The Big Book of Ghost Stories Page 3

  The stewards had rolled away the carpets, and the passengers were beginning to dance. Miss Dean accepted the invitation of a young officer, and Mr. Arcularis watched them with envy. Odd, that last exchange of remarks—very odd; in fact, everything was odd. Was it possible that they were falling in love? Was that what it was all about—all these concealed references and recollections? He had read of such things. But at his age! And with a girl of twenty-two! It was ridiculous.

  After an amused look at his old friend Polaris from the open door on the sheltered side, he went to bed.

  The rhythm of the ship’s engines was positively a persecution. It gave one no rest, it followed one like the Hound of Heaven, it drove one out into space and across the Milky Way and then back home by way of Betelgeuse. It was cold there, too. Mr. Arcularis, making the round trip by way of Betelgeuse and Polaris, sparkled with frost. He felt like a Christmas tree. Icicles on his fingers and icicles on his toes. He tinkled and spangled in the void, hallooed to the waste echoes, rounded the buoy on the verge of the Unknown, and tacked glitteringly homeward. The wind whistled. He was barefooted. Snow-flakes and tinsel blew past him. Next time, by George, he would go farther still—for altogether it was rather a lark. Forward into the untrodden! as somebody said. Some intrepid explorer of his own backyard, probably, some middle-aged professor with an umbrella: those were the fellows for courage! But give us time, thought Mr. Arcularis, give us time, and we will bring back with us the night-rime of the Obsolute. Or was it Absolute? If only there weren’t this perpetual throbbing, this iteration of sound, like a pain, these circles and repetitions of light—the feeling as of everything coiling inward to a centre of misery …

  Suddenly it was dark, and he was lost. He was groping, he touched the cold, white, slippery woodwork with his fingernails, looking for an electric switch. The throbbing, of course, was the throbbing of the ship. But he was almost home—almost home. Another corner to round, a door to be opened, and there he would be. Safe and sound. Safe in his father’s home.

  It was at this point that he woke up: in the corridor that led to the dining saloon. Such pure terror, such horror, seized him as he had never known. His heart felt as if it would stop beating. His back was toward the dining saloon; apparently he had just come from it. He was in his pajamas. The corridor was dim, all but two lights having been turned out for the night, and—thank God!—deserted. Not a soul, not a sound. He was perhaps fifty yards from his room. With luck he could get to it unseen. Holding tremulously to the rail that ran along the wall, a brown, greasy rail, he began to creep his way forward. He felt very weak, very dizzy, and his thoughts refused to concentrate. Vaguely he remembered Miss Dean—Clarice—and the freckled girl, as if they were one and the same person. But he wasn’t in the hospital, he was on the ship. Of course. How absurd. The Great Circle. Here we are, old fellow … steady round the corner … hold hard to your umbrella …

  In his room, with the door safely shut behind him, Mr. Arcularis broke into a cold sweat. He had no sooner got into his bunk, shivering, than he heard the night watchman pass.

  “But where—” he thought, closing his eyes in agony—“have I been?…”

  A dreadful idea had occurred to him.

  “It’s nothing serious—how could it be anything serious? Of course it’s nothing serious,” said Mr. Arcularis.

  “No, it’s nothing serious,” said the ship’s doctor urbanely.

  “I knew you’d think so. But just the same——”

  “Such a condition is the result of worry,” said the doctor. “Are you worried—do you mind telling me—about something? Just try to think.”

  “Worried?”

  Mr. Arcularis knitted his brows. Was there something? Some little mosquito of a cloud disappearing into the southwest, the northeast? Some little gnat-song of despair? But no, that was all over. All over.

  “Nothing,” he said, “nothing whatever.”

  “It’s very strange,” said the doctor.

  “Strange! I should say so. I’ve come to sea for a rest, not for a nightmare! What about a bromide?”

  “Well, I can give you a bromide, Mr. Arcularis——”

  “Then, please, if you don’t mind, give me a bromide.”

