Strange Tales: Spine-Tingling Stories

By Fall River Press

Strange is in the eye of the beholder. As proof, we submit for your consideration the twenty-five stories collected in Strange Tales, a smorgasbord of the weird, bizarre, and—yes—strange. Each story is unique in its approach to its horrors, terrors, and strangeness.
            If it’s true that every reader has his or her own definition of strange, then it’s just as true that all readers know strange when they see it. We’re confident that you’ll agree that stranger tales than these have never been written.
 
The Sistrum—Alice Perrin. The artifact from the curiosity shop made a perfect conversation piece—unless one was foolish enough to sleep in the same room with it.
 
A Tough Tussle—Ambrose Bierce. The living have certain expectations for corpses. Movement is not among them.
 
The Bunyip—Rosa Praed. No one traveling through the brush had actually seen the legendary Bunyip, but all knew the tales of horror told about it.
 
The Gentleman from America—Michael Arlen. Puce was staunchly American in temperament, but his resolve dissolved as quickly as anyone’s would when faced with a haunt.
 
The People of the Pit—A. Merritt. The man’s account of his escape from a slug-like subterranean race seemed too preposterous to believe. But how did one account for his hideous injuries and the restraint that bound him?
 
The Loved Dead—C.M. Eddy, Jr. A funeral parlor employee must work closely with the dead, but this one did so with an unhealthy passion.
 
The Left Eye—Henry S. Whitehead. The swampy island was the perfect refuge for a fugitive from murder, but Nature provided its own judge, jury, and executioner.
 
Ooze—Anthony M Rud. The ruins of the Alabama “Dead House” suggested the unholy outcome of an experiment gone monstrously wrong.
 
The Rats in the Walls—H. P. Lovecraft. Exham Priory had a rat problem—but how do you exterminate an ancient family heritage?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fall River Press
• Release date: Apr 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781435171022

Book preview

THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR

Edgar Allan Poe

Of course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for wonder, that the extraordinary case of M. Valdemar has excited discussion. It would have been a miracle had it not—especially under the circumstances. Through the desire of all parties concerned, to keep the affair from the public, at least for the present, or until we had farther opportunities for investigation—through our endeavors to effect this—a garbled or exaggerated account made its way into society, and became the source of many unpleasant misrepresentations, and, very naturally, of a great deal of disbelief.

It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts—as far as I comprehend them myself. They are, succinctly, these:

My attention, for the last three years, had been repeatedly drawn to the subject of Mesmerism; and, about nine months ago, it occurred to me, quite suddenly, that in the series of experiments made hitherto, there had been a very remarkable and most unaccountable omission:—no person had as yet been mesmerized in articulo mortis. It remained to be seen, first, whether, in such condition, there existed in the patient any susceptibility to the magnetic influence; secondly, whether, if any existed, it was impaired or increased by the condition; thirdly, to what extent, or for how long a period, the encroachments of Death might be arrested by the process. There were other points to be ascertained, but these most excited my curiosity—the last in especial, from the immensely important character of its consequences.

In looking around me for some subject by whose means I might test these particulars, I was brought to think of my friend, M. Ernest Valdemar, the well-known compiler of the Bibliotheca Forensica, and author (under the nom de plume of Issachar Marx) of the Polish versions of Wallenstein and Gargantua. M. Valdemar, who has resided principally at Harlem, N.Y., since the year 1839, is (or was) particularly noticeable for the extreme spareness of his person—his lower limbs much resembling those of John Randolph; and, also, for the whiteness of his whiskers, in violent contrast to the blackness of his hair—the latter, in consequence, being very generally mistaken for a wig. His temperament was markedly nervous, and rendered him a good subject for mesmeric experiment. On two or three occasions I had put him to sleep with little difficulty, but was disappointed in other results which his peculiar constitution had naturally led me to anticipate. His will was at no period positively, or thoroughly, under my control, and in regard to clairvoyance, I could accomplish with him nothing to be relied upon. I always attributed my failure at these points to the disordered state of his health. For some months previous to my becoming acquainted with him, his physicians had declared him in a confirmed phthisis. It was his custom, indeed, to speak calmly of his approaching dissolution, as of a matter neither to be avoided nor regretted.

