The Mammoth Book of Nightmare Stories Read online

  I gladly acceded to his suggestion that we should travel together and some days later we found ourselves in a wild and savage landscape, almost lunar in aspect, that only the farthest districts of old Sicily can produce. The sun beat down with fierce intensity on stunted trees, sparse vegetation, rocks that seemed to writhe in the heat and undulate with the haze that shimmered about them, while the chirping of thousands of insects only emphasized the brooding silence of this ancient land.

  It was some time after midday and an inadequate lunch in the shade of a remote village when we set out to see something which I gathered my companion considered of special interest. We had traveling with us a guide from Messina, whom Grisson had found it necessary to engage, for, as he said, he sometimes had to deal with noble old Sicilian families who spoke no language other than their own difficult dialect. This made things tedious, for though Grisson spoke fluent Italian, even the people of the mainland often could not understand the local Sicilian tongues, and these were many.

  It seemed to me that the guide appeared somewhat startled, almost nervous, when he learned our destination; but he said nothing, and at about 1:00 in the afternoon we had left the village far behind and were making our way in single-file along a rough track through the scrubland.

  It was the hottest moment of the day, the sky like beaten bronze and the heat bouncing back off the rocks so that one walked as though through an incinerator. My enthusiasm had ebbed noticeably, and it was almost two o’clock when Grisson’s attitude showed unmistakably that we were near our journey’s end. It seemed suddenly as though we were in a garden, with formal hedges of cypress, and statues dotted about.

  Then there was the glint of a lake through the trees and welcome shade. We sat thankfully upon a stone bench and though I still felt too hot and exhausted to begin a conversation, I was once again myself and began to revive my spirits. But Grisson seemed impervious to either heat or atmosphere and began to speak with enthusiasm and wide scholarship of our destination. I did not at first pay much attention, but I gradually became aware of a charged tension that seemed to play around our little group among the somber trees. I noticed that our guide had remained standing, despite his evident fatigue, and continued to glance around him in an uneasy manner.

  A few minutes passed, and we continued walking. It was then, for the first time, that I became aware that we were not exactly within a garden. A fountain began to sparkle in the sunlight, there were even plots of what appeared to be dusty lawn and more statues. I do not recall at which point I realized that we had left the garden—if it had ever been a garden—and that we were within some sort of private cemetery, or perhaps public graveyard. There were great slabbed tombs with inscriptions in the ancient Sicilian language, evidently immensely old, and Grisson, who seemed to know his way about, led us forward with evident enthusiasm, taking photographs at intervals and silently flourishing his notebook.

  We had gone on in this way for perhaps half-an-hour, Grisson with the dedicated purpose of the specialist, myself as a half-bemused spectator, and the guide with distinct unease, when the character of the landscape changed. We were still within the cemetery, with its white and brown stone sepulchers gleaming in the harsh light—the bounds of the place must have stretched for an immense distance—and the lake was behind us now, when we entered a sort of valley.

  On one side there rose a high cliff of perhaps two hundred feet, which was composed of what I should have said was a pink granite, except that there was no such stone in these parts. It may have been that the limestone had become permeated by the action of damp and lichens, as a small trickle of water made its way down the face.

  Standing on an eminence as we were at the other side of the valley, we could see on to the plateau opposite. There seemed to be more hedges and formal gardens, and, farther back, the white facade of a château or palazzo could be seen above the tops of the trees.

  But what took my attention and that of my companions was a group of statuary which stood at the edge of the cliff, almost facing us. There were three figures, which appeared to be inclined inward. At that distance it was difficult to make out detail, but they seemed to be females, clad in flowing robes. They must have been of immense weight and bulk, and I judged each to be about fifteen feet high to stand out in such a manner at the height we were viewing them.

  Grisson saw my curiosity had been roused but said nothing. Other than a quiet smile of satisfaction he took no visible notice of the statuary, but continued his examination of the ancient, lichen-covered tombs we continued among. For some minutes he worked on, and as we two walked behind him, I gradually became aware that we were not alone in the garden. I do not know at what stage this impinged itself on my consciousness.

  Grisson did not seem to notice, but I sensed, though I did not look behind me, that the guide had also heard it. There was a quick, sly murmuring, little chuckles and snickerings, which seemed to come and go in the light wind which had sprung up. I strained my ears but could not make out what language was being spoken, and my first thought was that some children were playing in another part of the cemetery. I mentioned as much to Grisson, whose smile only deepened. But the effect on the guide was most unfortunate. He turned deathly pale under his tan and began to tremble violently. I followed his gaze upward, and though the great statues were now partly hidden from us by the overhang, it seemed to me that the murmur of voices came from the region of their edge of the plateau.

  The remark of mine, once uttered, seemed a silly one, but what other explanation could there be? Children do play in stranger places than graveyards, but the remoteness of this region from the town and its company escaped me.

  Grisson explained, “There are no people here nowadays, except for the people of the palazzo,” and here he mentioned the name of a famous and celebrated duke, one of the last of a noble family.

  “There was a town here once, which was served by this lower graveyard, but the people went away many years ago. All that is left now is the estate on the plateau above.”

