Read Online Collected Stories by R. Chetwynd-Hayes - Free Book Online

thrashing; a terrifying bouncing, as though countless very large lead balls were being tossed about. Then a shuddering crack streaked across the ceiling, a lump of plaster fell down on to the dressing table, another crack appeared, then another. Lionel crouched down by his bed, and as an afterthought, crawled under it. The room rained plaster, something crashed down on to the bedside rug, and Lionel stared into the empty eye sockets of a bleached skull; a couple of thigh bones followed, then a gleaming shoulder blade; something soft and floppy flapped on to the bed, and Lionel decided not to think about it.
    The scream sank, became a gurgle, then a hiss — then ceased. A few more bones fell, another hunk of plaster, but at last there was peace — an absence of sound before the murmur of frightened voices came up from the room below. Lionel looked upwards and crooned with joy. The Ghoul’s head was hanging down through the jagged hole in the ceiling. The green face was no longer luminous; just nasty, crawling slightly, and seemed an imminent danger of parting company from whatever was left of its main body.
    “Got yer,” said Lionel.
    The family crowded into the room; they looked upwards, they looked down, then they looked at Lionel. Mother put the communal thought into words.
    “How did you do it, Son?”
    Lionel was brief; action, after all, spoke louder than words.
    “Crooked cross,” he said.
    “Little monster,” said one aunt.
    “A horned toad,” agreed Uncle Arthur.
    “What,” enquired Mother, “will he be when he grows up?”
    Silently Lionel pointed to the head dangling from the ceiling.

The Door
    (1973)

    “Why a door?” Rosemary asked. “I mean to say, the house has a full complement of perfectly satisfactory doors.”
    William continued to run his hands over his latest acquisition, his eyes alight with that glow of pure pleasure that is peculiar to the ardent collector.
    “I liked it,” he explained, “besides it is very old. Three hundred years, if a day.”
    “But it doesn’t match the paintwork or anything,” Rosemary protested, “and it’s so heavy.”
    She was right, of course. The door was massive; made of solid walnut, fully four feet wide and seven feet high, the panels embossed with an intricate pattern that seemed to grow more complicated the longer it was examined. It had a great tarnished brass knob on the left side, and four butt hinges on the right.
    “What are you going to do with it?” Rosemary asked after a while. “Hang it on the wall?”
    “Don’t be so silly.” William tapped the panels with his knuckles. “I’m going to put it to its proper use. You know that cupboard in my study? Well, it’s dead center in the wall opposite my desk; I’ll get the builders to take away the old door, enlarge the aperture, and hang this one in its place.”
    “A great thing like that as a cupboard door!” Rosemary gasped.
    “Then,” William went on, “I’ll hang a large 16th-century print on either side, a couple of crossed swords over the top, and the result should be pretty impressive.”
    “Like a museum,” Rosemary observed.
    “It will inspire me,” William nodded slowly, and Rosemary, with a woman’s inconsistency thought he looked very sweet. “It must be French polished of course, and the lock burnished and then lacquered.”
    “Where did you find it?” Rosemary asked.
    “At Murray’s. You know, the demolition people. Old Murray said it came from a 16th-century manor house he knocked down last year. I can’t wait to see the door in position, can you?”
    “No,” Rosemary said doubtfully, “no, I can hardly wait.”
     ***
    The builders made an awful mess, as she knew they would, but when the job was finished, and of course the study had to be completely redecorated, the effect was certainly very impressive. The entire wall was covered with red wallpaper, and in the exact center was the door, now resplendent with polish, the brass knob and hinges