs sighed heavily, knowing the truth must be unveiled sooner or later. ‘Aunt, why can’t I leave the house?’

  ‘You aren’t well, child. Don’t keep bothering me.’

  ‘But I feel fine.’

  ‘Well, you aren’t fine, so be quiet.'

  A little later.

  ‘Aunt, I see children pass the house twice a day. Where are they going?’

  ‘School.’

  ‘What’s school?’

  The woman shook her head in exasperation, then quickly left the room.

  That evening Uncle Carl came to her room, the lines on his lean face set into a determined expression. He put her dinner tray down on the all-purpose table, then sat down on the edge of the bed and watched her eat.