When the ideas to which I have alluded first occurred to me, it was of course very natural that I should think of M. Valdemar. I knew the steady philosophy of the man too well to apprehend any scruples from him; and he had no relatives in America who would be likely to interfere. I spoke to him frankly upon the subject; and, to my surprise, his interest seemed vividly excited. I say to my surprise; for, although he had always yielded his person freely to my experiments, he had never before given me any tokens of sympathy with what I did. His disease was of that character which would admit of exact calculation in respect to the epoch of its termination in death; and it was finally arranged between us that he would send for me about twenty-four hours before the period announced by his physicians as that of his decease.

It is now rather more than seven months since I received, from M. Valdemar himself, the subjoined note:

MY DEAR P——,

You may as well come now. D—— and F—— are agreed that I cannot hold out beyond to-morrow midnight; and I think they have hit the time very nearly.

VALDEMAR

I received this note within half an hour after it was written, and in fifteen minutes more I was in the dying man’s chamber. I had not seen him for ten days, and was appalled by the fearful alteration which the brief interval had wrought in him. His face wore a leaden hue; the eyes were utterly lustreless; and the emaciation was so extreme that the skin had been broken through by the cheek-bones. His expectoration was excessive. The pulse was barely perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, in a very remarkable manner, both his mental power and a certain degree of physical strength. He spoke with distinctness—took some palliative medicines without aid—and, when I entered the room, was occupied in penciling memoranda in a pocket-book. He was propped up in the bed by pillows. Doctors D—— and F—— were in attendance.

After pressing Valdemar’s hand, I took these gentlemen aside, and obtained from them a minute account of the patient’s condition. The left lung had been for eighteen months in a semi-osseous or cartilaginous state, and was, of course, entirely useless for all purposes of vitality. The right, in its upper portion, was also partially, if not thoroughly, ossified, while the lower region was merely a mass of purulent tubercles, running one into another. Several extensive perforations existed; and, at one point, permanent adhesion to the ribs had taken place. These appearances in the right lobe were of comparatively recent date. The ossification had proceeded with very unusual rapidity; no sign of it had been discovered a month before, and the adhesion had only been observed during the three previous days. Independently of the phthisis, the patient was suspected of aneurism of the aorta; but on this point the osseous symptoms rendered an exact diagnosis impossible. It was the opinion of both physicians that M. Valdemar would die about midnight on the morrow (Sunday). It was then seven o’clock on Saturday evening.

On quitting the invalid’s bed-side to hold conversation with myself, Doctors D—— and F—— had bidden him a final farewell. It had not been their intention to return; but, at my request, they agreed to look in upon the patient about ten the next night.

When they had gone, I spoke freely with M. Valdemar on the subject of his approaching dissolution, as well as, more particularly, of the experiment proposed. He still professed himself quite willing and even anxious to have it made, and urged me to commence it at once. A male and a female nurse were in attendance; but I did not feel myself altogether at liberty to engage in a task of this character with no more reliable witnesses than these people, in case of sudden accident, might prove. I therefore postponed operations until about eight the next night, when the arrival of a medical student with whom I had some acquaintance, (Mr. Theodore L——l,) relieved me from farther embarrassment. It had been my design, originally, to wait for the physicians; but I was induced to proceed, first, by the urgent entreaties of M. Valdemar, and secondly, by my conviction that I had not a moment to lose, as he was evidently sinking fast.

Mr. L——l was so kind as to accede to my desire that he would take notes of all that occurred; and it is from his memoranda that what I now have to relate is, for the most part, either condensed or copied verbatim.

It wanted about five minutes of eight when, taking the patient’s hand, I begged him to state, as distinctly as he could, to Mr. L——l, whether he (M. Valdemar) was entirely willing that I should make the experiment of mesmerizing him in his then condition.

He replied feebly, yet quite audibly, Yes, I wish to be mesmerized—adding immediately afterwards, I fear you have deferred it too long.

