Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror (14 page)

But within seconds the scattering of flakes had become a blizzard. He had never seen anything like it in his life. He had to narrow his eyes to slits to see at all; the view ahead was a blur of whirling snow.

The wind was so intense that he was forced on more than one occasion to turn his back on it and shield his face, and the wind seemed to be grabbing him and shaking him and trying to turn him about. Then he saw the shadowy image of the thing that was following him and he turned and ran.

He had some vague notion of trying to double back on himself and head for the path that might lead him back down to the safety of the valley and to his home. He would gladly take any punishment his father might hand out or suffer the scorn of his brothers, if only he might escape this hideous creature.

But as soon as Matthew began to run, he realised that he no longer had any idea in which direction the path lay, or in fact which direction anything lay. The snow was like a huge shroud winding about him until he could see no landmark at all, familiar or otherwise.

Still he ran, however blindly. The horror of the creature overtook any other fear he might have had. The snow stung his face, ice against burning flesh. Only once did he turn round, and there he saw the thing only yards behind him. He cried out weakly as a child might and then skidded to a halt, the toes of his boots hanging over the edge of a crag. As he turned, the ghoul walked slowly forward.

Matthew looked right and left, but there was no escape except through the creature that now loomed out of the swirling snow. Matthew began to sob and then yelled in despair.

'What are you? What do you want with me?'

The creature shuffled forward until he was only a foot or so from Matthew. The full horror of the injuries was now all too apparent, as was the fact that the clothes the creature wore were identical to Matthew's - so too was the pack that hung across his crippled shoulder. This realisation hit Matthew as he stared into the creature's one good eye, grey like his own.

'No!' he screamed, and the creature screamed with him, a cruel, distorted mirror of his own fear, and then Matthew fell, staggering backwards and plummeting from the crag on to the teeth of the scree below.

* * *

Mr Beckett was the first to find him. He was an old man and had fought as a soldier in his youth, though unlike Matthew's grandfather he never spoke of it; but still he had never seen the like of it. The boy's left arm and leg were smashed and lay at a sickeningly impossible angle to his torso -
and the
face
. . .

Beckett only recognised Matthew by the clothes he was wearing. He turned away, his mouth dry and bitter with the taste of bile, threw his coat across the body without looking back and set off to tell Matthew's parents the grim news.

Uncle Montague smiled from the shadows at the look of horror I no doubt wore, and handed me the telescope. I almost had a mind to put it to my eye, but I was suddenly struck by a dread of what I might see - as if Matthew's horrible vision might still be clinging to the eyepiece. I grinned sheepishly at my own foolishness.

'Does something amuse you?' asked Uncle Montague.

'I was merely reminding myself, Uncle, that I am getting too old to be so easily frightened by stories.'

'Really?' said Uncle Montague with a worrying degree of doubt in his voice. 'You think there is an age at which you might become immune to fear?'

'Well,.' I said, a little concerned that I had once again offended his abilities as a storyteller. 'That is not to say that the stories you tell are not jolly frightening, Uncle.'

'Quite,.' said Uncle Montague, though with a strange intonation.

'Have you ever thought of having them published, sir?'

'No, Edgar,.' he said. 'That would not be appropriate. After all, they are not
my
stories, as I have intimated to you.'

'But I do not understand, Uncle,.' I said. 'If they are not your stories, then whose are they?'

'They belong to those involved, Edgar,.' he replied. 'I am merely the storyteller.'

'But how can that -'

'But I am afraid you really must go now, Edgar,. ' interrupted Uncle Montague, getting to his feet, his face suddenly serious. 'You would not like it here after dark.'

I failed to see what difference it would make as the house was in perpetual darkness anyway, but my uncle was already at the study door and as the fire seemed suddenly to have died away I was eager to follow him.

'Keep to the path, Edgar,.' he said at the front door, with the touching concern he always showed me as I left his house. 'And do not tarry in the woods.'

'Thank you, Uncle . . .' I began, but the door was already shutting and I could hear a succession of bolts and locks being rammed home. I smiled to myself at my uncle's awkwardness at our parting. For such a worldly man, he could be charmingly shy at times.

But I did wonder if he had spent too many hours in his own company. His curious insistence that he was not the author of these tales struck me as most peculiar. It was obvious to one even as young I was then, that - as I had begun to explain to my uncle - in most cases, the principal characters in the story were dead by the end, or in such a tormented state that it would be hard to imagine how they would have the wit or the inclination to write or even dictate their tale.