  It was evidently there we were going, and most probably the voices belonged to servants’ gossip in the garden. As I had difficulty in restraining my curiosity any longer, I asked Grisson about the statues. I gathered they were one of the principal reasons for his expedition.

  Their proper name in the Sicilian I have forgotten, but I learned they were something on the lines of the “Three Graces” and were reputed to be over five hundred years old, though the estimate, as is so often the case with folklore, was about three hundred years too early as I later came to decide.

  “Some people call them ‘The Gossips’,” he said, referring to a savage joke, the significance of which escaped me. We were going up a flimsy wooden staircase let into the face of the cliff as he spoke, and I shall never forget the look of fear on the guide’s face, as he stumbled against me in the temporary gloom, when he caught the gist of Grisson’s remarks.

  Nevertheless, we continued in silence. Nothing further was said, and a few minutes later we emerged from the overhanging outcrops of rock into a blinding world of sunshine and greenery again. We were now on the plateau and leaving the staircase, which ended in a sort of ornamental bridge spanning a fissure. We passed through a rustic gate and found ourselves in the extensive gardens of the palazzo.

  Below us, the enormous area of the cemetery lay dazzling in the sun, with the lake piercing the middle-distance and throwing back the burnished image of the sky, while the white and brown tombstones and monuments, shifting and undulating in the heat haze, crawled into the far distance and were lost among the trees.

  Here, for a few minutes, I no longer heard the voices which were apparently muffled by a bluff, but as we threaded a white gravel path among well-trimmed lawns, the mumbling began again, but gradually faded as we approached the palace. This was very much larger than I had expected and was built on grand classical lines, evidently for a very ancient and wealthy family. Great stone griffins flanked an enormous marble terrace, a
nd beyond the semi-Greek facade I could see more lawns and peacocks preening themselves.

  A majordomo appeared with silent efficiency from beyond the terrace and greeted Grisson as an old friend. Moments later, motioning the guide to follow him to the kitchen quarters in due course, he said the Duke would see us at once and led the way through a maze of apartments to a very grand study, decorated chiefly in pale blue and gold.

  Our host was a very tall man, in his late fifties I should have said, who exhibited nothing remarkable either in his features or demeanor which would have distinguished him as of noble lineage in Western society; other than—and this is a major differentiation—his exquisite manners, which were carried to such extremes that one eventually imagined he would rather suffer hardships and indignities himself, than that a friend or guest should be inconvenienced.

  He evidently knew all about Grisson’s errand and it became obvious later—despite my slight grasp of Italian—that the conversation concerned the large group of statues in the grounds. Presently, when the discussion turned to more general matters regarding the antiquities of the villa, the guide was called in. After exaggerated obeisance to the Duke—he remained standing despite the latter’s injunction to seat himself—he was asked to translate from the Sicilian for Grisson, as I gathered the Duke was more familiar with that tongue and the conversation could proceed with greater speed.

  At some stage, my attention slackened and I amused myself with wandering up and down and perusing the exquisitely tooled leather-bound volumes that lined one of the walls of the great study. Some were undoubtedly records of the Duke’s family, for they bore a great crest with armorial bearings tooled in gold on the brown bindings, and stretched away for shelf after shelf. Others, from the titles on the spines, were historical records related to Sicily, while yet others were concerned with theology and divinity.

  Presently, we were served with a delightful-tasting liqueur, of a warm amber color, the derivation of which was strange to me, and small, sweet cakes and biscuits. The coolness of the room and the abundance of our refreshment were so welcome after our long and heated trek that I had quite recovered my spirits and lolled back at my ease when a sudden crash jerked me from my reverie.

  The Duke, with customary courtesy, had asked the guide to accept a glass of wine, and I was now startled to see a scarlet splash irradiating from the splintered fragments of wine glass scattered about the study carpet. The guide was full of apologies, the Duke made light of the matter, but as a servant hastened to clear up the mess, I could see that the guide was white and badly frightened.

  I could surmise, from what I had heard in both English and Italian—for Grisson had addressed me occasionally—that the later conversation had concerned the statues, which Grisson wished to photograph and include in a coming book. The Duke had no particular objection but had warned my companion, in a semi-jocular way, that he would not advise him doing so. The guide had added his objection also, pointing out that this part of the garden had been walled-off for many years, and had included an unfortunate gesture of his arm—the cause of the wine glass accident—when Grisson had asked him to accompany us.

  During the next few minutes the guide was banished to the kitchen, still muttering to himself, to await our return. Grisson and the Duke withdrew, amid many apologies on the latter’s part, to one corner of the room where there was a huge marble-topped desk. Here their council continued in Italian, and I soon saw that the couple had before them various volumes bound in morocco, which Grisson was consulting and copying down portions in his notebook.

  When he rejoined me he looked satisfied, as though his journey had been well worthwhile.

  “Sorry about that,” he remarked. “This must all have been very boring for you.”

  “Not at all,” I answered. “I’ve been most interested, but somewhat puzzled by the difficulties with the guide.”