While he spoke thus, I commenced the passes which I had already found most effectual in subduing him. He was evidently influenced with the first lateral stroke of my hand across his forehead; but although I exerted all my powers, no farther perceptible effect was induced until some minutes after ten o’clock, when Doctors D—— and F—— called, according to appointment. I explained to them, in a few words, what I designed, and as they opposed no objection, saying that the patient was already in the death agony, I proceeded without hesitation—exchanging, however, the lateral passes for downward ones, and directing my gaze entirely into the right eye of the sufferer.

By this time his pulse was imperceptible and his breathing was stertorious, and at intervals of half a minute.

This condition was nearly unaltered for a quarter of an hour. At the expiration of this period, however, a natural although a very deep sigh escaped the bosom of the dying man, and the stertorious breathing ceased—that is to say, its stertoriousness was no longer apparent; the intervals were undiminished. The patient’s extremities were of an icy coldness.

At five minutes before eleven I perceived unequivocal signs of the mesmeric influence. The glassy roll of the eye was changed for that expression of uneasy inward examination which is never seen except in cases of sleep-waking, and which it is quite impossible to mistake. With a few rapid lateral passes I made the lids quiver, as in incipient sleep, and with a few more I closed them altogether. I was not satisfied, however, with this, but continued the manipulations vigorously, and with the fullest exertion of the will, until I had completely stiffened the limbs of the slumberer, after placing them in a seemingly easy position. The legs were at full length; the arms were nearly so, and reposed on the bed at a moderate distance from the loins. The head was very slightly elevated.

When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I requested the gentlemen present to examine M. Valdemar’s condition. After a few experiments, they admitted him to be in an unusually perfect state of mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both the physicians was greatly excited. Dr. D—— resolved at once to remain with the patient all night, while Dr. F—— took leave with a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L——l and the nurses remained.

We left M. Valdemar entirely undisturbed until about three o’clock in the morning, when I approached him and found him in precisely the same condition as when Dr. F—— went away—that is to say, he lay in the same position; the pulse was imperceptible; the breathing was gentle (scarcely noticeable, unless through the application of a mirror to the lips); the eyes were closed naturally; and the limbs were as rigid and as cold as marble. Still, the general appearance was certainly not that of death.

As I approached M. Valdemar I made a kind of half effort to influence his right arm into pursuit of my own, as I passed the latter gently to and fro above his person. In such experiments with this patient I had never perfectly succeeded before, and assuredly I had little thought of succeeding now; but to my astonishment, his arm very readily, although feebly, followed every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard a few words of conversation.

M. Valdemar, I said, are you asleep? He made no answer, but I perceived a tremor about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat the question, again and again. At its third repetition, his whole frame was agitated by a very slight shivering; the eye-lids unclosed themselves so far as to display a white line of the ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and from between them, in a barely audible whisper, issued the words:

Yes;—asleep now. Do not wake me!—let me die so!

I here felt the limbs and found them as rigid as ever. The right arm, as before, obeyed the direction of my hand. I questioned the sleep-waker again:

Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Valdemar?

The answer now was immediate, but even less audible than before:

No pain—I am dying.

I did not think it advisable to disturb him farther just then, and nothing more was said or done until the arrival of Dr. F——, who came a little before sunrise, and expressed unbounded astonishment at finding the patient still alive. After feeling the pulse and applying a mirror to the lips, he requested me to speak to the sleep-waker again. I did so, saying:

M. Valdemar, do you still sleep?

As before, some minutes elapsed ere a reply was made; and during the interval the dying man seemed to be collecting his energies to speak. At my fourth repetition of the question, he said very faintly, almost inaudibly:

Yes; still asleep—dying.

It was now the opinion, or rather the wish, of the physicians, that M. Valdemar should be suffered to remain undisturbed in his present apparently tranquil condition, until death should supervene—and this, it was generally agreed, must now take place within a few minutes. I concluded, however, to speak to him once more, and merely repeated my previous question.

While I spoke, there came a marked change over the countenance of the sleep-waker. The eyes rolled themselves slowly open, the pupils disappearing upwardly; the skin generally assumed a cadaverous hue, resembling not so much parchment as white paper; and the circular hectic spots which, hitherto, had been strongly defined in the centre of each cheek, went out at once. I use this expression, because the suddenness of their departure put me in mind of nothing so much as the extinguishment of a candle by a puff of the breath. The upper lip, at the same time, writhed itself away from the teeth, which it had previously covered completely; while the lower jaw fell with an audible jerk, leaving the mouth widely extended, and disclosing in full view the swollen and blackened tongue. I presume that no member of the party then present had been unaccustomed to death-bed horrors; but so hideous beyond conception was the appearance of M. Valdemar at this moment, that there was a general shrinking back from the region of the bed.