But I did not think the worse of my uncle for this fabrication. I simply took it as a sign of his eccentricity. After a quick backwards glance at the house, I set off home.

I was never in any way tempted to stray from the path and, though I was sure that the woods were perfectly safe, nor was I inclined to dawdle. My uncle's concern was entirely misplaced. I would not have tarried in those woods for all the tea in China.

I had never before left it this late to return home and I was struck by how the darkness seemed to descend like a curtain, so that while it had seemed merely dusk when I left my uncle's door, night had truly enveloped me by the time I reached the wood.

As I did so I heard what I took to be my uncle's dog howling and resolved again to ask him about the animal, for I had never seen it in the grounds, nor had my uncle ever mentioned it. I was fond of animals.

Walking between the trees, I fancied that I saw shapes congealing out of the surrounding blackness and I became suddenly colder. I felt compelled to stop and peer into the dark to satisfy myself that I was troubled by my boyish imaginings and nothing more.

But quite the opposite effect was produced. Now that my eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and now that I really concentrated my gaze, I could see that I was clearly
not alone
.

'Hello!' I called with a confidence I did not feel.

'Who's there?'

I saw by the silhouettes that the figures surrounding me were children. It was a group of the village lads, rather a large group. As usual, they said nothing - simply stood among the trees . . . silently . . . malevolently.

I prepared myself for a beating; I could never have reached the safety of my house before they caught me. But I am English and have spent my life at one of the finest schools in the country. I could take a beating.

The crowd of boys moved closer. I could make out none of their features as they seemed to bring their own shadows with them. I tried to look as contemptuous as possible, while steeling myself against the punches and kicks I felt sure were about to rain down on me.

But strange to say, instead of blows, tentative fingers stretched out towards me, as if the children - and I could now see by their silhouettes that there were girls as well as boys in the gang - were both afraid and eager to touch me.

'Enough!' said a voice behind me.

The children sprang back and I turned, startled, to see my uncle carrying a lantern. I was relieved to see him, of course, but I still had enough pride to be a little embarrassed at being rescued by my elderly relative.

'Joseph, Matthew,.' he said crossly. 'Leave him be.'

'You know these boys?' I asked, astonished that he knew their names and recognised them in such poor light.

'Yes, Edgar,.' he said in a curious tone. 'I know these children well.'

'I don't understand, sir,.' I said.

Uncle Edgar looked at me and smiled wearily.

'You asked me for one more story, Edgar,.' he said. 'Very well, then. You shall have one more story: my own . . .'

'I was once a teacher, Edgar,.' said Uncle Montague, stretching the muscles of his neck as if he was suddenly very tired. 'Did you know that?'

'No, sir,.' I said. My uncle had never previously seen fit to tell me anything of consequence about his life.

Uncle Montague looked grim.

'Yes, Edgar,.' he answered. There was an almost imperceptible movement among the surrounding children - as if they had all flinched at the same time. 'My house was a school then, and I was its headmaster: a cruel and wicked headmaster, Edgar.'

'Surely not, Uncle,.' I said. The children seemed to have taken a step nearer, though they were still beyond the range of Uncle Montague's lantern.

'I am afraid so,.' he said, casting a glance at the surrounding figures. 'I had begun my teaching life eager to impart the wonders of the world to my little flock of pupils, but over time, something happened to me, Edgar. I cannot say exactly what it was, but it was a kind of death; or rather something worse than death - a death of the soul.'

I moved to interrupt, but Uncle Montague continued.

'I wish that I could say my cruelty was of the ordinary sort - that I beat my children or forced them to stand for hours on a chair. I wish I could tell you that I humiliated them in front of their fellows. But no, Edgar - my cruelty was of a darker shade altogether.

'I wore the outward mask of a good and caring teacher, but unbeknown to those poor children, who looked up to me and worked so hard to win my praise, I was unworthy of their respect.'

Uncle Montague said these words with a heartrending mixture of bitterness and regret and closed his eyes as if in prayer. The children around us bristled and inched closer. I gave a disapproving look to the child nearest to me.

'I do not understand, Uncle,.' I said.

