The Green Drift (The John Lymington Scifi/Horror Library #9)

By John Lymington

It began on a fine summer’s morning that was just like any other. There was nothing unusual about it, nothing unusual about the solid, comfortable house, except that in the heat haze it seemed hover a couple of feet above the ground.
But outside a great crowd had gathered, people who had been drawn to the village because they were puzzled, curious and downright scared.
They watched the house, just waiting for something to happen, all of them staring—and continuing to stare ... until the nightmare that had been forecast actually became a terrible, terrible reality ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Sep 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215572689

John Lymington

John Richard Newton Chance was born in Streatham Hill, London, in 1911, the son of Dick Chance, a managing editor at the Amalgamated Press. He studied to become a civil engineer, and then took up quantity surveying, but gave it up at 21 to become a full-time writer. He wrote for his father's titles, including "Dane, the Dog Detective" for Illustrated Chips, and a number of stories for the Sexton Blake Library and The Thriller Library.He went on to write over 150 science fiction, mystery and children's books and numerous short stories under various names, including John Lymington, John Drummond, David C. Newton, Jonathan Chance and Desmond Reid. Including 20+ SF potboilers, adding that he "made a steady income by delivering thrillers to Robert Hale (the UK publisher) at a chapter a week".His novel Night of the Big Heat was adapted to television in 1960 and to film, starring Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing, in 1967.

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The Home of Great

Science Fiction!

It began on a fine summer’s morning that was just like any other. There was nothing unusual about it, nothing unusual about the solid, comfortable house, except that in the heat haze it seemed hover a couple of feet above the ground.

But outside a great crowd had gathered, people who had been drawn to the village because they were puzzled, curious and downright scared.

They watched the house, just waiting for something to happen, all of them staring—and continuing to stare ... until the nightmare that had been forecast actually became a terrible, terrible reality …

THE GREEN DRIFT

By John Lymington

First published by Hodder and Stoughton in 1965

©1965, 2023 by John Newton Chance

First Electronic Edition: September 2023

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate

Series Editor: David Whitehead

Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.

Chapter One

IT BEGAN ONE summer morning, when a faint haze lay over the rolling countryside and the sea glittered between the bosom of the hills. The village sprawled in the wrinkles, a little place of toy box houses, hollyhocks, rows of vegetables and the papery fluttering of cabbage whites. The fields gathered around like Alice’s game board. From the village sprawled a narrow lane between the fields leading to the clustering hedges and flowers of a garden round a house. The house was red brick and white painted wood, Edwardian, solid, comforting.

There was nothing unusual about it except that, that morning in the shimmering heat haze it seemed to be hovering a couple of feet above the ground.

Within it Jennifer came out of her bedroom, tying her light blue quilted housecoat about her. She always looked pretty in it, her flaxen hair and china blue eyes making a pastel-colour picture.

She came to the landing and looked down into the square hall. It was all very bright and sunny, and the mixed scents of a thousand flowers moved in the air from the open windows. She leant on the hand-rail, put a hand to her forehead, then shook her head so that her hair flew wild.

Downstairs she could hear Ellen washing up. As if this had the power to confuse her still more, Jennifer Chance sat down on the top stair, grabbed her knees beneath the quilting and stared hard at the big, coloured glass stair window.

It was no good. The odd feeling of a dream persisted, and where on earth was Richard? He had not come to bed. Come to think of it, she had not seen him since about nine yesterday evening.

Why hadn’t she gone to look for him? Why hadn’t she gone down to the study and fetched him up?

She couldn’t remember why. She couldn’t remember anything but lying on the bed in her undies because of the heat and listening to the Concerto on the radio. Tchaikovsky. She always let herself go with it, though secretly she couldn’t make out why it was all mixed up one minute grand drama, and the next, sort of sleigh bells running over the frozen steppes …

And somewhere in the mix-up she had fallen asleep and now it was next day and could have been the middle of a dream.

But Ellen was washing up downstairs, clattering and banging because she had the kitchen door propped open to keep it nice and cool. Ellen sweated. She always felt terribly hot, and never failed to wear two woollies, as if to insulate herself from outside heat.

Jennifer stopped staring at the window and stiffened as she sat.

There was something queer about the noise of Ellen.

So dreamlike were the contents of Jennifer’s head that for some seconds she could not place the oddity. Then it came with a faint sense of shock.

Ellen was not singing.

Ellen’s mind was one continuously bored by the maggot of the pop pluggers. Every day she came and sang one song right through from seven-thirty to midday, when she went away, still singing it. Sometimes the same song could last for several days until Jennifer’s teeth were permanently clenched in a forced smile that held back the bubbles of hysteria.

This morning nothing but the rattle of the plates acknowledged Ellen’s presence.

It was all odd, very odd.

Jennifer got up, a small feeling of alarm fluttering in her breast. The feeling of oddness gave way to a sudden charge of apprehension. She ran down the stairs and opened the door of her husband’s study.

There was a steady whistle in the air, and in the curtained room the green eye of the television flickered with squiggly futility.