I now feel that I have reached a point of this narrative at which every reader will be startled into positive disbelief. It is my business, however, simply to proceed.

There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Valdemar; and concluding him to be dead, we were consigning him to the charge of the nurses, when a strong vibratory motion was observable in the tongue. This continued for perhaps a minute. At the expiration of this period, there issued from the distended and motionless jaws a voice—such as it would be madness in me to attempt describing. There are, indeed, two or three epithets which might be considered as applicable to it in part; I might say, for example, that the sound was harsh, and broken and hollow; but the hideous whole is indescribable, for the simple reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of humanity. There were two particulars, nevertheless, which I thought then, and still think, might fairly be stated as characteristic of the intonation—as well adapted to convey some idea of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place, the voice seemed to reach our ears—at least mine—from a vast distance, or from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second place, it impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make myself comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress the sense of touch.

I have spoken both of sound and of voice. I mean to say that the sound was one of distinct—of even wonderfully, thrillingly distinct—syllabification. M. Valdemar spoke—obviously in reply to the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before. I had asked him, it will be remembered, if he still slept. He now said:

"Yes;—no;—I have been sleeping—and now—now—I am dead."

No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress, the unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words, thus uttered, were so well calculated to convey. Mr. L——l (the student) swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber, and could not be induced to return. My own impressions I would not pretend to render intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour, we busied ourselves, silently—without the utterance of a word—in endeavors to revive Mr. L——l. When he came to himself, we addressed ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar’s condition.

It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of respiration. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I should mention, too, that this limb was no farther subject to my will. I endeavored in vain to make it follow the direction of my hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the mesmeric influence, was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue, whenever I addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient volition. To queries put to him by any other person than myself he seemed utterly insensible—although I endeavored to place each member of the company in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have now related all that is necessary to an understanding of the sleep-waker’s state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured; and at ten o’clock I left the house in company with the two physicians and Mr. L——l.

In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His condition remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening him; but we had little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be served by so doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what is usually termed death) had been arrested by the mesmeric process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy dissolution.

From this period until the close of last week—an interval of nearly seven months—we continued to make daily calls at M. Valdemar’s house, accompanied, now and then, by medical and other friends. All this time the sleeper-waker remained exactly as I have last described him. The nurses’ attentions were continual.

It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of awakening, or attempting to awaken him; and it is the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter experiment which has given rise to so much discussion in private circles—to so much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling.

For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric trance, I made use of the customary passes. These, for a time, were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival was afforded by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially remarkable, that this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by the profuse out-flowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath the lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor.

It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the patient’s arm, as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr. F——then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I did so, as follows:

M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or wishes now?

There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks; the tongue quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth (although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before); and at length the same hideous voice which I have already described, broke forth:

"For God’s sake!—quick!—quick!—put me to sleep—or, quick!—waken me!—quick!—I say to you that I am dead!"

I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to do. At first I made an endeavor to re-compose the patient; but, failing in this through total abeyance of the will, I retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I soon saw that I should be successful—or at least I soon fancied that my success would be complete—and I am sure that all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken.

For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human being could have been prepared.

As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of dead! dead! absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once—within the space of a single minute, or even less, shrunk—crumbled—absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome—of detestable putridity.

THE SISTRUM

Alice Perrin

Every day at the same hour—2:30 P.M.—the single-horse landau hired by Miss Sarah Wayte drew up at the door of that lady’s gloomy looking house in a monotonous Kensington Square; and simultaneously Miss Wayte’s great-niece descended the dark staircase, carrying a rug, a cushion, and a reticule, and dragging by a string a discontented King Charles spaniel, who pattered reluctantly in her wake, his eyes goggling plaintively from his sleek round head.