  He carried the little phial hopefully to his state-room, and took a dose at once. He could see the sun through his porthole. It looked northern and pale and small, like a little peppermint, which was only natural enough, for the latitude was changing with every hour. But why was it that doctors were all alike? and all, for that matter, like his father, or that other fellow at the hospital? Smythe, his name was. Doctor Smythe. A nice, dry little fellow, and they said he was a writer. Wrote poetry, or something like that. Poor fellow—disappointed. Like everybody else. Crouched in there, in his cabin, night after night, writing blank verse or something—all about the stars and flowers and love and death; ice and the sea and the infinite; time and tide—well, every man to his own taste.

  “But it’s nothing serious,” said Mr. Arcularis, later, to the parson. “How could it be?”

  “Why, of course not, my dear fellow,” said the parson, patting his back. “How could it be?”

  “I know it isn’t and yet I worry about it.”

  “It would be ridiculous to think it serious,” said the parson.

  Mr. Arcularis shivered: it was colder than ever. It was said that they were near icebergs. For a few hours in the morning there had been a fog, and the siren had blown—devastatingly—at three-minute intervals. Icebergs caused fog—he knew that.

  “These things always come,” said the parson, “from a sense of guilt. You feel guilty about something. I won’t be so rude as to inquire what it is. But if you could rid yourself of the sense of guilt——”

  And later still, when the sky was pink:

  “But is it anything to worry about?” said Miss Dean. “Really?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Then don’t worry. We aren’t children any longer!”

  “Aren’t we? I wonder!”

  They leaned, shoulders touching, on the deck-rail, and looked at the sea, which was multitudinously incarnadined. Mr. Arcularis scanned the horizon in vain for an iceberg.

  “Anyway,” he said, “the colder we are the less we feel!”

  “I hope that’s no reflection on you,” said Miss Dean.

  “Here … feel my hand,” said Mr. Arcularis.

  “Heaven knows it’s cold!”

  “It’s been to Polaris and back! No wonder.”

  “Poor thing, poor thing!”

  “Warm it.”

  “May I?”

  “You can.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Laughing, she took his hand between both of hers, one palm under and one palm over, and began rubbing it briskly. The decks were deserted, no one was near them, every one was dressing for dinner. The sea grew darker, the wind blew colder.

  “I wish I could remember who you are,” he said.

  “And you—who are you?”

  “Myself.”

  “Then perhaps I am yourself.”

  “Don’t be metaphysical!”

  “But I am metaphysical!”

  She laughed, withdrew, pulled the light coat about her shoulders.

  The bugle blew the summons for dinner—“The Roast Beef of Old England”—and they walked together along the darkening deck toward the door, from which a shaft of soft light fell across the deck-rail. As they stepped over the brass door-sill Mr. Arcularis felt the throb of the engines again; he put his hand quickly to his side.

  “Auf wiedersehen,” he said. “To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow.”

  Mr. Arcularis was finding it impossible, absolutely impossible, to keep warm. A cold fog surrounded the ship, had done so, it seemed, for days. The sun had all but disappeared, the transition from day to night was almost unnoticeable. The ship, too, seemed scarcely to be moving—it was as if anchored among walls of ice and rime. Monstrous, that merely because it
was June, and supposed, therefore, to be warm, the ship’s authorities should consider it unnecessary to turn on the heat! By day, he wore his heavy coat and sat shivering in the corner of the smoking-room. His teeth chattered, his hands were blue. By night, he heaped blankets on his bed, closed the porthole’s black eye against the sea, and drew the yellow curtains across it, but in vain. Somehow, despite everything, the fog crept in, and the icy fingers touched his throat. The steward, questioned about it, merely said, “Icebergs.” Of course—any fool knew that. But how long, in God’s name, was it going to last? They surely ought to be past the Grand Banks by this time! And surely it wasn’t necessary to sail to England by way of Greenland and Iceland!

  Miss Dean—Clarice—was sympathetic.

  “It’s simply because,” she said, “your vitality has been lowered by your illness. You can’t expect to be your normal self so soon after an operation! When was your operation, by the way?”

  Mr. Arcularis considered. Strange—he couldn’t be quite sure. It was all a little vague—his sense of time had disappeared.

  “Heavens knows!” he said. “Centuries ago. When I was a tadpole and you were a fish. I should think it must have been at about the time of the Battle of Teutoburg Forest. Or perhaps when I was a Neanderthal man with a club!”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t farther back still?”

