The Beetle (4 page)

Then this travesty of manhood reascended to his feet, and said,
whether speaking to me or to himself I could not tell,

'Dead!—dead!—as good as dead!—and better! We'll have him
buried.'

He moved away from me. I heard a door open and shut, and knew that
he was gone.

And he continued gone throughout the day. I had no actual
knowledge of his issuing out into the street, but he must have
done so, because the house appeared deserted. What had become of
the dreadful creature of the night before I could not guess. My
first fear was that he had left it behind him in the room with
me,—it might be, as a sort of watchdog. But, as the minutes and
the hours passed, and there was still no sign or sound of anything
living, I concluded that, if the thing was there, it was,
possibly, as helpless as myself, and that during its owner's
absence, at any rate, I had nothing to fear from its too pressing
attentions.

That, with the exception of myself, the house held nothing human,
I had strong presumptive proof more than once in the course of the
day. Several times, both in the morning and the afternoon, people
without endeavoured to attract the attention of whoever was
within. Vehicles—probably tradesmen's carts—drew up in front,
their stopping being followed by more or less assiduous assaults
upon the knocker and the bell. But in every case their appeals
remained unheeded. Whatever it was they wanted, they had to go
unsatisfied away. Lying there, torpid, with nothing to do but
listen, I was, possibly, struck by very little, but it did occur
to me that one among the callers was more persistent than the
rest.

The distant clock had just struck noon when I heard the gate open,
and someone approached the front door. Since nothing but silence
followed, I supposed that the occupant of the place had returned,
and had chosen to do so as silently as he had gone. Presently,
however, there came from the doorstep a slight but peculiar call,
as if a rat was squeaking. It was repeated three times, and then
there was the sound of footsteps quietly retreating, and the gate
re-closing. Between one and two the caller came again; there was a
repetition of the same signal,—that it was a signal I did not
doubt; followed by the same retreat. About three the mysterious
visitant returned. The signal was repeated, and, when there was no
response, fingers tapped softly against the panels of the front
door. When there was still no answer, footsteps stole softly round
the side of the house, and there came the signal from the rear,—
and then, again, tapping of fingers against what was, apparently,
the back door. No notice being taken of these various proceedings,
the footsteps returned the way they went, and, as before, the gate
was closed.

Shortly after darkness had fallen this assiduous caller returned,
to make a fourth and more resolute attempt to call attention to
his presence. From the peculiar character of his manoeuvres it
seemed that he suspected that whoever was within had particular
reasons for ignoring him without He went through the familiar
pantomime of the three squeaky calls both at the front door and
the back,—followed by the tapping of the fingers on the panels.
This time, however, he also tried the window panes,—I could hear,
quite distinctly, the clear, yet distinct, noise of what seemed
like knuckles rapping against the windows behind. Disappointed
there, he renewed his efforts at the front. The curiously quiet
footsteps came round the house, to pause before the window of the
room in which I lay,—and then something singular occurred.

While I waited for the tapping, there came, instead, the sound of
someone or something, scrambling on to the window-sill,—as if
some creature, unable to reach the window from the ground, was
endeavouring to gain the vantage of the sill. Some ungainly
creature, unskilled in surmounting such an obstacle as a
perpendicular brick wall. There was the noise of what seemed to be
the scratching of claws, as if it experienced considerable
difficulty in obtaining a hold on the unyielding surface. What
kind of creature it was I could not think,—I was astonished to
find that it was a creature at all. I had taken it for granted
that the persevering visitor was either a woman or a man. If,
however, as now seemed likely, it was some sort of animal, the
fact explained the squeaking sounds,—though what, except a rat,
did squeak like that was more than I could say—and the absence of
any knocking or ringing.

Whatever it was, it had gained the summit of its desires,—the
window-sill. It panted as if its efforts at climbing had made it
short of breath. Then began the tapping. In the light of my new
discovery, I perceived, clearly enough, that the tapping was
hardly that which was likely to be the product of human fingers,—
it was sharp and definite, rather resembling the striking of the
point of a nail against the glass. It was not loud, but in time—
it continued with much persistency—it became plainly vicious. It
was accompanied by what I can only describe as the most
extraordinary noises. There were squeaks, growing angrier and
shriller as the minutes passed; what seemed like gaspings for
breath; and a peculiar buzzing sound like, yet unlike, the purring
of a cat.

The creature's resentment at its want of success in attracting
attention was unmistakable. The tapping became like the clattering
of hailstones; it kept up a continuous noise with its cries and
pantings; there was the sound as of some large body being rubbed
against the glass, as if it were extending itself against the
window, and endeavouring, by force of pressure, to gain an
entrance through the pane. So violent did its contortions become
that I momentarily anticipated the yielding of the glass, and the
excited assailant coming crashing through. Considerably to my
relief the window proved more impregnable than seemed at one time
likely. The stolid resistance proved, in the end, to be too much
either for its endurance or its patience. Just as I was looking
for some fresh manifestation of fury, it seemed rather to tumble
than to spring off the sill; then came, once more, the same sound
of quietly retreating footsteps; and what, under the
circumstances, seemed odder still, the same closing of the gate.

