The Dark Boatman: Tales of Horror and the Cthulhu Mythos by John Glasby Page A
Authors: John Glasby
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so. But then, picking up the carbon stick she began moving it lightly across the paper. Almost at once, I felt the plate beneath my hand begin to shake. With a faint cry, I snatched my hand away.
“There, what did I tell you?” she said triumphantly. “You felt it too, didn’t you?”
“I felt something,” I admitted.
“Like a shaking beneath the paving.”
“Something like that.” I felt a little tremor of fear pass through me. What the hell was going on? I did not believe in spirits or any other ghostly phenomenon. Yet I had distinctly that movement beneath my hand.
Straightening up, I said harshly, “I don’t think you should go on with this, Aunt Amelia. Forget this little hobby for the time being.”
She shook her head vehemently. “No, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anything stop me. If they don’t like what I’m doing, that’s just too bad.”
I did not try to stop her. I just stood there, shivering for a few moments, knowing there was something unnatural going on but not knowing what it was. All I knew was that I had no wish to remain in that old church. She was still on her hands and knees, rubbing away viciously, as I turned and left.
I knew she would remain there for some hours once she went into one of her moods of perverse obstinacy. Accordingly, I decided to check on the cellar in her absence.
Lighting a candle, I unlocked the cellar door and pulled it open. It was clear no one had been down there for a long time and I descended the steps slowly; holding the candle in front of me.
Finally, I reached the bottom, shielding the candle flame with one hand as I bent to peer into the darkness. As I looked for a place to put the candle, I noticed something dark and misshapen lying on the dusty floor. Lowering the candle, the light fell full upon the object and the scream that came unbidden to my lips echoed eerily around the confining walls.
There was no mistaking the features, even though the skin was parchment dry and brittle.
It was Aunt Amelia!
There was no doubt the body had been there for a considerable time. In that horrifying moment it was as if all I had subconsciously conjectured, what I had forced deep into the back of my thoughts, what I had not wanted to face, had all come together in that single instant of clarity.
I could not doubt the evidence of my own eyes. How she had died, there was no way of knowing. Whether it had been a tragic accident, or deliberate murder on the part of Jenkins, a sudden push as she had stood at the top. All I did know was that, ever since arriving at the house, I had been in the presence of a ghost, that my aunt would haunt this place forever, and the longer I remained there with this horror, the more difficult it would be to escape.
All of the signs had been there had I opened my eyes to see them. Her vigils in the churchyard, speaking with the spirits of those friends who had gone before. That queer shaking above the tombs of the dead in her presence.
Before she returned, I had thrown all of my things into the two cases and left by the back way, circling around through the woods. Two hours later, I caught the train to London.
Now all I have left are the dreams, which still haunt my sleep—nightmares from which I wake screaming and shaking uncontrollably.
But more than that, there is the thought that, someday, a letter will come, informing me that my aunt’s body has been discovered, and that, as her only heir, I must go to claim my inheritance—to find her waiting at the door to greet me with that terrible knowing smile on her lips as she did once before!
THAT DEEP BLACK YONDER
On September 26, 1932, I took the express train from Paddington, and began the four-hour long journey that was to take me to the Devon coast and into a nightmare of horror from which the doctors say I shall never fully recover. That I did not witness any actual visual horror until the very end made the mental shock only more terrifying, the final episode in
“There, what did I tell you?” she said triumphantly. “You felt it too, didn’t you?”
“I felt something,” I admitted.
“Like a shaking beneath the paving.”
“Something like that.” I felt a little tremor of fear pass through me. What the hell was going on? I did not believe in spirits or any other ghostly phenomenon. Yet I had distinctly that movement beneath my hand.
Straightening up, I said harshly, “I don’t think you should go on with this, Aunt Amelia. Forget this little hobby for the time being.”
She shook her head vehemently. “No, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anything stop me. If they don’t like what I’m doing, that’s just too bad.”
I did not try to stop her. I just stood there, shivering for a few moments, knowing there was something unnatural going on but not knowing what it was. All I knew was that I had no wish to remain in that old church. She was still on her hands and knees, rubbing away viciously, as I turned and left.
I knew she would remain there for some hours once she went into one of her moods of perverse obstinacy. Accordingly, I decided to check on the cellar in her absence.
Lighting a candle, I unlocked the cellar door and pulled it open. It was clear no one had been down there for a long time and I descended the steps slowly; holding the candle in front of me.
Finally, I reached the bottom, shielding the candle flame with one hand as I bent to peer into the darkness. As I looked for a place to put the candle, I noticed something dark and misshapen lying on the dusty floor. Lowering the candle, the light fell full upon the object and the scream that came unbidden to my lips echoed eerily around the confining walls.
There was no mistaking the features, even though the skin was parchment dry and brittle.
It was Aunt Amelia!
There was no doubt the body had been there for a considerable time. In that horrifying moment it was as if all I had subconsciously conjectured, what I had forced deep into the back of my thoughts, what I had not wanted to face, had all come together in that single instant of clarity.
I could not doubt the evidence of my own eyes. How she had died, there was no way of knowing. Whether it had been a tragic accident, or deliberate murder on the part of Jenkins, a sudden push as she had stood at the top. All I did know was that, ever since arriving at the house, I had been in the presence of a ghost, that my aunt would haunt this place forever, and the longer I remained there with this horror, the more difficult it would be to escape.
All of the signs had been there had I opened my eyes to see them. Her vigils in the churchyard, speaking with the spirits of those friends who had gone before. That queer shaking above the tombs of the dead in her presence.
Before she returned, I had thrown all of my things into the two cases and left by the back way, circling around through the woods. Two hours later, I caught the train to London.
Now all I have left are the dreams, which still haunt my sleep—nightmares from which I wake screaming and shaking uncontrollably.
But more than that, there is the thought that, someday, a letter will come, informing me that my aunt’s body has been discovered, and that, as her only heir, I must go to claim my inheritance—to find her waiting at the door to greet me with that terrible knowing smile on her lips as she did once before!
THAT DEEP BLACK YONDER
On September 26, 1932, I took the express train from Paddington, and began the four-hour long journey that was to take me to the Devon coast and into a nightmare of horror from which the doctors say I shall never fully recover. That I did not witness any actual visual horror until the very end made the mental shock only more terrifying, the final episode in
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