Nancy A. Collins, page 28
“What brings you to our village, stranger?”
“I’ve just left my home and I’m out to seek my fortune.”
The barmaid nodded sagely. “A fortune is a good thing to have if a man wants to find himself a wife. Youth and good looks play their parts, as well-but a fortune is the most important of the three.”
“Do you have a room for the night?” Billy all but blurted, his face now so red it felt as if he was hiding live coals in his mouth.
“You’ll have to ask my father,” she said, gesturing to the heavy-set man behind the bar.
Billy cleared his throat, hoping his voice would not crack. “Do you have a room to let, innkeeper?”
“Sorry, lad. I’m full up.”
Billy glanced out the window at the island in the middle of the lake with its huge house.
“What about that place?” he asked, pointing in the direction of the lake. The entire tavern had fallen quiet as a church, their own drinks and conversations forgotten.
The innkeeper looked up from rinsing out the tankard, frowning at Billy. “What place?”
“The big house on the island, yonder. Do they have any rooms?”
“Aye, they have rooms enough, I suppose,” the innkeeper replied slowly. “For those foolish to stay there.”
“Is there something wrong with it?”
The innkeeper looked at Billy as if his head was made of mattress ticking. “Son, haven’t you ever heard of the house on Ghost Lake?”
“I’m from Monkey’s Elbow,” Billy replied as if this explained everything. Perhaps it did.
“There once was a man named McGonagil who sold his soul to the devil for the riches of Croseus. Once he got his wealth, he started worrying about people stealing it, so he bought himself that island and built himself a mansion, So’s he wouldn’t be bothered by thieves. When Old Scratch finally came for him; he refused to go unless the devil promised to protect his gold for all eternity. So the devil granted his dying wish and dragged the old bastard to hell.”
“McGonagil’s treasure is still somewhere in that house. The story goes that anyone who can spend three nights in the house shall claim the gold for his own. But the house is haunted by all manner of ghosts and goblins and of the dozens of fortune-hunters who have braved the island, none have survived the first night!”
Billy listened to what the innkeeper said and looked back at the empty house standing on the island. He then looked at the barmaid, who was smiling at him. “Would you marry me if I had a fortune?”
“I might do it even if you did not,” she replied, a twinkle in her eye. Billy looked back out the window at the island, then stood up and announced to the tavern; “I really don’t like sleeping in the open this time of year. It don’t agree with my bones. I’d be more than happy to pay someone to ferry me and my belongings to the island yonder.”
There was a rumbling of excited voices and a broad-shouldered man stood up. “I’ll ferry you over and back, lad, for three dollars. But its got to be cash on the barrel-head, as I don’t cotton to taking money outta dead folk’s pockets.”
“Fair enough,” replied Billy, handing over three silver dollars. He turned to the innkeeper and said; “Can I keep my horse and cart stabled here? I’ll pay you for their keep-“
The innkeeper shook his head. “I won’t take your money, son. If you live to the third day, then you may pay me. If not, I’ll keep them for my own. Before you go-tell me your name, so I can send word to your family of your death.”
“I swore I’d never tell my true name, but I’ve been called Billy Fearless.”
The innkeeper did not seem terribly impressed. “Have it your way,” he grunted.
As Billy followed the ferryman out of the tavern, the barmaid hurried to him and threw her arms around his neck.
“Be safe, my brave Billy!” she whispered, planting a kiss on his cheek. Billy blushed even deeper than before, muttered thank you and hurried away, leaving the barmaid to watch after him, a tear glimmering in her eye.
000
Billy had the ferryman load his carving bench and turning lathe into his launch, along with enough food and drink for three days. By the time they reached the island it was near dark, and the ferryman was loath to do more than unload Billy and his things at the old wharf.
The front door of the house was unlocked and Billy placed his carving bench and turning lathe in a large room on the first floor that had a fireplace at one end and an old canopied bed in the corner. While the house was very dusty and smelled of mouse shit and mildew, it didn’t seem to be in such bad shape. So Billy set about building a fire in the old chimney, found himself a stool, and prepared a simple dinner of black bread and sausage.