'I developed an addiction to games of chance, Edgar,.' he said with a sigh. 'Finally settling on cards as my principal form of gambling. I was a good player, but even the greatest must lose, and lose I did. Gradually all my savings were eaten away and I was forced to look for another source of money to take to the table.'

'Uncle?' I asked, seeing the strange look that played across his face.

'I began to . . .
steal
from the boys, Edgar,.' he said, looking away.

'Steal, sir?' I said, not quite able to take in the enormity of this crime - that a grown man, and a teacher at that, would
steal
from a child.

'You are right to be shocked, Edgar,.' he said quietly. 'It was a terrible betrayal of trust. But it is one for which I have paid a very heavy price.' Again the children shifted noiselessly.

'I intercepted letters from the children,.' my uncle continued, 'forging their handwriting and adding postscripts begging for money - money I intercepted as it came to the school. It did not stop at money. Presents sent to the boys by their doting mothers, I took for myself. I ate their birthday treats in my office and amused myself by offering the odd morsel to the boy for whom it had been intended. I had become utterly wretched, Edgar, and wallowed in my wretchedness as a hog revels in its own filth.'

I found it hard to meet my uncle's eyes and only the dread of seeing the shadowy figures grouped ever more closely about us persuaded me to look him in the face.

'Of course, these thefts were bound to come to light,.' he resumed. 'And sure enough, I began to receive complaints from parents, as well as from some of the braver boys. I put them off for as long as I could, but eventually I was forced to act. I could, even then, have simply owned up to my crime and taken the resulting disgrace. How attractive that disgrace seems now, Edgar. I would embrace it now like a long-lost brother. But I was far too weak and odious to confess.

'Instead, another course of action occurred to me. There was a boy at the school. His name was William Collins. He was an orphan. His fees were paid through a firm of lawyers in the City. He was not popular with the other boys, for he was aloof and awkward.

'The curious thing was that it was this very aloofness that, even in the depths of my wretchedness, endeared him to me. It had been years since I had felt anything other than loathing and contempt towards the children, but I liked William. He reminded me of myself at his age.' Uncle smiled at the memory.

'But what has William to do with the thefts, sir?'

I asked.

His smile dissolved.

'I had decided that I would implicate one of the boys in the thefts, Edgar. For some perverse reason I decided that I would choose . . . William: the one boy I had any fellow feeling for. To this day I cannot say why.'

'And did it work?' I said, surprised by how cold my voice sounded.

'Yes,.' said Uncle Montague grimly. 'The boys were only too ready to accept it. William came to me, pleading with me to make them understand that he was innocent. I reassured him that I would do everything in my power, but of course I did nothing at all.' Uncle Montague looked straight into my eyes, his face like a carved mask. 'He was badly beaten.

'Parents demanded that something be done about this thief. I wrote to William's lawyers, explaining the circumstances and requesting, with great regret, that they place William at another school.'

'And what happened to him, sir?' I asked.

Uncle Montague sighed. The children scurried forward a few inches.

'William came to my study. He was distraught. His face was bruised. He had been beaten again. I could not bear to see him in that state and know that I was the cause, but instead of standing up and putting an end to his misery, I sent him away. I told him that he must face these things and be a man.'

'And then?' I asked, fearing the answer. My uncle made no response. Every silhouetted face turned to his, and they seemed to be urging him silently to answer.

'What happened then?' I said again.

'He took his own life, Edgar.'

I gasped with horror.

'Yes! He took his own life, driven to it by my lies and vile trickery. No one knew my part in his death, but the suicide was enough to persuade parents to take their children away from the school and soon it was empty of all but the most unloved boys, and there were few signs of attracting new blood.

'William's death had shaken me, of course, but I had no idea of the journey I was yet to embark on. Gambling was at the root of all my problems, but so addicted was I that instead of simply stopping, I decided to let chance decide my fate. I swore that if Fortune let me win, then I would dedicate myself to needy children hereabouts. If I lost, then I would give myself up to the authorities and answer for my past misdeeds.

'I found a whistle I used to wear around my neck in happier times. It was a whistle I used to rally the boys when we were engaged in one of our many nature trails or historical outings. I had not used it in many a year and I put it in my pocket as a lucky charm. Gamblers are as superstitious as sailors, Edgar.

'I decided I would take all the money I had squir-relled away to a rather dubious club in town and play the cards one last time.