  Grisson laughed, quite shortly, and then added something to the Duke, sotto voce. That gentleman hurried forward to bid us goodbye temporarily, and then said, to my great surprise, that he would see us on our return from the garden—in perfect English.

  I was still more intrigued at this singular turn in the situation but I could not, of course, pursue it in the Duke’s presence. He evidently had no intention of accompanying us, but disappeared into another part of the palace. And I had no opportunity of speaking to Grisson alone, as another servant—middle-aged and of dour aspect, wearing a leather apron—met us on the terrace and led the way to the garden with a great, rusty bunch of keys.

  I was again surprised at this—though by now, I suppose, I shouldn’t have been—the whole atmosphere of the place was so extraordinary.

  So I noticed little of the splendid grounds through which we were hurrying. Presently, we came to a huge stone wall, about fifteen feet in height, and evidently quite old, which completely cut off the garden from the plateau, so far as I could make out.

  It was pierced by a large, thick wooden door, reinforced with metal, and I noticed that the footman, or whoever he was, scraped the lock several times in his hurry to get the door open or—as I afterward realized—in his eagerness to be gone.

  He handed Grisson a duplicate key and, another curious procedure, relocked the door behind us. His footsteps died away up the path, and we were alone in the walled-off portion of the garden.

  This itself appeared to be of considerable size, and the wall against which we were now standing was thickly hemmed-in with vegetation. Indeed, we had to force our way through and could faintly make out a stone path—a continuation of the one which ended the other side of the wall—which had been overgrown by weeds, moss, and vegetation a considerable time ago.

  It may have been imagination, but the air seemed to have grown colder here. It was positively damp, and I saw that the ground under foot inclined to lichen and gave off a nauseous odor.

  At the same time that I heard the tinkling of water, the sun burst into our faces again, and through a tangle of grass which had once been a lawn we could make out the terrace and part of one of the stone figures facing toward the valley below. It was all on a much bigger scale than I had expected. And then, above the noise of the water, I once again became aware of voices.

  I am not an imaginative man or given to undue nervousness, but I must confess there was something about these sounds—reminiscent of whispered confidences, half-heard in sleep—that gave me distinct unease. That, combined with the chill air, despite the evident heat of the sun which poured on us, made me consciously slacken my pace, but my companion pressed on stoutly, apparently impervious to atmosphere.

  After this lapse of time, I find it difficult to recollect my impressions. The coldness in the air continued and the whispering increased, then died away and increased again, according to which direction we seemed to be facing. And how shall I describe the statues? I do not know what I had been prepared for when Grisson asked me to accompany him into that accursed garden. My impression was one of dampness, stench, and nauseous decay.

  The surface of the circular, tessellated pavement on to which we presently ventured was covered with some slippery form of moss that gave off a most appalling odor.

  And the statues themselves: great heaven, they haunt me still … the three vast figures rearing toward the bronze sky seemed to writhe and undulate in the heat haze, and the veined brownish rock from which they were carved was split through with shards of scarlet.

  At the same time I seemed to be mysteriously affected by the heat. I grew dizzy, hot and cold by turn, and the statues themselves seemed to change shape in some strange, unknown manner. How can I convey those faces of nightmare: carved from some weird, brown-stained basaltic material, with crooked teeth, lank-seeming hair, and yellow eyes that appeared to glow as though human?

  And the stench! My stomach turned at that stagnant miasma which exuded or emanated from the statues themselves, smeared with those scarlet-brown stains. Along the plinth, as I staggered and stumbled my way with Grisson impa
ssive beside me, was carved huge lettering in an unknown character. I reeled toward the railings, away from this bestial group, and attempted to focus my throbbing eyes on what would normally have been an impressive and even delightful view. I was conscious that Grisson was still carrying out his functions, translating the inscription, even photographing the group.

  As I turned toward him, that obscene, unnerving whispering and tittering began again. I was sure now, with what fevered insanity I knew not, that the statues themselves were talking—discussing us in the most insidious way. As I strained my eyes in the sun, I became convinced that they were moving: the heads seemed to change shape and expression; the eyes now glowed, now lifted, now dosed; the lips writhed and the dreadful stone teeth chattered on. Even the arms, the very draperies as well as the heads, seemed to shift effortlessly, change position, move again, freeze, coalesce. All the while those ghastly voices seemed to be bursting my eardrums.

  Now, I know the reader will say that I was the sudden victim of a fever, induced by the heat, or even that the supposed movement of rigid stone objects was an optical illusion, brought about by the combined reaction on my eyes of heat and light. There is something in that, well enough, but my senses were not so addled as to imagine the appalling suggestive power of those vile voices that echoed so unmistakably in the evil stillness of that accursed garden.

  My legs were trembling as though in fever, and I pressed my nails into the palms of my hands and attempted to look out across the valley, to where the distant panorama was undulating and rippling like an agitated film developed in a dish. I was not at all conscious of my next movements. I seemed to hear a shout from Grisson. The voices boiled up and crackled in my brain, my hands were on the railings at the edge of the plateau, and in another instant I should have been over and into the cool and blessed peace of the valley below.