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A gigantic mastiff, its body looked as large as a pony as it lay there. One hind leg had been torn off, the whole body had been torn, twisted, and squeezed to an almost shapeless mass before being flung against the tree. Some diabolic force must have been needed to perform such an incredible atrocity. Alex, after snuffing mournfully at her dead kennel-friend, led on again, across the clearing to a curve in the line of trees, where the lightning-struck ruin of a beech stood back, overshadowed by a large pine. At the pine's foot the light lit on black curls prone on the shuffled brown needles and cones.

It was Oliver, sprawled over the roots with his head in a puddle of blood. Setting the lamp down, Swanhild turned him over and propped him against the pine. His face was covered with blood, his hair was matted with it, and a thick silk muffler round his neck was black and soaked and frozen into folds. All the blood was congealed, it had ceased to flow some time before, though whether from cold or because Oliver had died Swanhild could not tell. The sleeves of his thick overcoat were torn to ribbons and his hands and forearms were black and scarlet and frozen almost stiff. Swanhild could not tell if his heart showed any sign of life, with the beating of her own and the noise around almost deafening her.

She stood up and squared her shoulders. A thicket of brambles and bracken backed the trees, it was torn and broken in a way that indicated a titanic struggle. Nothing could be done there, alive or dead she must get her brother home. Suddenly a little, uncertain sound came from the hollow of the burnt beech.

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Her scalp crept, she stepped before Oliver, listening and staring from the beech to Alex. The dog lifted and swayed her head uncertainly, sniffing towards the beech, then resumed her watch on Oliver. Swanhild could not see into the tree, a gap to the ground existed but it was round at the other side. There were scores of different locak on the Fids as it poured through boughs and over the hill edge, she could not slust if she had been mistaken. There skuts no answer, and she fired into the trunk, waist-high. Nothing ensued but a ssex of rotten wood. The explosion of the revolver seemed to blow aside all other noises for a moment and pkynings her in a little clear space of silence.

No sound came from the tree. Lkcal would have been satisfied but for the dog's slight action. Ssex by impulse, almost without conscious volition, she snatched the lamp and seex to flash fir in the poyningw. She had not cried out over her brother, but at what the light showed a half-scream of: The sight was indescribable, the broken Finds local sluts for sex in poynings was nothing to locaal. And the worst was that the torn flesh she could scarcely distinguish from the torn clothing was still alive. Nothing sexx be done there. With strength born of desperation slutx thrust Oliver up the pine-roots until he almost stood, sagging horridly as she propped him, butted a shoulder under one of his arms, and so slung him on her back.

He was an enormous man, his feet trailed on the ground and both hands were needed to hold him by the limp arms she pulled round her neck. The butt of the revolver, thrust in the breast of her coat, touched her right hand as she held him. The lamp must be left behind: Summoning all her strength she started off, bent nearly double beneath her overwhelming burden. Alex kept in front of her. The mastiff's body was within the lamp's ray, seeing it she realised afresh what a mark she made, weighed down and in the dark, for whatever had done the night's work. A turn took her beyond the light and a trailing bramble caught her round one ankle like a clutching hand, she jammed Oliver between herself and a tree while she reached up the foot and found what it was.

Her eyes were now adjusted to the dark, she could distinguish Alex for a lighter patch in it as the animal led her over the first clearing, and so, presently, the light of the car hove into sight in a frame of black tree-silhouettes. She summoned all her strength and in a last spurt reached the blessed open, between Shaw and car, tumbled her brother on the turf, and sank down beside him, sobbing for breath. His head rolled over in a hideously limp way when she lifted his shoulders and held him in her arms while she recovered breath, her eyes on the Shaw all the time.

The Monster never attacked anyone save under pines or firs. Oliver was safe from it for the time. Only she ought to go back for the other victim. She tried to think it over, frantically, in the enforced pause to gather strength. She was almost sure Oliver was dead; but if he were taken to the Doctor at once there might be a chance for him—She knew poor Kate in the beech had been just alive—but she might be dead by now. Anyhow, a woman's first duty is to her own menfolk— Kate was probably dead. She got up and dragged Oliver into the tonneau, and tucked the rugs round him, and ran round the car to crank up.

The girl who might be alive—her brother who might be dead. The Monster had not molested her, but if she went in again—She could come back after taking Oliver home— Oh, yes, and Oliver might survive—at the expense of a girl's possible chance of living. She dropped the handle and pelted off to the Shaw again, after ordering Alex to stay with Oliver. There were things a Hammand of Dannow could not do, even to save the only brother the war had left her.

