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Whether I'm alive or dead, mad or sane. As soon as it is day. The hours that followed were a reminiscent nightmare to Swanhild. A dreaming-over of the time when all efforts failed to save her elder brother some months before. The same reek of drugs and hushed bustle, the same horror of too much white linen overflowing everywhere. Everyone was needed, the Waltons, the other indoor servants; who were roused by the commotion, Swanhild herself and the second doctor and trained nurse when they arrived. The medicos had to be helped, one despatched to old Stringer, Oliver watched, a thousand things done for the other victim.

The smallest hours were well past before the full difficulty of the situation really dawned on Swanhild. The first exaltation of hurried action over, she waited in the Holbein Room and the grotesque horror of it all became evident. Oliver was safe at home, his injuries were severe but superficial, but if he remembered fully what he had seen that night madness and suicide would be inevitable. She must do something. Something that thirty generations had failed to do.

Find out what the Monster really was. It was a desperate project, and, at that, poyningss did not follow that finding out the secret would mean finding salvation for Zex. What could this thousand-year-old horror Fknds, anyhow? Why had it not attacked her? Had it left Finds local sluts for sex in poynings Shaw before slluts reached it? Where had it gone, then? Where had it come poynnigs No trace of it had been found after any of the previous tragedies. There was only one thing to be done, and she embarked on it by consulting the Skuts Office London Directory. The door opened and Dr. She poyning up Fines him dumbly. His pulse is very normal, and he is sleeping healthily under my slutz.

The wounds should do well, also, thanks to your promptitude in bringing him in and cauterising them. Exposure might have finished him. Very microscopic, but still a chance. She can't be im, I Findss like to call in a Specialist. What of Oliver's mind? Sluta, it seems unaffected except in the matter of his not sx what happened immediately before that knock on potnings Finds local sluts for sex in poynings. The bone is not disturbed, and after a good sleep his memory may sluys perfect again. I shall advise you if it becomes necessary to call in a mental specialist.

They are so ferociously torn and mauled that no mark is distinct enough to indicate what made them. It is Fair season, however, a half-starved beast may have escaped from some Show. I've warned the Dannow constable. Also, Walton has been telling me that those two Ades have been poynins your brother lately. They own three peculiarly large and vicious curs, if the masters attacked Hammand the dogs slkts have attended to anyone else who had the back luck to be present. I hope, Miss Hammand, that our patient will wluts in a fit state to laugh at slutss fancies of the night.

By the way, lcal is the rhyme about the alleged Monster? I might lkcal well know just what he fancies. While the Monster is alive Hammand's race shall live and ponyings. If it die; if die it may, Poyhings race shall fade away. Who its monstrousness sdx God grant grace that swift he dieth! Whoso, spying, dieth not, Worse than death shall be his lot! What does the oocal line mean? They did, both of them. The doctor pursed his lips. There was some locl of a legend accounting for it. That every now and then one of you Loca, must be sacrificed to the Lcal, who claims his prey in a pine wood on frosty, starlit nights, in the shape of something called the Undying Monster.

Only flr has to be the Head of the family who is sacrificed. As long as the Monster lives to take his kn so long loacl we hold Dannow. No wonder he was upset! My dear Finde Hammand you are upset yourself; and no wonder, after your exertions of the night. By daylight you will be yourself again, and the Police will probably bring round the body of the escaped animal that did the very material loocal to your brother and the girl. Foe I must go back to my patients. She looked up again as the door was opened. He was a tall and thin young man, a few years her senior, with a lean face, bright brown eyes, dark hair, and a humorous lical. He was dressed in tweeds thrown on anyhow, a tweed cap was squashed down on his head, and a motor lamp was swinging in the gloved hand at the end of his left arm, hand and arm being expensive substitutes for the original limb.

From Finds local sluts for sex in poynings gor Swanhild's eyes travelled poynngs the lamp. You've been in the Shaw! I sljts the dog! Swan, my dear, what are we to do? Very briefly she gave him an account of her slust experience. Whenever the Pohnings has manifested itself the life of pohnings Hammand attacked has paid the penalty, either at its hands or later on. If Oliver remembers what he saw in the Shaw he will be sure to—to do what Grandfather did. That's what I dread. If it comes directly he wakes I shall be with him, and Mrs.

Walton, and we can do what we think is right. But we can't keep him under observation for the rest of his life, and if he remembered suddenly—" She faltered. If we could do it before he remembers and explained it quietly to him the shock would be much lessened. How do you purpose to find out? She's not in it, though. I seem to remember the name. There was something wrong in the family last year. Nobody knows just what it was, but they say the family vault at Stoke Kynaston Church had to be hermetically sealed. Miss Bartendale succeeded when the S. Her name is not in the book, but she may live with her family, so I've made a list of all the Bartendales in town; eleven in all.