  What did she mean by that?

  “Not at all. Obviously, we’ve been on this damned ship for ages—for eras—for æons. And even on this ship, you must remember, I’ve had plenty of time, in my nocturnal wanderings, to go several times to Orion and back. I’m thinking, by the way, of going farther still. There’s a nice little star off to the left, as you round Betelgeuse, which looks as if it might be right at the edge. The last outpost of the finite. I think I’ll have a look at it and bring you back a frozen rime-feather.”

  “It would melt when you got it back.”

  “Oh, no, it wouldn’t—not on this ship!”

  Clarice laughed.

  “I wish I could go with you,” she said.

  “If only you would! If only——”

  He broke off his sentence and looked hard at her—how lovely she was, and how desirable! No such woman had ever before come into his life; there had been no one with whom he had at once felt so profound a sympathy and understanding. It was a miracle, simply—a miracle. No need to put his arm around her or to kiss her—delightful as such small vulgarities would be. He had only to look at her, and to feel, gazing into those extraordinary eyes, that she knew him, had always known him. It was as if, indeed, she might be his own soul.

  But as he looked thus at her, reflecting, he noticed that she was frowning.

  “What is it?” he said.

  She shook her head, slowly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Nothing. It just occurred to me that perhaps you weren’t looking quite so well.”

  Mr. Arcularis was startled. He straightened himself up.

  “What nonsense! Of course this pain bothers me—and I feel astonishingly weak——”

  “It’s more than that—much more than that. Something is worrying you horribly.” She paused, and then with an air of challenging him, added, “Tell me, did you——”

  Her eyes were suddenly asking him blazingly the question he had been afraid of. He flinched, caught his breath, looked away. But it was no use, as he knew: he would have to tell her. He had known all along that he would have to tell her.

  “Clarice,” he said—and his voice broke in spite of his effort to control it—“It’s killing me, it’s ghastly! Yes, I did.”

  His eyes filled with tears, he saw that her own had done so also. She put her hand on his arm.

  “I knew,” she said. “I knew. But tell me.”

  “It’s happened twice again—twice—and each time I was farther away. The same dream of going round a star, the same terrible coldness and helplessness. That awful whistling curve …” He shuddered.

  “And when you woke up—” she spoke quietly—“where were you when you woke up? Don’t be afraid!”

  “The first time I was at the farther end of the dining saloon. I had my hand on the door that leads into the pantry.”

  “I see. Yes. And the next time?”

  Mr. Arcularis wanted to close his eyes in terror—he felt as if he were going mad. His lips moved before he could speak, and when at last he did speak it was in a voice so low as to be almost a whisper.

  “I was at the bottom of the stairway that leads down from the pantry to the hold, past the refrigerating-plant. It was dark, and I was crawling on my hands and knees … Crawling on my hands and knees!…”

  “Oh!” she said, and again, “Oh!”

  He began to tremble violently; he felt the hand on his arm trembling also. And then he watched a look of unmistakable horror come slowly into Clarice’s eyes, and a look of understanding, as if she saw … She tightened her hold on his arm.

  “Do you think …” she whispered.

  They stared at each other.

  “I know,” he said. “And so do you … Twice more—three times—and I’ll be looking down into an empty …”

  It was then that they first embraced—then, at the edge of the infinite, at the last signpost of the finite. They clung together desperately, forlornly, weeping as they kissed each other, staring hard one moment and closing their eyes the next. Passionately, passionately, she kissed him, as if she were indeed trying to give him her warmth, her life.

  “But what nonsense!” she cried, leaning back, and holding his face between her hands, her hands which were wet with his tears. “What nonsense! It can’t be!”

  “It is,” said Mr. Arcularis slowly.

  “But how do you know?… How do you know where the——”

  For the first time Mr. Arcularis smiled.

  “Don’t be afraid, darling—you mean the coffin?”

  “How could you know where it is?”

  “I don’t need to,” said Mr. Arcularis … “I’m already almost there.”

  Before they separated for the night, in the smoking-room, they had several whisky cocktails.

