Haunted Castles by Ray Russell

was buried!’
    â€œâ€˜Yes, yes,’ the other sons chorused, saving Marek, and plans began to be laid for the exhuming of the dead man. But the widow spoke firmly: ‘Your father rests peacefully,’ she said. ‘He must not be disturbed. No amount of gold would soothe our hearts if we disturbed him.’ The sons protested with vehemence, but the widow stood her ground. ‘No son of mine will profane his father’s grave—unless he first kills his mother!’ Grumbling, the sons withdrew their plans. But that night, Marek awoke to find his mother gone from the house. He was frightened, for this was not like her. Intuition sent him to the graveyard, where he found her, keeping a lonely vigil over the grave of her husband, protecting him from the greed of grave robbers. Marek implored her to come out of the cold, to return home; she at first refused; only when Marek offered to keep vigil all night himself did she relent and return home, leaving her youngest son to guard the grave from profanation.
    â€œMarek waited a full hour. Then he produced from under his shirt a small shovel. He was a strong boy, and the greed of a youngest son who has been deprived of inheritance lent added strength to his arms. He dug relentlessly, stopping seldom for rest, until finally the coffin was uncovered. He raised the creaking lid. An overpowering foetor filled his nostrils and nearly made him faint. Gathering courage, he searched the pockets of the mouldering waistcoat.
    â€œThe moon proved to be his undoing, Sir Robert. For suddenly its rays, hitherto hidden, struck the face of his father, and at the sight of that face, the boy recoiled and went reeling against the wall of the grave, the breath forced from his body. Now, you must know that the mere sight of his father—even in an advanced state of decomposition—he had steeled himself to withstand; but what he had
not
foreseen—”
    Here, Sardonicus leaned close to me and his pallid, grinning head filled my vision. “What he had not foreseen, my dear sir, was that the face of his father, in the rigour of death, would look directly and hideously upon him.” Sardonicus’ voice became an ophidian hiss. “And, Sir Robert,” he added, “most terrible and most unforeseen of all, the dead lips were drawn back from the teeth
in a constant and soul-shattering smile!
”

V
THE REMEMBRANCE OF THAT NIGHT
    I know not whether it was the ghastliness of his story, or the sight of his hideous face so close to mine, or the cheerless keening of the wind outside, or the brandy I had consumed, or all of these in combination; but when Sardonicus uttered those last words, my heart was clutched by a cold hand, and for a moment—a long moment ripped from the texture of time—I was convinced beyond doubt and beyond logic that the face I looked into was the face of that cadaver, reanimated by obscure arts, to walk among the living, dead though not dead.
    The moment of horror passed, at length, and reason triumphed. Sardonicus, considerably affected by his own tale, sat back in his chair, trembling. Before too long, he spoke again:
    â€œThe remembrance of that night, Sir Robert, though it is now many years past, fills me still with dread. You will appreciate this when I tell you what you have perhaps already guessed—that
I
am that ghoulish son, Marek.”
    I had not guessed it; but since I had no wish to tell him that I had for an instant thought he was the dead father, I said nothing.
    â€œWhen my senses returned,” said Sardonicus, “I scrambled out of the grave and ran as swiftly as my limbs would carry me. I had reached the gate of the graveyard when I was smitten by the fact that I had not accomplished the purpose of my mission—the lottery ticket remained in my father’s pocket!”
    â€œBut surely—” I started to say.
    â€œSurely I ignored the fact and continued to run? No, Sir Robert.