She went to the big windows and pulled the cord. The curtains fell back, and the scents of the flowers and the bright sunlight flooded the untidy room.

Irritated by the hum and whistle, she went to the set by the window and turned it off. Then she looked at her husband sprawling on the sofa, one leg dragging the floor. He wore slacks, an open shirt with an unfastened tie spilling from his collar to the carpet, and one sock.

As Jennifer went towards him she was arrested by something, but could not for the moment make out what it was.

It was like the feeling of being awakened by the stopping of a bedside clock. She realised then that Ellen had stopped making any noise at all.

As if also disturbed by the breaking of a sound train, Richard opened his eyes and stared at his wife.

‘Richard darling,’ Jennifer said anxiously, ‘are you all right?’

He sat up suddenly, almost falling off the sofa. He stared round him. The room was, as always, an untidy heap of his characteristics. His typewriter aslant on the big table, papers all over the place, a pair of old socks cast off under his working chair, his bookcases lined with a variety of books—astronomy, hauntings, humour, surveying history, sex diversions, thrillers, Shakespeare, old cars, SF, dogs, Borley Rectory, classic pornography, and mind adventures. His old surveyor’s level and extendable pole, relics of student days, lurched in the corner between the main bookcase and the television table. A number of bottles of Bass were gathered round the door of a cupboard like an ill-disciplined platoon. The armchairs on either side of the empty fireplace had their seats occupied by books, magazines and yesterday’s newspapers—and probably even earlier ones as well. His brogue walking shoes were in position, one upside down in the hearth and the fellow underneath the table by the door. On the table was his collection of drinking glasses and steins.

He got up, blinked around him, then looked at his wife. He was tall, heavily built, his face almost the rich lined face of a humourist, but unamused now.

‘What’s happened?’ he said, blankly.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Why didn’t you come to bed?’

‘Because I fell asleep down here, I suppose,’ he said, and rubbed his hand over his face. ‘What the hell? Wasn’t I watching a play or something?’

‘It was on,’ she said, nodding.

‘It couldn’t have been a good play,’ he said. ‘I must have passed right out. But what’s the time? Heavens! Nine-fifteen!’ He blinked and stared at his wife. ‘But I went down to the pub. I’m sure I went down to the pub because the play was so duff.’ He snapped his fingers in discovery. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘When did you come back, then?’ she asked quickly.

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember coming back.’

‘Did you get tight?’

‘I wouldn’t have had time, would I?’ He began to hunt around yesterday’s papers, tossing them on the floor anywhere until he got one open at the radio programmes. ‘Nine-ten it came on.’ He jammed his finger on the item. ‘I suppose I gave it fifteen then went down to the pub. I couldn’t have got swung in one hour.’

She looked at him with big eyes.

‘I feel funny,’ she said.

‘Why?’ He looked anxious.

‘Well. I don’t know, but I feel that if I put my hand on that door it would go right through—my hand would, I mean.’

‘Liver,’ he said.

‘It’s like being in a dream,’ she persisted, ‘and you think you’re going to wake up, but really you’re awake already. Everything feels odd. Even Ellen isn’t singing.’

‘Thank God for that,’ he said, frowning. ‘What did we eat last night?’

‘A salad because of the heat,’ she said.

‘And that lobster I got down at the pub the night before,’ he said, accusingly.

‘Well, all right, perhaps it was wrong,’ she said; ‘but I didn’t have any. I just had the salad.’

As they stopped speaking there was an odd silence, a kind of hushing as in a dream where you try to listen but the words are confused, to cheat you with a background of noises.

There was a crash from the kitchen. Both looked towards the open door as Ellen’s quick footfalls crossed the hall. She came into view, thirty, buxom, wiping her hands on her apron. Her big brown eyes looked strange and fearful.

‘What’s the matter Ellen?’ Jennifer said quickly. She suspected things wrong everywhere now.

‘Them,’ said Ellen, nodding past the pair. ‘Outside. It’s getting me down, staring like that. I’ve pulled the blinds, but I feel funny, as if somebody’s breathing down me neck.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ Richard said. ‘What Them? Which Them?’

‘Them outside in the lane,’ said Ellen, and pointed across to the big window. ‘There’ve been cars going by, too, very slow, and turning round in Farmer Arnold’s field up there and coming back, slow, too.’

Richard went to the window. Jennifer followed quickly as if to stop him getting away. They stood quite still. Jennifer clutched his arm against her bosom and gasped in a sharp breath of horror.

‘What the hell are they doing?’ Richard said.

‘Just staring,’ said Ellen. ‘Just staring and staring. It’s enough to give you the creeps, it is, staring like that, right in the windows.’

‘Don’t be silly, Ellen, they’re nowhere near the windows,’ said Richard.

‘I can feel ’em,’ said Ellen. ‘They got eyes like crabs.’

‘What are they doing?’ Jennifer asked very quickly.

‘They don’t seem to be doing anything,’ Richard said. ‘Just standing and looking.’ He laughed a little helplessly. ‘Don’t worry. Perhaps there’s something on today. A rodeo in Arnold’s field or something.’