As he sat in front of the fire, chewing on the last of his bread, there came a sound like a tormented soul.
“Tch! Such a noisy wind,” Billy said, shaking his head.
Just then the fire in the grate blazed incredibly high, filling the room with exaggerated shadows, then fell to a tiny flicker. Billy jumped up and grabbed the bellows and began fanning the flame.
“Tch! Such a drafty room!”
There was a noise in the far corner like that of someone crackling paper and a strange, high-pitched voice cried out; “Meow! How horribly cold are we!”
Billy, who had returned the fire to its former strength, turned in the direction of the voices and squinted into the darkness. “If’n you’re cold, come sit with me by the fire.”
Out of the dark corner paraded not one, but two, coal-black cats, walking on their hind-legs as nice as you please. The cats had huge yellow eyes and little red boots on their feet. They sat themselves down on the stool next to Billy and warmed themselves by the fire.
After awhile one of the cats turned to Billy and said; “It looks to be a long night, friend. How about a nice game of cards?”
This didn’t take Billy aback none. He reckoned if a cat could walk on its hind legs and wear boots, not to mention talk, why shouldn’t it want to play cards?
“Why not?” He replied. “But first, let me see your nails.”
The cats exchanged looks, shrugged, and stretched out their claws. “Boy-howdy, y’all sure got long nails!” Billy exclaimed, grabbing them by the scruffs of their necks. “Here, let me shorten ‘em up a tad before we commence to playin’!” With that he placed them on his carving bench and screwed down their paws very firmly.
The cats began hissing and spitting and cursing him in cat-talk, which isn’t very pleasant to the ears. Billy picked up one of his carving knives and with four clean strokes, severed the cats’ legs. Instead of blood, a substance that looked and smelled like tar boiled forth from the wounds and the cats vanished in a cloud of foul-smelling brimstone.
Billy looked about and scratched his head. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and said “Tch! Well, I didn’t really want to play cards with them, anyways!”
As Billy returned his attention to the fire, there was a horrible commotion-as if the gates of hell had been thrown wide open and all the attendant demons sent forth. Suddenly the room was filled with huge black dogs with eyes the color of fresh blood. The hounds launched themselves at the fire, digging at the burning logs with their great paws and snatching burning embers between their massive jaws and worrying them like rats. Billy stood and watched the dogs, not sure what to make of what was going on. Then, one of the hounds started digging at the hearth, sending hot embers and soot flying. One of the cinders got into Billy’s eye, making it water and burn.
“That’s enough! Now you’ve gone beyond a joke!” Billy said, and seizing the poker from the fire, cracked one of the dogs across the head, killing it instantly.
The rest of the pack came to a dead halt and stared at their fallen companion, whose crushed skull oozed the same foul-smelling tar as the cats. Then, as one, they raised their heads and fixed their blood-red eyes on Billy.
“Git, you mangy critters!” Billy yelled, raising his arms and waving the poker at the hellhounds. “You heard me-go on and git!” With that he took a swing at the nearest hound, who yelped and promptly turned tail and fled the room. The other dogs followed suit, leaping out windows and even climbing up the chimney in order to get away from Billy and his slashing poker.
After the last dog had disappeared, Billy carefully picked up the pieces of his scattered fire and put them back in the fireplace. He then caught himself yawning and decided it was time to go to bed. He kicked off his shoes and climbed, fully dressed, into the four-poster bed in the corner. The bed was made out of solid wood, with little clawed feet clutching carved balls, and although the. bedclothes were a tad musty, he was quite comfortable.
As he drifted off to sleep he fell into a dream that he was riding a horse. At first the horse would only go slow, clip-clop, but soon it was going faster, clippity-clop, then even faster still, clippity-clip. Billy opened his eyes and was surprised to find the walls and ceiling of the mansion speeding past him. Sitting up in bed, Billy discovered it wasn’t the house that was moving-it was him. The bed’s legs were moving as fast as they could, hurrying him from room to room, up stairs and down, over thresholds and around corners as if it was drawn by six strong horses.