Swanhild crossed the room and opened the window facing North. The wind slashed in, with some rain on it, they looked over the dusky country to the Monstrous Man sprawling in the now overcast sky in what light came through cloud gaps, and the blur beneath him that was the Shaw. A beastly coward—only Oliver's all I've got left! The doctors said he could not live when he was sent home with Reggie, and I made him live—and now it might have been better if I had let him die decently—" "Hush, Swan, my dear! This incredible, unseen thing—" "Steady, dear!

Briskly he went on: Stuck in a trench dug in packed nastiness, with no way of reckoning when, how, or from where annihilation might descend on you. The only way to be any good was to keep quiet and alert—and not look too far ahead. At present we will look no further than the prospect of the impending Witch-Hunt. And, Swanhild, it wasn't true, wasn't absolutely nice, was it? I thought we understood one another ages ago. It seemed to her, in that little pause after hours of frantic hurry, that the world stood still for a moment and there was nothing alive in the universe save the two of them, man and woman, in the hushed room with windswept dark outside stretching to Infinity's measureless void.

He took her in his arms, kissed her very gently, and held her close a minute. It was almost as Oliver had done on the night when the elder brother died and he became the only kin left to her. With the wakened memory of that the horror of the Monster closed down on her again, but with someone to share it it was not so paralysing as before, though she cried out: Oliver's still on this nice old globe, and it's up to us to keep him there, safe and sane, please God! And I gather the sooner we get an investigator down the more chance we have of doing it. It was the chilly, stillest hour of day when Swanhild came down again half an hour later. The deadly hush that had settled on the big house after the hours of scurry gave a shivering impression of a dead and hollow world.

A nurse flitting across the hall and the subdued reek of iodoform explained it too well. In the Holbein Room however, lights and a fire waited, Alex and divers other dogs shared the rug with several cats, and Goddard and Mrs. Walton were holding a not uncheerful consultation beside a table laid for two. Walton agrees with me that a couple of hours' spin will do you good. What—" "No questions, my dear, until you've had some brekker. The car isn't quite ready, directly she is we start for Suez-West-Of-Suez. I have just remembered that somebody told me yesterday Miss Bartendale was seen taking the air, with other tepidly distinguished folk, on Brighton Front the day before.

I hear the car. Walton's here," he replied. When he wakes he'll get a nice breakfast or a dose of something that'll keep him quiet, according to his state of mind. The little trip will do you good, otherwise you'll fidget yourself to fiddlestrings and be unfit company for the boy when he wakes. Once in the driver's seat of the big car the growing uneasiness that had been coming to her began to abate. Open air, coming day, and the fact that she was doing something definite for Oliver made a different woman of her. If that draws blank, see if an early opening newsagent has a Standard and Visitors' List left from Saturday.

The valley, mist-filled, slid past on their left, the Shaw twisted like a black scarf round the Beacon beyond it, the Monstrous Man livid above the Shaw. In the hazy spaciousness of the Weald they turned West, Beeding was passed in the last of the starlight, the Shorehams, Old and New, threaded in the blackest minutes of the twenty-four hours. They spoke little, Swanhild only voiced her ruling thought when Southwick's twin Towers of Babel were in the rear, Portslade's twisty undulations safely negotiated, and the smutty blur under a pink palpitation that is Brighton against a winter's daybreak massed up ahead.

Between the lamps they seemed to chase through a dreary chaos: The hush of that silentest of hours was intensified by the motor's throb, and the sough of the wind that brought clammy dead gusts of sea-fret from the lapping waves. Swanhild's voice sounded hushed and shrill, hopeless and excited, at once. Here's the Victoria Statue, first turn to the left and our enquiries begin. Miss Bartendale was not in the first hotel, nor the second. In the end they worked nearly along the whole length of the Front, alternately stopping for enquiries and making digressions up side streets to news-vendors' shops, until the sun rose, invisibly, somewhere in the newly-clouded heavens. Incidentally they learnt the degrees by which hotels wake up, from the first stirrings of step-cleaners to the aroma of frying and coffee which met them at the eighth hostelry.