Wet or fine, summer or winter, for the past five years had Lydia Wayte daily descended these stairs carrying the same burdens—five long weary years that had gradually taken the glint from her hair, the light from her eyes, and the colour from her cheeks. For Lydia was the patient and unhappy victim of the one charitable act of her Aunt Sarah’s existence—i.e. the grudging bestowal of a home on the youngest of a large family of suddenly orphaned and impoverished relations.

At the age of nineteen Lydia had found herself installed as the companion and slave of her exacting and exasperating old kinswoman, and embarked on a life consisting of a tedious round of monotonous duties. She read aloud uninteresting old-fashioned novels, in which all the s’s looked like f’s; she washed and combed Pip, the spaniel; she made and mended her own and her aunt’s clothes; she kept the accounts and did the housekeeping, besides conscientiously fulfilling the heaviest and most important of all her tasks—the care of Miss Wayte’s enormous collection of curiosities and old furniture.

This alone was the work of at least one able-bodied housemaid, for every floor but the basement was crammed with a jumble of old china, battered antique silver, miniatures, brasses, inlaid tables, Jacobean chests, painted cupboards, Dutch dressers, worm-eaten oak carving, and cabinets of all shapes and sizes, not to mention idols, armour, tapestry, coins, and every description of curio—all purchased by the old lady from time to time at various curiosity shops. It was almost impossible to move about the dingy overcrowded rooms, and yet Miss Wayte continued to add to her store, spending the greater part of a moderate income, and often slices of her capital, on the hobby which had finally become an absolute mania. No servant was permitted to touch anything in the house that might lay claim to Miss Wayte’s affections by reason of its age or peculiarity, and until the importation of Lydia, she had washed, dusted, and polished her treasures herself, a task which had become beyond her strength; for Miss Wayte was well advanced in years, and expended much of her remaining energies in constant warlike bargainings in curiosity shops and old furniture depots, which contests were her sole idea of pleasure and recreation.

To Lydia she was not unkind in active sense of the word, merely excessively disagreeable and completely inconsiderate, so that the girl’s life was a long, grey level of hopelessly dull monotony and hard work, unrelieved by change or companionship; and that afternoon, as she put the rug, cushion, reticule, and spaniel into the deep, old-fashioned landau, she looked certainly ten years older than her actual age.

She waited listlessly for her aunt, who presently emerged from the house, a spare, shrunken figure, with bead-like eyes and scanty hair, which (to quote the small boy in Punch) seemed to have come off the top of her head and got stuck on to her chin, a sharp nose and a mumbling, toothless mouth. She wore a rusty black mantle and a conical-shaped bonnet, which was placed well forward on her forehead to conceal the absence of natural covering. She huddled herself into a corner of the carriage, sinking down until only the point of this head-dress was visible over the side, and in a harsh quavering voice bade the coachman drive to Fiske’s.

Lydia’s drooping spirits sank lower, Fiske’s being a particularly squalid little curiosity shop which Miss Wayte regarded as her own property, for so many years had she patronised its snuffy, evil-smelling depths. She invariably invaded it when she was in a more than usually pugnacious frame of mind, and her appearance was, to the dealer who owned it, a signal for a long afternoon’s haggling. He knew precisely what things would tempt her, and though he had never yet enjoyed the satisfaction of getting the better of her over a bargain (and so felt he owed her a grudge), he never relinquished the hope of doing so before her death or his.

For over a fortnight Miss Wayte had not shed the light of her countenance on this inviting spot, and as the carriage stopped in front of the low grimy window, which displayed some dusty china tiles, a few battered brass candlesticks, and one or two faded engravings, she alighted on the pavement in a fervour of triumphant anticipation.

She entered the shop, followed by Lydia whose nostrils wrinkled up as they were greeted by a strong smell of dirt and fustiness, an odour which Miss Wayte inhaled as though it had been the rarest of perfumes, while her sharp eyes peered into every nook and corner. She took scant notice of the old dealer, who followed her patiently, pointing out various articles, which she either condemned with unpleasant candour as frauds, or else asserted that she already possessed far better specimens. She told the man he had nothing in his shop that was not made yesterday, accused him of making his living by cheating unsuspecting customers, gave it as her opinion that he ought to have been in gaol years ago, and was altogether more rude and insulting than even Lydia ever remembered her.