Billy clung to the mattress the best he could as the bed shot down the long, dark corridors, sheets flapping behind them like pursuing ghosts. Finally, with a great bound, the bed flipped over on itself with a crash, landing atop Billy. He struggled out from under the tangle of blankets and pillows, rubbing his bruised rump and shaking his head. The bed’s feet were still peddling at the air, like a turtle trying to right itself. Billy laughed and patted the bed appreciatively.
“Thanky kindly, old thing! That was the damnedest ride I’ve had since I rode the Flyin’ Jenny at the county fair last year!”
And, with that, he gathered up his pillow and blankets and made his way back to the room on the first floor, where he curled up in front of the fire and fell sound asleep.
000
Early the next day the innkeeper, at the prodding of his daughter, paid the ferryman to take him to the island to check up on this so-called Billy Fearless. In the thirty years since old McGonagil was given his just reward; he’d seen the house take its share of victims. Most were young fools like the boy, all of them with dreams of treasure. Each and every one of them had been removed from the old house feet-first, stiff as boards and whiter than milled flour, the very life scared out of them. He figured the same would prove true of the latest boy. It was too bad his daughter had taken such a shine to this one. It was going to break her heart…
The innkeeper entered the mansion and opened the nearest dour off the great hall and saw Billy sprawled before the fireplace. He shook his head sadly. “What a pity!”
“What is?” Billy yawned, sitting up.
The innkeeper was so surprised to see Billy move he clutched at his chest. “Lord A’mighty, boy! I never thought I’d see you alive again!”
“Why shouldn’t I be? Granted, I had some bother with cats and dogs and my bed disagreein’ with me, but I had a nice enough night.” The innkeeper could only shake his head in disbelief. Maybe there was something to this Billy Fearless, after all.
000
The second night began uneventfully enough for Billy. He set up his fire and fixed himself a simple meal from the sausage and cheese the innkeeper had been kind enough to leave for him, believing it to be his last meal. It was nearing midnight, and Billy was settling down to a pipe of tobacco before going to sleep, when, with a horrible, bloodcurdling scream, half a man from the waist down fell from the chimney and landed on the hearth at his feet.
Billy craned his neck to look up the chimney and yelled; “Hey, up there! “I’here’s another half wanted down here-that’s not enough!” Presently there was a second, even more hideous scream and the top half of the man dropped from the chimney.
“There, that’s better,” Billy said. “Here, let me stir up the fire for you.” So he got off his stool to prod the fire. When he turned back around the two halves had somehow joined into a whole man with an ugly face. Actually, ugly was being kind. The stranger’s skin was the color and texture of a mushroom, the nose whittled down to nothing and the lips withered and black. One of his ears was missing and the other was hanging by a flap of skin. But to make matters worse, the ugly man was sitting on Billy’s stool.
“Here now! You’re sitting in my spot!” said Billy. “Get up and find your own place to sit!”
The ugly man growled something in a low, liquid voice that sounded like his chest was full of honey, and shoved Billy away.
“There’s no point in being rude,” Billy admonished. “And I am the soul of human kindness, taught to turn the other cheek as the Good Book says. But I was also raised to defend what’s mine and stand up for myself.” And with that he grabbed the stool and yanked it out from under the ugly man, sending him sprawling.
The ugly man got to his feet, rubbing at his rear end and looking at Billy as if he’d just jumped over the moon.
Billy, having reclaimed his seat, settled back down to smoking his pipe. But before he had time to take a decent puff, another man dropped down the chimney. And another. And another. Within a couple of minutes there were six men, each uglier than the last, sitting in front of the fire. One of them got up and opened a closet door and produced nine skeleton legs and a human skull and began setting them up like ninepins.
Billy watched with great interest as the six ugly men rolled the skulls at the leg-bones. While he did not hold with their manners or their looks, he did have a fondness for ninepins. After a couple of sets he asked the ugly men if he could play.