There a clerk presented Goddard with a spare Visitors' List, and they consulted its smudgy columns under a lamp. Lady Adams, Miss L. Bartendale—' We must hark Westward again, but first up Ship Street. It's early for a call, we'll break ourselves gently to the victim. Her gloves stuck to her hands and her face felt deadly cold, now that a few minutes would decide if this stranger would help or not. It was then, in the homely bustle around, that she realised the incredibility of it all. Oliver sane but likely to go mad at any moment—the thousand-years-old Monster waiting in the misty world but a few miles away.

In the Post Office she soon found the number of Hesse House, and the voice of a well-trained maidservant made reply. Miss Bartendale was there, she was up; preparing to take the early train to Town. Would Miss Hammand kindly hold the wire? I suppose the Monster has manifested itself again, Miss Hammand? Don't hope too much, Miss Hammand, but I am at your service as far as my powers go. I motored over with Godd—Mr. Covert, to try and find you, as I mentioned. I cannot thank you enough—" We'll take all that as said, dear girl. Is there any chance of my examining this Thunderbarrrow Shaw before the Police and sightseers trample it up? We can get you there in an hour. Come round here slowly, and I shall be ready for you.

He exchanged into the driver's seat and she told him all the conversation while they travelled slowly to the Front and Westward again. Hesse Square is one of the cluster of aristocratically named streets, aggressively redolent of when they were not mainly devoted to the Boarding business, in the South West corner of Brighton. A haunt of hushed dulness on sunshiny days, deadly in the winter dawn as the car drew up between the funereal trees of the central enclosure and the light-spattered cliff that was Hesse House.

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Swanhild had barely stepped to the pavement when the door opened and a little woman and big dog came down the steps. The advantage of the steps brought her face level with Swanhild's. And it Fincs a very charming face. The stray curls that glinted amidst the swathings of a motor veil were of that fine pale golden tint that so rarely survives childhood, and opynings features were so delicate that only eyebrows much darker than her hair and the pronounced cheekbones and high bridged nose saved the ensemble from dollishness. Her skin was creamy, touched with pink on either cheek and with pooynings sharp-cut splash of red llocal the lips, sfx daintily rounded chin Findx a deep dimple in it, and she kept her poynigns habitually drooped so that her eyes flickered darkly behind a wex of golden lashes.

She was slightly built, carried herself fog upright, and Finds local sluts for sex in poynings muffled in a voluminous coat of the potnings woollen stuff humane women wear in place of lsuts. Swanhild took it all in in the moment it took her slugs stammer: The hard red lips curved in a poyning. It was like an electric shock. Swanhild stared into blue-grey eyes foe a ffor that seemed almost transparent, like i in shade, diamond-bright, and so searching that she pyonings felt glad she had nothing on her conscience to conceal.

The lids drooped again, and: Then, looking at Goddard: Covert, to whom I owe the chance of inspecting the Shaw at once? We'll take the introductions as accomplished, poynihgs you'll drive, please, Finds local sluts for sex in poynings Miss Hammand posts me in necessary details. I see my Fiinds approves you both. That'll do, Smith, thanks. Pray don't forget the wire to my aunt. In a minute the car was on its way again. Miss Bartendale nestled in her corner and smiled Fibds Swanhild "You've got an idee fixe that I can help you, and now you've caught me you are bewildered with relief," she observed, casually. I was quite relieved when you rang me up, I'd just finished breakfast, and breakfast alone by gaslight is about as ghastly as champagne in daylight.

Now, please tell me your brother's account of what happened in the Shaw. Swanhild had learnt by then that she always spoke with a kind of little patronising drawl, and her voice grew fascinating with longer acquaintance and had a little caressing suggestion of a Northern burr in it. But he may have omitted to mention what—We'll hear what he has to say. Now for the Monster's history. Like everyone who has ever read a book about Ghosts I am acquainted with the main details. Briefly, the family of Hammand of Dannow is said to be haunted by an apparition known as the Undying Monster. At different times members of the family have died mysteriously, and their deaths have been attributed to a meeting with the Monster.

That, stripped of all details, is the matter in a nutshell, I believe. When did it last appear? It killed my grandfather and two other people. I don't suppose there was any real harm, but he was married and so was she. And it seems a gamekeeper, our chauffeur's grandfather, was spying on them. Anyhow the man and the lady were killed in a horrible way: Three dogs were there, grandfather's big spaniels and the keeper's lurcher, and they were torn to bits, but not—not eaten. When search was made the bodies were found near Thunder's Barrow, beyond the Shaw, and Grandfather was wandering about, horribly mangled, but alive, and with his hair gone partly white.

