The
train disappeared out of sight, and then out of hearing, leaving me bereft,
finally of the life I had led. No more for me the civilizing cheer of the city,
this was my existence now. The decaying station, the gunmetal skies and the
mist dampening my clothes and hair, like death feeling around me, searching for
a handhold. I surveyed the moor beyond the platform, bleak and seeming endless
where it disappeared into the fog. I shivered and turned away, into the chest
of an enormous man. I stepped back in shock, almost falling over my case. There
had been no sound.
“Porter,”
he said, without greeting, and he was indeed dressed in a railway uniform,
collar raised against the cold, but without a hat. Moisture glistened on a completely
bald head above a heavy, thuggish face. The eyes were grey, dull but
unwavering.
“I
didn’t know they still had porters,” I said. He ignored me:
“You
the bloke from Brighton?” I said that I was and he picked up my case and walked
out of the station. I could do nothing but follow.
The
small village was everything my darkest thoughts had been conjuring. Squat,
stone houses, a single, forbidding pub and a group of shops, one of which the
porter entered with my case. He came straight out again as I caught up, causing
me to walk into him.
“You
in the house on the moor?” he asked, his eyes flicking momentarily to my
throat. Again, I said that I was. He grinned, revealing a twist to his lip I
did not like the look of.
“I’ll
be seeing you.” He said with an ominous tone and returned to the station.
The
shop was that of the agent through whom I had procured the house and the lady
therein was as delightful as the porter had been unpleasant.
“I
say…” was all I could manage in greeting. Dark haired, she had curious but
attractive features, she was lithe, like a predator, with a fluidity of
movement that suggested grace and speed. I really was most taken.
The
paperwork completed, she gave me the keys and said the most extraordinary
thing:
“Mr
Klaus should have your wagon outside by now.”
“My
wagon?”
“Yes,
it really is the best way to get up that road in this weather and Mr Klaus is
always eager to meet visitors. I’m often on the moor myself up there; I’ll look
forward to bumping into you.” Our eyes met for an instant. I heard the tread of
a horse outside and made to turn. The lady laid a hand on my arm to stop
me:
“Before
you go, there’s something you need to know about Mr Klaus.” The effect of her
touch was most unsettling.
“Mr
Klaus?”
“Yes,
Mr Klaus doesn’t speak. He knows where you’re going and can understand you, but
he is without speech.”
Mr
Klaus was a small man, and old. Not quite a dwarf, he had a pronounced
roundness of the shoulders and a contortion to his face that I learned was
associated with his manner of communication, which was with a series of open
mouthed growls and short howls. His eyes were always moving, roaming, as though
searching for something across the moor.
The
road was indeed rough, even for the wagon and the great black horse that pulled
it. Occasionally Mr Klaus would indicate something in the cold landscape with a
contorted howl, occasionally grabbing my shoulder and pointing, but I had no
way of knowing what he was trying to communicate and could see nothing in the
soulless landscape through the mist and the gathering dusk.
The
house was a large cottage, with nothing of the homely look suggested by that
description. Built of the same ubiquitous grey stone as the houses in the
village, the gables, built out for shelter appeared to knit like brows, giving
the black windows an angry, staring quality.
The
departure of Mr Klaus was an odd moment. For the first time since we met, he
smiled. A curious little smile, difficult to read. Again he held my shoulder
and gave one of his short, yelping howls, pointing toward the village and then
at his own throat, looking at me intently. Once again I had no way of
understanding.
The
house was warm, very warm. Fires had been burning in every room in anticipation
of my arrival and although they were now embers, the heat they gave drove me
into a perspiration welcome after the moor.
Darkness
was almost complete, leaving me with no light to search the house for candles.
I did have one with me which would do for my room and so resolved to retire
early and explore more in daylight.
The
master bedroom was of a good size but furnished austerely. The bed was a four
poster and had muslin curtains to draw around it, giving it the pleasing effect
of sleeping in a tent. Too warm for covers for the moment, I lay on my back, my
one candle on my chest, stuck to a saucer and a book held aloft to read.
The
strangeness of the day had begun to turn to something approaching cheer and my
thoughts strayed back to the lady at the property office. It was then that
movement caught my eye, in the room beyond the muslin curtain. My blood froze
in my veins as I recognized a human shape, moving without a sound. Held fast
with fear, I tried to stare harder through the material. It was a woman! She
was dancing. In utter silence. Was it the lady from the office? Had I fallen
asleep and summoned her in a dream? It seemed the only explanation. I decided
to succumb to the reverie and called to her, enjoying the sight of her lithe
but indistinct form writhing to music unheard. To my delight she seemed to come
closer, approaching the curtain, but then, in an odd contortion the sight of
which will be vivid in my memory until the day I die, her form changed,
horribly, and still without sound. Before me now, almost within reach beyond
the curtain was the huge, bald porter from the station. Once more my heart
seemed to stop in my chest. I remembered that twisted grin and knew then, too
late, that there had been murder in it. Never before or since have I known
stone cold terror such as I felt watching that looming giant lurch from side to
side as though searching, waiting for the curtain to be torn aside.
“Merciful
God!” I managed to cry, “Just do what you have come to do!”
But
he did not. Still beyond the curtain, he seemed to bend, as though in great
pain. In silent, writhing, mortal agony his form actually changed once more in
stature. As God is my witness, beyond that curtain now crouched the odd,
hunched figure of Mr Klaus, the horseman. And still no sound!
This
was too much. Whatever the consequence, I had to know. I leapt up and tore back
the curtain, holding out the candle to see –
-
An empty room! I was alone. For what seemed an age I knelt, terrified and
confused, until realisation dawned, and I laughed with the pure relief of it.
There had been no one in the room with me. I had been alone the whole time. It
had merely been my exceptionally proportioned penis casting shadows upon the
screen in the flicker of the candlelight. Imagination had painted the rest of
the picture.
Bountiful
nature had, it must be said, been extremely kind to me in this particular
expression of manhood, but this was certainly the first time the thing had
scared me half to death. As soon as I was able once more to feel myself, I did
so, until morning.