During the two or three hours which immediately ensued nothing
happened at all out of the way,—and then took place the most
surprising incident of all. The clock had struck ten some time
before. Since before the striking of the hour nothing and no one
had passed along what was evidently the little frequented road in
front of that uncanny house. On a sudden two sounds broke the
stillness without,—of someone running, and of cries. Judging from
his hurrying steps someone seemed to be flying for his life,—to
the accompaniment of curious cries. It was only when the runner
reached the front of the house that, in the cries, I recognised
the squeaks of the persistent caller. I imagined that he had
returned, as before, alone, to renew his attacks upon the window,
—until it was made plain, as it quickly was, that, with him, was
some sort of a companion. Immediately there arose, from without,
the noise of battle. Two creatures, whose cries were, to me, of so
unusual a character, that I found it impossible to even guess at
their identity, seemed to be waging war to the knife upon the
doorstep. After a minute or two of furious contention, victory
seemed to rest with one of the combatants, for the other fled,
squeaking as with pain. While I listened, with strained attention,
for the next episode in this queer drama, expecting that now would
come another assault upon the window, to my unbounded surprise I
heard a key thrust in the keyhole, the lock turned, and the front
door thrown open with a furious bang. It was closed as loudly as
it was opened. Then the door of the room in which I was, was
dashed open, with the same display of excitement, and of clamour,
footsteps came hurrying in, the door was slammed to with a force
which shook the house to its foundations, there was a rustling as
of bed-clothes, the brilliant illumination of the night before,
and a voice, which I had only too good reason to remember said,

'Stand up.'

I stood up, automatically, at the word of command, facing towards
the bed.

There, between the sheets, with his head resting on his hand, in
the attitude in which I had seen him last, was the being I had
made acquaintance with under circumstances which I was never
likely to forget,—the same, yet not the same.

That the man in the bed was the one whom, to my cost, I had
suffered myself to stumble on the night before, there could, of
course, not be the faintest doubt. And yet, directly I saw him, I
recognised that some astonishing alteration had taken place in his
appearance. To begin with, he seemed younger,—the decrepitude of
age had given place to something very like the fire of youth. His
features had undergone some subtle change. His nose, for instance,
was not by any means so grotesque; its beak-like quality was less
conspicuous. The most part of his wrinkles had disappeared, as if
by magic. And, though his skin was still as yellow as saffron, his
contours had rounded,—he had even come into possession of a
modest allowance of chin. But the most astounding novelty was that
about the face there was something which was essentially feminine;
so feminine, indeed, that I wondered if I could by any possibility
have blundered, and mistaken a woman for a man; some ghoulish
example of her sex, who had so yielded to her depraved instincts
as to have become nothing but a ghastly reminiscence of womanhood.

The effect of the changes which had come about in his appearance—
for, after all, I told myself that it was impossible that I could
have been such a simpleton as to have been mistaken on such a
question as gender—was heightened by the self-evident fact that,
very recently, he had been engaged in some pitched battle; some
hand to hand, and, probably, discreditable encounter, from which
he had borne away uncomfortable proofs of his opponent's prowess.
His antagonist could hardly have been a chivalrous fighter, for
his countenance was marked by a dozen different scratches which
seemed to suggest that the weapons used had been someone's finger-
nails. It was, perhaps, because the heat of the battle was still
in his veins that he was in such a state of excitement. He seemed
to be almost overwhelmed by the strength of his own feelings. His
eyes seemed literally to flame with fire. The muscles of his face
were working as if they were wholly beyond his own control. When
he spoke his accent was markedly foreign; the words rushed from
his lips in an inarticulate torrent; he kept repeating the same
thing over and over again in a fashion which was not a little
suggestive of insanity.

'So you're not dead!—you're not dead:—you're alive!—you're
alive! Well,—how does it feel to be dead? I ask you!—Is it not
good to be dead? To keep dead is better,—it is the best of all!
To have made an end of all things, to cease to strive and to cease
to weep, to cease to want and to cease to have, to cease to annoy
and to cease to long, to no more care,—no!—not for anything, to
put from you the curse of life,—forever!—is that not the best?
Oh yes!—I tell you!—do I not know? But for you such knowledge is
not yet. For you there is the return to life, the coming out of
death,—you shall live on!—for me!—Live on!'

He made a movement with his hand, and, directly he did so, it
happened as on the previous evening, that a metamorphosis took
place in the very abysses of my being. I woke from my torpor, as
he put it, I came out of death, and was alive again. I was far,
yet, from being my own man; I realised that he exercised on me a
degree of mesmeric force which I had never dreamed that one
creature could exercise on another; but, at least, I was no longer
in doubt as to whether I was or was not dead. I knew I was alive.

He lay, watching me, as if he was reading the thoughts which
occupied my brain,—and, for all I know, he was.

'Robert Holt, you are a thief.'

'I am not.'

My own voice, as I heard it, startled me,—it was so long since it
had sounded in my ears.

'You are a thief! Only thieves come through windows,—did you not
come through the window?' I was still,—what would my
contradiction have availed me? 'But it is well that you came
through the window,—well you are a thief,—well for me! for me!
It is you that I am wanting,—at the happy moment you have dropped
yourself into my hands,—in the nick of time. For you are my
slave,—at my beck and call,—my familiar spirit, to do with as I
will,—you know this,—eh?'

I did know it, and the knowledge of my impotence was terrible. I
felt that if I could only get away from him; only release myself
from the bonds with which he had bound me about; only remove
myself from the horrible glamour of his near neighbourhood; only
get one or two square meals and have an opportunity of recovering
from the enervating stress of mental and bodily fatigue;—I felt
that then I might be something like his match, and that, a second
time, he would endeavour in vain to bring me within the compass of
his magic. But, as it was, I was conscious that I was helpless,
and the consciousness was agony. He persisted in reiterating his
former falsehood.

'I say you are a thief!—a thief, Robert Holt, a thief! You came
through a window for your own pleasure, now you will go through a
window for mine,—not this window, but another.' Where the jest
lay I did not perceive; but it tickled him, for a grating sound
came from his throat which was meant for laughter. 'This time it
is as a thief that you will go,—oh yes, be sure.'

He paused, as it seemed, to transfix me with his gaze. His
unblinking eyes never for an instant quitted my face. With what a
frightful fascination they constrained me,—and how I loathed
them!