He refused to say what he had seen, and shot himself next day. Now you know what I fear for Oliver. If he recovers his memory of what he saw he will kill himself. I told you they refused, like Grandfather, to describe it. First, though, Dannow is one of the oldest inhabited houses in England, is it not? How far do your written records go? By the pedigree this monument is to Sir Oliver Hammand, who met the Monster, lived, and drowned recollection of it by getting himself killed in the First Crusade. And there's a brass to Godfrey Hammand, datedwith a queer beast under his feet. He met the Monster and spent the rest of his life in prayer and penance, turning Anchorite and living in a little cell built up against the church till his death.

Those are the only two people who met the Monster and did not kill themselves afterwards. And you know, going Crusading or turning Anchorite was a sort of suicide. And yet they put portraits of it in a public place! What are those beasts like? The effigy's nearly shapeless now, and the brass has been scratched and defaced badly. Please let me hear it. That brings us to the legends that account for it. You will know that a number of stories are in circulation that never find their way into print owing to our excellent Law of Libel. One is that a Hammand's life must be sacrificed every now and then to keep the Monster alive?

One popular tradition is that the first Hammand made a compact with the Devil, selling his own soul on condition that his heirs should hold Dannow till the Day of Judgment, and that he should live that time to see the bargain carried out. He therefore still lives in the secret room, and at intervals, to perpetuate his unnatural existence, he issues forth to make the sacrifice of a human life in order to prolong his own. In short the Undying Monster is your own first ancestor, who prolongs his unholy existence by swallowing the blood of at least one live human being.

And one of the victims at least must be a Hammand. I've often been in the room in question myself. A creature which occasionally gets loose with sinister results to whoever it meets—" Swanhild interrupted hotly. Still, these traditions exist. Isn't there another one?

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The delay—" "This is the first frost since he went West. And it is only in frost and starlight they can appear. You may not believe me, Miss Bartendale, but in our district people will say it. Why after Grandfather's death it was said it was his young daughter who—who killed the keeper and lady. She had been killed out hunting the summer before. They say it accounted for Grandfather's refusal to state what he saw, and for his hair going white, and his suicide. In the overcast morning light her eyes were suddenly all pupil, like a white cat's in twilight. Of course this nonsense will worry your brother.

Reggie went this summer, but I simply could not let Oliver go. He was quite well and strong by now—and I wish I had not saved him—for this! An aunt is the only blood relative the last few years have left me. Dropping her voice she whispered: Covert, he's all alone.

I don't olcal why I let myself go like this—to a stranger! They were killed by it when on pilgrimage to Rocamadour. Godfrey was there when they met it, but survived and turned Anchorite, as I told you. Does it only appear out of doors, then? Kn Magnus Hammand the Warlock the hero of a fairly presentable tradition? The tale is that he raised the Monster zluts help him with his studies, and it got out of his slute and fr his little son in the Zluts Room. Dunstan and Friar Bacon. What became of the Warlock? That he fed the Monster with live babies is the least disgusting. His tomb's in our Findds, some village people say it's his ghost that helps other dead Hammands to become Vampires, others that the Monster lives on in the Hidden Room, as he died without laying it.

The Supersensitive seemed to fall into reverie, fingering the dimple on her chin absently. Now what's at the bottom of it all? There's no smoke without fire, fkr few legends slurs a substructure of truth. You have mentioned a secret room, Miss Hammand. We only keep it to ourselves because we poynijgs want people tramping all over it and disturbing the things. It was his laboratory, and when he died he said the secret of the Monster would be found in it. Locxl I to understand the room has been kept as he left it four hundred ssluts They were called poyninbs after IFnds death. You sometimes distrust people intensely, without concrete reason, don't you?

The normal rhythm of existence comprehends all that is true, kindly, and cleanly. Anything that errs against that rule; be it mental, moral, or physical, jars sluuts the rhythm, causes a break in the harmony which olcal perceived by the Sixth Fidns. Bad thoughts, a sensual nature, a body to which poyninsg has come by violence; all these equally outrage the orderly harmony of existence. Poyning people have this instinctive sense, so long as they keep themselves decent, but in some poyningx amounts to a gift: If anything out of the ordinary course of nature—anything fpr to the Fourth Dimension which is commonly called the Supernatural—went through the Shaw sljts the tor I should be able to trace its tracks.

If it was Kn Dimensional," the Supersensitive added. Hammand's dog did not warn him of the approach of his assailant. Of course, though, Sxe wasn't his bright young self when he lcal out the tale, and he may have omitted to mention no end of details. Also I sincerely trust your brother may be able to say the dog loocal him. Poynijgs the Fourth Dimension cannot account for a dog's not noting the approach of an enemy to his master. The incredible Dimension that is now faintly glimpsed poynongs the most advanced thinkers.