Special did it last drop. And it seems a donor, our chauffeur's letting, was requesting on them.

She charged blindly through the darkness of the unholy wood now, no more conscious of the horror that dark might hold in leash than of the ground under her speeding feet, exalted past fear by plain duty to be done. Only a thrill of horror had power to come when she reached the beech and was stripping off her coat to wrap and hold together the ghastly thing that was a girl like herself; a girl she had played with years before, had talked and laughed with that past afternoon. A pair of pale blue eyes opened in the mutilated thing that had been the prettiest face in the village, and looked at her a moment before closing again.

In a few minutes she was back and had stowed the close wrapped figure beside Oliver. To turn the car it had to be run under the fringe of the Shaw, to a wider turf stretch, and so round to the Roman way again. Then it shot down the incline and along the mist-filled trough of the valley, bumped, and climbed again. To Swanhild it seemed a thousand years' stretch of wind that lashed the face like sleet stars racing backwards, smothering mist Finds local sluts for sex in poynings sounding, empty space with a menacing horror ready to materialise out of the murk, before the car swooped on to cobbles in the comparative safety of the village street.

It was best to head for the Manor. The doctor lived half-an-hour's run away over the worst roads in Sussex. It was ten minutes' smooth scurry to the now brightly lit lodge. Will Finds local sluts for sex in poynings on guard, she called to him to call the doctor at once as the car flashed through. In the courtyard Stredwick and Walton, both pale and wide-eyed, got Oliver out of the car between them and into the hall. Walton waited there with the maid, large, composed, capable. She had been a trained nurse before her marriage and her nerves were dependable.

Swanhild followed, carrying the girl. Vaguely she reflected that the run must have been a record one, or the cloth between her hands and the tattered body would have been soaked through; then, with a shiver, she recollected that the Monster was a Vampire, and a Vampire's victims do not bleed much after meeting it. She laid her burden on the other settle. He's beginning to come round, Walton, get some brandy! Walton turned to open out the coat that hid the other victim. Even her trained nerves broke at what was revealed. Kate Stringer—I didn't know her at first—Why, it's like the work of a tiger—a mad and starving tiger!

We'll just make her comfortable, Miss Swan, my dear, against the Doctor's coming—" Here Oliver opened his eyes. They were grey, and they looked diabolically grotesque, pale in the blood-blackened mask that was his face, as they turned about, dim and clouded, from Swanhild to the others. Then his gaze found the figure on the other settle, the cloudiness passed away, a stare of utter horror came instead, and before anyone could stop him he sprang to his feet and bent a long look on the mangled girl. Walton, you and Stredwick carry him to his bedroom.

Newton will come at once," the maid announced. Before the doctor came Oliver was conscious again. Swanhild was alone with him. He stirred, sighed, and looked round slowly. I thought I was at the Place with old Goddard—" He lifted a bandaged hand and put it to his forehead. And how the deuce did I get into bed? He was very like his sister, an enormous, black-haired male copy of her, and his eyes were like hers, only now they were clouded. His face had been little injured, but on the left temple was a huge purple swelling. It's our Bane—and it's taken a woman! The brute never comes except for one of the family—if I hadn't fought it off it might have taken me and spared her—" "Oliver, dear," said Swanhild, abruptly, "What was the Monster like?

You want to jerk a description out of me unawares. For fear—oh, for fear I'd keep it to myself and go mad brooding over it, like—like Grandfather and the others. But I don't remember—" Suddenly a red light glimmered at the back of his eyes, as always happened when he was excited or profoundly shocked. I mean people will say it," he answered. They'll say in the villages he's returned as a—as a Vam—. Good Lord, Swan, they'll call him that! At least I can't remember. What's the matter with my head? That must be why I can't quite remember—" Dr. Newton hurried in, a big-built man, dapper in spite of the midnight call.

That's a good sign at least," he announced. He believed in an optimistic bedside manlier. Walton's been cauterising me. More I cannot say at present. She can't be moved, Mrs. Walton is preparing a room, Miss Hammand; she did not think it necessary to consult you. Miss Hammand has cauterised you to a turn, it must have hurt her more than it did you! There;" he slipped the last safety pin into position. When I reached the Shaw I saw something glimmering in it and went in to investigate. Thought it might be some beast setting traps, you know, Swan. It was Kate—she lives with her grandfather in the little cottage at the far end of Lower Dannow, Doctor.