The object of these remarks listened sulkily, but forbore to reply, for Miss Wayte had undoubtedly spent a great deal of money in the shop during the past twenty years, and so he suffered her to poke undisturbed amid piles of rotten furniture, to turn over with contemptuous fingers trays of old jewellery, to rout out boxes of antique plate, and to abuse him and his stock to her heart’s content, while Lydia sat quietly on the nearest object resembling a seat that came in her way, with Pip shivering depressedly on her lap.

An hour passed agreeably for Miss Wayte, who at last announced with final decision that, as there was nothing worth twopence in the place, she would pay a visit to the rival establishment on the opposite side of the street.

If you will wait one moment, Madam, said the dealer, I think I have something in the back room that may interest you. Allow me to fetch it.

He darted past his unamiable customer and dived into a dark cupboard beyond, from which he presently emerged triumphantly bearing a curious object of carved ivory that in shape recalled the appearance of a mace that had been hollowed out into a narrow cup. It was stained and dirty, but wonderfully ornamented, the fine carving represented grotesque figures of men and animals finished with the utmost care, and by some ingenious contrivance it rattled when it was shaken; belonging to it were a pair of ivory wands, also carved, of about eleven inches in length.

There now! said Mr. Fiske, holding it up and dusting it airily. I fancy that bit of ivory could tell some fine tales! It was the property of his Majesty the King of Benin!

He shook it violently, and it rattled with a weird, unpleasant sound.

How do you know? demanded Miss Wayte incredulously.

I purchased it, Madam, from the officer that brought it home himself—Captain Forest. The gentleman’s mother, Mrs. Major-General Forest, died lately at Richmond, and I attended the sale of her effects, happening to be down there at the time. I was told at the sale that they called this thing a Sistrum, but what it was used for—that I can’t tell you, nor what the ivory sticks have to do with it. All I can say is that it is a genuine curiosity, and you might go a long way and never see such a bit of carving again. He flapped his duster conclusively.

Forest—Forest— repeated Miss Wayte thoughtfully.

I paid an ’igh price for that thing, but I’d let you have it for what I gave.

It’s worth nothing. How much did you give?

Four pounds.

I’ll give you two! cried Miss Wayte, with the light of battle in her eyes; but to her surprise and disappointment her offer was accepted on the spot.

It’s a dead loss to me of two pounds, said the old man, rubbing his dirty hands; and Lydia fancied she detected a look of malice on his face. But you’re an old customer, and I thought it would please you

Miss Wayte cut short his loquacity by handing him the money, and the Sistrum reposed on Lydia’s lap during the homeward journey.

Now I wonder, speculated Aunt Sarah, as they jogged off, if that old rascal’s story is true. Do we know any one likely to have been in Benin who could tell us anything about it?

Considering that Miss Wayte’s circle of acquaintances was extremely limited, this was not probable; but Lydia remained unaccountably silent, her cheeks deepening in hue.

There was a General Forest who lived near your father’s parish in Hampshire. I remember his dying perfectly well when I was staying at the Vicarage, and his widow was left very badly off. That was just before your father behaved like a fool over those speculations. Then there was a son in the army— She paused and gazed intently at Lydia, as recollection returned to her; weren’t you engaged to him, or something of the kind?

No; I was never engaged to him, replied the girl in a low voice.

Well, what became of them? Did Mrs. Forest move to Richmond?

I—I think she did.

And was her son at Benin?

I believe so, faltered Lydia.

And if I had not remembered the name, you meant to sit still and hold your tongue? exclaimed Miss Wayte shrilly. You would have allowed me to remain in doubt as to the genuine history of the carving?

The tears gathered in Lydia’s eyes, but she made no answer.

Did you know Mrs. Forest’s address? continued the old lady, in the same indignant key.

Lydia reluctantly nodded her head.

Very well then, you will write to that young man the instant we get home, and ask him if the Sistrum was his, and what he can tell us about it. I suppose, if he’s alive, the Richmond address will find him sooner or later.

Oh no, Aunt Sarah. I couldn’t write to him. Indeed I would rather not—please!