'As I reached the door of the club and was about to climb the dimly lit steps to its entrance, I saw out of the corner of my eye a group of shabbily dressed children standing some way off in the shadows on the other side of the road. The presence of those urchins should have served as a reminder of my purpose as I entered the club, but I was already forgetting my oath.

'Much to my surprise, my luck had changed. I could not lose. One by one, my fellow gamblers cashed in and left as the pot grew larger and larger. Other customers of the club came to watch. I had never won so much money in all my days of gambling. As I left the club, loaded with cash and promissory notes I looked for the children, but there was no sign of them. I took the whistle from my pocket and gave it a grateful kiss. I hailed a cab, spent the night in the Savoy and returned to the house the following day.

'My final night of gambling was nothing of the sort, of course. No gambler wins like that and stops. Instead, I spent some of my winnings on fine clothes and tried my luck at another, more salubrious club near Piccadilly.

'Once again, as I paid the cab and tapped the pavement with my silver-tipped cane, I saw a group of children standing some way off in the shadows. It seemed a strange coincidence, and I took their presence as a good sign.

'So it turned out to be. I won again and handsomely. In fact, I won every time I went to the card tables. I won so often that I was accused of cheating, but though I would not have been above such a thing, I just seemed to be having a run of the most extraordinary luck. The clubs began to refuse me entry, of course. They could not prove that I was cheating; it was enough that I was ruining their businesses.

'My gambling club days were over. So I invested some of my winnings and discovered that I had the same good fortune in my investments that I had enjoyed at the card table. I seemed unable to lose. I was soon rather rich and I must say I enjoyed it. I was now perfectly placed to pursue the course I had promised myself - to engage in an act of benevolence and educate the unfortunates of the local area. But I had not changed, Edgar.

'In fact, I closed the school and sent the few remaining children away. All thoughts of my promise to school the local children had left my mind. I returned the house to the grand residence it had been in former times and began to receive the attentions of a relative - a nephew who lived nearby, whose interest in me just happened to coincide with my new-found fortune.'

'My father?' I said.

'Your father?' said Uncle Montague. 'No - your grandfather, I think. It has been so long I cannot recall. I was never a family man.'

'But that would make you -' I began.

'Very old indeed,.' said Uncle Montague. 'Yes. The house keeps me alive, Edgar - after a fashion.' A strange expression played across his face. 'But I did not know that then. I was still in a state of blissful ignorance. I was so wealthy that I did not care. I could do what I liked now. Or so I thought.'

'What do you mean, sir?'

'One day, Edgar,.' said Uncle Montague, 'I was standing in the grounds of my house - the gardens were quite lovely then - and realised that I still had my old school whistle in my pocket - my lucky charm from my gambling days. I felt a tiny pang of regret for breaking my promise, but it passed like a bout of indigestion. I took the whistle from my pocket and put it to my lips. I had a sudden urge to hear its cheerful trill once more.

'I blew, but no sound came. I told myself that the whistle was broken, but I came to realise that it was not broken but altered; it had become akin to one of those special whistles only dogs can hear. Though I heard no sound, I was aware of some vibration in the air that rippled outwards. The sky clouded over and the temperature dropped. I shuddered, and not only with the cold . . .'

'Uncle?' I said, for he seemed to have drifted into a kind of daze.

'Ah yes,.' he said. 'That was when they began to come: to come in answer to the whistle's silent call.'

'The children?' I asked, looking at the group gathered about us and wondering how it could be that they would hear a whistle my uncle could not and why they would come to its sound. I feared for my uncle's sanity more than ever.

'The children, yes,.' said Uncle Montague. 'They are my punishment, Edgar.'

'Your punishment, sir?' I said, wondering what hold these local boys could possibly have over him, though he seemed at ease in their company and had no qualms in sharing the shocking details of his life with them.

'The house is an accursed place, Edgar,.' he said.

'You must have felt it.'

'There is a strange atmosphere, sir,.' I said. 'It is a little cold.'

Uncle Montague chuckled at this and I saw the children flinch.

'A little cold?' he repeated. 'Yes, Edgar. It is a little cold. Is that not right, children?' This was the first time he had addressed them and they became agitated, though they remained silent throughout.

'You have still not explained what these children are doing here, Uncle,.' I said.

'Can you not guess, Edgar?' he asked.