The ugly men looked at one another then one of them smiled, displaying rotting teeth and blackened gums. “You can play if you have money.”
“I’ve got money enough.” Billy pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and showed it to the ugly men, who muttered amongst themselves.
“Very well. You bowl first,” the leader said, and handed Billy the skull. The others stood aside and tittered amongst themselves, waiting to see what Billy’s reaction would be.
Billy hefted the skull and frowned. “Tch! Your ball isn’t very round. I think I can fix that, though.” He went to his turning lathe and worked the skull until it was completely smooth.
“There!” he said, holding it up to admire his handiwork. “Now it’ll roll much better.”
So Billy played ninepins with the six ugly men until the break of dawn, losing a dollar or two along the way. When the cock crowed morning the ugly men seemed genuinely startled, as if they had lost track of the time, and rushed about the room in a panic. Then, as the first light of morning broke through the window, they set up a racket like a gaggle of frightened geese and disappeared in a foul-smelling gust of wind.
Billy, glad his strange visitors had finally left him alone, yawned and curled up by the fire. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered what he might expect in the way of guests for his third and final night in the house.
000
His third day at the old house had proved uneventful. The innkeeper had stopped by again and was even more amazed than before to find Billy in the land of the living. This time he left behind a roasted chicken and some wine for his dinner. As night fell, Billy sat by the fire and whittled a toy whistle to bide the time. He had almost finished putting the final touches on his whistle when he heard what sounded like footsteps in the hall outside his door. He looked up from the fireplace to see the door swing slowly open on squeaky hinges and six skeletons dressed in the top hats and black crepe of pallbearers, march into the room carrying a coffin. The skeletons carefully lowered their burden to the floor then, without a word, turned around and filed back out of the room.
Billy, curious to see what the skeletons had brought him, got up and opened the coffin. Inside was a man his father’s age, dressed in his best Sunday suit, his hands folded atop his chest, his mouth stitched shut with black thread and his eyes covered by gold coins. Billy touched the body and quickly drew his hand back.
“Tch! You’re colder than stone, friend! Come; let me warm you by my fire.”
Billy reached into the coffin and lifted the dead man by his armpits, dragging him free. As he did so, the coins fell from the dead man’s eyes, causing the lids to fly open like window shades. Billy paused in his labors long enough to scoop up the coins and stick them in the pocket of his overalls. “Tch! That’s a funny place to keep your money, cousin. Here, I’ll keep track of it for you until you’re feeling better.”
After some considerable grunting and groaning, Billy managed to wrestle the dead man over to the fire. He lay the corpse on the hearth, thinking the warmth would unfreeze its joints and put the color back into the stranger’s cheeks. Satisfied he’d done the best he could, Billy resumed his whittling.
An hour passed and the dead man was still as cold and stiff as when Billy first touched him. Billy frowned and thought on what he should do. He recalled how his daddy had once said how two people laying in bed together could make enough heat to spark a fire, so he decided to put the stranger in his makeshift bed and warm him with his body.
Billy took the body and placed it on the pallet he’d made for himself after the bed had run away, lay down beside it, and drew the covers over the both of them. Presently, he felt the body beside him grow less and less stiff and began to move. At first Billy didn’t think much about it, but then he felt the dead man’s hands creeping about below the covers, feeling up his thigh.
“Here now!” Billy cried, sitting up. “I’ll have none of that! I stopped that foolishness when I was twelve!”
The dead man cast aside the covers, his eyes staring wide and sightless. “Give me back my gold!” the corpse wailed, tearing loose the stitches that held his mouth shut. “Give me back my gold!”
“Are you accusing me of being a thief? Is that all the thanks I get after trying so hard to make you warm and comfortable? Then you can have your old gold-and you can go back to where you came from!” With that Billy grabbed the dead man by the hair, forced open his mouth, shoved the gold pieces under his tongue, and threw him back inside the coffin.