‘There’s nothing on, there’s nothing on at all!’ said Ellen.

‘How long have they been there?’ Jennifer asked.

‘I don’t know. They wasn’t there when I came, but then I saw them about—about after eight sometime. Noticed them suddenly sort of. You know, you suddenly see a lot of ants just where you thought the step was clean.’

‘But what are they looking at?’ Jennifer said.

‘Are we on fire?’ said Richard suddenly.

‘I went out and had a look myself,’ said Ellen. ‘I went all round the house and I couldn’t see anything.’

Richard looked back to the window.

‘But there’s hundreds of ’em,’ he said. ‘They stretch right back into the village. Car roofs all over the place. What in hell—?’

Jennifer was staring back now. resentment answering the challenge.

‘The impertinence!’ she said angrily. ‘They are staring at us. because there’s nowhere else to stare up here! Richard darling, go out and ask them what they think they’re doing!’

Richard stared out of the window and stroked his chin.

‘I think I’ll shave first,’ he said.

‘Coward!’ she snapped.

‘That is the effect of not having shaved,’ he said. ‘One is deflated with whiskers.’

‘It’s almost as if we’ve done something awful.’ said Jennifer.

‘Then why don’t they come closer?’ Richard asked. ‘Why do they stand down there, their front ranks a couple of hundred yards off?’

‘What are they doing there at all?’ asked Jennifer, exasperated. ‘I’ve a jolly good mind to go out there and—’

‘Not like that, you won’t,’ said Richard.

She turned to him quickly.

‘Why am I like this anyway?’ she demanded.

‘Do you want any breakfast?’ Ellen said, bringing back a note of sanity.

‘Lord, yes!’ Richard said. ‘A pot of tea. Anchovy toast. What about you, spouse?’

‘Tea,’ Jennifer said, still staring out of the window. ‘Well, I’ve never seen such a stupid lot of cows in my life. Look at them! Just standing there gawping.’

Ellen went out, still wiping her hands on her apron. Richard watched her go, then turned back to the window.

‘I feel I’m being haunted by inconsequents,’ he said. ‘What is this? Do you think somebody has hired that lot to gawp as a demonstration against nidders?’

‘Nidders?’ said Jennifer looking round sharply.

‘Well, nodders, then, or nidfusculars. It doesn’t matter what you call them, does it? You just have to protest against them.’

‘What have they got to protest against? We’re not that horrible, are we?’

‘You say the oddest things,’ he said, frowning out. ‘Why don’t they do something? If you watch, they come and stare, and perhaps have a word with each other, then stare again, then they go and another lot comes to the front. See?’

‘There are more cars coming into the village,’ said Jennifer, very coldly. ‘Don’t tell me one of your stories is coming true. A whole gang of bladderous thinkpods sapping our nerves by staring.’

‘That’s only part-time horror,’ said Richard. ‘In business it’s worse. Sometimes I peer through the back of the window where they can’t see me, and I watch them read the ads. My God! Horror comics! They suck their teeth, pull their noses, tweak their ears, suck their gums, cross their eyes, dig their nostrils, pick their teeth, hawk, hark, cough, poot, snitch, puff, blow, read aloud, spit, wipe their noses, suck their lips—’

‘Oh, stop it!’ Jennifer said sharply. ‘I know. You’ve said it often enough.’

‘And when you think that right outside there you’ve got a couple of thousand of them pawking, hawking, poffing, snitting, gosblinking, snotpulling—’ He broke off and chuckled.

‘I’m glad you find it amusing,’ she said. ‘Frankly, it’s giving me the chills. What are they looking at?’

‘I feel so unreal I don’t even care much,’ he said. ‘It’s a dream, isn’t it? Could I feel anything?’

She swung round and punched him in the chest. He caught his breath.

‘Stinker!’ he gasped. ‘Lord blast you! Caw!’ He bent and held his middle.

‘Oh, don’t make such a fuss!’ she said. ‘What’s the matter with them? They can’t go on like that. I’ll turn the hose on them!’

‘It wouldn’t reach,’ he said, and turned away. ‘I must wash. I can’t make out this dream sequence. Are we awake? Why did we sleep so long? Why did we fall asleep? Granted we often fall asleep, but this was all over the place, sort of. I—’

Jennifer turned and put herself in his arms. He hugged her, glad of the feeling that he was not quite lost.

‘I’m frightened!’ she said.

‘All right!’ he replied angrily. ‘I’ll go and see what it’s all about. Hang on. Don’t look out. I’ll clear them off.’

He went out of the house into the sunny garden. The soft warmth of the air had a richness that sapped his anger. From where he stood in the garden he could no longer see the bovine watchers in the lane. A high mass of tall flowers had taken their places in his sight. He stopped on his way to the gate and looked back.

The house stood against the sky as it always did, calm, its white paint looking cool and somehow rich against the red brick. It was, of course, in good repair, as befitted the home of a surveyor, who, in his spare time, wrote short stories about all solidities like his house vanishing, inexplicably, overnight.

His eyes kept to it, and the looped wires of the electricity and telephone lines loping over from the poles in the lane. He watched them