Miss Wayte gasped with astonished rage. Never before had Lydia even questioned her orders.

You ungrateful monkey! she croaked, sinking further into her corner, and glaring at Lydia from under her bonnet like a rat peeping out of a hole. For five years have I fed you, clothed you, given you medicine and every other comfort and luxury, and now you refuse me to do the smallest service. Explain your conduct at once!

Lydia’s tears fell on to Pip’s head, who whined in sympathy. It was impossible for her to explain to Aunt Sarah that she had loved Stephen Forest with all her heart, and that his silence had nearly broken it—that the expected proposal had never come, and that after his father’s death (just before her own home had been broken up) he had gone on foreign service, and she had never seen him since, though she had always carefully followed the movements of his regiment in the newspapers. So she maintained a tearful silence, while Miss Wayte railed and stormed for the rest of the drive until the girl was finally reduced to a state of helpless submission, and on entering the house was at once installed by her aunt at an old French bureau in the dining-room to indite the desired note to Captain Forest.

She made it as short and business-like as possible, relating the discovery of the Sistrum and the dealer’s story, inquiring if he could oblige her aunt by throwing any light upon the subject, and ending by expressing her sincere regret for what she feared must be the death of his mother.

The stiff little letter was then duly posted by Lydia herself with mingled feelings of reluctance and anticipation, and she thought of nothing else the whole evening while engaged in cleaning the ivory under her aunt’s supervision. How soon would the answer come? Would he make any allusion to their former friendship and the old happy days? Perhaps the letter would have to follow him all over England—perhaps he was not in England at all—and so on, until her thoughts were interrupted by Miss Wayte.

That’s better! as the dust and dirt disappeared and the ivory carving began to gleam. I wonder that villain Fiske allowed it to go so cheap. Very unlike him—which makes me pretty certain he was lying. Now where is it to go? I won’t have it in here till I’m sure it’s genuine. Take it up to your room.

So Lydia carried the Sistrum and its wands up to the top of the house to her bedroom, which was already littered with various articles suspected by Miss Wayte of being of doubtful antiquity. It rattled faintly as she laid it down on the dressing-table, and it was the last thing her eyes rested on that night before she blew out her candle.

She lay for some time thinking of Stephen Forest and listening to the grunts and snores of Pip, who reposed at the foot of her bed, until she fell into a restless doze. Then a hideous nightmare came to her, in which she found herself amidst a crowd of almost naked black figures, that leaped and howled and brandished long sharp spears, while their eyes and teeth shone fiercely from their dark faces as they danced madly to the weird, discordant accompaniment of drums and horns.

Then the horrible din subsided, and was followed by a long shuddering cry of anguish, repeated at intervals more faintly till it ceased with a gasping, gurgling sigh. Cold with horror Lydia pushed her way to the front of the crowd, and saw that a man, black like the others that surrounded her, was being tortured to death. She caught a glimpse of a helpless form bound and bleeding, and with a scream she turned to fly. As she ran she heard a curious rattling noise which seemed oddly familiar, accompanied by the sound of sharp blows on some hollow vessel. She stumbled forward, fell heavily, and awoke to find herself sitting up crying and trembling, hardly knowing if she were asleep or awake, until she felt Pip crawling to her side and thrusting his nose into her hand.

Then she fancied she heard an uncertain sound in the room, such as might be made by a large moth fluttering about, knocking itself against the walls or the furniture. Pip began to whine dismally and softly, and feeling decidedly nervous, Lydia lit her candle and held it high above her head. All was silent. The Sistrum gleamed back at her in the faint nickering light, and for a moment she thought she saw something crouching before it. She peered fearfully and intently into the shadows. No; she had been mistaken; nothing was to be seen, and if a large moth was in her room it had now settled down.

She glanced at Pip, who was cowering against her pillow; he was wide awake, his round protruding eyes staring beseechingly at her, while his limbs shook, and the hair on his back stood up stiffly. Then he suddenly jumped off the bed, and with his tail between his legs, rushed to the door, where he howled and scratched, paying no attention to Lydia’s remonstrances. Fearing he would disturb the house, she finally put him outside on the landing with a rug, on which he contentedly curled himself up with apparently every intention of remaining there for the night.