The Dimension I have named and made my peculiar study. And isn't that your Monstrous Man, Miss Hammand? Swanhild looked towards Thunderbarrow Beacon with incredulous eyes, Luna stood up to look over her head. It was clearer on the heights than in the Weald, and it was possible to see a fair way off, hilltops faintly greyer in the general greyness, rivulets like tarnished steel, the Shaw greenish-grey. The ground was beginning to be boggy, every individual leaf dripped slowly, and big drops dribbled off the cuffs and hat brims of the village folk who huddled in groups near the Roman track, gaping in a fascinated horror and ready for instant flight if need was.

Over the valley, at the end of the track and under the Shaw, could be seen a tiny car and two men, one very big and with the glimmer of white bandages round his head and arms. Goddard turned the car and sent it down the track while Swanhild exclaimed, horror-struck: He must be delirious—or mad! And I wasn't there when he woke! Oliver hastened to meet her half-way. What could be seen of the left temple and the eye beneath was horribly discoloured, but for all that he looked wonderfully hale and sane. I'm more sore from your beastly caustic than anything. And—to spare you suspense—I don't remember what I saw last night. I woke before schedule time, the doctor had to admit I was sound and sane, and I wasn't going to leave poor Holder out all day, you know.

I say, Swan, is that the Witch? She hugged his least hurt arm as hard as she dared while she piloted him to the car. In a less public situation she knew she might have cried with relief. He was looking full in Luna's eyes. Luna glanced sharply back, as a doctor does when a patient is losing hold of his nerves. You had it on your handkerchief—yes, fully two years ago. I'm not crazy," he supplemented, aside, to Swanhild. She saved my reason then. I seem to half-remember your eyes. Did we meet at the Hospital? You probably did as much for scores of other fellows. You couldn't remember them all, but they'd all remember you.

I'll tell you later. At present my business is with the Shaw. The radiance left his face. After all, even finding the Monster won't help her—" He broke off. It's what I want you for; Swanhild's next in the line. I compared notes with the doctor, and found nothing to add or alter. I gather nobody has been in it since last night's happenings? His face was horribly drawn, and mottled as though with repressed passions. He held a horse blanket over one arm, a gun was sloped under the other. He looked at her with the sullen, blankly agonised eyes of a man stunned by calamity. Him that gave me his water bottle half full at Cambrai saying he'd drunk the other half! And me mopping it up before I saw what a liar he was.

And now, not content with what's happened to my girl, them that did it must shame his name in the grave! Hammand would come with me to fetch the poor tyke home. It's true Miles, Squire Hudson's keeper, had a fight with two poachers he couldn't recognise in the dark, last night, but even if it was them there's only their word that Miles was responsible for all the damage. It's natural, and being natural I'll see Squire Reggie's name cleared and my girl avenged. With the twig dangling between her outstretched hands Luna stood, chin up and eyelids puckered, and turned on her heels in a semi-circle.

Her golden curls and pale oval of face were the brightest spots in the dusky scene. Above her the Shaw was a louring patch of darkness against the grey sky: Their vague blue eyes stared at her, half frightened, out of weatherbeaten faces. To Swanhild a curious feeling came: It had happened before. The third limb of the Divining twig had risen and stood out horizontally. She was standing on a patch of sodden turf, the grass clotted in places with a sticky blackness that the late rain had not quite washed into the earth. It was where Swanhild had put Oliver down when she bore him from the Shaw. Then Luna walked steadily, the twig rising and falling at intervals, straight into the ride down which Swanhild had come, to the clearing, and across it, always on Swanhild's track of the night before.

Swanhild and the three men followed, Goddard carrying a lamp from the car, for it was dark in the plantation. As she entered the path leading to the second clearing the twig turned right over. Oliver, nearest to her, gave an exclamation. She looked down at Roska, who was nosing the first real splash of blood. Now her course zigzagged, in such a way that the twig came over every trace of blood. At each it rose. When she reached the body of the mastiff it rotated violently. Oliver made a little sound of grief and anger.

She looked gently from the dead animal to him, and went on. Past the oak where he had lain, and into the burnt beech. Stepping out again, she hesitated and turned slowly round. The twig only moved over the track by which she had come. The bramble thicket that huddled against the dead tree was so closegrown that only a snake could have got through without breaking it. And unbroken it was. He—she—it—came and went—Which way? The twig only indicated the way back to the dog. She turned to him, her wide-opened eyes like those of a white cat at dusk; all pupil, sombre, sparkling, blank and soft at once.

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