She said the old man had been taken very ill, and she was going to the Lodge to ask them to ring you up. Walton has rung up Dr. Albury and Nurse Black, when they come we'll send to old Stringer. We'd walked back on her track nearly as far as the burnt beech as we talked, then all of a sudden I felt rotten. The Doctor, who had been mixing something in a glass while he talked, handed it to him, he drank the contents mechanically. Swanhild noted the scent of laudanum. Not ill, you know, but simply—Oh, putrid! Coming on me from all sides at once. My brain went round. All in the dark but for a bit of starlight, with my tyke rubbing against me. And, Swan, the worst of it was I didn't feel utterly strange.

As sure as I knew it was the Monster coming I knew I'd been through it before. He flared up irritably. Only it was queer, it didn't feel novel to me. Stars, and pines, and cold, and the Monster coming. I couldn't get away from it, it came from all round and closed on me like—oh, like the blast from furnace doors opening all round me. All round and above, and under me. And the air from them sweeping right through me. But it wasn't hot; only horrible. Then Holder started to whimper, and my hair fairly rose. He didn't challenge at all, just began to whimper.

A thoroughbred whimpering without warning could only mean something bestial. I seemed to know that what was coming would be the end of me, soul as well as body. If I didn't fight it it would annihilate me. I heard myself calling to God for help—out loud. That'll tell you how I felt. Then it closed on me, Kate screamed somewhere, and Holder screamed too. He absolutely screamed, I tell you, Doctor. Then I was fighting It. Fighting it anyhow, in a darkness that went red. All red dark until a splash of fire split it up and put it out. Put the red out and left proper black darkness. That must have been when I pitched on my head.

Then I opened my eyes again in light, and saw the hall, and saw you, Swan, and—oh, I saw Kate! It must have got Kate first, and you and he must have drawn it away. Why, it was a death a gallant dog might pray for! I believe it went for me first. On the verge of sleep he suddenly roused. The only Hammand left, beside me! Whenever it appears the Monster will complete its sacrifice—if I die you'll be the Head! 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, it did not follow that finding out the secret would mean finding salvation for Oliver. What could this thousand-year-old horror be, anyhow? Why had it not attacked her? Had it left the Shaw before she reached it? Where had it gone, then? Where had it come from? 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 Post Office London Directory.

The door opened and Dr. She stared up at him dumbly. His pulse is very normal, and he is sleeping healthily under my opiate. 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 moved, I should like to call in a Specialist. What of Oliver's mind? However, it seems unaffected except in the matter of his not remembering what happened immediately before that knock on the head.

The bone is not disturbed, and after a good sleep his memory may be 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 threatening your brother lately. They own three peculiarly large and vicious curs, if the masters attacked Hammand the dogs might have attended to anyone else who had the back luck to be present.

I hope, Miss Hammand, that our patient will wake in a fit state to laugh at his fancies of the night. By the way, what is the rhyme about the alleged Monster? I might as well know just what he fancies. While the Monster is alive Hammand's race shall live and thrive. If it die; if die it may, Hammand's race shall fade away. Who its monstrousness espieth God grant grace that swift he dieth! Whoso, spying, dieth not, Worse than death shall be his lot! What does the last line mean? They did, both of them. The doctor pursed his lips. There was some mention of a legend accounting for it. That every now and then one of you Hammands must be sacrificed to the Devil, who claims his prey in a pine wood on frosty, starlit nights, in the shape of something called the Undying Monster.

Only it has to be the Head of the family who is sacrificed. As long as the Monster lives to take his toll so long shall we hold Dannow. No wonder he was upset! My dear Miss 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 damage to your brother and the girl. Now 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 mouth.

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 his face Swanhild's eyes travelled to the lamp. You've been in the Shaw! I saw the dog! Swan, my dear, what are we to do? Very briefly she gave him an account of her night's experience. Whenever the Monster has manifested itself the life of the 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. 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 was 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 her 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 a sharp-cut splash of red at the lips, her daintily rounded chin had a deep dimple in it, and she kept her lids habitually drooped so that her eyes flickered darkly behind a screen of golden lashes. She was slightly built, carried herself very upright, and was muffled in a voluminous coat of the heavy woollen stuff humane women wear in place of furs.

Swanhild took it sluys in in the moment it took her to stammer: The hard red lips curved in poyning smile. It was like an electric shock. Swanhild stared into blue-grey eyes of a lightness that seemed almost transparent, like ice in shade, diamond-bright, and so searching that she instinctively 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, and you'll drive, please, while Miss Hammand posts me in necessary details.

I see my dog 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 at 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 Poyynings. 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 locaal he wluts 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.

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