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Authors: Brian Lumley
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out the folded check and place it in George’s suddenly clammy hand. But it was a hand that trembled now in excitement and not frustrated but undying hope—and it was a Kent fifteen years younger!
One thousand pounds, and at last George knew that he had indeed earned it!
Kent turned and threw open the gates, racing up the drive like a wild man. In the house, lights were starting to go on. George fingered his check unbelievingly and ran his tongue over dry lips. His mind seemed to have frozen over, so that only one phrase kept repeating in his brain. It was something Kent had said: “If you can’t find the road back to—”
He gunned the motor, spinning the car wildly round in a spray of gravel chips. Up on the hill at the top of the drive, Kent was vaulting the fence, and a figure in white was waiting in the garden for him, open arms held wide. George tore his eyes away from them and roared down the hill. For the second time that night he headed for the Meadington road.
The check lay on the empty passenger seat now where he’d dropped it, and money was quite the last thing in George’s mind as he drove his car in an unreasoning panic, leaping the low hills like some demon hurdler as he tried to make it back to the main road before—before what? A hideous doubt was blossoming in his mind, growing like some evil genie from a bottle and taking on a horrible form.
All those stories about queer dislocations of space and time—the signpost for Middle Hamborough that was, then wasn’t, then was again—and of course Kent’s story, and his…rejuvenation?
“I will be very glad,” George told himself out loud, “when I reach that junction just outside Meadington!” For one thing, he could have sworn that it wasn’t this much of a drive. He should surely have been there by now. Ah, yes, this would be it coming up now, just round this slight bend….
No junction!
The road stretched straight on ahead, narrow and suddenly ominous in the sweeping beam of his lights. All right, so the junction was a little further than he’d reckoned. George put his foot down even harder to send the big car racing along the narrow road. The miles flew by without a single signpost or junction, and a ground mist came in that forced George to slow down. He would have done so anyway, for now the road seemed to be exerting a strange pull on his car. The big motor felt as if it were slowing down! George’s heart almost jumped into his mouth. There couldn’t be anything wrong with the car, could there?
Braking to a halt and switching off the car’s engine and lights, George climbed out of the driver’s seat. He breathed the damp night air. On unpleasantly rubbery legs he walked round to the front of the car and lifted the hood. An inspection light came on and he cast a quick, practiced glance over the motor. No, he’d worked in a garage for many years and he knew a good motor when he saw one. Nothing wrong with the car, so—
As he straightened up, George felt an unaccustomed suction on his shoes and glanced down at the road. The surface was rubbery, formed of a sort of tough sponge. A worried frown crossed George’s face as he bent to feel that peculiar surface. He’d never seen a road surfaced with stuff like that before!
It was as he straightened up again that he heard the tinkling, like the sound of tiny bells from somewhere off the road. Yes, there, set back from the road, he could make out a row of low squat houses, like great mush-rooms partly obscured by the mist that swirled now in strange currents. The tinkling came from the houses.
The outskirts of a village? George wondered. Well, at least he’d be able to get directions. He stepped off the road on to turf and made for the houses, only slowing down when he saw how featureless and alike they all looked. The queer tinkling went on, sounding like the gentle noises that the hangings on a Christmas tree make in a draught. Other than that there were only the billowing mist
One thousand pounds, and at last George knew that he had indeed earned it!
Kent turned and threw open the gates, racing up the drive like a wild man. In the house, lights were starting to go on. George fingered his check unbelievingly and ran his tongue over dry lips. His mind seemed to have frozen over, so that only one phrase kept repeating in his brain. It was something Kent had said: “If you can’t find the road back to—”
He gunned the motor, spinning the car wildly round in a spray of gravel chips. Up on the hill at the top of the drive, Kent was vaulting the fence, and a figure in white was waiting in the garden for him, open arms held wide. George tore his eyes away from them and roared down the hill. For the second time that night he headed for the Meadington road.
The check lay on the empty passenger seat now where he’d dropped it, and money was quite the last thing in George’s mind as he drove his car in an unreasoning panic, leaping the low hills like some demon hurdler as he tried to make it back to the main road before—before what? A hideous doubt was blossoming in his mind, growing like some evil genie from a bottle and taking on a horrible form.
All those stories about queer dislocations of space and time—the signpost for Middle Hamborough that was, then wasn’t, then was again—and of course Kent’s story, and his…rejuvenation?
“I will be very glad,” George told himself out loud, “when I reach that junction just outside Meadington!” For one thing, he could have sworn that it wasn’t this much of a drive. He should surely have been there by now. Ah, yes, this would be it coming up now, just round this slight bend….
No junction!
The road stretched straight on ahead, narrow and suddenly ominous in the sweeping beam of his lights. All right, so the junction was a little further than he’d reckoned. George put his foot down even harder to send the big car racing along the narrow road. The miles flew by without a single signpost or junction, and a ground mist came in that forced George to slow down. He would have done so anyway, for now the road seemed to be exerting a strange pull on his car. The big motor felt as if it were slowing down! George’s heart almost jumped into his mouth. There couldn’t be anything wrong with the car, could there?
Braking to a halt and switching off the car’s engine and lights, George climbed out of the driver’s seat. He breathed the damp night air. On unpleasantly rubbery legs he walked round to the front of the car and lifted the hood. An inspection light came on and he cast a quick, practiced glance over the motor. No, he’d worked in a garage for many years and he knew a good motor when he saw one. Nothing wrong with the car, so—
As he straightened up, George felt an unaccustomed suction on his shoes and glanced down at the road. The surface was rubbery, formed of a sort of tough sponge. A worried frown crossed George’s face as he bent to feel that peculiar surface. He’d never seen a road surfaced with stuff like that before!
It was as he straightened up again that he heard the tinkling, like the sound of tiny bells from somewhere off the road. Yes, there, set back from the road, he could make out a row of low squat houses, like great mush-rooms partly obscured by the mist that swirled now in strange currents. The tinkling came from the houses.
The outskirts of a village? George wondered. Well, at least he’d be able to get directions. He stepped off the road on to turf and made for the houses, only slowing down when he saw how featureless and alike they all looked. The queer tinkling went on, sounding like the gentle noises that the hangings on a Christmas tree make in a draught. Other than that there were only the billowing mist
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