Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror - Chris Priestley [32]
Then I happened to look at a nearby bookcase and saw on one of the shelves a wooden box whose carved decoration I immediately recognised from the story I had just heard. I reached out a hand to touch it, but before I got there my hand seemed to flinch involuntarily and I found that I could not do it. I wondered if my uncle had a story about everything in this room.
My eyes fell upon an elaborate gilt frame hanging on the wall and I was surprised to see that it was empty. It seemed an odd thing to hang on the wall. My uncle suddenly appeared at my side.
'You have noticed the gilt frame,.' he said.
'But why is it empty, Uncle?' I asked.
'Ah, yes,.' said my uncle, nodding sagely. 'Why indeed?'
I had hoped that my uncle might continue and answer this question, but, as so often, he felt no need to say anything further.
'Is the frame a family heirloom?' I asked, gently probing for more information.
'No, no,.' he said. 'Like most of the objects you see in this room, it has simply come into my possession over the years.'
'You are a collector, Uncle?' I asked. I hoped that at last I was going to hear something of my mysterious relative's own history.
'Of a kind, Edgar,.' he said. Again my uncle felt no need to elaborate.
'It must be an expensive pastime,.' I said coaxingly. I could tell that though few of the pieces Uncle owned were what one might call beautiful, some of them were clearly valuable.
'No, Edgar,.' he said. 'They were given to me.'
'They are all gifts?' I said, gazing round and wondering why my uncle should have been the recipient of so much generosity.
'Of a kind, yes,.' said Uncle Montague with an odd wry smile. I obviously looked a little confused.
'As you must realise by now,.' he continued, 'these things around us are - how shall I put it? - possessed of a curious energy. They resonate with the pain and terror they have been associated with. My study has become a repository for such items. I am a collector of the unwanted, Edgar, of the haunted, of the cursed - of the damned.'
I was not altogether happy with the way my uncle looked at me as he said this.
'But, Uncle,.' I said, 'you speak as if the events in your tales actually took place.' Uncle Montague's eyes glittered and his eyebrows rose. I felt that I was being teased and I could feel the colour rise to my face. 'But how could that be possible?' I asked. 'And how could you know, sir? You could hardly be a witness to all these events and it occurs to me that in most cases the principal character in the story is hardly in a position to tell their tale.'
My uncle smiled and held up his hands in defeat.
'As you wish, Edgar,.' said Uncle Montague. 'As you wish.'
I confess I was rather pleased with myself for having stood my ground. My uncle walked to the window, pulled open the curtain and stared resolutely into the fog. I saw his lips moving, though I heard nothing. It was almost as if he were mouthing something through the window to someone outside. I could see no one there, but then the fog was so all-encompassing that there might have been a crowd of suffragettes and I should not have seen them. It was troubling that my uncle appeared so distracted, and again I grew concerned.
'Perhaps it is time you were running along home, Edgar,.' he suddenly announced.
My heart sank. The fog, as I have said, was as thick and uninviting as ever, and besides, I did not want to leave my uncle in such a strange mood. I wondered if I could repair the damage my questioning had done by coaxing my uncle into telling another of his stories.
'I was wondering, sir,.' I said.
'Yes, Edgar?'
'About the gilt frame?' I said, pointing to it. 'I was wondering in what way it was "cursed" or "damned" or what have you.'
'Were you indeed?' he said, turning to face me with a grin. 'But surely you have had enough of a foolish old man's ramblings for one day.'
'Not