The room seemed darker and more cheerless than usual as Lydia re-entered it, carrying her flaring candle well in front of her, but from out of the darkness the ivory carving seemed to shine malignantly, and a sudden horror of it took possession of her. It looked like some evil, unnatural reptile, with its odd shape and barbaric appearance, and she wondered, shuddering, what ghastly scenes and horrible deeds it had witnessed. She began to connect it with her nightmare, and attributed Pip’s behaviour to its presence, and gradually worked herself up into such a state of superstitious terror that she felt she could bear it in the room with her no longer. Regardless of Pip’s feelings, she took it up and carried it out on to the landing, where she left it.

Then she looked under her bed and into the wardrobe, locked her door, and laid down feeling more secure, but at the same time somewhat ashamed of her foolish fancies. Shortly afterwards she was again disturbed by a sound of scratching at her door, and low terrified whines. Evidently Pip had repented of his sudden desire to sleep on the landing. She got up and opened the door impatiently. The little dog rushed in, almost knocking her over, and went straight under the bed. She stood astonished for one moment, and was then about to return when a faint noise on the landing caught her ears. It was the soft, uncertain throp-throp that she had heard in her room. After waiting irresolute for a second with a beating heart, she fetched her candle.

She stepped cautiously out on to the landing, holding the light well before her, and peering anxiously into the darkness. Then the candle fell from her hand with a crash and went out, while she shrieked again and again with fear and horror.

The next instant the landing was full of light and people, the cook, the kitchen-maid, the parlourmaid and the housemaid, all emerged from their rooms, clinging to each other in deadly alarm of burglars; but all they could see was Lydia, who leant faint and helpless against the wall, gasping and shuddering and pointing at the Sistrum on the floor.

Take it away! Take it away! screamed the girl hoarsely. There was a man kneeling by it, and he was red and wet and shiny! She put her hands over her eyes and cowered against the wall.

Then up the stairs came Miss Wayte in all the grotesqueness of her night attire, a shawl over her head, a red flannel dressing-gown wrapped around her, a poker in her hand, and huge night socks on her feet. At this sight Lydia partially recovered her self-control and common sense, and in answer to her aunt’s severe inquiries said she supposed she must have imagined it, but that she certainly thought she had seen something dreadful. Then she burst into hysterical sobs.

I can’t help it—I am so frightened. I am sure it is all the Sistrum. There is something awful the matter with it. I can’t sleep with it anywhere near me. It makes me dream and see horrible things!

It’s the enormous supper you eat that makes you dream and see horrible things, scoffed Miss Wayte; but since you choose to blame an inanimate piece of ivory, will you please put the Sistrum into my room to-morrow? I can’t run the risk of being disturbed at night at my age simply because you take it into your head to be afraid of a curiosity, and she hobbled downstairs, leaving Lydia to be comforted by the kind-hearted housemaid, who volunteered to keep her company for the remainder of the night, while the three other servants encamped in one room, none of them relishing the notion of being left alone.

The rest of the night passed peacefully, though sleeplessly, for Lydia, and in the morning she acted on her aunt’s suggestion, carrying the Sistrum gingerly down and placing it on the least crowded table of the old lady’s room, where she left it with a feeling of intense relief.

For the first time for many years, or, at any rate within Lydia’s memory, Miss Wayte did not appear to breakfast the following morning, sending down word that she had a cold, adding, of course, that she had caught it on the night of her niece’s disturbance on the upper landing. Therefore, Lydia was alone in the drawing-room after breakfast dusting some Indian idols, when the parlourmaid announced Captain Forest.

Lydia was overwhelmed with shyness; but he seemed so glad to see her, his manner was so kind and tender, and he looked at her so intently that presently the colour rose in her pale cheeks and her blue eyes took fire and brightened, making her look more like the girl who had come to live with Miss Wayte five years before.

I got your letter forwarded from Richmond late last night. What a curious thing your coming across that Sistrum! I was so glad to get your address, because I had come up to London on purpose to find out where you were— He paused significantly.

Your mother— faltered Lydia.

You guessed rightly in your letter; she is dead, he answered gravely; "and I shall miss her more than I can say. But—Lydia—listen to