  “We must make it gay!” Mr. Arcularis said. “Above all, we must make it gay. Perhaps even now it will turn out to be nothing but a nightmare from which both of us will wake! And even at the worst, at my present rate of travel, I ought to need two more nights! It’s a long way, still, to that little star.”

  The parson passed them at the door.

  “What! turning in so soon?” he said. “I was hoping for a game of chess.”

  “Yes, both turning in. But to-morrow?”

  “To-morrow, then, Miss Dean! And good night!”

  “Good night.”

  They walked once round the deck, then leaned on the railing and stared into the fog. It was thicker and whiter than ever. The ship was moving barely perceptibly, the rhythm of the engines was slower, more subdued and remote, and at regular intervals, mournfully, came the long reverberating cry of the foghorn. The sea was calm, and lapped only very tenderly against the side of the ship, the sound coming up to them clearly, however, because of the profound stillness.

  “ ‘On such a night as this—’ ” quoted Mr. Arcularis grimly.

  “ ‘On such a night as this——’ ”

  Their voices hung suspended in the night, time ceased for them, for an eternal instant they were happy. When at last they parted it was by tacit agreement on a note of the ridiculous.

  “Be a good boy and take your bromide!” she said.

  “Yes, mother, I’ll take my medicine!”

  In his state-room, he mixed himself a strong potion of bromide, a very strong one, and got into bed. He would have no trouble in falling asleep: he felt more tired, more supremely exhausted, than he had ever been in his life; nor had bed ever seemed so delicious. And that long, magnificent, delirious swoop of dizziness … the Great Circle … the swift pathway to Arcturus …

&nbs
p; It was all as before, but infinitely more rapid. Never had Mr. Arcularis achieved such phenomenal, such supernatural, speed. In no time at all he was beyond the moon, shot past the North Star as if it were standing still (which perhaps it was?), swooped in a long, bright curve round the Pleiades, shouted his frosty greetings to Betelgeuse, and was off to the little blue star which pointed the way to the Unknown. Forward into the untrodden! Courage, old man, and hold on to your umbrella! Have you got your garters on? Mind your hat! In no time at all we’ll be back to Clarice with the frozen rime-feather, the rime-feather, the snowflake of the Absolute, the Obsolete. If only we don’t wake … if only we needn’t wake … if only we don’t wake in that—in that—time and space … somewhere or nowhere … cold and dark … “Cavalleria Rusticana” sobbing among the palms; if a lonely … if only … the coffers of the poor—not coffers, not coffers, not coffers, Oh, God, not coffers, but light, delight, supreme white and brightness, whirling lightness above all—and freezing—freezing—freezing …

  At this point in the void the surgeon’s last effort to save Mr. Arcularis’s life had failed. He stood back from the operating table and made a tired gesture with a rubber-gloved hand.

  “It’s all over,” he said. “As I expected.”

  He looked at Miss Hoyle, whose gaze was downward, at the basin she held. There was a moment’s stillness, a pause, a brief flight of unexchanged comment, and then the ordered life of the hospital was resumed.

  AUGUST HEAT

  William

  Fryer Harvey

  POOR HEALTH PRETTY MUCH ruined the medical career of William Fryer Harvey (1885–1937) but it did give him the opportunity to become the writer of some of the most inventive horror stories of all time. Born into a very wealthy Quaker family in Yorkshire, he attended Balliol College at Oxford University, then received his medical degree from Leeds University. His frail condition sent him on a worldwide cruise and, on a stopover of several months in Australia, he began to write his first fiction pieces. Being a devotee of the works of Edgar Allan Poe clearly influenced his prose, which had similar overtones of dread. When England was drawn into World War I, Harvey joined a Friends’ Ambulance unit and served as a surgeon-lieutenant in the Royal Navy. While heroically performing surgery in the boiler room of a destroyer as it was sinking, the fumes from burning oil damaged his lungs, earning Harvey the Albert Medal for Lifesaving and a lifelong debilitating lung condition, eventually costing him his life at the age of fifty-two. Oddly, despite his horrific stories, Harvey had the reputation of being an exceptionally kind, gentle, and jovial man, much loved by all who knew him.